A Case of the Nasties: A Jimmy Egan Mystery

by David Workman

  “They who?”

  He slashed at my arm, the pain not registering for a few seconds. Then the blood came; a plume of crimson rising from my sliced shirt. I kept my eyes narrow and locked onto his. “Untie me,” I said. “And we can play with knives all day long.”

  “You think you’re so tough!” he spewed out hitting me with his spittle. The toothpick landed on my shoulder, he picked it off and jammed it back into his mouth. “I’m gonna break you, tough guy.” He stood up from his chair, his face trying to put on that ‘I’m gonna mess you up, asshole’ mask.

  “Before you do something your boss will regret,” I said. “Let me ask you this.”

  “What?”

  “I was in the war. I got shot at, lost my leg, got captured once and tortured. Do you really think there is anything you could do to me, I haven’t already been through?”

  “Oh, the big hero.”

  “Didn’t see you there, Howie. Were you hiding under your momma’s skirts?”

  His face drained of color and he raised the thin blade high. I kept my eyes locked onto his. He stared back. I’ve seen that look too many times. He fed on fear. I didn’t let any leak through.

  The door opened and the kid walked in again, saw what was happening and turned on his heels. Howie stopped him. “What now?” he said though gritted teeth.

  Freckles turned back and said, “We found them. They were at the movies, then they went to the Brown Derby,. We’re picking them up there and taking them to Bron-.”

  “Shut up, Milo. Keep your mouth shut. You understand?”

  The non-kid nodded like his head came unhinged. Y-yes, Mr. Bennett.”

  “Come here.” The non-kid did as he was told. “Are you packing?”

  Freckles shook his head. Howie removed his revolver from the back of his waistband and handed to him. “Keep an eye on this loser. If he tries any funny business shoot him in the face. He likes his face.”

  The kid nodded. Howie left the room, shutting the door behind him. Freckles turned the chair around and slowly lowered him into it. He kept the .32 pointed at me. It made me nervous because his hands were shaking.

  “He called you Milo” I said

  “Shut up,” he lowered his voice to sound tougher but it made him sound like he was trying to imitate the cartoon moose from The Bullwinkle Show.

  I shrugged, which made the blood drip much faster down my arm and onto the floor. I feigned lightheadedness.

  The Milo stared at the pool of blood and turned white as cigarette paper.

  “This what you signed up for, Kid?”

  He shook the gun at me, and I got damned scared the thing was going to go off in his hand. “Could you point that in a different direction, please?”

  “Does it scare you Mr. Tough Guy?” He said, trying to put on Howie’s smirk, but failed by a long shot, then he rubbed the barrel of the gun against my cheek. ”For your information I’m not a kid, I’m seventeen . . . and a half.”

  “Listen Milo, I’m feeling rather faint. The blood loss and all, could I have some …?” I let my voice fade so he couldn’t understand what I said.

  He leaned in closer. ‘What did you say?”

  I garbled some words together and nodded off as if I was passing out.

  Concerned Milo moved in close to me and dropped the bad guy act. “Hey, you okay?” He shook me. “Mister?”

  I rammed my head hard against his and watched him sink to the floor, the gun clattering to my feet.

  Now the front of my head matched the throbbing the back of my head felt. I didn’t have time for the pain. I had to work myself loose and get to Kathy and Woody, before it was too late.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  It took me twenty minutes to work out of the knots behind my back; since no one was watching it went faster than if someone had been keeping an eye on me. I only prayed to the Silent Detective Gods nobody walked in to check on Milo.

  Nobody did by the time I got loose.

  I propped the unconscious Milo into my chair and tied him up, the way I was, but tighter. I took the .32 since they had taken mine when I got sapped and jammed it into my waistband. I slowly opened the door, and peeked out the crack.

  Frankenstein ran in, sniffed at my scuffed Florsheim shoes, and rubbed up against my leg purring loudly. So now, I knew where I was and I knew where I was going.

