by Jim Cogan
Shortly after the war, amongst many others, I arrived in town. Back then things were very different, it was like the model town – the American dream. I don’t know exactly when it changed - a lot of people blamed the change in the drinking laws. Prohibition was long over but Santa Justina was a dry city up until 1950. Boy, did we ever make up for it after, though! Then things got a little complicated, it seemed that as the city grew at an ever increasing rate, it was somehow mutating. There was always crime, but now it became organised and on a grander scale. The night opened up to all manner of vices; late night bars, gambling dens, strip joints, prostitution. Santa Justina had become a city of sin, a dirty city.
I moved there to become a cop, and who knows, had things been different I might have been a cop for a lot longer. One day I was a fine, upstanding officer of the law, I made one mistake and trusted someone I shouldn’t have - the next day I was an ex cop with a dirty reputation. There weren’t too many career paths open to someone under those circumstances, disgraced cops had a habit of either turning their back on the law altogether and adopting a life of crime, or they became private detectives. I chose the latter.
So, Santa Justina was a dirty city, but this worked to my advantage. There’s a lot of good business in a dirty city for a private detective.
*
My office was right in the centre of town, I’d been lucky to get the place – it was a first floor premises above a busy convenience store, accessed through a discreet side door and up a narrow stairwell.
‘J.Jerome Private Investigations Ltd’ emblazoned the outer office door in as impressive and dynamic a font as I could afford the sign writer to produce. The door gave way to a modest reception and waiting area – this was Lydia’s domain. She was seated at her sizable desk, the usual array of paperwork strategically placed in front of her. Hell, I didn’t even know what most of it was these days, but Lydia did, thank God. Those bits of paper, receipts, bills, licences - to me they were like the by-product of my profession, the annoying detritus that ended up clinging to me at the end of a working day. When a case was over I would dust them off me and they’d fall chaotically onto Lydia’s desk, and she would gather it all up and make sense of it all.
Lydia was a well built woman, gracefully negotiating her forties, about five-five, pretty - with feminine charm, but a good head for figures and a very sharp mind. She’d never married, she always told me she’d never found a guy who measured up to her expectations. I could understand that, she didn’t suffer fools and she was never going to be some guys obedient housewife. Considering this was a largely pre-feminist era I guess Lydia was well ahead of her time.
“Well it’s about time, he’s in your office, on his fourth cup of coffee.”
Lydia didn’t even look up, she was ensconced in a complicated assortment of papers and files.
“Thanks, Sweetheart. And the car-.”
“He’ll be over at 11.30, and he says if its blood he’ll charge you double.”
“He’s got me by the balls on this one, it ain’t blood but I sure as hell ain’t touching the stuff – but if he asks for more than fifty dollars, tell him he can go take a hike.”
I hastily hung up my hat and coat on the stand in the waiting room and headed into my office.
“Mr Jameson, Johnny Jerome, apologies for keeping you waiting, it’s been a crazy morning.”
Richard Jameson rose to meet me as I entered and offered an outstretched hand. I took it, firmly – but cautiously, that’s the extent to which I don’t trust lawyers - they’ve always got something nasty up their sleeve.
“Mr Jerome, glad to make your acquaintance. Apologies for appearing on your doorstep unannounced, but I require your assistance in an urgent and delicate personal matter.”
I politely ushered him back into his seat, then strode around to the other side of my oak desk.
“Well, you better tell me all about it?”
“Word is that you know a bit about the, how shall I put it? The ‘darker’ aspects of this city.”
“You could say that.”
“My son, Anton. I sent him to a top college last summer, away from here. It wasn’t cheap but I thought it was best. He flunked out after the first semester – so I dragged his sorry backside back here. I fixed him up with some part time work, a junior clerk role at my legal practice, just something to get him re-focused, show him what work really was and let him earn some money. I was hoping he’d come around to trying college again the following year, write this year off as a false start.”
