Black Shadows

by Simon Swift

  "Ava, as always you have done sterling work? Has anybody else called? Have you seen Hermeez?"

  Ava sighed. "No he hasn't been in yet, although I have had his wife on the telephone?"

  "His ex-wife."

  "Yes. I don't like to gossip but I think she's bleeding him dry. Maybe you should have a chat."

  "We'll see about that. I'm going to have to go now but before I do there's just one more thing. I want you to get your pencil handy. There's not much to go on but you might turn something up, you usually do."

  I gave as good a description of the young punk that had been tailing me ever since Castle Clinton. Ava was a wonderful artist, she could create an uncanny likeness from the most simplistic of words. She said she would do what she could and hung up the telephone.

  Joe took the telephone away and we talked for a while. As I was about to leave, he mentioned that Dyke Spanner had been chasing me down.

  "Don't worry, Errol, I didn't tell him anything but it did seem important. Maybe you should look him up."

  "That's exactly what I'm going to do," I said, and left the diner.

  Chapter Three – Dyke Spanner

  He was wearing a blue suit. She was wearing a red evening gown.

  I managed to get a table in the corner with a good view of the whole restaurant, a cosy Creperie in Chelsea with dimmed lighting and elaborate drapes. There were candles on the tables and beautiful bunches of freshly, cut, sweet smelling flowers scattered here and there.

  I had decided against leaving my camera in the car. Once it became clear that this was not a business meeting at all but the very stuff of Claudia Ferriby's worst nightmare, I chose to keep the camera bag with me at all times. I had no idea where they would be headed after the meal and it would be better to be on foot. I could not risk losing them and having to go through it all again. Shakedowns were certainly not my specialty and at times, I wondered what the hell I was doing. If it hadn't been for the impression the young, nervous Claudia had left on me, or the alluring, encapsulating beauty of the mystery date, I would probably not have gone through with it.

  I already had a few shots of the pair together from outside the creperie. The two walking arm in arm, him holding her hand affectionately as she studied the menu. The one little peck on the cheek, which was far from damning but would certainly provide grounds for many an interrogation from a suspicious future wife. If indeed Claudia was to be his wife.

  That thought nagged at me throughout the main course. The little digging I had done so far made this far from clear. Ava had not mentioned the matter, yet the bartender I spoke to earlier was adamant. I was starting to think she was nothing more than a jealous girlfriend caught up with the wrong boy.

  Watching them together I still got the feeling that George was trying a hell of a lot harder than she was. He was a handsome guy, very smartly dressed who you would have expected to have a beautiful girl on his arm, but he had an edge. He didn't always look comfortable. She, on the other hand, was very much at ease. At times she looked like she was enjoying a rather difficult game that she played confidently and comfortably. She sometimes appeared to laugh a little too heartily when he wasn't expecting her to and any moment of affection was quickly moved on without upsetting or deterring him.

  She was incredible. I found it hard to look at her and not lose myself. At times I forced myself to look away, worried that I was staring too intently and would give the game away. I thanked my luck that the lighting was poor otherwise I might have been rumbled.

  The meal lasted for a couple of hours and although I could not hear what they were saying, I was sure it was nothing to do with running the Liberty Island ferry. Nobody joined them, and there were no messages brought to them from late absentees. In fact, the only attention they received was from me, and from the young punk that had been my shadow for most of the day. I had tested him a few times on our foot patrols, simple moves that anyone other than an amateur would pass. He kept with me without problem or obvious irritation. But despite my attempts to get eye contact he never came too close, he simply looked away or turned around and walked in the opposite direction, only to be on my tail again five minutes later.

  Earlier in the day, I had lost him briefly and switched the stakes. As soon as he realized I had dumped him he entered a drug store and went right through to a telephone booth at the rear. I watched him make a quick call and hid amongst the toiletries as he exited.

  I picked up the receiver and called the operator. "Excuse me Miss I think I have just been cut off."

  "I'm extremely sorry, sir. I shall try to reconnect you." There was a pause. "Is the number you require BR 4-3543?"

