A Promise of Death

By Charles Crandall

The dark, sinister crime novel of a bygone era, portrayed so convincingly in the works of Dashiell Hammett and Raymond
Chandler, has made an impressive resurgence. This novel follows in the footsteps of these trailblazers, featuring a bulldog P.I. out to foil saboteurs in war-time Los Angeles. Based on an actual historic event involving major corporations, the story unravels the probable motivations of the bad guys.

Here is all the magic that was Hollywood a few decades ago-- the blondes, the weasels, the innocents and the abusers. In the middle of a war, people squeezed a lot of good times into whatever time they had left. Nick Black, excop turned P.I., got sucked into the maelstrom and found himself playing hide-and-seek with the Grim Reaper.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Oct 9, 2012
• ISBN: 9781477258408

Charles Crandall

CHARLES CRANDALL grew up spending all his free time in theaters showing noir movies with Bogart, Ladd, Mitchum, and a host of others who defined the gangster life, and reading the sleaze paperbacks populated with red hot molls with big chests and small vocabularies and stone cold tough guys out to make their bones who used red hot lead to settle scores

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© 2012 Charles Crandall. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 11/28/2012

ISBN: 978-1-4772-5639-8 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4772-5640-4 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4772-5840-8 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2012914385

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

Forewords

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Afterwords

FOR BARBARA—A swell dame

Forewords

For every lousy Bogart impression you’ve had to endure over the years, blame Raymond Chandler. For every wannabe Rich Little you’ve watched hitch up his trousers with his wrists and then say, out of the corner of his mouth, You dirty rat, ala Jimmy Cagney, and every, That’s right, you mug. I’m Ricco, see, Little Caesar, you’ve heard that kind of sounds like Edward G. Robinson, blame Raymond Chandler.

Chandler created the noir genre back in the 30s with his first shortstory, Blackmailers Don’t Shoot. Readers and movie-goers in the noir decade, l940-l950, loved the colorful dialogue he, Dashiell Hammett, Erle Stanley Gardner and countless others laboring over pawn-shop Royal typewriters, created the immortal PI who only got the crappy cases, the bimbos with too much baggage and too little upstairs who either had a crush on the gumshoe or wanted to shove a stiletto into his ribcage for taking out their two-bit punk boyfriend who had brought a knife to a gunfight.

We learned that a PI’s world was one of squandered hopes and impossible dreams. It was a series of encounters with psychopaths who delighted in mauling, maiming, and murdering whenever they got the chance. It was a life of making do and doing without. And, at the end of the day, looking for excuses for not going home.

Home was a place you avoided as long as you could. It was usually a flop above a no-name saloon on a worn-out street full of staggering drunks who, collectively, had more alcohol in them than the Los Angeles General Hospital had in inventory. The moment you stepped into the bar you knew it was the kind of place where nickel beer was king and the bartender, a big lug with mashed up features, kept a bloody Louisville Slugger stashed under the bar.

But, the key to a good noir yarn focused most of its time on the PI. The formula is usually the protagonist is a ruggedly-handsome guy (he could have a scar or a broken nose, if you wanted. He shouldn’t be too pretty), in fairly good shape with a couple of off-the-rack suits in the closet, an office in a rundown building in a so-so part of town. He has a couple of friends in the police department, but most of the cops wouldn’t give him the time of day. He is mostly honest, broke, and barely scraping by. If he’s really doing well, he has a gal Friday with a smart mouth who handles the phone and strokes the creditors who apparently never tire of hearing hard luck stories— or, maybe, they just like her voice. She reminds them of an old flame that burned out a long time ago.

I suppose you’ve figured out by now that I am one of those scriveners looking to take up the Chandler mantle. You’d be right. But, it didn’t start out that way…

After serving my time in college and finally escaping that stifling purgatory, there was no question in my mind where I was headed next. I had it all planned out. I was going to be a writer of serious prose. I intended to one day soon be honored with the Booker Prize—maybe, even, the Nobel. Then, one day I read Chandler’s The Big Sleep. I was captivated by the lean language, the snappy dialogue, the vivid characterizations, and spare plotting. From that moment on, I knew I was going to be a "noir-ist, a writer of sinister stories full of dubious characters who said things like, Hey, shamus. I’m gonna enjoy shoving this shiv in your gizzard and watching the lights go out in those nosy baby-blues." (Even though I wasn’t certain where the gizzard was located, it sounded vulnerable.)

