I’d be lying if I said I didn’t admire the man for sticking to his guns. I’d already decided I had no intention of revealing his secrets to his new woman. He’s a rotten egg, but he doesn’t deserve to lose his other woman when she actually makes him happy. Missus Sutton would find another man, and she can also be happy. Everyone else has to go about their lives in cases of adultery; most never get closure for most incidents, plus it isn’t really my business past this point anyway.
Missus Sutton nods and stands. “I’ll go. Do I pay Genevieve before I go?”
I nod. “She deals with the money; I do the leg work.”
I take a step toward the door and it swings open. Genevieve stands in the doorway with a dishevelled Howard Sutton standing behind her. I stare at the man and grin.
“Mister Sutton, how nice to see you. Do come in.”
Howard Sutton enters my office, and I lead him to the couch.
“I prefer to stand if that’s all right,” he says. “I don’t plan to stay long.”
He eyes his wife, and the tension in the room thickens harder than a slug burger. “Howard,” Missus Sutton says softly.
“You hired a detective not just to track me down,” Howard says, his face reddening. “Hell, that I can understand, but you hire him to bring me to you? For what? Just so you can get the last word?”
“I wanted to know where you went. I didn’t know if you were dead, or with another woman, or if you’d joined the military out of nowhere.”
“I’m sure you know the truth by now.”
“I do.”
I pour myself another drink; this time, I drink it slowly, savouring the flavour while the couple argues.
“Why did you leave?” Missus Sutton asks, tears falling from her eyes and mucus from her nose. “You were suddenly gone, and I didn’t know why.”
“I was hoping you’d claim abandonment and get a divorce. You could get on with your life and find a new man, one you’d be happy with.”
“Like you’re happy with your new woman?”
The pain in Mister Sutton’s eyes radiated to me and then to his wife. “I didn’t plan for this to happen. She was supposed to be a one-time fling. But that’s not what happened.”
Ruth Sutton sits and hangs her head. “You can go now,” she says under her breath, only audible enough to barely make out.
Howard Sutton sighs through his nose and hangs his head. He pauses for a second before shaking his head. He gives a look of disgust and walks toward the door.
“Thank you, Mister Baxter,” Missus Sutton says. “I’ll go out to the lobby and pay Genevieve.” I move to follow her. “If it’s all right, I’d rather be left alone. I’ll do as you ask and wait ten minutes before leaving.”
She hasn’t given me a reason not to trust her yet, so I nod and take my seat as she walks through the door to the lobby, closing it behind her. I clear my throat and take another sip of hooch.
“Another job well done,” I say sarcastically.
Chapter 4
The Singer
Missus Sutton pays better than expected for bringing her husband to my office. Genevieve spits the cash into its allotted places: sixty percent to the business, thirty percent to me as the detective, and the rest to Genevieve as my employee. It’s a good system, a fair system; it keeps both of us happy – as well as the taxman, the landlord, and the government.
I take my money and walk to my office, closing the door behind me. I approach my desk and shift it to the side, revealing the loose board I’d pried up years before. I grab the large envelope hidden within, put thirty dollars in it and place the envelope and the loose board back where they belong.
Genevieve is the only person who knows where my money is hidden, and she wouldn’t take a cent of it. It’s one of the many things I love about that woman — her integrity. While she doesn’t make a lot of money from each case, she manages to carve out a good life. Plus, being married, she already has a breadwinner. Her wage helps them make a better life.
I’ve had the pleasure of meeting Arthur a couple times. He’s a good man who genuinely cares for his wife. That said, he and I do not see eye to eye. He’s the sort of man who would have gotten along well with Ruth Sutton; keeping up appearances matters to Arthur. He dresses doggy and keeps his hair combed back without the use of a hat or gel. He’s strait-laced and, as far as I’m concerned, has a stick so far up his ass he couldn’t sit if he wanted to. Not that my opinion of Arthur matters. Genevieve loves him, and that’s all there is to it.
