The Innocence Gambit

Matthew Shuck

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

ASIN: B01M5LFEJ1

First published November 2016

copyright © 2018 by Matthew Shuck

All rights reserved.

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

The Innocence Gambit

MY HEADACHE POUNDED as hard as the rain against the window. I’d been trying to sleep through my hangover, but the sound of sirens outside my apartment kept me from the sweet bliss of hibernation. The midday sun cowered behind the thick storm clouds, allowing only the hint of light into my barren room.

It was a small studio apartment, not more than an average room and a walled off toilet on the side. I didn’t need much more, though. It was just a place to rest off from a bender occasionally.

A knock at the door, I ignored it. Anyone worth a damn in this city had a key; the others could wait until I was sobered up. Another knock, “Take the hint, buddy. Whatever you want to sell, I ain’t buying.”

“Mr. Wesseli, we know you’re in there,” a man’s voice called from the other side. “Open the door. This is the police.”

I mumbled to myself a list of expletives. “Hold on. Let me get some pants on.” My eyes opened briefly, “never mind. Apparently, I’m still wearing them.”

My right knee ached as I limped to the door to greet my guests. Detective Sugahara and a couple of cadets I didn’t recognize. “May we come in?”

“What do you want, Tomeo?” He hated when I used his first name. I figured being on a first name basis was one of the perks of being on the other side of the law for so long. “If Rico sent you here, he was mistaken. I’ve cleaned up my act, see?” I waved him into the cramped room.

“It smells like shit in here.”

“Gotta have something to feed the pigs.”

“Where were you Friday night?”

“Saw my girlfriend, went for a drink or two, then you woke me up.”

“You went for a drink?” the detective wrote something in a small notepad, “for three days?”

“I was thirsty.”

“Get a coat; we’re going to try this again at the station.”

I limped along as Detective Sugahara walked me through the halls of the police station, to a small interrogation room. I saw the adjoined viewing room was empty. ‘Tomeo doesn’t want our conversation to be seen,’ I thought. Inside the room was a metal table, its legs bolted to the ground. On the table, I saw a manila folder with paperwork spilling out, and a full ashtray. My heartbeat steadied, realizing I wasn’t the only suspect. Two-fold-out chairs sat at opposite ends of the table, lit by a single fixture in the middle of the room.

“Take a seat,” Detective Sugahara said, shoving me. He sat and picked up the folder. “I’d ask you where you were last Friday night, but I’ve already got a good idea,” he withdrew a photograph and tossed it onto the table in front of me.

My wrists strained against the handcuffs as I looked at the gruesome picture. “You’ve got the wrong guy,” I told him.

“My sources say otherwise, Mr. Wesseli. I’ve got two eyewitnesses say a man matching your description entered Norah Trezza’s apartment building at 8:05 pm. On Friday night.”

“Circumstantial.”

“The same two witnesses have you coming out of the apartment two hours later, looking scared and running north to 5th street.”

“Only more proof of my innocence, Tomeo,” I laughed, trying to ease the tension in my throat. “I don’t run for shit. Maybe you’ve noticed my limp? Went to the docks at night to... um...  think. Saw some shit I shouldn’t have,” I winced, remembering the old pain, “Took a knife to the knee cap. A piece of it is still in there, makes getting through a metal detector a son of a bitch.”

“What’s your point, Windsor?”

“Point is, I wasn’t a snitch then, and I ain’t a snitch now.”

“Not gonna snitch, eh?” Sugahara mind seemed to be in overdrive. I stared at the picture on the table while he lit his smoke. “So, you do know something,” he blew the smoke in my face and leaned forward. “What do you know about Norah?”

I knew Norah. She was the nurse that patched up my knee. I saw her again a year later, and we’d hit it off. My brain was fogged, but I remembered entering her apartment that night. She said she had to tell me something important. I swallowed hard, my mouth was dry with dehydration and regret.

“Jesus, man. Are you still drunk? I asked you a question.”

“Never heard of her,” I lied, “Can I go now?” I hated the act, the mask I had to put on. There was nothing I could do to help Norah though; I had to try to help myself. ‘If I clear my name, maybe that will bring her closure,’ my thoughts wandered. I’d never actually loved her; my heart belonged to another.

The detective pulled out another photograph and tossed it onto the other. “If you don’t know Norah Trezza, then why was there a picture of you in her apartment?”

“Wow.”

“What is it, realizing that we’ve got you?” He took another drag and leaned back against the chair.

“It’s just.”

“Spit it out, dirt bag. I ain’t got all day.”

“I’m really fucking photogenic,” I smirked. “Can I keep this?”

