Dark Quarry: A Mike Angel Private Eye Mystery

by David H Fears

  “Then you had her plug Holden and framed the secretary for the job.”

  “No. No. I didn’t even know he was dead till I heard it on the radio. Please.”

  “So, you’re saying it was Enterra’s idea to kill him? For what reason? Where do I get in touch with this impersonator?”

  He pointed at a Rolodex at the far end of his desk, wiped his mouth with a handkerchief and wrapped it around his bleeding knuckles. He made faces and fished the name and address from the file.

  I stood over him. He was a chihuahua hiding in a pit bull’s skin.

  “What’s your game, Jorgensen? It isn’t insurance. Not with a watchdog like Blondie and this swank location. Give it to me straight or we’ll play more paddycake.”

  “We do high risk insurance.”

  “You mean protection, don’t you Jorgie?”

  “Small time. That’s why I wanted to buy out Holden. His outfit was legit.”

  “And he didn’t want to sell to a rat like you, did he? So you figured you could dispose of him and deal with his old lady, the tall icicle, more favorably.”

  “You’ve got it wrong. Holden and me was close to a deal. Then he ups and puts me off—says a foreign outfit wants to bid. That’s why I hired the Enterra woman—to find out who the foreigners were.”

  Chapter 20 – Trailing Molly’s Double

  Molly was leaning against my door clutching a large manila envelope. I studied her anew—she was feminine but not delicate, though she looked like the grilling downtown hadn’t been a hayride.

  “Mister Angel, I thought you’d never come. I have the information you wanted.”

  “Got sprung, huh kid? The case must still be open. How about you call me Mike and I call you Molly.” I took the papers from her and she followed me into my office. It took a minute to clear a place for her to sit down.

  She looked good sitting there in the dim light. It was close and stale, but sweet Molly perched there with those golden green peepers on me like I was some kind of hero while I skimmed through copies of Holden’s appointment book. I liked the way she looked at me. She was no orchid, more like a rare hardy wildflower that survives in tough places. Natural beauty, I’d call it. She had it in spades.

  “The police claimed the cleaning woman saw me leaving Mister Holden’s office shortly after ten the night he was killed. But I was home all night.”

  “Can anyone verify that?”

  “I’m afraid not,” she said, twisting a handkerchief, “I live alone since Mom died—what can I do?”

  “It’s like this, Molly—you’ve got a double—someone hired to look like you to get inside your office. I saw her myself today. She even had the same kind of outfit on you wore that day I came to your place. Like you, she was built—well, not bad. It took me awhile but there were certain assets that were, uh, different.”

  This lit her up like sunshine on a bruised daisy. “Of course I’m not bad. I may be a kid, but I’m not a dumb kid—I noticed you noticing. Still, I don’t understand. A double? What do you mean?”

  “She was hired by Jorgensen to steal papers from your office, probably after hours. He was after information on some foreign outfit bidding to buy Eagleton Insurance. Except either she shot Holden or was there when he was killed.”

  “But, no foreign company was bidding.” She frowned. “That I know of.”

  “You sure?”

  “Positive. I would have known if there were negotiations. The meetings took weeks and Mister Holden’s time is all accounted for in those logs.”

  “How about any visitors you didn’t know? Any time he took off?”

  “No, no one—wait—a strange call about two weeks ago, on the fourteenth. Mister Holden left the office for the whole afternoon. I remember because his wife kept calling.” She started to mist up again. “I’m so worried! The police think I did this awful thing.”

  The afternoon of the fourteenth was crossed out and “cancelled” written across the page. Most hotshots spell it with one “L,” but it wasn’t Holden or Molly’s writing.

  “I need to dig up this mystery double,” I said, tugging on my ear. Molly stood and smoothed her suit and I showed her the door. I caught the aroma of her cologne: sandalwood.

  “Miss Bennett, that’s nice cologne you’re wearing. Ever use gardenia?”

  “Why, no—why do you ask? Do you like mine?”

  “Just curious. I like it very much. Tell your attorney I’m going to do my best to get to the bottom of this. Don’t worry, I know you didn’t kill Zachary. I’ll share my theories with the police, and hopefully they’ll back off from you.”

