Once Upon A Poet

by H S Peer

  She shook her head.

  “A shotgun shell contains many tiny b.b.s. When it fires the shot spreads out from the barrel and makes multiple wounds on whatever has been shot. Understand?”

  She nodded.

  I pulled back the dressing and showed her the glory that was my arm. She winced and turned away from the open door. After replacing my bandage, sleeve, and jacket, I stood and waited. She stared at me a moment longer and then closed the door. Lost again, Poet. The truth never works. As I turned to leave, I heard the chain as she pulled it off the door. I stopped. By the time I turned around the door was open.

  She wasn’t more than five foot four, slight and wore a bathrobe and green fuzzy slippers. She had the look of someone who is often sick with real or imagined maladies.

  I stepped inside the apartment, and she closed the door. “My name is Poet,” I said, “Thank you for your help.”

  “What do you want me to do,” she said. She had a mousy little voice and wouldn’t meet my eyes.

  “You could start by telling me your name.”

  “Melinda Marx,” she said.

  “Well Melinda,” I said, “You can promise you’ll never open the door again to someone you don’t know, not even on the chain. Even with that chain on I could have been in here in less than 5 seconds. I wouldn’t want anything to happen to you.”

  She nodded once gravely and said, “But you have an honest face.” There was a hint of a grin. One of her front teeth was slightly skewed.

  I smiled in return and said, “You must have been Amber’s roommate?”

  “Yes,” said, “Please come in.”

  A white and black cat sat on the windowsill and turned to give me the once-over. I must have passed inspection because it went to back to sleep. She ushered me into one large room with two doors on the south wall, one red, one green, I was guessing those were the bedrooms. On the north wall was a kitchen area surrounded by a counter and stools. In the main room were a television, a stereo, and a small bookcase. Unless there was jewelry in the bedroom, there was nothing here to steal.

  I sat down in an armchair and Melinda perched on the couch. For a moment we were both quiet. It was that kind of subject, death. I didn’t want to plow ahead and seemed inconsiderate or even callous. Finally, she spoke.

  “The police were already here. They took her computer and a bunch and of stuff away.”

  “How long were they here?” I asked.

  “A couple of hours. They seemed really thorough. They even questioned me, again and again.”

  “You’ll have to humor me for a few minutes,” I told her. She nodded. “What did they ask you about?”

  “Lots of stuff. Amber’s hobbies, hangouts, and boyfriends. Her job. All that sort of stuff.”

  “And you told them everything?”

  “Yes,” she said, “They were the police.”

  “Good girl,” I told her, “You did right. I don’t want to bore you, but I need you to answer some questions for me.”

  “That’s okay,” she said and blotted at one eye with the tissue in her hand.

  “Tell me about Amber, her background. How long have you lived together?” I asked.

  “Almost two years. Amber came to the city as a fresh-faced 25-year-old from some little hamlet in Nebraska. She wanted to work on Broadway, doing makeup. Not a huge dream. She worked for a few salons before she hooked up with Rainbow Productions. She didn’t seem to mind putting rouge on nipples and slathering makeup on strumpets.”

  “You didn’t like her work?”

  “Does it show?” she laughed and pushed the hair out of her eyes. “Call me a prude but those movies don’t seem right. Maybe it’s because I was raised Catholic. But Amber was happy at her job. The money wasn’t bad, and either were the hours. Once she got to travel to Daytona Beach for a shoot.”

  “How did the two of you meet?” I asked.

  “At a Laundromat. I was tacking up a roommate wanted flyer, and we got to talking. Amber looked at the place and moved in a couple of days later.” She stopped and looked at me and said, “Shouldn’t you be writing this down? Aren’t you a private detective or something?”

  “We could spend hours talking about what I am,” I told her, “All you need to know is that I’m here to help.”

  “What are you then,” she asked.

  Again, that elusive truth. Hi, I’m Poet, I steal for a living. Don’t worry, I’ve already cased this place, and there’s nothing I want. No, that wouldn’t do. Either would the real truth of being blackmailed by someone I thought was a friend into conducting a murder investigation. All I had done was dig myself in deeper. I would skirt the more incriminating details and hope Melinda still wanted to cooperate.

