I’m a Dick. As in a private detective or a P.I., ask my ex-wife she’ll use the other definition. Then again she’s a bitch why would you want to talk to her anyway. If I’m not out on the beat I‘m either in my office or in a bottle, most of the time both, and tonight I was in a bottle at the bar across the street, a place named Baron’s.
I felt comfortable here, even before I let the numbness of my drunken stupor kick in. I can relax here, I can think here; most importantly I can drink here. Not that I can’t drink at home….or in the street, or in the gutter, but those places were for when I was drinking with a purpose; this place was where I drink for pleasure. Leaning on the oak bar staring into the bottom of my glass wishing it was full or completely empty at the same time, preferably the former, I could take care of the latter - that was how I liked to spend my time not on a case...and even when I am.
Sammy the bartender was working his usual night shift, polishing the glasses, filling drinks and emptying wallets. The place is a little quieter than usual, but then this whole town was unless you counted the muffled gunshots followed by muffled screams. Say what you will about gangsters but now that we have a better class of criminals I can finally get a proper night’s sleep. God bless silencers. If you wanted busy night life, thick crowds and a jumping atmosphere you’d head to one of the ‘legitimate businesses’ in another part of town. They had the money to make things more lively, and the muscle to keep things quiet.
Slow business aside the atmosphere was the same as always, and one atmosphere I’d come to relish. A cloud of cigarette smoke circled above our heads like the fog around our skyscrapers. Slow deep jazz on the record player seemed as if it wanted to make friends with my morose demeanour; meanwhile I just wanted to be intimate with my cigarette and make love to my scotch. I gave my cigarette the sweet kiss goodnight it deserves, placed the butt in the ash tray and turned my attention back to the sweet mistress that is single malt. I let the last of that brown silk slide down my throat, placed the glass down and pushed it to the side. Sammy wandered over, took the glass, replaced it with a clean one and poured another double, neat. Clean and neat; my drink was something I hadn't been in years, but hey, opposites attract.
I've got a lot on my mind. This case, something’s not right. For starters I care. It might be that I care about my own hide - solving this mystery could be my chance to make something of the tattered remains of my life - maybe I care about justice - doing something right in a world gone wrong. I know deep down it’s because I care about her; as much as I shouldn't as much as I don’t want to I do. She is going to lead me to hell and back before this case is closed so I’d better be prepared. I should be hitting the streets but I've been hitting the bottle, the body count was getting larger than my bar tab and I was still busy drowning my sorrows like a bag full of kittens. Thing is… kittens stay drowned.
“You wanna’ talk about it Dice?” Sammy asked as he polished a martini glass.
“Unless ‘talk about it’ is a cocktail made of scotch mixed with scotch then no Sammy.”
“You won’t find any answers in the bottle Dice”
“Well, I can’t know that until I see the bottom of it Sammy. Pour me another”
Dice was my name, I know what you’re thinking, my dad must have lost a bet for that to happen, you wouldn't be far off. I wouldn't say he was a big gambler but he was a frequent one and that is how I got the name. Mom, for god knows what reason loved that fool, even after he split when she got knocked up, but that story is more nostalgic than I have energy for now (or ever.) Sammy busied himself with his bar work while I worked on turning my liver blacker than midnight. I've been here all day trying to forget, but I can’t get her out of my head. Not my mom, keep up, that other broad. I knew from the minute she walked into my office she’d be trouble, but that’s just because dames always were.
I should be heading back to my office to plan my next move, there’s only so much intel I could gather at this bar. Good thing the city is full of them, and those places were where I do my best work, with information, with drinking, with the ladies and with luck. But first, a plan. I downed my tumbler in one gulp, threw my money on the counter. It included a generous tip for Sammy, I like the guy; I like anyone that serves me booze for that matter, but Sammy knows when to back off with the questions and just pour. As I step outside I pull my coat in tight. It’s raining, and far too windy to light a cigarette. Doesn't stop me from trying though. After my third failed attempt I put my matches away and cross the street, through the gloom I see her face in the passenger seat of a car. A car I've just stepped in front of, and then my world goes black for all the wrong reasons.
