Tag Archives: writing

Die Like A Man IV

Crime Fiction, Crimefighter, Pulp Fiction, Steampunk Fiction, , , , , , , , , , , , ,

by Thierry La Noque

CHAPTER 7

They don’t teach it to you at the Academy, but the old timers will tell you, nine out of ten, if the perp falls asleep when left by himself in interrogation, he’s guilty. Ray struggled to keep his eyes open. If only. Fucking useless mewling hairball puking three and a half legged piece of fur shedding bad tempered finicky retired rat catcher has to have special. Man, he could be sleeping now. Like a stupid ass, he had to go. Why did he even bother? At least she didn’t flip out into one of her “what I’ve done for you and what do I have to show for it” rants. “When we met you didn’t know the difference between a Picasso and a Pepsi!” Like he even cared that there was a difference. Besides, he knew who Picasso was. The guy who drew the moustache on the Mona Lisa. Like that hadn’t been done before. The throbbing from the swelling on his forehead was more annoying now than merely painful. Fucking Colin, wrapped up in one of his jams. Again. He owed. Well, he didn’t have to go there.

Kovacs had come close to losing his cool. “Ok, Ray let’s cut the crap. Sign the damn form!”  He’d leaned on the table with his knuckles and glowered down. “I asked around. Word is you’re a wannabe cop. Couldn’t cut it the right way and now you’re going wrong. If law enforcement flags your file with an arrest for accessory after the fact, do you think the State review board is going to issue you a license? I could add a note that you’re an Academy drop-out who flunked the psych evaluation.”

The door was pushed open and a voice spoke low to Carson. Carson repeated the message. “Briefing’s about to start. Leave this asshole to stew.”

Ray thought about it. If he asked for a lawyer, they’d arrest him and chain him to half a dozen spurious charges. That kind of paper he didn’t need. Sign the form. The wording above the signature line didn’t leave much wiggle room. I understand that by signing this document I acknowledge having been advised of my rights under the Miranda Act of 1966, and that a lawyer will be provided should the need arise. There was no guarantee that he wouldn’t be arrested anyway. There had to be an angle. But he wasn’t thinking angles. He could barely stay awake to think straight.

The next cop to come through the door walked like a man with a chapped asshole. He was wide in the hip, sleeves still buttoned to the wrists, freshly shaved judging by the neon nicks on one side of the jaw line, and he was left handed. The belt was cinched too tight on the high waist slacks begging for a pair of suspenders.

Ray recognized the face, but the name escaped him. Where? Pushing the mandatory retirement age, that was for sure. And he held the interrogator’s magic top hat, the manila file folder, which could be empty of anything but a blank sheet of paper or it could be full of incriminating rabbits. Lowering himself to the seat with great care, he set the folder at his elbow and gave Ray a slight pained smile when he finally settled.

Ray caught a pause, a freeze in the old cop’s demeanor. It was momentary, barely perceptible. Or maybe he imagined it, drifting a moment into micro-sleep.

“You’re Raymond Philips?” and without waiting for confirmation, “Can I call you Ray?”

The voice triggered the name just as he introduced himself. Bob Orthall.

“Ray, my name’s Bob Orthall, and I’m going to ask you some questions.”

Orthall, right, retired deputy chief of a department down on the peninsula, not San Jose, but somewhere down there. He’d given a talk on interrogation technique at the Academy. Top homicide cop once. Noted for getting confessions without breaking a sweat or using a glove. It had been a while. And the id tag clipped to the shirt pocket had Ray looked closely said he wasn’t one of the regular staff. Picking up a little on the side working as a retired annuitant on big operations.

“That’s a nasty bump on your forehead.”

“Yeah, thanks to Junior.”

The old cop’s eyes scanned him with expert appraisal. “One of our officers is responsible for that?”

Ray considered his response. Fuck it. “Junior. Carson. Ask the other guy, the city cop. He’ll tell you.”

The old man pursed his lips and nodded. “Well, that’s certainly bound to change your disposition. Do you want to file a formal complaint with the Sheriff’s Department? I can get you the forms to sign.”

Ray would have laughed if the situation weren’t so fucked up. Instead he gave a splayed you gotta be kidding stare and a twist of lip smirk.

“Sheriff Departments have a tendency to hire cowboys. That’s just the way it is. I’m not making excuses but there’s a major incident in progress and we have to develop as many leads as we can in a very short time. Bad attitudes get bad reactions, Ray. A major crime has been committed and you might have information that could help us piece the events together. All I’m looking for is a little cooperation.”

Ray stared at the mottled receding hairline, the predominance of gray or white, the sagging eye corners and the accompanying baggage beneath piercing steady blues that banished all nonsense. “Sure, I’ll cooperate. Tell me what’s going on.”

“The detectives didn’t inform you?”  Orthall shifted the folder on the table in front of him.

“I could have told the other cops what they wanted to know if they’d told me what was going on, but that punk deputy prematurely ejaculated.”  Orthall couldn’t restrain the small chuckle and Ray added. “Tell me what’s going on. I’ll help you anyway I can.”

“I’m happy to hear that, Ray. And I will tell you exactly what is going on. But first I’d like you to answer a few questions. For instance, tell me what you did, where and when, on Friday the 23rd. Yesterday. “

“You want me to tell you what I did yesterday?”

“That’s shouldn’t be too hard. What was the first thing you did yesterday? How many hours ago would you say?”

Ray blinked in recognition. It was the old math trick. Orthall wasn’t wasting any time. He wanted to see whether his eyes would move to the right or the left considering the answer. At least that class at the Academy wasn’t a total waste of time. He stared straight ahead not even focusing. “I dunno, twenty four?”

“Cooperate, Ray. The sooner you answer my questions, the sooner you can get up and walk out of here. It’s as simple as that. I’m just an old cop they brought in to help with the work load. The hotshots are working the real bad guys. My job is to gather ancillary information to fill out the big picture. Right now the picture is far from complete. Something you tell me might seem meaningless to you but it could help the investigators gain some insight. It’s a long shot, I know, but we wouldn’t be doing our job if we overlooked anything.”  Orthall had rested his wrists on the edge of the table and looked down at the folder before bringing his head up to fix Ray with the unwavering blue stare. “What was the first thing you did yesterday morning? And skip the petty details like wiping your ass and what kind of syrup you put on your pancakes.”

What the fuck. Why not. The sooner, the sooner. “Ok. First thing. On Friday mornings I teach a martial arts class at the Runway Club.”

“Martial arts? Really? You must be pretty good. Just Fridays? What time does the class start?”

Ray shrugged. “Three times a week. Mondays and Wednesdays, too. Seven to eleven.”

“Are you an employee of the Runway Club? I’ll need the name of someone I can contact. . . ?”

“I contract with the manager, Karen. I’m offering a change from the usual pump and run aerobics. Uh, the number’s on my phone. But you guys have my phone.”

“Ok, what next.”

“I usually work out for about an hour. Till about noon.”

“Knock off for lunch? Where’d you go eat?”

If I tell you what I ate I’ll have to tell you what I shit. Ray held back. “At the Goll y Geez taco truck over by the airport. They make a mean chicken burrito.” Ray caught a pause, a freeze in the old cop’s demeanor. It was momentary, barely perceptible. Or maybe he imagined it, drifting a moment into micro-sleep.

“After lunch?”

“I stopped by the office where I intern to pick up my check.”

“Where do you intern, Ray?”

“Morgan Josephson.” He could tell by the absence of reaction it was information Orthall already knew.

“Paul Morgan was my sergeant when I first started out. He was a good cop. And I have a lot of respect for Ted Josephson. Are you pursuing a career as a private investigator?”  He knew that answer as well.

“Why don’t we just cut to the chase? Tell me what’s going on and I’ll tell you what I know!”

“Ray, you know as well as I do we have to play it by the rules. About what time was it you dropped by the office to pick up your check? And that’s the office over on College, right? He’s still in the same old place?”  More questions that didn’t require an answer.

“About one thirty or so.”

“You take a long lunch.”

“Uh, I went home for quick shower.”

“So noon lunch standing up or sitting in your car. Home for a shower? I get the feeling you’re leaving something out here, Ray.”

“I dunno, I was back at my place around twelve thirty.”

“And when you say my place, where is that?”

Ray was suddenly very tired, the sugar had worn off. Tired meant irritable. “Look it up in the fucking folder in front of you. You think I’m gonna lie to you about where I fucking live?”

