Phantoms and Gemstones: A Mike Falco Mystery

By Milton Grasle

In Bracken City, nothing is ever as it seems…

Mike Falco is a Restorative Justice Specialist, a present day private eye with 1940’s methods of seeking justice for his clients when the system fails to do so. He’ll take on anything, until vivacious Victoria Lindsey walks into his office and requests he do murder to remove a curse placed on her. Mike doesn’t want the job, but doesn’t get to refuse. Victoria drops dead in his office, leaving behind a paper with cryptic symbols and a small black gemstone. Mike finds himself thrust into a world filled with strange homicidal characters, who now believe he was Victoria’s accomplice. Will he be the curse’s next victim?

Mike’s tackled some tough assignments, and he’s used to the odds being stacked against him, but this might prove to be too much of a challenge. Even for Mike Falco.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu Publishing Services
• Release date: May 27, 2016
• ISBN: 9781483450827

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ONE

Bracken City

February, 26

She wasn't your typical dame. Nice full face. Not the emaciated look of carb-starved women today. Lips were nice too, big, natural, kissable, no injected fat. She reminded me of Salma Hayek or Catherine Zeta Jones, real women who could tent-pole a man's trousers in two seconds flat.

When Victoria Lindsey entered my office, I sat in a big leather chair behind my desk. I'd rented in the downtown section where most construction took place in the thirties, which made Bracken City resemble a slightly scaled down version of old New York.

Tall and voluptuous, Miss Lindsey stepped through the doorway. Her walk was compact and resolute, each step precisely placed in front of the other. Divinely high-breasted, she wore a blue business suit tapered snugly at her narrow waist. Her eyes were clear and focused. Definitely a woman with purpose.

She reached a chair opposite my desk, sat down, crossed her legs and made sure her skirt slid up over one knee. Damn, she had perfect calves and nice firm thighs, what I could see of them anyway. She could have been, or maybe still was, a dancer. She leaned forward and gave me a glimpse of cleavage. The movement was sexy, deliberate, but classy. No slutty connotation whatsoever. She knew how to be flirtatious, yet remain sophisticated, the way real women should.

But of all those stirring qualities, her eyes were the most enticing. Big, dark, almond-shaped globes that sparked with energy. Sparked with life.

We'd talked earlier on the telephone, so I knew the nature of her visit. I leaned back, propped my feet on the desk, clamped my hands behind my head and stared at her. I'm going to tell you like I told you over the phone. Removing a curse isn't my line of work. I thought I explained that already. I paused and stared at her more intently. Sounds like you need an exorcist or priest.

She glared at me with those remarkable eyes. No, just someone to help me obtain justice. That is what you do---isn't it, Mr. Falco?

Yeah, I nodded, that's what I do, lady.

She was right. My business is to help people obtain justice. My name is Mike Falco. I'm a Restorative Justice Specialist, and I set things right for people. I do what the police and courts can't, or won't do. I administer justice, and yes, it can be costly.

My profession is already complicated enough without getting involved with a hot-looker, because every one of those sweet babes will have a shit-load of trouble following them. Usually, too many powerful men with noses up their cute little asses.

She remained quiet for a second then leaned forward in her chair. Her breasts strained against her jacket. I didn't expect you to be able to remove a curse, but you do know how to remove a man, don't you, Mr. Falco?

Now I sat straight up, placed my elbows on the desk and fisted my hands together. You asking me to kill somebody?

Remove the man who imposed the curse and you remove the curse. She glanced around the room, nose high, looking at my office like it was a pigsty. I'll pay enough to get you out of this rat hole, buy you a new office building, buy you a new Jaguar. I'll even send you on a month's vacation anywhere in the world.

I sat back and laughed heartily. I didn't know this broad from squat. She could be tied in with anybody. Could be an undercover cop working to set me up. Or could be an irate relative to somebody I ran roughshod over in the past.

I sure as hell didn't need this right now. I was already working a case, and it was earning me some pretty fair jack itself.

Across the desk, Miss Lindsey held her determined look while clutching a small blue purse in her lap.

I can't help you, Miss Lindsey. I lowered my feet from the desk. I'm not the man for the job.

You're wrong, Mr. Falco, she said, firmly, crushing her purse. You are just the man for the job. The man who spoke this curse on my family is wicked and works with detestable magic. He's in with a group who will stop at nothing to get what they want. No police officer or court will believe my story. I have no chance of bringing him to justice for the death of my father. And if this man finds what he's looking for, many people will pay dearly.

I stood and walked to the window. Outside, the streetlights had just flickered on and sleet began to fall. Bracken City was a harbor town, so it was most likely a storm rolling in from the Atlantic. At the city's skyline, black clouds churned above a barely visible horizon. On the street, sleet pummeled the concrete bouncing like black BBs. Dark and colorless orbs. I took a deep breath. Maybe the sleet wasn't so dark. Maybe it was me.

