Lady Midnight

by Timothy C. Phillips

  LADY MIDNIGHT

  The Roland Longville Mystery Series #5

  Written by Timothy C. Phillips

  Kindle: 978-1-58124-085-6

  ePub: 978-1-58124-296-6

  ©2012 by Timothy C. Phillips

  Published 2012 by The Fiction Works

  http://www.fictionworks.com

  fictionworks@me.com

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced without written permission, except for brief quotations to books and critical reviews. This story is a work of fiction. Characters and events are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  To

  Mike and Janelle,

  Dear friends always.

  Prologue

  A man walked down a prison corridor, flanked by two corrections officers, or as the prisoners called them, “screws.”

  “Take it easy out there, Big Daddy,” an inmate shouted from along the corridor in Cell Block Three.

  The man who strode along between the guards nodded, but did not look back. The screws escorted their prisoner down the flat gray corridor until they came to two heavy metal doors. They had to wait a few seconds at each door while one of the guards radioed the controller, who sat in a big metal cubicle in the center of the prison, surrounded on all sides by bullet-proof glass. This unseen gatekeeper then visually checked them on the appropriate security camera screen, before opening each door remotely.

  After five long years inside, Big Daddy found each little wait maddening, because he knew he was getting out of here today, and those little stops were eating into his freedom, what was left of his life, and he wanted to get on with it. He had things to do.

  After what seemed an eternity, Big Daddy listened to the heavy metallic sound of the last door shutting behind him, and he smiled.

  He stopped with his little entourage at the property desk, where a uniformed clerk disappeared into a labyrinth of shelves that lay behind his desk. After another long wait, the man brought out a box containing Big Daddy’s belongings, which had been taken from him when he signed in five years before. Big Daddy signed for them, then went over to a small side room and got dressed while one of the screws watched.

  He’d been inside so long it didn’t bother him. Privacy was impossible to maintain in a place where you were crowded in with hundreds of others, and your every move scrutinized.

  Almost nothing bothered Big Daddy much anymore. You learned to talk to people while taking a shit in prison. You learned to pretend your bunkmate wasn’t beating off to a skin magazine a couple of feet from you. Prison was a place where you grew thick skin, if you wanted to stay sane. Big Daddy’s skin had been pretty thick when they first showed him to his cell and closed the door behind him; it was a hell of a lot thicker now. But though his skin had grown thicker, the body was markedly thinner. The clothes he slipped into now fit loosely, and they were probably out of style, too, Big Daddy mused. He’d lost a lot of weight in the joint. Between prison food and so much time spent working out from sheer boredom, he was a much leaner, fitter version of his former self. The old sobriquet “Big Daddy” would take on a new, ironic meaning on the street, for sure.

  He didn’t know for sure about the style part just yet. He was out of touch; that was something else that doing time does to you. He didn’t really much give a damn. At one time, he really cared about his clothes, but in here, that was impossible—unless, of course, an orange jumpsuit was your idea of style. Once he got out, he’d get himself some new threads.

  The weight loss was another thing. If he was a little leaner for his five years inside, that was okay with him. Soon, he’d be putting a few pounds back on. Maybe not all of them, though, he thought. He kind of liked being a little less plump, and a lot more physically fit. But make no mistake, he told himself, as he had on many nights since he had gotten the news of his impending early release: Big Daddy is very much back! He had some scores to settle, but those could wait for now. First things first—get the hell out of Draper Correctional Facility.

  It was all coming together now, the dream that he had scarcely dared think about was coming true. He was actually getting out.

  He’d been lying on his bunk, flipping through a book from the prison library that he’d read about fifty times already, Lost Horizon by some guy named James Hilton. He had no idea who Hilton was, but there was something about the book that he liked. He’d never cared about books, but he had a lot of time to kill, and you couldn’t get drunk inside, so he’d picked this one out at random and read it. It was good.

  The guy in the book, Conway, finds a mystical place called Shangri-La, where everybody lives forever and everything’s great. Then he loses it trying to help some other guy get back to civilization, and he spends the rest of his life trying to get back there. At the end of the book, the author makes you think that maybe he did find it again.

  Big Daddy wasn’t so sure. He thought that maybe there was no such place as Shangri-La, that maybe it was just a symbol for something that everyone was looking for. Every human being was probably looking for something different. For Big Daddy it was a huge house with plenty of broads and good liquor, with several cool cars sitting outside, and millions of tax-free dollars hidden away somewhere.

  Anyway, there he was, laying in his bunk, re-reading Hilton’s book, trying to figure out if maybe this Shangri-La represents something else, or maybe if Conway was really just Hilton himself and Shangri-La was some happy time and place that the author himself had known and lost and knew he could never get back, when he looked up. A couple of corrections officers were standing there, and one of them was holding a piece of paper.

