Down Among the Dead Men

"There are more of those," I told her, "plus the negatives. Unless you pay me as agreed, Mr Fenwick gets an interesting package in the post. Pay me and you'll get everything."

"That's blackmail!"

"Yes, guess it is, and what you were trying on is called theft."

She handed me a fresh check. "When do I get the goods?"

"When this check's cleared."

Indignation puffed her up. "Don't you trust me?"

"Would you?" I turned to Jimmy. "Come on, kid, you can see me off the premises and tell your employer I'm safely gone."

"Take some advice, Jimmy," I said when we reached the front steps, "Get out of this now before it ends in tears. Yours, likely. This might end up in divorce court with you in both lead and supporting roles. Wouldn't do your record much good if you're aiming for a first-rate college."

The check cleared the next morning and in the afternoon I left a sealed package at the gate for my ex-employer. With luck the security guard would hand it to the wrong Fenwick.

"Would you really have passed those pictures to her husband if she'd called your bluff?" Cara, my secretary, asked me.

I shrugged. "Probably not." But I put the word around the city's PI network that Mrs Fenwick was a piker. She would find it damned hard to employ any of them now. Criminals aside, dishonest citizens nearly always assume that others are as dishonest as they are. Frankly, I'd sooner deal with real crooks.

I said at the outset that PI work can be shitty and domestics make it shittier. Every time I pull a case like this I swear to myself, 'Never again!' but hell, someone has to pay Cara's salary.

* * * * *

It was a fine morning a week or so following the Fenwick affair. A quiet day, it was nearing noon so I pushed aside the last piece of paperwork and relaxed in my office chair. I lit a fresh Lucky and wondered if I could risk a small scotch without incurring the wrath of Sister Cara of The Holy Order of Saint Temperance. And then the world grew interesting again. I heard the beginnings of a kerfuffle in the outer office, with Cara protesting "You can't just walk in there!" and a voice snarling a reply. "Stow it, sister, I can go anywhere I like an' this badge says so!"

I knew that voice. That's why I didn't leap to Cara's rescue as I might otherwise have done. Detective-Sergeant Nestor of the City Police Department, working out of Central Homicide, known to all who loved and admired him as 'Nasty' Nestor. Nestor had it in for me. I'd once spotted a serious mistake he'd made which would have allowed a perp to escape and put an innocent man in the slammer. Might even possibly have wrecked Nestor's career if the truth came out. I didn't snitch on him. Out of the goodness of my heart I even let him take the credit for solving that case---no skin off my nose, PIs don't get medals. Instead of being grateful I'd saved his ass, Nestor resented me from then on. He pushed his way into my office together with another cop I knew slightly, Detective Third-Grade Emil Bartok. Both detectives had their weapons drawn, held loosely at their sides.

"Now you know that's not strictly true, Nestor," I told him, "Unless invited, there's a lot of places you need a warrant, not just a badge. Still, in the light of friendly relations, we'll overlook that for the moment. What can I do for you?"

Nestor nodded towards my empty shoulder-holster. "For a start, where's your gun?"

"Both in the top right-hand drawer of my desk."

Nestor brought his piece up, pointed in my general direction, and jerked his head at his subordinate. "Bartok." Bartok opened my desk drawer, taking out both semi-auto and short-barrelled revolver. He checked the loads and sniffed at both weapons. "Clean, Sarge. I'd say haven't been fired in a while."

"Means nothing where guys like Malone are concerned," the sergeant snapped, "Okay, Malone, on your feet, assume the position. You're under arrest."

I called out to Cara. "Get our attorney on the phone," I told her, "Tell him to be on standby in case Nestor makes a total ass of himself." I turned back to the detective. "Before I go along with whatever silly game you're playing, Nestor," I said, "would you mind telling me why I'm under arrest?"

"You know goddam well why."

I pretended to consider then gave the side of my head a gentle slap. "Nope! Dammit! I must be losing my memory."

"You're under arrest for murder!" Nestor bellowed.

"If this is an elaborate joke, Nestor, my sense of humor is starting to fail me. Who am I supposed to have murdered?"

Nestor shook his head in apparent disgust. "Arnie Scudamore, that's who! What's worse, you beat him up pretty badly before you broke his neck then shot him for good measure. If there was a Mrs Scudamore she wouldn't know him from Micky Mouse now. I always knew you were a mean bastard, Malone, but I'd never figured you for a sadist before." The cop's expression brightened. "And I've got a witness---a few nights back he heard you threatening to beat Arnie up and kill him. Heard Arnie call you Mr Malone and Sam. Walls are paper-thin in that dump." He smirked. "An open-and-shut case I'd say."

