He got as far as the curb. Then he saw something. Moira's car parked at the corner.
He walked over and looked at it. I forgot how to breathe. He stood there for a long time with his hand on the door. Finally, he opened the door and rolled a window up so the rain wouldn't get the seats wet. He closed the door and looked up at my apartment. The streetlight glow fell across his face.
If any mortal has seen the face of a soul in Hell, I saw it then. He turned with his torture-twisted face and shuffled across the street. I watched him walk that way with his shoulders sagging and his head down. I stood there, watching him until he had disappeared in the rain.
"Moira," I said carefully. I held to the window sill with my fingers. "Moira ..."
The bed springs behind me stirred. I heard her sit up. "Jimmy," she said thickly. "I been waitin' for hours, honey—"
"Moira," I said, "how long has he known? How long has Ross known about us?"
"Huh?" The springs stirred some more. Finally she got up and came over to the window. She started laughing, low in her throat. It was a filthy sound. Her lips twisted with contempt. "He's known for ages. Everybody on the force knows. Get wise, Jimmy. He won't do anything. He's too scared of losing me. I laugh at him about it all the time. I tell him how are you in bed to his face because I like to see how his face gets sick and hear him whine—"
I hit her. I hit her so hard she went tripping back and landed on the floor on her fanny with a little bounce.
Then I went into the bathroom and vomited. I wrenched and gagged with the filth that was in me, but I knew it would take more than this to make me clean.
I knew now why Ross beat up the punks. Why he tortured them. It was me he was beating to a pulp, vicariously. Me and all the other guys who had made his wife. He wanted to kill me so bad the taste of it must have been like sweet honey in his mouth. But he didn't dare lay a finger on me because even greater than his hate of me and his hell of jealousy was the fear of Moira walking out on him. She must have held that threat over him constantly so that he didn't even dare get me killed "accidentally."
And I knew suddenly with shocking clarity why I had really gotten such a kick out of having Moira. It was not Moira as a woman. It was because through her, I had beaten Ross Grimm. Me, Jimmy Street, with a yellow stripe down his back a yard wide—I'd never dared to stand up to Grimm's face. Yet, for six months, I'd beaten him, inside.
I had watched him with his powerful fists and arrogance make men fear and respect him. He was big, strong and courageous, all the things I could never be. And I had stood back, fearful of him, yet laughing at him because I had beaten him by taking his wife. Now I was helping to get him kicked off the force.
Knowing this now, seeing myself, I should have gotten out of there. I should have run across town to a girl with young eyes and clean lips, like maybe Patty Murray. But I would not. Some day, Ross Grimm would reach the end of his rope. A man could take so much hell before he got out his gun and killed people like me and Moira and maybe himself. But until then, I couldn't stop. I couldn't stop this sickness inside me that gloried in a power over a stronger man whom I hated and feared.
I went back into the bedroom. I clasped Moira, my fingers biting into her bare shoulders. She was whimpering, wanting to be comforted because I had hit her. I started laughing. I laughed until the tears ran out of my eyes. Jimmy Street, sniveling coward, wife stealer, was the one man in the world who was bigger than Ross Grimm ...
Growing up during the Great Depression, Charles Boeckman, AKA Charles Beckman, Jr., learned early, that in lean times, self-education was the key to a bright future. So he taught himself saxophone and clarinet, music theory, and arrangement writing. When he discovered that writers got paid for stories, he turned his childhood bent for entertaining the neighborhood kids with ghost stories into a quest for the ultimate life-style as professional, free-lance writer. He did that by studying the great short story writers he had encountered during his voracious reading as he grew up. His ultimate models were Poe, de Maupassant, and Chekhov. From them, learned that the goal of the well-written short story was to create one powerful, emotional effect on the reader. And that is what his stories do, starting with his first sale in 1945.
Boeckman combined his music skills and writing ability in both his life and in his literature. A professional musician and writer of short stories, novels, and non-fiction in real life, he also crafted many of his stories with a musical background. You will find 24 of his vintage, pulp short stories in his anthology of reprints, SUSPENSE, SUSPICION & SHOCKERS. Available on Amazon.
SHUT UP AND KILL ME
Robert J. Randisi
I took a bad beating once, a long time ago. After that I promised I'd never take another one, no matter what. So when I'm faced with a situation where it looks like I'm going to get my ass kicked, I do the ass kicking first.
When the three leg breakers came into my office they had bad intentions. It was written all over their faces. I wasn't about to wait and see if they intended to maim me, or kill me.
I moved first.
But it really started when she walked in earlier that day ...
* * *
She wasn't the cliché blonde who enters the P.I.'s office with heaving breasts and wet lips.
She did have a familiar look in her eyes, the look that says "I've never done this before and I'm scared shitless."
My name's Nick Delvecchio. I've been a P.I. in Brooklyn for more years than I care to remember. A few years ago I reluctantly turned forty and people who know me well say I didn't embrace the big four-O gracefully. In fact, they say I got mean.
Well, why not? The world's getting meaner, isn't it? Or haven't Oklahoma City, 9/11 and Guantanamo Bay been proof enough of that? Not to mention the creation of something called an Amber Alert. Me, I'm just trying to keep in step with the times.