“I’ll give Ted Josephson a call to confirm what you’re saying. He’ll be disappointed to hear how uncooperative you’re being. What did you do after you picked up your check?”

Ray kept from scoffing. He obviously didn’t know Ted very well. “I went by County animal control.”

“Do you work there, too?”

“Uh, no. I check there occasionally to see what strays have been picked up.”

“Looking for a canine companion?”

Ray shrugged. He knew the response he’d get. “When strays are picked up, the animal control officer has to log the location. I have a friend who works at the shelter. I get access to the information and drive out to those locations and look for lost pet posters. Sometimes rewards are offered. Sometimes I get a match. You’d be surprised how grateful people are to get their pet back.”

“Why don’t they just call the pound?”

“You’d be surprised how many people don’t think of that. They’re more likely to believe that someone kidnapped their dog.”

Orthall seemed amused. “That’s very enterprising. Do you do cats?”

“Naw, not cats, once they’re gone, they’re gone, and if they come back, they’ll come back on their own.”

“So you’re a pet detective.”

CHAPTER 8

Kovacs had called Orthall to the door of the interrogation room and they’d stepped into the hallway. The old cop’s wobbly step returning to the table indicated that he was in some degree of pain. “Ok, where were we? You spend the rest of the day looking for lost owners?”

Ray shook his head. It hurt to do that. His gut spasmed. What to say now. “There weren’t any new strays so I went back to Mojo and hit the books, public safety codes, criminal law. Like that. Ted has a good library. I have to bone up for the State exam.”

“And Ted will vouch for your being there, how long, all afternoon?”

“Uh, no, Ted usually takes Friday afternoons off for his golf date.”

Orthall smiled. “The Nineteenth Hole?”

Ray nodded. Ted liked to get stewed while talking up his golf game. And even if he’d been there he wouldn’t have noticed that around three Ray left unannounced. He had to tread carefully. He’d gone to the house on Ripley that Charlene shared with her roommate, another cocktail waitress from La Bête Noir. Afterwards they’d gone to a hip little Korean restaurant in a strip mall over on Yulupa. And then back to her place.

“Ok, Ray, we’ve established you taught martial arts until eleven, worked out, had lunch, picked up your check after you went home to shower, drove to the county shelter and then drove back to Josephson’s office on College. Till what time?”

“Four thirty, five.”

“I see, hitting the books pretty hard, that’s commendable. What then?”

Ray dropped his gaze to the table. The books were the gadget and gear catalogs Ted kept around the office. Gadget porn, Ted called it. Civil and criminal codes put him to sleep. “I went back to my place and got ready for my gig at La Bête Noir.”

“Your gig.”

“Yeah, I handle the door, check IDs, that kind of thing.”

“Well, so far nothing you’ve said has been useful except that I am getting a better picture of you, Ray. Martial arts intern pet detective bouncer. What time did you go to work at the night club?”

At least he knew what it was. “I start at nine. I sometimes go in a little earlier. I’m friends with some of the staff.”

“So from four thirty, five? How long is that?”  The eye thing again and when Ray didn’t react, “That’s almost four hours. A critical amount of time. What did you do?”

“Usual stuff. Had something to eat. Went for a run. Took another shower”

“A run? Where?”

“In the neighborhood. I try to get one in every evening. Even at this time of year.”  Cissy had come back late from an estate sale in Mill Valley just as he was getting ready for work. She was exhausted and in a mood so he didn’t say much except that he’d grabbed a bite out.

“Can you verify where you were during that time? Girlfriend, domestic partner, mom?”

Ray grimaced more at the mention of his mother. Since when did she care where he’d been? “Girlfriend. She was on business down in Marin and didn’t get back till I was about to leave.”

Ray was pissed. Pissed at himself and pissed at Colin and pissed at the old cop. He’d been backed into a corner by circumstances beyond his control. He hated that.

“Ray, I have a problem here. There’s no one to verify you were where you say you were for that period of time. That happens to be the time frame investigators are focusing on.”

Ray shook his head without moving his eyes. “Yeah, well, you’re going to have to take my word that I was where I said I was.”

“That’s not good enough, Ray.”  Orthall had leaned forward to emphasize the unacceptability of his answer. “But we’ll come back to that. I’m going to assume that if someone asked the staff at the night club they would confirm that you worked the door till about when? Closing time? What time is that?”

“I’m usually out of there a little after two. Depends if I socialize after hours.”

“Did you socialize after hours this morning?”

Ray was reminded. Was it still morning? “No.”

“Alright, went home to the girlfriend. Was she waiting up? You wake her getting in bed? These are things I’m going to ask her. What’s her name, by the way?”

“Cissy. Celia Marleau.”

“How do you spell that?”

“Common spelling.”

“Ok, so M-a-r-l-o-w. With an e?” Orthall scrawled the name on the outside of the folder. “And which was it, waiting or waking?”

“She usually waits up for me.”

The old cop shook his head. “No, Ray, straight answers. Clear cut. Yes or no.”

Ray looked up at the ceiling and stretched pressing against the back of the chair. He brought his hand to his mouth to cover the yawn. “I can’t remember.”

“Cut the crap, Ray.” Orthall had opened the file and found what he was looking for. “At 2:39 AM Sebastopol Police dispatch ran a ten twenty eight on California plate GMTI00. That came back on a tan ‘94 Honda hatchback registered to a Raymond Allen Phillips. That request came in from a patrolman conducting a traffic stop on Bodega Highway just inside the Sebastopol city limits. The officer confirmed that he did make a tail light stop and that the driver was identified as Ray Phillips, someone he knew from the Academy.”  Orthall looked up from the page. “Stop me if any of this is inaccurate, Ray.”

“Yeah, so I went for a drive. What of it?”

“The officer also states that there was a second occupant in the vehicle who appeared to be sleeping or passed out. Not something unusual for early Saturday morning. Incidentally, according to the officer, Warren Kroener, you appeared sober. Who was in the car with you, Ray?”

Ok, this is where silence is golden or at least not incriminating. He stared at a spot on the table between them.

“Let me fill in the blanks for you, Ray. A resident in one of the trailers at Bottle Point Marina reported a suspicious vehicle parked near the slip when she was awakened early this morning by one of the boats starting out into the bay. There was a car with misted windows parked by the empty slip like someone was inside sleeping. There’d been break-ins at the marina so she jotted down the license. Guess what she copied down, Ray? GMTIOO! Whatever the fuck that means?”  He shot Ray a look like that might have been the worst offense. And waited. “Well, what’s it stand for? Some kind of secret society?”

“Gumshoe. It stands for gumshoe.”

Orthall stared down at the page. And then back up at Ray. “Ok, I get it. Like that weird way you can spell fish.”  He managed a taut smile. “Cute. Perfect for a pet detective.”  He closed the folder after removing a sheet and holding it up showing only the blank backside. “I’m gonna show you something, Ray, but first let me fill in more of the blanks. That party boat leaving while you were taking your nap was The Black Manta owned by Seagoing Sports Fishing. Know who is a partner in that venture, Ray? Colin Knox. Name ring a bell, Ray?”

“Yeah. So?”  This had to be a drug thing. But why a retired homicide cop?

“Just so we make sure we’re talking about the same guy. Colin Knox, the war hero. Kicked ass in Iraq, saved his patrol from ambush. Killed a bunch of people. That Colin Knox. Killer Colin, they called him.”

“I never heard him called that.”

“So you know the guy. Son of former city councilman Howard Knox. Decorated war vet.”

“Yeah, I was friends with him in school.”

“I’m gonna take a wild guess and say that Colin Knox was the passenger in the car when Sebastopol PD made that traffic stop. Am I right?”

Ray was pissed. Pissed at himself and pissed at Colin and pissed at the old cop. He’d been backed into a corner by circumstances beyond his control. He hated that.

“I’m gonna assume by your unresponsiveness that I’m right. You went to Bottle Point Marina in the early hours of the morning with Colin Knox as a passenger. I want to know what you talked about. Everything you talked about.”

“Listen, I don’t have anything to do with his drug stuff. That’s why I don’t hang with him anymore. And since he’s been back from Iraq he’s had this swelled head. All that hero bullshit. Hard to take.”

“This isn’t about drugs, Ray.” Orthall placed the sheet on the table between them. It was a color photo enlargement.

Ray stared at it and in recognition pulled his head up sharply.

