THE JOHN BRUNI MUSEUM OF MEDIOCRE (AT BEST) SHIT #12: BLOOD OF A BOOTLEGGER

[I have no idea how this made it into the Elmhurst College literary journal, but it did. Looking back on it now, I can’t believe I wrote this, it’s that bad. Back then, I had this idea that I was going to have this fucked up city where horrible shit happens all the time. I would have a series of short stories and novels take place there. In fact, when I originally wrote Poor Bastards and Rich Fucks (which was known at the time as $1,000,000), it took place in Nefarson (or, as the locals called it, Darkside). Yeah, yeah, I know how douchey that is now. Back then I thought it was cool as shit. Also, there should be a drinking game associated with this story. Every time I use a detective cliché, take a drink. Anyway, here it is, warts and all. From Imprints 1999.]

1

A case! I couldn’t believe it, but after a year of unemployment, a case had strolled through the door of my office in the form of a long-legged woman. She may not have been too graceful in her high heels, and her face may have been a bit solid for my likes, but those legs turned me on like a light switch with a hair-trigger. In my city, you never find women like that unless they’re rich or they’re just passing through. I hoped it was the former.

I’ve been working in Nefarson (or Darkside, as it is affectionately called by its natives) since I was old enough—since age eighteen, I’ve been private investigating for anyone who had enough money. At first, I was an apprentice for Jason Luna, but by twenty-one I was on my own. I’m twenty-six now, and I’ve been doing okay, up until last year, of course, when I ran out of advertising money. I haven’t had a job since (luckily, my best friend runs a restaurant and has been feeding me since my luck ran out). I owe so many people so much money that it makes the riches of Croesus look like pocket change. My landlord has three months worth of back rent coming to him. Life’s been a big mess.

I figured the dame was rich, given the jewelry that adorned her fingers and neck. Her earrings were so shiny that they were winking at me. She also happened to be wearing very expensive clothing—her dress (cut very short, just the way I like it) was from the new line of Chenzi, the most famous fashion company in Darkside. Usually I don’t pay much attention to things like that, but Chenzi advertises in all the detective magazines I subscribe to (or, at least, I used to subscribe to). It was black, though. A woman in mourning, perhaps?

“Are you Richard Penter?” she asked as she fixed her dark eyes on mine. Her voice was a bit deep, probably due to years of cigarette smoking.

I was about to make a crack about how Richard Penter was stenciled on my door, so I must be Richard Penter, but I decided it was best not to. After all, I might scare her away, and besides, it’s an old one anyway. “Yeah,” I said. I indicated the chair in front of my desk. “Have a seat, Miss . . .”

“Mrs. O’Neil,” she said, putting a blade on the “Mrs.” part. She sat, holding her silky legs tightly together. I thought they looked real nice that way. “I’m told you are an excellent PI.”

“I’ve been successful in fifty out of my fifty-three cases,” I told her. “Those are damn good odds.” I paused. “Who told you?”

“A man who told me you were able to find a priceless family heirloom back in 1942. Does the name Stephen Dexter sound familiar?”

“Yeah,” I nodded. I felt shocked because the case felt like it had been concluded so long ago. It’s only 1944. Time can go fast, but I guess it can crawl, too.

“My husband died recently,” she said, but she sounded so lucid it was unbelievable. Distantly I wondered if she was on anything. “The police are coming up with nothing. I think they’ve given up.”

A light went on in my head. “Your husband wouldn’t happen to be Jason O’Neil, would he?”

She looked surprised with her eyebrows arched. “How did you know?”

“I read about it in the papers. He was a bootlegger during Prohibition. I used to get bourbon off him in those days.”

“Then, you knew him?”

“Not personally. Just in a . . . I guess you could say a ‘business-like’ way.” A thought occurred to me, and I thought I’d better voice it in a subtle way in case I was wrong. “I didn’t know he was married. How long have the two of you been together?”

“Since 1940,” she answered without skipping a beat. As far as I could tell, she was on the level. I hadn’t seen O’Neil since 1937.

“You want me to find out who murdered your husband?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said as she searched in her purse. I reached into my desk and picked up a pack of cigarettes. I offered it to her. She smiled as she closed her purse and took a cigarette. I took one for myself before putting the pack down. I lit a match off my desk and touched the flame to first her cigarette, then mine.

She took a deep drag and blew the smoke out. Rather than hold the cigarette between her middle and index fingers, she held it between index and thumb. I thought it odd, but I put it on the back burner. “What is your fee, Mr. Penter?” she asked.

