I bolted the door of my apartment soon as I got in, had to talk myself down from lugging a dresser in front of it. Maybe they were out to get me, but that was no excuse to start acting like a loon. And anyway, they’d come through the window if they knew what they were doing. Or better yet, they’d wait until I had to go somewhere. Sure, that way there wouldn’t be a call to the superintendent in a few days about the stink coming from under my door. I’d just disappear one day and nobody but Sully and my creditors would know the difference.

It was a funny sort of way to calm myself down, I know, but it worked. I breathed a little easier knowing I was probably doomed no matter what I did. They could kill me if they wanted to kill me. I had a case to work in the meantime.

Of course that just brought me back to the thing I really couldn’t help tying myself in knots about. Maybe I was being delusional, but I’d got to thinking that Deirdre was probably feeling pretty good about then. She’d put a man on her husband’s murder who she knew wouldn’t stop until the thing was cracked or she called him off. It must have been a weight off her mind, I told myself. I was happy to take credit for it. But if it made her careless – if she stopped worrying about the mugs her man had been mixed up with because she’d hired me to do that for her – whatever happened to her as a result was on my head, too.

I lit a cigarette – hands half-shaking – and fished around in my pockets for the card she’d left me back at the house on Yessler Hill. It was very neat – bone white and black – with a number written in the neatest hand I’d ever seen in person. The operator sounded impressed when I spelled it out for her. I still can’t say where it was I was calling, but I figured even then it wasn’t the poverty row home of her dead cop husband.

The thing rang once before someone picked up. I took it as a good sign.

“Yes?” said Deirdre. The hairs stood up on the back of my neck. I was a scared dog hearing his master’s voice.

“Hello, angel,” I said. “Have you got a minute?”

I heard a sound in my ear like a cat purring, then the snap of a lighter. “For you, precious,” she said, “I’d say I have several. Whatever is on your mind?”

I swallowed. My mouth felt very dry. “Things have gotten…complicated,” I said. “More than I might have guessed.”

“Oh?” said Deidre. I could practically hear her raising an eyebrow. “Would you like to renegotiate your fee?”

I breathed out a long drag. “No,” I said, “Though I probably should. I just figured you ought to be on your guard out there. Too many people know what I’m after for me to guarantee your safety.”

There was a pause. I heard a cigarette crackle and a long, slow breath. I couldn’t stop myself from picturing her lips.

“Mr. Parker,” said Deirdre, “I do believe you’re worried about me.”

“Of course I’m worried,” I said. “Why shouldn’t I be?”

 The girl answered with panache. “Because,” she said, “I’m a big girl and I can take care of myself.”

I shrugged. “So can I,” I said. “It doesn’t always make the difference you want it to. I told myself the same thing earlier this week and my ribs still hurt like hell when I laugh. Thank God I don’t have much to chuckle at these days.”

Deirdre clucked her tongue. “Oh, really now, Mr. Parker,” she said. “You mustn’t talk like that. We’ve had fun together, haven’t we? I seem to recall the last time we saw each other you enjoyed yourself immensely.”

I almost inhaled my cigarette. It was the first time I’d heard her actually acknowledge that there was something going on with us. I don’t know why, but it meant a hell of a lot to me.

“Yes,” I said, coughing, sputtering.  “I did.”

She purred again. I had to close my eyes.  

“But I do take your meaning, dear,” said Deirdre after another short pause. “This city can be so drab sometimes, don’t you find? Tell me, how does Paris strike you?”

“You mean France?” I said. Listening to her was making me dizzy.

She laughed. It was the first time I’d heard that, too. It was throaty and bright, like a barmaid’s.

“Unless they picked up stakes it since last I was there, yes,” she said. “Mind you, it doesn’t have to be Paris. But I do think we’ll have earned a little time away when all is said and done. It sounds as though you’re working very hard, and I’d like very much to show you my appreciation.”     

“Usually that’s what the money is for,” I said. 

“Oh, certainly,” said Deirdre. “And you’ll get it, of course. But that’s business, Mr. Parker. I’m talking about pleasure – seeing each other socially, you know. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

It didn’t take me long to answer. The sound of her voice was like a hypnotic.

“I would,” I said, “Very much.”

She purred for a third time. I was practically a puddle on the floor.

“That’s what a girl likes to hear,” she said. “And I promise, as soon as I get back we’ll have lunch somewhere nice and you can tell me all about just how complicated things have become.”

My breath caught in my throat again. I coughed, tried to clear it. “You’re leaving?” I eventually croaked.

Deidre heard the distress in my voice. “Now, now,” she said. “Chin up, dearest. It will only be for a few days, I promise you. One must keep up with one’s obligations, you know.”

I think I actually started to panic. The thought of being unable to see her or even talk to her for days at a time felt like the worst kind of punishment.

“What obligations?” I said, desperate for her to just keep talking.

The lady sighed. “Now and then,” she said, “I’m forced to put in an appearance at some dreadful social function hosted by people my parents used to do business with. Less often than that, thank goodness, my lawyer drags me into a meeting about the state of my holdings at the offices of his firm in Los Angeles. It’s all a crashing bore, really, but regrettably necessary if one is to maintain one’s place in the world.”

“What makes it necessary?” I said. “I thought your parents pushed you out of all that when you married below your station.”

There was another pause. I worried for a second that I’d spoken out of turn. My ears burned. I was sure she’d hang up. She didn’t, of course. I’d caught her by surprise, maybe, but she wasn’t angry. She was too put together for that.

“Of course they did,” she said eventually. “And Lord knows I was well rid of them. All that starch makes me gag, you know. But then they went and died rather suddenly – several years ago, now – and left me their entire estate. I don’t mind telling you, precious, it came as something of a shock. Why, I think I was more surprised by it even than Walter. At first I thought it meant they’d forgiven me, as if that were possible. When their executor informed me of the endless responsibilities that went along with all that money, of course, I understood perfectly well what it was all about.”

“And what’s that?” I said. She had my complete attention.

Deirdre laughed again. “Revenge, my dear fellow,” she said. “I should think that was obvious. They wanted to bury me under the sheer weight of their fortune. I suppose they hoped the need to maintain it would keep me from ever actually enjoying myself. It was rather cunning, really. I’d raise a toast sometime if I still didn’t despise them.”

I remembered the night she came to my apartment just then, the dress she was wearing. It was something I’d thought about quite a bit, if I’m being honest. But this time I had a good reason.

