Reset

by Kirk Dougal

  “I’ll get us some eel juice,” the man said. “There’s a booth open near the back. That’ll give us a little more privacy.”

  I walked toward the seats, winding my way through the people. It took me only a few strides to realize this was a working man’s bar. There were a few office workers in the crowd, mixed in with men who worked with their hands, the dirt and grime ground into their skin like the world had tried to file down their tired lives. But the women were the ones who showed me what kind of people made up the crowd. They were girlfriends and wives, seamstresses and laundry workers, typists and secretaries. A couple of the women at the bar looked liked lower rung prostitutes, on the backside of pretty and on their way to being used up by the life and the drugs or booze. The other women ignored them, leaving them to throw glances at men who were alone. One of the women caught my eye and she leaned back, pushing out her chest and sliding one leg forward a little. Her lips parted and the tip of her tongue broke through, resting on her bright red lipstick. I shook my head and a sneer fell over her face before she turned back to the broken down man on the next stool, her smile returning.

  I slid into a booth on the back wall. I did not like the fact we were a long way from the door with no place to run if trouble walked in but no one could come at us from behind either. A minute later my client sat down as well, placing two glasses of clear liquor and a plate with lemon slices on the table between us.

  “They were out of corn,” he said. “Hope gin will do, Mr. Dowland.”

  I squeezed a lemon slice into my glass and then dropped in the rind, stirring it with a finger while I took the chance to look the man over in the light. Above his well-worn suit sat a face with round cheeks covered in a good day’s worth of stubble. He removed his crumpled fedora and revealed a mass of uncombed brown hair before he slammed down most of his drink in two swallows. Take away the frightened look in his red-rimmed eyes and little stood out from thousands of other men in the city. The man had probably started with nothing, would scrounge for whatever he could piece together into a life, and would die with nothing. I took a drink of the gin and wondered immediately if the bathtub had been clean when it was made.

  “Go ahead,” I said, once I was certain I was not going blind. “Tell me what I can do for you, Mister…”

  “Black, Jim Black. It’s about my brother, Eric. Well, half-brother. He wasn’t a bad kid when we were growing up, trouble just seemed to find him. Not real bad stuff, small trouble like fights and things coming up missing. But it always felt like he was only one step away from getting in too deep.” He finished off the dregs in the bottom of his glass and waved at the bartender for another. “He’s stepped in it this time, Mr. Dowland.”

  “What did he do?”

  “He was working with a group, grifting, doing some small cons, just getting by. It was never enough to catch anybody’s attention. But about a week ago he told me he met someone with a big idea and if they pulled it off there would be a big pile of lettuce at the end. I warned him nothing is ever that easy.”

  The bartender walked up and sat down two more glasses, taking away Black’s empty and eying my mostly full one before leaving it.

  “So what happened?” I asked when we were alone again.

  “The blower rang this morning. Early. Woke me and the wife up. It was Eric and he was scared. They had jumped a guy dealing bindles and snatched his tote bag. He just kept saying over and over that they were only after the money. They didn’t care about the dope.” Black stopped to gulp down more gin.

  “But they got a lot more than that, didn’t they?” I could already see where this tale ended.

  Black nodded. “There was a lot of money in the bag but there was also a lot of heroin. But that’s not the worst of it.” He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a whisper. “The guy was on Big C’s payroll. They stole from the biggest gangster in the city.”

  I leaned back. Something bothered me about the story but I could not put my finger on it. “If you think getting the money back to Big C will make this all go away…”

  “That’s what I wanted him to do,” Black interrupted, “take it back and apologize. Beg for his forgiveness.”

  “He’ll be dead before the words are out of his mouth.”

  “Eric said the same thing.”

  Black finished his drink. Before he could order another, I pushed my full glass over to him. “So what do you want from me?” I asked.

