Just Another Day

I stepped in and had hardly gone more than three or four paces when a gruff voice from a shadowed booth challenged me. "Where you goin' mister? This here's a private club, members only." There was no warm welcome there.

I thought I knew that voice. "Hey, Ting-a-Ling, is that you? It's Sam Malone."

Suddenly the voice switched to warm. "Hey, Mr Malone, long time no see." Its owner exited the booth and came out into the dull light. We shook hands. Ting-a-Ling Bell was an old retired pug and it showed in his battered face. He'd been a pretty fair middle-weight back in the day, not in the top ranks but likely half-way up the second tier. But as so often happens with the Ting-a-Lings of the boxing world, one brutal roundhouse punch too many addled his brains a little and the Commission's doctor refused to renew his license. He'd had a few fights in the unlicensed world and even that proved too much in the end. One thing in his favour, though---unlike many of his kind he drank nothing stronger than club soda. Too many former fighters ended up in the gutter, bumming loose change for their daily cocktail of cheap Muscatel and vintage Sterno. Nowadays Ting-a-Ling scratched a living acting as bodyguard for street bookies or numbers runners or playing doorman in dumps like Bizarre. For all that he was a bit punchy, he was still capable of dealing with the average punter. Every once in a while he'd tip me some information he thought might be useful.

"So what you doin' here, Mr Malone? Strikes me it ain't your kinda place."

"Looking for a runaway," I told him, "Heard they like young girls here."

Ting-a-Ling sighed. "Yeah, happens. Makes me wanna puke at times, workin' here. But hey... a guy's gotta eat." He pointed to a staircase at the end of the corridor. "You go on down, Mr Malone. Hope you got a strong stomach."

I stuffed a couple of notes in his hand. "Thanks, Ting-a-Ling."

The music grew louder as I descended until it was blasting out when I found myself in the first of a series of basement rooms. The joint was heaving and the air stank of hamburgers in old fat, stale beer, sweat, cheap perfume and, if my nose wasn't playing me false, Mary-Jane. I wished I had an oxygen-mask in my pocket.

Off to my right was a very small room or very large closet and a man's voice called out to me. "Hey, handsome! You with the hat!"

There was a guy and a woman in the very small room. What's so odd about that, you might think. Well, plenty odd unless you're into that sort of thing. He was naked and strapped to an X-shaped cross. And he had a boner the average stud racehorse would have been proud of. His lady-friend made me think of a concentration camp guard. She was short and squat and must have weighed upwards of two hundred pounds in her sole garment, a leather-and-metal studded g-string. In one hand she held a reefer, in the other a riding-crop. "Hey pal, you like to join us?" Mr X said.

Miss G-string brought the crop down on his boner. Hard. I winced. Flabby breasts shook and wobbled as she hit him. "Who gave you permission to speak, you dickless creep?" Dickless? She needed to see her oculist and soon. And his pecker stayed up despite the assault.

He squealed then beamed widely. "Thank you, mistress," he said, and to me: "Offer stands, pal!"

And I'd only just reached the foot of the staircase. Bizarre was right. "I'll take a raincheck," I told him, "It's my time of month right now."

"Aw, pity!"

"Shaddap!" Whack!

"Squeal! Thank you, mistress." I moved on before my coffee and donut came back up. Glenn Miller had switched to Little Brown Jug.

I went further into the joint and realised I was one of the few normal-looking guys in the room. I saw about half-a-dozen big guys in tuxedos hanging around, I guessed bouncers, or stewards as bouncers like to be called now. They didn't pay me any attention. I suppose a raincoat and fedora was just as weird in this place as everything else---maybe they thought I was a wienie flasher. There were a few of this newish movement I'd heard of, all of them black-clad---'Beatniks' I think they're called---tucked away in a corner, one of them reading some sort of avant garde poem to the others. I caught a few words, didn't understand a one of them.

I cruised around, going through a number of different rooms. There were men wearing thick make-up, women with shaven heads. Men smoking multi-coloured cocktail cigarettes and women smoking cigars and pipes. Men wearing corsets and stockings, women in tuxedos. Men fastened into leather collars, women with heavy stevedore's boots. I began to feel that I'd walked into some kind of alternate universe, the kind of place a science fiction writer like Asimov might dream up. The only thing missing was Kathleen Hennessy, that is if she'd ever been in the place at all.

