Once Upon A Poet

by H S Peer

  I tucked my gun away and quickly searched him. He was carrying a revolver in his jacket pocket. I emptied the shells from it and tossed it out the front door. I found a lamp with a long cord in the adjoining sitting room and cut it off. I dragged the goon into the sitting room and hog-tied him, using a slip knot so if he struggled it would get tighter.

  The goon dealt with, I could find Dr. Edwards and his wounded charge, or so I guessed. For all I knew the goon could have been Dr. Edwards bodyguard or manservant or houseboy. I may have committed a major faux pas. I followed the hall that ran the length of the house. I tried to keep my eyes off the art and other treasures that would only give me naughty ideas.

  Dr. Edwards kept an office and surgery at the rear of the house. The service porch had been converted to hold his illicit business. I walked across the tiles of the kitchen and listened at the far door. Nothing. But that was expected, it was a steel security door, and it was locked.

  Pulled my tools from my pocket and went to work on the lock. Picking a lock isn’t hard if you know what you’re doing. I had been apprenticing since I was 14. Some locks take longer than others, but I had yet to find one I couldn’t open.

  The deadbolt opened. I dropped my tools, pulled my gun and shouldered through the steel door before anyone on the other side knew what happened.

  Dr. Edwards was tied to a chair to my left, that didn’t concern me. What did was the shotgun propped up against the wall at the far end of the room. Room was twenty-foot square. Two hospital beds sat side-by-side at the far end. In the left one lay a man, half off the bed, reaching for the shotgun propped against the wall at his head. I fired a quick shot into the pillow just behind his head. The word silencer is a misnomer. Nothing can silence a gun, the sound can be suppressed. The suppressor I had must have been old, used or semi-useless. The sound of my shot was that of someone slamming a dictionary down on a hardwood desktop. It had the desired effect. The man looked up and saw my gun pointed right at his head. Knowing that reaching for the gun was fruitless, he stuck one hand up in the air and rolled over on his back.

  He looked like anyone else. It would be hard to believe he was a contract killer or wanted to be. A face that might have once been handsome now was pale and sweaty with sunken cheeks and chestnut colored hair plastered over the skull.

  I crossed the room, snatched up the gun and unloaded it. It was a silly weapon for a gunman, a single-shot 12-gauge shotgun. One shot and you have to reload. With that, you have to be really good or really stupid. You didn’t even need to be really good. With the distance from the bed, the doorway was the perfect range to be obliterated by the shotgun. If it had been me, I’d have had a pump-action or a semi-auto just to hedge the bets. When you put someone down, you want them to stay down.

  I cut the good doctor loose and gingerly pulled at the duct tape that covered his mouth. He pushed my hands away and gave one quick pull at the tape. It came loose and left his face red and covered in residue.

  “What the hell are you doing here Poet?” he asked. “Not that I’m not thankful. These two ruffians have kept me prisoner in my own home. In 30 years no one has ever done this to me.”

  “You can relax now Doc. It’s all over, or will be soon,” I said.

  “Don’t make any more work for me.”

  “I was thinking more of the undertaker.”

  I tucked my pistol into my belt, within easy reach, and approached the man on the bed.

  “Easy way or hard way?” I asked.

  He didn’t say a word.

  Judging by the size of the dressing I could see bulging under the sheets he’d already had the hard way. I could be resourceful and try to use the freshman psychology I learned at Columbia. What I really wanted to do was beat on this guy, if he was the one responsible for the holes in my left arm.

  “Come on buddy,” I said trying to sound brotherly, “Just tell me what I want to know. You’re blown now anyway. One call to the cops and you’re in the joint. Where are you from?”

  He looked at the ceiling, hands straight down by his sides. Without moving a muscle, he said, “Atlanta.”

  The key was to keep him talking.

  “Did you ace the woman in NYC?”

  “What do you think?”

  I picked up the shotgun and broke the action. I looked into the barrel. It was dirty. I could have been fired yesterday or a month ago. I sniffed the barrel, and that yielded that distinctive fired smell.

