Men of the Mean Streets

by Greg Herren

  As he swung the lobby door open, he was welcomed by Paul.

  “Sir,” Paul said, his eyes shining like new shoes. “A call for you. I put the gentleman on hold, and oh dear, I seem to have forgotten about him. I do apologize, I―”

  “No need,” Shield mumbled, heading quickly to the reception desk. He picked up the phone, gripping it hard. “Hello?”

  “Is this―” The voice on the line broke up, and Shield heard the man fiddling with papers. “Well, he calls you Shield, right?”

  “Who is this?”

  “I need to talk to you. This is urgent. It can’t wait any longer.”

  Shield glanced over at Paul. He was nodding off in his antique velvet chair.

  “Talk.”

  “No, not over the phone.” The man’s voice was young. Smooth and clear. “Meet with me.”

  “No.” Shield could barely keep still. “I’ve got too many problems as it is. I’m not adding you to the list.”

  “It’s about Sugar.”

  Shield’s knees buckled. “Where are you? Who are you?”

  “I’m at the Brickle Inn. Room number six.”

  Shield knew the motel. It was a desolate place in one of the grittiest neighborhoods in the city. “Nice place,” he said grimly, rubbing his tired eyes. “And why should I jump through this hoop? Listen, I’ve got a tag on my heels and―”

  “Please come. Just lose them and meet with me.” The man gulped in air and pressed on, in a voice thick with panic. “There’s something you need to know about Sugar, and you need to know it now.”

  He nodded. Yes, he’d come. Yes, he’d take this dumb risk. For him. For Sugar.

  *

  “All right, boys, let’s go for a little stroll.” Shield turned the key in the ignition and flicked his eyes to the side mirror. “Let’s see if you can handle my driving.”

  Pedal to the floor, he raced out of the quiet neighborhood straight into the glistening streets of the city, Hank’s boys close behind. He turned onto the boulevard, zigzagging his car between the late-night drivers. He rolled down the window and stretched his arm out, letting the wind blow rain on his face. He was exhilarated. He was in motion.

  To hell with standing still.

  Around him, the strip flashed its pretty lights like a hooker on her last trick. Neon invitations to wine and dine twinkled in the rain, beckoning him to stop, think, be reasonable. But Shield drove on. No―there was no coffee black enough, no whiskey smooth enough, to coax him from his path. He was going to the Brickle Inn, and he was going there alone.

  When he reached the end of the boulevard, the light was green, but he slowed down and glanced up at the rearview mirror, watching the Oldsmobile.

  It was 1:23 a.m. The last East Train was rolling in. Shield had spent his life riding the E-Train; he knew its schedule like his own scars. At his right, a city bus approached the intersection, and Shield braced himself. As the light turned red, the bus pulled into the road and accelerated. Shield floored it, speeding across the intersection, avoiding the nose of the bus by a hair. He crushed the brakes and brought the car to a screeching stop. As the bus rolled past with its driver honking and waving a fist at him, it shielded him from Hank’s boys’ view. Shield jumped out of the car and into the dark mouth of the subway stairs. He’d left the keys in the ignition and a note he’d scribbled on a pack of matches for the boys.

  Please have the car cleaned, thanks. When you’re done, you can leave it in my driveway. Tip is inside the glove compartment. I figured ten apiece would do it.

  He shot down the stairs and even had enough time to drop a coin in the turnstile.

  When the train reached the platform, he looked over his shoulder and stepped into an empty coach. As he settled himself into a seat, his eyes adjusting to the bright light inside, one of Hank’s boys slammed his fist against the wagon’s window. Shield leaned back with a smirk, drawing his damp hat over his brow. It was a forty-minute ride to where he was going. If he didn’t try to sleep, he’d start to think about Sugar. About Sugar’s mouth on another man’s skin.

  So instead, he closed his eyes and listened to the E train’s metal wheels grinding along the rail.

  *

  The Brickle Inn looked exactly the way it did when he’d seen it last. Shabby, and about as welcoming as an outhouse.

  Above the reception office, the word “Vacancy” shone permanently. There were two cars in the parking lot. One of them was missing a tire.

