Down Among the Dead Men

Billy scratched his curly hair. "Hell, didn't even think a' that."

Suddenly I spotted the resemblance to Cousin Arnie. It looked like neither one was very bright. Could be it ran in the family. "So, mister, what is it, ya wanna buy some 'shine?"

"No, Billy. Got some bad news for you, about Arnie."

He stared at me for a long moment then jerked his head towards the cabin, inviting me to follow. As I came through the doorway Billy disappeared into a small back room, muttering something about coffee. While waiting, I had a look around. The cabin was fairly basic but clean, with a single bed, a rough table, a couple of chairs. Everything looked homemade. What really caught my attention were three bookcases, well, planks propped up on piles of bricks. Out of idle curiosity I wandered over to look. Two of them contained paperback thrillers and science fiction along with a few classics. I saw books by writers such as Dickens and Hugo. It was the third bookcase which made me think I'd better revise my opinion of Billy's intelligence. All the books were science-based, astronomy, physics, chemistry, that sort of thing. I pulled one at random---it was filled with math: algebraic formulae, calculus problems, equations, the like. Left me feeling like the dummy.

"You've found my guilty secret," Billy said from behind me. I turned and he handed me a mug of joe. His voice had changed, he didn't sound like a redneck any more. My surprise at the whole set-up must have shown so he explained. "Folks expect a moonshiner to be a good ol' boy so I play up to it."

I gestured to the outside. "But why...?"

"I need money to go back to school," he explained, "Got my bachelor's degree under the GI Bill. Now I want to go on to get a master's, maybe go into teaching. College costs money. Living up here is cheap and distilling 'shine beats slinging hash someplace." He pointed to a chair and we both sat. "Now, what's this about Arnie?"

I told Billy all that I could. When I finished he shook his head and said: "Poor little Arnie. Never was the brightest of souls. I'm the only relative he's got left, guess I'll have to handle the funeral. Can't have him just dumped in a pauper's grave."

I scribbled a note and tore the sheet from my notebook, passing it to Billy. "That's the city ME's office. It might be a while before they release the body, they're stacked up with work. Give them a call and check."

As I left we shook hands. "Sorry about the..." I pointed to where my punch had landed.

Billy grinned. "Ah hell, that's nothing. Reckon I'd have done the same myself. Used to being hit, anyway. I boxed heavyweight in the army."

"And keep that sawed-off out of sight," I advised, "humorless-looking guys in suits and dark glasses might not appreciate it if they come calling."

When I got down to the highway there was a cop car waiting for me.

* * * * *

The logo on the car's door read:

MALANUK COUNTY~~~SHERIFF'S DEPARTMENT

There was a cop holding a clip-board leaning against the car and jotting down notes. I never thought I'd say this about a cop but gorgeous was the only word. Yeah, she was a lady cop, about five-five with a pretty face, a trim figure enough to make a cowpoke yell Yee-Haaa!, silvery-blonde hair pulled back into a bun and an absolute minimum of make-up. She was wearing the obligatory mirrored shades that so many cops seem to like, I guess because it makes them look sinister and menacing and cries out "Don't mess with me".

I thought that maybe they were unusually enlightened in Malanuk County. Yes, we had a few women cops in the city but they weren't allowed out on patrol and most were confined to desk jobs. Sure, they protested but the powers-that-be stuck to the stuffy old stance that police work was 'no place for a lady'.

She straightened up as I came down from the track, pointing with her pen. "This your car, mister?"

"Yes, Officer..." I made a show of looking at the name-tag just above a neat right breast "...Lundqvist." Swedish maybe? It figured---this part of the States had been populated by a lot of Nordic and Germanic immigrants

"Deputy..." she corrected curtly. I've noticed this in so many places, the number of cops who are very fussy about their titles. "Got registration papers?"

I gestured towards my Crestliner. "Glove compartment. Is anything wrong?"

Deputy Lundqvist had been staring closely and I don't think it was my manly build that was so fascinating. She reached down, unsnapped the retaining button on her holster, and put her hand on the butt of her Police Positive. "You're carrying," she accused.

"Yep---I've got a carry license."

"For your city or state, maybe, not for round here. Let's see it---carefully."

I held up two fingers to show how I'd reach for the license, brought it out slowly and handed it over.

