St. Louis Noir

by Scott Phillips

  Unless he had a reason.

  “So you and I each drank two beers,” Mick said. “The kind with the twist-off caps.”

  “What’s that got to do with it?”

  “I opened one of the six bottles we started off with, added some poison, then replaced the cap. When I put that bottle in the cooler with the other five, I couldn’t tell one from the other. I was careful of that.”

  “You can’t put those twist-top caps back on a bottle.”

  “You can if you try,” Mickey said. “Squeeze hard with a washrag and lean into them. And I only doctored the beer and replaced the cap on one bottle. Tried it on two or three, and finally got the hang of it so you can’t tell one bottle from another.”

  Eddie’s mind was working furiously, trying to put everything together, figure out what it meant.

  “Either you or me,” Mickey said, “already drank poison. Or there’s poisoned beer in one of the two unopened bottles you still got in the cooler.”

  “What kind of poison we talking about, Mick?” Eddie could feel a tightening in his throat.

  “I can’t recall. It’s tasteless and got a Latin name.”

  “Just like me, right, Mick?”

  Mickey treated the question as rhetorical. “What’ll happen is, once you drink this stuff, it’s over for you. You—or I—won’t feel any different for about half an hour after drinking the laced bottle, then it’ll be harder and harder for us to breathe. Then we won’t be able to breathe at all.”

  Eddie realized he was soaked with sweat. “Which bottle is it in, Mick?”

  “I honest-to-God don’t know, Eddie. I put the six of them in without looking so I wouldn’t be able to tell one from the other. Only God knows. In less than half an hour, one of us will be with Him and understand.”

  “I’m not gonna drink either beer,” Eddie said.

  “Your choice. Maybe you already downed the poisoned bottle. Or maybe I did.”

  “This isn’t fair, Mick!”

  “You still mad about that tasteless crack?”

  “You damn well know what I mean!”

  “It is fair, Eddie. We’re starting even, like in a race, and only one of us will be alive when it’s over. Time to take that chance.”

  “But I didn’t agree to take this chance!”

  “That’s how it is with chances. I think Alan would have said death shouldn’t be part of the learning curve.”

  “Mick! Please!”

  “The nearest hospital is right off 64. There’ll be an exit sign you can’t miss. You might even have time to get your stomach pumped, just in case you already downed the poison.”

  “I know where the nearest hospital is! But in this traffic—”

  Mickey aimed the shotgun.

  Eddie started the engine. He raised the canvas top and turned on the air conditioner. Then he crammed the gearshift lever into reverse, backed up, and roared out of the driveway.

  * * *

  Eddie passed from sight, but Mickey stood and listened for a while as the Porsche accelerated. Rubber screeched on pavement. Eddie driving hard for a street that would lead to an I-64 entrance ramp. The trouble was, I-64 was clogged with traffic this time of evening. Most of the vehicles weren’t even moving.

  Mickey went inside the house, leaned the shotgun behind the door, and sat in his usual armchair. He used the remote to switch on the TV and find the weather channel.

  Five minutes of chatter into how St. Louis was suffering one of the worst heat waves in years, the traffic copter came on with a view west along I-64. The airborne announcer opined that traffic was so backed up that the scene below might as well be a photograph. Mickey leaned forward and squinted at the TV. He thought he might be able to spot Eddie’s silver Porsche, but he couldn’t.

  * * *

  Eddie zoomed around traffic until he found himself trapped on the shoulder by a stalled delivery van and a car with its hood up. He eased the Porsche back into the traffic lane, which immediately stopped moving.

  His chest felt heavy, and he was having trouble inhaling. Or maybe it was his imagination. His dread.

  He remembered his cell phone and discovered that it was damaged and not working. As if someone had stepped on the damned thing. Mickey! He must have broken the phone when Eddie went in the house to take a leak. Eddie felt another pocket and came up with the tiny crystal ashtray. Why had he picked it up in the house and slipped in into his pocket? He didn’t even smoke.