Back at my desk, Miss Lindsey rambled on about her problem. Farther down the street, cars crept in and out of the Walgreen's parking lot.

I decided to play along with Miss Lindsey for a while. Maybe figure out who she really was, or what she really wanted.

So you believe this man's bad magic killed your father, I said, over my shoulder.

I'm positive. He has that kind of power.

I let a few seconds pass, cleared my throat and said. Tell me again, Miss Lindsey. How was it that you found out about my services?

It would be hard to tell you again.

Why is that?

Because I never told you to begin with.

I sighed, shoved my hands in my pockets and teetered back on the heels of my brown leather shoes.

She was playing cat and mouse. So I went back to the evil man. It's pretty hard to believe a person could just spit out a curse and make someone die. Sounds to me like someone's fed you a line of crap.

I watched another car roll out of the drugstore's parking lot. Miss Lindsey was silent, so I continued. It's the twenty-first century. You really think this man could kill a person with just words?

She still didn't answer. Her silence told me she didn't agree with my assessment of curses and I could probably forget about getting any other information out of her. Besides, I had another appointment across town and didn't have time to play twenty questions any longer. She was bad news. I could feel it. She needed to go.

I turned to tell her our meeting was over and get one last look at those gorgeous eyes so filled with life. Except now, they weren't. They were opened wide. Frozen in a death-stare. I knew that look. Had seen it too many times. Miss Lindsey was dead.

TWO

I was completely baffled by Victoria Lindsey's death. One hour later I had her body tucked away in an old meat locker in the basement of my office and bolted with a one-inch solid Titanium lock. The room was impenetrable, and she'd be well hidden until I decided what to do next.

I snapped the lock in place and started to leave out the back door when a thumping sound came from above. I stopped to listen. Another soft thump. Listened more. The only thing up there was my office. I tried to remember if I'd locked the door to the front entrance before dragging Miss Lindsey's body down the back stairwell. In the disconcerted moments after her death, I couldn't remember.

I waited a few minutes and heard nothing else, so I stepped out the back door and started to make my way to the front when I caught something at the corner of my eye. A large black object whooshed overhead, circled above then landed on the lower branch of a bare oak tree. The wan glow of a dusk to dawn light in the alley revealed the outline of a big black bird. Probably a crow or some other feathered creature that didn't need to migrate south for the winter.

I decided to head to The Red Lion Tavern a few blocks away. That time of evening, the joint was usually vacant and would be a good place to have a drink and sort things out.

I shuffled along the side of the building and almost reached the front when the flutter of feathers whooshed over my shoulder.

Damn, I cursed, ducking.

The bird flew along the walkway then toward a truck parked on the street. The vehicle carried large sheets of window glass alongside its bed and the bird's reflection wavered in the panes then became magnified.

A second later, the bird's image was gone, but the wavering lines remained. I slowed my pace and focused on the shapes. They seemed to gather in the center and overlap. I checked behind to see if something was causing the reflection. I saw nothing and chalked it up to a case of the jitters after Miss Lindsey's visit. I reached the sidewalk when I heard footsteps shuffling over the concrete. I stopped and the footsteps stopped. I turned slowly, scanned the area, nothing, nobody.

I began to cross the street when more footsteps pounded from behind. I spun, saw no one, then quickened my pace toward the center of the street. The approaching footsteps increased and were now alongside me when headlights from an approaching car lit the pavement.

In a second, the speeding car was on top of me. I stopped dead in my tracks, but the footsteps didn't, and as the car sped by, I heard three distinct thuds as if the auto hit something. The vehicle slammed on its brakes, skidded to a stop and the driver popped open his door and got out. He searched the well lit street and found nothing. He scratched his head, got back in his car and drove off.

I stood there dumbfounded. What the hell was going on? I'd never had the willies that bad. Was I so shook up that I was seeing and hearing things? Didn't think so, because the dude in the car saw or heard something too. I shrugged it off. Had to. Had more serious things to worry about than strange sounds I couldn't explain.

I proceeded on to the Red Lion. Long ago, I'd learned to put my mind in neutral and compartmentalize a problem, store it away long enough to get a grip on things. But first, I needed to think and I needed a drink. All kinds of questions and alarms were going off inside my head.

I reached the tavern, opened the door and stumbled forward like I'd been pushed from behind. I turned and looked. No one there. Probably just preoccupied with my situation and not watching where I was going. I walked through a small entryway, and the instant I entered the tavern, the tang of stale beer and cigarette smoke greeted me. I took a deep breath. Great smells. One of the few things left from the good old days when a bar was a bar. A place where hardworking men came to drink hard working liquor. That's right, slug it down, pound their chest and talk their shit. If you ordered a Tom Collins or Brandy Alexander here, you'd better keep your mouth shut, drink up and get out.

