Private Eye Writers of America Anthology 02 Mean Streets by Robert J Randisi

Author:Robert J Randisi [Randisi, Robert J]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

ROB KANTNER

FLY AWAY HOME

The pigeons descend in twos and threes, lighting on the short ledge at the edge of the roof. They flutter and strut among the debris and droppings, warbling deep in their throats. Occasionally two or three collide, and there is a squawking, flap-winged argument, with the loser taking wing in a shallow dive off the ledge.

I watch them intently, a cigarette smoldering in one hand, a coffee cup steaming black in the other. It is early summer and early in the morning in Detroit. The city comes awake with increasing sounds of traffic from fourteen floors below. To the south the heavily industrialized Zug Island sends smoke into the air to war with the haze. To the east freighters bay on the Detroit River. Up here I am alone with my coffee and my cigarette, dressed as always in white shirt, neatly clipped tie, dark pants, and black wing-tipped shoes. I look like a clerk, which I am; and I look like I’m about to begin another routine work day, which I am not.

The pigeons descend in twos and threes, lighting on the ledge at the edge of the roof. The turnover is constant, new birds descending to the ledge, others dropping away. Where do they go? A phrase comes to mind from nowhere: fly away home. Hy away home. I think it’s a nursery rhyme. Probably recited to me by my grandmother many years ago. I cannot remember the rest of the poem. I do remember my grandmother, and I see her fresh in my mind’s eye, kneeling at her flower bed, short spade in hand, straightening and smiling and rising as she watches me approach. . .

Footsteps sound from behind me, ascending the seldom-used stairwell that rises from the guts of the building to the roof. I turn impatiently, waiting to see who is coming. It was the sound of footsteps like these that started the mess, just a week ago. . .

I turned as the footsteps reached the top of the stairs and crushed out my cigarette as Connie came through the door. She was a big, beefy bull of a woman, dressed in an immense purple balloon of a dress, with dark brown hair permed high on her head. She had a happy, goofy, angelic face, except when she was forced to talk to me. “Someone to see you,” she said flatly, standing at the door to the stairway as if afraid to come out on the roof toward me.

I glanced at my watch. “Well, who, Connie? The work day doesn’t start for fifteen minutes.”

“Maude’s lawyer,” she said through a pinched mouth. “And she’s brought some kind of detective with her. You’d better get down there. They’re going to interview everybody today, in alphabetical order.”

That put me first on the list. Bad luck. I huffed a sigh and followed Connie down the dark stairwell. As we approached the heavy fire door leading into our company’s suite of offices, she turned to me, face

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