  “Get him out of the city,” Black said, staring at my glass. “He wouldn’t tell me where he was hiding, said it was too dangerous and they would kill me, too. But I think I know where he will go to lay low. I want you to find him and bring him to me. We can meet outside the city and I will send him off to where they can’t find him.” He looked up, his eyes glistening. “Please, Mr. Dowland. He’s not much but he’s the only brother I’ve got.”

  I looked him in the eye. The man never blinked, matching me second for second. Something in his story nibbled at me, leaving a cold trail down my neck, but I ignored it, assuming the feeling was only anxiousness to get started on my real case.

  “Twenty-five dollars a day, plus expenses. But it shouldn’t take me long if I can find him right away.”

  Black pinched his lower lip between his fingers. “That’s a lot of lettuce for someone like me, Mr. Dowland, but I’ll find a way to pay you.” He reached into his shirt pocket and placed a slip of paper on the table. “His full name is Eric Hull, but everybody calls him Voice. He hears you talk once and he can sound just like you. Other noises, too.” He gestured toward the paper. “That’s the name of the hotel I know he used to work. He’s about five-foot-eight, about 145 pounds, with black hair.”

  I put the paper in my pocket. “What about the partner? Do you want to get him out, too?”

  Black stood up and put on his hat. “Don’t have to. Eric told me Big C already killed him.”

  Chapter 18

  The muscle did not look like he had a second career as a road map so I walked down the street from the joint until I found a diner. A cup of coffee, the blue plate special, and a piece of pie later, the redhead behind the counter smiled when she gave me directions to Spring Street, pointing out the address was not very far from the diner if I ever got hungry again. I told her I was hungry almost every day.

  I was a block away before I realized I had not made suggestive small talk like that with a woman for a long time—not even with Gwen. It had been even longer since I actually meant the flirtation.

  I turned left at the Spring Street sign and within a few minutes walked down the 1200 block. The Baxter Building looked like nearly every other office building I had seen in the neighborhood with its bulging alcove windows and stone face. On closer inspection, I noticed the paint peeling around the windows and the cracked mortar missing in several spots. The structure looked like a proud gentleman who had grown older but still stood up to the world like the man he had once been, defying time and the weather. I liked it at the first glance.

  The inside of the Baxter Building continued the feel. The floor tile appeared to be cleaned on a semi-regular basis and the walls had seen a paint brush at some point in the past few years. A row of postal boxes lined the left wall and to my right a beefy staircase wound back against itself for as high as I could see. Even the elevator worked as three women, most likely secretaries finishing a late day, pulled back the cross-hatch metal gate and walked out, still talking about their work as I held the front door open for them, the trailing brunette winking thank you on the way by.

  A few minutes later I stood in front of 3B, looking again at the man with the world on his shoulders. “Titan Detective Agency” and my name were underneath the logo but they seemed oddly out of place, riding high on the door’s glass and leaving too much empty space below. I opened the door and walked inside, hoping I would find more clues on how this game worked.

  What I did not expect to see was Gwen sitting behind a desk, staring back at me. Well, Gwen if she had been s
porting a Myrna Loy hairstyle with full makeup and wearing one of those pre-World War II bras that shaped her chest like the front ends of a pair of bullets.

  “Are you hitting on all eight, Ricky?” she asked after a few seconds. “You’re looking at me like I glommed the last of the case cash.”

  I blinked twice before I realized this was the surprise Gwen had promised in the encoded message on Beta Prime. At least I knew I could trust this NPC since she obviously programmed her look alike.

  “Sorry...uh, doll.” I stepped inside and closed the door behind me. I needed to pick up the lingo quick. The NPCs would not care what I said but I’d stick out like a whore in church to other players—and Raven. “It’s been a long day and I wasn’t sure you would still be here.”

  “You are out of sorts,” she said as she stood. “You told me to wait until you got back before I left.” She grabbed me by the arm and led the way toward the inner door. “I’ll pour you a snort and see if we can chase away those cobwebs.”

