Head For Murder (CrimeTime Short Stories Book 2)

by Chuck Swope

“Can I help you, Sir?” The man’s voice matched his face. Gruff and gravelly.

  “I, uh, think so,” Weasel stammered.

  “Something wrong? You look like you just seen a ghost.”

  The detective regained his composure. “I kinda thought so for just a minute. You look a lot like my Uncle Harold. He died five years ago.” The truth was, the man behind the counter looked just like the mask that not too long ago resided in a hatbox and caused Big Benny to lose his breakfast.

  “Sorry to hear that,” the man said. But there was no sympathy in his rough voice. “What brings you in today?”

  “Actually, I’m looking for Billy Jackson.”

  “This is your lucky day then. I’m Billy Jackson.”

  “You are?”

  “In the living flesh. Now what did you want to see me for?”

  “Uh, It’s a matter of some delicacy,” Weasel began, “You see, I’m a private detective, and I’ve uncovered some evidence that your life might be in danger.”

  “Really? How so? Are you also a fortune teller?”

  “No, just a private gumshoe. Mr. Jackson, this is no laughing matter. You’re in real danger.”

  “Okay, I’ll bite. What kind of danger am I in?”

  Weasel looked around the shop. There were a few customers milling about, inspecting the wares, and he could see another man in a back room that lay just behind Billy Jackson.

  “Somebody is planning to murder you.” Weasel dropped his voice to a whisper.

  The man’s eyebrows shot up. “Who? Who’s going to murder me?”

  “Well, I’m not prepared to tell you just yet.”

  “Why the hell not?”

  “Cause as I said, I’m a detective. I have to make a living. I need to be paid.”

  “Is this some sort of shakedown?” A threatening look enveloped Billy Jackson’s face causing Weasel to involuntarily take a step back. “No, no shake down. But I expect to be paid for information that could very well save your life.”

  Jackson relaxed. The scowl disappeared. “Okay, I can respect that. How much?”

  “I get three hundred a day, and a minimum of three days.”

  “So, we’re talking about nine hundred bucks?”

  “Yes, unless you also want me and my partner’s bodyguard services.”

  “Okay, I’m prepared to pay. But my personal checkbook’s at my home. Can you come around, say about nine tonight and we’ll talk about your bodyguard service too.”

  “Sure. Just give me your address.”

  Jackson wrote out his address and shoved it across the glass counter. “Just let yourself in, I’ll leave the patio door unlocked. I’m having a few people over and that way they won’t be disturbed.”

  “Sounds good,” Weasel agreed. “Don’t need a lot of people knowing about this anyway.”

  “Right you are,” Billy said, smiling. Even his smile looked threatening.

  Weasel caught up to Big Benny at the Cortez Bar. The big man was sipping on a glass of draft beer.

  He brightened when his partner slid onto the barstool next to him. “How’d it go?” he ventured.

  “Couldn’t be better. We got the job.”

  “He went for the deal? That’s great. Did ya get an advance?”

  Weasel motioned for the bartender and ordered a draft beer. He fished some change from his pocket, plunked it down on the bar. “Sort of.”

  “Sort of? What does that even mean?”

  “It means I have to show up at his house tonight and he’s going to write me big fat check.”

  Benny brightened again, but just for a moment.

  “Now what? You looked happy and now, not so much. What’s eating you?”

  “I’m thinkin’ you want me to drive you to this guy’s house.”

  “Yeah, so? You’re the one with the car and you’re the one with the driver’s license.” He swigged his beer. “So what’s the problem?”

  “Uh, I can’t make it. I uh, I got a date,” Benny hung his head and looked sheepish.

  “You got a what? Am I hearing you right? A date. Why you haven’t been on a date in-”

  “Yeah, I know,” Benny said, stopping his friend from completing his sentence. “But I got one now and I just can’t take you to that meeting.”

  “So what’s this lady’s name? It is a lady isn’t it?”

  “Of course it’s a lady,” Benny growled. “I met her while you were in Texas. She’s very nice and I uh, like her a lot. I think she likes me too and I don’t wanna screw up.”

