I went home after that, had a drink, slept some, woke up feeling like ten kinds of warmed over garbage. If it wasn’t for the fresh bruises I’d say I was in a rut.

        The rain was still with us, feeble but determined. Between gulps of coffee, scotch, and bicarbonate of soda I resolved to make something of the information I’d been handed the day before. I had a good lead, in as much as I knew that Fitzroy was a part of this whole mess. Or more to the point, I knew how he was involved. That opened up all kinds of doors. The man kept a lot of soldiers on the payroll. The higher-ups – people like Mr. Lee – wouldn’t tell you water was wet if you shoved them off the Aurora Bridge. But he runners, errand boys, lookouts, and pushers didn’t get paid enough to feel much loyalty for the organization, and they were too damn many to make running down leaks all that easy. So the odds were in my favor I could track down someone hard up or soft enough to cough up something useful.

        So I pulled myself together enough to appear in public and eased my carcass behind the wheel. Most of the pushers I knew only worked their corners on the side and filled the rest of their days as fences, conmen, and hustlers. With any luck I could catch one of them at their day job, preferably when they were in the middle of something.

        Benny Garza was at the top of my list. He was probably the most enterprising petty criminal I could claim as an acquaintance, more often than not to his own disadvantage. He had an eye for opportunity, did Benny, but completely lacked the muscle or the brains to keep the wheels from flying off. He tended to haunt the south-side pool halls, shaking down newcomers for pocket change and trying to sell jewellery before it turned green.

        I tracked him down at Cobden’s. It was only the second place I tried, and still in a halfway respectable section of town. Better this way, I figured. People at Cobden’s might actually call the cops. I parked around the corner, across from the drugstore where they ran the numbers racket, and shuffled slowly down the stairs. The place was below street-level, in what used to be the cellar of an insurance office. Every step made my bad rib throb. By the time I was at the bottom and through the door I needed a drink, a chaser, and one for the road.

        I’d come to the right place, thank God. Cobden’s was a dive of the respectable sort, if you believe something like that can exist. You might get cheated out of a few dollars here or there by the clientele, but nobody was going to pick your pocket. It wasn’t much more than a long, low hall, dim and damp, and full of smoke, and chatter, and clacking billiard balls. The bar was tucked in a corner by the door. The old bootlegger that owned the place was on deck, like always.

        I sidled up and nodded in his direction. “Calder,” I said.

        The old man – a retired sailor with a map of the world on his face – nodded back. “Parker,” he said. “You look like hell.”

        I smiled. I loved that old salt, if I ever loved anybody. “Yeah?” I said. “Well I feel terrific. Is Benny around?”

        Calder nodded again and pointed to the far end of the hall with his chin. “For now,” he said. “Couldn’t say for how much longer.”

        I looked down the way he was pointing. A group of man were clustered around a couple of pool tables on the other side of the room. Some were playing. Most were leaning on their cues while they watched the game. They wore a mismatched assortment of flannels and dungarees, like something out of a WPA ad. They were all wind-burnt and bearded, too, and every one of them had a big glass of beer near at hand.

        In among that crowd, Benny Garza stood out like a whore in church. He had on a striped jacket, wide-legged trousers, and about the ugliest ties I’d ever seen. He looked like a song-and-dance man. But he was holding court like he always did, playing the fool and laughing in people’s faces while he took them for all they had. I could never figure out how he always got away with it. Maybe he just had a nose for these things. He always managed to pick out the pigeons that were too proud of themselves to admit they’d been rooked. It was probably the only thing he was any good at.

        I turned back to Calder and jerked a thumb at the gang surrounding Benny. “Friends of yours?” I said.

        The old man shrugged. “Say they’re from Boston,” he answered. “Told me someone out there gave them my name, said I’d look after them. You know how it is.” Calder kept in touch with his old profession – sentimental, I guess – so his place was always full of sailors. He got to be real protective. Like I said, he was a classy guy.

        I look back down the hall just in time to watch Benny miss a bank shot and grin like an idiot. “How long they in port?” I said.

        “Day and a night,” said Calder. “Then back the way they come.”

        I shook my head. “Bad luck,” I said.

        Calder shrugged again. “They need to learn,” he said.

        “Sure,” I said.

        For a few second after that the two of us kept quiet. I watched Benny pay out on another loss and then offer double or nothing. The mark smiled and made like he was reluctant to take more of the poor sap’s dough. He eventually agreed, of course. It looked like easy money. Benny grinned, racked the next nine, and made a show of nearly tripping over his cue.

        Behind me Calder cleared his throat. I turned my ear to him. “Try to keep it civil,” he said. “Hasn’t been a ruckus in here for near six months.”

        I shrugged. “We’ll see,” I said. Then I made for the tables.

        Benny saw me coming. For a second I thought he would bolt. He had that look in his eyes. But he was working, and it was going well, so he pretended he hadn’t noticed me. He got off another shot – a scratch that the mark and his buddies thought was the funniest damn thing – before I was too close to ignore and made a show of hailing me like I was his best friend in the world.

        “Parker!” he called out, a big dumb grin spreading across his face. “How the hell are you?” He laid his cue aside and went in for a shake that would guide me away from the crowd.

        “Swell, Benny,” I said. He pumped my hand like a drunk would’ve – too hard and too long – and rested his other hand on my shoulder. Then I tilted my head at the gang of sailors.

“Who’re your friends?” I said, loud enough for the whole bar to hear it.

Benny’s eyes narrowed and his smile flickered like a cheap bulb. “Sure,” he said even louder, “I can give you a minute. My luck’s been rotten anyway.” Then he threw an arm around my shoulder and pulled me halfway across the room. I didn’t fight it.

Benny took us to the far corner of the joint, behind the cigarette machine. He wasn’t smiling anymore by the time we got there. “What are you trying to do to me?” he said.

I shrugged, made a face like I was completely clueless. “How do you mean, Benny?” I said. “I was only asking after the fellas you got playing with you. They must be new in town, I figure.”

The man scowled and ran a hand through his greasy hair. “All right,” he said. “Jesus. Just tell me what you want and then get the hell out. I’m trying to work.”

He always was a disagreeable little rodent. Maybe that’s why I liked him so much. He took everything so personally.