“The clothes,” I said “And the jewellery. That’s where it all comes from?”

“Ah,” she said, “But you don’t miss a trick, do you? Indeed, my own detective, that’s precisely where it comes from. Mind you, I enjoy playing dress-up as much as the next girl, but it can get tiring sometimes. This forthcoming errand, for instance, promises to be positively torturous.”

Things came back into focus. “How long will you be gone?” I said.

“Like I told you before,” she said, “A few days at most. You’ve plenty to occupy yourself in the meantime, I’m sure.”

She was only too right. Fitzroy and Cato probably both expected word about how the case was going, somebody had killed the kid I was fixing to make a prime source of information, and I may have got myself in Dutch with some mystery smugglers who liked guns and dogs and moonless nights. Even figuring out which way to jump next was liable to take a solid day of drinking. All the same, I could worry about her, too. One more wouldn’t kill me.

“Fair enough,” I said. “And I won’t even ask you where you’re headed. Just please be careful. I’ve already made promises to my creditors. They don’t like being disappointed any more than I do.”

Deirdre’s sigh this time turned into wry chuckle. “Very well, Mr. Parker,” she said. “I promise to tread lightly and trust no one. This will not be difficult, of course, given my natural grace and canniness. Turning down a highball when offered, for fear it has been poisoned, will require comparatively uncommon restraint on my part, but the knowledge of your concern will surely give me strength. Have I got you laughing yet, precious?”      

She had, or very nearly. I smiled in spite of how uneasy I still had reason to be. She was right. We did have fun together.

“Yes,” I said, “Thank you.”

The lady hummed brightly, like she was very pleased with herself. “I never could deny you anything,” she said. “Thanks so much for the call, dearest, but I really must run. Happy hunting. Bonne chance.”

She hung up before I could answer. I stood with the receiver to my ear a while anyway, feeling steadily less satisfied. The girl was fond of me, clear enough, but she didn’t take me seriously. I’d wanted to warn her, tell her things were getting serious. I think all I did was give her something to giggle at later. That was a problem for the both of us. It would be hard for me to focus if I didn’t know she was safe. And it would be hard for her to do anything if someone snuffed her while she was away on business. Even the thought made my heart feel like it was being squeezed in a vice.

I needed to get my head on straight. There were too many pieces on the board for me to be wringing my hands over something I only thought might happen. So I made a call, said a few words. Twenty minutes later I was halfway across town at a place called O’Dare’s. It was the kind of joint a person went to if they just wanted to drink in peace. People kept the heads down, and the Irishman at the bar knew what you wanted just by looking at you. There was a time I’d be in there most days, but that was a good while back. To the credit of the establishment, not a damn thing had changed.

The fellow at the tap nodded when I walked in. He said to me once he’d never forgive me if I voted for anybody other than Governor Smith. This time all he said was hello. Then he poured some Old Crow in a glass and went back to whatever it is barkeeps do between rounds. I thanked him, took three steps to the right, and slid into the nearest booth. There was no need to check anywhere else in the place. That was our table.

My party was on me before I say down. “Jesus, kid,” he said, “You look like hell.”

I sat back, sighed, managed a weary smile. “Sure,” I said, “But I feel amazing.”

Sully hadn’t changed much. He still looked like the less respectable class of playboy. His hair was grayer than I remembered, and the lines around his eyes were a little deeper, but I wasn’t much better off in that department. His mustache, as always, put me in mind of Bill Powell, and the only thing he’d drink was straight gin. He had on a gray suit that day, with wide lapels and a matching homburg. I used to laugh at him for stuff like that – for looking like a dandy – but I wasn’t laughing just then. I was too damn glad to see him.  

  “So, what’s shaking?” he said. “You sounded kind of funny over the phone.”

I shook my head, sighed again. “I just need you to listen for a second, let me talk something out,” I said. “And then, if you’re not busy, I need you to hit me in the head with a five iron.”

Sully smiled, stuck a Pall Mall between his lips and fired it up. “Sure, kid,” he said. “Shoot.”

I nodded, took a long drink, ran my hands though my hair. I hardly knew where to start. It had been an eventful week.

“I’m on this case,” I said.

“Yeah?” said Sully. He’d propped his chin on his hand, settled back to listen.

“It seemed pretty straightforward when the client first explained it,” I said. “The pitch was a little unusual, maybe, but I could follow along easy enough. Then I start to dig around. Turns out I’d have been better off going into show business. In seven days I’ve been tenderized, abducted, shot at, and possibly framed for murder. Worse yet, I’ve got myself mixed up with some of the biggest rackets in town. Now I’m looking over my shoulder everywhere I go and I still got no idea who did the thing.”

Sully nodded slowly once I’d finished. Then he threw back a slug of gin and drew a finger along his mustache.

“Okay,” he said. “Sure. So what’s the problem?”

I frowned, shook my head. “You want me to repeat myself?” I said. “This thing is all problems.”

The old man smiled. It was the face he always made when he thought I was trying to bullshit him. His eyes got real clear and the corners of his mouth got real tight.

“Yeah,” he said, “I heard you. But it ain’t nothing you couldn’t handle if you wanted to. You want my help, you got to tell me what’s got you so tied up in knots you’re forgetting all the stuff I tried to cram into that head of yours.”

I guess I should have expected that. I called him because he’d always been more clear-eyed than me. Stood to reason he’d notice I was hiding something. Thing was, actually mentioning Deirdre would have been a hell of a lot worse. I knew what he’d see, what he’d say. It was exactly what I would have said in his place. Maybe that’s what really bothered me. Lord knows I didn’t much want to be judged by the old man, but I wanted to admit I was wrong even less.

I made a meal out of lighting a cigarette so I wouldn’t have to look him in the eye. “It’s not any one thing, Sully, really,” I said. “It’s just a lot more than I expected. And almost nobody is acting like they’re supposed to. Sure, they’re all guilty as sin of something, but I can’t figure if they were guilty of this thing in particular why they’d be calling plays like they are. They’ve encouraged me, Sully. Hell, they even let me in on some of their connections in the courts. What kind of sense does that make unless they want the same thing as my client?”

Sully shook his head. He looked almost disappointed. “Alright, kid,” he said. “I guess you know what’s good for you. But go back to the start if we’re going to do this. What the hell’s it all about?”

