“Eddie,” he said, saying my name like he was sliding a bullet into the chamber, “to what do I owe this…visit?”
“Oh, well, I just wanted to clear up a few things real quick,” I said casually, taking out a cigarette and lighting it. Calthus’s nose wrinkled, and he looked like he wanted to say something. Or maybe throw me out. Who knows.
“Such as?” he bit out.
“Well, there’s the matter of you working with John Bodewell, conspiring to have your personal assistant murdered,” I replied.
Calthus looked indignant and slightly bemused. He felt like he was back on more-familiar ground. “More baseless accusations, Detective?” he said, venom dripping in his words. “I thought you maybe had something substantial to discuss, but I can see I was mistaken. If this continues, I will consider having my lawyers sue you for harassment.”
“Actually,” I replied, standing up, “it is pretty substantial this time. I mean, I’ve got evidence and everything.” I pulled out my computer, tapped a button, and a small vid window popped up between us. “Play,” I said, and the image on the vid window began moving.
“It’s true, I had it, and I never should’ve given it back to Calthus after I tested it out on Wallace.” I stopped the recording. Calthus said nothing.
“See, that was John Bodewell, disgraced former private detective—and former friend of mine, I should add—and, apparently, a man you tried to wield like a weapon. Too bad he failed so spectacularly at everything he was trying to do.” I blew a smoke ring, admiring my own skills in this and so many other arenas. “So I guess that leaves us with a bit of a question. What are we going to do with you?”
Calthus remained silent for a moment, then said, “I’d like to speak to my lawyer.”
“I thought you might say that,” I replied. “Of course, I also have some other friends who would like to speak with you.” Captain O’Mally, Officer Higgins, and a couple of other uniformed officers entered the room. Calthus surged to his feet, anger flaring up. Higgins walked up with a set of restraints and began cuffing Calthus.
“Raymond Calthus, you are under arrest. We also have a warrant to search the premises,” O’Mally said. He touched a button on his badge, which projected an image of the warrant.
“You have the right to remain silent,” Officer Higgins began, a repeat of the familiar litany.
“Hazzard, you bastard! When my lawyer gets through with you, you’ll be begging me to put you out of your misery!” Calthus screamed, his face twisted with hatred and anger.
“I believe you were just reminded of your right to keep your mouth shut,” I replied. “You might want to take advantage of it.”
Calthus was led away by the uniforms and Officer Higgins, while O’Mally and I stood in the middle of the wealthy financier’s office. A couple of other nameless uniforms came into the room and began conducting a search.
O’Mally sighed deeply, tilting his hat back on his head. “Eddie, do you think we’ll actually find anything?”
“I recommend searching the computer, O’Mally,” I replied. “I’ve got an expert already familiar with the system if you need her.”
“I hope we won’t find any signs of impropriety or lawbreaking on your part, Eddie,” O’Mally said.
“It really does depend on who does the search, Captain,” I said with a smirk.
└●┐└●┐└●┐
I stepped out of the Arcadia Savings and Loan building into a brightly-lit morning. It may have just been my imagination, but I’d swear I heard birds chirping happily in the trees and young couples cooing sweet nothings at each other.
I needed a drink.
I had to catch a taxi to the Funeral Parlor, what with my car being what the professionals called “completely buggered.” It was only 11:00 AM, but the Parlor was already open, serving those who worked the night shift for Arcadia PD and guys like me who figure it’s always happy hour somewhere in the world.
My regular spot at the bar was open, so I eased myself up onto the stool, hung my cane on the bar, and signaled to the barkeeper. Rex knew me well enough by now to know what I wanted, and a moment later there was a whiskey sitting in front of me. Rex was kind enough to leave the bottle for me, too.