The woman looked at me and licked her thin lips. One hand strayed to her lifeless, lank, brown hair and yanked on it in such a way that it reminded me of people who wear a rubber band around their wrist so they can snap it for a quick reminder.
"Mr. Delvecchio?" she asked.
"Yes, Ma'am, that's me."
"I—you're the private detective, right?"
I restrained myself from telling her, "That's what it says on the door," and simply said, "Yes." See? I start out nice.
She tugged on her hair again.
"I'd like to hire you."
"Have a seat, Miss ...?"
She sat down across from me and said," Oh, well, do I have to tell you my name?"
That's the way this usually works, but I suppose it will depend on what you want me to do and how much you're willing to pay me."
"You mean if I pay enough I don't have to tell you my name?"
"As long as you're not going to ask me to kill somebody."
Her face fell and she yanked on her hair.
"Hey," I said. "I was kidding."
"B-but," she said, "that's exactly what I want you to do."
I sat forward in my chair and put my hands on my desk.
"You want me to kill somebody?"
"Y-yes."
"Who?"
Yank, yank again on her hair, almost viciously and she said, "Me."
* * *
I sat and stared at her for a few moments, then said, "Are you serious?"
"I'm very serious," she said. "I'd do it myself, but I'm too much of a coward."
"Mrs.—Miss—" I stopped, but she still didn't want to give a name. "Ma'am, why would you want to kill yourself?"
"The reasons aren't important to you," she said. "I have money, I can hire it done. That's what I want to do. Will you do it? I have five thousand dollars."
I didn't want to tell her that if you weren't fussy about the level of talent, or how much of a mess got made, you could have ten people killed for that much money.
"No, I won't do it," I said. "I'm not a killer I'm a private detective. Why would you come to me with this, anyway?"
"I have a friend who hired you once, a few months ago. She said you were very good. She gave me your name."
"Did you tell her what you wanted?"
"No, I just told her that I had a problem and needed a professional."
"Well, I'm a professional, but not a killer." Funny, but I couldn't keep myself from feeling insulted.
"I—I'm sorry," she said. "I just thought—well, perhaps you could ... recommend someone?"
"Give you the name of a hit man, you mean?" I asked. "And a phone number? Maybe an address?"
She gave her hair another yank and I swore a few strands came out. She got to her feet quickly.
"I—I'm sorry I bothered you."
She turned and ran out of the office.
My first instinct was to chase her, try to follow her and find out who she was. My second instinct was to write her off as a nut and go back to my day.
I got up and hurried out the door, but I should have gone with my second instinct right away. By the time I got down to the street she was nowhere in sight. You can't always find a cab cruising down Sackett Street, so I walked to each corner to see if maybe she was there, but it was no use.
I had allowed a suicidal woman to walk out of my office and return to her search for a hit man.
Wasn't that mean?
* * *
I went back to my office and sat behind my desk. If I'd been in a better mood that day I might have asked her for her name right away, and pressed the point. Now all I had was the fact that someone I worked for recently had recommended me.
Oddly, enough, I'd been busy of late, but she had also said I was recommended by a woman. I'd had four women as clients in the past month, six in the past two months. I decided to go back the whole two months.
I pulled the files on the six women and called them. Four I got at home. One scolded me for calling her there, where her husband might have answered the phone, and hung up after calling me a shit. Apparently, she was still with her husband even after I confirmed that he was cheating. And she seemed angrier with me than with him. I assumed she wasn't about to recommend my services to anyone.
The three others I found at home listened to my story and said they hadn't recommended me to any girlfriends. One of them reminded me that we were supposed to "get together." I told her I hadn't forgotten, and hung up. I hadn't forgotten, I'd just decided to ignore the invitation, especially since she had an overgrown husband I had proven to be faithful. She, on the other hand, was not above playing around. She just wanted to confirm that she was the only one doing the playing. She was, but not with me.
I had two other women to call, and they had jobs—careers, actually. They had hired me to do some work for their businesses, so they wouldn't mind me calling them at work.
"Bender and Bender," a girl's voice said.
"Mrs. Styles, please."
"Who shall I say is calling?"
"Nick Delvecchio."
"Hold on a moment."
Bender and Bender was a law firm with offices in Borough Hall, where a lot of the legal work in Brooklyn got done. She had hired me to do some background checks on potential employees, as the firm was planning to expand.
When Henrietta Styles came on the phone she was very businesslike. No, she had not recommended me to anyone since I'd worked for her. When I told her why I was calling she said that she did not have any suicidal friends—at least, none that were women. I waited to see if she was kidding, but she was not.
My last chance was a woman named Rita Eiland. She was an assistant manager at a Manhattan advertising company, and had hired me on the recommendation of another lawyer I knew and did occasional jobs for.
"Prescott and Jones," a woman's voice said in my ear.
"I'd like to speak to Rita Eiland, please."
"I'm afraid Miss Eland is not in today."
"Is she at home?" I had the home number, but assumed she'd be at work.
"I—I'm not sure. She called early this morning and said she would not be able to come in because of an emergency. You could try her home ... if you have that number."