A witness? Ah... "Tubby guy with a comb-over? He didn't hear me threaten to beat Arnie up and kill him. He may have heard Arnie begging me not to do him in. I was chasing up some information I thought Arnie might have. For some reason he'd got it in his head that there was a contract out on him and I was the shooter. I thought he was talking bullshit." I didn't tell Nestor the full story, he wouldn't have believed me anyway.

Arnie. I couldn't imagine why anyone would kill Arnie. Kick his ass, yes, but not kill the poor little jerk. Maybe the yarn he'd spun me had something to it after all and 'they', whoever 'they' were, had caught up with him. "When did this happen?" I asked.

"Around seven-thirty last night," Bartok said, earning himself a glare from his partner.

I started laughing. "You'll have to find another prime suspect, Nestor," I said, "I've got a cast-iron alibi."

"Assholes like you always have cast-iron alibis," he sneered, " but they rarely stand up in court. I suppose you'll allege you were with your good buddy Captain Garrett. Get this---he was duty homicide captain all night. I checked. Anyway, he works the One-Eight Precinct, I work Central. That gives me precedence, even over precinct captains."

I'd like to see the face of any precinct captain Nestor tried to feed that crap to. He'd get his ass kicked from here to Miami. A civilian might fall for his bullshit but not Sam Malone. "Precedence?" I said, "Big word for a numbnuts like you, Nestor." I was going to enjoy seeing the triumph on his face collapse in on itself like a mudslide. "I was having dinner with Doug Wythe."

Nestor looked like I'd kicked him in the gut. "You're shitting me!"

"Call him." Doug Wythe is an Assistant DA with a good chance of becoming the Big Cheese one day. His wife Melody is Cara's sister and we often have a friendly dinner together. Melody's cooking is to die for (maybe an unfortunate choice of words in the present circumstances). "Doug's not in court today, you should get him in his office."

"Check it out, Bartok," Nestor ordered. I called out to Cara to co-operate with Detective Bartok and allow him to use her phone. While Bartok was making his call, I politely offered to help solve the case. Nestor said nothing, only looked as if he'd like nothing better than to ram his pistol up my rear end and pull the trigger a few times. Bartok returned several minutes later wearing a big grin that he hastily wiped off as Nestor turned to look at him. I don't think that Detective Nestor is very popular with his underlings.

"Mr Malone and his secretary were with Mr and Mrs Wythe from six-thirty until about midnight, Sarge." Nestor's face had gone a kind of puce color that suited him. Bartok's voice hovered on trembling and how he contained his amusement I don't know but I admired his self-control.

Holstering his weapon, Nestor went to the door then turned. "You keep your goddam nose out of this case, Malone!" he snarled. He stormed off in a rage without an apology. He didn't even say 'Goodbye'. Bartok winked as he left, most likely heading towards his senior partner's unjust wrath, and I heard him say to Cara: "Nice to have met you, Miss."

Keep my goddam nose out of this case? Now there was a challenge! Detective Nestor, you know not what you do!

* * * * *

As far as I could tell, Arnie's sole next-of-kin was Billy Scudamore, the moonshine man. I wondered if Nestor or his team had bothered to notify him. Maybe not. Most likely they didn't even know about him. That's one of the sad things about the petty bottom-feeders like Arnie, nobody knows a damned thing about most of them. Whether they're killed in a street fight or they OD on horse or just give up and lie down to die, their lives are a blank. Their deaths may be reported to the cops who most likely won't give a shit and make just enough of an investigation to fill their lieutenants' monthly targets returns. So, a sad existence followed by a sad death followed by a sad disposal in an unmarked pauper's grave grudgingly paid for by a cheapskate city administration and no mourners present. I decided that I would take a little drive up to Malanuk, break the bad news myself. But first there was someone else I needed to speak to, a 'witness'.

It was coming up to eight-thirty next morning when my chubby friend with the air-conditioned haircut cut left the dump of a hotel and stood uncertainly on the sidewalk, looking around with an anxious expression as if worried that his time was nigh. He didn't clock me because I kept well back. After a few minutes he started walking to wherever he worked. There was a strong breeze and his strands of hair wafted about like tendrils of weed in an ocean current.

