The Shamus Sampler II

by Nick Quantrill

  The bouncer, his wiry body wrapped in loose black jacket and trousers, leaned against the cold steel of the opened door. A coiled wire draped against the side of his neck and he flicked it away from his face. He grinned as I walked up, 'Evenin' Danny,' he said, 'come to see how the big boys do it?'

  'All right Mick, leave it out, I'm looking for a mate of mine, he's in here.'

  'Didn't know you had any mates?'

  'They call him Rick.'

  'Oh Ricky? Yeah he's in a booth up top.'

  I reached for my wallet. He stopped me and said, 'Just go in, you daft bugger.'

  It was hot inside and filled with smoke from machines at either side of a small stage to the rear of the building where a DJ hunched over a set of decks, his hand jammed against his ear, trying to make sense of the selection he had made. I walked to a booth in the corner, beyond the dance floor and close to a glass staircase leading upstairs to the bathroom. There were plants leaning against the clear windows of the upper floor. A girl came over and I ordered a beer. I could see Saltmarsh through the glass up there, he was unmistakeable, all bone and venom. The girl brought my drink and I asked, 'That's Rick isn't it? I haven't brought my glasses, I'm blind without them.'

  She followed my gaze and the smile faded from her eyes, 'Oh yeah,' she said, 'that's him.'

  'Thanks.'

  She looked around; the men and women on the dance floor, less electric now the music had slowed, seemed far away. Blue lights shot through the mist like summer lightning flashing through tall clouds on the horizon. 'Don't thank me.'

  'Not very popular, is he?'

  She snorted. 'Enjoy your beer.'

  I stood and headed up the stairs. I could see he was drunk straight off, 'Rick?' I said.

  His pale sweaty face had turned an unpleasant shade of pink and his eyes retreated up into his head somewhere. He slurred as he spoke. ‘Who wants to know?’

  'We met the other day, how you doing?'

  Rick pushed his chair back from the glittering wet aluminium table and stood, shaky on his feet. His eyes were rolling and crazy and then he pulled a water pistol from his waistband and aimed it levelly and coolly at me. ‘Want a drink?’

  ‘What's this?’

  ‘So you don’t want a drink?’

  ‘I don't think so.’

  He stepped backwards and looked around. His face gleamed like polished marble through the hot light. A young couple occupied the neighbouring booth; they kissed and the man whispered something into his partner’s ear; both were oblivious to Rick standing above them now, his face idiotic and stricken by the drink like a car that has lost both wheels on one side, sinking, off balance, unable to function.

  He aimed the pistol, squeezed his left eye closed tight and fired a stream of liquid that glittered as it sluiced above the table and landed with a hiss in the man’s drink.

  The man pushed back from his girl and peered up at Rick. His shaved head was sunburned and there was a dry cracked quality to the skin around his pale pink eyes. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing, mate?’

  ‘You’re welcome,’ Rick said, turning his back on the booth and looking towards the doors.

  The man stood and took hold of Rick's shoulder. ‘No, what the bloody hell do you think you’re up to? What the fuck was that you just sprayed in me drink?’

  ‘Rum,’ Rick replied, frowning, ‘I’m sharing the wealth.’

  The man made a series of unveiled threats Rick ignored. He stumbled to the next table, introduced himself with a theatrical flourish and sprayed the sweet smelling spirit into the four collected drinks of a female party. Their protests were vocal and bitter and enough to draw the attention of the door staff.

  He had just moved onto the third table when the bouncer tapped his shoulder. He said, ‘What the fucking ‘ell you doing?’

  ‘I’m sorry?’ Rick said, trying to pull himself up.

  ‘Here I am, putting me neck out for you and this is what you do.’ He grabbed the pistol from Rick's hand, saying ‘Gimme that thing,’ and sniffed the small plastic aperture at the end of the toy. ‘What the ‘ell’s that? Please don’t tell me its acid, or anthrax, or something.’

  ‘Look,’ Rick said, ‘it’s nothing but Bacardi; you know this is an expensive dive.’

  The bouncer, his bony face almost shaking with a rage he struggled to contain, pointed a finger an inch from my nose. ‘Take your mate and piss off.’

