Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap

            As I opened my eyes tentatively, I caught a glimpse of bright, glaring sunlight through the grease-paper windows of my office.  I felt like a drill was boring into my skull through my temple, and a teamster was simultaneously hammering it in for good measure.  The sunlight wasn’t helping.  I groaned and turned my head the other way, taking in the other half of my desk.  I shuddered as I glanced at the nearly empty bottle of bourbon glaring at me accusingly from the corner.  It had been full just two days before.  But I guess that’s just the cost of my business.  I’m a private eye.  An out of work private eye, to be specific.  My last real case was three months ago.  Since then I’ve just been doing surveillance on dames whose rich husbands think they’re unfaithful.  They usually think right, so what I’m for is beyond me, but I’m not one to turn down a paycheck and an all expenses deal I can stretch out for a week.  But even the last one of those had been almost a week ago, and my wallet was starting to hurt.  And it wasn’t going to be the only thing hurting if I didn’t pay some of my bills soon.

            I sighed and sat up, massaging my aching head and reaching into my desk drawer for aspirin.  I took the last four out of the bottle and washed them down with the rest of the bourbon.  The sun’s rays turned the room the same dismal shade of gray as my tattered trench coat, and illuminated the piles of forgotten paperwork that littered the room.  I turned on the light, but that just made things yellow and gray, which wasn’t much better.  I took out my wallet and looked at the few bills I had left.  I needed three hundred for Paulie to keep my legs from being broken, one-fifty to Carla, and fifty to Jack for the game tonight.  That left me with a grand total of twelve dollars.  I needed a customer, badly.  And just like that, one walked through my door.

            I knew she was trouble the minute she stepped into my office, but at that moment I didn’t care.  She was gorgeous, and that was never a good sign.  Usually any gorgeous woman who walks into my office made a wrong turn, but she tossed that doubt from my mind as soon as she opened her mouth.

            “Mr. Gabriel?” she asked, in a soft, sultry voice. “I hope this is a good time...”

            “What can I do for you, Miss...?” I replied, trying to adopt a businesslike tone.

            “Mrs. Weston.  Dawn Weston.  But my friends call me Trouble,” she responded.

            “Why am I not surprised?” I asked, grinning.

            “Excuse me?” she said, raising her eyes.

            “Never mind, Mrs. Weston,” I answered. “Go on.”

            “It’s short for Troubadour, my middle name.  Anyway, I’m here because I heard you were the best.”  That was never a good sign.  Nobody referred to me as “the best.”  In fact, nobody referred to me at all.  Most of my clients didn’t want to bring up the reason they hired me, and wouldn’t go around recommending me to anyone.  Still, I didn’t want to give her a bad impression, so I didn’t ask who it had been.

            “So, what do you need me for?”  I asked instead.

            “My husband is missing.”

            “Missing?” I asked, interested.  “As in ‘Didn’t come home last night’ or ‘Presumed dead’?”

            “As in ‘Disappeared a week ago and police have no leads’,” she responded, coldly.

            “I see.  You want me to find him?” I asked.

            “No.  I want you to make sure he isn’t found,” she answered, looking me directly in the eye.  There was silence for a minute before I finally spoke.

            “Where exactly did you hear my name from, Mrs. Weston?”

            “Alfred Scott recommended you personally, Mr. Gabriel.”

            “Then we understand each other.  I charge three up front, two after.  The job will be done tonight.  Write down the details for me here,” I replied, handing her a notepad.  She scribbled a few words and handed it back, then counted out the money and left it on the desk.

            I guess I should clarify what I said earlier.  Private eye is what it says on the door and the business cards.  It’s what a few guys hire me to do every couple of weeks.  But private eye isn’t really the word to describe the other things I do.  I do odd jobs.  Dirty deeds.  I do things no one wants to do, but someone has to.  I’m not a criminal, per se.  The crime is done by other people; I’m just the one who deals with it.

