Will This Night Never End
- Thread starter reiver33
- Start date
- Status
Twenty-Two
I paid off the cabbie, no tip, and walked around the back of our building. I knew that O’Brian, the supervisor, kept his basement office window propped open due to the heat. Although this was right next to his bedroom the guy was a real lush, and I counted on him being out for the count.
By standing on an old orange crate I was able to reach in and unhook the bar, allowing the window to swing open. Then it was easy up and over the sill, dropping down with barely a sound onto the linoleum. The door was locked but I knew O’Brian kept the master key hanging between the filing cabinets. I had to leave the office open but figured he’d be too hung-over to remember securing it.
The air in the basement was stifling, and three floors up wasn’t much better. I still had my keys but found the police hadn’t bothered to lock the office when they left. Apart from a notice pinned to the door declaring it a crime scene, and a few fingerprint powder smudges, there was no trace of them.
I closed the door and leaned against it for a moment, taking in the scene. The outer office was dark, with only the open doorway standing out. Nothing stirred, so I moved further in.
The inner office was illuminated by the flashing hotel sign over the way, rendering it in stark relief and deep shadow. It was much as I remembered, apart from the back-of-your-tongue tang of drying blood. This had pooled on the cheap carpet and I had to tread carefully in places. The police hadn’t tidied up any, but neither had they turned the place over. I fumbled under Jimmy’s desk and was rewarded by the feel of cool metal and duct tape. It took a deal of effort to pry the damn thing loose, as it had been stuck there for the best part of three years. The tape had left the breech and barrel feeling sticky, so I tried to wipe it clean using the hand towel we use to catch drips from the water cooler. Of course all this did was leave it covered in white flecks, not quite the vision of Teutonic menace I was hoping for.
Still, in sat good in my hand, and on inspection had a round in the breech plus a full clip. That gave me pause though, as I doubted the damn thing had been fired since 1945 and the spring-loaded clip was probably rusted or had lost its tension. Even a single 9mm round was better than nothing, so I tossed it on my desk and wiped my hands.
I sat down and opened the filing cabinet to my left, fishing out the bottle of single malt that’s strictly for special occasions. It’s a damn site better than the stuff I keep in my desk and occasionally share with clients. The combination of street light and neon made the contents switch between soft amber and black ink, and a part of me knew the last thing I needed right then was more booze.
The metal cap spun, corkscrewing into the air to land and bounce on the desk top. I took a long pull, two swallows, and coughed, my nose and throat burning. Then the glow hit my gut and I smiled.
“You feel like sharing any of that, bud?”
The Imp was standing on the desk, holding out the bottle cap in both hands. I felt a surge of goodwill towards men and bugbears, reaching forward to slop a few drops into his makeshift receptacle.
“Cheers.”
“Screw you.”
I took another swallow while he drained the cap and tossed it. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and glanced towards the phone.
“So, you gonna’ call her, or what?”
I knew what he meant, but the phone held about as much allure for me as a coiled rattlesnake. I have an ex-wife, a wartime mistake, and it’s not something I care to discuss. Some part of me still wants to reach out, talk to her again, if I was really up against it and unlikely to get another chance. Luckily the rest of me is a bit more hard-headed and doesn’t need the extra heartache. I shook my head.
“You and her would get along great, I’m sure, but I don’t see this as being curtains for me just yet. I’ve got a gun, I’ve got some cash, and I’m still one step ahead of the law. I figure if Elise Ulm can’t find me, I’m gonna’ go to her. Settle this, or at least let Gramsci know where she is. He seems fired up to do the Church’s bidding, and if that includes icing this Ulm broad then so be it.”
The Imp grinned.
“Accessory before and after the fact? Conspiracy to murder? This keeps getting better and better. You trying to get famous by scoring a felony in all major categories?”
I flipped him off, stood up, and on impulse threw the bottle out the open window, hearing it shatter in the street below. A dog barked, but no one else took exception.
“Jeez-Louise, what the hell was that? If you ain’t got the stomach for decent booze then you could have left it for me. Retard.”
“Call it a gesture, short stuff, an offering to the Gods. I need all the help I can get and if this doesn’t play out the way I want then the booze won’t be much use to me, anyhow.”
I stuffed the Lugar down the back of my pants and split, pausing only to riffle through the petty cash box in Sally’s desk. Climbing back out the basement window didn’t hold much appeal, so I risked the basement entrance, the one where I’d encountered Dorothea Ulm. From street level there didn’t seem to be any police about and I relaxed, coming up and cutting diagonally across the street. Half way across I had to stop and let a convertible pass, and the driver honked his horn at me – one of those musical numbers. Glancing round I saw I’d been wrong – there was a cop at the far end of the building, sorting out some beef between two drunks. He’d been hidden by a parked car while hauling them off the street and onto the sidewalk, and now the car horn made him look in my direction.
I needed to get off the street quick-time, before he started wondering where I’d come from. There was a light on at Lipski’s, the tailor, and I ducked into his doorway, rapping on the glass. There was a voice from within.
“We’re closed. Go home. Go to church in the morning and make your mother proud. Say a player for poor Lipski, up all hours, trying to make an honest living.”
“Your light is on. You’re open. Let me in.”
The light went off.
I paid off the cabbie, no tip, and walked around the back of our building. I knew that O’Brian, the supervisor, kept his basement office window propped open due to the heat. Although this was right next to his bedroom the guy was a real lush, and I counted on him being out for the count.
By standing on an old orange crate I was able to reach in and unhook the bar, allowing the window to swing open. Then it was easy up and over the sill, dropping down with barely a sound onto the linoleum. The door was locked but I knew O’Brian kept the master key hanging between the filing cabinets. I had to leave the office open but figured he’d be too hung-over to remember securing it.
The air in the basement was stifling, and three floors up wasn’t much better. I still had my keys but found the police hadn’t bothered to lock the office when they left. Apart from a notice pinned to the door declaring it a crime scene, and a few fingerprint powder smudges, there was no trace of them.
I closed the door and leaned against it for a moment, taking in the scene. The outer office was dark, with only the open doorway standing out. Nothing stirred, so I moved further in.
The inner office was illuminated by the flashing hotel sign over the way, rendering it in stark relief and deep shadow. It was much as I remembered, apart from the back-of-your-tongue tang of drying blood. This had pooled on the cheap carpet and I had to tread carefully in places. The police hadn’t tidied up any, but neither had they turned the place over. I fumbled under Jimmy’s desk and was rewarded by the feel of cool metal and duct tape. It took a deal of effort to pry the damn thing loose, as it had been stuck there for the best part of three years. The tape had left the breech and barrel feeling sticky, so I tried to wipe it clean using the hand towel we use to catch drips from the water cooler. Of course all this did was leave it covered in white flecks, not quite the vision of Teutonic menace I was hoping for.
Still, in sat good in my hand, and on inspection had a round in the breech plus a full clip. That gave me pause though, as I doubted the damn thing had been fired since 1945 and the spring-loaded clip was probably rusted or had lost its tension. Even a single 9mm round was better than nothing, so I tossed it on my desk and wiped my hands.
I sat down and opened the filing cabinet to my left, fishing out the bottle of single malt that’s strictly for special occasions. It’s a damn site better than the stuff I keep in my desk and occasionally share with clients. The combination of street light and neon made the contents switch between soft amber and black ink, and a part of me knew the last thing I needed right then was more booze.
The metal cap spun, corkscrewing into the air to land and bounce on the desk top. I took a long pull, two swallows, and coughed, my nose and throat burning. Then the glow hit my gut and I smiled.
“You feel like sharing any of that, bud?”
The Imp was standing on the desk, holding out the bottle cap in both hands. I felt a surge of goodwill towards men and bugbears, reaching forward to slop a few drops into his makeshift receptacle.
“Cheers.”
“Screw you.”
I took another swallow while he drained the cap and tossed it. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and glanced towards the phone.
“So, you gonna’ call her, or what?”
I knew what he meant, but the phone held about as much allure for me as a coiled rattlesnake. I have an ex-wife, a wartime mistake, and it’s not something I care to discuss. Some part of me still wants to reach out, talk to her again, if I was really up against it and unlikely to get another chance. Luckily the rest of me is a bit more hard-headed and doesn’t need the extra heartache. I shook my head.
“You and her would get along great, I’m sure, but I don’t see this as being curtains for me just yet. I’ve got a gun, I’ve got some cash, and I’m still one step ahead of the law. I figure if Elise Ulm can’t find me, I’m gonna’ go to her. Settle this, or at least let Gramsci know where she is. He seems fired up to do the Church’s bidding, and if that includes icing this Ulm broad then so be it.”
The Imp grinned.
“Accessory before and after the fact? Conspiracy to murder? This keeps getting better and better. You trying to get famous by scoring a felony in all major categories?”
I flipped him off, stood up, and on impulse threw the bottle out the open window, hearing it shatter in the street below. A dog barked, but no one else took exception.
“Jeez-Louise, what the hell was that? If you ain’t got the stomach for decent booze then you could have left it for me. Retard.”
“Call it a gesture, short stuff, an offering to the Gods. I need all the help I can get and if this doesn’t play out the way I want then the booze won’t be much use to me, anyhow.”
I stuffed the Lugar down the back of my pants and split, pausing only to riffle through the petty cash box in Sally’s desk. Climbing back out the basement window didn’t hold much appeal, so I risked the basement entrance, the one where I’d encountered Dorothea Ulm. From street level there didn’t seem to be any police about and I relaxed, coming up and cutting diagonally across the street. Half way across I had to stop and let a convertible pass, and the driver honked his horn at me – one of those musical numbers. Glancing round I saw I’d been wrong – there was a cop at the far end of the building, sorting out some beef between two drunks. He’d been hidden by a parked car while hauling them off the street and onto the sidewalk, and now the car horn made him look in my direction.
I needed to get off the street quick-time, before he started wondering where I’d come from. There was a light on at Lipski’s, the tailor, and I ducked into his doorway, rapping on the glass. There was a voice from within.
“We’re closed. Go home. Go to church in the morning and make your mother proud. Say a player for poor Lipski, up all hours, trying to make an honest living.”
“Your light is on. You’re open. Let me in.”
The light went off.
I will get this finished, I will...
Twenty-Three
I rapped on the glass again, not daring to glance over my shoulder in case the flatfoot was making a bee-line for me.
“Come on, Lipski, play ball. Look, I’m buying and I’ll pay cash. No cheques this time, honest.”
The light came on and the door unlocked, although the blind remained down. By the time I made it inside Lipski, for all his bum leg, was back behind the counter. He was of average build, middle aged, grey at the temples, wearing a kippah and a scowl.
“Mr Private Detective, disturbing my honest toil. Why is it you are bothering me at this ungodly hour?”
I wasn’t exactly his favourite customer, due to an unfortunate misunderstanding concerning a bad cheque, so I was keen to get on his good side.
“It’s your second-hand lines I’m here to see, Lipski, and like I said, it’s strictly cash.”
I moved forward and dumped a handful of bills on the open ledger, keeping back a ten-spot for later. There was more than I expected, as Sally had apparently been squirreling away funds against a rainy day. Or at least a damp one. Lipski poked through the cash with the end of a pencil.
“Huh! Throws money at me now. This is not the act of a cautious man. A cautious man appreciates the virtue of negotiation. This is just…obvious.”
I held out one lapel between finger and thumb.
“Look, I don’t have time to haggle, I just need a new suit. Maybe a shirt as well, and a tie. I’ve got a court appearance in the morning and want to look my best.”
He looked me up and down.
“Hat?”
I removed my fedora and saw how battered it was.
“Hat.”
Although he advertised himself as a bespoke tailor, Lipski also carried a variety of second-hand clothing on racks along one side of his shop. I moved towards these but he held up his hand.
“Stop! I’ll not have you ruin my reputation by walking out of here dressed like some cheap hoodlum. No sense of style is your problem.” He half turned his head and raised his voice. “Sarah! A moment of your valuable time, if you please.”
I heard the tap-tap of high heels on bare boards and a woman appeared through the back curtain. One of those dames that hit you like a slap in the face. Curvy, olive skin, prominent features, dark hair and darker eyes. A handsome woman rather than pretty, but she ticked all my boxes. The feeling wasn’t mutual.
“This gentleman is in the market for a new outfit, Papa? Just how inexpensive are his tastes?”
Lipski had a daughter? He’d kept her well under my radar, and I suppose with good cause.
“The second rack, Sarah. Suit and shirt.”
Sarah looked me up and down.
“What are you, forty-two regular?”
I open my mouth to agree but her father cut in.
“Better make it a forty-four, Sarah. Mr Helath needs to button the jacket without advertising his firearm.”
I had the good grace to look slightly embarrassed while Sarah showed no reaction and began sorting through the rack. Lipski just shrugged.
“A man’s gun is like his schlong, not to be mentioned unless it’s showing.”
Sarah held out a dark blue two piece; single-breasted jacket and tapered pants. Not exactly a Zoot suit and a bit more conservative than I was used to. There was also a white button-down shirt, repaired at the elbow, and a narrow black tie. She gestured towards the fitting room.
“You can change in there. We’ll even dispose of your old clothes free of charge.”
I mumbled something and ducked inside, just thankful to get away from her withering stare. The lighting was a bit harsh and the full-length mirror did me no favours, highlighting a history of old scars and recent bruises. I glanced around but the Imp was nowhere to be seen. Thankful for small mercies I changed clothes and looked at the results. The jacket hung slightly loose if unbuttoned but overall it was a good fit, although the pants were a little snug around the waist with the Lugar in place. The suit made me look like an insurance salesman or some other untrustworthy corporate stooge, so at least that was a step in the right direction.