  'OK, I said,' we're gone.' I took hold of Rick's shoulder. He shrugged my hand away and I walked off; this was shit I didn't need.

  The heavy plate glass and steel door swung back forcefully and struck my shoulder. I swore and moved to the side of the doorway where there was a small bench beside a miniature palm in a solid pot filled with cigarette butts. There was no sign of Rick or the bouncer in the hot, noisy night. The queue extended around the corner now, passing a phone booth and the steps of a chicken takeaway, leading down into Carrer Llobregat, a steep bank lined by holiday apartment buildings and gift shops. The people in line shouted over music coming from the club and I felt lonely suddenly and thought of her. Then I remembered the job and rang the mobile number the girl gave me. 'Yeah,' she answered. I gave her the address of the apartment and the club, 'he's in the club right now, but it's probably not the best time for a conversation.'

  'He's there now?'

  'Yeah,' I said and the line went dead.

  I lit a cigarette and waited without knowing what I was waiting for, not really, some kind of closure perhaps, maybe something else, perhaps nothing. I sat there for a long time and did not notice the man who had taken the seat beside me. His slick tenor voice slid into my ear, startlingly close, ‘Tiene fuego?’

  I turned, then reached for my bic lighter and handed it to him.

  The man leaned forward. His eyes were dark, almost black, as though all pupils and he wore his thick black hair in a ponytail. He had on an expensive looking white shirt that glowed against his mocha skin and a sweet smelling aftershave. 'Gracias,' he said before he lit a cigarette and pulled on it so hard the end glowed white-hot in the shadows.

  'I have something for you.'

  The first spidery traces of unease began to work through me and I looked at him trying to guess what inspired them. His teeth were small and sharp, like the teeth of a dog, and he licked them hungrily when pausing for breath. His eyes bored into mine and I looked away.

  'I don't know what you mean,' I said.

  He passed me an envelope. 'Perhaps you should go.'

  I stood, and then saw Rick, walking out of the Chicken takeaway, a polystyrene tray in his hand. His shirt had torn open and he was mumbling to himself, otherwise he looked fine. He must have come out the side door, and I felt clumsy for not having seen him.

  Then a mortuary frost rushed across my heart. The cigarette felt heavy suddenly between my fingers.

  The man stood, walked across to Rick, and it looked like they were hugging at first. Then the man walked away, vanished into the crowd on the Avenida and I saw Rick fall to the ground, the front of his shirt flooding red with blood and I knew he'd been stabbed. I turned and walked, the envelope of money shaking in my hand. The wind had fallen and the heat rose with it. I stepped back across the busy road, paused in the middle, glanced quickly both ways and ran as though crossing a rugby field. Somebody screamed behind me. I threw my mobile phone into a drain, shoved the money into my pocket and headed to the beach. I'd been played like the fool I was.

  After the wind, there were stars above and the indigo water lapped at the pale stone of Cap Salou. There was a party on the beach and they had a fire made of abandoned pallets and lighter fluid that stank like bitter weeds as it burned. I watched it burn for a long time before it became lost in the dark. Then I walked away.

  *****

  Gareth Spark writes dark fiction from and about the moors and rustbelts of the North East where grudges are savored, shotguns are cheap and people get by in the economic meltdown any way they can. His work
has appeared at Near 2 The Knuckle, Out Of The Gutter, Line Zero, the Big Adios and Shotgun Honey among others. His first novel is due out this year.

  The Hard-Boiled Detective No 3: Simeon Von Runck

  by

  Ben Solomon

  Ben Solomon writes in a very classic voice that transports you instantly to the world of Black Mask Magazine and old time radio shows. A welcome element in the mix of this Sampler.

  “Have you ever planned a murder?”

  That's some introduction, courtesy of Mr. Simeon Von Runck—the party of interest as you call him. Oddball's more like it. Loony tune. Menace. Lush.

  That’s what he said, all right. “Have you ever planned a murder?” Right off the bat I'm trying to figure him. Just another eccentric, right? You meet all kinds in this racket. Sure. That’s how it played at first.

