Noir

by Christopher Moore

  “Enjoy yourself,” said the mug, waving me through to an expansive parlor, where an abundance of Bettys of various shapes and sizes were strewn about, reclining upon furniture while smoking, looking bored, and discussing the current shortage of gents in need of company, of which there were presently none. My entrance drew an eye from here and there, but only a substantial dame in a green-sequined evening dress and enough face paint to refinish a carload of clowns approached: Mabel. I knew her by reputation and description, and she was the only one in the room besides me and the bartender wearing more than her underwear.

  “Well look what luck has brought to our door,” said Mabel, tossing a lock of strawberry hair off her shoulder. “What can I do for you, handsome?”

  I felt myself flinch a little, as Mabel said “handsome” to me with the same inflection as the Cheese, not so much a nickname as a promise. It wasn’t that she was older than my mother, which she was; it was the fact that the Cheese was wound up in me like a fork in a plate of spaghetti.

  “I’m Sammy,” I said. “Sammy Tiffin. I work at Sal Gabelli’s place. You got a minute?”

  A sneer played across Mabel’s painted-on smile. “Step into my office.” She spun on a heel and moved in a hula of green sparkles to the bar, where the bartender handed her a cigarette in a long ivory holder and lit it while she gave me the once-over like I had all the charm of a wet sneeze. She said, “You can tell fucking Sal that he owes me—”

  “Sal’s dead,” I said, which stopped her mid-threat. “He was—”

  “Shhh.” She had her hand up, eyes down, and took a slow drag on her cigarette that she let trail out her nose and the corners of her mouth.

  “But he—”

  “Shhh,” she said. “Moment of silence.”

  “Sorry,” I said. I let her have her moment. Kind of. “Do you want to say a few words?” I asked.

  She nodded, not looking up, paying her respects to Sal as if he were the pattern in the Oriental rug.

  Deep breath. “He was a douche bag.”

  “Amen,” said the bartender.

  “Amen,” I repeated.

  “Amen,” said Mabel. She dismissed Sal’s service with a wave of her cigarette holder. “So, Sammy Tiffin, where the fuck is Pearl? Where the fuck is my money? What the fuck happened at the Bohemians? And who the fuck were those guys in the black suits who came by here asking questions but giving no answers?”

  “And unwilling to relinquish their firearms,” said the bartender.

  “Don’t you want to know what happened to Sal?” I asked.

  “Does it answer any of my other questions?”

  “Well, his stiff was last seen in the trunk of those guys in the black suits, and I don’t know who they are, but they seem very persistent but not particularly sharp. I don’t know where your money is. And I don’t know where Pearl is, but last time anyone sees her, she is up at the Bohemian Grove with a dame called Stilton, who I am very fond of, and who has not returned, either, which is why I am here.”

  “Sorry, kid,” Mabel said. “Your girl isn’t here.” She let that sink in. The bartender slid a note to her, which she looked at quickly, then handed back. “The guys in the black suits wanted to talk to all of my girls who went to the Grove. Wanted to know who and what they saw. I told them that it is their business to see nothing and not remember anyone, but in matter of fact, my girls never got out of the dining room up there and didn’t talk to anyone but a couple of bartenders. When they inquired further, Mr. Powers, who you met in the foyer, asked them to leave.”

  The bartender leaned in. “At the point of a twelve-gauge pump he keeps behind the credenza for just such occasions.”

  I was suddenly glad I did not give Mr. Powers any trouble when he asked for my heater. “So you haven’t heard from your girl Pearl, either?”

  “I’m afraid not,” said Mabel. “And I’m worried about her. She had a very particular trick she was going to perform. The kid’s got moxie for miles—I think it might have gotten her in trouble.”

  Mabel must have seen something in the way I reacted to that, because she butted her cigarette and put her hand on my shoulder. “I’d love to help you, kid, but I wasn’t lying to those guys. None of my girls saw nothing. I put them through the third degree when they showed up a day early and a dollar short without Pearl.”

  I nodded. “I’m going up there to find Stilton. If I find your Pearl, I’ll bring her home, too.”

  “You’re just going to rush into the Bohemian Grove and demand they give up your girl?”

