Kathy and Woody had been sitting on the overstuffed couch together, my pal sitting way too close to her. I made a mental note to scold him for that later. I owe Woody my life, but I don’t owe him my sister. He’s always been unlucky in the romantic world, most of it his fault because of his secret life.
“He did, did he?” I said giving my friend The Look. “So what has he been telling you?” I gently unlocked her arms from me; she smiled weakly and returned to her seat next to Woody.
“Um, the car chase, the break in, the weird Talisman, Criswell and the brilliant idea Eddie had to allude those killers chasing you.” She said it all in one breath.
Eddie slumped down in the couch.
I said, “Yes, that was a great idea, Woody. How on earth did you think of it?”
“A writer’s mind, I guess,” he said with a painful look on his face.
“And . . ,” my sister continued. “The fact that we will finally have an actor in the family is exciting.” My sis beamed proudly.
“I beg your pardon?”
Kathy covered her mouth for a second. “Oh, sorry, was that supposed to be a secret? I’m talking about Eddie’s new script and you debuting as a hardboiled movie detective just like Cary Grant, Bogie and Robert Stack.”
“I don’t believe Cary Grant ever played a detective,” I said.
She waved me off. “Doesn’t matter, you know what I mean. I have a feeling bigger things are coming.”
“I’ll just bet they are, Sis. Look, I’m going to take Woody into the other room for a chat.” I said, forcing a grin but keeping my eyes glued to my pal in case he thought he’d make a run for it. I watched him squirm uneasily. “We have to . . . talk about a few things.” I had been staying at my sisters in the spare room until I got enough moolah to get my own place. It was actually a good fit, she was gone to her job most of the day, and I was a night owl.
“Sure thing, Mr. Movie Star. I’ll go make some coffee.” She pushed up from the couch, swayed over to me, gave me a peck on the cheek, and headed toward the kitchen. “I also have a batch of fresh baked cookies for you hungry boys,” she said, her voice trailing behind her.
I pulled Woody up from the couch by his arm, making sure to squeeze firmly. He winced. “Please don’t kill me,” he said in a whispered tone.
When we reached my bedroom, I pushed him through the door and shut it gently behind me. I pushed Woody up against the wall next to the door. “Okay wise ass, we need to get something straight.”
“Sure, Jimmy, anything.”
“I don’t mind your crazy stories and your weird ideas for scripts and taking credit for stuff somebody else did,” I said. “I understand you’re a writer and I heard a real writer can’t turn those ideas off in their little tin heads, but I asking you – telling you, leave my sister out of this mess. This might be a game to you, but these Adjustment assholes are serious. They will kill you if they can get you alone. And they may kill anyone who gets in their way.” I felt I had laid it all out for him in a straight forward way, so he could understand me clearly. He was my best friend and I loved him dearly, but I didn’t want my sister dead.
“You’re spitting on me.”
“What?’
“When you said that so dramatically, you were spitting a bit on certain words,” he said.
I shook him at the scruff of his neck. “I’m not being dramatic, Woody. I’m being dead serious.”
He pushed me back some and I let him. He straightened his jacket, looked around the room, his eyes locking onto the picture frame resting on the dresser.
“You still have a photo of Lily?” he said, slipping past me and standing next to the bureau.
I nodded.
Lily Usher had been my girl for more than several years, even the hard ones when I came back from duty, but last year we had sadly parted company. She decided I was holding her back from her career and jetted off to New York to hit the big stage. I knew better than to fall for an actress, especially a stage actress, but my brain charged forward, so I got what I got. Lily was dark haired with dark bedroom eyes, long legs and bee stung lips that tilted to one side. She could dance, she could sing, she was beautiful, and now she was gone.
“So what’s your point, Woody?”
“You should go to New York and get her back.” He reached out to touch the frame, so I cleared my throat and he jerked his hand back, jamming them into his pockets.
“Why the sudden interest in my love life?” I said.
