Once Upon A Poet

by H S Peer

  “In case you remember anything else,” I said.

  “You’re wasting your time,” she said in a dead voice.

  “Probably.”

  Much-broken Nose was still standing by the front door. He let me out. I heard the deadbolt ram home as I walked down the steps. I’d gotten an inside look at the pornography industry but knew nothing more than I did before. I thought of Bermuda and a rum punch with sensibly-clad cuties. There had to be a better way to make a living. I vowed if Jenkins ever walked out of Rikers he would lose all his New York privileges for making me do this. I was too damn generous; if I’d done that job in West Virginia myself, I wouldn’t be in this mess. Coupled with this was a missing hearse. I shook my hand at the sky and wanted to curse. I should have stayed in school. I could have been a professor now, doing nothing more than reading, researching, giving lectures and watching coeds on the quad. Isn’t the life of a criminal mastermind grand?

  Chapter 13

  There was one place I hadn’t been yet, Cindy’s apartment. Not that there would be anything there in the way of clues, at least not anything noticeable. The police had probably picked the place clean, taking address books, bank statements, and other important papers. That was SOP in a murder investigation.

  By some strange fate, she too lived in the village. I returned my car to the garage and walked five blocks to her building. There was no doorman, which was good. Doormen are the bane of my existence. Just try to get past one when there’s a beautiful necklace in apartment 617 waiting to get stolen.

  Her name was over the mailbox for apartment 505. I walked through the inner door and into the lobby. The building wasn’t great, not a place where a person with money, like Cindy, might have had from doing movies, would live. The taupe wallpaper in the lobby was water-stained. If nothing else the floor was spotless, it was almost too shiny to walk on.

  I took the stairs and had a good listen when I entered the fifth-floor hallway. There was the sound of television from one of the apartments. Other than that, silence. It was still early enough that most people would be at work. I had maybe an hour.

  There was a yellow plastic police sign sealing the door to the jamb. I pulled out my butterfly knife and slit it. There was a deadbolt but not an expensive one. I went to work with my picks and had it open in under a minute.

  It smelled stale inside that mixed with the copper-tang of blood in the air was enough to choke even the most veteran investigator. I closed the door and looked around. There was a closet on the right inside were a down-filled parka and several pairs of shoes. One the shelf was a camera bag that I took down for no other reason than I like cameras.

  It was a vintage Nikon with several lenses, not one of the new digital jobs. It wasn’t cheap. There was no film in it. I rifled through the bag and found one roll of exposed film. I pocketed it and picked up the flash unit. It was very light. I opened the battery compartment and found a plastic bag. I removed it and knew instantly what was inside. There were a few grams of pot in the bag, and from the smell of it wasn’t the cheap stuff you bought on the street corner. So the cops hadn’t searched as well as they could have. I pocketed the pot too, not for personal use you understand. I’d give it to Gael the next time I saw her. I may do many things, but drugs aren’t one of them.

  I replaced the camera bag and surveyed the rest of the room. It was a large sitting room with a blue plaid couch and a navy area rug. On the coffee table was a stack of opened mail. A small television and DVD player sat on a stand in the corner. There was a bookshelf with all the classics in paperback, obviously purchased second hand, and several videotapes. Videotapes? That technology was still produced? There was a VHS video box for her last film, Crack Pirates. On the cover, she was naked except for a black eye patch and brandished a large dildo like a sword. Her stage name, Sindee, was in large type right under the title. There was little copy on the back, just graphic photos. I replaced it on the shelf.

  There was a desk with a laptop computer sitting on top. I flipped it on. While I was waiting for it to boot I rifled through the drawers. There was nothing of any use. All that was on the computer was a couple of incomplete scripts for her future films. So Cindy had decided to be a writer, not just an actress.

  Down the hall were the bedroom and bathroom. The medicine cabinet held the usual remedies and a bottle of Percocet half empty. The tub was clean, and she had a shower curtain with cartoon characters on it. In the stand beside the sink were two toothbrushes, one pink and one blue. Did one belong to Bill, I wondered, or the plumber, or some mystery man? I’d have to check into that.

