WRATHCHILD INVESTIGATIONS
Arthur Wratchchild
Licenced Private Investigator
WRATHCHILD INVESTIGATIONS
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Re: WRATHCHILD INVESTIGATIONS
The cab pulled up to the kerb and I slipped the driver five dollars for the ride as I climbed out.
Instantly the rain pummelled me like a thousand fingers tapping a staccato rhythm on my shoulders and hat. Drips formed from the brim before I had taken more than two paces towards the old brownstone apartment building.
I burst through the doors, much to the consternation of the concierge.
“Mr Wrathchild!” he exclaimed, offering me both admonishment and greeting at the same time. I thought he might have cut a guy some slack given the stair-rods outside. It would have been easy to shoot something back, but I chose not to.
“Morning Aubrey,” I said.
It was then that he noticed the flowers and the brown paper bags I carried. The bags were clearly bottle shaped. I handed one to him.
“Something to keep the chill out,” I explained.
“Why, Mr Wrathchild, sir! Thank you very much!” His tone was different this time, almost conspiratorial.
He slipped the bottle under the counter with a tip if his hat.
I made my way up the stairs, avoiding the elevator. It wasn’t that I disliked elevators, it was more this elevator disliked me.
At the risk of being labelled paranoid or just plain crazy, I was convinced that the damned thing broke down every time I went in it. Chrissie tried to tell me that it just broke down a lot, but I had my suspicions.
So, ignoring the convenience of the lift, I took the stairs up four storeys to Chrissie and Mike Stanton’s apartment and knocked quietly on the door.
Mike answered the door with a smile and shook my hand, taking the offered brown wrapped gift and examined the bottle.
“Shit, Arthur! That’s incredible man, thank you.”
It was a simple thing, but it was difficult to get that brand of cognac here in the States. Mike had been stationed in Europe during the war and had picked up a taste for it. I liked to try and bring him a bottle whenever I went there. This particular one was 50 year aged, a fact that Mike picked up on.
“Hey, I wasn’t here to wet the baby’s head so I hope that makes up for it.”
Mike led me in to their living room.
Chrissie was sitting there nursing their son.
“Wow! You look really well,” I said.
“Gee, thanks!” Chrissie replied in mock annoyance.
“You know what I mean,” I said.
“I’ll err, get a vase,” Mike said pointing at the flowers and taking them from me. He left us alone.
“What you mean is I look okay for a woman who has just pushed this out?” Chrissie laughed.
I chuckled.
“Yep! So has he got a name?”
“Brian.”
“Brian?”
“No. Of course not! There’s no way in hell I’m naming him after my father, the drunken bum.”
I was relieved. Other than siring Christine, the guy was just a nasty waste of space.
“Seriously though,” Chrissie said, “his name is Arthur Killian Stanton.”
“Arthur, huh? That’s a good name. Kingly!”
She laughed.
We sat and talked about the world, life, and general everyday stuff for a while. Mike returned with the flowers in a chintzy vase and a pot of tea.
After about an hour, with interruptions now and then from young Arthur, Chrissie brought up the subject I had so far avoided.
“So have you been into the office?” she asked.
I shook my head. “No. I only got back last night.”
Chrissie smiled. “Well, while you were away I interviewed several lovely ladies for the post. You can thank me later.”
Again she had amazed me. In her third trimester and she’d still managed to make sure I’d be okay when she left.
I hung around for another thirty minutes, Chrissie taking great delight in not telling me anything about said replacement. I kissed her cheek, said goodbye, shook Mike’s hand and headed back out into the rain.
Instantly the rain pummelled me like a thousand fingers tapping a staccato rhythm on my shoulders and hat. Drips formed from the brim before I had taken more than two paces towards the old brownstone apartment building.
I burst through the doors, much to the consternation of the concierge.
“Mr Wrathchild!” he exclaimed, offering me both admonishment and greeting at the same time. I thought he might have cut a guy some slack given the stair-rods outside. It would have been easy to shoot something back, but I chose not to.
“Morning Aubrey,” I said.
It was then that he noticed the flowers and the brown paper bags I carried. The bags were clearly bottle shaped. I handed one to him.
“Something to keep the chill out,” I explained.
“Why, Mr Wrathchild, sir! Thank you very much!” His tone was different this time, almost conspiratorial.
He slipped the bottle under the counter with a tip if his hat.
I made my way up the stairs, avoiding the elevator. It wasn’t that I disliked elevators, it was more this elevator disliked me.
At the risk of being labelled paranoid or just plain crazy, I was convinced that the damned thing broke down every time I went in it. Chrissie tried to tell me that it just broke down a lot, but I had my suspicions.
So, ignoring the convenience of the lift, I took the stairs up four storeys to Chrissie and Mike Stanton’s apartment and knocked quietly on the door.
Mike answered the door with a smile and shook my hand, taking the offered brown wrapped gift and examined the bottle.
“Shit, Arthur! That’s incredible man, thank you.”
It was a simple thing, but it was difficult to get that brand of cognac here in the States. Mike had been stationed in Europe during the war and had picked up a taste for it. I liked to try and bring him a bottle whenever I went there. This particular one was 50 year aged, a fact that Mike picked up on.
“Hey, I wasn’t here to wet the baby’s head so I hope that makes up for it.”
Mike led me in to their living room.
Chrissie was sitting there nursing their son.
“Wow! You look really well,” I said.
“Gee, thanks!” Chrissie replied in mock annoyance.
“You know what I mean,” I said.
“I’ll err, get a vase,” Mike said pointing at the flowers and taking them from me. He left us alone.
“What you mean is I look okay for a woman who has just pushed this out?” Chrissie laughed.
I chuckled.
“Yep! So has he got a name?”
“Brian.”
“Brian?”
“No. Of course not! There’s no way in hell I’m naming him after my father, the drunken bum.”
I was relieved. Other than siring Christine, the guy was just a nasty waste of space.
“Seriously though,” Chrissie said, “his name is Arthur Killian Stanton.”
“Arthur, huh? That’s a good name. Kingly!”
She laughed.
We sat and talked about the world, life, and general everyday stuff for a while. Mike returned with the flowers in a chintzy vase and a pot of tea.
After about an hour, with interruptions now and then from young Arthur, Chrissie brought up the subject I had so far avoided.
“So have you been into the office?” she asked.
I shook my head. “No. I only got back last night.”
Chrissie smiled. “Well, while you were away I interviewed several lovely ladies for the post. You can thank me later.”
Again she had amazed me. In her third trimester and she’d still managed to make sure I’d be okay when she left.
I hung around for another thirty minutes, Chrissie taking great delight in not telling me anything about said replacement. I kissed her cheek, said goodbye, shook Mike’s hand and headed back out into the rain.
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Re: WRATHCHILD INVESTIGATIONS
It took me a block and a half to finally find a cab.
By the time I entered the lobby of the ten storey office building that was home to Wrathchild Investigations – Licenced Private Investigator.
I shared my floor with a family lawyer, which proved beneficial to us both, a bail bondsman, which also provided a steady stream of work my way, and a homeopathic medicine practitioner which I hadn’t had any dealings with or spent time with to know what the hell it is they practiced.
Ripping people off was my guess.
My office was at the far end of the corridor. Somehow I had managed to secure myself a corner suite which even came with its own bathroom and kitchenette, which was handy as I often needed it to double as an emergency room to patch myself up in! If I’d had to share a bathroom I doubt my neighbours would have appreciated walking in on me stitching myself up when they needed a pee!
As I got to the door I could see there was a light on inside which put the words ‘Wrathchild Investigations’ stencilled on the glass panel into silhouette. The glass was the sort you can’t see through properly.
The door was unlocked so I opened it.
Inside hadn’t changed in the three weeks I’d been away. There was a desk, a couch, a wall full of shelves stacked with reference books I’d bought when a couple of libraries had closed down.
Two more doors led out of the room. One led to the small kitchenette and the bathroom, both off a small passageway. The other led into my office.
There was one thing, however, that was startlingly different that you’d notice from a hundred yards away, and I wasn’t talking about the shiny new, very expensive looking pale blue typewriter on the desk right in front of me.
It was what was sitting behind the desk that had made me pause.
She had to be in her early to mid-twenties, long black hair in that luscious wavy style that was popular during the war. Her skin was dark, indicating her African heritage, but a lighter tone than Francis, a friend I knew in Kenya whose skin was almost the colour of used oil.
She had a small nose which gave her a cute, girlie look. Her eyes though were in stark contrast, a pale vibrant blue almost matching the typewriter.
I stopped in stunned silence.