  “Okay, okay, I get it. I know how it is.”

  “I knew you’d understand, Weasel. Anybody should understand a man wanting to go out with a beautiful lady, it’s you old buddy. I mean the way you pant after just about everything in a skirt I knew-”

  “I get it, I get it. What time is this date?”

  “Seven thirty.”

  “Well, we need this money, so I got to meet Billy Jackson for sure. Any reason you can’t drop me off and I’ll just take a cab home.”

  “Yeah, guess I can do that. No reason why not. Hell yeah, I’ll just drop you off. But how you gonna pay the cab driver? you said you were broke. They don’t take no checks.”

  “Not to worry. I’ll tell Jackson I need twenty bucks in cash. It won’t be a problem.”

  “Great. I knew we could figure it out.” Benny lifted his glass, Weasel touched his glass to it.

  Chapter Four

  Weasel got out of the car and watched it drive away. He entered Billy Baxter’s yard, looking up at the tall hedges that ringed the home. He found the back door. He hoped Baxter hadn’t forgot to unlock it. He felt weird skulking about somebody’s back yard, even though he was expected. A pang of excitement with just a touch of apprehension shot through his body. He shrugged it off, tugged at the sliding glass door. It slid along the bottom rail and opened easily. He entered, closed the door behind him. He took a few steps into the room. The lights were off, and even though it was still daylight outside, it was hard to see in the darkened room. There was no sign of Billy Baxter.

  He waited. After ten minutes there was still no sign of his newest client.

  A feeling of dread came over him. A chill went through his bones. What the hell was going on?

  He found a door and went through it. He found himself in a hallway. He slowly traversed the unlit corridor and it led to a larger room. Billy Jackson, where the hell are you? A staircase was in the middle of the room. He walked up the stairs, thankful that the steps were carpeted, so he made no sound. More and more he was starting to feel like a burglar. Even worse, he was thinking that something had gone terribly wrong.

  He tried to dissuade himself of that idea. Perhaps, he thought, Billy had become delayed by his guests. Bu where were they and where was his client?

  He found a room and opened the door. Once again, no lights. He listened but heard no sounds. He strained his ears. If his new client truly had guests, he should be hearing something from somewhere in the house. Finally confident he was alone in the room, he felt along the walls for a light switch. He found one, snapped it on.

  The light lit up the room and he sure as hell didn’t like what he saw.

  On a leather couch, there was his hope for an infusion of money. Billy Jackson was stretched out on the couch, dead as Weasel’s dreams of cash in hand. Before he could even process the scene, he was down.

  Blackness engulfed him.

  ***

  A bell rang somewhere. It was inside his head, the clapper hitting the sides of his skull and making that terribly offending sound. Then his eyes snapped open as consciousness returned. He tried to adjust his vision. He felt something soft beneath his head. Slowly, shapes become visible in the room.

  Finally, he was able to make them out.

  He sprang to an upright position when reality lit up his eyes and he realized what the objects were.

  They were caskets.

  And he was in one of them!

  He clambered o
ut of the coffin as quickly as he could. He staggered toward a door. Then he froze.

  In one of the coffins was a man he had never seen before. He had a hole in the middle of his forehead. Weasel bent over the casket for a closer look. And there his own gun lay beside the man. What the hell! He grabbed it and ran like Satan himself was right behind him.

  He ran down a hallway and the hallway ended and he found himself in a large room, there was a woman behind a tasteful desk and many chairs and couches. On one side of this big room he could see many other rooms. Music was playing. Religious music.

  The caskets should have given it away when he was in the other room, but at last, reality sank into his distressed brain.

  He was in a funeral home.

  The woman behind the desk, spotted the gun he was aimlessly waving around and screamed. A blood curdling scream it was. The music from the room where a funeral was taking place stopped. A few people rushed out to see what was going on. They saw Weasel, looking like a madman, waving a gun. They quickly disappeared back into the room and closed the door. Weasel ran to the front entrance of the funeral home. Outside he spied some men loading a casket into a hearse. He jumped into the death wagon, thanked his lucky stars when he found keys in the ignition.

