A Week In Hel Read online

  I cranked up the hot water and sailed away in the steam. My whole lousy day just seemed to wash away, right along with the stink of stale anger. I hit the dark places with soap and elbow grease, then wrote an I.O.U. to the rest of it and turned off the water. I reused the towel on the back of the door and made a note to do laundry this month.

  Shirt, slacks, belt, jacket, wingtips. I slipped my piece into my off duty rig and clipped it on my belt. I considered the two bottles of cologne before thumbing my nose at the Tan Leather, and splashed on Classic Spice.

  It was getting close to time, so I heeled out at quarter of seven.

  When I pulled up in front of 321 South Center, a rusty Karman Ghia was parked in the carport. I started to cool it for a second, and remembered what it’d cost me last time.

  I knocked on the door loudly, but not giving it the business. I was off duty after all. A few ticks passed with no answer and I thought, Oh shit! Not again.

  I gave the door some business, and this time there was the rattle of a cheap inner door, and flustered, hurried footsteps.

  She came to the door with one large towel wrapped around her hair, and one medium towel clutched tightly around everything else.

  “You’re on time,” she groused, a slow grin washing over her cheeks. Even unmade, she shined.

  “You said seven, and I aim to please,” I exhaled slowly, taking inventory of the way that towel almost did the job.

  “I figured you for fifteen minutes, easy,” she said and pushed the screen wide for me to come in.

  I walked inside and turned around. I wasn’t staring; I just couldn’t take my eyes off her. She closed the door and noticed me looking at her. She was pleased.

  “I gotta get dressed. You can take a load off. There’s beer in the fridge. I should only be a minute.” She turned and walked toward the back of the house.

  I found the kitchen and rummaged in the fridge for a beer. She had two kinds, Champion City Pilsner, and something called Boilermaker’s Stout. I grabbed a bottle of the stout, and stood up to close the fridge.

  “Did you find the beer?” She called from somewhere at the back of the house.

  “Yeah, thanks,” I yelled back.

  It dawned on me that her kitchen was done up in apples, nice.

  “Could you bring me one?” she called back.

  My gut knotted. “Err, sure what kind?” I asked and turned back into the fridge.

  “Never mind, I’m ready,” she said, right behind me.

  I stood up quick, and banged my cheek. It smarted, and I winced. “Shit!”

  She was behind me then, and her hands were on my shoulders as I stood up.

  “Where’d it get you?” she said in that soothing butter tone.

  I raised my hand to my cheek. She rubbed it a bit, and reached up and kissed it, “There, that’s better now,” she soothed.

  I was royal flush. I could feel her breath on my cheek. She smelled good and her hair and make-up were done up nice. She was smokin’ and I didn’t even know her name yet.

  “Thanks,” was all I could muster. My knees were weak, and I was about to boil the beer I was holding.

  She was wearing a little black number, cut above the knee, gathered in all the best places, with an open back, and a deep neckline. Me-ow!

  She backed off and gave me some air. “I’m glad you came. I didn’t know if you would.”

  I gave the bottle of Boilermaker’s Stout one last look and stuck it back in the fridge.

  “I should have rousted you, or at least barged in on whoever was in the back room. Something was going on, and it was odd as hell,” I said in my best cop doing cop stuff tone.

  She left the kitchen, went to the little couch in the front room, and sat down.

  “Is that the only reason you came, to roust my ass?” she snapped, in a harder tone than I’d heard her use.

  I followed her into the front room and stood there, unsure of my next move. I didn’t go there to roust her at all, but I had to declare my affiliation up front.

  “I went to break up a brawl that was over when I got there. I knew something was up, but you didn’t want to play ball. I almost shot you, so I figured I owed you, so I came,” I told her.

  She looked up at me with her big brown doe-eyes, “I didn’t realize I’d done anything wrong.”

  That’s it, she had me, and I think she knew it.

  “There was someone in the back room, and there was something going on,” she said apologetically.

  “I thought so,” I said, a bit too quick.