I could appreciate the sentiment, what parent wouldn’t want the best for their kid? But most people I knew didn’t earn in five years what it cost to put someone through a top college for a single year, and that just made me dislike Jameson all the more.
“But things didn’t go to plan?”
I offered Jameson a cigarette from a box on my table – I never touch the filthy things, I guess I was ahead of my time in that respect, but pretty much all my clients smoked, it was kind of expected. Jameson took one and lit up right away. He exhaled deeply, as if composing himself for the finale of the story. This was the bit where it all went bad.
“At first it was fine, I thought he was back on track. But he’s a young lad, impressionable, and he suddenly had his own money in his back pocket. And in this city, well, you know how it is?”
“I’ve an idea, but why don’t you tell me how it is, exactly?”
“He fell in with some – unsavoury sorts. I didn’t want to discourage the boy from having friends, a social life. I’m not an ogre. Perhaps I should have been, I let him go astray. Before I knew it he was into something over his head.”
“And what would that be?”
I could tell Jameson had trouble admitting it to himself, let alone saying it out loud. He swallowed hard, took another long puff of his cigarette then came out with it.
“Drugs, Mr Jerome. First it was just liqueur, I wasn’t happy, I disciplined him severely, but I put it down to youthful hijinks. But then it got more serious. I began to suspect he was dabbling with marijuana – he’d become lethargic, vague. He started turning up late to work, then skipping shifts feigning illness. Then he stopped bothering to turn up at all. I took him to task, threatened him with packing him off to a military boarding school. He promised me things would improve, that he’d sort himself out. Next day he didn’t show up for work again. I got home and found him gone, along with $250 in cash from the safe in my study. That was four weeks ago, there’s been no trace of him since.”
“And you’ve been to the police?”
“Yes, for all the good it’s done.”
I had to agree with him there, Santa Justina’s finest couldn’t find their own butt cheeks with both hands and map. They wouldn’t have had a clue where to find this kid.
“And that’s where you come in, Mr Jerome. I need him found. Fast. I lost his poor, departed mother, I can’t lose him as well.”
I almost felt a little bit for the guy. Imagine that, me feeling sympathy for a lawyer. Almost. But not that much, let’s be honest.
“Now then, Mr Jameson, lets remain positive here. I’ve just closed a case this morning so my schedule is open, I can start work on this right away. But, this kind of investigation often requires going to some fairly shady places – dangerous places. And dangerous means expensive.”
“Name your price, Mr Jerome, find Anton and you shall have it.”
“I’m going to quote you a flat rate here, $25 a day, plus an additional $2,000 when I find him.”
“Not a problem,” he handed me a hefty envelope, “in here you’ll find $500, let’s call it an incentive, shall we?”
Hot damn! Had a lawyer ever handed over their cash as easily as this in the history of the universe?
“I’m going to need a recent photograph of Anton.”
“Here you are, Mr Jerome. I trust this will be okay, it was taken about three months back?”
And just when I thought the day could
n’t get any better, here was the coup de grace!
“That’s Anton?”
Sweet Jesus, I couldn’t believe it – the youth starring back at me in the photo was none other than the poor, unfortunate lad I’d seen at the drugs den the previous night. This had the potential to be the fastest money I’d ever made, although I was almost sad that it might be over so quick, what with the $25 a day fee and all. But I had to disguise my delight pretty well, lest I had to also admit to Jameson that whilst I had seen his son less than 24 hours ago, let’s just say he wasn’t at his best. Hell, for all I knew the kid could be lying dead in that shit-hole kitchen right now.
I hastily concluded things with Jameson and showed him to the door, I didn’t want to waste any time on this. I was flagging a bit, having not had any sleep for over twenty four hours, but this was the nature of the job sometimes. If I cashed in here I could afford to take a few days off.
“Lydia, I gotta’ get back across town,” I said, gathering up my hat and coat.
