Dark Quarry: A Mike Angel Private Eye Mystery

by David H Fears

  The twinkle left Molly’s eyes. “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t know. Just being protective, I guess.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Part of the job description?”

  “Only if you like it.”

  I took her hand that was fingering the glass in front of her and held it

  snug. “I like it.”

  “Well, that’s settled. I can protect you—but only if you don’t get

  dumb on me.”

  “Think you’re up to it, doll? I get wrapped up with some pretty nasty

  sorts.”

  One of the meatheads at the bar slipped and fell backwards off the stool. Molly laughed in a way that brought a chuckle from me.

  “Oh, Mike, that guy has great timing—are you talking about getting

  wrapped up with nasty sorts like them?”

  “Worse. But sure, some like them—all noise and falling all over

  themselves.” I’d said it loud enough for the barflys to get the point, but Molly’s laughter seemed to steam them more. The words got louder and raw from those boys. I started to my feet, but Molly put her hand on my leg and asked me to sit down. That it was no big deal.

  “Anyway, laughing at them is more fun than stopping them” she said, with breeze in her voice.

  The guy who’d fallen slammed his drink down and threw obscenities at us. The other guy was more sensible and tried to hold his buddy back.

  Molly winked at me and flipped her middle finger up in their direction.

  “Now you’ve done it, Moll. You’ll have to protect me again.”

  The guy staggered over, trying to look tough and slammed his drink down on our table. He leaned his twisted puss in, opened his mouth and got “You dirty—” out. Molly was too fast for him. Her arm flew out, buckling his elbow. His face went into his drink. Her leg kick then took out the guy’s knee. He was wearing the rest of Molly’s whiskey sour when he hit the floor, and looking pretty sad.

  The idiot bellowed, “You cunt, I’ll…” It wasn’t a word she took kindly to—she laid the steel napkin holder across his nose and he was done. He fell back and banged his empty head on the linoleum. His buddy was practically messing his pants—he took off for the back door.

  We ordered another round, watching mister Italiano pry himself up to the bar. Sam had seen enough and grabbed the guy by the back of his collar, flinging his greasy head out the front.

  “Sorry, Mike and lady friend. The neighborhood’s going downhill. The next round’s on the house.”

  “Such language,” I said, mopping up the ice on the table.

  “I grew up here. I’ve heard worse. I’m Molly, Sam.”

  I leaned back and gave Molly an appraising look. “Say, where did you learn to move like that?”

  “Judo classes two nights a week. I’m closing in on a brown belt. The bum was lucky I was sitting down.”

  It felt good to belly laugh with Molly. Everything about her felt good. I had less to worry about now. It seemed the girl could take care of herself quite well, my new secretary.

  “You’re hired, princess. I won’t ask when you can start, seeing as how you already have, but you can quit whenever you get fed up with me.”

  Molly looked at her watch. “That’d be in about forty years?” Then she slid her arms around my neck and planted a kiss on my cheek. I turned and she gave me a full one, a real one on the lips.

  “Say, watch it—I don’t give raises on the first day.”

  “It’s after hours, Mike. Don’t forget what we agreed. After hours we can be ourselves.”

  “I don’t mind being myself when you’re being yourself. I don’t mind at all.”

  We gabbed some more and killed another drink. Molly was easy to talk to, a good listener. This is a talent I’ve never been able to cultivate, unless it’s listening for some hood to cross himself up, or waiting for the lies in some attorney or cop’s mouth to trip them up. Real listening involves more than a piddle of trust, which was why I could listen to Molly all day long. We trusted each other, right from the start when her boss had been murdered and she helped me get information from his calendar. It seemed like a century ago now.

  When Sam brought the last drinks, Molly took my hand. “Tell me about your father, Mike. What sort of a man was he?”

  “A good cop. Square with everyone, analytical, solid. Fought crime and corruption both inside and outside the force. Never took a dime he didn’t earn. Was good to little people on the street and to me. He was tough enough but seldom had to use violence, and in thirty years on the force only pulled his weapon twice.”

  “So you’re not much like him?” She winked.

