"Sure." I stood in the kitchen doorway and watched the heavily tattooed mountain of a man shovel his booze-laden cereal into a mouth that looked like it could take in a small dog in a single bite. Wally had been a circus strongman until a cuckolded clown cut his legs out from under him with a blast from a double-barrel shotgun. "I didn't drive out to the middle of nowhere to watch you eat, Wally. You said you had something for me?"
He put down his spoon and turned his chair so he was facing me. "You got the cash?"
"Yeah."
"Let's see it."
"I want to know what I'm buying first."
"You don't trust me, Ray?" He actually looked hurt.
"I don't trust anyone."
"But we're cousins."
"Just the same. What have you got?"
Wally smiled real big. "Jed Romweber."
I don't know what I expected, but it certainly wasn't that name rolling off Wally's tongue. I guess the look on my face said it all, because he about busted a gut laughing as I peeled off hundred dollar bills.
* * *
To hear his own mother tell it, Jed Romweber was a world-class son of a bitch right from the start. And she said it with a certain amount of pride in her voice and a sparkle in her eye. When I told her I might have a line on her missing son, she came off the old floral print couch in her living room like a mama tiger ready to pounce.
"You know where my boy is?" Doris Romweber grabbed both my arms with her withered hands and squeezed. "Do you?"
"I think I do," I said. "But are you sure you wouldn't want the cops to handle this? Or even a private investigator?"
"I don't trust the police," she said. "And I've hired my share of detectives, Mr. Perkins. I'm done with all of that."
I almost asked her why, but I didn't really want to know, so I skipped it. "All right. I'm going to need a plane ticket to Las Vegas."
Doris released my arms and went back to the couch and lifted a cushion. She unzipped it slowly and peered inside for a moment before reaching in and bringing out a stack of cash. She held it out to me. "This should cover your expenses."
I took the money. "Want a receipt?"
"I trust you," she said.
"You don't know me, Mrs. Romweber."
"I know Georgia Samson's mother."
She didn't have to say anything more.
* * *
I figured I'd grab some sleep on the flight from O'Hare to McCarran International, but it didn't work out. For the first part of the flight, a nervous guy in a suit that smelled like he worked in a flower shop talked to me about the system he had worked out for counting cards. He finally turned to talk to the guy in the window seat when I told him I was pretty sure the casinos had goons on staff to hurt guys like him.
I took a deep breath, closed my eyes, and saw Georgia Samson's face.
Georgia Samson was a sweet kid, once upon a time. Back when we were in high school together, I was crazy about her. The one and only regret I have in life is that when she asked me to go to California with her, I said no. I don't even remember the reason anymore.
The next time I saw Georgia, it was ten years later and she was dead, her body nailed to the floor in the master bedroom of a mansion in Beverley Hills. I can still see her dead green eyes staring up at me. There was no accusation there. Just a void of hopelessness.
Her killers never saw the inside of a courtroom, and that mansion burned down to the ground. I brought Georgia's body home to her mother, and I don't think more than a handful of words passed between us, but she knew.
That's the kind of thing that will eat you alive it you let it. I stepped off the plane and reminded myself of that fact. Still, as I walked through McCarran, I wondered if I'd be bringing another dead body home to a waiting mother.
* * *
I got a cab from the airport over to Frankie's Tiki Room near the Las Vegas Strip. The pink neon that lit up the nighttime sky was something else. Inside the place, the carved wood and cool artwork on the walls immediately had me thinking I should ditch Chicago and call Vegas home.
I made my way to the bar and waited for the bartender to finish placing a couple of impressive looking drinks in front of a pair of customers who plainly worshipped Tupelo's favorite son. As she turned and walked her way to my end of the bar, I watched her in a way that made me feel a strong kinship with the wolf in those old Tex Avery cartoons. Red hair fell past her shoulders and it was all I could do just then to not reach out and touch it, to pull her close and tell her I was a lost sinner ready to come home and worship her the rest of my days.
