A Coin for Charon: A Marlowe Gentry Thriller (Detective Marlowe Gentry Series Book 1)

by Dallas Mullican

  The television voices melted into a clutter of meaningless sound.

  Maybe Max would luck out and win the lottery. Maybe the Seraphim would find him and do for him what he could not do for himself. He had an ample supply of luck … all of it bad. He’d never been in the habit of wishing. He didn’t even toss pennies into the fountain. Max had always believed hard work got a person what they wanted. So much for that theory. Maybe he had saved up all his wishes, and this one would count for all of them.

  One wish….

  Let Seraphim find me.

  CHAPTER

  14

  They drove down 21st Street at a pedestrian pace. “Want to get there today?” asked Spence.

  “Patience, my son, it’s a virtue,” replied Marlowe. He sped up to beat a yellow traffic light.

  “I try not to have those, cramps my style.”

  Traveling into Westside seemed like passing through a time warp. Southside contained the city’s nightlife—dance clubs, restaurants, boutique shops. Banks, law firms, and corporate headquarters lined Northside in skyscrapers. Westside had little more than rundown buildings, slum apartments, and raunchy strip joints with the accompanying vices aplenty.

  “Stop here,” said Spence.

  “I thought you were in a hurry.”

  “In a hurry to get somewhere. Your NPR listening habits give me a headache.”

  Marlowe pulled into a no parking zone in front of a store sporting a faded sign reading HENRY’S. The chime overhead as they entered sounded like a sick canary. Spence appeared to know the place, navigating the rows to the coolers, where he plucked out a bottle of some pink liquid.

  “Granny’s Old Time Cherry Lemonade.” Spence held up the bottle with a pleased grin. “Only place in the city where I can find this sweet elixir of the gods.”

  “Looks like pixie piss,” said Marlowe with a scowl.

  “You have no taste, bro.”

  They made their way to the front of the store. An older man stood behind the counter, looking perpetually displeased about something. He narrowed his eyes and what might have been a growl rumbled in his throat.

  “Detective Murray, long time, no see. And each day I thank God for his small mercies. What brings you to our hairy armpit of the city? Oh wait, did you recover my stuff? At least tell me you caught the crooks.”

  Spence looked at him with faux surprise. “What? Did you get robbed again?”

  “Did I…why you worthless…you cops are no good for anything. Useful as a warm bucket of piss, as LBJ used to say.”

  “LB who?” said Spence.

  “Lyndon Johnson, our former president,” said Henry with a reproachful glare.

  “Sorry, I only go as far back as Carter. He was the peanut guy, right?”

  “Shame on you. You’re probably serious too. You young’uns forget how important history is. You think you know everything, when you can’t even pull your pants up.”

  “Henry,” called a voice from behind the coolers, “where would you like these boxes unpacked?”

  “Just leave ’em, Gabriel. I need to clear some shelf space first.”

  “Finally get some help around here?” Spence asked.

  “Yes, and out of the goodness of his heart. He’s a godsend, and a polite young man. Actually respects his elders. You could learn a thing or two.”

  “I learn stuff all the time. Watch Jeopardy at least once a week.” Spence picked a speck of lint from his coat and flicked it nonchalantly into the air.

  “If you two are about through with this verbal lovemaking, we have work to do,” said Marlowe.

  “Ah, the brains of the operation,” said Henry. “What does that make you? The brawn?”

  “The looks,” said Spence.

  Henry gazed at the ceiling. “Christ on crutches, get him outta here.”

  “First, do you know this girl?” Marlowe displayed a photo of Nikki Baker. “Sorry about the…well.”

  The picture showed Nikki from the neck up, quite dead. No photos of her living seemed to exist—none with the DMV, online social sites, nothing.

  Henry blanched at the sight of her stone-colored image. “Ah, no, I don’t know her.” He turned his head away.

  “Sorry about that,” said Marlowe. “Okay Spence, work, this way.”

  “See ya around, Henry,” said Spence.

  “Not too soon.” Henry bared a sorry excuse of a grin and offered them a dismissive wave.

  Marlowe and Spence stood on the sidewalk, studying both directions.

  “Any brilliant ideas?” asked Marlowe.