  “Dad did the job with his brain and I bruise it out.”

  “He’s the reason you went into the force after Korea?”

  I nodded. Even though it had been six years, the pain of Dad’s death wasn’t something I liked to talk about. Molly saw my face change was smart enough not to pry. She took a wholly different tack, and asked questions like it was a cute game.

  “Women—about the women in your past—and I can ask because it’s after hours and we’re just pals now, right?—Do you think you got involved with Haley, and that other woman you mentioned, Kimbra, because of any one thing they had?”

  “I’m not sure I follow.”

  “I mean trouble. You seem to like women in trouble.”

  “You mean because they’re in trouble, or because I like trouble?”

  “Either. Your dick probably just liked those particular women. You seem to have leanings that gets you botched up.”

  “Leanings?”

  “Your heart, dummy.”

  “That’s an organ a PI isn’t supposed to have. Two livers, maybe. No heart.”

  “Yes, yes, but you do have one. I can see it back there in your blue eyes.” She put her face as close to mine as she could without playing Eskimo noses. “Say, now they look gray!”

  “Doll, in Sam’s place everything looks gray.”

  Molly might be onto something though I didn’t feel like playing shrink with her just yet. Still, it felt good to have her want to understand me, to accept me, scars and all. Most men only want that, a simple, basic thing—to be understood and accepted. Too many dames hammer and shape a guy thinking they can change him. That’s what Haley did to Ed, and what, in time, she’d try to do to me. If a woman doesn’t accept a jerk for who he is, she should find a different jerk.

  Molly took in everything I said and did. She fit them all with the right excuses into her loyal picture of me. No guy, however big a sonofabitch, can resist that sort of acceptance.

  By the time we left Sam’s I had new respect for my judo-secretary-shrink-cupcake. I also felt Molly’s feather of sweetness tickling my late night thoughts and missed her when I was alone. I listened in those quiet hours for alarm bells that might go off. Sweet silence. No alarms.

  ***

  The next week I made morning visits near the office and blew afternoons getting to know the neighborhood eateries and bars. Bartenders are a great source of leads, as are cabbies. The guys I met seemed like they would have been at home in the old Fourth Ward. Chicago wasn’t a bad town. It was bigger, more spread out. I was getting used to it as home. I passed out more than a few cards.

  I was also relaxing, putting the idea of a drive to Mattoon on the back burner. I even had a drink here and there around town without craving more. Since my lost week, I didn’t fully trust the stuff, so went easy, tiptoeing up to it for a taste and then setting my limit at two. With a girl like Molly hanging around to baby-sit me, I figured Jack and I could become acquaintances without plunging over bosom-buddies cliff. Regaining my investigator license changed everything. It gave me the right to work out in the open. It gave me purpose. Molly reinforced the good feeling.

  A man in my line of work needs a drink now and then, but has to know his limit. Maybe he needs a clear head even more. Mine had been wrenched around a few times and I knew
if I binged again, I might not wake up next time.

  Dad had some scrapes with the bottle, but he also owned the willpower of a tank. It took a great sorrow, like losing Mom to drive him beyond his limit. I remembered living with Uncle while Dad sobered up. I was only nine and didn’t understand what sort of hospital Dad was in or why I couldn’t visit. The quarry made for great pirate adventures with some of the neighborhood boys. We explored every foot of the place. When I thought of how the old quarry had indirectly moved me to Chicago, I laughed at how life twists and sorts things out. I tried to convince myself that I could let the ghost of Kimbra and the Purple gang remnant go, that I didn’t need to poke around Mattoon, that I could have a good life in Chicago, slowly build a clientele, and grow closer to Molly. But it was like relaxing with a hair in my mouth and I knew I couldn’t ignore it forever.

  My worries about working around and resisting Molly would iron out out in time. Plus, she wasn’t the type to make the first move and liked having rules for office hours and off hours. She was smarter than I was in that way, and more than a few others. We were a good team.

