She turned and lifted a leg over my lap, rubbing my thigh with her calf. “Well, do you like my type now?”
“I don’t like pushy dames. For one thing, I like the type of female who mourns her husband longer than a week.” Even as I said it bothersome steam built in my lap. I turned and looked out past the traffic to the skyline of buildings. She didn’t like me not looking at what she was offering.
Still, I didn’t struggle when she undid my pants. She wasn’t checking labels. Julia would have made a great sailor on leave.
Her breath was hot on my neck, a hint of something sweet mixed with alcohol. “Darling, if you don’t know by now, Zachary was a naughty boy—well, we weren’t close, since I found out.” Her lips found my neck, her hand got busy, made progress, in spite of my forced thoughts about an upcoming tax audit. Her diamond blue eyes were right there next to mine, demanding to be noticed. Love of power and control shone in them. There could have been lust, too.
“I would think you’d be master of naughty.”
The car went around a wide turn a bit too fast. She straddled me with those stilts of hers and started drilling exercises. On top was her position of choice, I’d say. It looked like all I’d have to do was lie back and enjoy the ride.
Still, little things bug me, like a dog barking down the block just as I’m drifting off, or a bit of lipstick on a dame’s tooth when she wants to kiss me. Or Julia’s lack of tenderness. I might as well have been jacking off. The car droned on. I wondered about the driver and how many times he’d hauled Julia and her conquests around. “What about him?” I nodded at the chauffeur, trying to ignore the wet plunging woman in my lap.
“He’s paid not to look. Your payment is coming, darling.” I could tell that something was coming for the robotic Mrs. Holden, all right. Now or never.
The car took a turn in the opposite direction. I took her by the shoulders and shoved her back over to her side of the car harder than necessary—with her I liked harder than necessary. I did myself up. It wasn’t the most difficult thing I ever did, but I was proud of myself in some perverted way. “Like I said, you’re not my type. A quickie with you might lead to a relationship and I’d have to get used to your frosty demeanor. I like dames who smile.”
Miss Icicle’s victory party was shattered. It was back to frowns. She whipped her dress in place and barked at the driver to make it back to the precinct. It didn’t look like I’d be doing any more investigations for Eagleton Insurance Company. Too bad.
Driving back to my office, a cool shower began to fall. Funny how when it rains in Jersey, it feels less humid than when it doesn’t. A fine light shower relaxes the nerves. Except for the commie bigfoot that got away at the shootout, all the players had been accounted for. I recalled the Russian mentioned Mattoon—a little place in Illinois I’d been through with Dad once. Too small for much to be there. There was mention of a “committee” and “the leader,” a female, closing the branch right before the shooting started. Maybe Rick would know more. He was expecting me to make a statement tomorrow, and I couldn’t very well leave out anything he might discover. He was too good of a detective for more evasion or deception. Still, I had a feeling he’d buy me dinner for removing Freznik and company.
I’d started out ditching a body for a woman who’d hypnotized me, a woman who’d become disfigured and embittered over revenge. A woman who still haunted my thoughts, especially in those long empty hours when sleep decides to take a detour. Kimbra couldn’t let herself love again, and if she took the revenge she sought, she wouldn’t be able to love again. It was like some curse that followed me around—wanting what I knew wasn’t any good, turning down warm bodies like Haley and Julia just to sit up with a bottle and worries of Kimbra.
As I neared the office I thought of the other woman on this case, slightly more than a girl really, and with the sort of purity that I’d imagined Kimbra once had, before life kicked her in the teeth and set her on a course to destruction.
On impulse I turned off for Verona. I reached in the glove box and pulled out the black silk clue. I wondered how they’d look, properly modeled. I wondered if Miss Molly Bennett would like a late drink with a tired private investigator. Julia had stirred up my boiler and it was still percolating. I had one last chore to do before crashing at my place—return the panties to their rightful owner.