Not because of the colour of her skin or the startling blue eyes, the nose and not even the smooth skin of her neck. It was the fact that with all that put together she was probably one of the most beautiful creatures I had ever seen, and I’d seen a lot of beautiful even other-worldly beautiful creatures.
What struck me even more was the fact that she was just a plain old person. No magical aura, no body parts hidden from normal sight or anything else one could get away with calling supernatural. She was, as far as I could tell, as human as they come.
As I’d entered she’d looked up at me with those azure eyes and gave me a slight smile, then after I’d stood there like an idiot, she gave me one of those wide-eyed looks that says “Yeah? What?”
“Morning,” I said eventually, turning to hang my sopping wet hat and coat on the stand by the door.
When I turned back she had somehow managed to maintain that original look at the same time and displaying how unimpressed she was at the puddle forming on the linoleum floor.
“It’s the afternoon,” she politely corrected. “I’m sorry but can I help you in any way?”
I glanced at the stack of bills she had beside the typewriter.
“Looks like you already are.”
She followed my gaze, confused.
I offered my hand. “Arthur Wrathchild,” I explained.
Her beautiful blue eyes widened and she stood up taking my hand.
“Oh, shoot! Good afternoon Mr Wrathchild, I’m so pleased to finally meet you. Chrissie told me you’d be away for several more weeks.”
“I got lucky,” I said and figuring I’d stood awkwardly in my own office for long enough I headed toward my door.
“Erm, is there anything I can do for you, Mr Wrathchild?”
“Yeah, three things actually. First you could tell me your name,” I said.
“Oh darn, sorry! I’m Lachelle Adams, Mr Wrathchild.”
“Well, Lachelle, the second thing you can do is call me Art. And the third is making us both a coffee so we can have a chat.”
“Sure,” she paused, “Arthur, erm, Art! Sorry. How do you like it?”
“Black,” I said hoping she didn’t pick up on the double-entendre.
By the time I entered the lobby of the ten storey office building that was home to Wrathchild Investigations – Licenced Private Investigator.
I shared my floor with a family lawyer, which proved beneficial to us both, a bail bondsman, which also provided a steady stream of work my way, and a homeopathic medicine practitioner which I hadn’t had any dealings with or spent time with to know what the hell it is they practiced.
Ripping people off was my guess.
My office was at the far end of the corridor. Somehow I had managed to secure myself a corner suite which even came with its own bathroom and kitchenette, which was handy as I often needed it to double as an emergency room to patch myself up in! If I’d had to share a bathroom I doubt my neighbours would have appreciated walking in on me stitching myself up when they needed a pee!
As I got to the door I could see there was a light on inside which put the words ‘Wrathchild Investigations’ stencilled on the glass panel into silhouette. The glass was the sort you can’t see through properly.
The door was unlocked so I opened it.
Inside hadn’t changed in the three weeks I’d been away. There was a desk, a couch, a wall full of shelves stacked with reference books I’d bought when a couple of libraries had closed down.
Two more doors led out of the room. One led to the small kitchenette and the bathroom, both off a small passageway. The other led into my office.
There was one thing, however, that was startlingly different that you’d notice from a hundred yards away, and I wasn’t talking about the shiny new, very expensive looking pale blue typewriter on the desk right in front of me.
It was what was sitting behind the desk that had made me pause.
She had to be in her early to mid-twenties, long black hair in that luscious wavy style that was popular during the war. Her skin was dark, indicating her African heritage, but a lighter tone than Francis, a friend I knew in Kenya whose skin was almost the colour of used oil.
She had a small nose which gave her a cute, girlie look. Her eyes though were in stark contrast, a pale vibrant blue almost matching the typewriter.
I stopped in stunned silence.
Not because of the colour of her skin or the startling blue eyes, the nose and not even the smooth skin of her neck. It was the fact that with all that put together she was probably one of the most beautiful creatures I had ever seen, and I’d seen a lot of beautiful even other-worldly beautiful creatures.
What struck me even more was the fact that she was just a plain old person. No magical aura, no body parts hidden from normal sight or anything else one could get away with calling supernatural. She was, as far as I could tell, as human as they come.
As I’d entered she’d looked up at me with those azure eyes and gave me a slight smile, then after I’d stood there like an idiot, she gave me one of those wide-eyed looks that says “Yeah? What?”
“Morning,” I said eventually, turning to hang my sopping wet hat and coat on the stand by the door.
When I turned back she had somehow managed to maintain that original look at the same time and displaying how unimpressed she was at the puddle forming on the linoleum floor.
“It’s the afternoon,” she politely corrected. “I’m sorry but can I help you in any way?”
I glanced at the stack of bills she had beside the typewriter.
“Looks like you already are.”
She followed my gaze, confused.
I offered my hand. “Arthur Wrathchild,” I explained.
Her beautiful blue eyes widened and she stood up taking my hand.
“Oh, shoot! Good afternoon Mr Wrathchild, I’m so pleased to finally meet you. Chrissie told me you’d be away for several more weeks.”
“I got lucky,” I said and figuring I’d stood awkwardly in my own office for long enough I headed toward my door.
“Erm, is there anything I can do for you, Mr Wrathchild?”
“Yeah, three things actually. First you could tell me your name,” I said.
“Oh darn, sorry! I’m Lachelle Adams, Mr Wrathchild.”
“Well, Lachelle, the second thing you can do is call me Art. And the third is making us both a coffee so we can have a chat.”
“Sure,” she paused, “Arthur, erm, Art! Sorry. How do you like it?”
“Black,” I said hoping she didn’t pick up on the double-entendre.
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Re: WRATHCHILD INVESTIGATIONS
I woke up the next morning, my head a little thick. It turns out that young Miss Adams can handle her drink.
We’d sat and talked about her, her family life in New York, the usual sort of stuff.
She was originally from Jacksonville, Florida. Her father died in the Pacific during the war and life had been hard for her mother. Trying to bring up a child as a widow was hard enough, but doing it with the constant underlying racism that still permeated most parts of the American society. It just made things that much harder.
That talk had got the mood down and she’d got upset so I’d offered her something to drink.
I don’t know if it was just me getting old or if it was three hectic busy weeks catching up on me but I seemed to get drunk real quick.
Anyway, she headed home and I had gone into the small pad I have behind my office to pass out.
Now, with a bit of a thick head, I stumbled into the bathroom, washed, shaved and then went back into the bedroom and dressed in a clean shirt.
I hadn’t finished doing up the buttons before someone started hammering on the front office door. Whoever it was seemed very insistent.
“Alright, alright! Hang on a sec!” I called as I made my way out.
It must have been the thick head, but for some reason I didn’t take my gun. Someone hammering like that at eight thirty on a Saturday morning normally meant trouble – trouble for me!
As soon as I flicked the lock the person on the other side pushed the door open.
He was a squat, stocky guy with a pencil moustache, two different coloured eyes and no neck.
Behind him were two other Neanderthals, large, muscular and looking like they came mail order from a catalogue that sold mob thugs and other assorted lackeys.
There was nothing particularly unique about either of them except for the fact that you could mistake them for mountains if they stood still.
I recognised no-neck. His name was Manuel Santos, a half-Mexican enforcer working for Victor Dempsey.
Dempsey was the current king-pin of organised crime in Queens. I say current as since the war that title has exchanged hands several times.
Manuel shoved a gun in my face.
I held my hands up and backed away.
“Hey, easy there Manny! What’s the problem?”
Manuel followed me inside. His henchmen stepped in behind him and closed the door.
“Seems you are, again!” Manuel put the emphasis on the again.
I was a little confused. Other than one case where I was looking for a missing person – who it turns out was missing due to one of Manny’s predecessors, against Dempsey’s direct instructions; I hadn’t had any detrimental dealings with Manny’s boss.
In fact, I’d even done some paid work for Dempsey, all legit I might add, and as the man had paid up it kind of hinted that he’d been satisfied with what I’d done.
So right now I didn’t really know where this was coming from.
“See, I don’t see how, Manny? Why don’t you take a seat so you can explain why you or your boss thinks it’s okay to barge up in here waving a gun in my face?”
“Don’t go getting all funny with me wise-guy,” Manny said, the gun waggling around in front of me.
I glared at him, anger steadily building. I was pissed at these guys coming into my office like this.
“I’m not being funny, Manuel. I’ve no idea what the problem is, other than you three clowns busting in here,” I growled. I couldn’t help it, I knew I shouldn’t say anything but, well, you know how it is!
“Oh, are you a fuckin’ wise-guy now?” Manuel jabbed the gun in my direction.
I shrugged maintaining eye contact with him. “Wise? Guess I can be. Can you?”
“What?”
“Can you be a wise man, Manuel? Can you make wise choices? Like turning around and walking the hell out of that door and taking these two goons with you?”