Exiting the fitting room I found Sarah bent over I front of me, looking through a pile of hat boxes. Her pencil skirt was stretched tight and showed off her rear to perfection. The sight was one that would usually warrant an appreciative comment, or at least a wolf-whistle, but Lipski caught my gaze and arched one eyebrow. I turned to face the counter and shot a cuff.
“Nice threads, Lipski. Neat.”
“Nice threads? We are in Dark Town suddenly? This is a quality establishment, not someplace to get nice threads. Sarah, the gentleman is leaving. Have you found for him a suitable hat?”
Sarah stood and we both turned towards each other, finding ourselves a bit closer than anticipated. Up close she was proud looking, what you would call a real handful, and naked contempt never seemed so appealing.
“Your hat.”
She handed me a grey fedora with a hat band that matched my suit colour almost perfectly. I put it on and snapped the brim, giving her my patented winning smile. No joy. She just arched one eyebrow in a gesture copied from her father and stood aside, clearing my path to the door. I hesitated.
“Look, Lipski, any chance I could use your back door? I might have been trailed here and I’d rather they didn’t know what I was wearing right off the bat.”
“And you would bring trouble to my door instead? When you fail to exit will these enemies of yours not come here searching? Go as you came, Mr Private Detective, and Sarah will lock the door behind you.”
Short of pulling my gun on them there wasn’t much I could do, so I tipped my hat and walked to the door with as much swagger as I could muster. Sarah held the door as I stepped out and up close she smelled of musk and mothballs. I winked, but she just closed the door in my face. Sighing, I turned back towards the street.
Where the police were waiting.
Twenty-Three
I rapped on the glass again, not daring to glance over my shoulder in case the flatfoot was making a bee-line for me.
“Come on, Lipski, play ball. Look, I’m buying and I’ll pay cash. No cheques this time, honest.”
The light came on and the door unlocked, although the blind remained down. By the time I made it inside Lipski, for all his bum leg, was back behind the counter. He was of average build, middle aged, grey at the temples, wearing a kippah and a scowl.
“Mr Private Detective, disturbing my honest toil. Why is it you are bothering me at this ungodly hour?”
I wasn’t exactly his favourite customer, due to an unfortunate misunderstanding concerning a bad cheque, so I was keen to get on his good side.
“It’s your second-hand lines I’m here to see, Lipski, and like I said, it’s strictly cash.”
I moved forward and dumped a handful of bills on the open ledger, keeping back a ten-spot for later. There was more than I expected, as Sally had apparently been squirreling away funds against a rainy day. Or at least a damp one. Lipski poked through the cash with the end of a pencil.
“Huh! Throws money at me now. This is not the act of a cautious man. A cautious man appreciates the virtue of negotiation. This is just…obvious.”
I held out one lapel between finger and thumb.
“Look, I don’t have time to haggle, I just need a new suit. Maybe a shirt as well, and a tie. I’ve got a court appearance in the morning and want to look my best.”
He looked me up and down.
“Hat?”
I removed my fedora and saw how battered it was.
“Hat.”
Although he advertised himself as a bespoke tailor, Lipski also carried a variety of second-hand clothing on racks along one side of his shop. I moved towards these but he held up his hand.
“Stop! I’ll not have you ruin my reputation by walking out of here dressed like some cheap hoodlum. No sense of style is your problem.” He half turned his head and raised his voice. “Sarah! A moment of your valuable time, if you please.”
I heard the tap-tap of high heels on bare boards and a woman appeared through the back curtain. One of those dames that hit you like a slap in the face. Curvy, olive skin, prominent features, dark hair and darker eyes. A handsome woman rather than pretty, but she ticked all my boxes. The feeling wasn’t mutual.
“This gentleman is in the market for a new outfit, Papa? Just how inexpensive are his tastes?”
Lipski had a daughter? He’d kept her well under my radar, and I suppose with good cause.
“The second rack, Sarah. Suit and shirt.”
Sarah looked me up and down.
“What are you, forty-two regular?”
I open my mouth to agree but her father cut in.
“Better make it a forty-four, Sarah. Mr Helath needs to button the jacket without advertising his firearm.”
I had the good grace to look slightly embarrassed while Sarah showed no reaction and began sorting through the rack. Lipski just shrugged.
“A man’s gun is like his schlong, not to be mentioned unless it’s showing.”
Sarah held out a dark blue two piece; single-breasted jacket and tapered pants. Not exactly a Zoot suit and a bit more conservative than I was used to. There was also a white button-down shirt, repaired at the elbow, and a narrow black tie. She gestured towards the fitting room.
“You can change in there. We’ll even dispose of your old clothes free of charge.”
I mumbled something and ducked inside, just thankful to get away from her withering stare. The lighting was a bit harsh and the full-length mirror did me no favours, highlighting a history of old scars and recent bruises. I glanced around but the Imp was nowhere to be seen. Thankful for small mercies I changed clothes and looked at the results. The jacket hung slightly loose if unbuttoned but overall it was a good fit, although the pants were a little snug around the waist with the Lugar in place. The suit made me look like an insurance salesman or some other untrustworthy corporate stooge, so at least that was a step in the right direction.
Exiting the fitting room I found Sarah bent over I front of me, looking through a pile of hat boxes. Her pencil skirt was stretched tight and showed off her rear to perfection. The sight was one that would usually warrant an appreciative comment, or at least a wolf-whistle, but Lipski caught my gaze and arched one eyebrow. I turned to face the counter and shot a cuff.
“Nice threads, Lipski. Neat.”
“Nice threads? We are in Dark Town suddenly? This is a quality establishment, not someplace to get nice threads. Sarah, the gentleman is leaving. Have you found for him a suitable hat?”
Sarah stood and we both turned towards each other, finding ourselves a bit closer than anticipated. Up close she was proud looking, what you would call a real handful, and naked contempt never seemed so appealing.
“Your hat.”
She handed me a grey fedora with a hat band that matched my suit colour almost perfectly. I put it on and snapped the brim, giving her my patented winning smile. No joy. She just arched one eyebrow in a gesture copied from her father and stood aside, clearing my path to the door. I hesitated.
“Look, Lipski, any chance I could use your back door? I might have been trailed here and I’d rather they didn’t know what I was wearing right off the bat.”
“And you would bring trouble to my door instead? When you fail to exit will these enemies of yours not come here searching? Go as you came, Mr Private Detective, and Sarah will lock the door behind you.”
Short of pulling my gun on them there wasn’t much I could do, so I tipped my hat and walked to the door with as much swagger as I could muster. Sarah held the door as I stepped out and up close she smelled of musk and mothballs. I winked, but she just closed the door in my face. Sighing, I turned back towards the street.
Where the police were waiting.
J Riff
The Ants are my friends..
Good. Beeline.. bee-line are express buses over here. Luger... and zoot, the merest of frippant detailery as usual.
A man's gun is like... ha. Good line.
A man's gun is like... ha. Good line.
A bit more for you to nit-pick then...
Twenty-Four
It was just a still wet behind the ears beat cop, but it might was well have been the full Riot Squad, plus dogs. I was boxed in with no options apart from surrender or drawing on him. Neither of us were best placed for gunplay – he was holding a nightstick and the Luger was tucked down the back of my pants. The fact that he didn’t have his revolver out was a plus, so I decided to just play it cool.
“Yes officer, can I help you?”
“Yeah, say, do you live local?”
He came over as a combination of new found authority and nerves. I smiled.
“Local enough. Are you lost?”
He coloured up.
“Naw, hey, less of the joshing, bud. Look, do you know who owns that beat-up Ford outside Shyer’s Deli? I handcuffed a drunk to the rear fender until the wagon gets here but the guy is a real bear and has torn it loose. I don’t want no crap from my sergeant over this so I’m trying to locate the owner and square things away. Yeah?”
The car he meant was mine, no question. It was a ’49 Ford, which might seem like an extravagance for someone like me but it had been rolled two weeks after leaving the dealership, killing both occupants. I’d picked up the wreck for a song and paid Flathead Al twenty bucks to hammer out the worst dents. He wasn’t exactly what you would call a qualified panel beater but what he lacked in skill he made up for in enthusiasm.
For a moment I figured this was some smart move, that the police were bracing anyone who matched my general description in the hope I’d put my hand up and claim ownership. Then again, the guy in front of me had a face like an open book, and I couldn’t read any hint of guile. I took a chance, as I was overdue for some luck.
“This is your lucky day, officer, if not mine. That sounds like my car. Grey forty-nine Ford? Bodywork so dented you could drink coffee from it?”
“Jeez, yeah. Look, I’m real sorry-“
I held up a hand.
“Don’t sweat it. Look, you can see the car is a mess and the fender was probably hanging off anyway. You don’t write me up for that and I won’t bust your balls over man-mountain pulling it loose. Tell you what, I’ll move it so there won’t be any awkward questions when your pals get here. Yeah?”
His face lit up like a child’s.
“Yeah, great!”
I followed him to the Deli and, sure enough, there was this big guy sitting in the gutter, handcuffed to the sagging rear fender of my car. The Imp was also there, perched on the roof like some featherless pigeon.
“I like it, shamus, ballsy. When they finally take you in are you gonna’ rat this flatfoot out, seeing how he’s helping you escape justice? Assuming you don’t get gunned down in the street, that is.”
I just glared at him and turned to the cop, who sounded almost apologetic.
“There were two of them, brawling in the street, and I only had one set of cuffs. I thought I could secure this guy and keep the smaller one in front of me. Then bozo here starts yanking on the hardware and it took a while to subdue him. Had to let the other one walk, not that I expect he’s gone far.”
The cop unfastened the cuff attached to the fender and slapped it on the drunk’s other wrist. I looked at the damage.
“Not so bad, officer. I’ve got some twine in the glove box will keep that in place until I can get to a garage. Are we cool?”
He nodded and began dragging the drunk onto the sidewalk while I opened the car and fumbled in the glove box. There was some thin cord there, from when I dated this waitress who liked having her wrists bound. It was enough to lash the rear fender back in place and I tipped my hat to the flatfoot before getting the hell out of Dodge.
“Phew-ee! Fancy hitting a high stakes crap game while your luck holds? Then again, I’ll have a ringside seat when you do crash and burn, so it’s a win-win for me.”
I could see the Imp in the rear view mirror, sprawled on the parcel shelf. At the next junction I stomped on the brakes and he toppled forward, cursing, and disappeared from view. It was petty, vindictive and about the best I could manage given the circumstances, but it made me smile.
The journey to Ulm’s Emporium proved uneventful, although I found my new shirt made me itch – too much starch. I didn’t expect the police to be looking for my car, as I hadn’t taken it in the first place, and it was only desperation that had brought me back to the office. Sometimes acting dumb can be good, especially if the other guy thinks you have some degree of smarts.
I parked the Ford a block or so from the address and walked. I took it nice and easy, just in case Elise Ulm did have some hired help on the lookout for me. Downtown was still busy despite the hour, and this gave me enough cover to make a walk-by without feeling I was being too obvious. The shop itself was in darkness, but I could see a light on upstairs, where I figured the Ulm family lived.
I did the circuit and approached the rear of the building, which shared common access with a small bakery. The bakers had already started their day, and the smell of new bread made my gut grumble. Headlamps from a parked van illuminated the back of the Ulm’s shop, and it was obvious there was no one lurking there. I crouched beside the van, hidden from the bakery but unwilling to step out into the spotlight while breaking and entering. I was jammed.
A pitter-patter on my hat made me look up. The Imp was standing on the van roof, covered in flour. He was chewing on a piece of bread roll and kicking the crumbs down onto me.
“You should eat something, bud. Might help to soak up some of that booze and clear your head. They got pastries as well if-“
“Screw you. If you’ve got nothing helpful to say then can it.”
“Well, that back door to the Emporium looks a bit shaky. You could just try a shoulder charge.”
I glared at him.
“Oh, very subtle. Got any cheerleaders on hand just in case anyone inside doesn’t catch me acting like a running back under floodlights?”
“Yeah, well, on the plus side if you do just bounce off the door I’ll piss myself laughing.”
Sometimes I really shouldn’t listen to him, but I was already crouched, ready to go. He offered me some encouragement.
“Four-four-four, four-four-four, hut!”
I sprang forward, cursing him with every step.
Twenty-Four
It was just a still wet behind the ears beat cop, but it might was well have been the full Riot Squad, plus dogs. I was boxed in with no options apart from surrender or drawing on him. Neither of us were best placed for gunplay – he was holding a nightstick and the Luger was tucked down the back of my pants. The fact that he didn’t have his revolver out was a plus, so I decided to just play it cool.
“Yes officer, can I help you?”
“Yeah, say, do you live local?”
He came over as a combination of new found authority and nerves. I smiled.
“Local enough. Are you lost?”
He coloured up.
“Naw, hey, less of the joshing, bud. Look, do you know who owns that beat-up Ford outside Shyer’s Deli? I handcuffed a drunk to the rear fender until the wagon gets here but the guy is a real bear and has torn it loose. I don’t want no crap from my sergeant over this so I’m trying to locate the owner and square things away. Yeah?”
The car he meant was mine, no question. It was a ’49 Ford, which might seem like an extravagance for someone like me but it had been rolled two weeks after leaving the dealership, killing both occupants. I’d picked up the wreck for a song and paid Flathead Al twenty bucks to hammer out the worst dents. He wasn’t exactly what you would call a qualified panel beater but what he lacked in skill he made up for in enthusiasm.