  “I think you did her. But it was messy, you left a witness.”

  “Some schmoe. Doesn’t mean a thing, it was a clean job.”

  I pushed up my sleeve and pulled the dressing on my arm free. I held it in front of the man’s nose. His eyes opened wide and went from my arm to my gun and back to my arm.

  “That’s right,” I said, “I was the witness. One with a couple of grams of steel in his arm and pretty pissed off to boot. Let’s start this from the beginning.”

  “Where’s Al,” asked the man in bed.

  “Al?”

  “He’s watching the front of the house.”

  I laughed. “Al is fine, just a broken nose. He’s tied up.”

  “What’s your name?” I asked.

  “Pete.”

  “How did you get involved in all this?”

  “A man in Atlanta threw me the job. Said someone was looking for out of town talent.”

  “And with it being New York City you figured it was your chance at the big time, right?” I asked.

  “I figured it couldn’t hurt my rep, doing a job in the Big Apple.”

  How I loathed that term.

  “Who was this guy in Atlanta?’

  “I don’t want to give him up.”

  I pushed my gun against Pete’s dressing and thumbed back the hammer. “My dear Peter, the only thing keeping you alive is my good mood.”

  “Okay, okay! Put the hardware away. The guy’s name is Gimble. He gave me the job. With conditions.”

  “Which were?”

  “We were to go through with it only if we got the go ahead.”

  “From who?”

  “Some guy on the phone, I don’t know.”

  “So tell me what happened after you arrived in town," I said.

  “We stashed our car and stole one. We had a picture of the mark and her address. We went there to pick up her trail.”

  “What day was this?”

  “Tuesday.”

  “You didn’t kill her until Thursday.”

  “Tell me something I don’t know. You think I wanted to keep following her around. We had her a bunch of times. I mean perfect opportunities but we didn’t have a go ahead.”

  “Who gave you the nod?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “I don’t know. I didn’t know anything about that end of it.”

  This was leading nowhere, much like this entire pointless investigation. I decided to hammer on Pete some more just to stay in shape.

  “Have you done any other jobs in New York?”

  “No, Philly is as far north as I’ve gotten.”

  “You didn’t pop a lady a couple of weeks back? Once in the head, nice and close? Left the gun in a dumpster nearby?” I asked pushing at his wound with my pistol. He squirmed and tried to pull away. I pushed harder.

  “Did you?” I asked again.

  “You’re crazy man! No, I didn’t kill no other bitch in New York. This job was my Big Apple premiere,” he blurted out.

  I pulled my gun away, lowered the hammer and tucked it away. I had pushed him, and he had broken. So my new good buddy Peter had only committed one murder in my city. Part of his hit would leave me a permanent enemy of airport metal detectors. I didn’t know what to do with Pete and his associate. If I was more cold-blooded, I might have killed them. There was so little justice in the world so what was wrong with adding a bit of my own. I’d killed before. Each time it got a little bit easier. That was the bit that frightened me—it getting easier. No, I wouldn’t kill them, but I’d make them
wish they were dead.

  I motioned the Doc, who was pacing around, into the next room. He looked like a man who had been bound for two days. He was wearing faded blue jeans and a Polo shirt. The ropes had left deep burns on his wrists. For 70, Dr. Edwards was still in good shape. He had the tall, rangy build of a cowboy with a shock of wild grey hair. Bright blue eyes stared out from a nest of wrinkled flesh.

  “What the hell happened here?” I asked him.

  He mopped his face with a green-checkered bandanna.

  “Insanity,” he responded.

  “How so?”

  “This pair shows up around dawn on Friday. They wake me up, but in this business, I’m used to it. I let them in, and the big one jumps me. Makes me work on his buddy at gunpoint. I told them that wasn’t necessary, that this is what I do and discretion is my middle name. They didn’t listen. When I had this Peter patched up his friend jumped me and tied me to the chair,” he explained.

  “It’s over now,” I said.