  “Nikki’s body was found in an alley a few blocks up, behind an old apartment building. Uniforms searched the place room to room, but couldn’t determine where she stayed. Most of those apartments get junkie squatters holed up in them. All kinds of clothes and shit left behind, so it’s impossible to tell who stayed where. They cased the place for a few days, but nothing turned up.”

  “Somebody knew her.” Marlowe stared into an alley. “She didn’t live here, turning tricks and buying drugs, without someone knowing her.”

  “I’ve got an idea. We need to talk to Trixie.”

  “Trixie?” asked Marlowe.

  “Kind of an unofficial mayor of the area, nothing happens here she doesn’t know about. Dealt with her a lot when I worked Vice.”

  “We’ve got to start somewhere. Lead the way.”

  Patricia “Trixie” Wilcox owned three of the four strip clubs on Westside. All low-rent dives featuring dancers only the inebriated would pay to see naked. Still, they offered something appealing to the undiscerning tastes of Westside—a warm or cool spot to park it (depending on the weather), cheap drinks, nude girls, and a host of illegal substances and activities.

  A real American success story, Trixie. She started out turning tricks on the streets before replacing her pimp under mysterious circumstances—they found him dead with his severed penis shoved into his mouth. Rumor had it he tried to short her on her cut and knocked her around for arguing. Trixie referred to him in anger as Dickbreath on many occasions.

  After a short investigation, Trixie walked, and soon ran most of the working girls. She saved her pennies and bought a club, then two, then three. Now the prostitutes had a sympathetic runner and safe places to work—all the dancers dually employed.

  Marlowe followed Spence through Git Nasty, the pounding rap music and gyrating lights making his head hurt. Only three customers were in the club at this time of day. One sat at the bar nursing a beer. Another reclined in a booth with a well-endowed dancer/waitress. Marlowe didn’t want to guess at what was going on under the table. A sad-looking fellow stared bleary-eyed at the pencil-thin stripper spinning around the onstage pole.

  They proceeded to the back of the club and came to a red door guarded by the largest man Marlowe had ever seen.

  “Tiny,” said Spence.

  “Don’t call me that,” said the bouncer.

  “Sorry, Reg-i-nald,” he said, accenting each syllable. “We need to see Trixie.”

  “You got an appointment?” Reginald smirked, his massive biceps bouncing in time with the music. Dark skin hid his expression in the dim lighting, but when he smiled, there was nothing subtle about it.

  “I’ve got a badge, and I’ve got a phone here with Vice on speed dial. Now every girl in here might, and I stress might, be twenty-one; but we would need to shut this place down while we check. Could take quite some time.”

  The smirk disappeared from Reginald’s face. “Wait here,” he said before disappearing into the office.

  After a moment, he returned. “Go on in.”

  “Thanks big guy, been a pleasure,” said Spence.

  “That mouth of yours is going to get you killed one day,” said Marlowe.

  “Maybe, but not today.”

  Trixie’s office looked like one of those tasteless Valentine’s Day inspired rooms at a bad whorehouse. A heart-shaped bed sat against the back wall, red carpet and red velvet curtains framing
this disaster of space. An attractive woman stood behind a large, cherry wood desk.

  Not what Marlowe expected. Trixie appeared no more than five-feet tall, maybe a hundred pounds soaking wet. Golden brown skin and black hair hanging to her waist accentuated a dancer’s figure. A keen intelligence shone in her almond-shaped eyes. She wore a dark purple top, sequined in gold, thin straps at the shoulders, and tight, black cloth pants. How such a diminutive woman ousted one mean pimp, kept a few dozen girls in line, and inspired fear in the criminals of the area defied comprehension.

  “Hey there tall, dark, and yummy,” she said in a soft accent. Trixie rounded the desk, yanked Spence downward, and planted a kiss on both cheeks. “And you,” she said, looking Marlowe up and down. “Mmm mmm. Though a shave and a suit with a few less wrinkles would pretty up this picture. What brings you two hotties into my fine establishment?”

  “Trixie…as beautiful as ever,” said Spence.

  “You dog, looking for a freebie? You know I don’t work the sheets anymore, but you want to take me out, treat me all nice like a real lady, maybe you’ll get lucky.”

  “Do you know this girl?” asked Marlowe, already nauseated by the repartee.

