Once Upon A Poet

by H S Peer

  She was dressed similarly to me. She hadn’t bothered with the dramatic black.

  “I was here first,” she said, “It’s my car.”

  “You forget, I have the gun.”

  “You gonna whack me?”

  “Over a hearse? Not likely. If you were a man, I’d lump you up a little just to stay in practice. You being a woman and all I guess you can be on your way.”

  “You’re a bastard, I need this score.”

  “How did you get this job anyhow?”

  “Through a friend. Some Frenchman was offering five grand for this car,” she said. The anger was beginning to leave her voice.

  “Same for me,” I said, “But for a lot more. I guess you’re screwed. I have the keys and gun.”

  “Come on,” she said slyly as I stepped towards the driver’s door. ‘We could split the five Gs. Half each?”

  For a minute, her looking angry and lively, I was tempted. Marty be damned, I would take $2,500 and get to know this lass a little better. Then I thought about ten grand sitting in my vault and the happy Christmas I could have.

  “No deal,” I said settling into the seat and closing the door. Clipped to the visor was a remote garage door opener. I hit the button. A machine whined, and the door started to rise. I started the car and powered the window down

  “I could call the heat,” she said with a malevolent gleam in her eyes.

  “Around here? At night? There’s no phone, I cut the lines. By the time you find a pay phone, I’ll be long gone. Your cell? They can trace that. And I can find you. Our community isn’t that big that I can’t find you - sooner or later. Call the heat, and I might forget you’re a woman.”

  “Bastard.’

  “You’re repeating yourself.”

  She shot me the finger.

  “What’s your name?” I asked.

  “Piss off,” she spat.

  “They call me Poet,” I told her. “If you ever get into the city look me up at the Liar’s Breath. I’ll buy you a drink to compensate for all this.”

  She said a very nasty word. I shrugged and dropped the car into drive. After rolling up the window, I cranked the heat and tuned the radio to a classics station. I find Bach very soothing. My trip to the paint shop was uneventful. There was little traffic, and I didn’t see any cops.

  I dropped the car off to a man with a three-day beard clad in grubby coveralls. He smelled like he drank his dinner. I called a cab and traveled back to my abode. After a brandy and a couple of cigarettes, I drifted off to sleep.

  Chapter 10

  During the night I dreamed about the woman with the red hair and that faint Irish accent. We were in a field of wildflowers having a picnic. When we ran out of egg salad, she pulled a gun, robbed me and left me naked in the field. I guess I can’t win, even in my dreams.

  I awoke after three Wednesday afternoon, showered and dressed. I had no real plans for the day. At some point, I would see Marty and collect my money. I would also mention that his client had floated the scheme to more than one hood, with a discounted price. I had to do something about Bill and the nagging little problem of him ratting me out. So far I knew nothing except a woman was dead, and her estranged husband said he didn’t do it. Maybe he had someone else do it while I had him out of town. Perhaps the mailman was angry because she didn’t answer the door to sign for a registered letter. Maybe anything. I had one lead. The plumber, her boyfriend.

  Dressed in Ralph Lauren, I headed to the Liar’s Breath. Biscuit was behind the bar slicing limes. I sat in my usual seat and waited while he brought over the bank deposit from the night before. I scanned the figures and passed it back, the bar was holding its own. I’m all for hands-off ownership. I do very little but drink and collect a modest salary. Biscuit managed everything, the ordering, the staff, and the kitchen. He was a former biker that changed his ways. He was worth every penny.

  I have a cook named Juan, or that’s what he says his name is. I keep expecting to see him on America’s Most Wanted. I think he came here from Florida. He acts very suspiciously like everyone is out to get him. Sometimes he disappears for a couple of days without notice. While this is an inconvenience, he’s too good to let go. I ordered a Reuben sandwich with extra sauerkraut and a draft beer. There was a couple I didn’t recognize having a late lunch in a booth against the far wall. Otherwise, the place was deserted. I tumbleweed blowing through wouldn’t seem out of place.

