Midnight Whiskey

By J. G. Curtiss

As Private Investigator Hank Bumgardner searches for a missing woman, hoping to find her before she is murdered, he encounters several unique characters including four intriguing women. One is lonely, one is bitter, one is rich, and one is dangerous.
Hank isn't long in his search before he discovers that the crazed man who stalks the missing women also stalks him, and a deadly game ensues.

• Language: English
• Publisher: J. G. Curtiss
• Release date: Aug 16, 2016
• ISBN: 9781370934966

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

Midnight Whiskey

by J. G. Curtiss

ISBN 9781370934966

Copyright 2016 by J. G. Curtiss

All rights reserved

1

He was forty-five. She was fifteen. They were shacked up somewhere in the slums of the lower Westside of Manson, Ohio. Private Investigator Hank Bumgardner was hired to find them and bring the girl home to Daddy. They were easy to find. A public roster of local sex offenders led the way. The mismatched lovers, he a criminal pedophile, she a high-school truant, were cloistered on the third floor of a three-story, sandstone apartment building in an area of the Westside known as Crack Town.

There were gangs in Crack Town, armed and dangerous, doing business through the windows of passing cars—when they weren’t too busy shooting each other—but the gang members had no interest in the private eye’s familiar vintage Ford Escort, and they didn’t interest Hank provided they stayed out of his way. He wanted the girl and nothing else. He parked his faded-gray Ford Escort, rusted under the doors but with new tires, along the curb before the sandstone building and climbed out.

From the building, broken stone steps descended to a crumbling sidewalk. On the last step a young, shirtless punk sat smoking, pinching an inch-long butt. Hank stood over him. The punk looked up with drugged eyes, his long hair matted, his pale skin shiny with sweat. It was a hot August night. Hank said to the punk, See that car?

Yeah, the punk said without moving his drooping mouth.

I’m going into that building. I want the tires on that car when I come out.

Yeah?

"Yeah. If I still got my tires when I come out, you get ten bucks.

Really? Ten whole bucks? the punk said with faux elation. I’m thrilled. I’ll buy me a shirt from Goodwill and go looking for a job.

Hank said, If anyone looks like he going to mess with the car, the car doors are unlocked; you just lay on the horn.

The punk smiled with rotted teeth. The tires are worth more than ten bucks.

Look at me, Hank said.

I’m looking.

If the tires are gone, I’ll find you. I find people for a living, and I’ll find you and break your scrawny neck. You got that?

Ten bucks if I watch your car and don’t steal your tires; a broken neck if I don’t.

Right.

The punk shrugged and said, Sure. He flipped the nub of his cigarette into the gutter. Got a smoke?

No. This may take awhile, Hank said.

I got nothing to do. He looked down at his dirty hands.

Hank paused, looked away and rubbed the back of his neck. Look, kid, I didn’t mean to come so strong. I got a headache that feels like a train wreck.

The punk nodded. That’s okay. I’m used to it. If nobody yelled at me, I’d feel unpopular.

You’re a good boy, Hank said, surprising himself. I can tell. I deal with all kinds of people all the time, and I can tell in a minute.

Good for what?

Good enough to hang in there. I know people. I can tell. You hang in there, kid.

Sure thing. That ten bucks will get me started in life. Things are looking up.

The inside of the building was dimly lit, full of shadows and litter and stinky from too many bodies crowded into too small a space without air conditioning, with faulty plumbing, and with somebody boiling cabbage. Probably an Irishman. All of the apartment doors were open and the noise coming out of every room, the blaring music, blaring TV crap, and people screaming at each other, all blended together into a growling roar. None of this helped Hank’s heat-induced headache.

Two black men and a white woman sat together on the steps leading up to the second floor. They were drinking canned beer and sweating it out. Both men were thin, shirtless, and shiny black. The obese woman wore a tank top that was too small. The tops of her breasts were bulging, ready to explode. The beer drinkers glared their angry poverty at Hank but made way for him as he passed by them and climbed the steps. Hank was not a big man—five foot ten and build like a trapeze artist, according to his last girlfriend—but his pounding headache made him look like he wanted to kill somebody. The three beer drinkers gave him extra room.

