Jack could feel Ezra’s gaping smile on the back of his neck. “Oh and Ezra, you got twenty dollars? Because kid if you don’t, she’ll not be interested. Now scram.”
Jack didn’t know if any of it had sunk in, but he bolted. Jack silently hoped he’d avoid the call girl. No place for them in society. Jack hear a Sunday sermon, echo back at him in his mind.
But Central City doesn’t care.
137 Rosenberg Drive.
West Pine
Coast City
U.S
SEPTEMBER 14. 1948
Dear Mr. Lonely Traveller,
I’m over the moon with your reply, and have butterflies because you answered so fast. After I posted it I almost wished I hadn’t, you know. I just kept thinking I’d opened up and wrote to a total stranger. I can tell you I didn’t sleep a wink the whole night through. Honest, I didn’t.
I kept thinking you couldn’t read my handwriting, and was terrified you would think I was just a silly child.
I feel better now though, thanks to you. As always I have to be honest. So I’ll say yours was the greatest love letter I have ever read, not that the postman brings sacks of letters to me anyway. Yours was the first letter of that kind, as in from a stranger, I have ever had. What I’m trying to say is even letters from my own kin were never as loving and kind as yours. So you must be a great man with a great big heart, and I’m ever so thankful for your friendship. I was overjoyed that you loved my last letter, I sure enjoyed yours. I know you’re a strong man as your life reads just like a story book, rags to riches and beyond a true tale of a strong man, weather that be in business or in your personal life.
I do feel sorry for you, truly, that you lost your wife three years ago. I know what you mean when you say you’re in a ‘void’, loneliness is a horrid thing. I feel sorry for your wife and you for never having children. But like you say, you have felt your Crusoe on this small lonely island. I feel like I know you real well already. We have a feeling in common something to build on, and I know it was a lucky day when I wrote to you, if you get what I mean. I am honestly flattered that a man such as yourself would want a few more pictures of me. I am not bad looking, if I do say so myself. But I didn’t claim to be no movie star or long lost beauty, but the idiot boys I’m surrounded by have only one thought on their empty tin can heads, and that is that I’m sexy. That’s why I long for the friendship of a mature gentleman. Not that I’m a prude of course, I’ve had my fair share of racy experiences, but a lady doesn’t want to have to fight a drooling whelp off, every time she goes on a date. After all, when the right man comes along, I want to be his every desire and in every way. Anything less doesn’t warrant my attention, not any more. Oh, how embarrassed I feel turning on the tap and letting all my thoughts and feelings spill onto this letter. But I feel I can with you, and do it without judgement and take any comments I make the right way.
Getting back to the picture. I don’t have many of myself, you understand. I think someone who has a lot of pictures of themselves is a bit of a prima donna, don’t you? Maybe I’m wrong? Maybe it’s just me ha-ha. I do have a picture taken of me down in Florida. On the beach last summer. It isn’t in colour though, so I have to tell you that my hair is auburn and my eyes are brown, and I wear glasses. I had to take my dear mother to the beach for her health, you see. The boyish man lazing in the background is my cousin, Timothy. He’s sweet but simple to some. But he always looks after me. It was him that drove me and my mother down to the beach. She felt so much better after a few days on vacation. My dear friend I have to run now, I work at a local library as I feel since the war all young people have a duty to help and be responsible for their community.
I’ll be looking forward to hearing from you again.
Jess Bennett
This city was getting more and more like Gomorrah than Central. Jack saw Ezra leave from the room’s window, and could almost picture a bunch of Negro's out of Tarzan, in their grass skirts and war paint, all wielding spears, walking down the Bowery.
“Malone, what are you smiling at?”
“Nothing Decker. Come on!”
The homicide cop didn’t like the idea of a measly Private dick telling him what to do.
“Hey Jack, got a question. How do I know the guy wasn’t killed at your place? How do I know you didn’t get angry at Ronson for sleeping with your dame Mrs. B.?”
