C H A P T E R 1 I thought I knew what pain was. I was wrong.
I’ve been punched, kicked, stabbed, strangled, bitten, and burned. I even got electrocuted that one time.
Nothing compared to this.
I was shaking, covered in cold sweat. There were screams in the distance. My torturer had his back to me, fiddling with something on his table of abominable devices. He turned toward me, a mouthful of yellow teeth peering out through that terrible rictus of a grin.
“Only a little ways to go now.”
“You said that three little ways ago,” I snapped.
“Every time you move, I have to stop,” he said around the stub of a cigar. “You’re lucky the line work is as smooth as it is.”
“You’re lucky I haven’t kneed you in the teeth.”
That was no joke, considering where he’d had his face planted for the last twenty minutes.
“I told you. The inner thigh is a sensitive area.” “I don’t need you to tell me that, Bernie.”
“All’s I’m saying is if you wanted less pain, you could have put it on your bicep or your behind,” Bernie said. “But you didn’t and now here we are. I’ve got customers waiting and all I gots left is the red of the rose. You think you can grit your teeth and play statue for ten minutes more?”
I was lining up a comeback, but I bit it off. The tattooist didn’t deserve my abuse. He was doing the job I was paying him for. Gifting me a permanent reminder of an old friend and a closed case.
“All right,” I said. “If I can sit through
Maid in the Ozarks I can sit through this. Fire up your engines.”
Bernie propped his smoke on the table next to his inks, then flipped a switch. The needle in his hand began to buzz—a wingless hornet with a metal stinger. He leaned over me and the needle touched down high on the inside of my left thigh.
I tried breathing, I tried grinding my molars, I tried men- tally reciting poetry.
I felt a Funeral, in my Brain, And Mourners to and fro Kept treading—treading—till it seemed That . . . something something . . . Ah, shit.
No good. Even Dickinson won’t stick when you let a metal wasp tread where only lovers usually linger. The needle was piercing me at a rate of four dozen pricks a second, the red ink of the rose mixing with the red of my blood so I didn’t know which was trickling down my thigh.
Then I remembered what Ms. Pentecost said about her more painful multiple sclerosis flare-ups.
“Ignoring it is impossible. I can’t make it go away, so I won’t try. I give it exactly the attention it deserves, and not an ounce more.”
Since she was a woman of exceptional sense, as well as the most sought-after private detective in New York City, I figured she must know a thing or three. The least her faithful assis- tant, Willowjean “Will” Parker, could do was take a shot at emulating her.
I stopped trying to ignore the pain. I let it wash over me.
Just let it be. And while that didn’t make it much better, at least I stopped twitching.
I took my eyes off Bernie and his needle and looked through the propped-open door to the boardwalk, the sand, and the bluest ocean you could ask for. At least on that Tues- day afternoon in early September 1947. A breeze shouldered its way through, and for a brief moment the smell of ink and sweat and Bernie’s rancid cigar was pushed aside to make way for salty Atlantic crispness.
I needed to find a thermometer and take a note. This was the perfect temperature. At least for New York City.
Because I’ve never been one to sit and jaw about the weather, my mind quickly wandered elsewhere. I thought about Miss Holly Quick, with whom I wouldn’t have minded spending a Coney Island afternoon. The season had just ended, so the crowd had thinned out. Not so vacant that we could have canoodled together on the sand, but at least we wouldn’t have had to stand in line for the Cyclone.
But Holly wasn’t a roller-coaster girl, and besides, she’d left town for a monthlong vacation at a cabin in the Catskills.
I corrected myself. Not a vacation, a writing refuge.
She was struggling to find an ending for her book, which was scheduled to be published in the spring, and thought a month away from the city would do her good.
She’d ridden up with Marlo and Brent Chase on Saturday. The married couple were her friends, lovers, and editors, in that order. The cabin belonged to Marlo’s family, which is how a pulp-magazine writer could afford a month away.
I hadn’t been thrilled that Holly was out of pocket for all of September. Even less thrilled to learn she’d have to walk the better part of an hour to a general store to drop a nickel if she wanted to call me. Then there was the fact that Marlo and Brent were staying with her until Thursday. To settle her in.
“Not a bad euphemism,” I’d told her when she laid out the plan. “I settled in two or three times last night; I’m exhausted.”
Holly dropped her chin and gave me that look from over the top of her glasses—the one I was starting to know a little too well.
“Is this going to be a problem?” she asked. “Because I thought we’d been through this. Jealousy is not an attractive outfit on you.”
“I’m not jealous,” I said. “I’m envious. I just wish I was the one settling you in.”
“I asked you.” “I know.”
“You can still come.” But I couldn’t.
Even if I could tear myself away from the office, I had the feeling that the arrangement the four of us had figured out would start to show its cracks if we were all bunking in the same cabin.
Holly suggested I come up later in the month after Marlo and Brent had gone, but I’d nixed that, too. Again saying that there was too much to do at the office. Backed-up paperwork and filing and this and that—thinking back on how I had prat- tled on, she must have known I was stitching up an excuse.