  The next office was twice as big as the first. A desk faced the door, the normal array of papers and rotary-dial telephone littering its top. The half-full ashtray on one corner felt out of place because the precinct had been smokeless long before I joined the force but everything fit how I would have imagined an old-school detective’s office to appear. Three filing cabinets sat along one wall, easing up to a corner alcove with a curtain in place of a door. The cloth was pushed back and I saw a sink and mirror along with a hanging calendar, complete with a pin-up girl showing a lot of leg. Just inside the doorway to the right were a couch and chair set, the couch appearing worn enough to have seen some nights of sleep.

  The mystery sat along the opposite wall. A twin to my desk squatted there but the top was wiped clean with the finality of disuse. I had my answer to the door and sign. Whoever had used the desk at one time was no longer around and their name had been removed from the glass.

  The phone on my desk rang and Gwen’s doppelganger gently pushed me toward the chair while she bent over and picked up the receiver. She stayed there for a second, leaning toward me with her lips apart and blouse falling away from her body. Then she smiled and the moment disappeared. “Titan Detective Agency. This is Gretchen Talbot.” She listened before continuing. “Yes, someone will wait for the delivery.”

  I tried not to sigh as I pulled out the crumpled pack of Luckys. At least now I had her name.

  “That was the telegraph office. They are sending over a boy with an urgent message from the home office.” She opened the bottom drawer of my desk and pulled out two glasses followed by bottles of whiskey and soda. “How did the meet-and-greet go?”

  “About what I expected. His brother’s a small timer who got in over his head.” I took the drink she offered and handed her a lit cigarette in return. I had noticed several of the butts in the ashtray showed red lipstick on the wrap, the same shade Gretchen wore. “Black wants me to get him out of town before the big boys come calling.” Although there was a chair only a couple of feet away, she sat on the corner of my desk, skirt hiking to reveal more of her stockings. I caught myself wondering about a black line running up the back of each calf. When I looked up, she smiled at me again. “But there’s something more to the tale. He’s not telling me everything.”

  “Are you going to find the brother?” she asked.

  I hesitated. I had told Black I would look for Hull but the shadow of a warning kept eating at me. Even if I turned him down, however, the game would probably throw another scenario at me, much like Beta Prime had not wanted me to travel alone. I needed to solve the case quickly so I could get on to my real reason for being here: Raven. I reached into my pocket for the slip of paper.

  “Yeah, I think I will. Who do we know down at the Ashford Hotel?”

  She raised an eyebrow and whistled. “That’s a little pricier flop than where you take me.” She tapped her lips with a finger. “Didn’t you do a job for the house dick two, maybe three years ago?” She walked to the filing cabinets and in a few seconds pulled out a folder. “Here it is. Chance Burton. You helped him send over a blackmailer.” She put the folder away. “Do you think he can help?”

  I shrugged. “Maybe. The Ashford is supposed to be where the brother was grifting so maybe Burton knew him.”

  The door to the outer office opened and a voice called out, “Hello? Telegram for Mr. Dowland.”

  Gretchen walked out and returned a minute later, an envelope in one hand and her empty palm held out on the other. “You owe me two bits for the tip.”

  I reached into my pocket and pulled out a quarter. “A little much, don’t you think?”

  “He was cute,” she replied.

  I opened the telegram:

  Dowland STOP REM says sixth victim in Prairie Justice STOP Send telegram to Titan home office if you need anything STOP Can move you to Justice but Strick thinks you should stay in City STOP How do you like the surprise STOP Good luck STOP Gwen STOP

  Also included in the telegram was another page with a list of 1930s and 40s slang. I read through the telegram three times before I looked up again. Gretchen had disappeared so I grabbed a notepad and began writing.

  Chapter 19

  The morning fought to break through the cloud cover but the sun was only a brighter patch of gray against the bleak for its efforts. I rolled up the window on my Ford Coupe and stayed in the flow of traffic.