When I was working for Luna, one of the things he etched into my mind was always make the prospective client name the price first. “How much is it worth to you?” I countered.

She looked uncertain for a moment, but she regained her composure rather quickly. “Three hundred a day?”

Luna’s trick works like a charm. That was more money than I have ever been offered a day. I nodded. “Three hundred it is. Plus expenses.” I couldn’t resist that last shot.

“Here’s a retainer,” she said, digging in her purse. Moments later, she came up with six hundred dollars. I turned the bills over in my hands, wondering if this was a dream. If it is, God is a hell of a tease. I could pay off my landlord and some of my smaller debts and still have enough to live off of for a few weeks. Not only that, but if I could stretch this case through a third day, I could get even more. No, I’m not usually this shallow, but having no money for months on end tends to have a money-crazy effect on me.

“You can count on me,” I said as I slipped the money in my pocket. After I showed her out (she had given me her address before leaving; I knew I’d have to question her later), I did a little jig thinking of the job I had to do. A year is a long time. Maybe I could put advertisements out again . . .

First things first—pay off the landlord. I went down to his rooms and gave him the surprise of his life. Nothing extraordinary here, other than the smile he gave me when I left.

With that out of the way, I decided to get started. There was only an hour left of daylight, but that was okay. Jack’s Newsstand should still be open.

Jack Dinsmore (people call him JD—his poison is JD on ice) is an old man with a shiny pate poking through a thin bush of white hair. His cheeks drooped down to his collarbones, and he always wore the coat for his old World War I infantry uniform. On colder days, he’s been known to wear a dirty old wool cap, but that day, it was rather warm.

JD’s newsstand has been on Hale Avenue since 1925, but I only met him four years ago. Since a case involving a kidnapped child in ’42 (JD was a witness), we have been great friends. He’s the only one I know who can give me a run for my money at chess.

“Hey Rick,” he said as I approached. There’s only a small percentage of people in the world who I let call me Rick, and all of them are old men. As for “Ricky,” only women can call me that. Otherwise, I give them a knuckle sandwich. Anyone who calls me Rich or Dick, well . . . let’s not think about that.

“How’s business, JD?” I asked casually as I leaned an elbow on the counter.

“Slow,” JD said with a grimace that revealed pearly white dentures. He paused and looked at me as if surprised. “You seem happy today. What’s going on?”

“I got a job,” I said with a smile. “Rich dame.”

“Good looking?”

“In the leg department,” I said without missing a beat. “Otherwise, she’s average.”

“Does this mean you’re going to pay up on your tab?” he asked. I saw a hopeful gleam in his eyes, and I couldn’t bring myself to tease him.

“Yeah,” I said, handing over thirty dollars. “I also need to ask a favor of you.”

“Ask away,” JD said, counting the money with great pleasure.

“What’s the word on the streets about Jason O’Neil’s death?” I asked.

“No one knows anything,” JD told me. “I’ll tell you this, though: his death was rather untimely.”

“Meaning?” I asked, my curiosity peaked.

“Meaning he was murdered without reason as far as I can tell. The police don’t even have a suspect.”

“What about his widow?” I asked.

“Widow?” JD asked. He looked pretty confused.

“O’Neil did leave a widow, right?”

“I don’t know,” he said with a shrug.

“You still have the paper with his obituary?”

“I don’t think so,” he said, shrugging again. “Maybe there’s a copy in the dumpster. You might want to check in there.”

“You’re kidding me, right?” I said, not sure quite how to take his suggestion.

“Nope. It’s in the alley.” He hooked a thumb behind him. Sure enough, there was an alley.

“Thanks, JD,” I said, not meaning it. I hate searching through trash, but what the hell? It’s my job. I walked around the newsstand and headed into the alleyway. Darkside’s alleys aren’t a pretty sight. They’re filled with loose newspaper pages, bottles (most broken), and bums. This alley was no different.

The dumpster wasn’t hard to find (what dumpsters are?), and when I opened it, an unbelievable stench drifted out. I was assaulted by the pungent smell of death. A dead cat was in there, covered with maggots and the like.

That’s that, I thought as I closed the dumpster. There was no way in hell I was going to search through something with a dead animal in it. Besides, was the widow thing really that important?

I was getting ready to try the dumpster again when I saw something out of the corner of my eye: the obituaries page. I could see the name of Jason O’Neil from where I stood. It was on what I thought was a pile of trash but what turned out to be a bum when I grabbed the paper.

“Hey!” the bum shouted angrily. “That’s my blanket!”