He didn't go far, slipping down a back alley and into the rear door of a so-called nightspot I knew as The Green Room. Moments later he was bringing out sacks of garbage and piling them into the bins provided. Looked like the kind of gofer menial low-paid job that only ex-cons or street-people can get. I was waiting by the door for him when he came out the third time and I grabbed his elbow.

"Hey! What the hell? Leggo a' me!" He tried to pull away so I just tightened my grip.

"We need to talk," I told him.

Give him this---he didn't give up easily. "Leggo a' me, you big bastard!" tugging at his captured arm that stayed captured. He yelled for help and a rasping voice from the kitchen called: "You got trouble, Lemmy?"

"Yeah! Help me!"

The rasping voice materialised in the doorway, broad and chunky with a buzz-cut, collar detached, sleeves rolled up over huge forearms, fists clenched ready for action. I knew him. One-time---and maybe still---dealer, one-time con, now a general factotum and part-time bouncer. They called the douchebag Gertie, don't know why. He saw me and swore. "Shit! Malone!"

I gave him a cheesy grin. "Hey, Gertie! Still selling wacky-pills to minors?"

Gertie glared at Lemmy before returning to the kitchen. "You're on your own, pal!" Looked like it wasn't Lemmy's day.

I dragged him a bit farther down the alley. "Now, about our little talk. How come you told the cops it was me wasted Arnie?" He clamped his lips shut so I gave him a shake. "Come on, Lemmy, don't make me turn nasty. It wasn't a mistake---you knew you were lying, didn't you?"

He gave a reluctant nod.

"It's a serious offence lying to the cops, especially one as mean as Nestor. He's like a rattler with stomach ulcers when you piss him off and right now he ain't very happy. Could earn you six months in the can and maybe a good kicking in some precinct's back room. Good job I had a perfect alibi. What would you have done otherwise?"

"That cop Nestor, he said there'd be a line-up. I'd've said I musta made a mistake, didn't recognise no one."

I didn't know whether to believe him but gave him the benefit of the doubt. "Okay, Lemmy, now I'll bet you saw who did it or at least you've got a good idea."

He clamped his lips shut and then decided to speak. A little. "I ain't sayin' nuttin' mister 'cept this. Okay, you're a big tough guy and you could punch my lights out. These other people, an' I'm not sayin' there is other people, they wouldn't just punch my lights out, they'd cut 'em out with a chain-saw then force me to eat 'em then drag 'em outa my ass an' then start all over again. An' that's all I'm sayin'."

Lemmy's whole tone as he talked sounded genuinely terrified, like he was almost pissing himself. I figured he'd been threatened by someone he was in no hurry to see again. It looked like I'd not get any more so I let it go. "If they're that bad," I said, "why not just leave town?"

"Cain't. I'm on parole for a coupla more years."

"Who's your parole officer?" He told me and I added: "I know him. I'll see if he can move you to a safe house or get you transferred out of state."

Lemmy's playmates sounded a bad bunch. I felt almost sorry for him, even though he'd put me in the frame for Arnie's killing.

I knew I'd be wasting my time but I walked back to the flop-house and spoke to the literary genius. This time he was looking at a copy of Weird Tales. I was right, I'd wasted my time. The kid was the three wise monkeys rolled into one, although there was more of the monkey than the 'wise' there. He claimed to have been at his supper when something happened, didn't see anything, didn't hear anything, had nothing to say. His voice shook a little when he spoke to me so I guess he'd been scared off too.

* * * * *

I'm a city boy and the concrete surroundings always call me back home but I admit to a liking for the great outdoors, as long as there's not too much great about it. After about fifty minutes of driving I turned off the interstate and took the narrow, two-lane highway leading to Malanuk. It was a peaceful ride---I didn't see much in the way of traffic other than a couple of what looked like forestry vehicles ambling along, their drivers apparently half-asleep at the wheel. There was something soothing about the boundless swathes of forest on either side of the road. I didn't have any real idea of where I was heading but I figured someone in Malanuk would be able to put me right. After all, there couldn't be too many moonshiners called Billy Scudamore in the area.

Then up ahead I saw a gas station, one of the really old-fashioned kind with a solitary pump standing on the side of the road like a sentry on duty. As I got close I could see a hut with a veranda off to one side and a time-worn pick-up truck parked nearby. I pulled my Ford Crestliner in beside the pump and stopped. It was the kind of place Bonnie and Clyde might have filled up at, or robbed. There were two old boys on the veranda, both sitting on rocking chairs, both near identically dressed in checkered shirts and faded dungarees. One was skinny with a fringe of hair outlining a bald head; the other's hair was hidden under a battered slouch hat but his unkempt white bush of a beard made up for it. He was smoking a stumpy old pipe, so short that I wondered if his beard had ever gone up in flames. No doubt about it, I was in the deep boondocks here. The skinny guy stood and came down from the veranda. There was a name-tag on his shoulder-strap: 'Zack'.