“Mrs. B.” Jack’s patience had run out with this rich ‘wanna-be’ landing a punch to his face, sending him tumbling backward a small ribbon of blood, now dripping from his nose. Jack hoped he had busted it and the idiot would go home. But no joy “Two things, bub. Firstly, No one, not even the almighty, bad mouths Mrs. B. Not on my watch, and secondly, if I’d killed the guy in my place, you’d never in a month of Sunday’s find the body. Not even on your best day kid,” Jack spat down at Decker, now scooping his pride up of the floor.
The Swanton angle was now dead, with any brown skinned Negro's, long gone. In some respects, Jack was happy he hadn’t found any. He’d made a good friend during the war, who was black. They’d become almost like brothers during Normandy, and when he came state-side he hated how his friend was treated. After his death at the hands of a construction worker. Jack had a small pot of sympathy for the Black community helping them off the books whenever he was able. Of course, he kept this to himself. Within twenty minutes Jack ditched Decker, who he could tell didn’t care a dime about Ronson. Jack got the feeling this silver spooned jerk was not calling just a 9 – 5 gig. Jack hated cops like that.
He’d seen the Stevenson’s leave. It was the night everyone would be out, so there would be no one to answer the phone. Ruddy waited letting it ring for another minute, before leaving the phone booth. Walking the next two blocks, using as many back alleys as possible, he finally approached the target. He walked until he was at the Stevenson’s front gate, where after another quick look, jumped over the wall. Hugging low to the hedgerow, Ruddy made his way to the front door.
It was dark by now, looking at his watch it read 8:50 PM. Ruddy decided to hunker down and wait till 9:00 PM. As he waited in the shadows, Ruddy tried to remember all his friend and mentor, the mysterious Mr. Renard, had told him about successful house breaking. Mainly go in small, time your trip – one hour max, only go after small trinkets jewels and other small pocket sized curious. But the MOST important thing is to stay quiet no matter what. Nine O’ Clock came, so sliding on a pair of leather gloves, Ruddy stepped out into the dim light, and up to the front door pressing the doorbell. He could hear the soft chimes from inside. Ruddy waited for anyone to answer, with a prepared line ‘Have you ever heard about our Lord and Savoir’ Central had been swamped by the Jehovah movement, and were becoming a thorn in the side of everyone. So if anyone DID answer, that little line would get him away, scot-free. Ruddy rang the doorbell one more time, standing in the dim light of a street light, noticing the slight movement of one of his rubber cheeks. Dam, Ruddy thought, it was too late to do anything about it now. Finally satisfied, Ruddy made his way to the back of the house, thankful for the absolute lack of neighbours. Looking at his watch he set it for one hour from that moment.
“Plenty of time to get in, get the goods and get out with all my nine lives intact” he whispered to a prowling alley cat.
Taking out a small pocket knife, snapped the catch on a pantry window and slithered into the house. Ruddy stepped through to a living room, which was more museum than anything else. Cluttered with glass cases, this would normally be pay dirt for a good thief. Normally, jewels or other trophies had homes in glass cases. But not this time, glancing at one case, Ruddy’s stomach turned, there was a small mammal all skeleton. Nobody would by that unless they were Dr. Frankenstein. Leaving the museum Ruddy noticed that it was arranged as many old houses were, a long narrow corridor that spanned the length of the house, four or five archways where other rooms could be entered. Some of the arched doors were open, some closed.
137 Rosenberg Drive.
Coast City
U.S
OCTOBER 19. 1948
Dear Collin,
It was so nice to hear from you Lonely Traveller, and to ask me to call you by your Christian name. I think Collin is an honest humble name and one that speaks volumes. It makes me think of a writer or poet. I have read your letter over and over, to the point where my mother was starting to get concerned. I admit Collin I didn’t know how to take your advancing and seductive remarks about me in the skimpy bathing suit. Then, I have to admit it did stir a lot of feelings up inside of me. With some soul searching I realized, I like this feeling and took what you said
as a series of flattering compliments. You’re a tease plain and simple, and I bet I have just scratched the surface of what you’re really like. A great man full of long earned wisdom of the world we live in, a knowledge learned by living and not books. A man with a touch of the devil in him, which I have to admit I quite like. People like you are a dying breed in the world of today.