Sugahara landed a right cross against my cheek, sending me off the chair. I blacked out and began dreaming about Norah. Remembering. It had been warm in her apartment. She kissed me when I entered. I remembered her looking at me with fear behind her big brown eyes. I remembered feeling anger, like I’d been betrayed, then nothing.

I woke up half an hour later with my headache worse than before, a bruised jaw and a little hole where I could have sworn a tooth had been. I was lying on the floor of a jail cell, nursing my blue swollen wrists for another hour before the detective came back to see me. A bandage covered his right fist. “You’re free to go,” he exhaled slowly, choosing his words carefully. “But don’t leave town. I’m sure we’ll have more questions for you soon.”

I limped behind him through the main floor. I felt like every officer was watching, hoping that I’d do something stupid. Tomeo opened the front door and ushered me outside, into the wind and rain. I turned around, caught him watching me. “Detective, you never answered my question.”

He walked down the entrance steps to me, hands stuffed inside his double-breasted trench coat. “What question was that, Windsor?”

“Can I have the picture?”

He laughed, looking around the busy street. “Too many witnesses, Windsor,” he said, leaning in so that only I could hear him. “mark my words, Wesseli, this only ends one way. With you behind bars, or dead.”

He walked back into the police station. “Good chat, old friend.”

“Yeah, let’s do it again real soon. Don’t leave town.”

I rolled his words over in my mind. This rain that never stops, the cold cracked sidewalks. The gangs, and crooks. They were my home, all I knew. I had nowhere else to go. Still, the hard streets seemed a better than a soft bed in prison. Out here I was a big fish, but I knew I wouldn’t last in the system.

I knew I couldn’t go home. Tomeo surely had the place bugged by then, and at least one plain clothed officer dispatched to follow me. First, I knew I had to lose any tales; then I needed to figure out how to clear my name. I wasn’t innocent, no one was in this shit town, but I wasn’t going to go down for a crime I hadn’t committed. I needed help.

For an hour I limped through dark alleys, taking shortcuts through restaurants until I was sure no one was following me. Along the way, I’d pickpocketed enough cash to hail a cab. “Where to?” asked the cabbie, with a slight German accent.

I rattled my drenched hat onto cab floor. “42nd and Hazel,” I told him.

The cabbie shook his head. “You know we don’t go past 30th. Too dangerous.”

I pulled out someone’s wallet. “An extra fifty for your trouble. I’m not gonna walk.”

We rode in silence. The gray sky seemed to darken with every block we drove. Homeless people huddled on the street corners, warming their hands over garbage can fires. The familiar sound of gunfire rang out in the distance, but no police sirens could be heard. Cops rarely had the courage to show their faces on this side of town.

Before I had a chance to thank the cabbie for the ride, he was gone. Mist rose up from the sewer grates around me, spreading over the wet, cracked concrete. I looked up at my destination, a five-story apartment building. A fire escape obscured its old Gothic architecture. I thought for a moment about all the times I’d had to use the fire escape to get out of a bad situation.

Inside, the lobby was empty. There was a wall of mailboxes to my right, half smashed and hung open. Worthless paper strung on the floor. Anything of value was unsurprisingly missing.

I didn’t trust elevators, but my knee was begging me to avoid the stairs, so I hit the button and waited.

“Didn’t expect to see your face in these parts, Wesseli.”

There was only one woman in the city that could sneak up on me, “I could say the same to you, Zena.” I turned around. Zena’s ginger hair cascaded over her exposed shoulders. Her snug black dress flowed over supple curves. Little was left to the imagination, but it set my mind afire. She carried a small black purse in one black gloved hand. In the other she held a cigarette holder to her mouth and puffed, making little white rings in the air between us.

“It’s Mrs. Kristof now,”

“Say it ain’t so. You married?” my jealousy was evident, the elevator door opened. “I never thought I’d see the day.” She followed me in, taking another pull from the half-lit cigarette as she did. The tip of the holder stained red from her lipstick.

‘Lucky lipstick,’ I thought to myself.

“What floor?” She asked, “I’ll push the button for you.”

She always did know how to push my buttons. We’d gone together for a time, in the early days. Small scams mostly. She’d distract the casino dealers while I’d swap in loaded dice. Or she’d take a business man to bed and conveniently leave the place unlocked for me. I’d like to think we’d still be together if it weren’t for me pushing her away. She always thought we could have a life together, but I knew better. Zena was too good for the likes of me, and I let her know it.

“Take me to the top, Mrs. Kristof.”

“You must be here to see Mr. Mannsfeld.”

“You know him?”

