by H S Peer
Marty met me and took the keys to the car. He would make the deal tomorrow, he told me, and then I’d get paid. If I didn’t have Bill Jenkins to think about, I would have been able to take off. Bill and his blackmail aside, something about Cindy McMillen didn’t sit right with me. It was too pat, too simple. If I didn’t come up with something in the next couple of days... I knew he didn’t want to hear about my suspicions.
I returned to the Liar’s Breath in a cab. For a change, no one was sitting on my stool. All the beer I’d drank earlier had left me empty. I had a club sandwich and soda water. The place was three-quarters full. Good. I had another soda water before returning home for an evening of mindless television entertainment and falling asleep on the couch.
Chapter 15
I must have been deeply asleep because my cell rang several times before I knew what was happening. I rubbed the sleep from my eyes and grabbed my jacket that was draped over the coffee table. Inside I found the ringing beast. I checked my Rolex; it was just after 3 a.m.
With a sleepy voice, “Hello.”
There was a pause, I could hear breathing over the line.
“Hello,” I said again. More breathing.
“If this is an obscene phone call you should really say something,” I said, “It will help put me in the mood.”
More breathing. I was just about to hang up when I heard a whispering voice.
“Is this the man looking into Cindy McMillen’s death?” it asked. It was a woman.
“Yes,” I replied.
“I need to see you, things aren’t what they seem.”
“Really?”
“Yes, I need to see you.”
“Right now?”
“Yes, before I lose my nerve.”
“Who are you and where are you?”
“In Soho, at a coffeehouse called The Brush. This is Amber, we met yesterday."
“I’ll be there in half an hour.”
She hung up, and I got up. I was still in my clothes, so there was no reason to dress. I looked a little rumpled but who doesn’t at 3 a.m. I called a cab and grabbed my keys, wallet, cash, and gun. I tucked the pistol in the waistband of my pants at the small of my back. I was in too much of hurry to fiddle with my shoulder holster. On the street, I smoked while I waited for the cab.
The cabbie knew little except for money. I paid him with a tip and got out of the car in Soho a block away from the coffeehouse. The sidewalk was clear of litter, but the gutter was full of it. There were a few people on the street. While I slept, the temperature had dropped to just below 32 degrees. I shivered, I needed an overcoat.
I found Amber at a table in the back of the small coffeehouse. The place was decorated in salmon and teal. Painting from several starving artists adorned the walls. The smell of coffee was a good one, I’d order as soon as I sat down.
Amber looked nervous. Her face was contorted, and she fidgeted with her hands. A bowl of coffee sat in front of her untouched. She wouldn’t look me in the eye.
I sat down and got a cigarette going. My smoke mixed with that of the other Bohemian patrons. I didn’t know where to start with her, so I just said hello.
She smiled a nervous smile and returned my greeting. She lifted the coffee to her lips and then, realizing it was cold, put it back down with a thump. She opened her mouth to speak, thought better of it, and closed it again.
I waved to the waiter, a scruffy looking lean man in tan pants and an orange shirt. I ordered coffee, black. He disappeared and reappeared in less than a minute. He set a steeping bowl of coffee before me and stepped away. I blew on its surface and took one tentative sip. It was as strong as it smelled.
I decided to jump right in. “You called me Amber, care to tell me what’s up?”
She fiddled with the handle of her coffee cup and said without looking up, “I need someone to talk to.”
“About?”
“Rainbow. About the things that are going on there.”
I expected to say there were making snuff films. That was the biggest urban legend of the bunch.
“What’s going on there? I asked. Getting her to speak was as difficult as getting a fervent Pentecostal not to speak in tongues.
She looked around the room, at the patrons, at the staff, at the people at the counter.
“Not here,” she said.
“Where then?”
“Outside.”
“Care to give me a hint?” I asked.
“Something’s very wrong at Rainbow Productions,” she said. After throwing some money on the table, she stood up. I took a quick sip of my untouched coffee and followed her lead. We headed outside and onto the sidewalk, her walking next to the street.
We walked a block, and she was silent. I was getting angry.
“Listen, Amber, I’m not in the habit of making early morning trips to Soho to be given the silent treatment.”
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“Don’t be sorry, just tell me what’s going on.”
If I’d been more alert than angry, I could have stopped what happened next. A car pulled up next to us with the back passenger window down. It was a dark sedan, that was all I saw. When I saw the barrel of the gun, I tried to push Amber away. Her mouth was formed into a perfect O, and no sound came out. My right hand dropped to the small of my back for my pistol.
The shotgun echoed across the empty street. I felt my left arm go numb. Amber took the force of the blast in the chest. She was lifted out of her shoes and dropped on to the sidewalk, dead.
By the time I got my gun out the car was pulling away. They hadn’t taken a second shot at me. I fired at it as it fled until my gun was empty. If someone found the car, they might find my bullet holes as evidence. It was probably stolen. If they were smart, they’d ditch it someplace or take it to a wrecker that didn’t ask too many questions.
