A Case of the Nasties: A Jimmy Egan Mystery

by David Workman

  A Case of the Nasties - A Jimmy Egan Mystery

  Title Page

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  A Case of the

  NASTIES

  ____________________

  A NOVEL BY

  DAVID ROWELL WORKMAN

  NOIR E-BOOK EDITION

  Copyright © 2014 David Rowell Workman

  Printed in the United States of America

  ISBN-13: 978-1500134860

  ISBN-10: 1500134864

  SECOND EDITION

  THE LEGAL STUFF

  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  The Urantia Book text is considered Public Domain.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced in any manner or by any means without prior permission by the author or publisher. The only exception is for purposes of review.

  Ed Wood Jr. Photo credit:

  Kathleen O’Hara Wood

  DEDICATION

  For Chandler, Hammett, and of course

  Edward D. Wood Jr. without whom this story

  Could never have been told.

  .

  Jimmy Egan – Ed Wood Jr. Series

  The Killer was a Cross Dresser

  Ed Wood is Missing? (Forthcoming)

  Gardens of Babylon

  Other Titles by David Rowell Workman

  True People – A Parable

  Zombie Brides from Planet X – A Screenplay

  The Spy Who Got Away & Other Mysteries

  The Tainted Omnibus – A Collection of Prose

  Almost Time – A Stage Play

  Bullets and Pink Angora

  Woody stood there with my .45, arms stretched out taking aim. His pink Angora sweater unbuttoned, flapping in the slight breeze. The street lamps throwing out a distorted shadow of him across the rough payment.

  He fired.

  One.

  Two. Three.

  Four. Five.

  The ear-deafening sound echoing between the buildings and into the cool night air. I watched as the hood’s legs folded underneath them as if an invisible puppeteer cut their strings; the blood pouring from their tattered chests spilling onto the blacktop.

  Woody just smiled and said, “Take that, you bastards!”

  ___________________________________

  A Case of the

  NASTIES

  ___________________________________

  CHAPTER ONE

  1955 HOLLYWOOD, CALIFORNIA

  “What makes you think I need a job, Woody?”

  Edward D. Wood, Jr. sat across the table from me, his eyebrows lifted and that boyish grin across his face. “You look how I feel most of the time, Jimmy.” He ran a tanned hand through his dark hair. When he tilted his head to one side he looked a bit like Errol Flynn. Me, I’m just a burly crew cut haired ex-marine (with a slight beer belly) that doesn’t take offense to being called a Jarhead.

  “Okay, I’ll give you that one. Work has been a bit . . . weak.” I ran a thumb around the rim of my coffee cup and tried to look coy. We camped our butts at Frank’s Grill in North Hollywood, just a few blocks from Camarillo Street, after a night of drinking and debauchery. Ed, who I call Woody, is the director, writer and producer of more than several B pictures, and unlike his critics, I like most of them. I’m not into the monster movies he had been working on lately, but his crime stuff was pretty good.

  I tapped my prosthetic right limb and frowned. “Nobody has faith in a private detective with a bum leg.” Every time I talked about my missing leg I’d get a phantom itch I could never scratch.

  “I know what you mean, pal. I got my own troubles, too.”

  This brings us to why we were hanging around the café at seven thirty in the morning when I was still clinging desperately to last night’s drunk. I wasn’t fully sober, but that was fine, I don’t make good decisions when I’m stone sober.

  “So what’s the skinny?”

  “I think someone is trying to kill me.” He said in a serious tone so I’d know he wasn’t kidding. “I’m sure of it.”

  It was my turn to raise my eyebrows and I did it with much success. “Spill the beans.”

  Woody and I went way back. We were Marines together during the Guadalcanal Campaign in ’42. The battle of Tarawa, in particular. Over one thousand soldiers were captured and we lost thirty one thousand good men and my right leg, All Woody lost was his two front teeth from a Japanese rifle butt. He had pulled me out of the mud as I screamed – yes, Marines do scream. But it wasn’t in agony, I was flipped out mad at the bastards that blew up my leg and I wanted a piece of them, even if I had to crawl over the dead bodies of my buddies to do it..

  Woody wouldn’t let me flip out and when the shock wore off and the pain rolled in I was glad. So I owed him my life and I made a silent vow to make that debt last my entire life or at least Woody’s entire life. So whenever he had a problem – one that ran in parallel to my line of work, I would do it gratis, come high or hell water (or bullets).

  I cocked my head to one side, as Woody searched for the words. He never had trouble with words or dialogue since he was a writer of a crap load of skin books to boot, as far as I could remember.

  He lit a cigarette, stared up at the ceiling for a moment as if he was searching for cue cards, blew the smoke out of the side of his face and said, “At first I thought it was my imagination. I write about these things, I don’t live them. However, two days ago as I finished my last draft of Grave Robbers from Outer Space, I heard someone in my garage. I grabbed a flashlight from the kitchen drawer and quickly slipped out the back door. I made my way around the side of the garage door.” He took a long dramatic drag of his cigarette. That was normal for Woody and he blew the smoke out so slowly I saw time pass. “So I opened the door, flipped on the light switch and no one was there.”