Collin my dear, may I ask for something in return? A framed picture I can keep as my own.
Longing for you,
Jess Bennett.
X
Ruddy had already decided to ignore them, knowing the prize he was after was in Mr. Stevenson’s den at the end of the hallway. He just needed to follow the corridor to the back of the house, and he would find then den next to the study. The den was a large, filled with leather bound books and works of art on the Spitfire green walls. After a few minutes of snooping he stumbled upon a faux paining, behind which was and opening full of white bricks. Cocaine at least $20000 street value. Ruddy wasn’t going to take even one brick, not wanting to find himself with a pair of bullet holes in his back, courtesy of a mob hitter. Shutting the faux canvas, he looked around and found what he came for. Three gold and glass cases that housed the famous Fabergé Collection. Renard said those alone would be worth his weight and payroll him for finding and rescuing Kim.
It didn’t take long before Jack’s feet were screaming, but before he could hop onto the subway cart home and catch the last service at St. Paul’s, he decided to shoot around to a couple of cab ranks and bars, just in case it took the case anywhere. Just like Jacks idea to search the directory, it was a bust. An hour or so later Jack was home, coffee mug in hand, where a double scotch would usually sit. Jack took a slug of coffee and then rang the office to speak to Hammet. Filling him in on the hotel, and telling him he’d be late in tomorrow due to the late finish. And finally asking after Nancy. The papers that evening on the street were full of the Ronson killing, a little jazzed up by Decker I’d wager, wanting his moment in the spot light. Despite the flourish, the facts were as the pair knew it. Now though thanks to the detective, all black folk involved or not were at risk. Now more than usual. At midnight he called it a night, sleep was needed, but sleep wasn’t given to Jack for very long. Thanks to a shrill ring of the phone.
Part Two
Jack tried to ignore the relentless shrill of the phone. At first, burying his heads in the pillow. Feeling relieved after a minute or two when the shrill tone stopped. No sooner had his head hit the feathered pillow again, a second salvo from the phone hit him like a Sherman Tank. Decker’s arrogant voice made Malone’s skin crawl,
“Malone, you awake? Get your shabby mug up to 142A Lexington, and hurry will you? I got a hot mama, waiting for me at home.” Jerk, Jack thought
“142A Lexington got it.”
Jack put the phone down before Decker had finished. He wasn’t going to like that, but at this time of the night, Jack couldn’t care less. Despite the arrogant detective’s request, Jack just wasn’t going to jump to it like a good little soldier. Those days were long gone, and even then he wasn’t a great fan of following orders. As Jack sat up, he felt the soft brush of fur against his bare calves. Jack’s cat, Skits, was awake and purring for attention. The cat was the only comfort and reminder he had of his wife, Peg, and his little girl. Despite Jack and Peg finally reconnecting, even if there were two ends of the country between them, the cat made her feel closer. Which was some comfort. Looking down at the tabby cat, he smiled as he thought of that night in the Madison Grand. That was the night he’d asked to marry her for the second time. She just said she needed time to think, despite being shot down he was confident.
“Sorry Decker, this little lady comes first”
Picking her up, Jack walked to the small kitchenette, letting the flickering refrigerator light, bring him too.
“Here you go, Skits. We both need this, enjoy,” he said as he poured a saucer of milk for Skits and a coffee for himself. He let the caffeine hit the back of his throat, as it began to wake him up. Grabbing a quick bite of day old linguine, he went and wrestled his creased clothes on. The coffee had done the job, just. Semi- awake now and really not in the mood for whatever the, jumped up jerk had called him for. On top, it had started to bucket it down, and he was flat broke, so a taxi-cab was out of the question. Looking out the window at the weather he, sighed, “looks like I’m walking. Sorry Decker, your hot mama will just have to wait. shame”
Despite his grumbles the walk had done him some good, loosening the shrapnel in his knee. The doctors had always said he should use a stick, but Jack knew best. He wasn’t going to let the bad knee define him or a dam crutch. But more than any of that, it had given Jack a rare time to think. This Ronson case was all off. Something just didn’t fit. His mind kept trying to hunt for the missing piece, and swaying towards ideas of affairs and the like. Jack didn’t have a clue, but his gut told him somewhere along the line a broad was at the bottom of this mess, and one with horns and a flaming pitchfork to boot. After walking the three miles to Lexington, he remembered that dam pocket watch, scolding himself for not bringing it. He thought back to the photo inside, wishing he had more of a clue who the woman inside was. His gut told him he’d find out, even if he didn’t want to know.