“Easy, Benjamin,” I said. “Losing has put you in a foul mood. Why don’t I come back a little later, when you’re in the black?”

For a minute there Benny looked pretty well horrified. The color went out of his face and his mouth went slack. He rallied quick enough, though. His sad sack expression gave way to an easy smile – the one he practiced in the mirror.

“Sorry, Parker,” he said. “Didn’t mean to be short with you. You just caught me at a bad time, is all.”

I waved it away like it was nothing and grabbed a seat on one of the stools that lined the wall. Then I reached for a cigarette, took my time lighting it, and enjoyed a long, slow drag. Benny stood there smiling through the smoke.

“How’s business?” I said eventually.

Benny shrugged. “Not bad,” he said. “Can’t complain.”

“You hear about that cop that got forcibly retired?” I said.

The hustler’s smiled turned cruel. Benny was the kind of guy who thought the police had nothing better to do than make his life difficult. “Yeah,” he said. “I heard. Times are tough all over. What about it?”

“You know who he was?” I said.

Benny looked annoyed. His cardboard smile fell away. “Why,” he said, “You think I should?”

Most of our conversations went that way, answering questions with questions. Most times I enjoyed it. Like I said, Benny was fun to smack around a little. But this time I wasn’t in the mood.

“Maybe not,” I said. “But I figure you do.”

Benny sighed, rolled up his sleeve to check the time. He was wearing three watches on the same wrist. They’d all be gone by the end of the night. He tried not to hold on to anything longer than twenty-four hours.

“Friend of the big man,” he said as he rolled the sleeve back down, “Helped smooth things over around the docks. That’s all I know.”

I nodded. “Know who killed him?” I said.

The man spat out a short laugh. I guess he thought I was being funny. “Why don’t I just give you the cue,” he said, “And I’ll take over your little shakedown operation?”

I shrugged again and tapped my ash on the floor. “Any word come down about what happened?” I said. “Any interruptions in service?”  

“The trucks are still rolling, if that’s what you mean,” said Benny. His little rat eyes narrowed, like he was bothered by my asking. “Someone tells me we’re on reserves now. Seems like the big man made sure to squirrel the stuff away in case something like this happened. You got to admire the business sense.”

I shifted in my seat. My side was throbbing like someone was going at it with a mallet. “You believe it?” I said.

Benny craned his head back, grabbed a toothpick from behind his ear and stuck it in the corner of his mouth. “Why not?” he said. “Those boys down on the waterfront, they think Fitzroy’s the one that did it. And he thinks the same of them, of course, so the whole operation’s gone dead. With nobody unloading the stuff, and nobody to smooth over the paperwork, how else do you figure we’ve still got product to move?”

He kept his ear to the ground, that boy. He never forgot a single thing he heard, and he heard a hell of a lot. All ears, was Benny – all ears, fast hands, and no guts.

“So you do have product them?” I said. “The stuff still flows?”

The toothpick shifted in Benny’s mouth as he scowled. “Jesus,” he said, “Did I stutter or something, Parker? Yes, I’ve got product! I’m flush up to my ears!”

I liked it when he got mad. His voice got high and squeaky. “How long do you figure that lasts?” I said. “I mean, how much can Fitzroy have set aside?”

Benny leaned in close. I could smell his cheap pomade and the paint-thinner he used for aftershave. “Listen,” he said. “I don’t know how long the stuff will last, or how much of it there is, or where it’s being kept, or where it came from. All I know is what I told you – maybe even less. You get me, Parker? I’m just in retail, see? I’m just a salesman.”

I shook my head – real slow, like my old man used to do. “Don’t lie to me, Benny,” I said. “It’s a bad look.”

        The hustler frowned, and laid a hand across where most people kept their heart. “Hey,” he said, “That hurts, Parker.”

        I looked over his shoulder at the gang of sailors. Waiting for Benny, they’d managed to throw back a couple rounds between them. Kept on hold much longer, they’d be liable to toss the place.

        “Pigeons?” I said loudly. “What, those fellas there?”

        A few of the seamen looked up at the noise, confused, and irritated, and unfocused. Their faces were like round red masks with beady eyes and big comic frowns.

        Benny didn’t bother looking. He just scowled and shook his head back at me. “That’s low, Parker,” he said. “Even for you, that’s low.”

        I smiled. “You must not know me too well, Benny,” I said. “I can go a whole lot lower.”

The hustler looked me up and down a while. Then he shrugged. “What can I say?” he answered. “Can’t get blood from a stone.”

“No,” I said. “I don’t guess you can.” Then I looked back over his shoulder again. “Easy now, Benny,” I near shouted. “That’s no way to talk about the Irish.”

The same handful as before looked up from their drinks. One or two pointed in our direction, still red faces and scowls.

Benny just shook his head. “Jesus, Parker,” he said. “Is this really what people pay you for?”

I shook my head right back. “No,” I said. “This part I do for kicks. Still nothing you want to add to your statement?”

The little rat face sharpened around the eyes. The pointed chin thrust out in my direction. “Go to hell,” he said. “You think I never dealt with angry drunks before? All you did is set me back a few hours. Let ‘em win a round or two, they’ll forget all about whatever they think I said.”

He was a smart boy, like I said – smart enough to know when something was worth being afraid of and when it wasn’t.

“I know that, Benny,” I said, and nodded. “This here is just me having a little fun. But if you don’t cough up something I can use in the next five minutes, I’m going to drag you over there so we can both tell your friends what you planned to do with their hard-earned scratch.”

The color went out of the hustler’s face. “That’s not funny, Parker,” he said. His eyes kept darting from me to the door, at the far end of the room. I think he was trying to figure if he could bolt before I grabbed him. He stayed put, so I guess he didn’t like his chances.

“You see me laughing, Benny?” I said. Then I looked at my watch. “Four minutes, now.”

Benny’s hands had started to twitch. Maybe he was figuring on sucker-punching me to clear the way for a quick exit. It might have worked. Thing was, he had to know I’d find him again. The boy had no juice outside the city, and there were only so many holes he could crawl into.

“I don’t know why not,” said Benny. “It’s a hell of a joke. I don’t think it’s funny, but you can laugh all you want. I won’t take it personal.”