The saloon lay long, narrow and gloomy under a pressed tin ceiling. Shadows of old coat racks and broken furniture lurked in corners. The place was void of people but traces of previous customers were evident as thin bands of smoke still hovered over the tattered pool table near the restrooms. The haze drifted lazily over the shoulders of a life sized mannequin in the corner. A thickly padded material covered the dummy's chest that served as a target for dart throwers.

I took a seat in the middle of the long mahogany bar. As I settled onto the stool, the smell of cigarette smoke puffed up out of the tear on the vinyl seat. Kool filters, I mumbled to myself. I'd quit smoking fifteen years ago, but was still able to identify the great aromas of most popular brands.

The place was empty and I looked around for the bartender. Then I heard a toilet flush.

Be right out, came a voice from the other side of the men's room door.

It's just me---Mike, I shouted back.

Well, you know where everything is. Help yourself till I get done in here. Got a bad case of the shits. Goddamned mess. Had to throw my skivvies away. Damned tennis shoes are ruined too. Gonna have to sit on the can for a while.

A nasty visual tried to creep into my head, but I got up, shook it off, and went around the bar. I poured myself a scotch, came back and sat on a different stool near the end. I breathed deeply as I sat. Smelled like Winstons but could be Marlboros. They smell almost the same.

I sucked at the scotch while the bartender grunted loudly and made other disgusting sounds. Poor bastard. Looked like he was going to be busy for a while. That was good because I needed time to think anyway.

I took another drink from the tall glass and found myself staring into a smeared mirror that hung behind the bar like a murky cataract eye. I pulled my gaze from the mirror and slipped a piece of paper and a small black gemstone from my jacket pocket. I'd found them on them floor just below the outstretched arm of Miss Lindsey. I held my glass of scotch with one hand and with the other toyed with the shiny black stone. It was maybe the size of a pebble, but so smooth it kept slipping from my fingers. The paper appeared to be made from a type of old parchment and had a pattern of dots and lines on it, each separated by a long diagonal line.

I'm not too savvy when it comes to gemstones. At first, I thought it was a black amethyst, but it was unusually heavy, even heavier than lead. Damned odd thing.

I took another sip of scotch trying to decide what to do with Miss Lindsey's body. She was well hidden for now. Secure in a locker constructed of one foot thick oak walls.

What was my next step? I couldn't go to the local police for help. As far as they were concerned, I was nothing but trouble for Bracken City, and they'd like to have a reason to run me out of town. Feet first or head first. It wouldn't matter.

Sometimes to get satisfaction for my clients, or as I would put it, to get justice, I had to operate under the radar of law. So, I guess the cops had their reasons for wanting me gone.

One thing was clear though. If I reported that a seemingly normal, thirty-five-year-old woman suddenly dropped dead in my office because of a curse, I'd be spending the next five years and all my money trying to beat a murder rap.

I fiddled more with the stone, then studied the configurations on the paper. What could this be? Nothing but strange dots over lines. At first glance, I thought they were some kind of ancient symbols or language like hieroglyphics, but upon closer inspection, the series of lines and dots looked more like code.

Miss Lindsey had obviously been getting ready to hand me the gem and paper and explain their meaning. Why else would she have them in her hand when she died?

I swallowed more scotch. I needed a little more booze in my system. I always analyzed things better with a little buzz on. Not drunk. I never got drunk. Too damned dangerous. Reflexes go to hell and I tend to run off at the mouth.

I sipped a little more of my drink then glanced up to the mirror and stared at my reflection while trying to drift into my slightly inebriated Zen thinking mode. No good. Not enough hooch.

I folded the paper and tucked it and the gemstone back into my pocket.

The men's bathroom door swung open, and Sebosa, a big hairy-armed Louisiana Cajun stepped out. He wiped a finger of sweat from his forehead and slung it on the floor.

Whew, he said, looking up at me. Never gonna eat that many hard-boiled eggs and sauerkraut together again. Damned Jalapenos didn't help either.

Sebosa must have weighed three hundred pounds and had a face like an angry black bear. He's what most people would call a gentle giant. Nicest guy in the world until you pissed him off.

He shuffled behind the bar, walking like he had a cob up his butt. He stopped, reached back and carefully pulled his slacks from the crack of his ass.

Man. I'm sore, he said, wincing. Feels like somebody shoved a hot poker up me.

