Seattle Noir (13 page)
After a couple of hours, Gus stopped and asked a couple of punks with dyed hair if they knew of it. They shrugged, pointed down the street, and kept walking, their laughter trailing behind them.
Once Gus found the place, he went in, sat at the counter, and put the gym bag by his stool. There was a couple seated at a booth, but otherwise the place was empty of customers. A large woman who probably topped two hundred pounds took his order for jerk chicken and coffee and then waddled into the kitchen. Gus struck up a conversation when the woman came back to wipe down the counter. He found out that she was the Caribbean Breeze owner and came from Kingston, Jamaica. But she didn’t hum the song. Her eyes said she’d seen and heard it all, and Gus didn’t try to play her for a fool. She looked at the bulky brown paper sack that he’d laid on the counter; the tops of the bottles showed. She shrugged and walked away.
Gus ate slowly when his food came, small bites because his stomach couldn’t handle much. He bided his time, waiting until he was sure that the owner was watching him. Then he took out his wallet, bulging with bills, and opened it so she could see the twenties and fifties. She brought over his check and he studied it. “Seems fair. That was a nice meal,” he said. He glanced down, pulled out a couple of twenties, and murmured, “Any ganja around here?” He riffled through the money in his wallet again, but didn’t look up.
The owner didn’t answer. She took Gus’s two twenties and his bill to the cash register. She turned and glanced at the couple in the booth. When she brought back Gus’s change, he left the extra money on the counter. “You keep it.”
She scooped up the money. Then in a low voice she said, “Go behind, in the alley. Mon there, he help you.”
Night had fallen, streetlights had come on and shadows crept into the alley. Walking down it, looking for the dealer, made Gus feel as if he had a big
S
, for
stupid
, on his back. There was a naked lightbulb over the backdoor of the restaurant and a big metal dumpster to its right. Gus looked up and down the deserted alley. A few doorways further along had lights over them. When Gus drew closer to the restaurant’s backdoor, a shadow shifted and a figure stepped out from it.
Bingo! It was the Rasta. Bets had given a good description. Except she left out the evil grin, the stringy body, and his lean, muscled arms. His dreadlocks hung to his shoulders. He’d be a standout in a line-up.
“You wan’ somet’ing, mon?”
“Could be.”
Gus knew better than to be too eager.
The dealer nodded at the gym bag in Gus’s hand. “Wah you got.”
“The woman inside, the restaurant owner, says you have something I need. And I have something you want.” Gus picked up his bag slowly. He gestured as if opening it. “Okay?” he asked. The Rasta nodded.
Gus slowly unzipped the bag. He’d tucked the sack with the tequila in it when he left the restaurant. Now he pushed the sack to one side. Under it was a clean shirt, his jeans, and underwear. They covered a loaded Glock, duct tape, and a pair of handcuffs. On top of the clothes, though, was an envelope with his stash of cash. Some of the bills fanned out from it. They were easy to see. Impressive too.
Gus pointed at the bag. “I’d like to do some international trading. Your dope, my money.”
Even in the alley’s poor lighting, Gus could see greed overcoming caution on the Rasta’s face.
Then Gus prodded: “Is there some place where we can talk business?” He reached down slowly and pulled out one of the bottles of tequila. “This makes negotiations more fun.”
They ended up in a back room in the restaurant at a small table. The woman closed early and left some big pots soaking in the kitchen. She didn’t look at the men or say goodbye. Gus figured she wanted no part of what was going on. He was glad. It made things easier for him.
He set the bottles of tequila on the table, one for the Rasta and one for himself. Jose Cuervo grinned back at each of them.
They haggled over price as they took straight shots from their bottles. The Rasta brought out his dope; Gus whistled when he checked it out. The creep was doing some serious business. The Rasta had everything from weed to meth and even some OxyContin. Gus didn’t pay close attention to the Rasta, who was pretty much out of it. The whites of his eyes were a spiderweb of red veins fringing his dark, dilated pupils. Gus poked at the dope, stalling, thinking ahead, while the man talked about the Seattle women and how they couldn’t get enough of him. He made an obscene gesture and pointed to the words
No Woman, No Cry
under the headshot of Bob Marley on his T-shirt.
