The Detective Megapack

by Various Writers

  “Anyway, like I was saying, you being a hired killer and all, it doesn’t make any sense that you’d do something like this just for sport. Good as you are, I mean, the cops could come swarming over us any minute. Granted, no one knows who we are, but we’re still two guys trying to beat each other’s brains out on public property…”

  He came in again, faster. Too fast. I blocked his first blow, and the second, but missed the third. He was younger and apparently far less abusive to his body than I was to mine. I fell back hard, hitting the dock with the grace of an overturned garbage can. He stood above me, waiting for me to get back up. Comfortable where I was, I said, “Oh, man. Good one. Christ, much more of this and I’m going to feel like shit.”

  The chatter was getting to him. Not enough to make him careless—just annoyed. It was a start; we were in first gear. I baited him along, trying to get him to third.

  “Maybe I’ll just lay here and take my lumps. What’dya say? I mean, you seem to really have it in for me. Hell, why not just get it over with? What’dya think?”

  His answer was to try and break my ankle with his heel. Perfect. Pulling my leg out of the way at the last second, I shot it back immediately, knocking Divinity off his pins. He fell next to me, catching himself with his palms. He made to push off again, but was too late. I had him. Before he could clear the ground I managed to wrap my arms around him from behind, pinning his to his sides, squeezing him with all I had in me.

  Divinity thrashed madly, rolling us around the pier in circles, sometimes damaging me, sometimes himself. While we crashed around, I huffed:

  “So…when did you start…killing people for profit?”

  Divinity’s answer was non-verbal. Reaching down with both hands, he dug his fingers into my thighs, tripping a nerve in each that sent me screaming. I couldn’t help letting him go, but as he broke away from me I managed to catch the back of his jacket. Pulling him back to me as we struggled to our knees, I spun him around, putting everything I had into a roundhouse to the side of the head. Divinity spun around twice while still trying to stand, falling badly.

  I tried to get to him to press my advantage but, he was on his feet again before I could regain mine. By the time I was standing he was in front of me. I got my arms up just in time for him to grab one. He twisted. I danced. Keeping me at arm’s length, he kicked me twice, once in the side, once in the gut. I made to kick him but he caught it, trading his grip on my wrist for one on my ankle. Not that he kept it long. With a sharp jerk he pulled me toward him and then slammed me with his free hand.

  I tripped backwards, stepped blindly, then falling. A second later I was staring up at the sky from the sand. My head was throbbing like a jack hammer. I could see stars and taste blood. Divinity looked down at me, smiling.

  “God,” I groaned, stalling for time, hoping for enough seconds to relearn how to breathe, “you’re tough.”

  His smile widened almost enough to show teeth. A touch of a nod was the only answer he bothered to give.

  “So,” I croaked, sucking oxygen desperately, “you going to kill me, too?”

  He raised one eyebrow and changed his smile enough to indicate ‘probably.’ I nodded back, saying:

  “Well, fair enough, I guess.” Coughing out a load of bloody phlegm, I added, “You know, though—it’s funny. I don’t even care who hired you to kill Lowe at this point…but I was wondering…who hired you to kill me?”

  Divinity’s smile faded. Bingo, I thought. Direct hit. I had no idea why he was so touchy about his occupation, but I was perfectly willing to keep needling him over it. Not at that moment, though. Putting all my energy into getting up, I threw myself forward into the dark recesses under the pier a split second before Divinity hit the sand where I’d been. Spying a soggy two x four the tide had washed in, I grabbed it up and leaned against one of the crumbling pillars, waiting for Divinity to come to me this time.

  My labored breathing echoed in the underground retreat, coming at me from all directions at once. I’d positioned myself just to the left of the pier’s center, hoping for a chance to use my newfound weapon and maybe even stay alive. Other sounds rebounded toward me besides my own, letting me know Divinity was in the underworld with me. I knew he realized I was stationary—knew he would be conducting his search looking for an unarmed man waiting to ambush him. Counting on his not expecting the two x four, I kept waiting.