“Kathy and I were talking and she feels you’ve given up on having a successful relationship.”
I pointed a finger at him. “Look, let it go. Stay out of my past. I’ll figure it out someday on my own.” I walked over to Woody, pushed him out of the way, grabbed the picture, opened the top drawer and tossed it in. I reached in underneath the picture and pulled out something wrapped in a stained white cloth. I shut the drawer a little too hard and Woody flinched.
Here,” I said, handing him the bundle.
He knew what the bundle was. He slowly unwrapped it as if he was peeling the clothes from a two dollar stripper, dropped the rag to the floor and stared at the .45.
“Careful,” I said, pushing the barrel’s direction away from my face. “It’s loaded.”
“I didn’t know you still had this.” It almost sounded sad the way he said it.
“I don’t hock things.”
Woody winced. He did that a lot when I was around.
“I take it you want this to babysit me while you’re not around?”
I nodded. “And that’s going to happen right now. I’m dropping you off at your place. You won’t answer the door, you won’t drink, you will wait until I show back up.”
‘Where are you going?”
“I have leads to follow.”
“Why can’t I go?”
“Do as I say, Woody. This is what I do.”
“Can I date your sister?”
My jaw fell to the floor. “What did you say?”
“I want to date Kathy. A movie, some drinks, some dancing.”
“No, you can’t date my sister. She’s off limits, now go get in the damn car.” I said sternly.
“But the cookies . . .” he protested. “I’m hungry.”
“I’ll get us a doggy bag.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Once I dropped Woody at his place (I did a sweep of the entire house and garage first) I left him alone in the kitchen as he was loading a fresh piece of typing paper into his machine and eagerly dipping into the small brown bag of freshly baked cookies my sister gave us. To my dismay I had an idea what he was going to be working on, but I didn’t have time to deal with it.
I locked his place up behind me and pointed the Nash in the direction of The Hollywood Tribune, a small independent rag with interests in local hard news, entertainment and some religious news. I was after the religious news today. The warm sun had returned from behind an ominous looking cloud so I opened the top to feel the breeze.
The Tribune was located in the Wainwright Building just off Vermont Avenue. I parked a block away and enjoyed the walk. I took the elevator up the three flights, ignoring the stairs because my leg always gave me a rough time if I tried to push it too hard.
Danny Rydell was in her office tapping away at her electric typewriter. She spelled her name like a man’s because, even in this day in age, there were still prejudices on women doing what use to be men only jobs. She smiled with a row of teeth that would make a piano jealous when she saw me enter her small cubicle she called an office. There was barely room for the metal desk and two chairs much less a five foot seven inch ex-marine. The lines on her face were less prominent in the dim overhead light then they were twenty years ago since we first met. She was pushing the last days of being forty, but she still carried herself well with some pride.
“I haven’t seen you in a coon’s age”, Jimmy. How’s the leg?”
I knocked on the leg. “Still made of wood, though someday I hope to b
e a real boy,” I joked. Danny had turned me onto a woodcrafter named Melvin Weddle. He could craft anything out of a piece of wood; he had even done some important sculptures for some of Hollywood’s elite. He carved me out a perfect replica of an actual lower leg and foot that became a welcomed replacement for the metal and plastic monstrosity the government dumped on me. It was more functional and comfortable than my actual leg- as far as I could remember.
I maneuvered my hiney over to the guest chair and lowered myself slowly into the seat. My leg creaked when I bent it.
“Hey, Danny,” I said with my best charming smile. “I got a question for you.”
She took her glasses from her nose and pushed them into her curly gray hair. “Aw, you must be working a case. I only see you when you’re working.” She crinkled her nose some and swung the chair around to give me her full attention. “Shoot, detective.”
I smiled. “We don’t have to be that formal, let’s stick with Jimmy. Have you ever heard of the Universal Adjusters?”
Danny leaned back in her chair, her eyes as wide as a blank movie screen. “Oh, goodness. Those are some bad boys. How in the devil did you get mixed up with that bunch, sweetie?”
