Jack grabbed the leather bag Eddy had been so interested in. There was no time to check, but gut instinct told him it contained the money from the hiest. He searched through Eddy’s jacket. Inside was his driver’s license. It would do. Proof of a job well done.
The gunshots and hysterics had woken people up. It would not be long before they had company. The black-and-whites would attend and that wasn’t exactly on the cards. He unlocked the bathroom door and a furious female charged at him, claws and teeth scratching madly at his face.
Jack held her off for a moment, but her frenzied attack caught him on the forehead. With no time to deal with a crazy woman, he knocked her out. One blow on her glass chin was all it took.
Jack gathered her on his shoulder like a stone-aged caveman and hurried from the room. He was just in time too. They missed the hotel manager and other frantic staff as they came around the corner from the elevators at a wary pace. Jack, with Kim still over his shoulder, slipped down a badly lit back stairwell and through a back door and into the night. He took the barely conscious Kim off his shoulder as soon as he was a street or two away, so not to draw attention to himself. He supported her the way he would a drunk, which was the excuse he used to the Hindi cab driver who picked them up outside the newspaper vendor’s stall. He bundled her inside, got in beside her, and paid the Hindi a little more than his fare to keep quiet.
Back at Jack’s hotel, he manhandled Kim up the stairs and into his room. He dropped her on the bed and locked the door, then placed the leather bag beside her. His hands shook as he unbuckled the straps. Before opening it, he took a deep breath. There they were, the president and some of his friends, more money than he could earn in a lifetime. A smile crossed his face as he stared at the bundles of bound dollar bills. Thousands of dollars piled up. His mouth watered. He emptied his clothes from his travel bag and filled it with money. He then took several bundles, maybe two or three hundred dollars, and set fire to them in a waste paper bin. He let the money burn for a brief moment, and then put it out. After that, Malone poured himself a drink, courtesy of the hotel’s bar. He let the cogs turn. After a second whiskey, he had it. As a plan, it wasn’t much, but it might be enough. After all, Victor wasn’t the smartest fish in the big blue.
He snuck out of the hotel with a leather bag full of burnt money under one arm, and in the other, the bulk of his fee plus and a self-awarded bonus. He’d finally caught his break.
Kim tried to open her eyes, but everything was blurred, hazy, and her jaw hurt like hell. After a few moments, the room came into focus and she rubbed her chin with her hand. It was tender and her head felt like a tap-dancer had gone to town on it.
She sat up slowly, glancing around the unfamiliar room. Bundles of banknotes littered the bed. She gathered them, holding them to her chest. Whoever the man was, he’d left her enough to start a new life. Tears of joy welled in her eyes. She was free to be her again, no more lies or pretending to love useless men, or swooning over a man who she had a feeling would have turned on her, when they were free. No now she was free, Free to be her.
Days later, back in Central City, a couple of Victor’s henchmen met Jack at the airport. They escorted him back to the club, showing him into a small, poorly lit room, and informing him Victor wouldn’t be long. Something didn’t feel right. He started to wonder if he had made the right choice. But it was too late to change his mind now. He had to see this through to the end, no matter what. Victor entered smoking a large cigar. His slick backed hair gleamed beneath the lights of the drab, overdone office. “Well, my boy! Jack. It’s good to see you.”
Jack took a deep breath. “I have some good news and some bad, Vic. Which do you want first?”
Victor rolled a pair of die on his desk, landing on snake eyes. He studied the dice, and then glanced at Jack. “Well, I think maybe the bad first. Get it out the way.”
Jack nodded. “I found the money but there was a fire. Eddy tried to get smart. I’m sorry, Vic, but it’s lost.” He dropped the bag on the desk and opened it up, letting the badly burnt notes fall out. “I tried to save it…”
“And the good news?”
“I got him and took care of business.”
“He’s dead? You’re sure?”
Jack dropped the driver’s license on the desk next to the burnt money. “Stone-dead.” Before leaving the corpse, he’d wiped some of Eddy’s blood on it for effect.