The door opened, and she stepped out. I fought the urge to watch her body glide through every sultry step, I failed. The elevator doors began to close, breaking my trance. When I made it into the hall, she was already closing another door behind her. I followed, stopping at the door. A placard on the door read, ‘Franz Mannsfeld - Private Investigator.’

My hand raised to knock, but before I could, Zena opened it. “Mr. Mannsfeld will see you now,” she winked at me like we were back at the casino, about to con a foreign dignitary.

“Thank you, my dear,” I stepped into the dusty room. The sound of thunder erupted outside. “Mr. Mannsfeld, I’m Windsor Wesseli, and I need your assistance.”

“Straight and to the point, I like that.” The man was younger than I’d expected, in his early twenties if I had to assume. My instinct was to turn and walk out, figuring his reputation must be pomp and circumstance. He rose from his seat and pointed to the chair across from his desk. “Have a seat and tell me all about it.”

I explained being picked up on by the police, the accusation of murder in the first. The victim, Norah Trezza. Even Tomeo Sugahara, the detective that questioned me. I also told him about the photograph of me that they claimed was at the scene of the crime. All the while, Mr. Mannsfeld sat in his chair, chewing on an unlit cigar and spitting bits of paper and tobacco onto the floor.

“What didn’t you tell Mr. Sugahara?” he asked after I had finished getting him up to speed.

“What do you mean? I didn’t say anything because I don’t know anything.”

“Well let me tell you something, Mr. Wesseli,” He stood up, red-faced with anger. “I don’t work for free, and I don’t work with liars.”

“I’m not lying, I didn’t kill that girl, I swear!”

“Yeah, but you’re hiding something from me.” He walked across the room; Zena had picked up his trench coat and hat, waiting for him. “If you want my help then I need to know the truth.”

“What makes you think I’m hiding something?” I asked, my jaw slacked with confusion.

“Same way I know you and Zena here were lovers,” he stared into my eyes, “I’m neither blind nor stupid. And you wouldn’t be hiring me if I was, so out with it!” It was then that I knew that his smooth skin displayed a lack of years, not experience.

“I knew the woman.” I blurted out, reaching into my jacket’s breast pocket for a cigarette.

“What woman,” he pointed to Zeta. “Her? We already established that.” The private investigator began chomping on his cigar again. He spat another wad onto the floor and said. “You can’t smoke in here.”

“Norah Trezza. I had known her before she died. What do you mean I can’t smoke in here?” I watched him pull out a cigarette case and hand one to his assistant, “but you’ll let her?”

“I didn’t say she couldn’t. Smoking is a privilege of the employee and the employer. You are neither. Since I haven’t taken the case yet, you may not smoke in my office.”

“Please, Mr. Mannsfeld. I don’t know who else to ask for help. Sooner or later the cops are going to realize that the photograph isn’t the only thing that ties me to the room.”

The young man stood up and went to the door where he collected his hat and trench coat. “I’ll do some digging, no promises. I’ll let you know the day after tomorrow if I’m on the case,” then he left.

“That went well,” Zena said.

“Why are you here?” I asked, lighting up my cigarette. “This is the wrong part of town for a doll like you to be on.”

Zena rubbed her purse, “Don’t worry about me. I can get along on my own now.”

“Still packing the old .38? Good girl.” I mocked, patting her ass as I walked out the door, “a lot of creeps out there.”

“I know, I dated one of them.”

I knew I couldn’t go home, so I decided to do some investigating of my own. A few blocks down, on 39th I knocked on Rico Doublon’s door. “Who is it?” he yelled from the other side.

“Windsor Wesseli. Let me in.”

“Listen, Windsor. I don’t want any trouble, man. You’ve got some serious heat on you right now, and I can’t be associating with that type. I hope you understand.”

“I understand that you don’t want your friends to know you’ve been spilling secrets to the cops for the better part of a decade. I understand that you don’t want the police to know you’ve been warning the crooks about what they’re up to, either.”

The door swung open. “Get the fuck inside and shut up,” Rico led me to the living room and sat on the couch. “You know, you’ve got a way of ruining people’s day.”

“It’s one of my specialties,” I walked into the kitchen. I grabbed a free bottle of old whiskey from the counter and took a swig. “What have the pig's been saying about me, Rico?”

“It’s not what they’re saying, Windsor. It’s what they’re not saying that matters.”

“How do you mean?” I asked. I took the bottle with me into the living room. “They haven’t been asking about me?”

“What kind of shit did you step in, Windsor?”

“It’s been a long day. Tell me what I need to know, and I’ll be out of your hair.”