The hallway of the third floor, trapping the heat rising from below, was an oven cooking enough sweat out of Hank to soak his black T-shirt under his gray sports jacket. The jacket concealed his .32 caliber Beretta holstered on the belt holding up his faded blue denim pants. Over his head a single, naked 40-watt bulb attached to a leak-damaged ceiling provided enough gloom for Hank to find the door he wanted, 3D. The address was scrawled across the door in white chalk. The century-old door, showing patches of desiccated wood under flaking red paint, looked solid. Hank knocked and the acid-rock pseudo-music from the other side of the door stopped and was replaced by silence. Hank knocked again.

What do you want? It was a man’s voice, a raspy, cigarette-burnt voice.

Open up.

Who are you?

Private detective. I’m taking Betty home.

I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about, man.

Hank pounded on the door. If I have to take this door down, I’m kicking your ass. Open up.

I’m calling the cops.

Go on. Call them, and call for an ambulance too. You’re going to need it. Hank stepped back, raised his knee to his chest, and rammed the flat of his foot against the door. The door cracked but held. Something solid barred the center of the door, jamming and hurting Hank’s knee. Now he was mad. Open this goddamn door. I’m coming in if I have to tear through the wall.

A bright hole appeared in the center of the door. Hank heard the shot a nanosecond before he felt a sting on his left side. He stumbled back, tripping over his own feet, and fell onto his butt, his back against the opposite wall. It was a lucky fall. More bright holes began appearing in the door with slugs striking the wall over his head and sifting plaster dust down the back of his neck. He pulled his gun, took aim, and fired once at the door. The shooting on the other side stopped followed by a split-second of silence then a floppy thud and a girl’s scream. Hank laid the Beretta on his lap and lifted his T-shirt. There was a ragged tear under his arm below his ribcage. It stung like hell, but was nothing compared to one other time he was shot. He stood up.

Open the door. He had to shout over the girl’s screaming. He rattled the knob.

The girl screamed, Help, help, somebody help.

Nobody can help if you don’t open the damn door.

The screaming stopped and something else heavy fell to the floor and the door began to move. Hank’s kick had ripped away the latch, and the door swung half open on its own. Hank pushed it away and entered the room.

The man lay on the floor spread-eagle; his heavily tattooed body was naked from the waist up, his jaw slack, eyes open; a hole in the center of his forehead was large enough to swallow a ripe olive. A 9mm Glock hung by its trigger guard from the man’s trigger finger.

He lay in a small room empty of furniture except for a single-size iron-rimmed bed supporting a filthy mattress. Next to the bed, on the bare-wood floor, a small red, plastic, art deco radio growled at low volume, its circular dial glowing faintly. Clothes were piled up in a corner. Fast-food litter and beer cans were strewed about. Smoldering cigarette butts had maculated the floor around the bed where a used condom lay like the shed skin of a snake. An open standup-only kitchenette contained a rusty sink filled with trash. Hank looked over his shoulder at the door, now hanging from a single hinge. A two-by-eight pine board lay near the wall. It had barred the door with the support of two heavy iron brackets attached to the jambs.

He’s hurt bad, the girl cried.

Hank stepped over the body. No, honey, he’s dead. That hole in his head is gargling. Hank holstered his gun.

She resumed screaming. She wore only bikini briefs and a bra, but there was nothing to see, no breasts worth noting, no figure at all. She was fifteen but still a child, a child with a copious amount of long blond hair that looked ridiculous, undulating over her small, frail body. She looked like a toy doll, the kind you buy in a box at Toys-R-Us. Oh, Henry, Henry, I love you, she bawled.

Hank flipped open his obsolete cell phone.

2

By the time the cops arrived, storming in, guns drawn, the first one tripping over the body like an idiot, the girl was in khaki shorts and a yellow T-shirt featuring Daffy Duck. She sat on the filthy bed weeping. Hank was rummaging about in the kitchenette, making a lot of noise, looking for something to drink. He had emptied his flask two hours ago, and he wasn’t particular.

There were two of them in uniforms, annoyed that their big entrance was ignored. Hands up. Get down on the floor. I said on the floor. Both of you on the floor, shouted the cop who had tripped over the body and was angry then furious when he saw Hank’s grin.

A plainclothes cop in a brown suit showing a badge followed them in. Hold it, he said wearily, addressing Hank. Stay on your feet. Keep your hands in sight. You the PI that made the call?

Hank approached the plain-clothes cop who was built like Abraham Lincoln but not as good looking. Yeah, Hank said, his hands held away from his sides. I have a gun on my belt and my ID is in my jacket pocket. The cop’s dark hair was thinning; his heavy four-o’clock shadow surrounded a tight mouth showing no lips.