I take a seat at my desk and look over the meagre earnings. I’d been paid more than expected, but my payday melancholy comes from the desire to drink it all away. It’s why I keep a bundle under my desk; it keeps me from spending it all at once.
I light a cigarette and watch as the plume of smoke rises to the ceiling. I let out a deep breath, and a cloud of smoke leaves my lungs. I let myself sink into my chair as I daydream about having some time to relax. Every time I plan a vacation, I wind up drunk in my office instead. This time, I would get drunk after leaving the office.
After a few minutes pass, I snuff out the dying cigarette and leave my office. Genevieve taps at her typewriter, stopping only to give me a look.
“Going somewhere, Mister Baxter?”
“I’m taking the rest of the night off,” I say. “You should too. It’s getting late.”
Genevieve looks down at her paper and shrugs. “All right, just this once.”
She stands and walks to the coat rack by the front door, dresses and walks out the door. I follow and lock the door behind me.
“Stay home tomorrow,” I tell her. “Take a day with your husband.”
“Are you coming in tomorrow?” she asks.
“Not to work; I need to write my letter to Brandon.”
Genevieve’s gaze is one of her deepest sympathies. “Give him my love, would you?”
“Of course,” I reply, giving her my friendliest smile.
Genevieve returns my smile and walks down the narrow corridor. I lock the door and walk past the elevator, opting to take the stairs as Genevieve gets on. I often hear of elevators falling or getting stuck in the chute. I know it’s not likely, but I’m not about to let that happen to me.
The lobby is clear of people as I exit my building. I wonder where the doorman is before shaking my head and walking out the door. The night air is cool and still without a flake of snow on the ground or in the air. The streets are sparse with people and even more with automobiles. I place my hands in the pockets of my overcoat and walk down the street.
My destination is well known in Red City, a clip joint known as Renault’s Gin Joint. It’s a hopping place at night, especially for the unwed and those wanting a good time. I always liked Renault’s; if you have the dough, you’re welcome inside. Not to mention his usual canary is a looker.
The only downside to Renault’s Gin Joint is the proprietor, Moses Renault. He’s a real greaseball with an evil look to him. Nobody cares for Moses, but he runs one hell of a clip joint and doesn’t usually go out onto the floor. And despite his looks, he is an honest man.
I approach the large blue and red building; swing music comes through the walls and is audible before I ever get to the door. Outside, a large man stands with his arms crossed. Rocco’s a bit of a halfwit, but he’s large and knows how to use his mitts better than anyone I know. The only man I know who could stand up to Rocco’s fists is his twin brother Roscoe.
“Detective Baxter,” Rocco says in a baritone voice. “Nice night.”
“It is,” I say. “Busy in there?”
“Not bad. You coming in?” He eyes me suspiciously as I nod. “You packing heat?”
I chuckle. “Rocco, there’s no way I’d ever try and bring a heater here. You should know that by now.”
“Can’t be too careful. People are disappearing these days, and most aren’t wanting to go anywhere without a piece.”
“It’s just The Depression,” I say. “I imagine pe
ople are leaving Red City in hopes of better skies.” Skies they’d most certainly never find.
Rocco cocks his twit head to the side, and I open my overcoat, showing the brute I’m not carrying; I’m not even wearing my holster. Once Rocco is content, he turns and opens the large blue door. I slip a dollar to the large man in thanks and walk over the threshold and down a long crimson hallway lit with small bulbs on thin metal sconces and down a small flight of stairs. The real clip joint is behind a dark blue door with a polished handle. It’s been said that Renault’s Gin Joint had at one point been a speakeasy. Not that Red City ever needed speakeasies.
I grip the cool metal and pull the door open. I’m greeted by the sound of the big band on the stage and the voice of the most beautiful canary I’d ever known, Dorothy Ibot. I look at the stage and sure enough, Dorothy’s there with the rest of her band: David Harris with his gobble-pipe, Harvey Good on the dog house, Stephen Hill on the piano, and Bill Weaver the skin-tickler. The rest of the band is a mixture of random locals and any passing musicians who needed more than tin.