“Alright, alright, those sick fucks are out for you, Windsor. They mean fucking business too, man,” He took a few deep breaths and continued, “They weren’t just asking about you. They were asking about your family, your friends. Tomeo was relentless, asking about everything under the fucking sun.”

“Sugahara was here?” I asked.

“Yeah, man. He was the one asking most of the questions.”

“About Norah Trezza?”

“Who the fuck is Nora Trezza?”

“Interesting. The cops asked about everything except what they’re investigating me for.” I took another swig from the bottle. “What did you tell them?”

“You know me, man. I’m always playing both sides. I told them enough to get them off my back, nothing more.”

“Did you say anything about Zena?”

“Sure, man. The detective didn’t seem interested, though. You two haven’t been a thing in a long time.” He grabbed a cigarette from the coffee table in front of him and lit it. “What surprised me was how many times he asked about Dutch. Like they didn’t know he’s dead.”

I closed my eyes, “Dutch? You’re sure?”

“Crazy, right? We all saw the obituary. Your brother’s been dead almost two years, and now the police want to ask him about you. Fucking ignorant sons of bitches.”

“All of our lives may be in danger, Rico. Including yours.”

“From the cops? I can handle the police. I scratch their back; they scratch mine. It’s in their best interest to keep me around.”

“Yeah, their best interest. Not mine.” I smashed the bottle of whiskey over his head. “I guess it is true what they say. Snitches get stitches. That’s for dragging Zena into this.”

I left the apartment, headed back down below the 30th street line, civilization. The rain was letting up; I could see that the morning sun was about to rise. A neon vacancy taunted me just across the street as I meandered along the road. I wanted to clear my name but knew I couldn’t do it with the fog of sleep deprivation distracting me.

Inside, the clerk asked for my name. I grabbed one of the wallets I’d borrowed the day before and rattled off the name on the driver’s license. Five hours later I woke up in my hotel room, still clothed a little buzzed. I felt as though I’d missed something important, a clue that could help me, but I couldn’t place it. ‘Why would the cops want to talk to Dutch?’

It was almost noon; I hadn’t eaten in nearly two days. I picked myself up from the bed and headed out again. Outside, it had started raining again. Big globs of water, falling heavily on everything. The kind of rain that could soak you to the bone in an instant. I walked to the nearest diner to get some food. Ahead, I saw Detective Sugahara walk inside. ‘Just my luck,’ I thought as he opened the door, letting a woman in before him.

I followed as they were seated at a booth. They’d just brought the menus to their faces when I sat down next to the woman. She shrieked when I jabbed her side with the driver’s license I’d stolen. “Quiet or the lady gets it in the ribs,” I warned them.

Tomeo looked up from his menu, then back down. “Windsor. I didn’t expect to see you on my day off. To what do we owe the pleasure?” he said calmly, “have you met my wife, Le?”

“This isn’t a joke, Tomeo. I want answers.”

“I tell you what you want to hear; you let my wife go, Is that it?”

“Someone is framing me for a crime I didn’t commit.”

“We’re just doing our jobs, buddy. The evidence points to you, so we’re investigating.” His hands were steady and deliberate; he took a glass of water to his mouth. “If we had enough to convict you yet, we wouldn’t have let you go.”

“You were asking about Dutch. Why?”

“Our records aren’t always the most up to date, Windsor. We didn’t know he had died. Sorry for your loss.”

I dug the card into his side harder; I was beginning to fear it would bend and the ruse would be up. Tomeo was always armed; he probably had a gun to my crotch under the table that second. Le winced in fear.

“If you so much as cut a thread on her shirt, I will end you here at the table,” He stared into my eyes, unflinching, “You understand?”

“What do I have to do to prove my innocence?” I asked.

“Our only other suspect was Dutch, with him out of the picture I’m afraid you’ll have to provide substantial proof. Otherwise, we’ll throw everything we’ve got on you just to see what sticks.” He took another drink of water, “This isn’t a game, kid. Norah died, and someone’s going to pay for that.”

I thought for a moment, trying to gauge the importance of these clues. “Why was Dutch a suspect?”

“We might not have good records, but we do have a lot of character witnesses that say Dutch was Norah’s ex.”

“Lovers?” I lost my breath like I’d been punched in the gut, “who told you that?”

“Zena Kristof”

I stood up, let the driver’s license fall onto the table, and walked out the door.

Sugahara followed me out the door. “Windsor!”

I turned, “yes detective?”

“Anyone lays a finger on my wife; they get a bullet through their head. I’m not sure you did it, but that won’t mean shit if I have to put you down.”

“Understood.”

He went back into the diner, muttering something about a “fucking prick.”

