I repeated my generosity with the gin bottle and made small talk. All the while I was observing, noting and quietly ticking off items on my mental checklist. My job was all about confirming suspicions, but tonight my suspicions were uglier than a five dollar whore. I didn’t like what I was thinking and I certainly didn’t like the implications if my suspicions were correct.
Lifting the near empty gin bottle I went over and joined the only broad I hadn’t spoken too. This was the one I was dreading talking to. I’d taken her to see a John Wayne matinee and had regretted every minute of the experience. The simple act of taking her on a date had filled her head with romantic ideas I hadn’t shared after ten minutes of her company. She’d annoyed me with her immature yabbering and had worn perfume so pungent, my eyes still watered at the memory.
‘Well, look who it is. My handsome ex.’
‘Hello Florence.’ She was firmly in her cups and I ignored her allusion that our solitary date had constituted to an actual relationship.
Again I sat, drank and made small talk while ticking mental boxes. I made my way over to get a fresh bottle of gin from Young Jimmy and slipped into the office to make a telephone call and then leaving Margaret alone with the bottle, I took Bobby outside so that my eyes could get some fresh air. She must have bought that damned perfume by the gallon.
‘Well Leonard, who was it? And why were you going round those dames giving gin away.’
‘It was Florence. I’ve called the cops. I can’t let you kill a broad. If it was any of the schmucks in there then I’d back you all the way. But not a dame. And it’s best for Young Jimmy if you’re still around.’
‘That skinny little broad? Are you sure?’ When I explained how the attack had all the hallmarks of a left handed female, and how when I had given them a bottle to pour from, it had just been a matter of observing which hand each broad had used and eliminating them in turn. Also there were tiny red flecks in no particular pattern on Florence’s dress. ‘You’re right Leonard. Thank you.’ I waved his thanks off and followed him back towards the bar.
As we made our way back into the bar the police arrived and arrested Florence.
While we watched her being led away Young Jimmy asked his uncle ‘Why are they arresting her? I was just telling her earlier that Mom and Mr. Peters were getting married.’
****
Graham Smith is married with a young son. A time served joiner he has built bridges, houses, dug drains and slated roofs to make ends meet. For the last fourteen years he has been manager of a busy hotel and wedding venue near Gretna Green, Scotland.
An avid fan of crime fiction since being given one of Enid Blyton’s Famous Five books at the age of eight, he has also been a regular reviewer and interviewer for the well respected review site Crimesquad.com for over three years.
He has three collections of short stories available as Kindle downloads and has featured in anthologies such as True Brit Grit and Action: Pulse Pounding Tales as well as appearing on several popular ezines. His first collection Eleven the Hardest Way was nominated for a Spinetingler award.
BRAIN MISTRUST
A Vic Valentine Vignette
by
Will Viharo
It really pleases me to feature a brand-new Vic Valentine story especially written for the Sampler. Will’s first Valentine novel is still a candidate to be turned into a movie featuring Christian Slater, so this might be your first meeting of the next big thing.
I was getting blown by the Windy City, and for once, I was hoping I wouldn't be swallowed whole.
The big question was how did I wind up in Chicago, anyway? The PI license in my wallet insisted my name was Vic Valentine, and my residence was in San Francisco. That part I vaguely remembered. The rest was a big, gaping void that I needed to fill with some hard facts, but quick.
I knew I was in Chicago because there was a folded Tribune on my bedside table, next to the radio clock and phone. I looked at the date. It seemed like I'd lost a few days, since last thing I remembered it was Saturday. Apparently today was Wednesday. At least it was still the same year: 2005. I got up and went to the window. I'd been to Chicago a few times on cases, but I didn't recognize the precise neighborhood. But it looked, felt and smelled like Chicago, all right. Every big city has its own unique aroma. You don't always get a whiff of it at first, but after a while, that special scent makes any town as instantly distinctive as perfume on a pig.
