6 Crime Stories
By
Robert T. Jeschonek
*****
SMASHWORDS EDITION
Copyright © 2011 by Robert T. Jeschonek
www.thefictioneer.com
Cover art copyright © 2011 by Ben Baldwin
www.benbaldwin.co.uk
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*****
Who Unkilled Johnny Murder?
By
Robert T. Jeschonek
As I run through the French Quarter of New Orleans in the rain, chased by a dead man, I wonder where the hell my supposed long-lost half-brother the supposed pulp hero disappeared to with my gun.
Johnny Murder gains on me, of course, because I weigh almost three hundred pounds naked...which I am...and the next thing I know, I’m being tackled to the sidewalk by Mr. Dead Guy, who seems pretty alive to me.
I feel the barrel of his gun press against the back of my head, and I know I’m going to have to fight or die. I’ve got the bulk to throw this asshole off me...but can I do it before he plants a bullet in my brain?
“You figured it out,” says Johnny, breathing hard from his run. “Now here’s your reward, smart guy.”
I gather myself up to make one last move. I’ve got the body of a sumo; now’s the time to use it.
I’m not ready to be dead yet...though Johnny here didn’t let it keep him down. At least, that’s what Queen Elizabitch and most of the other members of the French Quarter Open Air Artists and Psychics Association thought when this whole mess started.
*****
I’ll admit, when I first got the word about Johnny coming back, I thought it was a big rip of swamp gas. I never figured that a week later, I’d end up with the man himself poking a gun in the fat rolls on the back of my neck. Not quite the man himself, I should say.
The daily rain shower had just eased through the Quarter that Sunday afternoon, and I was at my spot on the corner of Royal and Toulouse, not far from the backend of St. Louis Cathedral. Just as the last cloud rolled away and the sun flowed down like fine white wine, I stepped out from under Father Sees-All the bone reader’s big beach umbrella and started playing “Blue Skies” on my tenor sax.
I nudged the sax case out on the wet sidewalk with my toe, and sure enough, within a minute, a young couple tossed a dollar bill into it. I knew more would follow; playing songs about blue skies and sunshine after a shower always brings in the tips.
I love Royal Street, because it’s one street down from the commotion on Bourbon, but it’s so quiet it might as well be a world away. Not only that, but the acoustics are perfect. A tenor sax in the right spot–-my spot-–can carry all up and down the street, straight from Canal to Esplanade, reeling the tourists right in as they stroll out of the antique and jewelry shops. I can make a couple hundred bucks in an afternoon if I’m lucky and the weather holds.
And if some squawked-up hoodoo mama like Queen Elizabitch doesn’t come bouncing up to bother me, which she did that very afternoon right smack in the middle of my blue skies number.
“He’s back,” said Elizabitch, all out of breath and not even having the courtesy to wait till I’d finished playing. “I saw him, Po’Boy. I just saw him.”
Irritated, I stopped in mid-chorus and lowered the sax from my lips. “Can’t you see I’m workin’ here?” I said, giving my sax case a kick on the pavement.
Queen Elizabitch--chosen name Queen Elizabeth, or Q. Liz for short--just kept rattling on like I couldn’t wait to hear what she had to say next. “Johnny Murder,” she said, flicking open the Chinese hand fan she always carried and waving it in front of her round, sweaty face. “I saw Johnny Murder down the French Market not fifteen minutes ago.”
Now, in addition to being just the pushiest human steamroller in the Quarter and a bitch in every sense of the word, Q. Liz was always claiming to see ghosts and the like, so I didn’t really take her seriously. She used to swear ol’ Jean Lafitte himself came by her apartment once a week to play dominoes, and sometimes he brought along Jelly Roll Morton.
“Well, ain’t that something?” I said seriously, shaking my head. “How long’s he been dead now? Five months?”
“Six,” said Q. Liz, tugging the dashiki away from her enormous breasts and fluttering the bodice to circulate some air down her front. “Now he’s back, an’ I guess it’s my fault.”
“How you figure?” said Father Sees-All, joining the conversation now that the latest customer had left his table.
Q. Liz looked off to the side. “I guess I resurrected him,” she said, a note of sheepishness worming its way into her voice.
“Dumb bitch,” said Father Sees-All with a chuckle. “How many times I told you, don’t go messin’ like that?”
“I heard he’s got some loot stashed,” said Q. Liz, fanning herself faster with annoyance. “Thought I’d call him out an’ ask where it is.”
“Or maybe,” said Father Sees-All, tipping the bowler forward on his floppy gray dreadlocks, “you wanted him to do some killin’ for you.”
“Too bad I already cursed you so damn much,” said Q. Liz with a sweaty glare. “I’d do it again if I thought it’d make any difference.”
Father Sees-All laughed loud, but I didn’t crack a smile. For one thing, I was burning daylight and losing business standing there listening to her nonsense. For another, I didn’t much care for having the subject of Johnny Murder brought up again.
He killed my girlfriend, Cherry, after all.
“So why you bringin’ this to me?” I said impatiently.
“I thought you better go get him,” said Q. Liz. “Seein’ as you’re the ‘Sociation’s constable an’ all.”
“You know I quit six months ago,” I said, rolling my eyes.
“Nobody else wants the job,” said Q. Liz. “You can’t quit till we get a replacement.”
Angry, I bent down and dropped my sax into its case. For a loose group of iconoclastic street performers, the French Quarter Open Air Artists and Psychics Association was forcefully united on one issue: they refused to accept my resignation as constable. I swear, they kept me busier after I quit than they had before I gave up the job.
“Maybe you better get busy an’ find one,” I said, snapping my case shut and tucking it under my arm. “I’m outta the constable game.”
“Now you listen,” said Q. Liz, stepping forward and flapping her fan in my face. “After what happened to Cherry, you oughtta be beggin’ me to follow up on this. You owe her.”
Q. Liz stood so close to me, her breasts touched my chest and her breath fogged my specs. For a long moment, I held her gaze, staring daggers through her retinas and right into the back of her head.
“Don’t you ever say her name to me like that,” I said finally. “You want help, you call the cops from now on.”
Then, I brushed past her and marched off to find another spot where I could play my sax in peace.
“You best be careful, Po’Boy,” she hollered after me. “You wouldn’t wannna end up with a curse on that bald head a’ yours.”