            I picked up the three thousand dollars lying on my desk and smiled.  It was exactly what I needed to put me in a good mood.  I took a third of the pile and stuffed it into an inner pocket of my jacket, then stowed the rest in the hiding spot under my desk, and stood up.  I had bills to pay and money to waste.

* * *

            When I got to Paulie’s , the sun was directly above me, and the air was thick with smog and the smell of pollution, sweat, and burning asphalt that fills Chicago in the summertime, seeping into everything and giving you a bitter taste deep in your throat.  As I pulled open the door and stepped inside, a wave of cold air flooded over me.  Relieved, I walked towards the table in the back where Paulie was sitting.

            “You better have the money Colt or —” he started, looking up at me.

            “Don’t worry, Paulie, you know I’m good for it,” I replied, pulling out the three hundred I owed him and sitting down across the table.  He took the bills and counted them.

            “What about the late fee?” he asked, looking up at me suddenly.

            “Late fee?  C’mon, it was just due yesterday, Paulie....”

            “And that makes it late.  Listen, you’re the one who borrowed the money in the first place, and you were so sure you’d triple it in a day that you agreed on a week ‘til payment.  It’s not my fault if you gambled it away on bad bets.  So give me fifty more, now.”

            “Fifty?  Isn’t that a bit steep?  We’ve been friends for years, Paulie....”

            “Then you should know I gotta make a profit.  And I gotta pay my superiors, who expect me to run my business efficiently.  Meaning you better pay me the other fifty now or kiss your kneecaps goodbye.”

            I sighed and pulled fifty more out of my pocket.  “You’re killing me, Paulie,” I said, handing it to him.

            “Not yet, Colt.  Not yet,” he replied, smiling.  “Pleasure doin’ business with you.”

            “Likewise,” I replied, grimacing.

* * *

            I made a few stops after I left Paulie’s, paying off a few more debts and restocking on the essentials (bourbon, cigarettes, and aspirin).  It was just starting to get dark when I pulled into my usual space behind Jack’s Pool Hall, the seediest bar in a five mile radius, and, consequently, my favorite.  The clientele of Jack’s were a mixed crowd, ranging from criminals to, well, other kinds of criminals.  The interior was dimly lit, which suited the customers well, since not many of them liked the light anyway.  I sat down at the bar next to one of the regulars, “Tommy Gun” Brown, who was nursing a tall glass of amber liquid like it was the last he’d ever have.  Knowing Tommy’s frequent troubles, it could’ve easily been.

            “How’s it going, Tommy?” I asked as I sat down on the hard barstool.

            “Bad as always, Colt,” he replied drearily.  “I hear Don Sarcozie’s mad at me for that heist I pulled last week.  Turns out that truck full of TVs was his.”

            “Ooh, bad luck, man,” I said, standing up quickly.  “Nice talking to you, but I’ve gotta do something over there,” I continued, pointing vaguely towards the corner as I backed away from him.  It wasn’t a good idea to be seen associating with people Sarcozie didn’t like.  Might give someone the wrong idea.

            I drifted towards the corner I had pointed to slowly before finding an empty table near the back, almost completely enveloped in shadow.  I tapped a nearby waitress on the shoulder, making her jump, and asked her to bring me a bourbon on the rocks, and to tell Jack that I’d be playing tonight.

            A couple minutes later, the old bartender arrived, carrying two drinks, and sat down across from me, his face obscured in the darkness.

            “How’s it going, Jack?”  I asked politely.

            “Times are as tough as always, Colt.  Money’s always tight around here.  No offense, Colt, but I’m not sure I can let you into the game for free again.  It’s really starting to cut in on my profits from —”

            “Don’t worry about it, Jack.  I’m paying my own way tonight.  And if things go well I’ll make sure to send some extra money your way.”

            “You say that every week, Colt, but good luck anyway.  I appreciate it.”

            “Hey, I’m the one that should be thanking you.  You’ve helped me out more times than I can count.”

            “I still owe you for that favor; I don’t know what I would’ve done without you.”

            “Don’t mention it.  Really, don’t.  Best to leave the past behind.”

            “I’ll drink to that,” he replied, raising his glass.

