What can you say about STEPHEN D. ROGERS that hasn't already been written in a dozen other major mystery zines? One of the most prolific mystery authors in the country, Stephen has been published in Alfred Hitchock Mystery Magazine, Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine, Futures Mystery Anthology Magazine, Mouth Full of Bullets, Mysterical-E, and Plots With Guns. He also has a new anthology of short stories out, entitled Shot To Death.  He is a Derringer Award winner (2006), and has been nominated for the Derringer Award no less than six times, including a nomination this year for his short story Gutterball. This is Stephen's second appearance in The Back Alley, and we hope to see him here many more times.

 

 

            Amber was not the type of girl you brought home to meet your mother, not unless your mother ran a bordello that catered to clients who didn't appear respectable enough to approach a whore on the street.  It had taken me three hours to find her.

            "Are you sure you understand the job?"

            She blinked.  "Sure."

            "Repeat the instructions back to me."  We'd been sitting in my office for almost half an hour now, going over the drill.

            "I'm supposed to go to this bar--"

            "What bar?"

            "The Brown Shoe."

            "The Oyster."  The Brown Shoe?  I'd never even heard of a bar called The Brown Shoe.  "And then what?"

            "I order a drink.  You're giving me money for expenses."  That part she got right.  "You said you were fronting me."

            "Don't worry.  I'm paying for your booze.  Focus on what you need to do.  You go to a bar called the Oyster and you order a drink.  Then what?"

            "I drink it."

            "And then?"

            "I order another."

            She was proud of herself.  I could see it in how she raised her head, her eyes not clear but slightly more alert.

            I pressed on.  "You go to the Oyster.  You order a drink or two.  You find a man named Sherman Brown.  What color is Sherman's hair?"

            "Bald?"

            "Red.  His hair is red.  He's about my height and my build and he has red hair.  He'll probably be the only person in that bar with red hair.  If he's not, he'll be the only one who introduces himself as Sherman or Sherm."

            "I knew a guy named Ezekiel once."

            Glancing at my watch, I decided there wasn't time to find a replacement for Amber.  My client wanted results today so that he could clear the books before the quarter closed.  A promotion was on the line.  "Oyster.  Drink.  Sherman."

            "I'm not stupid you know."

            "I didn't say you were.  I just want to make sure there's no confusion about this afternoon.  I'd hate for you to lose your fee."

            That sunk in.  "You pay me afterwards, right?  Not Sherman."

            "Right.  Once he leaves the room, I retrieve the camera and give you your money."  I wondered how I was going to explain all this to my client if he ever requested details. 

            "Half now."

            "Expenses now.  Your fee when the job is completed to my satisfaction.  That's why we're going over the details to make sure there are no complications."

            "How do I know you're not going to stiff me?"

            I handed her two sheets of paper.  "Here are your copies of our contract and the release form.  You can show them to your pimp.  If I don't pay you, I'll be in breach of contract and he can legally break my legs."

            "I don't have a pimp."

            That was a little hard to believe.  She wouldn't last a day on her own.  "Who handles things for you?"

            "My brother.  He helps me and a bunch of other girls."

            "If I don't pay, show the contract to your brother."

            "I just might show it to him anyway.  He's not stupid either."

            "I'm sure he'll be thrilled to see you landed such a plush deal.  Not only that but you did it by yourself."  I took a deep breath.  "Can we go over this one more time?"

            "When do I get the expense money?"

            "As soon as we're done.  What's the name of the bar?"

            "The Oyster."

            "What's the name of the man you're there to meet?"

            "Sherman."

            "What does he look like?"

            "You.  With red hair."

            "Excellent."  Since the last thing I wanted was to hone her to too fine a point, I skipped ahead.  "And what happens after you meet him?"

            "He buys me a drink."

            "He might.  And then what?"

            "I make my moves."  She wiggled or something.

            "What is one of the things you say to Sherman?"