  She stepped close and kissed me on the cheek. It was the nicest thing that had happened to me all month. She stood there for a half second, maybe waiting for me to react, but I held my balance like a tightrope walker with arthritis. No way was I getting involved with another client, or the secretary of a dead one. My cursed torch was still smoldering for Kimbra. Still, I was lucky Molly wasn’t crying right then, or I might have crumbled. Then she left.

  ***

  The Rolodex card led me to a shabby rooming house on North Columbus where the manager said the Enterra woman had cleared out a couple of hours before. I was a step behind. I figured Jorgensen would have warned her off, and felt like paying him another visit. I asked a couple of inmates in the dump if they’d seen Enterra with anyone. I got nothing but stares.

  A Puerto Rican kid without shirt or shoes sat on the wooden steps clawing his beat up guitar. He jerked back like Stymie and kept his eyes on my hands when I pulled two fivers from my wallet and flashed them in his face.

  “Enterra—you know where she hightailed it to?”

  He shook his little brown head. “Twenty dollars, it’ll cost you” he said bravely.

  “Ten,” I said, waggling the bills at him, “but only if you take me there—otherwise, keep banging on that thing. You ain’t no Ritchie Valens, kid.” I turned to go.

  “You got deal, hombre.”

  The boy got in and we wound out Columbus a mile to a string of rundown bungalows. It was getting dark. The boy pointed to the last house on the street. I paid him and told him to save for a new guitar, that someday he could be very good. I lied. He looked at me like I was a monkey in a cage then flashed a row of brilliant white teeth and ran off.

  The sky was poster purple. I waited until it was inky black. Then I rolled up across the street from the last house and checked it out. The house was completely dark. I stepped out and went across, keeping to the edge of the gravel driveway that led to an empty garage. From the corner of the garage I spotted a dark Ford sedan parked in the yard behind the house. The moon shone across the worn patch that used to be a lawn. Pale yellow light outlined several dark windows and a cellar staircase.

  I crept along the outside of the car. The hood, still warm. One of the house windows had a shade drawn, slivers of light around it. I tried the cellar door and heard footsteps above me as I stepped into the darkness. My eyes adjusted in a minute and I moved forward slowly into the basement. A faint glow lined under a door at the top of some wooden stairs.

  I took the stairs gingerly, one at a time, and listened.

  There were two people walking around upstairs near the outside wall, one with heavier footsteps. I guessed that would be the kitchen. When I reached the top stair I cracked open the door and leaned my ear close.

  Deathly silent.

  I pulled my .38 and stepped into a dark hallway, next to some coats on hooks.

  The front door buzzer rang. I jerked and fell against the wall, but luckily I shrank against some hanging coats. It rang a second time and a male figure moved silently to the door and opened it. The man outside spoke, but I couldn’t make out the words. The two men then went down the hall to the back of the house.

  An inside door opened and closed, momentarily illuminating the living room. I heard raised voices and a man laugh. I went the opposite way down the hall and found myself in a dining room. A door into the
kitchen was ajar.

  I moved to the doorframe and held my gun at the ready.

  Chapter 21 – Shootout!

  A familiar voice said: “I’ll get a big promotion for plugging you two. That was pretty stupid wasting the golden goose, Georgie. Whose brilliant idea? Yours?”

  Through the narrow opening I could see an empty chair and part of a table. The chair had a long chestnut wig hanging from the top. I moved and could see a gun barrel pointed to the other side of the kitchen. Then a gun held by a burned hand.

  Freznik.

  “She switched the bullets I tell ya—the blanks were supposed to scare him into signing.”

  “It was your gun,” said a female voice, “the bastard didn’t give my Ernesto much of a break, either. Holden deserved it. Sure—I switched the blanks out—Jorgé pulled the trigger. You should have seen the look on his puss—”

  “Enough!” growled a male’s thick accent around the corner from where I stood. “The committee has decided. I’m directed to close this branch. She—”

  “You idiots!” shouted Freznik. “Holden would have paid much more. Now it’s over. You’re on your own. I want no part of this. I’m going with Vlade to Mattoon to explain. Esta you’d best creep back to Havana before that private dick catches on to who you are. Jorgensen left for L.A. today. Take your fag brother with you.”

