Story of the Day - Installment 6, chapter 2

The story so far (and sorry for the delay):
1) installment 1
2) installment 2
3) installment 3
4) installment 4
5) installment 5



When you call the police they usually put you on hold. No joke. Doesn't matter if it's 9-1-1 or a departmental number. I'm on hold for five minutes before Hector finally picks up.


"That you Sloan?" the gravelly basso profundo asks with a hint of annoyance.


"Yeah. Why didn't you tell me the guy was a fucking giant? And meeting in the alley? That was your idea. Damn near pissed my pants when I saw him."


He chuckles, "I get my kicks when I can. He wouldn'ta hurt you anyway. At least not there, and especially not for free."


"Fighter, huh? Figured as much." That explained the hands. "Does he still fight?"


"Professionally, I'm not sure. Used to box pretty regularly, though. I fought him once. And lost," which was saying a lot since Hector was pretty good. "But that was probably seven or eight years ago. He was a young guy, coming up. The rumor is that he bareknuckles these days. Paydays can get to be pretty big. And you saw his face, he's better without the gloves than with 'em. He doesn't lose a lot."


"So fess up. Why'd you send him to me?"


"Look, he's a jerk sometimes but essentially honest. He came to me with a bug in his ass over all the murders at The Pendulum. Aside from bareknuckling, he's a smart guy. He knows when something is fishy." Hector's voice drops. "And something is definitely fishy in this one. Even the detectives know the kid they got locked up didn't do it. They were just waiting for the paper to report it. If someone makes a big enough stink, they'll let the guy go. But that doesn't solve the problem."


That last bit was directed at me. The giant wanted me to get his acquaintance out, and Hector all but confirmed his release was soon. But that still left three corpses unaccounted for. "So what's the deal with this Pendulum club?"

Hector pauses. Either he doesn't know what to say or he's deciding how much to tell me. "It's a popular spot, lots of clientele, tends to run high class, but they get a few misfits now and then. That's one of the reasons Aldo works there."

I cut him off. "Aldo? His name is Aldo. The giant bareknuckle boxer's name is Aldo? You gotta be kidding me."

Hector lets it slide. "You met with the guy and didn't get his name? You're slipping Sloan."

"Hey, he paid me. In cash. We met in an alley for chrissakes. Tell me more about The Pendulum." I pause. For effect. "And Aldo."

"Never been myself," he continues, "so you'll have to stop by if you want to get the feel of the place. I do know that it's owned and run by three women - the triad, they're sometimes called. They had a run-in with the sheriff's department last year. Illegals working in the kitchen or something. No charges, but there's a file. I'll check it and get you their names. You'll probably recognize them - society types, they're in the papers pretty regular. Big into philanthropy and the arts. You know how it goes."

"I'll go check it out tonight. Can you get me the info by tomorrow?"

"Hell Sloan," he chuckles, "I'll bring it by the office later tonight if you want. Shift goes until 11. I'll catch you around midnight. I'll bring the files. You bring the scotch." Call ends. Hector doesn't like goodbyes. He's a dirty old sentimentalist.

But something's bothering me. I hate it when he chuckles.

Story of the Day - Installment 5

I pay with a $100. All I have. The waitress looks at the bill. Looks at me. Reassessment. I almost want to tell her. No, sweetheart, your first impression was right. But I keep my mouth shut. Why ruin a good thing. I even tip big. Nothing new there. Why I'm broke in the first place.

Outside the rain has stopped. I like rain. Especially when it ain't raining. Gives you a clean feeling. Don't get that much in my line of work. And the smell. I pause. Take it in. Nice.

Like walking too. Of course, that's more a matter of necessity than anything. No car. Besides, the office is close. Thunder starts up just as I reach my building. One of those days I guess. I take the stairs. Exercise is good.

You'd expect my secretary to be some pretty young thing. Pretty hair, doughy eyes, and a body that makes you feel all virile. Why stop there. Fishnets, high heels, and lipstick. Red lipstick. That glistens. Sometimes I wish the stories got it right. But they don't.