I checked the time again. “Sure, Benny,” I said. “I’m a big kidder. Get my jollies off of making two-bit hustlers sweat. Three minutes.”

Benny swallowed hard. He kept looking at the door. It was too far away. A long, thin finger tugged at his collar. “Jesus, Parker,” he said. “How am I supposed to know what you’re after if you don’t even ask a goddamn question?”

“Two minutes,” I said. I didn’t bother looking up.

The hustler shifted on his feet. His shoulders were hunched up and his head ducked low. He kept blinking.

Now he looked afraid.

“Parker, come on,” he said. “I’m standing here, you’re putting the screws to me, and I don’t even know what you want. Just tell me what you want, okay?”

I fired up a Lucky before answering. I swear you could hear the sound of Benny’s teeth grinding together.

“How do you know that Fitzroy has been dipping into his reserve?” I said. “How do you know he isn’t still receiving shipments?”

“I told you,” he said. “Smoke on the street.” It sounded like a plea.

I shook my head. “You got to listen to me when I talk, Benjamin,” I told him. “I don’t care how you heard it. I’m asking you how you know it.”

“I don’t follow,” Benny said. “I mean, what’s – what’s the difference? I know it because I heard it. You want me to tell you who said what? Is that it? Help me out here, Parker, please.” The sweat stood out on his forehead – his collar was stained yellow with the stuff.

I stood up from my stool, brushed the ash of my lap like I was set to leave. Benny flinched, took a step back. I guess I had his attention.

“Come on now, Benny,” I said. “I’m supposed to believe an enterprising fellow like you wouldn’t confirm a piece of intelligence like that? That you wouldn’t see for yourself whether the well was about to run dry on you? Why would you want me to think so little of you?”

Benny ran a hand through his hair again. His eyes rolled around in his head and he sighed through gritted teeth. It sounded like steam from a radiator.

“Alright,” he said. “So maybe I did. What difference does it make? I told you I know, Parker. I wasn’t lying to you.”

“Who did you the favor?” I said.

The man shook his head. “What favor?” he said.

I got a handful of his necktie before he could back away from me. He grabbed hold of it too, near the collar. His eyes looked like they were going to pop out of his head. I stepped forward, pulled him in close. His mouth was working without any words coming out. He was breathing hard.

“Don’t make me repeat myself,” I said, nearly whispering. “Fitzroy doesn’t know you, and if he did he wouldn’t trust you any more than I do. You don’t just waltz into the place where they store the stuff and start counting. You don’t have the access, see? Someone had to let you in – someone even dumber than you. I want you to tell me his name.”        

“Yeah?” said Benny. “And what if it gets out that I’m naming names? You know what happens to people like that? I’m just trying to earn a living out here, you want to throw me to the dogs? Christ, Parker, what did I ever do to you?” He squirmed as he spat out the words like he was fighting for slack. His eyes were pinned to the fistful of silk between my fingers.

I’ll admit I was impressed. Turned out, when the chips were down, old Benny had some spark in him after all. Took laying about with threats to get him there, but the rat was braver than I ever would have figured. Didn’t make a damn bit of difference, of course.

I smiled at the man as he struggled in my grip, and then tilted my head in the direction of his friends across the way. “You got more important things to worry about just now,” I said.

Benny’s hands tightened at his collar when I made to reel him in. Then he started nodding – emphatically, you might say – and swinging his elbows around like he was trying to brush me away.

“Alright,” he said, waving me off. “Alright – Jesus – let go already.”

I did. It took a minute for Benny to catch his breath, and then he just stood there glaring at me while he made a fuss of smoothing out his tie. He was beat, and looked it.

“Gimmie one of those,” he said eventually, and pointed at the Lucky between my fingers.

          I shrugged, reached into my jacket, and offered him the pack. He took it, jammed one in the corner of his mouth, and lit it with a match he struck with his thumb. The smoke seemed to calm him down a little. The next time he looked at me I didn’t get the feeling that he wanted to stove my head in. We weren’t square – nobody was ever square with Benny – but he was ready to talk.  

“We’re not well-acquainted, see?” he said. “I mean, I don’t know where he lives, or anything like that.”

“The name, Benny,” I said. “When I want more, I’ll ask for it.

Benny scowled. “Sam is what they call him,” he said. “I don’t know if that’s his Christian name, if it’s short for something, or if it’s just a handle he picked up. That enough for you, you fucking shitheel?”

The kid was an angry loser. That was fine by me. I’d have respected him less if he tried to make nice.

I smiled and nodded. “Almost, Benny,” I said. “What’s he look like?”

The hustler smoked like he just wanted to get the thing over with. His drags were long and deep and close together, and he didn’t ash until he absolutely had to. He squinted at me a while over the glowing cherry between his lips, blinking now and then when the stuff got in his eyes. He was thinking, I guess, or a little annoyed. Probably it was both.

“About your height, I guess,” he said eventually. Dark hair, whiskers, beady little eyes. Dresses like he doesn’t know he’s fat. Always wears this goddamn scarf, makes his neck look like a ham hock.”

I looked Benny up and down. “Some people,” I said, “They got no class.”

Benny scowled at me. “Really earning your fee today,” he said, and brushed a bit of dust off his sleeve.

“I try,” I said with a shrug. “Where do I find him?”

“Like I told you,” Benny said, “I don’t know where he lives. But if I had to find him I’d probably start with The Quill.”

From the way he said the name, it was like he was embarrassed to admit he knew the place. “Never heard of it,” I said.

Benny shook his head. “You’re lucky, then,” he said. “It’s a dump. No whiskey, no cigarettes, no table, and I swear the bartender is some kind of sissy. Gives me the creeps just going in there. I’d steer clear of the place altogether, but half the regulars are reefer addicts. That’s how I know Sam, see?”

I actually chuckled. “What’s the matter, Benny?” I said. “Don’t want me thinking you got pretensions?”

The hustler stood up a little straighter, laid a hand on his bony chest. “I got pride, Parker,” he said. “That’s all I’m saying.”

I might have told him he was only kidding himself, but there wasn’t any point. He’d figure it out eventually. In the meantime, he’d given me something to work with. I had a name – Sam – and a place – the Quill. I also had Benny’s story, which sounded plausible enough. If Sam was a client, it made perfect sense that Benny would try to pump him a little. And it made sense that Sam would feel like talking. It’s like with bartenders and their patrons. Folks tend to get real confessional with the person that feeds their vice.  