  “All business this one, huh?” Trixie took the photo. “Sure I know her…or knew her, poor thing. Not one of my girls. I tried to get her off the street a couple of times, but she shacked up with a real loser.”

  “A pimp?” asked Marlowe.

  “He wishes. A playa-wanna-be that calls himself Raze, trying for cred. We call him Li’l Marv. Don’t call him that though, not if you want him to talk to you, hates it. Real name’s Marvin Lister.”

  “Know where we can find Mr. Lister?” asked Spence.

  “Sure. Brightbrook Apartments. Fourth floor, I think.”

  “Brightbrook?” Spence raised an eyebrow. “Nikki was found in an alley right behind there.”

  “If you knew this, why didn’t you tell the authorities?” asked Marlowe.

  Trixie gave a sarcastic laugh. “You kidding, right? Well, they didn’t ask. They don’t care about no Westside junkie hooker. They figured some crazy john offed her. Probably right, too. Shee-it, can see her damn window from the alley where they found her. Shouldn’t a’ taken much investigatin’ ta find it.”

  “You deal with a lot of mean-natured johns?” asked Spence.

  “Not with my girls. Once in a while, some dickbreath kicks it a bit too frisky. A talk with Reginald shows ’em what’s what real quick. Now the girls working independent, can’t say. Plenty of bad boys on the streets.”

  “All right, thanks for your help,” said Marlowe.

  “Thanks, Trix,” said Spence.

  “You boys come back. I’m sure I can find something you’d like.” Trixie struck a suggestive pose devoid of subtlety and accompanied by a devilish grin.

  They drove the six blocks down 38th Street and pulled into the alley behind Brightbrook Apartments. Shreds of yellow crime scene tape still littered the area.

  “What do we know about Marvin Lister?” asked Marlowe.

  Spence punched the name into the onboard computer terminal. “Small time dealer, nothing big. Most of his rap sheet is possession. Looks like he wants to swim in the deep end, but so far the sharks aren’t letting him play.”

  The detectives entered the building, stepping over a drunken vagrant. Spence flashed his badge to the man in the enclosed booth, who informed them Lister was in Room 412, barely glancing up from his porno magazine. An out of order sign affixed to the elevator sent them to the stairs. Spence didn’t complain.

  Apartment 412 sat at one end of the corridor on the right. Spence stepped up and gave the door a hard rap. “Police,” he called out.

  Shuffling and bumping emanated from inside. After a couple of minutes, footsteps came to the door and it opened two inches, stalled by a chain. A rodent-faced man peeked out.

  “I ain’t done nothin’.” Dark circles shadowed his bloodshot eyes.

  “Mr. Lister, we need to speak with you,” said Marlowe.

  “Name’s Raze, asshole. You got a warrant?”

  “You aren’t under arrest, and we don’t want to search your apartment. We want to ask you some questions about your girlfriend, Nikki Baker,” said Spence.

  “Ain’t my fucking girlfriend, nasty skank. Besides, she’s dead.” Raze attempted to shut the door in their faces.

  Marlowe slid his shoe between door and jamb. He clenched his jaw tight; he was losing patience with this guy…and fast. “That’s what we want to talk to you about, if you’d open the door.”

  “Fuck you. I ain’t got nothing to say.”

  Marlowe thrust his shoulder into the door, snapping the chain, and sending Raze stumbling backward. Marlowe pounced on him, grabbing him by one arm and the long rattail dangling down his back. He hustled Raze toward the far window and pressed him to the wall, one hand moving to clutch his throat, the other opening the latch. Once opened, Marlowe shoved Raze up to his waist out of the apartment. Raze hung four stories above the pavement below.

  “Jesus Christ, I said I don’t know anything, honest.” Raze’s streetwise accent disappeared with his bravado.

  “Listen, you slimy little fuck,” said Marlowe, his voice dripping venom. “I will drop you in a heartbeat. Think anyone will ask questions about a two-bit junkie splattered on the asphalt? That’s exactly what you deserve, but she didn’t deserve this.…” Marlowe shoved the photo of dead Nikki into Raze’s face. “Look at it. Look!”

  “Oh, God. I…I didn’t do it, man. I just mo—” Raze shrank in on himself. “Fuck.”