Manny laughed at me. Not an amused laugh.
“I can show you how wise I can be.” The gun jerked in my direction momentarily then slid into the holster under his coat.
Again I shrugged. “Alright Manny, what can I do for you? What is this all about?”
I got a hint at what was coming from his sadistic smile.
“Hey,” he said, “I’m showing you how wise I can be.” A nod of his head set the two goons loose. They came at me simultaneously.
We’d sat and talked about her, her family life in New York, the usual sort of stuff.
She was originally from Jacksonville, Florida. Her father died in the Pacific during the war and life had been hard for her mother. Trying to bring up a child as a widow was hard enough, but doing it with the constant underlying racism that still permeated most parts of the American society. It just made things that much harder.
That talk had got the mood down and she’d got upset so I’d offered her something to drink.
I don’t know if it was just me getting old or if it was three hectic busy weeks catching up on me but I seemed to get drunk real quick.
Anyway, she headed home and I had gone into the small pad I have behind my office to pass out.
Now, with a bit of a thick head, I stumbled into the bathroom, washed, shaved and then went back into the bedroom and dressed in a clean shirt.
I hadn’t finished doing up the buttons before someone started hammering on the front office door. Whoever it was seemed very insistent.
“Alright, alright! Hang on a sec!” I called as I made my way out.
It must have been the thick head, but for some reason I didn’t take my gun. Someone hammering like that at eight thirty on a Saturday morning normally meant trouble – trouble for me!
As soon as I flicked the lock the person on the other side pushed the door open.
He was a squat, stocky guy with a pencil moustache, two different coloured eyes and no neck.
Behind him were two other Neanderthals, large, muscular and looking like they came mail order from a catalogue that sold mob thugs and other assorted lackeys.
There was nothing particularly unique about either of them except for the fact that you could mistake them for mountains if they stood still.
I recognised no-neck. His name was Manuel Santos, a half-Mexican enforcer working for Victor Dempsey.
Dempsey was the current king-pin of organised crime in Queens. I say current as since the war that title has exchanged hands several times.
Manuel shoved a gun in my face.
I held my hands up and backed away.
“Hey, easy there Manny! What’s the problem?”
Manuel followed me inside. His henchmen stepped in behind him and closed the door.
“Seems you are, again!” Manuel put the emphasis on the again.
I was a little confused. Other than one case where I was looking for a missing person – who it turns out was missing due to one of Manny’s predecessors, against Dempsey’s direct instructions; I hadn’t had any detrimental dealings with Manny’s boss.
In fact, I’d even done some paid work for Dempsey, all legit I might add, and as the man had paid up it kind of hinted that he’d been satisfied with what I’d done.
So right now I didn’t really know where this was coming from.
“See, I don’t see how, Manny? Why don’t you take a seat so you can explain why you or your boss thinks it’s okay to barge up in here waving a gun in my face?”
“Don’t go getting all funny with me wise-guy,” Manny said, the gun waggling around in front of me.
I glared at him, anger steadily building. I was pissed at these guys coming into my office like this.
“I’m not being funny, Manuel. I’ve no idea what the problem is, other than you three clowns busting in here,” I growled. I couldn’t help it, I knew I shouldn’t say anything but, well, you know how it is!
“Oh, are you a fuckin’ wise-guy now?” Manuel jabbed the gun in my direction.
I shrugged maintaining eye contact with him. “Wise? Guess I can be. Can you?”
“What?”
“Can you be a wise man, Manuel? Can you make wise choices? Like turning around and walking the hell out of that door and taking these two goons with you?”
Manny laughed at me. Not an amused laugh.
“I can show you how wise I can be.” The gun jerked in my direction momentarily then slid into the holster under his coat.
Again I shrugged. “Alright Manny, what can I do for you? What is this all about?”
I got a hint at what was coming from his sadistic smile.
“Hey,” he said, “I’m showing you how wise I can be.” A nod of his head set the two goons loose. They came at me simultaneously.
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Re: WRATHCHILD INVESTIGATIONS
I skipped backwards through my office door – there was more room to manoeuvre in there. Both goons filled the doorway as they came through. The first one came up and tried to get me in a bear hug.
I kind of resisted but was very aware of my stuff. If I started a dust-up in here it was going to cost me a pretty packet in repairs and replacing any damaged furniture. Better and cheaper to take what was coming and only kick things off if it looked like there was going to be a fatality, namely mine.
So, after some shoving against the man-bear I let him get hold of me. He turned me round to face Manny.
His colleague stepped up and rammed his anvil sized fist into my guts knocking the wind from me.
It was a decent punch.
Just as I caught my breath he did it again and this time my legs buckled.
His next blow hit me on the side of the head just above the ear. Jesus, I saw stars!
The other one hoisted me to my feet so his buddy could give my guts another go but his fist hit higher and I felt a couple of ribs crack.
I groaned in pain and got a smack in the chops. I tasted blood.
Manny put his hand up stopping the next punch in mid-flight.
“So,” he said with a dramatic pause. “You can now see how wise I can be, yes?
My voice is deep normally, a slight gravel to it. When I replied it was deeper, not so much gravel as rocks.
“Oh, I think I have the measure of you.” Anger fought to escape. I wanted to turn on these idiots and leave three pulverised corpses on my office floor.
But the hassle I would get – there were more than a few guys in the local precincts who’d relish putting me behind bars. It was something to do with them being crap at police work, or maybe me being better, I think.
Either way had ended with me proving them very wrong and them sufficiently embarrassed or even reprimanded.
Plus it had taken me ages to pick the carpet. Poor Chrissie had lugged samples back and forth for weeks.
Manuel had picked up in the change of tone.
“Was there some sort of threat in that?” The gun was up in my face again.
“Just get it over and done with you deigo son-of-a-bitch!”
The grip on my arms tightened and a fist slammed into my jaw. White lights flashed before my eyes.
“Hold it,” Manny instructed before the next punch landed.
“What the hell is it you want, Manny?” is spat. It amused me, the look of annoyance that passed across his face every time I used his name in such a familiar fashion. He was used to people being scared of him and therefore being respectful, calling him Sir or Mr Santos. Fuck that! I had no respect for this asshole.
Finally he said something useful.
“Word is, that you did a little job for a certain Valerie Harkness?”
I frowned at him for a moment then it clicked. I had done some work for Mrs. Harkness. She had come to me, like so many do, thinking her husband was having an affair.
So I had dug around, followed him for a couple of weeks. And no, the man was not having an affair. In marital concerns he was squeaky clean. I’d even sent Charlotte a very high-class hooker I knew in to test him and he’d been flattered and had flirted a bit. Let’s face it, who doesn’t like getting hit on by an attractive young woman? And I wasn’t going to line the guys against the wall for a little harmless flirting. But in the end he’d politely refused her advances. It takes a strong relationship for a man to resist Charlotte’s wiles. But that said, Mrs Harkness was a looker too. Good enough to make the judge keep his hands to himself.
I’d told Mrs Harkness all this and she’d been happy.
What I hadn’t told her was that dear faithful Judge Harkness was up to his eyes in insider deals, bribery and general corruption.
I’d discovered enough to lose him his place on the Bar, leave him in absolute disgrace. But what good would that have been? It would have ruined Mrs Harkness’ life and she didn’t deserve that from me. It would also have lost me a great bargaining chip. Who knew when I might need a get out of jail card? Or more precisely, a ‘don’t go to jail’ card!
I kind of resisted but was very aware of my stuff. If I started a dust-up in here it was going to cost me a pretty packet in repairs and replacing any damaged furniture. Better and cheaper to take what was coming and only kick things off if it looked like there was going to be a fatality, namely mine.
So, after some shoving against the man-bear I let him get hold of me. He turned me round to face Manny.
His colleague stepped up and rammed his anvil sized fist into my guts knocking the wind from me.
It was a decent punch.
Just as I caught my breath he did it again and this time my legs buckled.
His next blow hit me on the side of the head just above the ear. Jesus, I saw stars!
The other one hoisted me to my feet so his buddy could give my guts another go but his fist hit higher and I felt a couple of ribs crack.
I groaned in pain and got a smack in the chops. I tasted blood.
Manny put his hand up stopping the next punch in mid-flight.
“So,” he said with a dramatic pause. “You can now see how wise I can be, yes?
My voice is deep normally, a slight gravel to it. When I replied it was deeper, not so much gravel as rocks.
“Oh, I think I have the measure of you.” Anger fought to escape. I wanted to turn on these idiots and leave three pulverised corpses on my office floor.
But the hassle I would get – there were more than a few guys in the local precincts who’d relish putting me behind bars. It was something to do with them being crap at police work, or maybe me being better, I think.
