COFFEE SHOP QUICKY

Today’s offering is an extract from a hard-boiled detective novelette I wrote a while back.  I am currently working on a second Randy Niles story entitled “Old Stories Buried Deep”.

The hard-boiled genre is not for everyone.  Let me know what you think.

 

by Jerry Donaldson

about 1800 words

I’m Randy Niles and I’ve been a licensed private investigator for twenty years or so. It’s been okay, I guess. I don’t always feel great about what I do, but it’s probably the same for a banker or a lawyer or a plumber. There’s good days and bad days, and we all just do the best we can.

I’m going to tell you about a case I worked a few years back. At that time I was dating a city homicide detective named Delores Marquez. I’ve dated a few cops over the years, in case you’re interested. I like a woman who carries a gun and knows how to handle herself. Delores and I went together like ham and eggs. Or Smith and Wesson, maybe.

So, one August evening about 11 p.m. Delores and I were lying in her big brass bed. I was staring up at the ceiling. Delores’s head was on my shoulder. It was a muggy night and a thunderstorm threatened. The bedroom window in her third story condo was open and the curtains moved listlessly in the faint breeze.

“So, Randy,” she said. “You ever heard the name Marion Stone?”

Yes, of course I had. Everyone whose business took them into the shadows knew, or knew of, Marion Stone. He’d been around the neighborhood forever, dealing dope, loan sharking, fencing stolen goods, other petty stuff. He’d done some short bits in the slammer. Marion and I weren’t friends, far from it. But we swam in the same waters.

Stone had dropped out of sight about a month back. The general opinion was that he’d finally pissed off the wrong people and been knocked off. I had my own interest in Stone’s disappearance, because I was working for his sister, Greta Stanhope. She’d hired me that very morning to find him.

We’d met at my office in the Janion Building. Mrs. Stanhope was about fifty or so, with short steel-gray hair and horn-rim specs. She’d worn a gray tweed jacket and skirt. Her eyes were red and she’d clutched a damp Kleenex.

“It’s not unusual for Marion to disappear every now and then, Mr. Niles,” she had said. “It’s never been a month, though, and I’m very worried. I know he runs with a rough crowd.”

“The worst, Mrs. Stanhope. Your brother knows some really bad people,” I’d said.

Then the tears had started up in earnest. I’d handed a box of tissues across the desk, and waited silently while she composed herself.

“Just find him for me, Mr. Niles,” she’d said finally. “He’s my little brother. I have to know, even if the news is bad.”

“I’ll do what I can, Mrs. Stanhope.”

Frankly, the odds any news about Marion would be bad were roughly 100%. Guys like Marion Stone don’t suddenly decide to go on a world cruise and not tell anyone. My guess was he was now at the bottom of the river wearing cement shoes, or in a shallow grave somewhere on the outskirts of town with a bullet in his head.

“Yeah, I know Marion Stone,” I said to Delores. “He’s missing.” There was a crack of lighting followed seconds later by the thunder, really loud, so it was close by. Then the rain started, and the breeze picked up and blew the curtains hard into the room.

Delores rolled out of bed and closed the window. A second flash of lightning filled the room with light and illuminated briefly her beautiful naked form. She was a slender five foot four or so, with black hair cut into a short bob. She went into the bathroom and I lit up a Camel. A couple of minutes later she was back, wearing a silk kimono.

Delores sat on the edge of the bed, beside me in the dark. I offered her my cigarette and she took a long pull. The hot glow of the cigarette cast an orange light onto her face. Man, she was beautiful! I put my arm around her waist and tried to tug her back into bed. She removed my arm in her best no-nonsense fashion. It was time to talk, apparently, so I sat up.

“So, spill,” I said. “Has Marion Stone turned up dead in an alley?”

“No, he’s still missing. And he went missing with fifty thousand dollars belonging to Jack Gold.”

I whistled softly. “That I didn’t know. So, Stone did a runner with Gold’s cash? If he’s not dead now it’s only a matter of time. You don’t screw with Jack Gold and get away with it.”

“There’s more. Internal Affairs is closing in on some dirty cops in the precinct. Gold’s been paying them off for years, and that fifty grand was the regular payroll. The cash was supposed to change hands in a restaurant, and we were there undercover, prepared to make arrests. Marion Stone was Gold’s agent and he was bringing the money, but he never showed up.”

“I.A. is sure it’s sources were correct?”

“Absolutely reliable information.”

“So you’re screwed.”

“For now, yes.”

“Something tells me you’re going to ask a favor.”

“You know everyone, Randy. Maybe you could nose around a little and help me out here. I know you’re working for Stone’s sister.”

“Did a little bird tell you that?”