  “I was looking into the murder of one of Amber’s friends as a favor to a friend of mine. Along the way, I met Amber. She wanted to meet me the other night because she said she had information for me. We met, and she was killed before she could tell me. I’m not a PI. I own a bar. That’s the story.”

  She looked at me hard for a minute and said, “If you own a bar why do you carry a gun?”

  I think my eyes opened a little wider.

  “I saw it when you took your jacket off to show me your arm. Don’t worry, I won’t tell.”

  I shrugged and hoped that would do.

  “You must think I’m a fool for letting you in, especially when I knew you had a gun. I’ll tell you this, I get feelings about people. I think you’re basically a good person. I didn’t say upstanding, just good. You obviously aren’t going to tell me the total truth so let’s move on.”

  I let out a breath I didn’t know I’d been holding in. Finally, things were back on track.

  “Did Amber ever talk about Rainbow?” I asked.

  “No more than anyone else ever talks about work. She’d mention something if it was funny or it pissed her off. You know, office politics, personalities, head games, that sort of stuff,” she responded.

  “But nothing about criminal activity at Rainbow? Drugs? Snuff films? Anything illegal?”

  “No.”

  “Shit.”

  “What were you expecting?”

  “Something. Amber told me that something wasn’t right at Rainbow. I thought maybe she told you,” I said.

  “Sorry.”

  I sighed. A washout.

  “There’s nothing left to do but look in her room,” I said.

  “The cops pretty much cleaned it out,” said Melinda.

  “There may be something,” I said, hopefully.

  We rose and headed towards the green door. After opening it, I was assaulted by the color scheme. Once the wall was yellow, the other three salmon. Two large windows dominate the far wall that faced the alley. There was a double bed with a blue cover and skirt, and a brass headboard. There was an armoire, a matching dresser, a makeup table with a three-panel mirror and a rack of shoes. The walls were covered in framed photographs of Amber and various friends. The now empty desk sat in front of the windows. The carpet was orange shag and needed a shampoo. I could smell baby powder mixed with good perfume.

  “This is it,” said Melinda, “What’s left of it.”

  I crossed to the desk and picked up the stack of receipts held down by a mug full of pencils. The NYPD had been following procedure. They had left me nothing useful. The computer, correspondence, date book, address book, bills and the list went on. I’m sure I wouldn’t find something taped to the underside of a drawer. Even if there was, the cops would have found it already. I couldn’t remember the name of the detective on the case, but I was pretty sure he was on the ball. I pulled a drawer at random. A ream of paper, correction fluid and a box of AA batteries. I closed the drawer. I picked up a pencil from the mug and snapped it between my fists.

  “What are you looking for?” asked Melinda.

  “I wish I knew,” I said.

  “What kind of snoop are you?”

  I shrugged and dropped the broken pencil on the desktop. I m
oved to the dresser and opened a drawer. Panties and none of them overly exciting. She didn’t have a boyfriend or didn’t care.

  “She didn’t date much,” said Melinda. She must have been reading my mind.

  “Any reason why? She was a pretty girl?”

  “She didn’t go out much. Didn’t meet many people, except at work. Amber didn’t like bars very much. She was a homebody.”

  I moved to the makeup table and sat down. There were bottles of perfume, several in fact, some of them real, the rest knock-offs. On the surface of the table were various implements of beauty, eyeliners, blush, foundation, powder, and lipstick. It was all good stuff, as far as I could tell. You could say Amber tried to look after herself. In a drawer was a can of hairspray; I shook it, half full. In another were many ribbons, ties and various devices used in her hair.

  I rose and went to investigate the photos on the walls. They weren’t hung with symmetry or decor in mind. It wasn’t haphazard but not overly neat. There was a photo of Amber as a teenager with a horse, and another of her and her date for what I guessed was the junior prom. There was something that could only be a family photo – Amber looked just like her mother – with her parents and younger brother taken when Amber was 17. There were photos of school dances, parties, and picnics. The pictures came in all sizes and were all color, except one.

