Dark Quarry: A Mike Angel Private Eye Mystery

by David H Fears

  Confusion leaked into her conviction, and gave me the moment I needed. She dipped the barrel just enough for me to lunge and rip it from her hand. I yanked her up by her expensive wool lapels and slapped her across the face. Hard. Twice. It felt good. Her eyes were smaller now, full of shock and a flicker of that little girl helplessness that had conned me down this corrupt path.

  Blood slid from the corner of her mouth and I smeared it off with my thumb. I pinned her arms against her and squeezed her face up into mine. No more Mister Stupid.

  “My insurance policy—just in case those feather lips of yours hid shark’s teeth. Your sexy gun’s in Joe’s pocket—yes, that’s right—in Joe’s pocket with your prints all over it. That’s where it’ll stay if you get out of town and don’t look back. There’s a certain man I trusted with an envelope telling the cops where to look for Joe’s body—just in case anything happens to yours truly. Now, that dark quarry’s a good place for Joe to spend a few thousand years, don’t you agree, silk lips?”

  There was no envelope. I was getting better at lying.

  The shock in her eyes fled, leaving only that helpless little girl. She nodded. I ushered her to the door and when she went through it I knew she wouldn’t be back. Strange wonder hung in her eyes when she turned in the doorway, a look I wanted to save. “I don’t know why. There is no why,” she said, her voice breaking, and then she was gone.

  I felt sorry for Ed, but at least he’d have a few months under some palm trees looking into those eyes, enjoying Kimbra’s sensual sports. I’d try to reach him in the morning, but if he was ready to vamoose with Kimbra, he might not be available. I doubt I’d be able to fix his obsession with a phone call.

  Chapter 4 – Another Late Night Visitor

  Long fingernails tapping on my door woke me. There’s no other sound like it. Kimbra back again? With a bigger gun?

  I never have normal visitors, the kind who call in the daytime. I took my .45 from the holster and peered through the peephole. Haley in a black raincoat. The nearest clouds were in Pittsburgh, so why the coat? With her, it had to be a style thing.

  I holstered the gun and opened the door, turning back into the room like I expected her. She swished in, floated around the place, and eyed my furniture like it had leprosy. She picked up the ruined carving of Monroe.

  “Still chopping on pieces of wood, Mike? A nude even. Your taste hasn’t improved. Is it me?”

  “Monroe—I like cheap blondes.” With her three-inch heels I wanted to get a ladder.

  She dropped the Avon Lady act and slumped on the corner of the Murphy bed with a look I’d never seen her wear. It was the same jittery pain that stuck to Kimbra after she shot Joe.

  Haley turned on the waterworks, pulled a folded letter from her pocket and held it up to me like it was her eviction notice. In a way it was. Haley isn’t the sensitive type so at first I thought it was an act. When I read the note I knew it wasn’t.

  Ed had run off with Kimbra and what was left of the trust fund. Inside I rooted for Ed, then realized how smashed up Haley was. I would have thought she’d be glad, but that shows what I really know about dames. Her words gushed out in fractured spurts. I’d never seen her with flattened pride. Ed hadn’t said where, just that it was tropical so he could get as far away from “Iceberg” Haley as possible. I figured anywhere with Kimbra would be warm. Then I thought, was Haley bawling over Ed or the money? The girl I dated in college would have dampened a dismal profit and loss statement.

  I plopped down next to her and patted her knee. “I suppose you’re strapped now?”

  “Kee—ryest, Mike, I don’t care about the money,” she snuffled. “I didn’t let him manage all of it. He dumped me for a high-class call girl! I’ve been so awfully stupid giving him such a long leash.” More waterworks. She spoke in a softer timbre, one I could tolerate, one that made me warm mush.

  Haley wasn’t born yesterday. She’d be okay. She’d once told me she had so many rich uncles that she’d inherit a few million a dozen times. Funny thing, her heart wasn’t breaking for Ed, exactly, but for being out-foxed by Kimbra.

  “Guess you loved him a lot,” I said, fishing in blonde waters.

  “Once . . . once I did. Ed had a good business head—it was just that he couldn’t ever see the big picture, ran from opportunity. And…he stopped being a real husband a couple of years ago.” She slid her hand on my thigh right where those long red fingernails would do the most good. “What’s a girl to do?” Haley was nothing if not persistent.

