Anthony Carrick Hardboiled Murder Mysteries: Box Set (Books 1 - 3)

by Jason Blacker

  My head started to clear as he threw a left-handed hook my way. I saw this one coming and ducked underneath it while bringing an uppercut up against his jaw. My only advantage seemed to be speed. I made a good connection with his chin. The problem was it was made of lead. It didn't seem to move him much.

  He backed off and swiveled around my right side. I was now facing the door though it was a distance beyond me. We were now closer to the far wall. He was standing near the bedside table. He had short dirty blond hair in a buzz cut. His nose was used to handling fists and his ears were cauliflowers.

  I sent another jab to feel him out. He leaned away from it and sent one back which kissed me on the right cheek. Even his jabs had mustard behind them.

  I was out of my weight class and I was in an enclosed space. None of these were going to help me. Not against a brawler. I was also concerned by who this was. I knew he had a friend, but I didn't know where his friend was. I couldn't focus enough on him without trying to figure out if I was about to be blindsided.

  I took a quick look over my left shoulder. This wasn't just a rookie mistake, it was catastrophic. He sent another left hook to visit my right jaw. It dazed me. I staggered back a step, and pulled up my hands higher. He sent a right hook around like a slamming iron ball. There were stars in my peripheral vision but I managed to duck and the fist glanced off the top of my head. I don't have a glass chin. In fact I'd never been knocked out, but I could see it coming if the ref didn't step in within the next few minutes.

  There was no ref. I had to help myself. The right hook had left an opening and I planned on taking it. As the right bounced off the top of my head I came up with an overhand which landed square on the left temple of this giant. My vision started to clear and I could see that I had dazed him.

  I came up as he staggered towards the bed. I sent a jab which touched him on the mouth and he staggered back more, almost falling onto the bed. I sent another quick jab, but I knew I needed to act quick. He was slowly sliding along the side of the bed. I set up a hook which was heading right towards his left cheek when a blur of motion caught my attention on my left and I looked at it.

  I saw a blackjack like a dark gray fish coming. It slapped against the side of my head. It was lights out. I fell to my knees, my hook as impotent as a eunuch's desire. I fell towards the wall behind me and my head landed between it and the bedside table.

  My field of vision narrowed. There was a long dark path in front of me. Everything was distorted. I looked down the tunnel of my vision at the barrel of a gun. Behind it was a tall skinny giant. He looked over to his left.

  "Niklas, we must go. He's not worth it."

  The guy who said it was the one who had used me as a punching bag. The gun was withdrawn from my face and the lights were turned off. Not the lights in the room. The lights in my head.

  Days later it seemed like someone was slapping me with another fish. I opened my eyes. Slowly the face came into my field of vision. It looked like a walrus. After a few seconds I realized it was the mustachioed Hank. He was slapping me with his gorilla hands.

  "That's enough," I said to him, putting my hands up to block his blows.

  I went to stand up. I put my hand on the side table but it missed and slid down the wall catching on a loose outlet cover. I cursed. It had scraped my small finger.

  I got up more carefully this time. I put my fingers gingerly to my temple. It was wet. When I looked at them there was a small amount of blood. But the bump was as large as an ostrich's egg. I winced. It still hurt like a hot stone against my head.

  "Are you alright?" asked Hank, and not waiting for my reply, "I'm gonna call the cops."

  I shook my head.

  "How long was I out?"

  "Dunno. I came in and saw you out on the floor, but not before being threatened by those two who were in here with you."

  "Did you let them in?" I asked.

  Hank shook his head.

  "No, I dunno how they got in. I was down the hall waiting for the elevator when I remembered I had something for you, so I came back. The tall skinny one came out of the bedroom followed by the heavy one. The skinny one had a gun and looked at his friend and said 'keep going Sven'. The heavy one said 'don't do it'. I think he was telling the skinny one not to shoot me. He kept the gun on me all the way until he got into the hall and then he told me not to call the cops. I nodded at him."

  "So the big guy was called Sven?"

  Hank nodded.

  "What did they want?" he asked.

