HELLO, GUN

Excerpt from the Chicago Protean-Herald Book Review:

One might surmise that Private Detective Paulie Drake is not the only rube confronted with a rude awakening: half the mob is heads down in the local harbor with his name tied to the scourge, and you can all too easily waste a few dollars to care less. Apparently a cruder tome can only be discovered outside the environs of Drake’s current imbroglio, which said protagonist alludes to in shallow attempts at geopolitical existentialism throughout the course of this shabby enterprise.

Abandoned by the police and pressured by a hired gun, Drake is forced towards a rendezvous with the usual salad of mixed metaphors found in Conrad Boston’s previous work. His hideously relentless, driven-nail narrative offers little more than an untenable situation resolved by the same pretzel logic that grew tiresome with his earlier champions of deforestation known as RIVER OF FILTH and BONE ORCHARD.

I suppose I should venture that HELLO, GUN is an urban tale of tenuous bonds, ugly betrayal, and dark secrets. If only it made any sense – then this critic could rise above comparable empty clichés in hope that the author would follow suit.

I.

I don’t wear pajamas.

So, there’s no way I can convince anyone that I ever sleep. For instance, this morning: Couldn’t have been any later than six, and some thug craters my office door with a hard shoulder. Brandishing serious cannon to match a reckless grin, he made it obvious that there would be no time for coffee.

“Drake, right? This is easier than I thought. Kiss it goodbye, bo. Easiest grand I ever made.” The barrel of his gat came into view. I coughed and reached for a cigarette. At the very least I might get a drag in.

My Zippo caught just as I heard the hammer of his gun score. Misfire. I chucked the flame at his mug, followed up with a flying bedside lamp. It shattered on his jaw and Laughing Boy hit the boards. His shadow fell to showcase my contact from the force. Lieutenant Hembeck stood as tall as he could manage for five foot six, a .38 shaking in his pallid hands. He looked a little put out from the whole scene. “Um, jeez, Paulie. Guess I’m a little late on this one.”

“Better watch your back, Loot. A line might form behind you.” I got my drag in and exhaled slowly. Another cough.

I was more right than I cared to know. Hembeck crumpled his mouth, looked down at Laughing Boy, then holstered. “Paulie, clam up for once. We need to hoof it to the docks, and fast. There’s more than this guy looking to bust a hole in that thick skull of yours.”

Death threats. The perfect cure for a hangover. As Hembeck cuffed the thug, I pocketed iron along with a fifth of bourbon. We hit the streets, heading for the pier at a speed long reserved for teenagers with stripped rods.

The docks made for a bleak scene. Hembeck’s black and white rolled up to a mess of bodies, some of them spilling off the pier and floating in the murk. The morning fog was burning off to reveal a massacre.

He glanced over at me before opening the car door. “That’s a big chunk of the underworld out there, Paulie.”

A gang War. With me in the middle. Fun made a bad middle name anyway.

“How did my rep match up with this bath, Loot?” We stepped out of the car as I made quick with the bourbon. My hands were slippery. It was one thing to nearly catch lead first thing in the morning. But this was huge, looming. I don’t like paranoia unless it’s without a reason.

Hembeck led me through the carnage. “Drake, best I can figure is some Don makes you for an easy target and saddles blame. Our ears on the street already have it that you set half of these floaters up to sing. Cut it any way and it’s still the same steak. Adding your corpse to this pool is the biggest ticket in the city right now.”

The fifth grew pretty lean after that one. “Can you score me protection?”

He glanced away, out into the bloody murk of the harbor. Not really lamping much from what I could tell. “Drake, we’re stretched thin just sniffing tracks on this scene. I didn’t mind dogging for you this morning, but that was payback and you know that. I gave you the news.”

Pause. “I’ve only got three words for you, Paulie. Back to Mexico.”

“Or I could stay and do your job for you. Find out who wants to punch my ticket on this one.” The guilt angle was my last shot.

Not that it worked. He didn’t want to be my vest on this one. I was too hot an item. Not that I could blame him. Hembeck turned his back to go jaw with the coroner. “Suit yourself, Drake.”

That’s all. I was left out to dry. Only one place to go.

II.

A cabbie dropped me off at The Shuttered Eye, a bar lean on class but fat with sauce. Tequila after bourbon never ranks as the brightest of ideas, but I’m a sports fan when it comes to the medieval style of brain surgery. Two shots later and nursing a third, I was loose enough to shrug off the morning. Maybe I wouldn’t even feel the bullet.