My stomach was in knots; I’d lost my appetite. ‘What does Zena have to do with this?’ My knee ached, but I didn’t have any more cash to bribe a taxi with. That was soon remedied with a finger in the shape of a gun through my jacket’s pocket. I was a terrible actor, but on these streets, people don’t expect a bluff. I had cash enough to get me to Mr. Mannsfeld.

When I arrived, the rain had settled to a drizzle, but the wind had picked up. Every drop felt like a slap in the face. That part of town reeked of desperation, beggars asking each other for some spare change. I looked up at the top floor, to Mr. Mannsfeld’s office. There I saw the one shining a beacon of hope the town had left, Zena stood there, looking down at me.

I waved awkwardly, not knowing if she noticed me. She was on a high enough floor that I saw the glass break before I could hear it. The same could not be said for the sound she made when she hit the ground. I shielded my eyes, “Oh God, Zena! Not you,” my feet fumbled to get to her. Mangled flesh in a ripped dress was all that remained. I looked into her open eyes, but they didn't turn around.

“Windsor? What happened?” Mr. Mannsfeld asked, huddling up to the scene. His face was aghast at the sight.

“She’s dead,” I mumbled through stinging tears. “She fell out your window.”

“Impossible. The window is double paned, even with a running start she’d bounce off,” he sighed in resignation, “No, this was murder.”

“Does that mean-”

“The perpetrator may still be inside.” He stood up and rushed to the door.

A crowd had formed around the body; paying respects or looking for anything on her they could scavenge. It would be hours before an ambulance would make it to the scene, a fact of life for those that lived in the area.

I followed Mannsfeld, figuring that if the killer was still inside, they might also be responsible for Norah’s murder. “I can’t climb the stairs with my knee like this,” I told him.

“Yes, that does present a problem. I’ll take the stairs, you go up in the elevator and see what you can find.”

The elevator was on the top floor, taking precious seconds to come down. When it opened, I saw a figure standing there with a large black hood obscuring his face. He was a tall, formidable presence, unmoving. Then in a burst of speed, he’d laid me on the floor and ran out. I struggled to regain my footing and chase after him, but he’d already escaped.

Inside Mannsfeld’s office, his desk was laid over on its side. Little shards of glass strewn on the floor. Her purse on the ground by the door. The snub-nosed .38 lay in the middle of the room. I’d given it to her as a birthday gift for protection. Mannsfeld was examining his upturned desk. “Don’t touch anything, Mr. Wesseli.”

“In case it’s a clue?” I asked.

“No,” He said, “I’ve cataloged everything in my mind already. You have an uncanny ability, though, so I’d rather you stay and keep to yourself while I sort this out.”

“Uncanny ability?”

“To fuck things up.” He heaved the desk back onto its legs and examined it more, “Replacing the window and desk will be added to your bill.”

“You’re on the case?”

“You ask a lot of questions, Wesseli. Of course, I’m on the case.” He sighed, “The person responsible for Zena’s murder is almost certainly also involved in the death of Norah Trezza.” He found a matchbox on the floor, picked it up and lit the cigar he’d been chewing on. “I’d bet my life on it.”

“You said that Zena couldn’t have run through the window. What happened here then?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Mannsfeld watched my blank expression and realized that it wasn’t. “It was a man, over six feet tall. He’d been snooping around my desk. Here, see these markings?” he waved at me to come to his side of the table. “This lock has been smashed by a blunt instrument.”

I could see the indentations in the drawer’s locks. “Crude.”

“Yes, good observation. This was not the work of a trained locksmith.”

“So, Zena must have come into the office while he was searching your files.”

“When doesn’t matter. The only thing of import is that she did. They must have startled each other because she drew her weapon, and he flipped the desk in defense.” Mannsfeld got up and ran to the revolver on the floor. “She fired two shots. One round went through the window, and the other lodged into the underside of the desk.” He picked up the gun and opened the chamber, revealing two spent shells. “The bullet through the window was enough to weaken it.”

“When I arrived, she was standing at the window, alone.”

“There was a struggle. The perpetrator disarmed her and threw her against the desk. When she regained her footing, he pushed her out.”

“Do you have any idea who did this?”

“That’s why I’d been away from the office. I was chasing a lead in your case. One name is repeated consistently, and surprisingly to me; it isn’t yours.”

“Dutch.”

“Yes. For an apparently dead man, he’s been busy.”

“Are you telling me he’s alive?” My mind flooded with our last words, the smell of gunpowder. My jaw clenched tight, “Keep Zena safe,” I murmured.

“What was that? I couldn’t hear you.”

