Noir

by Christopher Moore

  “They’re still very bad guys,” said the Cheese. “They killed Pearl and the general. We need to help that kid.”

  “We will, but not right away. Let them get to know him.”

  “So they’ll feel sorry for him?”

  “Yeah, something like that. You ever read a story called ‘The Ransom of Red Chief’?”

  “Don’t think so.”

  “We get done with all this, I’ll read it to you.”

  “Aw, you’re sweet. Nobody’s read to me since I was a kid.”

  “Well I’m gonna read your socks off, Toots.”

  “I can’t wait. By the way, I scraped the tax men into an ice bucket with a diner menu. Couldn’t find a broom. That okay?”

  “Perfect. Let’s see if we can find the keys to that Chrysler. We need to get back to the city. I need to talk to Moo Shoes.”

  “Yeah, and that’s going to be a long walk on a broken leg, you keep calling me Toots.”

  * * *

  It’s me: Petey. Yeah, I’m in a sack, but being put in a sack is different for a black mamba than it is for other people. It’s not permanent. It’s just where I am until I get the chance to bite Ho the Cat-Fucking Uncle, who put me here. BITE! BITE! BITE! I can’t believe I didn’t see that mug’s play with the fire extinguisher. In my defense, five-spice white rats are delicious.

  Anyway, I can still tell a story, because, as I have stated before, I know things.

  As it turns out, Sammy and the Cheese were less than successful at finding the ignition key to the tax men’s Chrysler, but after ten minutes with the moonman’s tools and the penknife from Jimmy Vasco’s key chain, the Chrysler thundered to life. The Cheese emerged from under the dash with a sly grin and a pair of pliers.

  “Ready?” she asked. “It’s got Fluid Drive transmission. No shifting!”

  “Okey-dokey,” said Sammy, as he had no idea what she was talking about, and was still adding “Where did you learn to hotwire a car?” to his mental list of things he meant to ask her about when she came up with a trunk key she found in the glove box.

  “Ta-da!” she said.

  Before they pulled out, the Cheese opened the trunk to stash the moonman’s blanket and they found Pookie O’Hara lying in repose, with various fluids leaking out of him, quite dead. “So why won’t Uncle Ho get rid of the body?” asked the Cheese.

  “Moo Shoes says it takes too long for the pigs to eat a white devil.”

  “They keep pigs in the city?”

  “The Chinese are an ancient and mysterious people,” Sammy told her.

  “Right,” said the Cheese. “Let’s drag him out of here so he’s not near the gas tank.”

  They stood twenty feet away, wearing the tax men’s sunglasses, the Chrysler idling in the background, while the moonman let loose on Pookie’s remains with his cow-blaster. Sammy noticed the froggy membrane cover the moonman’s eyes just before he shot. A good tell to remember.

  “Want I should scrape him up?” asked the Cheese after the flash.

  “Nah, the moonman’s got his hat and I got his badge to remember him by. Let him blow away.”

  They left the pile of fine white ash there in the motel parking lot as Sammy steered the Ford out onto the road, followed by Stilton and the moonman in the Chrysler. An hour later they were sitting in Cookie’s Coffee with Moo Shoes, Milo, and Lone Jones, making a plan, leaving the moonman to relax in the trunk of the Chrysler with his hat and his blaster.

  “So you’re not worried about the kid?” Milo asked.

  “The kid will be fine,” Sammy told him.

  “He’s a horrible little kid,” Moo Shoes added.

  “I could use a change of clothes,” said the Cheese. “How ’bout I run by my place real quick?”

  “They know where you live, doll. How about you go with Lonius? Myrtle’s probably got some fresh togs.”

  “I’ll drive you,” said Milo.

  “He’s only saying that because he knows you have a car,” Sammy said.

  “That’s true,” Milo said.

  “And don’t let the moonman drive,” Sammy said.

  “He did good coming here,” said the Cheese. “I had to work the pedals for him, but otherwise, he drives like a champ.”

  “Well, I could drive like a champ, too, sittin’ on your lap, doll,” said Milo. The guys all gave him the hairy eyeball. Lone Jones shook his head slowly at Milo, like it might have been a crying shame he had just witnessed.

