The Black Rose (Joe Dylan Crime Noir, #4)

by James Newman

  If there were such a thing as paradise or heaven then it wouldn’t be a million miles away from this. Bronzed toned muscular millionaires drank champagne and mingled with the women who all looked like they had jumped straight out of the latest copy of Vogue magazine.

  Christmas with money in the tropics was a tough gig.

  He drank the second glass straight down and motioned toward a grand entrance leading into the joint. “What happens in there?” he asked a nervous bar-tender who couldn’t have been any older than the cocktail-shaker in his mitt.

  “Everything happen. Have many lady. Lady from America, from Europe, Arab lady, Africa lady, Asia lady, have everything, meester.”

  “Is that right?” Joe said lighting a cigarette.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Looks like we will have to take a look.”

  “Yes, sir. Looking is good. Buying better.”

  “Well, you would say that now, wouldn’t you,” Joe slammed a note on the counter. The kid bar tender put it in his pocket. “Why you work here anyway? Your sister on the game?”

  “No, sir. Good money. Big Boss pay big money.”

  “Right. Of course he does, and it sure beats working in a chicken factory.” Joe moved toward the entrance with slow cautious steps gravel crunching beneath his feet. It was dusk. Bats wheeled in the sky flying amazingly close to his head before at the last moment switching direction. The women were moving inside. In the tropics it gets dark quick, like somebody turned the lights out. He noticed Hale entertaining two pole greasers who were on a cigarette break. Didn’t catch his eye.

  Kept walking.

  TAYLOR FELT the gravel crunching beneath his feet. The building was white stone with two large wings, a swimming pool. He moved closer. Each step clouded with dizziness he walked on.

  JOE WALKED into the establishment. The lighting was dark with strips of purple and neon along the walls. Crystal mirrored disco balls hung from the ceilings along with chandeliers. Mirrors were everywhere giving the impression of a vast open space. Booths lined one wall to allow for more secretive pairings. Women from every nationality danced on podiums. Different sections for different races. There was an Arab section, an Asian section, African, Russian, European. He guessed there were perhaps fifty aluminum poles in that place and four times as many women dancing. It was like a scene from some fast American B-movie circa ’86.

  I PARKED the Honda low-rider beneath the shade of a pomegranate tree and took a look over the wall. Naked bodies around a swimming pool like some kind of Hollywood party. Somewhere in the hills. The white walls fading to gray as the sun set spilling a ribbon of orange above the mountains. I saw my chance as the guards were pointing and giggling at something out of view. Jumped over the wall and made it to the rear of the building and slipped through a kitchen door. The sun came down almost visably moving.

  “THIS IS IT” Byron parked the jeep and smiled. Ed opened the door and checked the equipment on the back seat. They should have been packing more metal but Hale’s contact had been light in artillery. Ed satisfied himself with a tommy gun and Byron kept hold of the Glock.

  JOE SAW her and felt like he’d received a blow to the stomach. Beyond the European stage, she was dancing, behind her a ceramic white flamingo. Rose froze as she saw him, and then her eyes panned to his left. A figure he recognized. Taylor walked slowly towards him extended a hand. Joe shook it.

  Gunfire like a sudden thunderclap. The slug hit Taylor in back, between the shoulder blades. The floor caught him as he coughed up blood. Joe crouched as another shot hit the wall behind them. He took Taylor by the feet and dragged him behind a white sofa. Checked his pulse, weak. Taylor was trying to say something. Joe gave him the time to do it. “Take care of Jimmy, he’s a...”

  His eyes closed.

  No more words.

  Pulse dead.

  His face looked at peace as the bullets fired above them, screams from the dancing girls. Joe took a look from behind the sofa.

  Smashed in nose, Byron stood there with a half-smile. He told his muscle to stop firing. Ed held the weapon and stood with a rat-like animal grin on his face.

  “I think you have something of mine, sunshine.”

