Angel Eyes

By J. G. Curtiss

A private detective enters a dark, violent, back alley world when he unwittingly becomes the friend of a homicidal madman. He is soon fighting for his life, for money, and for the love of a woman who only loves money. All the while he must solve a mystery or people will be killed.
Angel Eyes is a tough, kick-in-the-teeth, emotionally charged drama.

• Language: English
• Publisher: J. G. Curtiss
• Release date: Aug 14, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476214429

J. G. Curtiss

I live with my wife in central Ohio out in the country where it's peaceful and quiet, but I grew up on the tough streets of a government housing project where, if you didn't get beat up now and then, you felt unpopular.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

She looked at him, her husband, sitting at the table, watched him shoveling her baked beans into his broad, bony face and forcing the beans down with mouthfuls of beer from a quart bottle. She had a penchant for tough bad boys, but this guy had turned out to be just an evil thug—and a brute. She wished he were dead.

She turned her back to him and directed her attention out the window to where a summer storm suited her mood with horizontal rain slamming against the window and blinding lightning flashing in her eyes. But it was the angry roar of the wind that best suited her mood. She hated him, her husband, and she wished he would die and die again.

She stood in the small living room, and he sat in the tiny, open kitchen of an apartment niched atop a late nineteenth century brownstone building that hadn’t change much in a hundred and fifteen years of neglect. The old disconnected gaslight jets were still stationed about the rooms with electricity now traveling by wire through conduits fastened insecurely to the surface of the walls. And the ecru-painted walls showed the imperfections of plaster over laths, and were framed with scarred woodwork that had been painted over a hundred times. The wood floor was uneven and worn down before the only door, which opened rudely to the kitchen.

Maybe some wrinkled old lady in a rocking chair, who was content with her memories, might be content with the nostalgic ambiance; but Ann was young and beautiful and volatile, and she liked pretty things, new things. This was not what she had in mind when she married Henry three years ago. He was a successful criminal, but what good is success if half your time is spent hiding out and hiding out in a dump?

The anachronistic apartment wasn’t even hers. They were living with her impoverished mother while Henry hid from the police. He had violated his parole, again, and the city cops were looking for him, again. Much as she wanted to, Ann was afraid to turn him in to the cops and afraid to leave him. She ran her tongue over a chipped molar, a memento of the last time she displeased him. She was lucky his big fist hadn’t broken her jaw. If only he would die.

A dazzling flash of blue-white light filled the apartment along with a shattering sound like a starter gun being fired against her ear. Ann jumped inside herself, and, for a moment, she was blind and deaf. Slowing regaining her senses, she first became aware of a flickering red glow projected up onto the ceiling from the street below. She returned her attention to the window. Just below the window a utility pole was on fire, its transformer sputtering and popping sparks like fiery popcorn. Lightning. A near miss as she stood near the window. Was it a warning against such evil thoughts—wishing her husband would die?

She heard something behind her, a sound like the final slurp through a drinking straw. She turned around and found Henry on his feet, his big hands grapping his bovine neck, his mouth hanging open, his eyes ready to pop. She walked up to him as one would walk up to a strange dog. What’s the matter with you? That wasn’t gunfire, she sneered. It was a stupid thing for her to say. The man was fearless and was very familiar with gunfire.

The huge man—six feet four and wide as a jailhouse door—could squeeze out only a squeak like a mouse with its tail in a trap.

She took another hesitant step. Can’t you breathe? His face was fading in color from red to purple. Oh, my God! she gasped and ran around the table, pushing his chair out of her way. Getting herself into the Heimlich position, she attempted an abdominal thrust, but it was like trying to compress a steel drum.

He shook her loose, sending her stumbling across the room and onto the kitchen floor. He lunged to the sink—his face now a deep blue—rammed his fist crashing through the window over the sink and pulled back a bloody hand. He leaned over the sink shoving his face through the jagged hole while desperately straining to suck in a breath of air. There was only the squeaky-mouse sound again and the howl of the wild wind. His face was turning black. In a flash of lightning, his skin looked like gunmetal.

Ann was on 911, but she was sure it was hopeless. The closest fire station was six blocks away, and the apartment was four stories up. There was no elevator. The dispatcher was urging Ann to stay on the phone, but when Henry fell back unconscious; she dropped the receiver to the floor and dropped down onto her knees next to him. She had taken a mandatory first-aid course while working for a trucking firm.

She placed two fingers to the side of his throat. The skin of his neck was cold and clammy. There was a pulse, weak and fast. Behind her, she could hear the dispatcher’s tiny voice calling to her with increasing urgency. She pinched his nose, covered his mouth with hers, and tried to force her breath into his lungs. It was like trying to blow up a bowling ball. She probed her fingers deeply into his gaping mouth. It was something she should have done first she recalled. There was no opening like there was no throat. Her fingers pushed against a wall of wet, slimy flesh.