I’d gotten to know the band well enough when I did a job for them a while back. I can’t say they like me, but they don’t say boo, and neither do I whenever I come to visit Dorothy. That dame is sweet on me, and I’d be lying if I said I felt any different. Nothing much has come from our attraction as of yet, and she’s all the better for it.
I take a seat at a single table I watch the canary sing her heart out. I don’t listen to the words. Instead, I pay attention to the emotion she puts behind every syllable. I’m damn near moved to tears by the time she finishes her first song.
“Drink, sir?” a voice asks from my right.
I look over to see Paul, the young waiter Moses employed only a couple months ago. He’s in a white jacket with a towel draped over his arm and a serving tray under his armpit. A notebook and pencil sit in his fingers at the ready.
“Good to see you, Paul,” I say. “You sure this job’s not keeping you behind the grind?”
The kid couldn’t have been old enough to be out of school yet. I enjoyed poking fun when possible, especially since he’s always been such a good sport about it.
“I’m sure,” Paul replies, grinning. “But, if you don’t order a drink, I’ll get behind, and I’ll tell my professors it’s all your fault.”
“Giggle juice,” I say. “Bring the bottle.”
“Just finish a case?”
I nod. “Best paying case I’ve had outside an Ares Corporation job in quite some time. Got enough for a bottle and a pack of cigarettes, maybe more if the night goes good. If you see Alice, send her down my way, would you?”
“I will,” Paul replies before going on his way.
I don’t realize another song has ended until I hear people clap and whistle. “Thank you, everyone,” Dorothy says into the microphone. Her eyes move over to my table, and a smile crosses her red lips. “This is a song for a special someone.” I can see Steven and Bill exchange looks and slowly peer up at me as they prepare for the song.
The band plays a slow melody with soft brass and brushes for the drum skins. Dorothy’s voice comes through her lips like an angel. It’s a song she wrote herself, one of the few she sang on the regular. At least she played it every time I came into Renault’s Gin Joint. The song detailed their problem and my aid in helping them solve the murder of their licorice stick player, as well as Dorothy’s developing feelings for the detective. It’s the song they always play before taking a break.
Paul returned with my bottle of giggle juice and a glass. “Ice?”
I shake my head. “You should know how I take my hooch by now.”
Paul shrugs. “Got to ask,” he says before turning and returning to his job.
I pour myself a half glass and take a sip. The whiskey is much better than what I have back at the office, but it’s a celebration of finishing a case and I deserve something nice for my effort. I lick my lips, turn my head back to the band and enjoy the music.
Out on the dance floor, there are maybe a dozen with partners, all enjoying the music. I never liked dancing; being something of a dead hoofer kept me from enjoying the act. Probably one more reason why I don’t yet have a wife.
The song ends. Dorothy says her thank-yous and exits the stage. She never comes directly to me, but always to the back to powder her nose then the bar to order a drink. Once she has her beverage, she does her rounds, speaking with whoever wants to talk to her in an attempt at politeness before making her way to me, where she spends the rest of the break.
She does all I predict before sitting across the table from me. She flashes her emerald eyes and puckers her mouth in a seductive pout. “It’s good to see you, Thomas.”
I stand and take her hand to plant a soft kiss on her knuckle. “It’s been too long, doll.”
She doesn’t hesitate to finish her drink and pour another from my bottle. “What brings you all the way out here? Figured you’d become more comfortable drinking in your office these days.”
I shrug. “What can I say? I got a good payday.”
She gives me a coy smile before taking a sip of the whiskey. “So it’s not because you miss me?”
I spot the band near the stage; they’re not ready to go back on. I slide my chair closer to Dorothy and take in her beauty as I think of something to say.
“Darlin’, not a day goes by that I don’t miss you.”
“Then why do you wait so long before coming by? It’s been two months since you came in last.”