  I smiled. "That is correct," and put my finger on the cradle. Dropping a quarter in the slot, I dialed another number.

  "Timmy, it's Errol. I need a favour ... yeah I know but you're a lot better man than I am ... I need an address to go with a telephone number ... No no it's nothing big, nothing big at all ... Good you're a pal Timmy."

  I read out the number and a minute later Sergeant Timothy Matthews of the NYPD homicide squad gave me an address. I thanked him and hung up the telephone.

  From the creperie, I followed George and his sweetheart into the heart of Chelsea, where they caught a cab into Chinatown. Claudia's hearing was proving to be good and five minutes later we were all alighting outside the Dragon Bar, one of Chinatown's most infamous bars. As well as being the location for post meal drinks it was also the local haunt of a certain Dyke Spanner. Tonight I would kill two birds with one stone.

  Chinatown was easily the most insular of Manhattan's little microcosms. With over 150 restaurants and hundreds of garment factories, it had a thriving economy of its own. The obvious prosperity of the neighborhood highlighted by the crowded streets, booming diners and beautiful street markets with wonderful displays of shiny squids, trussed up crabs and piles of exotic fruit, vegetables and spices give off an illusion of safety. While it is true that crime was officially very low, there is a more sinister reason than it being a booming area. Extortion and protection were commonplace, as was filthy sweatshops packed with workers often doing seventy or eighty hours a week without any union protection. Everything was controlled by the ruthless Tongs, the Chinese Mafia, which kept the entire goings on in Chinatown in-house.

  Chinatown had been Dyke Spanner's home for the last fifteen years. For some damn reason he liked it, and he drank everyday in the same joint. I was curious as to what he wanted to tell me. He was usually a stickler for keeping his business separate from mine. Not one to risk losing a buck, or maybe an arm or a leg, by involving my good self, so if Dyke wanted me, something sure was important. There was an outside chance that it would not be friendly, so I kept my gun warm and my eyes peeled.

  Across the street was "Ping's Antique Shop". It was the family business of Weeny Jung Ping, an old friend and accomplice. On entering the Dragon Bar, I was surprised at just how it had changed. It must have been over a year since I had last been in; at that time there was serious consideration as to whether the Dragon should be closed down. There had been a spate of gangland shootings in and around the Bar and it was getting a reputation as a no-go area. The local community was anxious to keep it open and liaised with the authorities to do so which was very rare in Chinatown.

  The talks had obviously worked. What used to be a run-down watering hole for unsociables and low-lifes with exclusively Chinese clientele was now a thriving bar with bright, clean decor, new furniture and a wide variety of customers from all over the City. I ordered a beer and took a table in the corner with a good view of the whole bar. George Ferriby and his date were sat on barstools up to the bar and were talking together. The young punk followed me in and took a seat a couple of stools down from them. There was no sign of Dyke.

  The evening progressed and the drinks flowed freely. Nobody joined my two subjects and nobody joined the kid. We all simply went about our business each keeping a close eye on the other. It was only when the kid went t
hrough the back corridor to the restrooms that I decided to follow him in. Maybe I was bored maybe I was feeling reckless, whatever the reason I followed him through and promptly lost him.

  The men's room too was freshly refurbished, but as I wandered through expecting to see the young face on the kid turn to worry or surprise it was me who was surprised. There was nobody there. I took a piss and washed my hands, resigned to more hours of watching the young lovers I was being paid to watch. I was mentally writing a report when my thoughts were brutally interrupted.

  The gunshots rang out loud but were soon drowned by the loud music coming from the bar. I finished washing my hands and exited the washroom. To my left was a fire exit that led out to an alleyway that ran down the side of the Dragon Bar. It sounded as if the shooting had come from that direction.

  I pulled my weapon from my holster, slung the camera bag over my shoulder and pushed the fire exit door. Hazy, frying fumes blew out of a vent on the side of the building as I walked down the alley. There was an eerie silence penetrating the musky air. The music was now a dull beat and there were no cars or noise at all. I lit up a cigarette and inhaled deeply. As I snapped back the shaft of the lighter, I heard a groan from the end of the alley.