  Eddie turned off the engine to conserve gas, then walked from car to car until he found a woman who would let him borrow her cell phone. Standing there holding the sweat-slippery thing, he wasn’t sure who to call. 911? The police? To report a murder? They’d laugh when he told them he was the victim. The woman was staring at him, her flushed face easy to read: she wanted her phone back before tomorrow. Eddie started to punch 911, then thought of an even faster way to get help in the creeping hell of traffic. He called information, then the Barnes-Jewish Hospital.

  The woman he spoke with had an annoying, strictly-business tone. It was no way to talk to a dying man.

  “You said you were the victim?” she said, seeming not at all impressed or curious about conversing with a doomed man.

  “Yes, I’ve been poisoned.”

  “How do you know?”

  “He told me.”

  “He?”

  “My friend Mickey.”

  “He the one poisoned you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Some friend.”

  “Listen, damnit!”

  “Do you know what kind of poison?”

  “No. And it’s tasteless.”

  “Then how do you know you’ve taken it?”

  “I don’t! Not for sure. That’s the point!”

  “You know nothing about this poison?”

  “No! Yes! It has a Latin name.”

  “Where are you located now, sir?”

  “I’m on I-64, driving east toward McKnight. Or trying to drive.”

  “You’re too ill to drive?”

  “No, no! I’m fine. Other than being poisoned!”

  “Continue as you are toward Kingshighway, then—”

  “I know how to get there, but I can’t! You don’t understand. The goddamn traffic!”

  “The Cardinals play the Cubs tonight, sir.”

  “I know why there’s traffic. But the poison . . .”

  “With the Latin name?”

  “Yes! Yes!”

  A nearby voice said, “I need to talk to my sister.”

  Eddie looked over and saw the woman who’d lent him the cell phone. She wanted it back. He raised his forefinger to beg for one more minute talking with the woman at the hospital. The woman who might save his life.

  “My car can’t move and is almost out of gas,” he explained. “I haven’t got anything safe to drink. I’m on a borrowed cell phone. POISON IS COURSING THROUGH MY VEINS!”

  “I think you’d better get yourself right in here,” the woman on the phone said. “Continue driving east toward Kingshighway—”

  “Listen, damnit! I need someone to come get me in a chopper. That’s the only way fast enough to save me. You have a helicopter, don’t you?”

  “You mean me personally?”

  “No, I mean the hospital. If a person is dying, can’t your helicopter—”

  “Our helicopters are all in service, sir. In this terrible heat, people—”

  “I know! I know! But . . .” Eddie thought he might be weeping. Or was it perspiration streaming down his face and burning the corners of his eyes?

  “My phone!” the voice beside him demanded.

  Eddie knew he had to give it back. One last thing to say: “Mickey Logan did this.”

  “Is Mr. Logan another victim?” the woman on the phone asked.

  “Who the hell are you? Are you a nurse?”

  “I’m not a nurse.”

  “I want to speak to someone with authority!”

  “You got what you get.
I’m a volunteer. I decided to help out because of the accident. A caravan of busses stopped too fast on the way to the ballpark and ran into each other. Front to back. Bang! Bang! Bang! Traffic folded up like an accordion. No one in the Cubs bus was hurt, because they were in last place.”

  “Is this a joke? Is this a goddamned joke?”

  “Only if you’re a Cub,” the woman said.

  “Listen! I was serious!”

  “No ifs or buts,” the woman beside Eddie said. She advanced on him in a way that suggested imminent combat. “I want my phone. Now! I was nice enough to lend it to you.”

  He handed her the phone. The heat seemed to shrivel him.

  This is hell.

  “You could say thank you,” the woman told him.

  But he didn’t. He simply trudged back to his Porsche. It was a convertible. He could lower the top, get a little cool air that way. Also a lot of sun.

  He knew that if he lowered the top he would fry like bacon.

  * * *

  Mickey leaned forward in his armchair for a better view of the traffic jam on TV. Some cars were pulled to the shoulder, overheated. Others were sitting still with their doors hanging open. A few drivers were out of their vehicles and walking around, trying to find shade.

  Mickey knew there was no shade in hell. He looked carefully at the TV screen but didn’t see a silver Porsche.

