The Green-Eyed Dick

by J. S. Chapman

  Street lamps followed my path from shadow to shadow. Halfway down the block, heavy footsteps approached from behind. I reached into my purse and burrowed around for the touch of cold, hard steel: a ring of keys. At the very least, they could gouge out an eye or two. A middle-aged man pulled ahead with purpose. He tipped his hat. The back of his brown suit soon vanished into the distance.

  Girls dressed in feathery fineness came my way. Sloshed to the gills, they were tripping on their heels and falling all over each other. One of them pointed at me and said something snide. I looked down. My clothes were streaked with grime, my hands covered in filth, my nylons snagged and running, and my knees scraped and bloodied. I looked a mess. Worse, I looked like a guttersnipe and probably smelled like one, too. They sniggered and made a wide berth around me. The toot of a car horn distracted them. They waved cheerily and piled inside. The car lurched away, music blaring from the radio.

  Fear chased me around to a residential street. My heart pounded like a kettledrum. The murmur of sociable voices spilling from open windows was reassuring. This wasn’t a good neighborhood, but at least I was a scream away from summoning help.

  A minute later, I wedged myself behind the Bel Air’s steering wheel. Locked all the doors. Cranked the ignition key. Raised the gear level into reverse. And backed up. When I snapped the lever into drive, it registered that my hand was shaking. Sweat was pouring off me. I heard someone sob, a high-pitched shrill that sounded like a cat in heat. It was me. I choked back the noises, checked for traffic, flipped the turn signal, and angled into the street.

  At the corner, the shark-tooth grill and high beams of a white four-door sedan filled the rearview mirror.

  I drove to the end of the block and nosed the Bel Air into Maxwell Street. The white sedan sat on my bumper. When traffic cleared, I floored the accelerator and whipped onto the boulevard. The sedan careened into the turn. Street lamps cast light onto the broad side, the fin tails, and the chrome detailing of a Plymouth Fury. Against the blinding headlights, the interior was too dark to see the driver.

  I gunned the engine and raced to the end of the block, leaving the Plymouth behind in a blaze of speed. The night swallowed the windshield, the hood, the grill, and lastly, the spinning tires. Just as the traffic signal ahead started to change, the Fury zoomed out of the dark and closed in. I glimpsed strawberry-blonde hair and a lemon-yellow halter-top.

  A quick check of traffic revealed a black sedan approaching from the cross street. I had just enough time to floor the accelerator and let her rip. The blare of a car horn penetrated the blackness. I glanced neither left nor right but focused on the narrow lane ahead. I don’t remember if I squeezed my eyes shut or propped them wide open. I only knew I had arrived on the other side of the intersection unscathed. Two seconds later, the roar of an engine pierced the night, followed by the squeal of brakes and the crunch of metal. The rearview mirror exposed the Plymouth dancing a shimmy, skidding sideways, regaining traction, and skating around the black sedan.

  Halfway down the block, I shifted gears, turned a sharp right into a residential neighborhood, and doused the headlights. Roaring down narrow one-way streets, I turned right, left, another left, followed by a right, and on and on until I had driven a zigzagging course around the block. When I circled back to Maxwell Street, all was quiet except for a few cruising automobiles. The Plymouth was nowhere in sight. I slipped into traffic.

  Screw Pennyroyal. Screw the sting. Screw my career. I didn’t give a damn anymore. Right now, my head ached, my knees stung, my thighs burned, and my stomach wrenched. I was going home. “Happy birthday, Iris,” I said to the night. “Happy fucking birthday.”

  I followed Lake Shore Drive, black waters to my right and city lights to my left. Night wasn’t much cooler than day had been, but sweet breezes blew through the rolled-down windows, reviving my wits. I kept my eyes glued to the rearview mirror but never made out the slightest ghost of a white Plymouth Fury.