I filled her in on most of the story, the Talisman, and what I learned about the Urantia Book but not giving her my source, her mouth stayed half-open the entire time I spun my tale. Of course, I left out the part about Ed Wood Jr. and Criswell being around. No one takes you seriously when those two names came up.
She frowned. “What do you need from me? You seem to know as much as I do about these freaks.”
I leaned forward in my chair and my leg creaked again. “I need to know what rock they hide under, Danny.”
She swung back around to her desk, grabbed a pen and a piece of scratch paper, jotted down something quickly then handed it to me.
I took the note and slipped it into my pocket. I gave her a wink. “Thanks, hon. I appreciate it.”
“My pleasure, sweetie,” she said as I stood up to leave. “Don’t be such a stranger. Say, if you’re looking for some legit steady work with no strings attached,” she said, staring at her typewriter, “it seems Republic Studios had a motorized octopus stolen from their prop warehouse a while back and need a new night watchman.”
I coughed into my hand. “No. I’m good for now.”
I had helped Woody steal the damned prop so he could use it in one of his movies, and for a minute I wondered if Danny had somehow uncovered that.
“Just checking, I know it can be tough out there sometimes.” Her eyes met mine, “Oh, you still hanging around that bad writer and his crazy psychic friend?”
I assured her I wasn’t and that seemed to please her. I made my way to the elevator and glanced at the sign that read stairs with envy. I made a secret wish that my original leg would grow back. I hit the elevator button and a few seconds later the doors opened. I walked inside, turned to push the main floor button when I noticed I wasn’t alone. Stuffed into the corner of the elevator a man dressed all in dark gray his head bowed and the fedora on his head hiding his features.
The doors shut and a voice said, “Don’t push the buttons, Jimmy.”
I did have my gun in my shoulder holster but since he wasn’t holding one so I left mine alone.
“What do you want?” He raised his head and I knew right off the bat I was in trouble. “Hello, Howie.” Howie Bennett aka The Blade grinned at me in a way that meant we were not friends. “What do you want?” I said again.
“I’m here doing you a favor, friend.”
“Oh, I doubt that.” I jammed my hands into my pants pockets to show I didn’t see him as a threat- even though I did. He had a wiry frame instead of a real body and he always hid thick-lidded eyes underneath cheap sunglasses. He had more hair than any man should have and it always appeared black and greasy. His clothes hung to him as if they would a wire coat hanger in a dark closet. Word on the street connected Howie with more than several deaths of people sorry enough to have a hit put out on them. The police couldn’t connect him to anything, that’s why he was now sharing an elevator with me.
“Oh, it’s true,” he continued. "You need to back off from the protection racket and go chase some cheating husbands, okay buddy?”
I pointed a finger at him. “You’ve been reading Raymond Chandler again, haven’t you? Well guess what? Tough guys don’t really talk like that.”
“You’re dishing yourself up a world of hurt, shamus.” His voice went deeper.
“See,” I said. “That’s what I’m talking about ‘dishing up a world of hurt’ and ‘shamus, people don’t say stuff like that, Howie.”
“Back off from Ed Wood.” He moved toward me a few inches, his breath smelled of peppermint. “Let nature takes its course, pal, it’ll be healthier.”
“No, I don’t think so.”
In a flash I saw the switchblade appear in his hand and snap open. He lunged at me, I veered to the left but the sudden movement and my wooden leg decided to work against each other and I ended up falling backwards. The blade missed me by several inches. I went low, creaked, and shot out my wooden leg into Howie’s ankle. He howled and fell to the ground, but didn’t lose the grasp on the blade. He swung the knife blindly hoping to hit something and he did.
My false appendage.
Fortunately having a wooden limb to use as a weapon made sense. The tip of his blade stuck and I put my weight totally on the fake leg and shot the other at his head.
I connected.