The cop held out a large, knobby hand. Okay, let’s have both. Hank handed the items over. The cop studied the gun, rolling it about his hand; then dropping it into his coat pocket. He said, I’m Lieutenant Barcus, and you are... He glanced at Hank’s business card. ...Private Investigator Hank Bumgardner. What happened here, Bumgardner?

Hank said, The girl blubbering on the bed is Betty Hansen. She’s fifteen. The dead guy is Henry something. He’s not fifteen. They were playing house. Betty’s daddy hired me to bring her home. Henry didn’t want to give her up, so he started shooting at me through the door. I fired back.

Uh-huh. Is that what happened, Betty?

She looked up, her eyes swimming in tears, her nose running. No. That man was going to tear the door down. Henry was scared.

Lieutenant Barcus turned back to Hank. That puts a different spin on your story, Bumgardner. The guy felt threatened.

Look behind you, Lieutenant. That board against the wall secured the door. Henry knew I couldn’t get to him with anything less than a stick of dynamite.

Uh-huh. Barcus turned and studied the door, the board, and then he counted the holes in the door with his pointing finger. Nine holes, he said. The splinters around the holes show eight went out and one came in. Okay. He squatted down, lifted the Glock from the dead man’s hand, and popped out the magazine. Using his thumb, he pushed out and counted, one by one, the remaining bullets. Eight out of a clip holding sixteen. Half gone. He laid the Glock down and stood up. He lifted Hank’s Beretta from his coat pocket and pulled the clip. Yours still has all eight rounds in a clip that holds eight, he said mostly to himself.

I keep one in the chamber. Jacking a round is too Hollywood.

How come you’re still alive, Bumgardner?

I tripped and fell down after the first shot. The other shots went over my head.

Yeah? You sure you didn’t duck? If you did, you could have rolled away instead of shooting back.

I was on my ass trying to pull my head into my neck, Hank said with the hint of a snarl. Does the bad guy always have to get the benefit of the doubt?

No, but a dead guy gets the benefit of the doubt, Barcus said calmly. He can’t answer for himself.

Hank backed off, his scowl falling away. He nodded. Yeah, sure, fair enough. It’s been a long, hot day, and I’ve been sober for half of it.

Still, I don’t know, Barcus said. I’m not entirely convinced you had to shoot. Did you know this guy?

He looks vaguely familiar, but I’d say no. Anyway, it was an adrenalin knee-jerk reaction, Hank said. I’m surprised I hit the door. Amazed I hit his head.

Is that right? Well, your knee-jerk shot hit the guy square between the eyes. ‘Amazing’ is an understatement.

The gods were with me.

Barcus stepped behind Hank, studied the dust on the seat of Hank’s pants, and stepped back to Hank’s front. Okay. It all kind of fits. Barcus handed the Beretta to Hank, but kept the business card.

Wait a minute, one of the uniforms said, the one who had tripped like an idiot and was probably still mad at Hank for grinning. He had sergeant stripes on his sleeves. Bumgardner could have just rolled aside, couldn’t he? He didn’t have to shoot back through the door.

The Lieutenant expelled a weary sigh. Don’t make this more complicated than it is, Smith. Henry’s Glock held sixteen rounds. He got off eight. The guy was still shooting when Bumgardner got off a lucky shot. He didn’t have time to dance around dodging bullets. He was on his ass. The seat of his pants is dusty. If he hadn’t fired off a shot, we would be pulling his bullet-riddled body out of some Dumpster.

Office Smith’s jowls glowed red, but he kept his voice even and said, What about forensics?

Forget forensics, Smith. You want to be here all night? Call the coroner. Barcus turned and said to Hank, "You’re damn lucky you weren’t hit, Bumgardner. If there is a hearing, that fact may be hard to explain."

I was hit, kind of. Hank spread his unbuttoned jacket and lifted his arm showing the bloody tear in his T-shirt. Got a Band-Aid?

Goddamn, Bumgardner. You didn’t say you were hit.

I would be embarrassed to call it a hit.

Barcus yanked up Hank’s shirt. Band-Aid? You’re ripped open. It’s down to the meat. You need to get that sewed up.

What I need is a drink. How long before we wrap this up?

Have you made arrangements for the girl?

Her father is on the way here. Hank glanced at his watch. Any minute now.

