Weed Killer

By James Borwick

Weed Killer replaces the Philip Marlowe-style tough-guy hero with Eric Nine, a civilized, self-doubting, therapy-going mensch, bright enough to squeeze out of a tight corner, but out of his depth when investigating a murder. Soft-boiled Eric is drop-kicked into a hard-boiled world of malleable cops, over-confident gangsters, rapacious businessmen, prim socialites, and the occasional haughty poodle. He is no Sam Spade, taking a steam bath and downing a fifth of bourbon before a long night tailing a suspect. Instead, Eric smokes half a joint and brings a book-on-tape to keep him company. And when it comes to swapping jaded repartee with a psychopathic interrogator armed with a syringe, he is more likely to panic, to lose his nerve and run his ass off when the bad guys have their backs turned.

• Language: English
• Publisher: James Borwick
• Release date: Jul 27, 2012
• ISBN: 9780985867287

Book preview

Weed Killer

James Borwick

Text copyright 2012 James Borwick

All Rights Reserved

Cover image copyright 2012 Margaret Forrest

All Rights Reserved

Smashwords Edition

13-digit ISBN: 978-0-9858672-8-7

Library of Congress Control Number: 2012943835

Spadefoot Press

P.O. Box 1458

Abiquiu, NM 87510

To learn more about the author, please visit:

http://www.jamesborwick.com

This book is also available in a print edition at jamesborwick.com

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

To Margaret

Table of Contents

Chapter One / Gummy

Chapter Two / Dr. Monk

Chapter Three / The Operator

Chapter Four / Tripp

Chapter Five / Dead Man’s Laundry

Chapter Six / Phillip

Chapter Seven / Pictures

Chapter Eight / Tip

Chapter Nine / Gabby

Chapter Ten / Vera

Chapter Eleven / Dog’s Life

Chapter Twelve / Maniac at the DMV

Chapter Thirteen / Ellman and Watson

Chapter Fourteen / Rate Increases

Chapter Fifteen / Click

Chapter Sixteen / The Adventure Ends

Chapter Seventeen / Floating

Chapter Eighteen / Revelations

Chapter Nineteen / There’s Nothing Else To Do

Chapter Twenty / Libbick

Chapter Twenty-One / A Version

Chapter Twenty-Two / Eggshells

Chapter Twenty-Three / A Stick for Pool

Chapter Twenty-Four / Tippy

Chapter Twenty-Five / Cooking

Chapter Twenty-Six / A Ticket to Dresden

Chapter Twenty-Seven / Thrifty

Chapter Twenty-Eight / Clackamas

Chapter Twenty-Nine / The L’s

Chapter Thirty / A Sour Taste

Chapter Thirty-One / Prospectus

Chapter Thirty-Two / A Short Interview

Chapter Thirty-Three / History

Chapter Thirty-Four / What She Didn’t Know

Chapter Thirty-Five / Three

Chapter Thirty-Six / Toby

Chapter Thirty-Seven / Something Fishy

Chapter Thirty-Eight / Underworld Figures

Chapter Thirty-Nine / Shelter

Chapter Forty / DBA

Chapter Forty-One / Where Things Are Happening

Chapter Forty-Two / Psychiatric Interlude

Chapter Forty-Three / Other Possibilities

Chapter Forty-Four / Reaction

Chapter Forty-Five / And One For You

Chapter One / Gummy

Portland, Oregon

1995

Eric Nine was asleep and dreaming of the perfect job. The particulars of the job were as vague and blurred as the overcast sky hanging low above his little duplex, but in the dream there appeared to be plenty of long weekends and opportunities to knock off early. There was no boss he could see, and what exactly there was for him to do as far as work was concerned was unclear. Still, it was a job that needed doing. And only he could do it.

In his dream a bell chimed. What could that mean? An ending? A beginning? A portent of his mortality?

And then it chimed again. Doorbell.

He sat up quickly, rubbing an eye, and looked over at the heavy black dials of his barely functioning alarm clock, a flea market find in tarnished chrome circa 1939. It was a quarter past noon.

Could be a package, he thought, an unexpected gift from an unknown benefactor. Or perhaps it was the scary ladies, the Jehovah’s Witnesses in their lacy hats and K-Martian dresses, returning to taunt him.