So much for optimism. I had company. “Heyah, Drake. Toots! Gimme a scotch, neat. Drake’s payin’.” Above the voice was a thick set of horn-rimmed specs. Above that, a weather-beaten porkpie hat parked on a head shaved completely bald. The Janitor. He muscled up next to me and smiled like a dog that just bit its owner.

It had come to this. There was a price on my head big enough to pull in a pro. The Janitor was the city’s darkest whisper when it came to hit men. You only saw him once, and that was the last time you saw anything. I rested a c-note on the bar next to him and saw to my glass. The bar served me another. I would need it.

“That won’t match it, Drake.” He sipped his scotch with steeled purpose. “Swimming lessons cost a lot more, and your friend wants you to drown.”

I sank my third shot without comment.

The Janitor shrugged and rolled another slug of scotch around his tongue. “I’m not the judge or jury here, Drake. You know that. I get my marching orders and give heavy sunset. You’re a good egg. I won’t aim for the face.”

One more try before I filled my trousers. “Look at the Franklin as a down payment. Leak on who set me up, I’ll work it with the law so you pull a bigger check on turning him in.”

He stared at me for what seemed like a week. “You ever kill a man, Drake?”

“Shot one or two. But you know my gig, I don’t aim higher than the kneecaps.” I checked my pants. Still clean. “Where’s this going?”

The Janitor unfolded his wallet and slid an address across the bar. “Same guy bankrolling your coffin is also yanking my chain. Figured he’d force a favor. If I polish him I’m gone. But you, my friend, have nothing to lose. Except me.”

Clear as a bell on a Sunday morning. Franklin met his wallet, and I was safe. For now.

I chucked a gallon into the Buick before making straight tailfins for South Central. Dusk was hustling the horizon, air slick with the bludgeon of a thug moon. I rubbed my temples with a free hand in a vain attempt to clear terrain for bridges I could build before I burned the old ones.

There’s no other way to meet your maker than under the filthy curtain of your own history. Part of me almost wanted Mexico instead. At least Tijuana hung a light bulb on what I was up against. Another bad rap, yeah sure. Not much different from this gig, but at least there was an escape route back then. It takes a hell of a lot less cash to grease the cops on a frame job when a bowl of chorizo is their only quota bonus.

I nudged my Buick off the road. The cracked asphalt of a sparse parking lot was slim refuge. I stepped out of the car, shouldered my iron, and tried to look business. Every gig, every place, I was always looking for a number. This one was found easily enough. In fact, it was all too easy. That scared me a little bit more.

My clothes stank of smoke, booze, and fear. With all of that sticky weight behind it, my fist met a door that matched the Janitor’s tip.

Three short, heavy raps and I stepped offside the threshold, revolver cocked by my ear. Dead noise hung in the smog. Then suddenly a grunt, followed by a shrill, high squeal.

Cheap doors give easy. I kicked the knob off, shouldered what remained, and blew a second thinking about pajamas.

The place opened up weird. Carnival weird.

III.

In the middle of a dark flat that stank like last year’s state fair, a man held the barrel of a gun to the skull of a pig. I flipped the light switch and cranked my snubnose up with a notion that the pig wasn’t the threat. Only one of us needed to make bacon, and I was about to pull the butcher’s thumb off the scale.

“…Drake?”

Hembeck. He was surprised that it was me. He changed targets.

I was quicker, with the first bullet giving me room to close the gap. He sank down on one bloodied knee, managing to squeeze off a round that smacked yours truly in the ribs. That did it. A swift fist to the head laid him flat, then I stomped his gun arm with my foot, grinding it into the short carpet. Hembeck yelled bloody murder. The pig ran right past me into a wall.

Didn’t even bother to check my six.

That porkpie hat hovered over my shoulder. “You’re hit in the stitching, Drake. Better flag a meat wagon.”

My head cleared. Ignoring the warning, I gave Hembeck’s nose a taste of my heel. “Fess up, Loot! You put my name on the street!”

The Janitor clapped me on the back. “Your man here runs shield for the Harper Cox clan. There was the matter of a certain daughter of theirs, Drake. The lieutenant was to insure no mean lip on her part. You helped screw that up, now they want her home.” He bent down and picked up the pig with one stout arm. It squealed happily, hitting his five o’ clock with a shower of tongue. Even clearer.

Staring down authority from both sides, I had to steal back some of my own. I stepped away from Hembeck. “Leslie is dead. Got that? She’s worm food. None of anyone’s business, anymore, done. So back it off. Loot ransomed your damn pet just to find that out?”

The Janitor crept forward and spat into the carpet. Gritting teeth, he rammed those thick specs back up the bridge of his nose and spat again. Eye contact. No smile this time.