Lying on my back, listening to the buzz of the needle and the roar of the ocean, I wondered why I’d said no. A few weeks away sounded great. A few weeks away with Holly even bet- ter. Why had I begged off ?
I took my mind by the chin and forced its gaze elsewhere. Pentecost Investigations was between cases at the moment. There was the Tillman affair and the Vaughan murder. But both of those were in various states of getting wrapped. I’d deposited our outstanding checks that morning, bringing the business bank account up to mid-five figures. That should
easily get us through the spring, even after taxes.
I also deposited my own paycheck, which would allow me to take a stroll through the fall fashions at Macy’s without worrying about pinching pennies.
But not all our active cases were on the books.
There was Olivia Waterhouse, who had more or less taken up permanent residence in our life. However, after surfacing dramatically last spring, the fraudulent anthropology professor, blackmailer, and almost certainly killer had disappeared beneath the waves, leaving nary a ripple.
Not that we weren’t searching the seas.
We were still trying to track down anyone who had been taken advantage of by Sunshine Services, Waterhouse’s mock- up temp secretary company, which had offered dictation but provided extortion. Understandably, those victims—those who were still breathing—were hesitant to speak up.
No luck in luring any of the women who’d worked there to come forward, either. Even though we’d published notices in the papers offering cold cash.
Waterhouse engendered either fear or loyalty. Having been nose to nose with the woman, I was guessing a little of both.
And she wasn’t the only thorn in my boss’s side. There was also Jessup Quincannon, philanthropist and murder afi- cionado. Some people collect stamps. He collected murder memorabilia, along with the occasional murderer.
During a case last winter we discovered that he’d withheld information that might have gotten a killer caught sooner and prevented at least one body from hitting the ground. Since the body in question was employed by Ms. Pentecost at the time, she was taking it personally.
Which meant digging into Quincannon’s life in the hopes of finding enough dirt to bury him. That wasn’t easy. The man had money, and money bought you a lot of leeway. Especially when it was distributed in the form of bribes and campaign contributions to the city’s high-and-mightiest.
But Ms. P was employing leverage of her own and manag- ing to find some toeholds. There was the evidence-room sergeant who had been slipping Quincannon baubles from the city’s bloodiest crimes. A letter from my boss to his got him canned. Then there was the councilman who—
“Done!” “Already?” I asked.
Bernie snorted, then he took a cloth and wiped away the last of the loose ink and blood to reveal the finished tattoo: a rose wrapped around a dagger.
“So what do you think?” he asked.
I had scars and freckles aplenty but this was the first per- manent mark I’d chosen for myself. That dagger was here for the duration. I’d be buried with it.
“The colors will even out as it heals,” Bernie explained, tak- ing my silence for displeasure. “Everything’s swollen and pink right now. That’s why the green leaves look kind of muddy.”
I smiled.
“It’s perfect,” I said.
I don’t know if it really was perfect. But it was just right. I pulled down my skirt, freshened up, paid up, got a quick speech from Bernie on how not to get my new tattoo infected, and strolled out onto the boardwalk. Dressed in a sweater-and- skirt combination, purse slung over my shoulder, I looked like a cookie-cutter coed taking advantage of the perfect Septem- ber weather to air out her legs.
Ms. P didn’t expect me back that afternoon, so there was no hurry. I slipped off my shoes and strolled down onto the beach, giving my toes a taste of warm sand.
A gust lashed in from the Atlantic. I had to choose between keeping my hair out of my eyes or keeping the handful of beachgoers from getting a view of my new tattoo. I chose the latter.
When the temperature hit triple digits in July I’d caved and visited my favorite barber. He’d lopped eight inches off my mane, so ponytails were out of the question for at least another couple of months. While my neck felt nice and cool, I now had to put up with frizzy red curls falling into my eyes.
I wasn’t the only one taking advantage of the weather and the mostly empty beach. I passed a few other beachgoers, some walking solo, some in pairs. Up ahead, I saw one couple slip into the shadows under the boardwalk. I smiled and silently wished them a good time.
Seeing the pair of lovers, I found my thoughts returning to Holly.
We weren’t exclusive, but that didn’t mean we weren’t seri- ous. I’d spent more time with her than any five previous flings combined, and I wasn’t bored yet.
So why’d I go digging for an excuse not to spend some time alone with her up in the Catskills? What was I afraid of ?
Nothing, I told myself. I just didn’t feel like going. Really?
Really.
Back and forth like this for another twenty yards when a voice broke through my reverie.
“Get off me. No. I said no!”
The woman’s cry was coming from under the boardwalk, where the pair of lovers had disappeared.
Over my five years working as Ms. Pentecost’s leg-woman, I’d developed the terrible habit of running toward trouble instead of away, so I dropped my shoes and was kicking up sand before she got out the second “no!”
As I approached the shadows under the boardwalk, I slowed and reached into my handbag. My fingers slipped into the hidden pouch I’d had my tailor sew into the lining and found the grip of my brand-new Beretta. When you might be stepping into danger, it’s always better to err on the side of armed.
But I didn’t draw it.