The uncertainty was too much. He leapt out of bed, slipped his arms into a robe of rich vibrant red, and scampered down the wooden spiral staircase that creaked threateningly with his every barefoot step. A narrow hallway took him from the bottom of the stairs to the front door. Tightening the robe’s heavy belt, he prayed for something good to happen and opened the door.

A powdered white face was staring at him. It was the face of a sturdy woman in her forties with tightly-coiffed blonde hair and an outfit—florid yellow pant suit and pink satin scarf—that aspired to a certain Town & Country elegance, but badly overshot the manor house and landed with a thump somewhere out in the suburbs.

"Good mor-ning! she belted out. I’m here today to find out how much you care about your neighborhood!"

Eric exhaled, his body sagging with disappointment.

She gave him a strong smile and extended her hand. My name is Pamela O’Day. How do you do?

He shook her hand, his eyes almost closed.

We’re conducting a survey of the neighborhood. If you have a minute, I’d like to come in and ask you a few questions.

I’m kind of busy, Eric said, pulling the door closed to his shoulder. Maybe you could tell me what the survey is about?

Well, she said, as if that were an excellent question, we’re trying to get a feel for people’s attitudes about the future of this area. We want to help plan for the rapid growth taking place all over the city.

Who is ‘we’?

My company, she said with a smile.

And that is...?

The organization I work for. She was still smiling.

Yes, I get that. But what’s it called?

Oh, she said as if only now understanding the question. Equity 2000. She said it very innocently.

Eric scratched his forehead with the tip of his index finger just as innocently. Equity 2000. Isn’t that a real estate company?

Uhh… yes.

So, when you say you’re doing a survey, what you mean is you’re trying to get people to sell their houses.

She hesitated as did her smile.

Eric raised a pair of doubting eyebrows. No?

The survey, she said, searching for the words, will allow us to better help our customers, particularly those interested in…

Selling their houses? he suggested helpfully.

Her smile turned tentative. Well, I wouldn’t quite put it that way.

How would you put it?

I’d say we’re… helping people to fully realize their resources.

Very nice.

Her smiled returned.

I have to go now, he said and eased the door in the direction of closed.

She craned her head around the slowly closing door. Can I just ask you one question?

I’m afraid not.

He shut the door.

And he would have taken a moment to brood over the incident, to commiserate with himself over the callous state of the world, had the subject of lunch not intervened. A moment’s thought decided him upon The Merchant of Venice. But first, a quick shower.

The quick shower ended up lasting half an hour because Eric found the hot water so pleasing. He shook his loose mop of curly red hair into an agreeable chaos, threw on a sweatshirt and loose pair of jeans softened into comfort by repeated wearings and washings, and walked the eight blocks to The Merchant of Venice, where he found a cozy nook with a window view and ordered half a San Marco sandwich with a small side salad and a bottle of root beer. After a few bites of the sandwich he took a swig of the root beer. As he drank, his eyes curved around the neck of the bottle and he spotted Gummy Simon. Gummy was looking glum.

Gummy! Hey, Gummy!

Gummy turned, saw Eric, and trudged over to his table. In one smooth motion, he slipped off his backpack, hung it on the wing of the seatback, slid into the seat, and laid his head down on the table.

Everything alright? asked Eric.

No, Gummy moaned, head still down. Oh, God!

What’s wrong?

It’s Hank. He’s dead.

Eric sucked in a drag of air. Dead?

Gummy let out a heartbroken sigh.

How?

House burned down.

Poor Hank.

Gummy raised his head and aimed a grievous look at Eric.

How did it happen?

Don’t know. The fire was on Friday, I just found out today. He shook his head slowly. I talked to him that morning, man. He sounded normal. You know, completely normal, like nothing was wrong. We were going to meet up tomorrow at his place. I…I just can’t believe this happened. I mean Hank, man. It’s…it’s just not fair. He let out a huge sigh.

They sat there, shaking their heads, making little sad noises, until Eric suddenly remembered something.

Wasn’t Hank your main source?

"My only source, man, Gummy cried. I’ve been buying off him almost exclusively for two years."

What about that Nixon guy?

What Nixon guy?

You know, the guy with the hair.

You mean Tommy Agnew?

Agnew, that’s right. What happened to him?