For a moment I figured this was some smart move, that the police were bracing anyone who matched my general description in the hope I’d put my hand up and claim ownership. Then again, the guy in front of me had a face like an open book, and I couldn’t read any hint of guile. I took a chance, as I was overdue for some luck.
“This is your lucky day, officer, if not mine. That sounds like my car. Grey forty-nine Ford? Bodywork so dented you could drink coffee from it?”
“Jeez, yeah. Look, I’m real sorry-“
I held up a hand.
“Don’t sweat it. Look, you can see the car is a mess and the fender was probably hanging off anyway. You don’t write me up for that and I won’t bust your balls over man-mountain pulling it loose. Tell you what, I’ll move it so there won’t be any awkward questions when your pals get here. Yeah?”
His face lit up like a child’s.
“Yeah, great!”
I followed him to the Deli and, sure enough, there was this big guy sitting in the gutter, handcuffed to the sagging rear fender of my car. The Imp was also there, perched on the roof like some featherless pigeon.
“I like it, shamus, ballsy. When they finally take you in are you gonna’ rat this flatfoot out, seeing how he’s helping you escape justice? Assuming you don’t get gunned down in the street, that is.”
I just glared at him and turned to the cop, who sounded almost apologetic.
“There were two of them, brawling in the street, and I only had one set of cuffs. I thought I could secure this guy and keep the smaller one in front of me. Then bozo here starts yanking on the hardware and it took a while to subdue him. Had to let the other one walk, not that I expect he’s gone far.”
The cop unfastened the cuff attached to the fender and slapped it on the drunk’s other wrist. I looked at the damage.
“Not so bad, officer. I’ve got some twine in the glove box will keep that in place until I can get to a garage. Are we cool?”
He nodded and began dragging the drunk onto the sidewalk while I opened the car and fumbled in the glove box. There was some thin cord there, from when I dated this waitress who liked having her wrists bound. It was enough to lash the rear fender back in place and I tipped my hat to the flatfoot before getting the hell out of Dodge.
“Phew-ee! Fancy hitting a high stakes crap game while your luck holds? Then again, I’ll have a ringside seat when you do crash and burn, so it’s a win-win for me.”
I could see the Imp in the rear view mirror, sprawled on the parcel shelf. At the next junction I stomped on the brakes and he toppled forward, cursing, and disappeared from view. It was petty, vindictive and about the best I could manage given the circumstances, but it made me smile.
The journey to Ulm’s Emporium proved uneventful, although I found my new shirt made me itch – too much starch. I didn’t expect the police to be looking for my car, as I hadn’t taken it in the first place, and it was only desperation that had brought me back to the office. Sometimes acting dumb can be good, especially if the other guy thinks you have some degree of smarts.
I parked the Ford a block or so from the address and walked. I took it nice and easy, just in case Elise Ulm did have some hired help on the lookout for me. Downtown was still busy despite the hour, and this gave me enough cover to make a walk-by without feeling I was being too obvious. The shop itself was in darkness, but I could see a light on upstairs, where I figured the Ulm family lived.
I did the circuit and approached the rear of the building, which shared common access with a small bakery. The bakers had already started their day, and the smell of new bread made my gut grumble. Headlamps from a parked van illuminated the back of the Ulm’s shop, and it was obvious there was no one lurking there. I crouched beside the van, hidden from the bakery but unwilling to step out into the spotlight while breaking and entering. I was jammed.
A pitter-patter on my hat made me look up. The Imp was standing on the van roof, covered in flour. He was chewing on a piece of bread roll and kicking the crumbs down onto me.
“You should eat something, bud. Might help to soak up some of that booze and clear your head. They got pastries as well if-“
“Screw you. If you’ve got nothing helpful to say then can it.”
“Well, that back door to the Emporium looks a bit shaky. You could just try a shoulder charge.”
I glared at him.
“Oh, very subtle. Got any cheerleaders on hand just in case anyone inside doesn’t catch me acting like a running back under floodlights?”
“Yeah, well, on the plus side if you do just bounce off the door I’ll piss myself laughing.”
Sometimes I really shouldn’t listen to him, but I was already crouched, ready to go. He offered me some encouragement.
“Four-four-four, four-four-four, hut!”
I sprang forward, cursing him with every step.
Twenty-Five
I tried to remember my old football coach from High School, on how not to hurt yourself on the practice dummies. None of it seemed relevant when bearing down on a flimsy wooden door, especially one I could now see was ajar, let alone locked.
Trying to stop on a loose dirt surface turned my charge into a slide, but at least I stayed upright. I cannoned into the door which burst open as I grabbed at the frame with both hands, coming to a sudden halt. The door rebounded and smacked me in the face.
I kicked it open and stormed inside, holding my nose in both hands. All it needed was a few pots and pans to come rattling down and my raging bull entrance would have been complete. Hell, I wasn’t even in the shop proper, just some flimsy lean-to that had been tacked on the back and painted to match. The real rear door stood ahead of me and I could tell at a glance it had been designed with security in mind. However, as the rear window was barred the door was my only option, which reduced my chances from slim to about none.
Checking above the door frame for a spare key was a bust and I stood there, fuming. The lean-to was full of empty boxes and crates, any of which could have served as a hiding place, and I wasn’t in the mood to go through them.
However…
The rear door had a mail slot, which didn’t seem kosher. I slid my fingers through, fished about, and bingo, there was a length of string with a key on the end. It looked like someone in the Ulm family had a habit of forgetting their door keys I unlocked the door and stepped inside, closing it behind me.
There was no reception committee in the dark passage I found myself in, so I figured they must all be either deaf or distracted. Having said that the only lit window I’d seen had been at the front, so if anyone was home then maybe they were used to noise from the bakery out back. Either way it looked like I still had the advantage of surprise.
I stood there for a moment, just listening, letting my eyes adjust to the gloom. There was an irregular murmur of conversation, faint and from above, but other than that the building seemed deserted. Moving forward I opened another door and found myself at the bottom of a staircase, off to my left, with the shop itself ahead of me. My nose twitched at the barrage of unfamiliar scents and odours, so I headed up to the first floor PDQ.
There was a small landing, with two voices coming from behind one of the doors. A man and woman in conversation, although I couldn’t make out the words. The woman sounded tearful, cried-out rather than hysterical. That sure didn’t sound like an ice-queen killer. The man sounded calm, authoritative, someone used to handling a crisis – my number one target. I pulled out the Luger, only then noticing the damn safety catch was off. Given all my blundering about it was a miracle I hadn’t managed to shoot myself in the ass. Just as well, or the Imp would never have let me live it down.
I stepped up, put my left hand on the doorknob, took a deep breath, burst in.
“No one move!”
In the shocked silence that followed I swept the room with my gun. Apart from the couple sitting across from each other in armchairs the room was empty. The woman, from her picture, was Elise Ulm. Puffy face, red eyes, sodden handkerchief clutched in both hands – about as much a killer as Bambi.
The man was Father Malik.
I zeroed in on him as he recovered his wits, starting to rise from his chair.
“Luke, I-“
“Can it Father. Just sit tight until I get a handle on things. Does Gramsci know you’re here?”
He sat back, looking puzzled.
“Conrad? Why should…” he glanced between me and Elise. “This isn’t the woman we wanted you to find, you’ve got it all wrong.”
I shut the door and leaned against it, keeping him covered.
“So why don’t you explain things, Father? Like why her daughter deliberately stepped in front of a truck? Like why that kid got shot in my office? Take your time, we’ve got all night.”
Elise Ulm stared at me, quivering, virtually catatonic. Father Malik reached forward to pat her knee and looked up at me, grim faced.
“Elise may be a cynical businesswoman, not above fleecing the gullible, but she is a true daughter of the Church. For her this shop, and all it represents, was just a way of making money.” He sighed. “Peter Ulm, however, strayed from the light. He seemed to genuinely believe in the power of what some term the occult.”
“And Dorothea? How did she fit in?”
“An intelligent young woman, but naïve. She failed to appreciate the consequences of her actions and paid a terrible price. I believe Peter could not face his feelings of guilt at her untimely death and managed to convince himself you were ultimately responsible. I understand he confronted you?”
“Yeah, you heard about that? Ambushed might be a better term though. He came second in a game of who dies first. Self-defence, although the D-A might take a bit of convincing.”
Father Malik kissed his crucifix.
“Those who live by the sword-“
“Matthew twenty-six, fifty-two. Spare me the homily, Father, lets keep this focused. I get why the grieving father came gunning for me, but what was the point of all this?” I paused, changing tack in the hope of an ill-considered answer. “You know anyone called Charles or Marcus Beaumont?”
He remained outwardly calm, but a note of caution crept into his voice.
“I know of a Marcus Beaumont. Was Charles an alias?”
“His twin. Identical twin. They’re con artists of the first order, shysters, mentalists. I figure they ran a scam on the Ulm’s, digging up some teenage kid who looked like me, probably for a fat finder’s fee. You know anything about that? I’d ask Elsie here but she looks ready for a stint in Camarillo.”
Father Malik rubbed his chin, as if pondering the lesser of two evils.
“If Elise is to be believed then that kid, as you describe him, was you, Luke. Or at least based on you. The Beaumonts were instrumental in creating him, giving him form and substance. A living mockery of everything divine and-“
“Oh yeah?” I couldn’t help sneering at him. ”A Catholic priest, a man of God, sitting there spouting this ********? Come on, Father, pull-“
He cut me off, hard eyed and humorless.
“Then let me put it in terms you will understand, Helath. You’re a dead man walking. You’ve been offered up as ritual sacrifice to a voodoo spirit, and she’s coming to collect.”
I tried to remember my old football coach from High School, on how not to hurt yourself on the practice dummies. None of it seemed relevant when bearing down on a flimsy wooden door, especially one I could now see was ajar, let alone locked.
Trying to stop on a loose dirt surface turned my charge into a slide, but at least I stayed upright. I cannoned into the door which burst open as I grabbed at the frame with both hands, coming to a sudden halt. The door rebounded and smacked me in the face.
I kicked it open and stormed inside, holding my nose in both hands. All it needed was a few pots and pans to come rattling down and my raging bull entrance would have been complete. Hell, I wasn’t even in the shop proper, just some flimsy lean-to that had been tacked on the back and painted to match. The real rear door stood ahead of me and I could tell at a glance it had been designed with security in mind. However, as the rear window was barred the door was my only option, which reduced my chances from slim to about none.
Checking above the door frame for a spare key was a bust and I stood there, fuming. The lean-to was full of empty boxes and crates, any of which could have served as a hiding place, and I wasn’t in the mood to go through them.
However…
The rear door had a mail slot, which didn’t seem kosher. I slid my fingers through, fished about, and bingo, there was a length of string with a key on the end. It looked like someone in the Ulm family had a habit of forgetting their door keys I unlocked the door and stepped inside, closing it behind me.
There was no reception committee in the dark passage I found myself in, so I figured they must all be either deaf or distracted. Having said that the only lit window I’d seen had been at the front, so if anyone was home then maybe they were used to noise from the bakery out back. Either way it looked like I still had the advantage of surprise.
I stood there for a moment, just listening, letting my eyes adjust to the gloom. There was an irregular murmur of conversation, faint and from above, but other than that the building seemed deserted. Moving forward I opened another door and found myself at the bottom of a staircase, off to my left, with the shop itself ahead of me. My nose twitched at the barrage of unfamiliar scents and odours, so I headed up to the first floor PDQ.
There was a small landing, with two voices coming from behind one of the doors. A man and woman in conversation, although I couldn’t make out the words. The woman sounded tearful, cried-out rather than hysterical. That sure didn’t sound like an ice-queen killer. The man sounded calm, authoritative, someone used to handling a crisis – my number one target. I pulled out the Luger, only then noticing the damn safety catch was off. Given all my blundering about it was a miracle I hadn’t managed to shoot myself in the ass. Just as well, or the Imp would never have let me live it down.
I stepped up, put my left hand on the doorknob, took a deep breath, burst in.
“No one move!”
In the shocked silence that followed I swept the room with my gun. Apart from the couple sitting across from each other in armchairs the room was empty. The woman, from her picture, was Elise Ulm. Puffy face, red eyes, sodden handkerchief clutched in both hands – about as much a killer as Bambi.
The man was Father Malik.
I zeroed in on him as he recovered his wits, starting to rise from his chair.
“Luke, I-“
“Can it Father. Just sit tight until I get a handle on things. Does Gramsci know you’re here?”
He sat back, looking puzzled.
“Conrad? Why should…” he glanced between me and Elise. “This isn’t the woman we wanted you to find, you’ve got it all wrong.”
I shut the door and leaned against it, keeping him covered.
“So why don’t you explain things, Father? Like why her daughter deliberately stepped in front of a truck? Like why that kid got shot in my office? Take your time, we’ve got all night.”
Elise Ulm stared at me, quivering, virtually catatonic. Father Malik reached forward to pat her knee and looked up at me, grim faced.
“Elise may be a cynical businesswoman, not above fleecing the gullible, but she is a true daughter of the Church. For her this shop, and all it represents, was just a way of making money.” He sighed. “Peter Ulm, however, strayed from the light. He seemed to genuinely believe in the power of what some term the occult.”
“And Dorothea? How did she fit in?”
“An intelligent young woman, but naïve. She failed to appreciate the consequences of her actions and paid a terrible price. I believe Peter could not face his feelings of guilt at her untimely death and managed to convince himself you were ultimately responsible. I understand he confronted you?”
“Yeah, you heard about that? Ambushed might be a better term though. He came second in a game of who dies first. Self-defence, although the D-A might take a bit of convincing.”
Father Malik kissed his crucifix.