  The bedroom held a pricey oak bedroom suite. The queen-size bed had been the scene of the crime. Blood had dried to a black crust on the mattress, around a small hole. I remembered the crime scene photo, and my stomach lurked. From how the body has been found she had been shot as she slept, behind the left ear, with a large caliber handgun. Her pillow, apparently taken by the CSI boys, had absorbed the bulk of the blood, flesh, and bone, as her face exploded outwards. The bullet had come to rest somewhere in the box spring.

  I dropped to my knees and looked underneath the bed. Nothing was dust-bunnies. In the dresser, I found the usual assortment of undergarments, socks, and sweaters. In one drawer was a framed photo of Cindy and Bill. He was dressed in a Sears blue nylon suit, and Cindy wore a low-cut cream-colored dress. A wedding photo I guessed. They must have been married at city hall. In the closet, there were some expensive designer knock-offs and 12 pairs of shoes in a variety of styles. It looked like an average apartment, lived in, with everything in its place. Except the tenant was dead, shot through the head by person or persons unknown.

  The kitchen was neat. Dishes were stacked in the dish rack. One dirty coffee mug sat in the sink. The fridge was nearly empty. There was a carton of expired milk, some orange juice, eggs and a half loaf of brown bread. The freezer contained a milk chocolate bar and a frozen meat pie. Everything was normal. I still felt uneasy, and I wasn’t sure why. Something was amiss, but I couldn’t put my untrained finger on it.

  Then I smelt cologne, not a brand I would dare use. I turned my head and saw a cop standing in the doorway. He held his pistol loosely against his thigh. He was clad in a brown suit with a white shirt and a maroon tie. His overcoat was unbuttoned.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked.

  I wished I had a flashlight. I looked up at the ceiling and down the wall, holding my finger to my lips. In a hushed voice, I said, “I’m checking for termites,”

  “A likely story. The super called. Her apartment is right below this,” he said.

  “Then she should have known I was checking for termites,” I said.

  “Enough jokes pal. What are you doing here?”

  “What are you doing here?” I countered. Sometimes you can confuse them.

  “What’s your name?’

  “Robert Graves, “ I replied.

  “What do you say we take a ride down to the station, Mr. Graves?”

  “Do you want me to check for termites?”

  He shook his head. I shrugged and let him lead me from the apartment.

  At the station, he locked me in an interrogation room and left me for 45 minutes. I can easily amuse myself, left to my own devices. I had a slim volume of Ezra Pound’s works in my jacket pocket. I read while I waited.

  When he finally came in, he had my gun and knife in a large plastic bag. He set them down on the battered metal table between us.

  “You have a permit for the gun?” he asked.

  “Yes,” I said, “I own a business and take large deposits to the bank.”

  “That’s easy enough to check. As for the knife and the lock picks . . .” he let it hang.

  Yes, they were illegal. Add that to my burglary of Cindy’s apartment I might be looking at probation.

  “I’m Detective Rodrigues. The only reason you’re not under arrest is that Gael says you’re okay. I find that hard to believe from a man that calls himself �
��Poet,’” he said.

  “That’s what my mother wanted to name me. My father lost the battle.”

  “What’s your name? There’s nothing in your wallet with your name on it. Other names, lots of other names, but not yours.”

  “If you’re going to charge me, do it. Otherwise, I’ll call my attorney.”

  “Let’s not get hasty, we’re just having a little conversation here.”

  “Then let’s converse.”

  “What’s your interest in the Cindy McMillen case?”

  “I’m trying to find out who killed her.”

  “We know who killed her.”

  I laughed. “Your case is so full of holes I’m surprised you got an indictment.”

  “He killed her.”

  “Does the term railroaded mean anything to you?”

  He started to turn red.

  “I may just forget what a nice guy I am and take you down to central booking.”

  “My lawyer would have me out before the ink was dry on the booking sheet.”

  “You talk tough.”

  “I am.”