  She pursed her lips, and her eyes glassed. Ordinarily I find that simpering turns my stomach, and I just wanna vomit cherry limeade, but this was different. She was different. Somehow, it was okay.

  “What is it?” I wanted to go to her, and be a comforting sap.

  “Nothing, let’s just forget it. You’re here and all dressed up. I was excited you were coming and I got dressed up. Either we’re two of the loneliest fools in this city, or I thought I knew what I was doing when I sent you away and paid the racket,” she said. She folded her arms around her legs; sort of hugged herself.

  For a minute, I thought we were getting somewhere, but these pretty girls are always confusing. I digested what she said, and decided to play my cards. “You left out a third option,” I said dryly. “Maybe I just got some kind of hero complex and I think I need to go around rescuing every pretty girl that needs it, whether they want it or not.” I should have kept my trap shut.

  I saw a thick tear crest over the floodwall, and run slow down her cheek. “Oh, honey,” she purred, “Come sit here with me.” She patted the cushion next to her, as if there were a lot of other choices. I sat next to her and she unfolded. She took my hand, lifted my arm around her shoulders, and laid my big mitt on her side. She held it there, right below her goodie basket. “Do you like me?” She asked in a voice that would melt butter.

  “I think you’re hot. I’d like to know your name before I decide to like you,” I said soberly. It was hard to be sober curled up together like that. I wanted to map every inch of her distracting beauty, but something about her just didn’t figure.

  “Come to think of it, I don’t know your name either,” she scolded.

  I tried to pull my hand away, but she held it harder and slid it up just enough to get my attention. She turned her head and looked up at me, “so what is your name?”

  I tried to smile, but I don’t think it looks natural so I don’t do it much. “My name is Thurman.”

  She nodded, “So Thurman, is that your first name or your last name?”

  She batted her eyelashes at me. Damn this girl was sexy.

  “It’s my first name,” I said slowly.

  She nodded, “I suppose you have a middle name and a last name, too?” she smiled up at me with her big brown eyes and I wanted to take a swim in them. I must have taken a moment too long to answer, because she asked, “Would you tell me what they are?”

  I nodded, “My full name is Thurman Edward Dicke.”

  She gave me a dry smile, “Well Thurman’s Dicke, meet Candi Alice Pinkerton.” She offered her left hand, keeping my other hand pressed just where she wanted it.

  We shook, almost playfully.

  “Well, Candi Apple Pink, since you don’t appear to be ready to talk to me about what went on at White Walls, what would you say to something to eat?” I just tossed it out there, mostly so I could watch her reaction. I wanted to know where this evening was headed.

  She giggled, “I didn’t say I wasn’t ready, but I would love to go out to dinner with you.”

  I baited her. “Why’s that?”

  “We been together most of a half hour now and you ain’t pointed your gun at me, or hit me.”

  Could I really be hearing this? “I only ever hit one woman in my life,” I told her in earnest.

  She swallowed hard, I thought she was puttin’ it on, but she was serious. “Oh, who’s that?”

  “My cousin, T.C. We were
five; she whipped my ass.” I embellished a bit. It was kinda even, but she started it.

  She tried to smile, but another tear slipped down her cheek. “I thought you were serious. I don’t like to get hit; seems like every man I get wants to hit me.”

  Maybe I said it a bit too quick. “They weren’t much of a man were they?”

  “Thurman, are you trying to rescue me and be my hero?” She said it in this tiny voice with butter drizzled all over it.

  Like I said, I shoulda kept my mouth shut. I tightened the hand she held, and made to flex my arm like I was pulling her closer. Like I said earlier, she just unfolded. Before I knew it, she’d kissed my cheek again. “Y’know, you probably shouldn’t do that.” I said, offering her a way out.

  “Okay,” she said quickly, “let’s go get something to eat.” With that, she bounced off the couch and stood up, straightening her dress. “How do I look anyhow?” she asked as she did a little twirl.

