"Murder Is But A Memory" drabbles by Christopher
Jake Randolph, Private Investigator Pt. 90
Murder Is But A Memory
I could see the steam coming out of his ears. I was hoping I could get them to stop the car and pull me out for a quick pummel. I was pretty confident I could get the gun away from this moron if I could get him angry enough and out of the car. I wanted to meet Vic Stane, but I wanted it to be on my terms. Unfortunately, this fish wasn't taking the bait.
"I know what you're tryin' ta do, ya know? You're tryin' ta make me lose my cool. Well, it ain't gonna work, ya know?"
Jake Randolph, Private Investigator Pt. 89
Murder Is But A Memory
I clapped my hands together and rubbed them.
"Okay, gentlemen," and I used that term quite loosely, "what's say we get better acquainted?"
The goon with the gun growled, "What's say you shut the hell up before I pistol whip your sorry ass? I owe you a good beating, ya know?"
He was the one I knocked out first with the baseball bat.
"That wasn't very sporting, ya know? Hitting me from behind wasn't nice, ya know? That's a sucker punch, ya know?"
I grinned, "Technically I used a bat, so you couldn't really call it a punch, ya know?"
Jake Randolph, Private Investigator Pt. 88
Murder Is But A Memory
I told Morgan I would be back later; wishful thinking on my part. The whole way down the stairs and into the car, all the while with a gun barrel biting at my ribs, I kept seeing flashes of gruesome deaths. And the only constant in all of them was me.
One of them shoved me into the back of their Buick Roadmaster, following me in. I was trying to keep them straight, as I had yet to learn their names, nor they mine. Strange for three people that shared such a volatile relationship, however brief it may have been...
Jake Randolph, Private Investigator Pt. 87
Murder Is But A Memory
As Mr. Morgan turned to corral the old bat back into her cave, the goon with the gun in my ribs leaned in and whispered, "Don't cause a scene, pallie. Just walk out calmly with us or I swear we'll kill everyone in this building."
I didn't know whether he meant that or not but I couldn't take the chance on testing his veracity.
After Morgan closed the old woman's door he turned back and said, "Sorry, Mr. Blackmore. She's a handful sometimes."
"That's alright," I said. "My friends and I are going for a little drive."
Yeah, my friends...
Jake Randolph, Private Investigator Pt. 86
Murder Is But A Memory
"Is there a problem, Mr. Blackmore?" Morgan asked, looking at me like I was a clown car in the middle of a funeral procession.
The old bat started flying again, "You're damned right there's a problem! This s.o.b. keeps trying to sell me encyclopedias and I don't want 'em!"
I'd had enough. I turned to the dried up hag and yelled, "Woman, I don't have any encyclopedias but if I did I'd see just how many volumes I could shove down your old throat!"
I was shaken from my tirade by the feel of a pistol barrel in my ribs...
Jake Randolph, Private Investigator Pt. 85
Murder Is But A Memory
The old bat was flapping her wings loud enough to arouse the curiosity of everyone in the building. I thought about just knocking her out, but that wouldn't be very gentlemanly.
"Lady, will you shut up? I'm not an encyclopedia salesman!"
"How dare you talk to me like that!" she squawked as her voice continually got louder. She kept whining about the encyclopedias. I heard footsteps on the stairs. I knew what was coming. And it made my stomach churn.
I turned to see Stane's two goons and Morgan standing there staring at me.
I should've just knocked her out...
Jake Randolph, Private Investigator Pt. 84
Murder Is But A Memory
I turned to see a little old woman. She was holding onto the door frame to keep from falling over. I could smell the cheap gin from across the hall. She was wearing a terry bathrobe that looked like it hadn't been washed since the Roosevelt administration, and I mean Teddy Roosevelt. Her eyes were swimming laps in their sockets like an Olympic gold medalist.
"I told you idiots," she yelled loud enough to wake the dead in the neighboring state, "I don't want any damned encyclopedias! Now get the hell out of here before I go call the cops!"
Jake Randolph, Private Investigator Pt. 83
Murder Is But A Memory
After what seemed like an eternity, the goon I smacked with the bat but never spoke to came up the stairs, making a beeline for Diana's apartment. That must mean the one I exchanged words with was downstairs at the front desk, and he's the only one of the two that could recognize me. I needed to slip out of the building and follow them to see where they go. Probably back to Stane's casino.
I was turning to head for the fire escape when I heard something behind me. A door opened and someone stepped out into the hall...
Jake Randolph, Private Investigator Pt. 82
Murder Is But A Memory
I left my gun in the glove compartment of my car. I don't generally carry a gun on my person, which in times like this one makes me rethink that policy. The two thugs crossed the street and walked to the front doors. I wondered if one of them was going to keep Morgan busy while the other came up here, or if they would either bribe or strong arm him and both come up together. I slipped quietly out of Diana's apartment and went down the hall. I turned the corner and peeked back at the stairwell and waited...
Jake Randolph, Private Investigator Pt. 81
Murder Is But A Memory
I don't know why but I reached down and gathered Diana's bowling trophies and gently replaced them on the shelf.
Movement down on the street caught my eye. It was a couple of fellas I recently played a short game of baseball with, Stane's two Neanderthal goons. I guessed they were back to see if they overlooked anything.
I can imagine the conversation with Stane. He probably told them to go back and check again and if they didn't come up with the dough this time they would be in the concrete foundation of Stane's next addition to his casino...
