Scrambled Hard-Boiled

by E.R. White, Jr.

  * * * * *

  I walked into the lawyer’s office building a few minutes before ten and sat in the waiting room. A few minutes later, Swinson’s secretary walked up to me and escorted me into his private office. There was Swinson, sitting behind his desk, and to my surprise, Eric Slatterson was sitting in a chair on the other side of the desk.

  He’d changed since I’d last seen him a few weeks ago. The face was less red, he had lost some weight, and his eyes were dark and puffy. Still, he was impeccably dressed in blue pinstripes and Italian loafers. He was looking at me expectantly, as if I was arriving with the miracle that would save his boy from the hangman’s noose.

  Well, I didn’t have that, but I did have enough to keep the search up and the money flowing. I walked up to the two men, shook their hands and took the proffered seat. I asked them how young Slatterson was doing.

  “He’s at home, under a doctor’s care. He’s very depressed over this—this woman’s death,” muttered Slatterson. “The doctors have been giving him medicine to keep him calm and help him over his addictions.”

  So, the kid was still carrying a torch for his middle-aged Juliet and had switched from heroin to Valium. A real winner.

  “I understand you have made some progress with regards to the Bowman issue, Mr. Dafoe,” said Swinson. “I certainly hope it is something we can use.”

  I decided I wanted to keep things in the proper perspective.

  “Let me state, right off the bat, that what I have found out has no direct relation to the death of Mrs. Bowman, nor does it help towards the exoneration of young Sonny.”

  I saw the eyes of Eric Slatterson go a bit dull in disappointment; his body sagged back into his chair.

  “But I did manage to confirm the Bowman woman’s true identity. Her real name is Myrtle Baylor. She was originally from Xavier County, North Carolina, and she had a personal history of prostitution some twenty years ago when she lived in Asheville.”

  Slatterson perked up.

  “We also suspect, but can’t yet confirm, she also plied her trade in Las Vegas as late as 1966. Right now the trail is cold after that but with additional work, we’re confident we can trace her entire history. We’re running a record check on her real name as we speak and hope to turn up more leads and incriminating evidence.”

  Slatterson’s face lit up with hope and with that I knew there was a damn good chance of me taking an all expenses paid trip to Las Vegas.

  I had him hooked.

  “I’ve discussed this with my senior partner, Mr. Twillfigger,” I lied, “and he and I have come to the same conclusion. Something has smelled with this whole setup from the start. A woman using a false name, of no apparent means, suddenly comes into town, rents a house, cash on the barrel-head, and within weeks has seduced the young son of one of the most successful men in the area, indeed the state.”

  It never hurts to suck up to the client.

  “An unknown third party begins to send this woman deadly, illicit drugs through the mail, which she used to ensnare and ruin the young man’s life. Then the woman is murdered, and the boy almost dies of an overdose. Indeed, he’d have died if you,” I nodded towards Slatterson, “hadn’t been concerned enough to have hired me and my firm to find out was going on.”

  Slatterson hung his head for a second and then looked at me in grateful acknowledgement for saving his son.

  Yeah, yeah, I was laying it on thick, but I had him eating out of the palm of my hand. Las Vegas, here I come!

  “After some digging and just plain, old fashioned hard nose detective work, I've found out who this tramp was and some of her past. She was for hire alright, and our next goal has to be who hired her and why. We think it might be someone who bears a grudge towards you, Mr. Slatterson, and hopes to harm you through your son. I think we can safely say you have stepped on some toes on your way up. Most men in their chosen profession have. Hell, I’ve been known to step on a few toes on my client’s behalf, even recently, if you catch my drift.”

  I lightly touched my scraped forehead with what I hoped was a stoic look in my eye. Let them imagine the rough stuff I performed for them. I saw a look of manly admiration and awe from Slatterson, and I could tell from Swinson’s face that he was glad he’d hired an obviously tough son-of-a-bitch like me.

  Outside I was cool and calm, but inside, I was jumping for joy and was already trying to figure out how to claim the money I was going to spend on hookers and Vegas showgirls on my expense account. Ernie would be some help there.