“But it’s only 10.30, your car -.”
“I need a favour, sweetheart.”
“Oh come on, Johnny!”
“I promise I won’t do anything stupid, I’ll drive real careful, I swear.”
“You know if there is the slightest dent in my car I will cut off both your balls with a rusty knife then force feed them to you?”
She reluctantly handed me the keys – I gave her a cheeky wink, then hot-tailed it out of the door before she could change her mind.
*
Lydia was the only woman I knew at the time who could drive, let alone owned their own car. Her car was her pride and joy, and she kept it so pristine it was crazy, the damn thing gleamed!
I drove as fast as I felt I could get away with, terrified that someone would pull out dangerously in front of me at a junction, or slam into the back of me whilst stopped at traffic lights.
Eventually I pulled into the secluded road where the drug den was situated. Or rather, I turned to pull into the road and promptly had to stop dead before a police roadblock. Dozens of uniformed cops were manning the roadblock, with plenty more milling around behind. I backed up and parked a little way down the street, then headed back on foot to see if I could get a closer look.
The police barriers were a considerable distance away, but I could see what was going on, and sure enough, it was the drugs den that was the centre of attention. I could make out that unlike myself the previous evening, the cops had elected to kick the door in, so much so that it was hanging off the hinges.
As I stood at the edge of the street a bizarre scene was unfolding. I spotted three figures lying prone in the middle of the road, presumably having just been carried or dragged outside. None of them were moving. From my slightly distant vantage point I could make out that they appeared to be two guys and a girl, but no sign of Anton Jameson.
Then I saw someone who was very familiar to me, one Lt Joseph Wails – a former colleague of mine from my time on the force. We had a lot of history did me and Joe, he was one of the many colleagues I had who were quick to turn their back on me and ultimately let me carry the wrap for the incident that got me kicked out. Hate is a strong word, and I try not to use it too often – a life spent hating is a wasted life in my book, but let’s just say I deeply resented Wails – for what he did, for the fact he was still on the force despite being twice as dirty a cop as I ever was, and especially because I knew he simply didn’t give a damn - he’d never expressed an ounce of guilt or remorse about screwing me over like that. Which is why what happened next really brightened up my day.
Wails was inspecting the three prone figures, leaning over and prodding each of them – slapping their faces as if to try and rouse them. The girl and the first guy were definitely out of it, but upon his manhandling of the second guy, who I might add was of a very big and muscular build, he very suddenly reacted. The figure leapt to his feet, his eyes suddenly wide open and wild. He swung an absolute peach of a right cross into the Lt’s startled looking face and he went down like a sack of shit, his hands clutching at his bloodied nose. For a second the guy just stood there, appearing to admire his handy work, then four uniformed cops set upon him with batons. Rather impressively, the guy held them off for about a minute before they finally took him down, forcing him face down on the ground then getting cuffs on him.
“God damn it! Why in the name of God was this man not restrained!” Bawled Wails, spraying a mix of saliva and blood as he shouted.
“Sorry, lieutenant, we assumed he was unconscious like the other two,” offered one of the uniforms, feebly.
“Does that son of a bitch look unconscious to you, asshole?”
“No Sir, I-.”
“Do unconscious people make a habit of assaulting officers of the law?”
“Sir-.”
“No, they fucking don’t, Officer! Get this piece of shit down to the station, and if he gives you trouble you break his motherfucking balls, do you understand me?”
“Yes, Sir!”
The officers dragged the man away and the drama was over. I watched as Wails headed in my direction. On his way he was joined by another old familiar of mine, Sgt Scott Glenn. This was a good sign, he was a decent guy, a good cop – and one of the few people in the squad who didn’t line up to put the boot into me when things went bad. While Glenn was checking the Lt over to see if he was alright, I noticed that another figure was being led out of the drug den in cuffs. It was Newt, the dealer. If Anton Jameson wasn’t here anymore, Newt might be the one person who could tell me where he might have gone. I knew I had to speak to him, only problem was between me and him was a police barrier, dozens of uniforms and...