“The last thing Dutch said. He’d been shot, was bleeding out. I held him close, listening to every labored breath. I expected him to say he was sorry for getting us into that situation. Instead, he looked into my eyes and said, ‘keep Zena safe.’ So, I did. The next time I saw her, I broke things off clean. She was safer without me; I was dangerous.

“So, you saw him die? Felt his pulse?”

“I watched his chest stop moving; his eyes go blank. Is that dead enough?”

Mannsfeld looked out the broken window. “Apparently not. If he was still alive, hypothetically, where would he be?”

I rubbed my forehead and thought, “Fuck if I know, the sun’s about to go down so he’d be halfway to soapy-eyed at the bar by now.”

“Good, that’s a start. Which bar?” he was visibly excited, in direct contrast to my sullen stance.

“Are you fucking serious? There would be no way, even if he was still alive. He wouldn’t be stupid enough to go back to our old hangout.”

“All I said was that it’s a start. And he may very well be that stupid. After all, he is your brother.”

I briefly considered throwing him out the window for insulting me, but I didn't want to desecrate Zena's body further. If I wanted to clear my name, I knew I’d have to swallow my pride and go along with him, so I answered, “We used to meet up at the Black Dog pub on Myrtle street.”

Mannsfeld spat his cigar and stomped it on the floor. “I’m parked out back.”

Once inside his black sedan Mannsfeld began, “She was a good assistant, hard to find that kind of talent in this part of town.”

I hadn’t come to grips with her being gone yet; the situation had rendered me numb. “She was one of a kind.” I stared out the passenger side window, at the dirty forgotten city. Garbage fires lit the sidewalks instead of lamp posts. ‘If you don’t harden up, the city will break you like it did all those hapless fucks,’ my brother used to tell me.

“Where’s the body?”

“What?” I was shaken from my thoughts, “What body?”

“Your brother’s, where did you bury him?”

“I didn’t. The cops were on their way; there was no time to move the body.”

“Not even a funeral?”

“The old crew held a vigil in his honor, had a moment of silence. It was touching, but no we didn’t have a funeral per se.”

“Interesting,” Mannsfeld parked on the side of the road and stepped out, “let’s have a drink.”

Inside the pub, the smoke was thick, oppressive. Jazz played on the speaker in slow soft tones under the sound of conversations. No one looked up at the newcomers walking in from the rain; it was one of the things I loved about the place.

We took a seat in one of the quiet corners and looked around. “Recognize anyone?”

“Hard to say, but I don’t think so.”

A leggy black waitress stopped by and asked for our orders. “Two double whiskeys from the well, neat please.” Mannsfeld brandished a stack of money and a picture. “Also, have you seen this man around?”

The woman’s beautiful face turned bleak, nervous. “He hasn’t been around in a while.”

My eyes widened, “How long ago, exactly?” I nearly shouted.

“Exactly since he came in here asking about some asshole brother of his. He raised hell, causing a big scene. He ain’t allowed back here until he pays for the damages,” she pointed behind us at a head-shaped indentation in the wall.

“Please be a bit more specific for my slow friend here,” Mannsfeld said with a sly grin.

“However long that’s been there, is the last time any of us have seen him. Two, maybe three weeks. Anyway, is there anything else I can get for you two?”

“That will be all for now. Keep the change.” He handed her a twenty.

“So, Dutch is alive,” I shifted in my chair, “what does it mean? Why didn’t he contact me?”

“I deal in the world of intentions, the definitions of which are never absolute. If I had to guess, I’d say he didn’t contact you because he either didn’t want to or couldn’t.”

The waitress arrived with our drinks, and Mannsfeld thanked her with a slap on her ass.

“Thanks for narrowing it down.” I took my shot, it burned its way into my empty stomach. Out of instinct, I pulled out my cigarettes and lit one up. The smoke soothed the burning in my throat. “We’ve got confirmation that he’s alive, where does that leave us? How do we find a ghost?”

Behind me, a tall bald man with a long handlebar mustache interrupted. “Word has it you two are looking for Dutch.” He cracked his knuckles menacingly to try and intimidate us. I looked back at Mannsfeld and could see that it was working. “I can tell you where he is, for the right price.”

“I’ll give you the rest of this stack of cash for an address. Half now, the other after I confirm you’re not fucking with me.”

I gave him a puzzled look, “we’re bribing people now? I guess times haven’t changed since I left the business.”

“Oh, don’t worry, Windsor. I’ll just add it to your bill after I’ve solved the case.”

Soon we were back in Mannsfeld’s car, driving to an abandoned building in an all but abandoned part of town. The moon peaked briefly through the clouds as we drove, only to be replaced by more wind and rain. The car’s heater couldn’t keep up with the dew collecting on the side windows. My words broke the long silence, “I haven’t been here in a long time.”