The last thing I remembered with any clarity: I woke up in a generically appointed hotel room next to a reasonably attractive red-haired woman in her middle thirties or so. She was snoring, which detracted somewhat from her overall allure. She was lying on her belly but I had a nice view of her left tit from the side, and from that angle at least it looked quite round and succulent. Her ass was plump and juicy with just the right amount of cellulite, which I love even more than celluloid, and almost free of blemishes and zits. There was just one big red pimple with a whitehead, ready to pop, but I resisted the urge to squeeze pus out of a shapely stranger's butt cheek. When she let out an involuntary fart, which puffed almost visibly into the air, her physical appeal was again somewhat diminished. My groggy state of mind extended to my penis, so my sex drive was stuck in neutral anyway. For all I knew, we'd already been intimately acquainted, anyway. There was a sexual stench wafting up my nostrils, and then I noticed I was wearing nothing but my socks. Clue number one. My Fedora, shiny suit, skinny tie, white shirt, and sharp black shoes were strewn across the floor beside the bed. Next to them was what appeared to be a wrinkled pink waitress outfit and dirty white tennis shoes, made for walking. Clue number two.
Rather than attempting to mentally reconstruct our passionate tryst, I gazed passively at her naked body and tried to envision her in various unattractive poses, like sitting on the toilet, taking a crap, straining and squinting, the twisted folds of her flesh distorting her feminine figure. I often do this to put human beauty into proper perspective, so I can deal with people in their organically honest forms. One's appearance almost always relies on cosmetic circumstances like lighting, makeup and situation. And of course, subjective tastes. Our bodies are collectively in various stages of deterioration, depending on factors beyond our control, like age, and others we can but don't always keep in check, like abuse via various substances, including food. We're basically just temporal blobs of corporeal mush, tragically vulnerable to the elements as well as the random ravages of time. We often emit foul odors and exhibit natural behavior in common with most species considered inferior. Like we're the true inheritors of the Earth and dominant custodians of the planet. Nice job, by the way. Look around. Who are we kidding? Not me.
Then she moved her head, opened her eyes, and looked at me while I was still standing at the window, looking at her.
She sat straight up, pulling the sheets around her jiggling breasts, which were indeed spectacular, and shrieked. I have been greeted with that reaction first thing on many a misguided morning, so at least there was some reliable continuity in my life. Her face was soft and pretty in a plain way, and while she was no high fashion model, thankfully, her old fashioned curves were a sight for sore eyes. As the saying goes, beauty is in the eye of the beholder, and her big, pointy nipples were getting along just fine with my popping pupils. Little Elvis began to stir.
“Who the hell are you?” she asked me with urgency in her crackly voice.
“I was about to ask you the same question,” I said.
“What, you don't know who you are, either?”
“No, my name is Vic Valentine. I'm a private dick – pardon the pun – from San Francisco. I just don't know how I got here. Or you.”
“Well, don't ask me!”
“You mean you don't know who you are, either?”
“No, I don't know who you are!”
“But I do. And I introduced myself. Your turn.”
“M-my name is Dottie. Dottie Evans.”
“But of course it is. You're a waitress. Makes
sense in this epic B movie I call 'my life.' Better than 'Marge,' I guess.”
“Oh, yea? So you're name is what again, Rick Romance or something? That for real?”
“Vic Valentine, I said, and yea, it's for real. But are you? Maybe I'm just dreaming...” I thought of Sean Connery as James Bond, encountering Honor Blackman as Pussy Galore for the first time in Goldfinger.
“I know, right?” Self-consciously, she pulled the sheet tighter around her. “Did we...did we...make it?”
“You mean 'fuck'? In my professional opinion...yea, looks that way. Sorry.”
Then she blushed and her thickly lashed brown eyes fluttered for an instant in embarrassment as she sized up her mystery date. I was starting to like her, whoever she was. “Well, I guess I could've woken up next to worse,” she said, flattering me. But then she just had to add: “God knows I have. Plenty of times.”