            “You’ll drink to anything,” I responded, laughing as I brought my own drink to my lips.

* * *

The game started at ten o’clock, and by that time I had downed five more drinks, and was ready to gamble.  There were seven people in the small back room, five of which I recognized.  There was Tony “Two-Face,” Frankie Tall, “Lefty” Forman, “Aces” O’Conner, and the man simply known as “Silver.”  The two newcomers were a tall man in a suit and an overweight, sweating guy in a stained white t-shirt.

The game started off with small bets, and I ended up breaking even, while Silver quietly acquired a large pile in front of him and Aces O’Conner lost nearly everything as he got more and more roaring drunk.  Finally, the sweaty newcomer won a hand, and with it, the last of Aces’ money, which caused him to stand up, accusing the man of cheating, and challenging him to a fight outside.  The sweaty man, looking panicked and nervous, cowered on the other side of the table and finally fled while Frankie calmed Aces down.

Frankie volunteered to get Aces home and the two of them left, leaving only me, Tony, Silver, Lefty, and the other newcomer.  The stakes were raised, and I started on a six-game winning streak that won me most of Lefty and Tony’s money, while Silver and the newcomer folded each round.

            Tony and Lefty quit before they ran out completely, grumbling as they left the room.  It was down to the three of us and I was leading thanks to my winnings from the last few rounds.  I was on a roll, so when I was dealt pocket aces to start off, I went for a large bet.  Silver and the newcomer matched it without hesitation.  The cards came up, three of clubs, four of hearts, ace of spades.  I raised my bet, and they matched it again.  I smiled as the three of hearts was flipped.  Full house, I thought.  They’ve got no chance.  The last card came up: seven of hearts.  There’s no way they could’ve gotten anything out of this, I thought to myself as I raised my bet a final time.

            “Flip ‘em,” I said, smiling as I turned over my aces.  “Full house, aces over threes.”  I reached towards the pile.

            “Four of a kind,” interrupted Silver, flipping over a pair of threes and turning towards the newcomer with a smile.

            “Straight flush,” he said, expressionless, as he flipped over the five and six of hearts.

            There was silence.  The newcomer pulled the pile towards him, and stood up.

            “Good game,” he said, smiling for the first time all night.

            Silver stood up, shadows wrapped around his face, masking his expression.  He shook the newcomer’s hand silently, then turned and left the room, disappearing into the crowded bar.  As he opened the door, noise streamed in, filling the silence of the room, and then snapped off suddenly as the door clicked shut.

            “Well played,” I said, standing up and putting on my best fake smile.  “I don’t think I caught your name...”

            “Jeremy Weston,” he replied, reaching out to shake my hand.  “And you are?”

            “Colt Gabriel,” I responded, after a moment’s hesitation.  Weston..., I thought.  Where have I heard that name?  The bourbon and the adrenaline from the game raced through my head, clouding my memory.  “Want to buy me a drink with all those winnings?”  I continued quickly, hoping to keep him around until I figured out what the thought nagging at my brain was.

            “I guess I owe you one,” he said, smiling.

* * *

            “Last call!” Jack shouted across the bar, causing the sleeping drunk two seats down to fall backwards off of his stool.

            “Already, Jack?” I asked, staring at him over the pile of empty glasses in front of me.

            “It’s three o’clock, Colt.  You know I’ve gotta close or I start gettin’ the real low-lifes in here.  You don’t want another incident like last month, do you?” he replied.  “Anyway, don’t you think you’ve had enough?  Are you even safe to drive?”

            “Don’t worry about it, Jack,” Jeremy said, standing up and stretching.  “I’ll drive him back.”

            “Thanks, Jerry, but I’m good,” I replied, standing up too quickly and nearly falling back into my seat.  “On second thought...”

            “You’re comin’ with me Colt,” he said, pulling me up and helping me towards the door.

            “I owe you one, Jerry.”

            “Don’t mention it.”

* * *

            “So where do you live, Jerry?”  I asked as we were getting into the car.