  “That was it?” I tried to hide my disappointment. Knowing Woody I pictured a naked young girl jumping out of the closet with a hatchet trying to chop him into little pieces.

  ‘No. There’s more.” He snubbed the butt out in a plate half full of biscuits and gravy. It was a shame really, the gravy there was always perfect. “There was a note attached to my windshield.”

  I brightened up some. “And you brought me the note because that’s what you do when you visit a private detective for help.” I held out my hand. “Give it up.”

  He tossed me that grin again. “Righto!” He reached into his jacket pocket, tossed the note in front of me, and folded into fourths.

  I picked up the note and unfolded it. It had no letterhead, and no water marks. The note, written in thick red crayon, read:

  TODAY IS THE BEGINNING, MR. WOODS. THAT LEAVES YOU ONE WEEK LEFT TO LIVE!

  LATER, GATOR

  I smelled the letter but found no odor other than paper and the smell of Woody’s after shave.

  “You’re not going to eat that are you?” he quipped. “I may want to keep it.”

  I shook my head. “Just doing
detective stuff, you wouldn’t understand. So who have you pissed off lately?”

  He waved a hand through the air. “Nobody, everybody; you think someone is just rattling my chain?”

  “Most likely.”

  “You’re not squalling my fears any, Jimmy.” His pearly whites disappeared. “I don’t take my life lightly, you know. I have many films to make. I can’t do that if I’m dead now can’t I?” There was an edge to his voice now, which is so unlike Woody most of the time.

  I thumped the note with a forefinger. “Relax. This is hardly earth shattering. Later, Gator? Does not sound that threatening. Did they see your last picture? What was it called, Rock and Roll Hell?”

  Woody shook his head. “Had to let that one go. You are thinking of Bride of the Monster, or Zombie Brides from Planet X. And no, you are not a funny man, Jimmy.”

  “And what is this new project again?”

  “Grave Robbers from Outer Space,” he said proudly.” It’s still in the planning stage but I finished most of the script in just three weeks.” He liked to talk about his films and his writings. I never got that excited. I had the real world to deal with – and my bum leg. Or should I say my no leg. It was itching me like crazy right now. That phantom itch again.

  ‘So what’s the beef? Sounds like a prank to me.” I reached into my pocket and pulled out a pack of rumpled Lucky Strikes, singled one out, lit it, and rested my chin on the palm of my hand. “Nothing will come from it, I’ll bet.”

  He pointed a finger at me, as if it was a gun. “Wrong” he said with conviction. “When I went back inside my house my Angora sweater, the beautiful blue one I love so much, was lying on the kitchen table. A butcher knife lay beside it. The sweater was shredded beyond repair. Thank God they didn’t find the pink one!” He leaned in and rubbed his small mustache, “Someone is really serious and they want me dead, in less than a week.”

  I was quiet for a moment. Then I crushed out my cigarette into his half eaten plate for effect.“Then we better find out who it is shouldn’t we?” I said.

  CHAPTER TWO

  I didn’t think I’d find any clues at Woody’s place but I followed him to his dwelling just the same. I also wanted to see if anyone was following him and if they were, they were very good at it.

  I saw nothing suspicious. Woody can be dramatic sometimes, but there was something odd about this whole story. It sounded too nuts to be a lie.

  I dogged Woody’s path, who was driving his badly aged 1934 Chevy, up the winding road past Runyan Heights Avenue toward Wilburn Trail Rd. He had rented a house there to use as his office and writing sanctuary. A far cry from his old office on 4477 Hollywood Blvd, near the Vista Theater, but better than some of the rat traps he had dwelled in. He lost his wife to his well-hidden cross dressing secret and he was still a bit bummed over the sour marriage. Then to add salt to the wound he lost his girlfriend in the same way. The man was full of dark secrets, aren’t we all? He had also taken the death of Bela Lugosi badly, and I had to drag him out of a cheap ass nightclub when some of the local patrons tried to roll him for his remaining dough. I cracked the heads of two of the bastards in his behalf and enjoyed doing it.

  He had moved temporarily to Wilburn not long after these incidents and I learned never to memorize his digs because he was forever getting evicted or moving suddenly to a new location – sometimes in the middle of the night.

  I had the top down on the Rambler Nash and the air felt good pushing past my ears. Ten minutes later we pulled up to brown stucco. It was a homey, quiet tree lined neighborhood. Not Woody’s normal surroundings. I could see why he packed up his Remington, tucked his scripts under his arm and rented the joint.

  I grabbed my hat from the passenger seat, jammed it on my head, and met him at the door.

  “Nice digs,” I said.

  He turned the key, and pushed the door open. “You go first,” he said. “It might be dangerous.”

