I caught a glimpse of something in the corner of my eye. I turned to see Melodie carrying a small little black gun in both her hands. She was crying and the mascara was running down her cheeks in two thin triangles. I got up and moved to the side of the couch, just in case I had to jump in behind it. She was pointing what looked to me like a .32 caliber Tomcat at Alvarez.
“You stupid pathetic loser,” she kept saying to him. Then there were two loud thunder claps and I looked over at him. Two little red poppies were growing on his chest. It wasn’t Remembrance Day. And he had nothing left to remember.
“You don’t know what it’s like okay. You don’t know what it’s like. Nobody ever loved me. He was going to be my ticket out of this godforsaken place, if it wasn’t for his damn mother and him finding out about Alvarez. But I would’ve ditched Alvarez. He just wouldn’t give me chance...he wouldn’t...”
She was getting hysterical now. The little Tomcat with a stubby nose eyeing me now with an unsteady gaze. I didn’t like it. It was weaving back and forth in little smirks.
“The cops are coming Melodie. Do the right thing. Put the gun down and everything will be alright.”
She was only about five feet away. I figured I could rush her if need be. Maybe she’d get a round off into my arm or leg. But I didn’t want to try those Vegas odds. As I was thinking of options, with my hand out towards her offering my hat as a shield, she put the gun into her mouth. She kissed the gun good night at the sound of another crack. I didn’t care too much for the mess she left on the far wall. I’d seen it too many times. Her body fell like a sack of potatoes at my feet and she lay down there. A trickle of red blood slipped out of her mouth and rolled onto the carpet. I didn’t think these twenty five hundred bucks was so easy anymore. I started thinking maybe I had been played for the patsy.
I put on my fedora and walked out the front door. I closed it quietly after me. Out of respect. Some people had started poking their heads and bodies out of their homes. I walked on to my car. I called 911 and told them to get here quick and tell Captain John Roberts too. I needed a drink and I knew just where to get one. I got in my car and headed up to Wilshire Boulevard. Sonny McLean’s. I needed some whiskey. Maybe a lot of whiskey and a blood-rare steak sandwich. I still had the twenty five Benjamins in my pant pocket. Only they didn’t seem so crisp anymore. Seemed like they’d been round for a while. Seen things. Been places. Maybe that’s just me. I didn’t care so much for today. Three young lives lost in twenty four hours. Was this justice? I didn’t think so. Not enough people stepping up to the plate and taking responsibility. Including these last two. And just this morning I was having a good breakfast at Joe’s Main Diner. I should have thought twice about this job. Seemed too easy from the start. Seemed like it wasn’t anything from the start.
I dragged my heavy legs into the small building. Cozied up to the bar and lay my fedora down. Double scotch I said to Brian. He didn’t say too much. Must’ve known I wasn’t in the mood for talking. The place was quiet. Just us regulars. I was thirsty so I asked for two more and the steak sandwich. The scotch was warm on the way down. I started feeling better already so I figured I’d close up shop for the day. I banged some numbers into my phone and stuck it in my ear.
“Hello,” said a smokey voice this time.
“Marlene?” I asked.
“Yes Mr. Carrick. I heard there are two more dead. Doesn’t make me feel any better or any worse.”
I nodded at my whiskey. “Yeah,” I said. “Melodie and her pal Alvarez. She shot both of them.”
“I heard that. John told me.” I drank some more scotch and stuck another cigarette in my face.
“You were right about her,” I said trying to sound comforting, “She killed your son. Pushed him hard when he was in the shower. The coroner will know the exact cause of death. Alvarez was there too, but he wasn’t actively involved. If anything he tried in his way to make it right in the end. I thought you should know that.”
She didn’t say anything for a while and I had run out of words. I took another drink from my tumbler and I wanted to light my cigarette. My belly was warm and already I was starting to feel better about things. About a whole lot of things.
“Thank you Mr. Carrick. Don’t feel bad about it. I don’t.” Her voice was strong. I knew what she meant. I was the patsy. I didn’t feel like keeping her money.