Peanuts! she thought aloud. Henry was allergic to peanuts, big time! Exposure to peanuts had almost killed him on more than one occasion. But there were no peanuts. Only her beans, fried onion rings, and salad. She gasped again when it occurred to her that his syringe of epinephrine that would save him was left behind in their apartment.

He still had a faint pulse. There was only one thing left to do. She stood up, turned, and opened a drawer next to the sink. Trembling and frantic, she fumbled her hand about in the drawer and selected the first knife she was able to close her hand around. It was broad blade, but she couldn’t afford the seconds needed to fumble for another. She went back down onto her knees next to Henry’s head. The blue-black skin had suddenly dissolved into the pale color of a plumber’s candle. He was probably dead, but she had forced herself into action and the emotional momentum kept her moving. She placed the point of the knife against his throat below the Adam’s apple and pushed. The skin broke, and there was a blister of blood, but that was all. No opening. She gagged, steeled herself, and pushed harder. The knife made a deep dent in his throat but didn’t break through.

Ann became aware of the siren. It was a long way off. She was dizzy, hyperventilating. Her hands were sweaty, slippery. She pushed harder putting her weight over the knife. The dent under the blade continued to sink and sink until the blade suddenly broke through and kept going.

Oh, my God! she screamed and let go. The wide blade stood upright, supported by the four inches implanted in Henry’s throat. Blood bubbles were frothing about the blade. She pulled it out, cringed, put two of her fingers through the slice that smiled across his throat, and spread the fingers. A dark hole appeared, but there was no exchange of air. She pumped down hard on his chest with her free hand. The ribs moved more easily now. Air moved but not by the body’s volition. Instead, there came a sickening sound like a death rattle. She had heard the sound before on that terrible night her father shot himself. There was no life in the sound. She checked again. There was no pulse.

She looked down at his blanched, dead face. His mouth was slack, and his eyes were open looking back at her, mocking her failure. He always mocked her. She stood up and backed away. She felt horrible, but she knew that she would be feeling better soon—much better. She hated him, and the son-of-a-bitch was dead.

The EMTs cut their siren. Its wail sighed away and died. Turning off the siren a distance away was meant to spare the patient additional anxiety. Never mind, she thought. Another more distant siren was approaching. To put out the burning utility pole, Ann supposed.

She leaned back against the counter that was at a right angle to the sink and waited. The rain was washing the blood from the broken window. She watched it happen as she listened to the hasty footfalls thumping up the four flights of wooden stairs. Already, she was feeling nothing. She was numb. Feeling better was on the way.

They didn’t delay by knocking but pushed through the unlocked door carrying a backboard. There were three of them, out of breath, wide-eyed, and uniformed in rain-soaked blue. Two were younger than Ann had expected. Early twenties. The third, last through the door and breathing the hardest, was at least in his forties. They entered the kitchen and stopped short. As young as they were, they knew death when they saw it.

Come on, do it! the senior one ordered, and all three huddled down around the body snapping on rubber gloves. One ripped open the patient’s shirt exposing an impressive, hairy chest. Another attached the sticky pads of a portable ECG to strategic points on the chest and turned the device on. The screen showed a thin, green, flat line, and a disinterested, automatous female voice spoke from the ECG, Begin CPR. The senior medic sighed and began compressions while the other two sat back on their heels. All of their quick actions could not disguise that it was all done perfunctorily. The guy was dead.

How did his throat get cut? the youngest-looking one asked Ann while the senior one continued making a good show of performing CPR.

Ann turned her attention away from the raging weather outside the broken window. I had to open his airway. He couldn’t breathe.

A tracheotomy?

Whatever. Ann shrugged.

You don’t cut across the trachea. You cut along it, the young one scolded.

Shut up! the senior one hissed sotto voce through his teeth.

She cut his throat open! the young one insisted defensively sotto voce.

Just shut up and call for the police.

CHAPTER TWO

Jack Slamm had to walk in a cold October drizzle the seven blocks from his apartment on Main Street to his office on Lucky Street. His car, an ’08 Ford Focus, was hid away in an ex-girlfriend’s garage to prevent the repo man from towing it away. He was three months behind.

He was cold. His black leather bomber jacket that he had ordered through the Heartland catalog suited the weather, but he needed a hat. His salt and pepper hair (the salt was premature) was pasted wet against his head pulling the heat out of his body. And the hair needed to be cut. It draped over his ears.

He walked past the show windows of tiny shops set in 19th Century redbrick buildings that had once offered apartments on the floors above. Now the apartments were vacant as were half the shops. Their dark windows seemed haunted like much of the city. He walked past a hole-in-the-wall bar, a hole-in-the-wall used-furniture store, a hole-in-the-wall revivalist church, a hole-in-the-wall beauty shop where he waved through the window at the aging stylist with big, bleached-blond hair who was working on the edges of another big hair. She waved back with her scissors. Private Detective Jack Slamm had found her missing son two years before.