  Shield walked across the lot and knocked on door number six. He glanced around. The wind had died down and left everything silent. Clouds of mist danced around the street lamps. This place could have sunk to the bottom of the deepest sea and no one would have noticed.

  The door opened. Before Shield could get a good look at his mysterious host, a warm hand pulled on his wrist and the door shut behind him.

  “Turn on the lights,” Shield ordered, but his voice wasn’t as steady as he’d have liked.

  “Sorry, I didn’t realize I was sitting in the dark.” The man’s black silhouette moved across the room. There was the sound of the switch, and artificial light flooded the room. “Gosh, I really didn’t think you’d come, but I”―the man paused, scanning the room nervously, nibbling his bottom lip―“Cigarette?” he finally asked, reaching for a pack of Marlboros left open on the bed. “I only have three left. I’ve been smoking myself sick in here.”

  Shield declined. The man pacing the room was neither tall nor short, and there was nothing extraordinary about him. His clothes were plain, his dark hair disheveled, and his shirttail hung out of his brown pants. His green eyes were intelligent and bright.

  “Who are you?” Shield asked, getting his wits back.

  The man lit a cigarette and blew out the smoke. “My name is Edward.” He extended his hand, but Shield didn’t take it. “I’ll get right down to it, I suppose.” Edward lowered his hand and blushed slightly. “Boy, I really don’t know how to say this, but here it goes. I’m Sugar’s…well, I was his, well we”―smoldering ashes tipped over on the man’s hand and he waved them off―“had an affair. It was so silly of me. So silly, really.”

  Silly?

  “You and Sugar had an affair?”

  Edward knit his eyebrows. “You’re very calm. I thought you’d―”

  “Don’t be fooled by appearances. And get to the point.”

  “All right. I’m married. You understand? I have children. I’m, I’m in charge of commercial loans at a bank. A very prestigious―”

  “But that didn’t keep you from climbing into Sugar’s warm bed, now did it?” Shield made a conscious effort to keep on a poker face, but inside, his heart thundered. Images of Edward and Sugar tangled in sweet, but compromising positions, raced through his mind.

  “No, you’re right, it didn’t,” Edward said meekly. “I have no excuse for it. I don’t know what got over me.”

  I have an idea, Shield thought.

  “But what Sugar is doing is loathsome. I won’t stand for it.” Edward crushed his cigarette hard against the glass ashtray. “He wants twenty thousand dollars from me or he’ll tell Martha everything.”

  Sugar, oh Sugar, honey boy. Shield winced a little, but stared at Edward’s flushed cheeks.

  “And all because of this Violet woman. This,” Edward shook his head in disgust, “conniving bitch.”

  “Go on.”

  “Sugar’s unhappy. He’s stuck between a rock and a hard place. He wants out, he says. And I tried to talk some sense into him, but…I guess I don’t need to convince you. You know him, don’t you?”

  Shield didn’t answer.

  “Sugar is going to hang me out to dry. Violet runs a money laundering racket through the Detour Club, he swears. She has cops on payroll. She gets half of her liquor for free from a contact at the commission, and she’s in deep with the Polish mob.” Edward paused, his gaze sharpening on Shield’s face. “I don’t know if he’s lying. I don’t know what to believe anymore.” Edward appear
ed to deflate like a popped balloon, and he plopped down on the edge of the bed, burying his face in his hands. “Is is true?” he asked in a pleading voice. “Is Sugar really in that much trouble?”

  “It’s true,” Shield said. “Sugar may have lied about many things, but not about the Detour. Not about Violet.” The words rushed out of him. “Violet runs the scam with a couple of no-good thugs they call Hank’s boys, and she has her hand in everyone’s pocket. Sugar got tangled up in it, but he’s not a bad boy. He just doesn’t know his true worth.” At these words, Edward’s eyes seemed to veil with emotion. Shield pressed on. “The Detour is corrupt. It’s all a sham. All of it. Sugar is just trying to survive it.”

