Mine to Avenge

by Brian Cain

BRIAN CAIN, 28, lives in California where he pounds a news beat for TV and radio and uses the experience for story ideas (which makes up for the lousy pay). Several of his short stories have appeared in the Printed Poison web zine.
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Chapter One

Not So Easy Money

The two men who pushed into the small all-night diner, overcoats like capes, certain bulges under their arms, gave the place a fast right-to-left scan. My hand inched to the button keeping my jacket closed because I had a feeling I’d need the .45 automatic hidden under my arm really fast.

"There she is," the bigger of the two said, his finger-snap turning into a point – right at a trim brunette sitting in a corner booth.

She screamed.

I’d been watching the girl for the past half-hour, wondering what had her so spooked. When I entered the place, the cook behind the counter – a big, stocky guy, big like a rhino – watched me as I took a seat at the counter. The handful of sleepy customers paid no attention, except the little brunette, whose wide eyes returned to normal when I didn’t move toward her.

"What’ll you have?" the big cook said, his claw of a hand making the pencil he held above a notepad look like a toothpick. The menu card didn’t offer much.

"Coffee and cherry pie," I said. The cook scribbled it down, slapped a mug in front of me, poured some solid black goo into it. He went down the counter to a display case of pies. Against my better judgment, I sipped the coffee – it tasted great, nice and fresh, but looked like tar.

The cook slid a plate in front of me, with a pretty big slice of pie on it, big chunks of cherries and thick red cream dripping from the sides. I swallowed a bite. Not as fresh as the coffee, but good, and a great way to pass the time. Technically, I was working. A guy with sharp ears can pick up all kinds of tidbits in places like this that can lead to a pile of greenbacks. If he’s careful.

Looked like slim pickings so far, though.

Or not.

The brunette came up to the counter with an empty coffee mug and a few dollars; the cook refilled the mug, took her money, and dropped a few quarters on the counter in return.

"Running low on quarters, kiddo," the cook said, "how many calls you gonna make?" But the girl turned away with mug in hand, lowered eyes, no response. She set the mug on the table; stepped into the phone booth, slid the door shut. I watched her feed change into the phone, making one call after another, her defeated, sad expression growing more so each time she hung up.

Shoulders slumped, she returned to the table and sipped her coffee and stared out the front window. Her shoulders tensed each time somebody new came in.

There were only three new arrivals in the time it took to eat my pie: a couple looking fresh from a club, and a cabbie on a break. Why the girl would behave like a literal ’fraidy cat with each arrival I had no idea.

The cook started giving me the evil eye as I swallowed the last of my pie. I tapped my empty mug with the fork; he splashed some more tar into it.

I moved down the counter to another stool by the wall, sat leaning back against it; fired up a cigarette. I watched the quiet, deserted street. My watch showed two-thirty a.m. In five short hours the street would come alive, drowsily at first, then take off like a starving tiger over a fresh kill until the sun went down. The night would be busy, too; then quiet again. A never-ending cycle I’ve observed all over the world.

And watching the street let me see what spooked the brunette in the booth – for real, this time.

When the girl screamed, everybody jumped, including the thugs, who took a couple of long strides toward her. She flung her coffee mug but missed, the black tar coating some of the floor, the mug clattering nearby without breaking. The cook yanked a shotgun from under the counter, said: "Any trouble and I’ll - " but what he’d do he never mentioned, as the second of the two goons reached out to grab the barrel of the shotgun, shoved it into the cook’s gut. The cook grunted and his face tightened up, and he went down for the count as the goon took the weapon in both hands and smashed the butt into his temple.

With a smile on his face, the now-shotgun-armed goon flipped the weapon into the air, catching it with his finger on the trigger, did a 180 with his new toy at the hip to make sure me and the other three sleepy patrons, no longer sleepy, stayed put.

The girl wasn’t cooperating. She screamed a second time, going for a door to the left of her booth, but the knob wouldn’t budge, and she pressed herself against the wall, eyes wide, body stiff, shouting: "Get away from me," as the first goon stepped within arms reach.

