Welcome To Central City

by Adam C Mitchell

  Kim glanced up. “Yeah, honey, I’m fine. Much better than you, anyway. Want me to go grab a steak for that eye?”

  Eddy shrugged “Don’t worry about me, doll-face.”

  Kim rubbed her eyes. “It’s late and we’re on the road early tomorrow,” she said, then let out a small yawn. “Good night, Eddy.”

  “Night, doll,” Eddy said, watching her head back to her little cot. “I’m just going to have a quick word with Paddy before I turn in.”

  Paddy had tucked himself in a small side room, counting the night’s takings. The sounds of the main event filtered through the door. Paddy sat on a small stool. A pile of money lay on the table before him. He looked startled when Eddy came in and sat down, but smiled after a moment. Eddy heard the distinct click of a gun being un-cocked, under the table, a sudden mix of panic and anger welled in him. What did Paddy think was going to happen? And more importantly Eddy thought was why, did the Irishman need a gun anyway. “Eddy, my boy, ya can’t be too careful in this place. There’s a small pot of gold here. How’s the eye, sonny? You took quite a hammering there.”

  “I’m fine,” Eddy said. “What’s happening tomorrow?”

  “Ah, yes,” Paddy said as he rose. “We leave at six sharp. The fighters are taking the train. You and the little lady are coming with me in the truck. We’ll get there ahead of them. Got one more fight to go, then you and the little lady can be in the wind if you want.”

  Eddy just nodded.

  Part Three

  The taxi pulled up at the Lost Angel Club. Jack paid the driver and looked up. He had to admit the place was hitting all the right notes. He headed up the black and white marble steps to the stained-glass doors. A vulgar Venus was etched in the glass, and a white stone naked angel stood on either side. They were a little gaudy but at the same time seemed to fit the look of the place.

  Jack crossed a checker board tiled lobby. He passed a coat check room where a clueless dame served patrons with little more than a smile and just a hint of cleavage. She ushered them through some pine doors and into the club itself. Small, round tables dotted the room with a corner stage at the far end. The room was dark and smelt of hooch and wine, red velvet drapes hung on the walls, making the room seem smaller. Everything was lit by cheap, vase-like table lamps and wall up-lighters. The small bar was full of barflies and even had a call girl propping up a soon-to-be sloshed Texan. Jack made his way through the maze of tables to the bar. He sat on a high stool and scanned out the scene. Music filled the room. It came from a three-piece house jazz band of sax, double bass, and piano. Behind the long, wooden bar was a thin young man with cropped black hair and a bum chin. He wore a crisp white shirt, black pants, and a black bow tie. He was in a world of his own as he polished a wine glass, staring into space. Jack shouted at him, jolting the barman back to the real world. The young man’s black greased hair shone in the bar mirrors as he placed a glass in front of Jack. “What will it be, sir?”

  “Whiskey. Two of them. No ice,” Jack said. “I’m looking for Victor. You seen him?”

  With his back to him, the barman pointed to a corner table then placed two whiskeys in front of him. Jack dropped the money on the bar as he stepped off the stool and made his way through the crowded club, drinks in hand.

  Victor studied the private investigator as he closed in on him. He looked totally out of place in the club. Their eyes locked and Victor made a simple hand movement of welcome and pulled a fake, pained smile. “Jack. Welcome, welcome. Long time no see, my friend.”

  Jack placed the drinks on the crisp white tablecloth next to a garish centre piece. Some kind of bird, he thought. Their eyes never left each others’. Neither trusted the other, but Jack knew how to play the game; small talk then down to business.

  “Well then, Jack. What brings you to my club?”

  “Your club?” The question hung in the air like a bad smell. He never got a reply. Jack removed his hat and placed it on the table. “Your note. The job? I need details. Anything you’ve got.” Victor smiled. “So you’re interested then?”

  “If I’m the only one looking and the money’s right.”

  Victor's smile grew. He downed his whiskey in one gulp. “The job is yours, and the payment is ten thousand. I want Eddy Kovakx dead and proof of it brought here.”

  Staying on the P.I job meant you eventually had to do something dirty, like become some club owner’s hired killer.