            "I tell him I've been a bad girl and I need a big, strong man to give me a spanking."

            "That's right."  I paused.  "Sherman likes his sex a little rough.  At least he did.  You said that's not a problem."

            She grinned.  "You wouldn't believe some of the things I've done for customers.  Money's money."

            "We all need to make a living."

            "Damn straight."

            Feeling all cozy from our mutual assessment of the world, I continued.  "Where do you bring Sherman once the two of you leave the Oyster?"

            "Back to the room."

            "What room?"

            "The Berkshire, across the street.  Room two-twelve.  That's the key on the corner of your desk.  I tell him I crash there sometimes between flights."

            We had decided she'd tell Sherman she was a flight attendant.  It had been her first career choice.  "And then what happens?"

            "I sex him up and tell him he was so good that there's no charge."

            I shook my head.  "Don't mention money."

            "Sure.  Then you come in and pay me."

            "The Berkshire doesn't have closets.  I'll be in the room next door, listening through the wall.  Just scream if you need me and I'll come running."

            "Maybe I should charge you too.  Some people get off on listening.  There was this one time--"

            "You're not charging Sherman.  I'm paying you."

            "And I get to keep the rest of the expense money."

            "No, you return it to me."  If she thought she could keep the change, she probably wouldn't buy a single drink and the gang at the Oyster would wonder why.

            "I'm a big tipper you know.  There might not be anything left after I order a few drinks."

            "Make an effort to restrain yourself.  If you can't find Sherman, what do you do?"

            "I ask the bartender."

            "What's his name?"

            "Jimmy."

            Paul worked the bar alone but he knew the score.  Amber would be fine.  "I think you're all set.  Just remember the basics.  Oyster.  Sherman.  Berkshire.  Show him a good time and I'll pay you double your usual daily rate."

            "Don't you worry about a thing.  We done?"

            "We're done."

            "How about my expense money then?"

 

* * * * *

 

            I dropped off Amber two blocks from the Oyster and found somewhere to park.  I'd set up the camera earlier today and the rooms at the Berkshire were so small there was no chance of missing the action.

            Sherman Brown was suing his ex-employer after being pinned to the ground by a shelving unit that fell off the wall.  Sherman stated the accident left him impotent and the insurance company doctors couldn't prove it wasn't true.

            I could.  That is, Amber could.  Once I showed Sherman the tape of their glorious afternoon together, I'd instruct him to withdraw his claim immediately.  I'd even offer to dial the phone.  My client wanted Sherman off the books by the end of business today.

            I locked my car and darted through afternoon traffic.

            The doctors couldn't prove Sherman was lying but everyone assumed he was.  Sherman was simply that kind of guy, always looking for a free meal and the easy way out, never doing more than the absolute minimum required to get by and even then only producing a mediocre effort.  Throw in a lawyer who smells an emotional distress windfall and the truth becomes an inconvenience best brushed aside.

            I joined the thin pedestrian stream headed towards the Berkshire.

            What Sherman and those like him failed to understand was that the buck always stopped somewhere.  Somebody somewhere was footing the bill, a somebody who sooner or later finally decided that enough was enough and changed into boots built for stomping.  Sherman was next in line to be squashed.

            "Hey Peepers!"

            I stopped and turned to see Manny standing in the doorway to an empty storefront.  "Manny.  How's it hanging?"

            He shrugged as he stepped forward.  "Can't complain.  You working?"

            "I always have a thing or two on my plate.  That's how I keep food appearing there."

            "Yeah, that's right, even a slimeball private investigator has to eat."

            I checked to make sure no one else was paying undue attention to the discussion.  "It was nothing personal."

            "Did I say it was personal?  I never said it was personal.  Since you asked, though, my kid died last month.  What do you expect?  Where's a guy like me going to get enough money for decent healthcare if no one will even hire him?  Legally, I mean.  But what can you do?  At least it isn't personal."

            "I'm sorry to hear about your daughter."

