Dead Man Walking
Quinn Buckland
Dead Man Walking
© Quinn Buckland August 2021
All Rights Reserved
Cover by: Cheryl Bezuidenhout
ISBN: 978-1-9993961-4-5
All characters in this novel are fictitious; any relation to any person living or dead is purely coincidental
For my friend Danita McInenly
Thank you for everything, including collaborating with me on book ideas, helping me develop more lore within The Writerverse, reading my books, and ultimately just being a fan.
Your support has helped keep me inspired to continue writing
Also By Quinn Buckland
The Engine What Runs the World
Fallen Gods
The 1099th
Supernatural Pizza
Chapter 1
The Case
The rain tapping against the window pulls my attention to the weather. Having only just closed the door, I walk to the window and peer outside, taking note of the dying light of dusk behind a series of dark blue clouds. I shiver as I think about the ice accumulating on the roads and sidewalks.
I watch as my client of ten minutes prior walks out into the downpour. He runs to his car across the street, a fish-silver-blue Plymouth 30U. I only know the model and colour because my client couldn’t have a conversation without bringing it up at least once. Despite the current economic Depression, he has managed to do quite well for himself, and I am the sort of man to take advantage of such wealth.
I watch the roadster race away with all the troubles its owner carries on his shoulders. He is a bright man and needed a background check on his wife-to-be. I’d like to say it was difficult to inform him that she is nothing more than a grifter with a partner shacked up in a hotel in the next town. But the man’s an Abercrombie, and it feels keen to kibosh his wedding plans. It feels real keen, in fact.
Turning, I sigh deeply and walk to my office door. On the other side, Genevieve, my receptionist, sits typing away. She turns as soon as the door opens, her dark curls dancing around her shoulder.
“Mister Baxter?” she asks.
“How are things coming with the final write-up?” I ask.
“Almost done,” she replies in a low voice. She isn’t the sort of woman who appreciates having her work interrupted, and I adore her for it. “I just have to do some double-checking and fix the changes.”
“Excellent. Head on home,” I tell her. “You can finish in the morning.”
“Sir?”
“It’s late. Head home to Arnold. He’ll be happy to see you home early.”
She stares at me, unsure of my motive in sending her home. Shaking her head, she says, “I’m sorry, sir. I would much rather get this done before going home. I’m sure you understand.”
I crack a smile and look toward the front door of my office, where black paint on the frosted glass window reads, “Detective Thomas Baxter Private Detective.”
I look down at Genevieve and nod. “I understand. I’ll be in my office for a while. Be sure to lock up when you leave.”
Genevieve’s eyes study me as my half-hearted grin gives away my entire night. I have a date with the bottle, and I am not about to cancel. Genevieve doesn’t respond; instead, she turns to get back to work. I can tell she disapproves of my activities. But with a husband at home and a job she takes seriously, there is not enough time in her day to ensure I live a healthy or positive lifestyle.
I close the door as I enter my office and walk to my desk. I keep a half-filled bottle of deep brown whiskey in the bottom drawer, the quality not far from rotgut. On top of the bottle sits a single tumbler. I flip the glass upright and fill it a quarter of the way. Sending it to the back of my throat, I feel the burn of the alcohol and taste the harsh oaky flavour. I smile as I lean back in my swivel chair.
I gaze out at the city skyline. Lighting a cigarette, I marvel at the lights in the distance. Red City is an apple with a history more colourful than most, with a size comparable to the Big Apple itself. I remember back in the day when it had been known as Gaetzholm. I’d only been a boy at that time. They’d changed the city’s name to Red Deer just before The Great War and then to Red City in the 1920s. If there is a name better suited for my home, I’ve yet to think of it.
After an hour, I hear Genevieve get up from her desk, gather her things and leave. Groaning, I get up from my chair and walk to the door. I trust Genevieve to make sure the door is locked before she goes, but it’s good to be safe. The Depression has everyone in an uproar, and nowhere is safe anymore. All my possessions in the office are insured, but it never pays to be a twit and leave the door unlocked.
I jiggle the doorknob and heave a sigh of relief. Walking back to my swivel chair, I grab my trilby from the rack. I pour another inch of hooch and drink it in one loud gulp. It’ll be another week before someone will need me for a job, maybe two if my luck goes sour.
I hold out hope the Ares Corporation will call on me for an investigation. They often ask me to gather background information on a potential client or applicant. They pay well, and since they’re the company that issues detective’s licences, it’s wise to always say yes when they offer jobs even if they are, at times, demeaning.
The hooch takes effect after the third glass. Drawing my eyes closed, I place my trilby over my eyes and listen to the rain tapping as sleep comes.
***
I awaken to the sound of my office door slamming. I remove the trilby from my face and look over to see Genevieve, her mouth curled into a disgusted frown.
I move my feet from the top of my desk and sit upright, my back aching with every move. To make matters worse, my head aches despite the small amount of hooch I consumed.
“Mornin’, Genevieve,” I say in the brightest tone my headache will allow.
“Good, you’re up,” she says. “You can now confirm I’m here on time.”
