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

by Jason Blacker

  "I was arrogant. I mean I was good, guess I still am, but I was cocky with it in my teen years. In my weight division at the state level I was unbeaten. It was different at the national level. I never won a national tournament. But that wasn't the only thing. I got the living crap kicked out of me one time by a bunch of thugs, and that happened mostly because I was too cocksure of myself. I was in the wrong place when I knew better and instead of backing down I went looking for a fight and it found me. That's when I learned the hard lesson that Hershey was trying to teach me."

  Emily smiled at me.

  "It sort of buffed out the round edges then, did it?" she winked.

  I nodded.

  "And how. But I got justice for the slight I encountered. These weren't good guys. But I had no place doing and being where I was at the time."

  "Sounds like you really liked this man Moe, or Hershey as you call him," she said.

  "I did. He was like the uncle, or really, like the father I never had."

  I looked down at the last dregs of my coffee. I could still see Hershey smiling at me, his crooked grin and his wrinkled, beat-up old face.

  "Is he no longer around?" she asked.

  I nodded slowly, sadly.

  "Yeah, he died some years back. Wasn't very old, seventy-something, but I don't think he would have wanted it any other way. He was still doing what he loved. Had a heart attack in the ring. Not boxing, teaching. There could be worse things."

  Emily nodded.

  "I love what I do, but I wouldn't want to die in my theater."

  "That's weird too, not the dying bit, the bit about why it's called a theater. I never got it. You aren't actors performing a play."

  I grinned at her and she laughed out loud.

  "Well, we don't really call it that anymore here. I think that's maybe more British. But it used to be a theater in a real sense. Way back in the old days, students would literally watch the surgeons operate as if they were in a theater. In fact the set up used to be quite similar to current theaters but much smaller."

  "Interesting," I said.

  The waitress came back and asked if we wanted anything else. We didn't, so she put the check down in the middle of the table. I reached for it, but I wasn't fast enough. Emily slid it towards herself and smiled at me.

  "Anthony, would you please let me get this one? You've paid the last bunch of times."

  "And I'm happy to pay for this one too."

  "I know, and I love it that you're a gentleman that way, but these are modern times and I'd much rather contribute."

  I shrugged and sighed half heartedly.

  "Sure, doll, but don't cheap out on the tip," I said teasingly.

  She grinned at me.

  "I never do," she said and put down some plastic over the paper, not even turning it up to look.

  "I've been doing all the talking," I said, "when am I going to hear all about you?"

  "I'm not all that interesting. Not like you," she said.

  "But you're fascinating to me," I said.

  "Well," she said, putting her purse back in her bag, "if you want to have another date then I'll tell you everything you want to know."

  "Yeah, like where you live for starters," I said, grinning but also really curious as to why she hadn't shared that information with me yet.

  "Next time," she said.

  The waitress came by with a handheld card reader and gave it to Emily. Emily paid and left a pretty good tip, at least so I imagined. I walked Emily back to her Prius. Just before she got inside I took her cheek in my hand and kissed her on the lips. She tasted like cherries and coffee. Her mouth was warm and soft like sun-drenched plums. I could have lingered there all afternoon. But I'm a gentleman.

  "I was wondering how long it would take for you to kiss me," she said softly, her words like a soft sigh. She caressed my cheek and got into the car. I had nothing to say. I had wanted to kiss that woman all my life, I just never knew it until I'd met her. And until now, if I'm gonna be honest I hadn't the courage.

  I watched her drive off and I waved at the back of her car. I saw her wave back. For once in my life, I thought I might just have gotten lucky. I might just have found someone for the ninth inning of my life. I turned and took a walk along the beach. It was quiet and the waves lapped over the sand like the lolling tongues of playful dogs.

  TWO

  An Event Horizon

  I was sitting on my couch in the living room. A new painting was drying off to the side. I was watching TV. There wasn't much good on. Never is. I had flipped around the channels for a while and got stuck on sports. I'm not a huge fan. I like sports well enough. More the playing than the watching. But it was coming up on the World Series. Why they called it that, I had no idea. It was only ever American teams, and maybe the Toronto Blue Jays on a lucky day.