            "Maria left me.  That wasn't personal either."  Manny laughed a laugh that raised the hairs on the back of my neck.   "She's shacked up with my ex-boss.  With him it was probably personal."

            "You shouldn't have lied on your application."

            "I'll remember that, mister employment agency.  Thanks for the advice.  From now on I'll always tell the truth."  Manny affected a stage voice.  "Excuse me, Mr. Ortega, but could you explain this reference to an arrest?"  Manny slipped back into his characteristic accent.  "Well you see, Sir, the poor girl I was in love with accused me of rape so that her dear father wouldn't beat her for allowing somebody else to draw water from a private well, if you know what I mean.  It wasn't personal."

            "I have to go now."

            "Damned if the old man didn't beat her to death anyway."  Manny licked his lips.  "That's the funny part.  In her own way, Rosita was only trying to protect the both of us but things just didn't work out as planned.  Instead, everybody lost.  Her.  Me. Even her father."

            I backed away from Manny, my eyes scanning for any sudden movement.  "Good luck, Manny."

            "Thanks.  I guess we're even now.  You took everything that still mattered in my life but then you gave me luck.  You're a hell of a guy."  Shaking his head, he retreated into the darkened doorway.

            I hurried along, muscles tensed and my ears all but rotated to the back of my head.  Manny's ex-boss had hired me to vet all the job applications on file because of a discrimination suit.  Manny was one of five employees who had lied before they signed their name.

            It wasn't personal.  I was just doing my job when I ran the background checks, when I included the results in my report.  I never even met Manny until the day his ex-boss hired me to be there when he let the five go.  That's when I heard Manny's story, his plea for a second chance.

            I ducked into the Berkshire.  Manny was past history.

            For that matter, the Berkshire was past history.  The only way this sorry excuse could still be functioning was if the various inspectors had been invited to spend a complimentary hour in one of the rooms.  Better yet, if the girls had taken them elsewhere.

            The lobby was straight out of Slum Digest, my skin crawling at the mere thought of sitting on the sunken couch that sagged against the far wall, a gray blanket crumpled in a pile at one end.  The clerk didn't even look up as I passed.

            I ignored the antique elevator and climbed the stairs to the second floor.  Seventeen steps including a landing.  I could hold my breath that long.

            The carpeting in the hall had been worn down to the floorboards in spots and there was no way to tell which of the paint colors visible on the walls was the original.  On the other hand, at least I couldn't see any drunks sleeping it off.  I'd rejected the two rooms on the third floor because I thought Sherman might have second thoughts about the Berkshire as the perfect romantic rendezvous if he had to step over bums on his way to the room.

            Unfortunately, I didn't have any other options.  The Berkshire and only the Berkshire fit the bill.  I couldn't trust Amber to bring Sherman any farther than across the street from the bar where he drank, couldn't allow Sherman a moment to think with his head.

            After taking a last look around, I opened the door to two-ten.

 

* * * * *

 

            This room was a mirror image of the room next door.  The bed was on the shared wall.  Directly across from the bed, a rickety table bowed under the weight of a television.  Past the television was the door to the bathroom:  toilet, sink, and shower stall.

            The Berkshire rented by the hour, the day, and the week.  I pitied anyone who stayed here any longer.  Truth be told, I pitied anyone who came through the front door.

            I pressed my ear against the wall but didn't hear a thing.

            It was early yet.  I was sure that Amber would take her own sweet time, collecting as many free drinks as possible before going to work on Sherman.  It was only natural.  She was making the same money whether she hustled or polished a bar stool.  Frankly, I didn't really care, just so long as she didn't forget why she was there.

            I sat on the edge of the bed.  Seeing Manny had unnerved me.  I hadn't done anything wrong and yet that's how things turned out.  He'd been a good worker until he was fired.

            Perhaps I should have handled things differently.  But how?  I'd been hired to check facts and I'd checked them.  Manny lied.  It was a simple case of black and white.