The girl jumped up off the bed. Daddy is coming here? No, I don’t want Daddy coming here.

Barcus said, Well, he is, so shut up and sit down.

The girl sat and bawled. Henry was my man. I loved him.

Barcus said, If he had been a man, he would have wanted a woman, not you, missy. Barcus hung a cigarette on his invisible lip and lit up. I thought I knew all the private eyes around here. I haven’t seen you around.

I’m a small, one-man operation. And I try not to involve the cops anymore than I have to.

Yeah? Probably to keep yourself out of trouble.

Hank tightened his mouth for effect. That, and to keep you guys from gumming up the works.

I’ve had a long day too, Bumgardner, so I’m letting that pass, Barcus said. He picked a speck of tobacco off the tip of his tongue. How do you compete with the big operations in Columbus?

I don’t. I take the troublesome jobs nobody else wants to fuss with—the kind that can get a shamus sued or killed. Like this one.

Barcus blew out a jet of smoke. A troubleshooter, huh?

Not by choice. Hank looked bored. Is there a point you’re trying to make?

Where you located? Your card is scuffed up. I can’t make it out.

Lone Street and East Alley. Why? Do you need something investigated?

Barcus ignored the remark. The Purple Moon Bar is on the corner of Lone and East Alley.

I’m upstairs.

An office over a bar, huh? Like in the movies?

Yeah. I’m a stereotype. And I drink too much but only to maintain the image. Are we done here?

Lieutenant Barcus dropped his cigarette and crushed it under the twisting sole of his brown shoe. I hope we never do business again, Bumgardner. I don’t like you. You’re a wise ass.

Part of the image.

Sergeant Smith said, Is that your Ford out front, Bumgardner?

Yeah.

When we arrived here, there was some lowlife sitting on your hood.

He’s a good boy. Hank opened his wallet. Can any of you guys break a twenty?

3

She was Asian. Her black hair was pulled back into a ponytail that hung down her back stopping just above her butt, a small butt on a small woman, a pretty woman about thirty-five years old, a doctor in a light-green hospital gown. Mr. Bumgardner, she said, entering the cubicle, pulling the curtain closed behind her. She looked at her clipboard. You have a superficial gunshot wound to your left side it says here. I’ve seen a lot of gunshots wounds. I’ve yet to see a superficial one.

Well, come have a look, Hank said. He sat on a bed with wheels and had an IV tube with needle stuck to the back of his hand. He was in a blue gown open in the back. Someone was groaning in the next cubicle. Further down the row of cubicles, a baby was crying between coughing fits full of phlegm.

I’m Doctor Sijie, she said. Her dark eyes were sharply slanted, her skin was the color of vanilla pudding, and her mouth was small with full lips. Roll over onto your right side. Let’s have a look. Hank complied and she tossed his gown open exposing all but his lap. Her cool hands touched his side, pulling the wound apart. Another inch closer and you would have been disemboweled. You were lucky.

I would have been luckier if it had missed. How long is this going to take, Doc?

Doc? she said. Who are you—Bugs Bunny? She pulled the blue gown back over his body. All gunshot wounds have to be reported to the police. It’s the law. The receptionist has notified the police. You can expect them to arrive at any moment. I hope there won’t be an incident. Are you a criminal, Mr. Bumgardner?

Hank said, That depends, Doc. Do you like bad boys? A lot of women like bad boys. They think they’re exciting.

Do I look stupid? No, I don’t like bad boys.

In that case, no, I’m not a criminal. Hank sat up. And the cops aren’t coming. They know about the shooting. Are you Chinese?

She stared at him for a moment, opened her mouth to say something but didn’t.

Instead she said, How were you shot, Mr. Bumgardner?

Hank said, You look Chinese. Your name is Sijie. Oh, yeah, you’re Chinese. Japanese have big names like Kurosawa or Fukasaku.

You made those names up, and that last one sounds dirty.

No. I like Japanese movies, the old black and white ones.

I’m an American, she said, her voice dull. My parents are American. My grandparents are American.

And your great grandparents?

Chinese, she snapped. Okay?

I dated a Chinese girl back in two thousand seven. I was strong for her, but she dumped me for a Chinese pharmacist. You people are kind of clannish aren’t you? You stick to yourselves.

That’s not true.

Yeah? Prove it. What time do you get off work?

She half smiled and looked away. Okay. I see where this is going. You have a strange way of getting to the point. Does that approach ever work?