It was in a back room, furthest from the stairs, that I saw four women sitting at a round table, heads almost together as they talked. I said 'women' but the three facing me weren't much more than girls, eighteen, nineteen maybe. All four were dressed normally from what I could see in the dim light, sweaters and skirts, not a whip nor a g-string between them. I casually wandered round to get a look at the fourth and recognised her.

"Giselle?"

Giselle Campion looked up, a shocked expression on her face. "Sam!" She recovered quickly, stood and took my arm to lead me away from her companions. "What are you doing here, Sam?"

"My job," I told her, "Looking for a missing girl. I had a tip-off they sometimes got kids down here. This is the kind of dump my work takes me. I wouldn't have thought this was up your street."

"It's not." Giselle shook her head. "Like you, I had a tip that some of the college kids come down here. I was trying to persuade those three to leave but I might as well have talked to myself."

"Like me to speak to them?" I asked.

"No. Will you just take me out of here, Sam?"

We almost made the foot of the stairs when some jerk grabbed Giselle's arm. "Hey, babe, what's your hurry?"

Giselle tugged. "Let go of me!"

He tightened his grip. "Nah! You an' me are going to make sweet music."

His pupils were pinpoints. He was on something. "The lady said let her go," I told him.

Whatever his medication of choice, it made him brave. "Butt out, bud, or get hurt!"

I couldn't be bothered to be nice and argue. My punch travelled about six inches, took him in the solar plexus, and he folded.

One of the bouncers turned in time to see the jerk hit the floor. "What's going on?"

I shrugged. "No idea. The guy just collapsed. Maybe a heart attack?"

The bouncer called to a sidekick. "Hey, Billy! Give me a hand to get this bum out of here before he gets the place a bad name!" Human compassion and kindness. It always makes me feel warm and fuzzy inside.

Mr X was still fastened to his cross, apparently still rampant. "Don't forget!" he yelled, "Next time you're here!"

"Shaddap!" Whack!

"Squeal! Thank you, mistress."

And Glenn Miller was still playing, Tuxedo Junction now. It should have been beneath Glenn's dignity to be played in a venue like Bizarre but then, he was dead so most likely didn't care too much.

I left Bizarre shaking my head and feeling slightly unclean. How Giselle felt I don't know but in the dim light of the club's neon name she seemed a bit queasy. I couldn't see Ting-a-Ling around so I guessed he was taking a leak-break. I hailed Giselle a cab and stuffed a couple of notes in the driver's hand. "Where the lady wants to go," I told him, "stay with it until you see her go into her building." He nodded.

"Aren't you coming with me, Sam?" Giselle had rolled down the passenger window to speak to me. Either that or to get rid the cheap cigar smell in the cab.

"No, I'll stick around for a while in case anyone interesting turns up."

"It's only just after nine, Sam. Come up later for a drink," she invited, "I don't sleep all that well so I don't often go to bed before one or two. Here's my address and phone number." Giselle pressed a slip of paper into my hand.

I watched the cab go, raising a hand to Giselle who was waving out of the back window. I lit a cigarette then looked around. Down to the left of the club's entrance was an alleyway and I thought I could hear a muffled cry. Probably nothing but I went to take a look.

There was a girl struggling with three guys who looked like neighbourhood street-gang members. Two were holding her arms while the third had a hand over her mouth and was tearing at her clothes. He took his hand away for a second and she opened her mouth to scream so he backhanded her. I ran into the alley, yelling at the punks. Then as usual in real life, it all happened far faster than it takes to tell it. The one ripping the girl's clothing shouted something like, "Get that motherfucker!"

The other two goons came at me, the one slightly ahead pulling a large switchblade, the other hefting what looked like a length of lead pipe. I could have used my .38 but in the gloom there was always an off-chance of hitting the girl. And if I shot anyone, no matter how justified, I'd be hours answering police questions..

The blade-man thought he knew knife-fighting but he hadn't been on Iwo Jima facing a

fanatical Japanese soldier with a death-wish. I evaded his attempt to gut me, locked his arm and broke his elbow. He didn't get any chance to scream because I swung him round in time to meet his pal's descending bludgeon. It made a nasty noise on his skull. If he'd had any brains to start with, they weren't going to be much use from now on. I hit lead-pipe with a knife-edge hand to the Adam's apple and he went down clutching at his throat, choking, his weapon clattering on the ground as it fell from his hand. Grabbing the back of his head, I tried to punch a hole in the alley wall with his face. Despite several attempts it was no dice, the wall was harder than he was.