  A little more gab and you take it the guy must have a screw loose. Any of you boys expert in neurosis and psychosis and phobias and whatnot? I don’t see any wall plaques around here. You probably have loads of personal experience with dementia. Me, I’ve never been on the couch, but I had to figure one of Von Runck's circuit breakers popped somewhere. So I watched him. I watched him close. Real close.

  Then snap! Things turned dark for good. You find out that for all that light, frivolous affectation, a sinister threat runs through Von Runck’s eccentricity. It bubbles up, it breaks loose. Von Runck's got a dangerous side, all right. I heard it. I felt it. You can’t help taking him seriously. Sure, the manner’s light enough, but to ignore the danger is to ignore every gut instinct you’re born with. That’s why you have to give weight to his menace. You know the guy’s not right. You know it in your bones. His lightness of nature is mere camouflage. Frankly, the contrast in his character gave me the creeps.

  Sure, he impressed me as all those things. But you boys aren’t interested in impressions—if you wanted impressions, you’d catch the stage show at the Panther Room or Chez Paree. No, the bureau insists on only the essential details. The bureau wants facts. You're after evidence, any evidence, something you can sink your investigative teeth into and put on the record. What have you got so far? My guess? You’ve got nothing.

  I’ll talk plenty, but I can tell you right now you’ll keep coming up empty. Regarding the night I met Mr. Simeon Von Runck? Something along the lines of the truth, the whole truth, etcetera? All it’ll amount to is a lot of talk.

  “Have you ever planned a murder?”

  We’ve got Von Runck’s question, we’ve got a few statements, and that’s all we’ve got. As far as anything else, something tangible to pin a rap on? I don’t see how you boys have a leg to stand on. I’ll give you my account, for what it’s worth. Sure, he’s as suspicious as they come, but what’ll you do with that? You'll do nothing with that. Not unless you’ve made suspicion an offense in Cook County. I didn’t see anything or experience anything. Nothing first hand. So I have to wonder what I can tell you. It only adds up to a collection of words, just the conversation of a man pretty well under the influence. If you had some kind of case, any kind of case, someone from the D.A.’s office would be here, right? So you’ve got nothing. And that’s what you’ll get from me. But I’ll cooperate, all right. We’ll sit here and pass the time and go through the motions. We have to go through the motions. Sure, let’s go through the motions, by all means.

  “Have you ever planned a murder?” I can only shake my head. Sure.

  Okay, my story flies this way.

  I met Mr. Simeon Von Runck at his luxury penthouse on South Wabash. Any of you boys ever seen a penthouse suite that wasn’t luxurious? This one, you right away walk into this jumbo living room. It's even got a sunken area, smack in the middle. There's more than enough space for the full-size, built-in bar. You can make out part of the dining room through an archway, and that's even bigger than the living room.

  The joint was swinging when I happened in. A three-piece jazz outfit in one corner—did I hint at the scope of the living room? The undercurrent of syncopated rhythm beat throughout the place. A non-stop parade of guests milled about in endless circles.

  See, I got the message from my service late in the afternoon. The message put it simply. Von Runck wanted to see me about a job. I gave him a ring and he told me to drop around. Seven o’clock would be delightful—his words. Make a note that he told me to come by, he never asked. A privileged boy, I figured. I didn’t know it at the time, but I bet he doesn’t have a real pal in the world.

  Imagine my surprise, expecting to drum up some business, and stumbling into a full-blown shindig. I wound my way through the revelers, stopped at the bar, pretty much took in the scene and all it didn’t have to offer—I presumed it was a washout, job-wise. That’s when Von Runck showed up at my side. Out of thin air. He looped one arm around mine and led me to a corner. He gave me his name, thanked me for coming, and got right to the question—no way he could hold it in.

  “Have you ever planned a murder?” His thin mouth wavered between a smile and a smirk. His eyes opened wide, full of anticipation.

  “One hell of an opener you got there,” I said.

  “Well, yes, I suppose,” he said. Von Runck smiled to himself. “Now as to my question, as to that...”

  “Yeah?”

  “Actually planning it, that is altogether different from wanting to do it. And then actually doing it, well, I say is again an altogether different proposition. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  “Sure.”