  On the late news, however, it was reported that traffic had been horrendous, especially in such withering heat. Three people had died, including a man in a Porsche on I-64.

  Cause of death in all three cases had been heat exhaustion, even though the man driving the Porsche had a small cooler of beer in his car containing two unopened bottles, and could have remained hydrated.

  Mickey turned the thermostat down a few degrees, then went to the refrigerator for a cold beer.

  Wondering how things would have worked out if he’d actually put poison in one of the bottles.

  PART IV

  Across The River

  Tell Them Your Name Is Barbara

  by L.J. Smith

  East St. Louis, IL

  Sitting on a plush barstool in my favorite watering hole—legs crossed, suited down in Armani, rich-bitch-litigator posture—I watch Dolly mix my Grey Goose martini with skills born of twenty years of bartending in the most prestigious bar in black St. Louis. As Dolly places the martini in front of me—her nineties neck-plunging Norma Kamali jumpsuit revealing cleavage and champagne-stopper nipples poking through skimpy spandex—I have to admit she still looks damn good.

  Club owner Steve Charles, who fancies himself the black Sinatra, sings “Fly Me to the Moon.” Every Thursday night Steve and the band, Jazz Classique, entertain his guests while Dolly keeps the drinks coming with smooth precision.

  He works the room, singing into the cordless mic. He grabs one of the customers and starts swing dancing with her and the whole room is finger popping and slapping five as Steve puts on his show. Enjoying the view, I take a Dunhill from my sterling case. From behind me, Lance reaches around with a flame to light it, nestling his lips in the nape of my neck and moaning as he takes in my fragrance.

  He whispers, “I see my money is keeping you lookin’ and smellin’ good. You smell so good, you givin’ me a hard-on.”

  “Yeah, but I ain’t the one, sweetheart,” I inform him as I wipe his vapor off my neck. “If you would keep your ass out of trouble, I wouldn’t have so much of your money, but what the hell. Keep doing what you’re doing. I don’t want to mess up my job security.”

  Lance, one of my oldest clients, can’t see why he can’t make a career distributing dope to street hustlers. The police can’t get his employees to rat him out, out of fear for their lives and their families. Besides, the street hustlers don’t care about getting locked up because Lance has some high-ranking police officials who manage to get evidence lost and cases dropped.

  He slips a package into my jacket pocket. “This should make us even on what I owe you for court last week. Dolly, pour me a Rémy Martin straight up and put it on Kaycie’s tab.”

  I call Michael. I love listening to Steve Charles, but I’m not about to sit here with all this dope in my pocket when I could be partying. I’m ready to get my freak on. Lance’s drink is gone in two gulps.

  “Give him another one on me, Dolly, and keep the change.” I place a fifty on the bar and point my key fob toward where my Jaguar is parked.

  “I’m on the way, baby,” I purr into my cell, “but I have to stop by the office to pick up my works.”

  * * *

  Kaycie Crawford—Attorney at Law, reads the brass sign on my storefront office in the Central West End. I enter through the security gate around back, close the blinds, and notice my phone blinking.

  “Hello, hello! Ms. Crawford, this is Mr. Jacobsen from the Lindell Suites Condo Association. I need to talk to you about your back HOA fees. Our lawyers are about to file to foreclose. Please call me so we can work out a payment arrangement.”

  I really don’t want to hear this shit right now so I shut off the machine. I got clients who want to pay me in dope, jewelry, or hot clothing from Neiman Marcus. They know I like to look good and a few of them know I like to get high. I have to find some money from somewhere fast. My $5,000 monthly allowance from the family trust fund isn’t due to hit my bank account for a couple of days. I can’t let them white folks set me out on the street.

  I decide to take a hit before I head over to Michael’s. It won’t take me but five minutes to get there from here. Just one more hit . . . then another . . .

  * * *

  My iPhone won’t stop ringing and I’m frozen in the chair at my desk ignoring Michael’s picture when it pops up . . . Damn! It’s two hours later, and all the dope is gone.