Jake Randolph, Private Investigator Pt. 80
Murder Is But A Memory
Once I knew Diana's identity, the matter still had to be cleared up regarding the 250 g's and why Vic Stane's men were chasing her like a couple of rabid bloodhounds, especially if they were a couple. I could only surmise that she must've run off with his money for some reason. But whether he loved her or not, that would be cause enough for ole' Vic to send his goons to whack her and recover the money. I guess he didn't bank on his men being inept enough to run her off a mountain and strike her with amnesia...
Jake Randolph, Private Investigator Pt. 79
Murder Is But A Memory
In a broken frame, behind a shattered piece of glass, was a photograph of Kerri with her arm around Vic Stane. Both had smiles, looking like the perfect couple. My heart sank. I half expected it to turn out that way, but seeing it there in black and white felt like a punch in the stomach. I pulled the picture out and flipped it over. On the back the words "Vic and Diana, 1949" were scribbled across.
Well, Kerri... I mean Diana, hired me to find out who she was, which I did. But I couldn't stop there. No way...
Jake Randolph, Private Investigator Pt. 78
Murder Is But A Memory
I cautiously made my way to the window and knelt down, picking up one of the trophies. Engraved on a little plaque at the bottom of the trophy it said: "Diana Blackmore - Winner of the 1947 Las Vegas Bowl-Off." The other trophies were the same only for different years.
That explained why a bowling ball bag was part of this mystery, but they don't award 250 thousand dollars for winning a bowling tournament. I still needed to find out if Kerri was in fact Diana Blackmore, some kind of documents or photographic evidence.
And that's when I saw it...
Jake Randolph, Private Investigator Pt. 77
Murder Is But A Memory
It would've been a nice little apartment if it hadn't been ransacked. There were a couple of nice paintings on the wall, one of a snow covered barn and the other looked to be a water color painting of a vase full of white daisies.
I stepped over all the clutter on the floor and walked into the middle of the living room, spinning on my heel for a panoramic view. I noticed a shelf near the window, whose contents had been swept into the floor. Now it began to make sense. It was four little plastic gold bowling trophies...
Jake Randolph, Private Investigator Pt. 76
Murder Is But A Memory
The place looked like it had been hit by a hurricane. And I bet I knew the hurricane's name: Vic.
Drawers were pulled out and their contents dumped onto the floor. Books had been snatched off shelves and were lying in a chaotic pile. The cushions had been pulled off the sofa and sliced open. This place had been gone over with a fine toothed comb and I knew just what they were looking for too: 250 g's, in or out of a certain bowling ball bag.
Unless they broke into my bank's safe deposit box they wouldn't find it...
Jake Randolph, Private Investigator Pt. 75
Murder Is But A Memory
I left Morgan in the lobby and took the stairs to the second floor. I paused when I reached the door of number 28. I was afraid of what I would find behind it. Was Kerri really Diana Blackmore? Behind that door would I find out what kind of life she had? I went to unlock it but it wasn't locked. There were scratch marks on the door frame by the door knob. I know when a door's been jimmied; I've done it enough times myself. I pushed the door slowly open. I wasn't prepared for what I found inside...
Jake Randolph, Private Investigator Pt. 74
Murder Is But A Memory
Morgan's demeanor changed dramatically once he had the rent money in his sweaty little hands, like a politician who's buttering up his constituents just before an election.
"You know what? Diana's mentioned you a lot too. Says you're a great guy, ya know?" he said. He seemed to lie effortlessly. Maybe he should be a politician, or a private investigator.
"Just being a flattering sister. Listen, do you think you could let me into Diana's room? As I said, she won't be back for a few days."
He smiled, reaching under the counter, "Here, you can take this extra key."
Jake Randolph, Private Investigator Pt. 73
Murder Is But A Memory
"How much is her rent?" I asked, hoping I had enough to cover it.
"Two hundred and fifty eight dollars," he said evenly.
I had raided my piggy bank before I left L.A., despite squeals of protest. I had about 300 bucks after paying for my motel room, but if this was Kerri's apartment I couldn't very well let her belongings be chucked into the street.
As I began pulling bills out of my wallet, his eyes widened as if he was watching a burlesque dancer who was mere moments away from clocking out for the night and going home...
Jake Randolph, Private Investigator Pt. 72
Murder Is But A Memory
"Dennis Blackmore," I said, still holding out my hand. "I'm Diana Blackmore's brother. She speaks very highly of you."
He looked at my outstretched hand and then back at me and said, "Yeah? Well, I haven't seen that broad in weeks. And she owes me the rent. If I don't have it by tomorrow I'm tossing her crap out in the street."
I pulled out my wallet, "Yes, I'll be paying her rent. We had a death in the family. She's been out of town but is coming back in a few days. She said you would let me in."
Jake Randolph, Private Investigator Pt. 71
Murder Is But A Memory
I pushed the lobby doors open and walked to the front desk. There was a very unhappy looking little man behind it: short, balding, a gut hanging over his belt that looked as if his water would break and he would go into labor at any moment. I looked down at the desk and saw a little plaque with the name Art Morgan on it and the word manager underneath it.
I stuck my hand out, "Are you Mr. Morgan?"
He looked up suspiciously from his newspaper.
"I'm Morgan. Suppose you tell me who in the hell you are, pal."