I snorted and kept walking. I already had a curse on my head; what kind of voodoo woman was she, if she couldn’t see that?
About as good as I am at being an ex-constable, I guess, since she turned up dead twelve hours later. Even an ex-constable wouldn’t let that happen to a friend...which I guess is what she was after all, now that I think back on it.
*****
After Q. Liz was killed, no one had to ask me to get involved anymore. I put my sax playing on hold and stepped right back into my role as the ‘Sociation’s constable like I’d never given up the job. No one said a word about it, either, not even Yolanda the fire-eating flamenco dancer or Scabby Earl the scar-tist.
The cops were looking into it, they said, but that’s a hit-or-miss proposition. It’s always better when you’ve got one of your own looking out for you, and I won’t deny that’s what I was to Q. Liz.
Plus which, I thought maybe she’d’ve still been alive if I’d gotten past getting my feelings hurt and taken her seriously.
So I started asking questions around the ‘Sociation and hitting up my cop contacts for dirt...and things got complicated fast. Q. Liz surprised me from beyond the grave, which was something she was extra good at back before the grave, too.
It turned out she took my advice, after all. About finding a replacement for me, that is.
Sometime between talking to me and getting killed, she hired some whackjob over the Internet to come to New Orleans and do something about Johnny Murder.
And I do mean whackjob.
*****
The first thing I noticed about Quinto Starbulk was his cologne. It was strong and sweet and thick like the smell off a fresh-picked daffodil mixed up with antifreeze, and it kind of made me sick.
It hit me before I even saw him, while I was talking to Madame Destine in Jackson Square...though I swear he had it on so heavy he might’ve been a couple blocks away when I first caught a whiff.
Madame Destine--real name Dolores Schellhammer out of Madison, Wisconsin--was just telling me she’d seen a guy who looked like Johnny Murder down at the casino an hour ago. I was just about to ask what she’d seen Johnny doing at the casino when I got a snootful of that daffodil/antifreeze and noticed Madame D. looking up behind me.
Before I could turn around, I heard a deep, smooth voice like a radio announcer’s or a boxing match emcee’s. “What was Johnny doing when you saw him at Harrah’s?” said the voice, so close behind me it made me jump. I’d smelled the cologne, but hadn’t heard a single footstep on the bricks when whoever was back there had walked up to me.
Madame Destine clammed up at the stranger’s question. Twisting around, I got my first look at the screwy sonofabitch who was about to make my life more miserable than it already was.
He was tall--six-three easy, maybe six-five--and muscular as a Teamster. A tweed jacket with suede patches at the elbows hung off his broad, boxy shoulders, and under that he wore a black turtleneck and gray wool trousers. I thought he was nuts, dressing like that in New Orleans in June, but I couldn’t see a patch of sweat on him; in fact, the whole time I knew the guy, I never saw him sweat, not even a little.
He had a face like a cross between a movie star and a football player, with chiselled features and a square jaw atop a thickly muscled neck. His wide, dark eyes matched his jet black hair, which was slicked back from a sharp widow’s peak and graying at the temples. About the only flaw on him was a tiny, dark mole right smack between his eyebrows, reminding me of a jewel on the forehead of a swami.
“Excuse me,” I said as I stared up at him. “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure of invitin’ you in on our little conversation here.”
“I don’t mind,” said Daffodil/Antifreeze with a giant smile. “No need to stand on ceremony when there’s work to be done.”
I figured the guy was a tourist who’d happened to overhear my talk with Destine...and I was getting annoyed. “What work you think you’re doin’?” I said. “Other than not mindin’ your own business, that is.”
Daffodil/Antifreeze cleared his throat and looked grim all of a sudden. “Solving the murder of Elizabeth Deschanelle and tracking down the zombie scum known as Johnny Murder.”
I must admit, he threw me for a loop with that one. “Well, now,” I said, pushing myself up off the folding chair at Destine’s table and turning to face him. “I don’t think I caught your name.”
The guy gave me a funny look. “Quinto,” he said, extending his hand. “Quinto Starbulk. I’ve been hired to look into this case.”
“Hired by who?” I said, holding off on the handshake.
“Miss Deschanelle herself,” said Starbulk, pushing his hand toward me. “Before she died, she hired me to track down Murder. Though she’s dead, I fully intend to complete the assignment in honor of her memory.”
Staring him in the eyes, I pushed my hands in my pockets so there’d be no misunderstanding about my not wanting to shake. “That’s real nice of you,” I said, “but we’ve got it under control. No need for you to stick around.”
“I never walk away from a case until it’s solved,” said Starbulk. “Just ask Eighteen Wheeler or Fussbudget Bunco or the Pheromonials.”
“Just ask what?” I said, frowning.
“Lowlifes I’ve crossed paths with,” said Starbulk. “They learned the hard way that I always finish what I start.” Smiling, he dropped his hand on my shoulder and gave it a squeeze. “I can tell you’re the same way, Gerald. We’re going to make a fantastic team.”
“What the hell?” I said, jerking my shoulder out from under his grip. “Where’d you come up with ‘Gerald’?”
“Let’s just say I did my homework before I got here,” said Starbulk. “You’ll be happy to know you passed the background check with flying colors.”
“‘Background check’?” I said, getting angrier by the minute. “My background’s none of your business!”
“Au contraire,” said Starbulk. “As it turns out, your background is very much my business! In the course of my research, I found the two of us have something in common.”
“Like what?” I snapped.
“A father!” said Starbulk. “Gerald, I’m your long-lost half-brother!”
I glared at him, imagining my fist wiping the smile off his movie star face. “Bullshit,” I said. “I’m an only child.”
“Not anymore! Your father--our father--had a son by a woman in Kansas City named Bianca Furrier. I am that son!”
Starbulk fanned his arms out excitedly, as if waiting for an embrace, but I just stood there with arms folded across my chest and stared. A thousand questions leaped into my mind, a thousand ways to shoot down his story...but I didn’t want to waste my time.
I couldn’t see the slightest resemblance in him to me or my father or anyone else in the family. His story didn’t hold water, because my father had never mentioned going to Kansas City or having another son. Starbulk had come up with my given first name, which I kept to myself, but it wasn’t exactly a secret; it wasn’t like he’d told me something only a relative could know.
There wasn’t a chance he was my long-lost half-brother. Frankly, even if there had been, I wouldn’t have wanted to know about it.