It reloaded my gun and turned to Amber. She was lying on her back, her eyes open wide. Her chest was a mess of crimson. The smart thing to do would have been to flee, back to my apartment or bar, away from this scene. As it was, I called the cops on my cell phone. It was only after hanging up I realized blood was rolling down my left arm. The dry cleaner would have his job cut out for him.
A patrol car arrived, soon joined by three others. Then came the detectives and the crime scene team. The sidewalk was taped off, and the machinery went to work. I sat on the curb while an EMT taped up my arm.
They took my statement and said I’d have to come to the station the next day to sign it. The numbness in my arm had been replaced with a burning. It felt several white-hot needles were being jammed up and down its length. They took my gun as evidence. That didn’t bother me, I have several.
At the hospital, the doctor decided to leave the shot in my arm. He dug around for one piece and discovered it was steel shot, not lead. At least I didn’t have to worry about poisoning. He put a couple of stitches in the nastier wounds and gave a prescription for some codeine-based pain pills. But only ten, just to get me through the next couple of days. After that, he recommended Extra Strength Tylenol.
I filled the script at an all-night pharmacy and took a cab home. The pill washed down with some brandy, took away all the stress of the evening. I didn’t make it to bed. I fell asleep sitting up on the couch.
Chapter 16
Morning came late the next day. The new day greeted me with a thousand sharp and burning pains in my left arm. I looked at the bandage. Some of the wounds had leaked a straw-colored liquid. The slightest movement on my part seemed to bring on a crashing wave of pain. Sitting on the couch the idea of reaching the kitchen was out of consideration.
I made do with what I had at hand. I crushed two of the pain pills in my mouth and swallowed them with what was left in my brandy snifter. Pain is a funny thing. This wasn’t the first time I’d been shot. But I couldn’t remember the pain being this bad. None of my wounds had me safely ensconced in a hospital for treatment. A doctor, a reputable one anyway, will report guns
hot wounds to the police. The police get all sticky on how, where and why it happened. It’s enough to make an honest criminal want to quit the business. Of the three times, I had been shot, two had been treated by back alley doctors and one by a country vet who wanted the money I offered more than he wanted to involve the cops.
This was my first experience with a shotgun wound. With all that steel shot rattling around in my arm no wonder it hurt. I was justified in taking two pain pills when the label said to take one. The brandy would help them work.
And it didn’t take long. So my legs started to feel heavy, and my head rolled loosely on my neck. My arm, thankfully, ceased to be an issue. When I finally stood the floor seemed to heave up. I stumbled and headed for the bar. With my glass recharged, I settled in on the couch and watched CNN.
One of my stocks had started into what I anticipated would be a tailspin. I called my broker with a thick voice and told him to dump it. I didn’t have a good feeling about it. The young man I spoke to seemed of the opinion that the stock in question would bounce back. I asked him if he had any money in it and hung up in the answering silence.
Feeling fine I headed into the basement. The cops had taken my piece, and I needed another. Even half-drunk and stoned on codeine I still wanted a pistol around. The lesson last night was not lost on me. I found a serviceable 9mm Browning Hi-Power and a spare clip of ammo. I slipped both in my pocket and headed back upstairs.
I found a comfortable spot on the couch and let my mind drift. I wasn’t doing anything else today, not with my arm with the way it was. I thought about a shower and decided against it. While my first aid kit was up to the challenge of changing the dressing on my arm, I wasn’t. I finished the brandy and wondered if I should switch to bourbon at noon.
The door buzzer sounded, and I flipped the TV Channel so I could look at what the camera over the door had t show me. It was Gael. I would have buzzed her in accept the burglar bar was still in place on the front door. How I managed to get that into position last night, I would never know. Lightheaded and stumbling I made my way down the stairs and pulled at the bar securing the front door. I opened the door and faced the weather. It was grey, and the sky looked angry. It was the perfect day to remain inside.
Gael was holding my newspaper, The Times. I heard her sniff as she brushed past me without a word.
“A little early to get drunk, isn’t it, Poet?”
“I don’t intend to do any serious drinking until after noon. This is just a warm-up.”
We headed up the stairs and retired to my suite. I dropped into my spot on the couch, it was still warm. Gael took an armchair and rested her briefcase across her knees. She looked at the bandage on my arm.
“A little careless last night?”
“A little slow,” I said. “That shouldn’t have happened. I could have pushed her out of the way.”
“You tried.”
“Other people try. I succeed.”
We were silent for a moment. My arm had started to hurt again as if talking about it had wakened the sleeping giant. I crushed another pill in my mouth and swallowed some brandy. I raised the glass and an eyebrow to Gael. She shook her head.
“Don’t you want to know why I’m here?” she asked.
“Since you’re alone it’s not to arrest me. At present that’s all that interests me.”
“You’re a pain in the ass when you’re drunk,” she said and stood up to leave. I pushed myself up with my good arm.
“I’m sorry Gael,” I said.
She paused.
What the hell, we knew each other well enough; I figured I might as well tell her what was wrong.
“I watched a woman die last night Gael. You have to excuse me if I’m not the best company right now.”
“You’ve seen lots of people die Poet. Some of them you’ve even killed yourself. Aren’t you getting a little old for emotions?”