  Finally, his shadow edged forward toward me, black moving forward over the grey on the ground. Tensing, I gripped my board, holding out for the right second. He moved a half step closer, his shadow radaring his path, bringing him to me. I shifted my weight. The shadow inched toward me again, and then suddenly, it disappeared backwards. I whirled around quickly. Divinity was behind me already. I dodged wildly, letting him kick away part of the pillar instead of my ribs. Turning, I swung the two x four, missing Divinity, splitting the end of my weapon on another pillar. Divinity punched; I blocked with the board and then drove it upward, catching the ends of his left hand’s fingers, tearing three of them open.

  Following up, I swung again, hoping to catch him in the head. No chance. He caught the board with his good hand, stopping it cold. Before I could act he rammed it backwards, catching me in the gut. I staggered, but held on, refusing to let him wrest the two x four away without a fight. Divinity smiled. Setting his feet, he caught the board in both hands and twisted, tearing it away in one motion.

  I stumbled back out to the beach as quickly as I could, running straight for the breaker rocks beyond the dock, hoping that reaching the high ground might keep me alive. A small arm I hoped was a doll’s reached for my cuff. I jerked my way upward. Divinity abandoned the two x four to the sand and followed. As he started up the rocks after me, I wheezed:

  “I’d have thought you’d had enough by now.”

  He kept moving, slightly slower than before, nothing that was going to be of any help to me. As he neared the top, I added:

  “Man. Some guys just don’t know when to quit.”

  Then I swung. He ducked. I tried to use my size to force him to stay at the lower position, but it was no good. He came in under my attack, pasting me two good ones in a row. As I staggered, he caught my arm and pushed, sending me dancing across the rocks. I almost slipped twice, but managed to catch myself. Divinity followed close behind.

  He was forcing me out to the end of the breaker wall. The top of it was too narrow for me to get around him on either side. To try and climb down one of the sides, or even to jump into the water would’ve been suicide. To do either I’d have to turn my back on Divinity, and I knew that was what he was waiting for. I’d picked up on his style—he liked dominance, enjoyed calling the tune. As far as he was concerned, I’d decided to follow him, and now if I changed my mind, I had to be punished. Not that he planned to drag things out forever. I could also see in his eyes that the wrap-up was on its way.

  Forcing dry air up to push the words out, I said, “You don’t talk much, do you?”

  He hit me. Hard. I fell against the rocks, slamming my left shoulder. The stars came to visit again and I lay where I’d fallen, just too damn tired to move. I’d never thought much about being kicked or beaten to death. Okay, I figured—this way it would be a surprise.

  I tried to steady myself, to get ready for whatever was coming, but even that was beyond me—the rock I grabbed with my right hand was loose; trying to hang onto it had almost sent me into the water.

  Turning my eyes back to Divinity, I watched him reach into his pocket and pull out a knife. I was shocked. After all we’d gone through, he was going to finish me off with a pig sticker. I went to look him in the eyes to find a clue as to what he was up to, but couldn’t get his to meet mine. He was staring at my chest, smiling, leering, salivating. His tongue was working back and forth, sliding his frothing spittle across his teeth and lips. His mouth was so full he could’ve gargled with it. Instead he swallowed, coming up with the smile of a man who’d just finished a steak in the best
place in town and was really looking forward to dessert.

  He came at me in one motion, the knife working to carve open my chest, drops of blood from his fingers splattering me in the face. But, the little voice had screamed at me to move—fast. With everything I had, I jerked aside just in time, letting the knife slide past me to shatter against the rocks. He must’ve been sure I was down for the count, sure I wasn’t capable of moving again. Luckily, he’d been wrong.

  My right hand caught up the loose rock under it and swung it around. I caught Divinity behind the knees. He went all the way down. Sliding myself upward, I took the rock in both hands and brought it down on his spine. Twice. Twice more. His hands reached for me. I batted one away weakly, but the other caught my wrist. With strength I couldn’t believe, he started dragging me toward him, my chest toward his face—his tongue licking, teeth snapping. He caught a piece of my sweat shirt in his jaws and pulled, dragging hair and skin with it. I howled and smashed him across the face with the rock, knocking him away.