  The beer was cold and tasty. I finished a pint and knocked on the bar. Biscuit brought me another and the newspaper. I scanned the city section to see if my heist had got any ink. Nothing at all. In a time of terror alerts and random shootings, the loss of a hearse didn’t rate any space. The sandwich arrived. I added some hot sauce I get shipped up from a little place in New Orleans and scarfed it down.

  I pushed a French fry around in the gravy on my plate. My mind’s eye kept seeing that police photo of Cindy McMillen shattered head. I couldn’t prevent that image, that 8-by-10 glossy image from entering my thoughts. Who was I kidding? I wasn’t a cop anymore, not that I’d been a real fireball when I’d been on the force. I can’t even remember why I joined. I quit working on my doctorate at Columbia and was at a loss as to what to do next. Maybe it was the uniforms. Cop aside, I had already started down my present path. When I wasn’t in the library, I was breaking into homes or offices. I stole whatever there was to take. I wasn’t as discriminate as I am now. It was nickel and dime stuff. But I loved it. Every damn minute.

  Lola, the day-shift waitress, brought the couple in the booth their bill. She smiled at me as collected up the salt and pepper shakers to be refilled. Edging towards forty she still flirted with the male customers. She had blonde curly hair, a full mouth that was prone to smiling and a laugh that would make deaf men hear. Once upon a time she too had been a stripper. One day she woke up and opted for a better life. That was why she worked the day shirt, to stay away from the bad influences that filled the place at night.

  This was stupid, I was spinning my wheels. I should just have Jenkins shanked and take off for a couple of weeks. Somewhere warm, maybe Bermuda or Paradise Island in the Bahamas. A couple of weeks in the sun would do me good. The bar obviously didn’t need me. There wouldn’t be any work until after the Christmas presents had been delivered, and were ready to be stolen. I could do with a couple of weeks of relaxation. The taste of rum cocktails would wash the taste of stealing a hearse out of my mouth.

  One thing bothered me, the one thing I couldn’t seem to shake other than the thought of Cindy’s shattered head. Bill Jenkins could be innocent. It could all be a frame up. He was the perfect fall guy. He smacked his wife around, was it that much of a leap that he would kill her? The cops believed it, and without an alibi, Bill was left holding the bag. Could I have an innocent man killed?

  I was running out of time. He’d given me a week before he went to the DA. I could extend that a little, if not indefinitely. I planned to do that later tonight. I’d work with the time I had left and see what developed. What I need was to know a little more about that life.

  I waved Lola over and asked her to sit on a stool. She looked nervous as if expecting me to give her her walking papers. I waved at Biscuit and received a fresh pint. Strange for me but I didn’t know where to begin.

  “Lola,” I started, “I need to ask you about your former life.”

  She had been looking me straight in the face. When she heard my question, she looked at the floor.

  “I don’t want to make you uncomfortable but I’m working on something, and I need your help.”

  She nodded.

  “Biscuit,” I said, “Bring the lady her usual.”

  He mixed up a Southern Comfort and Coke with lots of ice and brought it over. He set it before her on a cocktail napkin. Lola sipped at the straw until nearly half the glass was empty and looked at me again.

  “I’ll try and help you. What do you want to know?”

  “A woman was murdered,” I began, �
��A dancer. I need to know about the life. What was she into, who did she know, stuff like that.’

  “Strippers are a dime a dozen,” she said with her high sing-songy voice. There was a trace of the Bronx in it, but was obvious she tried to block it out. “Any strip club manager will tell you that. We’re just meat for the Johns.”

  “Johns?” I asked.

  “Not like hookers Johns, but the same idea. The men are there for a good time, and we’re there to provide it. Don’t get me wrong, a lot of those men turn into Johns. A lot of women turn tricks on the side.”

  “Where? In the VIP rooms, in the parking lot?”

  “Where ever, it doesn’t matter. Some women just reach a point where they don’t care anymore. They just want the money.”

  “Drugs?”