Either way had ended with me proving them very wrong and them sufficiently embarrassed or even reprimanded.
Plus it had taken me ages to pick the carpet. Poor Chrissie had lugged samples back and forth for weeks.
Manuel had picked up in the change of tone.
“Was there some sort of threat in that?” The gun was up in my face again.
“Just get it over and done with you deigo son-of-a-bitch!”
The grip on my arms tightened and a fist slammed into my jaw. White lights flashed before my eyes.
“Hold it,” Manny instructed before the next punch landed.
“What the hell is it you want, Manny?” is spat. It amused me, the look of annoyance that passed across his face every time I used his name in such a familiar fashion. He was used to people being scared of him and therefore being respectful, calling him Sir or Mr Santos. Fuck that! I had no respect for this asshole.
Finally he said something useful.
“Word is, that you did a little job for a certain Valerie Harkness?”
I frowned at him for a moment then it clicked. I had done some work for Mrs. Harkness. She had come to me, like so many do, thinking her husband was having an affair.
So I had dug around, followed him for a couple of weeks. And no, the man was not having an affair. In marital concerns he was squeaky clean. I’d even sent Charlotte a very high-class hooker I knew in to test him and he’d been flattered and had flirted a bit. Let’s face it, who doesn’t like getting hit on by an attractive young woman? And I wasn’t going to line the guys against the wall for a little harmless flirting. But in the end he’d politely refused her advances. It takes a strong relationship for a man to resist Charlotte’s wiles. But that said, Mrs Harkness was a looker too. Good enough to make the judge keep his hands to himself.
I’d told Mrs Harkness all this and she’d been happy.
What I hadn’t told her was that dear faithful Judge Harkness was up to his eyes in insider deals, bribery and general corruption.
I’d discovered enough to lose him his place on the Bar, leave him in absolute disgrace. But what good would that have been? It would have ruined Mrs Harkness’ life and she didn’t deserve that from me. It would also have lost me a great bargaining chip. Who knew when I might need a get out of jail card? Or more precisely, a ‘don’t go to jail’ card!
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Re: WRATHCHILD INVESTIGATIONS
“Wait a minute!” I chuckled sardonically. “You’ve come in here all heavy-handed because your boss wants some dirt on Harkness?”
“That’s right,” Santos said. “So spill, where’s the information?”
“What makes you think I found anything? His wife came in here thinking there was something bad and she’s still married to him. The guy’s a goddamned quire boy.”
Santos smirked. “We both know that’s horseshit!”
Oh well, it was worth a try. Santos just nodded slightly at one of his goons and I got a gut punch that knocked the wind right out of me.
“I’m getting tired of waiting. Loosen his tongue, boys.”
That’s when bozo number one went to town.
He gave me a few powerful blows to the stomach for starters but then just went for my face.
He’d got maybe a dozen hits in when over my ragged breathing I heard a set of keys hit the floor and a loud gasp.
The punches stopped and everyone looked to the office door.
Lachelle was there, mouth hanging open in stunned silence, frozen by fear.
I wondered if she’d ever seen anything like this? Maybe she had, but probably not at work.
“Well, hello! Who do we have here?” Manuel Santos said, his Mexican accent dripping syrup.
“Go home, Lachelle,” I said.
“No, no, no!” Manny said revealing his gun. “You stay little Miss.” He waved the gun towards my chair. “Sit down!”
“Leave her out of this, Manny,” I growled.
“I don’t think so, Wrathchild. I think the pretty lady here is just what I need to get you to cooperate.”
He turned to Lachelle. “Sit down!” he snarled at her.
Lachelle flinched when he shouted and scuttled around to my chair.
Manny stood behind her, put the gun to her head.
“Don’t!” I warned angrily.
There must have been something in my eyes because Santos’ expression changed. He looked fearful for a brief moment.
But then his confidence came back to him.
Lachelle winced as the gun was pressed hard into the side of her head.
“That’s right,” Santos said. “So spill, where’s the information?”
“What makes you think I found anything? His wife came in here thinking there was something bad and she’s still married to him. The guy’s a goddamned quire boy.”
Santos smirked. “We both know that’s horseshit!”
Oh well, it was worth a try. Santos just nodded slightly at one of his goons and I got a gut punch that knocked the wind right out of me.
“I’m getting tired of waiting. Loosen his tongue, boys.”
That’s when bozo number one went to town.
He gave me a few powerful blows to the stomach for starters but then just went for my face.
He’d got maybe a dozen hits in when over my ragged breathing I heard a set of keys hit the floor and a loud gasp.
The punches stopped and everyone looked to the office door.
Lachelle was there, mouth hanging open in stunned silence, frozen by fear.
I wondered if she’d ever seen anything like this? Maybe she had, but probably not at work.
“Well, hello! Who do we have here?” Manuel Santos said, his Mexican accent dripping syrup.
“Go home, Lachelle,” I said.
“No, no, no!” Manny said revealing his gun. “You stay little Miss.” He waved the gun towards my chair. “Sit down!”
“Leave her out of this, Manny,” I growled.
“I don’t think so, Wrathchild. I think the pretty lady here is just what I need to get you to cooperate.”
He turned to Lachelle. “Sit down!” he snarled at her.
Lachelle flinched when he shouted and scuttled around to my chair.
Manny stood behind her, put the gun to her head.
“Don’t!” I warned angrily.
There must have been something in my eyes because Santos’ expression changed. He looked fearful for a brief moment.
But then his confidence came back to him.
Lachelle winced as the gun was pressed hard into the side of her head.
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Re: WRATHCHILD INVESTIGATIONS
That was it! I’d had enough of this game. I’d been willing to let it play out for the sake of not starting something with Dempsey, but Santos was stepping over the line now.
I looked down to my right hand. I wear a signet ring on my little finger, gold with a flat disk of onyx. I concentrated hard on that ring.
Luckily it seemed that Manuel took my stance for one of defeat and relaxed, letting the gun slide from Lachelle’s temple.
I decided to play on that misconception.
“Okay, Mr Santos,” I said meekly, “you win. I’ll get you the file.”
“No, no, no!” Santos said. “I’m no green faced gringo. The girls gets it.”
“She’s new. I only met her for the first time yesterday. She won’t know where to look or what to look for. Just let me get it for you.”
“Like I said wise-guy, the broad fetches it. You move so much as a hair…”
He was now in front of me.
All my internalising, all my aggression was funnelled into a single word in a language long forgotten by all but a few.
I felt the power nestle around the ring almost like a heat. I let it settle there.
I tensed, not just my arms but my whole body and felt the power grow. As I stood there Santos moved around the desk again and grabbed Lachelle’s shoulder and dragged her from the chair.
I was ready.
Santos stepped in front of me again, pulling a frightened looking Lachelle towards the filing cabinets at the back of the room.
My arm shot forward the big guy behind me unable to stop it.
My fist stuck Santos on the shoulder. There was a bright blue-white flash that drowned out all the other colours and the smell of ozone permeated the office.
Santos had flown across the room and smashed into the wall, his head punching a hole in the lathe and plaster. He collapsed to the floor, little snakes of blue tracing random paths over his body as the residual electricity died away. His whole body jerking in spasm every now and then.
The two goons stared in disbelief.
I tore free of the hand that now only loosely held me and in two quick paces pulled my revolver from the holster that was hanging from the coat rack.
I turned it on the two ham-fisted oafs.
“Guns on the table boys,” I said calmly.
Neither reacted.
“I will fucking shoot you!” I warned. There must have been something in the way I said it, or something in my eyes that told them that I wasn’t kidding. They looked at each other then slowly placed their own pistols on the desk.
I stepped up and took them, shoving each into my belt.
I went to Manny. He’d pissed himself, I could smell it as I got closer.
A quick search and I had his gun, a knife and his wallet which I rummaged through and removed a couple hundred bucks. Reckoned that would cover the damage, the laundry bill and a little of mine and Lachelle’s time.
Oh my god! Lachelle!
When I’d hit Santos he’d had hold of Lachelle. I turned quickly and saw her beside my desk, sitting there staring at Santos’ inert body.
I waved the gun at Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum.
“Back up,” I instructed then when they did I went to Lachelle and helped her to her feet.
“Jesus, I’m sorry. Are you alright?”
She still looked terrified. A short sharp nod was all I got.
I gave her what I hoped was a reassuring smile and turned to my guests.
“Get your boss and get the hell out of my building. Tell Dempsey… tell him he knows the rules.”
I hadn’t looked at them but they knew not to argue.
Within a few minutes they were gone.
I closed and locked the office door and returned to Lachelle. Girls could take being manhandled like that really badly.
Before I could say anything she looked at me with bright sparkling eyes.
“Whoa, that was a rush!” she giggled.
