"When you're dealing with pros," I continued. "It can be extremely hard to fix a murder on them. You usually have to wait for them to mess up. And we don't have the time to wait for these two. I bet within the week they'll be back in Germany."
Sonia's frown furrowed deeper. The farmer of her mind was planting seeds of disgust at a furious rate.
"So there's nothing that can be done?"
She looked at me through stony eyes. From where I was sitting they had the color of granite. The tears had been stemmed. The anger had come galloping in.
"Nothing the cops can do?"
Sonia stared at me for a while. Trying to read what was on my mind. What was on my mind was getting my money.
"And there's nothing you can do?" she asked.
"There's lots I can do," I said.
"Like what?"
"Well, like get paid and head back to LA and forget about this whole tragedy."
She pinched her eyebrows back together again. She didn't like that.
"I mean, what could you do to help get justice for Paul… and for me in this situation."
I had a feeling I knew what she was asking. But I wasn't a hit man. At least not usually.
"What do you want me to do, Sonia?" I asked. "Paul was an asshole from most accounts I've heard from those who knew him. Not saying he deserved what he got, but sometimes we have to make do with the hands we've been dealt."
Sonia swirled her wine and took a sip and then stared into the slowly disappearing red liquid. After some time she looked up at me.
"I'd like justice," she said. "I'd be willing to pay anything really. I don't want them getting away with it."
"So an eye for an eye. Is that what you're suggesting?"
I had never had someone so carefully ask me to murder someone before, and this was the feeling I was getting. She looked down and didn't say anything.
"You want me to assassinate them?"
I used that word purposefully. I figured she'd like the sound of it better than 'murder' or 'kill'. She looked up at me.
"Not necessarily, though it wouldn't hurt me if that happened. I just want them to be made aware of what they've done. I want them to understand the pain they've caused me."
I looked at her steadily for a while. She couldn't hold my gaze. I get that. It's hard to ask someone to murder on your behalf and think you're doing God's work. I've never seen it act as the salve that folks think it'll be.
"I'm not an assassin, Sonia. Certainly not under these circumstances."
Not to say I couldn't see circumstances where I might seek vengeance. But not only would this task be difficult, it'd be pointless.
Sonia nodded her head and stood up.
"I understand," she said, trying to smile. "I don't know what I was thinking. Nothing's going to bring Paul back. I'll get my checkbook."
I watched her walk away and sipped on my Scotch. She wasn't gone long. She came back and sat in her chair again.
"How much do I owe you?"
"Twenty five hundred is my minimum rate. This didn't go over the minimum, so it's twenty five hundred plus expenses. I haven't added them all up yet."
"An estimate," she said. "I trust you."
I cocked my head to one side and thought for a moment.
"I reckon two fifty ought to cover most of my expenses or thereabouts."
She nodded and started scribbling on her check. She tore it off when she was done and handed it over to me. I leaned across the table between us and took it. It was for twenty thousand dollars. I had to look twice.
"Thank you," I said, "but this isn't necessary."
"You've earned it, Anthony," she said. "And in a way I admire your blunt forthright attitude. I can tell you're a man of strong moral principle, and I appreciate the work you've done."
I nodded, folded up the check and put it in my shirt pocket. I took the last swig of my Scotch and put the tumbler on the table. I stood up and grabbed my fedora. Sonia stood up too.
"Thanks again, Anthony," she said.
"Sure," I said. "For a rich lady, I like you, so I want to give you a bit of advice. Vengeance isn't the way to mitigate the pain. Only time will do that. Sometimes I don't know why bad things happen, but those are questions that don't help by asking."
I put on my hat and turned to go when she came up to me and embraced me. She held me tight for a while and tucked her head into my shoulder. I patted her back. After a while she pulled away and smiled shyly.
"Sorry," she said, "this whole thing has just been so difficult and I feel so alone."
I didn't know what to say to that. A woman with her means wouldn't be alone for long. And maybe that was the problem. The jackals would be circling soon enough. I put on my hat.
"Keep an eye on the news over the next few days. You might still get that justice you're seeking."
"What do you mean?" she asked.
"I might not be an assassin but there are others who might like to see the two who murdered Paul erased."
I thought I saw the smallest curl of a genuine smile on the corners of her lips as I turned to leave.
TWENTY-TWO
Chapter 22
SONIA had paid for my stay at the Ritz for a week. That meant check out only had to happen on Saturday at eleven. I spent Saturday night at the Ritz on my own dime. I had earned it. Sonia had made sure of that.
The Big Apple was a fun place to visit but I wouldn't want to live there. It'd keep a man like me too busy. Besides, I like the beach and the warm sand and the smog of LA. It might give it a dour face but the tourists always remind you of happier times.
Sunday I was going home. I had been expecting Christina Tedder to have done me a favor already. But she hadn't. Maybe she'd gotten cold feet or maybe Mossad wasn't as good as I'd been told. It didn't matter anymore anyway. I had enough money for the next six months and maybe if my next art show in the fall was a success, I might be able to take the year off. Put all this blood letting behind me.