“I don’t give half a mo’ to your whore, Drake. It was time to clear the streets anyway. A lot of those beach seals had crossed each other so many times that my name got into the mix. Lieutenant here sweetened the invite by swiping my pig, and all the scum got a lead handshake.” His eyes were black, huge pupils thick with hate.

“They wanted me, but you were the goat for this, Paulie. Listen up, right? We all lose somebody. It’s who’s left that counts most.” He paused to scratch his pig behind the ears.

“Except for copper here. He’s an island now. Lieutenant’s master plan to wipe out the mob hit the ground like a wet sack and fell apart the minute I gripped you as his sap. That’s why you had to shoot him.”

The Janitor bent over Hembeck, pushing the animal’s snout into his leg wound. Loot moaned.

“Hey. Shield. You touch my pig again and I’ll grind you into her next trough. Got it?”

A siren in the distance. My turn to spit. “Go. Now.”

He vanished before the second word left my lips.

IV.

Between court sessions, I managed to make it by the bar to drop a few more soldiers. The defense was limp. It was a grim picture for Hembeck. He figured any mention of the Harper Cox family would mark him as meat on the street before the sentence was handed over. So, he sucked it up and folded like a dinner napkin. A stripped badge and a pair of handcuffs bent his spine to jelly and wired his jaw shut.

Brooding over a lagoon of whiskey, I felt a chuckle on the back of my neck before I heard it.

“Toots! More of the same. And I’m payin’ Drake’s here.” The Janitor rested his elbow on the bar and leaned into vision. Thumbing the porkpie back past his temples, he flashed that weird smile. “Got to hand it to you, Drake. With pants like that, you could score in my racket.”

I drained my glass and shook my head. “You’re untouchable. I’m not. Besides, I kept the gun low. I didn’t take our man all the way.”

He sniffed scotch. “Yeah, but you might as well have. In fact, this is probably better. He logs time in the big house, I keep my reputation.” A beat passed as he focused on the mirror behind the bar, waiting for me to keep mum. “Right, Drake? …Untouchable?”

We both knew it was more of a threat than a question.

My turn to chuckle. “The roses stink for you, pal…but I’m not gonna pass the bouquet around. Just return the favor, will ya? Next time some mug frames me, cut me some room. I’m not built to weather this kind of treatment.”

A quick hand slid my next whiskey over, and the Janitor laid a familiar c-note on top of it. He shelved his scotch, yanking the porkpie back over his brow as he spun to exit. The smile never left his lips.

“This city was built on money, Drake. Not promises.”

He was right, of course. And I was drunk. Face it: Life is one ugly dime. The best you can hope for is a pocket to hide it in. My thoughts drifted to south of the border, where a dime went a long way, and life was a safer secret because of it.

I looked forward to the hangover.

THICKER THAN WATER

CONRAD BOSTON began his foray into detective fiction at the age of forty after laboring for two decades as a sewage coroner. His literary arsenal includes such noir fetish masterpieces as HELLO, GUN and DEATH BITES BACK. A lost collection of earlier thrillers, SNUBNOSE BLUES, has been recently recovered and select stories published in the volume THE LONG SLOW TRIGGER PULL.

He currently resides on life support in a bar near Washington Square Park in Manhattan and infrequently authors advertising price sheets for Zabars.

Mr. Boston often penned his own jacket copy against the insistence of his publishers. One such instance that survived their scrutiny follows, intended for a story found in this gritty volume of work:

"Private Detective Paulie Drake has empty pockets and a full bottle. So, when a disgraced debutante saunters into his office with an invitation to vengeance, he takes a chance on banking some easy money.

...But will he find himself on the wrong end of a bullet?

Smeared with lipstick, gunplay and a plot twist that thwarts convention, THICKER THAN WATER parleys a simple conflict into a broader view of familial diaspora laced with one goal: to get out alive, and in love."

This serves as good an introduction as any to his first story, THICKER THAN WATER.

I.

They say that gin makes a man mean. On the other hand, it keeps me thinking on a slow day. And it was all I could do to keep those thoughts clean when a pair of legs that could have stopped the Crusades strolled into my office and parked on my desk.

“Knock much?” I lamped her gams from apple to stem before bothering with any real eye contact. She was a dish best served with a side of mattress and a chaser of flashing neon outside the window.

“Paulie Drake, right? Gumshoe for cheap. And I can’t afford cheap. Interested?” That one was worth an eyebrow shrug. I leaned back and took another pull at the gin. Seating the bottle back on the desk, I slid it towards her, nodded, and shot from the hip.

“So, some goon is leasing those pegs of yours to the wrong side of the road. He ups ante, less kickback on your end, things start to get rough. Now it’s all knuckles or no business. Honey, I don’t park with the muscle racket.”