And, most of my females would be dames, hard cases with bleached hair, neon red lipstick, and figures that would derail a mass at the Vatican. They had their own patois, too. They would say things like, Gee, Paulie, you ain’t leavin’ me alone again tonight, are you? I got somethin’ swell planned for you, me and the Murphy. Or, Go ahead, you big palooka, slug me again. If that’s what it takes to make you happy, I can take it.

Women were continually throwing themselves at PIs but they rarely caught any of them. Smart PIs tried to avoid romantic entanglements. They were barely squeaking by on what they earned and there wasn’t enough leftover to show a dame a good time. And, with a broad, things could go sour in a hurry. Smart PIs didn’t go near divorce cases or domestic disputes, even though that’s where the big dough was for a down-at-the-heels PI. Trouble is, there was a good chance you’ll never get around to spending it. The spouse that hired you might go all remorseful and put a carving knife in your back while you’re roughing up the other lovebird.

But, in the final analysis, what else could a guy do for a living that had more danger and drama in it?

-O-

chapter 1

HE WAS a small, timid-looking man who moved along the walk with short, almost mincing steps. And, he was scared. Every few feet he glanced over his shoulder looking for whomever or whatever it was that might be tracking him, then quickened his pace across the shadowed courtyard past a dozen identical Spanish bungalows until he found the one he was looking for. He leaned forward and squinted at the sign printed in neat block letters. It identified the occupant as Nick Black, Confidential Investigations.

The man seemed reluctant to press the doorbell. It had been drizzling most of the day and, as evening approached, a soaking mist settled over Hollywood, now eerily dark and quiet in the wartime dimout which had replaced the more restrictive blackout in effect since the savaging of Pearl Harbor. It had not been much of a rain, at least not the way most cities reckoned showers, but it was a gully-washer in the parched, semi-desert oasis called Los Angeles where hard rain was a novelty and storm drains were rarer still.

Twilight merged into nightfall. The mist vanished as quickly as it had come in the wake of a cool, bracing breeze. The man, dressed in a snug-fitting double-breasted suit finally rapped lightly on the door. There were tiny ribbons of light visible at the edges of the black-out window shades in contravention of Civil Defense regulations which commanded that no interior light could be visible after nightfall. Everyone pretty much accepted the official theory that you could hide an entire city from the enemy at night if people simply drew their shades. And, you never knew; there was an outside chance a Nip in a Jap Zero passing overhead would notice a slash of light from a lone window in a city of nearly two million souls and launch a 300-pounder through the roof, blowing away the whole illusion of urban camouflage in the process. Not that anyone this side of the Hawaiian Islands had ever seen a Zero flashing its meatball insignia over the coastline before taking an explosive dump on the unfortunates below, but it could happen, sure.

The visitor drew an open palm over his thinning gray hair damp from the mist just as a blonde in white blouse snugged into her tight plaid skirt opened the door a crack and gave him the once over. She was the kind of woman men were always glad to see, but women usually weren’t. Too much of everything in one comely package, a package that hadn’t been around the block too many times. In fact, once you got past the rouge and lipstick, you could see she was really just a kid, a kid hurrying the years along.

She stared down at the little man who wasn’t taking any liberties with his eyes like she was used to from most men. He parted his pallid lips to say something, but she seized the initiative to announce curtly, We’re closed. Undeterred, he extracted a large manila envelope from his inside his jacket. She thought he was going to give it to her and even reached for it but, instead, he clutched it close to his body possessively, like it contained his life savings. The blonde glanced at it, then at his blinking eyes. He didn’t budge and it was obvious he wasn’t going to buy a brush-off without some aggressive encouragement. She pointed to the small script, virtually unreadable in the deepening gloom, that was printed under Black’s profession. Hours nine to five, she read for him, in case he had eye-trouble as well as a hearing disorder Still, he lingered, fussing with his bowtie, and flicked a tongue over the too-thin lips. I…uh…just need to see Mr. Black for a moment. It’s rather urgent, he explained. I’m his neighbor. I live just over there, he said turning to point at his darkened bungalow. It could have been any one of a dozen. Melvin Plattman. I have something I’d like for him to keep for me. I can pay.