“Those who live by the sword-“
“Matthew twenty-six, fifty-two. Spare me the homily, Father, lets keep this focused. I get why the grieving father came gunning for me, but what was the point of all this?” I paused, changing tack in the hope of an ill-considered answer. “You know anyone called Charles or Marcus Beaumont?”
He remained outwardly calm, but a note of caution crept into his voice.
“I know of a Marcus Beaumont. Was Charles an alias?”
“His twin. Identical twin. They’re con artists of the first order, shysters, mentalists. I figure they ran a scam on the Ulm’s, digging up some teenage kid who looked like me, probably for a fat finder’s fee. You know anything about that? I’d ask Elsie here but she looks ready for a stint in Camarillo.”
Father Malik rubbed his chin, as if pondering the lesser of two evils.
“If Elise is to be believed then that kid, as you describe him, was you, Luke. Or at least based on you. The Beaumonts were instrumental in creating him, giving him form and substance. A living mockery of everything divine and-“
“Oh yeah?” I couldn’t help sneering at him. ”A Catholic priest, a man of God, sitting there spouting this ********? Come on, Father, pull-“
He cut me off, hard eyed and humorless.
“Then let me put it in terms you will understand, Helath. You’re a dead man walking. You’ve been offered up as ritual sacrifice to a voodoo spirit, and she’s coming to collect.”
And the last seqment for a few days as I'm not back at work until next Sunday...
Twenty-Six
My mouth went dry but the gun didn’t waver. It’s one thing to have someone like the Beaumonts mess with your head, quite another to have a Holy Father say your ass is on the line. I kept up the sneer although my bravado was wearing thin.
“Voodoo spirit Father? Yeah? Not something I’d thought to hear from a priest’s lips.” My eyes narrowed. “You are the real deal I take it? Not just some con man Gramsci keeps around to give him divine backing?”
Father Malik held up both hands to placate me.
“I assure you, my son, I am the ‘real deal’ as you put it. You’ll have to take that on faith though, as the Catholic Church doesn’t exactly hand out I-D badges.”
He certainly seemed legit, and I wasn’t in a position to doubt everyone I met. I hesitated a moment then put the gun away.
“OK, lets play nice. But you’re willing to take the word of loony tunes here concerning some kind of voodoo ritual? For real, not just play acting? I’ve seen some weird **** at so-called respectable parties, but it was all just window dressing for drunken sex games.”
The priest held his crucifix as he talked, as if the subject matter itself required warding off.
“There are forces, supernatural forces, in this world that are not of the divine. I don’t mean demons and similar parodies of evil, but manifestations of human nature. Venial sin made real.”
I frowned.
“Venial sin made real? What the hell does that mean?”
Now it was his turn to hesitate.
“Ah, perhaps it can best be described as a force which lives up to the expectations of those who invoke it. It shapes itself to match their beliefs.”
I laughed.
“So…if I worship Frosty the Snow Man that’s who’ll appear?”
“This is no laughing matter! Voodoo rituals are based on ancient beliefs and practices transposed from West Africa. They have genuine power over those who believe in them. I’ve witnessed individuals who wasted away before my eyes because they thought they were cursed. A purely psychosomatic illness but no less deadly for all that.”
“Yeah, well, I sure as hell don’t believe in all that jazz, so I don’t see how I figure in the Ulm’s rituals.”
Father Malik sighed.
“To tell you the truth, neither do I. Elise came to see me a few days ago, almost hysterical. She gave a garbled account of attending a ritual at which Marcus, or Charles, Beaumont produced a teenage boy out of thin air.” He caught my look and smiled. “Apparently produced a teenage boy out of thin air.”
“Just smoke and mirrors, Father, smoke and mirrors. But keep going, I’m enjoying your little story.”
“The new arrival provoked a furious row amongst those present, as he definitely wasn’t what some of them expected. Peter and Elise were told to look after the boy for a few days, so they found him some clothes and put him up in a hotel.”
“Did this miraculous stranger have anything to say for himself?”
“He remained mute. The Ulms argued over what was to be done with him, and I’m certain Elise wasn’t party to what happened at your office. As far as I can tell, Dorothea went along with her father’s cloak-and-dagger plans simply for the excitement.” He shook his head. “Poor child.”
I lit a cigarette and blew smoke.
“So what gives with that snapshot you wanted to get your hands on? Delivering it cost Dorothea Ulm her life, plus whoever is behind this wasn’t shy at throwing five hundred bucks my way.”
The Priest rubbed his chin.
“There was cash included in the envelope? Ah, of course. My mistake.”
“Mistake?”
“Practitioners of voodoo believe the spirits can be bargained with, bribed, and cajoled into assisting you. Getting the attention of a given spirit usually requires an offering of some sort. These offerings are blessed by a priest or priestess, who is someone prominent, someone the spirits are more likely to listen to in the first place. The blessing makes the offering more attractive.”
I grinned.
“Kind of guilt by association, but in a good way?”
“Ah, yes, I suppose you could put it like that.” He cleared his throat, “Luke, I believe the money given to you was such an offering. The photograph was just a distraction, as was Dorothea herself, given your known licentiousness. Mere window dressing. Having that money about your person made you more, more obvious to the spirit world. It made you stand out.“
That wiped the smile from my face and I glanced at my hands, as if there would be some mark on them I hadn’t noticed previously.
“But that cash is gone, Father. I got cleaned out playing poker. So I’m in the clear, right?”
He shrugged.
“Perhaps. Or the damage may be done and you’ve come to the attention of a voodoo spirit, piqued their interest. I don’t see how the boy fits in though, or why he was killed.”
“Ah, Marcus Beaumont told me that things went south due to Peter and Dorothea getting struck in traffic. If it had gone to plan I would’ve received the money by the time Mr Mystery showed up. Without the money the kid became a liability and whoever brought him to the office then killed him. Without the kid the money became a hot potato and Peter Ulm got his daughter to foist it on me P-D-Q.”
“That still doesn’t explain why the boy was there in the first place. He didn’t say anything, do anything that might give you a clue as to his purpose?”
“Sorry Father, he just stood there and got used as target practice.” I cracked my knuckles, “Look, if Elise Ulm wasn’t the shooter, then who was? I have my own ideas but I’d like to hear you first.”
Again he held his crucifix.
“The woman we hoped you’d find has been on a church watch list for many years. Until recently I knew of her as Madeline Dupree, formally of Baton Rouge, a prominent voodoo priestess from an early age. From what Elise has told me you will know her as May Younger, from Orange County.”
He seemed to think this revelation was hot news but I’d figured out the killer was aunt May as soon as Mrs Ulm failed to measure up.
“O-K, no big deal. But why was Gramsci so coy about putting her in the frame? Makes no sense.”
Father Malik blinked, clearly surprised at my cavalier attitude.
“Ah, well, isn’t she your sister?”
Twenty-Six
My mouth went dry but the gun didn’t waver. It’s one thing to have someone like the Beaumonts mess with your head, quite another to have a Holy Father say your ass is on the line. I kept up the sneer although my bravado was wearing thin.
“Voodoo spirit Father? Yeah? Not something I’d thought to hear from a priest’s lips.” My eyes narrowed. “You are the real deal I take it? Not just some con man Gramsci keeps around to give him divine backing?”
Father Malik held up both hands to placate me.
“I assure you, my son, I am the ‘real deal’ as you put it. You’ll have to take that on faith though, as the Catholic Church doesn’t exactly hand out I-D badges.”
He certainly seemed legit, and I wasn’t in a position to doubt everyone I met. I hesitated a moment then put the gun away.
“OK, lets play nice. But you’re willing to take the word of loony tunes here concerning some kind of voodoo ritual? For real, not just play acting? I’ve seen some weird **** at so-called respectable parties, but it was all just window dressing for drunken sex games.”
The priest held his crucifix as he talked, as if the subject matter itself required warding off.
“There are forces, supernatural forces, in this world that are not of the divine. I don’t mean demons and similar parodies of evil, but manifestations of human nature. Venial sin made real.”
I frowned.
“Venial sin made real? What the hell does that mean?”
Now it was his turn to hesitate.
“Ah, perhaps it can best be described as a force which lives up to the expectations of those who invoke it. It shapes itself to match their beliefs.”
I laughed.
“So…if I worship Frosty the Snow Man that’s who’ll appear?”
“This is no laughing matter! Voodoo rituals are based on ancient beliefs and practices transposed from West Africa. They have genuine power over those who believe in them. I’ve witnessed individuals who wasted away before my eyes because they thought they were cursed. A purely psychosomatic illness but no less deadly for all that.”
“Yeah, well, I sure as hell don’t believe in all that jazz, so I don’t see how I figure in the Ulm’s rituals.”
Father Malik sighed.
“To tell you the truth, neither do I. Elise came to see me a few days ago, almost hysterical. She gave a garbled account of attending a ritual at which Marcus, or Charles, Beaumont produced a teenage boy out of thin air.” He caught my look and smiled. “Apparently produced a teenage boy out of thin air.”
“Just smoke and mirrors, Father, smoke and mirrors. But keep going, I’m enjoying your little story.”
“The new arrival provoked a furious row amongst those present, as he definitely wasn’t what some of them expected. Peter and Elise were told to look after the boy for a few days, so they found him some clothes and put him up in a hotel.”
“Did this miraculous stranger have anything to say for himself?”
“He remained mute. The Ulms argued over what was to be done with him, and I’m certain Elise wasn’t party to what happened at your office. As far as I can tell, Dorothea went along with her father’s cloak-and-dagger plans simply for the excitement.” He shook his head. “Poor child.”
I lit a cigarette and blew smoke.
“So what gives with that snapshot you wanted to get your hands on? Delivering it cost Dorothea Ulm her life, plus whoever is behind this wasn’t shy at throwing five hundred bucks my way.”
The Priest rubbed his chin.
“There was cash included in the envelope? Ah, of course. My mistake.”
“Mistake?”
“Practitioners of voodoo believe the spirits can be bargained with, bribed, and cajoled into assisting you. Getting the attention of a given spirit usually requires an offering of some sort. These offerings are blessed by a priest or priestess, who is someone prominent, someone the spirits are more likely to listen to in the first place. The blessing makes the offering more attractive.”
I grinned.
“Kind of guilt by association, but in a good way?”
“Ah, yes, I suppose you could put it like that.” He cleared his throat, “Luke, I believe the money given to you was such an offering. The photograph was just a distraction, as was Dorothea herself, given your known licentiousness. Mere window dressing. Having that money about your person made you more, more obvious to the spirit world. It made you stand out.“
That wiped the smile from my face and I glanced at my hands, as if there would be some mark on them I hadn’t noticed previously.
“But that cash is gone, Father. I got cleaned out playing poker. So I’m in the clear, right?”
He shrugged.
“Perhaps. Or the damage may be done and you’ve come to the attention of a voodoo spirit, piqued their interest. I don’t see how the boy fits in though, or why he was killed.”
“Ah, Marcus Beaumont told me that things went south due to Peter and Dorothea getting struck in traffic. If it had gone to plan I would’ve received the money by the time Mr Mystery showed up. Without the money the kid became a liability and whoever brought him to the office then killed him. Without the kid the money became a hot potato and Peter Ulm got his daughter to foist it on me P-D-Q.”
“That still doesn’t explain why the boy was there in the first place. He didn’t say anything, do anything that might give you a clue as to his purpose?”
“Sorry Father, he just stood there and got used as target practice.” I cracked my knuckles, “Look, if Elise Ulm wasn’t the shooter, then who was? I have my own ideas but I’d like to hear you first.”
Again he held his crucifix.
“The woman we hoped you’d find has been on a church watch list for many years. Until recently I knew of her as Madeline Dupree, formally of Baton Rouge, a prominent voodoo priestess from an early age. From what Elise has told me you will know her as May Younger, from Orange County.”
He seemed to think this revelation was hot news but I’d figured out the killer was aunt May as soon as Mrs Ulm failed to measure up.
“O-K, no big deal. But why was Gramsci so coy about putting her in the frame? Makes no sense.”
Father Malik blinked, clearly surprised at my cavalier attitude.
“Ah, well, isn’t she your sister?”
Getting there, slowly...
Twenty-Seven
I stared at him for a moment and then laughed.
“My sister? You been overdoing the Communion wine there, padre? I may be a bit fuzzy on some of my childhood…” I tapped the bullet scar,”…but I kinda’ think I’d remember an older sister.”
Father Malik drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair, obviously composing a little spiel.
“Your father, Gabriel Helath, came from Alabama, did he not? He lived in Louisiana for many years before moving to California?”
“So?”
The priest took a deep breath.
“He killed his first wife and her lover, a negro. The miscegenation alone allowed him to evade a murder charge, but the, ah, bizarre nature of the killings meant he was still facing manslaughter. A trial would have kicked up a political and religious storm, and pressure on the D-A from certain radical elements ensured there was no real pursuit when your father skipped out.”
I gaped at him.
“First wife? Manslaughter? Where the hell are you getting all this from?” I was breathing heavily, angry at the priest but there was a seed of doubt in my mind, “What do you mean, bizarre nature of the killings?”
“These deaths came to the attention of the Church because of their ritualistic nature. The positioning of the bodies and certain, ah, accoutrements found at the scene pointed to a voodoo human sacrifice. That is exceptionally rare, and only occurs when the practitioner is seeking an exceptional favour from the spirit in question.”
All this trash talk gave me time to recover my calm. I put just the right note of sneering disbelief into my voice.
“You’ve been around these occult nutjobs too long, Father, some of it’s starting to rub off. You’re seriously sitting there and telling me my father, a real Dixie ****-kicker, was into voodoo? Now, I can believe that the Klan aided and abetted his flight from justice, given he’d offed his cheating wife and the negro concerned, but human sacrifice? I don’t think so.”