  “Lots of that around. Coke, crack, smack, pills, you name it. You need a little boost before you get on stage. A line or a pill can help that. You have some guy pawing at you in the VIP room, a shot of smack helps you forget.”

  “But not you?”

  “No sir,” she said, straightening her shoulders, “I did what I had to do because I had a son at home that needed to be fed and his father was too far away to care. No, I never did drugs. I never turned tricks. I danced because I had no other choice.”

  “Anything else a dancer can get into?” I asked.

  “Lot of things. Usual dancers don’t have the looks or the social graces to work for escort services. In the dives, they’re the bottom of the barrel. Sometimes they make movies or do live cam shows. ”

  “Movies? Cam shows?”

  “Yeah, porno movies. Not the glitzy ones, the low-budget poorly lit ones. It’s changed a lot since I was in that life. Most of the industry is online, but they still need ‘movies.’ Those sites all have subscriptions fees, they need content.

  “The cam girls? You’ve never seen that? A girl online in your browser - she’ll do whatever she is told for virtual ‘tips.’”

  “Do the girls often get into this?”

  “Sometimes. It’s extra money for the girl to put up her nose or into her arm.”

  She was quiet for a few minutes while I digested what she had told me. Lola finished her drink.

  “Is there anything else? I have work to do.”

  “By all means,” I said. She returned to the service area and started filling pepper shakers.

  Cindy’s toxicology screen had been clear, but that didn’t mean much. Maybe she hadn’t used for a while before she was killed. I didn’t remember Gael mentioning anything about track marks on Cindy’s body. Perhaps she was a coke head. Anything was possible. I finished my beer and headed back home. A nap was in order before the night began. Maybe I’d find inspiration while sleeping. Or perhaps I’d dream a happy dream about the redhead, one that didn’t involve me getting robbed.

  Chapter 11

  It was time to look for Larry Driscole. It was just after 9 o’clock, and I had steak, French fries and two drinks under my belt. I called A&M Plumbing and learned the local watering hole was called The Pit. I drove to Brooklyn, stopping to top up my tank. I found Lucy Avenue and after a couple of blocks the bar in question.

  The Pit was anything but. It was a long, narrow room with a bar along the left wall and a smattering of four-chair tables and booths. It was packed for a Tuesday night, standing room only. Smoke hung in the air like a vast cancerous cloud. I pulled a Players from my onyx cigarette case and lit up, adding to the eddying cloud. After edging in between two stools, a managed to get to the bar. I didn’t get any service until I held up a twenty.

  I ordered a beer and asked for Larry. The bartender couldn’t hear me over the music and the chatter. I leaned close and screamed in his ear. He pointed out a man sitting halfway down the bar. In front of him were an empty shot glass and a half glass of beer. The people on either side of him were ignoring him. He was alone.

  I pushed my way through the crush of people until I was next to him. “Drink up,’ I said into his ear, “I’m buying.”

  “Who the hell are you?” His speech was slurred. He looked like everyone else in the bar, a blue-collar Joe dressed in jeans and a flannel shirt. His hair was a short dirty brown. His eyebrows grew together over his hazel eyes.

  “A friend. What will you have?”

  “Rye and a beer back.”

  I waved another twenty at the bartender, and he took the order.

  The drinks came, and Larry downed the shot. His took a deep draught of the beer before his whole body shook. “What are you? A fag?” he asked.

  I laughed. “I need some information.”

  “What kind of information?”

  “Information about Cindy McMillen,”

  His whole demeanor changed in an instant. The quiet drunk heaved himself off the stool and poked me in the chest with his finger. With the crowded room, we were almost chest to chest, and the gesture became comical.

  “What do you want to know about her for?” he asked. His face was turning red, and sweat had collected on his brow.

  “I’m looking into things,” I said. I lowered my voice until it was barely a whisper, “Poke me again, and you’ll eat that finger.”

  He stopped, staggered and sat down again. He covered his face with his hands and his body shuttered as he started to cry. I sipped my beer. After a time he mopped his face with a dirty bandanna and regained his composure. I signaled the barkeep for another round.