I dropped some change next to him. “Here, buy yourself a whole newspaper.” I walked off, reading O’Neil’s obituary. I could hear the bum yelling obscenities, but I ignored him.

I skipped through most of it because what was looking for was at the bottom: “Jason O’Neil is survived by his brother Edward and his nephew John.” There was no mention of a widow. Okay, “Mrs. O’Neil” isn’t on the level, so what’s her interest in Jason O’Neil?

I decided to figure that out later. For now, it was dinner time. I figured I’d get back to the case the next day.

2

My first move the next day was to visit my brother David. He’s a homicide dick at Darkside’s seventh precinct, and he’s always supplied me with information.

Homicide is usually a busy place, but when I walked in, it was so silent I thought I was in a funeral home. Most of the detectives were out, but I could see David sitting at his desk, typing up a report.

I’ve got to admit that I’ve always been jealous of David; after all, he’s the one with a steady job, a wife and kids, and a college education. He even has the looks of the family (something I always wanted). He’s six-foot-one with dark hair combed neatly back. His dark eyes are ever watchful in a beady sense. He’s thin but muscular. My mother thought he’d make a killing in show biz, but he had his eyes set on being a cop, just like me. He made it, I didn’t. I worked the beat for a short while before getting fired for . . . well, it’s a stupid reason. Leave it at that.

Luna liked my skill, though, and he picked me up and gave me a job. I guess I like gumshoeing better, anyway.

David saw me as I approached. He looked up from his typewriter and said, “Richard. Long time, no see.” He seemed shocked.

“I’ve been out of work for a while,” I said evenly. He looked like he was about to voice some concern, and that’s something I never like to hear, so I got to the point. “Listen, you know who’s working the O’Neil murder case?”

“You’re in luck,” he said with a smile as he hooked a thumb at his chest and tapped twice. “What do you need?”

“Any suspects?”

“Not a one. That’s what bugs me the most.”

“That’s a shame,” I said, getting ready to set David up. “How’s O’Neil’s wife taking it?”

“Wife?” he asked. “He doesn’t have a wife.” He paused before asking, “What’s up Richard? What do you know?”

“Have there been any women involved in the case?” I asked.

“No,” he said quickly. “What do you have, Richard?”

“You know I can’t tell you that,” I said. He gave me a look I didn’t like, so I added, “But what the hell? My client’s a woman who claims to be O’Neil’s widow.”

“Description?” he asked as he grabbed a pencil and a sheet of paper. He got ready to take notes.

“Okay,” he said. “What’s up?”

“Now hold on,” I said. “I came to ask you the questions.” He gave me a distasteful look, but he didn’t offer resistance. I asked, “How did O’Neil die?”

“Poison,” David told me. “Slipped it in his beer.”

“Time of death?”

“Nine o’clock, maybe nine-thirty at night. This was four days ago.”

“Who discovered the body?”

“His brother. They had some kind of family thing planned. It was their father’s birthday, and they were going to pay their respects at his grave.”

“Any evidence at all?”

“None,” he sighed. “As far as we can tell, it’s a suicide. That’s how I’m gonna put it down as, anyway.”

“Why would O’Neil kill himself?” I asked.

“His finances were slipping,” David told me. “He’d’ve been bankrupt by the end of the month.”

It sounded nice and clean-cut, but it didn’t sit well with me. “Did O’Neil have enemies?”

David blinked, confused. “I don’t think so. Didn’t think to ask, either. O’Neil’s probably a suicide.”

“How much is O’Neil’s body worth?” I asked.

“Three million,” David told me. “His finances may have been slipping, but he wanted to make sure everyone was taken care of when he was gone. Another reason for him to kill himself to get the insurance for his brother.”

“Thanks for the info,” I said as I stood up.

“Wait,” David said. “Now it’s my turn. Do you have this woman’s address?”

I thought about telling him, but I decided that was a card I’d like to hold onto. “No,” I said.

“You don’t have your client’s address?” he asked incredulously. “Highly irregular, Richard.”

“The address she gave me was O’Neil’s,” I lied. “Didn’t think it would do you any good.”

He nodded, but it didn’t look like he bought it. I gave another farewell and started for the door, but again, he said, “Wait.”

Here it comes, I thought dismally as I turned to look at him. “What?” I asked a bit sharply.

“Why don’t you stop by and have dinner with us sometime. We haven’t seen you in ages.”

If there was anything in the world I’d like to avoid more, aside from castration and other loss of various limbs, I couldn’t think of it. I was polite, though. “Maybe sometime,” I said. He let me go after that. I had a few more things to think about, but one took priority: O’Neil’s enemies. The only person I could think to go to was Edward, O’Neil’s brother.