I looked down to my right hand. I wear a signet ring on my little finger, gold with a flat disk of onyx. I concentrated hard on that ring.
Luckily it seemed that Manuel took my stance for one of defeat and relaxed, letting the gun slide from Lachelle’s temple.
I decided to play on that misconception.
“Okay, Mr Santos,” I said meekly, “you win. I’ll get you the file.”
“No, no, no!” Santos said. “I’m no green faced gringo. The girls gets it.”
“She’s new. I only met her for the first time yesterday. She won’t know where to look or what to look for. Just let me get it for you.”
“Like I said wise-guy, the broad fetches it. You move so much as a hair…”
He was now in front of me.
All my internalising, all my aggression was funnelled into a single word in a language long forgotten by all but a few.
I felt the power nestle around the ring almost like a heat. I let it settle there.
I tensed, not just my arms but my whole body and felt the power grow. As I stood there Santos moved around the desk again and grabbed Lachelle’s shoulder and dragged her from the chair.
I was ready.
Santos stepped in front of me again, pulling a frightened looking Lachelle towards the filing cabinets at the back of the room.
My arm shot forward the big guy behind me unable to stop it.
My fist stuck Santos on the shoulder. There was a bright blue-white flash that drowned out all the other colours and the smell of ozone permeated the office.
Santos had flown across the room and smashed into the wall, his head punching a hole in the lathe and plaster. He collapsed to the floor, little snakes of blue tracing random paths over his body as the residual electricity died away. His whole body jerking in spasm every now and then.
The two goons stared in disbelief.
I tore free of the hand that now only loosely held me and in two quick paces pulled my revolver from the holster that was hanging from the coat rack.
I turned it on the two ham-fisted oafs.
“Guns on the table boys,” I said calmly.
Neither reacted.
“I will fucking shoot you!” I warned. There must have been something in the way I said it, or something in my eyes that told them that I wasn’t kidding. They looked at each other then slowly placed their own pistols on the desk.
I stepped up and took them, shoving each into my belt.
I went to Manny. He’d pissed himself, I could smell it as I got closer.
A quick search and I had his gun, a knife and his wallet which I rummaged through and removed a couple hundred bucks. Reckoned that would cover the damage, the laundry bill and a little of mine and Lachelle’s time.
Oh my god! Lachelle!
When I’d hit Santos he’d had hold of Lachelle. I turned quickly and saw her beside my desk, sitting there staring at Santos’ inert body.
I waved the gun at Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum.
“Back up,” I instructed then when they did I went to Lachelle and helped her to her feet.
“Jesus, I’m sorry. Are you alright?”
She still looked terrified. A short sharp nod was all I got.
I gave her what I hoped was a reassuring smile and turned to my guests.
“Get your boss and get the hell out of my building. Tell Dempsey… tell him he knows the rules.”
I hadn’t looked at them but they knew not to argue.
Within a few minutes they were gone.
I closed and locked the office door and returned to Lachelle. Girls could take being manhandled like that really badly.
Before I could say anything she looked at me with bright sparkling eyes.
“Whoa, that was a rush!” she giggled.
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Re: WRATHCHILD INVESTIGATIONS
By midday the sun had broken through the clouds and lightened the mood of the day, not that is was a particularly dark mood in the first place.
Lachelle had amazed me at how calmly she had taken the whole incident with Santos. There weren’t many women who could look at themselves having a gun pressed to their heads as something exciting.
Somewhere, deep down in the old subconscious was an alarm bell being tolled. I didn’t know why, and it wasn’t anything I needed to worry about just yet, but something worth taking note of.
Despite the unusually congenial attitude that my new secretary displayed there was no way I could leave that event unanswered, even if I had sent Santos and his goons packing.
What I did need to do was get it dealt with without escalating it further.
One thing I knew about Victor Dempsey was that he ran a bookmakers up in the Bronx and that on a Saturday he liked to sit down and count his takings for the week, so I knew where to go looking for him.
The cab pulled up at the corner of East 147th and Saint Ann’s. I paid the driver and stood looking across St Mary’s Park.
Kids were playing noisily on the grass. Mothers and grandmothers standing in small social pockets talking about whatever the hell it was mothers and grandmothers talked about. I had limited knowledge of such things.
Behind me Dempsey’s office was a low key looking place that could have been any laundrette in the world. Full glass doors, large windows, rows of washing machines and dryers. People were in there shoving their clothes into the drums. For all intents and purposes this was a fully-fledged and functional place to wash your smalls. The only difference being the two suit-clad heavies standing sentry on the door at the back that had a sign on it saying ‘Staff Only’.
I was about to cross the street when the hairs on the back of my neck stood up. A sleek silver Mercedes 300SL pulled to a halt outside the laundrette.
The driver looked like a normal guy, maybe a bit young to have a car like that but it could have been daddy’s money. That idea faded as soon as I clocked the passenger.
She was maybe mid-thirties, with flame red hair.
The gullwing door on the driver’s side hinged up and he scooted round to the other side and opened her door offering a hand to the lady and helping her out of the car. Not that she needed much in the way of help.
She was stunning. Everything about her drew your breath away, from her slender yet perfectly proportioned body to the immaculate hair, to the perfect porcelain skin, lips that drew your eyes to their cherry-red lipstick to fiery golden eyes that lured you in yet remained aloof and unattainable at the same time. On top of that her poise, her clothes and jewellery just screamed elegance.
I could see the two goons inside the laundry staring at her open mouthed.
I shook my head, clearing the fog I felt slowing my thoughts.
I concentrated on her, really looking, not just at what my eyes were seeing but looking also at what they could not see.
Around her was a greyish haze, like someone had drawn her in charcoal then smudged her out. I’d seen this before. It was some kind of illusion, a disguise placed over her to make her look as she did, almost too perfect to be real. And there was something else, woven into the illusion to make a person just want to please her. I couldn’t tell if it was an innate thing or if it was some sort of worked mask, a spell or some such put on her. Whatever the reason it was there to hide who or what she truly looked like. Unfortunately from the other side of the road I couldn’t see beyond the haze.
And then she was inside the laundrette and the effect of her influence waned slightly. I could hear her high heels clipping on the cheap tiles.
It seemed she was expected as the two gorillas at the door simply pulled it open as she approached.
When the door closed behind her it felt as if some great weight had been lifted from the world, or maybe it was just from me.
I should have walked away right then. But then the image of Santos with his gun to Lachelle’s head fired up the anger and held me in place.
Throwing caution to the wind, as the saying goes, I crossed the street.
As I entered the laundry, no bags of smalls to be seen, I saw the two goons tense up. I glanced from one to the other. Nothing unusual with either of them besides where they were and what they were doing.
Both were returning the scrutiny with a lot more hostility than was really necessary.
I didn’t recognise either and I’d not had overly much to do with Dempsey or his gang to warrant any of his people recognising me or having any issue with me so I assumed they just it everyone up with their steely gazes.
What I also noticed was their simultaneous but seemingly unconscious reflex to place their hands in a position where they could quickly go for the guns sitting under their left armpits.
“Yeah?” one of them said as he took a tiny step to his left effectively blocking the door.
“I’d like to speak with Victor,” I stopped and corrected myself, “speak with Mr Dempsey. I can wait if he’s currently busy.” No point in getting their heckles up by being all familiar regarding their boss. I never understand why but goons like these all too often developed a strange protectiveness about their bosses and got disproportionately aggressive when someone disrespected him or her.
“He’s busy,” the gut replied flatly.
“Like I said, I can wait.”
“And like I said, moron, he’s busy!”
I closed my eyes and took a deep breath letting the sudden surge of frustration die away.
Lachelle had amazed me at how calmly she had taken the whole incident with Santos. There weren’t many women who could look at themselves having a gun pressed to their heads as something exciting.
Somewhere, deep down in the old subconscious was an alarm bell being tolled. I didn’t know why, and it wasn’t anything I needed to worry about just yet, but something worth taking note of.
Despite the unusually congenial attitude that my new secretary displayed there was no way I could leave that event unanswered, even if I had sent Santos and his goons packing.
What I did need to do was get it dealt with without escalating it further.
One thing I knew about Victor Dempsey was that he ran a bookmakers up in the Bronx and that on a Saturday he liked to sit down and count his takings for the week, so I knew where to go looking for him.
The cab pulled up at the corner of East 147th and Saint Ann’s. I paid the driver and stood looking across St Mary’s Park.
Kids were playing noisily on the grass. Mothers and grandmothers standing in small social pockets talking about whatever the hell it was mothers and grandmothers talked about. I had limited knowledge of such things.