  She was a fresh-faced dream when I got there in the morning; at noon she made sure I didn’t skip lunch; at five she insisted we close up. Molly made life regular and productive and good— things a guy can get used to. When we went to dinner, there was always a different look in her eyes, just to let me know that rules were off after five, and this was a date. The office was so organized it wasn’t comfortable at first, but I could see when things got busy that Molly would be a goldmine. Except for all the old files I’d dragged out from Jersey, Molly put everything in the place, and it all was done to her taste, which was more practical than mine, most of which is in my mouth.

  The second week I had a few calls from some of the barkeeps and hacks I’d met, but nothing up my line. Then the following Monday, when Molly was out to lunch, a young woman walked in asking for me. The slow pace was about to end. It was a memorable day, and one that was to pull me right back in the chase for the remnants of the Purple Gang. It was also a giant test for Molly and me.

  Chapter 28 – Nika

  I remember Nika’s skin. It was cinnamon and looked like it might melt in the rain. Sexual heat radiated from her golden brown eyes, not dumb lust, but something much finer, more intriguing. I must have gawked at her smooth limbs and amused expression, because she began to laugh, a sultry sort of laugh like she enjoyed my reaction. I was too stunned to know I was stunned. But I was.

  Funny what thoughts bombard a guy when he’s speechless.

  Cinnamon.

  Until that instant I always figured I knew the difference between a dangerous dame like Kimbra or Haley, and the kind of girl you’d be overjoyed to give up singlehood for, like Molly. But Nika changed all that. It would take a long time to make sense of things again. But then, with a woman like Nika, a man has no need of sense; hanging on to reason when I was with her was like clutching at feathers in a typhoon. She didn’t compare to any woman I’d known. I was dumbstruck, and a bit disappointed in myself after such a great start with Molly.

  Nika leaned against my office door. In pink halter-top and shorts, her curves led me like a sports car on a twisting track. I wondered how she’d handle in a straightaway, and a wee bit glad that Molly was out for lunch and errands. I felt guilty leering at Nika, even though I told myself I was a man after all. Isn’t that what we guys always tell ourselves?

  I don’t remember the small talk we made after she sat at my desk. I just recall her crossed legs swinging in rhythm like a pendulum clock in slow motion. She wasn’t brazen, but classy, relaxed. Her voice was that of a sweet teen, although she was ten years beyond that.

  Her cleavage leaned over my desk and my focus followed.

  “Mike,” she said, hitting the “k” with sweet, hard precision, “I need to hire you. A man like you is hard to find.”

  I sat back, opened my desk drawer and dusted a file over my nails, acting casual while deep inside I was heating to a dizzy boil.

  “A man like me, or me?”

  “You. I need you.” Helen of Troy needed me.

  Those eyes lit the base of my spine like a fuse that burned up my back.

  “You need me but you don’t know me—Miss Whatever?”

  “Mrs.—Mrs. Boyce. Nika.” Her eyes widened. “But, I do know you.”

  Smirks normally make me suspicious. When a smirk’s painted on a face like Nika’s, it’s a stunning accessory. But the Mrs. thing let air out of my balloon. Well, why wouldn’t a dish like this be taken?

  “I don’t know anyone named Nika—or Boyce. The sign on the door says ‘Insurance Investigations.’ That means I look into—insurance fraud. Fraud’s a fancy handle for stealing. When I’m desperate, I shovel domestic trash. Neither type of client ever looks like you.”

  She was doubly amused, and laughed wonderfully, sweeping her hands through her bronze hair like a lioness about to proclaim me as her prize. When I frowned she stopped short and threw me such a hurt look I felt like a heel. She was nimble at changing directions. I couldn’t guess what face she’d wear next.

  She carried one of those wide, flat, limp-woven purses dames use at the beach. Out of it she pulled a leather journal. She laid it gingerly in front of me. It had a strip wound around a post to hold it together.

  I continued to file my nails.

  “This is more than just a teensy fraud case, and the reason you don’t remember me is because I was a little girl the last time you saw me. My father was Jason Forrester.”