  "To use me as a punching bag I guess."

  "I'm calling the cops," said Hank, not asking, telling.

  "Before you do. What did you come back to tell me?"

  "Detective Simms had left a message asking me to tell you not to mess with the crime scene just in case they weren't finished with it."

  I nodded. Sounded like a stupid message. I've been around crime scenes before, but perhaps I should be grateful. Maybe Hank coming back here like that saved my life.

  "I'm going to call the cops," said Hank for the third time.

  He left and I sat down on the side of the bed and rubbed my head. Then I shook my head and tried to shake out the cobwebs. I looked around and thought I should go back to rifling through the chest of drawers. But I wasn't up to the task. Then I realized there was a bedside table right next to me. Being lazy and discombobulated, glad I could still say the word, I figured I'd start there. I opened the drawer. There wasn't much in it. A bottle of lube, a few condoms in their packets and a small screwdriver. That was a weird item to keep in your bedside table. Not the best self defense weapon but I guess each to his own.

  That was it. There were no other drawers. The bottom only had a shelf on which were some books. They all looked like thrillers from what I could tell of their titles.

  I sat back and thought for a minute. Where would Klee keep the key for his Glovebox locker? Maybe it was in the chest of drawers still. I steeled myself to get up and have a look. I glanced down at my finger and noticed a curl of loose skin like a split bulb of garlic. I pulled it off, and looked at the outlet cover that had done it. It dawned on me then. Why was an outlet loose? Then I realized I'd just seen the screwdriver. I pulled it out again and knelt down by the outlet cover. I unscrewed the screws and pulled the cover off.

  There was nothing on the wall side of the outlet except for the two female plugs. I looked at the inside of the cover and there it was, hidden in plain sight. Written in black felt were the words "The Glovebox #007". Just below it was a piece of torn clear plastic tape. That's where the key must have been for the locker. And I knew exactly who took it.

  But I needed to know when she took it and how. How did she get past the uni at the door once this had become a crime scene? And I realized she didn't need to get in after the cops were here, she could have gotten in before.

  SEVENTEEN

  Chapter 17

  I left the apartment with Hank still on the phone looking after me with a frown. I headed down to the lobby and went straight to the front desk. The same blond was still there. He smiled at me but his smile was strained. Perhaps it was my swollen lip, cheek and temple.

  "You must have cameras of the lobby right?" I asked.

  He nodded.

  "I'd like to see the footage from last Friday morning."

  He pinched his lips together. The news wasn't going to be good.

  "We only keep recorded digital for seventy-two hours. It's automatically erased," he said with a genuinely glum look.

  "Shit," I cursed under my breath, "that doesn't help me. You might want to consider upping your retention policy."

  He smiled good-naturedly and nodded. I turned to go but stopped in my tracks. I turned back to look at him.

  "Did you happen to see two big men with dirty blond hair here on Friday morning?" I asked.

  It was a gamble, but I was betting red was gonna come up. It did.

  "Like the two who just left?" he asked.

  I looked aroun
d. There was no sign of them.

  "What two?"

  "You just missed them," he said. "They were about six five. The one was stocky, the other was thin. Very well dressed."

  I nodded vigorously.

  "Yes, them,” I said, "were they here on Friday morning?"

  More nodding of the head.

  "Yes, I saw them. They came in just after nine. Said they had important business with Mr. Klee. They told me they were from the German Consulate on a very important case of national security."

  "And?" I asked.

  "Well, I told them which apartment Mr. Klee was in and they went right up."

  "How long did they stay for?"

  "Not long, ten, maybe fifteen minutes. They came back down, thanked me and said that everything had been sorted out. Though they didn't look too happy, especially the stocky one."

  No doubt, I thought. Mr. Double-Tap-Niklas probably didn't give Mr. Hammer-And-Anvil-Sven time to beat the information out of Klee.

  "Did you tell this to the police?" I asked.

  "No, why?"

  "Because it's related to Klee's homicide is why."

  Blond bobblehead frowned at me, trying to put it all together. I figured him for a natural blond.