  “It’s true, then. All of it.” Edward hung his head. “Everything Sugar said. The fraudulent transactions, the guns, everything.”

  “Yes,” Shield said. “All of it. But that doesn’t give Sugar the right to―”

  “Okay, Shield.” Edward’s jaw tightened and he got to his feet. “Turn around and put your hands behind your back.”

  Shield scowled. “What’s going on?”

  Edward flashed his badge. “I don’t wanna draw my weapon. Please. Turn around and breath deep. It’s over, Shield.” He produced handcuffs out of his pockets. “Easy D swore you were our man.”

  “Easy D?” Shield shrank back. “He’s dead, he―”

  “Turn around.” Edward firmly forced Shield’s arms back and shackled his wrists. “Easy D is sitting in a hotel room downtown. He jumped the fence three months ago and knocked on our door.” Edward checked the handcuffs’ grip and turned Shield around. “He handed us Detour’s books two weeks ago.”

  “But—” Shield’s voice was strangled. No. He’d sworn to protect Sugar, and instead he’d sold him out. “Sugar didn’t have a choice,” he almost moaned, spinning around to face Edward. “He’s clean. He’s a good―”

  “Well, that’s what Easy says.” Edward picked up the phone and punched in a number. “I got it,” he said to the interlocutor. “I got it all.” He opened the nightstand’s top drawer and pulled out the tape recorder. He pushed the stop button down.

  “Whatever you do, don’t drag Sugar into this―”

  “What is it with this boy anyway? You men seem to lose your marbles around him.”

  “Easy D is alive,” breathed Shield. “I don’t get―”

  “Look, Shield, Easy’s books had a price, and we paid it.”

  “Immunity.”

  “You’re smarter than you look.” Edward peeked out the window. “That’s right. Immunity and a nice lifelong vacation to an island called the witness protection plan.” He opened the door and signaled to someone outside. He turned his bright eyes to Shield. “Him and Sugar.”

  The car. The letter.

  Sugar, oh Sugar.

  Two men walked in. “This him?” the older of the two asked.

  “That’s him.” Edward pulled Shield up by the arm. He stuffed his loose shirttail into his pants and threw on his navy blue jacket. “The boy?”

  The older man’s face twitched and a faint blush of pink rose above his neatly starched shirt collar. “Gone,” he said. “Vanished into thin air.”

  “What do you mean, gone?”

  Shield’s eyes darted to Edward’s blank expression and he knew.

  That’s right, boys. Gone.

  “I don’t know,” the old cop said. “But when Easy’s car, I mean, when the informant’s car showed up, the boy was gone.”

  “They searched the joint, right―”

  “Yes, but he was gone, I tell you.” The man swallowed noisily. “Most of the money, too.”

  Edward―not so gently now―jerked Shield forward. “Did he tell you where he was going? He must have told you. Come on, spit it out.”

  Shield remained limp, watching the sky turn pink. “We had a fight. He didn’t say anything.”

  “Goddamn it, without the boy we don’t have a deal.” Edward pushed Shield out of the room, to the unmarked car parked sideways by the door.

  “What are you saying?” the younger cop barked, his face twisting into a grim expression.

  “I’m saying, Easy will deny everything. He’ll call those books a hoax. It was Sugar or nothing.”

  And wasn’t it always so?

  Shield let Edward lead him to the car and slid into the backseat. He leaned his head against the leather and tried to get his body into a comfortable position.

  “You find that boy!” Edward cried, circling around to the front seat. “I don’t care if you have to comb through every city and cornfield across the country!”

  Through the rain-streaked window, the sun’s first rays grazed Shield’s face, and he closed his eyes, sinking back into his seat. Last call, boys.

  He smiled.

  The bar man has left the building.

  The Case of the Missing Bulldog

  Josh Aterovis

  I knew it was a mistake saying I was a private dick in my online dating profile, but hey, it never fails to impress. I’d already gotten several dates off that alone, and now it seemed I had a case, too. Sure, I could have turned it down, but I’ve always been a sucker for a pretty face and a perky ass.

  Which would explain why I was following that ass through the back door of a run-down Baltimore row house in the dark hours of the morning in a neighborhood I’d usually avoid after sunset.