  Black underwear on a blonde gets a man’s attention, especially when it’s worn alone under a raincoat. Red, black, what the hell. Haley had learned a lot since her shy college days, maybe some of it from Ed, but for sure some private tutoring too. Sheepishly she pulled out scarves from her pockets and suggested a kinky bondage party. She wanted me to tie her up. Nothing like a dame who plans ahead. I knew it meant me being tied down.

  Why didn’t I say yes? Maybe it was good sense for a change. Or, maybe I knew if I made love to Haley, now that Ed had run off and wasn’t my client, that I’d really be doing it with Kimbra in my imagination. How many times did I have to get caught with someone who wasn’t any good for me? Would I even know the difference if the right girl came along?

  I didn’t want to end up with the wife of my client who’d run off with my mystery woman, even if she was stacked and rich. She was taller than me. Even lying down it would be awkward. Plus, I wasn’t going to let my little head could derail my big head again. Even if Ed was out of the picure, even if his blackmailer was playing hotfoot with Satan; and

  even if Mike Angel was free and between cases—the truth was Haley just didn’t turn my crank any more. I gave her a minor reason:

  “Sorry. It’s not going to happen. Sympathy’s a bad reason to hop in the sack.”

  Haley started at that, seemingly unsure whether to be wounded or offended. Some tears showed. “We once had a good thing, though, didn’t we Mike?” she wailed, sitting there in her undies while I spread her raincoat back over her shoulders.

  “Sure, kid. But I’m not the Princeton star wrestler any more, and you aren’t the hot cheerleader.” I held out my hand. “Friends?”

  She took it and turned those puppy dog eyes on me. I almost weakened when she asked me to hold her and let her stay the night, no tricks.

  That was one misstep I knew I couldn’t make.

  “Sorry, but I’m not into torture. I don’t spend the night with friends who look like you. You’re leaving now,” I said, “and we can salvage a good friendship. Besides,” I joked, “I don’t want to vacuum a lot of blonde hairs out of the bed in the morning.”

  At the door she whispered, “Either you killed Joe or she did. Don’t worry—I won’t tell either way. Ed planned to have him disposed of if you hadn’t come through. Yes, he told me all about it. That stuff with the pictures—he was drugged for it by Joe. But none of that matters, now. Really. Just come by now and then. Let me give you an opportunity, no strings. You don’t want to spend the rest of your life in a dump like this, do you Mike?”

  Now I was wide awake. No sense whispering. I lit a Lucky and we leaned against the door frame sharing the smoke. “While we’re asking questions, did you know any other business associates of Ed’s who might be connected with Ambler? Tell me the truth. You knew Kimbra but didn’t admit it before.”

  She pressed against me like she was trying to imprint the answer, and purposely let her raincoat fall open again. I closed and buttoned it while she answered my question.

  “Not really. Ed’s small projects bored me.” Haley planted baby kisses across my forehead. “Now, answer my question—you’ll come by soon? Let me set you up? Like I said, no strings.”

  No strings—Randolph dough and Haley’s need were heavy ropes with a boat anchor tied to my dick. I’d have no trouble turning down that kind of no-string deal. Anyway, as stacked as Haley was, I couldn’t imagine waking to her happy voice the rest of my life. Picking
bleach blonde strands off my dark suits every morning isn’t my idea of exercise either. Funny how Haley had the visuals but Kimbra had the power.

  Women love a “maybe” when they’re interested and don’t trust a fast “yes.” I faked an encouraging maybe, and she left. I smoked the rest of the pack wondering about my newfound principles, part of me cursing I hadn’t let myself have some fun with her, part of me applauding that at least this time I’d been honest. Mostly.

  By the time the sun broke through the slate New York sky, I had a hundred reasons why I’d been right to turn Haley down. I knew if things changed I could always drop by and take another gander at those fat kids on her ceiling. But by the time I showered even that idea lost steam.

  ***

  I stepped out of the shower when the phone rang, hoping it might be Ed telling me the rest of my fee was in the mail.

  “Mike. This is your Uncle Al,” said the stern voice.

  Uncle who lived by the quarry. My mind flew to shaft I’d thrown Joe’s body in.