Chapter 23 – Hello Redemption, Goodbye
A man can slog through a lot of muck in a seamy metropolis and not understand how much distance it puts between him and decent folks. It rubs off on him slowly until it’s too late. Good solid people slow down to see the gore of a five-car pileup. It jars them and sticks to them because it’s so foreign to their everyday world, a world based on forgetting how mortal they are. And when a cop has seen enough despair, evil, and wasted lives, death rides home with him and takes a seat at his table and stares into his soul, tapping bony fingers while it waits, waits, waits.
Six years of working around human weakness gave me excuses to deaden my vision of life, to sing songs of I-don’t-give-a-damn with Jack Daniels, when all the while the lies I fed myself ate my insides raw. Six years of bashing heads and having my head bashed. I was old at 30.
Then I came across Molly. A girl like Molly has a way of letting a mug like me touch the good things that lie under all that accumulated muck. Her sandalwood cologne blew it away like a fresh breeze in a tannery. I’d been raking the muck so long that I stared like the good folks at the gore, except I sprawled in the ambulance staring out at Molly. When she reached through and touched my hand, I sat up and took notice of things again, realized that my scars didn’t have to be permanent. Molly was redemption, though I didn’t fully understand it then.
When I told Molly the outcome to the Jorgensen case, she clasped her hands together; her eyes flashed. I let my eyes wander from her cascade of dark brown hair to her neck to her tiny waist—the easiest girl to look at I’d seen in a lifetime, and my “lost” years since the war didn’t matter anymore. I’d made the detour to Molly’s with seduction in mind, but discovered other things, higher things. Those other more respectful motives emerged. I thought about asking her out to dinner sometime, or maybe a movie—things I hadn’t done for years. A real date. Just as I got up the nerve to ask, Molly stood.
“I’m moving back home to Chicago tomorrow. I quit my position with the company, now that Julia will be running things. Plus Dad’s health is poor. There’s nothing to keep me here. I’d like to thank you for all you’ve done. I’m sure Julia will pay you well.”
I was a skinny high schooler again, being turned down for a big night at the prom.
“Chicago? That’s a little far for a guy to come calling. I was about to ask you out to dinner.”
She looked surprised, liked I’d lightly stuck her with a pin. She blushed and laughed a little melodious laugh that started small and got larger. Her eyes said she was pleased with the idea. I was only glad she didn’t vomit. I wanted to pick her up and dance around the room, with her laughing like that until we melted together. Was it just another attraction? I’d had too many of those.
Just as quick I wanted to flee before Cupid’s arrow pierced that organ that beats just behind my shoulder holster. Getting laid was one thing, but really falling for some dame—well, I pushed it out of my mind. Then I knew. I was afraid of Molly Bennett, and I almost laughed out loud at the idea. “Yeah, I guess that is pretty funny.”
“Oh, no, Mike—I’m not laughing at you. I’m just surprised you’d ask me out, a man of the world like you. If I were staying I’d love to go. How about the Windy City—would you like to visit? Could you?” she lifted her chin, a kid hoping for the present she’d wished for. All things seemed possible. “I’m moving in with my sis. If you come to town, look us up. I’d be happy to take you to a Cubs game.” She wrote an address on a card and held it out to me.
Baseball, hot dogs and an afternoon in the bleachers. Great way to get to know a gal. It would have struck me as awfully s
quare with anybody but Molly. I told her that a double header would be just perfect and that I might just be in Chicago next month on another case. I didn’t mention the shootout, Mattoon, and the commie who’d escaped, but I’d toyed with the idea of following Kimbra to Illinois. Now I had another reason to go.
She shook my hand goodnight and glowed up at me like I’d just saved her life. I held on to her fingers. A sweet tearing ache struck me that I’d never see her again. She told me she’d be looking for another secretarial position there and asked me to wish her well.
At the door I hesitated. Molly would make a great gal Friday. Maybe I could convince her to stay, now that Ed had boosted my bank balance before he was killed. I was about to throw the idea at her when she said: “Whatever made you a private investigator? Your eyes are too kind for the job. I thought you had to be over 50 for that?”
My eyes were probably just too tired at that point. “My father was a career cop. His dream was to have his own agency after he retired. He did that, but only solved one case. Then he was murdered in an alley in South Newark.”