  “Sorry,” Milo said, trying to shrink into his coffee cup with little success. “None of you guys ever brought a dame in here before. I don’t know how to act.”

  Stilton patted his arm across the table. “It’s okay, sweetie.” Then, changing the subject, “Hey, any of you guys know where I can find an arc welder in the wee hours?”

  “Sure,” said Milo, perked up from being newly washed of his sins. “Bert’s Garage down on Hyde has one, and he opens up at five. You guys know it—the joint where I took you to look at the dames on the Snap-on tool calendar.”

  “You guys are creepy, you know that?” said the Cheese.

  “Guys,” I explained.

  “Y’all are just sad,” said Lone Jones.

  * * *

  It was so early the streetlights were still on, but Sammy and Moo Shoes were hoofing it down Stockton Street just as the fishermen were delivering their catches and the trucks were arriving from up and down the coast. You can buy a lot of things in Chinatown you don’t find for sale down by Fisherman’s Wharf.

  “Fur Man Chu?” Sammy read from the sign on a shop that was still closed. “Really?”

  “That’s for Anglos,” said Moo. “Chinese don’t name their businesses based on English puns for themselves.”

  “What’s that one?” Sammy asked, pointing to a sign in Chinese.

  “Place of Abounding Longevity,” Moo translated. “Tea store.”

  “That one?”

  “Expanding Prosperity Drugstore,” read Moo Shoes.

  “Your people are big on promises,” Sammy said.

  “Nah, they’re big on luck. Did I tell you about the I Ching?”

  “That’s the coin-and-stick thing, like dice, right?”

  “It’s more like a horoscope, except you’re throwing the stars.”

  “Hogwash, then?”

  “Oh, complete hogwash. How about that thing?” Eddie nodded to a truck driver dragging a skate, a speckled ray–like fish about four feet long, across the sidewalk into the fish shop.

  “Yeah, that’s perfect, but we’re going to have to get the car. We can’t drag that thing on foot.”

  “No problem,” said Eddie. “You’re sure this is the angle you want to play?”

  “Yeah, as long as the women who work for Uncle Ho can do the sewing.”

  “They can do it, but he’s not going to be happy about it.”

  “We’ll get him a better snake. One that’s smaller but just as deadly. Bokker is coming through town again next month.”

  “I guess that’s the song, Armstrong. You go get the car.”

  By the time Sammy and Eddie Moo Shoes left Chinatown, they had purchased the skate ray, an enormous spiky monkfish with a mouth you could get your head in, if you wanted your head to be shredded on hundreds of needle-like teeth, and a giant octopus that had just been trucked down from Seattle and was still squirming. (Although it was not your Jules Verne pull-the-ship-under giant octopus, but your basic giant Pacific octopus, and the one they bought was maybe big enough to spread out across a sun umbrella, with arms maybe four feet long.) Much of this seafood salad was sticking out of the rumble seat of Jimmy Vasco’s Ford coupe as they drove it to Uncle Ho’s to be assembled.

  * * *

  Sammy called his apartment a little before eight in the morning.

  “Yeah,” answered Bailey. “Took your time.”

  “You busy?” Sammy said. “Want me to call back later? No problem. Bye.”

  “No!” Bailey barked. “No, sorry. No, right n
ow is fine.”

  “Sammy, that you?” yelled the kid. “You’re out of milk. Cornflakes, too.”

  “You have the subject?” asked Bailey.

  “Yeah, I got it. But I’m not bringing it there. Someplace public.”

  “It can’t be public,” said Bailey. “Obviously.”

  “Okay,” said Sammy. “Then neutral ground.”

  “Fine. Meet us in the parking lot of Mary Vasco’s place in an hour.”

  “Who the fuck is Mary Vasco?”

  “The lesbian club owner.”

  “You mean Jimmy? Jimmy’s Joynt?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, then why didn’t you just say Jimmy’s Joynt?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “These moron fucks ate all the cornflakes, Sammy!” yelled the kid. “I say knock their blocks off.”

  “Kid’s a gem, ain’t he?” said Sammy. He couldn’t help but grin.

  “One hour. Bring the subject. Don’t try to pull anything, either. We know about you.”

