Blood and Rain

by B. L. Morgan

  BLOOD AND RAIN

  Other Books by B. L. Morgan

  Blood for the Masses

  Blood on Celluloid

  Night Knuckles

  BLOOD AND RAIN

  B. L. MORGAN

  SPEAKING VOLUMES, LLC

  NAPLES, FLORIDA

  2011

  BLOOD AND RAIN

  Copyright © 2008 by B. L. MORGAN

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission of the author.

  ISBN 978-1-61232-019-9

  This book is dedicated with intense love and respect to

  Judi Morgan.

  Without you none of this would be possible.

  Special Thanks goes to Jennifer Caress for a wonderful 1st edit.

  You are the real hero of the John Dark Universe.

  Special dedication to Kay and Gene Ayres

  Truer friends have never walked the Earth.

  Table of Contents

  BOOK ONE

  PART I

  CHAPTER 1 WELCOME TO THE JUNGLE

  CHAPTER 2 JACK DANIELS AND JULIA

  CHAPTER 3 NOBODY SEEMS TO CARE

  CHAPTER 4 FELICIA

  CHAPTER 5 JOHNNY'S

  CHAPTER 6 LARRY, DARRYL, AND DARRYL

  CHAPTER 7 CHESS AND FISTS IN THE DARK

  CHAPTER 8 JOE BRIGGS

  CHAPTER 9 JULIA'S HOUSE

  CHAPTER 10 THE COLD WORLD

  CHAPTER 11 POEMS AND PROSTITUTES

  CHAPTER 12 GHOST'S

  PART II

  CHAPTER 13 MOMMA ROSA AND SLOP CHEWY

  CHAPTER 14 SCHOOL DAYS

  CHAPTER 15 THE PAST NEVER FORGETS

  CHAPTER 16 THE JAMAICAN BOY SCOUTS

  CHAPTER 17 T & A BREAK

  CHAPTER 18 DIVINE CANDI

  CHAPTER 19 DOGGIN’ DALLAS

  CHAPTER 20 TOR AMBROSE

  PART III

  END GAME!

  CHAPTER 21 BLACK BLADE IN THE NIGHT

  CHAPTER 22 DOWN IN THE DARK

  CHAPTER 23 A STREET FIGHT

  CHAPTER 24 A LOST CHILD

  CHAPTER 25 TOR’S HOME

  CHAPTER 26 BLOOD AND FIRE

  CHAPTER 27 LOOSE ENDS

  CHAPTER 28 A PROMISE OF REST

  CHAPTER 29 AWAKENING

  CHAPTER 30 JULIA'S HOUSE

  BOOK TWO

  PART I

  CHAPTER 31 FEBRUARY 4, FRIDAY

  CHAPTER 32 MONEY IS MONEY

  CHAPTER 33 DOMESTIC BLISS

  CHAPTER 34 A TOWN THAT SLEEPS IN SILENCE

  CHAPTER 35 NAKED WOMEN AND IDIOTS

  CHAPTER 36 BOOKS

  CHAPTER 37 YOU JUST NEVER KNOW

  CHAPTER 38 PREPARATIONS

  CHAPTER 39 IN THE ROOM

  CHAPTER 40 GOING BACK

  CHAPTER 41 JUNKIES AND PHOTOS

  CHAPTER 42 DEAD MEN

  CHAPTER 43 DOWN MEMORY LANE

  CHAPTER 44 WARNINGS

  PART II

  THE CHILL OF DEATH

  CHAPTER 45 PLAYING TAG WITH THE BOYS

  CHAPTER 46 OLD FRIENDS

  CHAPTER 47 GIRLFRIENDS

  CHAPTER 48 FACES

  CHAPTER 49 BELOW THE STREETS

  CHAPTER 50 INTO THE DARK

  CHAPTER 51 SHAPES

  CHAPTER 52 INTO THE PIT

  PART III

  CHAPTER 53 SACRIFICES

  CHAPTER 54 CYPHRE

  CHAPTER 55 THE RESTLESS DEAD

  CHAPTER 56 FALLING SNOW

  AFTERWORD

  BOOK ONE

  PART I

  OPENINGS

  "Mercy ain't a part of the game."