So I was satisfied, is what I’m saying. “All right, Benjamin,” I said, and brushed a little dust off my shoulder, “That’ll do. Go back to your game, and hope we don’t have to talk again soon. I don’t much like the sight of you, but I like being lied to even less. You follow me?”

Benny smiled at me, hard and sharp. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I don’t much like your face, either.”

I smiled back and nodded. Benny seemed to take that as his cue. He tossed the stub of his cigarette on the floor and turned on his heel. The sailors didn’t look too happy to see him at first. One of them raised his voice when the hustler reached for a cue, pointed in my direction. But then Benny said something back and the whole gang burst out laughing. The kid was good.

Back at the bar, Calder set me up with a lick of bourbon before I even thought to ask. He was good, too. He nodded in Benny’s direction and said, “Any luck?”

I turned my back to him so I could look back at the hustler and his flock of pigeons. “Maybe,” I said, and tossed back the brown stuff. It went down easy. Strikes me, it’s the only thing that every does.

“Hey, Calder,” I said. “What’s it all about, do you think?” I was feeling expansive, I guess. Not sure why.

The old sailor frowned slightly when I turned to face him. “How do you mean?” he said.

I shrugged. “I mean everything,” I said. “I mean why do I bother? Why does anybody?”

Calder nodded. From the look on his face, I wouldn’t have guessed that he followed. But then he looked deeply into the glass he’d been polishing, nodded again, and looked back up at me.

“We all got bills to pay, don’t we?” he said. “I mean, we all owe somebody something.”    

I nodded back, set my empty glass on the bar. “I guess that’s right,” I said. “Certainly been my experience.”

Calder topped me off like the gentleman he was. “There you go,” he said.

I toyed with my glass a while after that, just thinking about what I knew. Cato had said that his suppliers cut him off, that he couldn’t buy the dope anymore that was the whole reason for him and Fitzroy’s partnership. I gathered he thought it was because Fitzroy cut him out, figured some way of buying direct and getting the stuff into the city. That meant the stuff was still landing somewhere, just not at the port where Cato could see it. And if that was true, there were sailors and longshoremen somewhere around whose business was off the books. They had to bed down, had to eat, had to drink. Maybe somebody had heard something.

“People talk to you, don’t they, Calder?” I said. “From your old line of work, I mean. They talk to you when they’re in town?”

The old man shrugged. “Sure,” he said.

“You hear anything funny lately?” I said. “Unusual, I mean to say.”

Calder shot a glance in my direction. It was quick, but I got the sense he didn’t like where the conversation was going.

“Maybe,” he said. “Depends what you mean.”

Suspicion was a funny look for the old salt. He was always the guy with the best stories. He knew people in Batavia, Singapore, Valparaiso. He spoke Chinese, and Korean, and a little Spanish. He could sing you a song he learned from a girl he met in Tahiti. You could almost picture her when he got to the second verse.

“I don’t know,” I said. “What do you think I mean?”

Calder tossed his rag over one shoulder and crossed arms like baked hams over a chest like a barrel. He had a picture of a turtle tattooed on the back of his right hand and a pair of crossed anchors on the back of his left.

“I think you’re asking if I know something most people don’t,” he said. “Something somebody told me because they trust me. Somebody who thinks loyalty is more important than anything, and figures I do too.”

I don’t figure he wasn’t angry with me when he said all that. He didn’t raise his voice, or make like I’d insulted him, or anything. He just looked me in the eye and spoke real plain. I guess being dependable was important to him. And that was fine with me. The man didn’t need to break any oaths on my account. I just thought I’d ask.  

So I listened, nodded. Then I shrugged, after a respectful pause. “Really,’ I said, “I was just asking if you’d heard any good jokes.”

Calder nodded back. Then he smiled a little. “Sure,” he said. “You hear the one about the one-eyed Chinaman?”

I shook my head. “I’m listening,” I said.

Calder poured me another before he opened his mouth. He was a classy guy, I remember thinking. I still feel that way.        

Three hours later found me standing in the street outside the gin joint they call the Quill. It was early enough in the day that I figured I could squeeze in a meeting with Sam, provided he showed his face in a timely fashion. Asking around trying to find the place, I’d gotten a feel for the kind of people I was likely to meet. Bohemians, they called themselves. Really, they were just a collection of hack playwrights and actors. Most of them had been forced to leave New York but were too dirty for even Hollywood to touch. So they shuffled around in theatre districts, begging for cigarettes and attention until someone noticed how interesting they were. I hated how hard people like that tried to look shabby and desperate. From someone who couldn’t help being shabby and desperate, I didn’t care for the intrusion.      

The Quill itself was a dark, glass-fronted little hole in the wall in a corner of town that used to be ritzy but was sliding towards disrepute. There were lanterns out front that gave off a sickly yellow light, and the fumes coming off the place stank like a Frenchman’s undershirt. I didn’t much like the idea of going in there without a clothespin and some dark glasses. It wasn’t like I had much of a choice, of course. Sam was my only lead going forward, and the Quill was the only place I knew to find him. So I held my breath and shaded my eyes. The door opened with a wail like a banshee.

Thing is, the patrons would have looked up and stared whether I made a racket or not. The Quill was the kind of place where the only people ever came in were regulars, so even the smell of a stranger was enough to turn some heads. They didn’t look long, mind – not much to see. But they looked. So I looked back. There were maybe a dozen people scattered around, all pale faces and hollow eyes. A fella with a long cigarette holder smirked in a way I didn’t much like. A knock-off Clara Bow giggled behind her hand and whispered something to her friend. Sam was at the back of the room. He was easy enough to spot. It wasn’t that Benny’s description was spot on. He was the only one who didn’t stop stare when I opened the door. I guess maybe he was expecting me.

The man sat alone, about as far from the entrance as you could get. Benny was right at least about the size of him. Sam wore a dark blue jacket that was too short in the sleeves over a blue and white striped shirt that was coming apart at the collar. A thin beard framed his fleshy pink mouth, and goddamn it if he wasn’t wearing a yellow kerchief tied just too tight around a neck like an overcooked sausage. He held a cigarillo between the plump fingers of his right hand. His left toyed with a bell-shaped glass of some nasty-looking yellow stuff. His eyes were glued to the table in front of him. He looked like he was nodding to himself.