With a drunken leer, the Rasta said, “Me mek woman happy.”
Gus let the silence build. Then he asked, “You score big with your weed around here? I hear some of the guys out in the homeless camp by the big church carry cash on them. Heard they made some big scores and don’t like banks.”
The Rasta sneered and took a deep drag on his tequila. “No way, mon. Me been there.” He shrugged. “Old mon try to stop me. T’ink he boss? Me fix him.” The Rasta punched the air and twisted his two hands, like wringing a chicken’s neck. He grinned with drunken satisfaction.
Gus leaned back in his chair and looked away. He didn’t want the guy to read the deadly anger in his eyes. Gus had his answer. The time had come.
The tequila had gotten to the Rasta, but not to Gus. Earlier, in the bus station washroom, he’d dumped one of the bottles in the sink and refilled it with water. The Rasta was the only one drinking the real stuff.
Gus was as sober as a judge and about to pronounce sentence.
He took the money from his bag and put it on the table. The Rasta leaned forward to count it—and then Gus pulled out the gun from his bag and pointed it between the Rasta’s scared eyes.
“Hand over the weed.”
The Rasta tried to focus, pull himself together, but he was too drunk. He fumbled for the package with the weed and put it on the table. Gus dumped it into his bag. Then he picked up the money lying on the table and jammed it beside the weed in the bag.
Gus motioned with the gun. “Stand up, scumbag, and take off your clothes.”
The guy looked at Gus, blinking, weaving on his feet.
“You heard me. Strip, take off your shirt and pants.”
The Rasta looked around, fear growing in his eyes. Slowly, he removed his shirt and then his pants.
“Underpants too, stud.”
The Rasta stood naked as the day he was born, except for his bare feet in large loafers. “Put your hands behind your head and keep them there,” Gus commanded. He could see the man was trying to sober up. But he’d had way too much to drink. The dealer couldn’t get his brain into gear; he could only let his eyes flick about, trying to find a way to escape.
For a moment, the image of Sweet Sue’s battered face and body replayed in Gus’s head. He felt like shooting the bastard weaving in front of him. But Gus had a better plan. He motioned the Rasta over to the backdoor and made him stand beside it. Then Gus opened the door, stuck out his head, and checked the alley. It was clear, and it was cold—freezing cold. The Rasta hung back.
Gus made him turn around so that he stood in the doorway, facing the alley. Then Gus cold-cocked the Rasta behind his left ear with the gun’s butt. The Rasta crumpled and sagged to the floor. Gus flipped him over and removed the handcuffs and duct tape from his bag. No ex-cop should leave home without them, he thought. He cuffed the dealer’s hands behind him. And then Gus stuffed a wad of the money in the dealer’s mouth and wrapped duct tape around it and the Rasta’s head. The man wouldn’t be running his mouth off any time soon.
Gus slipped out the backdoor and opened the dumpster’s cover, swinging it back against the building. Then he dragged the Rasta to it and, grunting, heaved the man over the side and into the dumpster. Gus looked over. It was about a quarter full. He figured the city wouldn’t be doing a pickup for at least a few days. No matter. He wasn’t through with the Rasta yet.
Gus took a deep breath in the cold air. It hurt his lungs—he wasn’t used to breathing that deep. Next, he hoisted himself up and into the dumpster, gingerly stepping into the smelly mess. He pushed aside the gunk until he’d made a place for the dealer’s body. Gus turned him over so that he lay facedown, his dick on the freezing metal bottom of the dumpster. Then he covered him with the stinky mash of rinds and peelings and other discarded food.
It was a fitting end and a lesson the dope dealer would live with painfully for a long time.
Gus climbed out, closed the lid, and went inside again. He tidied up after himself, cleaning his pants and shoes and socks. He found white vinegar in the restaurant kitchen and wiped down all the surfaces he had touched, then moved outside and wiped down the dumpster too.
He went back inside and checked around one more time before he turned out the lights, flipped the lock, and closed the door.