  "Was there a woman who came in shortly after them?" I asked.

  "We have lots of women who live here," he said.

  I nodded.

  "Right, but she wouldn't have lived here. Attractive woman with black hair. Probably in a pony tail, slim and about five five? Piercing blue eyes?"

  Blond boy smiled and grinned at me.

  "Yeah, I remember her now. Had a slight accent. She came in just before I was getting off shift. Just before noon. Very nice lady. Asked me the same questions you're asking me. Wanted to know if those two Germans had been in. I told her they had. She said she was from Homeland Security, so I let her up too."

  "How long did she stay?"

  "I don't know, she didn't come down by the time I was off shift which was about ten minutes later.

  "Have you seen her since?"

  He shook his head.

  "Everything alright?" he asked.

  "Why shouldn't it be? I got tenderized by two Germans in the very same apartment that your tenant was murdered."

  "I'm sorry to hear that," he said.

  He was as oily as a fifties haircut and just as smooth. I walked away, and just as I left the Bon Vivant Views a couple of cruisers pulled up outside and four cops walked in. Sometimes a fedora and the dark of night can hide a beating better than sunglasses.

  I walked the streets of Manhattan for a while looking for a well in which to drown my sorrows. Somewhere off of East 86th and Park Avenue I found a bar dark enough to match my moods and liquid enough to drown my sorrows. I pulled up to the bar and had the barkeep bring the bottle of Scotch to me. I spent the rest of the night meeting it half way.

  By two in the morning I was out of money and out of sobriety. I made my way back to the Ritz with a fuzzy head that was warm and thick without a twinge of pain and a belly that huddled around the ebbing coals of Johnny Walker's fire.

  EIGHTEEN

  Chapter 18

  DRINKING always seems like a fine idea at the time. The next morning I spend the first hour cursing my stupidity. But once the aspirin has wrestled my headache to submission I'm feeling right with the world once again. It was Tuesday morning. Late in the morning, just after ten.

  I was still arguing with myself about how much I shouldn't have drunk as much as I did. Meanwhile the aspirin was taking its time sauntering up to the goliath of my headache. I decided to take a shower and count my blessings. That took all of a few seconds so I started thinking about the case.

  I'd been in New York three days. I was entering into my fourth. That meant I'd made two grand already, plus expenses. Not bad. I wouldn't be homeless for another month or two at least. I could also buy some paints and paintbrushes. . Ain’t life swell? I figured I'd have this case wrapped up by the end of the day or the next day latest. I knew who killed Klee and I figured I knew why they killed him, but I needed to find out where the violin was. That was the missing piece.

  I got out of the shower and called a guy I knew in the CIA. It wasn't the Culinary Institute of America which wasn't far from where I was. Though bacon and eggs sounded pretty good to me. No, I called my guy in the intelligence agency. We went back to the days I was on the job in LA. We scratched each other's backs from time to time. My back was itchy. I asked him to get me anything he could on Christina Tedder, if that was her real name. You might be wondering why I was asking a guy from the CIA when Tedder told the Bon Vivant's bon vivant that she was from Homeland Security? The quick answer is that I didn't believe her, and my guy at the CIA could find that out.

  I made another couple of phone calls to reach out to John Stampley. He was as cold and hard as the bottle of vodka in the back of my freezer. But I warmed him over with my charm, personality and Dale Carnegie's winning strategies.

  You might imagine I used some erudite wit. On the contrary. I simply told him that he was being investigated for the murder of Klee and that I was there to help him. Either that, or the coppers were gonna be all over him like maggots on a cadaver. He preferred the first option.

  I dressed in new clothes. Dark charcoal gray pants, a navy blue shirt and my black fedora. I put on a dark gray sports coat and I looked better than I felt. I added a dash of cologne for old time's sake and headed out the door. I was ravenous and I was on the prowl for bacon and eggs.

  I didn't want to give another try to an uppity overpriced establishment so I went to a local diner. Concierge at the Ritz recommended Viand Cafe up on Broadway. He was a big strapping lad who looked like he knew his food. So I trusted him.

