Once Upon A Poet

by H S Peer

  “I want to see Simon,” I told him.

  “You just don’t see Simon,” he told me, “He’s like a hermit. You can’t knock on his door and expect to get in.”

  “How do you do business with him then?” I asked.

  “Instant messaging,” he explained. “You chat to him, and then if he likes the job, he’ll see you for a down payment.”

  So contract killers had gone high tech. Lenny gave me Simon’s screen name. I jotted it down, ripped the paper off the pad and stuck it in my pocket.

  “Have you thought about testifying?” I asked.

  “Not a chance,” he said.

  “Those drugs Rainbow was shipping belonged to the Moto’s,” I said, “And Devon wasn’t too pleased about those two hits. You might want to watch your back. If you turn states evidence, you’ll be protected in a nice warm, safe house, far from any danger. Doesn’t that sound better than being dead in an alley?”

  There was a pause, and then he said, “I’ll think about it.”

  “That’s all I ask,” I told him and hung up. I went to my stool and drank a quick Scotch before heading home to log some computer time. I made myself a rum and orange juice and flipped the computer on. It beeped and hummed and soon was ready to go.

  I added the name Simply Simon to my contacts list and waited. He wasn’t online yet. While I waited, I researched a couple of stocks. They both looked promising. I’d watch them a little while longer before buying in. A message flashed on my screen that Simon was online. I closed my browser software and toggled over to the messaging software.

  “I have a job for you,” I typed.

  After several minutes came the reply, “Really. Who is this?”

  “Poet,” I entered.

  “Ahhh,” came the reply. Then, “What’s the job?”

  “A cop,” I typed.

  “That’s a lot of heat,” he responded.

  “It has to be done, and money is no object.”

  “My fee will have to be a little higher for something like this,” he said.

  “I understand.”

  “Bring me some photos and a description, and we’ll go from there. And I’ll need a deposit of $25,000 ” was his message.

  “This has to be a clean job,” I typed, “Like the porn star you did for Lenny.”

  There was no reply. My little gambit had failed to work. An address near the docks flashed on my screen along with the instructions to meet tomorrow afternoon at 2 p.m. I wrote down the address and logged off.

  It was early, too early to think about bed. I didn’t want to face the cold and go back to the Liar’s Breath. I decided to cook a bag of microwave popcorn and watch some movies. I found my copy of the Maltese Falcon and popped it into the DVD player. I was out of brandy but had plenty of everything else. I decided to stick with rum and orange juice. I must have drifted off during the movie. When I awoke the film was over, and my Rolex said it was 4:30 am. I undressed and got into bed.

  There was much to do today. If I could get Simon to confess I would have something to spring Bill with. But would Simon talk? Probably not, he’d managed to stay out of jail this long. He had to be pretty smart. If he didn’t talk, I wasn’t sure what I could do. It all hinged on him. Even if Lenny testified there would be doubts, he wasn’t a very reliable source. I put this out of my mind, it was no time to be thinking of such things, it would only ruin my sleep.

  I drifted off again and knew nothing more until later that morning.

  Chapter 36

  I was up by noon and ready to leave by 1 pm. I didn’t wear a suit, if I was meeting Simon in a warehouse, I didn’t want to get dirty and dusty. In the back of my closet, I found one accessory I rarely wore, a bulletproof vest. It had been issued to me when I was with the NYPD, and I’d never turned it back in. I slipped into it, tightened the Velcro straps and finished dressing. I looked 20 pounds heavier, but I’d be safe if Simon tried to shoot me in the chest, as long as he didn’t have armor-piercing rounds or go for a headshot.

  I made a couple of phone calls. I was on edge. I checked the Browning my shoulder holster; it was still loaded and ready to go. From the vault, I grabbed a throwing knife and sawn-off double barrel shotgun. From a box of ammo, I grabbed a handful of deer slugs for the shotgun. They were one ounce of solid lead and would defeat almost any body armor when fired.

