Busted Valentines and Other Dark Delights Read online

  “C’mon, c’mon,” he said, drumming his fingers.

  The other end finally picked up with a click, and he smiled big.

  “Heya, George,” he said. George was one of his pals who cashed in and got out of the game and the country without a toe tag. George’s voice crackled sharp and loud over the receiver, bouncing off the walls in a mixed-up echo. Mr. Nice Guy winced and held the phone a few inches from his ear.

  ***

  “I dunno, Georgie, I dunno. Tellin’ lies, breakin’ hearts...Actually I’m in Chicago...Well, you were right. I should’ve gotten out when you did. I’ll bet you’re there right now parked under a cabana next to some delicious Dominican doll, drinking something fruity with a straw...You lucky bastard...Me? No, I’m afraid it’s too late. I’m in trouble. Big trouble. Sal’s after me...I screwed up...Blame it on the dame if you want. Blame it on Sal, blame it on me. I just had to be Mr. Nice Guy...Well you know Isabelle, right? Sal’s girl? ...That’s right. The brunette knockout with a brain that wouldn’t start and legs that wouldn’t quit? ...Not a stripper but a dancer of some sort. Well, the bastard killed her. Just like that.”

  ***

  Besides eliminating, separating, ventilating and cremating folks who did or didn’t deserve it, Mr. Nice Guy, as the others in his crew, did whatever their boss, Salvatore “Scorch” Scorcia wanted. So when things went sideways between Sal and Louis Zambito over a joint wire service scam, Sal took a powder for Miami until things cooled off or in the case of Louis Zambito, knocked off. And since bringing a date to a town where he had plenty of bathing beauties on the menu would have been like bringing sand to the beach, he left Isabelle behind. He left several thugs to the task of sending Zambito to the shroud tailor, and Mr. Nice Guy in charge of whatever Isabelle needed, wanted or did.

  He was reduced to a chauffeur as she took advantage of Sal’s absence. She was spoiled, but Mr. Nice Guy was still going to show her a good time. Those around him were laying odds he’d screw up and trip over his own dick, unless he could keep it in his pants.

  ***

  “I know, I know. But look, turns out he was knocking her around and kept her on a short leash; a real raw deal for such a swell piece...Just drove her around mostly...To her mothers, shopping, wherever she wanted...Of course, that’s what everyone said...No, what am I, crazy? ...Well, in a way, but it didn’t happen like you’d think...I swear to God, I was strictly business, I was a goddamned Boy Scout. On the level, I never even kissed her...Of course you don’t, but I’m tellin’ ya the truth. I was courteous but played it iceberg when she tried to get social. But George, I’m only human and this chick was all kinds of beautiful...and lonely...Little? More like a king-sized crush. I spent more than a couple evenings filling the tub with ice and just sitting in it...I’m serious. Yes, ice. So I gets the bright idea, figured I’d have a little fun, give her the Mr. Nice Guy treatment...Well, at the time it did. As the flowers started arriving with mash notes attached, her mood started to come around. She got a taste of how she should be treated. She glowed. Her secret admirer had her wound up with maximum twitterpation...Romance, exactly. Problem was I was falling for it, too. Figured I could maybe cash in, you know?...You don’t have to tell me. Look, I knew I could never pay her price in the long haul, and besides Sal would’ve had me fitted for a wooden kimono, post haste...No, nothing...Exactly...Because the whole thing blew up in my face, that’s why.”

  ***

  Mr. Nice Guy got the call last Wednesday night. He had dropped off Isabelle at the penthouse and had just finished his current ice-in-the-tub regimen when the phone jangled angry and loud. It was Sal.

  He knew his boss would be coming back, he just didn’t think it would be this soon. As far as he knew, Zambito was still breathing air amongst the living. What could have brought Sal back early? Could one of his associates have dimed? Mr. Nice Guy was nervous. Sal screamed orders over the phone. That didn’t help.

  So Mr. Nice Guy got dressed, put on his poker face, checked his gun—and the snub nose he had in a garter strap—and high-tailed it over to the penthouse and uncertainty.