As I took my first drink of the day, I reviewed the case. Pretty much everything was wrapped up in a neat little bow at this point: Kirkpatrick was dead, his Confederation in shambles. The only copy of the schematics for the rail gun and its special alloy were safe in government hands, for a given value of “safe.” Calthus and the Pithmans were in custody, and possibly stood to see time inside an actual prison if all went well. I had no illusions it would, mind you; cynicism in the hard-boiled detecting field is pretty strong, and we’re given to assume the worst will always happen.
The only loose end, really, was Bodewell, and I figured he’d tie himself up sooner or later.
“Eddie,” said a rough voice behind me. I sighed and didn’t even bother turning around. Sooner, apparently.
“I see narrative causality strikes again,” I said, downing the rest of my drink and reaching for the bottle. Bodewell took the stool next to me. He looked terrible: the skin on his face was tight, except for around the throat where it hung in loose folds. He had dark circles under his eyes, and he looked disheveled and unkempt. For me, that’s a common state of being, but Bodewell always prided himself on his appearance. This was out of place for him. He was haggard, on the run, and more than a little desperate. I passed him the bottle.
Bodewell grunted thanks and upended the bottle, downing a good couple of slugs before coming back up for air. “You’ve put me through hell, Eddie,” he said, handing me back the bottle.
“Well, to be fair, you did stab me,” I replied. “Twice.” We sat in silence for what seemed an eternity. I glanced at Bodewell out of the corner of my eye, and noticed he had his gun drawn. It wasn’t aimed at me, though. Not yet, anyway.
“‘Fair,’” he grunted, reaching for the bottle again. “‘Fair’ would’ve been me finally getting my due,” he said. “‘Fair’ would’ve been Calthus and Kirkpatrick both in the ground, rotting. ‘Fair’ would’ve been you working with me, not against me.” He passed the bottle back over.
“Well, one outta four ain’t bad,” I said. Math was never my strong suit.
“I came here to kill you, you know,” he said. It was almost casual, and very matter-of-fact.
“I know,” I replied, taking a pull from the bottle myself. “You’re not going to, though.”
“And how do you figure that, oh Great Detective?” There was more than a hint of sarcasm in that last comment.
“You’d’ve done it by now, old man,” I replied, finally turning to look at him straight-on. “If you had the guts to kill me, you’d have done it any number of times in the last few weeks. You certainly had ample opportunities.” I stared him straight in the eyes, and it was like looking into the abyss. “You’re not here to kill me,” I repeated, “you’re here for justice.”
Bodewell barked out a laugh. “Justice?” he said. “There is no ‘justice.’ Not in the city of Arcadia. Not here. Justice may exist in this world, but it sure as hell ain’t here. The best we can hope for in this place is retribution.” He raised the gun, pointing it right between my eyes. “Revenge is the only thing I’ve got left,” he said. “You want to know why I didn’t kill you yet? Because I wanted you to think you’d won. I wanted you to think that I’d just fade away, or go whimpering into the kennel like the dog you take me for. But that’s not what’s happening here, Eddie.” He cocked the weapon. It sounded like doom come to call. “What’s happening here is your end.”
I brought the whiskey bottle around in an arc, catching him full in the face. Bottle fighting is a hell of a lot harder than it looks in the movies; in real life, bottles are pretty damn hard, and if they shatter, it’s not neatly so that you’re left holding just the neck in a single, unbroken piece. No, in real life, when a glass bottle shatters, you usually end up with
shards of broken glass in your hand.
Which is exactly what happened. The bottle shattered as it connected with his face, and I ended up with a bloody handful of broken glass. I gasped as whiskey sloshed over the cuts welling up in my palm. Bodewell’s shot went wide, burying a bullet in the floor. My former mentor screamed in pain as glass and whiskey mingled with his blood, a series of jagged red slashes appearing across his cheek. The few patrons in the bar at that hour scattered, and Rex ducked behind the bar, flipping a switch that brought a protective barrier up over the rows of alcoholic containers on display behind the bar.