Looking at his watch it read 2:30am, by the time he found the place it was more like 2:40am. 142a was an odd looking three story red brick, with black framed sash windows. The outside was made to look like a shaman had been living there for a thousand years. Right then, Jack had a hunch this was the right place. Lighting a Camel, he inhaled and went in. The red brick had a makeshift lobby, and in there was a policeman standing, bored out of his mind. He was young too. Jack felt his pain. He was exhausted just like the flat-foot fighting insomnia.
“Hey, rookie, the sour puss in?” the rookie just laughed behind a hand and waved Jack upstairs, “Thanks bub, take it easy.”
The place stank to high heaven. It was overpowering. The heady mix frankincense or something similar gave the P.I a headache. Whatever the source of that horrid stench, Jack hated it. Only one of the upstairs rooms were lit, the others dark but Jack could hear movement from the other two. First impressions told Jack that this place was a harem. That’s all he needed; women on a dam ego trip.
“What’s up detective?” Jack asked as he walked beside him.
“What the hell kept you?” he spat. Ignoring the snot nosed brat, Jack carried on inside the room. Jack was shell shocked. What Jack saw in the room, he wasn’t expecting. His hunch of a ‘woman’ being at the heart of this case may not have been to left field after all. The bedroom was more like a public library, with wall to wall books one side where an odd looking foreign plant gave the room a quality that Jack took a dislike to right away, to Asian for his taste. On the other side a Gothic revival seemed to have taken hold with a gargoyle keeping guard of a St. Andrews Cross, and a few too many chains and manacles to for Jacks liking. He’d even noticed an umbrella stand full of riding crops. He started to wonder what exactly he had just walked into.
It wasn’t Jacks taste at all, much preferring the simple and straight forward when it came to room décor and things like that. On a lounger was a woman wearing what could loosely be described as a red negligee, which showed more than it concealed. Her gown of sorts had fallen from he
r shoulders and lay about her waist. Ruby red lipstick finished the look. Jack didn’t know who she was trying to impress other than maybe Decker, but this fish wasn’t biting. Looking at her unimpressed he couldn’t help but notice a bandaged wound on one of her great stems, but the veteran P.I chose not to act on it.
Making sure his gloves were snug he went over to a small desk lamp, switching it on. Now with a little light, he could see the case clearly. Opening his satchel, he put it down at his feet. Stepping over to the nearest case, taking back out his pocket knife, and after looking at the lock re-pocketed it. Unlike the lock on the pantry window, this would need a delicate touch. Something his trusty pocket knife couldn’t deliver. Picking a small glass cutter from his satchel, he knelt down and cut a hole the size of a saucer in the cases side. Taking out the glass slice placing it on the floor. Within two minutes he’d bagged the first, second, and third egg. Ruddy like the den, smiling at a teak cabinet, the type he’d always told himself he’d get when he made it. Walking over to the varnished beauty, he stashed a small silver snuff box, then noticed a silver frame. Inside was a photo, Ruddy thought it looked like Mr. Stevenson’s brother. Their likeness was uncanny. The only sound Ruddy could hear, was the sight ‘clink’ of his prizes in his satchel. Then, suddenly, without warning there was another sound. Water flushing. Ruddy spun around hoping to find the source of the sound that seemed to be coming from a room down the long hallway. It made an alarming sound in the silence. Ruddy looked panicked, looking toward the door of the den, seeing the full length of the hallway. Fear started to brew up in him, drowning out all other feelings.
“Just the wind,” he told himself, “yes the door had been opened by the wind. And the water was maybe rain outside.” It couldn’t be a pet and he’d made sure no one was home. So it must have been the wind.
Welcome To Central City Page 10
