Work at Odds

by Shane Chastain

  “Is that where the cat house was set up?” I inquired.

  He grunted and nodded, and crossed the street to it. He knocked and tried the handle, but it was locked up tight. I rubbed a piece of window with my sleeve, and tried to see in.

  “Old couch. Couple loose mattresses. Milk crate, maybe to sit on.” I’d seen enough, and turned to Dave. “If this is where they were set up, I don’t know why Edwards thought it was worth visiting.”

  He responded with another indifferent sound and began walking down the street, away from the car. I was beginning to get sore, partly because I was tired, and also because what glint of a plan he had seemed like it could keep till morning. I like to fancy myself a team player however, so I caught up to him, deciding I’d at least let him lead me around for the time it’d take me to eat my dinner. I got my backup sandwich out and started on it.

  No sooner than I had a mouthful of bologna and cheese, Dave decided to get chatty.

  “What drives a man to habitual promiscuity, John?”

  I shrugged and swallowed.

  “I don’t know. In Edwards’ case, he said it was frustrations with the wife.”

  “That’s fine for the wife, but was he similarly frustrated with Miss Sandy, or any of the other women he spent time with? And if Sandy, and others, presented the same dissatisfaction as the wife, then why did he return to the company of each, time and time again?”

  I got the feeling I might be in for one of Dave’s existential spells, so I wrapped the remained of my sandwich and returned it to its pocket. I exhaled and considered.

  “You want a deeper metaphor?”

  He turned his hands over, and stated,

  “I want sound reason. I’ve noted fault with your first. Yourself and Miss Carter are involved, and have been for some time. There are no doubt frustrations that arise periodically, yet I don’t know you to solicit prostitutes. Do you deprive yourself out of some greater sense of union between the two of you?”

  I shook my head.

  “No, Dave. I don’t think there’s some innate drive in all men to run to something new every time the toast gets burned. That being said, there’s plenty of reasons guys want a lot of women. It could be a sense of conquest, like a sport.”

  “The kink, that Mr. Barbingola mentioned?”

  I squinted.

  “I don’t know, Dave. You can pick up girls out dancing, too. What Edwards was doing was something else. Why do you think?”

  He lifted his shoulders, and offered flippantly, “I have no idea,” and that was the end of it.

  I kept my eye on him for a little while as we walked, feeling somewhat hard done by his peppering, for him to give no opinion beyond not liking mine. I chose to let it rest, and got the rest of my dinner out again. I was unwrapping when we turned the corner and he quietly exclaimed,

  “This could be a development.”

  A half block in front of us, making her way laboriously down the sidewalk, heading toward the river, hobbled an old woman in a dirty pink dress that was criminally short. Dave tapped my sleeve and indicated we should cross the street. I could tell what he was thinking, but it seemed like a long shot. What would be the odds that the first old lady we’d see walking might be the elusive Mable, whom we weren’t sure still lived. This poor creature could just as well be any other down and out person. Just the same, Dave meant to find out.

  The tailing was some of the easiest we’d ever done, so I got to finish my dinner. She hardly took her eyes off the bit of sidewalk in front of her, and we could have kept pace with our legs tied together. A night breeze blew cold off the river, and I was just about to suggest I go for the car and we offer the woman a ride to a shelter, when she reached her destination.

  It was the kind of place Edwards would have liked, with eye candy out front, and no signage whatsoever. A goon at the door let the old woman in.

  “You think they’d mind a couple walk ups?” I wondered aloud.

  “I doubt it, but he might,” Dave answered grimly.

  I followed his gaze. It wasn’t on the brothel door, but higher. All the way to the top of the building next door. Not a downtown tower, by any means, but at least ten stories up, and at the corner of the rooftop, black before a moonlit cloud, I could just make out the profile of man in a low hat.

  “You think it’s our guy?”

  “I certainly do, John.”

  It was an easy idea to put together, so I did.