  He was silent for a moment and then pushed the bag with my gun and knife at me. “You’re using a get-out-of-jail-free-card right now. Keep your nose out of this case. If I run into you again, I’ll personally bust you in the chops.”

  “Bigger men have tried.”

  “Get out of here,” he bellowed.

  I knew when to take my leave. I grabbed my possessions and headed for the door. As I looked back, Rodrigues was still sitting in the chair staring at the table. I had something really witty to say, but that would have added insult to injury.

  Chapter 14

  The meeting with Rodrigues had left a bad taste in my mouth. I don’t mind being braced, but I didn’t like his attitude. Another cop might have asked what I knew hoping to solve the case. Okay, not many cops, but maybe one or two, if you searched internationally. I took a cab to the Liar’s Breath and walked into the dark smokiness like a child crawling back into the womb. After a couple of single-malt Scotches, my outlook improved. I was ready to look for Harry.

  How can I describe Harry? He’s not a snitch, although he will if the money is right. I guess you could say he collected information and, of course, sold it. If it happened on the street, Harry would know about it. He was the gossip of the criminal community. I had nothing to lose in asking him about the red-haired hearse-jacker. If she were out there, he would know. I’d called him last night and told him what I wanted.

  Harry didn’t come downtown if he could help it, so I was forced to get my car and drive uptown. I found him a street corner pitching pennies with a group of teenagers. He was dressed in jeans with a dress shirt that was frayed at the collar. Over this, he wore a denim jacket with a faux sheepskin lining. I powered down the passenger’s window and pulled up beside him. He looked over his shoulder and saw me.

  “Hey Poet, what you know?”

  “Not much, you have something for me?”

  “Always straight to business, I respect that.”

  He waited and knew what he was waiting for. I had the c-note folded twice and in my hand. Like someone tipping a maître d' at a restaurant, I shook his hand and money disappeared.

  “Farrell Flanagan,” he said.

  “Where do I find her?”

  “Where else do you find a Mick in this city? Hell’s Kitchen,” he laughed.

  I nodded and powered up the window. Harry waved and turned back to the teenagers.

  I guess the only thing to do was hit a couple of pubs in the Kitchen and find out if anybody knew her. The clock was ticking, and I needed to find that car before the new owner got it at a discounted price.

  Before what turned into a pub-crawl I returned my car to the garage and took a cab to Hell’s Kitchen or what the city fathers had renamed it, Clinton. I had a hot dog from a street stand and washed it down with a cold Diet Pepsi. I didn’t really know where to start. For the hundred bucks I paid Harry I had hoped for an address.

  I went to the Bill and Bull, The Green Lantern, The Soldier’s Inn and The Tommy Gun. I had a drink in each and asked the bartender if he knew Farrell. They shook their heads no. Just to be sure I asked the men and women sitting at the bar, the seasoned veterans of many nights in the same spot. None of them could shed any light on my quest. I finally struck pay dirt at The Orangeman, an Irish Protestant pub off on a side street. The bartender, a hawk-like man in his fifties, said he knew Farrell. For a twenty he even knew where she lived. He directed me to an apartment over Finnegan’s Auto Body shop.

  I had no idea what to do once I found Farrell. Her being a woman presented some problems for me. I would beat a man until he submitted and I got what I wanted. If that failed, which it rarely did, it meant he was bigger and stronger than me, and I ended it then and there. But a woman? I had no idea what to do. I had a gun and a silver tongue; perhaps the combination of the two would be enough.

  No lights were visible in the windows over the shop as I approached. The building was on a deserted cul-de-sac. A large white wooden fence surrounded the property. The building itself was a wood-framed five-bay garage. There were a variety of cars parked out front, some partially dismantled. I walked among them while checking out the building.

  There was a door on the side near the back. I was guessing that led to a staircase that led upstairs. I hopped the fence and walked to the door. The lock was nothing, 30 seconds and it was open. I was right, there was a flight of stairs. I headed up, keeping my feet on the outside of the risers to avoid any squeaky spots.