Gus collected the drug money that hadn’t gone into the Rasta’s mouth, and he took all the dope and stuck it in his gym bag. The money would make a nice anonymous contribution to the Gospel Men’s Mission. The dope he’d unload into the nearest sewer drain. He hoped the salmon would get a good buzz when it reached the Sound.
Gus heard the heavy motor of a truck pulling into the far end of the alley and the squeal of brakes. He ducked around the corner and looked back. It was a city garbage truck, the big kind that compacted the garbage. Gus stayed to watch. He saw the truck’s long skid arms slip under the dumpster, lifting and then emptying it into the truck. The dumpster’s lid clanged as it was lowered. Then the mechanical sound of the compactor’s motor revved as it efficiently ground up the contents.
Gus leaned back against the rough brick side of a building, hidden from view of the garbage crew in the alley. Then he bowed his head, but it wasn’t in prayer. He was staring at the realization, as clear as if printed on a poster in front of him. He could’ve stopped the truck—and the compactor. Maybe shouted or waved his arms before the terrible sound of the grinding wheels.
But he hadn’t. Now he’d have to live with that memory too. Gus shrugged.
It was a bad end to a bad creep.
Gus stuffed his free hand in his pocket and started walking. Before he caught the bus for downtown, he fed the dope and pills into a sewer grate and tossed the bag into a garbage can.
Gus got off on First Avenue and walked to Pioneer Square. He found a dank tavern and had some quick shots—he knew from practice exactly how many dulled the sharp edges of memory but still left him able to figure out next steps.
The odds were that the trash collectors would find or see something funny. Maybe the dealer’s skinny bones would jam the mechanism. Or the garbage collectors would notice a lot of blood and do some checking. Once something like that was reported, it would be carried on the local news. Probably say,
What’s Seattle coming to?
Do-gooders would be up in arms at such a heinous crime. Gus laughed at the image. Peaceniks armed with pitchforks, not rifles.
Gus welcomed the mellow numbness beginning to spread in his body. He wanted it to reach his chest, to surround his heart. Still its beating. Gus shook himself. Now was when he had to be really careful. He needed to think, and he pushed his shot glass away with a shaking hand.
Seattle PD had good cops. They might not care if a dope dealer ended up as beef stew in the city dump. But they’d follow through with their investigation. The headlines and the City Council would demand that.
A good investigator would interview all of the shopkeepers and restaurant folks around the alley. Ask the drifters and bums if they’d seen anything. The cops would sure as hell assume there was some connection between a Rastafarian and a Caribbean restaurant. And the owner could ID him. So could some of the punk kids he’d approached about buying drugs.
If they did a sketch from the café owner’s description and ran it over the wire, his picture might turn up. Sure as hell, his name and the fact that he’d been a cop in San Jacinto would come out. And why he’d left the police force.
The word would spread.
Rogue cop.
Gus threw a couple bills down beside his glass and left the bar. He started walking, not caring where. He had a headache that was the granddaddy of all headaches, knocking the sides of his skull and traveling down to his shoulders. Suddenly, Gus felt too weary to move, his feet, dead weights. He couldn’t lift them. He shuffled into a doorway and leaned against the shop window.
Gus thought of Sweet Sue… and Jenny, and he wanted to cry. But couldn’t do that. The well had dried up a long time ago. He muttered, “Gus Maloney, you’ve screwed up your life. Big time.”
He nodded in agreement with himself. Then, after a long while, he slowly pulled himself together and swiped his eyes with his hand.
There’s no going back.
But Gus did change direction.
He headed for the hospital and Sweet Sue. Gus knew what he had to do. After he checked on Sweet Sue, he’d pack up and get out of town, head south, maybe just to Tacoma. Lay low. But be close enough that he could check on Sweet Sue. Soon as the old geezer was well, he’d let him know that he wanted his aide-de-homeless-camp with him again.
I
hate domestic cases. As long as I’ve been a private eye, they’ve been as unpredictable as counting on a sunny day here in Seattle. Harry Truman upsetting Dewey in last year’s election was no big surprise at all compared to domestic cases. They can ruin your day faster than losing a bundle on the wrong nag or saying “I do” to the wrong dame.