  “Really, what do you know, tax man?”

  There was a pause. Bailey shuffled through his notebook. “Well, I know that your real name is Samuel Tuffelo Jr., I know where you live, I know you don’t have a service record, and I know you’re working without a Social Security number.”

  “Oh yeah, you do know stuff. See you in an hour at Jimmy’s. Bring the kid.” Sammy hung up and turned to Moo Shoes, who was standing by him at the pay phone. “These mugs really think I’m Italian.”

  “Milo called Cookie’s line while you were inside. The Cheese says that the Chrysler isn’t ready.”

  “He didn’t call her ‘the Cheese’ to her face, did he?”

  “Probably. It’s Milo.”

  “Well, we can’t take the moonman to them in the rumble seat.”

  “I’ll call Milo back at the garage,” said Moo Shoes. “He can bring the cab. Where are we going?”

  “To Uncle Ho’s, then to Jimmy’s Joynt at Pier 29.”

  “That’s a lot of driving for Milo all at once.”

  “I think he’s getting better,” Sammy said. “I think the Cheese has cured him.”

  * * *

  Across town at Sammy’s place, Hatch was fieldstripping the new .45 he’d bought at the all-night gun store. Across from him, at Sammy’s little breakfast counter, Bailey had the parts of his new .45 laid out in front of him.

  “When you’re ready,” said Hatch, “say ‘go.’”

  25

  There Will Be Donuts

  Bailey and Hatch had had an hour of sleep between them over the last two days, and even when they tried to sleep in shifts at Sammy’s apartment, the kid started mouthing off and waking them up. They tried gagging the kid, but he had a stuffed-up nose and proceeded to suffocate, which degraded his value as a hostage more than somewhat. And while Hatch was very large on knocking the kid out with a skillet to the melon, Bailey had no training in knocking out a kid and feared that the kid might succumb to their pent-up enthusiasm. So they settled on locking the kid in the closet, which helped not at all, since when the kid dozed, they did not see him, and just as each of them was thinking the coast was clear and started to doze off himself, the kid launched into much pounding and calling of names, as was his habit.

  They arrived at Jimmy’s Joynt a half hour early, only to find Sammy leaning on the back of a taxicab like he had been there all day, smoking and drinking a cup of joe. The cars in the lot were parked in such a way that there was only a narrow corridor for the Chrysler to pull into. They rolled slowly toward the bartender, who gestured for them to turn their car around and then back in.

  “Is this guy messing with us?” asked Hatch.

  “Sammy’s gonna moytalize you mugs,” said the kid.

  “That’s not a word, kid,” said Bailey.

  “Not yet it ain’t,” said the kid. “You just wait.”

  Bailey flipped the car around and backed in until Sammy signaled he was close enough. Hatch was in the backseat, holding the kid. They climbed out and positioned the kid between them.

  “Stop right there,” Sammy said when they were about twenty feet away.

  They stopped. “You have the subject?” Bailey asked.

  Sammy opened the trunk of Milo’s cab. There was a canvas tarp with a short figure lying under it.

  “Let’s see it,” said Hatch.

  Sammy threw back one side of the tarp. The creature was laid out as if for a wake. Sammy stepped aside so they could get a good look. They saw a wide, flat gray torso, from the center of which sprouted a mass of thick, red arms lined with suction cups. Atop the torso was what must have been the head, a black, needle-toothed maw more than a foot across, surrounded by wicked spikes that jutted out in every direction.

  Hatch recoiled at the sight. “Holy—”

  “A Martian,” gasped the kid.

  “You were right about the spikes,” Sammy said.

  “You pansies are in for it now,” said the kid.

  Bailey and Hatch reached inside their jackets.

  “Stop,” Sammy said.

  Car doors on either side of them were kicked open. On one side Eddie Moo Shoes was lying on the front seat of a Chevy, pointing a .45 Colt at them. On the other, Milo had another Colt trained on the tax men. Bailey and Hatch froze.

  “Sammy brought his Nip spy friend,” said the kid. “Those guys are tricky—they have a way to hit you that makes your eyeballs explode.”

  Sammy said, “Hands out of your jackets, slowly and empty.”