"Mail come Jonesy?" I ask as I walk in. Jonesy is not some pretty young thing. Jonesy is Frederick Arthur Jones, graduate student, pool hustler, and dirt poor. Lives with his grandparents, also dirt poor. But honest and hardworking. Loves 'em to death but can't stand 'em at the same time. Hence the bars, pool, and working for me. He's strictly part-time but practically lives in the office. Studies here, writes his papers here, brings his dates here too. Damn awkward sometimes. But he's honest. I need that. Hates it when I call him Jonesy. So of course I do. Every chance I get.

"Yes," he says and tosses me a neat stack rubberbanded without looking up from his book. He's efficient too. Already ditched the piles of crap.

"Bills?" I ask as I take off my soggy coat.


"A couple. They're in there."


"New clients?"


"Nope."


"Payments?"


"Nope."


Saves me the time I woulda spent looking through the mail. So I toss it back. "What are you reading?" He catches it. Didn't even lose his place.

"Stuff you wouldn't understand," he says without looking up. Cocky little bastard. Probably right though. "Hector wants you to call him at work. Wants to find out how the meeting went." Hector is 50ish, a former boxer, smart though, works at police headquarters. Answers phones, files papers, keeps track of the detectives and their cases. Used to work for me. Got shot a few years back. Needed health insurance. I couldn't get him any, so I pulled some strings and got him his current job. Hector is honest. Hates corruption. Hates graft. Sometimes, I think he hates me for setting him up with the job. When things looks fishy, he calls me. Set up the meeting with the giant.


"What time is it Jonesy?" I ask.


"'Bout 4:30."


"Can you make it to the bank?" He nods. "Good, here's $950. Deposit five in the business account, figure out what I owe you, and bring me the rest." He throws his book in his bag and grabs his coat. "By the way, how much do I owe you?"


"$197.75, which is damn cheap if you ask me."

"I didn't. Should charge you rent is what I should do." He looks askance. Not the best sense of humor on this kid. "Take two, call it even."

"Gee thanks." Got the sarcasm bit down though.

"If I'm on the phone when you get back, don't interrupt."

"Got it." And the door slams. Kids. Well I guess he's in his twenties but still.

The outer office is tidy. A rule the kid tries to follow but his stuff usually litters the front desk. The inner office, mine, is immaculate. The stories always have papers scattered everywhere, files, newspapers, crap. General untidiness. I hate that. Clients almost expect it. Usually thrown off when they sit down with me. Partly I'm a neat freak, partly I own very little. Medium-size desk with a pen, pad, and phone. That's it. Everything else is in a drawer. Why they exist. Sofa, small and comfortable. Yeah, it has a pullout bed. What can I say? Clean office, dirty life. I sit down, compose myself, dial Hector.

Story of the day - Installment 4

The giant glowers at me a few seconds. Then a deep breath. He appears calmer. I'm not taking my chances. I can wait.

"Look," he says, "there's nothing I can do about the dead. But I can help my friend. You can help my friend. That's what I want. That's what I'll pay you for."

The guy's rich. Slightly creepy. But rich. I'm broke. And. . .that's it. Just broke. "Alright. But I need money up front. Not all of it," I say thinking he'll protest, though he doesn't, "just enough to get started. We'll go from there."

"How much?"

Makes me pause. How much? Good question. I look up. My pondering look. I've done it in the mirror. Looks like I'm doing math in my head. I'm not. Sometimes you gotta play the game.

"A thousand." I say firmly.

He pulls a billfold from his coat pocket. Engraved leather. Can't make out the design. He counts out ten one-hundred dollar bills. Lays them on the table. Crisp. I wait the requisite few minutes. Look him in the eye. Then scoop up the money. Don't want to seem desparate. Too desparate anyway.

"Meet me at my office tomorrow." He nods. "10am?"

"Noon. The club doesn't close till 3." He finishes the coffee. Shifts his massive frame. No movement wasted. Giants don't tend to be lithe. He is. Buttons his coat. Slips on his hat and is out the door. I take a breath. Sometimes the game takes it out of you. I nod to the waitress for another drink. And then it hits me. He left me the tab. Figures.