by H S Peer
“You sound like Sam Spade. You going to give up the diamond business and be a PI full time?”
“I couldn’t take the pay cut. I have expensive habits.”
“I’ll say.”
I laughed briefly and looked around for a cigarette.
“In essence, your statement was correct,” said Gael.
“Yes.” I found a packet in a desk drawer and tore it open.
“Knowing that you would never come down to the station to sign it I have it here for you.” She held it out to me.
I couldn’t find my fountain pen, I settled with a ballpoint and signed the neatly typed paper without reading it. I stuck a cigarette between my lips and was surprised to find my Zippo still in my pocket.
Gael repacked her briefcase and started for the door. Settling her coat on her shoulders she spoke, “You might want to get away for a while. For someone that lives in the shadows, you’ve over-exposed yourself this time. Shooting at cars in Soho and breaking into sealed apartments? I know you don’t care, but if someone wants to hang you like internal affairs still does, you’re giving them a way.”
I nodded, “Understood Gael. As soon as this is over, I intend to go to the islands for the winter. You can come down and visit if you like.”
“Pass," she said and started for the stairs.
“Gael,” I called after her.
She looked over her shoulder.
“Thanks,” I said.
She nodded and started down towards the front door. I headed to the kitchen to see if I could make some coffee one-handed.
Chapter 17
I drank the coffee. It wasn’t the best, but it was serviceable. I corked the brandy decanter and dropped my snifter in the sink. I took a long nap followed by a hot bath. I covered my left arm in the antibiotic ointment the doctor had given me and dressed the angry looking wounds. By early evening I was right as rain. After a morning of drinking, I was headed to a bar. Go figure.
Things at the Liar’s Breath were slow. The juke played some mellow jazz and Biscuit was busy behind the bar polishing glasses. I nodded, and he knew by my demeanor I wanted the cheap scotch, a taste of the gutter wouldn’t go down as quickly. I took the offered glass and headed for the office.
I sat in the lumpy, uneven leatherette chair behind the desk. I shunned the phone without thinking. I could call in an exterminator to get rid of the bugs on the line, but they’d just get put back there again. Being a criminal mastermind has its problems. I propped my feet up on the corner of the desk and pulled the cell phone from inside my jacket.
I called Marty to make sure everything with the hearse was still okay. Although we didn’t say much, we both knew what we were talking about. He said everything was fine. That was good. I was waiting for that job to go wrong yet again. How many times can one car be stolen?
Next, I dialed two numbers from my little black book, the two doctors that had patched me up on occasion. The vet I had once worked with ran afoul of the FBI by treating someone on the ten most wanted list. He was doing ten years in a federal institution in Pennsylvania.
No one answered at Dr. Edwards, not even an answering machine. Dr. Yhettani responded swiftly. I explained who I was and he remembered without prompting. What he would remember, a limping man covered in mud and blood, coming to his front door after spending a night in a field where he’d been shot and left to die. I didn’t get chummy with him, we didn’t have that sort of relationship, I asked if he’d had any customers in the last couple of days. He answered in the negative, and I hung up. The scar on my chest, just below my right nipple, started to itch. I tried to put that sorry excuse for a job out of my mind.
I sipped the Scotch and cringed. I dumped the glass in a potted plant that lives, against my better efforts, on top of the filing cabinet.
I went to the office door and turned out the light. I reached inside my jacket for the pill bottle. It was getting close to empty. There were enough to get me through the night. I guess I’d worry about tomorrow when it came. I dry swallowed the pill and walked to the bar. The jazz had been replaced by the soulful sounds of my favorite Icelandic female vocalist. Interesting, no one played that CD but me. An acquired taste.
I perched on my stool ready to hold court should it come to that. The rush of loyal crooks aside I was ready for a quiet evening. I ordered a coffee and Biscuit raised an eyebrow. I shrugged and sipped at it. No one, it seemed, was interested in me. No pleas for help in planning the city’s biggest score, no references to create, just peace and quiet.
Until Farrell walked into the room.
I was waiting for something dramatic to happen, for her to reach for a piece and start blasting. She wore a pair of combat boots, black leather pants, and a strange beige thick woolly sweater. I could see some heads turn as she walked from the door to my end of the bar.
I believe Biscuit is psychic. He was standing right by the ice machine – the very place we keep a loaded 12-gauge riot gun, just for eventualities. His eyes never left Farrell. She walked right up and sat on the stool next to me.
Her red hair was pulled back into a tight ponytail. Her face was pale except for two spots of color on her cheeks from the temperature outside. When I heard her voice, that accent, I melted.
“You promised me a drink,” she said.
Based on our history to date I kept expecting a gun to jump into her hand, for it to go off a couple of times and her run for her life, or the hearse, whatever she could find first. If there was a gun, it was hidden under the bulk of her sweater, and she wasn’t about to show it off. She tilted her head to one side looking at me questioningly. In the dim light of the bar, I could see her eyes were hazel, heavily flecked with green.
“A drink?” she asked again in that sexy lilt.