"You'd have to be Ray Perkins," she said.
"And that would make you Amber Karch."
She looked at me like she was reading my mind. "You're here on business. Let's keep that in mind, Mr. Perkins."
"Call me Ray." I leaned on the bar. "I have money."
"For what?"
"Jed Romweber."
She frowned at that. "I don't know what Wally told you...."
"He said you know where I can find Romweber."
"I do."
"And I've got the cash to pay you for that information."
"I don't want your money."
"It's not my money. It's from Romweber's mother."
"I don't want her money either."
I couldn't figure out what kind of game she was running. "Everyone wants money," I said. "I don't have the patience for games, Ms. Karch."
She surprised me by reaching out and taking hold of the collar of my shirt. She pulled me close enough to kiss and said, "I'm not playing games with you, and I don't want the money. Understand?"
"Sure," I said. "All right." I could see the headlines. Tough Guy Ray Perkins Beat Up By A Girl. And then I started to think maybe it wouldn't be so bad, if that were what she was into, I could get to liking it real quick.
"I'm done here in half an hour. We'll go get Jed then." She let go of my shirt and stepped back. "Now how about a drink?"
"What do you recommend?"
She narrowed her eyes, tapped a finger on the bar three times and said, "A Lava Letch is the drink for you, Mr. Perkins."
"Let's have it. And call me Ray, all right?"
"We'll see."
* * *
I don't know what all was in the Lava Letch I drank, but it was powerful and good. As I followed Amber outside, I thought I might need to have another one of those before heading back to Chicago.
"Here we are," she said and stopped in from of a sea foam green 1958 Impala.
"Wow."
"I like to think so." She unlocked her door and opened it. "Get in the car. We have a long drive ahead of us."
I walked around the car and admired its lines as I went. An absolutely beautiful machine. I got in on the passenger side just as she cranked the engine. "Where are we going?"
"To the desert," she said. "To The Devil's Punchbowl."
"What's that? Some sort of geological formation or something?"
She laughed at that. "No. It's a bar. Jed's there."
"You sure?"
"He's always there, Ray."
It felt good to hear her say my name. "I think I could get used to this place."
"That's funny." She pulled out onto Charleston and pointed the impala toward the Strip. "I was just thinking maybe I could get used to you."
* * *
We drove a couple hours outside of Vegas, and in that time we covered a lot of territory. And I don't mean miles on the road. By the time Amber brought the Impala to a stop along the road, I was shakin' all over, just like the song. I'd never connected with anyone some immediately, and completely, and I really didn't know if I should grab onto her and never let go, or run away as fast as I could, screaming like a madman through the desert at night.
"Do you know Jed?"
"Not really."
Amber opened her door. "Let's go inside."
I got out and went to stand next to her. We stood there and looked at the low building that was The Devil's Punchbowl.
There were quite a few cars in the lot, and we could hear music coming from inside the place.
We walked side by side, and when I took hold of Amber's hand she didn't pull away. At the door, we stopped and she took hold of the front of my shirt again. This time we kissed.
* * *
We took a small table at the back of the place and ordered a couple beers and some food.
"They do great barbecue here," she said.
"Yeah?"
"The best."
"That's a bold statement."
"Wait until you taste it."
The jukebox in the place played an impressive mix of old rock'n'roll, rockabilly, instrumental surf tunes, and some electric blues. There was a group of bikers at the bar, the real deal, not the stockbroker weekend warrior types you see most of the time. One of them had a very big and mean looking bowie knife on his hip. He was the teddy bear in the bunch.
"You don't need to size up the place, Ray."
I looked at Amber. "I don't?"
She shook her head. "Listen, about Jed—"
"Here you go. Two brisket platters." The waitress put the food in front of us and my mouth started to water. "Anything else?"
"A couple more beers would be good," I said. "Thanks."
"Be right back." She walked off and I turned back to Amber. "You were saying?"
"Jed ran with a weird crowd."
"Like those bikers over there?"
"No, not like them. Try the barbecue."
