Cold Pulp Trio

by E.R. White, Jr.

  *****

  I shot up in bed, disoriented. The phone was ringing. I glanced at the clock on the bedside table and saw it read 5:00 am. I picked up the phone, muttered thanks to the operator and hung up. I got up and went to the hotel room door. A map and an envelope had been thrust under the door. I smiled to myself and grabbed the map and ripped open the envelope.

  She lived in townhouse, 1229 English Drive, Bethesda. She had taken the Metro to Grosvenor Station, which was a ten-minute walk from her pad. The ex-cop wrote that the area was home to a lot of government types and congressional staffers, very middle class and very white. Her place was circled in red on the map.

  I quickly washed, put on jeans, polo shirt and a jacket. I grabbed an envelope from the desk in the room, scribbled “Thanks” on the front and stuffed a couple hundred in it. I gathered up my gear, left the room, slipped the envelope under the cop’s door and took the elevator down to the hotel lobby. As the bellhop got my car from parking, I settled my bill, and before it was six o’clock I was leaving the city, heading north to Bethesda.

  Even though it was a Thursday, traffic wasn’t a problem as most was heading towards D.C., and I was heading out. I stopped at a convenience store for coffee, doughnuts and the morning paper. By seven, I was parked on English Drive, about 50 yards from Myra Kincaid’s brick town home. I sipped my coffee, ate my doughnuts and waited.

  About a quarter past eight, I saw her garage door open. A small, silver Toyota backed out into the street and headed towards the main drag. I started my car and followed. The Toyota made its way to the northbound Rockville Pike and after a few minutes driving it turned right into a large mall parking lot. I parked a couple of rows away from the Toyota and watched Myra Kincaid get out of it and walk towards the main entrance to the mall. I shoved on a ball cap and sunglasses, grabbed the paper I had bought and discretely followed her in. Once she entered the mall, she took off the light coat she was wearing, revealing a powder blue dress and heels. I watched her go in the employees' entrance of Bloomingdales. Walking back to the entrance of the store, I saw that it opened at nine o’clock. It was 8:35. I sighed, went and found a coffee stand, got a cup and waited.

  A little past nine, I made my way back to Bloomingdales. Keeping my sunglasses and ball cap on, I slowly made my way through the store. I constantly kept a look out in front of me, trying to make sure I didn’t stumble in her path without me first seeing her. The powder blue dress she was wearing gave me all the heads-up I needed.

  She was standing in front of a makeup sales counter, waiting for business. I kept my distance from her for about fifteen minutes. A lady walked up to her, and she got busy helping her pick out some eye shadow. I slid by her stand. Her makeup was heavier than it was last night. Made sense. She was as much an advertisement as salesperson. She had a name tag with “Myra” printed on it. She was still showing her customer various products as I walked by.

  It was enough. I left the store and made my way back to the parking lot. I took down the tag number of her car, went back in the mall and found a payphone. I called my office in Charlotte, got Ernie on the line and gave him the tag number. He was going to try to get hold of the retired cop we hired and see if he can come up with a name and address for the owner. I was to call back at two and see if he had any info.

  I left the mall, drove around for a while, found a large bookstore, went in, found a book to read and settled in a chair for the wait. A little past two, I went to another payphone and called Ernie, as planned.

  Maisy put me through to him.

  “Any luck?” I asked.

  “Home run, kid. Car is registered to one Myra Winston. Address 1229 English Drive, Bethesda Maryland.”

  “Yeah. That pretty much seals it. I’ll do what I gotta do, then take off this afternoon for Charlotte. I might spend the night on the road or drive straight through. Either way, I’ll be I the office tomorrow afternoon. We’ll wrap this one up Monday or Tuesday next week.”

  “Sounds good Jay, be careful driving home.”