Sure. I got your attention, didn’t I? That’s the first part.

Really? Well, forget about the second part. She glanced at her watch. And you wasted five minutes of my time. I have other patients waiting.

Hank said, Okay, and I’ve been waiting here for over an hour, and I was shot an hour before that. Any longer and my gunshot wound will start to heal itself.

She said, Yes, I’ll have to agree with you this time. I need to suture your wound before it dries up. I’m going to get my sewing kit, and I’ll be right back.

Hank pounded the pillow into the shape he wanted and laid his head down. Wake me when you get back here. Better still. Don’t wake me. Just sew me up.

Oh, a tough guy, huh? Maybe you are a bad boy. She pushed the curtain aside and was gone.

There were loud, angry words in the ER. A woman with the voice of a screech owl was demanding immediate attention. A man, probably the woman’s poor husband, was shouting for her to be still. A clamorous clang followed by a constellation of metallic tinklings sounded like a steel tray loaded of instruments falling onto the concrete floor. In the next cubical, hushed, urgent words were mixed with sobbing. Hank glanced at his watch. Come on. I hate this place, he said under his breath. Get me the hell out of here.

She returned carrying a tray covered with a green cloth. She said, The ER is out of Novocain. It’s been a busy night. I sent a nurse upstairs for more. This will take a few minutes, so in the meantime, I’m going to look in on another patient or two. She turned to leave, leaving the tray on the bed.

Wait a minute, Hank said. Is that your sewing kit on the tray?

Yes.

Forget the Novocain. Sew me up.

What’s the hurry?

I hate hospitals. I want out of here.

Are you kidding? Nobody is that tough.

No, I’m not kidding. Sew me up. Another ten minutes in this hell hole and I’m strangling that screaming woman and whoever dropped that tray. Hank rolled over onto his right side, turning his back to her and pulling the gown away. Do it.

The doctor said, Are you trying to impress me?

Hank said, If I wanted to impress you, I’d sew it up myself. Come on. I’m not kidding, Doc. Grab your needle. Do it.

It will hurt. You won’t be able to lie still.

I’ll make you a deal. If I flinch, I’ll wait for the Novocain. If I don’t flinch, I get your phone number.

The doctor sighed and said, I’m too tired to argue, and I have a half dozen other patients waiting. She pulled a stool over to the side of the bed. The tear is ragged. I’ll have to snip off the loose ends.

Do it.

You’re completely nuts. You know that. It will hurt like hell. You have to be a masochist.

If you’re a sadist, we got something going.

Tension crinkled her brow. This is against all protocol. Why am I going to do this?

Curiosity. You’re wondering if this guy is really that tough. And if he is, I got to get to know this guy.

She jerked the cloth off the tray, and threw the cloth aside. Okay, tough guy, you asked for it. She adjusted the overhead adjustable light, sat on the stool next to the bed, and picked up a pair of small scissors.

Hank winced with the first snip. That’s doesn’t count, he grunted. I wasn’t ready. Keep going. He grabbed hold of the bed’s side guard with both hands held on tight, and did not wince again as Doctor Sijie snipped again, and a third and fourth time, but he was now covered with a full-body sweat.

She said, Okay, the edges are straight. Do you want to change your mind about that shot before I start sewing?

No, he grunted. After that scissor work, I won’t feel a thing.

You want to bet? She began suturing, pushing the curved needle in, across, and out of the wound, tying the sutures, one after the other. As she worked, she said, That bump on your nose wouldn’t be there if you had it reset right after it was broken. How did it happen?

I forgot to duck. Almost done?

A couple more. Were you in the military?

Army, he grunted.

Yeah, me too. How did you get that deep scar on the side your forehead? It looks like a shrapnel wound. Were you hit by shrapnel?

Beer bottle, he grunted. Almost done?

She said, You know, you’d be a good-looking guy if you’d get that nose fixed. You should have it re-broken and reset.

I’ll pick a fight with the same sailor. Almost done?

As soon as I slap on a bandage. She tore the paper off a large adhesive bandage, applied it, and sat back. All done.

Hank sat up slowly, and began mopping his sweaty body with the green cloth. He noticed her watching him, her eyes following the cloth. He said, When do you get off work, Doc?

She was startled by his question and obviously embarrassed by her sudden awareness of her absentminded letch. You’re unbelievable, she said.

There’s this little all-night restaurant where you can get great egg foo yong.

She stood up and