Victor’s smile returned to his bulldog-like face. His criminal reputation was intact. He might have lost some money, but the thief had been dealt with; no one messed with him or his club. He stood, picked up a handful of the blackened notes and crumbled the paper in his hand. “But how do I know the money’s gone?” His eyes fixed on Jack’s.
Jack kept his calm, meeting his glare. “Cos I swear it, Mr. Renetti.”
The club owner smiled broadly and then let out a laugh. “We’ve been through a lot you and me. You’re right. I trust your word. You wouldn’t be stupid enough to do me wrong, would you?”
Victor sat back in his chair. He stared at the torn bloodstain on Jack’s upper sleeve. “He get you?”
Jack shrugged. “A scratch. He missed. I didn’t.”
Victor laughed again, more relaxed this time. “Yes, my friend, you’re as good as I said, maybe better. You’ve done well.”
Jack thought carefully for a second. “Victor?” he said. “As the money’s lost, you can forget the finder’s fee. You don’t have to pay me.”
Victor stood up and stepped around the table. Opening his arms, he gave Jack a big hug and patted him on the back. “No, no,” Victor said. “A deal is a deal. Job done. Money paid. I gave my word, and Victor Renetti always keeps his word.”
He nodded to one of his bodyguards. The man stepped forward with a sleek black suitcase. “Ten grand, as agreed.” With their business concluded. Jack nodded to Victor, who smiled and left the office. Outside, Jack’s mind raced. He had pulled it off. He was rich and there was no one after him. There and then, he vowed to make a new agency with more P. I's, something big. He walked down the street into the cold, cloudy night. “Something Real,” he said, and then lit a cigarette. He inhaled deeply and disappeared into the fog.
END.
CENTRAL CITY TALES
Part One
The Bickering Triangle Case was finally over; everyone was beat, with only an hour from shutting up shop. Jack Malone was as tired as everyone else. They had closed a marathon case less than an hour before and they could finally relax a little now. The Bickering Triangle Case had been a real David and Goliath gig; a small time shop owner had gotten into bed with a fat cat and couldn’t pay his share. For revenge, the sleazy tycoon orchestrated a faux love triangle playing the shop owner, his best friend, and his pal’s wife against each other. During the end of the case, Jack had gotten into a sticky mess breaking up the puppet show, ending up with him literally hanging by his fingertips off a roof building while a vengeful dame put in a well- tailored boot. But that was all over now, with the dame in question taking a dirt nap. Ever the gentleman, Jack sent Ezra, the agency’s resident Jew and office mascot, over to his old man’s place on 23rd Street to go grab some of Pa Ezra’s famous Babka cake and a few jars of coffee. With Ezra doing the errands, Jack’s old army buddy, now partner, Hammett, was snoozing in his would be den. His monotonous snore travelling around the small office. The office was a small three-room set up in a redbrick complex. A sterling green paint job and a few random wooden pieces of furniture finished the office to Jack’s taste, even if there were a few cliché P.I movie posters scattered amongst the place. A once brass, now faded, metal rail split the agency up. An old cashier desk sat slap bang at the back of the office, where ledgers and filing cabinets loomed over the small divide between the two P. I’s bolt holes.
Jack and the once desirable, now formidable, English rose, Mrs. Nancy Baxter stood at the cluttered cashier’s desk. Jack felt like both her and her leather bound ledger were staring him down. Neither
were pleased with him. He had over done it with the agency expense account again, by an easy two hundred dollars .
“Malone. How in the dickens does a two hundred dollar a night top floor suite at the Madison Grand count as an expense?” he was about to answer but shut up when she gave him the eye, “Wait, do not tell me. ‘She’ whoever she was, had some vital information, and all you were doing was what? Promoting client relations?”