Father Malik smiled, but without humour.
“Your father may not have been a houngan, a voodoo priest, but he certainly knew enough to make a convincing show of things.”
“There you go, Father, he was just muddying the waters.”
“Perhaps. But his wife, Bridgette, was of French ancestry and her name definitely cropped up in Church documents concerning voodoo practices.”
“Yeah, right. And you’re saying that May Younger, or Madeline Dupree, is their child? My half-sister?”
“After he fled Louisiana the child was brought up by her aunt and took her surname. Perhaps rumours of how her mother died reached her, but for some reason Madeline was drawn to the occult. She became known as a mambo, a priestess, and one of exceptional ability.”
I threw up my hands in exasperation.
“Enough! This is the biggest crock I’ve ever heard. You expect me to believe that at some point this Dupree dame heads north, changes her name and marries Solly Younger? Dammit, I’ve known Harry’s aunt May for years and, sure, everyone knew the rumours about her having a wild past down south. She simply doesn’t look the type to sacrifice chickens and **** like that.”
The priest rose from his chair.
“Which is precisely why Gramsci wanted her name kept under wraps. It’s obvious you don’t consider her a serious threat, and that blindness will get you killed.”
“Pah! If May Younger is such a serious threat then why didn’t Gramsci just ice her, straight off the bat? He’s quite good at that kind of thing, in case you haven’t noticed.”
“The Catholic Church cannot and will not countenance premeditated murder. Not in the modern era. The plan was to seize her when she came looking for you, such that she could be handed over to the authorities and prosecuted for attempted murder. Or homicide, if things went awry.”
It took me a moment.
“If things went….Jesus! You were happy to see me gunned down and have Gramsci’s two goons pick up the pieces? Thanks for nothing, Father, and I’m outta’ here. You can keep chasing your tail over these phantoms, but I’m facing a murder rap and I don’t think no voodoo spirit is gonna’ be fighting my corner.”
“Luke, please! You don’t know-“
“Take care of your parishioner, Father, it looks like she needs it.”
I opened the door and walked, ignoring his pleading. The whole night seemed full of people out to mess with me, and I’d had enough. I had a gun and I wanted answers. Real, hold it in your hand, answers. Answers that made some kind of sense.
It was time to pay aunt May a visit.
I could have left by the front door but given the body count I suspected the police might be keeping a not-so-casual check on the building. So it was back to the rear exit, which I could see was still illuminated from across the way. I decided just to play it cool – walk out and close the door behind me. If anyone from the bakery challenged me I’d just smile, tip my hat and keep walking.
Two out of three ain’t bad.
I walked out to find a man standing there, silhouetted against the delivery van headlamps. I smiled, I tipped my hat, and he spoke.
“Things ain’t what they seem, my man. You been at the crossroads, and you be there again. Looked you up and down, up and down, and you most acceptable. I let you slide, for now, but not everyone so agreeable.”
It was a rich Southern voice, a lot like the Beaumont’s baritone. For a moment I thought here was a third brother, taking up where the others had left off and I unbuttoned my jacket as casually as I could. It would make going for the Luger a bit easier, but not much.
“I’m sorry, do I know you?”
He laughed, a great low, rumbling sound, full of the joy of life.
“No, my man, but I surely know you. Do this thing for me, a favour, and I be gone.”
I squinted against the glare, but all I could make out was a broad-brimmed hat and that he was leaning on a cane.
“What do you want?”
There was real humour in his voice.
“When you see Harry Furie, tell him Papa Legba sends his regards.”
Twenty-Seven
I stared at him for a moment and then laughed.
“My sister? You been overdoing the Communion wine there, padre? I may be a bit fuzzy on some of my childhood…” I tapped the bullet scar,”…but I kinda’ think I’d remember an older sister.”
Father Malik drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair, obviously composing a little spiel.
“Your father, Gabriel Helath, came from Alabama, did he not? He lived in Louisiana for many years before moving to California?”
“So?”
The priest took a deep breath.
“He killed his first wife and her lover, a negro. The miscegenation alone allowed him to evade a murder charge, but the, ah, bizarre nature of the killings meant he was still facing manslaughter. A trial would have kicked up a political and religious storm, and pressure on the D-A from certain radical elements ensured there was no real pursuit when your father skipped out.”
I gaped at him.
“First wife? Manslaughter? Where the hell are you getting all this from?” I was breathing heavily, angry at the priest but there was a seed of doubt in my mind, “What do you mean, bizarre nature of the killings?”
“These deaths came to the attention of the Church because of their ritualistic nature. The positioning of the bodies and certain, ah, accoutrements found at the scene pointed to a voodoo human sacrifice. That is exceptionally rare, and only occurs when the practitioner is seeking an exceptional favour from the spirit in question.”
All this trash talk gave me time to recover my calm. I put just the right note of sneering disbelief into my voice.
“You’ve been around these occult nutjobs too long, Father, some of it’s starting to rub off. You’re seriously sitting there and telling me my father, a real Dixie ****-kicker, was into voodoo? Now, I can believe that the Klan aided and abetted his flight from justice, given he’d offed his cheating wife and the negro concerned, but human sacrifice? I don’t think so.”
Father Malik smiled, but without humour.
“Your father may not have been a houngan, a voodoo priest, but he certainly knew enough to make a convincing show of things.”
“There you go, Father, he was just muddying the waters.”
“Perhaps. But his wife, Bridgette, was of French ancestry and her name definitely cropped up in Church documents concerning voodoo practices.”
“Yeah, right. And you’re saying that May Younger, or Madeline Dupree, is their child? My half-sister?”
“After he fled Louisiana the child was brought up by her aunt and took her surname. Perhaps rumours of how her mother died reached her, but for some reason Madeline was drawn to the occult. She became known as a mambo, a priestess, and one of exceptional ability.”
I threw up my hands in exasperation.
“Enough! This is the biggest crock I’ve ever heard. You expect me to believe that at some point this Dupree dame heads north, changes her name and marries Solly Younger? Dammit, I’ve known Harry’s aunt May for years and, sure, everyone knew the rumours about her having a wild past down south. She simply doesn’t look the type to sacrifice chickens and **** like that.”
The priest rose from his chair.
“Which is precisely why Gramsci wanted her name kept under wraps. It’s obvious you don’t consider her a serious threat, and that blindness will get you killed.”
“Pah! If May Younger is such a serious threat then why didn’t Gramsci just ice her, straight off the bat? He’s quite good at that kind of thing, in case you haven’t noticed.”
“The Catholic Church cannot and will not countenance premeditated murder. Not in the modern era. The plan was to seize her when she came looking for you, such that she could be handed over to the authorities and prosecuted for attempted murder. Or homicide, if things went awry.”
It took me a moment.
“If things went….Jesus! You were happy to see me gunned down and have Gramsci’s two goons pick up the pieces? Thanks for nothing, Father, and I’m outta’ here. You can keep chasing your tail over these phantoms, but I’m facing a murder rap and I don’t think no voodoo spirit is gonna’ be fighting my corner.”
“Luke, please! You don’t know-“
“Take care of your parishioner, Father, it looks like she needs it.”
I opened the door and walked, ignoring his pleading. The whole night seemed full of people out to mess with me, and I’d had enough. I had a gun and I wanted answers. Real, hold it in your hand, answers. Answers that made some kind of sense.
It was time to pay aunt May a visit.
I could have left by the front door but given the body count I suspected the police might be keeping a not-so-casual check on the building. So it was back to the rear exit, which I could see was still illuminated from across the way. I decided just to play it cool – walk out and close the door behind me. If anyone from the bakery challenged me I’d just smile, tip my hat and keep walking.
Two out of three ain’t bad.
I walked out to find a man standing there, silhouetted against the delivery van headlamps. I smiled, I tipped my hat, and he spoke.
“Things ain’t what they seem, my man. You been at the crossroads, and you be there again. Looked you up and down, up and down, and you most acceptable. I let you slide, for now, but not everyone so agreeable.”
It was a rich Southern voice, a lot like the Beaumont’s baritone. For a moment I thought here was a third brother, taking up where the others had left off and I unbuttoned my jacket as casually as I could. It would make going for the Luger a bit easier, but not much.
“I’m sorry, do I know you?”
He laughed, a great low, rumbling sound, full of the joy of life.
“No, my man, but I surely know you. Do this thing for me, a favour, and I be gone.”
I squinted against the glare, but all I could make out was a broad-brimmed hat and that he was leaning on a cane.
“What do you want?”
There was real humour in his voice.
“When you see Harry Furie, tell him Papa Legba sends his regards.”
The penultimate posting...
Twenty-Eight
Both headlamps exploded, plunging the yard into darkness. I ducked to my right, jamming myself into the corner, the brickwork rough against my back. There was no point fishing out the Luger as I could see zip and fists were more useful up close. By the time some sense of night vision returned the guy had gone and I was feeling like a fool.
Someone playing me, probably the muscle hired by Cathy Furie. Maybe wounded in the leg, hence the cane. I shook my head, trying to clear it of unhelpful thoughts. Two of the bakery staff came out and it was all ‘Aw, Jeez’ and ‘What happened?’. I was able to ease past without them paying me any attention and hot-footed it back to the car.
There was some tyre squeal as I pulled away, determined to put as much distance between myself and Father Malik as possible. I didn’t buy his pious ‘no murder’ spiel for a minute, meaning there was some reason they couldn’t just pay May Younger a visit, all guns blazing. They obviously wanted her on the streets of L-A, where maybe Gramsci felt more comfortable, but five gets you ten Father Malik had kicked this problem upstairs and was just waiting for back-up. I wasn’t entirely sure what that would be, as the chances of a Jesuit hit-squad rolling up in black sedans seemed a bit unlikely, but the Holy Father was obviously playing for time.
It didn’t matter, as I was headed for Orange County to visit an old friend.
My old friends being the way they were, though, I decided on a bit of insurance. At a gas station just this side of the city limits I fed change into the pay phone.
“ Homicide. Detective Booker speaking.”
“Hi, can I speak to Detective Wolff. Tell him it’s Luke Helath.”
“Just a minute.”
There was the dead air of being on hold and then a new phone rang, answered immediately.
“Helath? You’ve got a nerve. What’s wrong, run out of bullets?”
“Come on, detective, you know a frame job when you see one.”
“Frame job? I’ll tell you what the D-A sees, Helath, a nice solid case. Two counts of homicide, attempted murder, grand theft auto, and that’s just for starters. We can throw in obstruction of justice, illegal possession of a firearm, illegal discharge within the city limits and about half a dozen others without breaking sweat.”
“Attempted murder? I must be slipping. Who is it I missed, supposedly?”
“Some big goon called Epstein, a former boxer who works for Conrad Gramsci. He took two rounds to the chest and we still had to handcuff him to the bed. Your prints were all over the gun we recovered at the scene.”
I smiled, as this was my first break.
“Thanks, detective, you’ve just made my day. When Epstein gets round to talking you’ll find I wasn’t the shooter. Your eye-witness is my cast-iron alibi.”
Nothing in Wolff’s tone suggested he wasn’t the least bit put out by this news.
“You were at the Bolthole though, where your supposed new best friend got shot?”
“A friendly game of cards, ask Anton Slavik. I came out, someone slugged me from behind and I woke up in a nearby alley. As I’d been cleaned out playing poker the thief got away with bupkis, so I didn’t see any point in contacting the police. Obviously the gun in question was placed in my hand as I lay unconscious. ”
“Oh yeah? And I’m whistling Dixie.” I heard a page turn, “And you were also at the Blue Cat, earlier in the evening?”
“A friendly game of pool with Fast Eddie. Ask him, he’ll back me up.”
“You seem to have a lot of friends, Helath, none of whom are exactly what I’d call reliable. The reason I ask it that the gun we recovered outside the Bolthole was also used to kill a man called Peter Ulm, round the back of the Blue Cat. Does that name ring any bells?”
“I’m shocked and distressed by the level of violence in our fair city, Detective, but I draw comfort from the fact you’re on the case.”
“Cut the B-S, Helath, Peter Ulm was the father of Dorothea Ulm, the woman who died outside your office. We figure he blamed you in some way and came looking for revenge. We found a thirty-eight registered to Ulm near the body, so if you plead self-defence the D-A might-“
“Forget it, Detective, you’re fishing and I won’t bite.”
“Oh yeah? Well how about Josef Manners, also deceased? He was found stuffed in the trunk of a car outside the warehouse where he worked as a night watchman. We found your prints at the scene.”
“Well, I did have the misfortune to spend some time in the trunk of a car recently. An unfortunate misunderstanding with a client, but no harm done and I don’t want to press charges. Sounds like it could have been the same vehicle.”
“An unfortunate misunderstanding with Conrad Gramsci and you’re still standing? Try again.”
“I never mentioned that name, Detective Wolff, and it any event it would be privileged information.”
“Jesus, Helath, you’re not making this easy!” His voice dropped and the tone became more urgent, “Look, the only reason we’re having this conversation is the kid who got shot in your office. We checked his fingerprints and they match yours. I mean an exact match. I even hauled in another fringerprint guyfrom the day shift to recheck the results and both these bozos insist it’s a match. Even if they admit that no two people can be the same, even identical twins.”
It felt like the hairs on the back of my neck had stood up and I was decidedly uneasy at this news.
“So, what are you saying, exactly?”
“What I’m saying is that the D-A has got to hear of this and he’s not happy. He feels it’s an unnecessary complication and any public disclosure during the trial would just confuse the jury. It could also send the entire science of fingerprint identification down the river, with untold consequences.”