  But there it was, highlights from the season. The regular season was now behind us and we were watching highlights. The All-Star Game had been won by the Chicago Cubs, a team that hadn't played in the World Series since 1945. I didn't know any of this, it's what the television man told me. What was worse, or maybe thrilling, was that the Cubs hadn't won since 1908. Winning the All-Star Game meant they'd have hometown advantage, meaning all games would be played at Wrigley Field.

  The crazy thing was, they were playing against the Baltimore Orioles. The television man said this was crazy 'cos they were the American League team that hadn't played a World Series in the longest time. At least of AL teams that had made it to the World Series at least once. Last time The Birds had won was in eighty-three which was also the last time they'd played in the World Series. I could see the appeal. This was likely to be the biggest game in baseball history. Two teams that were the hungriest.

  I could see that it would be a big event. Baseball has the largest audience of all the major American sports. That's also what the television man said. At least that was for the regular season. Seventy-something million sad souls glued to the television. That's about one out of every six Americans with nothing better to do.

  And I had nothing better to do. I was gonna hang out with the lost souls, I figured, and spend some time drowning my life in that sink of baseball. There were better things to do of course, like paint some paintings, at least they could earn me some money. If any of them sold. And that was always iffy. But still, all work and no play made Anthony a dull boy. That was my excuse.

  The thing about baseball is that it was relaxing. You could zone out on the couch and drink a few beers and kill some time. I had to kill some time anyway. Seems those killing each other didn't want my help, so I might as well help kill time. Become the hunter instead of the hunted.

  I liked The Cubbies' sad story the best. Like I'd said, they hadn't won in over a hundred years. That's a dry spell. They'd seen the World Series ten times, only won it twice. I liked that, that was a sad and sorry story. I was a sucker for a sorry story, and they had one. I turned to Pirate whose head I was scratching. I could hear him purring like a diesel.

  "We're gonna support the Lovable Losers," I said. "How does that sound?"

  He looked at me, and if he was a teenager he might have been saying 'whatever'. But he wasn't, and he was another sad story that I'd clung to. I took the last drag on my cigarette and leaned towards the coffee table that had just held my feet and I put out the cigarette in the ashtray. I picked up my whiskey tumbler and took the last sip.

  "Yup," I said to nobody except Pirate, "I think maybe we'll even put a hundred bucks on them, what do you think?"

  I didn't look at him, because nobody likes a gambler that can't afford to lose. But I felt a little flush. I hadn't had a loose Benjamin burning a hole in my pocket in quite some time. Yeah, times were lean, what of it. A man's gotta have some hobbies. And my hobby had all but dried up. It'd been a couple of months at least, so I reckon, since I'd seen the hint of a case. And besides, I'd sold a few paintings. Wasn't like Pirate was gonna go hungry or I was gonna go thirsty.

  And who k
new, I might even be able to make some money on the deal. I knew the Lovable Losers were the underdog and I'm a sucker for underdogs.

  My phone vibrated on the coffee table. I looked at its face. It was my old friend and archenemy Johnny Rotten. It might be good news. The kind of news I hadn't heard of for a while. I picked up the phone.

  "Johnny Rotten," I said.

  "Please step out of the vehicle, sir, with your hands where I can see them," he said, and then burst out laughing.

  "Jesus, I'm not in any vehicle, have you been drinking?" I asked with a smile on my mouth.

  "Just having some fun with Anthony. How's it been?"

  "Slow and lazy. I've been painting a lot. Painting more than I can sell."

  "You've gotta get your gallery to fix that," he said.

  He'd bought one of my paintings before. Maybe it'd be more accurate to say he stole it. I gave him a sweet deal, he really liked it. I'm a sucker for underdogs and friends. What you gonna do?

  "They moved a couple this past month," I said.

  "Great news, I guess I can hang up then," he said.

  "Hey," I said, "I'm not that flush that I've forgotten my friends."

  "What are you doing?" he asked.