“It’s not high on my list of vacations spots, either.”

“This is where it happened. Where we left him for dead.” I sank into the chair and lit another smoke. “I wonder if he’ll be there.”

“Only one way to find out, I suppose.” Mannsfeld slowed to a stop across the street. He parked and looked out. “He might be watching; we should circle around, see if we can find a way in without being spotted.”

I stayed in the car for a moment, settling my heartbeat. ‘What am I going to say to him?’ I asked myself but had no answer. ‘Is he going to kill me?’ I probably deserved it.

Mannsfeld tapped the glass, interrupting my thoughts. “If you don’t get out of the car I’m adding a rental fee to your bill.”

We traveled through the misty pelting rain to the side of the large warehouse, staying in the shadows to not be seen. One of the trailer dock roll up doors was open. Mannsfeld decided it was as good an entrance as any, stopping just before and peeking his head in.

“See anything?” I whispered.

“Not yet, it’s dark. But I think I see movement.” His hot breath added to the growing mist outside. “There’s a crate inside; we’ll get a better view from there.”

Before I’d had a chance to argue, he was already gone. I watched his deep shadow as he made his way to the pallet and ducked behind it. Looking back at me, he waved for me to follow.

Inside, the noise of the rain was amplified by the tin roof of the building. My eyes adapted to the darkness but couldn’t penetrate the thick shadows.

I heard a voice, “You were tough to track down, Dutch.”

Mannsfeld patted me on the back, letting me know he’d heard it as well. We peered over the wooden crate, saw two figures standing around what looked like an enormous duffel bag.

“That was kind of the point, Detective Sugahara,” I didn’t recognize Dutch’s voice, it had become dark, harsh, “what do you want?”

“My reputation precedes me, I see.”

“You’ve been busy. Knocking heads and asking questions you shouldn’t ask. Even if I were dead, by now, I’d know your name.”

“Then you know why I’m here.”

“A fool’s errand.” He lit a cigarette, illuminating their faces for the first time. He’d aged, his hair was white, but it was Dutch. “You’re trying close the Trezza case.”

“I don’t take kindly to an innocent woman being murdered in my district.”

“Innocent people die every day and you cops do nothing about it. Crime is everywhere, anyone without a gun gets the knife. Norah was no different, and she wasn’t innocent. Nobody associated with Windsor is innocent.”

“You’d have us believe that, wouldn’t you? Pinning that young woman’s murder on your brother.”

“No brother of mine would leave me to die. A brother wouldn’t let the pigs have me. Do you have any idea how hard it is to keep a fake name straight when you’re pumped up on morphine? To know a cop is posted outside your hospital room door, just waiting for you to get well enough to go to jail?”

“That’s all in the past, Dutch. We’ve got your prints all over her apartment; your blood was on her dress.”

“She deserved it; Norah turned on me. We were a team, and she went and fell in love with the mark.”

“The mark was your brother, Windsor?” Sugahara unsnapped the revolver on his belt. “You were doing a long con, was that it?”

“Something like that. She was supposed to buddy up to the guy, gain his trust. Find out where he hid the loot.” He began pacing around the duffel bag. Sugahara kept his distance, one hand on his gun. “We were gonna plant some drugs and send him off to kiddy jail, teach him a lesson.”

“But she fell in love with him.”

“I warned her that he was dangerous, but it was too late. I could see it in her eyes.”

Dutch reached for the duffel bag between them. Sugahara jumped back, pulled out his revolver and pointed it. “Stay back. I don’t want to shoot you, but I will.”

“She wasn’t supposed to fall in love with the mark, detective. After everything we’d been through, nursing me back to health, helping me make a new life. My new life was supposed to be with her.” He stood back up, leaving the bag on the floor. “And she chose that scum bag instead? It’s not fucking fair!”

“Life isn’t fair, Dutch. You know that.” Sugahara’s weapon was still pointed at Dutch. “Especially in this town. Seems like no one gets a fair shake.”

“Well, I’m changing the rules. Windsor took everything from me. My life, my woman. So, I’m taking every fucking thing from him. How lenient do you think your detective buddies will be when they find your body with a confession note stuffed down your throat?”

“About as lenient as my bullet’s going to be when it goes through your fucking skull. Dutch Wesseli, you’re under arrest.”

“See, that’s where you’re wrong Detective. You’re going to arrest Windsor Wesseli for the murders of Norah Trezza and Zena Kristof, “He bent down and patted the duffel bag. “That is if you want your wife to live. What was her name again?”