  He sped off leaving a trail of curses from six angry men behind. The doors of the hearse banged as they flew open and flapped back and forth. He hit the driveway of the parking lot, encountered a pot hole, hit the gas and took off as fast as the hearse would go. When he hit the pothole, the casket went flying out of the back of the hearse. He watched it slide across the parking lot like some sort of macabre tobaggon. He cursed but did not stop, he kept on driving and did not slow down until the funeral home disappeared in the distance.

  His plan was to ditch the hearse and take busses to his intended destination. Then he remembered a sad fact. He had no money. He had spent the last of his loose change buying a draft beer at the Cortez.

  He ditched the hearse about a half mile from his destination, walked the rest of the way. He didn’t have any idea what he would find. One thing he did know. He had been framed for murder, just as neat as can be. Sure, he retrieved his gun, but he knew from experience with Melissa, that CSI would take a ballistics test on the bullet that had killed the poor soul in the coffin and sooner or later, it would lead to his gun. If he wanted to keep his PI license, he would need to turn it in himself.

  But not just yet.

  Not before he had a chance to prove his innocence.

  He entered the yard, found his way to the rear patio door, just as before. He just hoped it had not been locked since he was last here. If it was, no matter. The sliding patio door is one of the easiest to jimmy as most homeowners didn’t take the proper precautions with them. Another thing he had going for him, it was dark. And with the cover of the tall hedges, he wasn’t likely to be spotted.

  He grabbed the door, it slid easily along its track. He entered the room, stopped to let his eyes adjust, then made his way through the house. He didn’t see a light anywhere or hear even the faintest of sounds. It appeared he was alone. But maybe that was what he was supposed to think.

  Chapter Five

  In the dark, slowly, Weasel made his way through the house, retracing the steps he had made earlier. He came to the staircase and walked up them to the room where he had previously seen the dead body of Billy Jackson. His mind reeled. He was trying to figure out what the mask he had taken home by mistake had to do with anything. The answer eluded him. One thing he did know or thought he knew, Jackson’s partner, Gus Watson, no doubt had killed Jackson and no doubt, the guy in the funeral home too. He had a lot to gain by killing Jackson but why kill the other guy? That he didn’t know. Maybe they had a falling out over something.

  He found the room where Billy Jackson lay dead. The body was still there. He turned around, ready to look in the other rooms of the house. A gun was pushed into his stomach. “Just hold it,” the man commanded. “Just ease back into the room.”

  Weasel did as he was told. The light came on and he was face to face with the gunman. “Hey, I know you. You’re the guy that slugged me and took the mask.”

  “Yeah, I did. Returned your cowboy hat too, didn’t I?”

  “You did,” Weasel admitted.

  “But you couldn’t leave well enough alone, could you, asshole?”

  “I, uh, guess not. But I’m willing to now.”

  The man laughed. “I’ll bet. Too late now, pal.”

  Weasel gulped. “I was kinda afraid you’d say that. I guess you’re Jackson’s partner, Gus Watson.”

  “That’s right. You win the prize. Only you ain’t gonna like the prize.”

  “I guess Billy Jackson didn’t like it either.”

  “Oh, he liked it just fine. Didn’t you Billy?”

  Another man came through the doorway. “Yeah, it’s gonna be fine. Who wouldn’t like a split of two million bucks, tax free?”

  For a second the detective thought he was seeing double. He looked at the man on the couch, then back to Billy Jackson. Then it hit him. “I get it now. The poor slob on the couch is wearing the mask. Who is he really?”

  “Leroy Grove,” Gus Watson answered. “He was on the plane with me. The one you were on.”

  “I had dreams about what you two were talking about,” Weasel said. “Only in the dream you were telling him you had to get rid of Billy Jackson.”

  “That’s right. That’s exactly what we were saying. I couldn’t tip him off that he was going to be the patsy, could I?”

  “”I guess not,” Weasel answered weakly.

  “Let’s stop playing around. Go ahead and shoot him, Gus.”