The grinning shotgunner pivoted again to help his buddy. I didn’t even leave my stool at the counter. I unbuttoned my suit coat, drew my .45, and fired a hard-nosed slug into the left leg of the shotgunner.

Who screamed, dropping to the floor. The counter covered me as I dropped beside the man, grabbing the barrel of the shotgun as he tried to swing it my way; smashed the barrel of my auto pistol down across his head.

But the counter didn’t cover me for long, as the first thug came back around with a revolver in hand, the cylinder turning as he eased back the trigger. I fired twice. The goon slammed back against a table, fell to the floor, stayed there. Before I could turn to the girl, she leaped past me, screaming. Out the door, down the street. I took off after her, but she’d vanished into the shadows.

Back inside, the couple asked if I was a policeman.

"No," I said.

The cab driver, eyes wide with excitement, asked if we should maybe call them.

"Cook yourself some chops, for all I care," I said.

They all hustled out instead.

I knelt beside the shotgunner, patted his pockets, pulled out a thick leather wallet. Thick with cash. A pat down of the other produced some spare ammunition and another fat wallet. At the girl’s booth, I found a beat-up black leather notebook. In her haste, she’d left it behind.

I slipped the wallets into the pockets of my jacket, held the notebook, went behind the counter to take a look at the cook, who was still breathing. I splashed some water in his face; he started moaning.

Sirens in the distance. I hit the sidewalk running, turning into an alley, dodging various pieces of debris and the legs of sleeping bums. Emerging at the other end, I stopped, straightened my jacket. At the intersection far to the right, a squad car sped through – the rest of the street nice and clear, as it should be at three in the morning. My shoes then made a steady tapping on the pavement all the way back to the Irvington Arms, where I held down a two-room suite to keep out the wind and the rain.

I rolled out of bed a little past noon eager to dig into the wallets and notebook I’d collected at the diner, see who my new friends were. After a hot shower I flipped on the TV to listen to the news while scraping whiskers off my face. The incident at the diner had fallen to fourth place in the headlines, the top story being the planned arrival of a Hollywood movie company that had decided to shoot a picture at Las Palmas’ famous Westgate Lounge.

Which wasn’t a very good name for it, really; the place was a huge, multi-level casino and the owners were talking about building a hotel to go along with it. Plenty of skepticism went along with that idea, but nobody could deny the bang-up business the Westgate did, as guys and gals from all over the city bet the milk money hoping for a fortune.

And if the place hadn’t been owned by puppets of the Outfit, they might have even had a chance.

But as far as the diner shooting went, there was little info. I’d have to dig in other places if I wanted to see who could afford the kind of muscle I encountered, why they wanted the girl, how much money they had for the taking. Must keep my priorities straight.

I rode the elevator down to the lobby, stopped at my mail box. The new Sports Illustrated had arrived; its pages contained a feature on the Las Palmas Razors, the city’s football team. A few smart bets made me a little money last season; with a new coach, quarterback, and a high draft pick this year, I expected the Razors to make me a little more this season. I bought a newspaper from the newsstand; across from the stand, a deli, where I ordered a roast beef sandwich.

Back in my suite I poured a glass of scotch, ate and sipped at the table by the window while I went through the wallets and notebook.

The girl – Holly Edwards. Actress. A small list in her notebook of local theaters, an appointment book of scheduled auditions. The men – Daniel Hoffman, the man I’d killed at the diner. His friend, Kevin Morris. Neither had any business cards, pictures, anything that told me anything about them, except for their driver’s licenses.

The men’s wallets had about a thousand dollars in cash, each. I crossed to one of the two paintings hanging above the couch. One was a painting of somebody who looked like Napoleon, the other a Mona Lisa knock-off. I took down the Mona Lisa and set it on the coffee table front side down. Flicking a little clasp on the back, I swung open a hidden door which revealed the hollow back of the painting, where stacks of cash, in various denominations, smiled at me like good friends at a bar. I added the two grand and closed the back.

Eventually, when I filled up the backs of both paintings, I’d then fill a couple of mason jars with the cash and go bury them in pre-selected locations. The ground was better than a bank – no paper trail.