  With my heart still pounding, I cruised down my street. I parked around the corner. I surveyed the terrain. I perked up my ears. I warily stepped out of the Bel Air. The block was like most city blocks, a mixture of classic bungalows and walkup apartment buildings where young and old, couples and families, career women and confirmed bachelors staked out a place to call home. A block where everybody knew everybody else’s business and looked out for each other. Normally I felt safe here. Tonight was the exception. I marched with my last shred of pluckiness. Arms and thighs pumping. Posture straight. Shoulders back. Body tense. Ears alert. Telegraphing toughness, bitchiness, and unpredictability.

  Soon the click-click-click of shoes hounded me. I glanced back. The clicking stopped. I didn’t see anybody. “Who’s there?” I called out.

  The night hushed. Clouds swept across a crescent moon. I listened to the stillness. The street was quiet except for the hoot of an owl. I took off my shoes and sprinted, parting the blackness. My apartment building loomed ahead. I stomped up the front steps and glanced around. Nothing stirred but the lazy sound of crickets. I reached out. The outer door opened on a squeak but closed on a whisper. I peeked out through the leaded glass panel. Nothing disturbed the peacefulness of a hot summer night, nothing but the quickened beat of my pulse.

  I let myself inside with the passkey.

  Chapter 12

  THE HARDWOOD STAIRS groaned beneath my hurried footfalls. Mildew and stale cigarette smoke swept past my nose as I rounded flight after flight, landing after landing, and reached the third floor, out of breath. Safety was a few steps away.

  A shadow darted out. The stink of liquor encased me. I sucked in a mouthful of air and prepared to scream. The clamp of a bruising fist squelched my call for help. The mugger struggled as much as I did, his breath heaving through pinched nostrils.

  Stirring came from the Daughertys next door and the Millers downstairs.

  My attacker hooked his arm under my elbows and pitched me forward, confining me in a position that made it difficult to breathe, to think, to move, to protest. The bastard was stocky. Strong. And mean. He was used to getting his own way. I could almost hear him thinking, gauging, and weighing prudence against haste. He didn’t want any witnesses.

  My mind swirled with agitation and crazy thoughts. Who the hell was he? What did he want? Why was he here? Did the blonde send him? He had the upper hand, but the advantage was mine. Eventually he’d have to release me. And then he’d be sorry. Damned sorry.

  He waited until all was deadly quiet, sometimes shifting his feet or tightening his grip. I mewled into his calloused palm. When all seemed safe, he cautiously spun me around. I sucked in another lungful. He repositioned his gagging hand, crueler this time. He smelled like a carton of Lucky Strikes. “For God’s sake,” he whispered, “shut the hell up, Iris. It’s me.”

  At the mention of my name, my heartbeat quickened. I recognized his voice but couldn’t quite place it. The ugly events of the night had finally caught up with me, and though I could only imagine the worst possible fate, lack of oxygen rendered me docile and compliant. White dots appeared before my eyes. I was about to pass out. I remember moaning before surrendering inside his capable grip. Instinct said it was safe to sink quietly into his arms. He lifted me up. I wrapped my arms around his neck, leaned into this shoulder, and stifled a sob.

  “Are you all right?” He sounded worried. Then he swore. I heard the jiggle of a key. The door to my apartment slammed open. Still swearing, he reassembled me like a doll and set me back on my feet. I took a reviving breath and found sanctuary against his broad chest. He groped for the switch. Something in my brain clicked. I was mad as hell at him, whoever he was, for scaring me like that. I grasped the nearby table lamp. I was about to swing it full force when the hallway light switched on. “Pennyroyal!” I was surprised to hear my own voice. Momentum carried the swing forward, and the brass finial made contact with his skull.

  Pennyroyal went down face first, but before hitting the floor, he threw out his leg
s and clipped me behind the knees. He broke my fall and reeled my body against his. I was about to yell out again when he kissed me. We moaned together, the sexual connection a crazy combination of excitement and pleasure. He slid his mouth away. “What happened? You look like you’ve been through the wringer.” His cop instincts had kicked in. He knew something was wrong. He spread his hands over my face, my arms, my back, making sure I wasn’t hurt, and then making doubly sure. Finally, he read everything in my eyes. “Are you hurt?”

  Sometimes Pennyroyal could surprise me, strip away my defenses, bring me to tears, split my side with laughter, or make me angry as hell. Other times, he could turn me on. This was one of those times. “I’ll tell you later,” I said. “Let’s make love.”

