Dark Quarry: A Mike Angel Private Eye Mystery
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“Know any private detective agencies who might want a senior junior partner?”
I thought about the possibilities. I didn’t want to throw ice water on Rick so I kept my doubts about everything to myself. Nika’s condition kept me from being enthused about anything.
Chapter 38 – Haunted
Some time in the early morning hours of the next day, when a hush covered the earth, God took Nika, and answered my most pained prayers with a no, even though I sat in that hick hospital swearing to be any kind of man I could think of, negotiating with the Almighty. I kept asking why? I wanted some answer—maybe Dad could give me one, but he wasn’t answering. His quota for words, like he said, was no doubt full for the “period”—but what period? Day? Week? Year? Hearing voices is no picnic. How could I tell anybody? Even Molly would think I was losing it. And maybe I was.
Nika was dead. Kimbra too. There’d be two more murders to hang on the Russians and more empty aches for me when the Hawk blew off The Lake on winter nights.
So, that’s it. From Kimbra to Haley to Nika—all dames who I tried to rescue but who wound up crushed or dead. I hate admitting it but Molly was right about me—I’m drawn by dames in big trouble—they touch me in ways that aren’t much good for them or for me. Only Molly’s great for me but I’m too stupid to change for her. Yet.
I sit here in my dark office a lot. I even threw out my old friend Jack, who really never gave me any answers, just more confusion. Maybe that’s my first step. Dad said if a man lets booze interfere with his work, he wasn’t much good to anyone. He said that when he was alive, and hadn’t given me that sort of advice since he died. Or his voice didn’t. Dad was right, but he could handle his booze, and though he often gave a boost to the little folks on his beat, including some pretty sorrowful ladies of the night, he never let himself get bollixed by them. He could offer then a hand up without falling in the sack with them or bruising his heart. But then, I’m not Dad and never will be. He was smart and kind and believed in people. I barely believe in myself anymore. I’m an ox who can only break down a door, use my fists and keep to myself. Sorry, Dad, if I’ve let you down, but I have to find my own way.
I haven’t returned a call in a week. I’m going to take a few more weeks off. I can’t stop thinking about Nika, her cinnamon colored skin, and her haunting beauty. She was the child I didn’t protect. Nika was who I imagine Kimbra started out being, a pure soft beauty with dreams of a good life with a good man and a family. Both of them wound up being damaged goods, and were victims of the same evil octopus of organized crime that took Dad. I failed to protect any of them. What’s one man against that kind of underground power, evil that sprouts into law offices and courtrooms and state capitols? What’s the little guy against an army that keeps their boots on the necks of the weak and vulnerable?
Nika touched places inside me I never knew existed, that I won’t ever visit again. Private investigators are supposed to be smart and tough, too smart to fall for a client, too tough to be defeated. Well I’m not tough any more. Maybe I’m through in this business, in any business. I’ll never know if my love would have lifted Nika, if she could have emerged from the shadows into the sunlight for good. I like to think so, but then, I don’t like to think so. Some people are just too broken to be glued back together, and thinking a boatload of love can fix them is sorry dreaming.
So I’ve had my time to mourn and my time to reflect. About this business, and all. A man has to enjoy the little goodness that flits by, some of it rare and irreplaceable, like Nika. She was a comet across my empty black sky, and comets don’t stick around long. No use trying to replace or weep over comets—they just are, for a moment, and then they’re gone. That’s what I told Molly when her father died last week. I also told her not to come in until she was ready, that even though I was hanging out here, I wasn’t working—I didn’t want to work for awhile. Molly looked at me and understood—she senses my insides better than I do. We hugged and she went off to say goodbye to her old man.
I’m slumped here saying goodbye to something good in me torn out that’s left a big hole. Molly will be okay. She’ll bounce back and if Rick likes the setup, maybe we can be a team. God knows I need more support than I’ve had these past six years. Walking the nasty streets alone has eroded whatever decency I used to have. I’m just one foul up from the end of the road. Who knows what treachery hibernates in these streets from leftovers of the Purple-Russian-Cuban connections? There are a lot of nasty seeds out there just waiting for a ruthless leader to germinate.
At least, Molly’s no comet, she’s one of those bright guide stars a man can depend on, a twinkle of faith in a ruthless void. She’s everything good a woman can be, and as much as I hate to admit it, maybe that’s why I hold back from her, the feeling that I lack enough decency to be right for her. I have trouble believing I’d ever be enough.
So, I’m hiding out here in the office, thinking, taking this time while she grieves to figure things out about myself. I wonder if now I can put my arms around her and make it last. She wouldn’t have much trouble living the big commitment—it’s me I worry about. I fail at love every time. I’d see Nika’s shining face in front of me too often.
If a guy passes up what’s good often enough and builds his world around anger at all the corruption and injustice, pretty soon he doesn’t recognize what’s good and true. Pretty soon the corruption rubs off on him, like it’s rubbed off on me. Maybe in time it will wear off, maybe years down the road I won’t still see Joe Ambler’s corpse in the dark quarry, or Kimbra shot full of holes or the pale death mask of Nika.
In time.
But for now I can’t lift those stains and don’t want to try. I’ve got to wear them, just like this scar that snakes across my guilty face. Jack got tossed because he set the stains deeper, all the while fooling me that he was erasing them.
The scar, son—every time you veer toward the wrong choice, every time danger comes near, the scar will be how I’ll warn you. It will tingle, or burn, and you take note, you hear me? It’s that new tool I spoke of—one that needs no words.
I hear you Dad. Maybe the scar will save you a few words from your quota, and maybe you and I can have a long talk about what it all means.
You’re just feeling the loss, son. Sorry for yourself, is all. Give it time some. It won’t last.
For a man like me, maybe the only things that last are the guilt and gritty things, the moxie of a hard dame, the good feeling of seeing a murdering thug eat lead, or the times when a crook gets what he deserves from a strong honest judge. There aren’t very many of those times. Maybe not enough to make anything worth anything.
An idea recurs with every siren from Addison street below. Before Molly comes back and we talk about this new start, one of these nights I’ll take a drive down state. There’s a little diner on the highway to Mattoon. Maybe I’ll know the answer about commitments when I walk in the joint, where the steaks are tough and so’s the dame who serves them. I might ask for dessert this time. Everyone has a story behind that hard shell they show to the world. I wonder what that redhead’s story is.
Dad said nothing but I could feel him smiling.
Maybe tomorrow. I’ll go tomorrow.
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David H Fears has other Mike Angel Mysteries:
Dark Lake, Dark Blonde, and Dark Poison