  The door was open when he got there. Sal was throwing a king-sized tantrum. A huge vase smashed against the wall sending water, bits of glass and floral shrapnel everywhere while two big, almost identical goons sat at the dining room table, unfazed, counting a big stash of cash. Mr. Nice Guy didn’t recognize them but assumed they were from Miami on account of their golden glow. They didn’t look up when he came in, just kept flipping through that pile of green on the table.

  Sal wasn’t making any sense. It sounded to Mr. Nice Guy as if he were howling. He was red in the face, stomping about enraged, swinging his arms, punching walls, upending furniture. His shirt was unbuttoned, torn and spattered with blood.

  That’s when he saw her.

  Isabelle was dead.

  She was splayed out on the floor with one leg up on the couch, her dress was half off and torn...it was awful. Her face was black and blue and blank with an ugly gash across her forehead. Blood had begun to pool around her head on the marble floor. His stomach lurched and he fought the urge to puke. He almost lost and swallowed hard. His head was spinning. A cold fear ran through him as he tried to focus and feign nonchalance. Sal was shouting something at him as the two twin Floridians donned their coats. Mr. Nice Guy’s thoughts were all scrambled. He had gotten her killed. And now he was being told he had to get rid of her body.

  He and the golden gorillas rolled her limp body up in the carpet and carried it down the fire escape to where he had parked the car in the alley. All the while he tried to get a bead on their intentions. He couldn’t figure them out.

  ***

  “See, that’s what I couldn’t figure out. These guys didn’t say word one to me; not a goddamn thing, which seemed a little hinkey. And they kept eyeballing me funny. For all I knew, Sal had figured his own version of two plus two, and it added up to minus me. And these goons were gonna do the subtraction...No, I don’t think so. I had parked the Lincoln in the alley. I went ahead and popped the trunk. As we heaved Isabelle’s limp body into the trunk, I saw one of them wink to the other...No, he definitely winked.”

  ***

  That wink was his cue. Mr. Nice Guy’s instincts kicked in, and in one fluid motion he pulled out his .45 and shot them both in the head; two shots apiece. Four shots rang out, two bodies fell. Four deafening shots followed by an eerie silence interrupted only by Mr. Nice Guy’s breathing.

  Struggling, he heaved the two additional bodies one at a time into his trunk with a grunt and slammed it shut. He looked around. The four shots had reverberated like a canon amplified and intensified as their report ricocheted down the alley. Loud, but not entirely out of place in this part of town at this hour. Cops figured gunshots meant the situation was sorting itself out and citizens tended to stay away from their windows and mind their own business when scores were being settled, contracts terminated, tickets punched.

  Mr. Nice Guy needed to see if he held one of those tickets. Sal could have wanted Mr. Nice Guy’s removal for two reasons: he suspected Mr. Nice Guy was Isabelle’s secret admirer or that Mr. Nice Guy was lax on the job and allowed a rogue Romeo into the fold. Or maybe he just blew his stack with Isabelle for any number of reasons. He needed to see Sal’s face, look him in the eye. If after hearing the gunshots, he appeared the least bit surprised to see Mr. Nice Guy stroll in the room sans perforation or unlike the two goons in his trunk—with the back of his head intact—he’d know he’d made the right choice dispatching them on a holiday to harpland. The question of course then was what to do next. Split? Kill Sal? He had to make a decision fast.

  He headed up the back stairs, his gun out, his time running out. He eased silently along the wall to the penthouse door. The hollow pop, wheeze and grind of snoring came from inside. He cautiously pushed the door open with the barrel of his gun and made his way inside. Sal was out cold on the couch clutching a half empty bottle of John
ny Walker Red in one hand and a picture of Isabelle in the other.

  Without thinking twice, Mr. Nice Guy gathered up all the money on the table and shoved it in the satchel it had come in. It was the most money he’d ever seen—all big bills. Nothing but Franklins and Grants grinning back at him. He buckled the bulging bag shut and skedaddled.

  He hailed a taxi where initially the driver threatened to throw him out when he asked to be driven Cleveland. Two thousand in cash changed the crabby cabbie’s mind. It also got Mr. Nice Guy to Cleveland in three hours, instead of the standard four, and gave the driver a story for the grandkids. Thus began the ride of Mr. Nice Guy.