She glanced briefly at the gin. “I don’t drink. And you shouldn’t either, if that’s the best you can come up with.”

My brow curtained as I shook my head slowly.“You said you couldn’t afford cheap, honey. Spill.”

She gave with a card. “Mr. Drake. Leslie Harper Cox. Yes, of the Harper Cox family; no doubt you’ve heard of us.” Lashes batted over shifting eyes just enough to let me know this was a sore point. “You might then ask why I can barely afford your services. The fact of the matter is that I have been disowned. Cast to the streets, if you will, but not the streets you have insinuated.” Her eyes shot front and center, locking mine in a cold gaze. I believed her.

I grabbed the booze and leaked another stiff one.“Sorry, Miss Cox. But where do I come in? My wallet’s not too fat these days either.”

“I want you to help me blackmail my family.” A wry smile now, the corners of her lips curling as she cocked her head to one side. “You would be well compensated if they relent to pay. Do you have a camera?”

I laughed, nearly spitting gin. I wiped my lips with a shirt cuff. The other hand pulled a Brownie out of the desk drawer and held it up.“This could be sweet news above the fold. If you spring for the film I’ll take the nature photos.”

Encore of the glacial stare. She dropped an envelope on my desk. The legs got up and made for the door.

“It will be no ordinary camping trip, Mr. Drake.”

Turned out she wasn’t kidding.

II.

Outside hoofing asphalt, I slit the envelope open and palmed the contents. A dinner invitation. The Harper Cox brood was going to have a banquet this evening, and attendance was requested. Leslie gave good cover. She had sniped someone else’s meal ticket to get me past the gate. A plan formed in my head.

After a quick stop for a pack of cancer, I reached the lobby of the Daily Metropolitan. A five-spot gave me access to the morgue of the city’s biggest rag. I sifted through stacks of galley proofs, peeling an eye for society pages. A lot of this stuff never saw print for one reason or another.

I didn’t have a tuxedo, and after rifling through the proofs it looked as if I would be the only one not wrapped like a penguin at the banquet. Sore Thumb Theatre. That wasn’t all. There were several sheets on Leslie: Her graduation from the finest schools, her debutante ball, charity work. Photos and kudos. All buried. The family had been buying out the Met’s editors for at least a decade. This grudge had some serious history.

There was something she hadn’t come clean on. I lit a smoke and left the building, stopping at a payphone to dial her number. It rang unanswered for a minute before I hit the receiver and got friendly with the sidewalk. Car keys were needed.

The Buick rolled west. An hour or so would put me at the gig. I topped off my hip flask, watched the hills grow out of the horizon, and thought about those legs.

Swing radio made the drive a little shorter. It was darker out here, far from stale city lights that bleached nickel hustlers, corner sirens, and gumshoes like me into one big faceless urban junkyard. Rich types liked it dark: It was cover for their own flavor of sin. But tonight I was the flashlight. My land shark snaked past several mansions before the address clicked. Parking a few blocks up, I gargled and spat a shot, then walked back.

There were counties smaller than this house. A broad iron gate was the welcome mat, with a couple of chiseled butlers playing as crowd filter. They looked at me like I was a rat fresh from the sewer. Invitation in hand, I coughed to show them a whiff of the booze. Now for some fast lip to hammer the point home.

“Hey, boys. License to swank. Fly those gates, I’m here to graze the buffet, leak the sauce, pinch the hostess. Yeah sure.” I lunged forward, playing it up.

My little act worked. The bigger of the suits jabbed a finger at my chest. “You, sir, are drunk. And this event is black tie only. I’m afraid that your invitation will not remedy either of these transgressions.” They closed ranks to shield the gate from reach.

“Well, there’s always the Marina. My money’s good there. I’ll bring a yacht around for valet parking.” I staggered off. There goes one bad mark as far as they were concerned and no threat to the banquet--as long as they were out front.

Once I lost sight of them, I turned heel where the fence ended and pulled a monkey act on a sycamore. Before jumping, I blew a quick low whistle. No dogs. Strange, you’d think a barn this size would have a couple of rhinos roaming the yard. I had a good view of the driveway. The suits were still parked in front, making sure that drunken fool didn’t come back to crash the party with a stolen boat. Good for them.

Hitting the lawn, I noticed a pair of canted doors leading to the wine cellar. There was light streaming through the wooden slats. I crept forward and cocked an ear. A minute crawled by.

Bupkis. I yanked the latch and dropped inside.

III.