  The knife was strapped to my left wrist. In a kitchen drawer, I found some butcher’s twine and made a makeshift sling for the shotgun. I slipped it over my right shoulder and practiced grabbing it and bringing it to bear. It was a little awkward, but it would do. I put on a heavy three-quarter-length leather jacket. It was big enough that all the bulges couldn’t be seen.

  Once in the car, I drove until I reached the warehouse in question. It looked dead, like the rest of the neighborhood. There were no cars parked on the street and no people about. The building was a massive four stories and surrounded by a chain-link fence topped with barbed wire. The gate at one end of the warehouse stood open. I drove away and parked five blocks away. As I walked back, I stopped in a variety store for some coffee. It was foul and tasted like it had been in the pot since Reagan was president.

  Back at the warehouse I entered through the gate and pulled out my gun. This was the perfect place for someone to jump me. There was no one around, no one to report hearing shots. I felt the hair on the back of my neck stand up as I thought about this. The inside of the warehouse didn’t look any better than the neighborhood outside did. It smelled of dry rot and rat feces. The floor was covered in a thick layer of dust. Through the broken windows came the only light. The main floor was blanketed in shadows. I did a quick look through the other three levels and found nothing. I returned to the first floor.

  I checked my watch, it was just 2 p.m. I waited. Fifteen minutes later I heard footsteps from the far end of the building. My gun was still in my hand when I turned to face sound. He didn’t look like the devil incarnate like you would expect of a ruthless contract killer. He was 6’4” and weighed about 280. There wasn’t a hint of fat on his large frame. His hair was a dirty blond, and his face seemed devoid of emotion. He wore a long black oilskin coat. His hands were empty.

  “Why the heater,” Simon asked me.

  “Just in case this is a setup,” I replied.

  “Come on, Poet. You want a job done, and I’m here to help you. Did you bring what I asked for?”

  I reached into my jacket and pulled out a wad of $100 bills. I handed them over. Simon did a quick count.

  “And a photograph?”

  I pulled the photo from my pocket. It showed a young mother and a child playing with a large collie dog. It was the photo that came with the last picture frame I purchased. I handed it over. Simon looked at the photo and put it in his own pocket.

  “This needs to be a clean job,” I told him, “Just like that porn starlet you did for Lenny.”

  He didn’t say anything. His eyes opened a little bit wider, and he nodded.

  “When do you want this done?” he asked.

  “ASAP,” I told him. “This cop is really busting my balls.”

  From the shadows, I heard the sound of one person clapping. Without turning to look, I raised my gun with both hands and pointed at Simon’s face. From out of nowhere a weapon of his own appeared and locked onto my head. I heard two sets of footsteps approach.

  Lenny Apple stepped into the light with John Smith close at his heels.

  “Excellent, Poet,” said Lenny, “Really excellent.”

  “How did I know this would be a double-cross,” I said to Lenny, without looking at him.

  “You’re a smart guy. Did you really think we were going to let you burn this whole scheme down? Do you know how much money we’re talking about here?” asked Lenny.

  I looked over the site of my pistol at Simon. His hand was rock-steady. I could feel an itchy spot on my forehead where he was aiming.

  “Put your gun down, Poet,” called Lenny.

  �
�No,” I replied.

  I heard Lenny cock his own pistol and saw him point it at me from the corner of my eye.

  “Give it up,” said Lenny, “You’re not walking out of here. You know too much.”

  “I guess we are going to see how many of you I can take with me,” I said. I was pretty sure I could shoot Simon and then Lenny without getting shot myself. I’ve always been pretty good with a pistol. If something went wrong, like the gun jamming, then I was toast.

  “Put it down, Poet,” said Simon in a quiet voice. “You’re a professional, I promise to make it quick.”

  “Is that what you did for Cindy McMillen? Did she die quick?”

  “Of course she did,” said Simon, “I’m not a sadist, I put a hollowpoint right behind her left ear and turned her out like a light.”

  “Shut up, Simon,” said Lenny.

  “Why?” asked Simon, “Who’s he going to tell now?”

  “Just kill him, for Christ’s sake,” said Lenny.