Ah, that magic phrase! The girl smiled. Rita Wynowski, she said extending a hand. Pleased to meetcha. I’ll give it to him, Mr. Plattman, she told him extending her hand.

Plattman tightened his grip on the envelope. I’m sorry, Miss Wynowski. I have to put this directly into Mr. Black’s hands, he insisted, then glanced behind him to see if a pursuer had, in fact, materialized. With the streetlights out for the duration, his search was unavailing, but he still seemed uneasy, vulnerable.

Who is it, Rita? a male voice called from somewhere behind her.

She stuck her head inside and explained the impasse. Black mumbled something and Rita pushed open the door. He’ll see you for a sec, she said finally stepping aside. You know, we don’t handle no divorce cases, so if that‘s what you‘re here for, you can save your breath. It was both a question and a statement. He didn’t respond, but swept past her trailing a scent of damp wool and a faint but not altogether unpleasant aroma that could have been an after-shave lotion. As he hurried inside, she made a Well, excuse me! motion with her head, then nudged the door shut with a hip.

Black had transformed his living room into an office that only just accommodated a desk, a table with a Dictaphone, a small bookcase that was empty except for several telephone directories from a number of California cities, and a wounded filing cabinet that had seen better days. A small connecting room was apparently another office. The side of a desk was visible. All in all, there wasn’t anything about Black’s operation that, at least on the surface, could be associated with prosperity.

He stood up and discovered he was a good foot taller than his visitor who was no more than five feet, even with the elevator shoes he was wearing. The heels told Black a bit about the man. No man wore heels three inches high unless he was a flamenco dancer or conflicted about his height. Plattman didn’t look adroit enough to be a dancer. Black had a problem with people who tried to fake it— whether it was something as vain as cheating on one’s height or a pretentiousness about one’s intelligence revealed by the use of obscure words one needed an Oxford English Dictionary to define. Or, maybe, he (they were almost always men) mouthed off about things and had his facts all screwed up because he was just another blowhard.

Beyond cleanliness, Black had no pretensions about his appearance. He made no attempt to hide the receding hair that lay loosely on his scalp in casual curls, but retreated relentlessly every year, and he never considered having a corrective job done on his nose that was, according to Rita, out of joint. It was a souvenir of a scuffle with a hood when he was a green beat cop. He learned to duck after that but it was too late. Life lessons.

Since Plattman might soon become a client—and, from his appearance—a paying one, he decided to cut the man some slack and see how it went. He could always decide to dislike him later on. Besides, as Rita was fond of pointing out, he needed the work.

Mr. Plattman, I’ve seen you around, he said offering his hand. Plattmann reluctantly unclenched a hand from the envelope and offered it briefly to Black. Despite the coolness of the weather, it was warm yet devoid of any real warmth.

Plattman glanced at Rita who was leaning against Black’s desk working out on a wad of gum, her arms folded and head cocked, waiting to hear what Plattman had to say that was so urgent it couldn‘t wait. It was clear she resented this after-hours intrusion, but then there was the promise of imminent money.

Black could see his potential client wasn’t going to open up so long as Rita was in the room. Doll-face, could you… He jerked his head at the connecting office.

Oh, sure, she said wheeling around and disappearing into the darkened interior.

So, what can I do for you? Black asked propping his feet on the corner of the desk. He studied Plattman analytically with steady eyes the color of tempered steel. His guest seemed to wither slightly under the intense scrutiny.

Plattman perched on the edge of a chair and examined the soles of Black’s shoes. The crux of it is I think I’m being followed, he began meeting Black’s gaze. Black glanced at the envelope in the man’s lap. It wasn’t going anywhere unless he did, too.