  “What about the tart, the secretary—can’t you pin it on her?” asked Jorgé.

  There was a quick movement from the other side of the room and someone ran into the kitchen from the living room side. The voice from around the corner swore and said something in Russian or German, at least that’s what it sounded like. Then my view blurred from a man running away toward the back of the house. A door slammed. Footsteps crashed down the back stairs.

  “You’ll hit the floor first, Avery,” yelled Freznik. A shot roared—then another and another. I crouched and pushed into the room. Carpface slid down the other doorframe using his body as a red paintbrush. Blood gurgled from his mouth. Shock and death filled his eyes. He jerked off a wild shot at Freznik who swayed next to the sink like a statue toppling in a gale.

  The mystery lady I’d followed hunched over on her elbows at the table. She had close-cropped, bleached locks. Georgie and her must have frequented the same beauty shop, or got a deal on a 50-gallon drum of peroxide. Jorgensen’s bodyguard, mister Clairol, yanked a revolver from his belt.

  My .38 spoke first. Jorgé slid off the chair onto the floor like his backbone was Jello. The lady’s jaw stuck open and she raised her palms, just as Freznik dove nose first onto the linoleum like a rotten redwood. Acrid smoke burned the air and feathered around the ceiling.

  Jorgé choked out a chuckle, made a silly look, sprawled his legs out and breathed his last. The glamour magazines wouldn’t be lamenting his loss.

  I moved around the room pulse hunting and collecting enough firepower to outfit a militia. I bent over Freznik and pinched the chords in his taut neck. Pepto Bismol had lost its best customer.

  Even with the mystery dame, I had the only heart beating in that room. I kept her covered and peered out the kitchen window. Whoever Bigfoot was, he got away, and I hadn’t heard a car start up out on the street. I turned and faced Enterra.

  “Ernesto Enterra. Sure. I remember him—the Cuban ringleader who bought it in the police raid. It was me who broke that case, sweetheart—why didn’t you spend some of your revenge on me?”

  “It was Holden who double-crossed my Ernesto. They were doing music for years before he decided to grow a conscience.” Her eyes were full of fire and yet they were cold with hate—a Latin thing.

  “Holden and Ernesto—dirty together? You might as well spill it, sister. With this many bodies to explain, one more won’t be argued. I’ve got this burning itch in my trigger finger. The wetback with big brogues—who was he? ”

  She looked stupidly at the wall and lit a cigarette in one of those silly holders with fake jewels. Then she shrugged. “Some Russian Freznik brought in from his boss. Not sure. I despise Russians—they hold out help for Cuba with one hand and take control with the other. I spit on all Russians.”

  “We agree, doll. I don’t have much use for the commie bastards either. Now about Holden—what was his play?”

  “He was connection for money washing. Lived in Havana before Castro took over. Big, party-time Holden. Double-crosser.”

  “I never figured Zachary for drugs,” I said, thinking Bleachie was pulling it out of her backside.

  “He just cycled the money. That’s all. He never touched the junk.”

  “And you wanted to pay him back for trying to get out.”

  “Not for that, but for turning the ring in and getting my Ernesto killed.”

  “And Jorgensen? How did he fit into things?”

  “My brother, Jorgé, you just killed—worked for Jorgensen. Two-bit strong-arm rackets. These dumb flatfeet were on the take from Jorgensen. Freznik was holding back. Avery found out and came looking for him.”

  “Go on,” I said, quickly, “and the Russian? He was looking to audit the mess?”

  “Something like it. When Jorgé discovered it was Holden’s company Jorgensen was trying to horn in on, the same Holden I’d told him about, we hooked up.”

  “And you were bleeding Holden—threatening to expose his past.”

  She laughed, a dirty little laugh. “Girl has to make living. But every time I see him my stomach flops. He didn’t deserve to live—him and cold princess of his. Imagine such vermin making to seduce me!”