I stalled again, this time with the glass of Old Crow. I needed to think about how I was going to phrase things. I didn’t want to have to lie to the man, but there were certain facts he I figured he didn’t need to know.

“You ever heard of a guy named Lance?” I said. “Vice squad detective, passed away a few weeks back?”

The old man frowned, shook his head. Then he drew on his cigarette and let the smoke seep out his nose. “Better than heard of him,” he said. “I knew the guy. He was a decent kid, if I’m any judge of these things. Kept his head down, worked hard. Shame he married that girl. His career was on the upswing until then. I guess he knew what he was doing, but damn if it didn’t look peculiar.”

That last big got me a little fired up. “So what’s the matter with her?” I said. “She bad luck, or something?”

Sully looked at me like I’d just stepped in a bear trap. Then he smiled a little and started to nod. “I’m sorry, Eli,” he said. “I didn’t mean to offend. She’s a nice enough girl, I’m sure.”

  I cursed myself, smiled back. He only used my given name when he thought I was being foolish. My old man was the same way. So I shrugged, tried to play it off. He can only work with what you give him, I told myself.

“You didn’t offend, Sully,” I said, “Really. It just doesn’t seem like the kind of thing you ought to say about a grieving widow. She looked alright to me. And anyway, her money should at least buy her a little respect.”

The old man nodded real slowly. There was a little twinkle in his eye. I guess he had good reason to be satisfied. He’d got me to admit something I hadn’t wanted to without breaking a sweat. Now he was going to be real sweet about it.

“Sure,” he said. “That’s fair enough, kid. If that’s who’s paying you, I’ll keep my thoughts to myself. Only, just to save you the trouble, I don’t think you need to worry about her being too sensitive. She’s used to dealing with rough customers, you know?”

I felt my face get hot. I tried not to snarl at the man. “What the hell’s that supposed to mean?” I said.

He put up his hand, stopped me before I could embarrass myself even more. “That’s not me talking, kid,” he said, “That just how she grew up. I don’t fault her for it. It was her parents’ business, you know. But you got to figure it rubbed off on her a little more than she lets on.”

My mood turned on a dime. I went from angry to extremely confused. “This is Deirdre Lance we’re talking about, yeah?” I said. “Talks like an heiress? Looks like something out of Harper’s Bazaar? That girl?”

Sully shrugged, nodded. “Right,” he said. “Deirdre Lance, wife of the late Walter Lance. Before that, of course, she was Deirdre Doyle, only daughter of the biggest hooch smugglers this side of the Rockies.”

It took me a minute to come up with any kind of answer. There was a ringing in my ears that made it hard to concentrate.

“I’m sorry, Sully,” I said eventually, “But what in God’s name are you talking about?”

The old man blinked and looked confused right back at me. Then his eyes lit up and he nodded. His expression got real sympathetic.

“Yeah,” he said, “I guess that’s on me. I forget sometimes you’re not from these parts. It’s the accent, I think. You don’t sound like Chicago.”

I opened my mouth to say something more. Sully waved me down again as he swallowed some gin and stubbed out his cigarette.

“You see,” he said, “The Doyles were this family of Irish guerillas that showed up in the back half of 1923 with a lot of guns and a lot of muscle. Didn’t take them long to grab hold of the local rum trade – nobody else was that organized yet. By ’24 they were practically running this part of the state. Along with being so damn ruthless, though, they were pretty damn smart. In ‘28 they decided things were bound to turn against the trade in intoxicating spirits and went straight. By the time FDR came along and said a man had a right to get goofy if he wanted to they’d already taken five years of illegal earnings and bought themselves a respectable pedigree. Two of the hospitals in this town are their doing, along with the big library at UW and the auditorium on Mercer.”

“The kid was supposed to be the crown jewel of it. After finishing school, speech lessons, dancing lessons, and all the rest, she was going to be their proof to the world that bad money really did wash. It was a decent job, too, considering what they had to work with.”

For maybe the first time in my life I was speechless.

I was sure I wanted to die. I wanted to step in front of a bus, swallow a bullet, turn my lights out and let the story end right there. I’d been had. The extent of the thing was still unclear, but that much was obvious. Vice dick who makes a deal to smuggle junk into the city just happens to be married to the only child of a family of bootlegging Irish hoods? Lord knows I’m dumb enough to let a nice pair of legs turn my head, but I’m not about to believe stuff like that just happens.

            More things started to occur to me as I sat there wondering about what my funeral should be like. Fitzroy had made his bones smuggling Canadian whiskey down the coast. Either there was more than one group of Irish rum-runners plying their trade back in the day or he was part of the Doyle organization, too. And Christ, Fitzroy’s old timers knew a hell of a lot about moving cargo on the sly. Why shouldn’t they have been alums of the same program? Hell, why not the guy who fixes my car or the old man at the newsstand on the corner? Why not every damn person in the world but me?

            I was getting a little batty, now. Thinking about my own role in things just made it worse. Because if the person who hired me was in on the game – and clearly she was – then there was definitely no expectation that I’d ever actually solve anything. No, I’d been brought in for my ability to be a nuisance, plain and simple. And hell, hadn’t I earned that kind of reputation? Sure, I ask a lot of questions, stick my nose where it’s got no business being, but what the hell good had I ever done? I was a third-rate PI who worked messy divorce cases and helped old business partners figure out who cheated who first. I’d never cracked open anything more complicated than a bottle and it’d be a goddamn miracle if I ever did.

            I was all set to wallow a little more when Sully coughed and cleared his throat. I’d forgotten he was there, that I was in a public place, and that there was a world outside of my swelling sense of misery. I blinked and looked down at my glass. Someone had emptied it. Then I looked up at Sully. I must have made a face of some kind. The old man seemed genuinely concerned.

            “You okay, kid?” he said. “Something the matter?”

            “Yeah,” I said. It was the best I could do just then. My throat felt like it was being squeezed by a rope. I swallowed, tried to breath. It was hard.

            Sully leaned forward, nodded. The worry lines stood out on his forehead. “Is it anything I can help you with?” he said.

            “No,” I said.

            The old man nodded again. He knew when to let things lie, and he’d be there if I changed my mind. Sully was good like that. Don’t know what I ever did to deserve it.

            “Okay,” he said, “Fair enough.”

            We were both of us quiet for a minute after that. Sully drained his glass. I thought about where I’d like to be buried.   