A long leather cord hung around his neck. On it, two thin pieces of copper wire held a small medicine bottle and a shriveled rooster's foot complete with spur. With his chin tucked to his chest, he untwisted the wire and sat the medicine bottle on the bar. Then he filled a brandy snifter half full of water and sat it next to the bottle.

He twisted the cap off the container and poured what looked like pink salt into the snifter. The water turned bright red and fizzed like Alka Seltzer. Then, some of it boiled up and over the rim and onto the bar.

What the hell is that? I said, leaning away from the smell. The concoction reeked like sour mop water.

The cure, Sebosa said, forcing a quick smile.

He snatched up the glass and in one gulp downed the frothing brew. Red foam leaked from the sides of his mouth and sizzled on his thick, dark lips. He stiffened his arms against the bar and shivered. Then belched forcefully enough to blow out the devil.

Damn! I grabbed my drink, slid off my stool and took a step back from any possible overspray.

He shuddered, stood straight, and with the back of his hand wiped the red scum from his mouth. I should be better now, he mumbled.

What is that crap?

Something a friend gave me. I keep it close. It's good for just about everything. He picked up the bottle and studied it. I think it's bat blood and some kind of beet root. Maybe other stuff too. Whatever it is, it works.

That's all I needed to hear. First, a knockout gal with a crazy story of evil men with wicked powers drops dead in my office. Now, Sebosa's drinking voodoo cocktails and foaming at the mouth. I decided to crawl into a quiet corner.

Drink in hand, I turned and headed for a booth on the other side of the tavern where I could decide what to do next. First, what was I going to do with Miss Lindsey's body? Second, was there was anything else I needed to do beyond that? Maybe try to find her real next of kin? And what about the strange piece of paper and gem?

I sure as hell had my own problems, so Sebosa would have to work out his stomach and asshole trouble by himself, the damn superstitious Cajun.

Ghost in the corner! Ghost in the corner! A voice squawked. A big birdcage hung in one corner with Solomon, a colorful Blue Fronted South American parrot, inside. Sebosa's boss, Mr. Glasscock, brought the bird back from somewhere south of Central America.

Ghost in the corner! Ghost in the corner! it squawked again, swaying side to side on its perch.

A cold breeze blew across my back, like someone had walked quickly past me. The draft chilled me, even through my jacket. I turned to Sebosa while the bird continued ranting.

Oh! Sebosa scanned the dark corners at the rear of the tavern then hunkered down behind the counter.

I walked back to the bar, got up on the foot-rail and leaned over to see him.

Hey, I shouted down. What's the matter with you?

He rose slowly, but only enough for his bushy brows and wide eyes to peer over the top of the bar.

He whispered. You see anything, Mike? Is...something in the corner?

I knew Sebosa was deeply superstitious. Most of the time his skittish babbling about the supernatural didn't bother me, but today I could do without it. It's not that I completely discounted the paranormal. I knew some things couldn't be explained by conventional science, so I was always open to the concept of 'other possibilities'. But most of today's supernatural hoopla was just a bunch of bullshit.

Hell no. I don't see a damned thing. And you can't believe that bird sees a ghost.

The big man didn't answer, but remained squatted, eyes barely looking over the bar. I grabbed my drink and slugged it down.

Sebosa took a deep breath like he was gathering courage and rose to a full stand. He wiped his sweaty palms on his pants. That bird is psychic, you know. Every time he says something like that, it comes true.

Bullshit. You've been claiming that ever since Glasscock brought him back. If he's so psychic, why don't you ask him to supply you with some winning lottery numbers?

I had big trouble, and I came here to think, and not to listen to this big Cajun obsess about his phobic world of ghosts. Don't get me wrong, Sebosa was like a brother, and we always had each other's back. If he had real trouble I'd be there for him, but today I wasn't babysitting his irrational thinking. Give me another scotch.

You shouldn't mock the supernatural, Mike. It's dangerous.

Give me that drink, I sighed.

Without turning, Sebosa reached behind blindly feeling for the scotch. His eyes scrutinized every dark corner while he groped for the bottle. He finally found the scotch and swung it around onto the bar. It was empty.

Shit! Sebosa snarled at the bottle.

Now what's wrong? I moaned.

It's empty.

Then I remembered taking the last of the scotch when I poured my drink earlier. So, go get another bottle.

He pointed to a barely visible door beyond the pool table in the darkest corner of the place. But the liquor stock is back there.

Ghost in the corner! Ghost in the corner! shrieked the bird again.

At that second, the light fixture over the pool table began to sway.

Oh Jesus, Sebosa murmured and made the sign of the cross over his barrel chest. His eyes widened as he watched the fixture swing, and he shuddered so hard I thought I heard a vertebrae pop in his neck.

For Christ's sake, I mumbled. "It's just a current of air. This old building's as drafty as