He was irritating enough as a stranger. I’d only known him about fifteen minutes, and already I wanted to get the hell away from him.
Without saying another word about our supposed brotherhood, I turned to Madame Destine. “So what was this guy looked like Johnny doin’ in Harrah’s?”
“Poker,” said Destine. “In the high stakes room.”
I nodded. “Thanks for your help, Destine,” I said. “Let me know if you see or hear anythin’ else.”
“I will,” Destine said soberly. “Please be careful.”
“Thanks,” I said, and then I turned and charged past Starbulk, marching off through the light Tuesday tourist traffic in front of the cathedral.
Starbulk, of course, followed close behind.
*****
Unfortunately, no amount of pretending he wasn’t there made Daffodil/Antifreeze go away. No matter how fast I walked, he always stayed right beside me.
Talking.
“I’ve battled zombies before, you know,” he said. “The key is research. Knowing their habits when they were alive, because they’re creatures of habit.
“Research is key. Also plenty of rock salt.”
I hurried across Decatur Street, crossing against the light in the hope Starbulk might get tagged by a rent-a-car.
He didn’t. “Not to worry, Gerald,” he said, clapping me on the back. “If I can handle Sven Yula and the Thrice-Born Guillotiness on my own, the two of us will have no trouble at all with that louse Johnny Murder.”
I picked up my pace, but Starbulk stayed by my side. The more he talked, the more convinced I became that the guy was a flat-out lunatic.
“The only thing that has me worried is the possibility that Mr. Murder is something other than a zombie,” he said. “He could be a shape-changer, after all, or some other sorcerous creation. That would be a whole other kettle of fish, my friend.”
Though I said nothing, Starbulk kept right on talking. As we crossed the streetcar tracks and walked up the steps onto the platform, I seriously considered punching his lights out before the streetcar rolled up.
“The fact is, if the man Ms. Deschannel saw is some kind of ensorcelled doppelgänger, things could get hairy.” Planting himself in front of me, Starbulk touched my arm and stared at me with an expression of grave concern. “Now, listen, Gerald,” he said. “I’d like nothing better than to team up with you, but you might be in over your head on this one. I want you to know there’s no shame in bowing out of this case.”
I hadn’t said a word since leaving Destine’s table, but I couldn’t let that one go without comment. “Funny,” I said, brushing off his hand and folding my arms over my chest. “I was just about to tell you the same thing.”
“Actually,” said Starbulk, “I have another cause for concern about you. I have doubts about your objectivity in this case, given your history with the zombie suspect.”
I swear, if the streetcar hadn’t come along just then, I would’ve gone ahead and slugged him. “My objectivity’s just fine,” I said slowly.
“Murder killed your girlfriend,” said Starbulk, “and three of the street performers who were under your protection. Can you honestly tell me that won’t negatively impact your performance?”
“The only thing negatively impactin’ me right now,” I said as the streetcar stopped at the platform, “is you.”
I pushed past him into the streetcar, and for a moment, I thought maybe he’d stay behind. Unfortunately, as my change rattled down into the farebox, I heard his cowboy boots clomping up behind me.
“That’s all I needed to hear,” he said. “As long as your personal history isn’t a factor, I feel confident in keeping you onboard.”
Sighing, I slumped onto a bench, and Starbulk dropped down beside me. “This all reminds me of another adventure,” he said. “Just as in this situation, I worked with someone who had a history with an adversary. In the end, I was able to help Dr. Cuppet defeat the Inner Demon as well as his own thirst for revenge.”
I got up and moved to the bench on the other side of the streetcar, but Starbulk followed. Though the ride to Harrah’s would be brief, I had a feeling it was going to seem a lot longer.
I was right.
*****
When we got to the casino, I looked up Inside Charlie, a buddy of mine who works security there. Truth is, I owe him a lot more favors than he owes me, but he always comes through because we go way back.
When I asked to take a look at some video off the security cameras, Charlie told me he’d have to break five different rules to do that...but he did it anyway. Only problem was, Starbulk talked his way into coming with us, laying it on about how Q. Liz had hired him to track down Murder, and it being her dying wish and all, he felt obliged to participate in all aspects of the investigation. He played up the story about being my long-lost half-brother, too, even though I pointed out it was total horseshit. In the end, Charlie being Charlie, and Starbulk being with me (whether I liked it or not), Daffodil/Antifreeze got an invite, too.
Back in the monitor room, Charlie found the tape from the high-stakes poker room between noon and two P.M., which was about when Madame Destine had said she’d spotted Johnny. Charlie ran the tape on fast forward, and we all stared at the screen, watching the dealers flip out one hand after another and the huddled figures around the dozen or so tables slide out bets.
There was no sign of our guy from noon to one o’clock...but Starbulk made Charlie pause the tape around one-fifteen. Jabbing a finger at the screen, Starbulk pointed out a wiry figure at the furthest table back, a slouched-over character wearing a ballcap and sunglasses.
At first, I didn’t see the resemblance...but Charlie zoomed in on the guy and I got a better look. Take away the cap and shades, I decided, and sure enough, it could be Johnny.
Which led me to a question. “How the hell’d you spot him?” I asked Starbulk. “Charlie and I both knew him personally, so how the hell’d you pick him out first?”
“Research,” said Starbulk, patting my shoulder. “I studied his photo. I studied his file on the flight down here.”
“What file?” I said, shrugging off his hand. “The police file? F.B.I.?”
“My file,” said Starbulk with a wink. “Knowledge is power.”
I stared at him, wondering for the first time if there was more to this nut than he was letting on. Wondering if he was somehow connected to this Johnny situation in more ways than getting hired by poor Q. Liz...if she’d ever hired him in the first place.
“All right then,” I said, turning to Charlie. “You got time to follow this up, mon ami? Maybe see what else our boy there been up to on his visit this afternoon?”
“Sure,” said Charlie, stroking his salt-and-pepper mustache. “I’ll see what I can find. How ‘bout I give you a call?”
“You got my number,” I said, patting the cell phone under my aloha shirt. At that very instant, the phone rang, and I fished it out of its harness on my belt. The number on the little green display screen was my buddy Just Dexter’s, so I answered the call.
“Yo, Dex,” I said. “What’s up?”
“Get your ass to Charity Hospital, pronto.” Dexter always has the jitters (though his gimmick is posing as a human statue) but this time he sounded extra-jumpy. “Father Sees-All took a beatin’. Says Johnny Murder did it.”