“That’s not pizza.” Orthall poked an arthritic finger at the picture

Ray returned his gaze to the photo. In the middle of the tomato sauce was an eyeball.

“It’s Mandy Goll. Or what’s left of her face.”

Die Like A Man III

Crime Fiction, Crimefighter, Gothic, Pulp Fiction, Steampunk Fiction, , , , , , , , , , , ,

by Thierry La Noque

CHAPTER 5

Ray spotted them as he walked across the parking lot fishing his car keys out of his coat pocket with one hand, the other holding a white plastic bag weighted with half a dozen cans of specialty cat food from Co-Op Groceries. They might as well have been wearing neon signs that said police, the bulk of the Kevlar under their dress shirts was just so obvious. There were two of them. They walked briskly toward him, the young one with a hand close to his right hip and the bulge under his sport jacket. The older, dark complexioned cop, wide in the shoulders to begin with and a demeanor that left no doubt of his intent, was attired in a jacket that matched his pants, a cut long out of style, and like the comet Kohoutek, as Cissy liked to say, not due back in their lifetime.

Ray addressed the young cop as he circled behind. “What’s the deal?”

“Raymond Phillips? You Raymond Phillips?”  Now it was the dark cop talking. “Raymond, I’m Detective Sergeant Kovacs, Santa Rosa PD, and this is Detective Carson, County Sheriff. We’re with the Major Crimes Task Force.”

Ray hated being called Raymond. He was only referred to with that kind of formality when he was in trouble, like “go stand at the front of the class room with your nose to the chalk board, Raymond,” and listen while Sister Margaret Anne tells the entire class behind your back as if you weren’t even there, “Raymond is an example of how not to behave.”  It had scarred him.

“I gave at the office.”  He fit the key into the door of his Civic.

“Ray, you just flunked the attitude test.”  It was the young cop. He crowded Ray’s back. Ray held his ground. He knew the tactic.

“Raymond, we’d appreciate your cooperation.”  The detective sergeant’s eyes darted in assessment, making eye contact. “You might have information that would greatly help us in our investigation.” He spoke with a trace of an unfamiliar accent.

The young detective was breathing down his neck and Ray turned to catch the leering sadistic grin. It was a familiar face, topped by a blond crewcut and bracketed by pink ears. The blue eyes were cruel and the nostrils of the sharp narrow nose flared with a kind of sensual pleasure.

He felt the displacement of air and the force of the hand on the back of his head as his forehead was smashed against the edge of the Civic’s roof.

“You know what, Sarg, I know this fucking guy. Ray Philips, yeah, he was in the class ahead of me at the academy. Isn’t that right, Ray?”

Ray said nothing and turned his attention back to the dark detective. Now he remembered, Jack Carson’s kid, Junior, from a long line of cops and pricks.

“Raymond, we were hoping you could help us locate a friend of yours, Colin Knox.” The dark cop’s eyes focused on his reaction.

Ray shrugged. “Sorry, can’t help you there.” The young cop was close enough to climb into his back pocket and he caught a whiff of the sour curdled breath which reminded him that he had not eaten in almost twelve hours. His stomach gurgled. He took a step backward to get more personal space. He addressed the sergeant. “Get this fucking clown off my back. You got cause, arrest me. Otherwise, I got business to take care of.”  His bluff was accompanied by the sudden urge to take a crap.

The corners of Kovacs’s eyes drooped in disappointment. A wry smile formed on the thick lips under the sliver of dark moustache. “Raymond, if you attended Police Academy then you must realize that we are only doing our job. Your cooperation would be greatly appreciated.”

“Ok, now it’s all coming back to me. He got booted for putting Hoffmeyer down on the mat.”

Kovacs tried to repress a grin. “Lieutenant Hoffmeyer? Hulk Hoffmeyer? The head of the County Drug Interdiction Task Force?”

“Yeah, when he was still a sergeant, Hoffmeyer taught the combat module at the Academy. This wannabe Bruce Lee caught him with some off the wall kung fu move. Broke Hoffmeyer’s arm or wrist or something. How about it, Ray? I heard you were on the way out anyway. Blew the psych evaluation and thought you’d get your last dig in, isn’t that right?”

Ray kept quiet. Hoffmeyer was a fucking sadist who took great pleasure in beating up on the cadets, especially the women. He was of the opinion that the force was no place for pussies or faggots. He got what he deserved as far as Ray was concerned. And he hadn’t failed his psychological evaluation.

“Assault on a police officer, Raymond, that’s a pretty serious charge.”  Kovacs cloaked his face in an expressionless veneer. “Maybe I should assume from what Detective Carson is telling me that you are not, how should we say, police friendly? A problem with authority, perhaps?”

Now they were just fucking with him. He addressed Kovacs. “Hey, get this straight. I just came here to get some cat food for my girlfriend’s cat. I had a late night, not a lot of sleep, and I haven’t had breakfast yet. So maybe I’m not exactly mister personality. What of it? No, I don’t know where Colin Knox is. We’re not exactly running buddies.”

“But of course, Raymond,” Kovacs gave a weary smile. “Unfortunately we have conflicting information. I’m certain we can straighten it all out once we go over the details on Sonoma Ave.”

“Am I under arrest?”  He heard the metallic click of cuffs in Carson’s hands.”

“Let’s not dwell on technicalities, shall we, Raymond. We would like to ask you a few more questions in a less distracting atmosphere.”

“Oh yeah? What’s the charge?”  He could sense the razor edge of tension. Carson’s breathing had accelerated. In an ordinary situation he could probably have taken both of them down. But it wasn’t an ordinary situation.

“If you would like to be charged, fine. How about domestic violence?”  Now the dark cop’s looks turned sinister.

“Domestic violence? What the fuck you talking about?”

“Raymond, you have the welt of a handprint on your cheek and a serious scratch on your chin. Have a fight with your girlfriend? I don’t imagine she got the better of it with a bruiser like you. Martial artist?”

Fucking Sherlock Holmes. “This is bullshit!” Ray saw that he’d lost the battle. They were going to take him in no matter what. “Alright, lemme just put the cat food in the car.”

“Keep your hands where I can see them.”  Carson had moved back a step with his hand on his Glock.

Ray swung the door open and bent to drop the bag in the space behind the driver’s seat. “Hey, my back’s to you, Junior, isn’t that the County Sheriff’s preferred target?”

He felt the displacement of air and the force of the hand on the back of his head as his forehead was smashed against the edge of the Civic’s roof.

“Jack, Jack, enough, enough.” Kovacs stepped between them and turned Ray around, still a little dazed, to examine the damage. “Ok, the skin didn’t break but you’re going have a nice goose egg.”  He produced his own set of cuffs and put them on Ray’s wrists. “This is for your own safety.”

“Hey, he was resisting arrest. I saw him reaching for something.”

“Not now, Jack, we’ll talk about it when we get to interrogation.”  He picked up the keys that had fallen from Ray’s hand. “You’ll want this locked up right?”  And turned the key in the door, then dropped them in Ray’s pocket and walked him to their sedan and settled him, carefully, in the back seat.

Ray looked out the window, the pain on his forehead throbbing like a flashing light, and noticed that a small crowd had gathered as they pulled away.

CHAPTER 6

Ray was hustled through a squad room unusually active for a Saturday morning. Not normal weekend shift staffing. Something big was going down. It didn’t take a rocket scientist. He was part of it the way he was eye glommed by the crew of detectives, shirt sleeves rolled up to their elbows, pausing in the chatter, phones to ears.

Kovacs opened the gray metal door with the small square of wire reinforced glass peep hole at eye level and steered him into the tiny room, sat him in the metal chair and cuffed him to the metal table, again casting a concerned eye on the welt rising from Ray’s forehead.

Carson had entered the room with him. “Give me your fucking cell phone.”

Ray glowered at him and didn’t move. “Get a search warrant.”

“The fucking cell, asshole.”

Kovacs intervened. “Surrender your cell phone, Raymond. You know as well as I do COMM Act allows law enforcement access to the data on your phone. Make it easy on yourself.”

Ray didn’t know any such thing but reached into his coat pocket then slid the flip phone across the table, his eyes boring large caliber bullet holes into Carson’s head.

“What the fuck is this?” Carson smirked picking up the phone and turning it over in his hand. “It’s a fucking paper weight.”  He laughed.

“Just dump it.” Kovacs ordered, “and get a printout.” Then turning to Ray. “Are you hungry, Raymond? Get you something to drink?”