  “Kaycie, what’s up, baby? It’s twelve o’clock, I thought you would be here by now. Why didn’t you answer the damn phone?”

  I tell him I forgot where I put my pipe and left my phone in the car.

  “Yeah, right! So why do you sound like you got rocks in your mouth? But that’s okay, do me any kinda way. I’ve been sitting here waiting to get high with you, drink martinis, and have freaky sex, and you over there geekin’ all by yourself!”

  “I’ll call Lance to bring me a sixteenth and then I’ll be over.”

  “Forget it, Kaycie! I’m half-drunk, tired, and I’m going to bed. I’ll talk to you later.” Click.

  Fuck him, then. Michael never has any money to put on a package anyway. I’m the one who buys the dope, and I bought that Grey Goose he got drunk on. Let me call Lance to see if he can bring me another one.

  A half an hour passes and Lance hasn’t answered his phone. I’d go back to Steve Charles’s, but I know I look a mess after smoking a half-ounce of cocaine. In the office bathroom, I wash up and change into a turtleneck and jeans. I see the $2,000 leather coat I charged at Neiman’s last week in my closet, tagged and still in the plastic. I tear the plastic and the tags off and put it on, forgetting that I intended to take it back to the store.

  The back door opens and Jimmy and Jeremy enter, swooning and recapping the wedding. Jimmy looks like a black James Bond in his Yves Saint Laurent tuxedo and his bow tie untied, and Jeremy’s in shirtsleeves with his jacket slung over his shoulder, both such beautiful men that a threesome fantasy flashes in, then out of my mind.

  “Hey, Jimmy, what are you all doing here?” I ask, surprised.

  “I left the directions to the East St. Louis after-party on my desk. How’s tricks at Steve Charles’s place?”

  “Same old songs, but I like the vibe. I was just going to call you,” I lied. “Do you know where I can get a nice package this time of night?”

  Jeremy says he wouldn’t mind having a little happy dust to take over to the party. Jimmy is aware of my habit and I know his extended family has connections, but this is the first time I’ve asked him about scoring any dope.

  “I can take you over to my cousin’s on West Bentley. How m
uch you want to spend?”

  “I got about five hundred on me. You all want to go in with me?”

  Jimmy is hesitant but Jeremy reaches into his inside pocket and pulls out three hundred-dollar bills.

  “Yeah, I’m game, we need a little pick-me-up since we’re going over to the East Side.”

  The lovebirds pile into the backseat of my Jaguar and Jimmy directs me over to the 3900 block of West Bentley. It’s one o’clock in the morning and the lounges are just closing. We park in front of a house with a dim porch light. The street is dark, the streetlight flickering, half-bare tree limbs hovering over the front yard in the early October chill.

  “Didn’t they used to call this neighborhood the Bucket of Blood?” asks Jeremy.

  “That’s when John’s Canteen was still open,” Jimmy says. “It used to be a lot of cuttin’ and shootin’ on this block. I haven’t been over here since I finished school. I worked hard to get out of this neighborhood, but if my baby wants some happy dust . . .” Jimmy kisses Jeremy. “Okay, give me your money and I’ll be right back.”

  “Wait a minute, Jimmy,” I protest, “this is a lot of money we’re talking about spending. I wanna see what I’m buying. You think we can get a couple of ounces for eight hundred?”

  “Kaycie, this is a known crack house. You have too much to lose if you’re caught transacting business here.”

  “I’ve got too much to lose just sitting out in the car too! Anyway, it’s quiet.”

  “Yeah, it is. That’s what scares me.”

  “Well, I’m staying in the car,” says Jeremy. “I don’t want to get my tux dirty.”

  “Jimmy, I’m comin’ in,” I insist.

  “All right, all right, but don’t tell them your real name. Tell them your name is . . . Barbara.”

  I follow Jimmy through the squeaking gate, a dog barking as it clangs shut. The front yard is devoid of vegetation except for a few tufts of weeds and fallen leaves. Loud music comes from inside and Jimmy knocks hard several times before the volume is lowered and a raspy voice bellows out, “Who is it?”

  “It’s Jimmy, Wanda, open the door!”