“Jerome! What in the name of damn are you doing here?”
“Hey, Lt. Scotty.”
“Hey, Johnny, how’s it g-.”
“Shut up, Glenn! Jerome, this is proper police business, you ain’t got no place being here.”
“I’m on a case, missing person, possibly a patron of that there little establishment that your boys are tearing apart. And I must say, what a pleasure it’s been watching you in action. Although, you got a little blood there on your shirt, by the way.”
“Shut your mouth, wise-ass. So, you’re still doing that private eye bullshit? I hear most of that kind of work is spying on cheating spouses while they fuck their secret lovers in seedy motels. That true?”
“Sure is, Lt. Speaking of which, how is Mrs Wails these days?”
“Why, you son of a bitch-!”
“Easy, Lt, why don’t you go see the medic, get yourself checked over properly, eh? Let me sort this out.”
Had to hand it to good old Scotty, he had a way of dealing with Wails. It made me kind of glad that I wasn’t on the force anymore, I’d have shot that bastard long ago!
“You get him out of here, you got that, Sgt? You hearing me, Jerome, you go look elsewhere for your missing druggie, this place is off limits.”
Finally, and to my great relief, Lt Wails departed. Now I could go to work.
“Thanks, Scotty. So what’s the crack here?”
“Dope house bust.”
“You know about the heroin, right?”
“Ain’t found any yet, but that ain’t what we’re looking for, we’re here for marijuana.”
Strange as it seems, but at the time that was the line of thinking at the very top. Dope was deemed to be the biggest threat to our society, those darn communists were flooding the country with it to turn us into a nation of hopelessly stoned idiots, no doubt with the long term plan to invade and conquer us while we were all shitfaced. Meanwhile, the French Connection was in full swing and heroin was coming in right, left and centre and seemingly no-one gave a shit.
“The Mayor is up for re-election next spring, so he wants to be seen to be tough – he’s picking up the official line from Washington and looking to wipe out the scourge that is dope from our fair streets. So here we are.”
I could see Glenn wanted to wind
up the friendly small talk.
“Anyway, Johnny, it’s been good to see you, but you heard the Lt.”
“Scotty, I need a favour.”
“The hell you do-.”
“That guy over there, the dealer, I need to speak to him.”
“You gotta’ be shittin’ me, Johnny?”
“C’mon, two minutes, that’s all I’m after.”
“But Wails-.”
“Screw Wails!”
“Easy for you to say, you don’t have to work with the asshole.”
“I’m going to give you something of use here, Scotty. Last night I was here. Different case – missing girl, Santa Justina PD failed to find her, Michelle Masters, you familiar with that one.”
“Sure, someone brought her into the hospital last night, was that you, Johnny?”
“Sure was, she was in a very bad way, massive heroin OD, but she just about made it. Whilst getting her out of there I spotted a kid passed out on the kitchen floor, turns out he is the son of some hotshot lawyer, who just happened to turn up at my office this morning hoping I could find him. That’s why I’m here, but it seems the kid ain’t here no more, and that guy you got cuffed up over there might be the only lead as to where he’s at now.”
“That’s your case, Johnny, not ours, I don’t see what-.”
“Look, no doubt there was a small bit of dope dealing going on in there, but that place was being geared up for heroin. Hopeless addicts, guaranteed repeat business, it’s a dependable and profitable racket at the moment.”
“But so far we’ve found next to nothing. A few reefer butts in an ashtray, a hung over dealer and three – well, actually two unconscious customers and one with a penchant for playing dead then punching police officers, but no sign of any dope or any heroin.”
“Those two unconscious customers – from here they look like they’re in a similar state to the girl I rescued last night. If I was a gambling man I’d say they’ve panicked when your boys started kicking in the door and swallowed their stash.”