  I hung up the phone and walked to my car. I got in and drove back to English Drive and waited. It was around half past three when she drove up. She pulled her car into the garage. I gave it fifteen minutes. I took off my cap and sunglasses, got out of my car, walked to her front door and rang the doorbell.

  In a few seconds, I heard noise behind the door. I could feel her looking at me through the door’s peep hole. I waited a minute for her to open the door. When she didn’t, I rang the doorbell a couple more times and waited another minute. Still no answer.

  I shrugged my shoulders and began to bang on the door and loudly yell.

  “Myra Kincaid, Myra Kincaid! Open up, I got a message from your Mom and Dad. Open the door. Open it up, I know you’re there.”

  I beat on the door for about five seconds, and then it opened as far as the chain lock would let it. I placed my foot in the doorway, so she couldn’t shut it.

  All I could see was the left side of her face with a single eye glaring at me. She was trembling.

  “Thanks for opening the door. You recognize me, right?”

  She just stood there, left eye staring at me.

  “Listen, we’ll make this quick. I’m a private detective who has been hired by your family to find you. Don’t kid yourself. It was easy, Miss Winston.”

  She flinched and tried to shut the door. My foot stopped her. I kept talking, my tone brutal. I was here to keep her away from the Kincaids. This is why they hired me. I’m the best asshole money can buy.

  “Your kid sister ratted you out. As you can see, I know where you live. I also know the make, model and license number of your car, that you sell cosmetics at White Flint Mall and finally, that you’re a thousand-dollar-a-night whore. Mom and Dad’s message to you is this—stay out of their and their daughters’ lives. You are dead to them. It’ll be a waste of time disappearing a second time then trying to reconnect with your sisters. I’ll just find you again. You want to live your life in peace? Then just keep on peddling your ass for cash and forget about your former family. Remember, you’re the one that skipped out, not them.”

  She was really pressing hard to shut the door now. I could see her breathing rapidly, the sweat popping out on her forehead.

  I reached into my back pocket, took out my wallet and grabbed a couple of my business cards. I flipped them inside her home.

  “There’s my card. If you still want to talk to your folks to hear this message from them personally, then they want you to go through me. My name, number and address is on the card. Call me and I’ll set it up. My advice is not to waste your time. Bottom line is this—if you ever come close to your sisters again, I’ll fuck up your life. Remember, hooking isn’t the safest of lifestyles.”

  I took my foot away from the door, and it slammed shut. Message delivered. I walked to my car and started my drive back to Charlotte.

  *****

  It was Wednesday before Ernie and I had our bill ready for the Kincaids review. With our hourly wages, hotel room bills and bribe money, we had plenty of leeway to pad the hell out of it. Since congressmen don’t give out receipts for bribes, we boosted the amount we paid by five grand. We also tripled on paper the fee for the services of the ex-cop in D.C. and generally added more hours at the beginning and end of our usual workday. All said we were shooting for around nine grand in profit for a week’s worth of work. We’ve had much bigger hauls, but these smaller jobs were what kept the food on the table. Big fee cases were still few and far between for Ernie and me back then.

  We arranged a Friday meeting for ten o’clock at Kincaid’s Shelby office. Ernie and I both felt that the news about their eldest needed to be given in person and, more importantly, I would be there to present the bill and to be able immediately answer any questions about costs. For us, it was all about getting paid.

  I arrived at the office a few minutes before ten. It was co-located in his lumber warehouse. I walked inside the steel frame building
and went to the first counter I saw. An elderly man was manning the post, and I asked him where the boss’s office was. He just pointed to the back of the large warehouse and told me that it was in the rear to the left. Couldn’t miss it. I thanked him and headed to the back. I found the office door and knocked.

  I heard a gruff, “Come in.”

  I opened the door, walked in.

  It was a large, but sparsely filled office. There was a massive metal desk in the back, with three folding chairs in front of it. There was a small book case with books and ledgers on the left wall. The floor was just like the warehouse floor, concrete slab. Malcolm Kincaid was sitting in a leather office chair behind his desk, casually dressed in a plaid shirt and khaki pants. He was a working boss. His wife, Sandra, was standing in front of the desk. She was wearing a simple dark-green pants suit and flats.

