Murder is Not an Odd Job

by Ralph Dennis

  MURDER IS NOT

  AN ODD JOB

  RALPH DENNIS

  Copyright © 2019 Adventures in Television, Inc. All rights reserved.

  Afterword “Ralph” Copyright © 2019 by

  Cynthia Williams. All Rights Reserved.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  ISBN: 1-7324226-6-7

  ISBN-13: 978-1-7324226-6-7

  Published by Brash Books, LLC

  12120 State Line #253,

  Leawood, Kansas 66209

  www.brash-books.com

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  This book was originally published in 1974 and reflects the cultural and sexual attitudes, language, and politics of the period.

  Also by Ralph Dennis

  The War Heist

  The Hardman Series

  Atlanta Deathwatch

  The Charleston Knife is Back in Town

  The Golden Girl And All

  Pimp For The Dead

  Down Among The Jocks

  Murder Is Not An Odd Job

  Working For The Man

  The Deadly Cotton Heart

  The One Dollar Rip-Off

  Hump’s First Case

  The Last Of The Armageddon Wars

  The Buy Back Blues

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  CHAPTER ONE

  It wasn’t our kind of place. Not that Hump and I are snobs. Far from it. But this one belonged to the winos and their drinking doesn’t have a red hair’s worth of fun in it. It’s all business: get as much as you can and then get it down before somebody comes over and asks for part of it. That kind of place, with the bare bones of survival sticking out, the smells and sounds of it.

  Hump and I had been doing part of town, the underside of Atlanta. The last stop had been at the Fairmont, an old hotel that looks as if it might have been a movie theatre once. There’s a lounge in back. To get to it, you’ve got to cross a parking lot that looks as if it might have been designed by a team of muggers. Nobody had bothered us and we spent about an hour there. There were three topless dancers and we stayed as long as we did because we got interested in the games they were playing.

  It was after midnight when we left the lounge and went looking for a place to eat. Hump shook his head at the Majestic and we’d gone past that and turned onto Highland. I was thinking about some corned beef and that meant George’s Deli, a place down near Virginia and Highland. We didn’t get there. Hump was reading window signs. One stopped him: “PARKLAND DELI” and below that the neon flutter of “SANDWICHES and BEER.” And that was how we ended up in wino haven.

  It fooled us at first. The deli counter looked real enough and it wasn’t until we moved past it, down a bottleneck aisle, that we realized what we’d stepped into. Narrow booths lined the walls and the faces that stared up at us had the bottle ruin on them. I would have left but the bartender reached us and Hump ordered two Buds. We got the bottles of beer and looked at the glasses that came with them. The glasses didn’t look clean and we drank out of the bottles.

  “Why?” I asked.

  Hump grinned at me. “Had this thirst.”

  To my left at the bar there was another man. After a couple of swallows of beer I got out my smokes and lit one. The man on my left turned and looked at the pack and I didn’t wait for him to ask. I shook out three or four and held out the pack toward him. He settled for one and lit it with my matches.

  “Appreciate it.” His voice had a sandpaper rasp. It didn’t seem to pain him any. It could have been an old injury or too many smokes. His age was hard to fix. He looked about fifty, about five-ten, with black hair and a flushed face. The bulb of his nose had a grain like pumice rock. “I haven’t seen you two in here before.”

  It was early fall and he was wearing a red wool plaid shirt, tail out, over a tie shirt whose collar needed turning, tan pants, and heavy work shoes. And he was clean and shaved and his clothes had the smell of a laundry about them and that wasn’t standard for the other men in the bar.

  “It’s our first time,” I said. I pushed the heavy ash tray toward him. It was one of those two-pound glass ones that probably last forever. I guess that’s why some bars buy them.

  “It’s not as bad as it looks,” the man said.

  Hump reached in behind me and touched me in the ribs. I eased the bar stool around and saw the man in the aisle, coming past the deli counter. He didn’t belong in the place either. There was hood and badass stamped all over him. He was a tall, lank man in a belted trenchcoat, with a face as hard as an axe handle, and hands deep in his coat pockets.

  “Know him?” Hump asked.

  I shook my head. Nothing. And we weren’t doing any job so he probably wasn’t interested in us. He might have wandered into the wrong bar the same way we did. I put my back to him and faced the man in the red plaid shirt.

  He said, “It’s not the way you always hear it. These men aren’t down on their luck. That’s what they’ll tell you. The truth is that they’ve given up on themselves.”

  “You a social worker?”

  He laughed. It was a good laugh. “I’m one of them, I guess.”

  That seemed honest enough. I was about to follow up on that when two things happened. A big fat stud came in through the back door, from the parking lot or alley back there. He was carrying a pint of King Cotton in one hand. He stood in the doorway for a few seconds, swaying there, and looked around. I could have sworn he ran his eyes over us at the bar and then he shoved the pint bottle in his hip pocket and lumbered over to a wino standing near the bathroom door. He reached out a big hand and grabbed the wino by the shoulder.

  “You stole a dollar off me,” he said.