  Big Daddy knew that a screw with a piece of paper in his hand could only mean something really good, or something really bad, and he wasn’t expecting either. The judge had sent him down for ten to twenty-five; he had stood accused of Homicide, but his prick lawyer had got it pleaded down to Manslaughter One. Lot of good it had done him. Still, he hadn’t heard from his lawyer since they slammed the door, and as far as he knew that was the end of it. But now there was the screw with the paper, and they were looking for him, all right.

  “Ricardo Lorenzo,” the corrections officer said his name aloud. “Get up and look alive.” The screw took his radio from his belt. “Open unit eleven.”

  Big Daddy had grunted, and grudgingly closed the book. “What?” he had asked, his voice half-irritated, half wondering. This was definitely out of the ordinary. Rosco, his long-time cell mate, rolled over and cautiously watched the proceedings. Something out of the ordinary was always worth watching inside. Besides, he knew other inmates would ask him about everything later. Best to note all the details.

  The cell door unlocked with a sudden, solid clunk, and yawned open.

  “Get ready to be happy.” The screw had held up the paper in his hand, so that Big Daddy could see it. “Early release orders came down for you today. Don’t ask me whose bright idea that was, but you’re getting ou
t of here, as of tomorrow morning. You’re to come with us now for your parole processing.”

  Big Daddy had simply stood there, dumbfounded. That’s the way the Bureau of Corrections did everything. One day you’re free, the next day you’re in prison. Then some asshole makes a decision somewhere, and you don’t even get a chance to say goodbye to your jail buddies. Before you even know what hit you, you’re back out on the street again. They treated you like shit no matter what, like you weren’t even a human being, and didn’t have a right to know what decisions they were making about your life. But, Big Daddy grudgingly noted, if it meant he was free, he was all for that, too.

  Big Daddy’s stunned expression didn’t last long. He’d broken into a slow grin and turned back to Rosco. He dropped the copy of Lost Horizon onto the bunk beside him.

  “Here, Rosco, I think you better lay off the skin mags for a while and read this one.”

  Rosco looked a little stunned himself, but he picked up the book and looked at Big Daddy with an unspoken question on his face.

  “That book is the truth, my man,” Big Daddy said. “Read it. You’ll see.”

  And with that, Big Daddy had waltzed out of that little cell, that dingy gray little box he had lived in for the last five years of his life, leaving Rosco staring intently after him, still holding that book in his hand.

  * * *

  Big Daddy waited patiently. Final processing, they call it. Fine, process me right the hell on out of this lousy place.

  The corrections officer took his time as he looked over his file for confirmation. Finally he grunted and went over to the nearby sally port door. He pulled out a key card and swiped it. The door, that final metal door between Big Daddy and his freedom, slid open.

  “Okay, that’s it. You’re a free man,” the guard said. “Try to stay out of trouble, Lorenzo, unless you want to see us all again.”

  And just like that, Big Daddy was free. Before he knew it, he was walking outside, breathing clean, early spring air. He took a deep breath and walked across the road. He felt like laughing, like crying. Like turning cartwheels. He wanted to run, to jump, to go dancing, to get drunk, except this was a far better feeling than any of that could ever give him. He was standing outside, man. Hallelujah! He’d never take that for granted, again.

  It’s great to be alive. And better to be free. Thanks to all the hard-ass dipshits that run for District Attorney, and the church sheep that vote for them, because they are the ones overcrowding the prisons with potheads and drunks, so that they run out of room in the joint for us real crooks. Us killers and dealers. What a laugh. Thanks to them for my early release. Thanks to all of you stupid bastards.

  Big Daddy stood on the curb for several minutes, breathing deeply. The air was crisp and clean, like he never remembered it being. Air that didn’t smell like a fart sure was a welcome change after five long years inside.

  Big Daddy heard the sound of a car honking. He looked around, and grinned. A car was waiting. He crossed the street, and the driver’s side door opened. Out stepped a thick-set man, with a fake-looking tan and a permanent layer of sweat.

  “Vince. You ugly son of a bitch.”

  “You look good, Big Daddy.”

  “Too bad for you, Vince, but I didn’t turn fairy in the joint.” The two big men embraced and slapped each other harshly on the back.

  “Well, I was hoping you hadn’t,” Vince rolled his eyes. “on account of that would kind of spoil the surprise.” He opened the back door, revealing two young women wearing nothing but skimpy lingerie. One was blond, the other brunette. Both were chewing gum and toying with their hair. Upon seeing Big Daddy, they smiled invitingly. “Vince, you are the man. Where the hell did you get these fine broads?”

  Vince beamed. “Big Daddy, meet Bonnie and Nookie, two of my best girls. Wait until you hear about the new thing I’m into, Big Daddy. All the women and money we could ever dream of, and we ain’t gotta worry about no cops, because it’s a hundred percent legal.”

  “I can’t wait.” Big Daddy looked at the girls like a starving man might look at two juicy steaks. Well, he thought to himself, maybe it could wait a little while.

  Vince nudged him. “Say, Big Daddy, let’s get the hell outta here.”