In the bedroom I pulled a large steamer trunk from my closet. It took a little rummaging through all the junk inside, but I found what I wanted: a black leather wallet with a gold detective badge (first grade, of course) and a police ID with my mug and the name Bart Winters on the front.

Never mind where I picked it up.

Holly Edwards lived on the east side of Las Palmas – a quiet couple of blocks where warehouses and canneries shared space with apartment buildings. I had the cabbie drive around the block so I could get the lay. Trees lined the sidewalks, red brick buildings dominated. After the circuit, the cabbie stopped in front of the Chesterfield Apartments – Holly’s place. I told him to wait, went in. The lobby had a nice tiled floor, a desk for a receptionist – empty right now. In front of it, a podium with a printed directory of tenants. I read down the list and found Holly Edwards – but there was a second name under hers, Alice Walker – both listed in apartment 406.

A stairwell led me to the fourth floor. I knocked on 406. The chain rattled and two locks clicked and a sleepy-eyed blonde leaned against the doorframe, a silky white nightgown barely hanging onto her. She looked at me and snorted; her right shoulder strap slipped off. She was too busy frowning at me to notice.

"You’re not Mickey," she said.

"Nope."

"Cute, though."

"I’m looking for Holly."

She mumbled "uh-umm," shaking her head.

"What does that mean?"

She yawned without covering her mouth, because she must have felt a draft on her bare shoulder and used her free hand to pull the strap up instead.

"Where can I find Holly?" I said.

"She’s been gone last few days. I hardly see her. She’s got a lot of boyfriends coming over lately, though. They’re all like you, wanna know where she is."

"Where does she work?"

"She’s a dancer – like me – over at the Candy Apple. Or was."

"Was?"

"Quit last week. We were in the chorus line together." She grinned, did half a curtsey.

I pulled Holly’s notebook from inside my jacket, along with a business card. The name on the card: Steve Dane. It’s not the handle I was born with, but it suits me just fine. Underneath, the words Confidential Services. I explained that I helped Holly at the diner earlier in the morning, but she’d run off without her notebook; I also said I’d be willing to help her some more if she wanted it, and to call me at the number on the card. The sleep faded from the woman’s eyes as she gave the card a look, glanced back at me. "Maybe I’ll see her," she said.

"I hope so."

I said good-bye, and walked away. I think she watched me until I turned the corner because the door didn’t close right away.

The cab dropped me off at the main entrance of Wake County Hospital, and I pushed through the swinging doors to the lobby. The TV had said the man I shot in the leg had been brought here. They took his friend to the morgue. How sad. But I felt pretty proud of myself for that bit of shooting, considering he had the drop on me. I try not to let an enemy get off a shot when we’re playing guns, if I can help it. Don’t always succeed, but still being alive proves I’m a better shot than they are.

I stopped a passing nurse, flashed my badge, asked where the shooting victim from last night was. Fifth floor, she said. I hiked up the stairs, stepped up to the turret-style desk in the center of the fifth floor lobby, from which several hallways branched off. I had my badge out and my mouth open but the nurse behind the desk extended a finger past my shoulder, said: "Room 504, detective."

"How’d you know what I’d ask?" I said.

"Other detectives have been in there about a half hour now," she said.

I kept my face steady, told her thanks, turned and went down the hall she’d indicated. It would have been nice to get some answers out of the goon, but no way was I going to risk it now. These things happen. The last thing I needed was the goon pointing at me, telling the bulls I was the one who shot him; I also didn’t need the cops doubting my identity. I went past 504, the door shut; continued to the end of the hall, pushing open the stairwell door.

It wasn’t a total loss. I knew the goon’s name: Kevin Morris. And his driver’s license gave me his address, an apartment in a downtown building of the Tenderloin district. I grabbed another cab and sat back for the ride, watching the neighborhoods turn from upscale and clean to rundown and dirty.