  Spence ran over, presumably to stop Marlowe, but hesitated at the almost-confession.

  “What’s that?” Marlowe pushed him an inch farther out. “You just what?”

  “M-moved the b-bitch!” Raze trembled, his voice stuttering with terror, his eyes darting downward to the pavement every other second. “I found the bitch all Freddy Kreugerized. Figured you fuckers would do me for it. All’s I did was move the little skank, swear.”

  Marlowe pulled him in by his legs and held him eye-to-eye by a fistful of shirt. “You know moving a body is a felony.”

  Raze shivered. “S-so’s shovin’ my ass out the goddamn window.”

  Marlowe grumbled and let him drop to the floor. Raze curled up like a frightened child cowering before an angry father. “Did you see anyone with her before you found her?”

  “N-no man. I got mah own shit ta’ deal with.” Raze scrunched up his face. “Shit was a real horror show. You gotta know how it looks ta have her dead in here.”

  “Yeah, real damn inconvenient,” said Spence. “Looks like you’re all kinds of broken up over it.”

  “Man…” Raze shook his head. “Shit was so messed up. Big-ass coins on her eyes, blood all over. Nikki’s gone, man. I didn’t wanna go down for it, ’cause I ain’t got nothin’ ta do with it.”

  Marlowe stared at him for a long moment. “He’s not Seraphim. He may be a moron, but he’s not our killer.”

  Raze slouched, whispering something about Jesus.

  Spence looked around. “We need to get a team in here. ’Course, probably a waste of time at this point. Too much contamination.”

  “Sorry for your loss.” Marlowe flicked the photo onto Raze’s chest.

  Spence pointed at Raze. “Don’t think of going anywhere. I’m sendin’ a patrol car by soon to take you to the station.”

  “Aww, shit.” said Raze, pouting.

  “Maybe, and maybe a few hours with the mug books will jar your memory. We need you to tell us every person Nikki knew—her regular johns, friends, etc.”

  “Shit,” repeated Raze.

  Marlowe stared at him. “You help us out, maybe we don’t care too much about you moving her. Was there anything else around you tossed?”

  “Naw, man.” Raze wiped his finger back and forth under his nose. “Just them coins, an’ the cross. Stuffed it in her pocket, wrapped her in the sheet an’ went down the fire ’s
cape.” He let his head hit the wall behind him with a thud.

  Marlowe wandered the apartment, not seeing much of interest until he spotted a knife block in the kitchen, missing the large fork. “Seraphim wasn’t planning this. He chose the murder weapon for convenience. Nikki was first.”

  “What’s that?” asked Spence.

  “Unplanned.” Marlowe turned to face the bed from the kitchen, stalking toward it. “He probably came up here acting like a john. The ritual hadn’t evolved yet. This was by the seat of the pants.”

  Spence followed Marlowe to the door and turned back to Raze with a grin. “Oh yeah, you might want to change those pants. See ya round…Li’l Marv.”

  In the alley, Marlowe tramped the pavement like a caged animal, clenching and unclenching his fists. “We need to get forensics down here.”

  “What the hell, Marlowe? Next time we’re going to play good cop/bad cop, you might let me in on it. Christ, what’s gotten into you?”

  “I’ve seen you do worse with a suspect.”

  “Yeah, a suspect, and one I knew was guilty. First, you ransack a victim’s home, now you threaten a witness. This isn’t you.”

  “He’s more than a witness. We could bring him in for tampering with a crime scene, but his contacts might help us out. No idea where Seraphim’s trail’s going to go. Might be an ace we can play when the time is right.”

  “Stop ignoring me.” Spence glared. “You’re better than this. If you let yourself start down this path, you aren’t going to like where it takes you. You’re a good cop, a good man. Remember who you are, what you’re about.”

  Marlowe tightened his jaw. “Back off, Spence.”

  “Fine. But you better get a grip on what’s eating at you. I’ll cover your ass best I can, but you’re on a short leash with the lieutenant. You wanna keep Raze on the hook and not file him for movin’ the body, that’s gonna come back to bite you.”

  “I’ll handle McCann. I’m getting tired of the babysitting, Spence. Do us both a favor and mind your own fucking business.”