"I do," I said.
"Can I take a message, in case you don't get a hold of her?"
"Yes, would you please tell her Nick Delvecchio called. I'd appreciate a call back. I just have one question to ask her."
"Delvecchio," the girl said. "You're the private eye, right?"
"That's right. Did we meet when I was up there?"
"Sort of. I'm the receptionist that pointed the way to her office for you, but we never really, you know, got introduced."
"As I remember," I said, hoping this wasn't going to be a wild shot in the dark, "you're pretty cute."
"Oh, well," I could hear the blush over the phone, "you're not so bad yourself." The blush deepened, I was sure.
"What was your name?"
"Diana."
"Diana, you don't happen to know what the emergency was, do you?"
"Well," her tone dropped to a conspiratorial whisper, "I heard someone say there was a death in her family?"
"Her family?" I asked. "Could it have been the death of a friend?"
"I guess so," she said. "I'm really not sure."
"You've been very helpful, Diana. Thanks so much."
"Oh, well, sure," she said. "Is that ... it?"
It was my own fault. I'd told her she was cute, she expected the next move to be asking her out.
"For now, Diana," I said. "You see, I'm working."
"Oh," she said, as if I'd explained it perfectly, "All right, well ... I'll be here."
"Have a nice day," I said, then cringed at how that sounded.
I hung up and tried Rita Eiland's home phone. No answer. Not even a message. I pulled her file out and checked it, was pleased to see that I did have a cell phone number for her. I tried that. No answer. I hate cell phones. Why do people carry them and then turn them off? This time I was able to leave a message. I asked her to call me as soon as she got my call.
As I hung up I didn't know what else I could do. It was all going to depend on what Rita said, if and when she called back.
I couldn't just stay in my office, though. I still had a couple of other cases I was working on, so until I heard back from Rita I figured I'd get to work.
I opened my bottom drawer and pulled out a disposable cell phone still packed in plastic. I was down to three, I could see, as I pulled the plastic apart. As much as I hated cell phones I knew I needed one occasionally, but rather than buy an expensive phone and pay for somebody's program, I used disposables. Mostly, I used them for outgoing calls, incoming. It was only on occasion I'd give the number out. I'm still a firm believer in offices, and land lines, and answering machines. If I'm not in the office when you call, leave me a message. I'll get back to you.
Can you hear me now?
* * *
I live in Brooklyn, do most of my work in Brooklyn and Manhattan with occasional forays into Queens, the Bronx, Staten Island and, God forbid, New Jersey. I don't own a car. I can get everywhere I have to on a bus or train. In a pinch I use a cab. And all the fares I pay don't add up to what I would pay to park a car overnight. But if I need a car I usually rent one.
Okay, so in my old age I'm also getting cheap.
I left the office and walked over to Court Street. I had business on Livingston Street, which was thirteen blocks away. That's an easy walk for me. I like walking. But today I found myself walking a little faster than usual, so by the time I arrived I was out of breath. I knew it was the girl. I was thinking about her, knew I had to find her before she did something stupid. It was putting more urgency in my step.
I put her out of my mind long enough to get the day's work done. She didn't reoccur to me until I was walking back. I fished out my disposable cell and tried Rita Eiland again. Still no answer. I left another message asking her to call me ASAP.
When I got back to the office I started in on some paperwork, until the door opened and the three leg breakers walk in ...<
br />
I reached underneath my desk. That's where I keep a spring-loaded baton. I have a gun but it's not always handy and being able to grab a gun at a moment's notice is a good way to get into trouble. So I keep the baton handy.
"You Delvecchio?" one of them asked. He looked like the only one capable of speech. The other two were unibrowed steroid heads.
"That's me."
"You're comin' with us."
"I don't think so."
"I do." He waved his hand at the other two.
The three of them started for me. I pulled out the baton, pointed and hit the button. It extended nineteen inches, and had a blunt end. It shot out quickly, striking one of the cro-magnons squarely on the chin. That's not exactly the way you're supposed to use the thing. I was aiming for his chest, but this worked better. His head snapped back with such force I was surprised it didn't fly off.
I turned and whipped the baton around and swung at one of the other weight lifters. He brought his huge arm up to block it, and I heard his forearm crack. He screamed and pulled the arm tightly to his side.
The third man reached into his jacket and I knew it was time to go. My office is the fifth room of my five-room apartment. There are two doors, one from the hall and the other leading to the rest of my apartment. I ran through that door, slammed it behind me and flipped the lock. There was a shot. A hole appeared in the door. It wouldn't hold for long.
I hit the button on the baton to retract it and ran for the window. I stepped out onto the fire escape and climbed down. At some point I heard the door splinter, but then I was on the ground and running. I waited for more shots, but they didn't come.
What the hell was going on?
* * *
"What kind of self respecting P.I. doesn't have a gun?" Detective Weinstock asked.
"Since when have you respected me?" I asked.
"I said self respecting," he pointed out.
"Anyway. I have a gun, but it wasn't nearby," I said. "If it was you'd be asking me to explain three dead men in my office."
BEAT to a PULP: Hardboiled 2 Page 17