Moved to Alaska three years ago.

Three years? I thought you still saw him sometimes.

He moved to Alaska three years ago, man. Said Portland was getting too crowded.

Oh, said Eric.

"Yeah, and he was right. It is getting too crowded. I sat in my V-Dub for ten minutes at Motor Moka yesterday. I mean, isn’t the whole point of drive-thru…" but he relinquished his complaint with a heavy sigh and returned his head to the table.

So you’ve been buying exclusively off Hank for two years?

Yeah, well, pretty much, he said from the table. You know, every once in a while an opportunity comes by that you don’t want to pass up. But otherwise, totally exclusive.

You must have been pretty close.

Gummy shrugged sideways. Yeah, I guess.

There followed a long awkward pause. Eric took a bite from his sandwich and Gummy closed his eyes, muttering, I don’t know who I’m supposed to go to now. He open his eyes with a thought and looked plaintively up from the table. You don’t have any to sell, do you?

Nuh-uh. But I can get some for you from Mikhail. You know him?

A little. I hung out with him once at a Tom Waits gig at La Luna. Nice guy. Accent’s a little hard to understand, but he’s cool.

When are you looking to buy?

Anytime.

How about you order something to eat and afterwards we go over to Mikhail’s place? I need to see him anyway ’cause I’m running low, too.

I’m in, said Gummy and turned to locate someone to take his order.

On their way to Gummy’s car, Eric and Gummy stopped off to get lattes and split a chocolate cookie that was as much brownie as cookie. They headed south toward Hawthorne in Gummy’s green 1972 VW Beetle, talking as they drove. A block and a half shy of their destination the flow of their conversation was disrupted by an intermittent red light bouncing off a distant surface. At first, Eric barely registered it as anything more than an unconscious disturbance in his peripheral vision. But as they drove slowly on it grew larger, and suddenly Eric was conscious that the pulsing red disturbance was the flashing light of a squad car.

What the hell?

Gummy noticed it a moment later and instinctively stopped the car. They peered through the windshield in strained silence.

It’s Mikhail’s house, Eric said.

Can’t be.

Park here.

Gummy parked, and they walked toward the spinning red light. But Gummy was impatient, and he suddenly took off.

Wait a sec! Eric called after him. Don’t run.

Gummy stopped and turned. What is it?

I’ve got half a jay in my pocket and I don’t want to freak out the cops by running over. Let’s just walk fast.

Walk fast? Okay.

Trying hard to look casual, the two of them sped jerkily toward the police car, slowing down to a more regular stride for the last ten steps.

There were two fire trucks parked at sharp hurried angles to the cop car with their front wheels on the curb. Half a dozen firemen were just rolling up their hoses, splashing through broad puddles, as Eric Nine and Gummy Simon stumbled onto the scene.

Mikhail’s house was about seventy-percent gone. The edges of the remaining structure were crumbled as if a giant had taken bites out of a big black cookie. Parts of the ground floor were still there and one of the four corners of the second floor stood tall like a faux ruin.

Eric and Gummy were half-sprinting up the stone stairs to the front door when a voice froze them like deer.

Hey! What are you guys doin’?

A tiny detonation of adrenaline burst in Eric’s chest and Gummy’s stubble-covered Adam’s apple visibly jumped. No words needed to be passed between them.

That’s our friend’s house, Eric called across the long sloping stairs to the cop whose head was craning as if he couldn’t quite focus on them.

You can’t go in there, said the cop. It’s dangerous. He looked them over a couple of times. Would you two mind stepping over here for a moment?

They didn’t look at each other. They just moved down the stairs quickly, Gummy’s leather soles tapping on the stone steps. When they got to the cop he was flipping pages back on his notebook.

What’s your friend’s name?

Mikhail, said Eric.

Mikhail what?

Uhm…Mikhail… He turned to Gummy who stretched his face in a miniature shrug.

Mikhail... Eric struggled, Mikhail… something Russian.

Could you describe him?

Big guy, about six-two or three, said Gummy.

He’s about thirty or a little under, Eric added, with dark, kinda shaggy hair.

The cop looked down at his uncuffed blue pants and scratched his thigh with the corner of his notebook. He lifted his head up to look at Eric, then looked sideways at nothing much.

I’m afraid he didn’t make it.