  “Don’t ... think ... so,” he said, his voice halting, weak, and fading fast.

  “Why not?”

  “Because. I’m gonna pass out.” His eyes fluttered. He rolled onto his back. His body unfurled into a five-pointed star. Blood was seeping from a head wound, the one I put there with the lamp. He was staring, but not at me, through me. The whites of his eyes slipped back into his head. He fell unconscious. He was a goner for sure, and it couldn’t have happened to a nicer guy.

  I wasn’t heartless. I wanted to help Pennyroyal. But a case of the jitters took hold, a delayed reaction to everything. Capable only of huddling into a tight ball, I wrapped my arms tightly around myself. I couldn’t stop shaking.

  Pennyroyal came to in less than a minute, groaning and slapping a hand to his forehead. With force of will, he pushed himself to unsteady feet and took a few staggering steps. Not much later, he helped me up and walked me to the sofa. I burrowed into a fetal position and shut out the world. He found his way around my apartment and turned on lights as he went. Liquor sloshed into a glass. The glass was pressed to my lips. His hand supported the back of my head. “Drink.” I drank. The liquor burned my throat as it went down. I glanced up, groggy.

  “Another,” he said, forcing the glass to my mouth.

  “I’ll get drunk.”

  “God knows you could use a little loosening up.” He drained the rest and shook his head to clear it. Then he left my side, rummaged in the linen closet, and returned. His weight sank onto the end cushion. He was never one for expressing himself, but his silence spoke volumes. I peeked at him. He was leaning back and pressing a towel to his forehead. It slipped my mind that I had ever been angry with him. He did that to women, brought out our maternal instincts, though ultimately his attractiveness had more to do with his brawny muscles, spring-formed chest, and Bambi eyes.

  “You’re not going to pass out again, are you?”

  “I didn’t lose consciousness.”

  “Like hell.” I reached over and peeled back the towel. The bleeding had largely stopped, leaving behind a small, jagged cut no more than a half-inch in length. A nasty lump was forming. “You’ll live.”

  He hugged me against him one-armed. My body fit into all the right crevices, hand to glove as it were, one of the things I missed about not having him around. “What spooked you?” he asked.

  “Wasn’t spooked.”

  His skeptical eyes slid sideways.

  “Someone tried to run me down.”

  “Plate number?”

  “Too dark. White coupe. Plymouth Fury. Looked like it, anyway.” I hiccupped. “Had those thingamajigs on the back.”

  “Fins?” he said, smiling.

  “If you were a real man, you’d shoot whoever was following me.”

  He tamped his head wound once more and tossed the towel aside. “Tell me who to shoot, kiddo, I’ll shoot him. Just the kind of guy I am.”

  “Wasn’t a him. A her. Marilyn Monroe.”

  “You definitely need to get plastered. Or laid.” Moaning, he leaned forward and lowered his head into his hands. “Preferably both.”

  We sat wordlessly, both licking our wounds. “What was so important, you had to sneak up on me like that?”

  “I didn’t sneak up on you.”

  “You broke into my building.”

  “I didn’t break in.” He dug into his pocket and produced a key.

  I grew hot. The key represented a time in my life I didn’t want to remember, except of course for the comforting hugs. When I snatched it away from him, he let out an amused snort. “I could have you arrested.”

  “Wouldn’t stick.”

  “I could yell rape right this minute.”

  “Be my guest.”

  “You look like hell.”

  He turned his head. “Don’t look much better yourself.”

  I went into the kitchen, taking the towel with me. By the time I returned, he’d stretched himself out on the sofa and propped his head against the bolster. I sat on the floor beside him and pressed the icepack to his head. He winced until the cold numbed the pain. Eventually he let out an exhausted sigh and folded his arms. He didn’t say anything for a long time. When he did, he talked like a cop. “Were you first on the scene? Or was Starr?”

  This morning seemed like an eternity ago. “Guess you’d call it a tie.”

  “Damian tipped you off?”

  “Privileged information.”