Her eyes widened a little. "A federal carry license. How come you've got one of those?"

"Luck, I guess."

"Luck my ass! They don't hand these out like candy at trick-or-treat. You a Fed?"

"Private investigator," I said, "name of Malone, Sam Malone." I passed her the wallet with my ID and badge. At the same time I retrieved my motor registration documents and passed those over. "Now, Deputy, have I committed some sort of local traffic offense?"

"Mind telling me what you were doing in the woods?" Despite the circumstances, I liked her voice, low and gentle.

"Suppose I say I just went for a walk?"

"In that suit and shoes?" she scoffed, "You'll have to do better than that."

This sounded as if it could go on and on. Different states have different traffic laws, some of them downright ornery or stupid. Maybe I'd committed the serious offense of parking under the wrong type of tree. Sighing, I tried to put an end to this so I could get away, easy as Deputy Lundqvist was on the eye. "I went up the hill to see Billy Scudamore," I told her, "I had some important personal news for him."

The woman made another note. "What was the nature of this news?"

I'd had enough. "That's Billy's concern. I said 'personal'. I'm not going to broadcast his private business to the world. Speak to Billy---it's up to him if he wants to tell you anything." I tried again. "If I've committed some form of traffic violation, write me a ticket and I'll get out of your hair."

Lundqvist tossed the clipboard and attached notes onto the passenger seat of her cruiser and handed back my documents. "No violations. Here's a tip, Mr Malone. If you're gonna drive this way again and need to stop, make it quick. The Sheriff gets real suspicious and antsy at strangers hanging round for long."

Curiosity aroused, I asked: "Why's that? It's a free country, last time I looked."

She shrugged, a look of mild embarrassment crossing her face. "No idea. It's just the way he is."

I climbed into the Crestrider, turned her round and drove off. When I glanced in the rear-view mirror, Lundqvist had followed on, a couple of hundred yards behind me. I could feel the eyes behind those shades boring into me. She stayed there until I drove past the small filling station where she pulled up beside the lonely old pump. As I went by I waved to the two old guys on the veranda and then I realised: I'd missed the sign saying 'Welcome To Friendly Malanuk County'. Perhaps there never had been one.

* * * * *

Cara had gone to her favorite hairdresser. She'd been looking longingly at one of these fashion and beauty magazines and kept asking me if I thought it was time she changed styles. I can take a hint as well as the next guy. I slipped her a few bucks and told her not to come back until she was satisfied and thrilled at whatever Tonio had done to her hair. As for me, I didn't have too much on so I ambled down to the next-door diner and got myself a pastrami and Swiss cheese with mayo on rye, pickle on the side, to go. Cara had brewed a fresh pot of coffee before leaving so I was set for a peaceful lunch.

Peaceful that was until the drill instructor arrived. That's the way I thought of the guy after an initial look---he looked like a Marine Corps drill instructor out of uniform. Near as tall as I am, he was heavy-set, almost square in shape and his hair was shaved to a wiry stubble. He strode into my office as if he owned the place, leaned on the desk with large, strong-looking hands and barked like the supposed drill instructor. "You Malone?" I didn't much care for his manner, it just reinforced the DI image.

"Was the last time I looked."

"Okay, mister. What were you doing mooching round my neighbourhood? Spying on us?"

"If you'd tell me who you are," I told him, "maybe I could tell you if I'd been mooching round your neighbourhood and spying on you, though I can't recall doing any mooching or spying recently. Right now I can't see you have any authority to ask me questions."

He scowled at me. "I've got plenty of authority. I'm Nat Bayliss and I'm the Malanuk County sheriff." He reached into a side pocket and pulled out a wallet with ID card and badge which he slapped on the desk. Jabbing the wallet with a thick forefinger he added: "That's my authority to question you."

It might have made a difference if he'd been polite but I'd be damned if I'd give him the time of day now. "I hate to point this out, Sheriff," I said, "but you're well out of your jurisdiction. You don't have the power to come here and question me. What I was doing in your county is my private business."

"I've heard of you, Malone," he growled, "They say that if you turn up any place, you're bad news. So I'm warning you, stay out of Malanuk County if you know what's good for you."

I laughed in his face as if he'd told me a really funny joke and he reddened. "Where the hell do you think you are, Sheriff? Dodge City? Tombstone? Want to run me out of town on a rail? Last time I heard, this is still the land of the free. So if I want to drive through Malanuk or any other county, there's damn all you can do about it as long as I'm not committing any crime."