I was comforted that I was able to tell Sonia who'd done it. That was something, right? Though there was a weight in my belly, like a small cold stone that just didn't sit right. Those two German killers deserved their comeuppance. But I wasn't sure it was coming.
Hell, if I could have summoned the motivation I might have delivered justice myself. But it would have been a tough job, they'd probably have remained holed up in the consulate and I would have had a helluva time getting in. And I didn't really see myself stretching that far for Paul Klee. I never met him, but still I didn't like him. No way was I gonna break a sweat for him.
So I sat in the waiting lounge of the airport for my flight back to The Big Orange. I was feeling a little maudlin. Maybe I'd been too hard on Sonia. Maybe I'd judged her too harshly for being rich. Maybe she'd come from humble beginnings. Most likely though, I was getting too sentimental for this kind of work.
I figured I needed to head back into the ring and spend a few more days studying the sweet science. I was getting soft. Not so much physically, but emotionally. And that can be deadly.
Let the dead bury the dead. The living have enough strife to contend with.
A part of me had hoped that Christina or Chava would have been good to her word. Maybe there was still time. Maybe they were still in town. Right, and maybe I believe in unicorns and fairies.
As I sat worrying about things beyond my control boarding was called. I was in business class and that had the privilege of boarding first. It got me thinking about other things. For instance, it got me understanding how the rich come to think of themselves as better than us.
For instance, if you give a fella a million dollars a year for running a company he'll soon figure he's worth it. Despite the fact that the guys actually making the product on the floor are lucky to make fifty thou. Then after a while he'll see his buddy at Acme making five million and soon that's what he figures he's worth.
Then they get catered to, like boarding first. Being treated differently by restaurants, hot
els, airlines. It's no wonder they start to feel entitled. Like maybe they're paying too much taxes to keep single moms on welfare.
I smiled at the gate attendant as I walked down the jet bridge to the plane. If there's anything I've learned staring into the barrel of human suffering and vice it's this. The deadly sins can quickly run amok if not checked by virtues, whether self imposed or otherwise.
The plane filled up quick and I was served a Scotch before we had even started to taxi down the runway. Nobody was sitting next to me. I had the aisle to myself.
The captain came on and the flight attendants did their mime at the front. I didn't mind that part. Not with the flight attendant I was looking at. She had light brown hair in a pony tail that danced at the back of her head like a tail as she walked up and down the aisle. Her calves were bare below her knee length dress and as shapely as tear drops. Her bum was as tight as two bubbles about to burst and her white teeth like piano keys that played sad songs with my heart.
I was thinking of flirting with her as she came by offering me all manner of tasty morsels, but then I thought of Emily back in LA. I wanted to play that long ball out and see if she'd intercept it. So I bit my tongue and drank my whisky.
At around thirty-five thousand feet someplace over the Midwest I got bored with the inflight movie. I flicked over to CNN to see if anything interesting had been happening in the world.
I didn't have to wait long to see the angels smiling down upon me. At around the time of takeoff a German consular vehicle had exploded on its way to the airport. The reporter identified the three men who had died at the scene as the German ambassador's chauffeur Mr. Markus Wolf as well as two attachés with the consulate, Mr. Niklas Austerlitz and Mr. Sven Blau. These were the same two faces I'd come to know at Paul Klee's apartment the other day.
The reporter was suggesting that it was the work of terrorists. Perhaps Islamist extremists. Why not? They're the current bogey man, I suppose. Though I knew different. I knew who had done it, and if they were worth their salt the truth would never come out.
I expected to feel better about the news but I didn't. And it wasn't because a third party had died needlessly. It just didn't bring me the peace and tranquility I'd been hoping for. Maybe it had for Sonia. If she'd been watching.
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I write two mystery series. A cozy mystery series and a hardboiled detective mystery series.
Lady Marmalade Mysteries:
The charming and warm Lady Marmalade is the Baroness of Sandown. But don’t let that full you, she also loves solving crime and crafting the best ever marmalade jam you’ll taste.
Check her out for some cozy, warm mysteries set between the two World Wars. You’ll find cameos by some of history’s greatest characters like Gandhi and Lord Mountbatten!
Anthony Carrick Mysteries:
The tough drinking, hard talking Anthony Carrick is an ex-LAPD homicide cop with a conflicted past. From the same mold of Sam Spade and Mike Hammer, he enjoys seeking justice for the downtrodden. Sometimes that means using his fists.
He’s a painter in his spare time and lives with a one-eyed rescued cat called Pirate. For fans of noir and hardboiled fiction, this is your stiff, tall drink of fun.
CONTENTS
Title
One - Peer Into Promiseland
Two - An Event Horizon
Three - Chicago's Windy Blues
Four - Green Grass Of Wrigley Field
Five - CPD Headquarters
Six - What's For Money Honey?