“What time is it?”
“You have a wristwatch. Look yourself.”
“Just tell me,” I say, unwilling to open my eyes more than necessary.
“It’s seven-thirty. Time to wake up and eat something.”
I put my hat on the table and open my eyes a little more. Scratching my two-day stubble, I hear my gut rumble.
“I think you’re right, dollface. I’m going to head down and grab a bite.”
Genevieve doesn’t turn as I pass her and walk to the front door. I grip the knob and turn to face her. “Thank you for waking me.”
“You need to get a wife. I’m not going to be able to do this forever.” Her tone isn’t severe, but there’s a firmness that tells me she isn’t joking either.
“You’re a doll. I’ll be back in an hour.”
I open the door, and in front of me is a woman half a head shorter than me, her hand out to grab the doorknob. She’s a real dish. Her blonde hair falls in elegant waves down to her sharp jawline. Her green eyes match the colour of her dress, the high waist and square shoulders the pinnacle of modern fashion. In her hands is a snow-soaked umbrella.
“Are you Detective Thomas Baxter?” she asks, her bottom lip trembling.
I look into her eyes. “I am. Would you like to come in?”
She nods, and I stand aside, forgetting all about my empty stomach and unshaven face. Genevieve gives me a worried glance; I take her silent warning under consideration and bring the woman into my office, Genevieve following.
I offer the woman a seat as my receptionist takes the chair at the small desk in the corner. I take my seat, pull out a small notepad and pencil and slide them over to her.
“Before we begin,” I say, “please write down your personal information. Name, telephone number and address.”
&nb
sp; “What’s this for?”
“In case I need to contact you.”
She seems to accept my reasoning and begins to write on the pad, sliding it back to me once finished. I take the pad and look up at her, waiting.
“When you’re ready,” I say.
“Oh, sorry,” she says. “My name is Ruth Sutton. I require some help.”
“Okey,” I say. “What seems to be the issue?”
Missus Sutton hangs her head, a small tear falling. “My husband has gone missing, and I need help finding him.”
“You speak with the police about it?”
She shakes her head. “If I thought he was dead, I would. But I have a feeling he’s still alive.”
“You just don’t know where.”
Missus Sutton nods, her eyes fluttering. I can see tears welling and ready to fall at a moment’s notice. “I need to know if he’s all right. If something happened to him.” She begins to sob. “I . . . I don’t know just what I’d do.”
“What’s his name?”
“Howard Sutton.”
“Describe him for me,” I say, not taking any time for sensitivity. Genevieve would for sure give me hell for not being nicer to the woman, but she has a job for me and I don’t have the patience for dames and their tears. “Use as much description as you can, no matter how small the detail. You never know what could tip me off.”
Missus Sutton nods, sucking back her lip. “He’s got brown hair, medium build with a bit of muscle, about as tall as you, brown eyes.”
“Any distinguishing features?” I ask.
“Distinguishing?”
“Moles, scars, anything I can use to narrow down my search. Right now, he looks like any joe on the street. In fact, if you have a photograph, that would be better.”
Missus Sutton narrows her eyes as I watch her think. Descriptions are difficult for most people beyond the usual information. The small features people notice at first soon become just a part of a person’s face, forgettable to those who love them but distinguishing to anyone else.
“His nose is flat,” Missus Sutton finally says. “He got into a fight when he was young and got the flat end of a spade to the face. Luckily, he managed to keep his teeth.”
“I’d say,” I reply as I write out the information. “Anything else?”
She shakes her head. “I’m sorry; I’m not sure what else to say. I’d know him to see him, but he is an average-looking man.”
“That’s quite all right. A good number of people have been excluded from the search already.” I look over to Genevieve to make sure she’s keeping up with the transcript. She looks up and gives me a silent nod. “What does he do? Does he work?”
I know the answer to the second question. Missus Sutton dresses in a way only someone whose spouse is employed can afford. But I want to know how easily she might give up his place of work.
Missus Sutton nods. “He works for Motion Motors as a factory hand. Things have been slow, and money has been tight, but he does work. Why does his job matter?”
“Two reasons,” I say. “First, I can ask around at his job to determine if Howard’s been acting strangely there, or maybe get some direction on where he could have gone. Details matter.”
“And the second reason?”
“I need to be sure I’m going to get paid for my time and resources. People without jobs tend to take a lot longer to pay than I’d like, if they pay at all.”
Missus Sutton frowns. “Do you think I wouldn’t pay?”
“I don’t make assumptions,” I reply. “I base my opinions on what I see and how the client and target react. For example, I know you’re not telling me everything.”
“Are you calling me a liar?” Her eyes go wild, and her mouth curls into a dangerous snarl.
I smile, trying to diffuse my words. I should know better, but sometimes trying to be clever can backfire.
“Not at all; I’m just saying there’s more you’re not telling me. I can see you’re worried about your husband.” I stop to allow Genevieve to catch up. “But your jaw is forward, there are lines between your eyebrows which are low and together, and your eyes are wide and focused. You’re visibly angry, and that leads me to believe you have suspicions you do not want to talk about.”
