Then, he leaned back looking down at his belly. It was starting to show the signs of aging. His pant line was growing older with him, but that didn't bother him. Many distinguished men had a little something extra in the belly.
Barker straightened his tie and looked up at the ceiling, which just so happened to be the twenty-third mirror of the night. Even with a belly, he was the most tasteful man in the room.
"Barker that was a hell of a speech," the claws dug a little too deep into his jacket.
"Thanks, boss,"
Psitticus bent down to Barker's ear level. "I know most of it was drivel coming from you, but you keep on a show like this and maybe you do have a shot at taking my place,"
Psitticus laughed as if he had just told a hilarious joke. Barker chuckled to play along. It was all a game, it was always a facade.
The fun part of the night was over with. The food was cleared away by men in white coats. Barker wasn't sure if they expected a tip for their service, but he figured if they did the other rich type folks would cover it for him.
Barker maneuvered through the hallway ready to press for the doors. He would be the first to leave, gather a taxi and make it home. The evening wasn't quite over for Barker, he still had a few details he had to work out in the current case.
You see it was known that Lucky not only crashed without the use of his steering wheel but also that, try as he might, his breaks did not work either. This fact was already known to Barker far before the forensic type had gathered the information and saw fit to pass it along to the real detectives.
Barker stopped by the mirror on the wall and readjusted his tie for the last time of the night.
When he arrived home he would be pressing those combat papers of Lucky. Delving deep into his backstory. Finding the plaster that held up those walls around his life. He would find the holes and dig his snout into them. Barker had an uncanny ability to sniff out things.
The men and women gathered at the doors, peering into the night. Some patted Barker on the back and congratulated him on his assent. Others commented on his speech. Each would forget about him in the morning. He did not donate to their balls or attend their dinner parties. Barker did not fancy a sit down with any one of these people. It was just appearance that brought him here in the first place.
He was entirely content to have sat at home alone. Alone with his notes at least. Those notes that would help him solve the case of the unlucky crash of Detective Lucky; the rising star of the detective force dead so young. Psitticus's handpicked predecessor dead in his thirties. Barker wasn't upset by the fact, he would have hated to work for the idiot.
Barker was more than happy the crash occurred to be quite honest. This meant that when he solved the case he would skyrocket even higher into the annals of great detectives. He was already known, by the people who mattered, to be the best detective in Maharris. Maybe even in the world.
Barker hailed a taxi. "Take me to the corner of Watson and Holmes," Barker was loath to ever be dropped off directly at his apartment complex. He had a fear of people knowing where he lived. People were fickle creatures. They would stalk, destroy, and kill for the most whimsical reasons.
The trip home was unrelenting. The cab driver took it upon himself to assume that Barker cared one iota what he had to say. The truth could not have been further from the speculation. Barker hated conversations with people, especially cab drivers. They had made their lot in life and it was to be a boring, smelly driver. They had nothing of interest to say to him.
So, when the cab stopped Barker was quick to remove himself from the man's presence. He refused to leave him a tip, the man had made the ride most un-enjoyable by filling the cab with his useless banter.
Barker stayed planted on the corner until he could see the tail lights blink out of sight. Then he turned down Holmes street. The street lights in the neighborhood left something to be desired, but perhaps that was why Barker had chosen to live down here. The people weren't always honest and friendly, but neither was anyone else. It was just that this group chose not to put up the fake image of hospitality. It was much easier to see the danger if there were no hidden agendas.
Barker passed with no excitement to 228A Holmes Street. He fished his key from his pocket and entered his small hub. Papers were strewn across the floor, he walked over them, not bothering to check the envelopes of mail that were shoved through the slot. He would pay the bills at some point, but tonight he had other things on his mind.
Barker's apartment did not consist of normal items such as couches, chairs, or tables. Instead, he had an open floor and a bed in the corner. Of course, he had a refrigerator and a stove that worked; at least he assumed it would if he ever used it.
Tonight, Barker made his way to the only wooden structure inside his hovel. It was a misconstrued writing desk that had obviously seen the last of its better days years before. He saw no reason to chuck it out, as any flat piece of wood was just as good as another, no matter appearances.
Lucky's case file was already open. The pictures of the gruesome crash lay strewn out over the desk. Barker pushed them to the side. He had witnessed the crash first hand. He had the information he needed from it already stored in his mind. If he wanted the image, he had to but close his eyes and see it.
What Barker wanted was the list of Lucky's combat buddies. Those who had gone to war with him. Those who had slept near him as he screamed at night in terror. Those who had witnessed him killing helpless vagabonds in the hills. Barker wasn't sure any of that was actually the case, but he would soon find out.
On the morrow, he had already planned to walk to the corner of Watson and Holmes and hail himself a cab. From there, he would visit those on the list he had drawn up. There, he would find his victim... err his murderer. Barker traced the paper with his nail and landed on a name: Captain Dotton. Prime suspect number one.
2.
Barker imagined most Captains in the armed forces would have lived luxurious lives after the army. Spending their youth and prime fending off the bad guys. However, Captain Dotton lived as far from luxury as one possibly could and still actually live. Dotton opened the door with what seemed to be five years in-between shaves and maybe bathing.