Back in February, I had shot and killed a man. A righteous killing, at least so far as the City of New York was concerned. But there were a few officials who suspected the events that had led up to the killing weren’t so righteous.
I hesitated at the thought of shooting two people in a calen- dar year, so I let my hand move from the grip of the .32 to a lit- tle treasure I’d recently ordered out of a specialty catalog—an eight-inch-long leather sap. The short blackjack was packed with sand and iron filings, making it incredibly dense. The flat beavertail end meant that, should it strike a skull, it was less likely to kill.
It still hurt like a demon. More cries.
“No! Please, let go of me!”
On its heels, a man’s voice. “Come on. Stop squirming. Why’d you come under here if you didn’t want it?”
Sap firmly in hand, I eased around one of the massive wooden pilings and found the situation as advertised.
The woman—short, busty, with blond ringlets—was on her back in the sand. Her blouse had been torn open in a way that suggested it hadn’t been voluntary. I could see only the back of the man—dark hair, jeans, work boots, and a leather jacket. He was on top of her, pinning her two hands with one of his while he used the other to fumble with his belt.
I set my bag down and snuck up behind them. With bare feet on sand, and the roar of the waves, stealth wasn’t a problem.
In the movies, the hero would yell something like “Get your filthy hands off her!” I leave it to fiction to give bad guys a fighting chance.
I raised the sap over my head, cocking my elbow to get the right angle. It was then the woman saw me. Her eyes went wide and she started to say something. But not before I swung down, letting the flat of the sap connect with the back of the would-be-rapist’s skull.
He collapsed, boneless, on top of his victim, who let out a groan and a muttered “Holy shit.”
I rolled him off and helped her to her feet. “Are you all right?” I asked.
“I think so,” she said, doing up her blouse, which had remarkably retained all its buttons. As she did, I couldn’t help but notice that she wasn’t busty so much as well padded. Not that I’m one to judge.
“You know this mook?” I asked.
“No, he he came out of nowhere.”
Which was an odd answer because I’d seen the two go under the boardwalk together. I began to wonder if she was a professional. The blond ringlets didn’t quite match her skin tone, suggesting a wig. And her makeup—all pinup lips and smoky eyes—was paired with some heavy pancake. Some of it had smeared, revealing the yellow of an old bruise.
It’s bad etiquette to ask if someone’s a prostitute, so instead I suggested, “Look, while he’s out, let’s get topside and see if we can track down a cop.”
“No,” she said, quick and firm. “I don’t want any more trouble.”
That nailed it. The mook was a john who decided he was owed a freebie.
“Okay, so no cop,” I said. “How about we get out of here and—”
Before I could get the rest of the sentence out, the man lurched to his feet and charged. He must have been play- ing possum. Not entirely, though. His charge was slow and wobbly, and he dropped to a knee in the sand right before he reached me.
I sidestepped and let him fall. I raised the sap again, ready to put him out, but the girl grabbed hold of my arm before I could bring it down.
“No, don’t!” she yelled. “Don’t kill him!”
I tried to yank my arm away, but she was latched on tight. Before I could explain that I wasn’t planning on killing him, just gifting him with a serious goose egg, the man was on his feet and moving again. No chance to sidestep this time, and his shoulder hit me solidly in the gut, slamming me back into one of the wooden pylons. The impact drove the air from my lungs and the sap went flying.
The impact didn’t do him any favors, either. He gave an explosive grunt and his feet slipped in the sand. He would have gone to his knees if he didn’t have his shoulder wedged into my solar plexus.
I didn’t give him the chance to recover. With his shoulder in my gut, his head was under my right armpit. I slipped my arm down the side of his neck, jackknifed at the elbow, and shot it up the other side. I brought my left arm over, grabbed my own bicep, and began twisting the noose.
The thug’s excuse for a brain was suddenly starved of blood. By the time he realized what was happening, he was already going limp in my arms.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the girl pick up my blackjack.
“We won’t need that,” I told her. “But if you can slip his belt off, I can use it to tie his hands.”
“Sure,” she said. “I can do that.”
She stepped toward us and reached in to grab his belt. Then she kept stepping, raised her arm, and brought the sap down on the back of my head. I had just enough time to appre- ciate her technique before I hit the sand.
The strike didn’t put me entirely out. I was conscious enough to hear, though too stunned to do much else.
“Get up, you idiot.” The girl’s voice.
“Wha’ happened?” The man’s voice. Not as gruff now and a little slurred.
“I was gonna get rid of her and then you jumped up and went all gorilla on me.”
“The bitch clobbered me.”
“That’s why I wrote a script for this. If you get surprised, you play dead and let me handle it, you dummy.”
There was the crack of an open hand meeting flesh. Then a second of silence before “I’m sorry I had to do that. But don’t call me dummy, all right?”
A pause here. At least I think so. Time was mushy around the edges.
“Here’s her bag,” the girl said. “Let’s grab it and go.”
Shuffling, the sound of lipstick and change purse and assorted detritus colliding with one another. Then . . .
“Holy shit,” the man said. “The broad has a heater.”
Darkness.
Copyright © 2023 by Stephen Spotswood. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