Gasping in pain, I slid off my stool. I’d knocked Bodewell off his stool with my bottle, but the gun was still in his hand. I grabbed the cane off the bar and swung it in a wide arc, catching the gun and Bodewell’s hand, knocking the weapon loose and sending it flying across the room. It skittered and clattered into a dark corner, removed from the battle.
Blood was dripping from my hand, I was breathing heavy, and my gut ached with the exertion. Bodewell’s face was a bloody mess, shards of glass still stuck to it and whiskey and blood running down the side of it. He looked like a caged animal, feral and unpredictable. He dug into his pocket and pulled a knife; the man must have raided a cutlery store at some point in the past month, as many knives as he kept digging up.
“Still nothing personal, John?” I asked, a wry grin on my face to mask the tremendous pain I was in.
“Oh no, now it’s completely personal,” Bodewell responded, flourishing the knife. He feinted to the left, then spun right and slashed at me with the knife. I barely got the cane up to parry. The knife blade slid partway up the cane, scratching finish off the shaft. I leaned away from the attack, but lost my balance as I overcompensated and misjudged the weakness of my lame leg. I pitched backward, falling into a chair. Bodewell advanced, the knife held in front of him in a competent, no-nonsense sort of way. I tried to bring the cane back into play, but he swatted it away and stepped up to me. “Goodbye, Eddie,” he whispered hoarsely, drawing the blade back to plunge it home.
I brought my good knee up, catching Bodewell right in a place best left unmentioned. He cried out, dropping the knife and clutching at his groin. I struggled back to my feet, one hand clenched while the other bled. As Bodewell straightened back up, I put everything I had into one punch, catching him on the jaw. I felt something go in my hand and his jaw, and Bodewell crumpled. I stood over his prone body, both hands useless, and sucked wind. After a moment of waiting to make sure Bodewell wasn’t getting up, I turned to the bar.
“Rex, give Captain O’Mally a call,” I said, “and please bring me the first aid kit.”
└●┐└●┐└●┐
Later, while standing outside of the Funeral Parlor with Captain O’Mally, who looked perturbed at having to see me for the third time in two days, I reflected on the whole gigantic mess the past month had been.
“Looks like you broke his jaw,” O’Mally said as they wheeled Bodewell into an ambulance.
“Yeah, it’s becoming my trademark, I think,” I said without really listening to O’Mally. I looked down at my hands, both bandaged. The painkillers were finally kicking in, and I wanted nothing more than to go crawl into bed and sleep for a thousand years.
“Seems maybe a bit harsh,” O’Mally commented flatly.
“I regret nothing. I mean, the bastard was trying to stab me again,” I replied.
O’Mally nodded, watching the ambulance pull away in a barrage of flashing lights and cacophonous sirens. “What now?” he asked.
“Now,” I said, turning for the nearest taxi stand, “it’s time to take care of the last loose end.”
IV.
I sat on a park bench, both hands bandaged and essentially useless. Miss Typewell stood off a ways, lurking about in a protective way despite the fact that all of my enemies were either dead or in prison.
Vera Stewart came walking by, dressed in an expensive but simple coat and a hat that was stylish in a 1950s Hollywood sort of way. I knew that, somewhere in the park, an unseen horde of her ninja were probably watching over us, weapons at the ready in case I did anything untoward.
Vera took a seat next to me on the bench, not looking at me, her hands folded over an expensive clutch in her lap. “What do you want, Eddie?” she asked finally.
“Why are you still in business?” I asked quietly.
“Excuse me?” she replied.
“Seems to me that everyone in the city is gunning for you or your job. Why cling to it? Why not walk away? No one really knows who you are, so it’d be easy to just leave and never go back.”
Vera shook her head, a faint smile playing across her lips. “If only it were so easy, Detective Hazzard.”
I turned to give her a sidelong look. “Isn’t it?” I asked. She shook her head again. We sat in companionable silence for another minute. “I could turn you in, you know,” I said, watching the sun set over the skyline.
Vera chuckled. “You could,” she said. “You won’t.”
I sighed and leaned back against the bench. It was the same one where I usually met the Little Blind Girl.