            “Well, funny story, Colt,” he started, pulling on his seatbelt.  “Well, not so much funny as weird.  You know how I was telling you about my problems with my wife?”

            “Yeah?”

            “Well, they’ve gotten kinda crazy.  She flipped out one night, about a week ago, practically tried to kill me.”

            “Seriously?”

            “Yeah, crazy, right?  So I left and spent the night at a hotel.  I thought she’d be better the next day, and that’d be the end of it, but the next morning, some thug knocked on my door and attacked me.  I managed to wrestle him to the ground and ask why he was there, and he told me Mrs. Weston had sent him.  I scared him off, but I figured it wouldn’t be a good idea to go home.  So I tried a little motel the next night, and two guys with guns busted through the door in the middle of the night.  I shot one and tackled the other, and of course it turned out my wife had sent them too.”

            “Wait, you shot one?  How’d you manage that?”  I asked, mouth open in disbelief.

            “I’ve got a little experience... I’d rather not talk about it.”

            “But you fought two armed men who attacked you while you were sleeping!  That sounds like more than a little experience to me,” I continued, incredulous.

            “I’d rather not go into it.  Anyway, I’ve been hiding out at a little place on the shore for the past few days, I don’t think she knows the address yet.  As soon as she finds out, I’m sure she’ll hire another killer, so I’ll be moving somewhere else soon.”

            “Wow that’s really — CAR!” I shouted as he swerved into the wrong lane and nearly crashed into the oncoming traffic.

            He twisted the steering wheel just in time and then pulled over to the side of the road.

            “Maybe you shouldn’t be driving,” I said, unbuckling my seatbelt.  “I can do it, I’m fine now.”

            “Maybe you’re right,” he replied, stumbling out of the car and around to the other side.  I climbed over to the driver’s seat and started the car again, pulling back into the street and hitting the gas to match the speeding traffic.

* * *

            The sun’s first rays were glinting over the horizon as I drove through the outskirts of town, onto a small road with no other cars on it.  I pulled out my gun in one swift motion and pointed it at Jeremy Weston.

            “You’ve evaded death long enough,” I said, turning towards him.  I blinked in surprise as I stared at him over the long barrel of his gun.

            “I wouldn’t do that if I were you, Colt,” he replied, his face expressionless.

            “What makes you think you’ve got the faster trigger finger, Jeremy?”

            “I don’t.  But your gun isn’t loaded,” he responded.  “I emptied the clip in the car, when we were switching seats.  It slipped out of your pocket and I slid it back in when you weren’t looking, after taking out the bullets.”

            “You’re bluffing.”

            “Go ahead, then.  Shoot me.  But it’ll be the last mistake you make,” he said, lowering his own gun.  “I’m offering you a deal here.  Take out my wife instead.  I’ll pay double whatever she did.  And you’ll walk away from this alive, which is more than I can say for you if you try to kill me.”

            “So how long have you known?”  I asked, keeping my gun pointed at his head.

            “Since my wife hired you.  A friend of mine saw her going to your office, so I decided to trail you and see if I could reason with you.  That’s why I went to the game, to gain your trust.  I told you my real name because I knew you’d realize who I was, and stick around, which would give me an opportunity to talk to you.”

            “Of course,” I replied, thinking back to the moment half an hour ago when I had remembered Dawn’s last name and made the connection.

            “So here we are.  What do you think of my proposal?”

            “Your wife was very generous.  How much are you willing to pay?”

            “I don’t think you’re in a position to bargain right now, but I’ll give you two grand now, and there’ll be more where that came from if you manage to pull this off.”

            “Make it three and you’ve got yourself a deal,” I replied, gun still trained on his forehead.

            “Twenty-five.”

            “Three.”

            “Fine, have it your way,” he replied, shrugging nonchalantly.

            I lowered my gun slowly.  “That wasn’t so hard, was it?  And by the way, don’t ever lie to me again,” I said as I pointed the gun into the back seat and shot a hole through the upholstery.

