Six Crime Stories Read online

  6 Crime Stories

  By

  Robert T. Jeschonek

  *****

  Also by Robert T. Jeschonek

  Dancing With Murder, a novel

  *****

  Who Unkilled Johnny Murder?

  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 sur
prised 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." Pla
nting 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."