The impact wasn't too bad thanks to being half limp from my usual boozing…..my ex-wife always hated that. As I pulled myself off the pavement I saw the car had lost our little game of chicken, though with how my side felt might make me willing to call this one a tie. Either way I was not up for best two out of three and it was in no condition to play again. I pushed through the crowd gathered around the wreck and wrenched open the passenger side door. It wasn't her. The headlights or the scotch had been playing tricks on my eyes, maybe both, or maybe I just wanted to see her one more time without having to resort to real detective work and a kill count that would make a small war blush in humbled embarrassment. This was just some pretty little thing, too pretty for this life. A fragile Cinderella whose fairy tale ended far too soon. After the stroke of midnight her coach had turned into a power pole, and pretty soon the glass slipper would turn into a pine box. Sorry sweetheart you deserved better, but punching out before shit goes sour is the closest to happily ever after anyone around here is going to get. The crash had knocked out all the power to the street; it was dark, fitting the mood. The driver was nowhere in sight but the drops of blood heading into the alley made me think that if I was fast enough I might just change that.
He hadn't gotten far. The crash had hurt his leg pretty badly, from the looks of it worse than my head and ribs were feeling, the head from my persistent hangover and the ribs from my barrel spin onto the hood of the car. Still, shame I didn't stick the landing. His being busted up meant less work for the two by four I picked up from the trash by the alley’s entrance, but then something tells me this chunk of wood was just eager to please and I was willing to pay it for overtime. He stumbles and fell at the end of the alley way. He’s on something, probably to give him courage for that kamikaze attack. All messed up and nowhere to go I let him know I’m not fucking about by finishing the job the car started on his leg. It bends in a way that would confuse a contortionist, and his face went white as he howls. Either whatever he was on must be wearing off or this plank of wood was employee of the month back at the lumber yard.
“Fuck you Dice! You've been pissing people off.” He managed to screech while clutching what was left of his knee. The alley sheltered me from the wind and I finally lit that cigarette, inhaled, crouched in front of him and blew a mix of smoke and disdain into his face.
“That really doesn't narrow it down for me punk. Nor does it seem a good enough reason to ruin a perfectly good ride… or that nice car of yours” He doesn't flinch as I make the crack about his broad. Must have been some naive young thing he’d just picked up. Maybe she was into dangerous men, or idiots, idiots can be the most dangerous thing round here. “Who sent you?”
“The only message I had for you was meant to be delivered by that car.” He manages to say between whimpers. I don’t have the patience for this. I wanted answers or blood. I’m mad but getting hit by a car will do that to a man. I pulled out my revolver. I didn't think he could get any paler but somehow he manages to.
“I’ll ask you one more time. Who sent you? If you don’t answer then Harmony here, does the asking, and the thing about her is…” I open the barrel to reveal my gun is fully loaded, give the barrel a spin and flick it closed, “she doesn't ask so nice.”
“Just do the decent thing and die or I’m sure you’ll find out soon enough.” He spat out his words with blood, the crash must have hurt him worse than I thought. He’s fading and I know I won’t get anything more useful out of him. My usual method of questioning required my target be able to withstand some non-conventional techniques. I needed to wrap this up before the authorities arrived, so I pointed my .45 at him and thumbed back the hammer.
“You can’t kill me! Aren't you like a cop? Call an ambulance or something!”
“No….I used to be” I put a bullet in his gut; that one was for the princess in the passenger seat. As he looked up in pain and disbelief I finished “…now I’m just a dick.” I put another one between his eyes.
I picked up the two bullet casings and placed them safe in my coat pocket. Don’t want to make this too easy for my old co-workers. I searched the poster boy for driver of the year but come up with slim pickings. Cheap, gaudy, polyester so he wasn't a made man yet, but that was obvious, they never send the family on suicide missions, they send punks, rookies, filth and users. The powder around his nose placed this dago in the latter category. A hit for a hit; nice to know my life was worth that much. I probably would have done me in for bus fare. No wallet but just enough cash for another drink of whisky, I pocketed that too and didn't even feel a little bit bad about it; they don’t serve cold drinks where that little stain is headed. The only other thing he had on him was a matchbook. It was from the Green Dragon. I’m thankful for the matches as I was almost out but this clue isn't what I’d hoped for. I knew the mob had a hand in this, but the triads? It didn't add up, the only bad blood between me and Chinatown was when I told a cook his peking duck was a little dry. The matchbook could be a plant but I don’t think the Mafioso intended for me to survive the car accident, so why expect me to find it. Either way The Green Dragon appeared to be this guy’s last stop, before his last stop and that meant eventually I’d have to head there and see if I could pick up the crumb trail. I’d like to get there right now before pigeons get to my crumbs, that and I’m sick of staring at my own notes, but I needed some perspective. I shoved the matchbook into my pocket and headed back towards my office; it’s time to get to work.