  Then, picking up another, heavier stone, I brought it down on his chest, hearing cracks and pops which made me think I might be the one to survive, after all. I brought it down again, smashing harder, bones breaking upward through his clothing. A rib scraped my hand open as I dragged the rock up out of his chest cavity. My hands covered with blood, I shoved the rock upward as high as I could, and then rammed it home again with every ounce of energy I could muster. Scooping the stone up out of his body, I had to pry it loose from the suction grip of the jelly I’d made out of his organs.

  I smashed him over and over, tears of rage and pain and humiliation flooding out of me. Maybe it was fear—maybe just relief—I kept breaking his bones until I couldn’t lift my arms anymore. I kept crying long after.

  * * * *

  Much later, at my office, I sat waiting with Hubert for a visitor I was expecting. I’d gotten released from the hospital a couple of hours earlier. Hubert’d met me, sporting a new Hawaiian shirt and a Panama hat. After several phone calls which allowed me to put a few things into motion, we’d gone back to my office to swap stories and wait.

  Hubert told me he had stationed Maurice in the auditorium, telling him to stay close to Lowe and keep his eyes open. He’d done both and topped it all off by throwing himself in front of the candidate when the bullets had cut loose. Divinity hadn’t gotten Lowe, and hadn’t even known it.

  The cops had been pleased as punch to get his remains. They didn’t like the shape they were delivered in, but admitted they didn’t know of anyone who could have done a better job. Their admiration wasn’t worth the beating I’d taken to get it, but it was good compensation nonetheless.

  The media was awarding the lion’s share of their attention to Maurice. After all, I was only the guy who’d done in the shooter in some back alley or something. Maurice’d had the sense to do his dance of death in front of the cameras. As Hubert said, though:

  “Forget it. You need the right people takin’ you serious if you’re gonna l-last in this town. I’ll make sure the story gets to the right people. I mean, you t-took out the Stone. One of the t-toughest hit men anyone ever heard of.”

  “Yeah, he was that, all right.”

  “So, don’t sweat it. Let the TV monkey up Maurice’s rep. I’ll p-put yours in p-place for you.” Hubert laughed and then took a nip from his hip flask. Wiping his lips, he continued.

  “You know, the Stone had a nasty habit, too. Part of what made his r-rep. You see, he hated taking money for hits. W-Went against his trainin’ or somethin’, but anyway…to compensate for doin’ a hit, right after one he would find himself a victim…a worthy opponent, not just some wino or anything, and then he’d beat them down and cut out their l-living heart and eat it while they watched. That was the story, anyway. You c-catch any of that action?”

  “Saw the previews. Didn’t stay for the feature.”

  “Yeah,” said Hubert, “I was right about you. Another c-couple of weeks and this city’ll know who the t-toughest son’va bitch around is. Don’t worry.”

  “I ain’t worried,” I told him. “I hurt too much to worry. You got my money?”

  “Yep,” answered Hu. “Andy’s still got reporters c-crawlin’ all over him, elsewise he would’ve delivered it himself—didn’t want to subject you to the media. Unless you want this place filled with camera-asses?”

  “No, thanks;” I said. “I can’t see any real trouble makers worrying too much about some guy whose rep got made by the tube. I’ll take back alley whispering any day.” Counting my money, however, gave me a question.

  “This is five hundred dollars.”

  “Oooough, you can count.”

  “Yeah; I can. Where’s the other five hundred?”

  “In Maurice’s bank account, with a nice note from you t-tellin’ him to get better soon. You might not believe it, but y-you figured it was the least you could do.” While I eyed him sourly, he added, “Don’t sweat it, D-Dick Tracy. You can afford it. Classy guy like you’s never gonna be hurtin’ for m-money.”

  At that point a knock on the door cut off our conversation. It was Morrie Wortzman, Lowe’s campaign manager. Hubert bristled, but kept his comments to himself. Wortzman didn’t seem any happier to see him. After a few terse sentences, Hubert excused himself, shutting the door hard behind him.

  “Okay,” I started, “so you’re here. What’s on your mind, Morrie?”