Sheriff Bayliss scooped up his wallet and jammed it back into his pocket. "I tried to do this the easy way, Malone. If you won't listen to good advice, then I'll have to send a colleague who's more persuasive than I am. I don't think you'll like his visit quite so much."

"Try telling the local cops to come and question me," I suggested, "I bet they'll give you a warm welcome. They just love it when some hick with a badge comes in from the boonies and starts throwing his weight around."

I heard him clattering down the stairs and took a bite of my sandwich. It was still good. Hoping for sufficient peace to finish it, I got up to freshen my coffee and close the office door. Lying on the floor close to where Bayliss had been standing was a small rectangle of card or paper. It must have fallen from his pocket when he yanked his wallet out. I picked it up. It was a business card in the name of EUGENE B CLAIBORNE MD PhD with two tiny holes in one corner as if it had been stapled to another document. It also contained a scribbled message: For services rendered. I threw it into a desk drawer and forgot about it.

* * * * *

I mulled over what my visitor had said. Didn't take a lot of mulling for the trained mind. It definitely smelled of threat. Bayliss didn't intend to get his own hands dirty so... guess I wasn't going to welcome my next visitor with open arms. Bayliss's visit also raised a couple of interesting questions. Why would a local top cop get antsy and suspicious because of a stranger passing through? And why come all this way just to threaten me when most would have shrugged and let it go?

Cara had just got back from the hairdresser and I called her in. She had a new cut---her dark hair was now in a Louise Brooks-style bob which suited her pixie looks perfectly.

"Like it?"

"Love it," I told her sincerely, "so why don't you take two or three days off to show it around? I can handle all the paperwork. Go shopping with a girlfriend, take in a movie or two. I've heard Sunset Boulevard is pretty good, that or Harvey if you prefer something lighter"

Cara is nobody's slouch. "You're expecting trouble, Sam."

"Maybe just a little," I admitted.

"But---" Cara argued but I was adamant. "It may be nothing," I told her, "but I had a meeting while you were out which wasn't exactly 'hail fellow, well met'. My visitor was less than friendly and I'd sooner you weren't around just in case."

After a bit of back-and-forth he said / she said domestic debate, Cara gave in with bad grace. "You check in with me regularly, Sam Malone..." manicured forefinger prodding the tip of my nose, "...and if you get yourself killed, I'll come and kick your ass! Got that?"

"Got it."

Cara gone, I made certain preparations. My two licensed firearms are a Colt .45 semi-auto and a short-barrelled .38 Detective Special. That's right, I said my licensed weapons. I also had a secret stash of unidentifiable throwaways hidden beneath a floorboard under my office window. I rummaged through them and selected a revolver I'd taken from some punk who'd tried to mug me and Cara one night when we were leaving our favourite eatery. I'd also persuaded him that mugging people was a poor career choice.

When I examined the pistol later, I recognised it as an old Smith & Wesson Safety Hammerless with a 3.25" barrel, chambered for five .32 shells. They'd stopped making those around the turn of the century but it functioned okay when I tested it on the range. It wasn't too accurate but I would only be needing it at a few yards if that. All identity marks, numbers and so on had been obliterated so I reckon the gun had been stolen by someone who knew what they were doing, a real pro. The mugger was unlikely to have the brains to modify the weapon. Doubtless it had passed through dozens of hands since it was first stolen. Just under the edge of my desk I've installed a set of clips designed to hold almost anything. I fastened the S&W, testing it several times to ensure it came away from the clips cleanly.

Nothing happened for several days and I was starting to think I was paranoid. Each evening I was able to call Cara and assure her all was well. She wanted to come back to the office but I still had that gut feeling. I told her to take in a few more movies.

Every morning during these few days I poured a large glassful of an Austrian rum called Stroh 80, which is about 160 proof, and left it where I could easily reach it. Every evening I carefully poured it back into the bottle. Didn't touch a drop. I didn't want to come in one morning and find Henry, my much put-upon janitor, stiff and stark on the ground after thinking I'd left him a drink. This hooch wasn't really good for drinking unless you had a tongue of leather and an asbestos lining. It was more suitable for cleaning lavatories than anything else. When I have a drink I prefer a single malt scotch or, failing that, Johnnie Walker Black Label. Still, it's good Cara wasn't around---she might have gotten the wrong idea and read me a lecture.