I shook myself back to reality and said, “Of course. What will you have?”
“Tullamore Dew. If you have it.”
It was an Irish whiskey and not for the faint of heart. Of course, I had a bottle, I prided myself on having damn near everything. I called out the order to Biscuit who stood stock-still by the ice machine. He looked at me a moment, and I winked. Although his demeanor didn’t change, I now knew he wouldn’t have shot Farrell as easily as he would have ten minutes ago.
“What do I owe the pleasure of this visit?” I asked.
Biscuit dropped the cut-crystal glass on a coaster and retreated.
She picked up the glass, sniffed it, and took a healthy sip. Her body did a tiny jig I could just follow as the whiskey went down. She replaced the glass and looked at me, her face now with more color.
“I wanted to congratulate you. You won that car, fair and square,” she said.
“It wasn’t a contest. I just have more experience than you.”
“Experience?”
“And skill.”
“You’re really full of yourself. Is that why they call you, Poet?”
“It’s only the truth.”
She shook her head. “I came here trying to be nice, and you’re spouting off about how good you are.”
“I never said any such thing. I said I have experience and skill. If you think that’s spouting off . . .”
“How much experience can you have? I’m twenty-nine and your not much more than five years older than me.’
“I guess that will be my little secret,” I said.
“I think you were lucky. I could have sprayed you all over a wall,” she boasted.
“Could have, but didn’t, child.”
“You’re nothing but a washed-up, two-bit thief, I bet,’ Farrell said.
“I’ll have not a crumb of comfort, not a grain. Time can but make her beauty over again:’” I quoted.
Farrell reacted as if she’d been slapped.
“Yeats,” she finally said.
“Not bad for a washed-up two-bit thief,” I said, standing to usher her out. I didn’t take it personally; I get insulted by a lot of people. I’ve never really liked it coming from a beautiful youn
g woman.
“Where are you going,” she said, sounding scared.
“Home.”
“I want to talk to you.”
“We already talked. Now I’m leaving.”
“But . . .”
“Run along, we’ll try this again tomorrow when we can converse without insulting each other.”
She was angry; there was no way to disguise it. Farrell opened her mouth to speak, and I put a finger to her lips. “Not tonight dear,” I said, “On your way.”
Farrell stood her ground for another few seconds before giving up and heading for the door.
“’O heart! O heart! If she’d but turn her head, You’d know the folly of being comforted.’” I quoted to Biscuit as he brought me a fresh coffee. She’d be back, I hoped, she was the only interesting thing that had happened all day.
Chapter 18
I didn’t set the alarm, telling myself my injured arm needed the extra sleep. I awoke around two and lay under the down duvet looking at the storm clouds through my window. I lit a cigarette. The weatherman said there might be flurries today. I cringed at the thought.
I breakfasted, showered and made myself presentable. I grabbed my gun, keys and money clip and headed out. I caught a cab to Soho. I wanted to retrace my steps from the other night. I paid the cabbie and entered The Brush and ordered a coffee. The table we had briefly sat at the other night was taken. I didn’t think it mattered much, there was no secret message hidden on it or under it, unlucky me.
I sat on a stool in the window. People passed by, bundled up against the 35-degree temperature. The coffee was as good as it smelled. I finished it quickly and thought about having another. I decided not and paid my bill - a six dollars welcome to Soho.
I left The Brush and headed onto the street. I walked half a block and stopped at the spot I thought where Amber died. The sidewalk was dusty. I don’t know what I was expecting, a bloody weeping spot on the cement, something to remind me and the world that this was the place where a woman had lost her life. But there was nothing, the ground was impartial.
I was considering the finer points breaking into Amber’s apartment. If she had some evidence about Rainbow, maybe there was something in her home. Finding that was another story, I didn’t have her address. But nothing was impossible.
Across the street was a portrait studio. Cameras? Film? Something clicked inside my head. A roll of film, one that I’d taken from Cindy’s apartment. That was something I’d forgotten about. I chastised myself for my lack of memory. I looked again at the ground and decided to get on with it.
I headed back to my apartment. Inside the door of my suite, on the oak credenza, was the roll of film. It was 400 ASA Ilford black and white film. I pocketed it and headed back out. From the garage, I retrieved my car and started to Jerome’s.
Jerome did boudoir photographs but never made much money. Occasionally he took pictures for models’ portfolios but ended up trying to get the models to take off their clothes. A hundred years ago Jerome would have been a pornographer specializing in dirty pictures. Today he developed a lot of film. Not just for himself but also for several sex shops around town that offered discreet photo developing services. It was getting harder and harder to have film developed - harder still when the contents were questionable under state and federal statutes.
His office was a hole-in-the-wall storefront in the village. There was a small sign that announced Jerome Kathery, Photographer. The grimy windows that fronted the street were painted black, and the front door was out of square.
I pushed my way in and stood at the dirty counter. I slammed my fist down on the bell beside an ancient cash register. There was a grunt from behind the door at the rear of the counter. I waited. After ten minutes I could hear a deadbolt being eased open. The door opened a crack, and the face of Jerome stared out at me from the red-tinged darkness.