  “I had it and now it’s gone.”

  “Don’t make me squeeze it out of you. I’ve come a long way and I’m all out of fackin good will.”

  Joe looked up at Rose, squatting on the stage, arms covering her naked breasts. “I think she might be the real reason you came here, Byron. You can make more money, you can’t make another daughter, or if you can, it won’t be the same.”

  “I’m taking her and the money with me.”

  “Well, it’s fair to say they come as a package, old man. Find one and you have the other.”

  “Just tell me where the fackin dough is.”

  Joe opened his palms. “I’ve nothing up my sleeves.”

  The White Flamingo joined them. “He’s right. He doesn’t have it.”

  Ed Case reloaded, turned and fired the Tommy.

  I SAW my father hit the ground and watched Joe reach down and check the pulse. He shook his head. Gone.

  ED CASE turned and fired. The bullets sprayed the dance floor and punctured the ceramic flamingo, the whores hit the floor and then their eyes glanced up at the thousands of bank notes that scattered from the ceramic flamingo. They stood slowly at first and then as one they rushed towards the cash and stashed notes in their bras in their underwear, handbags, fists.

  Rose grabbed some notes, her clothes and approached the sofa.

  Byron closed in on Joe. A .22 had appeared in his mitt. Looked like a toy. Pulled the trigger. Hit Joe in the shoulder and he fell back knocking over a plastic palm tree. Byron moved closer aiming the weapon at his head. Joe kicked up. Got him in the balls and Byron stumbled back. Then Rose moved in. Got between Joe and her father. “I took the money, Dad. I took it from them. You want to kill someone then kill me. It was me that planned it.”

  He turned the weapon to his daughter. “Rose, dear, you couldn’t.”

  “Oh, yes, she could. A woman is capable of anything. She has spirit. You should be proud.” The White Flamingo walked towards them, a stiletto shoe in her hand heel pointed at him. “You should really do something about that face, lover,” she said moving closer.

  Byron, in shock, half smiled.

  The White Flamingo hit him direct in the face with her stiletto heal. Caught him good on the left eye. The bruise was rising, a line of blood trickled down his cheek. Byron took a step back and looked at her.

  Enough time for Dylan to crack one left into a kidney.

  Byron’s stare switched between the pair.

  “Too many bodies. Ed, Fackin kill someone!”

  Ed Case fired a burst at the Flamingo. She stumbled back and slouched onto the sofa her mouth open trickling with blood in an awful death grimace.

  “Two down, two to go,” Ed said aiming the Tommy at Joe, Rose and then Byron. Question is – which two?”

  “Why would you let one go?” Joe asked.

  “Somebody to squeal. I like this town. You ever feel like starting over?”

  “Ed,” Byron said. “Here’s what’s going happen. You’re going to squeeze that trigger and shoot the fake pig on the count of three. One... Two...” Byron shook, pulled out the .22 and fired. Slug hit Ed in the shoulder, Ed dropped the Tommy and stumbled. He leant over to pick it back up. As he did a gunshot. Byron fell forward and looked up.

  I SHOT the old man in the whorehouse with his daughter looking on. There was something in his eye that wasn’t pity. It wasn’t anger. Surprise maybe or acceptance. Whatever it was it only stayed there for a second before the lights went out. Ed reached for the Tommy. I aimed the Glock and fired, the slug taking three fingers with it. “Leave the shooter, Ed.” I told him. “Leave the shooter and walk away. Open a bar and get rich. Take some of the notes with you,” I glanced back at the stage where the money had flown like feathers from the broken ceramic flamingo.


  “Jimmy, about your father...” Joe said

  “Dead?”

  “Yes, he came here and...”

  “Got it. Rose?”

  “I guess we are in the same boat,” she said looking down at Byron.”

  “You ever been a godfather, Joe?”

  He smiled.