I looked up at Sully again when he sighed real deep and long.

“You’re not going to do anything stupid, are you?” he said.

I looked at the old man a while, not seeing anything I hadn’t already. Then I slid out of the booth and tossed a crumpled fin on the table.

“Probably,” I said. “See you around, Sully.”

The old man nodded. I was out the door a second later.

I drove a while, taking turns at random while the radio belted out the hit parade. The city unspooled across the windshield in shades of green and brown and gray. I didn’t want to feel, didn’t want to think. It didn’t work. I don’t know why I thought it would.

I thought about Mike Farragut a bit. He’d asked me to look into what he thought was a revolt brewing in the ranks of Cato’s army. My trip to the breach didn’t clear matters up much, but my talk with Sully did. Revolt made it sound bigger than it was. Conspiracy was more the word for it. Some old timers were conspiring with their former employer to take over the narcotics ring their new employer had helped set up. I guess Mike hadn’t known about that or he wouldn’t have asked me to poke around. Now Mike was dead. I’d got too close to something I’d been hired to cover up. I didn’t like that much. I didn’t like any part of it.

I thought about Cato and Fitzroy, too. It seemed to me they were being played as much as I was. That didn’t bother me as much, though I don’t suppose it was anything to laugh at. They both stood to lose a lot of money. That’s not something men in their position react well to. And they both thought the other was the cause of it. Heads would start to roll before too long. So far I was the only person who’d bled, but that wouldn’t last. The fighting would start in the wharves and the warehouses, branch out into the bars and clubs the two of them owned or collected dues from, and then just like that it’d be in the tenements. A bullet would take a bad bounce, or someone would throw a fire-bomb without thinking, and a whole mess of people too poor to ever be safe would find out how much worse things could get.  

            I could have tried to talk them out of it, of course, pull them aside and explain that Walter had been killed by some old bootleggers trying to get back into the game. Thing is, they had no reason to believe me. I had no proof. Hell, in their place even I would probably guess that the other guy had got to me, payed me off to keep things good and confused. And in that case, with either of them thinking I couldn’t be trusted to look after what they’d asked me to, it’d only be smart business to have me clipped. Fitzroy would probably ask around to see who’d said what to the gumshoe and learn pretty quick that Sam had spoken too fast and too much. That’d put him in the pot with me. Cato would make the same inquires, I was sure, though I couldn’t say exactly who among his people would end up with their head in the noose. All the same, it was pretty well a guarantee that I wouldn’t go down alone.

            It was a bad scene no matter how I looked at it. And then I finally got to thinking about Deirdre. I hadn’t wanted to, tried to avoid imagining how she fit into everything. But it all came back to her in the end. It had to. Sully had told me who her parents where, what they did to make their money. And she’d told me earlier that her parents were dead. So there was no one else it could be. She had the resources, she had men who were still loyal to her family, and she had a husband who just happened to be the lynchpin in the dope racket she aimed to take over. All she had to do was kill one man and hire another. It’d all fall into place after that.

It had. The jackals went for each other’s throats as soon as news of Walter’s death got out. Then I came in, kept them all distracted for her while she scooped up the Far East connect and set up a distribution network. She’d danced with me in the interim, probably just to keep me from losing interest. But now she was waiting for the dust to settle. When it did, and the city went back to normal after the County Prosecutor decided which of his friends he’d rather indict, she’d be sitting pretty.

With any luck, I’d be dead by then. Seemed to me I deserved it. Maybe I’m not what you’d call a solid citizen, but I never wanted to be a part of something like that. Christ, I’d left home and lost the only real job I’d ever had just trying to steer clear of a hell of a lot less. And what did I get for my troubles? Accessory to murder, narcotics distribution, and God knows what else. All because some twist in a tight skirt batted her eyes in my direction.

Thing is, in my heart of hearts, I still didn’t like to think of her that way. I wanted to believe more than anything that the whole shebang was someone else’s doing. They’d figured out she was the key to staging a takeover and somehow put her up to it. She was being used like the rest of us. Lord knows she’d player her part more enthusiastically than she’d needed to, but people do things like that when they’re desperate. For that matter, maybe getting close to me like she did wasn’t part of the plan. Maybe she was trying to see if she could trust me. And when she did know – when she could be sure I wouldn’t sell her out at any price – she’d tell me the whole story and we’d crack the thing together.

It was a silly idea, I’ll admit. But it was either that or confront the fact that she didn’t give a damn about me, and that I’d let myself get used for nothing. I decided to embrace the delusion.

And then I rounded the corner on Yessler. Without meaning to, I’d driven back to the scene of our last rendezvous. The house still looked like shit. I expected to see it differently, as the scene of my last great love affair, but talking with Sully pretty well made that impossible. Still, I held out hope. She wasn’t home – no car in the drive, no lights in the windows – but I figured on going in anyway. Seemed to me there had to be proof in there somewhere of what was really going on. I was assuming, of course, and completely without cause. There wasn’t much reason to think that Deirdre actually lived at that address, or if she did that whoever I imagined was pulling the strings were stupid enough to leave anything lying around for a lovesick dope like me to find. But what the hell choice did I have? I needed to know the truth, and this was the closest thing to a lead I had left.

I parked up the street. There was no point trying the front door. It was that kind of neighborhood. I went around to the back instead. A cellar door half-covered by overgrown grass seemed about the best prospect I could hope for. The chain wrapped around the door handles was held in place by a padlock that looked like someone had bought it from the Houdini estate sale. I bent down, gave it a tug. Rust flaked off the thing like scales off a dead fish, but it held. Already my cockeyed plan had hit a roadblock. I probably should have walked away right then, went home, got drunk. Thing is, I was drunk already.

There was a window next to the cellar hatch, maybe a few inches off the base of the foundation. I bent down and stuck my face in it. All I saw from my troubles was the reflection of some poor bastard standing out in the rain. I didn’t need it confirmed that nobody was home, and there was no way in hell I was going to squeeze through the frame. It was maybe a foot wide at best, and I measure a fair bit more than that.

So I went back to the lock. It looked like nobody had opened it in years. The flap the swung over the keyhole was completely rusted shut and the casing seemed about ready to crumble. A tap with something hard would do the trick, I figured.