“Well Ms. Greenlaub this was only a day’s work so I owe you some Benjamins you gave me.”
She coughed a little sad cough to clear her throat.
“Keep them Mr. Carrick, you’ve earned them. Money isn’t anything.”
“Good day Ms. Greenlaub.”
“Chin up Mr. Carrick, people die everyday.”
I didn’t thank her. As far as I was concerned this was blood money. I finished my third whiskey as the steak came by. Pink and rare. I put my cigarette back in the pack. I thought about the mess I’d left behind. I didn’t feel so hungry anymore. Since she was buying I ordered more whiskey. I needed to collect my thoughts. She was right about one thing though. Money ain’t nothing.
Brotherly Love
What I like about living in The Big Orange is the number of people. The city has around 4 million lost souls. And when you have that many lost souls bumping into each other, sparks are gonna fly. And when the sparks fly, the knives and the guns come out to play. That means there’re a lot of murders in this juicy orange. It keeps a guy like me busy. Last year for instance, 203 lost souls took the boat to the other side. Every forty-something hours another one bites the dust.
There’s plenty of work in this seedy little city of mine if you make your living off the dying. Which is what I do. Indirectly. I’m a private investigator for hire. But there hasn’t been a lot of work coming around for me lately. In fact, this past week was as dry as the empty bottle of scotch that stood on my kitchen counter.
Seven days of nothing to do but cultivate belly button lint. I was getting bored. Hell, I was even contemplating committing a felony, just to have something to do. Don’t get your knickers all in a bunch, I joke, okay.
But, here I was sitting at my kitchen table staring at a day old strudel so tough it was staring me back. I dangled a finger around my coffee cup, the steam still dancing up from its mouth. I was thinking about the last seven days. I figured a quick back of the napkin run of the numbers meant I’d missed out on about 4 murders.
Not that I always enjoy this line of work, you understand. But somebody’s gotta take out the trash. And well, might as well be me. I’m not that good at much else. Ask Pirate, he’ll tell you. He was lying there flat out on his side in a square of warm sun that had tossed itself on the kitchen floor. My mobile started vibrating and I picked it up to have a look at it. It was my good friend John Roberts.
“911, what’s your emergency?” I asked.
I heard a chuckle on the other line.
“Sorry, wrong number. I was looking for someone who could actually help.”
“I’ve been waiting for your call all week, Johnny Boy, where you been?”
“I’ve been looking at dead folk mostly. Listen, Anthony, how are you doing?”
“Bored to tears actually, John. You have something for me to alleviate my boredom?”
“Funny you should ask. I’m standing here in De Neve Square Park and I’m looking down at a dead man. Would you care to join me Anthony?”
“Love to, but I have no idea where De Neve Park is.”
“You’ve got one of them fancy new smartphones, right? Find it on a map. You were a detective, right? I mean, we did work together, or am I thinking of somebody else?”
“You must be thinking of a different Anthony Carrick.”
“Okay, I’ll see you in about, what, fifteen or so? I’ll give you a hint ’cos I’m feeling soft. It’s in Holmby Hills.”
“Right, just down the street from my house.”
“If you say so, pal. Listen, the coroner’s gonna be here any minute so get down here as quick a
s you can if you want to take a look at the corpse.”
I hung up with a huge grin on my face. I was getting back in the game. Now, I was hoping for a private gig. A private gig pays double the rate that I can get as a contractor with the LAPD. But beggars can’t be choosers. Two hundred and fifty a day is better than a kick in the teeth.
I did as John suggested and I searched for De Neve Square Park on my app. It wasn’t going to take me more than fifteen minutes or so to get there. But I had a breakfast to finish first. I took a bite of the strudel and it wasn’t too bad for a day old. But I wasn’t gonna fight with it to get it down into my belly. A swig of coffee helped wash it down and I was ready to greet the day. If not with a grin on my face, at least a bit of pep in my step.