  “Let’s discuss this further outside. I’m figuring it’s only a matter of time before the Boys in Brown arrive. There just might be enough cash here to make it worth their while to keep quiet. And of course they will get the venue. If they didn’t have it already. Will Byron’s boy speak?”

  “Ed, he’s from the site. He won’t speak.”

  RIDE INTO THE SUN

  OUTSIDE THE gates I sat on a Honda Stead motorcycle. Rose walked slowly. Her hair was wild, stood up, make-up smeared.

  “Hitch a lift?” she asked.

  “I should kick your beautiful ass,” I said.

  “I might enjoy it.”

  “Not as much as I would Rose. What happened to the cash?”

  “Didn’t you see? Donated it to a charity for abused women.”

  “I find that hard to swallow.”

  “Well, it’s all I got. How about that lift?”

  “Which way are you heading?”

  “I’m going your way.”

  “I’ve heard that before.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said.

  “How much?”

  She held her hands apart two feet, “This much.”

  I revved the engine and drove away for as long as it

  takes to think about a stranded blond in a vice ridden town.

  Stopped, turned the bike around and rode back up to her.

  “How much?” Asked her again.

  “How much?”

  “For you Jimmy, free,” she said.

  JOE FOUND the nearest hole in the wall bar and ordered a double Jack and coke. Hit it in one and then hit another. The afternoon swallowed the day like an angry thought. And the next day and the one after that. The barman was Scandinavian, Norway or Sweden or somewhere where they wrote bestselling crime novels and rolled around in snow and lived comfortably on state benefit. The bar man looked at Joe. Frowned and said,

  “Cheer up, man. As they say in your country. Life is not a bed of roses.”

  Drank to it.

  Hard.

  THE END

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  .

  Part Five in the Joe Dylan series.

  FUN CITY PUNCH

  FOREWORD

  FUN CITY is made up of six major areas - The Beach, The Red Zone, The Central Business District, Metroland, Main Street and The Dark Side. These zones are all connected by alleyways and tunnels, a cryptic network of mazes not unlike the back lanes and alleyways that connected 18th century London. Perilous passages are rebuilt as soon as they are demolished. Bars, riotous patrons, and the homeless exist both in spite of and because of this labyrinth of decadence. There was the widespread use of illicit substances, distribution of sexual diseases, an escalating murder rate, the general acceptance of corrupt officials, and the popularity of Fringe Theater. London had the Penny gaffs, Fun City had the bars, the cabaret shows, the boxing rings, the discos and the Theater Bizarre. One was never further than the toss of a dwarf away from a place where it was possible to enter a state of intoxication before discussing the impending apocalypse with a like-minded other.

  This was before the clampdown.

  By 2020 Fun City became an international hub for illegal activity and its global reputation as a serious business and commercial player was at risk.

  Tourism was encouraged. Immigrations discouraged.

  Fun City needed a way to truly control her population.

  The answer came with technology. First the surveillance system locally known as the Fun Eyes was installed. All main roads are now under surveillance. People came out at night to lessen the chances of being recognized by The Eye’s facial recognition software and quite soon the City became practically nocturnal.

  In 2023 The Credit system was put in place.

  Cash was removed and outlawed and instead the Fun City Credit Scheme, which deducted as well as credited the owner on account of both their behavior and their work, was introduced. Credits were awarded to the sufferers of conditions requiring medical attention, legislation that led to self-mutilations. Credits were awarded for artists and predictably every Fun City resident was writing a book or working on a play. Credits were deducted for promiscuous behavior, drink, drugs and violence. Those who reached zero credits were subject to The Punch – an intense attitude adjustment four week program.

  Crime escalated as cash vanished.

  Art and suffering thrived hand in hand.

  Fun City had entered her third and final act...