Behind me Dempsey’s office was a low key looking place that could have been any laundrette in the world. Full glass doors, large windows, rows of washing machines and dryers. People were in there shoving their clothes into the drums. For all intents and purposes this was a fully-fledged and functional place to wash your smalls. The only difference being the two suit-clad heavies standing sentry on the door at the back that had a sign on it saying ‘Staff Only’.
I was about to cross the street when the hairs on the back of my neck stood up. A sleek silver Mercedes 300SL pulled to a halt outside the laundrette.
The driver looked like a normal guy, maybe a bit young to have a car like that but it could have been daddy’s money. That idea faded as soon as I clocked the passenger.
She was maybe mid-thirties, with flame red hair.
The gullwing door on the driver’s side hinged up and he scooted round to the other side and opened her door offering a hand to the lady and helping her out of the car. Not that she needed much in the way of help.
She was stunning. Everything about her drew your breath away, from her slender yet perfectly proportioned body to the immaculate hair, to the perfect porcelain skin, lips that drew your eyes to their cherry-red lipstick to fiery golden eyes that lured you in yet remained aloof and unattainable at the same time. On top of that her poise, her clothes and jewellery just screamed elegance.
I could see the two goons inside the laundry staring at her open mouthed.
I shook my head, clearing the fog I felt slowing my thoughts.
I concentrated on her, really looking, not just at what my eyes were seeing but looking also at what they could not see.
Around her was a greyish haze, like someone had drawn her in charcoal then smudged her out. I’d seen this before. It was some kind of illusion, a disguise placed over her to make her look as she did, almost too perfect to be real. And there was something else, woven into the illusion to make a person just want to please her. I couldn’t tell if it was an innate thing or if it was some sort of worked mask, a spell or some such put on her. Whatever the reason it was there to hide who or what she truly looked like. Unfortunately from the other side of the road I couldn’t see beyond the haze.
And then she was inside the laundrette and the effect of her influence waned slightly. I could hear her high heels clipping on the cheap tiles.
It seemed she was expected as the two gorillas at the door simply pulled it open as she approached.
When the door closed behind her it felt as if some great weight had been lifted from the world, or maybe it was just from me.
I should have walked away right then. But then the image of Santos with his gun to Lachelle’s head fired up the anger and held me in place.
Throwing caution to the wind, as the saying goes, I crossed the street.
As I entered the laundry, no bags of smalls to be seen, I saw the two goons tense up. I glanced from one to the other. Nothing unusual with either of them besides where they were and what they were doing.
Both were returning the scrutiny with a lot more hostility than was really necessary.
I didn’t recognise either and I’d not had overly much to do with Dempsey or his gang to warrant any of his people recognising me or having any issue with me so I assumed they just it everyone up with their steely gazes.
What I also noticed was their simultaneous but seemingly unconscious reflex to place their hands in a position where they could quickly go for the guns sitting under their left armpits.
“Yeah?” one of them said as he took a tiny step to his left effectively blocking the door.
“I’d like to speak with Victor,” I stopped and corrected myself, “speak with Mr Dempsey. I can wait if he’s currently busy.” No point in getting their heckles up by being all familiar regarding their boss. I never understand why but goons like these all too often developed a strange protectiveness about their bosses and got disproportionately aggressive when someone disrespected him or her.
“He’s busy,” the gut replied flatly.
“Like I said, I can wait.”
“And like I said, moron, he’s busy!”
I closed my eyes and took a deep breath letting the sudden surge of frustration die away.
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Re: WRATHCHILD INVESTIGATIONS
I looked back at the goon and almost laughed. He must have realised I was about to speak and had chosen to adopt the ‘stare-down’ tactic. He was fixing me with one of those stern parent gives their child when they don’t seem to be getting the message. You know, one of the looks that says “go on, ask one more time and you’ll regret it!”
I doubt this guy had kids, or maybe he did and they did pretty much what they wanted because he wasn’t very good at it. It seemed to me more like someone trying not to shit himself in public!
Instead of laughing though, I took another long slow breath and said, “I’m the guy just put Santos on his ass this morning. I reckon Dempsey is going to want to speak to me.”
Both of them glanced at the other then back at me. “You?”
I’ll admit I’m no behemoth but I’m a relatively well built guy. Frankly their disbelief was a little insulting.
“Yeah, me! Would you like me to demonstrate?”
I could literally see those heckles rising.
Deciding not to continue down a very short path to me kicking ass I chose a more diplomatic slant.
“Why don’t you go ask the boss, and if he’s still too busy to see me, I’ll turn around and leave you to your day.”
There seemed to be quite a complex conversation going on between them that involved no words, just various facial expressions.
Eventually one of them disappeared inside.
I nodded and smiled a thanks to the remaining goon and leaned against one of the dryers.
I pulled a pack of Camels out and offered him one to break the tension
He declined, obviously confused by the gesture. I didn’t mind, the way things were going the last couple of days I had a feeling I’d be needing them soon enough.
After about five minutes the other guy returned. “Boss says to let him through, no guns.”
I unbuttoned my jacket and showed them the gun.
One of them took it.
I lifted my leg, propped one foot up on the chair and took the small twenty two from the ankle holster and handed it to him.
Gave them both a ‘there you are- told you so’ smirk.
The one with the pistols sneered at me while his buddy shoved me inside.
Initially it was a small room, not much in there.
Small table, an old fridge and four plain walls except for the door opposite which they led me through.
This side was far more industrious. This was like an old-school gangster den; some guys running the numbers on one side, a bookmakers on the other, and if I wasn’t reading it wrong it looked like Dempsey was dabbling in the stock market. That one made me pause.
The guy led me through to a door that opened on some stairs. Up we went to the upper floor.
I could hear music, swing if I wasn’t mistaken. Not my thing so I couldn’t say who.
Upstairs was a totally different scene to below. Where downstairs was drab, functional, no unnecessary decoration and a hubbub of activity, here it was quiet, spacious and looked like the inside of some London gentleman’s club, all dark wood panels, red studded leather chairs and enough tobacco smoke to make it almost tangible.
There were some people here, some sitting in the lounge chairs, others standing. They were all suited but somehow they had a look like they were here for display, for show, like Dempsey was letting his visitors see the kind of force he could muster. Or maybe it was just one visitor? Was the rich woman who entered before me the reason for this? If so, why?
Either way I ignored them, followed the goon to an office at the end. Another heavy at the door opened it.
I doubt this guy had kids, or maybe he did and they did pretty much what they wanted because he wasn’t very good at it. It seemed to me more like someone trying not to shit himself in public!
Instead of laughing though, I took another long slow breath and said, “I’m the guy just put Santos on his ass this morning. I reckon Dempsey is going to want to speak to me.”
Both of them glanced at the other then back at me. “You?”
I’ll admit I’m no behemoth but I’m a relatively well built guy. Frankly their disbelief was a little insulting.
“Yeah, me! Would you like me to demonstrate?”
I could literally see those heckles rising.
Deciding not to continue down a very short path to me kicking ass I chose a more diplomatic slant.
“Why don’t you go ask the boss, and if he’s still too busy to see me, I’ll turn around and leave you to your day.”
There seemed to be quite a complex conversation going on between them that involved no words, just various facial expressions.
Eventually one of them disappeared inside.
I nodded and smiled a thanks to the remaining goon and leaned against one of the dryers.
I pulled a pack of Camels out and offered him one to break the tension
He declined, obviously confused by the gesture. I didn’t mind, the way things were going the last couple of days I had a feeling I’d be needing them soon enough.
After about five minutes the other guy returned. “Boss says to let him through, no guns.”
I unbuttoned my jacket and showed them the gun.
One of them took it.
I lifted my leg, propped one foot up on the chair and took the small twenty two from the ankle holster and handed it to him.
Gave them both a ‘there you are- told you so’ smirk.
The one with the pistols sneered at me while his buddy shoved me inside.
Initially it was a small room, not much in there.
Small table, an old fridge and four plain walls except for the door opposite which they led me through.
This side was far more industrious. This was like an old-school gangster den; some guys running the numbers on one side, a bookmakers on the other, and if I wasn’t reading it wrong it looked like Dempsey was dabbling in the stock market. That one made me pause.
The guy led me through to a door that opened on some stairs. Up we went to the upper floor.
I could hear music, swing if I wasn’t mistaken. Not my thing so I couldn’t say who.
Upstairs was a totally different scene to below. Where downstairs was drab, functional, no unnecessary decoration and a hubbub of activity, here it was quiet, spacious and looked like the inside of some London gentleman’s club, all dark wood panels, red studded leather chairs and enough tobacco smoke to make it almost tangible.