  “Last chance,” said Simon. “Put down your gun, and I’ll make it quick.”

  I smiled.

  As if on cue I heard Gael yell out, “Freeze! Police!”

  I heard multiple footsteps as she and six other cops approached in a ragged “L” formation.

  “Did you get all that?” I asked her.

  “Yes, it’s all on tape.”

  “You’re wearing a wire?’ asked Lenny, astounded.

  “All in the name of justice,” I said to him.

  Lenny’s gun was jerking back and forth. One minute his shaky hand was pointed at me, the next at Gael or one of the other cops. He was sweating even in the chill of the warehouse.

  “Put them down,” called out Gael, “It’s over now. Let’s go downtown and get booked like good little boys.”

  Simon hadn’t moved a muscle; his pistol was still trained on my head. There was a slight smile on his lips.

  “Put it down,” Gael said again.

  “I guess you’re going to have to shoot me,” said Simon to no one in particular.

  I could feel my own hands start to shake. It doesn’t matter how good your muscles are, your body just isn’t designed to hold a couple of pounds of metal entirely still for an extended period. I tried to push away the pain in my left arm.

  There were a couple of ways this could resolve itself. Simon and company could realize they had lost the day and surrender. That didn’t seem likely. Or, Simon could shoot me. In that case, Gael would shoot Simon and probably Lenny too. I didn’t like that scenario very much. The idea of a bullet to the head didn’t thrill me. The last way this could work out was for me to shoot Simon and hope he didn’t get a shot off before he died. I looked at the large barrel of his .45. It would be my luck that his last wish on earth would be to take me with him. I didn’t like that idea either.

  “We are at an impasse,” I said to Simon.

  “So it would appear,” he replied.

  “You’re not walking out of here,” I told him.

  “Either are you,” he said.

  It was John Smith that spoke next. He had been standing behind Lenny silently the whole time.

  “This is way over my head, I’m out of here,” he said with a shaky voice.

  “Stay where you are,” yelled Gael. Smith froze in his tracks. “No one’s going anywhere!”

  “What’s your play, Poet?” asked Simon, “Are you going to shoot me?”

  I saw his finger twitch on the trigger. The only sound was that of dripping water somewhere in the warehouse. Then came the sound of three bolt-action rifles being cocked. Three red dots appeared on Simon, two on his chest and one on his forehead. He looked down at the dots and then up at me.

  “A little insurance,” I told him. “You didn’t think I would just show up and let you kill me, did you?”

  “Who’s behind the rifles?” he asked.

  “The Stooges,” I replied. Simon nodded, he knew who they were. Three brothers, all extraordinarily gifted with rifles. They sold their services to whoever would pay the most. They owed me a favor.

  “It’s over,” I told Simon.

  “Don’t listen to him,” said Lenny. “Kill the fucker.”

  “Shut up,” said Simon quietly. With his thumb, he lowered the hammer of the pistol and dropped it to his side. “This isn’t over, Poet,” he said, “It’s only just begun.”

  “I understand,” I told him.

  Simon placed the gun on the floor and kicked it towards Gael. He raised both his hands in the air. I turned my attention to Lenny. The three laser dots appeared on his body. He looked at them, at me and then at the gun in his hand.

  “State’s evidence,” I said to him, “A brand new life for you. All you have to do is spill your guts.”

  He appeared to think about this. His pistol did a little dance in the air. After nearly a full minute he said, “Fuck you, Poet.” And fired. The bullet hit me in the chest right above my heart, I fell to the floor. There was a sustained bang as several weapons, pistols, and rifles, fired at once. As I tried to regain my breath, I saw Lenny’s body jerk as he was shot. His lifeless husk fell to the floor.

  Both Simon and John Smith had their hands in the air. I could smell burnt gunpowder and fresh blood. I passed out.

  When I regained consciousness, I was on a stretcher in the back of an ambulance. Gael sat on the jump seat beside me. My whole chest was on fire, I felt like I’d been kicked by an angry camel. It hurt as I tried to sit up.

  “Don’t move,” said Gael, “Just relax. You have some broken ribs.”