  “Of course, one could always hire a killing, couldn’t one?”

  “If you know the right sort,” I said.

  “I’d have to say, just as an observation, you understand, that you are not that sort. Are you?”

  “But you already knew that when you telephoned.”

  Von Runck smiled to himself again. “Yes. I suppose I did.”

  “What I didn’t know was that I’d be traipsing into the middle of a party. I thought you wanted to talk.”

  “Oh, this?” Von Runck eyed the room with an aloof turn of the head. “These people. This isn’t so much. There always seems to be so many of these people, endless people, endlessly hanging about.

  “I thought you wanted to discuss a job.”

  “Of course I do, dear fellow. Don’t trouble yourself about the peasants.”

  “You always conduct business in a crowd?”

  “It’s the only way to conduct it. Mind you, I really am a most private individual. Here, surrounded by all these so-called acquaintances, we can discuss anything and everything without fear of being overheard. It’s also, most importantly, the perfect excuse to enjoy one’s favorite drink. We aren’t stuck in the middle of a tired office or some dusty, old boardroom—here we are! Do you see? Do we understand each other?”

  “You're saying that as soon as you go off to a private room, you think people notice. They begin to suspect.”

  “There you have it. I’m so pleased you understand.”

  “And you like to hide your drinking problem behind a ready-made excuse.”

  “Hmm.” Von Runck looked me up and down. “You might be quicker than you look.”

  “Sure. I make lots of funny faces. Sometimes my line of work calls for it. So why did you want to see me?”

  “We’re getting to it. Aren’t you drinking?”

  “The moose behind the bar didn’t have any coffee.”

  “You don’t realize how funny that is. He’s actually a mule.”

  “Call him whatever species you like.”

  “Excuse me for stopping you right there, for I must. Mules are not a species, you see? We should classify them as a type, best termed Equus assinus—isn’t that suggestive?”

  “Whatever his breeding, he looked like he was sucking down a whole lot more than he was serving.”

  “But why coffee, my dear fellow? Have anything you like.”

  “This is supposed to be a professional visit.”

  “Hmm.” Von Runck eyeballed me up and down. He did
that a lot.

  I hitched up my pants and planted my hands on my hips. “So how about it?” I asked. I grew tired of being strung along.

  “How about what?”

  “How about getting to the reason I’m here, or do you need to get tight, first?”

  “You are a pushy fellow, aren’t you?”

  “Yeah. Sometimes my line of work calls for it. It also calls for me getting paid. You see, until you offer me some work, and until I accept your offer, I’m on my own nickel.” The impression evolved in my mind. Von Runck’s stringing me along came by design. The intention was anybody’s call. “Do you need a private investigator or not? If you’ve changed your mind, I can take it on the arches right now.”

  Von Runck gazed down into his glass and spoke softly. “Have you ever planned a murder?” He smiled to himself then brought his gaze squarely to mine. “Now before you start making all kinds of faces, we both know the answer. Of course you have. Haven’t we all? All of these creatures have. They have wanted to. They have all had the thought, but they never did anything about it.”

  “Is this your roundabout way of telling me you’ve done something about it?”

  “Hmm. Now we are in dangerous waters.”

  “Yeah, and me with my lifejacket at the dry cleaners.”

  “You make me smile. You really do.”

  “It’s impossible to say how much that pleases me, Mr. Von Runck.”

  “Actually...actually...”

  “Get on with it.”

  “Actually, yes, I have planned a murder.” Von Runck nodded to himself.

  I stood with my arms folded. Waiting for it.

  “Actually,” he went on, “actually, I am killing someone.” He gazed down into his drink. “At this very moment.”

  That called for a pause. A whole lot of pause.

  “How’s that?” I asked.

  “Hmm. Isn’t this fascinating?” Von Runck shot me the coyest glance he had, and he nodded. He’d gone beyond the point where you could take it as a joke. He knew it. I knew it. Way beyond, where the humorous purpose turns in on itself and grabs you by the throat. Then he knocked back the last of his drink. “Let’s have another and talk about it, shall we?”