“Yeah, I bet. So what are you offering me so that no one hears of this from me?”
“No, you’ve got it all wrong. The word I’m getting from upstairs is that the public interest would be best served if this case never came to trial.”
“That suits me just fine, Detective Wolff, and I’m even willing to forgo any police harassment suit-“
“Can it, Helath. What I mean is that certain parties like you for everything that’s on offer, they just want to save the city the cost of a trial. Get me?”
I felt cold.
“Yeah, yeah I get you. Certain parties like Detective Harland, maybe?”
“Look, Helath, you’re down as armed and dangerous. If we catch you on the street it will be a case of shoot first and no questions asked. Your only chance is to tell me where you are and I’ll come pick you up. With luck I can turn you over to the Feds on a bogus counterfeiting charge so you’ll miss the shiv in lock-up. It’s the best deal you’re going to get.”
“A tempting offer, Detective, but I’ll pass. You and I both want answers and I know where to get them. That’s the good news. The bad news is it’s in Orange County, near La Habra, so you’ll need the Feds or State Police to come get me.”
The LAPD and Orange County Sheriff’s Department were still at each other’s throats over Mickey Cohen, so I knew any formal request to chase me down would probably end up in the trash. Detective Wolff knew it to, and I heard him give a resigned sigh.
“Give me the address, and pray you’re still there when the cavalry arrive, or it will be a state-wide manhunt and no second chances. Understand?”
I told him where I was headed and hung up. It was time to face my past.
Twenty-Eight
Both headlamps exploded, plunging the yard into darkness. I ducked to my right, jamming myself into the corner, the brickwork rough against my back. There was no point fishing out the Luger as I could see zip and fists were more useful up close. By the time some sense of night vision returned the guy had gone and I was feeling like a fool.
Someone playing me, probably the muscle hired by Cathy Furie. Maybe wounded in the leg, hence the cane. I shook my head, trying to clear it of unhelpful thoughts. Two of the bakery staff came out and it was all ‘Aw, Jeez’ and ‘What happened?’. I was able to ease past without them paying me any attention and hot-footed it back to the car.
There was some tyre squeal as I pulled away, determined to put as much distance between myself and Father Malik as possible. I didn’t buy his pious ‘no murder’ spiel for a minute, meaning there was some reason they couldn’t just pay May Younger a visit, all guns blazing. They obviously wanted her on the streets of L-A, where maybe Gramsci felt more comfortable, but five gets you ten Father Malik had kicked this problem upstairs and was just waiting for back-up. I wasn’t entirely sure what that would be, as the chances of a Jesuit hit-squad rolling up in black sedans seemed a bit unlikely, but the Holy Father was obviously playing for time.
It didn’t matter, as I was headed for Orange County to visit an old friend.
My old friends being the way they were, though, I decided on a bit of insurance. At a gas station just this side of the city limits I fed change into the pay phone.
“ Homicide. Detective Booker speaking.”
“Hi, can I speak to Detective Wolff. Tell him it’s Luke Helath.”
“Just a minute.”
There was the dead air of being on hold and then a new phone rang, answered immediately.
“Helath? You’ve got a nerve. What’s wrong, run out of bullets?”
“Come on, detective, you know a frame job when you see one.”
“Frame job? I’ll tell you what the D-A sees, Helath, a nice solid case. Two counts of homicide, attempted murder, grand theft auto, and that’s just for starters. We can throw in obstruction of justice, illegal possession of a firearm, illegal discharge within the city limits and about half a dozen others without breaking sweat.”
“Attempted murder? I must be slipping. Who is it I missed, supposedly?”
“Some big goon called Epstein, a former boxer who works for Conrad Gramsci. He took two rounds to the chest and we still had to handcuff him to the bed. Your prints were all over the gun we recovered at the scene.”
I smiled, as this was my first break.
“Thanks, detective, you’ve just made my day. When Epstein gets round to talking you’ll find I wasn’t the shooter. Your eye-witness is my cast-iron alibi.”
Nothing in Wolff’s tone suggested he wasn’t the least bit put out by this news.
“You were at the Bolthole though, where your supposed new best friend got shot?”
“A friendly game of cards, ask Anton Slavik. I came out, someone slugged me from behind and I woke up in a nearby alley. As I’d been cleaned out playing poker the thief got away with bupkis, so I didn’t see any point in contacting the police. Obviously the gun in question was placed in my hand as I lay unconscious. ”
“Oh yeah? And I’m whistling Dixie.” I heard a page turn, “And you were also at the Blue Cat, earlier in the evening?”
“A friendly game of pool with Fast Eddie. Ask him, he’ll back me up.”
“You seem to have a lot of friends, Helath, none of whom are exactly what I’d call reliable. The reason I ask it that the gun we recovered outside the Bolthole was also used to kill a man called Peter Ulm, round the back of the Blue Cat. Does that name ring any bells?”
“I’m shocked and distressed by the level of violence in our fair city, Detective, but I draw comfort from the fact you’re on the case.”
“Cut the B-S, Helath, Peter Ulm was the father of Dorothea Ulm, the woman who died outside your office. We figure he blamed you in some way and came looking for revenge. We found a thirty-eight registered to Ulm near the body, so if you plead self-defence the D-A might-“
“Forget it, Detective, you’re fishing and I won’t bite.”
“Oh yeah? Well how about Josef Manners, also deceased? He was found stuffed in the trunk of a car outside the warehouse where he worked as a night watchman. We found your prints at the scene.”
“Well, I did have the misfortune to spend some time in the trunk of a car recently. An unfortunate misunderstanding with a client, but no harm done and I don’t want to press charges. Sounds like it could have been the same vehicle.”
“An unfortunate misunderstanding with Conrad Gramsci and you’re still standing? Try again.”
“I never mentioned that name, Detective Wolff, and it any event it would be privileged information.”
“Jesus, Helath, you’re not making this easy!” His voice dropped and the tone became more urgent, “Look, the only reason we’re having this conversation is the kid who got shot in your office. We checked his fingerprints and they match yours. I mean an exact match. I even hauled in another fringerprint guyfrom the day shift to recheck the results and both these bozos insist it’s a match. Even if they admit that no two people can be the same, even identical twins.”
It felt like the hairs on the back of my neck had stood up and I was decidedly uneasy at this news.
“So, what are you saying, exactly?”
“What I’m saying is that the D-A has got to hear of this and he’s not happy. He feels it’s an unnecessary complication and any public disclosure during the trial would just confuse the jury. It could also send the entire science of fingerprint identification down the river, with untold consequences.”
“Yeah, I bet. So what are you offering me so that no one hears of this from me?”
“No, you’ve got it all wrong. The word I’m getting from upstairs is that the public interest would be best served if this case never came to trial.”
“That suits me just fine, Detective Wolff, and I’m even willing to forgo any police harassment suit-“
“Can it, Helath. What I mean is that certain parties like you for everything that’s on offer, they just want to save the city the cost of a trial. Get me?”
I felt cold.
“Yeah, yeah I get you. Certain parties like Detective Harland, maybe?”
“Look, Helath, you’re down as armed and dangerous. If we catch you on the street it will be a case of shoot first and no questions asked. Your only chance is to tell me where you are and I’ll come pick you up. With luck I can turn you over to the Feds on a bogus counterfeiting charge so you’ll miss the shiv in lock-up. It’s the best deal you’re going to get.”
“A tempting offer, Detective, but I’ll pass. You and I both want answers and I know where to get them. That’s the good news. The bad news is it’s in Orange County, near La Habra, so you’ll need the Feds or State Police to come get me.”
The LAPD and Orange County Sheriff’s Department were still at each other’s throats over Mickey Cohen, so I knew any formal request to chase me down would probably end up in the trash. Detective Wolff knew it to, and I heard him give a resigned sigh.
“Give me the address, and pray you’re still there when the cavalry arrive, or it will be a state-wide manhunt and no second chances. Understand?”
I told him where I was headed and hung up. It was time to face my past.
I was somewhat optimistic about expressing myself succinctly, so not quite the final segment…
Twenty-Nine
I drove, the headlamps laying down long stripes of light on the deserted two-lane blacktop. Despite my bravado on the phone I was uneasy. It was like I’d been given two jigsaws mixed together; the pieces fit but the picture kept coming out wrong.
May Younger and Peter Ulm want a copy of me for some voodoo ritual. They hire the Beaumonts to make one – the idea made me smile - who obviously can’t deliver. They find some teenage kid who looks a bit like me and claim something went wrong along the way. Check.
Apart from the fingerprint angle. I wasn’t sure I believed Wolff when he said no two people could have matching fingerprints, but it sure would be uncommon. To have any chance you would need the same parents, making me and the dead kid brothers. An unacknowledged birth? Yeah, right, although it would explain all the time I spent out in Orange County with Harry’s aunt and uncle. I shook my head – it made no sense.
So, the Beaumonts are the real deal and magic up the teenage version of me. That made even less sense. I gave up and concentrated on driving.
Solly Younger had died in ’48, leaving his widow the whole shebang. She’d sold off most of the land to a developer but kept enough of the orange groves to provide a degree of seclusion. The house was old by California standards and had been remodelled at some point in the ranchero style. Studded wooden doors and grilled windows weren’t my bag but Zorro would have felt right at home. I pulled up on the wide gravel expanse out front and killed the engine. There didn’t seem any point in trying to sneak in. There was a station wagon parked alongside an aging Buick that looked like a rental. I got out.
The Imp was on the porch, fraying the canopy on a swing seat.
“You sure took your time getting here, buster. What’s wrong, don’t you have the balls to face the truth?”
“Take a hike. According to interested parties this is the dragon’s den, but it don’t look no different from what I remember.”
He laughed.
“Oh yeah? See how the trees been cut back to form a circle, with the gravel all around, like one of them medieval moats? I’m telling ya’, this place is bad juju.”
I didn’t need this and kicked some gravel at him. One piece struck his face and he swore.
“See what I mean? No-ones safe around here. No-one gets in without an invitation, and even fewer leave.”
I tilted my hat back and looked around, hands on hips.
“So how come I can just drive up here? I’m sure as hell not on the guest list.”
The Imp started climbing one of the porch uprights.
“This is where the Beaumonts were going to bring you anyway, numbnuts. The fact you can walk right in on your own means you’re protected. Something of a Trojan horse, if you get my drift. Now, I’m headed for the roof, out of the path of any stray shots. So when the gunplay starts try not to hit the ceiling, OK?”
I watched him go and shook my head – another snow job. I walked up to the front door and yanked on the big bell-pull. There was a pause and then I heard footsteps inside. I stepped back, the Luger in my left hand, holding the fedora in place over it with my index finger. If aunt May was packing heat she’d see my empty right hand and think she had the drop on me. I figured that would make her hesitate for a moment, and a moment was all I needed.
There was the sound of a bolt being drawn and the door opened. May Younger stood there, unarmed. Mid to late forties but it didn’t look like she was speeding. Dark hair in a Veronica Lake cut, curves in all the right places.
“Luke? Now nice. Do come in, we’ve been expecting you. I thought you’d have company but I can see I’m mistaken.”
“Hi aunt May. If you mean the Beaumonts they got jammed on a rape and assault beef, courtesy of Sally Saks.”
She smiled.
“Really? How clever of her. Now, don’t just stand there, come in and close the door behind you. And you can drop the ‘aunt’ these days, I think. Don’t you?”
I watched the sway of her hips as I followed her down the hall. What that made me feel really didn’t fall under the heading of brotherly love, unless I was from Tennessee. She spoke over her shoulder.
“We’re in the lounge. Don’t be shy, you’ll know everyone here.”
I took one step inside and stopped, looking round. There was a log fire burning in the wide grate but the stone floor and high ceiling kept the room cool and airy. There were two women sitting either side of the fireplace, with May off to the right, fixing a cigarette.
Know everyone here? Oh sure.
Cathy Furie, looking like a school teacher in her round eye glasses and tied back hair. Her face was flushed and she kept playing with her wedding ring.
Sally Saks, sporting a bruise that would cover her left cheek when it coloured up. She looked woozy and distracted.
I gave them my best smile.
“So what’s all this, ladies? The three witches from Macbeth?”
I was quite proud of remembering that play, a hack production me and Jimmy and Harry had gone to when Jimmy was dating some actress. Harry and me suffered through a couple of acts and then hit the ‘99’ club, where we hooked up with the Olsen twins. The one I was with had a wart on her left hip. Funny the things you recall.
“I guess that would make me the ghost at the banquet, eh, Luke?”
The voice came from behind me and I knew who it was without turning round.
Harry Furie, back from the dead.
Twenty-Nine
I drove, the headlamps laying down long stripes of light on the deserted two-lane blacktop. Despite my bravado on the phone I was uneasy. It was like I’d been given two jigsaws mixed together; the pieces fit but the picture kept coming out wrong.
May Younger and Peter Ulm want a copy of me for some voodoo ritual. They hire the Beaumonts to make one – the idea made me smile - who obviously can’t deliver. They find some teenage kid who looks a bit like me and claim something went wrong along the way. Check.
Apart from the fingerprint angle. I wasn’t sure I believed Wolff when he said no two people could have matching fingerprints, but it sure would be uncommon. To have any chance you would need the same parents, making me and the dead kid brothers. An unacknowledged birth? Yeah, right, although it would explain all the time I spent out in Orange County with Harry’s aunt and uncle. I shook my head – it made no sense.
So, the Beaumonts are the real deal and magic up the teenage version of me. That made even less sense. I gave up and concentrated on driving.