Black nodded. Any reason you know of? Jealous husband? Jilted lover? He didn’t believe either was the case, but he wanted to prod Plattman a little and get him to open up. It was getting late and he was thinking about dinner.

Oh, good heavens, no— nothing like that, Plattman assured him. Maybe I should start at the beginning.

Black had been mangling a paperclip, bending it in and out of shape to disguise his impatience. He tossed it into an ashtray and gave Plattman his full attention. That’s always the best place to start.

Yes, I suppose it is. He drew in a deep breath and exhaled slowly and Black knew his guest was finally about to open up. I’m chief accountant for a major petroleum consortium. I’ve been with them for twelve years. Rita was sitting at her desk in the dark listening and rasping some rough edges off her nails. Aren’t you going to write anything down, Mr. Black? Plattman asked, nodding at the pad and pen on Black’s desk.

Black grinned. I’ve got a photogenic memory.

Don’t you mean photographic? Plattman wondered.

Probably. You were saying? he prompted. He preferred to work this way. He never took notes. Too distracting. He liked to watch the people he was talking to. It came from eleven years with the LAPD. You could gather a lot from gestures, expressions, body language, and eye movements. Rita had a good memory. His was lousy. You haven’t been dipping into the corporate cookie jar, have you? he asked half smiling, just in case Plattman was offended by the veiled accusation and wanted to take a hike.

Plattman sat up straight in the chair like he had been goosed. Absolutely not, Mr. Black! he protested indignantly. Perspiration bloomed above his neatly-groomed moustache. I’ve handled millions of dollars and never been tempted in the least. The question flashed through Black’s mind whether he would have the same self-restraint. Last month I was given a file that I was told to show to no one and which was to be kept in the company safe when I wasn’t working on it. He swallowed nervously and Black watched his Adam’s apple dance a while before he succeeded. Merely recalling the details of the incident seemed to unsettle the man

Would you like some water? Black asked. Or, how ‘bout a beer? he said jerking a thumb toward the kitchen.

No, no— I’m fine, thank you. I never touch alcohol. Black would never have guessed. Look— the problem is that I’ve been brought into something that I would never have agreed to be a party to if I had been given the option of making a choice. What my employer is planning is… nefarious, to say the least.

Black’s interest was piqued. Maybe this would turn out to be a real case, after all. He swung his feet down and swiveled to face Plattman. Nefarious? There was one of those words. You mean, crooked?

Plattman nodded. Do you remember the Owens Valley scandal of a few years back?

Sure. L.A.’d still be a desert without that water. They had plenty of water up there and we had none— simple as that.

But, Mr. Black, the methods employed to acquire the rights and property were unethical and dishonest. Thousands of people were ruined financially by swindlers and speculators. It was a dark day in Los Angeles history— at least in my opinion.

It was apparent to Black that Plattman took things like this personally. He cared about the plucked sucker, the scammed mark. He was beginning to like the guy. Everyone else had forgotten about Owens Valley years ago, and all the malefactors were forgiven each time a faucet was turned on or a toilet was flushed and water appeared.

Well, it’s late so I won’t go into details right now, Plattman explained. He tapped his moist forehead and upper lip lightly with a neatly-folded handkerchief which he returned to his jacket pocket flaring the points with care. My problem is that I’ve removed a file of documents on this scheme and I need to put it in a safe place until I’ve decided what to do. I‘ve never done anything like this in my life and it‘s very unsettling.

All this has nothing to do with the municipal water system? Plattman shook his head. And, you say you can’t tell me what this is all about?

Plattman’s eyelids fluttered momentarily. It was clear he was fearful of the consequences of his actions, but he was determined to carry through with some plan to expose a scheme that he believed would impact the city. "Not at the moment. I had intended to give this to the editor of the Herald, but I’m…uh…concerned now about their… I want to leave this with you for safekeeping, he explained tapping the envelope, and hire you to find out who’s following me. I…I don’t know what these people are capable of, but perhaps you can frighten them into leaving me alone. I’ve heard you used to be a policeman and that you’re a man who can be trusted."

