Anything you say

A short crime story in the hardboiled vein.

Anything you say

 

 

Bay City. A city drowning in fog with countless neon eyes lighting it up like cigarette butts. A city you don't see, won't see unless you got eyes to follow the slick curves of its suits and the slicker curves of its dresses all the way from the dazzling luxury of cocktail parties to the glint of brand new wheels spinning down the heated asphalt, the curt cough of brakes in the murk of nighttime and, finally, the apartment - big or small, with or without a view of the ocean - always heavy with the great waters' monotone.

I was sitting on my big, dark-brown desk watching the smoke seep from my cigarette into the air and into the walls. I was expecting, and doing a hell of a job of it, finger taps and all. What I was expecting was, in the essence, money, but with a bit of death of the side.

It wasn't long before it came - a call that reverberated through my hollow office. I fixed my tie, went to the phone and caught it on the third ring,

"Yeah?"

"Good evening Mr. Tracy. There's a Mr. Davis here to see you. First name of Hall. He says he has an appointment." came the voice of Jim, the building's porter.

"Let me check." I replied and pulled a random book from nearby. I turned a couple of pages real close to the phone's speaker, waited a beat and replied as if my view had recently been confirmed by far-reaching indubitable research, "Yes, I see him right here, send him up."

I ambled toward my desk, thinking about rents, taxes and a better world that didn't have them. A minute later I heard three knocks and a client appeared. When he walked in, he sat sharply - unshaven, tousle-haired and crooked-tied; two jacket buttons undone, belt on the wrong hole and a face like a shot-up night clerk at six in the morning. Along tugged a smell of cigarettes, too much cologne, way too many martinis and a guilty conscience.

"Good evening, Mr. Davis" I said.

He looked at me blankly for a moment. Then he made a gargling sound and smashed his head on my desk. He hung limp for a moment then bounced back. I walked over to the kitchenette and set out making him a cup of coffee. The air was becoming staler so I strolled over to a window and let the fog in, though Hall seemed to have enough of it in his head already.

By the time I put the coffee in front of him, he was a sprawling on my chair like it was a couch. I lifted him up, shook him and when his eyes focused some, drowned a "Wha’?" with the scalding coffee.

He jumped up, swayed, felt himself do it and sat down again. Then he looked at me,

"Mr. Davis. Five minutes." I said, showing him my right hand, "Get it together of instead of out cold you'll be out in the cold."

He nodded, his head lolling slightly; finished the joe. I made him another one, set it in front of him and asked,

"Now, why are you here?"

"My, my wife's dead" he heaved.

"What else?"

"I'ma, I'ma suspec' n ' I hire you to fin' out who killt ‘er."

I nodded to myself and shut up. He had the sense to reach for the joe and dry it drier than it was on the shelf earlier.

"Okay, now listen, Mr. Davis. Can I call you Hall? Sure? Okay, listen, Hall," I said, owner of a solemn face, "there's a crook here in this room. I checked the whole thing out - prints motives, timing, the whole shebang and you know what I learned? You killed her."

"Wha? I ain't killt no one a*****e!"

“Yeah?” I yelled and rose. I drove my face in his, growling, "Know what I really don't like? A stupid a*s crook who thinks he can slip away 'cause there's no physical. What you got huh? A couple of motives, a no good alibi and a guilty conscience. I can smell it on you. Think you can slam it on the other guy? You ain't lucky, bo, cause he got himself an alibi like you ain't seen before. You're the good guy. Sure, how would you kill your seven-and-a-half "million-bucks of cheating wife!” then I pulled back and heard him cry.

"I didn't kill 'er. I didn't kill 'er, Mr. Tracy. I couldn’t’ve, please, believe me, I didn't kill 'er."

He sobbed a while after that. Then he started crying, bad.

"I didn't kill 'er, I lov'd 'er ." he droned on.

All the time I stood there, leaning with my hip against the desk, arms and legs crossed. I'm not sure whether he believed he hadn't killed her. I know about me, though.

"Look, Hall, you killed her." I said and paused. Let it sink in. Let him stop crying. Eventually he did and looked up red-eyed.

"Can I fix ya a drink?” I said and did, not waiting for an answer. A very, very small drink. He took it gladly, downed it, and started rolling the glass around in his hands.

"It's all against you, Hall." I went on, when I thought he was ready, "See, what we got is you came home drunk. You had a wife that was cheating on you with at least three people. We have a guy that says you needed money to make a start-up you'd been dreaming up for years - money she wouldn't cough up, cause she thought you wouldn't pull it off swell. You had a shot, you made a bad judgment. Murder was impulsive. You got no memories and we have witnesses that saw you come home, a matching timing of events and to top it all of - a guilty conscience."