  “So, old Mable’s kid grows up and seeks revenge on the man that put his mother out in the cold. Should we just go up and get him?”

  Dave stood for a moment, not taking his eyes off the pair that no doubt watched us. His lips parted, and he considered another moment, then said,

  “No. We may take him at his home, or elsewhere, that he doesn’t expect us to be. No. We are on his field here. We’ll speak with the woman.”

  With that he struck out across the street, past the women that cooed at us, and to the doorman. I figured that would be our first obstacle, but it wasn’t that sort of joint. The heavy, who I didn’t recognize as Barbingola’s, greeted us with a gold tooth, and told us to have a good time.

  Inside, the place was thick with cigarette and cheap cigar smoke. It was just one large room, apparently disconnected from the rest of the good sized building. A corridor led back to a few other rooms in the middle. Occupied couches surrounded the perimeter with men and women paired off, save for a few high rollers that had two each. Obviously the lights were about as low as they could go.

  A good looking woman in a black dress, with clearer eyes than the rest, got up from one of the couches and approached us.

  “How may we help you boys?” she said.

  Dave shocked me with his opening line.

  “Yes, my friend and I share a somewhat odd proclivity, and we understand that you might offer services to suit it.”

  My eyes popped, and my face got long, but our hostess didn’t so much as bat an eye. She turned around and motioned to one of the girls. A thin black girl with big hair got up and stood beside her. She smiled, showing striking white teeth. Our host introduced her.

  “Violet will be happy to fulfill your wildest fantasies.”

  Dave raised the corners of his mouth at the ladies, and said,

  “I am certain. However, my friend and I share a desire to spend time talking with our dear departed grandmothers, and we understand that such a venerable lady may sometimes reside here.”

  Violet threw her hands up and went back to the couch. The other woman wasn’t quite so flummoxed, but she did shed some of her hospitality. She shrugged and said flatly,

  “You can just say what you’re in to.” She pointed down the corridor and added, “Last door on the right.”

  “Is she busy?” I asked sheepishly.

  “No. Since the other night when a fella came in and was rude to her, we thought it would be better to let Miss Mable stay in the back. I would say, I’m sorry you don’t get to see her first, but I guess you two don’t care much about that.”

  Dave thanked her and started off down the hall, looking pleased with himself. As I began to follow, the hostess grabbed me by the arm, leaned in, and spoke coolly.

  “You better not stiff, or hurt, Miss Mable, if you know what’s good for you, pal.”

  I showed her my hands, and motioned that I wouldn’t, and went.

  Dave knocked gently on the door at the end of the corridor, and eased it open. I stayed right at his shoulder.

  “Miss Mable. We are only here to talk, I assure you,” he said.

  “Well, I was about to say.” She didn’t say what she was going to say, and just sat on the side of a poorly made bed.

  By the dim lamp on the nightstand, which I figured was mainly for counting money under, you could see that Mable was only a little older than Sandy, and certainly not more than five years at the most. The years had been hard however, and the lines in Mable’s face, and frailty of her frame, did bring Sandy’s prediction
of ‘old dishrag’ to mind. There was something in the eyes too, that didn’t seem quite right. Dave approached and began gently.

  “Miss Mable, my name is David DeGrabber, and this is my colleague, John Trait. Do you know where your son is tonight?”

  She smiled wide, revealing that her bottom teeth had checked out early. She giggled and said,

  “I’m afraid the Japanese got Art.”

  If that seems like a weird thing to say with a giggle, don’t worry. The discrepancy wasn’t lost on Dave and I either.

  “The Japanese?” Dave repeated.

  She rocked back, and assured us,

  “Yep, captured Art on one of those islands, never to be seen again.”

  “And you’ve not seen Art since he left for the war?”

  “Nope.”

  Dave tilted his head and frowned.

  “How long have you been here, Miss Mable?”

  “Enough talk boys. What can Miss Mable do for you?”