  - Sonny Liston

  This is when

  The night crawlers

  Come out . . .

  - The Walker in Darkness

  CHAPTER 1

  WELCOME TO THE JUNGLE

  There are reasons for all the things that I do. You may not understand them. Hell, I might not understand them, but there are reasons. It's Saturday night, raining lightly. I'm driving in my car, a tan Olds Delta Eighty-Eight. Just driving, watching the streaks made by the streetlights and the blinking neon lights from the taverns.

  October, East St. Louis, cool, cool night, even the filtered air from the heater doesn't keep out the stink from the city around me. Whores wave, yell “Hey baby ya wanna . . .,” I drive on. Feeling the heat from the blowers. Feeling the cold build inside.

  I cruise the streets going nowhere in particular. Watching the show.

  Then, there he is, looking big and bad and black. That motherfucker. I park and sit and watch. The drizzle comes down slow almost like a mist.

  He stands there in his black leather long coat and black hat and black boots all shining in the night. Shit, he even has sunglasses on in the middle of the fucking night.

  I watch from a half block away. A pair of brothers walks up to him. They exchange some words and one shows him something in his hand. The man in black leather motions them to follow him, then leads them to the dark entrance of an alley away from the streetlights, into the blackness.

  People walk by the alley, young partiers going nowhere except down to the land of the wasted. Even from where I am, through the rain-streaked windshield, I see a pinprick of light flicker on, then die a moment later.

  More people pass on the street. Some coming and going from a little bar called the Barbary Coast. Not all of them are lost.

  A little while passes, maybe fifteen minutes, then the three emerge from the dark of the alley. They give each other bro handshakes.

  Boy, isn't that touching. Like the spider kissing the flies.

  Well, it's now or never - 11:30 in East St. Louis. There is always a reason for the things that I do.

  I get out of the car. My Olds Delta Eighty-Eight, it's a classic. At least that's what the used car dealer who I bought it from said. Whatever that means.

  I cross the street, weaving slightly. Kind of stumbling, hands in my overcoat pockets.

  I step up onto the sidewalk, my feet dragging, and start walking toward Mr. Leatherman. They say his name is Morris West. He has a Jamaican accent. He showed up here about six months ago and has been selling crack ever since his shiny black face appeared.

  Every now and then he sells some shit he says is crack and somebody dies. It's bad enough to be selling death, but to be cheating people so they die without even getting the high they paid for. Well, there ain’t anything lower than that.

  I stumble toward him exaggerating the drunken walk. I get close to him and say “Hey man, what you got I can get high on,” Sounding as buzzed as I can.

  Mr. Leatherman looks at me closely.

  “I don't know you,” He says. “I don't know what the fuck you talk about.” He's showing his teeth like he's angry. I think all right, show me how bad you are.

  “I got money man,” I say and pull a wad of bills from my coat pocket with my left hand.

  “Look man,” I say, “I just want to get fucked up. I saw you here before. I know what the deal is. Look, my old lady left me, the fuckin bitch, I just need to get wasted. You're here, I got money, and you don't want to do this. I'll find somebody who'll like this money. Understand?”

  He looks at me closely. “Are you a cop?” He asks.

  “Ah fuck you man,” I tell him, “No!”

  He hesitates then says, “It would be entrapment, man, if you had anything to do with the police”. He waves me toward the alleyway.

  Mr. Leatherman, Morris West, steps back into the pitch black shadow and I follow him. He takes a pipe out of his inside pocket and from a medicine bottle puts a rock of crack into it. He flicks a Bic lighter and the flame illuminates his cold black face, his eyes like hot coals.

  “
Sweets to the sweet,” He says and laughs deeply shoving the pipe at me.