  Big Daddy nodded, and climbed in the back seat between the two nubile young women. “Let’s do it.”

  Chapter 1

  It was just before ten on Wednesday when they shot him. I just happened to be watching. I was having a late and disappointing breakfast—the coffee was too hot, the eggs were too cold, and I hadn’t been able to get my regular seat. I was at Sally’s Diner, which happened to be my favorite little hole-in-­the-wall restaurant. Today, a lot of people had ducked in to wait out a sudden downpour and talk, over coffee. As a consequence, Sally’s was far busier than usual. All the booths were full, including the corner one that I liked to think of as my booth. I didn’t usually like to sit at the counter, but that’s where I was. I poked at the eggs until I was sure they were a lost cause, then swiveled around on my stool and looked outside.

  A newspaper I’d been perusing on the counter asked the city with a bold headline, “Is there an impending Mob War?” The seated customers around me chattered on about the recent doings of the rival Birmingham gang leaders, even going so far as to discuss which of the two men was the snappier dresser.

  I am a private detective, and sooner or later a private detective gets to meet every crook in town. I had met both men, and hadn’t been very impressed by either one. A thug is a thug, and never mind the tailor.

  Birmingham was soggy that day, after the third straight day of rain. The downpour had just stopped, but everything still dripped uneasily. It had been a solid spring rain, the kind that wets everything down, but good. You could feel that it might open up again any minute. People were hurrying, hugging the walls with their heads down, their umbrellas up. Water dripped from the awnings, falling on them as they went by.

  The cars that slid by sluiced water up, onto the sidewalk, with a long, juicy hiss.

  I noticed a man sitting in his car across the street. Not unusual for a rainy day, but something about him bothered me. He was looking occasionally across the plaza, towards the Brooks Building, where my office is located. I suppose that I noticed him because he had his window down, and was trying to look like he belonged there. He didn’t, though. His Mercedes and his look said he was someone used to money.

  I knew that types like that didn’t typically loiter on the street, especially in that part of town, unless they are up to no good. As I watched, he reached up to adjust the rearview mirror, revealing what appeared to be a Rolex. He was a curiosity, all right, but there was no law against looking out of place. His face wore an expression of impatience. He looked like he was on a stakeout, but didn’t know for what.

  I was blowing on my coffee, still casually watching the man, when a tan-colored sedan pulled up behind the Mercedes. A man in a long blue raincoat got out, walked right up to the Mercedes’ driver’s side window, and leaned against the car. The man seated behind the steering wheel smiled, and the two shook hands. But then any semblance of civility vanished. With his other hand, the guy in the raincoat pulled a gun and shot the Mercedes driver in the head. Then the gunman calmly opened his raincoat, put his weapon away, and walked slowly back to his car. He got in behind the wheel and drove away.

  “Have you lost your mind?” A rotund lady with a beehive hairdo who was coming in the door shouted, as I charged through the door, pushing her aside. I had once been a college linebacker, so maybe she had some cause. I am also a big, African-American man with a mean-looking scar on the left side of my face, but I’m sure that had nothing to do with it.

  The gunman was long gone, of course. His car was rounding the corner as I emerged from the diner. The street was empty except for onlookers who stood in the drizzle with expressions of horror on their faces.

  “Was the coffee that bad?” Sally asked loudly as I came back in the door.
The woman whom I had pushed aside harrumphed and glared at me. Her beehive hairdo had been upset in the tussle, and now loose curls tumbled down from the collapsed ziggurat atop her head.

  I sat down and waited on the police; I already heard the sirens. By that time, there were already a couple of people gawking across the street. A woman screamed, and the whole thing began from there.

  * * *

  Maybe it had begun two days earlier, though I didn’t know it at the time. That day had been Monday, the day I had gotten a call from someone who identified himself as a Mr. Baucom, a very professional-sounding man who had insisted that I meet him somewhere out of the way. That was usually a bad sign. I could have refused, but I was feeling rather adventurous at the time. That adventurous feeling usually meant that I was nearly broke. I had told Baucom that I would meet him Wednesday, just after breakfast, at Sally’s Diner, of course. That was about the safest and most discreet place I could think of at the time. After the fifth police car arrived, it didn’t look very discreet anymore, and if it had been safe in the first place, they wouldn’t have been there. Oh well.

  Witnessing a murder is a hell of way to start off your day. Dead bodies make most people nervous, and policemen are no exception. Talking to nervous cops is usually bad for one’s digestion. Any tension that I might have felt over talking to the police that particular late morning, however, was dispelled when I saw Detective Sergeant Lester Broom pile out of an unmarked police car.

  Broom was accompanied by his partner, Detective in-training Cassandra Taylor. She was a good-looking redhead, sort of tall, fit and thin, with a serious, intelligent face that belied an easy-going personality and quick sense of humor. The crowd parted, and people gaped in wonder as Broom’s shadow passed over them. If he noticed them at all, he gave no outward sign. I walked over to meet him, and we shook hands.