Eric cupped his lips as if he were going to say, What?, but only air came out.

Gummy lifted one hand and his forehead met it halfway. "Oh, man!"

He’s dead? asked Eric, though he needn’t have.

I’m afraid so. I’m very sorry. Was he a close friend of yours?

Kind of close, Eric said, bobbing his head from side to side. He was my uhh... Well, you know, he was a pretty good friend. Eric was sounding less and less certain.

I can’t believe another one, said Gummy, lost in the horror of the day.

Eric turned and looked at him through a cocked eye that was clear enough to alert Gummy without appearing suspicious to the cop.

Another one what? the half-curious cop asked.

Gummy, aware now of his mistake, paused to think as he stretched his neck from side to side. Well, we know this other guy who died in a fire just a couple of days ago.

Really? Who was that?

Just a friend of ours. A guy named Hank.

Hank what?

Trying hard to look innocent, Gummy forced himself to hold the policeman’s gaze. His neck arched sideways, expressing in disguise the anxiety he was holding prisoner in his chest, restraining its upward path with an internal chokehold. He straightened up and shook his head apologetically. I don’t know.

You don’t know his last name?

Gummy shook his head some more, lifting one shoulder as if to say it really wasn’t his fault.

And you don’t know your friend here’s last name, either? the cop said, glancing over at the wrecked house.

No, Gummy said, still blameless.

But they both died in fires?

Right, said Gummy, nodding as if the cop was finally getting it.

The cop looked from Gummy to Eric and back to Gummy again.

Look, uhm... if you don’t mind, I’d like you both to come down to the station so we can get some details about your friend… he looked down at his notepad, …Mikhail. Just some basic info for identification purposes. It’ll only take about twenty minutes.

A second flare of adrenaline shot through Eric’s chest while Gummy tried to pretend his face hadn’t just frozen. Taking in a lungful of air, Eric spoke on the exhalation making the words seem more casual. Sure. No problem.

Three hours later they managed to get out of the police station without being arrested. Eric gently pushed the front door open, a model of studied calmness as he and Gummy stepped into the cool pre-dusk evening. They walked silently down the wide stone stairs, still in the tremendously focused state they’d been maintaining throughout their long interview with the police. There had been a nearly invisible, intimidating tension brought on by the unassuming friendliness of their interrogators. And as the crisp evening air hit Gummy and Eric, their bodies felt like solid blocks of flexed muscle.

Knowing they were still in dangerous territory, they continued to say nothing, staying stony-faced until they got to Gummy’s VW, which they’d parked in the police lot. Gummy drove the car with amazing composure for several blocks, then pulled up next to a sidewalk under a large sheltering tree.

Eric let out a loud agonized groan. Gummy punched the thin roof of his car and slapped himself in the forehead. Yet, now that they had a chance to speak, neither could find the words to express the awfulness of what they’d just been through. They kept playing the scene in the police station over in their minds until, finally, Gummy spoke up as if in mid-conversation.

All the smiling, man, and all the friendliness. Scared the shit out of me. I was sure they were gonna throw the handcuffs on us any minute and haul us into the back.

Do you think they knew?

You mean that Mikhail and Hank were dealers?

That, or just if we smoked dope.

They definitely knew something. No question.

Then did they let us go because they couldn’t pin anything on us? In which case, maybe they’re planning on keeping an eye us.

Shit! I didn’t even think of that.

Still, if they’d really wanted to arrest us, you’d think they’d at least have done a search to see if we had anything on us.

Jesus! You’ve got a ghost in your pocket. We would have been screwed.

No, I dropped it on the ground just before I got into the car to drive to the police station.

That was smart, said Gummy, who then paused, his mind taking flight and following a short parabola before returning, like a boomerang, to the moment. Do you want to go back and get it? he asked quite seriously.

Eric smiled at him, half amused, half reprimanding. I don’t think that would be a good idea.

Gummy looked down sheepishly, and Eric laughed lightly through his nose, barely shaking his head. You’re worse than I am.

There’s no ‘worse’ about it, Gummy replied, defending something degraded but noble.