There were good years on rack. Huge wheels of cheese and a wall of cookbooks added comfort to the gloom. A guy could waste some month of Sundays down here. I checked my watch while filling a goblet with vintage merlot. Half past nine. It was too quiet. I wound fresh film into the Brownie and slid shoes towards a slick set of rosewood shelves, scanning the spines of gourmet journals. One title caught my eye right off the bat.

A harsh greet sealed my little trip to the library. “Who are you? How did you get down here?”

Here we go, I thought. You can’t take a picture of failure and get paid. I turned to see the house chef, a shard of blubber tipping the scales just shy of a good day’s haul at the docks. He sported a stovepipe hat and an apron as white as anyone else in the neighborhood. I raised the merlot and toasted him.

“Here’s to you and yours, Boyardee.” He didn’t take to the salutation, so I sweetened it with my snubnose. The gun got his eye. “Sorry, sudden change in menu. Lose the garb.”

Chef stripped down. A few swigs of wine added to the burlesque act. Good stuff, not too thick on the tongue. Before long Boyardee was bound up in the corner and I had a new profession.

Dressed like a meat jockey, I left the cellar and made my way through an arched brick hallway. Noise drifted down a nearby stairwell. Had to be the banquet. I climbed the steps and pushed back a thick oaken door, lugging my payload of vino from the cellar. Clinking glasses were thirsty for it.

“More Chianti? Excellent, fellow. Over there.” Penguins as far as the eye could see. This one was slapping me on the back to make sure I dressed the main table with grape juice. I took it they didn’t tip much. Once I dropped the crate off, I could fade back and spy for dirt to snap.

Wine went down; I looked up. Until now, I had kept cool well enough. But this scene was the big ugly. And my client was the centerpiece.

The dining table was an impressive number; at least thirty feet long with red silk napkins and a carving knife the size of Ohio glittering under the chandelier. Bowls chocked full of bread were flanked by saucers of bouillon. Leslie was the silver platter, hands tied behind her back, kneeled over with an apple wedged in her mouth. Tuxedos were laying out forks.

Cannibals. All of ‘em Stinking Rich. Small wonder this crowd counted the Donner Party journal as a cookbook; they just couldn’t wait for winter to carve a steak from two legs with a Harvard education. I had to get out of this one fast, or not at all. I favored my snubnose over the Brownie.

My first shot hit the chandelier, which is always good for fireworks. Glass rained down as the lights blew. That threw the gig into a panic. As good a cover as any. I sank the last batch of lead on my way to the main course. Penguins fell like bowling pins.

Leslie was smart; she had taken advantage of the mess and was already off the menu and sprinting with me back towards the cellar door. I grabbed the rest of the merlot on our way out. The gate suits were jumping the doorbell and didn’t see us ‘till we hit the street.

Not bad.

IV.

By the time the butlers caught up, we were already on board and burning wheels east. Close, but the cigar was ours on this one. I knuckled sweat off my brow. A few miles later the night sky grew a little brighter for both of us.

Looking over, I saw Leslie’s cheeks streaked with tears, catching moonlight through the passing trees. “You gonna be okay, miss?”

I managed to get the wine between me and the steering wheel. God knows I needed it at this point.

“Yes, I think so.” She was looking out the passenger window. A pause stretched the air. Another thick bead of tears strolled down to the soft crest of her jawline.

“You could say that I never got used to their diet.” A sharp, sobbing laugh escaped her. “I’m, …what do you call it? Vegetarian? I knew that I was different, they were wrong, I couldn’t…” She did the best she could to dry her eyes with the luck that bad catering had given her.

Easing up on the gas, I lit a smoke and passed it over. The cigarette jittered between her lips as she managed a shaky drag. “So they kicked you from crib to curb, decided to make you the next meal when you threatened hardball. Hats off, legs. That’s a lot of cabbage to pass on for the high road.”

Her head slumped forward. “Drake, it’s my turn to be sorry. I can’t pay you. Nothing worked out.” She rolled over and I felt her cheek dampen my shoulder. The ice melted. I took in a mouthful of merlot before parking the Buick.

The moon gave us a black and white photo op: classy stuff. She eclipsed the glow with her lips, and I shifted to lock them.

People can be the worst thing about a sunny day. They make the same mistake twice on purpose and call it tradition. They go from graveyard to cradle, using the scalp of the next generation as nothing more than a whetstone to sharpen the errors of their ways. To justify them.

But sometimes, on a broken night jagged with raw emotions, a Buick streaked with the dirt of a thousand miles gone by can stop in its tracks, and a five o’ clock shadow can polish the ivory neck of a child gone right. A simple thing, really, and all it takes to make things work in a world that does its best to roll the dice on our side of the table.

We just have to notice when they hit. And celebrate when they do.