  “Let me take a look at your arm,” said the Doctor. “Why didn’t you come to me?’

  I explained about the hospital and getting treated lawfully for a change.

  “Tell me something,” said Dr. Arnold, “How did you know to come here? How did you know the men you were looking for would be here?”

  “I didn’t,” I said. “You weren’t answering your phone, and your answering service wasn’t answering. I figured something was wrong, you wouldn’t have just have taken off without a message to anyone.”

  “That’s all?”

  “Well,” I continued, “it was in the back of my mind that a wounded thug might run to you. If they were amateurs, which these guys are, they might panic and hurt the doctor.”

  He nodded and continued going over my arm. Some of the stitches had torn he told me, and there were signs of infection. The good doctor gave me a shot of antibiotic and cleaned the whole mess that was my arm before re-bandaging it. That done he turned to me, his eyes open wide. His voice was a near whisper.

  “You’re not going to,” he paused and looked at the floor, “kill them? Are you?”

  I assured the doctor I had another fate planned and inquired about Pete’s ability to travel. The Doc said he could leave at any time. I thanked him and turned to leave.

  “Poet,” said the Doctor, “Thank you.”

  That was something you didn’t get much of in the underworld—gratitude. Had Marty ever thanked me after a job? I wasn’t sure. Other than Dr. Edwards had anyone thanked me for anything lately? I decided not to ponder too deeply on the subject.

  Pete told me where their car was parked, I headed out to retrieve it. I checked on Al on the way out of the house. He was still tied up and cursing a blue streak when I pulled the car keys from his pocket. I opened the front gate on the panel next to the door and headed out.

  Chapter 20

  I didn’t take my car back to the city. Dr. Edwards said he’d have one of the local boys deliver it. When I seemed a little less than enthusiastic, he promised to make good for any damages.

  I put Tweedle-Dee and Tweedle-Dum in the back seat of the Nissan with Georgia plates. It was a tight fit, but I didn’t care about their comfort. I found some handcuffs in the trunk of my car, and I had them secured to each other. While Al said very little Pete went back and forth between threatening me and offering money to let them go. If you believed him the pair had quite a stash built up.

  I put them out of my mind. My arm was throbbing, and I smelled like gun smoke. I ached for a shower, a drink, a steak, and a bed. I was willing to wait until tomorrow for the steak, but the rest was a necessity.

  I parked the car across the street from the 12th precinct. Gael had a little present in store for her in the a.m. Pete looked over at all the sign and patrol cars and went visibly pale. I smirked. I had three pairs of cuffs, which would be enough.

  “You’re not going to leave us for the cops, are you?” asked Pete, very nervous.

  “That’s exactly what I’m going to do.”

  “Come on, be a pal? We’re from the same side of the street.”

  “You shot a woman in cold blood, in my city. You left my arm looking like a piece of Swiss cheese. You want me to cut you some slack? The slack I’m cutting is not leaving you dead in a ditch. Understand?”

  Pete grunted, and Al said something vulgar about me and my next meal. Then he swore revenge on me. I laughed. I always do at amateurs. What followed was some gymnastics and not without a little danger on my part. I cuffed Al’s left ankle to Pete’s right. Then I had them embrace and locked their arms behind the other’s back. I stuffed their mouths with some socks I’d taken from the doctor. There they were, in a lover’s embrace, in the backseat of a car. I wished I had had a camera.

  I left the car and dropped the keys down a sewer grate. It was just after two and the Sunday morning was still young. I walked until I found a cab and took it to the Liar’s Breath. The place was plenty full with it being closing time. Biscuit was busy mixing the last rounds of drinks. The waitresses danced in between patrons and to the bar.

  I went into my office and called Gael at home. To say she was angry at the time of the call would be an understatement. I told her about Tweedle-Dee and Tweedle-Dum outside the station house and what they were responsible for. She used a curse word that seemed to be her new pet name for me. The call would necessitate her getting up and heading back to work. She said without a witness she wasn’t sure my capturing the duo would do much good. I agreed.