  Victor ran his fat hands through his slicked back hair and smoothed his pencil moustache. “My business partner’s associates found the getaway car at the bottom of a cliff a few miles outside the city, but there was no body. He’s alive and hiding.” He handed Jack a map with directions to the crash site, and the keys to a car, a British Jaguar XK 120. More flash than Jack was used to, but it was a perk when a client had connections.

  As Jack went to stand, Victor grabbed his arm. “I want this sorted, Jack, and soon. The cops don’t have a clue, so you make sure it stays that way. This remains in-house, understand?”

  Jack gave no reply. He gathered his hat and headed for the exit. The car was in the back alley behind the club. Malone sat in the car and checked the glove box. He found a cigar and two hundred dollars, with a note to say it was a small token of thanks. He counted it, then put it back. He studied the map. The whiskey on his lips made him wish he had downed another. This was going to be tough. There wasn’t much to go on. Jack joined the early evening traffic, heading out of Central City. Victor hadn’t discussed the stolen money, but Jack knew it was the real hunt, worth a lot more than the paltry ten grand Victor was offering. Neither Eddy nor anybody else was going to stand in his way.

  Jack sped out of Central City and on to country lanes, hoping the trail would still be warm. Darkness fell and the velvet night closed in around him. By morning, he pulled into a gas station. Daylight cracked through the sky, the day was getting into full swing. He sat in the small diner next to the gas station, reading a newspaper someone had left behind. It was full of news about the rebuilding of factories in Europe during the two years since the war ended. He ordered a breakfast of Canadian bacon, the best in his opinion, two eggs sunny side up and coffee. It was the perfect start to the case and would keep him going for the trip ahead. Jack thought he’d try his luck when he caught the eye of the young waitress. “Hey darling, you look swell. What’s a dame like you doing here and not shining on the big screen?”

  Jack’s first volley of charm didn’t help his cause. Was he that rusty at the dating game? She carried on serving coffee to a trucker near a jukebox. He downed the dregs of his coffee, wiped his chin with his sleeve and whispered, “Have you any last wish?” The waitress whispered, walking back from the jukebox, “I’d like to see Paris before I die… but Philadelphia will do.” Jack smiled and looked up from the table. “My Little Chickadee you have taste darling, good film doll.” The waitress laughed, realizing the P.I had no material of his own and preferred to spout movie quotes. She fired a quote back in return. “Mister, what does it mean when a man crashes out?”

  Jack leaned forward, and gave the dame a longing look. “Crashes out? That’s a funny question for you to ask now. You going steady, hun?” Jack asked as she wrote her number on her napkin. He’d call this Sandy when everything was sorted out. A little while later, he was off again, racing towards the afternoon sky and his first clue. It wasn’t long before he came to the lonely road with the broken stone wall. Beyond it was a steep drop. At the bottom of the cliff lay the remains of a blue Lincoln coupé. Luckily, it hadn’t blown up, so finding some clues would be possible. He parked off the road and returned to the hole in the wall. Jack found some good solid handholds that led him down to the wreck of the car below along the crumbling ledge.

  By the time Jack had reached the bottom of the cliff, an hour had passed. He was sweating and tired. His hip screamed, thanks to a shrapnel blast courtesy of Uncle Sam. Plus, he was no mountain climber or movie hero. The damage the booze had done over the years wasn�
��t doing him any favours either. He cut through a small bush, and then wiped his shoe on a rock after stepping in Lord knows what. Finally reaching the car, he tried the door with little luck, so decided to go in through the rear window instead, crawling into the upturned and confined space.