  “Nah. I think I know the camp where the guy is that Sal set this whole thing up with. An air force general. And some nob called Alton Stoddard the Third.”

  “Lawyer,” Mabel said. “Financial District. Money goes back to before the earthquake. One of those guys who never go to court or anything, just sit behind a big desk in a big office and pull strings. You going to just run up to him and demand he tell you where your girl is?”

  “I’m new to this kind of thing, but I thought I’d just start shooting parts off him until he tells me.”

  “Couldn’t happen to a nicer guy. Maybe you put one in him for me, even if he tells you right away.”

  “Happy to. None of your girls could help me with a layout of the Grove, could they? Know where the Dragon Camp is?”

  “Afraid not, but the Bohemians got a map of the camp on the wall down at the clubhouse on Taylor.”

  “How do you know that? I thought dames weren’t allowed.”

  “Do I look like the kind of broad lets rules like that get in her way?” She grinned, like a boomerang of lipstick and teeth, then she bopped my shoulder with the side of her fist, careful not to snag a knuckle-duster full of gems on my jacket. “Pullin’ your chain, kid. Herb Caen did a spot on that place in the Chronicle. Described the whole caboodle. He said there was a map of the camp on the wall in the front bar.”

  “Got it. Thanks.” I started to go, she called me back.

  “And oh, kid, if during your adventures you happen to lose Pookie O’Hara in a permanent way, your money will never be any good here.”

  I shook my head. “You know about Pookie?”

  “Mr. Powers sent word about your passenger right after you came in.”

  “Long story,” I explained.

  “Don’t care,” said Mabel.

  “You won’t say anything?”

  “Discretion is my business.”

  “Then why’d you tell me about Stoddard, the map?”

  “You know what you learn from thirty years of selling sex?”

  I shook my head.

  “You learn what a guy in love looks like. You’re not my business. You watch your back, kid. Have a word with Mr. Powers as you leave.”

  I did what she asked and after Mr. Powers handed the Walther back to me, he said thus: “Cinch up your belt and tuck it in the small of your back. I’d have never known you had a gat if you carried it that way. I don’t frisk guys, just ask if it’s obvious. Besides, you’ll never clear that rod from your jacket pocket in time if you need to use it, so best case, you got one shot before the slide jams on the cloth and you’ve already ruined your jacket. Get a waistband holster for back there if you’re gonna make a habit of it. You still got Pookie’s badge?”

  “Yeah, I think so. Another guy took his money and his gun, but I think the badge is with his clothes.”

  “Good, you can use that,” said Mr. Powers.

  * * *

  I came through the door to the Bohemian Club with Pookie’s badge out in front of me. I didn’t announce anything, and there was no doorman, just a very tired bartender who was close to nodding off. The place was empty. A big oak bar with a cut-glass mirror, lots of empty captain’s chairs, a wide, arched doorway that led into other arched doorways. From what I could see it was a lot of wingback leather chairs and expensive rugs, crystal ashtrays and newspapers hung on sticks in a rack. Not a soul in the joint.

  “Inspector,” said the bartender
, “the club has an arrangement with the police. A number of our members are policemen.”

  “Yeah?” I said, letting the badge sag. “Where is everyone?” I had really been expecting a lot of resistance. A lot of guys with big white mustaches saying, “Now see here, my good man, how dare you” and so forth. What I got is an exhausted guy of about sixty years in a white waiter’s jacket who just wanted to go home, eat breakfast, and hit the hay.

  The bartender checked his watch. “It’s four thirty in the morning, and even if it wasn’t, everyone is up at the Grove. You know that.”

  How would I know that? Was everybody supposed to know that? “Is Alton Stoddard the Third here?”

  “I can’t tell you that, Officer. This is the Bohemian Club—” He said it like that explained everything, but I cut him off.

  I was tired, jangled from coffee, and out of my mind worried about the Cheese, so I pulled the Walther from the small of my back, pointed it at his forehead, and cocked the hammer. Strictly speaking, I didn’t have to do this to shoot him, but it clarified my intentions somewhat.

  “Why don’t you tell me more about club policy and I’ll stop you when your brains are sprayed all over that mirror.” As soon as I said this I knew he would be horrified, because as a bartender myself, I have had to clean a big beveled-glass mirror like that, and the idea of having to get it gleaming again after a brain spray—well, it’s a nightmare. Also, they were his brains.