Solly Younger had died in ’48, leaving his widow the whole shebang. She’d sold off most of the land to a developer but kept enough of the orange groves to provide a degree of seclusion. The house was old by California standards and had been remodelled at some point in the ranchero style. Studded wooden doors and grilled windows weren’t my bag but Zorro would have felt right at home. I pulled up on the wide gravel expanse out front and killed the engine. There didn’t seem any point in trying to sneak in. There was a station wagon parked alongside an aging Buick that looked like a rental. I got out.
The Imp was on the porch, fraying the canopy on a swing seat.
“You sure took your time getting here, buster. What’s wrong, don’t you have the balls to face the truth?”
“Take a hike. According to interested parties this is the dragon’s den, but it don’t look no different from what I remember.”
He laughed.
“Oh yeah? See how the trees been cut back to form a circle, with the gravel all around, like one of them medieval moats? I’m telling ya’, this place is bad juju.”
I didn’t need this and kicked some gravel at him. One piece struck his face and he swore.
“See what I mean? No-ones safe around here. No-one gets in without an invitation, and even fewer leave.”
I tilted my hat back and looked around, hands on hips.
“So how come I can just drive up here? I’m sure as hell not on the guest list.”
The Imp started climbing one of the porch uprights.
“This is where the Beaumonts were going to bring you anyway, numbnuts. The fact you can walk right in on your own means you’re protected. Something of a Trojan horse, if you get my drift. Now, I’m headed for the roof, out of the path of any stray shots. So when the gunplay starts try not to hit the ceiling, OK?”
I watched him go and shook my head – another snow job. I walked up to the front door and yanked on the big bell-pull. There was a pause and then I heard footsteps inside. I stepped back, the Luger in my left hand, holding the fedora in place over it with my index finger. If aunt May was packing heat she’d see my empty right hand and think she had the drop on me. I figured that would make her hesitate for a moment, and a moment was all I needed.
There was the sound of a bolt being drawn and the door opened. May Younger stood there, unarmed. Mid to late forties but it didn’t look like she was speeding. Dark hair in a Veronica Lake cut, curves in all the right places.
“Luke? Now nice. Do come in, we’ve been expecting you. I thought you’d have company but I can see I’m mistaken.”
“Hi aunt May. If you mean the Beaumonts they got jammed on a rape and assault beef, courtesy of Sally Saks.”
She smiled.
“Really? How clever of her. Now, don’t just stand there, come in and close the door behind you. And you can drop the ‘aunt’ these days, I think. Don’t you?”
I watched the sway of her hips as I followed her down the hall. What that made me feel really didn’t fall under the heading of brotherly love, unless I was from Tennessee. She spoke over her shoulder.
“We’re in the lounge. Don’t be shy, you’ll know everyone here.”
I took one step inside and stopped, looking round. There was a log fire burning in the wide grate but the stone floor and high ceiling kept the room cool and airy. There were two women sitting either side of the fireplace, with May off to the right, fixing a cigarette.
Know everyone here? Oh sure.
Cathy Furie, looking like a school teacher in her round eye glasses and tied back hair. Her face was flushed and she kept playing with her wedding ring.
Sally Saks, sporting a bruise that would cover her left cheek when it coloured up. She looked woozy and distracted.
I gave them my best smile.
“So what’s all this, ladies? The three witches from Macbeth?”
I was quite proud of remembering that play, a hack production me and Jimmy and Harry had gone to when Jimmy was dating some actress. Harry and me suffered through a couple of acts and then hit the ‘99’ club, where we hooked up with the Olsen twins. The one I was with had a wart on her left hip. Funny the things you recall.
“I guess that would make me the ghost at the banquet, eh, Luke?”
The voice came from behind me and I knew who it was without turning round.
Harry Furie, back from the dead.
Almost...
Thirty
Part of me wasn’t surprised but the rest took it like a kick in the gut. Before I could come up with some smart-ass reply my former best friend continued.
“You can ditch the piece, Luke, and don’t give me no story about how you never carry a gun. Careful, now.”
He had me cold so I tossed it, aiming for the bamboo coffee table but it fell short and landed on the rug. Harry sounded amused.
“Jimmy’s Luger? Jeez, you must be desperate to depend on that piece of junk.”
I found my voice.
“Yeah, well, I had a real cannon earlier but seemed to lose it along the way. So, how you been, Harry? Sounding pretty good for a dead man.” He moved round into my field of vision, in pants and shirt sleeves, “But maybe looking the part, I guess.”
Harry Furie had come through the Pacific campaign without a scratch, but it looked like his luck had run out in Korea. Now he had facial scars, a limp, and a burn mark on his left hand. The .45 automatic in his right got my attention but I couldn’t help but notice the bullet wound to his left shoulder. It had been inexpertly bandaged and blood was showing through. I tossed my hat on the table.
“Good to see you’re in one piece though, more or less. But what’s with the gun? We’re old pals, business partners-“
He back-handed me with the .45 and I staggered, tasting blood. There was a tic in his cheek and murder in his eyes.
“And that’s for being such a pal. I spent five weeks in a Japanese hospital, unable to speak, unable to write. ****, they didn’t even know who I was to begin with. I dictated a letter to my mom, asking her to let everyone know I was alive. She writes back and tells me you and Sally been screwing around, at least since I shipped out and probably before.”
I raised both hands.
“Whoa there, Marine! That’s not how it was. We heard you was M-I-A and then your mom told Sally you’d bought the farm. OK, so maybe Sally moved on in her life a bit quick but-“
Harry made to hit me again and I shied away, bumping up against an armchair. I sat down and the advantage this gave seemed to calm him down a little.
“Can it! You ain’t as smooth as Jimmy, moving in on all those wives whose husbands we caught cheating, but I know how you operate. You never liked that Sally was my girl, you never liked it when I had anything special-
There was an outburst from Cathy Furie, her face a twisted mask of contempt.
“Special? That little tramp? She saw you as a meal ticket, son, pure and simple. She only wanted to get married before you went overseas so to get the death benefits and pension, nothing more. As soon as you were out of the picture she latched on to this one, although God alone knows why. Sally Saks is a worthless slut, a cheap gold-digger, and you’re better off-“
“Mom, enough!” Harry glared at her but he kept the gun pointing in my direction. She turned her face away and resumed playing with her ring. He wiped his brow with his free hand.
“You betrayed me, Luke, you let me down. Just like before. Just like when you left me for the cops at the junk yard.” He coughed, “When I got back Stateside I staked out Sally’s apartment, saw you leave in the early hours with that big self-satisfied grin on your face. The one you always have after you’ve scored. I wasn’t going to take that, and I wanted Sally to know you’d been killed – that it was no accident. But I knew I’d be suspect number one if you croaked, and I’ve had enough of prison.”
May stubbed out her cigarette.
“Excuse me for breaking up the happy reunion, but we have to get on. Simply having Luke here is a threat to us all, so will you kindly just shoot him?”
Again I put up my hands.
“Jesus, Sis, give me a break. Maybe you have a beef against our old man but aren’t you taking this whole ‘sins of the father’ thing a bit too far?”
Harry sounded confused.
“Sister? What the hell is he on about, May?”
May ignored him and glared at me.
“Someone told you? Well, so what. You think you deserved a life with parents while my aunt treated me no better than a servant? It was just a happy coincidence that Harry wanted you dead and I needed a sacrifice.”
I laughed, despite the situation.
“Human sacrifice? You gotta’ be kidding me!”
“Are you seriously that ignorant of what’s been happening? The Loa are voodoo spirits, Luke. When they possess a host it only lasts for a short period, and can take considerable effort to arrange. I’ve found a way of making a body permanently available, like a kind of spiritual open house.” She laughed, “The favours I can demand in exchange for this degree of access to the real world are beyond belief.”
Her smile faded.
“Except that Harry here was apparently more fixated on some childhood betrayal than you screwing his fiancée.”
His face darkened.
“I’m not going to carry the can for the Beaumont’s screw-up! They said to concentrate on Luke, to focus my anger, and that’s what I did – end of story. So they turned some hair and nail clippings into a teenage boy rather than an adult? So what? It’s all ********.”
I saw my chance.
“You’re damn right it is, Harry. The Beaumont’s are con-men, pure and simple. I bet they gave you all some kind of drink beforehand, huh? Part of the ritual?”
He looked dubious.
“Yeah, well, there was this bowl-“
“Slipped you a Mickey, Harry, sure as eggs is eggs. Then they twisted things, made you see what they wanted, and hauled out a stooge to play the part. That’s why they couldn’t produce a copy of me as an adult, that’s why-“
May cut in, furious.
“Fool! Don’t listen to him, he’s just trying to confuse things. We all saw the garant, knew how dangerous it was. Without the money as bait it played false, would have turned on me, and I had to kill it. What the Beaumont’s achieved required a favour by Erzulie, a big favour, and she expects to be compensated. As long as he’s alive she has a link to the real world and that threatens us all. Understand?”
Harry nodded, almost to himself, and that clearly wasn’t enough.
“Do you understand?”
“Yes! For Christ’s sake, give it a rest, why don’t you?” He looked at me, grim-faced. “I wanted you to suffer on Death Row for years, nice and drawn out, but this will have to do instead. I’ll take my chances with the law.”
Our eyes locked.
“So long, Luke, see you in Hell.”
I managed a tight-lipped smile.
“I’ll keep you a seat, Harry, near the bar. Oh, one last thing though.”
“Yeah? Well, make it short.”
“Papa Legba sends his regards.”
There was a gunshot, but I didn’t feel a thing.
Thirty
Part of me wasn’t surprised but the rest took it like a kick in the gut. Before I could come up with some smart-ass reply my former best friend continued.
“You can ditch the piece, Luke, and don’t give me no story about how you never carry a gun. Careful, now.”
He had me cold so I tossed it, aiming for the bamboo coffee table but it fell short and landed on the rug. Harry sounded amused.
“Jimmy’s Luger? Jeez, you must be desperate to depend on that piece of junk.”
I found my voice.
“Yeah, well, I had a real cannon earlier but seemed to lose it along the way. So, how you been, Harry? Sounding pretty good for a dead man.” He moved round into my field of vision, in pants and shirt sleeves, “But maybe looking the part, I guess.”
Harry Furie had come through the Pacific campaign without a scratch, but it looked like his luck had run out in Korea. Now he had facial scars, a limp, and a burn mark on his left hand. The .45 automatic in his right got my attention but I couldn’t help but notice the bullet wound to his left shoulder. It had been inexpertly bandaged and blood was showing through. I tossed my hat on the table.
“Good to see you’re in one piece though, more or less. But what’s with the gun? We’re old pals, business partners-“
He back-handed me with the .45 and I staggered, tasting blood. There was a tic in his cheek and murder in his eyes.
“And that’s for being such a pal. I spent five weeks in a Japanese hospital, unable to speak, unable to write. ****, they didn’t even know who I was to begin with. I dictated a letter to my mom, asking her to let everyone know I was alive. She writes back and tells me you and Sally been screwing around, at least since I shipped out and probably before.”
I raised both hands.
“Whoa there, Marine! That’s not how it was. We heard you was M-I-A and then your mom told Sally you’d bought the farm. OK, so maybe Sally moved on in her life a bit quick but-“
Harry made to hit me again and I shied away, bumping up against an armchair. I sat down and the advantage this gave seemed to calm him down a little.
“Can it! You ain’t as smooth as Jimmy, moving in on all those wives whose husbands we caught cheating, but I know how you operate. You never liked that Sally was my girl, you never liked it when I had anything special-
There was an outburst from Cathy Furie, her face a twisted mask of contempt.
“Special? That little tramp? She saw you as a meal ticket, son, pure and simple. She only wanted to get married before you went overseas so to get the death benefits and pension, nothing more. As soon as you were out of the picture she latched on to this one, although God alone knows why. Sally Saks is a worthless slut, a cheap gold-digger, and you’re better off-“
“Mom, enough!” Harry glared at her but he kept the gun pointing in my direction. She turned her face away and resumed playing with her ring. He wiped his brow with his free hand.
“You betrayed me, Luke, you let me down. Just like before. Just like when you left me for the cops at the junk yard.” He coughed, “When I got back Stateside I staked out Sally’s apartment, saw you leave in the early hours with that big self-satisfied grin on your face. The one you always have after you’ve scored. I wasn’t going to take that, and I wanted Sally to know you’d been killed – that it was no accident. But I knew I’d be suspect number one if you croaked, and I’ve had enough of prison.”
May stubbed out her cigarette.
“Excuse me for breaking up the happy reunion, but we have to get on. Simply having Luke here is a threat to us all, so will you kindly just shoot him?”
Again I put up my hands.
“Jesus, Sis, give me a break. Maybe you have a beef against our old man but aren’t you taking this whole ‘sins of the father’ thing a bit too far?”
Harry sounded confused.
“Sister? What the hell is he on about, May?”
May ignored him and glared at me.
“Someone told you? Well, so what. You think you deserved a life with parents while my aunt treated me no better than a servant? It was just a happy coincidence that Harry wanted you dead and I needed a sacrifice.”
I laughed, despite the situation.
“Human sacrifice? You gotta’ be kidding me!”
“Are you seriously that ignorant of what’s been happening? The Loa are voodoo spirits, Luke. When they possess a host it only lasts for a short period, and can take considerable effort to arrange. I’ve found a way of making a body permanently available, like a kind of spiritual open house.” She laughed, “The favours I can demand in exchange for this degree of access to the real world are beyond belief.”
Her smile faded.
“Except that Harry here was apparently more fixated on some childhood betrayal than you screwing his fiancée.”
His face darkened.