He’d looked better. I guess working alone in the dark all day makes your own appearance seem less important. He was a strange looking fellow. Jerome had grey hair past his shoulders, maybe he thought this compensated for the fact his brow now spanned half his head. His left ear held four gold hoops, his right a silver cross. His face had a pushed in look, like one of those exotic cats or dogs. It was if God had placed his thumb on Jerome’s nose and pushed his face two inches in. His eyes were dirty brown and his teeth yellow. He wore a denim shirt covered with yellow chemical stains.
“Poet?” he asked.
“Yes, Jerome,” I said.
I didn’t know how wound up he was until I saw him relax. He walked through the door and closed it and the smell of developing chemicals behind it. I could see the machine back there, one of those monsters you see in drug or department stores – the kind that churns out roll after roll of film for the paying public. With Jerome considered himself an artist he did have business sense. He couldn’t process all that film by hand.
“What can I do for you?”
A made the film appear in my hand and held it out to him. I dropped it into his palm. “A little service,” I said.
He lifted the half-glasses that hung around his neck on a string and examined the film.
“Black and white?” asked Jerome.
“I believe.”
“Don’t see much of that anymore. Mostly high school photography courses.”
“Can you do it?”
“Of course I can do it. Photography is my forte,” he said proudly.
“Okay. Develop it and give me a set of prints. Eight by tens. Got it?”
He nodded.
I turned to leave, and Jerome was running a finger through the dust on the cash register.
“And Jerome,” I said without turning around, “If there’s a bunch of naked people cavorting on that film don’t make copies for yourself.”
I heard a groan, and I pushed through the door. Back in my Saab, I dialed Gael’s Precinct. After a wait, I got her on the phone.
“What do you want now?” she asked.
“Amber’s address.”
There was silence. I could hear typing through, phones ringing and chatter through my cell.
“You’re getting bold,” she said.
“What?”
“Asking for something right over the phone. No hello, or how are ya, straight to the favor. It seems I do more for you than you do for me,” Gael said.
“Since you won’t let me pleasure you sexually my use to you is limited,” I said.
She snorted.
“Come on, Gael. You scratch my back, and I’ll scratch yours. What do you want? Diamonds? Furs? Fine art? All the world can be yours.”
I heard three loud thunks as Gael whacked the phone against her desk, or so I guessed. “You realize you have called the police department of the City of New York,” Gael said, “Do you know what the penalty is for attempting to bribe a police official?”
“Is it a spanking?”
“Yes. From a rather large cretinous fellow at Rikers. Interested?”
I declined, and Gael put me on hold. She was back a moment later with the address. “And don’t ask for anything else for a while,” she cautioned me.
I agreed and hung up. It turned out that Amber didn’t live too far away, just over in the East Village. I started the car and pulled onto the road. At a red light, I called Dr. Edwards again to see if he’d had any patients in the last few days. Again, no one answered the phone. I was getting worried. It wasn’t like the man not to answer the phone or at least have his answering service pick it up.
Dr. Edwards wasn’t a doctor, not anymore. Before it was legal, he’d given an abortion to a young woman. Unfortunately, the woman died during the procedure, as did Dr. Edwards's life. His license to practice was revoked, and he spent five years in prison. He put in his time in the joint to good use. It’s like a university, I’m told. You can always improve your skills from someone better. That’s just what the doctor did. He learned how to procure drugs and how to start a successful, albeit, illegal practi
ce.
I ran into him four years ago as a result of a knife wound to my right shoulder. He stitched me up and gave me a tetanus shot and a course of antibiotics. Since then I’d visited once or twice a year for whatever ailed me. A chest infection, a check-up or more serious work-related injuries.
I parked in front of Amber’s building and got out. There was no buzzer system, so I walked right in. At apartment 21 I rang the bell. She could have had a roommate, and there would be no need to pick the lock, only to lie a little with my lovely NYPD badge.
As I was ringing the bell for a second stretch, I heard to deadbolt drawback. The door opened as far as the chain would allow.
“Yes?” said the woman inside.
She had blonde hair, fair skin, and a patchy complexion. A little makeup would have gone a long way. Her eyes were red as if she’d been crying. I reached inside my jacket for my ace in the hole and found the pocket, save for a pack of cigarettes, empty. Shit. No badge. My mind scrambled for a story to use and nothing seemed plausible. I decided to try the truth.
“I was with Amber when she died,” I said, “I’m trying to find out who killed her.”
She seemed to go a little pale at the mention on Amber’s name. I hand holding a tissue came up and wiped at her nose. I was batting 500, she hadn’t slammed the door, but then again she hadn’t asked me in and offered me a Danish.
“Did you read the news reports?” I asked her.
“Every last one.”
I took off my coat and set it on the floor. I rolled up my sleeve and showed her the bandage that covered my forearm. “You’ll know from the news that Amber’s companion was also injured. By a shotgun. Do you know what a shotgun wound looks like?”