There were some people here, some sitting in the lounge chairs, others standing. They were all suited but somehow they had a look like they were here for display, for show, like Dempsey was letting his visitors see the kind of force he could muster. Or maybe it was just one visitor? Was the rich woman who entered before me the reason for this? If so, why?
Either way I ignored them, followed the goon to an office at the end. Another heavy at the door opened it.
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Re: WRATHCHILD INVESTIGATIONS
Dempsey’s office wasn’t as big as I thought it would be. Like the rest of the upper floor it looked like a cheap knock off of an English Gentlemen’s club; dark wood panels, leather studded chairs, oversized dark mahogany desk.
Sitting upright behind that desk was Victor Dempsy. He was an average looking man with thick dark hair greying at the sides and a pencil moustache reminiscent of Clark Gable. The pale blue suit he wore looked tailored and instead of a tie he wore a red and black cravat. Personally I didn’t think it went with the suit, but then again I’ve never been a fan of that bohemian look.
He wasn’t looking very happy and scowled at me as I approached, but I wasn’t really paying him that much attention.
In the chair opposite him was the woman. I could only see her from behind and now that I was closer I could feel the almost palpable malevolence being exuded by her. I felt myself wanting to do whatever it was she wanted to please her, or more specifically not to displease her and face her wrath.
Both the woman and the man remained unmoving as I entered the room, he with his gaze fixed upon me and her firmly looking at Dempsey.
I paused, wondering if I should go back outside and wait, the whole two second interaction caught me off balance so that my initial bravado about coming in here faltered.
Eventually after several more awkward seconds I said, “I can wait outside of you aren’t finished?”
My voice seemed to break whatever spell Victor was under.
“No!” Dempsey said firmly. “Miss O’Mara was just leaving.”
The woman, Miss O’Mara, gave a heavy and dissatisfied sigh. I felt the gnawing discomfort at the back of my mind and searched for a way I could right whatever wrong the young woman was suffering.
Alarm bells sounded in my head, drowning out that sudden desire to please her and bringing my guarded concentration back.
She stood, her beauty this close was flawless. Everything about her was pristine, perfect, immaculate.
Everything about her was wrong. And when I realised that I saw her properly.
Much older than she appeared her apparent alabaster skin darker, Mediterranean. The outfit was the same but she didn’t fill it out quite like she appeared to.
But it was the hair that made me step back. It wasn’t hair, at all but rather a mass of writhing snakes. A Gorgon!
Greek mythology mentions the Gorgons, the three sisters the most infamous of which was of course, Medusa.
It didn’t mention that here was a whole race of them. Like any ethnic group there were good ones and bad ones. Medusa and her sisters ticked the latter box. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to find out which box Miss O’Mara ticked.
She turned from Dempsey and gave me a dismissive glare which turned instantly into surprise and then faded as she regained composure.
So she’d ‘seen’ me too. Good, at least if we were to have any further contact all that pretence could be laid aside and we’d be able to get on with, well, whatever.
There wasn’t going to be any exchange between us now though.
She moved to the door. “That is our final offer, Mr Dempsey. Think it over, but don’t take too long. It has a finite timescale.”
She walked out, the effect of her presence fading quickly as she did.
I was impressed with Dempsey. He, I knew, was as normal as any human can get, as far as supernatural or not supernatural went. Yet he’d managed to overcome the Gorgon’s influence. That, I noted to myself was something I’d need to look into. I wasn’t aware that Gorgons had that innate ability.
“You got some goddamned nerve showing your face here Wrathchild! Dempsey suddenly snapped.
His man who has escorted me here stepped into the room behind me, blocking the doorway.
“I’ve got some nerve?” I asked incredulously.
“You put Manny in the goddamn hospital and then walk in here demanding to see me? How I gotta respond to that?” he jabbed a finger at the desk top. “Are you trying to make me look weak?”
I removed Manny’s gun from my belt, causing the goon behind me to almost choke.
“Easy,” I said calmly letting the pistol swing down on my finger and handing it to Dempsey butt first.
I said, “You tell me I got some nerve yet you send Santos over to my office to wave a gun at me and force information out of me about a certain judge?”
I stood there with the pistol hanging from my finger waiting for Dempsey to take it but he just looked at me angrily.
When at last he spoke it was quiet, calm, cold with no emotion in it. The classic moment when these guys did something really bad.
“So you put my lieutenant in hospital for asking you for information and you insult him further by taking his gun, a gun I gave him?”
“A gun he had pressed to my secretary’s head,” I growled. “You want to ask me something, Victor, just pick up the damned phone. Don’t send your goons round to threaten my staff.”
I slammed the gun down on the desk.
I could see Dempsey’s expression change momentarily as confusion and then realisation flashed across his face.
“I didn’t send anyone over to threaten you,” he sighed as he said it, looking away as though silently admonishing the absent Santos.
“I sent Manuel over to yours to get any information you may have on Judge Harkett. I knew you’d looked into him in the past, for his wife.”
I already knew all this, on account of Santos’ demands back at my office, but I also knew something that Dempsey already knew which I reminded him. “Anything I found out was confidential, you knew that. You remember my terms when I took that job for you, well Mrs Harkett got the same terms when she hired me as you did.”
Dempsey sat down, waved to the seat where the Gorgon had been.
“Jesus Christ!” he cursed when I didn’t move. “Sit down will ya?”
I sat.
“I told Manuel to ask you if you had information on Harkett, see if he could persuade you to hand it over. But yes, I knew your goddamned terms so I told him that if you wouldn’t hand it over he was to hire you on my behalf.”
“For what?” I asked.
“I wanted you to look into Harkett’s activities, of course. I figured if you weren’t prepared to hand over the dirt as a favour, I understand you have to honour your terms, yadda, yadda, yadda, then if he hired you to look into him then you would be justified in handing it across – after all you already had the information I wanted.”
“Then why the hell did he come hammering on my door and waving a gun around?”
“I don’t know, maybe I thought I meant ask in the old fashioned way, if you get my meaning?”
Dempsey was a gangster at the end of the day. A gangster who had paid muscle to do his bidding and that muscle was there more for intimidation than anything else and certainly not for thinking. So maybe Dempsey did tell him to just come and ask but Santos just turned to the default setting and asked, like he did under any other situation – with the barrel of his gun.
The voice in the back of my head told me Dempsey should have known better and spelled it out for him. Too late now, that boat had sailed, as the expression goes.
Dempsey was fixing me with his gaze but it wasn’t hostile, wasn’t stern or angry he was just staring at me.
“Look,” he said at last, “You know of me, who I am, how I can do things. What you might not know is that half my battle is image and perception, you know, what people think of me. People fear me by an’ large and the list of those that don’t is very small indeed. A list you’re on apparently.” He added that last sentence with a sardonic smile.
“If they fear me they are less inclined to oppose me or deny me what I want and they have good reason to fear me for I can ruin a man’s day with the click of my fingers.”
I stared back at him silently; he was obviously building up to something.
“So now I got me a problem,” he continued. “You put one of my lieutenants in hospital and then you come barging in here like I owe you some sort of apology,” he stabbed his finger in my direction.
“What am I to do about this, huh?” he added in a manner that suggested I should come up with an answer.
I said nothing.
“I gotta have respect or I got nothin’. Someone show’s me no respect I gotta do something about it or I lose respect from all the others. You know how this works?”
Yeah, yeah, yeah! He’s pulling lines straight out of the crime-boss hand-book and throwing them at me verbatim.
And yeah, okay, I guess in some twisted way he’s right. He’s got to save face and all that bullshit. But I decided to throw some of that crap back at him.
“I always thought the best gangsters in the movies were those that appeared fair but harsh too, you know? Now that’s just my opinion but a man willing to put his hands up and say ‘hey, sorry about that, genuine mix up, no hard feelings, huh?’ That’s the sort of guy that would get genuine respect, not just the fake shit that’s generated out of pure fear. People who fear you a person don’t respect them. They may act respectfully but there isn’t any actual respect. But a person who genuinely respects a man will go that extra mile for him of their own accord. Like I said, that’s just my opinion.”
Dempsey stared hard at me, his brows bunching.
“You’re a god damned wise-ass, you know that?” he laughed.
I shrugged.
“Alright, cos you make me laugh and cos I can be a generous guy when I want to be, I’ll hold my hand up and say, hey, just a mix up. Call it over-exuberance on Manny’s part. But I also need that information.”
I nodded my acceptance, “Well that’s very magnanimous of you Mr Dempsey. However, I’m not looking to take on any extra work right now.”
Dempsey’s face hardened.
I held my hands up to stop any argument. “Relax! In the spirit of good will and all that I’ll send over what I can remember in the morning. It’s a couple of years out of date.”
“Well, Mr Wrathchild, that sounds like someone telling me ‘no!’” Dempsey said.
