The Dirty City (4 page)

“Was he the big guy, what the hell had he taken?”

“Oh man, are you familiar with methamphetamine?”

“Speed? He ate a load of speed?”

“Man, that shit makes you
so
crazy.”

“Well that explains why it took so many cops to take him down. But what about you, Newt?” I studied him a bit closer, “you ate the dope, didn’t you?”

“I sure did, Mr Jerome. A hell of a lot safer than the other crap, that’s for sure!”

“How much did you swallow?”

“The mother load! The whole God damn stash!”

“Shit, kid, in about an hours time you’re going to be hallucinating demons coming out of the walls.”

“And you know what the best bit is? They’re about to haul my ass down to the station to try and interview me. Man, you can just imagine how that’s going to go down – it’s going to be fucking hilarious!”

I still hated him, but he knew how to make me chuckle. And he was right, what I’d have given to have been a fly on the wall during that interview!

*

I left Newt to his impending stupor, and not a moment too soon. I’d literally just got myself on the right side of the police barrier when Wails and a legion of uniforms turned up to take him away.

I turned to head back to the car and almost walked straight into a man coming the other way.

“Whoa there, friend, you need to pay a little attention to where you’re headed.”

The man was feverishly scrawling notes onto a reporters pad. It was Michael Thomas, a.k.a. Mickey the Weasel, the most notorious hack on the Santa Justina Tribune.

“Jerome. Curious as to what brings you here?”

“Turned up on a case, and ended up crashing a party.”

“The cops aren’t saying shit about this, I’m assuming this is part of the Mayors ‘War on Dope?’ You got an angle on this?”

Now, as anyone knows, you need to be careful what you say around reporters, and Mickey was especially tricky.

“I’m here looking for a missing person, that’s all. I know they were here, but it looks like they shot through long before the shit went down.”

“Well that’s just too bad for you. Missing person, eh? Don’t you think there’s been an abnormally high number of those lately?”

“Can’t say I’ve noticed, Mickey.”

“Oh yes, indeed. Probably not too many of the types going missing got friends or family with the kind of resources to hire a private detective, though, so I guess that’s why you ain’t aware. It’s drunks, homeless bums and hobos, near do wells, the people at the bottom. The ones who don’t get missed too easily.”

Mickey, while in his own twisted way, was a bastion of free speech and the truth will out, I also found him a slightly unpleasant person to have to be around. But he had spiked my interest a little.

“Are we talking a recent spate of disappearances? What, last couple of months?”

“Well now, you want to know more, perhaps you can tell me what else has been going on in that house there?”

“Sure. On the proviso, naturally, that you heard all this from someone else, right?”

“If you say so, Jerome.”

“It’s a dope den, but it’s also doing a good trade in heroin.This place has been actively running with the police’s knowledge for a while, word is there are some very generous benefactors paying to keep it off the radar. Although it would appear that the deal has now gone sour. And you might be interested that two patrons found on site, massively OD’d, are being rushed to the hospital as we speak. It’s not looking god for them, if what I heard was accurate.”

Mickey was scrawling at high speed again, he was nothing if not efficient.

“Well, it’s pretty much as I’d suspected, just gotta’ hope at least one of those OD victims doesn’t make it and I might just have a front page.”

“You’re a real humanitarian, Mickey, you know that? Anyway, you were going to tell me more about the missing persons?”

“Last six months. Unprecedented levels, mostly amongst the very dregs of society, so really no-one is that fussed. Cops couldn’t give two hoots, but it’s the nature of the disappearances that are – shall we say, a little curious.”

“Go on.”

“Well, there are witnesses – all reporting weird, unfeasible things, but consistently. Folks turn their back on someone, they turn around a moment later and they’re gone. People head into dead end alleyways and don’t come out, no trace found. It’s real fuckin’ smoke and mirrors shit. One or two reports, I wouldn’t give it the time of day, but this keeps on happening, and people keep telling me the same stuff. They’re scared, really, genuinely afraid – it’s like the bogeyman in the shadows or somethin’. Weird shit, eh?”

“And you believe it”

“I don’t fucking know, I just write about it. Or rather, I would, if my mutherfuckin’ editor gave a flying fuck about it. Instead he wants me covering the Mayors anti-dope campaign. What a crock of shit.”

I said my perfunctory goodbyes to Mickey, at the time I gave his story little serious consideration, it’s good to keep up to speed with what’s going down on the street. To be honest I was more hoping that some unfortunate turn of events would lead to Lt. Wails ending up destitute on the streets. That was one asshole I’d love to vanish into thin air. I had no idea of how significant what I’d just been told would turn out to be.

CHAPTER 3

I pulled up back at St Judes Hospital just before 1.30pm. I was tired and now completely starving so I’d planned to grab a bite to eat at the hospital canteen.

As I entered the building I heard a familiar sound – a little quirk of the city. It was the city public address system test.

During the war the city authorities constructed this vast public address system, a massive network of speakers were dotted around strategic areas of the city, the aim being that important notifications could be broadcast to the populace quickly and easily. I guess back then they were thinking air-raids or something. The system was meticulously maintained at great public expense – and come the 1950’s it was going to be our first warning of attacks by the commies, maybe even one day used to deliver the unthinkable warning about impending nuclear attack.

And every Wednesday, at precisely 1.30pm, that’s when they tested it, to ensure all the speakers and connections were working. The test tone they played was damn spooky, it was sort of a cross between a traditional air-raid warning alarm mixed with the kind of tense, atmospheric music you get in the lead up to a bloodcurdling scene in a horror movie! I always thought it must scare the living crap out of people who were new in town and unaware of what it was!