I wasn’t ready to talk just yet, so I sidled up to the bar. The fellow at the helm looked awfully amused to see me. He was very tall and very thin, with a big, bulging Adam’s apple and an Errol Flynn moustache.

“Thirsty?” he said. His voice was nasal, and he spoke with a slight drawl.

“Just a beer,” I said. “I’m travelling light.”

The barman chuckled. His thin lips formed the tight “V” of a smirk. “Take a look around, friend,” he said. “Does it look like I’ve got it?”

So I raised an eyebrow – just to see how I’d like it – and gave the cockpit a quick once over. The only tap in the place was attached to an absinthe fountain at the end of the bar, and none of the bottles lining the shelves looked to contain whiskey. Truly, it was an unholy land.

“Fair enough,” I said. “Forget the drink. Just do me a favor.”

The barman sniffed and rolled his eyes. “So what else is new?” he said.        

I titled my head just slightly to the right. “The fella in the back, there,” I said. “That’s Sam, isn’t it?”

The man’s eyes flicked up and back. He looked amused again. “Sure it is,” he said. “Is he in some kind of trouble? Are you with the police?”

I shrugged “Do I need to be?” I said.

“I guess not,” said the barkeep, though he didn’t sound convinced. “Only it would make sense if you were.” Then he leaned forward a little and lowered his voice.

“That boy has got mixed up in something, I’m sure of it,” he said. “Why, I head just last week he bought himself a silver case for those nasty little Café Crèmes of his. I mean, the man hasn’t booked a job since Show Boat at the Paramount!” The man’s bowtie bobbed up and down under the lump in his throat as he spoke.

I raised my eyebrow again. Turns out I liked it fine. “He’s an actor?” I said.

“A thespian, he says,” the barkeep answered. He didn’t seem convinced.

I nodded. “He say much else?” I said.  

The man shook his head and smirked again. “I guess you don’t know Sam,” he said.

I shrugged again, not knowing what to make of that. “I’m what you’d call a friend of a friend,” I said. Then I leaned over towards a wooden bowel of matches a few seats down from mine and snatched up a handful. I stuck one between my teeth; the rest went in my pocket.

“Whatever he owes, I’ll cover it,” I said. “And whatever he’s drinking, I’ll take another.”  

The barman nodded, flashed me what he probably figured was a knowing look, and tapped the side of his nose with a long, thin finger. I could have strangled him for that. But then he produced a round-bottomed glass, poured out a measure of some yellow stuff that looked like piss, and topped it off from a pitcher of ice water. The liquid in the glass went cloudy.

“Two and a quarter,” he said, and slid the thing over.

I peeled off half a sawbuck and slid it back, hoping he’d get the message. Then I scooped up the glass and made for Sam’s table. I took the long way around, weaving through tables like I wasn’t sure where I was going. When I was just about to pass him by I even turned my back on the kid, acted like I was scanning the room for something I’d missed. Then I turned and slipped into the chair opposite before he had a chance to squawk about it.

“You talk too much, Sam,” I said.

The big cluck was startled at first. His mouth formed a little pink “O” of surprise. But he recovered quick enough. It must have been the thespian in him.

“You have me, sir, at a distinct disadvantage,” he said.

“Sure,” I said, and nodded. “And whose fault do you figure that is?”

Sam closed his eyes and sighed. “I could not begin to contemplate,” he said.

“So maybe that’s the problem,” I said. Then I reached for what was left of the pack of Luckies in my jacket. The thing had gotten pretty badly crumpled and the last of its inhabitants was bent near in half. I twisted it apart, stuck the long end in my mouth, and lit it with the match I’d been chewing on.

“It’s either that,” I said between drag and exhale, “Or your luck is just that rotten.”

The hack shrugged expansively and took a delicate sip of his drink. “I am no soothsayer, sir,” he said. “I know not what the fates have in store for me, only that I must have caused them great offense.”

I looked the man up and down. I’d just met him, but I was starting to take offense myself. “Hard to imagine,” I said.

Sam showed me a childish scowl and a hard glare. “And to what do I owe the pleasure, Mr.…?” he said.

“Parker,” I said. “Investigations.”

The side of Sam’s fleshy cheek twitched slightly. Otherwise, he played it cool. “And what, pray tell, are you investigating?” he said, and drew on his little cigarillo.

I shrugged, and shifted in my chair so as to block his view of the exit. “Whatever my client wants,” I said, “Within reason, of course.”

Sam made a series of genteel gestures with his hands. The tip of his cheroot traced a web of sickly-sweet blue-gray smoke in the air between us.

“I take it, then,” he said, “That you’re not in the employ of the local constabulary?”

“I don’t work that cheap,” I said, “Or that dirty.”

The hack nodded. He looked real smug just then. “Am I then to assume that your inquiry is of a distinctly private nature?” he said.

“Distinctly,” I said.

Sam smiled, wide and warm, and took another dainty sip of his drink. He looked like an overfed housecat who’d just been given a saucer of cream.

“Then you will forgive me, noble hawkshaw,” he said, “But I entirely fail to perceive what force on earth or in heaven could compel me to divulge one iota of the intelligence which may or may not have been imparted to me.”

By the time he finished speaking I was halfway to dreamland. I swear the kid was better than Barbital. He didn’t figure on being a tough nut to crack; only I’d have to make sure I didn’t let him go on and on.

“You will,” I said, with a nod. “See, I’ve been in this line a lot of years – for better or worse – and I’ve made my share of friends and enemies. Take this guy, Benny: a two-bit hustler who owes me a couple of favors. Not what you’d call a friend, exactly, but close enough so that he knows me to see me. You know the fellow?”

Sam’s feline glee evaporated like whiskey on the tongue. “Possibly,” he said. His stubby fingers twitched around the soggy base of the cigarillo in his hand.

“Well he certainly knows you,” I said. “Told me a hell of a story. I’m sure you know the one I mean.”

“Benjamin can be so imaginative, don’t you find?” said Sam. He drained his drink in a gulp and started anxiously fingering the glass.