The receptionist’s stiff English upper lip made him feel like he was back in the fourth grade, waiting for the principals red leather paddle that he had come to know so well. He rubbed his backside subtly as he thought back to that pain
“Well, Mrs. B, if you must know, me and Peggy were about to…” Jack was cut off in mid explanation by the sound of the watered down door chime, and the office door opening. The door startled the pair, as it was very rare for clients to come this near to closing. It was a man, and a beastly one at that. He was rotund, sweating from every crease and fold, carrying a double chin almost as if Churchill himself had fathered him. It was late, the dwindling Central City smog-rich sunlight danced through the ancient dusty blinds, which did not help the man’s complexion either, not one bit. It sounds like you’re trying to get across Mrs. B thinks Hammet is attractive.. Jack could see Mrs. B’s well restrained disgust. He knew she’d describe this man as mangy. She preferred dapper men, like Hammet, though he’d never tell her he’s seen the way she ogles him. The round man took a moment. His black, pig-like eyes looked around uneasily, flinching with every move he made. Ham sized hands fumbled with a gold fob watch chain hanging from a torn pocket. There was nothing on his face. It was the kind of blank stare of a man who had recently had a visit from the reaper. At the very least, something disagreeable. From his view of the desk, Jack could see the cold-hearted Nancy was visibly shaken by their rotund visitor. Jack shot her a wink, hoping to steady her, with no such luck. Then, the door rang again.
Minor crook, turned reasonably successful cat burglar, Ruddy Vannetti, didn’t find out what actually was at the bottom of all the trouble, he ran into on the dreaded Stevenson house job until the third day of his murder case, since the events with his ex-partner, Eddy Kovakx, and being shot in the liver. By then the case was nearly closed. Ruddy had learned to cover anything and everything, as best as a crook could anyway. He wasn’t going to be left high and dry ever again. He took the usual precautions when he had to do a little cat burglary to pay the rent on his beat up apartment or settle a debt with yet another loan shark or bookie. Now, though, he needed green to sort himself out, and he needed it yesterday. A friend of Ruddy’s out of Coast City had gotten word to him that Kim, his former lover and fiancé, was out Liberty. She had got herself into a bit of a ‘rusted birdcage deal’. His former lover was trapped in a skin club, at the perverted hands of some fellow named Binky Marks. This job was to be Ruddy’s bankroll to find and spring her. Ruddy always made sure to the best of his ability, that all the usual snares and pitfalls were covered. He dealt with any inconveniences; like making sure the house was empty and getting rid of any four-legged guards. They were the most obvious things to check, nobody wanted an audience when breaking and entering. He’d bring a blade or piece to scare, and only used if it was called for. Finally, yet importantly, a simple theatrical disguise to hopefully confuse prying eyes remembering the more outlandish. The easier it would be for a witness could pick him out in a line up. Ruddy had to admit that his batting average was at best eighty percent. That was, until he took on the Stevenson job. Ruddy took longer to case that job than any other; probably more than he should, after all, this job was for Kim. He now knew the Stevenson’s and their household better than they did themselves. For one thing, Ruddy, through a fair bit of snooping and trash hunting, came to the realization that they were top grade. So all the extra attention and precautions were well worth it.
Ezra, had just gotten back from his deli run. Two large boxes stuffed under both arms as he struggled to opened the door. Both boxes making it hard for him to open the door, so in the end gave it a small kick to open it. Then he noticed it. Mouthing silently to Mrs. B, what everyone else was thinking. Jack just sighed. That boy was an ace at stating the flipping obvious. Placing the box of cakes down, he moved towards their new friend, making sure the brass rail that divided the office was between them. Jack thought he was bright kid all those years back when he stumbled upon him making his name on the Lost Angel Case, and this was another prime example of Ezra using his noodle. He slightly shuffled forward, reaching out to offer him a seat “Are you…?” Ezra started calmly, then shot back as if shocked. The fat man suddenly let go of his watch chain, staggered forward grabbing his left side. His other hand clutching his chest, as he swayed widely, first left, then right. His double chinned face stretched wide into a toothless gaping yawn. His mouth then snapped shut hard and fast, bulbous lips stretched back over his few yellow teeth. His eyes gazing blankly “Son of a__!” he grunted barely, pitching a hard left and fast on the floor. Ezra was stuck to the spot.