So why did I do it? Take the Dorothy Demar/Harold Sikes case, I mean. I’ve been asking my bottle of Cutty Sark that question ever since it was full and I still don’t have a good answer. It
has
been getting a little easier to ask the question, though. Decent Scotch doesn’t do a thing to solve the eternal mystery of sin and sordidness, but it does make it slightly easier to swallow.
Dorothy Demar entered my office without knocking while my girl Friday, Miss Jenkins, was out having her usual at the Woolworth’s lunch counter. At least Miss Jenkins could afford to go out to lunch. Me, I was dining on yesterday’s liverwurst slapped between two hunks of last week’s bread. I had some slight money troubles. It was payday and I’d sucked my bank account dry forking over my girl Friday’s salary. Worse, I’d blown the last C-note I had in reserve for the down payment on the fancy-schmancy two-way radios that I’d had my sights set on for the better part of a year. Cops had them, why not me? Yeah, well, now I had my two-way radios, but my name was going to be mud at Queen City Electronics without the dough for the balance of the account, which, coincidentally, just happened to be due today. Nothing I hated worse than a welcher—and that was going to be me, I was thinking, when Dorothy Demar sashayed in.
“Jake Rossiter?”
Husky voice for a female. More like a command than a question.
“Who’s asking?”
I glanced up from my desk, startled that the owner of the whiskey voice turned out to be such a hot number.
“Dorothy.”
The way she peeled off her long white gloves reminded me of a woman slowly taking off her nylon stockings. This dame just dripped with sultry allure. Got me excited—got me nervous—didn’t know which emotion to act on.
So, there I sat—and there she stood—tall, slim, busty, early thirties at most, with a blond Veronica Lake hairdo over high cheekbones, perfect skin, and a button nose, her powder-blue, two-piece silk ensemble so snug that I had to catch my breath.
“Dorothy Demar,” she said, adding a last name, her eyes a deeper blue than the last swimming pool I dove into.
I noticed she wasn’t wearing a wedding ring. I drew on all my years as a professional to compose myself.
“Glad to meet you. Have a seat. What can I do for you?”
“I want to hire you.” Curvier than ten miles of bad road, she slid into the green wingback chair across from me.
“I figured you weren’t collecting for the Milk Fund.” I pushed the liverwurst out of my way and replaced it with my stenographic notepad. “I might be able to squeeze in a new client. Shoot,” I told her, uncapping my fountain pen. “What’s the scoop?”
“I need you to keep an eye on me.”
“From what I’ve seen so far, that won’t be difficult.”
She smiled for the first time, her pearly whites glistening between her full red lips.
“Just for the record, though,” I continued, “why do you need me to keep an eye on you?”
“I think I’m in danger, Mr. Rossiter,” she said, a little quaver in her otherwise strong voice.
“Why’s that?”
“Does it matter?” she snapped. “I want to hire you! Isn’t that enough?”
I studied her for a moment, a bit put off by her sudden fire. “Not quite.”
“I think I’m in danger,” she repeated.
“Look, let’s try this again,” I told her, taking out a Philip Morris and lighting up. “Maybe you’re new to this sort of thing, but I’m not really big on mysteries. I like my cases nice and straightforward. And my answers plain.”
Dorothy jumped to her feet. “Maybe I’ve come to the wrong man.”
I stayed seated. “Maybe you have,” I said, thinking about how fast lust can go wrong.
She reached into the small ivory clutch that she carried, and laid four fat C-notes face up on my desk. Ben Franklin never looked more handsome. “Is that enough to make you the right man?”
“Well, now…” I pulled the bills toward me. “I could maybe handle a certain amount of suspense for this kind of dough.”
“Thought so.” Looking smug, she sat back down and took a gold-filigreed cigarette case out of her clutch. Tamping one of her smokes against it, she said, “Now maybe you’ll start doing like you’re told.”
“Could be.” I offered her a light. “But you haven’t
told
me anything yet. No, strike that, you’ve spilled loads just by the way you’ve been acting. Let’s see… you’re rich; undoubtedly spoiled rotten as a child; used to getting your own way and you tend to throw tantrums when you don’t. How am I doing so far?”
