Blood on Celluloid Page 3

  We sat down and added the names from Sherry’s address book that weren’t already on the list. I added the names of Johnny Davis and his grandmother Jeanette to the list.

  The list of people to notify of Sherry’s death was very short and I couldn’t help but ask myself, where the hell was her family.

  Just before I left, Paul Harris handed me a box that contained Sherry’s bank books and cancelled checks. I’d go through those when I got back home.

  CHAPTER 7

  News travels fast, especially bad news.

  It took about an hour to get everybody out of Patty’s Kitten House and get the place closed down and locked up.

  I thought about going around and questioning my old contacts in the drug dealing trade to see if there was anybody who still had a serious grudge against me, but when I ran the list through my head I realized almost all those guys were dead, and the ones that weren’t pushing up daisies were now crack heads. There’s no way they would have the brains, the muscle, or the money to arrange for a murder like Sherry’s had been.

  Those guys could maybe sneak up behind someone with a rock and bash their brains in but kidnapping and torture were way outside their league.

  I looked at the box of financial records sitting on the rider’s seat of my Porsche and decided to head back to our apartment.

  * * *

  The circus was in town and it was at my front door.

  The same three news crews that were at Patty’s Kitten House were outside the front doors of The Blaine Building. The landlord/real estate manager of the complex was being interviewed.

  This time the news crews were backed up by two police cars and the four cops that came with them. One of the cops was a guy who didn’t like me one bit, Sergeant O’Malley. O’Malley was a big ugly Irish cop who was trying hard to become the poster boy for The Police Brutality is Fun Club.

  If he was here, this was not good for me.

  I parked and went to go in through the front doors. With the tight security they had in this place, there was no back entrance.

  “Hold it right there!” O’Malley told me doing the raised palm traffic cop halt sign. O’Malley was his same old ugly self, except today maybe a little uglier. He was wearing a good long bloody scratch mark across his right cheek. “This is to inform you you’ve been ordered to quit the premises.”

  I looked over at Robert Cummings the landlord.

  “What Officer O’Malley said is correct,” Cummings spoke. “You have never been on Miss. St. Claire’s lease and pursuant to part five, paragraph two, pertaining to undesirables, you are hereby evicted immediately. We used my passkey to gather your things.”

  He pointed at two suitcases and a cat carrier that Tom was inside. Tom looked really pissed off. He hissed whenever anyone moved or spoke, which was a lot of hissing.

  O’Malley stepped close to my ear. He had his hand on his nightstick. “I knew I’d get you,” he whispered. “I waited and I got you!”

  He was clutching his nightstick like he wanted me to make a move. The three other cops had their sticks in their hands, slapping their palms with them. They wanted to be raising some knots but couldn’t make the first move, not when the cameras were recording every second of what went on here.

  “This is your day,” I told O’Malley. “Enjoy it while you can.”

  I loaded my two suitcases into the trunk of my Porsche, then put the box of financial records on the floorboard, and loaded Tom in his carrier onto the rider seat.

  Tom looked at me through the bars of his cage.

  “Well at least you got a good shot in on O’Malley,” I told him. “But why the hell did you have to miss his eye?”

  His meow sounded like, “Sorry.”

  PART II

  WELCOME BACK TO THE JUNGLE

  CHAPTER 8

  I drove away from The Blaine Building feeling not exactly pissed off but not exactly happy either. I wanted to bash O’Malley upside the head but I didn’t need an excuse for that. He was just one of those guys I wanted to kick the shit out of.

  The first order of business was finding a place to sleep tonight. I doubt the homeless shelters were going to let me in when I come driving up in my Porsche. So I drove to my old apartment building in good old scenic downtown East St. Louis.

  The place was the same as when I’d left. It wouldn’t change a bit until it collapsed completely into a pile of bricks and plaster and cockroaches. Maybe a few more of the windows were boarded up but that was about all that was different.

  I went in the door and passed a hand written cardboard sign that read, Landlord Apt 312.

  I climbed the stairs to the third floor having to step over two drunks on the stairway that were laying in their own vomit.

  There was a freight elevator but the landlord kept it locked with a heavy disc lock that only he had the key to. I didn’t blame him for keeping it locked up for his own use either. Around here, these boys will tear up anything. If he didn’t keep it locked it’d be tore up in less than a week.

  Rodney Fuller was the landlord. I knocked on his door and heard a muted, “Just a minute, hold on.”

  Then from the other side of the door and louder, “Who the fuck is it?”

  “It’s John Dark,” I said. “Remember me?”

  The door swung open.

  “Come on in,” Rodney answered and wheeled himself back away from the door. Rodney Fuller was a big black man who lost his legs in the Viet Nam War. He didn’t cry about how unfair life was and stay drunk and drugged up until the day he died. Instead he took advantage of every government program he could get his hands on. After a lot of wheeling and dealing through the years Rodney owned this building and three others just like it.

  The basic conveniences of hot and cold water, electricity, and heat were always in good working order in Rodney’s buildings. They weren’t luxurious but Rodney provided a low cost roof over your head.

  Right now, that’s what I needed.

  “How you been, John?” He asked and we shook hands. “You’re kind of famous today.”