  "Watching the television man teach me about baseball."

  "Ah yeah, the World Series is starting tomorrow. Should be a good game."

  "I'm gonna put some money on the Lovable Losers, I think."

  "I would hold off on that pal," he said.

  "What you got?" I asked.

  "I've got some good news for you, bad news for The Cubbies," he said.

  "Yeah, what's that?"

  "James Ensor is dead. Looks like murder," he said.

  "Hmm," I said, "and I'm supposed to know who that is?"

  "Any baller worth his mitt would know who that was," said Roberts.

  "I'm not just any baller," I said, "in fact I'm not that up on the ins and outs of baseball."

  "Might want to brush up," he said. "James, or Jimmy as he was known was their best hope at winning this thing. He's their star pitcher."

  "Tell me more," I said, feigning interest.

  "This World Series might have recorded his three thousandth strikeout, making him one of the few to reach that club. Less than twenty guys have done it. He's also pitched three no-hitters but not a perfect game."

  "Yawn," I said. I could almost hear Roberts shaking his head.

  "You need some culture, son," he said, and I could hear the warmth in his voice. "Let me put it to you this way, less than twenty guys in baseball's history, that's over a century, have record three thousand or more strikeouts. Only twenty-three perfect games have been thrown."

  "Which he hasn't done," I said, egging him on.

  "Yeah, but he was going to. He still had a good ten years left, maybe."

  "Then how come the Cubbies keep losing, if their pitcher's so damn good?"

  "Because," said Roberts, sighing like I'd popped his balloon, "baseball, in case you hadn't realized, is a team sport."

  "Ah, I get it now," I said sarcastically, "so guys can come up with a whole bunch of excuses and blame it on their teammates."

  Roberts laughed, he was hard to anger, but then he knew me well.

  "Jeez, you sure are grumpy as hell."

  "It's been a while since I've had something to do," I said.

  "And that's why I'm calling you," he said. "A buddy of mine, the Captain of homicide in Chicago's Central Area needs a hand. Asked me if I knew anyone who could help out a high profile and sensitive homicide like this."

  "And you told him I liked dead people?"

  "I told him I knew a guy, who worked for peanuts, was a bit of a smart ass but had solved a homicide or two in his tenure."

  "Yeah, who was that?"

  "Bryce over at Hollywood Station, you ass," he said.

  "Good to know, is he interested?"

  "Fuck you, Tony," said Roberts, good naturedly. He was one of the few people who could get away with calling me Tony.

  "So you're throwing me a frikkin' bone," I said, "thank you, anointed one."

  "You're welcome, you ungrateful sonofabitch," he said.

  "How's Jenny and the kids?" I asked.

  "That's you being nice now," he said.

  "Nah, not really, just reminding you never have me over anymore. Am I Quasimodo now or something?"

  "You're something alright," he said.

  There was a pause on the other end. I heard him talking to somebody else, but I couldn't make it out.

  "Listen, pal, I've gotta run. Listen, I'll speak to Jenny about having you over if you do good up in the Windy City. I've vouched for you buddy."

  "And I've never let you down. Thanks for the bone... really."

  "Don't mention it, do me proud."

  He hung up and I decided I needed another Scotch to mull things over. I hadn't been to Chitown in some years. Didn't much like the weather. It was the wind mostly. Wind makes any kind of day just a little shittier. I poured a fresh one, I wasn't counting fingers but it was a two-finger Scotch, a good two-finger Scotch like a Quasimodo pour.

  I watched more baseball for the next fifteen minutes under the pretense of research. I came to appreciate the game more, especially that I might now have some skin it, to abuse the pun. If I was going to get paid to learn about baseball then I was the biggest fan. My phone rang and I looked at the screen. It wasn't a number I recognized, but I was answering anyway. It was a 312 area code. My best guess was that came from Chicago. I picked it up and put it to my ear.

  "Hello," I said.

  "Yeah, I'm looking for Anthony Carrick," said a deep voice that seemed to have travelled with heavy chains, all over the old cobbled streets and through the sewers to end up as deep and tired as this voice sounded popping up in my ear.