“You’d think that, wouldn’t you. I can’t explain it either. It’s not like death is new to me. On the job or in my private life I’ve seen enough of it. It’s never a piece of cake, but it was never this hard.
“Maybe it was seeing her go down, blown out of her shoes, a dozen red tulips opening on what used to be her chest. Maybe I’m just tired, tired of all this nonsense. I need a vacation.”
“Crooks need vacations? Look at you, it’s Friday, and you’re drunk at 11:30 in the morning. Your life is a vacation,” said Gael.
I could have explained to her, but she would have called it sour grapes. You can’t be a criminal without the associated crap, always watching your back, carrying a gun, ready to put down someone else before they did the same to you. It would be nice to walk down the street for a cup of coffee without having to fear for your life. There’s never any downtime. Twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week you’re on the streets, where anything can happen, and did last night.
I let Gael’s comment pass. As a cop, she was just the other side of the coin, even if she wouldn’t admit it. I was covered in cold sweat; I sat down and reached for my glass. Fortified with a warm mouthful of expensive liquor I asked, “Why are you here?”
“Are you going to be civil?” she asked.
“Scouts honor.”
In some colorful language, Gael doubted the fact I had even been a Boy Scout insinuating instead I hung out on street corners and swindled little old ladies out of their pension cheques. She sat down and opened her briefcase.
She pulled a glossy eight by ten photograph from an envelope and handed it over.
“Was that the car? From last night?” she asked.
I looked at the photograph. It was a side view of a perfectly ordinary grey Ford sedan. You could see the back window had a hole in it and the glass had spider-webbed. Gael passed over another. This was a rear view. There were several puckered holes in the trunk and a shattered taillight.
“Nice shooting,” said Gael.
I nodded.
“No, I mean it. In the dark, with you wounded and all, you did pretty well for shooting at a moving target.”
“The NYPD was my teacher.”
“You hit one of them.”
I looked up.
“Ya, there was blood in the back seat. Whoever you’re looking for has a wound or two.”
“Who says I’m looking for them?” I asked Gael.
“Poet,” she started, “You try to come off as this bad dude, but you’re just a pussycat. Most of the time. You’re running around town acting like a PI trying to solve a murder that’s already been solved. Like you said, this woman was killed next to you, of course, you want to find whose responsible, that’s the romantic in you.”
“No one ever said I was romantic before,” I said.
“You’re secret is safe with me. What would they say about you at the Liar’s Breath if they thought you went soft?”
“There aren't words to describe it. I’d have to find a new clientele.”
“Nothing wrong with that.”
“My customers are decent criminals’
Gael snorted.
I drained my glass and closed my eyes. “Why are you here,” I asked her. “This isn’t your squeal, it’s not even your precinct.”
“Somewhere along the line your name and mine have been linked by the powers that be in the computer system. Something happens to you, about you or with you and I’m the first one to know. And the first one questioned.”
“Where did they find this car?”
“Flatbush.”
“Stolen?”
“Obviously. From Brooklyn.”
“Must be someone brave, or stupid.”
“I had that thought too. You don’t drive around in the early hours of the morning with a shot up car. They should have dumped the car next to a subway station and gotten out of dodge,” Gael said.
I nodded.
“And before you ask, there were no prints in the car.”
“They either wiped it down before they dumped it,” I said.
“Or before they started and wore gloves,” finished Gael.
We were both quiet a minute. I handed the photos of the car back to Gael. She tucked them back into the envelope and into her briefcase.
“What about the woman,” I asked. If she hauled out crime scene photos, I think I might have lost what little was in my stomach. Even half loaded I didn’t have the nerve to see her again today. Last night was enough.
“Yes, what about her?”
I shrugged.
“Some detectives would like to know why the legendary, in his own mind anyway, Poet, was in attendance at this murder.”
“You mean they didn’t believe my statement?”
“The one your suppose to go down and sign today? Let’s see,” Gael flipped through the pages on her lap before finding the right form. “It says here you told the detectives she was a friend you met for coffee.”
“True.”
“In the middle of the night.”
“I couldn’t sleep.”
Gael clucked her tongue.
“I hadn’t been advised of my rights I remained silent.”
“It doesn’t matter that Amber Smythe was an employee of Rainbow Productions, the same company that your Cindy McMillen was under contract to?” asked Gael.
“Coincidence.”
She shook her head. “You’re going to be the death of me, Poet. Can’t you give me a straight answer?”
“Between you and me or you, me and the department?” I asked.
“You and me if you like.”
I paused. I wanted another drink but wouldn’t while Gael was there. Or after she left for that matter. I’d tried to hide behind the booze, and that wouldn’t help me get the bottom of this thing. As pleasurable as it was to stay drunk and hide there was something I needed to do. “I don’t have the slightest idea what’s going on Gael, that’s the honest truth. I’m looking into this murder for a friend, trying to see if someone else might have committed it. I tried Rainbow to find one of Cindy’s friends to talk to. Amber wouldn’t talk to me when I was on the set but called me up in the middle of the night ready to talk. She has me go to a coffeehouse in Soho and clams up when I arrive. All she says is something is wrong at Rainbow. When we go outside, she gets aced. That’s it, in a nutshell.”