There was a little shed back there, too, tucked away in the corner behind a derelict clothesline. The door was held shut by a hook and eye made of bent wire. I opened her up easy. The inside was cramped as a coffin and smelled like dirt, but the accommodations weren’t my concern. I looked over the tools that were laid out on the workbench. The prybar might have done the job, if I could get the right leverage. Then I saw the claw hammer. It was at that moment I realized just how much I felt like hitting something.

I stopped to think for only a second about the wisdom of my plan. I was about to raise a bit of a ruckus, and it seemed to me that a certain kind of neighbor might not have looked too kindly on a strange man busting into the house next door. Lucky for me the residents of Profanity Hill were famous for being selectively blind and deaf. I’d cursed the fact more than once when law and order was my stock in trade, but just then I was damn glad for it.

It took me three tries to crack the thing. The first blow sounded like a rifle shot and set my nerves on edge like a stiff cup a java. I swung too wild on the second, almost missed the lock entirely. So I made sure to square up on the third, hit the casing dead center. It came apart in three or four pieces and fell into the grass with a thud. I tossed the shackle next to it, unravelled the chain and left it in a pile along with the hammer. Then I opened the doors.

The cellar was dark as pitch and smelled like dust and turpentine. I went for my lighter. Wooden stairs led down to a dirt floor. I waved the light around once I got to the bottom. Cans of paint and motor oil were stacked against one wall. The rest were bare, stained, cracked and crumbling. Another set of stairs led to the ground floor interior maybe ten feet from where I stood. I made a beeline. There was no point in pawing around down there. If there was anything to be found it’d be upstairs. The bedroom, I was thinking.

Climbing that second staircase put me in the kitchen. The place was cool and dim, empty and lifeless. There were no dishes in the sink, no food on the shelves. I popped open the Frigidaire out of curiosity. The thing was as clean as a choirboy’s conscience. From there I passed into the front hall, went by the open doorway to the sitting room. The coffee cup I’d used as an ashtray on my last visit hadn’t moved an inch. It was eerie sight, if I’m being honest. I got the feeling I was walking through a crime scene. The feeling got worse as I started for the second floor.

The stairs groaned under my feet like they knew what I was up to and would rather I got the hell out. A part of me agreed with them. I hadn’t meant to come back to that place. My hands just sort of brought me there while I was busy thinking. It was a bad sign. I was all mixed up and flailing around for answers. I needed proof that the girl was being strong-armed. It didn’t matter how flimsy it was or that I had to break into her house to get it. She was real and I was damn well going to prove it. Again, a part of me thought the whole thing was crazy, wanted to run for the hills and forget the lady ever walked into my office. But that part was in the minority. Crazy was driving.

The bedroom was where I’d left it. I kept the light off, shuffled in real quiet and careful. For the second time I got the sense I was somewhere I shouldn’t have been. The sheets lay where I’d tossed them. The pillows were still dented where I’d slept on it. For a second I even swore I could smell her sweet scent in the dusty air. It was too damn much. I started to sweat. This was a dead man’s room, I told myself, in a dead man’s house. And that bed, right there in front of me, is where I slept with his wife. I was a rat and a fool who didn’t deserve a happy ending.

I shook off the chills as best I could. And then I reminded myself that the world doesn’t give a damn what you deserve. You get what you can out of it. I wanted what I thought I’d been promised and I was going to get it if it killed me. So I set to searching, starting with the lady’s dresser. There were a lot of frilly things made of silk and lace in there – things I might have liked to know a little better sometime – but nothing I could use.

I hit the jewellery box next. The girl had some nice things, no two ways about it. There was a pair of diamond earrings, a few strings of pearls, and an emerald and silver pendant that was probably worth more than the house around it. There was only one thing wrong with them, if “wrong” is the way to describe it. In all our meetings – which at that point topped out at three – I’d seen Deirdre sporting a whole lot of hardware. Never less than impressively turned-out, that kid, and always with the best and latest. This stuff was fine enough – I could probably get more for the earrings alone than I could for my car – but it all looked a little old fashioned compared to what she usually walked around with. Granted I’m no expert, but it seemed to me like the kind of stuff my mother would have worn if she’d married better and had fewer kids. I’d never seen Deirdre wear any of it, and more to the point I had trouble imagining she ever would.

I chalked it up to her not living there anymore. It was getting to be an excuse for a lot of things I’d seen and heard. The notion was starting to bother me. She’d told me herself where her money came from, made it sound like it wasn’t in short supply. So I took it as a given she’d got the hell out of Profanity Hill as soon as Walt’s affairs were settled. She’d stayed there when they were married, I told myself, to spare the poor guy’s pride. Now that he was gone she decided to spare no expense. Thing is, if she wasn’t living in her late husband’s house anymore why had she asked me to meet her there?

I didn’t think of it when she first invited me over. And when I left the place I had other things on my mind. But rifling through her discarded jewellery gave me a push in that direction. There was something she didn’t want me to see. Her real life, I suppose. It was a fair guess. I hadn’t seen anything in the house on Yessler that could be tied to her in a way that mattered. It made me a little sad to think about. I didn’t want to imagine her keeping me at arm’s length like that. So I stopped. My suspicions got pushed aside again. I kept snooping.

I picked over the bedside tables. Old magazines and forgotten cufflinks didn’t have much to say for themselves. The photographs weren’t much better. I’d seen them all before. There was Walt the solider boy, grinning like there was no tomorrow. And next to that was Walt the young cop. The rest were family portraits. I gave them a glance and moved on.

The wardrobes were all that was left. I’ll say I wasn’t much looking forward to the prospect. Hers would only remind me of how completely she owned me, and his would more than likely just put a sharp edge on my guilt. I guess I should have been over it by then, gotten used to that fact that I’m really not a decent guy at heart. All the same, pawing through the personal effects of the fellow whose wife I’d stepped out with while he was fresh in the grave was pretty damn low. The only thing that seemed worse to me – and that should tell you something about what my life had become – was finding out that the wife I’d stepped out with was a murderer and a dope smuggler. Granted, I didn’t think I was going to turn up a written confession stuffed in the mouth of a mink stole, but the idea of finding nothing at all seemed about as bad.

Because then I’d have no choice. I’d have to confront the fact that she was the one pulling the strings. And whatever happened next was beyond my ability to predict. Maybe I’d burn the house down, run out into the street and scream like a madman. Maybe I’d get back in my car and drive west until the water was above the windshield. If I was smart I’d just go off somewhere and drink myself to death. It’s not like I wasn’t headed there already.