“And then there are guys like Mr. Fitzroy,” I said, “Who I don’t know from Adam but I’m sure I’ll be having a chin-wag with real soon. He’ll insist I’ve stuck my nose where it doesn’t belong. He’ll probably be right, too. They usually are.”

A film of sweat had broken out on Sam’s upper lip. He gave a nervous shrug. “An unavoidable hazard of your chosen profession, I’m sure,” he said.

I smiled, trying hard to make it look genuine. “So you understand my predicament?” I said.

“Eminently so,” said Sam. His shoulders sagged a little.

I let my smile widen some. “I’m obliged to you,” I said, “For taking it so well.”

The man nodded back, looking real glum. Then, halfway through grinding out the stub of his cigarillo in the table’s overfull ashtray, he froze. A frown stretched his pink lips. He looked back up at me, confusion splashed across his mug.

“Forgiveness,” he said. “I fear – uninitiated as I am – that I may have lost the thread of our conversation in the mazy corridors of your investigative argot. Might I inquire, with abundant humility, what it is I have just agreed to?”

“Going down with the ship, Sam,” I said, trying to look concerned for the man. “And a damned noble thing it is.”

Sam blinked a few times, like he’d been caught full on by a flash bulb. “At sea, I most certainly am,” he said. “Yet still I fail to adequately grasp your meaning, sir.”

I signed, and absently patted by pockets for the cigarette’s I knew weren’t there. “When Fitzroy asks me how I know what I know,” I said, “Well, your name is bound to come up.”

One of Sam’s hands crawled up the front of his shirt like a fat, pink spider and began to tug nervously at his scarf. “Why should it do that?” he said. He sounded like he was out of breath.

I stuck another match between my teeth, for want of a smoke. “Because you refused to cut me a break, Sam,” I said. “Not very square of you, I’ll say, but there it is.”

The man’s eyes widened and his head started to shake from side to side like a dipso’s on Election Day. “I did no such thing, sir,” he said. “If you would but request my assistance, I would be more than willing to render it.”                          

    I brought my eyebrows together now, to see how they like cooperating for a change. “Didn’t I?” I said. “I’m sorry, kid. It all starts to run together after a while. So you’re saying you will help me?”

“Most assuredly, friend Parker,” said Sam, nodding vigorously. Then he lowered his head and leaned forward across the table. “Provided that the fact remains strictly clandestine.”

“Entirely up to you, Samuel,” I said, maneuvering the match from one corner of my mouth to the other. “Payment upon delivery.”

Sam smiled nervously. “And deliver I shall,” he said.

I watched a drop of sweat slide down Sam’s forehead. He looked like he was about to melt. I waited – maybe thirty seconds – and then slid the drink I’d bought at the bar across the table.

“You’re one of Fitzroy’s night watchmen,” I said.

Sam accepted the drink gratefully, tossed half of it back at a gulp. “Regrettably, yes,” he said. “A baser means of employment I could not imagine, though it provides me ample time in which to sharpen my craft.”

“Clearly,” I said. “When do you clock in next?”

The hack’s eye’s brightened. “This very night,” he said, “And not more than an hour hence.” He looked like he was waiting for a pat on the head.

“Good,” I said. “Swell. Fantastic,”

“You’ll be…accompanying me?” said Sam.  

I smiled wide. “Sure thing,” I said, “Happy to do it.”      

Sam nodded. He still looked nervous, and took a cautious sip of his drink. Then he started squinting, raising his eyebrows, and stroking his chin. He was thinking, I reckon. He made it look like it was a complicated operation. Or maybe he just wanted to make the most of my attention while he had it. Some people are like that.

“I wonder,” he said eventually, “If it would not behoove me to inquire of that which you seek, or if I would perhaps be better off ‘in the dark,’ as it were?”

My stomach started to complain just then. Its taste for whiskey wasn’t being satisfied, and it still wasn’t thrilled about having been used as a throw pillow. I quieted it down by promising a gallon of Four Roses once everything was settled. The joke was on me, it turned out. I thought I was close to the end of the thing.

“The less you know,” I said, “The less you have to lie about. You get me?”

Sam’s brows came together again. “Lie to whom?” he said.

“You see,” I said, “Its questions like that you really don’t want to be asking. Just get me in the door, Sammy. The rest of it you can just forget all about.”

He didn’t think about that one half as long. “And so I shall,” he said. Then he polished off what was left of his drink and smacked his fleshy lips like a kid eating ice cream.

Sam insisted I join him for another round, to pass the time and seal what he called our “understanding.” Normally I’d have taken a pass, but a man can do funny things when he feels the cold, clammy hand of sobriety clawing at his throat. So I asked for the strongest thing they had on the premises. Sam came back with a little glass of what looked like sour milk. “Green fairy” he called it, which didn’t exactly set me at ease.

The man hoisted a fresh glass once he got himself settled again. “Thou sure and firm-set earth,” he said, “Hear not my steps, which way they walk, for fear thy very stones prate of my whereabout.”

“In your eye,” I said, and downed the stuff in one. It tasted like someone had left a handful of grass to soak in a glass of cheap gin. But it did the trick, and so I nodded at Sam’s waiting smile and complimented his taste. He seemed pleased by that. He shouldn’t have been.

We managed one more round before it was time to hit the bricks. Outside, the rain had turned to a feeble drip and the streets were shining slick. He didn’t have a car, so we took the Nash. Between giving directions, he went on and on about the sins of Mr. Ford and his evil iron beasts. He was anxious, and hoped his artsy bullshit would cover it. I just drove.

The warehouse where he pulled down the nightshift was off the railyard south of Harbor Island. It was a half-block of red brick that had seen better days. The sign over the street entrance looked like a relic from the ‘90s. “O’Leary Bros. Consolidated,” it said. Probably they’d gone under in ’29 and Fitzroy had bought the place for chicken feed. I parked us down the street in the shadow of a burned-out street lamp and let Sam on ahead. Before I could take a look around he had to take the hand-off from the dayshift man.

Luckily, the juice he’d imbibed had started to work its magic on his nerves. The trick of it was, he told me, to treat it like any other part. I don’t know that there needed to be a trick to it at all – he was only clocking in like he was supposed to. But I kept my mouth shut. If it kept him calm, it was okay by me. So off the kid went, across the street and down, fumbling for his keys as he went. And then he was gone and inside and I was left alone in my dark little corner of the world – left to wait and left to think.