  She kept laughing at me with her eyes until it hit me. A decade earlier, right before he was murdered, Dad solved Jason Forrester’s homicide, after his widow was wrongly arrested for hiring the hit. Dad found the real killer and the insurance company paid up. A cool million. Now I remembered the daughter—a shy, skinny kid with braces—Anikka. I was fresh back from Korea then. Dad talked a lot about the Forrester case since it was his first—sadly, his only. I still had his file on it. It gave him great satisfaction to solve the case, and at the time it also influenced me to become a cop.

  Anikka wasn’t wearing braces anymore. And she wasn’t exactly skinny.

  “Your mother—how is she?”

  Nika floated around the desk. She slid the drawer back in and picked the emery board out of my hands. Then she swiveled my chair and melted down in my lap. She leaned in close. Her lips were the best things I’d felt in about a year. Even Molly didn’t kiss like that. I was glad she didn’t come in right then. I’d have to find another secretary/date.

  “You liked that. You want more,” she cooed, “I liked it too.” She straightened up and added quickly, like the kiss had never happened: “Oh, Mother’s fine, brand new husband and all.”

  I was watching two dames, both actresses—or one scrambled-up canary. My first mistake was choosing the one I wanted right from the start and ignoring the other. Or, rather, discounting the switch-hitting she did on the same pitch. Still I was nervous. It was like petting a favorite dog that sometimes licks your hand and sometimes turns tail and runs off. Maybe the real Nika would show herself in time. I leaned in for another taste of those perfect lips. She pressed a finger on my chin and said: “I’ve wanted to kiss Mike Angel for years. I thought you were about the best-looking hunk on the planet when I was fourteen. I never forgot your eyes—gray-blue aren’t they?” I laughed. “Okay, one more,” she said, and proved the first kiss wasn’t a fluke.

  Nika’s kisses were the kind that paralyzes its prey just when it thinks it’s escaped.

  “And now?” I asked, swimming in her luminous peepers, “Your husband’s best and I’m a shabby second?”

  “Dee-vorc-ed,” she said splitting the word lingeringly, running her fingernails down my face. “Doesn’t that just make you the happiest man ever?”

  Happy didn’t quite cover it. But, she was right about one thing—I did want more, rushing against the riptide of guilt about Molly. Then I remembered our agreement—a sort of unst
ated no strings. Would Molly remember it? Molly was a couple of years Nika’s junior, and I thought maybe I owned a gene for cradle robbing.

  I kept seeing skinny Annika with braces, crying about her dead father, with Dad patting her shoulders. I’d need to get caught up with the past decade, what sort of things the kid had been through. The heated part didn’t need to catch up, though, and it wouldn’t be long before it was evident. I nudged her off my lap and she tiptoed to the window, peering down through the blinds onto Addison Avenue. She stood there lost in thought, a gold line of sun outlining her soft neck.

  When she didn’t offer anything but a great profile, I said, “Okay. You’re right—I liked the kisses. You don’t have to pay me for those. But you mentioned hire? You want me to read this book?”

  “Diary,” she said in a far off tone. “Diary. I found it last week. There are things in it— disturbing things. Father and some female. A crime, I think.” Her voice broke. She sniffled in a postage stamp sized hankie. It was either acting from a bad play or the kid was awful fragile, maybe both. “I’d like you to find out what it all means.”

  “What difference does it make now?” I said, enjoying the flare of her hips and the round lines of her backside, tucked into those pink shorts. The bare skin of her back and her graceful legs were also worthy of extended study. I envied Superman his x-ray vision.

  She went on talking to the window. Her haltered outfit distracted me while she told me about her father’s good name and some woman mentioned in the diary, a woman referred to as “R.” She asked me to find out what sort of trouble her father had been wrapped up in, that she needed to resolve it for her own sake, a personal thing. Not urgent, I gathered, but understandable.

  Then she handed me her phone number and a too-big check for my retainer and blew out of the office like she was late for the annual sale at Marshall’s. I nodded when I took the check, and we shook hands, which seemed cockeyed after those kisses. I felt a burning itch for a drink, a strong one. Nika’s itch had cooled along with her manner, except maybe for one sway of her hips as she went through the door. Then she was gone. Maybe goodbyes were not her thing.