  “Sit down, Mr. Dafoe.” Kincaid pointed to one of the folding chairs. Sandra Kincaid grabbed another chair, parked it behind the desk next to her husband and sat. down. I planted myself in a chair opposite them. I opened my briefcase, pulled out a folder and dropped it on the desk. Kincaid just glanced at it and then looked straight back at me.

  “Just give it to us straight, Mr. Dafoe. Did you find Myra?”

  I nodded yes and launched into my prepared spiel summarizing what I had found out. I was just telling them about finding out that they had managed to raise a high-class call girl, when I heard the office door open followed by a slight gasp from Sandra Kincaid. Malcolm’s eyes got big and he blurted out, “Myra!”

  What happened next took about 30 seconds, tops.

  I turned and saw Myra Kincaid walking towards the office desk. She was wearing no makeup and was dressed like her college photo. White blouse buttoned up to the neck with a dark-blue sweater, matching pleated skirt that was cut below her knees and sensible black shoes, no heels. She had a large handbag hanging on her right shoulder with her hand inside the bag.

  Her eyes said crazy.

  In a smooth motion, she pulled her hand out of the bag and in it was a goddamn Model 1911 Colt .45 caliber automatic. I remember thinking it was “too much gun” for her small hand as I dove to the side to get out of her way. I was right.

  She aimed the gun at her Dad and pulled the trigger. The massive kick of the gun caused her to accidentally “double tap”. The double boom of the gun reverberated off the concrete floor and two holes, feet apart, appeared in the metal wall to the right of Malcolm Kincaid. Sharon Kincaid screamed and dove behind the desk. Malcolm was right behind her. I had fallen backwards against the wall to Myra’s left and was clawing for my .38. She threw her hand bag to the floor, and was now holding the Colt with both hands. She took a step forward with her right leg and was aiming at her parents behind the desk when I shot my revolver. My hollow points blew away her inner thigh. She crumpled like a rag doll, her .45 cracking off another shot, this time hitting the roof.

  I scrambled to my feet and jumped towards her, making sure she couldn’t shoot again. I saw that the automatic had fallen behind her head. I kicked it away and got on my knees next to her. It was then that I realized that the concrete floor was slick with blood. I had destroyed her femoral artery. For some damn reason, I tried to stop the blood with my hands, but it was no use. I leaned over her pasty white face. Her eyes were wide open. Suddenly, she focused on my face and her brows knitted together. She recognized me.

  “You…”

  That was all she could get out. Her eyes fluttered and then rolled backwards into her head. She was dead a second later.

  The floor around her body was awash with blood. She must have bled out three, maybe four quarts before she died. My hands were caked, and my trousers were drenched with blood. I didn’t try to get up off my knees. I stayed knelt beside her, dazed.

  Sandra Kincaid’s scream jerked me back to reality. I looked up and saw she and her husband had stood up behind the desk. They were shaking like leaves. I lost it.

  “Just don’t fucking stand there, call the fucking cops, NOW!” I screamed.

  That jerked Malcolm back to the real world. He grabbed his wife and dragged her out of the office.

  I got up and sat in one of the folding chairs. I waited for the police to come. By the time I heard the sirens, my blood-soaked pants had dried and were stiff as cardboard.

  The county sheriff called it “justifiable homicide” within two hours of my gunning her down. Saving the life of one of county’s leading citizens and that of his wife probably explained the quick decision. Truth be told, there weren't many doubts that bitch was crazy. If I hadn’t shot her, she would have murdered her parents and more importantly, might have killed me.