As I said, this all happened so fast the leader didn't notice what had happened to his buddies, he was still struggling with the girl and trying to get his dick out. I kicked him so hard that the only way he'd get his dick out in future would be through his ass. He curled up in a knot, puking so I gave him another kick for luck, made sure he wouldn't find his dick anyplace soon. First retrieving my gun, I took my coat off to wrap around the crying girl's shoulders. "You're okay now, honey. They won't bother you any more."

"Hey, what's all the racket here?" It was Ting-a-Ling. He came running, big fists clenched, ready to pile into any trouble.

"It's over, Ting-a-ling," I told him, "Call the cops and a couple of ambulances."

He looked at the punks then said, "Maybe a hearse would be better."

* * * * *

After I'd spoken to the cops I watched the bad guys being thrown into the paddy wagon, injuries and all. Sex offenders were among those high on the list for rough treatment (and it would get even rougher in the pen where they were the lowest of the low). The girl was taken to hospital for checking over. My evening had been full of action and I was getting tired. Why not take Giselle Campion up on her offer of a drink? I found a pay phone and she told me to come straight round.

Giselle met me at the door to her apartment. She had a light robe over what could be silk pyjamas and both seemed to cling closely to her figure. Soft lips caressed my cheek. "What kept you, Sam, somebody of interest turn up?"

"Not exactly. You'll probably read about it in the morning papers."

Giselle poured a Scotch and handed it to me. "This should relax you. And if it doesn't. how about this?" Slim arms crept around my neck and soft lips clamped to mine. A lively, sweet-tasting little tongue played havoc with my libido and all traces of the earlier violence were washed from my mind.

Giselle tucked two fingers into the waistband of my trousers. "How'd you like a tour of the apartment, Sam? We could start with the bedroom."

"If that's what you recommend, who am I to argue?" I said.

Two more fingers crept into my waistband and she urged me forward. "Don't look now but the bedroom's this way..."

* * * * *

I stepped out into the early morning chill, taking in a deep breath of what passed for fresh air in this neighbourhood. I loitered on the sidewalk for a few minutes, not thinking about much in particular when I became aware of a car's engine starting. I glanced round in time to see a black sedan with dark windows picking up speed and racing towards me. I pulled my .38 and leapt back into the block's doorway just as the sedan swept by where I'd been standing seconds before. I took aim at the driver's area for a snap-shot then pulled off and fired into the air. I was fairly sure it meant to get me but there was just the off-chance it could have been a drunk driver or some punk in a stolen car. I didn't want to be investigated for possible homicide or manslaughter. Brakes screeched as the speeding spun round the next corner, almost on two wheels.

Then an anxious-sounding Giselle was beside me. "Sam! Are you okay?"

As I was reassuring her, a guy I took to be the building manager hobbled out, looking like he'd just hauled his trousers over his pajamas. Still pulling suspenders over his shoulders he yelled: "Hey! Was that a shot I heard?"

My gun was back in my pocket. "No, a backfire!" I told him, "Some kids in hot-rods playing crazy games."

* * * * *

I made the front pages that morning. The headline and story in The Bugle was what I would have expected. Summarised it was "Get Malone any way you can!"

"THUG!

Rogue PI does it again!

How many more times? The Bugle demands to know

Last night thuggish private investigator Sam Malone put three young boys in hospital, all of them seriously injured. How many more times is this licensed brute going to get away with it? The Bugle says that if the police won't do anything about this vicious 'lawman' then perhaps the public should take things into their own hands..."

And so on. No mention that the 'three young boys' were all in their twenties. No mention of the weapons they tried to use on me. No mention of their extensive rap-sheets. And worst of all, no mention of the poor girl they were trying to rape.

I didn't blame the editor and reporters. I knew a few of them and they were mostly good guys. The trouble was the paper's owner, a wealthy jerk by the name of Bronsteen. He'd tried to put his greasy hands up Cara's skirt once in front of me and I had strong words with him about his bad manners. Ever since I'd been a target. The paper's staff were left in no doubt that to say anything good about me meant 'Goodbye job!' And no more jobs anywhere in the city, maybe even the whole State---scuzzball as he was, Bronsteen was a scuzzball with the clout to manage this.