Ray nodded. “Yeah to both.”

“Ok, let me see what I can come up with.”

The lock made a loud metallic click as it closed behind the detectives.

Ray dropped his head to his chest. He cleared the mucous built up in his throat, coughing “fuck!”  Spit on the floor where so many others had or swallow, the wide two-way mirror a reminder that someone was most likely watching. He raised his head and tilted it so that he was staring at the shadow of the light above the top of the door. Fucking Cissy just couldn’t let it be, had to drama queen freak. If she hadn’t he wouldn’t. He pictured himself wrapped in the bedcovers and sinking into weary sleep. He drifted, confused for a succession of moments, grasping to regain a grip on the thread. They wanted to know where Colin. Fucking Colin, handing out shit and ducking out when it hits the fan. It had to be a drug thing. That much for sure. But why? He hadn’t seen or talked to Colin in months and then only random run-ins. They moved in different circles. Especially since he’d moved in with Cissy. Why was last night different?

Ray raised his eyebrows and grinned. “Shit, Junior, what do you know, you’re a soccer mom, too.”

Kovacs backed through the door, a coffee cup and manila envelope in one hand and a pink pastry box with a soda balanced on top in the other. He set the box on the table in front of Ray. “Power rings.”  He indicated the two and a half deep fried cake donuts. “Nobody eats them, they’re too dry.” He set the soda can on the table. “Cola. Everybody drinks artificial or decaf. This is all they had left.” He set the large envelope on the table and sipped from a squat white porcelain diner cup that had ‘Commie Pinko Spy’ in red letters written on it. “Or you can have coffee, if you want. Fresh pot.”

Ray shook his head, popped the can and glugged it down. “Naw, this’ll do the trick,” pausing for a breath and broke a donut in half, tearing at it, bite by bite. He did the same with the other half.

“Now Raymond I’m going to inform you of your rights. You have the right to remain silent, you have the right to an attorney, if. . . .”

Ray felt the subtle surge as the sugar kicked in. He focused on Kovacs. “I know the drill. What the fuck do you want from me? I don’t know where the fuck Colin Knox is! What you’re doing here is bullshit. It’s intimidation. Put your fucking cards on the table. What is all this about? The sooner we get it straightened out, the sooner I can go home and get some sleep and you can go out and do your multi-agency drug sweep, arrest a bunch of guys to deport who’ll be back in less than thirty days.”

“Whoa, whoa, this isn’t a drug thing!”  Kovacs grinned wide enough to split his face like a Halloween squash. “You think this is about drugs?”

“Yeah, what the fuck else would it be?”

Kovacs stared across the table, dark, intense. “Mandy Goll.”

“Mandy, what? Wait, Colin, Mandy?”  Ray didn’t like the implications. “What about Mandy, she in trouble?”

“You mean you don’t know?

“Know what? About Mandy? No!”

“It’s been on the news since six o’clock this morning.”

“I haven’t seen TV. I didn’t turn on the news. I had a disk in.” The brain thumper Colin had selected.

“They found her shortly after midnight.”

“Found her? I don’t like the sound of that.”

Kovacs slid a form across the table to him and placed a pen on it. “Sign your name at the bottom that says you’ve been advised of your rights.”  He returned Ray’s stare. “Then we can talk more.”

Carson leaned into the room, grinning wide. “Ernie, you’re gonna love this. Check it out.”

Kovacs grimaced. Getting up, he pointed at the table. “Sign,” he commanded. “I’ll be right back.”

Ray finished off the remaining donuts and washed them down with the last of the cola. The carbonation made him belch and he didn’t hold back, pulling it from deep gut. The effort reminded him of what he had felt in the parking lot, the need to take a dump. The urge compounded by the pressure from the internalized gas pushed on his lower intestine and made him crimp his sphincter. He let the gas pass.

Carson stepped in with a digital evidence camera in his hand. “Oh, man! What did you do in here? Shit your pants?”

Ray gave a wry gotcha grin. “You guys put laxative on those donuts you fed me. I didn’t think you were that desperate to have me spill my guts.”

The detective advanced with a camera. “Ok, move your head a little to the right so I can get a good shot of the handprint. And the scratch.”

Ray ignored him, his stomach rumbling.

“Turn your head to the right, asshole. Don’t make me contaminate the evidence.”

Ray complied, squeaking out another, now worried that the pressure might not be contained.

“Ok, one more and. . .oh jeez, is that you? Fuck! Something crawled up inside and died!”  Carson pulled open the door and spoke to someone in the hallway. “Send a uniform over here. I got a perp needs to make a head call.”

Ray’s ears perked. Perp? Hell, he hadn’t even been charged.

“Why does it take two uniforms to go down and pick up the lunch order?”  Carson flicked the switch on the wall by the door to engage the ventilation fan. “Yeah, yeah, I’ll do it myself.”

“Ok, stand up, shit bag.”  The detective removed the cuff and led Ray out. “First door down the hall on your left. And keep the fan on when you leave.”

Ray’s gut collapsed in on itself like a cheap plastic water bottle. He groaned, at the effort and the relief. He passed a hand over his face and stared down at the pants around his ankles. The sugar had helped, but it wasn’t going to last long. He could feel a big weary nod coming on. He was going to hit the wall, that was a given.

What he couldn’t figure was all that about Mandy. So Colin and Mandy had had another one of their knockdown drag-outs. Mandy was a major drama queen. And she liked to get physical. He’d seen her crazed and combative at a house party. Around the time he’d left the Academy. Certain that Colin got a kick out of it, their slapping wrestling battles, crying mixed with shrieks of, if not pain, pleasure. Did it get out of hand? Colin had blown it off. Scratches on his face undoubtedly from Mandy but that proved nothing other than she got her claws into him. Nothing more about it on the ride out to the marina. This had potential to be a little more serious than just drugs. Considering that Mandy was Hector Goll’s daughter, the Goll of Goll y Geeze Mexican Restaurant chain and ubiquitous food trucks. Colin was in deep shit. He flushed.

Ray grinned at Carson out in the hallway. “What’s for lunch?”

“How about a knuckle sandwich?”  He pushed open the door. “Get in there!”

Kovacs stood by the table frowning and watched Ray be seated.

Ray pulled his hand away from the cuff and growled at Carson. “You don’t need them. I’m not gonna make a run for it until after lunch.”

“It’s procedure, asshole. You wanna play the game, you gotta follow the rules. And so far you got a dozen red cards for attitude.”

Ray raised his eyebrows and grinned. “Shit, Junior, what do you know, you’re a soccer mom, too.”

“Alright, motherfucker, you’re. . . .”

Kovacs intervened. “Ok, Jack, enough of that. We can settle those scores after we put this case down.”  And then to Ray. “You didn’t sign.”

Ray shrugged. “I’m still thinking about it.”

Carriers VIII-IX

Crime Fiction, Gothic, Pulp Fiction, Steampunk Fiction, Western Fiction, , , , , , , , ,

by Mark DuCharme

-VIII-

“You’re late,” Waycross blurted, testily. He was the Interim Assistant Deputy Director of Transportation— that is, of transporters like me. I never met anyone higher up than Waycross. He felt it, too. He was like a petulant king.

I looked at my watch. I was about a quarter-hour late or so, I was surprised to learn.

“I’m sorry, sir, but I had a carrier incident while off-duty in the middle of the night, and I thought I should try to get the cargo to the facility directly, and thought I could do that and still make it back here on time, but I misjudged the time terribly. I’m so horribly sorry, sir.”

“Well,” he paused, “don’t let it happen again.”  Then he huffed away, just as testily as before, but perhaps a bit incensed at his own uncharacteristic show of relative mercy.

I noticed the New Man several feet away, looking stealthily toward me and observing— observing the whole time, with a most curious and furtive glee.

The New Man was sinister. I felt uneasy in his presence, and so tried to avoid him. There was something odd about him, the way he’d so suddenly replaced Hank, and the silence about it, the whispers, as if nothing had happened at all, as if Hank had never been. And the New Man always seemed to be turning up suddenly at the wrong time, looking about stealthily, behind one’s back, over one’s shoulder, as if he were studying you, as if he wanted to learn your private business, as if he wanted to learn to be you. I half suspected him of being a spy for management. Maybe, it now occurred to me, he was a spy for this Thorne.