  Ernie had rushed to Shelby as soon as I called him and got there around two that afternoon. He took charge and within a couple of hours, he had settled all business with the Kincaids and ensured a profit of almost ten grand for “Twillfigger and Dafoe, Inc." Ernie knew Malcolm Kincaid was in no frame of mind to bargain and pounced on it. We left Shelby around six, and I was home in Charlotte by nine.

  I threw away my suit and showered until the hot water was all used up. I was asleep within minutes of my head hitting the pillow.

  Saturday and Sunday were uneventful. While my shooting of Myra Kincaid was the talk of Shelby, it didn’t even get a mention in the Charlotte paper. The Kincaids quietly buried Myra that Sunday afternoon in a local cemetery plot they got for cheap due to the fact it was next to the section of plots reserved for blacks.

  I was back in the office on Monday, but only stayed there for a few hours. Ernie treated me to a late lunch, and we celebrated our latest paycheck by getting drunk. Ernie must have had a dozen beers and while I drank only five, I was in worse shape. I’m not much of a drinker.

  I had a splitting headache when I got up Tuesday. I went to a diner, had a big breakfast and coffee and showed up at my office at nine. Maisy was already there. She told me Ernie had called in and said he would be in late. I didn’t have much to do, so I read the paper and actually fell asleep at my desk. Around eleven, Maisy brought in the mail. On top of the pile was a large manila envelope addressed to me.

  I opened the envelope and out spilled a small, flat key with the number “3012” stamped on it. I shook the envelope some more and out came a smaller manila envelope and handwritten letter on notebook paper.

  I picked up the letter and started to read it. The salutation was “You Bastard” and it went downhill from there.

  The handwriting was cramped and hurried. The letter itself was a series of disjointed thoughts and accusations. I quickly realized that Myra Kincaid had written this note. I checked the postmark and it was stamped last Friday, in Shelby. She must have mailed it right before she went to her father’s office.

  I first got that cold stab to the gut when she accused me of making her kill her parents. The smaller envelope, she wrote, was to be the proof that would have saved her siblings without killing. The key was to a safe-deposit box located in a bank in Reston Virginia. She had kept the envelope locked up safely there since she left college. She called it the “Christmas Gift From Hell."

  She rambled on for a few more sentences, often failing to stay in between the lines on the notebook paper. She was all over the place with her thoughts, every now and then focusing on me to call me a cocksucking motherfucker, asshole or bastard. She finally ended the letter telling me she was on her way to stop this terror, and that I owned this now. It was on my head. The ending was abrupt as the start.

  I picked up the sealed envelope. Carefully, I opened it and removed its contents. It was single, 5x7 inch black and white photograph. I knew enough about photography to tell it was an amateur job, done in a home darkroom. The borders were not even, the development a little patchy.

  I studied the photo. A prepubescent Myra Kincaid was sprawled nude on a cot, her legs splayed wide open. She had a carrot sticking out of her vagina. The heavy makeup on her face had been smeared, but it didn’t hide the fact t
hat Myra couldn’t have been older than eight, maybe nine, when this photo was taken.

  Behind her, holding her arms down was a woman wearing a “Merry Widow” lingerie getup, with dark, satin gloves that came up over her elbows. She had on a mask that was adorned with elaborate feathers and lace; her face was twisted with a wicked grin.

  Then I looked at Myra’s eyes. They were the eyes of a child who knew that monsters were real and were having their way with her. Her only defense left was to hide inside herself. A cold, blank, dead stare looked at me from that twelve-year old photo. The same stare that I had seen just a week ago in my hotel room.

  That’s when I stumbled to my bathroom in horror—of myself.

  After I got my shit together, I sat back down my desk. It was time to work.

  I looked at letter and photo that Myra Kincaid had sent me and realized it was worthless. This wasn’t enough to save me by damning the Kincaids. I needed more. My eyes alighted on the safe-deposit box key. I gently picked it up. This was the only cold, hard fact that in my possession. Myra Kincaid had rented this safe-deposit box. I could prove that. It would have to do.