Uh oh: better add a check-up at the local clinic to my itinerary, I thought. I didn't notice any used condoms around, but I did recognize some familiar white stains on her thigh, because I'd seen similar sticky spots on my own thigh before, from the same source, when I was alone.
Then I suddenly remembered something else: I owned a cat who was getting on in years. Who was taking care of him while I was away on mysterious business? My friend Doc Schlock? No, I recalled clearly that Doc was currently in the hospital being treated for some pancreatic problems. Monica – my sexy young gal-pal – was left in charge of his establishment, a combo video store/bar called The Drive-Inn, above which was my studio apartment/office. My next move would be to call her not only to check up on my cat, but to find out if she knew why I woke up in Chicago and not back in Frisco. Yes, I said Frisco. I'm originally from New York. I'm not a Bay Area native so I didn't go for that local civic pride jazz. Even though I'd been stuck in California for years, I never identified with any particular place as my home. I'm merely a citizen of Earth. There's enough shame in that, anyway.
First things first. “So...where do you work, Dottie?” I asked.
“Why?”
“Because maybe we can figure out where we met, and take it from there. I assume a diner?”
“Well...yea. But that's not the last place I remember.”
“What is?”
“A bar called the Green Mill. I think.” Dottie got up from the bed, the sheet still tight around her voluptuous body, and ran to the window next to me. I stepped aside, giving her wide berth. Despite my natural attraction, I was a little afraid of her, too. “That's it!” she said, pointing down the street. “We're still in the same neighborhood!” I hadn't noticed it before because my vision was somewhat blurred but that settled it. We were in the Uptown District.
“So you don't live here?”
“In this dump? Honey, I'm a waitress, not a hooker.”
Well, that was a relief, I thought. At least I wouldn't owe her money.
“Get dressed,” I said. “Let's go to the Green Mill and ask some questions.”
“You think we were drugged?”
“Hey, the last thing I remember was being at a bar in San Francisco, called the Drive-Inn. So if somebody spiked both our drinks, they obviously did some traveling in between.”
I couldn't help looking at her with obvious lust, both heads throbbing. She noticed, and returned the leer. Next thing I knew, we were back in bed, frolicking like frisky honeymooners. Since I didn't have any condoms, obviously, and we were now fully aware of our actions, at first we just engaged in vigorous oral sex. But after a while we just said “fuck it,” literally, and took the perilous plunge back into the amorous abyss.
Four hours later it was getting dark and the iconic, green neon sign of the Green Mill was beckoning to us through the somewhat misty veil of the evening. It was the nexus of winter and spring, when the weather couldn't make up its mind which climate to cater. At least Chicago had seasons. Having grown up back East, I still missed them.
Dottie and I got dressed and walked down to the Green Mill like we were a cozy couple with a cherished history, as opposed to two total strangers who had nothing in common but shared bodily fluids and a 72 hour blackout. Whatever or whoever brought us together might be in for a grateful handshake.
Sometimes I stop and savor random moments, any random moment, with the bittersweet awareness that whatever it is will never be precisely repeated or possibly even accurately remembered, even if it is recorded, since photos and films, like memories, are intangible evidence of a particular instant that is forever lost immediately after it is experienced. That makes me very sad. I'm not sure why. I guess because it's a constant reminder of our mortality. Life is so damned elusive, persistently slipping through our grasp at a gradually accelerated clip no matter how hard we hang on to it, like realizing you're dreaming halfway through the dream, afraid you'll wake up any second, and it will all suddenly be gone, just like that.
This was one of them.