I didn’t intend to let myself be late again, but neither could I make much sense of all that had recently occurred. Then I remembered the packet Gruber had left me. I reached into my coat and felt that it was still in my breast pocket. I suddenly became more curious about it. I mean, here was I, who had been fearing that old man— or rather, his remains— and I’d been carrying his final testament, of sorts, the whole time. And why me? I was just a neighbor. Sure, I’d drunk his brandy and listened to his ravings on occasion, but we weren’t close, or so I judged. Why would he have made a point of leaving this for my eyes alone? Why would he have told Ana about it, and why did she feel it was important (if she felt anything at all) that I should get it— especially in that very strange moment when we’d just burst in upon her old daddy’s death scene? What strange jumble of thoughts rambled through her mind at that time, out of which she determined that this was the one thing she wanted to be sure not to forget? It’s not like she remembered it a week later and slipped it under my apartment door; no, she made a point of giving it to me then. Something was mysterious about it, alright. Yet I had no time to look into it now; a full day’s work lay ahead of me.

Must I confess how my curiosity began to grow and fester over the course of that day’s labors, and how my lack of a full night’s sleep only seemed to compound my general state of confusion?

Finally, after endless hours, the sun began its slow descent, and I, after having deposited my cargo, began to make my way home also. I knew as soon as I got there that I would want to read Gruber’s packet. And so I hurried.

When I finally entered my apartment, the night now having fully descended upon the city, I tossed Gruber’s envelope upon the table and removed my coat. I was hungry, but even more so was I curious, so I grabbed a beer out of the refrigerator, stuck a frozen dinner in the microwave, and sat down with the packet that had captivated my thoughts for the better part of that strange day.

I ripped open the yellowed envelope and removed the sheets of folded paper and another sealed packet that had been inside the first. When I read the contents, it became clear to me that Gruber had thought more highly of our “friendship” than I myself.

Dear Johnny,
By the time you read this, I may be dead. That’s how things go in times like these. I’ll try to explain more about that later. Forgive me if I can’t explain it all. There are some things I am about to tell you that defy reason or virtue.
On the last night you came to visit, Johnny, I could sense your skepticism, so I didn’t want to go on about all this.  But nevertheless, I feel it’s important to tell you, because if I’m right, my life is in real danger, and yours is too.
I mentioned one Artemas Thorne that night. It didn’t seem like you’d heard of him. Nevertheless, he’s a very important man in this town. Some say, the most important. But I told you, or I tried to tell, that he is very, very dangerous. You must be on your guard!
Why he’s so dangerous will take some explaining. You probably already think me a little crazy, Johnny, but if you don’t, you surely will after you have finished reading what follows. I can assure you, though, that I am in full possession of my mental faculties, despite my age, even as I imagine that my assurance will not matter much to you, my dear friend. Nevertheless, because your own soul is at stake, as well as mine, I must try at least to convince you, however quixotic that labor may prove.
Johnny, strange things are going on in this city— strange and wicked things. Why do you think that all those bodies have to be brought to the abandoned warehouse before dusk?  What is it your employers are afraid of? Have you ever thought about that?
Johnny— you’re smarter than you pretend to be, but if I can speak frankly, my friend, your problem is that you’re incurious.
Johnny, have you ever heard about the dead returning to life? I don’t mean to life exactly, but to some pale semblance of it. When this happens, some call those returned— those whom I believe you call “carriers”— the undead.
Johnny, please bear with me. I am not as feeble-minded as I think you think I am. I am not feeble-minded at all, in fact. But when I say this, I know you will not believe me.
Nevertheless, I persist, because you are my last hope. My daughter is lost to me. I know few people young enough, strong enough, to carry on this fight. You are both young and strong, Johnny, and if you will but believe, I know that you can see this through— and do what must be done.
You have received the calling card, by now, of Artemas Thorne, I trust. No, it’s not I who put it there! I understand your skeptical nature, Johnny— in many ways, I am a skeptic myself, as I’ve tried to stress to you, though it seems to have fallen on deaf ears.  In any case, perhaps by the time you read this, you might be a bit more curious about him than when we last spoke.
I am a historian by training, if not by profession, as you well know. I have done a fair amount of historical research in my time. I have looked into this Artemas Thorne— for reasons that may become clear to you, but which for now it is difficult to fully explain. In any event, there is no record of a person of that name, man or woman (for in fact, it could be either) ever being born on this continent. And I’ve scoured all the data. I find that rather curious.
The other curious thing is that the only record— again, on this continent— of a person by that name, in any variant spelling, is of a colonist who arrived here on one of the early ships. A birth record has been found for that Artemas Thorne near London, but no death record for that person, born in 1596, has been located. Very strange.
Johnny, I am convinced that the Artemas Thorne who lives here and now and the Artemas Thorne born in 1596 are one and the same! He is one of the undead, Johnny— in fact, he is their leader, of sorts. If I am right about this— and I am almost certain that I am— then it is he who brought this plague upon our city. He is a very wicked man— or should I say, creature?
You’ll want proof. I can offer none, at least until catastrophe strikes. But if you ever wake up in the middle of the night, full of restless dreams, do not look out your south-facing window if you lack courage.
My hope and purpose in writing posthumously (should my guess prove correct, and my daughter, in that event, keep her word) is that you be awakened to this danger and act swiftly, as one should.

Most sincerely,
Augustus Aloysius Gustave “Jim” Gruber

PS: I am enclosing a second sealed letter in this first. I ask that you not read it unless and until you become convinced that I am right. This second letter will instruct you on what to do to rid this city of its plague and of the demon who brought it upon us.
PPS: One more thing, Johnny. My daughter Analeise may call upon you some evening, if she already hasn’t. Don’t let her see this letter or the enclosed one! If I’m right about all of these things, Johnny, she is dangerous too.

I was most perplexed by this strange missive. On the one hand, Gruber here sounds madder than ever before; on the other, he makes a strange sort of sense.

I grew upset. The events of the last few days had cast an unmistakable pall over things. It seemed as if I’d been drawn into some chain of circumstance that led I knew not where, and over which I had no control. I didn’t know what to do or think. I began to wish that I’d told Ana to go the hell away and gone back to sleep. I began to wish that I hadn’t knocked on Gruber’s door that night. O, what to believe?

I finished my meal, then drank another beer, then another. I went to bed at the usual time, but slept fitfully. I would have gladly settled for troubled dreams.

Bild 138

-IV-

I couldn’t very easily get to sleep, and when I did it was only a feeble approximation of rejuvenating repose. I did wake fully, though, around midnight. Old Gruber’s letter had haunted me, chasing back innocence’s rest. But when I glanced up at the clock and saw that it was only 11:58 P.M., I felt despair. And then, those words of Gruber’s came back to me: if you ever wake up in the middle of the night, full of restless dreams, do not look out your south-facing window if you lack courage. Gruber had been crazy, but he could be right about some things. My apartment does have a south-facing window, for example. But what could I see from there, and why would it require courage? The main thing visible from there is that old tower.

I have remarked earlier in my tale upon the unusual construction of the building in which my quarters are located— how the edifice is essentially an old Victorian house that has been added on to over the many decades hence. This is so, and the newer appendages are sometimes odd and ill-suited to the original components of the structure.

Nowhere is this more evident than in the tower. It is probably at least five or six stories in height— easily the tallest edifice for blocks around. It is constructed of mortared stones. It looks rather more like a European structure than one erected on this continent. In truth, it resembles a medieval tower more than anything post-Victorian, and so it fits right in with the odd hodgepodge of architectural styles that is the hallmark of the assemblage I call home. There are windows in that tower (fairly narrow), but there is no door at all outside its circular structure. It is said that an old door that no one ever uses— one that, coincidentally, is to be found just to the left as I exit my quarters and approach the main stairwell— actually leads to a hallway which, in turn, leads into that tower. But as I’ve said, that doorway is never used. It doesn’t seem that anyone has the key. And I have never seen lights in the tower’s somewhat narrow rectangular windows. In truth, I think that no one lives there, nor has anyone for at least as long as I have occupied my quarters.

The more I thought about it, the less sense Gruber’s statement made. You see, if I look out that window at night— or in day, for that matter— just about the only thing I can see is that tower. Now why should that be so frightening?

Here, I suddenly thought to myself, here was a chance to prove Old Gruber the benign lunatic I always took him to be. I got out of bed at once and went to that window. Surely, I would need no courage, because surely all that would be visible would be that old, abandoned tower, the darkness that engulfed it, and perhaps some faint lights down the street. This was brilliant, I thought. Surely all this vague, uneasy feeling would be resolved at once, and I would turn and go right back to bed, and sleep there like a babe in comfort.