I finally settled on tossing Walt’s wardrobe first. I guess because I’m the kind of guy who likes to prolong his suffering if he can. He kept things very neat, did Walter – suits on one side, shirts on the other. It was the solider in him, I’m sure. I checked every pocket, turned his shoes upside down. There was nothing to find. No receipts, no ticket stubs – not even a bit of spare change for my trouble. The drawers came next, starting at the bottom. The first one was full of polish bottles, brushes, and old rags. My old man had a box in his closet just like it. The smell used to make me dizzy. Next were the old socks, the scraps of cloth, and the little mending basket. Walt darned his own clothes. It made a certain amount of sense. Lord knows his wife was about as domestic as a Bengal tiger.

I pulled open the last drawer. It was worth being thorough, I told myself, but I didn’t guess I’d find much of interest. If the dead man’s sundries were any indication, Walter Lance had been the kind of straight-laced and sober fellow people trusted mostly because he lacked the imagination for betrayal. He wore dark suits and starched white shirts, mended his own socks, and shined his shoes on the regular. You couldn’t want better for an accountant or a notary. I had trouble imagining him working a beat like vice. He’d have needed a handbook.

That wasn’t true, of course. It couldn’t be. Walt had been the go-between for two of the biggest rackets in this part of the country. He’d helped move what probably added up to about a million dollars’ worth of heroin. The men responsible had told me as much themselves. But for the life of me I just couldn’t square it with what I was looking at in that wardrobe. For one thing, where did it all go? Maybe I couldn’t quote the street price of the stuff Fitzroy’s goons were peddling, but Walt had to have cleared a couple thousand easy by the time he bit the big one. But if he spent it anywhere it sure as hell wasn’t on clothes, cars, or country estates.

He might have put it in a bank, I’ll grant, but then Uncle Sam would have asked him where it came from. He could have claimed it as a gift from his wife – an allowance, if you like – but I couldn’t picture that, either. The fact he still lived in his parent’s house and not some ritzy chalet paid for by the Doyles made it clear he didn’t want anyone thinking he was a kept man. And even if I could be convinced that he did manage to swallow his pride, I still couldn’t picture the man with the mending basket and the drawer full of shoe brushes having to think about cleaning his drug money so he could get it into the banking system. It just didn’t track.

This might have occurred to me earlier if I’d been paying closer attention. Almost nothing I’d heard about Walter Lance particularly jived with the idea that he was some kind of criminal mastermind. Putting aside what were basically confessions on the part of Cato and Fitzroy, nobody who actually knew the guy seemed to think he was the type who’d break bad. Sully said he was a good cop. His best friend practically cried on my shoulder over how decent he was. Even his wife – who frankly didn’t seem like she missed him all that much – had nothing but nice things to say about him. I might have said he was hiding himself from all of them, or that you’ll never really know a person if they don’t want to be known. But staring at his suits all lined up neat and clean, smelling the starch on his shirts, it really had me doubting.

So anyway, that’s where my mind was at as I’m picking through that last drawer. It was personal stuff, mostly – the kind of sentiment odds and ends a certain kind of person collects without ever really meaning to. There were a few old letters, a smudged photo or two. The wedding bands, I figured, had belonged to his parents. They were gold, and very plain. The man’s wristwatch was nestled right alongside them. I picked it up, turned it over in my hands a few times. It was kind of funny just finding it like that. So far I’d only heard about it or seen it in photos. I could say the same about Carole Lombard. Walt had worn it to war, worn it on duty – probably he wore it at his wedding. The thing had wound down in the weeks since he last took it off, so I didn’t bother checking the time. It was too bad, really. If he’d been wearing it when he went in the drink the medical examiner could have told me just about when the poor bastard breathed his last.

And then it hit me. It was like a sap to the back of the head. I think I even staggered a little. I had the answer I’d been aching for.

Conversations played themselves back in my mind. The medical examiner said Walt had his keys and his wallet on him when he arrived at the morgue. He must have been caught unawares, maybe pulled off the street. And then Webb said the guy never went anywhere without the wristwatch his old man gave him before he shipped out for France in 1918. A good luck charm, he called it. And hadn’t he been wearing it in the pictures Deirdre showed me? Walt the soldier. Walt the cop. The magic timepiece was the only constant between them. So why hadn’t he been wearing it when he was killed? Where could he have been that he wouldn’t have bothered putting it on?

That’s the thing that hit me. He’d been home, probably standing right where I was just then. He comes back from a night of doing God knows what, has a drink, loosens his tie. Then he starts to get undressed. He takes off his watch, puts it in the drawer where he always keeps it. And that’s as far as he gets. Someone cracks him in the temple with a glass or an ashtray, drags him out to the street, and throws him in the trunk of a car they got waiting. Bye-bye Detective Lance. Your wife sends her regards.

Because of course it was her that did it. It was the only thing that made sense. There was no inheritance, no holdings, no meetings with lawyers in Los Angeles. When she married Walt, her parents cut her off forever. Maybe she put on a brave face at first, tried to prove to the world that she was better than anyone gave her credit for, but it didn’t last. How could it? She’s grown up a princess. So she went a little crazy. Her husband was a detective in one of the most corrupt departments in the country, wasn’t he? He could clean up real good if he had a mind to. Sure, he tried to stay straight for his own sake, but would he really choose his integrity over the love of his wife? Maybe she even asked him that, made it as hard on the guy as possible.

So he caved. Christ, who wouldn’t? And the thing starts to take shape. Talk to Fitzroy, say the right words, ask him what he needs to double the product he’s got for sale on the streets. He’s surprised, but he thinks about it. Supply, he says. Then talk to Cato, maybe agree to lay off the docks for a while. Ask him what he needs to double the stuff he’s buying from overseas. He’s less surprised. Money, he says, buyers. Then comes the sit down. You’ve got a problem and you’ve got a problem. Put them together, say the magic words, turns out two wrong make a right after all. Hands get shook, promises get made. Walt says they’ll have protection in the department, no more hands in the till but his. No more face-to-face meetings. Everything goes through the cop from now on. And no one shares any secrets. Can’t have either side thinking they could go it alone.