“We are friends of a sort, I suppose,” Vera said, breaking the silence.
“I know,” I said quietly.
“It’s a simple matter of circumstances. With Wally…gone,” she said, sidestepping the whole mentioning that she’d killed her husband in cold blood thing, “there’s no one else who knows me, the real me. You’re as close as anyone has gotten to me in years, Detective. It is…frightening, in a way, and I do not always care for it. I feel exposed and vulnerable.”
I nodded. “I get it. Private detectives don’t usually make many close friends, either.”
She rose and started to leave. “It can’t go on like this, Vera,” I called after her. She stopped, but didn’t turn around.
“I know,” she said, and walked away. I sat on the bench and watched her for a few moments, then pushed myself to my feet and turned to Miss Typewell.
“C’mon,” I said, walking off through the park toward the car.
This book was originally written during NaNoWriMo in 2012. It actually started out as two separate stories, but over time I was able to weave them together into a single work. It was the first long-form work I’d done with Hazzard and his world, three times longer than the original novella (which eventually became The Invisible Crown) and much longer than the couple of short stories I’d written about Hazzard by that point.
In fact, it’s the single longest thing I’ve ever written to date, even including things like my master’s thesis back in graduate school. I’m pretty pleased with the results.
This novel was originally self-published back in 2015, though revisions and changes and tweaks have taken place between that original printing and the story you just finished reading. I’ve been tinkering with this book for five years now, off and on, and I think I’m finally ready to let it go. Unless I find some other things to fiddle around with.
The book couldn’t have happened without the help of a few people. First and foremost, my beta reader, Jamie Roberts, who—when she discovered I had written a novel—begged and pleaded until I relented and let her read the thing. She kept texting me about her progress, and it was really gratifying hearing her reactions to the book and the big twists. Much like with the first book, it made me feel like a real writer.
My wife, Michelle, has been supportive and understanding throughout this process. I’m lucky to have such a wonderful partner who cooks so much better than everyone else. I am, per our wedding vows, obligated to mention how amazing her cooking is in each one of these acknowledgements.
Caroline Lee, my other beta reader and one of my most enthusiastic supporters, has been coaching me along as I write these things. Her recommendations, hints, and suggestions have been invaluable.
My parents both read these things, too. And my grandparents. My grandmothers have read these stories and passed them on to their friends. It’s safe to
say Grandma Cottrell has done a better job at marketing my books than I have.
Danica Sorber from Hart’s Reader Pulse edited the book, making sure the words I used were the right words and sounded good and were put in an order that makes sense. She did not get a chance to get a hold of this paragraph, which is probably self-evident.
The cover was provided by the always-amazing rebecacovers from fiverr.com. She does fantastic work fast, and takes the weird little sketches and the stock photos I send to her and works magic on them.
Finally, thanks as always to you, the readers. The few, the proud, the ones with time to kill and an interest in watching me put my hero through the proverbial wringer. What horrible injury will he get next? Will he have to face it sober? Probably not, but who knows!
I mean, except me. Obviously I know. I write the damn things.
About the Author
Charlie Cottrell is a history and special education teacher in Northern Virginia by day and a writer of "speculative noir" (near-future, science-fictiony, hard-boiled detective stories) by night. His major influences include Ellery Queen, Douglas Adams, Terry Pratchett, and PG Wodehouse. He likes to blend action, mystery, and a healthy dose of humor and sarcasm in his work. He also writes music and draws comics and thinks he vaguely remembers what free time was, but he’s not one hundred percent sure on that. Charlie hates tucking in his shirt, because he is a rebel.
Connect with Charlie at:
Website: www.charliecottrell.com
Facebook: facebook.com/Charlie-Cottrell-844762608906913
Twitter @XEYeti
Instagram XEYeti
Goodreads: goodreads.com/author/show/11488736.Charlie_Cottrell
The Hidden Throne (Hazzard Pay Book 2) Page 21