  “You are definitely a thing of beauty,” I said. I wasn’t trying to pull her chain. She really was one fine lookin’ lady.

  “Really?” she demurred.

  “Oh yeah, you look great, REALLY!” I reassured her.

  “You clean up pretty good yourself,” she purred.

  We cruised over to The National Road Grille. I drove and she made small change about how she wasn’t gonna work at White Walls forever.

  “How’d that dive get its name anyhow?” I thought it was a nice small talk kinda question.

  “Years ago it was a hot rod joint. Long time before I ever wound up there.” She said it kind of wistful.

  “Do you like hot rods?” Seemed like a logical question.

  “The old man that owned it then sure did,” she smiled.

  We rode along for a couple of blocks before I asked, “Friend of yours?”

  She slid across the seat and sat right next to me. “Was a friend of my aunt. She raised me; he was always around.”

  “Sounds all right,” I said, thinking about her legs, instead of the conversation.

  “My daddy was in prison for some business with the Outfit. Mom whored and did heroin, until one night, when a group of guys at the Wagon Stop decided to have some fun with her. She was high out of her mind and they were a little too drunk. They wound up down by the tracks. It was an unscheduled train that killed her. I bet it was more like they raped her and killed her, or killed her because she wouldn’t let them have her.” She said it with a hard edge in her voice like, ‘what do you expect?’

  “My Granddad and Dad were both cops. Granddad worked district two his whole career. He never wanted to get off the street. By the time he retired, he had arthritis so bad in both of his ankles he couldn’t bend ‘em,” I said trying to get her mind off her mother.

  She laid her head on my shoulder, “What about your dad?”

  “My old man was killed in the line of duty,” I said quickly, “Out on Storm Creek. He called in that some kids were pulling stuff out of a trailer. After that dispatch couldn’t raise him. They sent out another guy to check on him; found him lying there in the dirt.” I must have sounded upset.

  “Oh, baby I’m sorry.” She said it in that sweet mothering tone that usually gets on my last nerve, but for some reason, with her it was okay.

  “Comes with the job sometimes,” I said dryly.

  “Comes with the job.” she mocked me, “You are a tough one ain’t ya?” She said it playfully and it broke the somber tone.

  I shrugged. “I don’t try to be, but I’m a big man and with that are big expectations. My old man held me to a high standard.”

  I angled the car into the lot at the grille and shut off the engine.

  “What about your mom?” She asked, giving me the business with those big brown eyes again.

  I sighed, not really wanting to get in to it. “Mom was a good woman. She loved Dad a lot and when he died, she died right along with him. But, she didn’t lie down; just kinda left even though she was still around.”

  She squeezed my hand and then we got out of the car to go inside.

  The National Road Grille has been a restaurant in some form or another since sometime back in the fifties. It’s lived through a fire, several burglaries, and two deaths, neither related to the food. Monday’s were usually dead, so I was surprised to see a dozen cars on the lot.

  Inside we were greeted and taken to our table by a worn-out old shrew named Bonnie. She gave me a motherly look, laid out the menus, and brought back glasses of water.

  Moments later our waitress arrived, some kid named Kim. She bubble-gummed her way through bringing our drinks, giving us the specials, and taking our order, then left us to our own devices.

  So Candi chatted me up. I swear she had the gift of the gab. We chewed over the weather, construction in the city, where all the factories went. I think she was working her way around to corn prices when some guys came in trying to look tough. She looked scared as hell, like she wanted to melt out of her clothes and run down the nearest drain.

  When I asked her, “What’s got into you?” she didn’t answer, just puckered her lips and shook her head a little. The guys walked past our table; one of them paused for a second and gave one of us the eye. It don’t matter which one, because what happened next was just unbelievable.

  Candi leaned across the table, “Honey, I gotta go to the little girl’s room.”

  I nodded and gave her half a smile. Just as she started to get up some heavy shoved her back down in the booth and slid in next to her, shoving her against the wall—Hard.