  “He’s at the Grove,” said the bartender. “I don’t know which camp he’s staying at. He belongs to Mandalay, though.”

  This was information that meant nothing whatsoever to me, but since he answered my question, I didn’t shoot him.

  “Where’s the map of the camp?” I waved the Walther around a little as I had seen done in various films.

  The bartender pointed. It was right there, on the wall before the big arched doorway. A long rectangle, maybe one by three feet, with a very detailed hand-lettered map. the grove was printed above the legend. Each of the camps was marked off and I spotted the Dragon Camp right away. I tried to pull the map off the wall, frame and all, but it was screwed on.

  “Give me your ice hammer,” I said to the bartender. He started to shrug like he didn’t know what I was talking about, and I shrugged right back in the direction of the Walther. What do you want to do, buddy?

  He reached into the well and came back with a silver-plated ice hammer, brought it to the end of the bar, and presented it to me, rosewood handle first.

  “Silver? Really?” We use a meat-tenderizing hammer at Sal’s.

  He shrugged. The club.

  I put the gun in my waistband and turned my head as I made quick shards of the glass in the frame. A few touch-up taps to take out some sharp parts around the edges and I put the ice hammer back on the bar.

  “Knife?” I said. The bartender started to reach for a wine knife. “Garnish knife,” I said. He grabbed a paring knife from a cutting board by the well and placed it gingerly on the bar. “Thanks,” I told him.

  In four quick zips the map was out of the frame and I had it rolled up and stuffed in the inside pocket of my jacket. I pulled a buck from my pocket and threw it on the bar along with the paring knife. “Sorry about the glass.”

  “We aren’t permitted to accept tips, sir.”

  “Well then they ain’t paying you enough.” I left the buck on the bar and went outside.

  On the corner, a guy was throwing a bundle of newspapers off a truck. A kid cut the strings on the bundle with a pocketknife. “Paper, mister?” said the kid, holding up a morning edition of the Examiner. I waved him off, but when I looked, a two-column story, above the fold, announced: air force general’s plane crashes outside napa, three dead.

  “Yeah, give me one, kid.” He handed me the paper, I threw him a nickel.

  “How ’bout one for your buddy?” asked the kid, nodding at Pookie.

  “Nah, he’s resting. Thanks.”

  Two quick pinches of Pookie’s cheeks to make sure he was still among the quick, but not too quick. I took his hat so it didn’t blow off on the highway and threw it and the newspaper on the seat beside me with my thermos and my meat loaf sandwich, then I was in the wind.

  20

  The Name of the Snake

  The name of the snake is Petey. No need to make a big deal about it. And I am the one who has been telling you this tale when Sammy falls down on the job or doesn’t know what’s what. See, like I said, I know things. My people know things, but I had to hold out until now to clue you in on my part, because really, what kind of credibility is a story going to have that starts with a talking snake? Am I right? Of course I am. I’m always right. It’s a curse.

  So, before I go any further, since I am giving you the inside line on this story, Chinatown rats are fucking delicious. You’re sliding along, minding your own business, and suddenly your tongue picks up the taste of five spices, fear, garlic, and chili paste? To die for, is all I’m saying. Granted, it is much chillier here in San Francisco than I care for, as I am generally a desert and savanna kind of guy, but I’m comfortable when I can find a spot under a steam pipe or curl up by a boiler chimney on the roof. They never look for you on the roof.

  I settled down one night in a pigeon coop a guy keeps on the roof. It was lovely. Warm, a little nook to warm up in, all night the gentle cooing, and a delicious breakfast in bed. Although the pigeon guy did overreact somewhat when he reached in the coop to calm his girls to find me there, smiling, just wanting to wish him “top of the morning, and thanks for the scrumptious squab.” But no, he had to run around making with the shouting and the disturbing grabbing of a broom and I had no choice but to bite him. BITE, BITE, BITE. Pump venom. Well, I gotta tell you, he nearly dragged me over the edge when he ran off the roof, and I was barely able to get my fangs out of him before he took the big dive to splattersville in the alley below. Six stories. Not my fault. I reared up, gave him the tongue flick and the little head wave that is the universal signal for “Buddy, I am going to bite the shit out of you.” But did he back off? He did not. Rest in peace, pigeon guy.