“Aw, shit,” I said, and then I bolted out of Harrah’s as fast as I could get my two-hundred-ninety-nine-and-a-half pounds to go. Starbulk, naturally, stayed glued to my side like a barnacle I couldn’t scrape off.
*****
Little did I know when I got to Father Sees-All’s room that I was walking into the middle of an impromptu meeting of the French Quarter Artists and Psychics Association.
Father Sees-All was propped up in bed, looking bad...one eye swollen shut, face and arms all bruised to hell. Eight ‘Sociationers were arranged around him, all but Dexter glaring in my direction at once when I bounced in.
Though no one seemed to be too glad to see me, I hustled right over to the bed. Dexter shrugged, hands stuffed in the pockets of his chinos like always, and opened a space for me at Father’s feet.
“Geez, Percy,” I said (Father’s given name being Percy Thibodeaux). “What the hell happened?”
Father’s voice was a croak. He sounded like he was hurting. “Saw that son of a bitch Murder ‘bout to go in Switch Hitter’s. He caught me lookin’ an’ came after me.”
“Switch Hitter’s?” I said, wondering what big, bad Johnny Murder’d want in a salon specializing in makeovers for cross-dressers and bondage queens.
“Chased me down Dauphine an’ beat the livin’ shit outta me in an alley,” said Father. “Only thing he said was ‘Keep your nose outta other people’s business, you wrinkled-up old rasta.’”
“Now hold on a minute,” I said. “That’s all he had to say to you?”
“I guess he was too busy kickin’ my ass to talk much,” said Father. “Then, he took off before I had the chance to pick up the conversation.”
“He just took off like that?” I said. “How come?”
“Got bored, maybe?” said Father. “Had reservations at K-Paul’s? How the hell should I know?”
“And you’re sure this guy was Johnny?” I said.
“Wouldn’t’ve called him Johnny if I wasn’t, would I?” said Father, sounding progressively crabbier.
“But you’re the one who killed him,” I said. “If that was Johnny, wouldn’t he kill you back? Wouldn’t he at least’ve had somethin’ more to say to you?”
“Maybe he’s lettin’ bygones be bygones,” said Father. “Now I got a question for you, hot sauce. Wha’chu doin’ to keep this fool from hurtin’ someone else?”
“I got the same question,” said Bobby Bocci, the shell game and three-card monty king. “What’s the plan?”
“I’m workin’ on it,” I said, guessing I’d be better off keeping the details sketchy. “Puttin’ the pieces together. It takes time.”
“It didn’t take Percy much time to find him at all,” said Professor Ludwig von Waterglass, a.k.a. Cyrus Sullivan out of Pueblo, Colorado...a silver-haired hippie who plays musical glasses of water. “Maybe we ought to put him in charge.”
“What’s the holdup, Po’Boy?” said High Markie the unicyclist.
I didn’t appreciate the full-court press, and I was about to make a smartass remark...when the big bass voice I’d come to hate spoke up behind me. “We are at war with dark and terrible forces, my friends,” said Starbulk. “Such a war cannot always be won quickly...but make no mistake, it shall be won.”
For a long moment, everyone in the room was silent as Starbulk’s words settled in. I cringed, waiting for the reaction I expected...namely, disbelief and sarcasm. Maybe laughter.
What I got was something else altogether.
“Dark forces?” said Lady Claudette the palmist, touching the gold ankh pendant at her throat. “So Johnny is a zombie?”
Starbulk shouldered in beside me, shaking his head. “I thought so at first,” he said, “but now I’m leaning toward a shape-shifting golem of some kind. A black magic doppelgänger taking the form of a notorious killer.”
Gustav Gretchen the painter/poet/flatulist popped the unlit cigarette from his mouth. “Why not a zombie?”
“As Gerald pointed out,” said Starbulk, clapping a hand on my shoulder, “a zombie Johnny should have reacted more violently when faced with the man who took his life. Therefore, I suspect that the only thing this creature has in common with Johnny is his physical appearance.”
“Can such a creature be stopped?” said Lady Claudette.
“Fortunately, yes,” said Starbulk. “By a twelfth-level shaman such as myself. I’ve defeated such beings many times using the techniques taught to me by the Tibetan lama Zi Lung Chu, and I am confident I will succeed in this case as well...if we locate the Murder doppelgänger, that is.”
“What do you mean, ‘if’ you locate him?” said Professor Waterglass.
“We’re dealing with a shape-shifter here,” said Starbulk. “That’s why he’s been so difficult to track. He may favor the form of Johnny Murder, but he could reshape himself to look like anyone.”
“Anyone?” said Gustav Gretchen. “Even one of us right here in this room?”
“Theoretically,” said Starbulk.
At that, the ‘Sociationers cast suspicious looks at each other and spread apart, putting extra inches between themselves and their potential shape-shifter neighbors. Only Just Dexter and I stayed shoulder to shoulder, watching as the rest of the group bought into Starbulk’s insane notion.
“Isn’t there any way to see through his disguise?” Lady Claudette said in a hushed voice, staring intensely at Bobby Bocci.
“My
colleague, Penny Thoughts, could do it via
mind-reading,” said
Starbulk, “but she’s on assignment in Morocco and can’t be
reached. I’ve put in a call to Twenty-Twenty, the man with the
golden eyes, but haven’t heard back from him, either.”
“So what are we supposed to do?” said Gustav Gretchen, running a long-fingered hand over his shaved and tattooed scalp.
“Watch for suspicious behavior from those around you,” said Starbulk. “Ask questions of a personal nature. Wear protective talismans on which the pentacle, cross, or Star of David are prominent. Avoid open flames and pregnant women.”
As Starbulk rattled off his crazy recommendations, I saw that all the ‘Sociationers except Dexter seemed to be taking him seriously. Even Bobby Bocci and “cashstrologer” Silky Freedom, who were both cynical thieves, looked like they were buying into Starbulk’s fantasy.
I finally decided I’d had enough and elbowed Dexter. “Be right back, folks,” I said, leading him out the door, but no one seemed to hear me. They were all busy listening to Starbulk talk about the eating habits of shape-shifting golems.
“So who the hell is that guy, anyway?” said Dex on our way out of the building.