  The wino said, “I don’t even know you.” He turned and tried to shake the fat man’s hand off his shoulder.

  The fat man said, “Son of a bitch!” and hit the wino with a fist that didn’t have any fat on it. The fist hit the wino about throat high and put him down.

  The bartender who’d waited on us came down the bar at a trot. He yelled, “Hey, stop that!” and he was clawing at a blackjack in his hip pocket. The pants were too tight and he was having trouble. But by the time the bartender reached the back of the bar he’d worked the blackjack free. He swung it back, ready to use it, but the fat man faked with a fist and kicked him in the balls. The bartender screamed and went down behind a table.

  The place was emptying out. It was a stampede toward the back door. That would have been enough to hold my attention if I hadn’t, for some reason, remembered the stud in the trenchcoat. I looked around, fully expecting that he’d left as soon as the fight broke out. He hadn’t. He’d moved closer to the bar, now about even with Hump. He wasn’t looking at Hump or me, but past me. That meant the guy in the plaid shirt on my left. Or someone in the back of the bar. About the time he was level with me, I heard the click and looked down at his right hand. I saw the flash of the blade when it jumped out of the cup of his hand.

  Not my business, I thought. But I
did a quick look at the junk on the bar. No club available. And then I remembered a trick from a bar in Oklahoma City. A waitress had used it on a drunken, horny cowboy that night. I caught the big ash tray in my right hand, spreading my fingers over the edges to grip it tight. Then I swung it around and hit the stud in the trenchcoat with a handball shot. But I’d been too slow. I heard a gasp from the man in the plaid shirt and I watched him grab at his back, fingers pressing his ribs on his right side. His eyes found me first, like he thought I’d used the blade on him. The anger was there just for a second because he saw the ash tray in my hand and the stud in the trenchcoat down on the floor.

  One thing you could say for Hump. He didn’t wait for explanations. As soon as he saw me clobber the guy, as soon as he saw the knife, he eased his stool around, planted one foot solidly on the floor, and kicked the trenchcoat man in the face a couple of times. The knife shook free and clattered over toward me. I leaned down and picked it up.

  “Still thirsty?”

  “I’ve had enough,” Hump said.

  I touched the man in the plaid shirt on the shoulder. “We can drop you at the hospital.” I found the catch and closed the knife and shoved it in my pocket.

  He shook his head. “It’s not much.”

  I raised an eyebrow at Hump. He shrugged.

  “Then we’ll lend you a Bandaid instead.”

  I caught one of his arms and Hump caught the other and we went out the front door. Just before we went out, I looked back. The fight was over and the fat guy had disappeared. The stud in the trenchcoat was still stretched out on the floor.

  It wasn’t a bad cut. It was bleeding a little and it might have healed better with a couple of stitches. I washed the cut and spread on some first aid cream. I pulled the edges of the cut together and put on a couple of Bandaids side by side because I didn’t have a bandage big enough to cover the wound.

  When I was done, he went into the bathroom to wash up and I went into the kitchen. Hump had rummaged around and found the good bottle on the shelf behind the corn flakes. It was a cognac I was saving for later when the cold weather came. By the time I saw him, he’d worked the cork out and there wasn’t much I could do but get down three glasses. Hump poured in three heavy shots.

  He came in while we were sipping ours. He looked pale and a bit shaky. I pushed a glass of cognac toward him. “I don’t think we know your name.”

  He hesitated for a long count of five, like he didn’t know it either. Then, in the raspy voice, he said, “Ed Temple.”

  I told him I was Jim Hardman and the black dude gulping my twenty-five dollar cognac was Hump Evans.

  “Twenty-five? This rotten hogwash?” Hump said.

  Temple rolled a swallow of it around on his tongue and nodded at me. “Worth every penny of it.”

  “Speaking of pennies,” I said.

  “Yes?” There was a puzzled look on Temple’s face.

  “You been messing with loan sharks?”

  “No.”

  “Owe a book?”

  “I don’t gamble.”

  “That’s odd,” I said, “because somebody wanted your gizzard chopped.”

  “That … back at the bar?”

  I nodded.

  “That wasn’t meant for me,” Temple said.

  “You really believe that?”

  Temple dipped his head. “This is the real grape you’ve got here.” He held the glass in both hands, warming it, and pressed his nose down over the rim. After a few sniffs he must have realized I was still expecting more out of him. “I thought he was trying to cut you,” he said.

  “And you just happened to get in the way?”

  “Yes.”

  Across the table from me Hump lowered his glass. “Might be.”

  I didn’t believe it. I closed my eyes and ran it back like an instant replay. No chance. The stud in the trenchcoat had passed Hump and if he’d wanted me he wouldn’t have been level with me. “Nope. He was passing me.”

  “See if Art knows him.”

  I used the phone in the bedroom. I got the Department and asked for Art Maloney in Homicide. We’d been good friends back in the old days, when I was on the force. But then I’d had to leave, about one step ahead of the boot, and he’d stayed on. Now, when I needed it, he was my plug into the Department. And I think we were still friends.

  I ran the scene in the Parkland Deli by once for him.