  The front of the car had crumbled in on itself. Jack got to work as best he could, scanning the inside. Dark red patches of blood smeared the back of the driver’s seat and the steering wheel, but what caught his attention were the bloody hand-prints on the driver’s door. Eddy Kovakx had somehow survived and was on the move. The driver was wounded, and from the amount of blood in the car, Jack guessed he was in a bad way. He had either been shot in the hiest or the crash had done it to him. Either way, he got out. Jack figured he couldn’t have gone far bleeding that badly. It might be worth checking the nearest hospitals and clinics. After looking at the wreck again, he thought better of it. The climb up the cliff took longer than the exhausting descent, but finally, the P.I scrambled up the last rocky outcrop and through the broken wall. By sheer chance and dumb luck, Jack’s hand landed on a rock stained with blood. Deep, uneven, muddy footprints led onto the road, pointing the way like an arrow. The remains of blood and the odd footprint led Jack to an old gas station set back from the road. Jack pushed open the rickety door and walked in. Dust rose, filling the room and dancing in the sunlight. The room was small, so finding the bloodstained clothes and bandages was easy. Bandages meant one thing. He’d had help. That made the game of cat and mouse a lot harder. He searched outside and discovered two sets of tire tracks leading up to the road, his and one other. That gave Jack a direction if nothing else.

  The road was quiet, with only the occasional farmhouse on it, one of which was nothing more than a shell. It didn’t fill him with much confidence of anything good happening that night. But a little way on, at a fork in the road, a battered sign for a train station spurred Jack on. Only one car sat in the station’s gravel car park. Jack couldn’t look inside, other than through the windows. But there were blood droplets on the seat. He also noted the car’s tire tracks were similar to those in the alley. This is the car, he thought. He glanced around. This station would be the nearest and quickest way out of the area for a wounded man and his accomplice.

  Malone walked into the small ticket office. The old man in the shabby conductor’s grayish uniform gave Jack a look that made him feel off. Maybe it was his age. He didn’t know, but the conductor’s beady glare made him uneasy.

  “Excuse me, but I was wondering if you could help?”

  Two bristled eye locked on to Jack. “If you want the train you’re out of luck, sonny, it left twenty minutes ago.”

  “Actually, it’s about that car,’ he said, gesturing towards the car park. ‘Can you tell me about it?”

  The bristled eyebrows rose higher. “I’m sorry, sir, it’s against regulations to give out privileged information like that.”

  “I understand that. Okay, not a problem. Say, I don’t suppose you have a map I could buy? I'm not from around these parts.”

  The man picked up a road map booklet and popped it through the cashier’s hatch. “That'll be two dollars. Where you heading anyway?”Jack smiled and took out his wallet. “Just seeing where the wind will take me. Sorry about bothering you. It’s just that I’m a car collector. Five dollars you say?”

  Jack took the map and made a little show of looking it over so the conductor saw, then slipped a crisp one-hundred-dollar bill inside. “I’ve changed my mind about the map, so what can you tell me about the car?” He lit a cigarette and waited for the old man’s cogs to turn. He looked like he was knocking on a hundred. Jack was surprised the rail company kept him on, but who was he to say who could do the job? There were times when he thought he was too old to be a P.I. It was more of a young man’s game. The man licked his lips, slipped the note in his trouser pocket, and told Jack everything. Two people had arrived in that car, a man and woman. The woman was young, posh looking, and pretty. The man pale—ill-looking. They had parked up outside and bought tickets for Chicago.

  Jack did the same. He was now hot on their trail.

  Eddy’s head was all over the place. His thoughts were full of San Francisco and the life he would create for himself and Kim. For the first time, he could allow himself to dream big.

  Eddy and Kim sat in Paddy’s old Ford pickup, with Kim trying to avoid sitting on the various grease stains marring the seats. Eddy was getting impatient. He wanted to put the gym, the city, and what had happened to them behind him. Paddy was just about to lock up when he said, “Just one more job to do. Back in a tic.”

  He went back into the hall. Kim turned and looked at Eddy’s face. His eye had gone an odd shade of blue and purple and his nose was battered. “You should have ducked that one, baby.”

  Eddy winced. His jaw was a painful reminder of the left hook that had finished him off. “Yeah, maybe next time I will.”

  She hugged him tight. She knew how much he hated to lose. His pride had been dented. “Don’t sweat it, Eddy. We are on our way. San Francisco is just ahead of us.”

  He smiled. “Yeah, not long now, baby doll,” he whispered.