  The rest of Monica Chen’s house was empty, if you don’t count Frankenstein. I found my .38 in the kitchen along with the keys to my Nash on the counter so I switched guns. The kitchen had a plate with a half-eaten sandwich on the table and a bottle of beer next to it. I figured it must have belonged to Milo. A telephone sat next to the plate. I could have called the cops or some kind of backup, but I wanted to do this alone. So far, I had kept all of us under the police radar, and if they were looking for Eddie, I hadn’t heard anything. I wasn’t sure what they made of the dead well dressed men lying bloody in the street the other night. Moreover, I didn’t give a shit.

  Frankenstein jumped on the table and stated nibbling on the sandwich. It appeared to be tuna fish.

  Lucky cat.

  I stroked his fur once for good luck and headed out the door. To my surprise my Nash was still parked out front. I opened the door, slid my body in and adjusted my leg. I checked the glove box and the .45 was still there. I found that odd too. The Adjusters didn’t seem very thorough or maybe they just didn’t give a shit about me.

  Milo told Howie they were taking Woody and my sister to Bron- but he cut the kid off before he could finish his sentence. I think I had enough to work with. There was a Bronson Court, but that didn’t seem likely. What I bet a Benjamin on was they were going to the Bronson Caves AKA Bronson Canyon. The caves came into existence by the Union Rock Company many years before and were abandoned in the 1920’s.

  It was a secluded place used a few times for low budget movie making. Thanks to Woody’s filmmaking skills I knew the caves would be perfect for a bunch of crazed lunatics to have a ceremony in broad daylight. If you followed the main trail, it would lead you to the HOLLYWOOD sign. Take a side path, and through some heavy brush, and waalaa, the Bronson caves. It was also known for the filming of a low, low, low, budget stinker called Robot Monster. You have probably seen it. Woody was impressed by it and that’s how I heard about the place, I’m not a film buff. The film was worse than what Dear Eddie could come up with, bless his heart. The only thing going for it was the 3D gimmick. I always avoided those because it gave me a headache to wear the glasses.

  Speaking of headaches, I had a doozy so I moved the .45 aside and grabbed a bottle of aspirin. I popped the top and swallowed some dry. Then I snapped the glove box shut and pointed the Nash toward Beachwood Canyon Drive.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  I decided to play it smart this time, no more letting someone get the best of me. I stopped about a mile from the cave’s entrance, got out, opened the trunk, and took out the gear I would need. I grabbed the Remington 870 Wingmaster shotgun and a very sharp hunting knife in case I got lucky and ran into my friend Howie. I took off my jacket and hat, tossed them in the boot, and slammed it shut. The .45 and the knife I had slipped into my waistband and felt glad I was wearing the shoulder holster for the .38, the only nuisance was carrying the shotgun, but I was afraid I would need all the firepower I could get. I wasn’t sure if some or all of the Universal Adjuster’s followers carried fire power, but Woody’s life was on the line and most likely my sister’s too. Everything I feared that would happen was happening now and you didn’t need Criswell around to predict the outcome. I was planning to change all of that.

  I found a less traveled trail; there were several small trails throughout the outskirts of Canyon Drive. Once I made it to the red painted bridge, it was a small distance to the canyon. I wormed my way through the brush, taking care to stay low and stay out of sight, and keeping my eyes peeled for sentries. I was sure there would be one or two and I was right. Near one of the cave’s entrances, I kept cover until I
was practically on top of him and, at one point, a snapping dry twig threatened to give my position up. The sentry looked around but failed to see me. I was on him in a few seconds. I struck him hard with the butt of my Remington and he tipped into the brush below the rock he had been watching from.

  One down.

  I could have, but I didn’t kill any of them, though from ducking for cover, and damn near crawling through the brush on my belly, the exertion was playing hell on the stump of my leg and the leather straps securing my wooden leg.

  Pins and needles.

  If I had had all my limbs intact, my assault would have been much faster. As it was, it took me almost twenty minutes to complete something I used to do in five or less.

  Two down, three down.

  Damn my fucking leg.

  Four down.

  The last sentry took a bit more time to fight. By the time I took him down, I was severely out of breath and my beer belly slowed me down as much as my leg. Not to mention the fact I smoked more than or just as much as Woody.