“Oh—I’m sorry! I didn’t mean—”
“The case is still unsolved. Maybe I was hoping I could break it, but whatever. I’ve made it six years.”
“And you like it? Getting knocked around?”
“Well, it’s not always chasing tough guys. Most of it’s pretty boring, I guess. Sure, there’s violence now and then. I really can’t say that I’d use ‘like’, but it fits me better than anything I’ve done.”
***
All the way to my office I wished I’d made a pitch for Molly to stay. She’d make a great help in the business, the paperwork I was lousy at. She was smart, efficient, with moxie—a sweet eyeful to keep the babes from pulling me down into the ditch—exactly the sort of girl to keep me on track, yet exactly the sort I could get serious about.
I didn’t know it then, but hugging Molly goodbye at the door was the beginning. At that moment I knew I’d see her again. Our goodbye was a sweet hello.
I wasn’t much of a prize, what with my craving for booze and my itch for shady females with creamy thighs. Kimbra, for instance, the mysterious vixen who could do things with her mouth that frazzled my nervous system. She was as addictive as my old companion, Jack D. And, Haley, with that body and silk scarves and huge appetite for sex—I couldn’t put her out of my life completely. Haley and Kimbra were only a couple of the dozens of females who had crossed my path since the war. Different but really all the same. I hadn’t said no to them, and liked it when they chased after me, like any red-blooded male would, but I was tiring of the merry-go-round of it all. The ice in Julia’s veins made me scramble back from the edge of her cliff, and I’d barely escaped. Maybe in another year I’d take that kind of leap and become as cold as Julia. Maybe in another year I wouldn’t recognize the value in a Molly. Maybe in another year I’d be dead. Molly might be the only female I knew who’d come to my funeral and cry and talk about my kind eyes and think of me kindly as the years went by. I think too damned much.
Honesty painted a banner in my head that I didn’t deserve a great gal like Molly. What was I thinking? Stupid, stupid, I thought, as I drifted off to sleep, hugging my pillow and remembering the heady aroma of sandalwood cologne.
Chapter 24 – Mike in the Bottle
When cops are snuffed there’s always an inquest, then maybe a grand jury and a few indictments thrown around. Civic leaders decry moral decay, underworld wars, crime waves and injustice, even though those cross-eyed, befuddled put-ons wouldn’t recognize justice if it danced on their face with spike boots. The city’s rags sell a few newspapers, the average Joe clucks at the water cooler that society is going to hell, mothers’ groups stage a march or two to City Hall, with more than a few laws heaved on the pile of already ignored legislation. Newark’s funny that way—the place is loaded with bureaucrats riding high horses in circles. Whoever exposes or shoots a dirty cop gives the public an opportunity to clean things up; the nasty publicity casts doubt on the livability of the sacred metropolis. Politicians who normally brag about their town start to sweat. Big shots get nervous. Then it’s all hushed up.
A private dick is licensed to carry heat, licensed to kill, but God save him if he breaks eggs making an omelet. The Jorgensen case crushed more eggs than an earthquake on Easter.
Rick chipped in. He’s a stand up cop with a long distinguished record; demands respect and has a few good judges behind him, but he’s outnumbered. Too many other cops with long careers are on the take, too many lend a hand to dirty work by a crooked D.A. or bribes to a weak judge. And worse, a few big city mayors are downright crooked.
Facts spilled out about Freznik and Avery, their tie in with the Cubans and the shakedown and murder of Jorgensen. It was a reeking pile of proof all around, but Judge Trouzman acted like I’d set up the whole thing just to target the 18th precinct. He was a fat Polish judge, fond of Italian food. He was fat, stubby and bald with redlined eyes. His skin looked fried, pounded, and stretched. He puffed his chest inside his robe and arched his neck so that his pinhead reached the highest point above the peons. His voice boomed out over black, waxed tables and rails, bouncing off the paneled walls. He was the people’s avenging angel (says him) and it didn’t bother him one tittle that the people hadn’t voted him in. He was a favor from a senator to a mayor, and he didn’t give a damn about votes. When he pronounced my license would be suspended for two years with a fine of one thousand dollars, he enjoyed wielding his flaming sword, echoing the Book of Revelation and ending my investigative career in New Jersey.