Must have seemed like a damn goldmine in the beginning. They stayed in the old house, avoided any big, conspicuous purchases, but one look at Deirdre made it clear as crystal she had money coming out of her ears. And that was how she liked it. She could buy the best jewels, new clothes, have lunch at the Grove, take a weekend in Vancouver, all without thinking twice about where it came come. Hell, she could dab the corners of her mouth with hundred dollars bills if it made her happy. She was back where she belonged, breathing the rarified air of the rich and careless.

            There was just the one thing. There was Walt. He was the key to the plan, held the whole thing together. But he was also a weight around her ankle. It was because of him they had to stay in that crappy house on Profanity Hill. The city PD wasn’t exactly a beacon of honesty – Lord knows they care more about lining their pockets than serving the public trust – but even they couldn’t pass it off like it was nothing if a detective of theirs traded his two-storey for a chateau in Queen Anne. A new car would be almost as bad and a chauffeur a hell of a lot worse. Once this all became clear to the lady I don’t guess it would have taken her long to start resenting the man she’d married.

He was holding her back, for one thing. And for another, he was getting all the credit. Granted, whoever knew about the deal added up to a pretty short list, but the number of people probably wasn’t what bothered her. It had been her idea, her hard work, her voice in his ear. But it was his face, his name. She wouldn’t stand for it. She couldn’t. So she decided to cut out everything between her and the money. That meant Fitzroy, that meant Cato, and that meant Walt.

It couldn’t have taken her long to figure it out. Get rid of Walt, make it look like one of his business partners did it, and let the goddamn jackals eat each other alive. In the meantime, flush with sympathy and free of suspicion, she calls in some old friends of her parents and takes over the whole operation. The money keeps flowing. If anybody asks, she tells them what she told me about the inheritance. They won’t think twice about it. Why would they? Eventually she’d sell the house, move into someplace more like what she was used to, take her place as Queen of the rackets. It was hers by right, anyway, but damn if she hadn’t earned it.

All she had to do to set the whole thing off was kill her husband. Weigh it against what she stood to gain, it probably didn’t seem like much. Just wait for the right moment – long night, careless, back turned – and knock him the hell out. Maybe she even convinced herself that it was the water that would be killing him. She was just setting things in motion. Thing is, that’s where she got careless.

It was a little thing, really, hardly worth thinking about. Walt comes home, like I said. It’s late, he’s tired. His wife is already asleep. He loosens his tie, takes off his watch. Maybe he reaches for his wallet. And then he’s on the floor. Deidre is standing over him, waiting to see if he’s really out. Then she picks up the phone and makes a call. “We’ll be right there,” they say. “Leave the door unlocked.” She gets things ready in the meantime. She puts his shoes back on, straightens his tie. She manages to get him back into his jacket. By the time her friends arrive to take the man for a swim he’s looking like he just came in off the street. The only problem is he’s not wearing his watch.

She knew it was important to him. He’d explained it to her before, and she’s listened. She probably thought it was sweet. But she didn’t really care. It was just a bit of superstition, not worth thinking about once the conversation was over. So she didn’t remember it that night. It stayed in the drawer where Walt put it. He got bundled off into a trunk and she got on with building her empire.

It was a lot to put together, and based on not much more than supposition and theory. It’d never hold up in a court of law, is what I’m saying. But I knew it was true. I mean, I just knew it. And I was mad as hell. I was mad at her for being arrogant enough to think she could get away with it. I was mad at myself for finding the one thing that proved the girl I was crazy for was a goddamn murderer. And I was mad at the world for refusing to let me have even the illusion of happiness after all the shit it had made me swallow.

I held the watch in my hand for a good while, just thinking. I could bury it, I told myself, or drive out to the waterfront and throw it in the Sound. Nobody would ever have to know. And I could go on living the story I’d been telling myself. Pack a bag, go to Paris, see what the French know about living. Who would it hurt? Hell, it’d be easier than trying to prove the pulp magazine murder plot I’d cooked up. She got away with killing the guy and then hired me to investigate it? Even I thought that sounded nutsy. Best leave it be, pretend the whole thing never happened.

Thing is, I knew I couldn’t. It just wasn’t in me. I’d peeked behind the curtain, seen how the thing worked. I wouldn’t be able to look at her again and just forget what I knew. Worse yet, I wouldn’t be able to remember the rest of it without feeling like an idiot for ignoring what was right in front of me. The way she carried herself, the way she looked at me – it was all so damned imperious. She really was like a Queen. If she wanted someone gone, they were gone. If she wanted her enemies to burn, they’d burn. She’d light the match herself if she had to.

So in the end I just put the watch back where I found it. Then I walked out of the bedroom, down the stairs, and out the front door. Nobody lived there anyway, I figured. Let the rats tear it apart. After that I just drove for a while. My hands felt numb on the wheel. I wanted to get far, far away from there. Maybe I would, I told myself. Back east didn’t seem so bad anymore. But there was something I needed to attend to first that just couldn’t wait.

Thank god the drugstore down the block from my apartment was still open. I guess they know their customers. The guy behind the counter certainly knew me. He nodded when I came in, kept the chatter to a minimum. He didn’t even blink when I dropped the five bottles of bonded whiskey on the counter. A real professional, that one. I should have thanked him for it. He’s one of the only people I can think of that I’m certain would never betray me. You should show your appreciation for people like that. They’re rare as gemstones, in my experience.

I downed the first bottle right there in the car. The cap ended up on the floor, the empty somewhere on the backseat. It felt like my heart had been tied in a knot and this was the only thing that’d get it to unravel. I might have died, of course, drinking that much all at once, but the thought of it didn’t bother me. Hell, it didn’t sound half bad.

I tore the cap off bottle number two in the hallway outside my apartment. By the time I had locked the door behind me it was as empty as the first. I laid out the next three in a line on the coffee table, tossed my jacket on the chair, and collapsed onto the sofa. This was rotten stuff I was drinking, with an aftertaste like burnt wood and gasoline. But I don’t suppose I deserved much better. It was punishment as much as mercy. I wanted my medicine to burn on the way down.

Working through that second bottle, it occurred to me to wonder how it was Deirdre came across my name. There were other PIs in the city, I knew. Some of them were pretty damn good. So what made her pick me? It couldn’t have been my reputation. I don’t really have one, you see. And I had real trouble imagining a former client slipping her my card. No, it seemed to me the thing just about had to be a matter of chance. She pulled my name out of the book at random, asked around a little, came by the office. I was shabby enough, looked desperate enough, stank of stale hooch and cigarettes and neglect. Our first interview probably sealed it. She saw in my eyes I was broken. She heard it in my voice.