  He downed another shot and drank half a beer. “What do you want to know about her for?”

  “I’m an investigator from the public defender’s office. Robert Browning,” I said sticking out my hand. He shook it weakly.

  “Why you bothering? He’s guilty as sin,” he said.

  “Who?” I asked.

  “Her husband. Jenkins. He killed her.”

  “You are innocent until proven guilty,” I said.

  “Whatever.”

  “How well did you know Cindy?”

  He sipped his beer before replying. “Great. We were great together. As soon as she had a divorce, we were going to get hitched. Have a family.”

  “Where did you meet her?”

  “At the Double-Deuce and it’s not what you think. I didn’t get a hand-job from her in the back room and fall in love. I’m not that kind of sucker. She was sitting at the bar, and we got to talking. We went out a few times and hit it off.”

  “You didn’t care what she did for a living?”

  “That was only temporary. She was trying to get a better job, as a receptionist or something.” He slapped the bar with a flat hand. “I don’t know why the hell I’m talking to you. Right after it happened, the cops thought I did it. They pulled me out of bed in the middle of the night and dragged me down to the station. They sweated me for 14 hours. I didn’t do it. I was on-call that night. I was out on a job. If Jenkins, that sorry sack of shit, beats the rap he’ll have to deal with me.”

  “Cindy do anything else? Drugs. Porn?” It was a dangerous question to ask, but I had to know. As drunk as he was it wouldn’t take much to knock him on his ass.

  He was quiet for a long time. He stared at the bottles on the back of the bar. I waited.

  “Larry,” I finally said, putting a hand on his shoulder.

  He drank the rest of his beer like a man looking for courage. When he spoke, his voice was empty. “She did some movies. I couldn’t talk her out of it. I was pissed, I’ll tell you that. She didn’t tell me until after the second one.”

  “How many did she make?” I asked.

  “Six.”

  “Over how long?”

  “The last eight months. They paid pretty well. I could have taken care of her. She didn’t need to work. I told her that. But she called it charity, she wanted to earn her own way.”

  “What company?”

  “An outfit called Rainbow Productions.”

  I’d never heard of Rainbow Productions, but that didn’t mean much. In this day and age, anybody with a decent camera a
nd lighting could become a porn producer.

  I ordered another round for Larry who had lapsed back into a morose state. I thanked him and patted him on the back. He didn’t move or acknowledge me. Just like before he downed the shot and drank half a beer. A line of drool ran from the corner of his mouth. His eyes were glassy. I left him sitting in his stool staring at the bottles of booze.

  I found my car and returned to the city.

  Marty was waiting on my stool at the Liar’s Breath. He seemed agitated. I knew something was wrong. He wasn’t drinking champagne, he wasn’t drinking at all.

  “We need to talk,” he said as I drew close.

  “Come into my office.”

  “No,” he said, “In my car.”

  He got up and walked out. I followed.

  We walked half a block up the sidewalk to a rusty Chrysler K-car. Marty’s only creature comfort was a cabin cruiser he sailed up and down the Hudson.

  I got in, and he started up the engine. After he pulled away from the curb, he spoke.

  “You want to tell me what the hell happened last night?”

  “I stole a hearse,” I said.

  “What’s this about a broad.”

  “It seems your client posted this caper on the criminal Internet. She was there to steal the car.”

  “What happened?”

  “She was trying to hot-wire the thing when I got there. She pulled a gun, and I took it away from her. Then I took the car to the shop just like you told me.”

  “We have a problem?”

  “What’s that?”

  “She stole the car from the paint shop.”

  I laughed.

  “You find this funny?” asked Marty.

  “I knew she was a fireball, but I never figured she’d do that.”

  “Well, she did.”

  We were silent as he started the second circuit around the block.

  “What are we going to do about this?” Marty asked.

  “We?”

  “Yes, we’re in this together.”

  “Marty, I did this as a favor to you. Respectfully, I’m out.”

  “We have to get the car back.”