His clothes were almost non-existent due to the holes and streaming strings of white thread hanging from every crevice. That at least was the clothes he did wear. What he was missing was socks, shoes, a shirt, and any sense of pride.
Dotton was a billy goat and he was definitely quite gruff.
"What do you want?" he asked as if that was a correct and proper greeting to a man at his door. Barker fished into his front pocket. No reason for moves to maintain a friendship, it was straight to the formal. He pulled out his detective star. It was really just a gold overlaid piece of metal, not even real gold.
Dotton sighed, "what did I forget I did this time?" the door opened a little further, but it was reluctantly. Dotton poked his head out and his eyes were lit by the sun, turning his pupils into small rectangular boxes. "Forget the trash cans again?" he was looking towards the curb, but Barker had cased the place already, there was nothing on the curbs. "There ain't even anything there this time," Dotton's breath smelt like strong liquor, which was quite prevalent with the army folk.
"No trash cans, Captain Dotton," Barker shoved the star back into his front lapel. Then he straightened his tie. No need to look shabby, not even in a place like this. "I am here about a former charge of yours in the army," Dotton nodded.
"Those folk always be getting themselves into some type of trouble," he replied. The door opened further and Dotton even took a step back. It was almost an invitation but not quite, he was still waiting for the flavor of the visit.
"Nothing of trouble in that sense, Captain, I am here about a murder, or a purposed murder, nothing specific yet."
The invitation was almost rescinded, Barker talked quickly before he lost the man for good. "It is about a man named Lucky, you may know him better as Captain Lucky
, but I suppose when you knew him he was nothing more than a private first class," Barker said.
The door opened fully, "Oh no Lucky kill someone?" Dotton had real emotion on his face. A show of real friendship, he wasn't the one Barker needed. "On the contrary, he was himself a victim," Dotton's eyes sagged.
If the war didn't kill you and the reception didn't dampen your spirits when you returned, then life would hunt you again until it found you alone and cold. Here was Dotton alone and cold and life still grasped for his throat, ready to squeeze the last vestal of life from his lungs.
"I can't believe it, he was something," Dotton stepped away from the door. "You want a drink?" he asked. Barker could see this was going to be a waste of time. Dotton would provide him nothing in terms of a murderer. Maybe he could provide a path to someone who would be more viable.
"I will take water," Barker said and stepped up onto the small overhang.
The inside of the apartment matched the tenant to a tee. It was covered in old stains, presumably from the vomiting the alcohol induced. Barker was able to deduct this from the smell permeating the small enclosure. Sometimes it was a disadvantage to have such a keen sense of smell.
"Never mind on the water," Barker pulled a harmless looking seat over towards the door. The seat was bereft of a cushion and so Barker found it hard to believe that the vomit could have soaked into its metal frame. "Bring me the bottle of alcohol, do not bother with a glass."
The glasses Barker had seen were littered across the floor in various places and states. Some were covered in a green moss-like substance, others were half full of cigarette butts, and others were questionable even to the scrutinizing of the world's best detective.
Dotton fumbled over to the table and grabbed the brown liquor and took a long draught, before handing the bottle off to Barker.
Barker himself had no intention of partaking in the beverage, instead, he dipped his finger into the neck of the bottle and let the alcohol soak into his fur. Then he ran the dripping finger across the bottom of his nose. Alcohol wasn't the most pleasant of smells, but it sure beat the smell of old vomit.
Dotton didn't seem to notice the methods of Barker or if he did then he showed indifference to them.
"So, old Lucky is dead then?" Dotton sat down on the couch and Barker noticed a puff of dust trail behind him.
Barker pulled a picture from his coat pocket. He probably didn't need the gory details, but Barker was going to share them anyhow.
Dotton flinched at the scene of the crime. The picture landed a mere foot away from him on a small cluttered coffee table.
"Seems to me that such a gruesome death had to have harbored quite a hate," Barker let his nail trace the outline of the scene. "Don't reckon you are familiar with brake systems?" Barker could see that the vomit collection was seconds away from being added to. Dotton shook his head, even after the gruesomeness of war, seeing a friend dead still did something to people. "I didn't think so, but then again what do you have to know, more than where to snip the line."
Dotton recovered a little and shook his head, "Nope, not me Detective, I was the reason Lucky got that promotion to Captain," Dotton ran his hoofs together in a nervous fashion. He took his eyes from the picture but glanced back quickly with the sides of his eyes.
It was the fascination with death that had drawn Barker into the agency as well. Dotton was just showing normal behavior.
"I don't suppose you can fathom anyone capable of doing such a thing to poor Detective Lucky?" Barker had a list of names. He was bound to find one that fit the bill, but if Dotton could spew off a name or two it would surely cut his workload.
"I know of one or two who didn't like Lucky," Dotton grabbed the bottle from the floor and took another swig, and then glanced at the picture again.