Chapter Two / Dr. Monk

Lying back on the leather couch, Eric had a strong urge to turn around and look at Dr. Monk who, he always assumed, was sitting back there with his pale green stenographer’s notepad, taking the occasional toke on his empty pipe. He could be sure about the pipe because he could hear the dry sucking sound, but he was less certain about the note taking. This being a place for free association, he brought it up.

You know, I wonder what you’re doing back there sometimes. I want to turn around and find out.

But you don’t.

You’re right, I don’t. And then he thrust himself upward, bending his body backward like a very large banana, pulling his head back just far enough to look Dr. Monk in the eye. Eric held the position for a dozen seconds, staring mildly at Dr. Monk. Dr. Monk looked back at him with a squint that suggested attentiveness. He was a lean, soft-spoken, bearded man, pushing forty, who was charging Eric on a steeply sliding scale, and who was now wondering if there weren’t perhaps people with a greater need.

Actually, said Eric, I have a serious problem to talk to you about. He retracted his body and settled himself comfortably back into the couch. Two people I know died. I think they were killed.

I see, said Dr. Monk, not too casually.

They were pot dealers. Small timers, nothing serious.

What makes you believe they were killed?

They both died in fires only a couple of days apart.

Dr. Monk waited.

It seemed pretty suspicious to me. And to the cops.

How do you know about the police?

Well they dragged me and my friend Gummy into the station. What happened was, we were visiting Mikhail—he’s one of the guys who died—just after the fire was put out. We told them, well Gummy did—not that bright an idea —about the other guy who’d died, Hank. Of course we didn’t mention that they were pot dealers. Anyway, they wanted to ask us some questions, and they took us down to the station.

Hmm.

When we were at the station they wanted to know how we happened to know both of these guys, trying to find out if there was any connection. We couldn’t tell them the truth, for obvious reasons, so we played dumb. Then they kept asking more and more questions—where we’d met them, how often we saw them—and I started getting scared that they’d figure it out on their own. So I said that they were both really into poodles and maybe there was some connection there. It’s actually true. Mikhail and Hank had this incredible poodle, one of those big ones the size of a German shepherd. They both took care of her and used to enter her in dog competitions. You wouldn’t believe this dog. A real prima donna with this amazing personality. Like an opera star. Anyway, the diversion worked, and the cops started asking us questions about dogs, and then Gummy threw up. I think it was because he was scared, but he said he’d eaten a bad burrito. The cops seemed to buy it. They kept asking us more questions about dogs, but they gave up pretty soon. I’m not sure if it was because they figured we couldn’t help them on the poodle angle or because they got grossed out by Gummy and his puking. I was so happy that Gummy got us out of there that I wanted to hug him when we got outside.

Eric thought for a moment about the possible interpretation of this statement and decided to add something for the sake of clarity.

But he still smelled a little, so I kept to myself. Anyway, the cops are probably going to follow up on the dog thing, but I don’t think they’re going to get anywhere with it. Meanwhile, I want to find out what happened to Hank and Mikhail.

You don’t think it might have been coincidental that they both died in fires? asked Dr. Monk.

Could be, Eric said, unconvinced.

Perhaps you should share your thoughts with the police.

I don’t think that’d be a good idea. If they find out Hank and Mikhail were pot dealers, they might think I was one, too. What if they went after me? I’d have to hire a lawyer, which would require a lot of money that I don’t have, and just because I’m innocent doesn’t mean they couldn’t make things difficult for me. He stopped for a moment to consider the state of his innocence. Of course, I am guilty of purchasing and smoking pot, he confessed, although I can’t see how they could prove it. He pinched his lower lip, then decided, I think I’d do best to steer clear of the cops.

Dr. Monk nodded half-heartedly. Maybe you’re right.

Thing is, I don’t believe the cops are really going to spend a lot of time on the case of two dead pot dealers. Low priority as far as they’re concerned. Never mind that two guys, two really nice guys, died under mysterious circumstances. Or that a sudden shortage in the city’s pot supply could have some pretty devastating consequences.

How so?

Oh, you know… Eric shrugged, not entirely convinced of his assertion. Anyway, something’s got to be done.

What did you have in mind?

Well, I’m low on cash, and I know I should really be looking for a job.

A very sound idea.

But I’ve decided to look into the murders myself.

Look into?

Investigate. Like a detective.

You’re kidding, said Dr. Monk.