  “You’ve been watching the news then.” I sat down on a couch in front of a large screen color TV tuned to CNN.

  “Always,” he said. “Got to know what’s going on in the world to get anywhere in the world. After your guest appearance on the morning news I figure you need a place to stay.”

  “You could say that,” I answered.

  “Shit,” Rodney said. “Boy they bent you over and rammed you in the morning news. Sorry to hear about what happened to your lady.”

  “Not half as sorry as I am,” I said.

  “I bet. You know, they were saying you have a connection to your girl’s murder.”

  “No, I didn’t hear them say that. It’s probably better that I didn’t. I’d be in jail right now if I had. I ain’t been watching the news,” I told Rodney. “I’ve been living it.”

  “I heard that,” he said. “Oh man! I like that shot you gave that pretty boy reporter. You want I can show it to you in slow-mo. I recorded that mother-fucker. Camera had a good angle. Blood and snot flew out of both sides of his nose.”

  “Maybe later,” I told him.

  “You want your old place back?”

  “You mean you ain’t rented it in the year I’ve been gone?”

  “I held it just in case you came back,” he said. “Shit man, ain’t nobody moving into East St. Louis, people trying to get out!”

  “Yeah, I’ll take it back. Is all the furniture still there?”

  “Fuck, wasn’t shit there worth stealing. People don’t steal shit ain’t worth carrying down the stairs. Rent’s two-fifty, bro.”

  I grimaced. I had around two hundred in my pocket and only around a thousand in the bank. I knew I’d probably need the thousand to find Sherry’s killer.

  “I’m a little strapped at the moment,” I told Rodney.

  “Not a problem,” he answered. “Just call me Mother-fucking-Father Christmas this year. Remember the d
eal we used to have where you evict who I need gone and you get rent credit?”

  “Yeah, I remember.”

  “OK, I got these fucking winos that were sleeping in the halls. I’d get my cattle prod and run the mother fuckers out. Now they’re staying in the fucking stairways and I can’t get to them. Run them the fuck out and this month’s rent is paid.”

  “Consider it done,” I told him.

  Rodney wheeled himself to a board on a wall that had around fifty keys hanging on hooks. He tossed me one. “Good to have you back,” he told me. “The place ain’t been the same without you.”

  “I wish I could say it was good to be back,” I told Rodney.

  He laughed. “Yeah, I heard that,” he said.

  CHAPTER 9

  I went by and took a look at the old place before collecting my suitcases and Tom. Everything was the same. Even my office sign: John Dark Detective, Open Every Day, was still nailed to the outside of the door.

  Maybe Rodney had been expecting me to come back. Well, you can take the boy out of the ghetto but you can’t take the ghetto out of the boy. This boy can’t seem to stay the fuck out of the ghetto.

  Everything was dusty as hell. That was to be expected. I slapped the back of the couch and a cloud puffed up and circled around my head. Bits of dust particles stung my eyes.

  The ice box was unplugged and completely bare except for an old bottle of Ancient Age Whiskey. I was glad the ice box was empty. Anything in there would have been growing for months.

  I plugged in the fridge. The light came on. I unscrewed the lid to the bottle of Ancient Age and smelled the whiskey inside. It smelled terrible, just the way it’s supposed to.

  The bedroom was the same. The same blankets and sheets were thrown over the bed. I’d dust them out later, if ever.

  The bathroom was the same. No one had left me a gift in the toilet. I didn’t need to take a crap so I left.

  As I was closing the door to the apartment behind me I took a good look at my new/old home. Everything inside was old and tattered. Even the old Philco black and white TV I’d had before was there.

  Home Sweet Home.

  Fuck it! It’ll do.

  * * *

  On the way down to the Porsche to get Tom and my bags I woke up the two drunks and told them they were going to have to leave.

  They stared at me with red rimmed bleary eyes. One of them was a tall skinny white guy with stringy greasy black hair. The other was a fat Mexican guy.

  The white guy yelled, “Fuck you!”

  I stepped over them and said, “I’m moving my stuff in. When I get back, be gone or I’m going to throw your asses down these stairs.”

  They were on the second floor landing. There were enough stairs between the second and first floor to make the trip unpleasant.

  Out on the street I had to run off two teenagers who were trying to stick a coat hanger through the window to pop the door lock. I knew I’d have to park this car somewhere else otherwise this shit was going to happen every day.

  It’s sure great to be back home.

  Tom was half asleep in his carrier. He looked like he’d decided to just make the best of his imprisonment. I grabbed the two suitcases from the trunk and grabbed Tom’s cat carrier and headed back up the steps.

  The two drunks were still on the second floor landing waiting for me. I told them to get the fuck out of my way and that as soon as I dropped this shit off I was coming back to beat the hell out of them.

  The Mexican laughed and showed rows of black and brown teeth. The white guy lifted his leg and ripped out a long loud wet sounding fart.

  “That’s what I think of you telling us to mother-fucking leave,” He slurred at me.

  Tom was wide awake now. He clawed at the wire mesh door to his carrier and hissed like a pissed off cobra.

  “What the fuck you gonna do,” the white guy laughed at me, “Sick your pussy on us?”