  “What course of action do you suggest, Jay?” asked Swinson.

  “Well, the job is two-fold. If we can figure out who was bankrolling this Bowman woman, I think there’s a good chance of finding out who really is the murderer. Even if we can’t prove this person did it, we'll muddy the case against Sonny enough that they won’t be able to convict him of anything.”

  “I want the person or persons responsible for this outrage against me and my family found and my son exonerated,” interjected Slatterson.

  Uh oh, I think, better lower the bar here a bit.

  “I know, Mr. Slatterson, that you would rather have the real killer caught and the charges dropped against Sonny, but life isn’t all that fair or neat, right Mr. Swinson?”

  I looked over expectantly at the lawyer.

  Swinson looked at his desk a moment, then looked at Slatterson.

  “Jay is correct, Eric. I know that you would prefer that the charges be dropped against Sonny, but let’s be realistic. If what Jay says is correct—and I have a gut feeling it is—then the party behind the Bowman woman is well funded, clever and probably covering his tracks. We might eventually know who to point the finger at, but proving it might be another matter altogether.”

  Slatterson’s shoulders slumped once more.

  “However,” Swinson went on, “I think it is safe to say that we have a damn good case of reasonable doubt already, and if we continue to gather more disparaging information on the Bowman woman, it will only get better. Right now if I were a betting man, I’d say we have a 50/50 chance of getting Sonny off with no jail time, and we haven’t even really begun to scratch the investigative surface. Our case will get stronger as we learn more, I’m confident of that.”

  Las Vegas, here I come!

  Swinson turned to me.

  “Where do we go from here?”

  “Well,” I said as I thoughtfully stroked my chin, “Mr. Twillfigger is the master of the record search. If there are arrest records, marriage records or the like on this broad, Ernie will find it. The man is truly an investigative marvel.”

  I was secretly hoping Ernie hadn’t gone off on one his periodic booze and whore binges. Last time he’d done that, I found him after a week at a local trailer park that doubled as a part-time bordello. He was passed out drunk and naked at this 58-year old hooker’s mobile home. He was missing his wooden leg, and his stump was coated with an obscenely generous amount of Vaseline Petroleum Jelly. We never found his prosthetic leg, and I didn’t have the stomach to ask him what he was doing with his stump.

  “As for me,” I continued, “I’ll keep on investigating the background of the Bowman woman. We know she was in Vegas eleven years ago, and I bet Ernie will find a paper trail of her out there. Until I get something more definite on her, I still have some names I can follow up on with regards to Bowman’s activities after she left Asheville.”

  I pulled out the photo I had gotten while in “Baylor-Land” and tossed it on Swinson’s desk. Swinson picked it up and looked at it.

  “That’s a picture of Bowman, her sister and her fellow prostitutes when they worked in Asheville. They used a bridal shop as a front and the owner was the madam of the joint.”

  Swinson continued to look at the photo.

  “She’s the older one on the left,” I added, “their names are on the back. One of them is dead already, but as far as I know the rest are still alive and kicking.”

  Swinson slowly turned the p
hoto over to read the names.

  “I need some copies of that picture made, pronto,” I said. “I usually have my photographer in Charlotte do this, but I figure you got your own folks that can do it quicker. I’m going to track these broads down and see if they can add anything to the Bowman woman’s story. When do you think you can get me the copies, Mr. Swinson?”

  Swinson leaned back in his chair a moment, shut his eyes and took a deep breath. He opened his eyes, looked at me, then Slatterson, then back at me.

  “I’ll have the photos to you tomorrow. Come by in the morning and we can discuss some more details of your plan of action. Now, I have other duties, and I also need to discuss some business with Mr. Slatterson here. I can safely say that we’re appreciative of all the fine work you have done.”

  Swinson got up, walked around the desk and shook my hand. I got up and after shaking Slatterson’s hand and giving him my best, manly “Buck up, Buddy” look—as if I really gave a rat’s ass about him—I left the office. It was a little past eleven in the morning.