“She told us herself. She filed a missing person report 48 hours after Stone went AWOL, and she’s been pestering us every day since. She mentioned she’d hired you.”

“Do tell.”

“Come on, Randy, just say yes.” There was another flash of lightning, and the thunder followed, more faintly now. The storm was moving off.

“I’ll think on it, sweetheart. Meanwhile, why don’t you snuggle on in here and I’ll talk dirty to you.”

“I’ll expect more than talk, big boy.”

Delores let me tug her back into bed and relieve her of her kimono. And for a while there was no talking at all.

 

#

 

The next morning I got to work. I started out by dropping in on Stone’s girlfriend, Phyllis Durhling.

Now, Phyllis and I had had a little thing going a few years earlier, long before I met Delores. She worked security for Pinkerton’s, riding shotgun on an armored truck. Another hot female gun-slinger, but not polished and sweet like Delores. No, Phyllis was a nasty piece of work, a bad-tempered, red-headed ball of fire. A hellcat. She liked it rough. That is, she liked to be rough. I never knew what might happen when we hit the sack together.

Eventually I got tired of having to explain to my secretary, Luisa, the scratches, bruises and bites that Phyllis laid on me during our love-making. Luisa once walked into my inner office while I was changing my shirt, and she saw the fingernail marks, old and new, all over my back.

“Mr. Niles,” she’d said, “pardon me for noticing, but your back looks as if you’ve been flayed. Are you sure this Phyllis is a good fit for you?”

“Luisa,” I’d said, “I really don’t know.”

That’s the thing, really. Sometimes it’s like I can’t tell what’s good for me.

One night in the heat of passion Phyllis bit a chunk of my ear half-off. That needed stitches, and that’s when I called it quits.

And now Phyllis was Marion’s squeeze. She lived in a one-bedroom over a store near the stadium. I buzzed her apartment from the street, and the door lock clicked back after about ten seconds. I went in, climbed the stairs, walked down the hall and knocked at the door to Apartment 2C.

The door opened 6 inches and Phyllis looked out at me across the security chain. Her fiery red hair was all over the place and a cigarette hung from her lips. She wore a short, green bathrobe. I noticed that her eyes were still deep green, her complexion still clear and pale, her lips still full and pouty. I felt the old attraction, like a jolt of electricity in my gut.

“Phyllis, I need to talk to you about Marion. Can I come in?”

She stood there scowling at me, deciding whether or not to slam the door in my face. Finally she slid the chain off and opened the door.

“Come in and sit there,” she said, pointing to her kitchen table. I sat down and looked around. The place was spotless; Phyllis liked a clean house. She sat across from me and put out her cigarette in an orange Melmac ashtray.

“So, what do you want with Marion?” she said. She crossed her legs.

“You know he’s gone off the radar, don’t you?” I asked.

“Everyone knows that. A month or so,” she said. “But I haven’t seen him for longer than that. We had a falling out, you might say.”

“Falling out?”

She pushed her red hair behind her ears, fished a fresh Kool out of its package and lit it up. “Yeah, about six weeks ago I caught the bum two-timing me with that little tramp Goldie that works down at Nick’s Coffee Shop. So I kicked him out and I haven’t heard from him since.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, Phyllis.”

“Don’t sweat it, Randy.” Phyllis took another drag off her smoke and examined her nails. She looked back at me and she smiled, finally.

“What do you want with Marion?” she said.

“His sister hired me to find him.”

“You mean Greta?”

“That’s the one.”

“That bitch, I hope you’re charging her plenty.”

“A falling out?”

“We just never saw eye to eye.”

I could see Phyllis was getting steamed thinking about Greta. Again I felt the thrill in my gut and at that moment, if I wasn’t seeing Delores, I might have risked losing an ear in return for quick a roll in the hay.

“So you have no idea where Marion is?”

“None.”

“Well, you have my number, would you call if you hear from him?”

“Yeah, I’ll do that for you, Randy,” she said. “Say, what are you doing right now? How about I make us a pitcher of Margaritas and we talk about old times a bit.” It was 9:30 in the morning.

“I’d better pass, Phyllis. It’s time for me to get going.” I stood up. Phyllis walked me to the door and I caught a whiff of her particular aroma, her sweet Phyllis-smell. I was hitting the road just in time.

I opened the door, and said my good-byes. “Thanks, Phyllis.”

“Anything I can do, Randy. Call me sometime.”

“I’ll do that,” I said. “You take care of yourself, okay.”

“Always. See you in the funny pages.”

With that Phyllis gently closed the door and I stood there in the hall for a moment, thinking. Then I went down the stairs, through the door and out onto the street, headed for my next stop.  .  .  .  .  (continued)