            For all I knew, maybe he was lying still.  Maybe he was a serial rapist who'd only been caught once.  Maybe if he ever had a daughter, he'd killed her himself.  Even worse, maybe he was the old man who staked out a private well.

            I'd completed the job I'd been hired to do.  My client paid me on time and threw in a bonus for me to be there that day.  I could sleep with a clear conscience.

            Someone down the hall started sobbing.

            And what about Sherman?  Maybe he was impotent because of the accident but no one believed him because they didn't want to think such a thing was possible.  If that could happen to him, it could happen to anybody.  Cross your legs and call his bluff.

            Well, if Sherman was innocent of insurance fraud, he had nothing to worry about.  Amber would fail to arouse him and the tape would back him up.  My client wouldn't be happy but I was being paid to uncover the truth, not manufacture it.

            More than likely, however, Sherman was lying.  Then he deserved whatever he got.

            I shifted and the bed groaned.

            I should have brought a book or something.  There were no end tables, no bureau.  Where was the Gideon Bible stored?  Under the bed?

            Standing, I fought the urge to pace.

            I wanted to be able to hear Amber and Sherman approach.  I wanted to be on top of the situation and wished again that I'd been able to fit a camera capable of transmitting into the space between the television and table so that I could see what was happening while it happened.

            There was always the chance that Sherman was telling the truth.  Once the scenario started to play out, he might forget his situation until it became obvious.  Then a spanking game might turn ugly as shame and rage entered the mix.  I wanted to be prepared for any eventuality.

            I paused.

            There they were now.  I could hear them fumbling at the doorknob, could hear Amber making jokes and someone who had better be Sherman laughing.  I was sunk if she brought back the wrong man because there wouldn't be time to reset the trap.

            I heard the door slam into the wall and then their voices entered the room.

            I pressed my ear against the wall.

            The door closed.

            Someone bounced on the bed.

            Indistinct words.

            Amber:  Your muscles are even bigger than I imagined.

            Sherman:  The better to spank you with.

            Amber:  I have been a bad, bad girl.

            A shuffle.

            Laughter.

            Amber cried out and then gasped.

            Sherman:  Wait.  I need to drain the monster first.

            Footsteps.

            I heard the bathroom door open, the toilet seat squeak.

            Amber, loudly:  Don't be too long or when you come back I might be doing something bad.  Then you'll have to punish me.

            The sobbing down the hall stopped.

            A door chain rattled.

            Sherman ran across the room swearing.

            The door opened and then slammed shut.

            Amber grunted.

            I heard a loud slap.

            This wasn't any sex game.

            I raced from my room and banged on the door of two-twelve.  "Open up.  This is security."

            A shout.  A scream.  A thud.

            After stepping back, I kicked the door and it flew open.

            Sherman was lying on the floor with a knife sticking out of his bare chest.  Amber stared at me with wide eyes, Sherman's wallet at her feet.

            I dropped to my knees to check him for a pulse but I couldn't find one.  I listened to his heart, his chest, his mouth.  Nothing.

            When I glanced up, Amber was gone.

            I caught up with her in the lobby.  "What the hell are you doing?  Didn't you listen to a thing I said?"

            She struggled against the hands pinning her.  "I called my brother from the bar.  He said to just grab all the cash and screw."

            I let go of her.

            Amber pulled away and crossed to the couch, laid down and curled up into a ball.

            She'd blown off the job for whatever Sherman carried in his wallet.  Plus the twenty I'd advanced her.  And then she'd murdered him rather than wait another ten seconds for me to come through the door.

            My client could clear the books but we'd never learn the truth.

            The clerk asked if there was a problem.

            I sighed.  "Yes, there's a problem.  Call the police and tell them there's a dead man in two-twelve.  Tell them the killer is still here."

            When Amber started to cry, I didn't have to heart to tell her I'd meant me.

 

 

 

END

 

 

Copyright © 2010, by Stephen D. Rogers