Jack hurled himself over the desk like that movie star, Bogart, working his way around Ezra and the brass rail. The commotion had woken Jacks partner, who after shouting more profanities than a sailor on shore leave, strode in with his face as red as a hydrant and stepped over the body. Jack ran out into the office corridor. Two doors away Mary Whitley, a warm welcoming woman of almost forty-nine, was walking back into her office next door. Mary was Hammet’s dame of choice, even if she didn’t know it yet. She ran a typing business with a few leggy well stocked juvies, with whom, if Jack were not trying to re-kindle love with his Peg, would have taken them to town. They were a nice bunch of gams really, he always thought. “Hello, darling. How’s my lover today?” Mary kicked Jack playfully in the shin and shook her head. Jack, who normally loved to verbally spar with the woman, just dove right in. “You got a minute, beautiful? I don’t suppose you saw the fellow who came to our little Central City bolt hole?”
The question peaked her interest. Jack thought it would, she was a gold medal Olympian when it came to water cooler talk and gossip.
“You mean the odd ball? A fat man with the whiff of week old sweat? Yes, he came up with me in the elevator. What, five minutes ago, hun. His clammy hands kept touching a pocket watch, or that is what it looked like from where I was standing. He ummmm… he kept muttering something like “why did she” or “how could she”. Does it help you at all, handsome?”
Jack took out a small notebook from his jacket pocket, noting it all down and then fired another question playfully across her stern, “was he alone, precious?”
“Yes, it was just me and him in the elevator. I got in from the second floor, he must have gotten in from the lobby.”
“Mary, honey, did our man act out, or seem, well, a tad queer?” he listened almost believing he could hear the cog’s in her head turning
“No…well other than what’s normal for this strange city, can’t say he did, really. Why, Jack?”
Thinking this conversation was now nothing more than a dead end, Jack went to turn around. Mary turned with him and lightly grabbed his arm, giving it a quick playful squeeze.
“Wait- wait a minute. Jenna,” Mary questioned.
The P.I made a scribble in his notebook, circling it. Jack went then and asked if she could tell him any more about who this Jenna was. She didn’t know, she just told him that the man mumbled it a lot before he got off on their floor. Pecking her on the neck and giving her a quick bottom squeeze to brighten her day, Jack turned and headed back to the office. He took an extra quick sweep of the lift and adjoining corridors, however, there was nothing to go on. Lighting a Camel up, and taking a long drag, Jack headed back. Upon entering Jack took a moment to let his aching leg rest then, Jack noticed their cold dead friend had been turned over. Catching the look of his partners face, he could tell turning the stiff over wasn’t easy. Not with this weight, and his partners age, anyway. The smell of stale onion and day old socks from his pi
ts made Jacks eye’s water. Even after Ezra cracked a window, the stale smell hung in the air like a fog. After turning him over and emptying his pockets on Jacks desk, everyone in the small office could defiantly tell this person had bought the farm and rolled in manure during the purchase. He was well and truly dead. The only question on Jack’s mind was if someone had helped him get there. “Ezra lad, best call the police, or we’ll never hear the end of it,” The paling office boy nodded to Jack and his silver haired partner, who straightened up. His back pain visible to everyone. “Nothing in the corridors to report, Doug.”
He could see his partner didn’t like the sound of that, not one bit yet, ever the pro, kept it to himself.
“He came up in the elevator with the next Mrs. Hammet. She said he was alone, all the way to our floor. He did, however, mutter something as he got off. Mary said he muttered a name. A woman’s name I’m guessing. Jenna”
“And who’s Jenna?”
Jack shook his head, sending a pinch of ash from his cigarette over the body.
“Quite so. Drink, Jack?”
Nancy Baxter gave Jack’s partner a scolding look that screamed ‘DON’T YOU DARE!’ reprimanding him for his apparent lack of decorum for the situation.
“No thanks, on the wagon. I’ll stick to coffee, but please have at it,” Jack had been on the water wagon since he set up the agency a year or two back, when he decided he wanted his family and life back. He’d been sober ever since; despite being tempted at times. Jacks partner, however, was a different story. Douglas Hammet was once a Texas lawman. A true cowboy, in every sense. If it was a different time, Hammet would have been a dead ringer for an old west sheriff out of Dodge. He still carried a Winchester in his car and a six shooter on his hip, and a Stetson on his old head. He’d been doing the gum shoe dance for well over forty years. Douglas had seen his fair share of stiffs. To him, this was just another.
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