  I held my gun close to my chest and peered into the blackness. Dyke Spanner scrambled out with his hand on his chest and blood all over his shirt. I could hear a car speed off in the distance. He smiled at me and collapsed at my feet. I rolled him over and checked his wounds. They were bad.

  "Still thinking big Eezy," he mumbled and let out a croaky chuckle.

  "Who shot you Dyke?" I asked. "Give me a name."

  He simply smiled and looked down at his bleeding chest.

  I kneeled down and looked at his dying eyes. "You're going to be alright, Dyke. The ambulance will be on its way. Tell me, what's it all about?"

  "Have you been talking, you son of a bitch?" he spat and blood dribbled from his mouth and down his chin.

  "About what, Dyke?" I asked, now hearing the sirens in the background. I looked down the alley; there was a small crowd gathering but nobody edged towards us.

  "She'll make you smile for a while but then she'll make you cry," he said, but his voice was now distant and fading fast. I asked him again what he meant but he just smiled. Finally he said. "The fuckin' Jew. The fuckin' Jew. Who cares eh?"

  Then he died.

  I stood up and stepped aside. The crowds of people were closer and the sirens were getting louder. The police would soon arrive and I would talk to them when they did. I went back into the Dragon Bar; music was still blaring out but the punters all looked different. They had all heard the shots. They would know the score. The table where George and the mystery lady had sat was empty. I checked the restrooms but they too were empty. They were gone.

  So was the punk.

  I sat in the bar thinking. I was sad. Of course I was sad. It wasn't everyday that you saw one of your friends croak right under your nose. Although, let's face it the business we're in, it wasn't all that rare either. Dyke had been a friend, a good friend at times, but he was always chasing the big bucks. Me, I was little more content with whatever came my way, which wasn't too much nowadays, but was always enough to survive on.

  I stayed in the bar out of the way for a good few minutes. I hoped that Tim Matthews, a friend of mine in the force, would be here soon. This was his patch so there was a good chance that he would be. I could talk to him. If anything was going down, he'd be sure to let on.

  As soon as the police cordons were up I re-approached the scene. A uniformed policeman chewing gum under an enameled sign that read Dragon Street held out an arm. "What do want here, you can't come through."

  I gave him a world-weary smile and held out my badge, "I'm Errol Black. Where's Sergeant Timmy Matthews?"

  The uniform cockily looked me up and down and then lowered his arm. "Over there," he uttered and I headed back towards the throng. I could see Tim ahead of me supervising the forensics. He saw me coming and met me half way.

  "Hello Errol." Tim was a barrel-bellied, small man with a thick-set face and unshaven, ragged look. "When did you arrive? Just before us?" he nodded at the blood on my shirt.

  "Yep, I was right here when he staggered out. He died on my toes without even recognizing me. I thought it wouldn't take you boys long, so I'd better hang around and find out the form. What the hell happened Tim?"

  "He's got two great big holes in his chest. He didn't have a chance. No witnesses, no clues. Maybe you could tell us something?"

  "I didn't even hear the shot. I was simply on my way down to the Dragon for a beer and there he was."

  "Dead?"

  "Hell, I told you…"

  "He was trying to contact you, Eezy. He has been for a while now, he even came to me to try and track you down."

  "What did you tell him?"

  "I told him jack but let’s not get into this now the guy's dead. And another thing, when the hell do you just pop down to the Dragon Bar for a beer? There are twenty bars closer to home for Christ's sake. And all better than this godforsaken place. What's going down? Was Dyke in some sort of trouble? Come on, you can tell me. Off the record if that's what you want."

  "I'm sorry, Timmy. I don't know anything. I only wish I did. If I find out anything you know I'll be in touch."

  "Yeah, when it suits you. What you carrying the camera for, Eezy?"

  "I don't have to answer that."

  Tim looked me in the eyes doubtfully, let out a deep sigh and smiled. "What case you on, Eezy, you wanna tell me that?"

  "Nope," I replied sternly.