He lashed me for a full ten minutes while the courtroom railbirds enjoyed the show. His tongue was a whip with metal barbs, alternating between oaths and vengeance. I couldn’t decide which gushed out more—righteousness or disgust. I’d misused my license, he proclaimed, by causing the shootout instead of calling the rest of the corrupt 18th. I’d let blood lust add to the killings. He liked that phrase, blood lust. My malfeasance let an important suspect get away (I forgot to tell him about the Russian accent or Mattoon or the leader closing the outfit down). The judge no doubt thought I should have poured tea all around and politely telephoned the cops when Freznik and Avery blasted away, or when swishy Mister Clairol pointed his rod at my gut.
Yes, your honor. No, your honor. You have no honor, your dishonor.
I wish I’d said it, but I left after his red-lined oyster-eyes finished popping and his little hammer slammed down and the audience, except for Rick, stared at me like I was dogshit the judge had wiped off his shoe. It was the same look I’d seen when our boys came home from Korea, the same disgust and fear and stench that hung over our “police action.” We weren’t heroes, not even soldiers. We were nobodies who’d had the nerve to survive, who’d muddled around an imaginary line called the 38th parallel—a frozen wasteland that didn’t warrant one American boy. Yet if the line had been in Virginia, New York, or California—or even Europe—we would have had flowers and wine and song and dames—yeah, a lot of dames, itching to share life’s comforts. I was born too late for the big war, the popular one that galvanized America. I was born too early for the frozen waste of flesh called Korea. But I went anyway. That’s why they send boys off to war—boys don’t fully understand the obscenities involved, and see fairy tale pictures of great adventure in all of it.
“So what now?” Rick said.
“Another round, if you’re still buying. Then I’m off for Mattoon.”
“One more, then I should go. You too.”
“I’ll sit here for awhile. Night’s my beat.”
“Okay. Again—if you need anything—a loan, help packing?”
Jack D filled my shot glass. I raised it until Rick’s cop nose blurred next to my eyes. “Here’s to da judge,” I drawled, the room spinning comfortably.
The next few days were a blur, floating on that twirling raft with Jack. The glare through my windows at noon blinded me from my nightmares, and I reached for my
friend only to find him as drained as I was. The file cabinet under “B” for booze. Empty. The closet shelf back behind the blankets. Gone. A wadded fin in my coat pocket brought me to my feet, dragged me down the stairs and out into the merciless glare and traffic blare, where I staggered to the corner and rescued the holy Father Daniels again. I couldn’t crank up the energy to go to the Midwest. My suspended license wouldn’t impress anyone there.
Tired, so very tired. But there’s rest in that bottle somewhere, down near the bottom.
I’ll sit here in this doorway and borrow some strength from my liquid buddy. Just a sip or two is all I need. Just a little past this line on the label. Just a little more. It’s so good at blocking out things. Molly deserves a better man—that fantasy wouldn’t end well, anyway.
Shoes, pass by, lots and lots of shoes. Clicks against the pavement, in a hurry. Sloughed and slopped, wandering, sometimes stop next to my face. One pushes against my shoulder and goes on its way. High heels tapping, speeding by faster when they pass. Hard boots, heavy, long strides.
Shoes have faces when you look at them from ground level; they frown, defiantly stride past, sneer or gawk. Some look away fearfully. All sorts of people wear shoes, and all shoes wear out, just like shamuses, worn out by being scraped, rubbed, pounded, flapped, slapped, struck, hurled, flung against the hard, hard pavement of the city. My big, ugly city, where I was out of work.
Why do big cities exist? Why is it that all those acres of open spaces out west just sit there with no concrete covering? Why don’t shoes let feet escape these sewers? Packed rats bite each other. Why is it that New Yorkers put trains under the ground? Is it because feet can hide there? I hate that rumble, it thrums through me—my head will come apart with that thrumming. How many cities are there where a man can lose himself, run down an alley and find another person inside waiting to take over? Concrete is not good for sleeping; it’s death for all living things.
Dark Quarry: A Mike Angel Private Eye Mystery Page 13