  FUN CITY

  2025

  ONE

  THE NIGHT wrapped around Fun City like a spider; saxophone notes rose and fell, a woman screamed on the streets, her screams turned to laughter, her laughter turned to tears, the sound of glass breaking, a television talent show blaring from an open window, a tomcat leaped onto a corrugated roof wanting to tell some queen cat that he cared about her, or cared about the world, or cared about something, anything, but the queen cat didn’t care and eventually the tomcat would be silenced by the impossibility of the night.

  This is the way it rolled in Fun City.

  Always has been and always will be.

  The office was a hole-in-the-wall unit punching out onto an over-ground tunnel connecting the commercial district to the Red Zone. Fun City, like any city, had her main streets and through-ways where all kinds of illicit acts took place under the watchful gaze of the Eye and then it had the lanes and back alleys where the real fabric of the city was weaved and spun; this was where I worked.

  The locals called it 'working the tunnel.'

  ​I called it cooling off.

  ​Until the credits ran down.

  Back streets had their own problems. Rats had infested the office and I couldn’t figure out a way to stop the rodent tide. I’d tried poison pellets, glue traps, bait and death falls, spring loaded recoil traps, and vacuum containment; nothing worked.

  Weaned the rodents onto bacon before they lost interest in bacon and when you lose interest in bacon what’s the point? So I spent the best part of the night awake with a pellet gun and a bottle of Tiger Sweat waiting for the vermin to show their awful twitching faces.

  Nibble, nibble, nothing, not even a freaking nibble.

  Fun City rats contrarian to the bone. And the rats not only dwelled in my office and in the streets, they also stood upright, wore clothes, brokered deals and counted the credits and the debits with merciless rodent care.

  The rats were everywhere.

  Walking up and down and to and thro in it.

  I was considering the purchase of a ferret when the doorbell rang.

  The client poked his head inside and weighed me up. It said Private Detective on the door and the single-breasted grey number and fedora on the desk should have been the final word on the matter. But, you know, we live in a city patrolled by fake policemen and bogus holy men. There they go now, outside collecting fines and denotations. Well, I waved the client to sit down and hoped for a moment that the case would be big, although the client’s raw silk shirt and local haircut suggested small. Aged some years north of my forty-eight and with hair greying at the temples the client shuffled in his seat.

  “She’s changed,” his face was lined and haggard like an abandoned road map. Either he had sped through his thirties fast and hard and crashed into his forties too soon or he ha
d slammed into his fifties following a decade of heavy traffic, hitting the brake suddenly.

  “Well, women do,” I said. “Please take a seat.”

  “How did you know? I mean, I didn’t say it was a girl.”

  “Call it a lucky guess.”

  “They said that you were good. If anyone can help you, Joe Dylan can, that’s what they said.”

  “I credit them well to say that.”

  “Huh?”

  “Nothing... How can we help?”

  “I found this while doing the laundry,” he waved the offending item above the desk.

  Black background, brass jazz instruments in gold and red text:

  Neptune in Leather

  Nightmares and Dreams

  “A modern man?”

  “What?”

  “Doing the laundry. That’s modern.”

  “Well, if I don’t...Who will?”

  “U-huh. Name?”

  His eyes glanced up at the ceiling, hands gripped the arms of the chair as he sunk into it. “My wife, Trixie. She’s been...”

  “Your name?”

  “Sloane.”

  “Okay. Tell me from the start, Mr. Sloane. Keep it clear and relevant. Time’s not an issue,” I lit a Death Cloud Blue to illustrate the point. The Fun City council would deduct me one Fun City Credit for the smoke but I figured Sloane to pay his bill and not squeal.

  “I lost her at The Punch.”

  “BB Punch?” Basic Behavior, a Fun City attitude adjustment program, for the most part voluntary, had recently extended its admissions programs to those who scored low on the morality front or reached zero credits. I’d recently recovered from a four week stint in the BB Punch having had my account move to zero. The thing with The Punch was they didn’t admit you twice, unless under special circumstances. After The Punch they sent you back out onto the street with nothing but sobriety, bitterness and a refined sense of injustice.