The stifling heat had finally broken and a storm was descending on New York City. Wincing with pain, I jogged down 53rd and pushed open the door to O'Malley's. Shaking water from my hat I dropped it on the table, and slipped into the snug. I looked at my bloodied hands. I knew I shouldn't have done it, not that way, but knowing something doesn't always help. Anyway, the old couple deserved to die. Period.
I looked around, it was the usual, sad 3 a.m. Friday fraternity. I could have a stake through my heart and no one would notice.
"Hey, Joe!" I gasped, looking at my hand. "Daniels with a twist of lemon." I reserved bourbon for the bad jobs. When the glass of rye arrived, I dripped it's contents on my left hand then yanked a 4-inch barbed spine from the flesh of my palm.
"Fuckitty, fuck, fuck!" I muttered, throwing the spine on the fire where it crackled and spat. I pressed my hand down on a beer towel to stem the blood.
"Hey, TT, you better pay for that!"
"I am good for it Joe."
"I thought you were into ghosts and paranormal shit?" said Joe, looking at my swollen hands. "You been fishing? That looks pretty nasty."
"Yeah, sort of. Give me another whiskey."
I grimaced, took the glass from Joe and downed it. The eel juice spread across the back of my throat and fizzed. I saw Joe looking puzzled. Was this the time to detail my work as a Spectral Private Detective? How two dead, spine shedding old people had come to be neatly folded and stuffed into the boot of my Jag? Probably not.
"Mr. Tarakan?" I looked up. Only the NYPD and the IRS called me by my surname.
"Mr. Tarakan, I was told I might find you here, especially at this time." If angels were leggy ash blondes who wore leather and spoke with plumy English accents, I was in heaven. I wrapped the beer towel around my hand, and offered her the seat next to me. She sauntered over, flashing a dark stocking welt through the slit in her skirt. Large wet, soulful eyes looked me over. I lived by two golden rules; first, never get involved with a client, and second, rules are there to be broken. She definitely came under the latter.
"You look as though you need some help?" she said, slipping out of her leather trench coat and squeezing into the snug next to me. "Let me dress this for you." She took the bar towel and gently tied it around my bloodied hand. "Keep pressure on the wound until it stops bleeding." I obeyed without question.
Her sizeable chest heaved as she took a deep breath. "We need to talk..." A pained expression flashed across her flawless skin and her eyelids closed. "It's, it's my husband." It always was. "He's dead and buried, but he comes back to taunt me." She paused, her eyes went north and she gave out a mournful cry before taking a black lace handkerchief from her pocket. "You work with the dead Mr Tarakan, I need you to stop him...To give him peace." Her baby blues flooded, and I dived headlong in. Nothing like a haunting to get me in the mood.
"I've been known to commune with the dearly departed," I said, smugly.
Dabbing her eyes gently and careful not to disturb the rich, black mascara, she fluttered her long eyelashes at me. My blood rushed south. "Care for a drink?" I asked. They always like to drink and tell.
"Thanks. Bacardi and coke, large." I smiled. She was class—a walking billboard for 50's retro haute couture. Sophisticated, and from the money side of town. I gave Joe the order. Two drunk barflies were staring at my angel, so we moved to a corner of the bar. She slid gracefully from the snug and I stole another look at paradise.
We sat down, and she spoke about her husband. Clients were usually tediously boring, religious nuts with an exorcism complex, or middle aged losers living beyond their means. This client was neither. She was a mid-thirties bombshell with high cheekbones, and legs that finished somewhere north of Jersey. She paused for a second, and I took control.
"Two hundred a day, plus expenses." She didn't flinch. "Cash, up front." A smile flashed across her face.
"Mr. Tarakan, you come highly recommended," She oozed. "Let's speak again in a week." Draining her glass she produced an envelope from within her coat.
"Two thousand in cash as a down payment, and this is my husband's resume, and the last five ghostly sightings of him." I was still opening the envelope when she liberated her leather trench coat, spun on a stiletto and glided from the bar. French heels with thin black seams on flesh coloured nylons—I was hooked.
The sun was crawling across the sky when I got to my apartment. I had packed up the old couple and sent them to the Manhattan Island trash dump. The storm had abated, and everything was covered in a fine mist. I poured a tonic and sat down with the envelope. I needed to think. I felt for reassurance and found it in my pocket. I smiled as I took out the silver snuffbox—a gift from an appreciative client. Its contents helped me focus, and after an unfortunate run-in with a vampire they gave me a much needed boost of iron. I popped the lid. Thirty grams of these tiny creatures kept me on the straight and narrow. Compared to beefsteak these were dynamite. I settled down and opened the envelope. Inside was a wad of black and white photographs of an old man somewhere between ninety and death. A further handful of photographs showed him with a fat man in a garden. Hidden among the pictures were a post card of a strange painting. I looked again at the photographs—I had a nagging feeling I knew the fat man. Tiredness overcame me, and I slept, dreaming of my angel. The next morning I followed up on the fat man. He looked like a gumshoe from the East side, found plugged with lead in his apartment some weeks ago. I called Lieutenant Stalker, my ex-partner. We exchanged pleasantries and I popped the question.
"I need information about the gumshoe from the East side." Stalker went quiet.
"Which one?"
"How many have you got?"
"How many do you want?"
"The fat one"
"Ate too much."
"Natural death then?"
"Nope." It was like pulling teeth. Stalker was clamming, and I knew why.
"Feds interested?"
"Yep.
"O' Malley's, at three."
"No problem."
The Feds only got interested for a reason. My hunch was the fat man had found something, and my angel's husband had been involved in something important.
The heat was rising as I walked into O'Malley's on fifty-third. Stalker had his back to the exit sitting crouched at table thirty-three. A man of annoying ritual, he had sat at table thirty-three for the five years I had partnered him. I took the seat opposite and he nodded while nervously checking out the three mid-afternoon diners. The waitress threw menus on the table and waited, chewing her gum like a ruminating cow.
"Black coffee, eggs easy over, hash browns and two blueberry waffles?" I looked at Stalker, waiting on his reply.
"You remembered!" Each day for five year's he had eaten O'Malley's artery choking shit. It wasn't rocket science to assume, looking at the overweight lard that nothing had changed.
"Why the nervousness?" I asked, looking at the sweaty, fidgeting mess opposite me.
"The Feds are all over the fat man case."