Black chuckled. Who’s been spreading stories about me I can’t live up to? he asked, but Plattman wasn’t in the mood for entertainment. He was truly frightened and had now collapsed a bit with the unburdening. He seemed to suddenly be getting smaller. Look, Mr. Plattman, if the file you took is important enough to endanger your life, my advice to you is to put it back before they miss it and forget about going public. You’ll live longer that way. If they’re the kind of people you think they are and they find out you took it, they’ll probably send a bunch of goons to recover it. This town is full of crooks who‘ll chill you for a pack of smokes. Don’t go playing Don Quixote.

Plattman looked at him desperately. Well, they already know I have some of the documents, I’m almost certain. The rest of the file is in the safe at work. I can’t just look the other way, Mr. Black, he insisted.

Black decided to put some pressure on Plattman to see if he was on the level. You sure you’re not covering your keyster because you went all sappy for some dame and took something that didn’t belong to you and they‘re onto you? Plattman was scowling at him now. You come to me with this cock-and-bull story so you’ll have a witness to back you when the cops grab you— isn’t that what your scam is, little man?

Plattman’s face had lost its normal pallor and was flushed and damp. Mr. Black, I thought you were a man I could trust. A man—

Keep your shirt on, Mr. Plattman, Black said, suddenly projecting a can’t you take a joke, pal demeanor. I just wanted to make sure you weren’t trying to play me for a sucker. Listen— I believe everything you’ve told me, he assured the man.

Plattman offered him a tentative smile that transited nervously across his lips. Clearly, Black made him uneasy. Then, you’ll help me?

Black grimaced. He really didn’t want this case. Too many pitfalls. The people Plattman worked for probably had connections downtown, maybe even in Sacramento. Then, he remembered the bills. There were those and there was the fact that it had been a while since he had taken on the establishment, the boys with the retentive sphincters. What the hell. All right, Mr. Plattman. I get fifty bucks a day plus expenses. I’ll hold your file for you in my safe. What’s the mutt look like who’s following you?

He’s tall— taller than you. He’s well-built, like a prize fighter, I suppose you could say. He weighs, perhaps, two hundred pounds. I’m not very good at this sort of thing, he explained with a flutter of fingers. I’ve never seen his face, but I know he’s white. He usually wears a hat pulled down over his forehead. It’s always the same man. I’ve never let on that I know he’s following me. I’ve caught his reflection in store windows a couple of times, but it’s difficult to make out features that way.

Black grinned and patted Plattman‘s shoulder reassuringly. That’s a smart way of handling it, he commended him. I use it myself. You don’t want him to know you’re onto him so keep pretending he’s invisible. How long’s he been on your tail?

Five days. It started the day I took the documents out of the building. I can’t imagine how they suspected anything. I was very careful.

They obviously had someone watching you watching them, Black explained. Look— I wouldn’t go out at night for a while if I were you and keep your doors locked. What’s your phone number?

HO 5597.

Okay, Black said scribbling on a pad, then getting to his feet I’ll call you if I’m coming over or when I find out anything, so don’t open your door to anyone but me or Rita. That includes people from your office. Okay?

Plattman rose. I’ll do as you say. Reluctantly, he handed the envelope to Black. It was like he was parting with an only child. "You do have a reliable safe?"

You bet. No yegg I’ve met yet could crack Baby, Black assured him."

Baby?

Black chuckled. That’s what I call her. She’s a Biggs and Johnson triple-bolt. Tighter than a nun’s knees.

Plattman winced. I don’t care for disrespectful references to the church, Mr. Black. Everyone thinks I’m Jewish, but I’m a devout Catholic.

Black seemed surprised by his sudden show of combativeness. No offense, Mr. Plattman. It’s just a figure of speech. Religion had never been one of his strong suits but he realized, at moments like this, it was an important part of many people’s lives.

Plattman reached into his pocket and brought out a checkbook and fountain pen.

Is it all right with you if I pay you in advance for two weeks? He looked up at Black with the nib of his pen poised over the check.