No one had come running into the alley to see what the gunshots were about, the sound of them had been usual background noise for months, not every crook could afford those silencers I loved so much. Before I leave the shelter of the alley I pulled my coat in tight once more, finished my cigarette and stomped out the butt. I placed the bloody two by four back on the junk pile, it deserved a nicer retirement package but I heard sirens. Someone must have called in the crash and I didn't want to be around for Q&A with the local PD, especially not with a bloody plank and a smoking gun. Normally there would be a little professional courtesy between a PI and the cops, but I was a special case.
A while back there weren't many honest cops, now there are none. I’m not saying I was one of the honest ones, hell I went from being a dirty cop to just plain dirty. As far as the other crooked cops go the only thing I did that was wrong was I got caught. I kept my mouth shut after it happened, didn't drag anyone down with me even when my wife left me because of it all. Damn bitch found a new partner in my old partner; if I was crooked Rick was bent. He didn't get caught though so he still looks like a goddamn hero cop compared to me, but there aren't any heroes here, just a bunch of scum hoping to float on the top of the pond rather than be dragged under its chilled surface. Despite keeping my mouth shut and wearing much more punishment than my crime entailed the cops still considered me one scotch away from blowing the lid on their dirty little rackets if all it took was one more scotch I would have ratted them all out a long, long time ago. Not like cops were really needed, except for random acts like this crash.
The gangs policed themselves. A minor turf war here and there but if anything got out of hand the major players would step in. The Triads in Chinatown, the mob in Old Italy, the Russians in the Burrows and even the Irish coming out of the shadows in recent years. Every cop these days was on the pay roll of one of them, it may be wrong but it kept the city running. Let them have this god forsaken city, as long as I can have a drink I don’t really care who runs the town, I don’t care about much these days, which is why I hate myself for caring about the damn dame that put me on this job.
This time I cross the street without incident. I got to the stoop of my apartment block, there’s less vagrants sleeping in the alleyway beside it, but then it’s getting a damn site colder these days. They are useful little listeners when I can’t be everywhere at once, and we do have the same taste in liquor; cheap. I climbed the stairs to the 4th floor and unlocked my door, ‘Dice Investigations’ was written on the glass. I got three steps in before cursing as I jammed my shin on the murphy bed I forgot to fold away. Sleeping in my office meant less money for rent and more money for the important things; bribing, betting and boozing. With my extensive gutter vocabulary exhausted I felt around in front of me as I made my way to my desk and attempted to turn on the lamp there. The power was still out for the street, my street, which just meant I was sitting at my desk drinking in the dark instead of in a dim glow. I’m not about to light a candle near all the paper work - scrawled notes, city maps, old pizza boxes and old files strewn about my desk -but I will pull the bottle of bourbon from my desk drawer. It is usually a bit neater in here, mainly because once I get a case I’m out on the street or in a bar. This case was complicated; I was actually putting in work. A lot more work now that my employer had gone missing, I had to find her, and not just to collect my pay cheque. Without the ability to read my notes I have to rely on my brain to go over everything that happened since the case started, with the drinking and the car crash making my head rattle I may not be able to remember where I put my keys half the time but I sure remember her walking through my door.
It was mid-august and hot as hell; the fan on my desk keeping me cool was about the only fan I had left in these parts. I was a washed up cop turned private investigator, a has-been, the only jobs I got were spying on cheating spouses or finding the occasional lost pet. Anything more serious than that was usually taken care of (or sanctioned) by one of the crime families around. Crime here is so organised you’d think it had OCD and a strait jacket, but it was usually expensive suits and a foreign accent. I made enough to get by, so I never needed to look for more interesting or complicated cases, didn't take on anything big enough to require a partner and never did anything to stir the pot, I was willing to sit back and let it boil over all on its own. That all changed when she arrived, my first real case since the force.