I should not need to tell you with what chagrin I had to admit to myself that Old Gruber knew exactly what he had been talking about. For there it was, out my window facing south, that stone phallic structure. And out of one of its narrow, rectangular windows, I saw emerge to my growing horror the figure of a man. Yes, it was unmistakable. But this man did not leap to his doom, nor make some plea to the unheeding night; no. This man, instead, emerged from that window and crawled— yes, that is the right word— he crawled down the side of that building, quite like a spider. He had dark hair and was slender, but not slight, of build. He was clad all in black or dark gray— I could not tell the difference by cloudy moonlight— and his long overcoat paid no more respect to the law of gravity than his body did. When this downward-crawling human arachnid arrived at the narrow window directly below the one he had emerged from, he entered abruptly, and with an insect-like and most inhuman agility. Then— and this is the strangest part— I could see him stand up in the lower chamber he had so unnaturally entered, and turn and face me suddenly— yes, me! He was clearly aware that I had been watching him, and even in the dim moonlight, I could yet detect a malevolent smile curl his lips.

I rushed from my window in horror. Had this all been a dream? No, it couldn’t have been! I was nowhere near a state of sleep conducive to dreams, much less any state of sleep. I was wide awake, yet what I saw struck mortal terror in me in a way no nightmare ever had, even as a little boy. No, this was all too real! And this thing— this spider-creature— was now aware of me, if he hadn’t been before. My blood chilled as I reflected on this new and dreadful development.

Next Time: The Letter Inside The Letter

The Man From La Mirada Perdida—i & ii

Crime Fiction, Gothic, Pulp Fiction, Steampunk Fiction, , , , , , , , , ,

A Don Coyote & Saundra Pansy Mystery

by Mike Servante

i

 

—Ever work for a private investigator before?

—I can’t honestly say that I have.

—But you’ve had experience working in an office, answering phones, typing?

—It’s all there in the resume.

—Yes, of course. So why don’t you tell me in your own words.

—I was a receptionist for a law firm, Stag, Stagger,& Staggered. I answered phones, took messages, routed calls, sorted mail and put it in the appropriate mailboxes. And did some light typing. The legal secs did the important stuff.

—Just a minute, did you just say legal sex?

—No, no, legal secretaries, that’s what they were called, legal secs, legal secretaries.

—Alright, go on.

—The firm had an investigator on retainer, but I never saw him. Only his mail.

—Only his mail what?

     “His mail, envelopes, packages, legal briefs, that sort of thing.”

—I see, mail, briefs, packages.

—But that was a while back. I haven’t been in an office environment since I got married.

—You’re married?

—Was. Widow.

—Oh, I’m sorry. My condol. . . .

—It was several years ago.

—Yes.

—And I’ve had to rejoin the workforce.

—Your husband, uh, Mr. Pansy?

—Corrigan, Jake Corrigan. Pansy is my maiden name.

—Ok. Mind if I call you Saundra? Or Sandy?

—If it comes with a pay check, I’m ok with that, though I’m not particularly fond of Sandy.

—Pay check, right, good you brought that up. If you were to accept this assignment I can only use you parttime, three days a week. Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, eight till noon, I will pay you for your time each week on Friday. I hope those are enough hours for you. Maybe once business picks up we can add more time.

—That’s fine. Like I said I’m rejoining the workforce after years of being a housewife. I’d like to take it slow. Plus I get Jake’s pension.

—Oh, yes, pension, that’s good. What did your husband do?

—He was a cop.

—Really? That’s very interesting, a cop?

—He never talked to me about the job. Said he didn’t want to depress me.

—I see. That was thoughtful.

—I have a question. Do I call you Don or Mr. Coyote?

—Boss is fine.

  

dcovaltxtI’m a good judge of character. She was in her late forties, going gray pixie cut that went with the pixie face, dangling silver earrings, intense blue eyes, mascara thick eyelashes, not so subtle green shadowed and precisely drawn eyebrows. Her lipstick was a synthetic shade of orange and probably applied with a palette knife.     

 What choice did I have? The only other applicant was a high school girl who had arrived with her mother who wisely stayed in the car. She’d snapped her gum while looking around the small office, bewildered, pointed to the typewriter, and asked, “What’s that?”

This woman in the colorful summer dress and gold brocade shrug appeared evasive and reluctant when I asked about her experience. Anyone can write a resume, I wanted to get the depth of her understanding by how she used her words and if she was familiar with the nomenclature.

She brought up sex almost immediately. I don’t want to say that I have that effect on women, but I am not uninitiated in the ways of the world. When I questioned her bringing it up, she covered skillfully and made it out to be a misunderstanding on my part. I don’t make those kinds of mistakes. And as if to further tease, she brought up male briefs and packages. I wasn’t born yesterday. Packages, that was just blatant.

Next she tried the pity angle. Widow. What was I supposed to say? How did he die? And she coldly brushed off my expression of sympathy. I could tell she was desperate to get the job, her repeated emphasis on the need to return to the workforce, but maybe at her age it’s a challenge, and she’s desperate.

I guess that’s something I’ve never known, I come from money. My grandfather was a jeweler, from the Ukraine, one of three Koyoskozko brothers who were headed to Alaska during the gold rush to claim their fortune. Grandpa jumped ship in San Francisco, tired of puking his guts at every swell of a wave. He apprenticed to a jeweler, a fellow countryman, and learned the business. With the ’06 quake, the business was destroyed. Like many made homeless by the catastrophe, he headed north, following the circumference of San Pablo Bay until he reached the wet lands on the northwest side of the bay once owned by General Vallejo. There on a river that drained into the bay sat a relatively untouched settlement known as Petaluma. He took it to be an Indian name. He was successful, changed his own name to something easier to pronounce, Coyote, though at the time he didn’t realize its import as a mythical figure in the lore of his adopted country. Eventually he had jewelry outlets in every major burg in the valley. My father inherited the business and became even more prosperous by investing in real estate. When he died I inherited millions. He’d eased out of the jewelry business a while ago although I had worked for him as a courier when I was going to the University in San Francisco. I often carried satchels of very valuable jewels in the trunk of my Impala as if they were nothing more than a bag full of old tennis togs. I had a permit to carry, then, and still do.

That woman is wily, I’ll give her that. When I politely asked if I could address her by her first name she immediately turned it into an offer of a job.

sandy2ovaltxtI don’t know who he thought he was, thinning red hair, tall and gangly with quite a beak, too. He dressed conservatively for this neck of the woods, slacks, open collar shirt. I’ll admit I was desperate. After Jake’s passing, I had to keep up the house payments and that meant cutting corners on other necessities. Besides, being housebound as a homemaker for a couple dozen years, I was ready to re-experience life as a single woman.

My husband used to say I was a ditz, but what did he know, he was a lummox. Jake worked as a Napa PD patrol officer till he dropped dead at Swank’s Steakhouse in Santa Rosa. The red meat in his gut didn’t agree with the red meat of his heart. As someone from his family said at the wake, “He larded up.” Certainly no one on my side of the family would have said it, out loud, at any rate. And it was true that the slim handsome police cadet I married turned into a wide load, pot-bellied, booze swilling porker right before my eyes. The sorrier he felt for himself, the more pounds he put on, and the meaner he got. He was an accident that didn’t wait long to happen.

I’m from around here, born, bred, and schooled. My folks and their folks and their folks before them were pioneers in these parts, chicken ranching, sheep and cattle, apples and prunes, they did just about anything that had to do with growing or grazing. Of course Coyote Jewelers was known far and wide. My wedding ring came from their showroom in Sonoma, or as my dad used to call it, Sonombula because it was a sleepy little town back then, before it got overrun by grapevines and all the snobby money, snooty attitude, and high prices that followed. Growing grapes was suddenly an art when all it was really was just good farming. That’s my stock. I’m not afraid of honest work and I expect to be respected for doing it.

I knew enough to be on my guard, having worked as a waitress while I was taking secretarial courses at the local business school. Guys always bring sex up and then when you call them on it, they act all offended like and pretend that’s not what they meant. Happened at the office, too. And though I hadn’t expected it to come up in the job interview, there it was. Everyone knows a legal sec is short for legal secretary just as a para is short for paralegal. If I hadn’t got married I think I would have tried for paralegal, get the training and all.