  "The telephone call this afternoon, what was that about? I did you a favour, Errol the least you can do is give me a little back. Come on, Dyke was a friend to both of us."

  "I needed the address for a case I'm on. The case has got absolutely nothing to do with you and nothing to do with Dyke Spanner so you might as well drop it Timmy. You know the rules I don't have to tell you anything about it. In fact I'm not allowed to even if I wanted to."

  "Sure you don't but if you don't start soon you will. Come on just help me out a little."

  "If you wanna question me, Timmy, you can take me right down to the station and go right ahead."

  "You stupid bastard! Are you on any case or are you now too busy fuckin' dead men's wives," he said, but apologized immediately.

  I sighed and said that I'd be in touch.

  Tim scowled, opening his mouth and then shutting it without a murmur coming out. He cleared his throat noisily, "It's a tough old break. Dyke sure had his number of faults, but he was a good man, at heart. Too good for some punk to fill him full of lead, that's for sure."

  "I guess you're right," I replied, not really listening to him. It was clear there was nothing to learn from the police, "I better go and break the news to Mrs. Spanner."

  I patted Tim on the shoulder, turned around and was on my way. I could just about hear Tim shouting out for me to watch my way. I would have to do that.

  Chapter Four – Marlow

  Friend or no friend, when a detective gets killed it’s bad for business. The killer thinks he can get away with it and it’s bad for detectives everywhere. I stopped over at a public call box. It's either you or me angel. I tossed a dime. Unlucky, you win.

  "Precious," I said down the phone to Ava, "bad news, Dyke's been shot...yes, he's dead...I know darling, I know... No I don't know who killed him...I’m afraid you're going to have to break it to Maggie...No I can't, I'm busy chasing bad guys. You've got to do it babe...That’s it, good girl, I'll call you. You're a sweetheart, bye."

  I replaced the receiver and hailed a cab. On the way there I thought seriously about the developments. I was angry with myself for letting Timmy get to me. Hell, the guy was only doing his job and to be fair to him he had been closer to Dyke than I had for a good number of years. I knew he had a right to be questioning me, what with blood on my shirt but it still got my back up. I guess the fact that all I had got from
Dyke was a jumbled rambling of a dead man annoyed me even more. I was now resigned to never finding out just what it was he had wanted me for.

  I took the quickest route down St James Place and over the Brooklyn Bridge, but still failed to arrive till gone midnight. The street, the apartment block was on, was deserted. There was nobody around and the place was silent. I paid the cabbie and figured out a plan.

  Brooklyn Heights Gardens was an exclusive block of apartments. Unique in this area in its cleanliness, safety and luxury. There were only twelve flats on a hectare of land. Most were on short-term lease or even week-to-week rental. Movie stars, big shots or anyone important that was unfortunate enough to land in Brooklyn stayed there. It was extremely rare that any of my cases would lead me to an area such as Brooklyn Heights Gardens. It seemed times had changed. I would enjoy finding out why...

  I managed to bluff my way past the doorman, covering my bloodied shirt with a bunch of flowers from the gardens, and took the elevator up to the tenth floor. Upon reaching the door to the apartment my mind was racing. I ditched the flowers, took out my weapon and knocked on the door. There was no answer. I knocked again and put an ear to the heavy, wooden door. Nothing. Not a peep.

  I looked around me and tucked my gun away before knocking on the other two apartment doors on this floor. There were no answers at either of those. Mentally I tossed a coin and smiled at its outcome.

  I attempted to pick the lock. No joy. I figured I'd have to force it. There was no one around; the silence was ringing loud in my ears. The door was heavy and thickly polished. It had a little pane of glass -I put my eye to it and peered in. There was a lamplight on the wall and I could see a black leather sofa. I went back ten paces and gave the door the shoulder. It was a stupid thing to do -the door didn't move an inch. All I achieved was a sore shoulder and to make me even madder than I already was. Again I looked around and then kicked in the pane of glass. Using my hat for a glove I knocked through the shards of glass. I was now able to reach in and unbolt the door from the inside. The door easily pushed open.