  There was a black and white 8”x10” propped up on each bedside table. Amber was the subject of both. In one she stood on the sidewalk outside the Greater New York Bank. The photo had been shot from across a street, streaking cars could be seen in the photo. In the other Amber stood outside a tenement building. Who could know where the building looked the same as thousands of others. I picked up the two photographs and headed for the door.

  “Did you find something?” asked Melinda.

  “Something. I don’t have a clue what it means.”

  “If you’re going to do this maybe you should buy a book. One of those Dummies books.”

  I stuck out my tongue, and she laughed. She laughed like an eight-year-old riding a swing in the summer. For a moment it was like death hadn’t visited here. I tucked the photos under my arm and reached for my wallet. I pulled out a card, one of the many that said Poet, with my cell phone number and handed it over.

  “Think of anything and give me a call?” I asked.

  “Yes.”

  We said our goodbyes, and I left. As I headed back down to my car, one thing intrigued me. Amber had correction fluid in her desk and no typewriter. The police hadn’t taken one either. Another question, one of the hundreds I had to deal with. To top things off, it had started to rain. I thought of the Caribbean as I dashed to my car.

  Chapter 19

  It was full dark by the time I reached the Liar’s Breath. I parked in the loading zone out back and entered through the back door. With Amber’s two strange 8”x10”s in my trunk I wanted to see what Jerome had on that film. I called from the car and received no answer. It would have to wait until Monday unless Jerome worked Sundays,

  I sat at the bar and ordered a Coke before Biscuit could pour me something stronger. I had a lot to do tonight, and without knowing what exactly what was involved, I wanted a clear head. I ordered a ham sandwich and was just in time, the kitchen was closing.

  I ate and headed back to my apartment. In the basement, I exchanged the pistol I had been carrying for one with a silencer. I was going to see if Dr. Edwards was all right and didn’t know what would happen. Chances were he was away somewhere and had forgotten about his answering service. It could be that simple. I wanted to be prepared, just in case. I wanted to be silent.

  I changed into dark jeans and a black pullover. I traded in my Italian loafers for a pair of Nikes. I grabbed a black knit cap from my winter gear in the closet. I was a stereotype.

  Back in the car I stopped at a Deli and grabbed a coffee for the trip to Scarsdale. I headed north and, after a lot of headaches, left the city behind. I spent the time trying to figure out what exactly was happening with this mess I was involved in.

  Cindy “Sindee” McMillen was dead, shot in the head with a pistol at close range. Her husband was in jail and awaiting trial for her murder on somewhat dubious evidence. Wonderful Bill was blackmailing me into getting him out of jail, no easy task, as he was a loser with a long record.

  No one seemed to know Cindy, save one, a coworker named Amber. This young woman had been murdered while meeting with me early in the morning. In her possession were a bottle of correction fluid without a typewriter and two black and white photographs of herself in drastically different locales.

  It didn’t add up to much. I was getting sidetracked with Amber; it was Cindy I had to concentrate on. It was her murder that would spring Bill from Rikers. But did I have to focus on her? The pair of murders had to be linked. Cindy worked for Rainbow, and so did Amber. Amber had said something was wrong at Rainbow before she’d been killed. Could this be a 1 + 1 situation?

  If they were linked, I asked why? What did the ladies know that got them killed? What could be wrong at their employer’s worth killing over? That was a drastic measure to take if there were some accounting irregularities or other office hanky-panky. So what was it? What was important enough to kill over? To me, it would have been money, but to them how much would it take before having someone killed?

  A professional, or more accurately, a pair of them had killed Amber. Who would know where to go to hire such a duo? Would someone at Rainbow have those sorts of connections? It could be argued that being in a slightly “shady’ corner of the movie business that someone at the production company may, in fact, have connections on my side of the street. That was supposition but held a ring of truth.