I stretched against the stiff seatback and tried not to groan at the pain in my gut. Sure enough, I’d had problem cases before – extortion, missing persons, and some really nasty divorces – but they all tended to be easier on the body than whatever it was I’d pulled down this time. It was because the rackets were involved, of course. Usually, I tried to steer well clear of them. They don’t take well to solicitors, you see. And when they give a fellow the brush off, they make sure he feels it. I should have run for the hills as soon as I heard the names Cato and Fitzroy. I didn’t. And now here I was trying to rifle through Fitzroy’s closet on Cato’s suggestion. It was stupid. I was being stupid.

The lady was the cause of it. Deirdre, I mean. Sure, she was paying me. But I’ve said no before to cases I didn’t like the look of. I should have said no to this one. The thing is, when she asked me – when she looked me in the eye, and smiled in that self-satisfied way she had – I didn’t want to. In my life to that point I’d laid eyes on her all of twice. But it seemed like every time my mind started to wander – in the long stretches of waiting around that come with being a snoop – I’d think back to the way her lips felt against mine. I’d think about the way she smelled. I’d picture her sitting in that ratty wingchair in my apartment. Somehow she made it look like a throne. She was a girl and a half, and every piece of information I turned up was an excuse to see her again.

Thing is, I didn’t know where that train of thought was supposed to lead. I don’t think I wanted to know, or to think about it. I just wanted her. I wanted her to look at me, and raise an eyebrow, and smile. I wanted to put my hands on her, and feel her pulse under my fingers. I wanted to forget about everything and everybody except for me and her. I was in a bad way, is what I’m saying. I should have seen it. Any other time, I’d like to think I would have. But on that night, sitting in the dark on a shitty street, bruised, and tired, and half-in-the-bag, I couldn’t see anything but the ghost of this girl’s face and everything I thought it promised.

Thank God Sam’s opposite number from the dayshift showed his face just then or my mind might have had the chance to go someplace dark. He was a long, tall Okie; a hayseed that could be relied on to keep his trap shut because everyone he knew was still back in Tulsa. They’re all over the West, these days, pulling odd jobs for pennies. This one barged out the door without looking twice, turned on his heel and set off whistling like it was payday at the mill. Sam showed up a second later, glanced up and down the street, and gave a nod in my direction. I hustled out of the car, patting my pockets again for cigarettes I knew I’d smoked already, and crossed the street. Sam held the door open. I pulled it shut behind me while he gestured with a flashlight at the rows of crates and barrels that sprawled out into the darkness.

   “I am not worthy of the riches I guard,” said Sam, “Nor dare I say they are my mine. And yet, they are. From dusk to dawn, no other man might claim them but I. This is, in essence, the nature of my charge, is it no?”

I tried not to pull a muscle keeping my eyes from rolling back in my head as I gestured that he should pass me the light. “Then you’d best avert your eyes, kid,” I said, “And hand me that gooseneck there by the wall.”

Sam frowned a little, probably because I didn’t seem to be listening. All the same, he gave up the flashlight without another word. Halfway to reaching for the crowbar, though, he paused, looked over his shoulder at me, and frowned some more.

He’d remembered something important. He was supposed to keep an eye on Fitzroy’s goods, keep the rats away, and here he was about to help some jerk off the street nose around the place. He was frozen to the spot, looking from me, to the crowbar, to the boxes and crates all around us.

I didn’t care to talk the kid through his sudden bout of conscience. So I aimed the light in his eyes. “A little late for that, Sam,” I said. “Curtain’s up.”

The hack squinted into the glare for a while, his soft pink face bunched up around the eyes. Then he nodded, sad and slow, and handed me the jimmy. Turns out he was smart enough at least to know he’d been too dumb by half.

I hefted the thing in one hand and turned to face the assembled contraband. I could only guess where to start. From the inside, the place looked about the size of a small airplane hangar. Metal beams ran overhead that made funny shadows when the flashlight played over them. The goods were stacked ten rows deep on either side of a central aisle that forked and split, the crates and barrels forming streets and avenues. I took a few steps down the nearest lane and squinted at some shipping labels while Sam shuffled along behind me.

“I take it you’re unfamiliar with the Bard,” he said. This time he had to know I wasn’t listening, but I don’t think he cared. He was anxious, and talking just to talk.

“A shame,” he went on. “He is as vital in our present moment as ever he was in his own. In fairest Gotham, you know – that most noble seat of Columbian culture – the Scottish Play has been lately transformed into something else entirely. And yet, for the dusky countenances that strut upon the stage, the words are as good as the man laid them down – better, even.”

It looked like most of what Fitzroy kept in storage was surplus for the Emerald Room. There were crates of French champagne, tins of anchovies, caviar, bags of coffee and rice, and enough whiskey to make a man weak in the knees. I worked through them as best I could, but it was slow going. Pretty soon I started to think that maybe this wasn’t one of my better ideas.

“I’ve heard it said,” Sam went on, “Among those whose knowledge on these matters is widely considered to be beyond reproach, that the lady of the house, though an impressive piece of characterization in her own right, is but one example of an archetype common to the works of the Sage upon Avon. Hark, they say, to the malicious manipulations of the Venetian Iago! Observe, they cry, the dark and duplicitous deeds of Claudius of Denmark! Are they not, as with the Scottish Lady, cut from the same whole and unscrupulous cloth?”

And on it went. There were tins of goose liver, a mountain of olives, and enough French cigarettes to light up Paris at midnight. And after that there were still ten crates of what the labels said was canned crab meat and twenty of Campari. I don’t know what I expected to find in all that, besides maybe a cocktail and something to nibble on. I had a general idea of what I wanted to find, but only a vague notion of what I was looking for.

“Skilled dramaturges they may be,” Sam went on, “But their distance from the subject most certainly obscures their vision. Honored and accredited, I am not – through some cruel trick of fate – but mine instincts have been sharpened by experience. I have walked the boards many a time with members of the fairer sex as they flitted their way across the stage. And on every occasion I bore witness to a performance of that dark and terrible lady, it was never otherwise than a thing apart.”