  “I’ll ask around,” Art said. “I can’t make him.”

  “Call me.”

  “The one who was cut, what happened to him?”

  “He’s having a drink with us.”

  “And you think the cut was meant for him?”

  “He says not.”

  “Bad cut?” he asked.

  “Just broke the top skin.”

  “I’ll get back to you.”

  Back in the kitchen, the clock Marcy had given me a couple of years back put the time at one-fifty. At the table, Hump tipped the bottle and ran each of us a good half shot.

  “No help,” I said.

  “This is the nightcap.” Hump slugged his back. “When is Marcy due back?”

  I had to think it out. It was after midnight so it was Wednesday. “Sunday,” I said.

  “Where?”

  “Frisco.” It was some kind of convention for social workers. She’d left on Monday, a couple of days early, so she could spend those days in L.A. with an aunt before heading for Frisco and the meeting.

  Hump stood up. “See you tomorrow?”

  It was like that. Nothing much to do, and we hadn’t had any kind of job for the last week or two, not even a shady one. So we’d have supper together and then some beers and the next thing I knew it was midnight. “Sure. Call me.”

  “A lift back to town?” Hump asked Ed Temple.

  He hesitated and I figured he had the usual wino problem: no place to stay. I said, “You can have the sofa and I’ll drop you in town in the morning.”

  He agreed to that. Hump left and I opened the sofa and tossed him a couple of clean sheets and a pillow and a blanket. “The place is yours.” I undressed and got into bed. I was asleep about a minute after my head hit the pillow.

  The pillow was on top. Under that the sheets and the blanket were neatly folded. Back in the kitchen he’d made himself a cup of instant coffee and he’d used the cup to anchor the note.

  Thanks. I owe you one.

  Ed Temple

  It was ten-thirty. The saucepan, still with some water in it, was cold. So he’d left some time ago. So much for that. I put the cup in the sink, balled up the note and tossed it in the trash, and poured out the water from the saucepan and put in fresh. I got the paper and read the sports page while the water heated. I was on a second cup of coffee when Art called.

  “Not sure about this. One guy I talked to says the man with the blade might be a stud from down in Tampa. Don’t know his real name. He’s called Ben Flash. Not the best in the world but not the worst either. Good enough to kill anybody but a pro.” Art paused. “You got anybody mad at you, Jim?”

  “Not that I know of,”

  “The one who got cut …”

  “He had my sofa last night. Took off before I got up.”

  “You think of a reason?”

  “Probably needed a drink.”

  “Your shelf dry?”

  “Maybe he didn’t like my brands.”

  I had a couple of eggs and some sausage and some more coffee. It was about noon before I worked my way into the bathroom and started the shaky-handed shaving. I’d got about halfway down one cheek when I felt my toes kick something down around the side of the toilet. I leaned down and picked up a wallet. Ed Temple’s, probably. I put it on the top of the water tank and finished my shave. I had a long hot shower and I was putting on aftershave when I saw the wallet again.

  I carried it into the bedroom and tossed it on the bed. I finished dressing and then I picked it up and opened it. Good leather. Spanish goat. In the cash section I saw
a twenty, a ten, and some ones, in the card section a handful of credit cards. I shoved the cards back in before I realized the cards were in the wrong name. He’d said Ed Temple and these cards were made out to Edward Templeton. Well, that was close. But a wino with a fistful of credit cards? That didn’t make much sense.

  Later in the afternoon I found myself on Marietta near the Journal-Constitution building. I went in and found the want ad counter and placed one in the personals.

  Edward Templeton. Have your wallet.

  Call me.

  I added my phone number. I paid for the ad to run five days and then I met Hump and we had some drinks and I forgot about it. The forgetting was helped along by a couple of girls we met at Ruby Red’s down in Underground Atlanta. Both of them seemed interested in Hump but I worked hard and ended up charming the ugly one.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The black Continental parked on the road in front of my house just didn’t belong there. It belonged a lot of other places: out West Paces, Ferry Road, or in some parts of Ansley Park. There it wouldn’t look like a beautiful wart on a whore’s nose.

  I parked in the driveway and walked over into the center of my yard and looked at the Continental. I was hungover and screwed-out and tired and all I wanted was a hot shower and a day in bed. The ugly girl hadn’t really been ugly after all and she’d been nice enough to say that I wasn’t fat. It was a matter of posture and tightening up my stomach muscles. She’d shown me a few exercises before I thought of a couple I liked better. And I’d stayed longer than I’d intended to. Now it was Thursday morning and that damned Continental didn’t seem to want to admit that I was looking at it.

  The door on the far side of the Continental, the driver’s side, opened and a big black stud in a gray chauffeur’s uniform stepped out and came around the front of the car. He was carrying what seemed to be a newspaper with the subway fold creased into it. He moved like he hadn’t spent much of his life on his ass. I noticed the rolling shoulders and the slim hips, and when he got closer, I saw that one nostril seemed to have continued to grow after the other had stopped: a boxer’s disease, the result of a butt or a few solid rights.