  “And the impersonation thing was a cover? Or are you gonna tell me that Miss Bennett was mixed up in all this too?” I stepped closer and raised my .38 to her eyes.

  “She’s patsie. Her getup was how I could be seen going into his office at night for payments. We chose nights when she not working. I let myself in her house once and took some of her things and noted the sorts of outfits she wore. No one suspected.”

  “Including some black silk panties?” I tugged at my ear that was still ringing.

  “Sure, black. Jorgé forced Holden to write the note to scare him into handing over his files. I was supposed to have put blanks in Holden’s gun. Jorgé panicked and planted the clues—sidetrack cops—we didn’t count on you getting there first.”

  “What about the mud—on Holden’s shoes?”

  “That was brother’s brilliant idea. He was a geologist in Cuba but decided it didn’t pay too much. Said it would tie Holden to the secretary in Verona. Jorge broke into her house to snoop around and got mud on his car.”

  “Clever guy, your poor, dead Jorge. He should’ve demanded a refund from his English classes. Definite has no ‘A.’ Now he’s going to study geology up close—six feet under.”

  Her eyes smoldered. She didn’t like me very much. At least, I thought, I’m not attractive to every bad broad who wiggles her ass.

  I used Freznik’s bracelets to bundle up miss deadly, and called the meat wagon boys. I had the impression, after a few hours of giving statements, that the other dicks at the 18th were happy Jimmy and his bug-eyed partner wouldn’t be loitering in their clubhouse any longer. These dicks were grateful I’d emptied the trash for them.

  Chapter 22 – Joy Ride with the Widow

  As I left the precinct, the back door of a limo opened, revealing a familiar pair of shapely legs. They were long legs, seemingly without end, right at home in a stretch limo. I leaned in and took in the famous frown of Julia Holden in a too short, too tight red dress. She tried to smile, but it was a tired variety. It suggested she was fagged and oddly vulnerable. Otherwise, she looked comfy. It was déjà vu—another poison dame showing too much skin all for me.

  A tough guy, a good investigator, isn’t moved simply by a pair of tits, or a long set of inviting legs; he isn’t swayed off course by piercing blue eyes or by musky desire rubbing against him. A tough guy isn’t. But I am. Luckily, not every female with tarnished motives pulls me under, but those that do tow me out to
deep water and laugh as I tread. I suddenly needed a drink.

  “I’ll give you my report tomorrow, Mrs. Holden.” My professional detached voice works on the phone. In person, a woman like Julia Holden sees right through it. Women like Julia recognize those ideas in my eyes sometimes even before they’re clear to me. Okay, so they’re always clear to me.

  “Get in, Mike,” she ordered, then followed it with a touch of hope, warmer than her characteristic style. “Please?” Now I got a rare and genuine smile. It tipped the balance. Or, maybe it was the red dress.

  What the hell. I slid in and shut the door.

  I hugged my side of the car, which worked to make her more aggressive. She told the driver to cruise around, then eyeballed me like she hadn’t eaten in a week and I was crème brule. “Now that the case is closed,” she said in velvet tones, “we can get better acquainted.”

  Something about the way a cold dish flames up comes close to comedy. Except men didn’t laugh at Julia. She knew what she wanted and knew all the tricks to getting what she wanted. The only thing that saved me before was she hadn’t been sure what she wanted. Now I wasn’t sure what I wanted. Julia was as cold as Kimbra had been warm. I’d been thinking a lot about Kimbra, wondering where she was, if she was still alive.

  The air conditioning plus Julia’s style gave me goose bumps. Those icicles dancing in Julia’s eyes became sparks. She was clearly motivated. I’d have to be blunt, my long suit.

  “You’re not my type,” I said, lighting a Lucky and aiming smoke at her nose.

  “I could be, if you told me what type you wanted. How about this type?” She undid the side of her skirt and laid it open. This time she wasn’t wearing panties. Being blunt never got me so far. I’d have to make up my mind before too long. I thought about barging out of the moving car, but it was only a comedy film in my head.

  I kept my eyes on hers, as if she wasn’t driving around in the back of a stretch limo showing a private investigator her private parts.