"B-but..."

"No but-s. So you loved her. Maybe you even did, and maybe you wouldn't have done her in if you hadn't been ploughed. But think about it this way. Maybe you caught her on the phone with one of the others or maybe she said something and you flipped. Maybe something else entirely. Point is the whole thing is as tight as a bank loan. But there's one thing left for you to decide. You're either going to confess and try for a reduced sentence or you'll let the dogs snap you, and with a case like what they got, better speak, if you ask me."

He went out again. Somewhere in himself. All that could be seen of him were the slight contortions of his face as his mind kept reflecting on itself. All that I could do was keep my mouth shut and stuff the melody I was whistling in my head and stuff it deep. Cinque times sixty he got up.

"C-could I use your phone?” he said with a car-crash voice.

"Over there."

He dialed, mumbled and listened for a while. Then he sauntered over and spoke evenly,

"Thank you, Mr. Tracy. I just spoke with my lawyer. I will now turn myself in. What do I owe you?"

"We had settled on a fifty a day, so that would be a hundred."

He slid the moola over to me and split without another word. I walked over to the window, spread the blinds and looked out at a sagging silhouette legging it, broken and spent by Bay City's sharks. A lonely figure that could be anyone or no one at all, walking away from the light with the most eloquent sadness this world's got.

I let the blinds snap.

The bottle was still on my bureau. The glass was next to it. They kissed. That left me with a stiff drink and a cigarette that had snuck up on me while I was watching the shadows. I turned and kept watching them, except they were coming from the walls now.

What felt like an hour later, the phone rang. I went over, stepping on an unlighted cigarette, walking past a tall bourbon and answered. A familiar voice came, smug and shifty like all young criminals,

"Good evening, Mr. Tracy. This is Bill O'Reilly. I heard that you have written the piece we requested."

"Yeah?"

"Yes. I will send an associate of mine to retrieve it tomorrow. What time should I tell her to stop by?"

"About eight-past-I-wouldn’t. Mail it.”

"But Mr. Tracy..."

"Shove it. Don’t call me again or I might stop by and see the editor."

"Very well." he said and I knew he was grinning.

Tracy’s a writer alright. Oh he's got all kinds of stories. Man walks home dead drunk and finds his wife dead. Passes out. Next day there's cops and he knows he's a suspect, but there's another guy. Other guy’s got mob connections, though. He talks it up with a lawyer and here's how they set it up. One of the cops the Mafia own says to Man that he should get a private eye and gives him the number of, say, a guy named Cole Tracy. Or John Swain. Whatever. Man asks private eye to look into things, not knowing private eye’s also working with the mobsters. Private eye contacts Man in two days and convinces him that he killed his wife. Gets him to make a confession. Gets paid. End of story.

I snapped the lights off, which left the office blinking with the street lamp. There was something on the floor so I walked over to it. It was a hundred dollar bill. I picked it up, stuffed it in my wallet and went over to spread the blinds. Then I sat down on the edge of the dark brown and lit a cigarette; doused my throat with the bourbon and thought about rent, taxes and a better world that didn't have them.

I was watching the smoke mingle like two orphans playing basketball. One of 'em was dead, ‘cause he'd had it coming. I was reminiscing, killing the cigarette, tossing the bourbon off, well aware that all that's left would be a residual warmth right next to you on the bed, almost blue, almost tangible and almost true.

Well, that's how it goes. The night gets lonely when you' don't like yourself. And sometimes it gets lonely in here, too.

Reviews

[Jeccka]

Haunting descriptions! You sure do have a way with words. I love the first two paragraphs about the setting, the way you sweep through the streets, passing upstate residents and slick new cars. It's so smooth and has a terrific rhythm to it. You also capture the sense of tiresome, lonesome work of a conman making a quick buck. It's really genius work, both on your character's part and on yours for keeping the suspense enough to hold readers so tightly that they stick around for the answers at the end. Love this piece!! Good Job

[Lou Tracy]

Thank you very much for the kind words :)

[Skai Rain]

You're descriptions are amazing and I really enjoyed this story. I also enjoyed the somewhat darker tone of the story. Thank you so much for sharing this. Can't wait until I pick up $100 dollar bill off the ground.

[K. Payne]

Very nice short story. At first I wasn't exactly sure where it was heading until the end when the narrator explains it in that one paragraph, but then I realized what had happened. It seemed to me Hall's false confession was a little too speedy, but it was probably because he wasn't in the right mindset. Overall, I enjoyed it. Keep it up!
-Kay

[Maladroite]

Wauw, this is just really good! I love the last sentence, it really gives you something to think about. Good job! :)