  Let me make it clear, lest I give you the impression I am just some murderous thug: I do not like biting people. In fact, like it says in the books, unless I am hunting, I will bite only when threatened. Although, I am easily threatened. What are you looking at?

  Humans are a waste of venom. You can’t even eat them. A rat, you bite him, ten–twenty seconds, tops, he’s a twitching delicious snack; a human, sometimes takes six hours, and even then, you can’t eat them. I’ve tried. You get one hand down, maybe up to the elbow, then you have to barf them up and go find a rodent or bird or something decent to eat. Just for the record, I am not the villain here, I am just the narrator.

  I gave that old Chinese broad behind the cabbage place fair warning. Fair. Friggin’. Warning. She was eyeing my rat, and then she takes a swing at me with a dustpan? Grandma, what am I, some squiggly kid fresh out of the egg? You swing on me, you get the fang. That second guy in the alley tried to grab me as I slid by, which is about six kinds of stupid, so I was forced to give him a little something I’m coming to think of as the San Francisco Treat. BITE! BITE! BITE!

  And Sal, well, it is well known to one and all that Sal Gabelli was a douche bag and had it coming. See, what Sal doesn’t know is that when they put me in the cotton bag, in Cape Town, they also throw in a couple of rats, you know, to sustain me through the voyage. But I don’t eat them right away, because gnawing out of a sack is not among my assorted talents, but it turns out that rats are quite good at that. So, for a couple of days on the ship, we lounge in the sack, tell some tales, have a few laughs, and the rats, to help pass the time, gnaw a hole in the sack. Only then do I bid them a fond farewell and send them off to hors d’oeuvre Valhalla. So yeah, both Sal and I are surprised when he pries the top off the crate. To be fair, probably him more than me.

  Which brings me to Ho the Cat-Fucking Uncle. Among the many things I know is that
Ho got a bum rap all those years ago. He was only ten years old, and he was actually petting the cat. True, he had no pants on at the time, but if that is a crime, we would all be doing time. I myself often go about sans trou. No, Ho is a little kid, who is just being friendly to the kitty, but his brother, who is Eddie Moo Shoes’s grandfather, is a rat, and not in the tasty sense of the word, and he makes up a tale of Ho molesting the cat and tells it far and wide in the streets of Chinatown, so Ho has a hard path growing up, and consequently ends up quite a bit more squirrelly than he might have from a childishly misguided session of kitty-fuck. Thus I was willing to give Ho a pass if he did not perpetrate these current hijinks.

  See, I am having a pleasant early-morning slide down the very alley where I find it necessary to croak the cabbage broad, minding my own business, when suddenly I pick up a tongueful of rat panic. It comes from above, so I take a gander over the top of some trash barrels, five or six of them arranged in a bunch, and each barrel full to the top with various paper and vegetable trimmings and other detritus of the restaurant trade, which rats find attractive indeed, although I would not give a forked squirt of snake spit for all six barrelsful. But what do I spy above the bok choy and carrot tops but six white rats, thrashing about on tethers, emanating many smells of distress and other delicious flavors, and I assume squeaking to beat the band, but I cannot say for sure, as I am more than somewhat deaf, myself, although the vibrations I pick up across the trash seem to be saying, “Eat me, please, as I am deeply delicious.”

  So, cautiously I make my move, coming in from the side for the closest rat, for although these morsels are tethered in a star pattern, I do not care to get bitten because I am careless. So close, closer, and BOOM! BITE. BITE. BITE. And the first guy is off to never-never land. I will move on to his pals and allow him to twitch and tenderize for a bit, which is an added benefit of venom. But as I am going for the second rat, he rises up, as do all of his pals, and at the center of the star pattern there is a big bell-shaped straw gardener’s hat, such as Japanese guys sometimes wear, with eyeholes cut in it. In a twitch, I see that the rats are tied to the ends of the long, bare ribs of what used to be an umbrella, and the ribs of the umbrella are attached to the crown of the hat, and under the hat is a guy, who is none other than Ho the Cat-Fucking Uncle, who has been crouching in the middle barrel.