  Back in the small back office, Paddy perched on the corner of his desk. He picked up the phone and dialled the operator after checking that no one was around. “I’d like Central City 487302. The Lost Angel Club. Mr. Victor Renetti, please.”

  After a small delay and a crackle, someone picked up the line. Paddy cleared his throat and spoke. “Um… Mr. Renetti? Hello, my name’s O’Neal. Paddy O’Neal. We met in Central City at the Johnson fight last April. You and Mr. Mike came to see my fighters… did a little betting.” There was a slight pause before the promoter carried on. “Yes sir, I’m fine. Thank you. Business is good. Well, if you don’t mind me saying so, sir, I think we can do a little business again. I heard you were looking for Eddy Kovakx.”

  The voice on the other end coughed in silent confirmation. “It’s just… I have information on his location and the like, but it comes at a price.” Paddy hated himself for ratting Eddy and Kim out, honestly he liked the pair of them. But this was business and he’d lost a fair bit on putting Eddy in the ring, along with a few hotel bookings for the pair further on down the line. He’d turned down a sure thing that would have set the gym straight for the next year. But turned it down to play the good Samaritan, and help the desperate couple. Renetti listened as Paddy assured him the information was both new and reliable. He offered Paddy five thousand dollars. Paddy saw dollar signs and tried pushing his luck a little further. “Actually, Mr. Renetti, I was thinking more like ten thousand... No, Sir… you’re right. It’s more than I deserve. Five thousand will be fine.” It wouldn’t be he got the impression this Vic Renetti, was not a person to be messed with, and definitely not when it came to money.

  Eddy picked up on Paddy’s change of mood when he returned. He watched the old guy out of the corner of his eye. Something didn’t seem right with the Irish gent. He was shaking. He was scared. He had something on his mind; something big. Something to hide.

  Hours passed in silence in the cramped pick-up. As they passed a collage of gold and green fields, Eddy let the girl doze on his shoulder for a mile or two. When darkness fell, they pulled into a motel called Seventh Heaven. It was old and in dire need of some attention. Eddy wondered why motels always had dodgy names. Was it a necessary part of owning one? Eddy, Kim and Paddy walked into a small tin-shelled café across the street. They ordered coffee and sat in a booth. All three ignored the world outside.

  “Paddy, you seem on edge, pal.”

  Paddy squirmed in his seat like a scolded child. “Just business, Kovakx. The fight tour, you know. Lots to do, lots to work on.”

  Eddy moved towards him. “O’Neal, can we talk?” he asked in a low voice.

  “Sure. What’s on your mind?”

  Eddy replied grimly, “In private?” He gestured towards the door, trying not to let Kim catch on.

  �
��Yeah, champ, sure. If that’s what you want.”

  Eddy nodded, then turned to Kim. “Baby doll, order us some sandwiches or something. We won’t be long, okay?”

  She smiled sweetly. “Sure, Eddy honey. No problem. Just don’t be too long.”

  Eddy and Paddy went outside. Paddy wrapped his coat around his body tighter. He lit a pipe and walked around to a side alley. They stopped next to the cafe dumpster.

  “Okay, Paddy, what’s your game? You’ve been acting like a cat on a hot tin roof for hours. You’re scared, and I want to know why!”

  Eddy grabbed Paddy’s coat collar and pushed him up against the wall. Paddy’s head hit the wall hard. A little to hard. Paddy felt a slow trickle of blood roll down his neck. Eddy gripped his wrinkly throat and the old man flailed. Paddy, once the experienced pugilist, hit the trash laden floor behind the motel, Paddy’s head hitting the wall and simple old age delivering a bone shaking hay-maker. He panicked, flailing around like a trout trying to push his way to freedom but was no match for Eddy’s strength. Eddy pulled a piece of paper from Paddy’s panic drenched coat. It was a flyer for the tour. On the back, something had been scribbled in haste:

  VICTOR RENETTI

  THE LOST ANGEL CLUB

  CENTRAL CITY 487302

  Memories of Rudy’s bullet-riddled body rushed back. Eddy lost it. “You shmuck! You think you can cash in on me, old man?” He leaned closer to Paddy, hissing his words through gritted teeth. “You’re dead wrong.”