“Good as a gypsy.” She took a deep drag off her cigarette and gave me a wry look. “I can tell a few things about you too. Let’s see… you’re
not
rich, otherwise you wouldn’t have this crummy office in the Regrade; you probably had to do for yourself as a child; you’re used to making your own way in this world and you tend to be cynical and sarcastic when things don’t go like you think they should. How am I doing so far?”
“Good as a gypsy.”
“There’s one other thing.”
“What’s that, pray tell?”
“You seem to be one of those people who act just the way they look, Mr. Rossiter. Smart but tough. Exactly the type of man I need to help me.”
This dame was smart herself. And definitely drop-dead gorgeous. Volatile, potentially explosive mix. Whether it was the edgy thrill she gave me, or the fact that her moola would more than cover my two-way car radio debt, I don’t know. All I can say for sure is that I could feel my better judgment flying away as fast as a pheasant that you’d missed with both barrels.
“Okay. You’re rich, I’m not. That about covers all the bases except one: I still need to know why you feel threatened and want me to watch over you.” I pushed the money back toward her. “No answer, I’m afraid I’ll have to decline your case, even though I might kick myself later.”
“You have integrity. I don’t need integrity. But it will have to do, I suppose.” She slid the C-notes back at me. “I strongly suspect that my husband is planning to kill me.”
“That so? I didn’t know you were married.”
“We live apart,” she said, a definite sense of finality in her tone. “I have my own place; Harold has his.”
“Harold, huh?” I wrote his name down. “Tell me about Harold, Mrs. Demar. What makes you think he’s got it in for you?”
“It’s Mrs. Sikes, actually,” she corrected. “Demar is my maiden name.”
“Sounds better than Sikes; I don’t blame you.” I fixed Harold’s name in my notes. “So, once again, why would Harold have homicide on his mind?”
“He thinks I’m two-timing him.”
“Are you?”
“Yes.”
Her candor brought me up short. For want of anything better to say, I replied, “That’s refreshing.”
“Harold thinks he owns me. He doesn’t. That’s why I need you.”
I leaned back in my chair and blew a smoke ring. “What exactly do you want me to do?”
“Keep an eye on me, like I said.”
“That could get expensive.”
“I have my own money. I was rich before I married Harold, and I’m still rich.”
“Have you tried marriage counseling? It’s bound to be cheaper.”
She laughed. Only the second time I’d seen her crack a smile. It vanished as soon as she began talking. “You have a sense of humor too. Keep it. Do you want the job? Yes or no?”
“When would you want me to start?”
“Now.”
“How close do you want to be followed? I can tail you from a distance or so close we might have to get engaged.”
Another smile—very small, very brief. “While the latter method might prove interesting, Mr. Rossiter, just keeping an eye on me from a distance will be more than adequate for the time being.”
“In that case,” I said, picking up the phone, “I’ll have my right-hand man on the job before you leave the office.”
She stubbed out her butt in the ashtray. “You won’t be watching me personally?”
“I’m saving myself for you.” I grinned. “I want to be fresh as a daisy if you ever need the close tail work.”
“I see,” she told me, the hint of a flirt forming in her eyes. It disappeared the instant I got Heine on the horn.
“Heine. Got a gig for you.” I could hear the click and clack of pool balls caroming in the background. As usual, he was downtown, just a few minutes away, at Ben Paris’s pool hall. He haunted the joint trying to shark a few simoleons whenever I didn’t have him working a case.
“That so?” Heine asked. “Good. Where do ya want me and when?”
“Over here at the office. Now.”
“What’s up?”
“Dame I need you to keep tabs on. She’s with me as we speak. Make it a discreet tail, but don’t let her out of your sight. Her life may be in danger. Name’s Dorothy Demar. Just honk when you show up. She’s got better gams than Betty Grable. You’ll like the work.”
“Say no more, brother,” Heine answered quickly. “I already left.” The line went dead.
“Thank you,” Dorothy told me as I hung up the receiver.
“For what? The compliment or for taking the job?”
“Both. I’m very grateful.”
“Maybe you should save your gratitude until I’m sure I can keep you safe.”
“You will. I have no doubt.”
“You’re pretty certain about me, huh?”