I forked a bite into my mouth and was more than impressed. "Goddamn. This is good barbecue."
"Told you so."
I took the last swallow of beer from my glass and by the time I put it back on the table, the waitress was back with two more and swiped away the empty glasses.
"She does good work," I said.
"Her name is Gloria. She and Jed were married."
I swung around and got another look at her. "And why aren't they married now?"
"Jed had other interests that were more important to him than marriage."
"I'm thinking Jed was a fool."
"That's probably the nicest thing anyone has ever said about him."
I thought about his mother and said, "Seems likely."
* * *
The big guy standing outside the door to the backroom looked like a gorilla who'd lost all his hair and had a bad attitude about it, but when Amber smiled at him he lit up. "Amber! Been a long time. How're you doing?"
"Good, Victor." She looked at me quick and added, "Real good, actually."
Victor turned his eyes on me and stuck out a big right hand. "Victor Schlitz. Just like the beer."
I shook his hand and we managed to avoid any of that macho see who can squeeze harder bullshit. "Ray Perkins. Good to meet you."
"You here about the little guy?"
I looked at Amber. "Little guy?"
"He doesn't know the whole story yet," Amber said to Victor.
"Oh. Sorry."
She waved him off. "It's nothing. Can we go on back?"
Victor used a key on the padlock that secured the door and opened it up for us. "Use the back way when you leave. We don't want anyone seeing Jed on the way out."
"Of course. See you later, Victor."
Amber disappeared into the darkness beyond the door and I started to follow but Victor put a hand on my shoulder and stopped me. "She likes you," he said.
"I think the feeling's more than mutual." That's about as close to pouring my heart out to a stranger as I've ever come. Talk about an uncomfortable feeling. Or maybe that was just the weight of Victor's hand on me.
"You hurt her, I'll twist your head right off your body."
I had didn't doubt he could do it. "You have nothing to worry about."
Victor released me. "She's waiting."
* * *
The back room of The Devil's Punchbowl was dark, lit only by candles, and the walls were covered with old rock'n'roll show flyers, weird artwork, and lots of bones. Most of which I was willing to assume, but some of them, well, they looked like human bones to me. I kept that observation to myself as Amber directed my attention to a birdcage with a cloth over it in the corner of the backroom.
"There's Jed. Want to take a look?'
"What do you mean?"
"Lift the cloth and get a look at him."
"He's in the birdcage?"
She nodded. "Jed got involved with some people into some weird shit. Really weird, Ray, nothing garden variety or cute and kitschy about it. He got in over his head. And when he tried to run, they caught up with him."
I walked to the birdcage and yanked off the cloth. "What the hell is that?"
"It's Jed."
Inside the birdcage was a shrunken head. Its mouth was sewn shut and its eyes were closed. It hung from the bird perch by its hair. I pulled out my wallet and removed the picture of Jed I had there. I held it up in front of the cage. "Sonofabitch."
"They left it on Gloria's doorstep a little more than a year ago. She didn't know what to do with it, so she brought it here. It kinda blends in back here."
"How did Wally know about it?"
"Victor told him. They were in the circus together. Victor saved your cousin's life when that clown shot him."
"He never said much about it."
"Would you?"
"Good point."
"So, Ray, what do you want to do with Jed?"
Hell of a question. I put the cloth back over the birdcage and turned to Amber. "I should take him back to his mother. She's a tough old bird. She'd want him back, I think, even like that."
"You'll never get him through airport security."
"Good point," I said. I looked at her there in the flickering darkness and remembered Georgia Samson. I wasn't going to make a wrong decision again. "Are you up for a really long drive?"
She didn't hesitate. "I'll need to stop off for a few things."
"All right."
"And you'll have to use that bankroll of yours for gas money."
"I'm sure Mrs. Romweber won't mind that."
Amber moved in close and we kissed again. Fireworks went off in the darkness. She broke off the kiss and said, "You could use a shower, too."