Black grinned. He wasn’t used to getting two-week advances. Usually (and this was a part of the business he hated), he had to threaten and cajole to squeeze a day or two retainer out of clients who were unaccustomed to paying in advance for something they couldn’t hold in their hands. Sure thing. That’d be fine, Mr. Plattman. It was great Mr. Plattman. He accepted the check which was written in small, tidy script with no wasted flourishes. I’ve got a good man I can put on the mug that’s doggin’ you. I’ll check around before I hit the sack. You in for the night, or are you going out?

Plattman replaced the checkbook and pen. I never go anywhere at night, Mr. Black, he said and the poignancy of it was not lost on Black.

I’ll walk you to your place, he proposed. Still raining?

Just a little mist.

Good. Rita?

She materialized in the doorway of her office. Yeah, boss?

I’m going to escort Mr. Plattman home. Put this envelope in the safe, then you can go.

Would you mind— may I watch her put the envelope in the safe, Mr. Black? Plattman asked tugging at his collar which was suddenly too constricting. I’d feel much better knowing it was there, safe and sound.

Sure thing. Rita?

Come this way, Mr. Plattman. He followed her into her office and watched as she opened a closet door and switched on a light. Inside, taking up most of the space, was a rugged-looking safe large enough, as Black was fond of saying, to stash a couple of stiffs. She bent down and dialed the numbers of the combination, then swung the heavy door open. Black had accepted the safe in lieu of cash for a job when a client couldn’t pay up. Rita placed the envelope on a shelf, closed the door, and twirled the knob, then turned to smile at Plattman. There you are, all tucked in safe and sound, she said as if reassuring a child he was no longer in danger from the bogeyman. She straightened up and, for the first time since he had arrived, Plattman looked relieved.

He turned to look at Black. And, may I have your word as a gentleman you won’t open the envelope until I tell you?

Black laughed. Well, I can give you my word, but—as a gentleman—that’s a stretch.

Plattman, feeling more relaxed now, flashed him the makings of a smile, but it never quite materialized. "I believe you are a gentleman, Mr. Black."

You ready to go? Black asked.

Yes. Do you really think it’s necessary to accompany me? Plattman wondered, having suddenly found some untapped reservoir of courage.

Do they have your home address at the office?

Well, yes— of course.

Then, it’s necessary. Let’s play it safe.

Plattman nodded and followed slightly behind Black making small talk about the weather and how the sun would probably dry everything up tomorrow and how unusual it was to have rain this time of year. Black grunted a series of uh-huhs, the kind you get from people who don’t want to appear rude but are only half listening to what you’ve got to say and are only really getting half. Instead, he was watching the hulking figure who thought he had hidden himself behind a juniper that had been tortured by some demented gardener into the shape of a corkscrew, the brim of his hat casting an umbra across his face under a pallid moon.. Black led his client past the danger, his fingers clutching the butt of his .38, just in case. Plattman hadn’t exaggerated. The mug was a bruiser.

By the time he had tucked Plattman into his bungalow and heard him throw the deadbolt into place, the tail had evaporated. He did a turn around the complex. He knew how this game of hide-and-seek worked. Then, he saw him. He had repositioned himself for a better view of Plattman’s place to make sure his quarry was settled for the night.

When he got back to his bungalow, Rita was shoving a wicked-looking hatpin through the back of her hat in front of the hall mirror. Well, well— a real paying client, she said smiling at his reflection.

"Yeah, pinch me, doll-face. I think he’s got some real problems. Someone is tailing him; someone who knows what he’s doing. I got a gander at him out there trying to mate with a tree. He could probably rip phone books in two."

She turned to face him and arched her brows. Let’s hope he sticks to phone books. So, what do you think’s in the envelope?

He walked over to his desk and perched on the edge, then fished a cigarette out of a pack of Camels and lighted it. Something that could get him dead. You know, kiddo, I’ve been thinking that whatever’s in there is too hot to keep around here. I want you to take it to the bank tomorrow and stash it in the box.

She checked her watch. What about your dinner? Want me to rustle something up before I go?