He wasn’t hard to locate—he was the only Edward O’Neil in the phone book. His place looked a bit rundown, but it was nice and big. Being the brother of a bootlegger must be pretty beneficial.

The man who answered the door was short, fat and balding, but he dressed well, and he looked like he was in good health. His dark gray beard looked as if it could use a trimming, though.

“What can I do for you?” he asked in a gravelly, destitute voice. I guess he should feel destitute, his brother dying and all, but I wondered distantly who would be left with O’Neil’s finances.

“Edward O’Neil?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“Brother of Jason?”

“Yes,” he repeated, this time slightly aggravated.

“I’m Richard Penter, PI. I’d like to ask a few questions.”

“Come in,” he said, and I obeyed. He brought me to a chair in his living room. It was there that I saw a picture of Edward with what must have been his wife and son. Two things struck me—that his wife has died (offering an explanation for the rundown house) and that I had seen his son before. But where?

Edward offered to fetch a drink, but I politely declined. Luna taught me never to drink on the job. He then sat down, waiting for the questions to come.

“Did your brother have enemies?” I asked him.

“None that come to mind,” he answered, and dismay struck my heart. That’s what my visit hinged upon, as well as my case. Nevertheless, I continued.

“I’m sure lawyers have contacted you about the will and insurance money, right?”

“Yes. It looks like I’m going to get the whole estate plus a few million.” He cheered up a bit at mention of that, but not by much.

“What about your son?” I asked.

“Jason never liked my son, and I suppose he had a good reason. John almost turned Jason in during Prohibition.”

“Where is your son?” I asked.

“He moved out a year ago. He’s living on Cash Street.”

Interesting. Something had suddenly occurred to me, and if I was right, this case was as good as solved. “Where on Cash?” I asked.

“527B,” he answered.

Bingo, I thought. It was all clear to me. “Do you have a picture of him I can keep?”

“Why?” he asked suspiciously. “He hasn’t done anything, has he?”

“He might have,” I said neutrally.

He went in search of a picture and was back in no time. It was a high school picture. Perfect.

“I hope I’ve helped you out . . . ?” he said, leaving the statement off in kind of a question way.

“You have,” I said, smiling. He showed me out, but I didn’t leave right away. I sat in my car, looking at the picture of John O’Neil. I dug a pen out of my breast pocket and began drawing long hair on the boy. I added earrings as an afterthought.

“Yep,” I said to myself. “Hello, Mrs. O’Neil.”

I suddenly felt ashamed of myself for admiring a man’s legs. Granted, he made a hell of a good looking woman, but he was still a man. I started to feel sick. I’m no hate monger when it comes to gays, but I’ll be damned if it didn’t throw me for a loop. I was really tempted to go out and have a few manly beers, but I knew I had to close the case now.

I started the car and headed for 527B Cash Street. As I drove, I went over the crime in my head. John hears from his father about how his uncle isn’t going to put him in the will. He goes to his uncle to perhaps talk to him about it (or at least that’s what he tells O’Neil) and ends up slipping a deadly micky in the old man’s drink. That gets Edward the money. If Edward gets the money (three million plus is a hell of a lot), then all John has to do is wait until he has a chance to off his father without arousing suspicion. Then John gets the money. It all works out nicely.

One question remained—why was I hired? Sure, he dressed up like a woman so he wouldn’t be recognized, but still . . .

I pulled up in front of the apartment building, a luxury I didn’t know how long I’d have. I would probably have to sell the car if I don’t get some good cases soon.

The trip to apartment B was short through the dim corridor. I distantly thought they should condemn this hellhole due to poor lighting, peeling lead paint, decaying ceiling, the plague of roaches posing as a carpet, and the thick stink of urine.

When I knocked on B, the letter fell off and clattered to the floor, scaring a couple of roaches away from the dead rat they were nibbling on. The door opened and the youngster from the picture showed himself. At first his eyes widened in shock and fear, but then he regained control of himself.

“John O’Neil?” I asked.

“Yeah,” he said cautiously.

“I’m Richard Penter, PI. Can I come in and ask a few questions?”

“Sure.” He sidestepped aside, allowing me to enter. “Would you like to have a drink?” he asked.

I thought of Jason O’Neil and how he died and decided against it.

“What can I do for you?” he asked.

“I understand your aunt is shacking up with you,” I said, and I could see the relief in every pore of his face.

“Yes,” he said instantly. “You’re the guy she hired, right?”