  His mouth curved into a grin. “Somehow, I don’t think Damian tipped off Starr, too.”

  “If you know all the answers to your own questions, wise ass, why ask me?”

  The grin returned. Color was returning to his face. Except for fleeting twinges of discomfort, he was breathing evenly, his chest rising and falling in a steady cadence.

  “Is Starr a suspect?” I asked.

  “Kiddo, everybody’s a suspect.”

  I lifted the icepack away and studied the bump. Purplish bruising surrounded the swelling. “You could have a concussion.”

  He turned onto his side and raised knees into his chest. “Nothing a good night’s sleep won’t cure.”

  “Who is he, anyway?” I asked. “Starr?”

  He opened one eye. “Don’t you know?”

  “I know he’s a private dick. I know he used to be cop. I don’t know who he works for.”

  He opened the other eye. “Would you do me a favor? Would you back off the story?”

  “Do you know him?”

  He sighed with a shudder. “Never set eyes on him before.”

  “The mayor’s involved, isn’t he?”

  His cheek twitched but not with pain.

  “The sting’s tomorrow night, right?”

  He rolled his eyes.

  “You should see a doctor.” I waved a hand in front of his eyes. “How many fingers?”

  He caught my hand and laced his fingers through mine. “I don’t want you to get hurt.”

  “I’m a big girl.”

  “I don’t mean hurt that way.”

  Silence hung between us. “Is it that dangerous?”

  “How the hell should I know?” He was being flippant, but I heard underlying notes of concern and frustration.

  “Everybody wants me to back off. You. Starr. Even my publisher.”

  “You never could take a hint.”

  “What’ve you heard?” I said. “More to the point, what has the mayor told you?”

  He grunted.

  “But you can read between the lines.”

  He snorted. Pennyroyal wasn’t a particularly introspective man. He saw things in black and white. Most cops did. It went with the job, the uniforms, and the paint job of their squad cars. They were forced to come down on the side of good or evil. Though I could appreciate the dynamics, I didn’t understand a man colorblind to shades of gray. “Byrnes and Mayor Moore go back,” he finally said. “They have a history.”

  “He’s afraid uncomfortable facts will come out, is that it?”

  His silence was frustrating.

  “Was Starr following Byrnes or someone else?”

  More silence.

  “Maybe the murderer himself?”

  He didn’t twitch a muscle.

  “Or maybe, just maybe,
Starr’s the hit man.”

  His eye ticced.

  “Hired by the mayor or someone close to the mayor.”

  The grunt resurfaced.

  “Maybe Arezzo.”

  He groaned into a sitting position and focused on the whiskey bottle. Letting his eyes drift away from temptation, he set them on me, a different kind of temptation. “I don’t think I can stand on my own.” His eyes twinkled with naughtiness.

  It was a lame excuse, but I braced an arm around his waist and helped him to his feet. He wrapped me into a comfy clinch, our limbs intertwined. I could feel the shoulder holster strapped on his left side. It was part of Pennyroyal, like his dark hair and darker eyes. “That crap you were feeding Tom Stacy about Byrnes and a secret dossier,” I said. “That was just to mislead him.”

  The snort returned.

  “There’s no sting operation. Tonight or any other night.”

  “No more shop talk, okay?” He gripped my arms and lowered his mouth onto mine. His lips were old friends. His voice went, “Mmm.”

  “Mmmmm,” I answered. It was a stupid idea, this clinching, kissing, caressing thing, rediscovering each other’s buttons, exploring each other’s tipping points. We parted ways months ago, not that we had ever been an item, more like strangers passing in the night. He was in a rocky marriage. I was involved with a guy who wanted to marry me. Our affair was an interlude that ended badly for both of us. His wife left him. I called off my engagement. Even now, when we were both technically available, it would never work out. We were too much alike. Both ambitious, both hungry for recognition, both looking for comfort in all the wrong places. He still had a thing for his wife. I was married to independence. Yet, against my better judgment, I still wanted to be with him. I wanted to dance in the dark. I wanted to wake up in the morning lying next to him with his arms around me. Love can be a tricky proposition.

  He was thinking along the same lines. “Should we do it?”