Naw, I’ll be fine. Go on home. You’re probably beat.

You sure? It’s no trouble.

No, mother— you go ahead. I might run down to Chow’s.

You need a mother. Okay. G’night. She drew a hand across his cheek as she passed by. You need to stand closer to the razor, boss, she pointed out.

He ran a hand over the day’s growth of stubble and laughed. "Well, hey— it is after five. Goodnight. See you tomorrow." He, too, was wondering what was in the envelope. He was tempted to take one little peek, but he had given his word. He stubbed the cigarette out as Rita closed the door behind her.

Moments later, he heard the gong on the Yellow Car and visualized her taking a seat. He thought, then, that maybe he should have let her cook him something. He knew how she felt about him and that was the reason he tried to keep her at arm’s length on a personal level. He knew she was grateful to him for cornering the squid who had killed her mother in a rough mugging. The punk was armed only with a pocketknife, but he had used it to slice through a woman’s throat simply because she refused to surrender her purse. People like him needed killing. This was a request job, the way he saw it. He had put two slugs in him and slept like a baby that night.

The LAPD didn’t have his clarity of vision. It was desk duty and paper-shuffling for two weeks afterwards, while the brass (a couple of whom were dirty and he had deliberately alienated) nosed around looking to poke holes in his story, trying to prove the knife was a plant and he had used it as an excuse to punch the mugger’s lights out and make everything look kosher to the shooting team investigators.

So, he saw it coming long before the axe fell. The boys upstairs never cared for the way he worked. The worst of it for them was the fact that he wouldn’t play ball and go on the pad with them. He wasn’t a team player they said. There was plenty of money to be made looking the other way when the Stefano brothers brought a load of untaxed Canadian hooch into Smuggler’s Cove in north Laguna or when Sugar Sam opened another crooked gambling dive or an anything goes whorehouse out on Central.

To their way of thinking, a cop who wouldn’t take a cut was a cop who would eventually rat you out. Too bad he had to go. You couldn’t ask for a better man to watch your back, sure. But you had to go with the odds. He was a liability. A loose cannon.

He had won his gold badge by rescuing the mayor’s kidnapped daughter from two out-of-town hard cases looking to make a quick score. He found out where they had her stashed through a series of informants who knew everything that went down on their turf. The abductors chose to shoot it out with Black. He wasted one and put the other in the emergency room at county general. But, now, the mayor was history. He retired from public office when his term was up, so Black no longer had any friends in high places. He was vulnerable now and they came after him with the ultimatum.

Once he put in his papers and they punched his ticket, he became a regular at watering holes like Ciro’s where bartenders owed him some favors. After a long bout with booze, he had pulled himself together and gone down to city hall to apply for a PI license and a permit for the .38. The license was easy to come by; the permit took some string-pulling by the few friends he had left in the department. In a week, he was LA’s newest private investigator.

That was all three years ago. It seemed like another lifetime.

At first, money was just a rumor. He heard of it, but he never saw any. Clients trickled in mainly from recommendations of friends. Then, he placed a small ad in the telephone directory: NICK BLACK, Confidential Investigations, Former LAPD Detective. Results Guaranteed. The clients became more numerous, but the money was still elusive. He chalked this up to the fact that he refused to take divorce cases and that was where most of the work in his field came from— cuckolded husbands and betrayed wives. He never liked domestic disturbance beefs when he was in uniform and he didn’t want to get mixed up in family squabbles now. There was something depressing about two people who once loved each other like dopey kids now going after each other’s jugular. And, it was dangerous. You never knew when one of them, strung out on coke or tanked up on booze, was going to come at you with a butcher knife while you were putting bracelets on the other lovebird. So, he ate sparingly and learned to darn his own socks. He dropped a few pounds in those early months and was told by friends he looked better for it. Friends can be such convincing liars when you want to believe what they’re telling you.

Rita got paid a little something when he did but she had put away a tidy sum from the insurance policy her mother kept current on herself even through the lean Depression years. You never know, her mother was fond of saying. In her case, mother knew best.