  I headed up there. Viand wasn't too far from the Lincoln Center. It looked like a nice upscale joint. Clean, new blue awnings on the outside with nice wood paneling around the booths which had thick comfy mustard colored cushions. I found a booth and sat down. I put my hat down next to me. A friendly waitress came up and offered a menu. She was fat like a hippo with dimples in each cheek. I ordered a coffee and looked at the prices. The prices were right. The kinda place I felt at home at.

  She came back with the coffee and I asked her about the bacon and egg sandwich. She said it was amazing. So I ordered it and waited. The diner was less than half full. It was coming on eleven anyway, and I was just ahead of the lunch crowd.

  I had a big appetite and a long way to go after brunch. Stampley was up in Union City in Jersey which was just across the river. It was a working class neighborhood from what I could figure, and I was trying to decide if I should take the Maybach or the yellow limo. The Maybach would get some lookie-loos. I was trying to figure if that was something I wanted. I figured it couldn't hurt. It would tell Stampley I knew people. Powerful people. That might get him trusting me easier. Better than having to win him over in the laboratory of sweet science. I was getting tired of feeding the mute my knuckle sandwiches.

  I took out my phone and called Terry. He answered as cordially as he always had. But he was sad he couldn't help me out. Not until later in the day. Said that his employer, I think he meant Sonia, needed the car for a meeting with the banker. I hung up just as the egg sandwich came by.

  It sat like two eyebrows on the plate above a spidered nose of coleslaw. I could take it or leave it. I'd make up my mind after I'd eaten the sandwich. A green pickle lay just below the one half of the sandwich like a tear. The egg was fried and the white toast looked like it might have kissed the griddle too. Crispy bacon was thick on the egg's face like a wet scab. I know this because I picked up the slice of toast facing me and had a look.

  It smelled good and rich and savory. I could feel the saliva pool in my mouth. I was just about to take a bite when the waitress came by and refilled my coffee. That's what I like about places like this. The coffee never runs dry or tastes burnt.

  I ate my sandwich and drank my coffee. I took a bite of the pickl
e when I was done and tried the coleslaw. I decided to leave it. The sandwich had put a smile on my face and a plug in my gut. I was happy as a kid full of cotton candy at the carnival. For less than a dime I'd had my fill of food and coffee. I left a fin too, because I'm not a cheap bastard. I understand and appreciate hard work. And working on your feet all day slinging for dollars ain't exactly Wall Street.

  I picked up my hat and put it back on. I rubbed my knuckles, first my left hand and then my right. They were still slightly red and tender. I preferred boxing in gloves, and I preferred not doing any more while I was here in New York.

  But without the Maybach, I couldn't see a way to make Stampley chatty. Though I was gonna try and use my charm. I stepped up to the end of the sidewalk and hailed a cab. My driver was a Jamaican with a colorful knitted cap over dreadlocks. He had an air freshener hung from the mirror that was shaped like a marijuana leaf. It didn't smell like it.

  I gave him the address and he took me down through Lincoln Tunnel. He offered me some idle chit chat. I was full, but I nibbled a bit anyway. He told me how he wanted to head on over to LA. How he didn't like the cold winters in New York. I told him I didn't like the cold winters of LA. He laughed at that.

  He dropped me outside Stampley's small house on Fulton Street. It was a small box crammed up against other small boxes. It looked nice though. The red brick was clean, the steps up to the front door were clean and there were bright flowers bobbing at me from the small green garden he had on the right under the windows.

  I saw an older man behind the windows in the living room. He got up as I came up the front of his house. I rapped on the front door. The door opened moments later. I'd forgotten the kind of guy I was meeting. In front of me was a man in his mid seventies. Thin and frail and stooped over with a cigarette in his right hand. He wore gray slacks and a white shirt that was leaning towards gray.

  I rubbed my hands again. No way was I gonna be giving an old man a class in the sweet science. It was gonna have to be old school charm or bust. I smiled at him like he was my grandpa I hadn't seen in years. I offered my hand and he took it with his. It was a cold and dry hand, fragile as an autumn leaf.