  He bought a new car for cash in Cleveland and continued his journey of uncertainty. He had to keep moving. Sal would have guys like him hot on his trail, but by the time he made Chicago, he was spent. He set up camp at The Regal Hotel in Chicago.

  ***

  “Yeah, fairly plush. But hey, you know the way neon signs flashing through the shades looks so cool in the movies? Well, I’m here to tell you, it ain’t so cool, especially when you’re trying to sleep or trying to forget...That’s what I though. So I went down to the lounge...A drink, some company, I don’t know. It’s always been a Sadie Hawkins dance anyway, you know?...We think we’re large and in charge, but these chicks...they hold all the cards. Who do we think we’re fooling? George, I knew this all along and knew it even when this skirt winked at me. She was obviously on the financially motivated stroll, but I fell for it just the same. I bought her enough drinks to make me sufficiently handsome and convincing and brought her back to my room...Well, you know me. We did the mattress dance for an hour or two. Just what I needed. When I woke up in the morning, she was already in the shower. I went down to the coffee shop to get some danish and some joe...Yeah, yeah, I know, and all that money, but I was hoping for an encore of the previous night’s performance. I came back to the room and heard her on the phone before I could put my key in the door. All I could make out was ‘Mr. Nice Guy...Yeah, I’m sure’...and something like ‘I’ll keep him busy ’til you get here.’...What could I do, George? I walked in as she was hanging up. She tried to cop the casual act, said it was her mother. I went to my coat pulled out my pistol and pressed it to the little dime-dropper’s forehead. I pulled back the hammer...No, she didn’t see that coming...No, Mr. Nice Guy couldn’t pull the trigger. Came close. He did crack her in the head and tie her up though...Oh, and I left her a thousand bucks...Yup. Mr. goddamned Nice Guy...I dunno. I had to evaporate quick-like, so I moved to a motel just outside of downtown to plan my next move...It’s still yet to be determined. I’ll be a target in any major metropolis I stop in. Besides these guys are relentless; hell-bent on singing me a chorus of the lead slug lullaby. I oughta know, I’m one of them. Oh, I forgot to mention, I left Sal to the tune of just over a half a million dollars...I may just take you up on that. I appreciate the offer. But I just wanted to catch up with you pal. Maybe I just wanted a record of what’s gone down. Maybe this is just my confession...Well thank you, padre. Stay outta the sun.”

  ***

  There was a knock at the door. Mr. Nice Guy went over to it and squinted through the peephole. The safety chain rattled as he unhitched it to open the door.

  “Hola, Lupe,” he said. A moment passed before he thanked her and shut the door. He threw the fresh towels on the bed. He picked up the phone and dialed the front desk, reaching back to massage his stiff neck.

  “I need you to hold me a cab out front,” he said. “I’m going to the airport. Wait five minutes after I leave and then call an ambulance. Somebody’s been shot.”

  Through the slats on the little closet door, I saw him lean over, cradle the receiver and spin around, a pistol in his outstretched hand. Three shots rang out, splintering though the door. I felt a sharp pain in my leg and in my side and pitched forward though the busted-up wood. I fell to my knees.

  Mr. Nice Guy kicked the gun from my hand and stood over me, smiling. Blood was beginning to soak through my shirt. I looked at the blood on my hands. I felt faint.

  “Heya, Floyd,” he said. “Figured I’d run into you eventually.”

  “How the hell did you know I was in there?” I asked.

  Mr. Nice Guy laughed.

  “The housekeeper told me,” he said. “And judging by the reaction my voice got from the front desk man, he told you I was here.”

  “That sonofabitch. I slid him a C-note,” I said.

  “Well, I slid her three.”

  He stepped past me and reached up into the closet. He came out with a large satchel. He reached in and pulled out a packet of bills, tossing it at me as he made for the door.

  “Don’t try to be a nice guy, Floyd,” he said. “There’s no money in it.”

  Back to TOC

  Blake’s Proxy

  Editor J. Robert Pierce was mad as hell and didn’t care who knew it. He barked red-faced into the phone.

