All Chickens Must Die: A Benjamin Wade Mystery by Scott Dennis Parker

always a proper grammar kind of guy. “I wish
you’d come around more often. Rosemary does, too.”
    His wife was a dandy gal. We both saw her at a dance one night.
Their eyes locked on each other and I just vanished from the scene.
    “I’ll make a note to come by and play gin rummy and drink
cocktails.”
    “Right. When you’re darkening my door, I’ll believe it. What do
you want?”
    “I’m on a case right now…”
    “Same one?”
    “Well, that’s the thing. I’m not sure, but I think two cases
might have a link. You ever heard of a man named Amos Peete?”
    The short bark of a laugh came through loud and clear through the
phone. “Of course I know him. I’ve even busted him.”
    My pulse quickened. “What can you tell me about him?”
    There was some silence on Leroy’s end of the line. “I’m not sure
I should talk here about him.”
    “Why?”
    “Someone might hear.”
    I frowned, then remembered he couldn’t see me. “Why would
somebody care if you were talking about Peete?”
    “Because of who he is and what he’s done.”
    “Leroy, spill at least something to me. What’s he done?”
    “He’s a killer, Wade. A hired killer.”
    The bottom of my stomach just went a little deeper. I started to
wonder if Clara had the name correct. Maybe it was another guy name Amos Peete.
Unlikely, I thought. Not with the kind of behavior he showed that morning.
“Talk to me, Leroy. Give me some details.”
    More silence from his end. “Listen, I’m off in a half hour. Meet
me outside Foley’s. We’ll talk face to face.”
    “Why all the hush-hush?”
    “Just meet me, okay?” He hung up.
    Curiosity got the better of me. That, and something else. A
protective quality seeped through me.
    On a whim, I threw another nickel into the phone and dialed the
health department. A woman answered. “May I speak to Clara Milbanks, please?”
    There was an awkward pause. The woman didn’t know what to do with
a caller who wanted to speak to a receptionist. “One moment, please.”
    I lit a cigarette waiting for Clara to come on the line. When she
did, I told her who I was. “Listen, do you have a friend you can stay with?”
    “I have a few, but none I’m close enough to ask that kind of
question. Why?”
    I hesitated, then spoke a version of the truth. “I just want to
make sure you’re safe. What’s your home telephone number?”
    “You trying to pick me up, Mr. Wade?”
    “No, I’m trying to protect you while I look into this deeper. Am
I the only one you’ve told?”
    “Yes.”
    “That’s why I need your home number, in case I need to contact
you.”
    “Mohawk 4-7217.”
    “And your address.”
    A slight pause. “3921 Spruce Street. Say, what’s all this about?”
    “Not entirely sure, but I’m about to meet a guy with some more
answers. I’ll talk to you later. But listen, watch your back. I’ll see if I can
stop by later on.”
    I could hear the smile in her tone. “Mr. Wade, I do think you’re
trying to pick me up.”
    “Suit yourself.” I hung up.
    I hopped back into my car and drove to Foley’s. Finding yet
another meter, I got out and leaned against a light pole. I only had to wait
for two cigarettes.
    A little after five, Leroy Dwight, dressed in his plain clothes
that just screamed cop, sauntered up to me.
    “Thanks for meeting me,” I said.
    “No problem. Just wanna give you the whole story. Bum a
cigarette?”
    I gave him one and lit it. He exhaled his first puff. “Tell me
how you’ve come to know Peete.”
    I told him about my two cases and how one of the persons of
interest had had some contact with Peete. I even gave him the rundown on my own
contact with the killer. I had the bruised jaw to prove it.
    “You’re lucky he only punched you in the jaw. He’s gutted other
folks.”
    “How do you know this?”
    “Rumor, mostly. The criminals in this town are a tight bunch.
They tend to keep to themselves, even if they’re in rival groups. Word spreads
when a man