“Some nut claims Q. Liz hired him to find Johnny,” I said as we stepped outside. We’d gone from air-conditioned comfort to hot evening air so thick with moisture it was barely breathable...but it still felt great to be away from the claustrophobic scrutiny of the pissed-off ‘Sociationers. “Calls himself Quinto Starbulk. Also claims he’s my long-lost half-brother.”
“Is he?” said Dex, pulling a pack of cigarettes out of his chinos.
“Not a chance,” I said. “He’s just a whackjob.”
“So where’s he comin’ up with all this dark forces, Tibetan lama, shape-shiftin’ monster bullshit?” said Dex.
“Aw, I don’t know,” I said, bumming a smoke. “Thinks he’s some kinda action hero straight out of a comic book or pulp magazine or somethin’.”
“Dude’s stoned,” said Dex. “The ‘Sociation is, too, if they think Johnny Murder’s come back.”
“I saw him on tape at Harrah’s, an’ he sure looks like Johnny,” I said, blowing out smoke, “but you’re right. It can’t be him. People don’t come back from the dead, no matter what you do.”
“I know,” said Dex, and from the way he dropped his voice, I knew he knew I was talking about Cherry. About what I did trying to bring her back...and the price I paid. “So who you think this lookalike is, then?”
“Twin brother we don’t know about?” I said, taking another puff on the cigarette. “Someone made up to look like Johnny? Could be that’s why he was hangin’ around a makeover joint.”
“But why would anyone want to impersonate that dead son of a bitch?” said Dex.
“I don’t know,” I said, “but the whole thing’s givin’ me a bad case of déjà vu. People droppin’ dead an’ gettin’ beat around me, an’ I’m lettin’ ‘em down again.”
Dex pointed his cigarette at my face. “That’s bullshit an’ you know it,” he said angrily. “What happened before wasn’t your fault. Johnny was one of us, an’ we all trusted him the same as you did.”
“But I should’ve known,” I said, flicking away my cigarette butt. “I should’ve stopped him before he killed anyone. I sure as hell should’ve been the one shootin’ him in the face instead of Father Sees-All after Cherry died.”
“Maybe you would have if you hadn’t been in custody,” said Dex. “If the cops hadn’t been questionin’ you about Cherry’s death. It ain’t your fault you didn’t get to blow Johnny’s brains out personally.”
“I should’ve saved her,” I said quietly. “At least I should’ve paid Johnny back for what he did.”
“Listen,” said Dex, throwing an arm around my shoulders. “All that matters is Johnny’s dead. This asshole makin’ the rounds ain’t him. Don’t let what happened before get in the way of bringin’ him down.”
Suddenly, I felt another arm drop around my shoulders. The air filled with the smell of daffodils and antifreeze.
“No worries on that count, my friend,” boomed Starbulk. “I assure you, nothing will stand in the way of our victory over the shape-shifter.”
“Geez!” said Dexter, hopping out from under Starbulk’s embrace. “Don’t go sneakin’ up on people like that!”
I turned and glared at Starbulk. “I’ve been thinkin’,” I said. “Why don’t we split up, Quinto? That way, we can follow different leads an’ track down Johnny in half the time.”
“Great idea,” said Starbulk.
Immediately, my mood brightened.
“However,” said Starbulk, “I think it best if we don’t divide our forces just yet.”
So much for the good mood.
“Now, if we were facing General Clonefire and his Multitaskers, it would be a different story,” said Starbulk. “Though, now that I think about it, I wonder if our foe might be plural in nature. You know, I battled a shape-shifter once who was able to duplicate herself. Went by the name ‘Many Jenny.’”
Dexter looked at me and shook his head. “If there’s duplicate Johnnys out there,” he said, “I’m glad we got an expert like you lookin’ out for us, Quinto.”
At that moment, my cell phone beeped. The number on the display was Inside Charlie’s.
“Johnny came in the casino with a redhead named Corinna Crimsone,” said Charlie. “She bought his chips with her credit card.”
“Corinna Crimsone?” I said. “Sounds familiar.”
“One of the guys recognized her on tape,” said Charlie. “She’s a dancer at CrocoDelilah’s up on Bourbon Street.”
“That’s right,” I said, an image of the beautiful redhead popping into my mind...naked and gyrating on stage. “Thanks, Charlie. You’re the man.”
“Just remember,” said Charlie. “You owe me another case of Jax.”
“I’ll make it two an’ a bucket of crawfish,” I said, and then I hung up and headed for the strip club. Starbulk, as usual, trotted along beside me, running his mouth in such a way that I wanted to punch it shut.
*****
When we got to CrocoDelilah’s, I thought about asking my buddy working the door, Coley Bassinette, if he’d follow up on that punching I’d been thinking about. He was big enough to smack down Starbulk, for sure, and he’d do it in a heartbeat...but I lost my nerve and settled for asking questions about our girl Corinna.
“She cut out early,” said Coley. “‘Bout twenty minutes ago. Said somethin’ about meetin’ someone at the aquarium. Big date, I guess.”
“The aquarium?” I said. “What kinda big date is that?”
“Well,” said Coley, “I been tellin’ her there’s other fish in the sea. Maybe she took me literally.”
I slipped him a twenty and hailed a taxi. With Corinna running twenty minutes ahead, I’d have to get to the riverfront fast.
Or should I say we’d have to get there fast. Even though I shut the cab’s door in his face, Starbulk managed to fling it back open and plant his ass on the seat right beside me.
*****
Thanks to Vera, a friend of mine and member of the ‘Sociation (she does puppet shows on Royal Street on weekends), Starbulk and I slipped into the Audobon Aquarium without having to pay admission. The crowd was light, and we soon spotted Corinna hanging around the penguin tank upstairs.
Unfortunately, she spotted us at about the same time. I don’t know whether she recognized one of us or caught a vibe off us or was just plain jumpy, but she hightailed it.
Without a word, Starbulk sprinted off after her. I was just about to follow when someone else caught my eye: Hamhock Coubillon, a low-level mob flunky, standing over by the shark tank trying not to look suspicious. He managed about as well as one of those sharks would have if it had hopped out of the tank and plopped down beside him.
Hamhock was watching Starbulk light out after Corinna, and it didn’t take a genius to figure out he was there because of her. I guessed he might just be the bigger fish of the two, so I left Corinna to Starbulk and meandered on over toward Hamhock.