  “This is precisely what I knew would happen,” he said. “Goddammit.” He picked up a manuscript off his cluttered desk and waved it in the air as if the person on the other end could see it. “It’s all stuff you’ve used before. It’s sloppy. I can’t publish this. What’s the matter with you?” He threw the sheaf fluttering across the room.

  On the other end and a thousand miles away, crime novelist Rudy Blake winced, moving his ear away from the receiver as Pierce continued slinging a stinging string of profanities. This was nothing new. Blake was used to pissing Pierce off. They’d had a love-hate relationship with an extra side of hate for close to ten years now. Within that tumultuous decade, Blake landed on the New York Times Bestseller list four times. It was a relationship that made them both rich men and Blake a household name as one of the best writers in crime fiction.

  Blake had spent the last two years cranking out stories while living in Playa de Carmen, Mexico. He’d had enough of New York: its winters, its filth and its noise. He’d had enough of its women, their filth and their noise. He had seen, smelled, tasted, touched and heard it all for years as a reporter for the Daily News.

  His beat was as the man in the street where he mixed well with its chaotic cast. He was one of them, genuine, legit, the real deal. He had friends in high places and even more in the low ones—ask Blake and he’d tell you, that’s where the best stories lived. As they read his column with bated breath and white knuckles, his fans—skells and citizens alike—had a front row seat to the salacious goings on. Blake gave New York its narrative and New York gave him his.

  His rugged good looks—a chiseled six-foot one frame topped off with black wavy hair and piercing blue eyes made him ripe for the B-girls. And he drank. He drank a lot. But he never let booze or broads get in the way of a story...unless, of course, as it frequently turned out, that was the story.

  He pal’d around with gangsters, politicos, musicians, celebs, the glitterati and the literati—the elite of high society living the low life or vis-a-versa, depending on which party he crashed. And what he couldn’t glean first hand, he had a team of doormen, cabbies, barkeeps, beat cops, strippers, hustlers, hipsters, pimps, pushers, scenesters and any kind of street character you could imagine serving as his eyes and ears. In essence, he was everywhere. Blake always got the low down, the haps, the skinny. He routinely got the jump on his contemporaries and got the story first, banging it out in his short, sharp, unrelenting prose. His fans ate it up, not just for the salacious stories he told, but how he told them. And he was quick, too. The story would hit the morning edition editor’s desk before the body was even cold.

  His street style of journalism easily spilled into fiction as he mixed truth and imagination into gritty sort of beat poet vignettes and Winchell-esque Gotham nocturnes. His characters were real, based on real individuals with their unique hang-ups, kinks and quirks operating in scenes right out of the tenderloin. Blake could see past the veneer and feel the pulse and if you read Rudy Blake, you’d see and feel it, too.

 
Blake belonged in New York, and Pierce had made it clear that, in his mind, moving to Mexico was a bad idea.

  “You’re a writer from the street,” he had said when Blake first brought it up. “You wanna go on vacation, go. But your writing lives here. You belong out there, in the street.”

  “Backwards and forwards, jack,” Blake replied. “Inside and out. That’s how I know the street. I close my eyes, it’ll always be there. But when I open ’em up again I wanna see palm trees, pina coladas and senoritas.”

  “But Rudy...”

  “But Rudy, nothing.”

  Pierce’s protest fell on deaf ears.

  For Blake, it was time to go. He and his wife, Patty, had romanticized for years about a tropical paradise where he could work on his books while she worked on her tan. But even Patty’s long legs and devotion couldn’t come between Blake and the street. She eventually abandoned the dream along with Blake and went splitsville for elsewhere in search of other arms to hold her. Blake drowned his sorrows in scotch, women and arguably some of his best writing.

  Visceral, vibrant, violent words came pouring out of him in a torrent. He shifted to freelance work at the newspaper to focus more on his concocted crime capers. This prompted even longer nights roaming and combing the streets stumbling upon characters and stories. He ruminated with the rummies, he joked with the jazzers, he knocked about with the nighthawks. And on no night in particular, he created his greatest character, noir anti-hero and killer, Desmond Desdemona. Things were about to get dark.