I’d just cracked open a case of Cognac that sparkled like liquid gold in the beam of the flashlight when a part of my brain I figured had drowned a long time ago started jumping up and down like its shoes were on fire. Something wasn’t right. Damn me if I knew what it was, but the alarm bells going off in my head got me thinking it was pretty important. I went over the inventory I’d done so far: olives, anchovies and caviar, expensive hooch and French cigarettes. There was more, but I’d already forgotten. I closed up the crate of brandy and thought about it some more. There was champagne, there was coffee, there was Campari…and there was something else that should’ve jumped out at me if I’d been paying attention. So I stood there a while, wracking my pickled brain for the answer while Sam went on and on.

“Her sex,” he said, “If you will forgive the crude nomenclature, is what sets her apart, in more than just the obvious. The Italian and the Dane play to type, for all their peculiarities, and so are not wholly remarkable. But the Lady goes to greater lengths during the course of her life upon the stage than either who would claim to be her equal. She is woman, yes, and blessed with all the blooms and thorns of that whimsical gender. Yet her heart, her soul is so strong in its conviction to grasp the reigns of fate that she undoes herself in pursuit of the same. Willfully, she sheds her womanhood and become something else entirely; neither man nor woman, but a creature born of venom and sustained by the glitter of what could be.”

I still don’t know why, but the only thing that came to mind just then was a soiree I’d been dragged to back when I was an employee of the state. My pal, Sully, who’d got me the job in the first place, called in the favor when he asked me take his place on the guest list. I was new to the city in those days, and he said it would do me good to brush up against a better class of people than I was likely to meet in my day to day. Say what you will, I told him, but at least the lower depths don’t stand on ceremony. I’d have sooner drank gin out of a bathtub than commit to remembering which fork went with the salad course.

Anyway, I went to the thing. It was all blue-hairs, and politicos, and young men with wolfish looks ready to trade favors for a leg up in the world. In the end I got cornered by the hostess after asking one too many polite questions about the spread. Food, she said, was always the most trying aspect of any event. She spent an entire afternoon drilling the help on how things should be done – the order of courses, the wine, all that stuff. And then there were the mushrooms, and the caviar, and the crab cakes – which just had to be Dungeness, you know, because they were native to the Sound. Halfway through her rundown of the cheese course I was about ready to tunnel my way out of there.

Thinking back on that old lady, though – who wore a monocle around her neck and sounded just like Margaret Dumont – something clicked. I turned around, almost banged into Sam, and made a beeline for the crates of tinned crab meat. The lid on the nearest one was still loose. I pried it open and pointed the flashlight down inside. It was full up with the stuff. The first one I grabbed felt solid enough, but a little too light. The label said the junk inside was out of Batavia, Dutch East Indies. The packing slip on the crate agreed, and put the ship date at six months earlier.

That was the part that didn’t track. Fitzroy may have been a wolf in rich-man’s clothing who got everything he knew about the high life from the folks at Good Housekeeping, but some things even the blind man stumbles on. Crab was native to the Sound. Old Fitz could have got them fresh, and cheaper than whatever he’d shelled out to have the canned stuff sailed in from the far side of the Pacific. So, either it was damned special crab or somebody had come up with a new gag for getting around customs.

The next part came naturally. All the same, Sam gave a nervous twitch when I slipped the knife out of my pocket. Then he took a step in my direction and held up his soft, pink hands like he was directing traffic.

“I grant you,” he said, “My stake in the integrity of the assembled merchandise is decidedly indirect. However, I feel I would be remiss in my duties – such as they are – if I did not protest to further damage being visited upon the items in my charge.” He talked fast, and the words tumbled out of his face along with a whole lot of sweat.

I looked down at the tin. Then I looked over at Sam. “Sure,” I said, nodding. “I get you.” Then I snapped open the blade and punched a hole in the can. Sam made a sound in his throat like a sparrow with indigestion.

“I’ll spot you the nickel,” I said, and started to lever the knife back and forth around the inside of the rim on top of the can. It was slow work, but clean – no crab juice, no flesh sticking to the blade. By the time I got to the point I could pry up the lid, I wasn’t much surprised by what I found. There was no meat in there, obviously – just a flat disk of something wrapped in greasy white paper. I made a shallow cut and carefully peeled it back. Underneath it was a puck of grey-black material that looked like compressed ash and was sticky to the touch.

“Black tar,” I said, “Heroin.” I raised it up to get a whiff. It stank like vinegar. Sam had gotten over his attack of conviction and crowded in for a better look. I held the stuff out for him.

“Your boss’s bread and butter,” I said. The exposed patch glistened in the beam of the flashlight in a sinister sort of way. Sam’s eyes were as wide as saucers.

“Indeed,” he said. For once, the kid was at a loss for words.

I jammed the tin into his chubby hands and turned to the other crates. Like I said before, there were maybe ten of them. From the way they were sandwiched far back between a stack of canned chestnuts and a mountain of pickled herring, I’d have guess there used to be more. The packing slips told the rest of the story. None of them were more recent than six months past, and the last shipment was fifty crates. That meant Fitzroy’s busy little bees had unloaded forty crates worth of dope onto the streets in half a year. At that rate, what was left wouldn’t last through Christmas. Maybe there was more of the stuff being stored somewhere else – maybe Fitz was smart enough not to trust every ounce of such valuable merchandise to the care of pinheads like Sam – but something about the notion didn’t scan. Why split it up? Why keep some over here and some over there if it was that damned precious?

No. Cato was just plain wrong, I decided. Fitzroy was cut off. The stuff I’d found was the sum total of his stash, and once that was gone him and his customers would be SOL. I didn’t much care if that was the case, except it left me with nowhere else to go. Fitzroy was clear, for the moment. He wasn’t dumb enough to risk sinking his own business without something to fall back on. Without Walt to keep things moving, his dealers got closer to starvation every day. But by crossing him off my list, I was back to square one – back to shaking the trees to see what fell out.

I stood a while longer in that dank, dark warehouse, thinking over what the hell I was going to do next. Sam chattered away at my elbow, going on and on about human weakness while staring down at the black disk in his hand that some people would have gladly killed for. I was tired, and sick of the company, and too damn sober. My head started to pound.

“Shit,” I said.

Next Chapter: House Call