The vestibule needed new paint on its peeling walls; a stray cat, hunkered in a corner, played with a flake of paint he’d either clawed off the wall or found already waiting for him. I silently wished him a happy meal, or whatever it was, and turned down a short, darkened hallway to a door marked Super. Strange goo drying on the door. I kicked a few times instead of knocking. The chain finally rattled, the door squeaked open; a tall thin man stuck his head out.

"What?" he said.

I flashed my badge. "Let me up to Kevin Morris’ room."

"Who?"

"Kevin Morris. Tenant here."

"Wait a sec."

He went away, leaving the door open; returned carrying ring of keys. I followed him back to the vestibule, where the cat was licking a paw now, and through another door to the stairwell. A breeding ground for strange, putrid smells. Probably bugs, too, but the light was so dim I couldn’t tell.

"Ever hear of light bulbs and a cleaning crew?" I said as we started climbing. At least the steps didn’t creak.

"Talk to the owner."

"Your parents?"

"Just my mother."

"You tell her to fix this place," I said, getting into my roll, "or I’ll have the housing authority close you down."

"There’s a C-note waiting for you downstairs."

Why not, I thought, said: "My lips are sealed."

He pushed open a door at the third floor landing; we went down a hallway to apartment 316. The kid faced me. "How long you be?"

"Long as it takes. Open up."

He shoved a key into the lock, twisted, gave the knob a turn and pushed the door open.

I told him to have the C-note ready when I finished.

A short entryway led to a hallway; at one end a bedroom/bathroom, the other kitchen/living room. I shut the door in the young man’s face, and moved up and down the hall, checking each room.

Frowning because Kevin Morris had not a stick of furniture, nothing to indicate he lived here.

I stood in the center of the empty living room, thinking; then I went to the living room window. Nice view of the street, it had. I flipped the latch, gave the window a tug, but it was jammed shut. I tugged again and again, but it wouldn’t budge. I risked a broken neck going back down the stairs, but made it to the super’s place, gave the door two kicks. The kid opened it. "So?"

"Got something for me?"

He chuckled to himself, handed me a crumpled $100 bill; I held it up to examine, winked at the kid. He shut the door without saying good-bye. I put the bill in my wallet, gave the cat in the vestibule a pat. He meowed at me and was on my heel as I slipped outside. He took off running in the opposite direction as soon as we reached the sidewalk.

I stopped at the first payphone in front of a neighboring liquor store.

And called the housing authority.

I decided to try talking with Morris again and headed for the hospital. But my jaw tightened as soon as the cab turned into the parking lot.

A police car with flashing cherry lights blocked part of the road leading past the entrance to the hospital. I put my frown away and told the cabbie to wait, an odd feeling stirring the pit of my gut. When I reached Morris’ room I stopped at the sight of two uniformed officers standing at the foot of the bed.

"Who you?" the older of the two cops said, the stripes on his sleeve showing his rank as sergeant. I flashed my badge, told him I was from headquarters.

"That was fast, we just called a few minutes ago."

"I’m here on another call," I said, "heard there was some commotion up here so I thought I’d take a look."

The sergeant nodded, his younger partner watching us quietly.

"Well, this guy’s dead," the sergeant said, turning back to Morris. The sheet had been pulled up over his head. "A nurse found him while making her rounds."

I stepped up beside the bed, pulled the sheet down. Three small puncture wounds on Morris’ upper arm jumped out at me. Small wounds, the skin around them a dark shade of red.

"There are three morphine ampules on the floor here, detective," the younger officer said.

I had to move fast before real headquarters men showed up, but I followed the younger officer to the other side of the bed, squatted down, eyed the three ampules with a raised eyebrow. Well, an overdose is a sure-fire way to croak a guy – if nobody intervenes – and I wondered how long the death had gone unnoticed. Had the "detectives" there on my first visit done Morris in, waiting until he was dead before they left?

I rose, said: "I gotta go upstairs. Tell the other dicks that if they need me, room 720."

"Right," the sergeant said, and I slipped out.

All the way back down to the street, I wondered why it was so important to shut Morris up, and whether or not Holly Edwards would survive long enough to contact me.

###

Copyright © 2004 Brian Cain