  I looked at Tom through the door to his carrier and he was staring at the white guy with fury in his eyes. What the fuck, I thought. You know the neighborhood. Besides, I just wanted to see what the hell would happen.

  Setting the suitcases and the cat carrier down at the same time I flipped the door open to Tom’s carrier.

  Moving faster than I thought anything could move, Tom screeched and yowled and tore out of the carrier, climbed the white guy’s legs, and was on his chest tearing at his face in less than three seconds.

  The drunk screamed and stumbled backward falling on the stairs and bashed the back of his skull a good one.

  Tom jumped off when the drunk went down and stood at the man’s feet with his back hair standing up making a loud rrrrrllll sound that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.

  The drunk had two matching deep scratches on both cheeks that were already starting to drip blood down his face.

  “I’m sorry, goddamn it! Call that little mother-fucker off,” the white guy said, backing away from Tom, hugging the railing.

  “We’re fucking gone,” the Mexican said and both of them went around us and down the stairs.

  As soon as they were out of sight, I sat down on the stairs. Tom came and sat beside me and stared in my eyes the same way he’d done back in Sherry’s apartment.

  “You’re full of all kinds of surprises ain’t you,” I told him.

  He went mrooow.

  I picked up the suitcases and told him, “Let’s go home dude. You’ve earned yourself some tuna tonight.”

  That seemed to please him.

  CHAPTER 10

  I dropped the suitcases inside the door to my apartment and Tom followed me inside. He immediately headed for the window.

  His litter box was still in its place beneath the window. He jumped in, made a few circles, scratched at the litter and started squeezing off a big fat tomcat turd.

  He knew he was home.

  I opened the window over his box and looked down. Winos were sprawled around lying in the alley passing a bottle around. I thought about yelling down that they better find another spot for their siestas. This is where I dump Tom’s litter box when it gets full. Then I thought, to hell with it. They’ll find out the hard way that I’m back.

  After scratching Tom on the head while he was still taking a dump, I left the window open and headed back downstairs. I wasn’t worried about leaving the window open for Tom to come and go as he pleased.

  He was the kind of cat that went wherever the hell he wanted to. He always came back because he wanted to, not because he was caged up. As far as worrying about burglars, the way this building was built only a cat or Spiderman could get in my window.

  My cat could come and go as he wanted.

  Spiderman wasn’t tough enough to come to East St. Louis. So I didn’t worry about him.

  * * *

  On the street beside my Porsche a fight was about to break out.

  Johnny Davis was facing off with two young idiots who were getting ready to put a brick through my window.

  Just as I came out the door the bigger guy yelled at Johnny, “This ain’t yo’ mother-fucking car! Whatever we want to take, we gonna mother-fucking take!”

  “You ain’t taking shit boy!” Johnny yelled back.

  “Hey boy!” I shouted. “That is my fucking car. You back the fuck off or I will fuck you up.”

  “Fuck you!” He yelled back.

  I was pissed off and wanted to kill something. After this week, I was long overdue. Out of habit I reached for my gun.

  Shit!

  I didn’t even have a goddamned holster on, much less a gun. I’d been without wearing it for so long I didn’t even have the habit anymore.

  “Are you looking for one of these?” Johnny asked and pulled a snub-nosed .38 out from under his coat and handed it to me. “When I heard what happened, I figured you’d need a gun and I knew you’d need me.”

  The snub-nose felt good in my hand, heavy, just like the chunk of killing steel that it was.

  Johnny p
ulled out a gleaming chrome plated .45 and held it down at his side. We looked at the two guys who had been giving Johnny trouble, but they were already trotting across the street to get the hell away from us.

  The sight of the two guns, in the hands of two men mean enough to use them, changed these boys’ minds about being bad asses.

  I looked at the gun in my hand and then at Johnny. “Thanks bro,” I told him. “You were right on time.”

  “I always am,” he said, “And I ought to kick your fucking ass for not calling me. We’re friends’ goddamn it and don’t you ever forget that.”

  I felt all choked up inside but in East St. Louis only the bitches cry. Instead I said, “We got some son-of-a-bitches to kill. I just don’t know who yet.”

  “That’s the way I like hearing you talk,” Johnny said. “Let’s go find out who needs to die.”

  We both climbed into the Porsche and drove away.

  CHAPTER 11

  The first order of business was switching out the Porsche with my old Olds Delta 88. Where I was living now I’d have to be guarding the Porsche twenty four hours a day or that car would go to pieces in no time.

  We drove over the McKinley Bridge and headed to the parking lot behind Patty’s Kitten House to do the switch.

  On the way Johnny asked, “So what have you done so far? If I know you, you ain’t just been sitting around beating your meat.”

  I told him about the way Sherry looked when I identified her body, and checking out the sight where she was found, and questioning the guys at the liquor store and the porno shop.

  “My next plan,” I said to Johnny, “Is to look up the people I used to do business with. I figure this has got to be someone with a grudge against me that took it out on Sherry.”

  We had just arrived at the gate to the parking lot at Patty’s Kitten House and Johnny stopped me before I got out of the Porsche to open the padlock and swing open the gate.