  I grabbed the beefy bastard by his hair and was about to give him a taste of the table, when I heard a hammer cock. I stopped that mug’s melon short of the table through sheer force of will, but I didn’t let go.

  “This your new squeeze, Candi?” It was a thick ethnic voice, from somewhere behind me, the owner of the cocked heater.

  I looked around casual like, and nothing or nobody in the restaurant seemed the least bit wise to what was going on. Some of these people looked like they were trying not to see. Sheep, like if they didn’t see or acknowledge, then it wasn’t happening.

  “He looks like a cop,” the beefy one said from under my hand.

  I turned my head to get a look at the guy with the gun when Candi finally spoke up.

  “He’s just a friend, Antonio, you know I’d never date a cop,” she said with more than a little disgust smeared on it. “Does your new squeeze know about us?” he asked again in that thick ethnic voice.

  I think it might have been Italian, but he could have been Greek. It felt like he was moving further to my left to stay out of my line of sight. “Let go of Joshua,” he said firmly.

  I was getting tired of the game and I tightened my grip on Joshua, the beefy bastard, who started to complain right off. I measured him for a second and then let off. I figured if I was gonna get shot, I was gonna deserve it.

  I glanced at Candi and she was trembling. She caught my look and shook her head slightly. For some reason this girl loved being the victim. If traded looks were a conversation, then we had our first argument at the National Road Grille. This was going from a sure thing to hell in a hand-basket in a hurry. All relationships have their problems I guess.

  “Look, Antonio,” she spoke up again, “I just met him. Don’t do this. I didn’t tell him nothin’ about nothin’, I swear.”

  If there hadn’t been so much honesty in the sound of her voice, so much pleading, I might have gone along with the idea that this was some ex-pipe trying to flex his ego. But the cop in me wouldn’t let it go, and the wolf couldn’t abide that gun and its unseen owner any longer.

  Swift as lightning, I slammed that beefy meatsack’s face into the table. By the time I heard his nose break I was on my feet and bringing up Roscoe, but all that was left of the rat bastard with the gun was the trail of disheveled waitresses and patrons.

  Suddenly all eyes were on me. What a time for the sheep to stop grazing and pay attention. I started to
follow, then remembered Candi.

  “C’mon, he’s getting’ away!”

  She was wedged between the table and the beefcake with the busted nose, so I grabbed him and rolled him onto the floor, out of the way. I grabbed her arm and half-pulled, half-dragged her out of the restaurant.

  As we burst out the door, I saw him racing out of the parking lot in the same Karman Ghia that was parked at Candi’s place. I was pissed, and she had some explaining to do, but for now...

  We ran across the lot to my ride. I raised my gun and did a quick peek at the back seat. All empty. I unlocked it and slid in behind the wheel, started the car, and jammed it into reverse. I was about to step on the gas, when someone banged on the window.

  Reflexively, I stomped the brake and looked in the direction of the noise.

  Candi was waving frantically, and pointing toward the door of the restaurant.

  I glanced over my shoulder and, much to my surprise, that beefy blond meat sack with the busted nose was coming across the parking lot with a club, or a table leg, or something. I clicked off the lock, and Candi threw open the door and climbed inside.

  The door slammed a second later, as I stomped the gas. I spun the car out of the parking space, and hit the brake as I jammed it in drive.

  We shot out of the parking lot right between a big damn truck and an old lady in a Buick.

  “Where’d that son of a bitch go?” I demanded. “I know you know, and I can’t handle any more bullshit right this minute.” I stepped on the gas and stared at her.

  “You don’t understand, these guys kill people,” she said with a note of dread.

  “I’m a cop, let me help you.” I wasn’t trying to sound gallant. I am a cop and generally trying to help people is what I do.

  She was hugging the door and after we shot through the red light at Bechtle Avenue and North Street, she reached for the seat belt. She looked around the car, and out her window, then out mine. I think she was really scared, wringing her hands and fidgeting. Just as she started to relax, I saw that Karman Ghia about half a mile ahead.