I left my apartment, giving Pirate a scratch behind his tattered ears before I left. It was a fall day and I grabbed my jacket and hat as I left. The morning was cool, and as I got into my LeSabre it was warm, sitting there sunning itself in the parking lot.
Traffic was steady on my way up the hill to De Neve. It was around eight twenty-five when I got there. What should have been a fifteen minute drive had turned into a twenty five minute slog in smog. I parked on North Parkwood Drive and as I got out, I didn’t see the coroner’s van anywhere. I was grateful for small mercies. I was at the southwest corner of the park, where the sign and main entrance gave its name.
De Neve Square Park is a small park of about 100 feet wide, almost square. Its perimeter is thick with trees except for an opening on the west side. I looked around and found John in the middle of the park on the east side. I walked up to him. His guys had already taped off the whole park as a crime scene. He was talking with lanky Mike Cardigan, one of LAPD’s best crime scene techs.
As I drew up on them Mike adjusted his steel framed glasses and grinned at me from his freckled face. He elbowed John.
“Look what the cat brought in,” he said.
“That the best you got this morning?” I asked.
“Hey, what can I say, it was supposed to be a day off, but unlike you, John here wanted to bring in one of the best techs. Can’t blame him.”
“If you’re considered one of the best now, boy, they must be scraping the bottom of the barrel.”
I grinned at him and he smiled back.
“Good to see you again, Anthony,” he said.
“It sure is.”
John offered me a coffee.
“It might be cold by now. I’ve been waiting for you for the last hour.”
He chuckled.
“What the hell, I thought I was at a crime scene, not the Laurel and Hardy show.”
“Nope,” said John, “wrong on both counts, the is the Roberts and Cardigan biopic.”
I took a sip of the coffee. It was creamy and sweet, just how I liked it. And warm too.
“Cheers,” I said. “I needed this.”
“Rough night?” asked Roberts.
“I went a few rounds with a mean Scotsman last night,” I said.
“That so,” said Roberts.
“Yeah, Johnnie Walker’s a mean sonofabitch.”
“You’re getting soft Carrick,” said Cardigan.
“Are we gonna just hang around here in this park spinning yarn, or are you guys actually gonna give me something?” I said.
“Yeah, sure, come on over here and take a look at our victim.”
John led us to the closest clump of trees to him. Under the spindly branches lay a man face down in the dirt. There was a detective squatting down next to the body taking notes. The victim’s hands were down by his sides, palms facing up and his head was looking off to his right. His legs were out straight with his toes pointing inwards.
He had on a pair of white sneakers and dark blue jeans. His pants weren’t on fully. They were slightly bunched up to one side as if someone had tried to put them on after he was dead. On his upper body he was wearing a navy windbreaker. There were no signs of struggle, from what I could see just looking at him from this vantage point.
I walked over to the right side of the body, bending down under branches. I squatted down and took a sip of my coffee. The victim had pale blue eyes that weren’t closed and his face was swollen. It was hard to tell if he was once handsome or not. The mask of death will do that to you. Rob you of any dignity. He had a thick mustache. I think they call it a chevron mustache. The kind gay pornstars wore in the seventies.
It was a good looking mustache if that’s your thing. Personally, I like to present a naked face to the world each day.
“I’m going to say you found him like this, right?”
John nodded. He was standing down by his feet.
“Yeah, we found him like this. But as you know Anthony, we’re often not the first to find victims.”
He grinned at me, always the cad.
“Thanks for the homicide 101 lecture,” I said. “Who found him and how did he look at that time?”
I got back up and came back over to John, bowing my head, not so much in reverence, but because I didn’t want to get smacked in the choppers by errant branches. John turned his head towards the detective still squatting down on the left side of the victim.
“Hey, Glenn.”
Glenn looked up and then stood up and came over to us.
“You met my old friend, Anthony Carrick?”
“No, Captain.”
“This is Detective Glenn Blackstock.”
He reached out his hand eagerly. I took it and gave it a shake. It was tough like overcooked steak. He was a round fellow and on the shorter side. I’d put him at around five eight. He had ginger hair and a gap between his two front teeth as he smiled at me. His eyes were close together and small.