Missus Sutton’s eyes widen in surprise, and her jaw comes loose. After a moment, she adjusts in the chair and regains her poise. “You’re right,” she says in a steady voice. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
I shake my head and say, “It doesn’t matter. If what you think is true, I’ll figure it out sooner or later.”
It’s clear Missus Sutton disapproves of my words. I don’t care. She glares at me as I try to think of what to say next. I could ask a hundred questions, but I feel she wouldn’t be willing to answer most of them.
“Does Howard have any enemies?” I ask.
“Enemies?”
“A person who doesn’t like him, maybe enough to make him disappear.”
She shakes her head. “Not to my knowledge. I can’t say he was the best man in the neighbourhood, but he wasn’t all wet.”
“No problems in any clip joints?”
“No reason for him to be in any place like them.”
I smirk and raise my eyes to her. “I hear that line a lot.” Missus Sutton glares again, and I change my tune. “I’m not saying that’s the case; just don’t be surprised if he turns out to be a crumb after all.”
“I understand what you’re saying,” she replies. “I just don’t think I can prepare myself for anything you can say to me about Howard. I’m trying, but anything short of ‘he’s been out of town on work and didn’t tell me’ would destroy me.”
“In that case, you might want to prepare yourself for bad news.” I feel Genevieve throw daggers at me with her eyes. I don’t have to look to feel her disapproval. “Is there anywhere you think I should start looking?”
“I suppose maybe the neighbours?” Missus Sutton says quietly. “His work? But if you think he may have wandered into a clip joint, maybe start there?”
I can’t tell by her face if she has admitted to something she can’t vocalize or if my words have taken purchase and rooted in her mind. Either way, there are only a couple clip joints I know where people frequent on the regular. It’s likely he’s wandered into a speakeasy. However, with prohibition not being an issue in Red City, or in Canada anymore for that matter, I doubt he’d go through the trouble to track one down.
“Nowhere else comes to mind?”
“I’m sorry, no. But if I think of anything, I’ll call.”
“Yes, please do, Missus Sutton.” I gaze back to Genevieve, who nods back at me. “Do you own a car?”
Missus Sutton shakes her head. “No, Howard couldn’t afford one. Does that matter?”
“I asked, didn’t I?” I say. “Of course, it’s for a reason. If he’d had access to a car every day, he could be anywhere in the city. But if he’s on foot, that narrows down where he can go.”
“I understand,” Missus Sutton says, starting to get annoyed by the questions.
“Before I begin, we need to talk about money.”
“Of course.”
“I charge twenty dollars a day plus expenses. With a job like this, I would require the first two days upfront. You should also know that missing persons cases can sometimes prove unsolvable, and I may not be able to find your husband. In that event, any costs past the retainer will be halved, and you will not be charged expenses.”
“Expenses?”
“Equipment, bribes, anything I need to get the job done. Odds are I won’t require much, but I need to be sure you understand what’s at stake.”
“I understand,” Missus Sutton says, reaching into her purse and pulling out four grey ten-dollar bills. She places them on my desk, and I casually grab them and place them in my pocket. I stand and walk around the desk. I hold out my hand to Missus Sutton; she takes it, and I help her to her feet. Now that I’ve put the pressure on her,
I need to soften and let her know her confidence is in good hands.
“Thank you so much for agreeing to do this, Mister Baxter.”
“Don’t thank me yet,” I say, leading her through the lobby and to the front door. “Save it for when I find your husband.”
She looks up at me with her big green eyes. All the tears are spent, and all that is left is her undeniable rage. “I’ll call if I think of anything else.”
She turns, leaves, and I close the door softly after her. I sigh and walk back to my office. Genevieve is still at the typewriter, finishing her notes for the transcript. “You’re a real egg, you know that?” she says, not looking up from her work.
“If she’s not going to give me all the information, I’m going to get rough. I don’t have time to be played as a sap. I have a job to do.”
“You could still be nicer.”
I choose not to respond. She’s right, but nonetheless there is a job to be done. I sit down at my desk and mull over the notes I’ve taken.
“What’s your take?” I ask.
Pulling the sheet of paper from the typewriter, she walks toward me.
“I’m not really sure. I believe her husband is missing and that she’s genuinely worried. But I think you’re right that something is up, something she’s not telling us.”
“Like he’s dizzy with a dame, just not the right one?”
“Exactly.”
“Yeah, I had the same thought. I think I’m going to check out his work first, and then the neighbourhood. Those would be the most likely places for him to find a tomato worth a tryst.”
“That does seem likely, yes,” Genevieve says, placing the papers on my desk. “You still going to check out the clip joints in town?”
“A few of them,” I say. “Probably just the popular ones. The speakeasies and lesser clubs won’t likely admit someone that can’t be vouched for. I’ll see what’s close to his work or on his way home.”
Genevieve nods. “You’re probably right about that. If you can’t find him, maybe look into some of those other places too?”
Dead Man Walking Page 1