  “You called me, Jack. Mighty glad you did, too. Mighty glad. I wanted to talk to you. Yes, sir. Wanted to talk to you about the Stone. Heh. They say you killed him with a rock. Heh. Guess it takes a stone to kill a Stone. Heh.”

  “Get to the point, Morrie.”

  “Okay, you want this unsubtle, you got it. Fine by me. You called me. Remember?”

  “Yeah,” I told him. “I remember. We can lay this out short and sweet. The Stone tried to bargain with me. Told me you hired him to kill Lowe. Okay, I figure. This would be hard to prove to the cops, even if I let the Stone live to testify. So, I finished him off and gave you a call. I figured you and I could work something out. We’re both real smart, tough fish, right?”

  “Yeah,” he agreed. “Whatever you say.”

  Getting up out of his chair, Wortzman paced a little, going over to the window first and then circling around for a moment until he finally came back to the front of my desk. Resting his palms on the edge of my blotter, he said:

  “Look. Let’s get this cut through. You don’t have any proof of anything—right?” I spread my hands open in front of him.

  “Right,” I agreed.

  “But, if I don’t pay you off, you’ll make trouble. You’ll get rumors spread, you and that prick Hubert.”

  “No. No percentage in that,” I told him. “Wouldn’t make any sense.”

  “Yeah, sure, the fuck you say now. I know your type. I’d have you rubbed if I could, but after killing the Stone, your rep as a dangerous bastard is bigger than his was. Stone didn’t have any friends I could turn to, so that makes you an uneasy man to kill at this moment.” I leaned back in my chair, smiling as I told him:

  “I won’t argue.”

  “Yeah, I’ll bet you won’t. So—name it, already. What the hell do you want?”

  “What…do…I…want?” I said each word separately, as if no thought at all had gone into my answer. “Well, I guess what I ask for will depend on what you tell me.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Why?” I asked. “I want to know ‘why?’ It made sense for you to burn down your own house. From what little Hubert and I could find making a few calls, you could never’ve sold it for what you had it insured for. But you were in the clear on the insurance scam. Why’d you want to go all the way and kill Lowe?”

  “You want to know that bad, sure. Why not? You’ve got me on the hot rock. Big deal.” Plopping back into his chair, Wortzman said, “I’ll tell you why. Because he’s honest. He really wants to become the mayor of New York City to try and
clean it up.”

  The words came out of him in a laugh, one which set him to choking he found the subject so amusing. Wiping away a tear, he continued; “Yeah. I’m serious. Imagine, a jumped-up community service nigger cleaning out the NYC city hall. Oye, shit, that’s a laugh.”

  Wortzman looked away from me for a moment and then stared, lighting a cigarette, telling me, “Yeah, he’s serious about it. I fed him the notion that if a big time killer like the Stone was brought in to get rid of him that it must be the mob after him. Afraid he’ll bust the unions and all. Boy, did that puff up the moron. He’s really feeling important now.”

  Wortzman took a long drag, sinking into a comfortable mood. Sitting back in his chair, he exhaled, adding, “In a way, this could be the best thing that could’ve happened. See, I wanted to get rid of Andy, after tonight’s dinner, of course, once all the contributions were in, and then move up Andy’s second, the Reverend John Lawrence Jefferson. Don’t you see; it’s perfect.”

  He filled the air with smoke again, smiling a content smile. His look said that he had everything all figured out. I let him continue to educate me.

  “You see, I had John all set. Andy gets cut down, the reverend runs in and grabs up the bloody body—careful to get handsful of red all over himself—and then declares that this foul deed, this terrible event, some such happy horseshit, must not go unanswered. Yak, yak, you know. So when we throw the whole campaign behind John—in Andy’s memory—of course. We lose; we try again. We lose again; we go to other cities. John preaches and preaches, we raise lots of bucks, we keep running for offices and starting campaigns and it goes on and on and we stay rich for the rest of our lives.

  “And so now,” finished Wortzman, turning back to me, “all we need is for someone to finish off Andy and we’ve got it all set.”