I got about three steps before he spotted me. It took about a second for him to recognize me, decide I had business with him, and hotfoot it in the direction Corinna and Starbulk had gone.
I took off after him, confident I had a shot at catching up. Hamhock had a jump on me, but he weighed at least as much as I did; for once, my two-hundred-ninety-nine-and-a-half pounds weren’t a handicap.
Of course, though our physiques were about equal, Hamhock had an advantage in sheer nastiness. As he barreled through the seahorse exhibit and past the otter tank, he grabbed anyone who got in his way and threw them down in front of me. Not being a vicious son of a bitch like him, I had to slow down and catch each one, falling further behind.
Hamhock plowed through the Mississippi River habitat, thundering past the white gator and the bayou and riverbank mockups. Just when I thought I was gaining on him, he picked up a little kid and heaved him at me like a football, forcing me to scramble for the pass so the kid wouldn’t crash into one of the tanks.
I felt bad about just handing the kid off to his screaming mother and running away, but I was determined to land Hamhock. His running away suggested to me he had something to hide...more than usual, that is.
By the time I’d bounded downstairs, I’d lost sight of Hamhock...but there was only one route to the exit, so I followed it. When I saw some people getting helped off the floor in the jellyfish room, I figured I wasn’t too far behind my quarry.
Hustling out past the giant Gulf of Mexico tanks, I caught a glimpse of Hamhock’s fat ass through the glass, motivating for the exit on the other side. As I circled the tanks in pursuit, I saw him drop a woman in the doorway for good measure on his way out.
Pushing past the woman as she bellowed at me for not helping her, I bowled through the exit and into the lobby. Hamhock was already through the main doors and chugging over the plaza outside by the time I got midway across the lobby floor.
But I kept after him. I was soaking wet and puffing like an asthmatic elephant, but I made up my mind I was going to get him...and I did.
Hamhock stumbled on the other end of the plaza and just about took a header. Arms windmilling like crazy, he managed to keep his feet...but he tripped on the edge of the Moonwalk along the river and almost went down again. This time, he had to stop to regain his balance before charging off...which gave me the time I needed to close the gap and make contact, slamming all two-hundred-ninety-nine-and-a-half pounds of me into his equally massive bulk.
I rammed him back against the railing overlooking the Mississippi, which at first seemed like a good idea. Then, he pasted me in the jaw and wrestled me around so I was the one with my back to the river.
Breaking bones on a daily basis gave him an edge in the strength department, and he started forcing me over the railing toward the surging waters below. I brought my knee up hard into his groin, but it didn’t seem to faze him, and he took advantage of my lifting a foot off the pavement to shove me back further.
Then, in the middle of fighting for my life, I caught a whiff of daffodils and antifreeze.
Two tweed-sleeved arms shot from behind Hamhock and under his armpits, then pumped straight up and back, hands interlacing behind his head. Hamhock released me and wobbled backward, thrashing to escape the full nelson in which he was locked.
Now, Hamhock being the big boy that he is, I would’ve expected him to break free, but Starbulk held tight. Hamhock wrenched around every which way, but couldn’t get loose...and then Starbulk tightened up his grip and Hamhock started groaning.
“Settle down, big fella,” said Starbulk, squeezing harder. “I promise, it’ll hurt worse if you don’t.”
Hamhock grunted in pain. “You’re makin’ a huge mistake,” he said through clenched teeth. “You’re screwin’ with a made guy here!”
“Horseshit,” I said, able to talk again now that I’d finally caught my breath. “You ain’t made now an’ you never will be, you dumb stooge.”
Hamhock sneered. “I’m made, all right. Just ask Gino Laplaca.”
“Might as well ask Jimmy Hoffa,” I said. “Neither one of ‘em’s likely to turn up anytime soon.”
“Wrong,” said Hamhock. “Gino’s back, an’ I’m workin’ for him.”
I chuckled like I was laughing it off, but Hamhock had my attention. Laplaca, the biggest wiseguy in town, had disappeared three months ago, right before he was due to testify against some friends of his; everyone figured he’d been kidnapped and killed to keep his mouth shut. Seemed like kind of a coincidence that I’d been looking for Johnny Murder, and now Hamhock and I were talking about another bad guy who had supposedly returned from the great beyond.
“Workin’ doin’ what?” I said.
Hamhock just grinned. Starbulk tightened his grip, but the grin stayed put. Hamhock wouldn’t say another word.
When we finally gave up questioning him and Starbulk knocked him out with some kind of pinch on a pressure point, I gave ol’ Hamhock a fist in the gut on his way down. I didn’t have to, and I’d probably pay for it later, but he deserved it...and the guy posing as Johnny Murder wasn’t around for me to hit at that particular moment.
“What happened to Corinna?” I said as Starbulk dusted off and straightened his tweed jacket. “You lose her?”
Starbulk shook his head and hiked a thumb at a nearby lamp post. Corinna stood with her arms around it, handcuffs locked around her wrists.
“Never let it be said that I’m not a pro when it comes to chasing women,” he said with a wink.
“Better get the cuffs off,” I said, “an’ we better get her outta here. We’re attractin’ attention.” People were slowly approaching from down the Moonwalk and across the aquarium plaza; I knew it wouldn’t be long before the cops made an appearance.
“Where to?” said Starbulk, producing a key from his jacket pocket and unlocking the cuffs.
“The one place no one would think to look for a hottie like her,” I said. “My apartment.”
*****
Corinna put up a fuss on the cab ride through the Quarter, but I played it like she was drunk off her ass, and the driver seemed to buy it. Starbulk caught the worst of her wrath but managed to keep the stripper restrained without making it look too obvious...at least to a Pakistani cabbie who wasn’t watching too closely and didn’t want any trouble.
By the time we got her inside my second-floor shitpit on Dumaine Street, Corinna seemed all played out. She entered docilely and sat on the recliner like I told her, and I started asking questions as soon as her sweet ass hit the cushion.
“I hear you’ve been hangin’ ‘round with the spittin’ image of Johnny Murder,” I said, plunking myself down on the sofa across from her. “So what’s his deal, Corinna?”
“I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about,” she said, crossing one long, sexy leg over the other. “You must be mistakin’ me for someone else.”
“The shape-shifter,” said Starbulk, towering behind me. “We’re talking about the bloodthirsty shape-shifting creature posing as Johnny Murder.”