  There was a door at the top of the stairs with another simple lock. Beyond the door was one large room with a bed, a couch, a television, and a small kitchen area separated from the rest of the room by an eat-at counter with stools. I didn’t turn on the lights, I didn’t have to. The safety lights at the garage below shone through the bare windows.

  I sat on the couch and pulled my gun. I lay it on the arm, close at hand. I didn’t want to use it, killing this woman wouldn’t help me get the car. I lit a cigarette and settled in. I must have dozed off because the next thing I heard was a key hit the lock. I uncrossed my legs and readied myself.

  She was dressed in denim and denim never looked so good. The red sweater she wore made the red hair on her head glow. She flipped on the light, and I picked up my gun. I pointed it at her and cleared my throat.

  She did a double take. When she saw me her eyes blazed.

  “Hi,” I said over the barrel of the pistol.

  She said nothing.

  “I’m here about the car.”

  She reached inside her light jacket.

  “No. No. No,” I said, “Keep your hands where I can see them.”

  She complied, letting them drop to her sides.

  “It would be a shame to shoot you over a car,” I said, “Farrell.”

  “How do you know my name? How did you find me?” Ohh, that voice. I could marry this one.

  “Simple deduction. And a hundred bucks in the right pocket. There are not many female car boosters around, let alone Irish ones.”

  She didn’t say another word.

  “I must say,” I said, “It was slick the way you stole the car I already stole. Very ingenious.”

  “That was my car,” she said.

  “Now it’s mine.”

  “That’s all you came for, the car?”

  “Yes. And to re-extend the invitation to my bar. You’ll be welcome if you come by. I’ll ever put some Harp in the cooler.”

  “You don’t cool Harp.”

  “How silly of me. Where’s the car?”

  “Downstairs.”

  “Has it been painted yet?”

  “Yes.”

  “What color?”

  “Grey.”

  “That’s fine, let’s go get it,” I said. I flashed her my killer smile and got up, not taking my eyes off of her.

  “One day you’ll laugh about this.”

  “Not likely.”


  “Give it time. Lead the way.”

  She walked out the still open door with me trailing. I plucked out the gun I could see printing through her jacket at the small of her back. I shook my head. She lost one gun to me and went out and got another. Not hard in the city but it made me very leery of her. Car boosters didn’t go around armed, that was for thugs like me.

  We went down the stairs and out the door. After walking the length of the building, we came to a door. She produced a key right from her front pocket and unlocked it. There was no alarm.

  The inside of the building was like a cavern. It smelled like oil and solvents. I could see a large car covered by a drop cloth at the far end of the room.

  “That’s it?” I asked.

  “Yes,” she said. Her voice was full of acid.

  “Keys?”

  She walked to a pegboard on the wall and after searching for a minute pulled a set down. I held out my hand, and she tossed them to me. I walked over to the hearse and pulled off the cover. As promised it was grey and an excellent job too. I found the button to raise the door and pressed it. As it whined and lifted, I turned back to Farrell.

  “The time may come when I need a wheelman, or woman as the case may be. Can you drive?”

  “Like a formula one driver,” she said.

  “I’ll keep that in mind. Just forget this happened. Put it down to experience and leave it at that. Being pissed at me is only going to make you feel ill.”

  She called me a very bad name. I smiled. I’d been called worse.

  “As always, Farrell, it’s a pleasure.” I got in the car and started it up. I watched her as I backed out. She stood stock still, except for her hands clenching and unclenching. She looked like a good kid, maybe a little high-strung, but a good kid. If you could say it about a woman, she had balls.

  I called Marty on my cell, and he directed me to a warehouse not far from nowhere. The big car handled well when if you considered what it was. For its size, it had a little bit of power. I stayed within the speed limit and drove where Marty had instructed me. One day I’d be in the back of one of these monsters, maybe in about a hundred years. My obituary would be a small one, as would be the funeral. Not many people turn out for the funeral of a 92-year-old. My twenty-something wife, my mistress and a couple of old cronies would be there. How would I be remembered? As the man who stole it all and never got caught.