It was the morning after I extended Cara's unwanted vacation that my expected trouble turned up and in a party-sized package. I heard the office outer door crash open as if it had a good kick and then my office door had the same treatment from my intended nemesis. I guessed Bayliss would send someone king-sized mean and he hadn't let me down.. I didn't know this guy personally but I knew him by rep.

He was huge, about three hundred pounds or more of huge, and he had tattoos everywhere, maybe even on his dick although I didn't like to ask. Long hair was tied back in a greasy braid and a massive gut overhung the front of his oil-stained denims. If Bayliss made me think of a drill instructor, this guy was like an angry wild boar complete with flared nostrils. As he came in, he was wrapping a cycle chain around one meaty fist. My visitor was the president of a small motor-cycle clan called Death's Demons and he was known as Stink. That I could believe. His body odour had preceded him into the office by several feet---the stench smelled like a rat had crawled up his ass and died there. I'd need to fumigate my office later. I said that Death's Demons were a small gang and they were dwindling fast. They had been at war with the city chapter of Hell's Angels since forever and, heavily outnumbered, they were losing more members each day, usually in what cops call suspicious circumstances. Well, as long as they only killed each other and not innocent bystanders, why worry? Maybe that's why Stink had come alone to reason with me---he was light on backup. That, or he felt he wouldn't need any help dealing with me.

"Good morning, sir," I said politely, "and what can Malone Investigations do for you?"

Stink seemed taken aback. He probably expected me to be cringing in a corner, whimpering for mercy. He looked like the kind of ape who'd enjoy that. "It ain't what you can do for me, motherfucker---" for such a big guy his voice was oddly thin and piping "---it's what I'm gonna do to you so's you keep your nose outa other folk's business."

"You mean you're going to beat the crap outa me?"

He leaned on my desk and a mouthful of rotten teeth grinned at me. His breath was like something from a charnel house although a charnel house might have been sweeter. "And then some, peeper," he went on, "Friend a' mine wants you mussed up real bad. Don't plan on doin' any walkin' fer a while 'cos you ain't gonna manage it." I don't know why some of these punks need to brag. Far more sensible to attack without warning.

I stood and reached for the glass of rum. "Mind if I finish my drink first? Might lessen the pain."

I don't think Stink expected me to do anything, let alone so fast. Guess he wasn't used to his intended victims fighting back. I tossed the raw spirits straight into his bloodshot eyes and he kind of shrieked, clawing at his face. That rotgut must have burned like acid. Who cares? Pulling the S&W clear of the clips, I leapt the desk and had the giant bent over backwards across the clients' chair by the simple act of kicking his legs from under him and yanking hard and down on his braid. I'd need a shower later but for the moment action was more important than hygiene. Kneeling on one of his arms, I jammed the barrel of the S&W in the biker's mouth. He started making choking sounds, music to my ears.

"Now listen, creep, 'cos this is how it could go down." Watering eyes bulging, he struggled, trying to grab me with his free hand but it was wedged between his bulk and the chair back. I tugged harder on the braid and pushed the gun a little further down his throat. He stopped trying to resist. "I said listen," I continued, "This piece is untraceable. What say you bust into my office and pulled this gun on me? I tried to take it off you and in the struggle it went off with you getting in the way of the bullet. Your prints will be all over it. Accidental death while committing a felony which was your own fault. The cops won't worry too much about a punk like you, it'd be justifiable homicide. Probably even give me a medal. Death's Demons my ass! Right now you're looking at a Demon's Death."

I pulled the pistol from his mouth and for emphasis gave his pock-marked face a bit of instant cosmetic surgery with the butt. For extra measure I laid the chain-wrapped hand on my desk and slammed that several times with the butt. Stink yelped in agony. Maybe I broke some bones in the hand . I should care less.

"I'll get you for this, asshole," he mumbled.

"No you won't because the next time I see you I will kill you and I won't give you any kind of chance. You'd better leave town, Stink," I told him, "because if I don't get you the Hell's Angels will. And a couple of those murderous bastards owe me some favors. While you're at it, tell Sheriff Bayliss he'd better have his gun out the next time he comes after me."