  The motherfucker thinks he's Candyman.

  I pull from my right pocket a snub-nose thirty-eight with a homemade silencer on it made from washers glued together. He doesn't even seem to see me move and step close to him. I guess he thought I was going for the pipe.

  I put the barrel under his chin and pull the trigger. There is a pop like a single handclap. The top of his scalp comes loose in a big flap and he steps back twice before his knees collapse. He goes down on his ass and then back in a pile of garbage.

  I stand over him again and put the barrel to his forehead and pull the trigger. His head comes apart and I know the candy store on this block is going to be closed for a while.

  Then, I go through his pockets and wallet and take all that he has. The cops will think this was just one more drug killing by a rival dealer and what the hell, I can use the cash.

  CHAPTER 2

  JACK DANIELS AND JULIA

  That night I sat up and watched TV all night. Actually, I laid on the couch and drank whiskey as the images on my set just flew past my eyes. I watched old stupid horror flicks on KDNL TV 30.

  Or maybe they watched me. They showed me the kind of things I wanted to see.

  Death and Destruction.

  That's all that's left for a man like me.

  Jack Daniels didn't put me to sleep as I hoped he would.

  Sunday came early, too early. Bright light through the shades. I found myself trying to close those shades and dull the razor cutting in my brain.

  I guess I must have slept sometime during the night, but I didn't remember falling asleep and I sure didn't feel rested.

  The sign on the door to my office/apartment reads - John Dark, Detective, Open Every Day.

  Well, sometimes I just leave the door locked.

  It's mainly just a front anyway. I make my real money other ways. This morning I had five thousand dollars in my pocket from someone the police will be happy to see gone.

  Damn my head hurts. I pick up the JD and start to take a drink but the smell makes me wretch. I go to the bathroom and throw up. What a waste of good whiskey. The couch looks good so I fall out on it and cover my head with the pillow waiting for sleep, or at least the pounding to go away.

  * * *

  About noon or maybe about two, I managed to drag myself off the couch and make it to the bathroom. I felt like shit. The mirror told me I looked like shit. No surprise there.

  I shaved, threw water on my face, and dressed in my cleanest dirty clothes - classic private eye stuff, wrinkled sport jacket and slacks.

  Well, even if I do a half-assed job at this stuff, I do like the look. Every now and then I even get some pussy thrown at me because of the Mike Hammer look.

  Dizzy chicks sometimes get a stoned look on their faces when I tell them what I do. And I don't have a clue as to why. I don't give a shit. I don't ask too many questions when they start feeling me up and fantasizing about Mike Hammer hammering them.

  I was reaching for the doorknob to leave when the knock came from the other side.

  * * *

  She looked like the slave girl from “Gone With the Wind”. The one who was always screaming and crying and yelling, “Miss Scarlet, Miss Scarlet.” Except she had a calmness about herself that spoke of a life full of experience.

  This is not to say that she looked like one of the prostitutes that hang out on Grand Avenue. She didn't look worn out, just weary. Aware of what the world could do to her. But not afraid of it. No, she didn't look like she was afraid of anything.

  She sat across from me at my desk, the desk that came with the office/apartment when I rented it. She told me her name was Julia Richardson and that she was here because of her daughter.

  “Felicia is a good girl,” she said. “She makes good grades, doesn't do no drugs and runnin around and she ain’t been in no trouble at all.”

  “That's good, I'm glad at least there's a few kids that ain’t messin up. So why are you here?”

  Miss Richardson looked strangely distressed like someone who wants to run but knows they have to stand and fight.

  “I don't know where Felicia's at,” she said, the words thick in her throat. “About three nights ago she just up and vanished from out of her bedroom.”

  CHAPTER 3

  NOBODY SEEMS TO CARE

  Julia Richardson was a small, strong built woman, dressed conservatively in a long, blue with white striped dress. She looked like a secretary for a NAACP law firm. She was a nurse.

  She sat with her hands in her lap, very prim and proper. She passed me a photo of her daughter.