This was the old crumbling section of Manson, Ohio, competing with the new section on Lafayette Road where supermarkets and franchised establishments gobbled up the lion’s share of what little business there was in Manson. But Main Street had trees along its way that offered white blossoms in the spring, shade in the summer and bright leaves in the fall. Slamm gave the trees credit for Main Street’s resilience, but they were no comfort to him as he walked in the late-October rain. The trees were black and bare.

There was a dank, narrow alley between the beauty shop and another bar. Too narrow to accommodate motorized traffic, and leading back to another dank, forbidding alley, it professed to be a space without an intended purpose; but it was instead a favorite station for those who engaged in illegal solicitations of one kind or another. As Slamm approached, a raggedy man stepped out from the narrow, dark space. He was gaunt and sad, stooped and gray. His watery eyes were faded. He looked older than he probably was. His dirty hand was out.

Got a cigarette, Mister? He lowered his eyes.

Slamm stopped. No, sorry. Don’t smoke cigarettes.

Got a dollar to spare for a cup of coffee? He continued to look down.

Slamm dug into his pants pocket and produced three quarters which he dropped into the raggedy man’s dirty hand. The man examined the three quarters. What can I do with these?

Tiddlywinks comes to mind, Slamm said and regretted saying it. It unintentionally sounded snide.

The raggedy man looked up at Slamm. His watery eyes floated over Slamm’s stubbled, wet face. Another quarter will get me that cup of coffee, he pleaded.

Slamm was embarrassed by his smartass remark. The raggedy man was shivering. Slamm wanted to make amends. All I got is a five dollar bill, and I need it. If you’ll stay here, I’ll go get it changed and come back with another quarter.

The raggedy man’s smile had spaces. Okay, but I’ll go with you. Save you having to walk back. Before taking a step, he opened his hand to gaze upon the coins again. His smile dropped. Wait! Wait! Wait! He grabbed hold of Slamm’s hand, turned it over, and dropped the coins. Here, take your quarters back.

What are you doing?

The raggedy man wiped his gnarled hand against his raggedy coat. There’s blood on them.

What? Slamm said and stupidly looked at the coins in his hand.

I sometimes see things. I don’t know how or why I see things, but I do, and I see blood on your quarters, Mister. A lot of blood.

Come on. Who you kidding? If you can conjure up things, why don’t you conjure up the winning lottery numbers?

I can’t conjure up anything. I just see things. I wish I didn’t. It frightens me.

Slamm held out his hand. Take the quarters. You’ve been drinking too much cheap wine. You’re hallucinating.

The raggedy man, his eyes wide, shook his gray head and backed into his dark space like a hermit crab backing into an abandoned shell. Slamm watched him disappear.

Well, that was weird, Slamm said to himself and walked on.

There was another hole-in-the-wall, a diner. Its show window was steamed up. Hot coffee. The window said so in glowing red neon. Slamm stepped in out of the rain. A bell jingled over his head. Inside, a long, Formica-topped counter with a knotty pine design serviced ten spin-able stools on chrome posts with seats cushioned under red, cracked, imitation leather. Across from the counter were a half-dozen booths with green, plastic seats and green, Formica-topped tables. Behind the counter there were coffee makers with glass pots—one trimmed in decaf orange—pies under glass, donuts on display behind glass, and a waitress who was too good looking to be anywhere except in front of a camera. Behind her, seen through a square portal, a cook, also stubbled, was moving about listlessly. The place smelled of fried bacon. Slamm took the first seat inside the door. There was one other customer, a man on a stool at the other end. Slamm picked up the menu and studied it for no good reason. He knew what he would have, what he could afford.

The waitress sauntered over. Slamm, his head down, heard her coming, the froufrou of her starched uniform. What’ll you have, handsome? She leaned on her elbows on the counter with her face close to his. When Slamm looked up, caught by surprise, she smiled.

She was new. Slamm hadn’t seen her in the diner before or any other place. He would remember if he had. She was certainly out of place. Where were the cameras? She was beautiful even with her copious, honey-blond hair bunched up under a hairnet.

Just coffee. Slamm smiled in return and set the menu down.

Fresh apple pie, she said. Her hazel eyes were large and nearly Oriental in shape—cat-like really.

Slamm thought about pie, and then thought about his last five dollars. No, just coffee.

Okay, she relented. Her lips were plump and pouty. She wiggled away.

Slamm glanced again at the man sitting at the far end of the counter. A working man in brown coveralls and matching ball cap. The man had a newspaper folded on the counter along with a coffee and a slice of pie. There was an empty plate. Eggs and bacon Slamm guessed and chewed on his bottom lip. The working man was leering at the waitress who was at the coffee maker with her back to him. When she bent over to pour Slamm’s coffee, the man stood up, leaned over the counter, stretched out his arm, and pinched her butt.

