Music to Murder By

Part 2

Howdy folks, and welcome back. This is part two of this musical interlude. If this is your first time, you may wish to start with Part 1. Otherwise, enjoy the “music!”

Music to Murder By

Matt Slade

My office that year was on Bainbridge, on the edge of Devil's Pocket. The local boys were rough enough to pick the Devil's pocket, so said the priest. But the rent was cheap, and it kept me on my toes. It usually kept me out of the problems of the mansion and mill crowd, too. I'd learned my lesson there years ago. Micki led us to a brand new '38 Buick and climbed behind the wheel. I was mildly surprised it was still there.

She gunned the straight eight to life, and pulled out on Bainbridge, heading toward Broad.

As the streets of rowhouses slid by, I had to ask. I'm nosy. Maybe that's why I do what I do. "How'd you get into the honey-trapping business? Nice girl like you, and all."

She laughed. A rich, throaty sound that made me grin just to hear it. "What makes you think I'm nice, Slade?"

"Well, I—" I stammered. "I suppose it's impolite to assume otherwise?"

"Catholic families are supposed to give one child to the church. My mother thought that should be me. I…disagreed. When I was 14, I dragged—call him 'Little Jimmy'—into the hayloft. After he went to confession the next week, Monsignor quietly let my parents know that I would not be 'suitable for the convent.'" She looked over, waiting to see if I were shocked, I guess.

"That was…pragmatic of you."

"Daddy thought so, too. He was deputy sheriff when he wasn't farming. The next year word got around about a dirty old man over on the Indiana side of Union City, which sat right on the line. Caused no end of jurisdiction headaches. Daddy sheriffed for Darke County, the Ohio side. Anyway, he couldn't touch the man, and the Indiana boys wouldn't. So he asked me to be the worm on his hook."

"That sounds...dangerous."

"I told Daddy my price was he'd have to teach me to shoot. More'n just the ol' .410 we used around the barn. But that was ten years ago, and I've been 'being pragmatic,' ever since. First for the county, then the state, now for ONI."

"Did they get the old man?"

"They never got the chance."

"Oh? What happened to him?"

"His breath stank. He tried to kiss me with it, so I shot him."

We rode in silence for a minute. If there was anything to say to that, I couldn't think of it.

I changed the subject, instead. "There's the stadium, and see that park? They carved all this out of the swamp a few years ago. Mostly for the world fair. Amazing what they can do from a start like that." Maybe I hadn't changed the subject as far as I thought.

***

"All right, Slade. That's where I lost him," Micki said, pointing to the flashing neon "Baths" sign.

"How long was this?"

"Forty-five minutes, maybe an hour."

"He could be gone by now." I rapped my briar out on my shoe-heel.

"You talked a lot."

I supposed that was fair. I started up the steps. Behind me the farm-girl Fed faded into the dark.

Inside, everything that wasn't marble was white tile. I'd never seen so much white in one place, not in this city.

I found the desk and tried to mimic Micki's corn-belt burr. The clerk was a tiny guy. Might not even be five feet. At first, I thought his dime-store fake nose and mustache was on crooked. A closer look showed it was his. With a beezer like that, must be hard not to stick it where it don't belong.

"Hey pal, I'm just in town, gotta clean up. What's the story here?"

"Shower-bath for two bits, soak for four. Steam is six, and if you want the Swede, it's a slug."

"Shower and steam, then." I forked over a buck. I hoped it wouldn't leave me short til Micki's check cleared. "Got a changing room?" Even the lobby was warm. In a suit and topcoat, I was dying.

The schnozz pointed down the hall.