In the meantime, I needed to get work and his acting like a jerk wasn’t making it easy. I wasn’t going to catch the drift? Mail, package, briefs. I come from a big family, brothers, cousins, uncles, all of them brain in the gutter. I’ve heard it all. And I wasn’t going to fall for it. If that’s what he thought, he had another think coming. Saundra Pansy was never a pushover whatever you thought of the name.

Guess he got the drift. Boss said I was to start Monday, eight sharp.

ii

—It’s not electric?

—Um no, but it’s authentic.

—It looks like it weighs a ton.

—It’s a 1939 Royal KMM with the patented Magic Margin system. See, if you hold down the right or left margin lever and slide the carriage to the desired location you ‘magically’ set the margin. It still has the original round glass-topped keys. I paid $5 for it at a flea market, and it still works as well as when it was new. I even ordered extra ribbons.

—Right. . . ribbons. That’s quite a museum piece.

—Oh, it is perfectly functional.

—And this lever?

—That’s the carriage return.”

—Ok, now I remember seeing a video of one being used when I was in business school. We practiced typing on electric typewriters.

—But you assured me you could type!

—Oh yeah, no problem, if it’s qwerty, I let my fingers do the walking, and I can do it blindfolded. I can also do Gregg but it’s been a while so I might be a little rusty.

—Greg?

—Yeah, you know, the shorthand guy.

—Shorthand?

—Transcription. Like I said, it’s been a while.

—Good, good, for now typing will be enough. And this is an elegant machine. You shouldn’t have any problem with it, freshly oiled and cleaned.

—You don’t have a computer?

—No I don’t believe in computers. But look, I even had some stationary printed.

—Stationary?

—I hired a graphics firm to design the letterhead and the logo. Don Coyote & Associates, Private Investigations. I think the howling coyote in the oval frame like that is quite well done.

—That looks like a wolf.

—No, no. I’ve been assured that it is, in fact, a coyote.

—Have you ever seen a coyote in the fur?

—I’ve seen pictures. Many pictures.

—Well, alrighty then, if that’s the case.

—Oh, no, no case yet, but I’m hoping in the near future to develop some leads, lure clients in need of investigative services.

—And in the meantime is there any correspondence you’d like me to write, calls you’d like me to make, appointments you want me to schedule, dictation? I’m ready to get down to business.

—Good, and I don’t know if I have to point this out, but that is what is called a rotary dial on the telephone. It’s a 1937 Stromberg Carlson, very rare.

—It works? I thought it was just part of the décor. Like the typewriter.

—It is in perfect working order, as functional as the day it rolled off the assembly line. It has the original bell. Wait till you hear it!

—I’ll assume it doesn’t take pictures.

—Of course not. The telephone is for the ear, not the eyes. This is not some Dick Tracy outfit with wrist radios and video phones. Don Coyote, Private Eye, is nothing if not authentic!

—Ok, you’re the boss. I’m ready to get to work. I just don’t want to waste your time and money sitting around not doing anything.

—Well, first of all you need to get familiar with the type of job you’ll be doing and probably the best way to do that is to begin by creating a catalog of the files and reference books in my office.

—Like a librarian?

—I have a collection of rare pulp fiction magazines and obscure post war crime fiction paperbacks. Oh, and my film noir library, private eye memorabilia, crime scene photos. I would recommend that you read a few of those novels to get a feel for the business. I’m thinking along the lines of Mike Hamm. . . .

—You’re going to pay me to read?

—Well, no, I see it as something you could take home and do. To bring you up to speed. A private eye’s secretary requires specialized knowledge.

—So I would be doing more than just typing and filing? That sound like I’d need specialized training. On company time.

—Are you going to answer that?

—Don Coyote & Associates, Private Investigations, how can I direct your call? One moment please. It’s for you.

dcovaltxtI don’t know how to say this. My expectations might have been too unrealistic. She chews gum. Maybe she was nervous. I suspect that she is rather unqualified and I will eventually have to let her go. As my father used to quote my grandfather as saying, “The biggest problem in running a business is employees.” She is rather plain in a well-scrubbed sort of way. And maybe someone should have told her that colorful plastic jewelry was no longer as popular as it might have been, if ever, in the fifties, say. And even though she was made up to match the bangles and bracelets, she couldn’t hide her lack of refinement when I showed her to her desk.

That typewriter is a classic machine, indestructible, a workhorse. I couldn’t believe my luck. It was from an estate sale, everything had pretty much sold at auction except for a few odd items, like gooseneck lamps, and the old typewriter. One of the heirs was selling them at a flea market where, on occasion, I browse, looking for old magazines and paperbacks. A hand printed sign propped on the machine read BOAT ANCHOR? $5 or B/O. Finding a typewriter repair shop and restoring it was probably the hardest and most expensive part. Even the repairman had never encountered this old of a model, a 1939 Royal. His experience had been mainly on lightweight plastic chassis portables and dreadnaught electric office machines. He also repaired watches, something else experiencing technological displacement.

As soon as I questioned her competence she immediately brought the conversation around to sex. She said she was alright with quirky, and then something that she had done blindfolded with someone named Greg involving shorthand, whatever kinky fetish that was, but I could just imagine. I can only assume she was desperate. She kept saying that it had been a while. Then she brought up computers. And that’s a sore spot with me. I find them dehumanizing. Unfortunately I can become quite irrational when confronted with the issue. I deflected by showing the stationary I had printed but she wanted to make an argument about whether it was a wolf or a coyote depicted in the oval of the logo. I can see that she has a petty side.

I definitely got the feeling that she was in over her head. She was undoubtedly confused by the rotary dial on the telephone. She tried to laugh it off by making a joke. I have very little patience with mockery especially when it pertains to the degradation of values under assault from the techno sphere. I’ll admit it, I’m a technophobe.

And when I suggested that she educate herself for the role she would play as a secretary to a private investigation firm, she turned it into a labor negotiation. I was about to assert my prerogative as the employer when the phone rang. I’ll admit, she did answer the call quite professionally.

sandy2ovaltxtHoo boy! I didn’t think I realized what I was getting into. That machine, a manual typewriter, was carpel tunnel syndrome waiting to happen. I thought he was kidding. Maybe a monitor would cleverly pop up from a hidden compartment on the mahogany desk. No such luck.

I had to remind him again that I was qualified as a secretary, I’d even included a copy of my diploma from Empire Business College with my resume. I found a clean copy that my crazy friend Lola Lamont hadn’t altered the heading of the certificate to Vampire Business College though in truth that’s what we all called it—they didn’t suck you blood, just your money. But from the look on his face, it might have been TMI, too much information.

Then he trots out this stationary with a heading like it was from a comic book. A picture of a coyote, he says, in a clunky oval frame. It was a wolf. I’ve seen coyotes numerous times. Even shot one on my uncle Brad’s sheep ranch over by Two Rock. I know what a coyote looks like. They’re vermin. But he’d seen pictures.

And speaking of pictures, he had to point out the antique telephone like I haven’t ever seen pictures on ones almost exactly like this one. My gran even had one on her bookshelf, used it as a bookend to hold up her collection of picture albums. He got a little touchy at my joke about taking pictures so I’m going to guess he had his funny bone surgically removed.

But I gotta hand it to the guy, his setup is right out of an old black and white movie which I can’t watch because without the color, there’s no meaning, and I lose interest real fast. The place is on Western just off the main drag in what used to be the original family jewelry store, a three story brick walk-up. The downstairs showroom is now an antique store so he doesn’t have to go far for his décor. His office is on the second floor, the door at the end of the hallway at the top of the stairs. It’s one of those old wooden doors with a frosted glass panel on the upper half and in gold lettering it says Don Coyote & Associates. I haven’t a clue who the associates are but I figure I’ll find out soon enough. Inside is a small reception area with a couple of old chairs up against the wall and across from the big mahogany desk where I’m supposed to work. There’s another door on which is written in the same gold lettering, Don Coyote, Private Investigator, and call me crazy, but I’m guessing that’s where the files and reference books are that he wants me to catalog. And read.

He has another think coming if he thought I was going to take work home. If I learned one thing from Jake Corrigan, it’s don’t take the job home. And the only thing I’m going to flip when I get there is the channels. Even McDonald’s pays you when they train you to flip burgers. I could see that that was going to be a bone of contention. If you want me to do a special job, train me. I’m a fast learner. I was about to let him know where I was coming from when the phone rang. It startled me at first. It was loud. And it was a real bell, not an electronic facsimile. I picked up the handset and immediately went into receptionist mode. It was a woman’s voice. She was sobbing, “Help me, oh please, Don Coyote.”