"Help ya, mister?"

"Fill her up. Maybe you can help. I'm looking for a guy called Billy Scudamore, lives round here someplace."

"Billy? Yeah, sure." He pointed down the highway. "Every three... four hundred yards or so there's a side road off the highway. Take the fifth 'un, 'bout mebbe a mile down, follow it up through the woods until you come to a large clearing. That's Billy's place."

The smoker removed his pipe, spat, and said: "Only 't'ain't much of a road, mister, more of a dirt track. Gets real narrow in places. That's a nice motor you've got there, best you leave it at the bottom an' walk up. There's room enough to pull offa the highway so's the car's safe." He jammed his pipe back into the danger zone. I thanked them and paid for the gas. I was about to get into my car when the pipe came out again. "If yer aimin' to buy some of Billy's 'shine, mister, best you get a fire extinguisher afore drinkin'. Seen fellers explode after a glass o' that stuff!" They were still cackling as I drove off.

I found the track easily enough and the oldster was right, it was rough, on a rock-strewn incline and too narrow in parts. A Jeep could have made it but not my car. I locked up and began the climb. After a few minutes I caught a whiff of something odd on the breeze, a sweetish smell rather like acetic acid---Billy's still I guessed.

Going up, the winding track got a bit steeper, eventually arriving at a large, flat clearing where the vinegary smell got a bit stronger. In the centre a curly-haired guy was kneeling, tending the coals in a battered old stove which looked as if it had been lifted from some derelict cabin. There were plenty of those in these woods. Lengths of gimcrack piping led from the stove into a shack at one edge of the clearing---I wouldn't care to get as close to that set-up as he was. If it blew the whole area would look like something from a Looney Tunes cartoon. On the opposite side of the clearing was one of the ancient cabins---I wouldn't have been surprised if Davy Crockett or Dan'l Boone had popped out to say "Hi !"

"Billy Scudamore?"

He turned a weather-beaten face decorated with several days' worth of stubble towards me. He grimaced, displaying teeth that looked pretty good for someone who lived in the backwoods distilling 'shine.

"Who wants ta know?"

"My name's Sam Malone---"

Scudamore, if he was Scudamore, stood to face me. He was a big guy, maybe six-five, six-six and built like the timber outhouse I could see back of the cabin. Any resemblance to Cousin Arnie was...well, non-existence as far as I could see. So far, so good. And then... As he rose he brought up a sawed-off shotgun, pointing it at my middle. That didn't make Mrs Malone's favourite son very happy. I'd once seen what was left of a Mob hit with one of those things. Macaroni Mosso or whatever the vic's name was had taken both barrels and had been turned into a crowd that could have filled a sports stadium.

I looked at the weapon, assessing it. The barrels had been sawn down to about fifteen inches and the butt cut off to leave a pistol grip. However, the really interesting thing was that what was left of the gun looked vintage with old-fashioned double hammers. Even more interesting was that the big guy hadn't cocked those hammers. I took a chance, stepping forward to punch him as hard as I could. He went down and I grabbed the sawed-off before he hit the ground.

He was a tough s.o.b. That punch should have completely cold-cocked him but he sat up, shaking his head and rubbing at the spot my punch had landed. "Whatchoo wanna do that fer?" he complained, more puzzled than aggrieved.

"I don't like having a scatter-gun pointed at me."

"Aw hell, that ain't nuttin'. T'ain't even loaded."

I broke the shotgun. He was right. It wasn't even loaded. "Then why---"

He scrambled to his feet and I braced myself but he didn't make any threatening moves. "Figured maybe you was a revenue guy come to close down my still. Just wanted to scare ya off."

"I'm not a revenue guy Billy, if that's you. I'm a private investigator. Make as much booze as you want for all I care. Now about that sawed-off---"

He grinned, displaying more surprisingly good teeth and good humor. "Yeah, I'm Billy," he interrupted, "Hey, you got a good punch, mister. Hardest I bin hit in an age."

I tried again. "Billy, didn't it occur to you that if you chased off a revenue guy he'd be back later with a truck-load of heavily-armed Feds. You take one look towards that scatter-gun and you'd likely find yourself shaking hands with St Peter."