It’s been a hang-up of mine since I was a kid. I grew up thinking it was important that a person try to make a difference in the world. My teachers are to blame for that, I guess. That’s what America is about, they said. We were a bright light in a dark world. I liked the way that sounded. Imagine how I felt when I learned it wasn’t true. There were no bright lights in Chicago back then. You either made your peace with the darkness or you lost your damn mind. That’s why I left. It seemed easier to run than become part of the machine.

I bolted from the city prosecutor’s office for pretty much the same reason. That’s really the one that boke me. I came west looking for a chance to do something good with my life, and for a while there it looked like I’d found it. Sully got me a gig as an investigator, had me working evenings and weekends gathering dirt on racketeers. We sent bad people to prison. I slept like a baby every night of the week. Then they asked me to look away from something I just couldn’t stomach. Turned out the County Attorney was bought and paid for by a local concern that ran half the gambling dens and houses of ill repute in the state. He brought charges when he was told, squashed them when he was told, and generally ran his office like some kind of mob concierge.

It made me sick when I found out. Sully had to talk me off the ledge. He told me it didn’t change a damn thing about the good work we’d done. He was right, of course. But it wasn’t enough. I’d gone halfway across the country trying to outrun the darkness. I wasn’t just going to roll over because it looked like it was overtaking me. Problem was I’d stayed in one place for too long. I had too many debts to just walk away and not enough cash to start over someplace else. So I drank myself into a stupor for a few months and then Sully helped me set up an office.

I learned to hate myself in the years that passed since then. Having to stay in the city where I felt like I’d made a fool of myself was one reason. The kinds of work I’d been reduced to just to make ends meet was another. The thing that really killed me, though, was the doubt. I gave them an earful when they asked me to stay on at the prosecutor’s office. I was right and they were wrong. It seemed as simple as that. But the more time I had to think about it, the more I started to wonder if I’d maybe made a mistake. Suppose it was naïve of me to expect the world to give a damn about the things we were taught in school. America was built on compromise, wasn’t it? So why couldn’t I meet people halfway, try to see the good they were doing instead of focussing on the bad? Why couldn’t I be realistic? Why couldn’t I just go along?

I think I was afraid of trying to answer these questions. But I couldn’t just put them away, stop thinking about them in the idle hours between one case and the next. I probably would have cracked up sooner or later if the girl hadn’t walked into my office. She needed a patsy, saw I was hurting, and made me an offer I couldn’t have turned down in a million years. Forget all that, she said. Help me out with this bit of business and I’ll make you feel good again. I’ll take you away from here. I’ll ease your pain.

The third bottle started off badly. I got the cap off easy enough, but I had a little trouble finding my mouth with the spout. The first glug ended up splashing onto my shoulder. It was a damn shame to waste it like that, I remember thinking. But I soldiered on all the same. Gotta keep moving, I told myself. Gotta drown out all these thoughts before they drown me first.

I was still nuts for the girl, I realized. I was mad at her, too, Lord knows. But the more I drank, the more things blurred around the edges, the more I started to think maybe she hadn’t been so rough with me after all. She’d used me, no two ways about it. But she was awful sweet about it. She said nice things to me, took my mind off my generally crummy situation. She kissed me. She took me to bed. I’ve had worse from people who’d actually told me they loved me.

So what was I moaning about? The girl was dangerous – in more ways than one, seemed to me – but she was also a hell of a lot of fun. I could grind my bones to dust at this penny ante job and never come across a better proposition. People weren’t going to stop being rotten bastards if I just waited long enough. Government wasn’t going to stop being corrupt, and business wasn’t going to stop being greedy. Seemed to me that ignoring the lot of them was just about the only sensible thing to do. So why not do it with a nice girl on your arm? Better yet that she’s got style and knows how to spend money. I was pretty sure she’d brain me with a paperweight if she thought it’d give her an edge, but it really wasn’t fair of me to hold that against her. It’s not like I was doing anyone much good anyway.

The third bottle finished early on account of the spillage. It took me a few tries to grab hold of the fourth. It kept dancing. I managed to make contact after a little duck and weave. The cap gave me some trouble, too, but I wrestled it into submission. I was too far in to quit. I couldn’t feel my tongue anymore and my shirt smelled like a bar rag. There was no dignity left to preserve. I raised the bottle once I’d got it open and drank a long toast to the mark the occasion. Then I lay back on the sofa, dropped my arms to my sides and tried to catch my breath.

Sure, I was angry. I didn’t like being used. My pride didn’t care for it. But pride wasn’t going to keep me warm at night. Deirdre would, when it pleased her to. I could live with that. I could live with an awful lot, matter of fact. When I was 17, I ran away from the things I didn’t like about the world. When I was 25, I just walked. North of 30, there didn’t seem to be much point in putting on even that much of a show. I knew how things worked. There was no point in pretending otherwise. But didn’t I deserve something for being such a good sport about it? Didn’t I deserve to be happy? Even if it wasn’t real, I was the only one who stood to get hurt.

That was a lie, of course. People were dead because of this thing. I hesitated to count Walter. He’d had his ticket punched before I even entered the picture. But the kid was another story. Christ, he was just this gangly punk from out East who drank too much and liked to quote Karl Marx. You wanted more people like that in the world, not less. One conversation with me and he was out of the picture. Based on that, I didn’t have high hopes for Benny or Sam. They’d both said things to me they shouldn’t have. They didn’t want to, either of them, but I made it so they couldn’t refuse. So it was my fault if they ended up on ice in the City Morgue. Just mine.

I hadn’t wanted any of that. It was fair game to leave my own life in tatters, but you had to at least give other people a chance. Thing is, I was obsessed. I’d decided that making my client happy was all that mattered. Now people were dying because of things I said and did. The courts wouldn’t see it that way – not that it’d ever get that far – but I’d know it. I’d know what a trip to Paris with a beautiful lady cost in blood. And I’d know, for good and all, that I wasn’t any better than the things I’d been trying to get away from since I was a kid in Chicago.

Some life, that. Some joke.

I blacked out around the time I opened the last bottle. It slipped from my fingers and hit the floor with a thud. The whiskey flowed freely, forming a pool on the carpet. I don’t remember anything else.

Next Chapter: Paperwork