All the other papers stuck to the truth.

The Clarion: HARDMAN MALONE STRIKES AGAIN: STOPS RAPE!

The City Courier: LONE HERO SAM TO THE RESCUE

The Mercury: ARMED RAPISTS STOPPED IN THE ACT

Trouble is, more morons read The Bugle than any other paper and the most moronic believe all its shit. Maybe they can read the other headlines, though. I can't see myself hiding from vigilante mobs any time soon. I always thought that incitement to mob rule was a crime but I heard Bronsteen made generous donations to the party running City Hall. Says it all. One day when I could spare the time I'd have another serious discussion with Mr Bronsteen.

* * * * *

My dreams of a peaceful week were in ruins already. It started with rearranging Weasel's nose, onto The Ogre's orthopaedic surgery, next the 'heart attack' guy and...

I had to go into the precinct house that morning to give my statement. Things turned a bit unpleasant from the time I pushed through the swing doors. The desk sergeant on duty was a big fat guy named Baaker. I'd never come up against him before but I'd heard plenty and none of it good.

Seems Baaker liked shoving people around, not just suspects or perps but witnesses and members of the public too. He was a one-man 'let's-make-the-cops-unpopular' crusade. His duty shifts lost a lot of public-spirited citizens. Plenty of complaints had been made against him but trouble was, there were never any witnesses. Oh, there were always other cops around, mostly his subordinates, but cops don't rat on cops. So Baaker got away with it. When I announced my name he sneered. "Oh yeah, you're the guy likes beating up on kids."

"No, I'm the guy who stopped three armed would-be rapists and I'm here to make a statement. You should read a better quality paper than The Bugle."

"This is my precinct and you're whatever I say you are." Baaker stepped round from behind his desk to invade my space. He was as tall as me and likely outweighed me by around a hundred pounds. Obviously used to people backing down when he got so close, an ugly look came into his eyes when I didn't move. "Hard guy, huh? Let's see how hard you are." He laid a big hand on my chest and slammed me against the wall. He may have been a fat slob but there was some real power in those arms.

There were a number of other cops standing round and, to be fair, most of them looked disgusted at their sergeant's antics. That said, they'd still come down on his side if necessary. Baaker slapped my face, not hard but to humiliate. I didn't retaliate, just stared at him. I'm tough but I'm not eight or nine burly cops with nightsticks whaling the shit out of me tough.

Standing at the back of the crowd was a rookie cop called Vasari, a kid I'd helped out once when he got himself into an awkward situation. Almost unnoticed by the others, he slipped out of a side door.

"You're some piece of work, Baaker," I told him, "You compensating for having a tiny dick?"

This raised loud sniggers from among the other cops and that did it. Baaker went purple, slammed me against the wall again and raised a huge fist. That's when Lyle Garrett walked in. I guess Vasari had just paid off his debt to me.

"What the hell's going on here?" Lyle yelled, "Ain't you guys got anything to do? Get out there---serve and protect the public like you're paid for!" As the chastened cops slunk out, Lyle added: "Not you, Baaker!"

When only the three of us were left, Lyle said: "This time there's a witness against you, Baaker, me! I've got no room for people like you in this precinct. So here's what we're gonna do---you can face a disciplinary board and get canned without a pension. Or you can accept a post I've got in mind and cruise through to retirement, pension intact. Which?"

"Not much of a choice, looks like I'll have to go with you, Captain," he mumbled, "What you got in mind?"

"The Sheriff's Office needs an evidence keeper and storeman. You apply for a transfer and I'll see you get it. Nice simple work and no contact with prisoners or public."

"That's right out in the boonies, Captain!" Baaker protested.

"Yeah, and the Sheriff's an old buddy of mine. He'll be keeping a close eye on you. You step out of line just once and you'll find yourself directing traffic in Shitsville, North Dakota. We clear on that?"

Lyle turned to me. "Do you wish to make a complaint against this officer, Mr Malone?"

"No, but I would appreciate a private word of brotherly forgiveness with him."

"That's very noble, Mr Malone." Lyle wandered over to a window, his back to the room. "Funny, I've never noticed before, it's a beautiful view from here," he said. He was looking out over the parking lot.