  I found a nice gravely path, but it led up into a big rock that demanded some climbing as my leg pain was screaming ‘no don’t do it’. On top of that, one was a smaller rock.

  To hell with the small voices in my head. I had a job to do! I began crawling up the rock anyway, and wishing I had a sling on my shotgun. I nearly dropped the Remington back down the rocky terrain a couple of times. The palm of my left hand was raw, and the knife wound on my upper arm began to seep blood again.

  Sweat dripped down my face, and my shirt was stuck to my back from the perspiration. I had one more rock to take on when the hand that had to belong to a giant reached down and wrapped around my left wrist. I was holding the shotgun in a way that made it useless s a weapon. I looked up at my captor but the sun blazed in my face and all I got were shadows.

  A familiar voice said, “Have you met Tor Johnson? Tor this is Jimmy Egan, he’s a private eye.” The voice belonged to Criswell.

  A few seconds later, Tor had pulled me up to the flat of the last rock where he and Criswell were sitting as if having a picnic in the city park. Next to them was a small basket with sandwiches, potato chips and several cans of soda.

  I wiped off my forehead and most of my face with the sleeve of my soiled bloody shirt, to get the sweat from my eyes.

  “How did you guys get up here?” I said, trying to pull some needed air into my lungs.

  Tor said, “We took the road, parked over there with the rest of the cars and walked up the stone steps to here.” The very large man sounded as if he was partially deaf when he talked and a strange accent thickened his words.

  Creswell smiled. There was no sweat on his forehead, and his clothes, an immaculate dark suit, were dry to the bone. So were Tor’s’, who wore a large baggy button down shirt and a pair of khaki pants.

  “Great heavens, detective, why on earth are you crawling around in the dirt?” asked Criswell.

  Tor grinned. “I get it. You were sneaking up on them. Ha, that’s a good one.”

  Criswell handed me a can of soda and I damned near turned it down. But my thirst got the best of me and I popped it open and practically drained it in a series of continuous gulps.

  “Why are you guys here?” I said, setting the empty can down.

  Criswell said, “I assume we’re all here to save Eddie and his date. These crazy cultists and I warned you about them- did I not- Want his blood and it appears tonight is the ceremony.”

  “The girl isn’t his date. She’s my sister.” I said flatly, which got a short burst of laughter from each of them.

  I said, “How did you know they were here?”

  “By sheer luck, I assure you. Tor and I followed them from the cinema. Luck would have it, or fate as I choose to believe, had us all watching Cult of the Cobra, with Faith Domergue,” he touched a finger to his bottom lip. “I read her future once and it didn’t look very bright, anyway, I saw dear Eddie there, with his date . . . I mean your sister, then after the film was over I rushed over to say hello when both of them were whisked away by these men - dressed in gray- into their black Mercedes. Of course, Tor and I followed and here we are. Just as we are meant to be, I’m sure.”

  I didn’t know if I believed in fate, but I was glad they were there just the same.

  “You carrying any weapons, either of you?”

  Criswell looked down his nose at me, a small breeze flipping one of his front curls into his eyes; he brushed it away as if it were some pesky fly. “Do I look like I carry weapons?”

  I looked at Tor, he was practically a weapon in itself, but I doubted his bulging chest could stop a bullet.

  “All we need to do now is figure out where these villainous bastards are meeting, and crash the party.” Criswell jerked a thumb over his shoulder the same way I had seen Woody do many times. I figured my pal’s charm was rubbing off on everyone he encountered.

  “If you will carefully peer over this rock behind me you will see they are gathering now. Probably waiting for cloak of darkness to fall.” Criswell said.

  The soda had tasted damn good, but I need something stronger and I was shit out of luck.

  “When it gets dark we go down and get Woody and my sister,” I fingered the shotgun nervously. “You two stay a few feet behind me.”

  “Why behind?” asked Tor.

  “Because the bullets will be coming out from in front of me,” I said.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Criswell’s plan was easy. We would just saunter on down from our rocky perch, slip into the small crowd trickling into the cave entrance on the north side and walk in – pretty as you please.