  Did I mention we had to duck under police tape stretched across the doorway?

  I paused just inside. “I feel compelled to point out that I could lose my license for this. Why are we here again?”

  He stopped, glancing over his shoulder. “Because this is what I was telling you about.”

  “You haven’t told me anything. You said you needed help.”

  “I do. And this is why.” He flipped a switch, and the fluorescent overhead light flickered on, illuminating a dingy kitchen—complete with crime scene. The police had been in and done their thing, but Mr. Clean had not yet made an appearance. Dried blood splattered the bank of chipped enamel cabinets that might once have been white, but had long since settled into the grayish color of neglect. Something had been dragged through more blood on the grimy, cracked, and curled vinyl floor. A smeared bloody handprint on a dented refrigerator added a nice touch.

  I raised an eyebrow and turned to my guide. His face was drawn into an expression of disgust, but otherwise he didn’t look overly upset by the scene. He certainly didn’t look like a cold-blooded murderer, either.

  He looked every minute of his nineteen years and not a second more. The boy was model gorgeous: dark curly hair, almond-shaped eyes, and lips just begging to be kissed long and hard. His ass was high, round, and made to fit perfectly into my palms.

  I stuffed my hands into my pockets to keep them from testing out that theory. “So what’s the story?”

  “The police think I killed my grandfather.”

  “Good story. Why would they think that?”

  “Because I hated him.”

  “Good reason. Did you do it?”

  “Would I be talking to you if I had?”

  “I dunno. Why are you talking to me?”

  “I told you, I need help.”

  “Help with what? Obviously they don’t have proof or you’d be sitting in a cell, not giving me the Halloween tour of the family manse.”

  “They didn’t find him, just…this.” He gestured toward the mess. “They couldn’t keep me since there’s no proof of a crime at this point.”

  My fingers twitched. A cigarette would have been fantastic right about then, but I’d quit a couple of months before. I’d have settled for a shot of something strong and undiluted. “I charge extra for moving bodies.”

  The boy frowned. “I didn’t kill him.”

  “When do they think this happened?”

  “Last Friday night.”

  “So a week ago last night?” He nodded. “Where were you?”

  “Staying at a friend’s house in Fed Hill.”
<
br />   “Can your friend vouch for you?”

  “My friend went out. I stayed in to work on a big paper that was due last week.”

  “Anyone else see you?” He shook his head. “Of course not. That would be too easy. So you have no alibi, and you have motive. Tough break.”

  “That’s it? Tough break?”

  “Calm down, kid. I’m still here, aren’t I? Why don’t you show me around the house while you tell me more about your grandfather.”

  “It’s a long story.”

  “What else are we gonna do? Stand here and look for shapes in the bloodstains? I think that one looks like a kitty. What do you see?”

  He frowned and stalked away through a narrow doorway. I turned off the light—the less we advertised we were in the house, the better I’d feel—and followed him into a room that smelled of stale cigar smoke. He snapped on a lamp to reveal a shabby living room matching the dreary kitchen.

  “Abuelo wasn’t too concerned with cleanliness, as you can tell,” he said with a dismissive wave toward the dirty, mismatched furniture.

  “I’m sure he wasn’t expecting guests. What did he do?”

  “For a living? He was an immigrant. He’s from Argentina. He worked odd jobs mostly, sometimes as a handyman or carpenter here and there—whatever he could find.”

  “What about your abuela?”

  “She died before I was born.”

  “Did he always live in Baltimore?”

  “No, he moved around quite a bit.”

  “What about you?”

  “I was born in New York. My mom moved here when she and my dad got divorced.”

  “So he’s your mom’s father?”

  “No, my dad’s.” He picked up a framed photo from a nearby table cluttered with an overflowing ashtray, dirty glasses, and unopened mail. He handed it to me. “That’s my dad and grandfather.”

  The photo showed a short, barrel-chested, middle-aged man standing next to a handsome younger man, two boys at their feet. I didn’t see any family resemblance. The kid obviously took after his mother.