  “I know it ain’t Christmas, Uncle.”

  “It is for me. I wanted you to know I’ve sold out—that Edwards conglomerate from Atlantic City. I’m set for life, nephew, and I won’t forget you.”

  “Gee, that’s great. You’ll have to come up. We can celebrate and do the City.”

  “They bought out the neighborhood, Mike. Even that old quarry. Gonna be a mall and apartment complex with underground parking. Imagine.”

  Chapter 5 – Fisticuffs with a Detroit Connection

  I drove to the office dazed. The snow had turned to tiny pellets of sleet hiss-bouncing off the hood of my car. Everyone who was afraid of driving on icy streets was playing bumper cars in the stuff. A pit opened up in my stomach to match the one at the quarry. Just my luck—twenty years that old rock heap sat abandoned, twenty years nobody interested in buying the place. I drop one corpse down a shaft and suddenly developers are bidding against each other. Underground parking. Just my luck.

  Uncle always liked the quiet of having no neighbors. Being a hermit must run in the family. Now he’d have to move, but not before I found Joe a new final resting place. I couldn’t be sure just how much the shaft had filled in since I was a kid. Would they find Joe’s body?

  I stopped at Gina’s, downstairs from the office, for coffee. It was hot and black and strong and the caffeine bled into my veins but bypassed the sinking hole in my gut. Uncle said that escrow would close in 60 days. I had some time to think, plan. I’d done some repelling down cliffs in the service, so I figured I might fish Joe out, but before I did I’d need a better place to dump him. I couldn’t risk it in the daytime and it would be pretty treacherous in the dark. I’d need someone’s help, someone I could trust. I thought about Rick Anthony, my last supervisor and best buddy still at the 23rd, but quickly dismissed the idea. Rick played it by the book, a good detective near retirement. When there’s renegading to do, he sometimes calls me. Those favors didn’t go both ways. I knew not to ask. Rick was the only honest cop in the 23rd, or at least he was when I was there. I wanted him to stay that way.

  It was a discouraging signpost of my life that the only one I could trust was Rick, a guy I couldn’t ask. Helping me dispose of a body was too much to ask, even if I could convince him that I didn’t kill Ambler. There’d have to be another way.

  Ed Bergman—he got me into this mess, the bastard, and if he hadn’t flown off with Miss Eyelashes, I’d hogtie him into an hour’s work at the quarry. It was downright nasty of him to skip out without paying the other half of my fee. Walking up to my office, I thought of what I’d like to do to Ed, should I ever run into him again. It didn’t help knowing that Ed and I had both been sucked in by Kimbra’s charms. She was leaving a messy trail of nice guys gone wrong. Dumb guys, anyway.

  I figured even if they found the body, only Kimbra would be tied to it by the prints on the gun. I could deny being an accessory, all the time I sat in stir from five to ten. I shoved it into the back of my mind, hoping they wouldn’t find him.

  By the time I stumbled into my office I was in a lousy mood. Under the mail slot, a pile of bills, and on top, a thick envelope and a folded note. The envelope had that flexible feel to it that only meant one thing could be inside: cash. My mood underwent major cosmetic surgery. “Thanks for cleaning up my mess,” was all the typewritten slip inside read. The amount was the exact amount cryptic Ed owed me, twenty-five portraits of Ben Franklin. I took back what I swore about Ed. Not a deadbeat after all. I bet that Kimbra didn’t know he’d sent the dough.

  I pocketed two hundred and put the rest in the safe for luxuries like rent and scotch and bullets. I doubted there was enough to pay off whoever came looking for Joe.

  The note was still tucked in my pocket. What with all the cash, I’d almost forgotten it. It was Haley’s scrawl—about a strange phone call from Ed—he was in some kind of jam in Bermuda but the line went dead before he could explain. She tried calling all the main hotels. He’d sounded so terrified she couldn’t yell at him and would I please find out where Ed was in Bermuda and let her know ASAP.

  I dialed Rick’s desk at the 23rd. He’d been promoted to lieutenant and didn’t have the same number. I waited as they played Tinkers to Evers to Chance with my call. Finally Rick came on the line sounding like he’d survived on nothing but the 23rd’s acid coffee for days:

  “Rick, Mike—need a small one.”