“It’s someone saying I can’t but here, have this slightly out of date stuff that your man was coming to ask me about, you know, just before he put a gun to a young woman’s temple head and had his goons try to beat it out of me.”
Dempsey leaned back in his chair and rubbed his eyes.
Sitting upright behind that desk was Victor Dempsy. He was an average looking man with thick dark hair greying at the sides and a pencil moustache reminiscent of Clark Gable. The pale blue suit he wore looked tailored and instead of a tie he wore a red and black cravat. Personally I didn’t think it went with the suit, but then again I’ve never been a fan of that bohemian look.
He wasn’t looking very happy and scowled at me as I approached, but I wasn’t really paying him that much attention.
In the chair opposite him was the woman. I could only see her from behind and now that I was closer I could feel the almost palpable malevolence being exuded by her. I felt myself wanting to do whatever it was she wanted to please her, or more specifically not to displease her and face her wrath.
Both the woman and the man remained unmoving as I entered the room, he with his gaze fixed upon me and her firmly looking at Dempsey.
I paused, wondering if I should go back outside and wait, the whole two second interaction caught me off balance so that my initial bravado about coming in here faltered.
Eventually after several more awkward seconds I said, “I can wait outside of you aren’t finished?”
My voice seemed to break whatever spell Victor was under.
“No!” Dempsey said firmly. “Miss O’Mara was just leaving.”
The woman, Miss O’Mara, gave a heavy and dissatisfied sigh. I felt the gnawing discomfort at the back of my mind and searched for a way I could right whatever wrong the young woman was suffering.
Alarm bells sounded in my head, drowning out that sudden desire to please her and bringing my guarded concentration back.
She stood, her beauty this close was flawless. Everything about her was pristine, perfect, immaculate.
Everything about her was wrong. And when I realised that I saw her properly.
Much older than she appeared her apparent alabaster skin darker, Mediterranean. The outfit was the same but she didn’t fill it out quite like she appeared to.
But it was the hair that made me step back. It wasn’t hair, at all but rather a mass of writhing snakes. A Gorgon!
Greek mythology mentions the Gorgons, the three sisters the most infamous of which was of course, Medusa.
It didn’t mention that here was a whole race of them. Like any ethnic group there were good ones and bad ones. Medusa and her sisters ticked the latter box. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to find out which box Miss O’Mara ticked.
She turned from Dempsey and gave me a dismissive glare which turned instantly into surprise and then faded as she regained composure.
So she’d ‘seen’ me too. Good, at least if we were to have any further contact all that pretence could be laid aside and we’d be able to get on with, well, whatever.
There wasn’t going to be any exchange between us now though.
She moved to the door. “That is our final offer, Mr Dempsey. Think it over, but don’t take too long. It has a finite timescale.”
She walked out, the effect of her presence fading quickly as she did.
I was impressed with Dempsey. He, I knew, was as normal as any human can get, as far as supernatural or not supernatural went. Yet he’d managed to overcome the Gorgon’s influence. That, I noted to myself was something I’d need to look into. I wasn’t aware that Gorgons had that innate ability.
“You got some goddamned nerve showing your face here Wrathchild! Dempsey suddenly snapped.
His man who has escorted me here stepped into the room behind me, blocking the doorway.
“I’ve got some nerve?” I asked incredulously.
“You put Manny in the goddamn hospital and then walk in here demanding to see me? How I gotta respond to that?” he jabbed a finger at the desk top. “Are you trying to make me look weak?”
I removed Manny’s gun from my belt, causing the goon behind me to almost choke.
“Easy,” I said calmly letting the pistol swing down on my finger and handing it to Dempsey butt first.
I said, “You tell me I got some nerve yet you send Santos over to my office to wave a gun at me and force information out of me about a certain judge?”
I stood there with the pistol hanging from my finger waiting for Dempsey to take it but he just looked at me angrily.
When at last he spoke it was quiet, calm, cold with no emotion in it. The classic moment when these guys did something really bad.
“So you put my lieutenant in hospital for asking you for information and you insult him further by taking his gun, a gun I gave him?”
“A gun he had pressed to my secretary’s head,” I growled. “You want to ask me something, Victor, just pick up the damned phone. Don’t send your goons round to threaten my staff.”
I slammed the gun down on the desk.
I could see Dempsey’s expression change momentarily as confusion and then realisation flashed across his face.
“I didn’t send anyone over to threaten you,” he sighed as he said it, looking away as though silently admonishing the absent Santos.
“I sent Manuel over to yours to get any information you may have on Judge Harkett. I knew you’d looked into him in the past, for his wife.”
I already knew all this, on account of Santos’ demands back at my office, but I also knew something that Dempsey already knew which I reminded him. “Anything I found out was confidential, you knew that. You remember my terms when I took that job for you, well Mrs Harkett got the same terms when she hired me as you did.”
Dempsey sat down, waved to the seat where the Gorgon had been.
“Jesus Christ!” he cursed when I didn’t move. “Sit down will ya?”
I sat.
“I told Manuel to ask you if you had information on Harkett, see if he could persuade you to hand it over. But yes, I knew your goddamned terms so I told him that if you wouldn’t hand it over he was to hire you on my behalf.”
“For what?” I asked.
“I wanted you to look into Harkett’s activities, of course. I figured if you weren’t prepared to hand over the dirt as a favour, I understand you have to honour your terms, yadda, yadda, yadda, then if he hired you to look into him then you would be justified in handing it across – after all you already had the information I wanted.”
“Then why the hell did he come hammering on my door and waving a gun around?”
“I don’t know, maybe I thought I meant ask in the old fashioned way, if you get my meaning?”
Dempsey was a gangster at the end of the day. A gangster who had paid muscle to do his bidding and that muscle was there more for intimidation than anything else and certainly not for thinking. So maybe Dempsey did tell him to just come and ask but Santos just turned to the default setting and asked, like he did under any other situation – with the barrel of his gun.
The voice in the back of my head told me Dempsey should have known better and spelled it out for him. Too late now, that boat had sailed, as the expression goes.
Dempsey was fixing me with his gaze but it wasn’t hostile, wasn’t stern or angry he was just staring at me.
“Look,” he said at last, “You know of me, who I am, how I can do things. What you might not know is that half my battle is image and perception, you know, what people think of me. People fear me by an’ large and the list of those that don’t is very small indeed. A list you’re on apparently.” He added that last sentence with a sardonic smile.
“If they fear me they are less inclined to oppose me or deny me what I want and they have good reason to fear me for I can ruin a man’s day with the click of my fingers.”
I stared back at him silently; he was obviously building up to something.
“So now I got me a problem,” he continued. “You put one of my lieutenants in hospital and then you come barging in here like I owe you some sort of apology,” he stabbed his finger in my direction.
“What am I to do about this, huh?” he added in a manner that suggested I should come up with an answer.
I said nothing.
“I gotta have respect or I got nothin’. Someone show’s me no respect I gotta do something about it or I lose respect from all the others. You know how this works?”
Yeah, yeah, yeah! He’s pulling lines straight out of the crime-boss hand-book and throwing them at me verbatim.
And yeah, okay, I guess in some twisted way he’s right. He’s got to save face and all that bullshit. But I decided to throw some of that crap back at him.
“I always thought the best gangsters in the movies were those that appeared fair but harsh too, you know? Now that’s just my opinion but a man willing to put his hands up and say ‘hey, sorry about that, genuine mix up, no hard feelings, huh?’ That’s the sort of guy that would get genuine respect, not just the fake shit that’s generated out of pure fear. People who fear you a person don’t respect them. They may act respectfully but there isn’t any actual respect. But a person who genuinely respects a man will go that extra mile for him of their own accord. Like I said, that’s just my opinion.”
Dempsey stared hard at me, his brows bunching.
“You’re a god damned wise-ass, you know that?” he laughed.
I shrugged.
“Alright, cos you make me laugh and cos I can be a generous guy when I want to be, I’ll hold my hand up and say, hey, just a mix up. Call it over-exuberance on Manny’s part. But I also need that information.”
I nodded my acceptance, “Well that’s very magnanimous of you Mr Dempsey. However, I’m not looking to take on any extra work right now.”
Dempsey’s face hardened.
I held my hands up to stop any argument. “Relax! In the spirit of good will and all that I’ll send over what I can remember in the morning. It’s a couple of years out of date.”
“Well, Mr Wrathchild, that sounds like someone telling me ‘no!’” Dempsey said.
“It’s someone saying I can’t but here, have this slightly out of date stuff that your man was coming to ask me about, you know, just before he put a gun to a young woman’s temple head and had his goons try to beat it out of me.”
Dempsey leaned back in his chair and rubbed his eyes.