I take a sip of hooch and nod timidly. “Do we have to talk about this now?”
Her eyes burn with fury; my words are doing nothing but escalating her anger. “When else would we speak? You’re never here, Thomas.”
“I don’t want to talk about this here. Come to my place after you’re done work, and we can talk about this.”
“No.”
“No?”
“We’re going to talk now, and you’re going to tell me what’s going on with you.”
I’m stunned, unsure of how to react to her sudden demands. We’d pitched woo a time or two more than either of us would admit, but we’ve never gone through anything quite like this.
“You really want to know?” I ask.
She nods, her arms crossed and her eyes staring directly into my soul. I don’t think I could lie to her if I wanted to.
“I don’t know exactly how to put it into words exactly, but I’ll try.” Her fingers begin to tap on her bicep; my heart pounds in my throat in response. “It’s like I’m dizzy for a dame, but she’s the sort who shouldn’t be caught dead with the likes of me.”
Dorothy’s eyes widen, and her mouth softens. “What you’re saying is . . .”
“A half portion shamus like me has no right being with a high-class dame like you. There’s no future there.” She looks like she wants to protest, so I continue. “Dollface, I’m all wet, and half the time I’m beat.”
Dorothy’s composed, her every action poised and under control. Not even one tear falls from her eye as she stares at me. Slowly, she lets out a deep sigh and, without saying a word, takes my hand.
I finally have had enough. “Where is all of this coming from?” I ask. “You’ve never asked for commitment before. You want to be my twist, I’m good with it; but you just have to come out and say it. None of this messing around.”
I may have spoken a bit more harshly than I should have. Dorothy’s head cocks back, her bottom lip quivers and a tear runs down her cheek. I’ve gone and done it; I hurt her.
“I’m sorry,” I say, unsure if it’ll be enough.
She takes a good drink from her whiskey and shakes her head. “No, you’re right. Trying to play mind games isn’t going to do anything; I just have to say it.” She pauses for a moment. I’m not sure if it’s for dramatic tension or if she needs to collect her thoughts. Knowing her, it could be either. “I want more than what we’ve had. I want to be your doll.”
I take her hand
and kiss it before staring into her green eyes. “If that’s what you want, then that’s what you’ll have. But you should get back to the stage, doll. Your band’s waiting for you.”
She looks over my shoulder to see the band staring at her. She nods, kisses me on the cheek and says, “I’ll be back after my set. We can talk later.”
She runs to the stage, and David whispers something to her before taking his position. I turn back to my bottle of hooch and fill my glass.
***
If Dorothy regards neighbours' opinions with any weight, she would never spend the night at my place. Ours isn’t a regular relationship under any circumstance, a fact that suits me just fine. The thought of the typical romance never interested me any.
My cave isn’t anything special: a bedroom, a living area, kitchen and bathroom, all adjacent to my office. I can’t afford to have a home separate from my office.
I step from my bed and look down at the naked beauty under the covers. I can’t see her face; instead, I marvel at the mess of red hair all over her pillow and shrouding her entire head. Dorothy had come to my place shortly after two in the morning.
I dress and walk out to my office. I’ve always enjoyed the look of my workspace in the low light of the morning. I can’t explain what it is, but it always makes me happy to see it.
I turn on a light and walk to my typewriter. I put a sheet of paper through the spool and begin to type:
Brandon,
It’s been a month and a half since I received your last letter, and I apologize for the delay. Things have been busy around the office, but oddly there hasn’t been much to write about. It’s really just been the same hum-drum business day in, day out.
But I don’t like going too long without writing to you. Without mother and father, we’re all the family we have left, so I sincerely apologize for the delay. I promise to write back quicker next time I get a letter from you.
I’m sorry to hear the nightmares have returned. I can’t imagine what you experienced in The Great War, and it’s not fair for you to have to deal with it. I’m sure they’ll go away soon as they have before, but nonetheless. . .
Dead Man Walking Page 4