  “They’re always infinitesmal to you, Bud, but I shall endeavor to retain my high position in your esteem.”

  Rick’s speech was permanently handicapped by all those classes he took on nights and weekends at N.Y.U. I think he did it mostly to meet coeds.

  “Check flights the past two days for Bermuda for a client of mine who’s skipped.”

  “I thought reputable private-eyes got remunerated up front.”

  “Dough’s not the thing—this is for the wife. She’s near collapse—a good deed from yours truly.”

  I didn’t like lying to Mike, but I didn’t want to encumber him with messy details.

  “She must be a pulchritudinous vision if a lecherous boy scout like you is handing out good deeds. Sure you don’t want me to stake out the airports, too? Drag the East River?”

  Rick was my supervisor when I was a green patrolman in the 23rd. He covered for me a couple of times when I tore off a few doors I shouldn’t have, spoke up in meetings where I shouldn’t have, soothed my ulcers when the judge let the bad guys go, and was a general all-around solid friend, the kind you never appreciate enough. I always got the feeling Rick liked me asking favors, even when he grumbled. Maybe he added them up for a big payback someday, but he never threw them in my face. When Rick complained I knew he was willing. If he ever meant no, he just said no. Too bad dames can’t acquire that skill. There’d be a lot fewer slapped faces.

  “He was with a vision, too. About 25, classy, soft lips, great body—your kind of pastry.”

  “Go on—how diaphanous? Measurements? Please be specific.”

  “I’ll fill you in on those later, just rush it. I need to find out which flight they took and the time of arrival. And by the way, congrats on making L-T.”

  “Okay, mister investigator. You’d care to offer names on these lovebirds?”

  “Bergman. Edward Bergman. The brunette might be under any number of names, Kimbra Phillips maybe.” I didn’t want to give him the Ambler name for obvious reasons.

  The line grew silent. I could hear cops mumbling in the background with their mouths full of donuts. I wondered what a diabetic cop would do in the 23rd. Go nuts, maybe.

  “You get that, Rick? I said Berg—”

  “Get here. Now.” He wasn’t asking; it was Rick’s hard-nosed super command voice. The sound of shuffling papers came over the line.

  “What is it?”

  “Guess you haven’t perused the morning papers, either that or this is your idea of a sophomoric escapade. You’d better come straight away.”

  “I will, b
ut give it to me unvarnished. I don’t like driving nervous in an ice storm.”

  It was a good thing I was sitting down.

  Ed was dead. Killed in a posh resort in broad daylight. No suspects. My thoughts were as opaque as the sky. Crazy ideas dance in your head at times like that, when you’re socked with the sledgehammer of finality and you can’t say a damned thing. Death always stuns us, even when the victim is a hundred years old and has been sick. Rick read the headlines, front page, late edition: FINANCIER MURDERED IN POSH RESORT.

  “One shot behind the head, gangland style,” Rick said.

  “What caliber? And the dame?”

  “No female with him. But if you are privy to anything, the Bermuda authorities will want your statement. Bergman checked in solo. We’ve got a teletype sheet coming in from the island. I’ll know more then. It seems like you already know a lot more than we do. When you get here, don’t be recalcitrant.”

  Rick and his ten-dollar words.

  Haley. I hoped she didn’t know yet. I could be there in a few minutes. Why would Kimbra kill Ed? Or did she? Joe I could see, but Ed? She had it bad for him; he gave up Randolph money and world-class tits for her. Or, tits and money, I wasn’t sure of the order.

  It didn’t add up that Kimbra would need to take Bergstrom to Bermuda just to plug him. They had cops there too, of a sort. But what did add up about Kimbra? I wasn’t the most objective dick in the world about this particular dame. If the slug in Ed’s brain was a .32, I’d be very surprised. One thing was certain—those questions I had about Joe Ambler’s mob connections would have to be answered by someone other than Ed.

  ***

  A wide shadow loomed from the other side of my glass door. It reminded me of a Hitchcock movie. The shadow must have worn crepe-soled shoes because I can hear anyone coming from six doors down the hall, and it was absolutely still.

  I lowered the receiver and heard Rick say, “You there? Edward wasn’t a friend I hope?”