  “The police won't do anything,” she said. “They had me fill out a form and said this kind of thing happens all the time.”

  “I see,” I said.

  “No you don't,” she came back. “They made it sound like she was some kind of young hoe, done run off. Hell, I know there's no sign of forced entry but that don't mean she wasn't forced.”

  She sounded angry and was getting hotter by the second.

  “I don't know what it means,” I told her.

  She started to do the head-rocking thing that pissed-off black women do.

  “Well, I tell you what it means,” she almost yelled. “I tell ya!” Then she froze with her mouth open.

  “Oh, I'm sorry,” she said, “I just can't stand the way they treated me, like just some stupid nigger bitch.” Tears came to her eyes. “My girl is a good girl and nobody seems to care that she's gone.”

  Julia Richardson stood up and turned her back on me. She wiped one hand across her eyes. She was obviously very embarrassed by her show of weakness. Black women can't afford to be weak.

  I came around the desk and put my hands on her shoulders. The symbolic absurdness of a white man comforting a black woman was apparent to me. A lot of the blacks that I knew from the East St. Louis ghetto thought that whites were the cause of all their problems.

  Now, she was just a woman needing some help when it looked like she could find none. And me, for a change, I was going to act like a man.

  “I'll try to find out what happened to your little girl,” I told her. “I can't guarantee anything, but I'll look for her.”

  CHAPTER 4

  FELICIA

  Julia Richardson gave me a recent school photo of Felicia. She was a cute kid. Soon she would be a beautiful dark woman, just like her mother. We made a list of Felicia’s friends that she knew of. A short list, only two. This wasn't the type of girl who ran around much.

  Julia gave me two other photos of Felicia. One with her school choir. One of her playing in a chess tournament with people watching in the background.

  We made a list of Felicia’s interests and activities.

  She went to school, sang in the school choir, stayed overnight at her friend‘s houses every now and then. She was in the chess club at school. A clean innocent kid.

  No boyfriend as far as her mother knew.

  Sounded to me like she just wasn't out enough to have a boyfriend.

  Julia Richardson was proud of her daughter. It showed on her face and in her eyes when she spoke about her good grades, how pretty she was when she was in her choir up on the stage, and how she was smart enough to beat the snotty white boys from the suburbs when her chess club went to tournaments.

  Yeah, she was proud of her daughter. She was sad too. She didn't know where her little girl was. She wore her sadness like a heavy rain soaked coat.

  I was tempted to tell her just how bad a detective I was. I got very few real cases and most of those were of the‚ follow my cheating spouse type thing. But who else could I send her to? She obviously wasn't rich and any legitimate detective agency would bleed her dry quickly.

  “So,” I asked Julia Richardson when it seemed like our interview was winding down. “Who told you about me?”

  “When I was leaving the police department, one of the desk cops called me over and gave me your name. His name
tag said Briggs and he said you know the city real well.”

  “Joe Briggs,” I said. “Yeah, I know him. He sends me some business occasionally.” I didn't tell her the business he sent me was usually a lot different than this.

  “Well, I'll do what I can,” I told her.

  Julia Richardson stood up and we shook hands. I felt like putting my arms around her and I don't think entirely out of sympathy either.

  Julia was a good looking woman. She hesitated but the moment passed. Just one more time in my life I'd missed my mark.

  Then she turned and walked toward the door. She stopped and turned around.

  “Oh, just one more thing,” she said, “How much is this going to cost?”

  “I tell you what,” I said, “We'll discuss that if I find her.”

  Julie Richardson left then and I didn't have the heart to tell her that I didn't have any idea how to look for her little girl and I didn't expect to ever find her.

  CHAPTER 5

  JOHNNY'S

  I put the three photos Julia Richardson had given me in my jacket pocket and went over to Johnny's Bar and Grill. I figured I could show the photos and ask around about Felicia. And it gave me an excuse to have a drink or two. Or maybe a dozen if I felt like it.