“I’m not going to carry the can for the Beaumont’s screw-up! They said to concentrate on Luke, to focus my anger, and that’s what I did – end of story. So they turned some hair and nail clippings into a teenage boy rather than an adult? So what? It’s all ********.”
I saw my chance.
“You’re damn right it is, Harry. The Beaumont’s are con-men, pure and simple. I bet they gave you all some kind of drink beforehand, huh? Part of the ritual?”
He looked dubious.
“Yeah, well, there was this bowl-“
“Slipped you a Mickey, Harry, sure as eggs is eggs. Then they twisted things, made you see what they wanted, and hauled out a stooge to play the part. That’s why they couldn’t produce a copy of me as an adult, that’s why-“
May cut in, furious.
“Fool! Don’t listen to him, he’s just trying to confuse things. We all saw the garant, knew how dangerous it was. Without the money as bait it played false, would have turned on me, and I had to kill it. What the Beaumont’s achieved required a favour by Erzulie, a big favour, and she expects to be compensated. As long as he’s alive she has a link to the real world and that threatens us all. Understand?”
Harry nodded, almost to himself, and that clearly wasn’t enough.
“Do you understand?”
“Yes! For Christ’s sake, give it a rest, why don’t you?” He looked at me, grim-faced. “I wanted you to suffer on Death Row for years, nice and drawn out, but this will have to do instead. I’ll take my chances with the law.”
Our eyes locked.
“So long, Luke, see you in Hell.”
I managed a tight-lipped smile.
“I’ll keep you a seat, Harry, near the bar. Oh, one last thing though.”
“Yeah? Well, make it short.”
“Papa Legba sends his regards.”
There was a gunshot, but I didn’t feel a thing.
And finally!
Thirty-One
Harry Furie stood in front of me, smiling. Then he swayed, as it’s hard to stay upright when you’re dead. He fell forward, full length, crushing the coffee table beneath him.
Sally Saks had her gun out, the little automatic no-one had thought to look for, as it wasn’t her style. Single shot, small calibre, right temple, lights out.
I whispered to myself, “So long Harry, have a drink on me.”
Cathy Furie screamed, a mix of anguish and anger, and went for Sally Saks. The two of them struggled for the gun and it went off, nailing the ceiling light. I made my move – out of the chair and down on one knee, reaching for the Luger.
An elephant kicked me in the head and I sprawled sideways on the rug.
Being shot isn’t like you see in the movies. You don’t take one, clutch at your chest and fall in a tidy heap. There’s shock and blood and then a whole lot of pain, especially if you get gut-shot. A head wound is something else again, and I didn’t really feel anything, although I was aware of blood dripping into my eye. The left side of my head, again, although I hoped it was just a graze.
May Younger stood by the dresser, holding a smoking revolver. I hadn’t seen it coming, being too fixated on the cat-fight. This was still going strong, although Cathy Furie was running on grief and Sally still looked a bit woozy. The gun ended up in the hearth and both women switched to kicks and clawing.
Sally got thrown up against the chimney breast and went limp. She dropped like a puppet with its strings cut, leaving a bloody stain on the brickwork. Cathy Furie stood there, trembling and triumphant, a manic grin on her face. The reflected firelight made her eyeglasses look like two circles of burnished gold.
I blinked.
Smoke escaped from the chimney, coiling around Cathy Furie like a snake. She didn’t seem to notice and kicked Sally where she lay in a heap. The snake slid down and merged with Cathy’s flickering shadow. She laughed, but the voice didn’t sound like her.
Cathy Furie turned towards me, and her lenses still burned, even though she now had her back to the fire. The room felt cold, like someone had opened the door to a big freezer, or maybe it was just me. Her shadow started to lengthen, reaching out towards me, but I couldn’t move.
May crossed herself.
“Mère Erzulie, acceptez ce sacrifice et favorisez ce pauvre pécheur. Laissez la dette être payée et indulgente.”
I blinked.
The shadow stopped. Cathie Furie’s eyeglasses cracked and split, pieces of glass falling away. It was her eyes that burned, like there was a furnace in her head. Her voice sounded like the one I’d heard coming from the watchman.
“You damaged goods, raggedy man, I see that now. Too much dark in you, deep inside. I not got the stomach to challenge him.”
She turned towards May and her shadow turned with her, almost brushing the tips of the other woman’s shoes.
“I may pick and choose what’s offered, woman in-between, but I always take what’s owed. Don’t you talk to me of-“
May fired, straight to the chest, and kept firing as Cathy’s shadow climbed up her body and darkened her face.
I blinked.
Cathy Furie fell to the floor, shot five times in the chest. May Younger stood there, radiant, like she was picked out by a searchlight. She set the empty revolver down and held out her arms in front of her, flexing her fingers, as if seeing them for the first time. She ran fingers through her hair and laughed, swaying in a way I normally have to pay to see. When she spoke the voice was her own, but there was fever in her eyes.
“Still with us, Luke? Too bad. You understand you and Sally are loose ends I simply can’t afford to have around? I’d say it’s nothing personal but you know I’d be lying.”
May turned to the dresser and I heard the clatter of spent rounds being emptied. A drawer opened and there was the soft snick of metal on metal as she reloaded.
You at the crossroads again, my man, and welcome. Think you more use alive for now, though. But you owe me.
The voice was in my head, like when you talk to yourself. The left side of my body remained numb but I could move my right hand. The fingertips teased the Luger, easing the handle into my grasp. May turned towards me.
“I’ll make this quick, I-“
I fired, she fired, a bullet struck the grandfather clock standing in the corner. I aimed for her chest but hit her in the throat. Her head snapped back and there was blood, a burbling scream. I rolled on to my back and closed my eyes.
Her gun landed on the rug and I felt more than heard the body follow it. I remembered to breath. The only sounds were the log fire and the damaged clock.
Something kicked my hand, something small.
“Jeez, you certainly know how to crash a party, I’ll give you that. I can see the headlines now, ‘Crazed Gunman Slays War Hero And Family’. The gunman would be you, in case you haven’t cottoned on. Although ‘bullet-ridden corpse’ will probably be the description on page two, once the police get here.”
I glanced sideways to see the Imp grinning at me. The Luger had jammed so I couldn’t shoot him, although I’m not sure I really wanted to.
“Crap. I thought I was safe down here. What happened to this place being a no-no?”
“Well, since you pulled that Dorothy act it’s open season. Ding-Dong, the witch is dead.”
“Screw you, Toto, leave me in peace.”
He laughed.
“An alternative headline could be ‘Voodoo Cult Dies In Suicide Pact’ – it’s up to you.
I sighed and rolled over. Cathy Furie was lying near by and I was able to place the Luger in her outstretched hand, folding the fingers round to leave a good impression. I even managed to wipe the gun down with my handkerchief. Not a primo job but enough to produce ambiguous smudges. This wore me out and I lay flat on my back so the blood wouldn’t get in my eyes. From the corner of my eye I saw the Imp **** his head to one side.
“Listen, bozo, hear that?”
I listened, and heard sirens approaching, urgent and eager. The damaged clock seemed to be slowing down, labouring to advance the seconds, and it felt like I had all the time in the world. The Imp saluted me.
“Catch you later, pal, if you make it.”
He disappeared, leaving me alone with the banshees. The curtains had been left open and I could tell it was almost dawn. The firelight patterns on the ceiling were fading but I could still make out the shape of a grinning face, although just then I didn’t get the joke.
I blinked.
The sirens died away and I heard pounding on the door, and shouts. It all seemed so far away and I didn’t really care. The clock had almost stopped and in the space between tick and tock I smiled, and closed my eyes. I could tell there was a lot of blood in the room.
You can get used to death, it just takes a while.
Thirty-One
Harry Furie stood in front of me, smiling. Then he swayed, as it’s hard to stay upright when you’re dead. He fell forward, full length, crushing the coffee table beneath him.
Sally Saks had her gun out, the little automatic no-one had thought to look for, as it wasn’t her style. Single shot, small calibre, right temple, lights out.
I whispered to myself, “So long Harry, have a drink on me.”
Cathy Furie screamed, a mix of anguish and anger, and went for Sally Saks. The two of them struggled for the gun and it went off, nailing the ceiling light. I made my move – out of the chair and down on one knee, reaching for the Luger.
An elephant kicked me in the head and I sprawled sideways on the rug.
Being shot isn’t like you see in the movies. You don’t take one, clutch at your chest and fall in a tidy heap. There’s shock and blood and then a whole lot of pain, especially if you get gut-shot. A head wound is something else again, and I didn’t really feel anything, although I was aware of blood dripping into my eye. The left side of my head, again, although I hoped it was just a graze.
May Younger stood by the dresser, holding a smoking revolver. I hadn’t seen it coming, being too fixated on the cat-fight. This was still going strong, although Cathy Furie was running on grief and Sally still looked a bit woozy. The gun ended up in the hearth and both women switched to kicks and clawing.
Sally got thrown up against the chimney breast and went limp. She dropped like a puppet with its strings cut, leaving a bloody stain on the brickwork. Cathy Furie stood there, trembling and triumphant, a manic grin on her face. The reflected firelight made her eyeglasses look like two circles of burnished gold.
I blinked.
Smoke escaped from the chimney, coiling around Cathy Furie like a snake. She didn’t seem to notice and kicked Sally where she lay in a heap. The snake slid down and merged with Cathy’s flickering shadow. She laughed, but the voice didn’t sound like her.
Cathy Furie turned towards me, and her lenses still burned, even though she now had her back to the fire. The room felt cold, like someone had opened the door to a big freezer, or maybe it was just me. Her shadow started to lengthen, reaching out towards me, but I couldn’t move.
May crossed herself.
“Mère Erzulie, acceptez ce sacrifice et favorisez ce pauvre pécheur. Laissez la dette être payée et indulgente.”
I blinked.
The shadow stopped. Cathie Furie’s eyeglasses cracked and split, pieces of glass falling away. It was her eyes that burned, like there was a furnace in her head. Her voice sounded like the one I’d heard coming from the watchman.
“You damaged goods, raggedy man, I see that now. Too much dark in you, deep inside. I not got the stomach to challenge him.”
She turned towards May and her shadow turned with her, almost brushing the tips of the other woman’s shoes.
“I may pick and choose what’s offered, woman in-between, but I always take what’s owed. Don’t you talk to me of-“
May fired, straight to the chest, and kept firing as Cathy’s shadow climbed up her body and darkened her face.
I blinked.
Cathy Furie fell to the floor, shot five times in the chest. May Younger stood there, radiant, like she was picked out by a searchlight. She set the empty revolver down and held out her arms in front of her, flexing her fingers, as if seeing them for the first time. She ran fingers through her hair and laughed, swaying in a way I normally have to pay to see. When she spoke the voice was her own, but there was fever in her eyes.
“Still with us, Luke? Too bad. You understand you and Sally are loose ends I simply can’t afford to have around? I’d say it’s nothing personal but you know I’d be lying.”
May turned to the dresser and I heard the clatter of spent rounds being emptied. A drawer opened and there was the soft snick of metal on metal as she reloaded.
You at the crossroads again, my man, and welcome. Think you more use alive for now, though. But you owe me.
The voice was in my head, like when you talk to yourself. The left side of my body remained numb but I could move my right hand. The fingertips teased the Luger, easing the handle into my grasp. May turned towards me.
“I’ll make this quick, I-“
I fired, she fired, a bullet struck the grandfather clock standing in the corner. I aimed for her chest but hit her in the throat. Her head snapped back and there was blood, a burbling scream. I rolled on to my back and closed my eyes.
Her gun landed on the rug and I felt more than heard the body follow it. I remembered to breath. The only sounds were the log fire and the damaged clock.
Something kicked my hand, something small.
“Jeez, you certainly know how to crash a party, I’ll give you that. I can see the headlines now, ‘Crazed Gunman Slays War Hero And Family’. The gunman would be you, in case you haven’t cottoned on. Although ‘bullet-ridden corpse’ will probably be the description on page two, once the police get here.”
I glanced sideways to see the Imp grinning at me. The Luger had jammed so I couldn’t shoot him, although I’m not sure I really wanted to.
“Crap. I thought I was safe down here. What happened to this place being a no-no?”
“Well, since you pulled that Dorothy act it’s open season. Ding-Dong, the witch is dead.”
“Screw you, Toto, leave me in peace.”
He laughed.
“An alternative headline could be ‘Voodoo Cult Dies In Suicide Pact’ – it’s up to you.
I sighed and rolled over. Cathy Furie was lying near by and I was able to place the Luger in her outstretched hand, folding the fingers round to leave a good impression. I even managed to wipe the gun down with my handkerchief. Not a primo job but enough to produce ambiguous smudges. This wore me out and I lay flat on my back so the blood wouldn’t get in my eyes. From the corner of my eye I saw the Imp **** his head to one side.
“Listen, bozo, hear that?”
I listened, and heard sirens approaching, urgent and eager. The damaged clock seemed to be slowing down, labouring to advance the seconds, and it felt like I had all the time in the world. The Imp saluted me.
“Catch you later, pal, if you make it.”
He disappeared, leaving me alone with the banshees. The curtains had been left open and I could tell it was almost dawn. The firelight patterns on the ceiling were fading but I could still make out the shape of a grinning face, although just then I didn’t get the joke.
I blinked.
The sirens died away and I heard pounding on the door, and shouts. It all seemed so far away and I didn’t really care. The clock had almost stopped and in the space between tick and tock I smiled, and closed my eyes. I could tell there was a lot of blood in the room.
You can get used to death, it just takes a while.
StormFeather
Just passing
Haven't been on for a while, so have had a lot to catch up with in one happy evening!
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