Hey! she shouted spinning around. I told you to cut it out, and I mean it! I don’t like that.

Yeah? Well, you shouldn’t be sticking that sweet ass in my face?

I hate you! she snarled.

I love you, he said and made kissing sounds.

She carried the cup of coffee over to Slamm and set it down hard enough to spill a little. Sorry, she said. Free refills. She glared over her shoulder at the pincher. I wish that guy would stop coming in here. I complained to the boss about him, but he told me to forget about it. He said, the way business is, he’d have me serve Ted Bundy if he came in.

Slamm stood up and walked down the length of the counter until he was standing next to the man with the newspaper. The man shot a quick perusal up at Slamm and looked away at nothing. He appeared to not know what to do with his hands that were resting on the counter with the thumbs turned up—like any slight gesture on his part might be misinterpreted. He sat waiting and rigid as if expecting to have his face shoved into his pie. Slamm hardly noticed. He was accustomed to the reaction.

Are you finished with that newspaper? Slamm asked.

The man shoved the folded paper across the counter away from himself. He remained looking down and rigid.

Thanks, Slamm said and took the paper back to his place at the other end of the counter.

The man stirred his coffee for a moment, self-consciously, then quickly tossed down the money due, got up and walked out leaving half a pie and half a coffee behind. Slamm didn’t notice at the time. He was busy flipping through the paper.

Wow! the waitress cheered as the door closed behind the working man with a jingle of the bell. Wiggling back to Slamm’s spot, she placed a plate holding a triangle of apple pie and a fork down on the newspaper.

Wow, what? Slamm asked. He looked at the pie. It looked good—laced with brown, glazed crust. Smelled good too. No, I said I didn’t want pie.

She glanced over her shoulder at the kitchen portal. On the house, she whispered. And thanks.

For what?

For running off that slime ball.

Slamm glanced in the direction of the abandoned coffee and pie. I didn’t run him off.

The hell you didn’t. You scared the holy crap out of him. It was amazing. You didn’t say anything. You didn’t do anything. You just stood there with your legs apart and your big shoulders hunched over, and the guy was about to faint.

All I wanted was the newspaper.

You’re kidding?

No, really, just the paper.

Oh.

Sorry. You want the pie back? Slamm already had the fork in hand.

She smiled. No. She laughed. It was a wonderful sound. What’s your name?

Everybody calls me Slamm.

Why? Cause you slam guys around?

No. My legal name is Slamminsky. I just dropped the insky.

Why? You ashamed of it?

No, no. It just keeps things simple. Everybody calls me Slamm anyway.

You sure?

Yeah, yeah, I’m sure.

Okay. I asked because my maiden name was Mickiewicz.

Did anyone ever call you Mickie?

Yeah, in school. She laughed wonderfully again. You made your point.

She leaned on the counter again, and watched him eat. You know, you’re a good-looking guy, Slamm. Kind of beat up though. How did you get that scar that divides your eyebrow?

Slamm looked up from the disappearing pie. Boxing.

Really? She dragged out the word. A fighter, huh? That’s why you move the way you do. That’s what scared the slime ball—the way you move. Like you’re about to throw a punch.

I stopped fighting ten years ago when I found out that some of the guys I knocked out couldn’t tie their shoelaces anymore.

What about that deep scar on your chin? she asked as she slid her finger across the diagonal groove. You didn’t get that boxing—too deep.

I fell off my tricycle when I was a kid. It was a lie, but it saved him from having to repeat an old, unpleasant story.

Oh, that’s disappointing. She pouted. What do you do now?

Slamm tapped his finger on the newspaper. I read the help-wanted ads.

Disappointed again, she backed away a little. Really? That’s too bad. Did you lose your job? What did you do?

I’m a private investigator without clients. I haven’t had an assignment in nine weeks.

Wow! A private eye. That’s neat. She patted his hand. Her touch was feather light. It’s the economy. A lot of people are hurting. The soap factory shut down, and everybody in Manson is broke.

This town was never big enough to support an agency even in good times. I’ve been doing the detective thing for seven years, just breaking even while working out of a rattrap of an office over on Lucky Street.

She leaned in close again. She also smelled good. A womanly smell. I was working for a trucking firm making seventeen bucks an hour. Got fired. Now I’m working for tips in this greasy spoon. She bit her lip and glanced over in the direction of the kitchen. The boss did not appear to have heard her.

Hard times, Slamm said.

Hard times, she confirmed. Hey, you want to get together this evening?

I’d like that, but I’m broke and you’re married.

She shook her head. "Not any more. And I’m talking business. Come over to my place after I get off work. I have a job