* * *

            The sun had fully risen by the time I got to Dawn Weston’s house, and the inside of my car was an oven, the ineffectual air conditioner whirring away as it circulated the same air around the stuffy interior.  I pulled up the long gravel drive past the carefully landscaped garden and up to the heavy mahogany front door.  I got out of the car and slammed the door, walking around it and up to the covered front porch.  I rang the bell.

            “Who is it?” chimed the melodious voice of Dawn through the speaker.

            “Colt,” I replied.  “The job is done.  I’m here for the rest of my money.”

            “Colt?” she answered after a short pause, her tone changing suddenly.  “I thought I could just drop it by your office.  Where did you get my address?”

            “Phone book.  I need the money now, and since I’m here...”

            “Alright, I’ll be down in a second.  Come in.”

            The door buzzed and I opened it, stepping inside the cool, quiet house.  I walked into the front room and sat down on an expensive-looking leather couch, taking in my surroundings.  The room was very large, and all the furniture was the comfortable-looking leather kind found in lobbies everywhere that was always much harder than you expected.  There were bookcases and cabinets against the walls and an assortment of rather ugly paintings covering most of the blank wall space.  In the center of the room, surrounded by the aforementioned chairs, was a long oaken table, empty, save for a blue china vase of chrysanthemums in the middle.

            I was examining the ceiling lamp when Dawn Weston came into the room, and didn’t immediately notice the large shotgun in her hands.  I ducked a split second before she fired and the bullets whizzed over my head, shattering the glass doors of a cabinet full of china.  The shelves collapsed and littered the floor with porcelain.  Her second shot hit the chair behind me, filling the air with stuffing and feathers.  I pushed the heavy table over and took cover behind it, pulling out my gun and firing blindly over the top.

I felt the heavy table shake as another shot pounded into it, but the wood was thick enough that the bullets didn’t make it through.  I fired another couple shots over the top quickly, careful not to keep my hand out too long.  I heard a gasp from across the room, and was about to stick my head out to see what had happened when another shot pounded into the table and I heard the wood crack and splinter.  I quickly crawled away from the wrecked table and behind another chair, risking a quick glance behind me to see what had happened.  Dawn was clutching her bleeding arm, holding the shotgun weakly in one hand and pointing it vaguely in my direction.

“Why are you doing this?” I yelled.

“Don’t play dumb with me, Colt,” she replied.  “I know you’re here to kill me.”

“What are you talking about?” I asked, wondering how she had found out.

“I said don’t play dumb!” she screamed, taking another shot at me, this one crashing into one of the bookcases, turning the contents into a cloud of pulp.  “I know my husband hired you,” she continued, her voice getting closer.  “I’ve got my own sources.”

            “Is that so?”  I shouted back, firing my last two bullets in her direction.

            “You’d be surprised who I know, Colt,” she yelled back, her voice even closer, blasting a painting off the wall as I pulled the empty clip out of my gun and quickly started to reload it.

            “You know me, Dawn, and that’s more than enough of a surprise for anyone.”  I slid the clip back into place and stood up, turning towards her.  She was just a few feet away, and a look of surprise crossed her face as I pointed my gun at her chest and fired.  She fell backward in slow motion, her body landing next to the ruined table, her head framed by the fallen chrysanthemums, the shocked expression still on her face.  She would’ve looked innocent if it weren’t for the still-smoking shotgun cradled in her arms.

* * *

            I sat in my office, counting the bills from the brown paper envelope Jeremy sent me.  We had decided not to meet in person, and I had no complaints.  The money would last me a while, maybe a couple weeks, before I blew it on a poker game.  Another day, another few thousand dollars.

            I poured myself a large glass of bourbon from the half-empty bottle on my desk, staring deep into the dark liquid as it I swirled it around.  I could almost make out the face of a gorgeous woman, staring at me accusingly from the bottom.  I knew she was trouble the moment she walked in, and I was more right then than I’ve ever been.  But I guess I just like getting myself into trouble.  I spare no regrets for the wicked.  In this world, no one’s innocent, especially no one I meet.  I’m not a criminal; the crime is done by other people.  I’m just the one who deals with it.