  All of this was moot. I had to meet with Bill on Monday, and he would want results. I don’t know what he expected in a week. It had been a busy one anyway. I’d stole a hearse, twice, and been shot. Most of my weeks involved me spending nights at my bar and dating one or two ladies. Once a month or so I might do a job but could afford to discriminate now.

  Bill’s threat of a letter with his lawyer no longer scared me. Even if there were such a letter, it would incite a lengthy investigation. As soon as things seemed to be heading south, I would too, to a country without an extradition treaty. I had enough money that I could probably retire without any trouble. But I’d miss that rush of getting away Scot free and well paid.

  I managed the trip in 90 minutes. The roads were wet, but the Saab held it well. I remembered where Dr. Edwards’ estate was and found it without fuss. I use the word estate because that’s what it was. Twenty acres, treed, surrounded by an eight-foot wall. There was a vast gothic stone house with gargoyles and trellises. Dr. Edwards had money, family money. His being a doctor all those years ago was just for show. There had never been any reason for him to work.

  I pulled the car to the side of the road and jumped out with a flashlight. I approached the iron gate. Like the wall, it was eight feet high. I pressed the button on the intercom box. There was a loud buzz. I waited. When there was no response, I wasn’t surprised. Now, to get into the grounds.

  If I were James Bond I’d have one of those guns that fires out a grappling hook and rope. But I wasn’t. And didn’t. I was glad I had dressed down. I shone the flashlight up the front of the gate and cursed. The house wasn’t in sight; I didn’t have to worry about flashing the house. I tucked the flashlight down the front of my jeans and put a foot up on the gate’s vertical crossbar. I managed to scale the gate only slipping twice. Wet metal isn’t fun. I swung both legs over and started down the other side feeling for the crossbars with my toes. I wouldn’t have wanted to climb down any more than eight feet. Then I was on the ground and happy.

  I drew my pistol, snapped off the safety and held it ready in my right hand. The overcast night had killed any moonlight, which meant I needed the flashlight. I really didn’t want to use it. The house was further up the drive, around the curve to the left. I didn’t want anyone, if ther
e was anyone, in the house to see a bobbing light crossing the ground. I flipped it on, against my better judgment, and covered the lens with my gun, letting only a little light through. I followed the drive, sticking to the grass at the side, not the asphalt.

  When I came around the curve, the house came into view through the leafless trees. It was lit up like Christmas. If every light wasn’t on someone inside was doing their damn best. I stepped into the trees, my steps made crunchy sounds in the dead leaves on the ground. I turned off the flashlight and stowed it in my waistband around the back so it wouldn’t be in the way. With all the lights I didn’t need it now.

  I drew to the edge of the trees and saw the house in lighted, three-story glory. The driveway entered from the left and curved in a huge circle around the front of the house and the garage before joining itself again. The garage doors were open revealing a Jaguar and an old Bentley. Security lights over the garage and main doors were on bathing the entire driveway in near daylight. I could see no way to get in. Perhaps I could circle the house and find a window to crawl into, but that seemed undignified. When I went in it would be through the front door.

  I stepped into the light. Nobody shot me, I took that as a good sign. I walked across the grass and then the asphalt to the front door. I tried the door. Locked. With a thin, leather-gloved hand I rang the bell. The lock looked old and worn. I bet I could have picked it in under a minute. I heard some heavy steps from inside, and the door opened.

  The man looked like an ape. He had a heavy brow and deep-set dark eyes. His hair looked rumpled and greasy like he hadn’t had a shower or met with a comb in a couple of days. Before he could speak, I pushed my gun into his throat.

  “Hi,” I said.

  There was a glint in his eyes. He was too stupid to believe he’d been bested. The goon started to backpedal. I followed, pushing the door open. He didn’t get more than three steps before my brow violently collided with the bridge of his nose. He let out a little woof and dropped to his knees, blood streaming from his nose. I put a toe under his chin and kicked him over on his back. With my foot on his throat, he was a pathetic sight, a bleeding, semiconscious goon. I’d already decided he didn’t have the brains to pull a trigger. The one who did had to be somewhere else in the house.