  I carried my .38 in a shoulder holster, but left it there. I was not that dramatic. I entered the foyer and into the living room. There was a fake brown leather couch with a wadded up quilt tossed over one arm, a comfortably worn armchair, a TV perched on a metal stand, and a brown oval throw rug on the floor in between. A coffee table cluttered with occult books held an over flowing ashtray to match the crystal ashtray cuddled onto the side table. The bland blue wallpapered room was stuffy and smelled of spoiled food and stale cigarettes. I took it all in. There was a picture window adorned by a thin tan curtain that may have been white at one time but the nicotine smoke changed all that years ago.

  Woody stayed a good two feet behind me eyes darting around the room as if he’s never seen the place before. I moved through into the kitchen. There were too many dishes in the sink, some with half-eaten food on them. In one end of the room were a card table and two padded yellow chairs. The card table was used as a kitchen table, but not by Woody. It would appear it was now his desk. An IBM Executive typewriter with a blank sheet a paper loaded sat waiting for its master, a half empty Vodka bottle kept it company. On the floor, typed pages of some manuscript or several manuscripts lie strung everywhere, as if someone was searching for something. This time I took out my gun. Whoever did this might still be in the house and there was no use taking any chances.

  Woody walked up slowly behind me, touched my shoulder and I damned near shot him.

  ‘Don’t ever sneak up on me.” I warned.

  He mouthed the words ‘sorry’.

  I said, “Looks like you had company, all right. You’d better go back out to your car and wait for me. I want to check out the rest of the house, just in case.”

  “What? This?” He smiled weakly showing off his dimples. “No, that was me. I was looking for that letter I brought you. I accidently lost it while writing one of my scripts.”

  I put the gun away. “You live like a pig, Woody.”

  He shrugged. “I’ve been writing.”

  I’ve seen my pal writing. He types faster than should be humanly possible. It was a great shame when he left the secretarial pool to become a writer. His damn fingers were a blur when he was on a roll.

  I checked the rest of the house with him puppy dogging my trail throughout the place. In the bedroom, his shredded blue Angora sweater lay on the bed. I didn’t touch it. I got a tinge in my leg where the wood joins the flesh and I leaned a bit on the door jam.

  “Where have you been sleeping?” I asked.

  He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “On the couch, I didn’t feel safe in here anymore.”

  I nodded. “You go fix us a drink. I could use more coffee.” I glanced at my watch. It wasn’t eleven yet. “I’ll check the garage and the back of the house.”

  “You really think you’ll find something/”

  I shook my head. “No. But I have to look. Garage unlocked?”

  He nodded. “Always. Want a shot in your Joe?”

  Woody drank too much, but not all the time. He would go for a while without a snort then he would binge drink the shit out of several bottles until he didn’t have any blood left in his veins, just booze. I pushed past him, down the hall, though the kitchen and out the back door. There was not much to it, but the breeze was nice and didn’t smell like an ashtray. The birds were singing a song only they knew, and the trees rustles slightly in the breeze. I even saw a squirrel clamor up a tree before I realized a gray cat was close on its heels. The squirrel made a clean getaway. I scanned the side of the house, checked the back windows and nothing seemed disturbed. Under one small bush, a window that led to Woody’s bedroom and the dismantled Angora sweater, I found a clue. Just like in the movies when Philo Vance does it. A one inch by one inch square of clay covered in odd carved designs that could also be letters or pictures, I couldn’t tell which. I lifted the square from the ground and stared at it. It could have been a movie prop, but I could tell it wasn’t a museum piece, carved into it a crude picture of Eddie Wood..

  For some reason it gave me the creeps. I st
uffed it into my jacket pocket and continued my rounds. I made a quick visit to the garage but didn’t learn anything new. When I entered through the kitchen door again, Woody held a cup out to me. I seized it, sniffed it and took a sip.

  “You think I spiked your drink, maybe?”

  I grinned and took another sip. “Good stuff.”

  Woody had a cup in his hand but I could smell the Vodka from where I stood. He had a half-smoked cigarette in his hand, the ashes tumbling helplessly to the checkerboard linoleum floor. The kitchen table was now clean of manuscripts, and so was the ground. All that was left was the bottle of Vodka and a small crystal ashtray, clean from any butts.

  We sat at the table sipping our drinks and I reached into my pocket. Woody thought I was pulling out a smoke and got his lighter ready. I sat the clay tile piece on the table and pushed it toward him.

  “Ever seen this before?”

  Woody stared at it, slowly slipping his lighter back into his pocket. “No. What is it?”

  “I was hoping you could tell me.” We both stared at it a while and Woody emptied his cup in a single gulp. He reached for the Vodka bottle and filled two fingers of the liquid into his cup.

  “You think it’s from my night visitor?”

  “Could be. I found it under your bedroom window. Tell me why you didn’t call the police again, after the break in and the shredded sweater?”

  He shook his head, “Really, Jimmy, look at me. I produce films; the cops would think I was just making the whole thing up as a publicity stunt of some kind.” He finally picked up the object. “I think this has an occult origin.”