Next time: la bola desnuda or don’t go bowling naked

Carriers V-VII

Crime Fiction, Gothic, Pulp Fiction, Steampunk Fiction, , , , , , , , , ,

by Mark DuCharme

-v-

In truth it wasn’t the door I finally broke through, but the plastered drywall frame it had been latched to. When I managed to accomplish that feat— and not without some terrible cost to my bones— I remember her laughing. This struck me as odd, for the sight we found within those L-shaped quarters was hardly amusing. Her own father— for that is what she called him— Gruber, that crazy old goat— lay there with a great red stream trickling from his neck. He was obviously, incontestably dead— had died by most horrid means— yet it was quite unimaginable what beast, either human or animal, might have entered his chamber and delivered the wound. (Still more unimaginable, I had heard nothing of what must have been a terrible struggle, given the condition of the scene, with books and papers strewn about, though our adjoining apartments were only separated by a thin layer of drywall, through which I used to routinely hear even Gruber’s faintest mumblings.)

I remembered what Dr. Greenway had said. I looked closer at the departed— and yes, there were two wounds indeed, two small wounds, somewhat close, and exactly at the site of the jugular, just as the good doctor had described. In addition, I now noticed, from that closer vantage, the somewhat gray complexion of the skin and the increasingly jaundiced look in the eyes. No, this was no work of a beast as we know it, nor an intruder; Gruber, that strange, crazy old man, had clearly fallen victim to the plague. Well, that, at least, explained why I had heard no struggle: presumably, there had been none. And then it hit me: he had to be taken to the facility, and sooner than later! Gruber was now what my bosses would call a carrier. And even if I were off-duty, you see, I simply couldn’t let a carrier sleep— to go on sleeping. I had to get him to the facility as fast as I could.

His daughter— or the creature claiming to be such— seemed to feel less urgently or sadly about all of this than me. It’s not that she exulted; rather, a blankness overtook her affect, out of which she seemed lost to herself, benumbed. Perhaps the shock of loss had overwhelmed her; I suspected as much, but could not judge with certainty, having only just met her— yet she suddenly seemed not in this world at all, but in another.

“Can you help me get him down to my truck?”  My question seemed to jar her. She stared into space a moment, then regained herself.

“Sure,” she nodded, half smiling. I had him by the armpits. She was about to grab his feet, but then blinked in awareness, veered, and made her way to the great, old, wooden desk where Gruber kept his ravings— the ones in written form, at least.

“Here, this is for you,” she said, handing me an envelope on which “Johnny” had been scrawled in idiotic hand. “He told me he wanted you to have it.”

I attempted to stuff it in my back pocket, but suddenly realized I was still attired in plaid, woolen pajamas. “Excuse me,” I said, looking down in embarrassment, then set the body back down and went straight back to my quarters. Once there, I hastily threw on yesterday’s pants, shirt and socks, in addition to my winter coat, a trench resembling military wear of several bygone eras ago. I tossed the envelope upon the small table that serves all my nutritional, social (when I have visitors) and business needs, but then thought better of it: this Mr. Thorne, or one of his agents, might well intrude again while I’m away, and though I doubted the envelope contained more than ravings, if only out of respect for the dead, I thought it best to keep it out of that Thorne’s reach. I stuffed it hastily into the inside pocket of my overcoat.

“What’s your name,” I inquired, on returning. I thought it best to have a way to contact her— just in case.

“Analeise. Analeise Gruber. You can call me Ana.”  A smile broke upon her pallid face, and her brown eyes suddenly, briefly, regained their luster.

“That doesn’t matter now,” I retorted, striving to keep this all on strictly business terms.  “Give me your card.”

I had no reason to expect that she would have one, but she produced a rectangular, off-white piece of stiff cardstock from her small, decorative, gold lamé handbag. It wasn’t until the next day that I noticed it was the same thick, off-white stock with the same dark, almost blood-red font as the card that Thorne, or someone in his employment, had deposited on my pillow.

We carried the body down the dilapidated, crooked flights of stairs. She was surprisingly much stronger than she looked.

forrest_german_expressionism

-vi-

Although I did briefly consider taking Old Gruber straight to the arena, I judged that there would be enough time to take him directly to the facility before going to pick up my cargo. And besides, what else was there to do now? I wasn’t going to be able to get back to sleep, and even if I could, I wouldn’t be able to sleep for long. Besides, it was still dark. Sunup wouldn’t happen for a good hour. I considered waiting till the sun’s first rays, but the problem with that idea was twofold: if I did that, I’d never be able to get to the arena in time, and I was afraid of what might happen if I left Gruber alone before dawn. Oh, I’ve heard stories! You see, it seems that carriers sometimes can wake up. I don’t know much about it (or I didn’t then), but I knew enough to know that I didn’t want him left unattended in the event that did happen. Uneasy as I felt about the idea of driving him in the dark to the facility, I was more afraid of the alternative. So I went back upstairs, grabbed some food to eat in my cab, and I was off, down crooked streets.

Yet all that time, I felt that strange old fool’s dead, yellow eyes staring at me, hauntingly, in the rearview, neither quite alive nor entirely dead. Must I tell you how I feared him?

His eyes were cold, dead, now fully yellow— most devoid of expression. That blank, almost idiotic twist  of his mouth— one achieved only through his death throes— threatened to break suddenly into a smile, a most wicked and evil grin. I watched for it, almost as carefully as I watched the twisted roads ahead of my careening vehicle— but I swear it never occurred.

I was racing down Pico Avenue— I mean really racing! Dawn was fast approaching. I could see better now, in the new, bluish half-light. I put my boot to the pedal and zoomed past trouble— for what had I, exactly, to fear? Wasn’t I a Transporter, an official agent of the Company? Who was anyone to interrupt my racing? Even the police didn’t care!

I was delirious with excitement and relief. The slowly awakening sun seemed to mark the end of my fears about Old Gruber, at least for the time being. I was getting close to the facility, when suddenly I turned a corner and caught a flash of rosy, post-dawn light in the rearview as I passed the towering hulk of an abandoned, formerly auspicious office structure. For all I knew, carriers were having their way in there at that very moment.

I turned another corner and at last could see the facility looming ahead in the distance.

10

-vii-

When I arrived, there was no one there, no dockworkers, no flatbeds on which to dump the remains. Now that the sun was almost fully up, I felt a little safer— and that was good, for it suddenly occurred to me that I would have to carry the old man in— and I had no idea whether the building would be open or not! Suddenly, the colossal mistake of my hasty decision fully dawned on me. For all I knew, I wouldn’t be able to leave him there at all— would have to transport him, in fact, back to the arena, to pick up my other cargo, only to race back here again before the pink sun sank.

I looked back through the tiny window separating the driver’s cab from the carriage proper. I could see no change in Gruber: same yellow eyes, same gray complexion (perhaps just a shade grayer now), same twisted half-smile. Perhaps my fears had been unfounded after all, I exulted to myself, in the eerie, bright light of new-day.

I steeled myself and exited the cab, swerved round, and unlocked the rear door of the transport. He didn’t move at all. Whatever had I been thinking?

I entered, situated my arms about his (I could tell) stiffening corpse, and lifted him up, as one would lift a new bride, and carried him out of the carriage, making my way toward the narrow flight of stairs leading up to the platform.  I reached the top and headed to the door next to the warehouse gates. If anyone was there— if I had any hope of dropping off Old Gruber at this hour— that was where I might find him. I set down the stiff assortment of limbs and knocked hard— knocked and knocked with all my might, upon the heavy, unrelenting steel door. I knocked for what felt like nearly a quarter hour, and I was just about ready to give up, when I heard faint, approaching footsteps, some rustling keys, and a sharp metallic click. The door swung slowly open, and I could see Carlos behind it. He looked like he was still half asleep. I had no idea he would be here this early.

“Sorry, Carlos, but I got one for ya. I’ll be back at the usual.”  He nodded mutely, then I turned and scooped up the cadaver— for what else was he now?— and brought it through the doorframe. I had never been through that door, but there was a pallet on the other side, and I decided that would be as good a place to leave Old Gruber as any. I laid him there, and Carlos kind of nodded, while making vacant eye contact. I veered back and walked out without saying goodbye. He hadn’t said a word the whole time.