  Once I finished writing instructions for Gretchen the previous night, I turned out my pockets again and took the time to learn as much as I could about my avatar. A closer examination of my wallet revealed an address. My apartment was only a few blocks from the office and one of the keys on the chain revealed the number. A second key appeared to fit a Ford and the third was for the office. Only the fourth key, smaller than the others, remained a question mark.

  I had also taken a closer look at the empty desk. The drawers were as barren as the top, all except for the lap drawer. Way in the back, stuck by one corner in a crack in the wood, sat a business card. It was identical to the ones in my pocket except for the name which read “Tom Wheeler.” The rest of the night I had spent in my apartment, trying to learn more about myself inside the game and memorizing as many of the slang terms as possible.

  But now morning had settled in and I took the first open parking spot I found before walking the last block to the Ashford Hotel. I immediately saw what Gretchen meant when she said the hotel was in a different league than what a regular gumshoe was accustomed. A handful of chauffeurs relaxed with cigarettes near the corner of the building while they waited for their bosses to make an appearance. Valets and a small army of bell boys flurried around vehicles as they arrived under the protective awning and a doorman, with enough gold braid on his jacket to make him an admiral in most navies around the world, greeted the guests with a flourish.

  He gave me a cold look when I opened the door myself and walked into the lobby.

  The clerk behind the desk took one look at my suit and threw an even frostier glare until I flashed my badge and asked for Chance Burton. He brightened then and picked up the telephone to call Burton’s office. I let my eyes and imagination wander as I waited, taking in the crystal chandelier and curved velvet couches placed strategically between planters of flowers and statues of naked gods.

  Lavish furnishings aside, what caught my eye the most were the people. Everywhere I looked, people wearing or displaying more money than I could imagine earning sauntered by. Well, at least what I could earn legally. The people also appeared to be the most bored group of men and women I had ever seen, as if appearing happy to have their riches somehow broke rules I did not understand.

  Except for one. My gaze landed on a fur-coated woman near the grand staircase and she stared back with interest and intelligence. In fact, when her perfectly-shaped mouth turned up one corner in a smile, she looked mischievous, like the child caught with their hand in the cookie jar.

  “RJ! It’s good to see you!”

  I
turned in time to receive a slap on the shoulder and feel my hand enveloped by long, strong fingers. Chance Burton stood taller than me, graying temples highlighted against slick black hair. Even with the extra height, Chance was slender, almost as if we had once been the same size but his body, arms, and legs had been stretched to new lengths. Regardless, his wide, white-toothed smile said he was genuinely glad to see me.

  “You’re right, it’s been too long.” I looked back toward the stairway but the woman had disappeared.

  Chance’s deep bass dropped to a whisper and his lips never wavered from his grin. “Business or pleasure?”

  I tilted my head in reply.

  “Come on, boy, you’ve got to tell me how it’s all going. You and your crazy stories.” His voice resumed its normal level again and he threw his arm around my shoulder, steering me toward a back hallway. He kept up a steady patter across the lobby, laughing at his own jokes and asking questions he did not wait for me to answer.

  His mood changed, however, the second we turned the corner into the hall. The smile dropped from his face and he paused long enough to make sure no one followed us before he continued on. I opened my mouth but he immediately put a finger to his lips, silencing me before I had a chance to speak.

  Halfway down the hall he opened a door with no name on it and I followed him into an office. Behind the desk sat a stunning woman, her platinum blonde hair shining under the lights.

  “Miss Thistlewood, this is Detective Dowland,” Chance said. “He helped us out at the Ashford a couple of years ago by keeping an unfortunate matter quiet.”

  She put down the folder she had been holding in front of her and placed a .32 caliber Colt Pocket Hammerless pistol on its cover. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Dowland.”

  At this close range, the eight-round clip of the .32 would have been just as effective as its big brother, the .45. The smaller gun also had the added benefit the bullets probably would not have made it all the way through the wall into the next room if she missed her target.