  I’ll save you the last bit of our visit with Mable. I figure Dave paid her triple what she would have asked for the works, just to get us out of that back room with our virtues intact. We must have exited in a bluster, because the hostess was there to receive us before we even made it to the front room.

  “That didn’t take long,” she stated.

  Dave still had some money out, and dropped the entire charade. He held up two twenties, and asked,

  “How long has Miss Mable been here, and what is her function?”

  The woman frowned and reached fast for the money, like she expected Dave to withdraw it, but he didn’t. She took it gently, and eyed him, then answered.

  “She’s off her rocker. She’s been at this too long. She pretty much just hangs around the place.”

  Dave ventured further.

  “This hardly seems a place of charity.”

  The woman lowered her voice.

  “Someone pays for her.”

  “Art?” he asked.

  She looked confused.

  “I don’t know who. The money shows up here or there, every week. The first time came with a note saying to keep her dry.”

  “When was that?” I probed.

  “About six months ago. Who are you two anyway?”

  Dave put another twenty dollars in her hand, and we made for the door, hoping that was enough to stop her stopping us. It was, and we were back out on the street.

  “John, go that way! It’s Dena.” Dave exclaimed, as soon as we’d stepped foot on the sidewalk. He ushered me along the side of the building, nearly running me into the man at the brothel door, and directed me into the alleyway.

  I stopped and turned to him, and saw that he had a finger to his lips, asking for quiet, so I spoke under my breath.

  “I know Dena isn’t here. What’s the idea? I thought we were gonna go for the guy on the roof some other time.”

  He hissed back.

  “I only used that ruse for the doorman’s benefit. We must act now, since the mother gave us no information.”

  I shrugged, and he took it to mean I was all in, which I suppose I was bound to be, and he led the way further down the alley. I peered up into the night sky, to try and spot our quarry, but clouds had come in, and visibility was poor. He stopped at another back door, tried the handle, and this time gave the order.

  “Open this, John.”

  He produced his set of lockpicks from his jacket pocket, and I dropped to one knee to get started. A regular knob lock. Nothing to it.

  12

  The lock gave up in a jiff, and we entered into a service stairwell. We started up, being careful not to make our presence known. I whispered to Dave, who led the way.

  “You think he’s still up there?”

  He peered up the stairs ahead of him, and answered,

  “I do, since we were not set upon during our meeting with Miss Mable.”

  He had a point. We crept in silence, up to the top floor of the building, where a hall led around to another single flight of stairs to the roof access. Dave started to climb them, but I took his elbow, and suggested,

  “Hold on. This guy has got the better of a lot of hard men.” I got my pistol out. “Let’s be ready.”

  He nodded and pulled his .32 from his jacket.

  Making sure not to set a toe down too loudly, we climbed the last few stairs. Thunder boomed outside. The dark clouds had brought a storm with them, and rain was spitting in through the roof access door that stood ever so slightly cracked.

  Dave and I got side by side, pistols at the ready, shared a look and a nod, and he pressed the door open. A bluster hit us as we stepped through, and so did our adversary.

  He had laid in wait by the door, and no sooner than he had our pistols in sight, deftly deployed some sort of device onto them. I turned to my right to fire on him, but my .38 was gummed up. Looking down I saw it was some kind of gooey netting, with little weights around the bottom to help him toss it. I tried to clear the netting for my revolver’s hammer to work, but it was no good.

  “Move, John!” Dave commanded from my left. He pushed by me, and brought his little automatic to bear. The man used a hand to deflect Dave’s aim, just as Dave got off a shot. It was too near my head, for the sound, but also close enough for me to see that one shot was all Dave’s gun was good for. It had a sticky netting over it also.

  “Leave, detectives,” the man said menacingly. Dave and I stood side by side, and jettisoned our crippled weapons onto the ground. Our man, Art in all likelihood, wore all black. He had his hat pulled low, and something across the bottom of his face, so all you could see was his intense and steady eyes. The rest of him was covered in a long trench coat. He had on some black leather gloves, but stood otherwise unarmed.