Chapter Three / The Operator

What he needed was a camera. Something small that he could hide in a jacket pocket. A detective always needs a camera, he told himself. Which was fortunate, for he loved photography and had been wanting to buy a camera for quite some time but had never quite been able to justify the expense. Of course, a new camera would cost too much, but that was okay because he thought new cameras were ugly. He preferred the older models, something in Bakelite, maybe. He liked them old and cool, and he knew a place on 21st Avenue, a dusty boutique called Second Shot that specialized in vintage photo equipment.

He saw the one he wanted the moment he walked into the store. It was from the forties, black, with two silver deco stripes and small enough to fit in the palm of his hand. It was seated on a small pedestal in the front display case, its little hinged front door popped open and its tiny bellows extended. The bellows tapered to a narrow lens, a lovely golden ring bearing the engraved name of Zeiss. When the bellows were retracted, and the little door closed, the camera was smaller than a pack of cigarettes.

How much for that one? asked Eric.

The shop owner, a stiff, lightly bearded man of about forty-five, grinned slightly. Three-fifty, he said standing up on his toes.

It took Eric a moment to figure out where the decimal point went.

Oh, he said.

What sort of price range were you thinking?

Eric looked sheepish. Thirty?

The man went up on his toes again, twirled ninety degrees, and made a big arcing reach down into a cardboard box that might have been a makeshift garbage can. There was a bit of clatter as he shuffled through the box with one hand, soon reemerging with a plastic object the shape of an ice-cream sandwich. He turned and handed it to Eric as if it were slightly disgusting.

You can have this for fifteen, he said. It works, in its own sort of way.

Eric looked it over. I like its size, he said.

Yes, the owner replied. It is rather small.

But it’s not quite…

No, said the man.

Thirty doesn’t get you much, I guess.

You could get two and give one to a friend.

What about forty?

What about it?

Alright, fifty. But that’s it.

He got out of there for fifty-two ninety with an old foldout Polaroid, which—in its closed position—was the size of a hardcover book. Before he left, he asked the shop owner if the camera took good pictures.

The technology is adequate, the man replied. I cannot speak for the operator.

Chapter Four / Tripp

The first thing to figure out was where to begin his investigation. Why would anyone want to kill a couple of small-time pot dealers? They weren’t doing anyone any harm, and it seemed unlikely that they had been hooked up with big time drug dealers. Then again, who could say for sure what might have happened. Eric didn’t want to rule out any possibilities.

Where to start?

Tripp.

The area around Hawthorne Avenue between about 20th and 60th Avenues had been undergoing that now familiar battle taking place in most American cities with renewed vigor since 1981 and the ascendance of Ronald Reagan: the battle between the upwardly and downwardly mobile. Hawthorne had long been a neighborhood of working-class families that had gradually absorbed a scattering of aging hippies, nouveau hippies, musicians, hangers-out, people who called themselves artists, a few actual artists, and a miscellany of indescribables who filled out the remainder of an amiable cast of drowsy bohemians. This mixed colony had managed to put together a few cafes and pubs, some bookshops and record stores, and a couple of not so hot places to eat. Its reputation had grown and had begun to attract some of the young new arrivals to the city who were looking for a hip but not too pricey place to live. As the area became more desirable, the professional class smelled blood, and within a couple of years the earlier inhabitants were being priced out of the neighborhood they had created. Pithy slogans appeared now and again, spray-painted upon blank walls along Hawthorne Avenue, inviting the newcomers to seek accommodations elsewhere or words to that effect.

On 36th Avenue, two blocks south of Hawthorne, Eric knocked on a once-blue door that was now swollen with water and rot but that still had a couple of years left in it before it would crumble like a cracker. He was standing on a raised porch typical of Portland houses, and on either side of the door were windows covered by curtains. The curtains seemed to be yellow with little darkened bursts that looked like the blue in blue cheese. The effect was mercifully lessened by the thick patchy dirt on the windows, patterned unpleasantly from rain forced against the glass by the wind. A bearded man in his forties who, upon closer inspection, actually turned out to be about thirty, opened the door.

Hey, man, he said.

Hey, replied Eric.

What’s up? the bearded man asked, not inviting Eric in.

Tripp, it’s me, Eric.

"Oh shit, man. I’m sorry. I can’t see right today.