Corinna looked at Starbulk like he was crazy. “Why don’t you go get Ms. Crimsone a glass of water?” I said, turning to glare up at him. “She looks thirsty.”
Starbulk hesitated, then headed for the kitchenette. “Be careful with her,” he said. “She could very well be a sorceress or demoness. Don’t let her touch you.”
“No chance of that,” Corinna said wryly, sneering at me.
“And here we spent all those special times together,” I said. “Maybe this’ll jog your memory.” Tugging a wadded-up dollar bill from my shorts pocket, I flattened it out and waved it at her. “Now you feelin’ more affectionate? God knows, I stuffed enough of these in your G-string up at the strip club.”
“One dollar? Ain’t you got nothin’ bigger?” She dropped her eyes to my crotch then and laughed. “Oh, I guess not.”
I smiled. “No wonder you’re not impressed,” I said. “You only like dead guys, apparently. So how exactly did you an’ Johnny hook up? You makin’ the rounds down at Lafayette Cemetery?”
Corinna leaned over, smiling wickedly at me. “The only dead guys I know are you an’ your boyfriend,” she said. “Here’s a newsflash, fatass: my sugar daddy knows where you live, an’ I guarantee he’s comin’ to get me.”
“Maybe we’ll have us a foursome,” I said, staring into her eyes...and then her cleavage. I leaned forward for a closer look...not at her breasts, as huge as they were, but at what was squirrelled away between them.
“What you got there?” I said, pointing at what looked like some folded-up paper pushed down in her cleavage.
“Nothin’,” she said, leaning back quickly.
“Now you know that ain’t true,” I said, getting up off the couch. “Come on, hand it over.”
“You lay one fat finger on me, an’ I’ll gouge out your balls,” said Corinna.
“Okay then,” I said. Starbulk had reentered the room with a glass of water, and I motioned him over. “Hey, Quinto. Let’s have a look at whatever she’s got stashed between her boobs.”
“Will do,” said Starbulk, putting the glass down and stepping toward us.
Corinna clamped her hands over her chest and jumped out of the rocker...but Starbulk came up with the item in two fast moves, tickling her sides so she dropped her arms and then zipping two fingers in and out of her bodice.
He unfolded the envelope she’d been concealing and flipped it open. “Airline tickets,” he said. “One way tickets to Rome.”
I nodded. “It figures,” I said. “Corinna an’ her sweetheart have a little getaway planned. When’s the flight leave?”
“Two a.m.,” said Starbulk. “Five hours from now.”
“I guess we can expect company by then,” I said, flashing Corinna a giant smile, “‘cause Johnny might leave this redhead stripper skank behind, but he ain’t gettin’ on that plane without his tickets.”
Apparently, Corinna didn’t appreciate what I’d said. As I turned to have a look at the plane tickets, I heard her gag...and I whipped back around just in time to see her yank her finger out of her throat.
Next thing I knew, she was throwing up all over me.
*****
Needless to say, I stripped down and leaped in the shower double-quick, reluctantly leaving Corinna under Starbulk’s supervision. I knew it wasn’t the best idea I’d ever had, what with Starbulk being insane and unpredictable and all, but I figured he might manage to stay out of trouble for five minutes.
How wrong I was. I couldn’t’ve been in the shower for more than two minutes when I heard a loud crash from the living room, followed by the sounds of a struggle.
As I shut off the water, I heard the crack of a door slamming open against a wall...then running footsteps. Something hit the floor hard, followed by more footsteps, running off after the first set.
Without hesitation, I leaped out of the shower, flung open the bathroom door, and charged around the corner into the living room. The place was a disaster area; stereo speakers were overturned, bookshelves knocked over, the TV set smashed on the floor. My sax case had been thrown across the room and lay open in a corner, the instrument itself kicked out under an end table.
It looked like there had been a fight, all right...but what worried me the most was that everyone was gone and the front door was wide open. That was what really got my adrenaline pumping.
That and the fact that when I checked the kitchen cupboard where I kept my emergency gun, there was no gun to be found.
Naked and dripping wet, I barreled out the doorway into the hall. Looking to my left, I saw nothing.
Then, I looked the other way.
And came face to face with the man I’d been hunting since Q. Liz’s death.
He was climbing in off the fire escape through an open window, left foot on the floor and right foot just descending. From a distance, he perfectly matched the man in my memory--short and wiry with pasty white skin and oily black hair. He had a nose like a carrot and a triangular chin, the point of it looking sharp enough to cut glass.
The guy looked so much like Johnny Murder that for a moment, I just stood there and stared. Not once had I believed Johnny’d really come back from the dead, but now that I got a good look at the guy, common sense flew out the window. Intellectually, I knew he was an imposter...but in my heart, I felt as if I was standing ten feet away from the man who’d killed my friends and girlfriend. It seemed as if the person I’d hated and feared more than anyone in the world was right there in the flesh, the embodiment of failure and loss returned to finish the job and take the only thing I had left to lose--my life.
Then, I locked eyes with him, and the realization hit me. I’d been piecing together the possibilities, and as soon as I got a good, long look in his eyes, the truth snapped into place.
The heaviness slid from my heart. The burning, painful past fizzled out like a dying sparkler.
The man’s disguise was incredible. Everything was Johnny’s, head to toe.
Except for the eyes.
And I’d seen them before. I’d seen them almost every day for the past three months, plastered all over the newspapers and TV newscasts. Big and black, like two big pupils without any color and hardly any whites. Like two black holes bored into a pitch-black soul.
“Gino Laplaca,” I said. “Well, I’ll be damned.”
Johnny/Gino reached behind him and pulled a gun out of the waistband of his filthy bluejeans. “Well now,” he said. “Ever get the feeling you just got served a bad batch of gumbo?”
I knew what was coming next, and I bolted. I made it around the corner into the stairwell just as Johnny/Gino squeezed off his first shot.
Heart hammering, I leaped down the stairs, taking two at a time. The second shot blasted into the wall behind me as I charged through the door and out into the street.
*****
Johnny/Gino ran me down--which wasn’t much of a challenge seeing as I weigh almost three hundred pounds--and knocked me off my feet. Now I’m lying on the sidewalk with his gun stuck in the fat rolls on the back of my neck, and I know I’ve got to do something or end up dead in the pouring rain.
I’ve got the body of a sumo. Now’s the time to use it.