There was a loud thwack and Howie went all slack in the opposite corner of the elevator. His blade clanked at my feet so did his broken sunglasses. His hat slipped down over his eyes as if he were taking a nap. It was a good look for him. I pushed the button for the main floor. My main problem now was to get to Woody as fast as I could. If the Universal Adjusters were following me, then they knew Woody was home alone. I would have to tackle their address I had safely tucked in my pocket later.
The doors opened and I made it to the street without any fan fair. My leg hurt like hell fire as I limped the two blocks to the Nash.
CHAPTER EIGHT
I hurried over to Woody’s current residence, breaking a few traffic laws, and praying to God a traffic cop didn’t stop me. My leg still ached something fierce and was not getting any better.
Pins and needles.
I always kept some aspirin in my glove box, right next to a box of shells.
Ammo for my piece, ammo for my leg.
I tossed a handful of fresh bullets into my pocket just in case Bennett made good on his threat and help Woody along with the bloodletting. The door was partially open when I got there. The sun was setting in so I squinted a bit in the semi darkness. I took out my .38 and pulled the hammer back. I knew how Bennett worked and I wanted to have the upper hand.
I heard whimpering, or was it humming? There was a frantic tapping, keeping cadence with the whimpering. The room smelled worse of smoke than it had when I had been here earlier in the day. I took slowly deliberate steps, moving through the living room (which looked as if a tornado came through it). The television was on but the sound was off. Jack Benny was on the screen, touching the side of his face and mouthing the words: Oh My!
I moved deeper into the room. The tapping seemed to grow more desperate as I moved toward the entrance of the kitchen. I could see Woody’s naked back, leaning forward in one of the kitchen chairs. He appeared to hovering over the kitchen table. There didn’t seem to be anyone in the room with him.
Taking several more steps forward I reached out to touch his shoulder. He was frantically typing at his crazy a zillion words a second pace. His hands dancing, taping the table top, tap, tap, tap, tap – almost in a rhythm.
Only one problem, there was no typewriter.
Just bare table and the tips of his fingers were red, a raw and starting to bleed. His hair stuck up at all weird angles from his head. For a moment I saw him as the Phantom from Phantom of the Opera, wildly agitated, as h
e hammered over the organ keys. His body was drenched in perspiration.
“Woody?”
My fingers met his damp skin and he whirled around so fast, his elbow hit me square in the chest, and I damn near lost my balance. I jerked so hard to stay upright the gun went off, sending a bullet into the ceiling. Pieces of plaster rained down on us, some of it sticking to Woody’s wet body.
“JesusallmightyChrist,” Woody spat out in a slur. He bolted from his chair, the chair toppling backwards onto the floor, he swayed sideways, and the only thing holding him up was invisible luck and the pale yellow kitchen wall.
I looked at my gun, I looked at Woody, I looked at the table, I looked at the fresh bottle of Vodka, I looked back at Woody.
He wobbled some more. “You . . . shh-cared me, Jim . . . Jimmy,” he let out, along with several short bursts of air. “Damn . . . damn.”
I put the gun away as quickly as I could. I put the chair upright again, grabbed my best friend by a sweaty arm, and plunked him back down in the seat.
“You’re drunk.”
His eyes widened in surprise. “Am I?”
“You hocked the typewriter.”
“I did?”
“You’re naked.”
“I am?”
He looked down in surprise again and stared at his penis, then pointed at it.
“Hey, loo-look. My dick.”
“Yes, you have a dick.” I shook my head.“Shower time, pal.”
I pulled him from his chair without much effort, dragged him into the bathroom, turned on the shower (cold water only), and pushed him in.
Woody screamed.
Hours later, we sat in the living room, and I was pouring hot coffee down his gullet to chase the booze away. He had wrapped himself up in a gray Terry cloth bathrobe, hair combed back tightly against his scalp. He almost looked human again and I told him so.
A Case of the Nasties: A Jimmy Egan Mystery Page 3