“You fucking monster. What did you do to Le?”

“Do what I say, and we all get out of here alive. Now put the gun on the ground and kick it to me.”

Sugahara hesitated but did what he was told.

On the other side of the crate, Mannsfeld whispered in my ear, “I think this is the time we intervene or leave.” He sounded sickly like he’d just eaten a hundred bullets. “We can’t stay here and do nothing.”

He was right; I couldn’t let Dutch ruin any more lives. I stepped out of the shadows, “Dutch. You keep bringing everyone into this, but your problem isn’t with them. Let them go, and you can have me.”

“Detective, arrest that man or I’ll shoot your wife in the chest and leave her to die as he left me.”

I put my hands in the air, walked slowly towards them. “Let’s not do anything hasty, now. I’ll go with the detective peacefully.”

Dutch waved his gun, gesturing for Sugahara to arrest me. “You’ve got plenty of evidence to book him.” He laughed, his malice towards me was palpable. “I’m sure you’re used to telling white lies to get the job done, you don’t make detective if you haven’t worked the beat, and there ain’t any clean cops on the beat.”

“You’re right about that,” Sugahara admitted. He reached into his jacket and pulled out another pistol. Dutch jumped, a flash of light illuminated the dusty warehouse for a second, then faded back into darkness. In the burst of light, I could see Sugahara’s eyes widen, he fell to the floor.

“I warned you, detective.” Dutch bent and unzipped the bag, revealing a sleeping Le. He pulled a vial from his pocket and put it under her nose. She woke with a startled gasp. “Go be with your husband.”

“Tomeo? Oh no, what have you done?” She screamed and crawled to his limp body.

“What now?” I asked.

“Now we end this.” He walked around me like a shark circling its prey. “An eye for an eye, a life for a life.”

Mannsfeld stepped out, his hands in the air, “That’s not quite right, though. A life for a life? By my count, you’ve committed three murders, to frame your brother.”

“Jesus, Windsor. How many others are hiding back there? You want all that blood on your hands?”

“We haven’t been formally introduced. My name is Mannsfeld, a private detective.” He straightened his jacket and stood tall. “As I was saying. Even if you were to count your near death, which I do not, by your standards you’ve already more than evened the score.”

“You little shit. I’m going to paint the walls with your blood.”

“Back off, Mannsfeld. I’ve got this.” I tried to reassure him. “The rain can’t last forever. Sooner or later, the sun will rise.”

“Windsor, we’re going to end this here and now, but I have one more thing to tell you before we do.”

I puffed up my chest like my big brother had taught me. “What is it, Dutch. I ain’t got all night.”

“That guy was wrong. It wasn’t three murders. Technically, it was four; Norah was pregnant.” Lightning and thunder rumbled outside, showing my brothers maniacal grin.

I leaped onto him. His gun fired into the air as I tackled him to the ground. “You sick fuck!” I said between blows. He took hit after hit to the face, staring at me, taunting me. My fist raised high, and he grabbed it in his palm, twisting. I winced in pain as he pushed me to my back.

“I want to know, brother. What would you have named that little boy or girl?” He hit me, breaking my nose. “Maybe name it after mom?” He picked up my head and smashed it into the ground. I lost my sight for a second. “Or if it were a boy, maybe you’d have named him Dutch after his uncle?” He laid his elbow on my chest.

“That’s enough, Dutch. He’s not even coherent enough to feel anything you do now.” Mannsfeld interrupted.

Dutch lifted himself off me. “It will never be enough. Not until he’s dead.” He kicked me in my side. I turned, coughing blood onto the floor.

The room lit up with another loud bang. Dutch fell beside me.

“I told him I’d put the bullet through his skull,” Detective Sugahara said with a short breath. “Why do the bad guys never listen?”

Mannsfeld crouched beside me, extending his hand to help me up. “I’m going to call an ambulance for Sugahara. Would you like to tag along?”

“And make the same mistake I made the first time? Not a chance in hell. I’m staying until the coroner puts a god damned tag on his toe.”

“That's a shame.” Mannsfeld patted me on the back. “I’m on the lookout for a new assistant.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Yeah, you could work off the ridiculously large bill I’m going to be sending you.”

“Don’t make me laugh,” I sighed, my body woozy with pain, “You must not check your mail. I fired you yesterday.”

Mannsfeld chuckled, “You can’t fire me, I never took the job formally.” He turned toward the bay door. “Think you’ll be ready to start in two weeks?”

I looked over at Detective Sugahara and his wife. “Think I’ll be in jail in two weeks?”

“There’s a good chance,” he smiled, “but it won’t be for this.”