  Yes, I did. It hurt to breathe.

  “You know what a pain in the ass it’s going to be to write a report on all this?” Gael asked. “You had to call in the Stooges, didn’t you?”

  “I needed someone to back my play.”

  “I backed your play,” she said.

  “To a point, but I needed someone not involved with law and order to make sure everything turned out all right.”

  “I’ll probably get demoted over this,” said Gael.

  “I doubt it,” I replied, “You arrested Simon the hammer. You’re a hero.”

  “Maybe.”

  “No maybes about it. Maybe the mayor will give you the key to the city?”

  “You’re a dreamer, Poet.”

  I closed my eyes and tried to push away the pain. It didn’t work. With every breath, there was liquid fire burning in my chest.

  “Do you have enough to hold Simon?” I asked her.

  “Ohh yes,” she said, “His little confession to you will be the nails in his coffin.”

  “Good,” I said, “What about John Smith?”

  “We’re going to see if he’ll testify against the Moto’s.”

  “They already have plans to whack him,” I said.

  “All the better for him to be in protective custody.”

  “Do you think he’ll do it?”

  “Hard to say,” said Gael.

  The EMT returned, and Gael left the ambulance. They took me to the hospital and x-rayed my chest. I did, in fact, have four broken ribs. The bulletproof vest had done its job; Embedded in its layers was Lenny’s slug. I thought I might have the vest framed. That was a little morbid, but it seemed to fit in with my sense of humor.

  I stayed in the hospital overnight for observation. The next morning they kicked me out. I returned home and did my best to get comfortable on the couch. I popped two pain pills the doctor had prescribed and dozed off. I dreamed of sand, surf and tanned bodies. It was over, but as Simon had said, it had only just begun.

  Chapter 37

  Slowly, I settled back into my routine. I slept until 2 in the afternoon, showered, breakfasted and read the papers. I took joy in all the little mundane thing I’d been putting off since my little investigation began. I took suits to the dry cleaners, I had my Saab detailed, and I purchased CDs and DVDs. I lived the life of the idle rich.

  I’d made out okay after the last couple of weeks. There was the 10 grand
I earned for stealing the hearse, the $47,000 I’d taken off of Farrell after I killed her, the hundred and fifty odd grand for Marty’s diamond job and of course the $1.5 million I had John Smith transfer from his account into mine. I was set for months. As long as I didn’t spend like a drunken sailor I had nothing to worry about. Work could wait, for now.

  I didn’t have that killer instinct anymore. The idea of stealing and the thrill it gave me was gone. I felt empty, husked out. I spent most of that week after it ended watching CNN and trying not to further injure my ribs. Marty called with a great little scam, but I blew him off. I was tired. So very tired.

  I went to the Liar’s Breath every night. If my clientele knew I had worn a wire for the cops, no one said anything. My credibility was still intact. I drank single-malt Scotch and watched the world go by. I listened to the jukebox and kept myself to myself. I said hello to a cavalcade of crooks, but like I said, working was far from my mind.

  The police were finished with me, for now. After I was released from the hospital, I had to go and make statement after statement. I talked into tape recorders until I was blue in the face. Every step I had made was analyzed, checked and rechecked. They wanted me to testify against the Moto family. I declined and told them if I were put on the stand I’d take the fifth again and again. In the end, they let it go.

  Without anything left, money or dignity, John Smith had turned state’s evidence. He, unlike me, agreed to testify against the Moto organization. The police had found nearly four kilograms of cocaine in Rainbow’s warehouse, waiting to be shipped. After testifying to the Grand Jury he was found in his cell at Rikers missing his tongue, a shiv stuck deep into his heart. The fact he was in protective custody didn’t help him very much. The long arm of the Moto’s had found him. With him dead, the investigation was dropped, and everything went back to normal.

  I called my travel agent and booked flights for the following Wednesday, the day before Thanksgiving. I had decided to spend some time at Paradise Island before I rented a condo for the winter. Booze, broads and sunshine and being waited on hand and foot, what could be better?