  Gus looked at Billy Jackson. The look was of disgust. “Now that wouldn’t be according to plan, would it? I go to all the trouble to frame this guy for the undertaker’s murder and you just want me to go ahead and shoot him?”

  “Why not? Let’s get this over and done with.”

  “So the guy in the coffin was the undertaker. I suppose you and him had a falling out?”

  “Yeah, we did. I got a crooked Doc to write me out a death certificate for Billy here, and I get this undertaker to agree to cremate the body real fast, then he ups and demands and unreasonable amount of money.”

  “I get it now,” Weasel said. “It’s becoming crystal clear. I show up at your business and I become a real good fall guy. Billy tells me to come here and you knock me out and take me over there and smuggle me in the back way. Then you call the undertaker in and shoot him with my gun. Presto, instant frame.”

  Billy Jackson was getting anxious. “Shoot the bastard. He was supposed to be picked up by the cops way before he got back here.”

  “Let me think,” Gus answered. “How’d you get away?”

  “I grabbed a hearse,” Weasel answered. “You shoulda been there. It was quite a sight.”

  Gus grinned in appreciation. “Wish I had been there. Must of been quite a show.”

  Billy was sweating. “He’s figured it all out, Gus. Time to kill this bird.”

  “Sure it is,” Weasel agreed. “Me, then you. Isn’t that right, Gus?”

  Billy looked rattled. “What? What are you talking about?”

  Gus cocked his weapon.

  Billy drew a gun from his own pocket. “Hold it, Gus. You pull that trigger now and I’ll drop you.”

  “Just a minute ago you were begging me to shoot him. Now I agree with you. What’s the problem?”

  “Yeah, I was, but something’s changed. He’s starting to scare me.”

  Weasel saw an opportunity to jump back into the conversation. “I have even more bad news, Billy. Do you know why he’s scared of Presnell?”

  Gus jumped in. “I told him all about Presnell, hot shot. You can’t use him to save your sorry ass.”

  Weasel hurriedly continued. “Really? Did you tell him that you helped Presnell pull that diamond heist fifteen years ago and that you killed the jeweler? Of course you went by the name
of Clarence Swift then. You got away and Presnell did fifteen years for the crime. The jury believed him when he said you were the trigger man. How am I doing so far?”

  “You don’t know crap. You’re making it up up as you go. Truth is, I did do some small jobs with Presnell and now that I have a successful business with Billy, he’s threatening to expose me. That’s all there is to it.”

  “Is that right, Billy? Weasel went on. “Is the business successful? Is that why you went along with the crazy scheme to play dead and he collects the insurance and you both go to Belize or some other exotic place with the money? One thing, Gus. How come your prints show up as Gus Watson and not Clarence Swift?”

  “That’s easy,” Gus answered. “I never was in the system under my real name. Never got caught. I’m only in the system now because I got a job in a casino, some years ago. You have to get a Sheriff’s card and to get that, they fingerprint you. My new identity as Gus Watson was solid. I’m smart that way. You hear me, Billy? I never once got caught and that’s why you should listen to me now. We go on with the plan, just like I laid it out.”

  “How can it work now?” Weasel asked. “The undertaker is dead and he was crucial to the plan. No, Billy, it can’t work now. So Gus will shoot me and then take care of you. He’ll make it look like you shot an intruder and the intruder, me, shot you too. It’s his only hope now to get the money.”

  “Shut your mouth!” Gus pointed the gun at Weasel.

  “Don’t Gus, He’s right. You double crosser.” Billy fired at Gus. The gun Gus held went off and hit Weasel, then he whirled and fired at Billy.

  Shots Fired.

  Three men down.

  Three men bleeding.

  Chapter Six

  Weasel woke up with a splitting headache. He touched his head and his hand came away bloody. He was struggling to breathe, a weight was holding him down. It was Watson’s body. He rolled the dead man off, struggled to get to his feet. The room went round and round. Dizziness and nausea overcame him. He sagged back down to the floor. Billy Jackson’s body lay a few feet away. He fumbled with his cell phone, managed to call 911.