  It was the stupidest idea since the plot of Jailbait Woody forced me to read. We had sat down on his patio, all-comfy in summer chairs, with me and his then girlfriend Delores. The script was as bad as his relationships, but I struggled through it like a brave Marine. Every time I wanted to quit reading the damn thing, I would see myself waist high in mud and blood during the battle of Tarawa and Corporal Wood, sans two front teeth, pulling me out. We did get purple hearts out of the deal and scars that ran deep inside our souls. Those might even buy us a cup of coffee someday. My point being, I would do anything for the guy, read his bad scripts or risk everything to save his life.

  So here we were, just walking down the stone-carved stairs and blending into the crowd, heading to the ceremony. We even walked past sentries guarding the whole affair and were not detected. I had kept my shotgun close to my side and opposite of the line of sight from the guards. I looked like hell, wearing a bloody shirt and dirt from head to toe, but no one seemed to notice or even give a shit – not even the sentries.

  Criswell was brilliantly mad and he knew it, he seemed in his element during this dangerous task and I wondered what he had done during the war.

  Once we made it through the short entrance we veered off from the crowd and headed down a small stone passage. A man in gray stepped out, held a hand up, and said, “Wrong way, folks. The ceremony is back the way you came.”

  Criswell looked at Tor and nodded. Tor grinned and nodded back. He stepped up to the sentry who could do nothing but look the big man up and down. He smiled weakly at Tor. The big man grabbed the guard with his big meaty hands, lifted him up a good two feet, and threw him into the side of the cave as if he were a dusty sack of potatoes. There was an ugly thud as the poor man’s body struck the wall then the stone floor. He did not move. Tor turned to us and grinned again.

  Criswell said in his usual booming voice, “Good man!” I made a grimace and we continued on our journey.

  We encountered two more sentries, the last guarding a smaller adjoining cave lit by a single kerosene lamp dangling from the low ceiling by a chain. With the last sentry dispatched by Tor, we saw two people huddled into a corner of the cave. One was Woody. He wasn’t moving and his head was resting on his chest.

  The other was Kathy.

  Her eyes were red and swollen, and her makeup streaked down
her face. She was dusty from the ground up. She wore a pale yellow top with a blue skirt that broke at the knee. The white Angora sweater I suspected Woody was plotting to steal from her accentuated the top. A small sequined covered purse was draped over her shoulder. Her eyes brightened as if someone had handed her a new puppy when she saw me enter. She clumsily pulled to her feet and ran to me, throwing her thin arms around my neck. She kissed my face, and said, “They’ve drugged Eddie.”

  Woody raised his head at hearing his name and said, “Graveyards, flying saucers, ghouls, spooky boooooooweeeehoooooweeee, yep.” A bit of saliva dripped from his mouth and onto his shirt

  I looked at Kathy. “What’s he talking about?”

  “He’s been spouting gibberish ever since they made him drink some green stuff,” she said.

  Woody said, “Bela knows, picking the flower, very sad, very sad. And bammmmmo!” He began to cry.

  Criswell was already kneeling at Woody’s side, but Tor stayed by the door keeping watch so I felt safe. Criswell used a thumb to raise one of Woody’s eyelids. “Hazy and very dilated, he’s really out of it, alright.”

  Woody smiled and drooled some more.

  “Sis, we’re getting you two out of here.” I nodded down at the shotgun in my hand. “One way or another.”

  Criswell and Tor took control of Wally, helping him to his feet, each one wrapping an arm around one of theirs. His eyes were staring off into the distance now, worse than when he suffer his shell-shock episode outside his rented house.

  I said, “I wonder what they pumped into him?”

  “I don’t know, but they said they wanted him to be more compliant,” Kathy said, frowning, as she managed to wipe most of the streaks from her face with her skirt. “I don’t think they planned on hurting me, as long as Eddie cooperated.”

  Woody said, “Cathusheetee tobee sobbee. Weeeee!” Then threw his head back and laughed.