Barker leaned forward and grabbed the picture placing it in his coat pocket. "Who?" just a simple answer could lead to such great things, Barker knew that all he needed was the name of one man to fit the deed.
"Major Blake Mane and General Plancer," Dotton shook his head as if the names hurt him to speak them aloud.
Maybe they did, maybe anything from that time in his life hurt him. If he hadn't planned to get drunk enough to spew this morning, after Barker's visit he was surely going to add to his planner.
"I do have both on my list," Barker tapped the side of his head. It was where he kept all important articles and details.
Dotton grabbed the bottle and cradled it to his chest, he would be of no further use.
"I will see myself out," Barker stopped at a dingy and dusty mirror and straightened his tie. It was back to the world.
3.
Barker found himself in a small quiet cafe. He usually ate at Sins Eatery, but today he had other things on his plate. It wasn't about the food in this subpar little joint. It was about the cook. Major Bane, a stand out in the armed forces, had been dishonorably discharged three years back. Going from Major too short order.
It seemed Mr. Mane had a thing for gambling. Gambling was always an easy fall back for the poor who became suddenly rich. Barker knew many of the same types. There were many gambling rings inside the city, you could find one just about anywhere, but there were only a select few worth noticing.
Mane had found himself a top-tier service, it was just too bad that the authority also found them. Now, Mane stood behind a greasy stove and flipped burgers, not the noblest of endings.
"What can I get you to drink, sweetie?" said the waitress.
Barker tapped on the menu with his claw. There in the fine print under was the word coffee. "You take any sugar or cream?" the woman wrote down the order on a small paper card. It was pitiful that she couldn't remember a single drink.
"I will take it black," Barker was in no mood for frivolities. He had a mission to achieve this morning. "Also, who mind you is the cook today?"
The woman stopped her scratching on the pad. "I believe we have Mr. Mane," she looked back as if she could peer through the walls. "He is an excellent cook, makes the best little burgers in town," she said.
Mane was here today, that meant all Barker had to do was wait for the man's morning break.
"That is great," Barker flipped the menu over. "Then I will take one of those," he said.
The woman paused a moment, "You don't want a moment to look over the menu while I grab you your drink?"
"No, I will take the burger, thank you,"
The woman looked disgruntled. As if no one had ever ordered food before their drink before. "If you insist, sir," she grabbed the menu that Barker pressed into her palm.
"Make sure the coffee is quite strong,"
The woman nodded and moved away, glancing over her shoulder as if he would change his mind before she made it to the counter.
The cafe wasn't overly busy. Barker could count ten people aside from him enjoying the services. He evaluated them each individually and made up his mind that each lived a rather boring and mundane life.
Most probably worked around the area, which was mostly a low-income suburb. Another one or two were from out of town, and no one had bothered to inform them of the better cafes in the city.
"Here is your coffee, sir," it looked lukewarm as the steam was not roiling over the lip. Barker thought to complain but changed his mind. It was of no matter, it was merely a stall tactic anyhow. He had his morning coffee before he had visited Dotton. The poor Captain who was probably at the moment swimming in a sea of vomit. Barker needed a shower after that hole, but first, he needed to speak with Mane and maybe Plancer, but first Mane, better to stay on track. "You sure you don't want to glance at that menu one more time?"
She was persistent. "I am fine," Barker looked up towards the order window. There was his ticket on the ledge, not on the spinning wheel. She had really expected him to change his mind.
She stood there at his table a moment longer waiting for him to say anything else, but he was silent. She finally moved off in the direction of another table.
His burger came out long before Mane showed his face. It tasted like grease. Barker could have floated the patty in the saucer. He barely finished the first bite. He would not be sending his compliments to the chef.
Barker pushed the plate away from him. This cafe was growing worse by the minute. He needed a way to hurry the process. If he still needed to talk with General Plancer today then he was running short on time.
Barker looked around the cafe again. Still the same people, an older gentleman had joined the counter group, but nothing seemed to be overly pressing for a cook. The waitress was lazily wiping down tables adjacent to him.
Barker looked back at the burger. The bun was soggy now with the juices, and his fries looked like tiny boats in an ocean.
"Waitress," Barker turned his shoulder to wave over the woman. She looked thankful to be done with the act of cleaning.
"What can I do for you, sir?" she glanced at the table, "more coffee?" she would busy herself with guessing if Barker allowed her the choice, but he did not plan to allow that.
"Actually, I would like to compliment the chef,"
Again, her eyes glanced at the table. She could clearly see that he had no more than touched the burger.
"I see," she glanced back at the pick-up window. "It is awfully busy at the moment," she said.
It wasn't busy. Barker counted ten people when he entered. Eight received their food before him and two moments later. Only the old man sitting at the counter was without a plate and Barker was aware that he had only ordered a cup of coffee.
"I will just be a moment," he could press the obvious lack of customers, but this type of person reacted better to a different manner. "I am amazed by the work you and he have done. I can tell you face to face and so it is only fair he receive the same," flattery. Barker wasn't fond of the tactic, but again he didn't have the time to fiddle with the ego of this woman.
The Canes Files Page 5