  “Surrender, Art,” Dave said calmly. “We have you.”

  Art had other ideas. He led off with a lightning fast right back fist to the side of Dave’s head. Dave reeled a step out onto the roof, and away from the door. Art sidestepped to follow. That opened him up for me, so I came at him with my best right hand, and he caught it.

  His catching my fist, and cutting his sharp eyes at me, started one of those events that you have when you seem to have a lot of time to think under pressure. What the heck were we signed up for? The police were mad at us, we were spending an improper amount of time with hookers, and our employer was supremely dangerous. I would have shook my head at the whole situation right then, if it weren’t for our adversary putting our employer to shame on the danger front.

  A pain in my wrist snapped me back into the moment. He was bending it down, and it smarted fiercely. I stepped forward to take some of the pressure off, but that turned out to be just what he had wanted me to do. The instant weight got on my lead foot, he delivered a kick to the side of my knee. It buckled and I went down awkwardly. He still had my fist clamped in his. I desperately wanted it back. Next, he raised a leg high into the air, smoothly and mechanically, and prepared to bring it down heel first on my head.

  I couldn’t see any way that I wouldn’t taste his shoe sole, but Dave had come up with something. He had picked his gun up from the floor and slung it into the side of Art’s head. It made an almighty sound of metal on skull, even over the wind and rain that seemed to pick up all the time. My fist was released as our man fell over from the blow. Dave was on him in a flash, delivering kicks to whatever his feet could find.

  I had to use my hands to get to my feet, because my kicked knee wasn’t quite ready to go. Before I got to the stomping party however, the man found the range on Dave’s shoe. He grabbed it and twisted, and put Dave flat on his face. I strided in to take over the beatdown, but was confronted with a surprise.

  From under the long trench coat, he produced a short shotgun, and leveled it at me from his position on the ground. I slid to a stop on the wet rooftop, just a yard from the muzzle, and he got to his feet. Dave did as well.

  “Last chance,” our enemy warned.

  He moved his thumb to ready th
e hammer on the single shot, and Dave sprang to action. He kicked the barrel straight up, and the weapon flew from the man’s grasp, tumbling high over his right shoulder.

  The next exchange was like nothing I’d ever been apart of, and hope to never take part in again. Dave and I went at him with our best stuff. At some point I’ll have to convince my mind that my eyes do deceive me, when it comes to Dave’s fighting prowess. He showed some class moves on that rooftop. I’m really not much more than a brawler, who’s seen enough to know what to do next, which is more than good enough to handle most characters. Dave’s repertoire included kicks and chops, and other kinds of grabs and holds.

  Like I said, we threw the whole bag at the man, but none of it was any good. He blocked, parried, and countered all of it. If I went in with a low right, he’d move it with his elbow and pop me in the chest with his left. If we tried to kick him where it really hurt, he would intercept our blows with bruising knees to our shins. His head was completely unassailable. He bobbed and weaved, and if we went at it at the same time, he threw his forearms up and blocked. His eyes, all the while, set steely and possibly bored.

  If any little victory might be taken from the melee, it’s that he did give up ground during the flurry. I’d begun to feel like I was nearing my limit of quick shots to the throat and knees to my shins, when we started to get near the edge of the rooftop. Backed to the low ledge wall, our man dropped to the ground in the midst of our advance, and swept our legs out from under us. Dave and I both crashed down onto our backsides, and before we could get to our feet, he was off.

  He hurried down the edge of the roof, along the back alley side, and reached under the trench coat, this time taking a thing on a rope. We gave chase. He flipped a piece of the device down, and swung it at us. We hit the brakes, and slid down to the deck to avoid what was a folding grapple as it swung over us, right at what would have been head height.

  He yanked the tether back toward himself, and gathered it up in one motion. Next, he swung it to his side, quickly revving it to a loud whoosh, and launched it over to the next rooftop.