To my knowledge the public address system had never truly been used in anger. It would later play a big part in saving the whole city from a fate far worse than death.

*

The food served in the canteen at the hospital was well renowned for being notoriously bad. I did wonder if a percentage of the patients admitted were done so as a direct result of the crap they peddled there, however – deny a person sleep or food for over twenty four hours and you’ll be astonished at what they can find palatable.

I ordered what they referred to as an ‘All Day Breakfast,’ and greedily wolfed the whole lot down, despite only being able to reasonably identify about 50% of what was piled up on my plate. I washed it down with two steaming hot cups of black coffee, Lord knows what it would do to my insides, but it all gave me a big hit of energy. I hoped it would be enough to stop me falling asleep at the wheel of Lydia’s car on the drive back.

Suitably refuelled I set off to locate Michelle Masters. She had been taken out of intensive care and stuck in a private room on a ward. I was advised by a strict looking ward sister that only family were permitted to enter at this time, so I did what any PI would do; I lied and claimed to be her uncle, and she let me past. Works every time.

As I approached the door of the private room I spotted Dr David Masters, Michelle’s father – he and his wife had hired me to find her. He looked terrible, a shadow of the man I’d met in my office just a few short days ago. He was a slim set man, I estimated him to be in his late forties – he had previously merely looked concerned for his beloved daughter, now she was safe - there was something else. I could see it in his features.

“Dr Masters.”

“Mr Jerome - apologies, I’ve been meaning to call your office – I can’t tell you how grateful myself and Helena are to you, you saved our little girls life.”

“All in a days work, Dr Masters. Can I ask, is Michelle conscious, might I be permitted to speak to her?”

“Of course, Mr Jerome, I’ll take you in – but just one thing,” he paused at the door. He looked like a man dealing with massive internal conflict, as if all the things he’d previously been assured about were being called into question, “Helena – she doesn’t know the exact details of the
circumstances
that Michelle found herself in. I’ve only been told what the doctors here can ascertain from examining her, and frankly that is something no father should ever have to hear.”

“I understand, Doc, you can count on my discretion.”

Poor bastard. Daddy’s little girl wasn’t a little girl no more.

*

The room was dimly lit with a single bedside lamp. Michelle Masters was lying in a hospital bed with all manner of tubes and other medical paraphernalia sticking out of her. She looked like she was sleeping.

At her bedside, holding her hand, sat Mrs Helena Masters. She was a classy, immaculately groomed lady in her early forties. Like any concerned parent would, she was showing the signs of the strain, but nowhere near to the extent of her husband. I wondered if she’d ever find out the full story, but a big part of me agreed with the Doc, what she didn’t know couldn’t hurt her. I got the impression that a revelation like that would destroy the woman.

As I approached, she turned to look at me, her expression adjusting with acknowledgment.

“Mr Jerome, I don’t know how to thank you, you got our little girl back. Michelle. Michelle, honey, this is Mr Jerome – the man I was telling you about.”

Michelle didn’t move or even open her eyes.

“You’ll have to excuse her, Mr Jerome, she’s still really tired after her ordeal.”

“It’s okay, Mrs Jameson. I just dropped by to see she how she was doing. But I was wondering...” I paused, trying to make my request as gently as I could, “I’m working on a new case, another missing person, similar circumstances. I’ve reason to believe Michelle might be able to help.”

“Well, you can ask her, she hasn’t really spoken much since – well, you know?”

“I appreciate this is a bit unorthodox, but,” again, I left a subtle pause, “I’d really like to talk to her alone, if possible. I need to speak to her about someone called Anton.”

“Mr Jerome, I’d have to insist that you don’t-.”

“Mom. It’s okay. I’ll speak to him,” everyone rapidly glanced around to Michelle, her eyes now wide open. I’d had a feeling that might get her attention.

“Michelle, honey, you’re still recovering.”

“It’s alright, Mom, this is important, I need to do this,
please
.” Michelle gave her mother the little girl eyes and smiled – she was some piece of work, she knew just how to play her.

Reluctantly, Helen Masters agreed and the Doc ushered his wife outside. I sensed that she had her reservations but the fact that Michelle was talking again seemed to act as source of comfort to her, so she didn’t protest too much.

“Thank you, Michelle.”

“Who told you about me and Anton?” Her expression had shifted, she had dropped the sick little girl in hospital act very quickly indeed.

“Newt.”

“That son of a bitch. You know what he did to me?”

“I only know what he told me.”

“And you’re looking for Anton?”

“Yes, his father-.”

“Is a self-obsessed, controlling son of a bitch.”

“Well, he’s a lawyer, so I guess that’s a fair description.”

“He hired you to find him, didn’t he?”

“He did.”

“Anton doesn’t want to be found.”

“I know that too. But someone has found him.”

“What do you mean?”

“He was at Newt’s place last night, when I came to get you out of there. Have to say, he was not in a good way. However, turns out that was the least of his problems - Newt reckons some hoods turned up and took him away. Mob guys. I need to know what he was into, and how deep. His life could depend on it, and you’re one of the few people he might have spoken to about it.”

“Oh God!” For the first time since we began talking her expression softened.

“I know this is hard. I know this is painful, but you’ve got to tell me all you know about Anton, I think he’s in way over his head. I need your help,” the good old fashioned guilt trip, it rarely failed.

She sighed, “Okay, Mr Jerome.”

“Good girl, start at the beginning.”

“We met at Newt’s place. I’d known Newt for a few months, a friend put me onto him, she told me he sold the best dope in the city. That was true at least, it was good shit. I started buying more of it, then when things went crazy at home Newt let me stay at his place, rent free. I thought he was being nice, I should have seen it coming.”