“I’ve heard a lot about you Anthony,” he said. “It’s my pleasure.”
“Thanks, Glenn, you’ve got a good gig here with your Captain.”
Glenn nodded and then looked back at John.
“Who called this in, you got that down?”
John looked at Glenn’s notebook. Glenn couldn’t have been older than mid-thirties, if that. Obviously a rising star in the LAPD. I didn’t think it’d take the brass long to tarnish his enthusiasm. Glenn flipped back a few pages in his notebook. He was wearing a brown suit that he bought with foresight. I reckon he could grow into it another twenty or so pounds. His blue tie was knotted just below his first button which was undone.
“That was Ms. Naomi Antonucci, Captain. She called it in at 7:37 this morning.”
“Did she say how she found him?” I asked.
“She was on her morning jog around the neighborhood when she came into the park to finish up and stretch. Said she saw some sneakers and then when she went to look further she saw it was actually our vic.”
“Speaking of vics, what’s our guy’s name.”
“Ray Hope,” said Glenn.
“You’re shitting me.”
“No sir.”
Glenn looked puzzled.
“Well, no more ray of hope for our vic, then.”
Poor kid, hadn’t been around John long enough to pick up on his macabre sense of humor. John chuckled and saw Mike smirking out of the corner of my eye.
“Anthony, put these on, and I’ll let you take poke at the guy’s wallet.”
Mike handed me some latex gloves. I passed my coffee over to John and put on the gloves.
“Terrific, fit me like a glove.”
“Groan,” said Mike.
It was early still, I was just warming up. Mike passed me a bag that had Ray’s wallet in it. I opened it up and took the wallet out. It was expensive looking, probably soft calf or something. I opened it up, it was a bi-fold. There was a thick wad of bills in it.
“How much?” I asked, not looking at Mike.
“Hundred and thirty five,” he said.
There were a couple of credit cards inside. An American Express Centurion and a J.P. Morgan Palladium Visa. There was also a debit card and a couple of photos. One was of a young boy, kneeling behin
d a soccer ball and the young lad was wearing soccer gear. The background was dotted with kids playing soccer. The other was a family portrait. Posed against a painted gray background. I recognized the vic and I assumed the woman was his wife. She might have been attractive once, but not when the picture was taken.
She looked bloated. Either by too much good living or too many pharmaceuticals to keep the skeletons at bay. The young boy in this photo looked like the kid in the first photo with the soccer ball. In this pic he was older and more sullen. Teenagers.
There was also his driver’s license, and from the address I figured he didn’t live more than several blocks from here.
One other thing I saw tucked in behind the money was a receipt. It was from a local drugstore. Our ray of sunshine had bought a coke, chips and a candy bar as well as a bottle of lube. I closed up the wallet and gave it back to Mike.
“That’s it?” I asked.
“Yeah. Nothing else, except lint in his pockets,” said Mike.
“No keys?”
John shook his head.
“Might have had a car or he might have walked here. If he had a car it’s probably been stolen. But I think that’s unlikely. There’s a good chunk of cash still in that wallet, and those credit cards. Man, you could buy yourself a helluva good time with that kind of plastic.”
“I wouldn’t know about that,” I said. “What I do know is that I’m buying my credit card company a helluva good time with all the interest I’m paying.”
John patted me on the back and handed back my coffee.
“You shouldn’t have left without your pension.”
I looked at him sideways.
“You know I didn’t have much of a choice.”
He nodded his head back and forth as if he were sparring with a partner, weighing the options.
“You could’ve. That’s all I’m gonna say.”
I wasn’t going to get into it with him again. I looked back over at the body.
“So, that’s how the vic was found,” I said raising my paper cup of coffee towards the victim. “On his front like that?”
“Yup, like I said before,” said John.
“How’d he die,” I said, sipping my coffee and ignoring John’s snarky comment.
Four Ways To Midnight (An Anthony Carrick Short Story Collection Book 1) Page 3