I lurch to one side as hard as I can, throwing all my weight into it. I figure the gun might go off in the process, but what do I have to lose?
It doesn’t go off. I feel the weight of Johnny/Gino buck off my back, and I know I’ve got a fighting chance.
I
keep moving then, rolling over on top of him, pinning his legs
underneath me. The gun comes up in my face, and I smack it away,
knocking it right out of his hand. Next, I throw a fist in the
middle of his
black-eyed, carrot-nosed face, and it doesn’t
hurt that the son of a bitch looks just like Johnny Murder when I
bring the hammer down.
I hit him again, even harder. I know he isn’t Johnny, but it’s the next best thing to payback for what happened to Cherry. What happened to me.
Unfortunately, my payback party is cut short. Johnny/Gino fights dirty, socking me right in the balls with his fist. I double over in pain, rocking far enough forward that he manages to pull a leg out from under me. He proceeds to kick me in the back with that leg, gouging the heel of his shoe into the middle of my spine.
He gets in three solid kicks before I choke back the pain and throw myself on top of him, crushing his scrawny body under my full two-hundred-ninety-nine-and-a-half pounds. He squirms like crazy, but I won’t budge; when he claws at my face, I pin his arm with one hand and bounce his head off the sidewalk with the other. That seems to calm him down.
I think about giving his head another bounce or two, even though I know it would kill him. He looks so much like Johnny, I’m like a bull seeing red; the fact that he’s responsible for killing Q. Liz just fires me up all the more.
He deserves it. God knows how many others he’s killed or hurt or how many lives he’s ruined. Maybe him coming to me now wearing the face of Johnny Murder is some kind of sign that I’m meant to balance the books.
I’ve got my hand still clamped on his face. All it’ll take is a push.
My hand is shaking. I suck in a breath through clenched teeth.
And that’s when I catch the scent of daffodils and antifreeze, cutting right through the driving rain.
*****
Two mornings later, I’m sitting in the Café du Monde over a café au lait and a pile of beignet, and I’m all smiles for a change. Feeling good.
I’m surrounded by the ‘Sociation, and they’re all asking questions, but it isn’t like the interrogation in Father Sees-All’s hospital room. The news is all good, everybody’s happy, and I don’t mind a bit. Even Starbulk’s not getting on my nerves so much.
It feels like the thing that was killing me is finally dead. Johnny Murder didn’t come back because of me, but because of him, I feel like I can finally move on.
“So where was Quinto all this time while you were gettin’ shot at?” says Bobby Bocci, powdered sugar from a beignet all over his lips and chin.
“Got beat by a girl,” I say, grinning.
The ‘Sociationers laugh, but Starbulk doesn’t act like it bothers him. “It’s true,” he says good-naturedly, sitting relaxed at the next table over. “She caught me by surprise and escaped the apartment. Led me on quite a chase before I apprehended her.”
“What about Po’Boy’s gun?” says Father Sees-All. He still has some bruises, but the twinkle’s back in his eye. “Did you take it?”
“Actually,” says Starbulk, looking a little sheepish, “that was how Corinna caught me by surprise. I didn’t know the gun was in the kitchen cupboard, and she found it when I let her help me make coffee.”
“Dumbass,” says Father Sees-All, followed by a loud crack of laughter. “That’s what you get for trustin’ a woman.”
Lady Claudette smacks his shoulder in protest, but he just keeps laughing. It reminds me of how he and Q. Liz used to go at it, and I feel a little sad.
“I still can’t believe it,” says Just Dexter. “The new Johnny Murder was Gino Laplaca all along.”
“The wonders of plastic surgery,” says Ludwig von Waterglass, running a finger around the rims of some water glasses he’s gathered up on the table in front of him. Sounds a little like “Lady of Spain.”
“But it wasn’t quite the result he was hopin’ for,” I say, reaching for my seventh beignet of the morning. “He wanted to get a new face an’ disappear before the trial, but the mob’s relocation program double-crossed him. Kicked him out on the street lookin’ like someone everyone knew an’ hated. Figured somebody’d take him outta the picture for good, thinkin’ he was Johnny Murder.”
“So when I saw him at Switch Hitter’s, he was lookin’ to get a new disguise,” says Father Sees-All.
Nodding, I swallow a mouthful of beignet. “And then he was goin’ to fly off with his chippie, Corinna. She an’ Coley Bassinette were the only two he could trust who he managed to convince he was really Gino.”
“So Q. Liz didn’t bring back Johnny as a zombie like she thought,” says Madame Destine.
“An’ he wasn’t a shape-shifting whatchamacallit, either,” says High Markie.
“How’s it feel bein’ wrong there, Quinto?” says Father Sees-All with a grin, pointing a finger at Starbulk.
“But I wasn’t wrong,” Starbulk says confidently. “It was all part of my plan. I had it all figured out, but I knew that Gerald needed to solve this case in order to put the past behind him. Therefore, I concocted preposterous theories that actually had a grain of truth in them, in order to guide Gerald toward the solution.”
“Oh, did you now?” says Father Sees-All.
“Absolutely,” says Starbulk, massaging the swami freckle between his eyes. “My mentor, Dr. Apex Paragon, used exactly the same technique to help me solve the mystery of the levitating humidor and defeat the Purple Legion.”
“So you knew about Johnny bein’ Gino,” Father says sardonically. “An’ all that stuff about shape-shiftin’ monsters was made up for Po’Boy’s benefit.”
“Yes and yes,” says Starbulk, nodding.
“Horseshit,” I say, licking powdered sugar off my fingertips...but the truth is, I’m not sure. Starbulk wasn’t so far wrong about Johnny being a shape-shifter; plastic surgery reshaped Gino to look like Johnny, after all.
Of course, I still tend to think Starbulk’s full of crap, because he wasn’t right about one thing in particular.
“What I did or didn’t know is unimportant,” he says, getting up off his chair and stepping over to stand beside me. “What matters is that my brother here saved the day and captured the infamous Gino Laplaca.”
Starbulk squeezes my shoulder and looks me in the eye with an expression of solemn sincerity. “Our father would be proud of you, Gerald,” he says. “I’ll bet that right at this very moment, Ben Boudreaux is looking down at you from Heaven with a great big smile on his face and a tear of joy in his eye.”
“Thank you,” I say, patting his hand...not bothering to mention my dad’s alive and well in Pittsburgh and his last name is Tangle.