  “I lived through the Battle of the Bulge,” said Milo. “I’m not squeamish about seeing a guy’s guts blown out.”

  “Who is that guy, Sammy?” said the kid. “He’s the tits. Hey buddy, you wanna be my new uncle? You’d have to give up the stupid cabbie hat.”

  “Send the kid over,” Sammy said. Bailey and Hatch let the kid go and held their hands limply out to their sides like they were dripping paint and didn’t want to get it on themselves. The kid’s hands were tied, but he turned and started to sand the soles of his shoes across the toes of first Bailey’s, then Hatch’s, shiny black shoes. When both were completely scuffed up, the kid ran over and stood behind Sammy. “You fucks,” said the kid.

  “That will buff out,” Sammy said. “You had a nice shine on those stompers. Shinola?”

  “Kiwi,” said Hatch. Bailey glared at his partner.

  “Yeah, Kiwi is best for a spit shine,” Sammy said.

  “Mr. Tuffelo, that is government property behind you,” said Bailey. “If you don’t turn that over to us, you are committing an act of treason.”

  “And you mugs kidnapping a kid, murdering an air force general and a dame, that was just in the wrong place at the wrong time? Was that just being patriotic?”

  “That was not standard operating procedure,” said Bailey. “Special orders.”

  “These orders come from the same people who gave you the background on me?”

  “I can’t tell you that.”

  “Okay,” Sammy said. He reached into his jacket pocket and came out with a pair of sunglasses exactly like the ones that Bailey and Hatch were wearing, except not all bent up. He held them up so the two could get a good look at them. “The guys who gave you your orders, they tell you about this?

  “You guys can have this pair.” Sammy threw one of the pairs of sunglasses on the tarp with the Martian. “I’m keeping this pair.” He pocketed the shades.

  Bailey and Hatch looked at each other.

  “I give you this thing,” Sammy said. “Are the guys who gave you orders going to come after me and my friends?”

  “What happened to Potter and Clarence?” asked Hatch.

  Sammy shrugged. “Might never be heard from again. Might have run off together. Might be hunting you two, right now.”

  “We haven’t killed anyone,” said Hatch. “Something is going on in Washington. Something out of order.”

  Bailey cringed, then shrugged, nodded. “That’s the
truth. We never saw Potter and Clarence before two nights ago.”

  Sammy waved to the Martian. “I’d say that’s out of order, wouldn’t you?” He reached into his coat pocket, pulled out the Walther. “Look, gents, I’m going to give you this thing, but you have to promise to forget everything about where it came from. Now I’m going to come take your guns. If you move, or try to get the drop on me, I’m going to shoot you, or my friend the cabdriver is going to shoot you, or my friend on the other side is going to shoot in your general direction.”

  “No idea what I’m doing,” said Moo Shoes. “Probably will kill you all by accident.”

  “That’s the spirit!” said the kid. “Blast the sons a’ bitches!”

  “Shut up, kid,” Sammy said. “I’m saving you.”

  He gently took the .45s from each agent and threw them onto the car, where Moo Shoes was lying on the front seat. “Now, open your trunk, and go get your creature,” Sammy said. “Lift it by the tarp; you don’t want to touch the subject. That’s what happened to Sal.”

  “Thought so,” said Hatch. “How, though, if the subject was at Bohemian Grove?”

  “Delayed reaction,” Sammy said. “The general showed it to Sal when he first arrived. Before he even unloaded it from his plane, and like a dope, Sal touched it. Few hours later, I find him in a puddle in the back room of the saloon.”

  “Why did you pack him in ice?”

  “Well, your guys told me to.”

  “Potter and Clarence?”

  “I guess,” Sammy said. “I never saw them. I got a phone call, lots of threats. When I saw you mugs at the saloon, I thought you were the ones on the phone; that’s why I pretended to be the janitor.”

  Bailey nodded as if it was all falling into place. Sammy backed off, keeping the Walther trained on Bailey as he opened the trunk of the Chrysler. They carefully moved the Martian out of Milo’s trunk and slid it into the Chrysler, holding only the edge of the canvas.

  When Bailey slammed the trunk and turned around, Sammy said, “You know they’re not telling you anything. I don’t mean everything. I mean anything. You know that, right?”