“Everybody says you’re the best.”
“Can’t argue with that. Even so, I’d advise you to lay low for a while if you think your life’s in danger.”
“No, I won’t do that.” She stood up like she was preparing to leave. “I’m going to lead my life as usual. Neither your well-intentioned advice nor Harold’s ill-intentioned behavior are going to stop me.” She glanced at her diamond-studded wristwatch. “I hope your man hurries. I have a final fitting for my winter trousseau at Frederick’s, after which I have a date for dinner and a night out on the town.”
“Not with Harold, I presume.”
“Heavens no.”
“Your date’s a lucky man.”
“Yes, he is.”
Her eyes flirted with me again. This time, I let mine flirt back. Our orbs danced that way awhile, getting closer and closer. They say you can look right into another person’s soul through their eyes—I don’t know what she saw in mine, but what I was seeing was pretty much what I thought the moth saw instead of the flame.
Heine tooting his horn outside saved me from getting singed. He had a trick air horn on his hot rod ’47 Ford that sounded just like a wolf whistle.
“That’ll be Heine.” I walked over to the window, pulled it open, stuck my head out, and threw him the okay sign.
Dorothy came up behind me and put a light touch on my shoulder. “Am I going to be safe with him?”
I turned around—we were so close that her ample bosom brushed against my chest. “Maybe safer than with me,” I told her, taking a step back. “What kind of car are you driving?”
“The new Packard. Black. It’s out front.”
I yelled down at Heine a couple stories below. “Her ride’s the black Packard!” He couldn’t miss her expensive white side-walled sedan considering he’d parked right behind it. “She’ll be down in a minute, compadre. Stay loaded for bear and keep in touch. It’s worth a C-note.”
“I’ll stick to her like a fly on you know what!” he hollered at me.
Closing the window, I smiled as I noted the new radio antenna sported on Heine’s Ford. Twice as long as a normal aerial, it made his coupe look almost like an unmarked police cruiser. At least I’d be able to pay for it now.
Dorothy slipped on her long white gloves, took her clutch from the top of my desk, and headed for the door.
“Maybe we’ll see each other again,” she said over her shoulder.
“Up to you,” I told her, liking the way her curves curved when she walked.
She paused at the door. “Yes, it is.” Then she went out.
I watched out the window as she got into her ritzy Packard and drove off, south toward downtown, Heine’s Ford rumbling close behind. Then I pulled out my bottle of Cutty Sark and had a belt. I hate domestic cases—could’ve kicked myself for taking this one—except for the big moola and Dorothy Demar’s deep blue eyes. There was something about her that I didn’t trust. That’s why I had Heine tailing her instead of me. I figured I’d do some digging on her and see if there were any concrete reasons for my qualms. Besides, you never knew when another fat cat could walk through the door and offer a bundle for a simple job. Crazier things had happened.
A few minutes later, a man walked in just as I was about to start snooping on Dorothy. He doffed his gray Hamburg and said, “My name’s Harold Sikes. I want to hire you.”
I could’ve choked on my Scotch. Instead, I kept a poker face and studied him for a moment. Dressed to the nines in a double-breasted gray suit, with a pink boutonniere and a diamond stick-pinned tie, he looked to be in his mid-fifties, paunchy, balding, and thick-browed, with a heavy, jowly face bordering on ugly. For the life of me, I couldn’t tell what Dorothy Demar had ever seen in this joe.
“What’s your interest in hiring me, Mr. Sikes?”
“I need protection.” He strode over and took a seat across from me like he owned the place.
“Protection from what?”
“My wife. I think she’s planning to kill me.”
I almost choked on my whiskey again, so I set the glass down. “Really? How did you happen to pick my little detective agency?”
“Everybody says you’re the best.”
“Can’t argue with that.”
He took his billfold from his breast pocket, pulled out four C-notes, and pushed them across the desk at me. “Will that cover it, Mr. Rossiter?”
Ben Franklin looked just as handsome as before, but the déjà vu added a real fishy smell to him. I decided to play along anyway.
“What makes you think your wife wants to do you in?” I asked, leaving the bills where they lay.
“She’s jealous.”
“That so?”