Kent Gowran lives and works in Chicago. His stories have appeared in Plots with Guns, Needle: A Magazine of Noir, F Magazine, A Twist of Noir, and other wild venues. Along with two nefarious cohorts, he edits the online flash fiction zine, Shotgun Honey.
Obstruction
Glenn Gray
Javier Santana was dead.
Doctor Mitchell Ross gowned up, clicked a shiny new blade on the scalpel, shook his head thinking how young the guy was.
Ross leaned and pushed. Sliced. Parted skin overlying the left pectoral muscle. Shoulder to xyphoid process. Another smooth cut opened a deep gash from the right shoulder, connecting the other gash at the xyphoid. Continued the incision down midline, carving a semicircle around the umbilicus to the pubic bone, ending up with a crude "Y" gouged into Javier's chest and abdomen.
Ralphie Gomez strutted in, late again, set a cup of coffee on the counter next to the sink, saying, "Hey, Doc. You know you really gotta try the salsa thing man cause I get so much ass. Know what I mean? I mean, I get ass anyways but when you dancing so sexy and you get that puta so close, man oh man, give'em the eye and they melt, man. Telling you."
Ross lifted the V-shaped breast plate, angled it over Javier's face, exposing neck, heart, lungs. He started to hack through abdominal wall, tearing fat and rectus musculature, exposing lumpy omentum, mesentery and bowel loops, which glistened like loose coils of wet Italian sausage in the overhanging light.
"That's fine, Ralphie." Ross half-smiled, only mildly annoyed. Ralphie did provide much needed daily amusement. "About the ass and all, but we gotta get through this autopsy. Gotta give a lecture to the first year med students in an hour. Get that tray over his legs. I'm gonna yank this stuff out, see what the hell's going on."
"You want me a give'em that talk,
Doc?" Ralphie snapped on latex gloves, smirking. He slid on a mask with a clear plastic shield, protecting his eyes. Grabbed a tray off the floor that looked like it could be used for a breakfast-in-bed thing, dropped it over Javier's legs, providing an elevated workspace below the abdomen. "I know this shit like anybody."
"Don't doubt it, Chico." Ross had his hand buried under intestine, pushing it aside to see the attachment. "I think these students want a professor who's actually been to med school."
"Whatever." Ralphie shrugged. "I serious, man. I take you to the club uptown. You see what I mean. Spanish chicks with big ass and all, man. Real concha peluda, too. You like that shit, eh?"
"Don't think the wife and kids would appreciate the club. Eh?"
"Let me know you change your mind," Ralphie said. "Who this guy anyways?"
"Javier Santana. Twenty-nine. Found dead in his room. Marriott Express by Kennedy Airport."
"Sucks." Ralphie pulled apart layers of the abdominal wall, helping Ross, getting into the flow of things. "The hotel's shit anyways."
Ross splayed the pericardial sac, slit the pulmonary trunk, slid a finger into the main pulmonary artery, checking for clot. Nothing.
The abdomen exposed, Ralphie busied himself on the neck, tying off the carotid and subclavian arteries as they tunneled out of the thoracic cavity, coursing toward the head. Cut the larynx, esophagus, wriggled them downward. "You think happened?"
"Probably drugs, this kind of story." Ross cut and pulled, got the heart, lungs and mass of abdominal organs detached. Flopped the whole mess onto the tray, dripping, sliding. "But who knows. Room was clean. Could've been an aneurysm or something."
"Where he coming from? Colombia?"
"Don't know." Ross reached for the scalpel. "I mean wasn't known yet. Had no passport or tickets. Just a New York State driver's license."
Ross severed each lung at the hilum, plopped them on the hanging scale, read off the weight. Ralphie jotted it down on a sheet of paper, put the heart and lungs onto a separate tray on the counter. Next to Ralphie's coffee. With a sword-like silver knife, Ralphie started cutting the lungs like a loaf of bread. Ross got busy with the abdominal organs on the tray.
BEAT to a PULP: Hardboiled Page 3