The Green Mill Cocktail Lounge had once been owned by Al Capone, and indeed there was a shrine devoted to him behind the bar. The legendary club had also been featured in the old Michael Mann flick Thief, one of my favorites. Other than that, it looked pretty much like any other dimly lit neighborhood dive, with comfy booths and a little stage famous for blues bands and poetry slams. Framed photos of the city's checkered history lined the wood-panelled walls. The Journeymen were singing “500 Miles” on the jukebox as we walked in, and I suddenly suffered an acutely melancholy pang of loneliness, like I was missing home, or at least the place I knew best.
I ordered Dottie a Cosmopolitan and me a Manhattan and excused myself to go to the head, though I really went to the payphone to call Monica collect back in Frisco. Okay, San Francisco. Unbunch your panties already.
“Hey Monica, it's me, Vic.”
“Vic! Where the hell are you?” She sounded very concerned.
“Chicago.”
“Chicago? But you said you were just going upstairs to take a nap! What the hell?”
“Yea, I know. I mean, I don't know. How's my cat?”
“Well, when I didn't see you yesterday I went up to check on you, and since you weren't around I took the liberty of feeding him.” Monica had a key to my pad. I trusted her. Plus it came in handy for emergency booty calls.
“That's cool, thanks. Big load off my mind.”
“So what the hell are you doing all the way in Chicago all of a sudden? You were just complaining to me how broke you are! Did you get a client and skip town without even saying goodbye, just like that?”
“I...don't know! Maybe!”
“Maybe? What the fuck, Vic?”
“Monica, to be honest...I just woke up here. This morning, I mean. And I have no idea how the hell I got here.”
“Where exactly are you right now?”
“A bar called the Green Mill, down the block from the joint where I woke up.”
“Are you alone?”
“Ah...no. No, I'm not.”
“A chick?”
“Yea.”
“You bang her already?”
“Yup.”
“Figures. At least you didn't wake up with a guy.”
“Or worse.”
“Though that's a story I'd love to hear.”
“Don't hold your breath, baby. Anyway, the chick has no idea how she wound up in bed with me, either.”
“Is she cute, at least?”
“Yea, she's sweet, too. No sign of foul play. Except for the mutual amnesia. And the fact that she's an actual resident, and I'm an unwilling visitor.”
“How can you be sure you're unwilling, if you don't remember how you got there?”
“Good point. Do you remember seeing me in the Drive-Inn with anyone else, perchance?”
“You mean Saturday night? No, you were alone as usual. In fact, we were supposed to get together later that night, but I told you I was too tired. Then I didn't hear from you Sunday, so I thought you were mad at me. That's when I went upstairs to look for you and fed your hun
gry cat. I figured you were gone on a job, since I knew you were in the middle of some kidnapping case, but it was weird you didn't check out with me first, like usual. Just in case something happens to you.”
“And so it did this time. What's the last thing you remember about me?”
“Toasting Doc's health right here at the bar, then calling it a night.”
“That's it?”
“That's it.”
“Damn.”
“Vic, I'm worried about you. Just come home and we'll figure it out from here, okay?”
“I don't know. I guess you're right. But the answer must be right here in Chicago. I think I'll poke around for some clues before I split town.”
“And that ain't all you'll be poking, right?”
“I gotta go, I left her alone at the bar.”
“Just be careful, Vic.”
“I will. See ya soon.”
“I hope so.”
“Me too.”
I hung up and returned to the bar. Both our drinks were sitting there, untouched, but Dottie was gone. When I asked the blasé bartender about her, he just shrugged.
***
I downed both cocktails before I decided I was hungry. Famished, in fact. I paid the bartender with my credit card (at least I hadn't been rolled during transition) and headed back to the hotel, praying I'd find Dottie there.
That's when I began wondering about a fundamental fact: I had the key to our room, but I didn't remember checking in.
I went up to the desk clerk on duty, a nervous little guy, and asked him if he remembered me.
“No,” he said, his face twitching with tell-tale tics as he finger-combed his pencil mustache.
“So who checked me in?” I asked.
“I don't know. Whoever was on duty. I was off last night.”
The Shamus Sampler II Page 2