“Yep,” I smiled. “I came here to talk about her. She’s not here now, is she?”

“No,” he said with a shake of his head.

“Good, because I think she killed your uncle.”

I watched his face like a hawk watching its prey. His eyes widened slightly as his countenance became nervous. His cheek twitched slightly.

“Why’s that?” he asked.

I went into this phony spiel about how O’Neil was worth millions and how, at a guess, she would probably get the money should her husband die. Open and shut case. “Do you know where your aunt is?”

“Not a clue,” he said. Apparently, he had decided not to rebuke me on my “theory.”

“One thing still puzzles me,” I said, grinning slyly (or so I hoped). “Why did she hire me? What was the point if she killed him?”

I saw a moment of glee in his eyes, and I knew he’d fallen for it hook, line, and sinker. “Well, sir, I do seem to recall your name. You have a poor reputation as a PI—that you’re in a constant state of poverty should be an indicator of how good you are.” He paused, then added hastily, “No offense, of course. That’s just my guess.”

No offense meant? That hurt my pride, but it gave me my answer. John wanted to make sure everyone knew that everything possible was being done by bringing in a PI so he wouldn’t look bad. Of course, he couldn’t bring in a PI with a good reputation, otherwise he might get caught. The important thing was making sure the PI didn’t know who really hired him, otherwise his plan might be too obvious.

“Not a bad idea, Mrs. O’Neil,” I said. “Too bad you were wrong about me being a lousy PI.”

“What?” John asked, suddenly confused. I could see the confidence on his face melt away, replaced by fear.

“Do you make it a habit of dressing up like a woman?” I asked. “Or was it just for me?”

He stood quietly for a moment, then smiled nervously. “How did you find out?” he asked gently. I could see he had picked up an ashtray and was holding it behind his back. I made like I didn’t see it, but I could feel my heart beating faster and sweat start to break out. My body was thrumming and drawn tight, ready for the fight that would no doubt ensue.

“I don’t give out trade secrets,” I smiled. “Who knows? You might pull this again, and I would probably have to bring you down again.”

He snarled as he leapt forward, the ashtray held in the air above his head. I stepped to one side, allowing him to overshoot me slightly. Before he could stop, I grabbed his shirt and used his momentum to throw his head into the door. He yelped, and the ashtray fell to the ground with a thump! It didn’t break. I distantly thought that it would’ve broken my skull if I had let him hit me with it. While I’m glad I learned most of my detective ability from Luna, I’m doubly glad I learned how to fight from my father. Luna could solve any case, but I could whip him with one hand tied behind my back thanks to Dad.

John looked at me with hatred burning in his eyes and blood running from a gash in his forehead. He made a move to kick, but I blocked it with my crossed arms. I grasped his ankle and yanked up, twisting him and dropping him to the floor. Before he could even think of retaliating, I planted a knee in the small of his back, pinning him down. He gave a gasp and tried to heave me off, but I continued holding him at bay.

I kept my handcuffs when I got thrown off the police force, and I still carry them with me to this day. I don’t carry a gun (not if I can help it, anyway), but I always carry the handcuffs. I used them on John, cuffing him to a nearby radiator before backing off. It was a difficult task, but I managed. He lashed like a wild animal, but he couldn’t reach me.

I ignored his obscene shoutings and dialed my brother’s number on John’s phone.

“David Penter, homicide,” the voice answered.

“It’s me, Richard. You know the case I’m working?”

“The O’Neil case?” he asked.

“Yeah. Listen, I got the killer here. You wanna pick him up?”

I just love to do that. I especially enjoy those shocked silences David’s so good at.

3

David was rewarded with the bust, but we weren’t able to get murder one on John O’Neil due to lack of evidence. We did, however, get him on an attempted murder charge (for me), and he’s going for a very long stretch in the state pen.

So here I am, a few months later and broke again. That’s why I’m writing this. Maybe my exploits will get me money from the pulps and—

Hold on. I think there’s someone at the door. I smell cheap perfume, and I can see the silhouette of a woman through the window on my door.

Another case!

[There was something new I wanted to do with this story way back when, to set it apart from other hardboiled PIs. I wanted him to be the manliest man of all men only to have him admire a woman who was actually a man. I thought I was oh so clever back then. Reading it with modern eyes shows me a completely different picture. It may even be construed as hateful, which was never my intention. This is the kind of character I would use today as a villain, or at least an average man with a questionable streak. Considering that, I’m glad the other Richard Penter stories I wrote never saw the light of day. I succeeded with this idea later in my Bobby Yandell series.]