  "Speaking," I said.

  "Hey, Anthony," said the voice, not as tired anymore but still heavy with chains, "this is Captain Maurice Lane from Chicago Homicide. Your friend John Roberts gave me your number."

  "Yeah, John's a friend," I said, "said you might be calling. How's things in the Windy City?"

  The voice laughed in my ear and it sounded like those chains rattling all over sewer grates.

  "Windy," he said. "The winds of desolation have descended upon us just before the World Series. You a fan?"

  "I guess I am now," I said.

  Again, the gravelly laughter.

  "John tells me you work private. Is that right?"

  "It is," I said.

  "You interested in helping us with a high profile homicide?"

  "That's my bread and butter. What you got?"

  There was a pause on the other end.

  "Listen," he said, "I'd prefer to talk about it one on one, you can understand."

  "Discretion is the better part of valor," I said.

  "Discretion is the better part of investigation," he said.

  "I gotcha."

  "But first, I need to know if we can afford you. Our budget's not quite as big as the LAPD's."

  "I understand, hell, I'd do it for free, just to get back on the horse," I said, not lying.

  "Roberts said you might say something like that," said the voice warm as thick honey. "Still, we will pay you, just need to know if it's something we can afford or am I gonna have to haggle you."

  "Did he also say I'd need a slow dance and a pat on the back."

  Lane laughed.

  "Five hundred a day, plus expenses, you know, like a private plane to pick me up."

  The voice laughed again, rattling chains.

  "We can do that," he said, "plane's gonna have to be commercial, economy class."

  "A fella's gotta try. I like it, when do you want me there?"

  "On the next flight," he said. "You can understand this is time sensitive."

  "I'll look into it."

  Lane cut me off.

  "It leaves at three thirty your time, I've already booked it for you."

  "That's pretty presum
ptuous," I said.

  "Nah, Roberts said there wasn't a way in hell you were gonna turn this down."

  "Gosh darn it, can't we pretend you've been courting me?"

  "That's just what I've been doing. I'll pick you up myself. See you later."

  "Bye."

  He hung up the phone. I stared at it for a while and then put it back on the table. I lit another cigarette and swigged on whiskey. I couldn't tell if I liked Lane or not. I decided I did like him. Wasn't his fault he knew I was going to take the job. Would have done it for free too. My phone told me it was just after one. I had a few things to do before I left and I had to be leaving real quick.

  I called the cat sitter. Actually, I just went next door and spoke to Martha. She's a spinster who has two cats of her own. I've used her before. Pirate's always put on a few pounds anytime I leave him to her. She's got a soft spot for cats and him in particular. I can't complain.

  Twenty-five bucks a day to take care of my roommate. Peace of mind and he gets fattened up. Only problem is, she's a talker. An old, lonely woman, teetering on crazy cat lady. I don't usually mind, but this time I had to cut her off short.

  THREE

  Chicago's Windy Blues

  O'HARE International Airport goes by the airport code ORD. Makes me think it might be ordinary. But it's not. The airport is the busiest in the world at least by landings and takeoffs. I read that in the inflight magazine. Something the inflight magazine didn't tell me, but I'd overheard some young punks talking about while we waited at LAX, was that over one thousand souls have been lost flying into or out of ORD. That didn't put me at ease. What did put me at ease were the couple of whiskeys I had on the plane.

  We landed at Terminal 3. It was a nice terminal for an airport. I don't live in them. For me it's just a corridor from one place to the next, but for those who like to lollygag at airports apparently O'Hare has won best airport in North America for ten years. I shit you not. They'll give awards out for anything nowadays. I'm still waiting for my hardest drinking PI award. Hasn't come in yet.

  It was a chilly forty degrees when we landed at just before nine thirty. No snow, clear skies. At least that's what the captain said. And he shoulda known, he was flying through it. I made my way down to the baggage claim. I only had the one suitcase besides my carry on. I saw a big man holding a placard with what was supposed to be my name on it. Only it was spelled wrong.