Seven - A Piece Of Israel
Eight - In Stark Contrast
Nine - Feeling Gibb
Ten - Spitballing With Batboys
Eleven - Where The Warrant Is
Twelve - Crying Over Spilled Milk
Thirteen - Salisbury Hill & Dale
Fourteen - Blue Ocean LLC
Fifteen - The Fast Lane
Sixteen - Skeef Surveilance Systems
Seventeen - Nite Owl Motel
Eighteen - Champs Bullpen
Nineteen - Long Lonely Highways
Twenty - The Daily Grind
Twenty-One - The Answer To Everything
Twenty-Two - The Con In Confession
Twenty-Three - Salty Sea Salty Me
ENJOYED THE BOOK?
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THIRD BASE
by
Jason Blacker
Copyright © 2016 Jason Blacker
PUBLISHED BY: Lemon Tree Publishing
Visit www.JasonBlacker.com to get FREE books and other cool stuff!
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be copied, reproduced in any format, by any means, electronic or otherwise, without prior consent from the copyright owner and publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. All characters, names, places and events are the product of the author's imagination or used fictitiously.
Editing: Andrea Anesi
ISBN-13: 9781927623589
For you dear reader for shining the light of justice into dark corners.
ONE
Peer Into Promiseland
THE weather in Santa Monica in October was charming. It's the kind of place to be if you like a warm breeze in your face and a quieter beach. The tourists have gone home, having packed up their sunburns and umbrellas and screaming kids. Santa Monica is my town again. The highs are in the seventies, and the lows, well, let's just say the lows are crisp enough to keep you walking briskly home.
But today was a day to remember. I was sitting at the Mariasol at the end of the pier. But I wasn't alone. You'll remember the lovely Emily Stratham. One of our finest coroners in the city of lost angels. I had fancied some Creole fish, but she reminded me she was vegetarian. I guess the fish get a reprieve. We had just taken our seats. I had met her here. I had offered to pick her up but she declined. Maybe she was an independent woman or maybe she didn't like the look of my jalopy in her neck of the woods. I wasn't hurt. I still didn't know where she lived, and that was alright. How can you be hurt by a good-looking woman? Let me count the ways.
Things were quiet. Had been for weeks now. It was like the Santa Anna winds had swept all the trash into the Pacific. Either that, or the LAPD had no need for a grizzled, grumpy gumshoe like me. I liked to blame it on the Santa Anna winds. But I reckoned if there was some truth telling to be told that I was wrong.
Mariasol is a small place. But it has charm. Emily and I were out on the deck looking out over the ocean. Some surfers were out catching some waves in their wetsuits. They looked like anorexic seals. I guess the water was colder than the warm breeze in our faces suggested. Or perhaps kids nowadays just aren't as tough as they were back in my day.
I was thinking how I could use a case. I felt like I was getting rusty. There was only so much painting I could do. I didn't need the money. Alimony was paid up. Pirate was well fed, and I'd sold a couple of paintings in the last month. Hell, I was feeling like King of the world, and it was gonna end. I knew it, but more than that, I was getting itchy to clean up some dark part of this town. Sweep some trash out to sea. I didn't need Saint Anne helping nor th
e LAPD. You can tell I was getting antsy.
"Are you ready to order?" asked the waitress.
She was a Latina in a black dress and white blouse. She was stunningly beautiful and seemed carved out of coffee beans. She was young and bubbly and I bet she made more than me on tips alone. Emily looked up at her and smiled. Then she looked over at me, and I made sure I was looking at her and not the waitress.
"Are you ready, Anthony?" she asked.
I nodded.
"The lady will have the vegetable burrito and I'll get the carne asada."
The waitress nodded at me.
"And to drink?" she asked.
I was craning my neck to keep my eyes above her neck. It wasn't helping that her cleavage was thrust in my face like milk chocolate Hershey kisses. So I did what any noble man would do, I turned to my date.
"I'll have a lemonade," said Emily.
I smiled at her, and kept my eyes on her.
"Make that two," I said.
The buxom waitress trundled off, saving me from myself. And for that I was grateful.
"Do you see dead people?" I asked out of nowhere and then immediately felt weird about it. Emily looked at me and grinned and slowly shook her head.
"You sure are a strange catch of the day."
"I didn't know we were fishing."
She shook her head some more, but she wasn't upset.
"I'm sorry," I said. "I haven't, and I could use a case."
"It'll come," she said. "You're good at what you do, and as the saying goes, you can't keep a good man down for long."
"Yeah," I said, "but you can keep him in the dark indefinitely."
Emily laughed.
"We must be two pretty macabre people," she said, tossing her head back, and making me weak at the knees.
"How so?"
"Well, we both enjoy looking at dead people," she said with a bit of irony.
Anthony Carrick Hardboiled Murder Mysteries: Box Set (Books 1 - 3) Page 51