  “Don’t do me any more favors, Poet,” Gael said.

  She was right of course. There wasn’t much to make the case stand up in court. No forensics, no fiber, no witnesses, nothing. All they had was the gun and two men. And forensics from a shotgun were sketchy at best. They would walk unless one of them confessed and that wasn’t very likely. This was an inconvenience, a blotch on their records. The only justice would be the men I would hire to meet the duo when they were released. The men who would make them disappear somewhere in Long Island Sound.

  That would be my two cents towards justice. I didn’t believe in it much as a concept. After all, people like me walked around free. But I had turned in the brainy pair to Gael. Amber had her little piece of justice, or would.

  I was pretty sure the duo hadn’t killed Cindy. If you believed them, this was their first time in New York. Just what I needed, another dead end. Time was running out. Bill was sitting in Rikers and expecting me to pull a rabbit out of a hat by Monday. That wasn’t really likely, but I wasn’t apprehensive. Bill’s little threat worried me less and less. I was almost convinced he was telling the truth.

  In my experience crimes of passion, which is what the cops were labeling it, are brutal things. The murder is committed with whatever implement is close at hand, a lamp, a baseball bat or bare hands. For the DA to prove his case, murder one, he had to show that Bill went to Cindy’s with the intent of killing her. Bringing the gun along was the premeditation. Why would Bill dump the gun in the dumpster outside the building? Why not dump it in the water? Even Bill wasn’t that dumb. And there was too much moving in the murky water that surrounded Cindy and Rainbow.

  I went behind the bar and grabbed a cigarillo from the Biscuit’s pack. There are evil, foul-smelling things and matched my mood. I lit up and sat on my stool. Several people came by to say hello. Marty materialized out of the gloom. He nodded towards the office and started back. I followed.

  Once inside Marty pulled a folded, buff envelope out of the pocket inside his powder blue leisure suit jacket. He handed it over. Inside was the lovely green glow of $100 bills.

  “I take it our friend received his car?” I asked.

  “He’s now safely back in Canada.”

  “Amen.”

  “You got that right.”

  “Anything in the wind?”

  Marty shook his head.

  “Things are quiet?”

  “As a crypt. Anything from you?”

  “No, I�
��m working on something else.”

  “Your little PI job?”

  “Jesus, is that what the street is saying?” I asked.

  “Poet, the PI,” laughed Marty.

  I grimaced. My good name was being sullied.

  “It’s a favor to a guy in Rikers.”

  “He must be a pretty good friend,” said Marty

  “You know there are no friends in this business Marty.”

  “You want to be a shamus that’s your business just don’t get too busy I might have something coming up. Not soon, but something big. Interested?”

  “When this is done,” I said, “I’m taking off. Bermuda. Aruba. Somewhere.”

  Marty blew air through his lips.

  “I’m serious,” I said.

  “I’m talking about diamonds Poet. Your favorite.”

  For a second I was tempted. No, more than tempted, I was enticed. But no, I stuck to my guns. “Sorry.”

  “You should have finished your doctorate then you could have had summers off. That could have been your vacation,” said Marty.

  I shrugged. I couldn’t explain it to him without seeming weak. I was tired, bone tired. I wanted was a long nap of maybe eight weeks. A hammock on the beach, cold beer, warm days and cool nights. Was that too much to ask? I worked hard, maybe not for the common good or the betterment of society, but I worked. It was a quandary.

  Without an answer, I shrugged. Marty rolled his eyes and left the office. I butted out the cigarillo and followed. I knocked on the bar. Within a moment a glass of excellent single malt scotch was before me. I sipped it and wondered what my next step was. Before my head could digest any more information or my hand could lift the glass to my lips again Farrell appeared with a short gunny at her side.

  He was 5’6”, six inches shorter than Farrell, with black hair, pale skin and what in the last century would have been a dueling scar on his left cheek. His eyes were brown and his eyebrows needed to be trimmed. His tan jacket was open, and his right hand was ready.