The Dangerous Type
 by Anthony Vincent Rain

It was 11:00pm on a Tuesday night and McGee's was hopping. I was sitting at the long mahogany bar, sipping Glenfiddich and watching the crowd in the equally long mirror. Some had come from the theatre further down on Broadway, others had just got out of work, or were meeting friends for drinks. I was there celebrating solo the closing of a very lengthy industrial espionage case. I had earned a nice five-figure fee as the PI gathering evidence for the plaintiff's lawyer, and I thought a few glasses of single malt scotch were in order. 

Brian the bartender came over and poured more Glenfiddich into my glass. He was an ex-minor league ballplayer who never made it past the small stadiums and playing fields of Massachusetts and Upstate New York. He was good and probably could have turned pro, except he broke his leg running into an outfield wall made of wood and cinderblock. He spent the following two years painfully realizing his dream was over, then knocked around Manhattan before opening this place down the block from my office. 

"You look tired, Miles. Did you have to kill many bad guys today?" 

"None so far." 

He laughed and put the green-colored bottle on the shelf behind him. "I hope you noticed I put Brubeck on the CD player when you walked in." Brian knew I was a jazz fan and Brubeck was my current fave. 

"Brian, you the man." 

"'Did you kill many guys today.' That sounds ominous." The comment came from a strawberry blonde sitting to my right at the bar. She was young and dressed casually in jeans and pale shirt, in contrast to the trendy Gotham women floating around McGee's. 

"I'm a private investigator. It's sophomoric inside humor. And I think he said 'bad guys,' which is ok in my book." 

"What kind of investigating do you do?" 

"All kinds, really. Surveillance, background investigation, bodyguard work, bail enforcement. Missing persons is a large chunk, too." 

There was an empty barstool between us. She picked up her drink, a cola-colored concoction, and moved over. Brian winked at me, then walked over to a man calling out "chief, chief" at the other end of the bar. 

"I could use a private detective," she said. The down-turned corners of her mouth echoed her words. 

"How so?" 

"I'm looking for my brother. Tommy and I had a falling out two years ago. I came to New York because a friend of mine happened to see Tommy in the city last month. I'm from St. Louis. I could use your help in finding him." 

The scotch was already making my limbs numb and my eyes heavy. I was in no condition to fight the better urges in me to turn a deaf ear. I didn't need this case, but there was a dark energy about her that intrigued me. "Alright, tell me about him." 

She took a drag on her cigarette and the exhaled smoke hung over her like a black cloud. "His name is Tom Johnson. I'm Mary Johnson, by the way. About two years ago, our parents died in car accident in Las Vegas. They were not rich people, my dad worked in insurance and my mom was a teacher. They had a house and some savings. My parents left half the savings to Tom, and the remainder plus the house went to me. Tom held a grudge about this. He moved away and never contacted me again. I want to find him. I miss him. Can you help me?" She took a sip of her drink and looked at me intently over the rim of the glass. 

"Probably. My office is down the block." I gestured with my drink to the window behind her looking out onto West 55th Street. "You can come by tomorrow and we can talk more about it. I have to tell you I'm expensive, but not any more than most good private detectives." 

"Can we do it now?" She reached out and touched my arm, not in a sexy way. 

"What's the rush?" 

"I'm kind of anxious. I left several urgent matters on hold at home. I have to get back to St. Louis soon." 

I was in no mood to go up to my office. I saw a booth opening up next to the jukebox near the back. I gestured to the table, picked up my drink, while she took up hers and her cigarettes and we relocated. 

She proceeded to tell me that her brother was a carpenter and worked in construction. She gave me a photo of him, and I noticed that he looked nothing like her. She was very fair, but Tommy was dark-haired and somewhat swarthy. 

"He took after my father, while I took after my mother." 

"You got the better end of the deal, " I said. She laughed and smiled for the first time that night. "Where can I reach you?" I asked. 

"I'm staying with some friends in Queens. They have two little children and I don't want to disturb them with phone calls and messages. I'll be in touch with you." 

I gave her my cell number. 

"I have to ask you one last thing," she said. "Please do not approach him. I'm afraid he will run away again. He's such a hot head. I want to be the first one to talk to him." 

"You're the boss," I said. 

The next day, I used some sources in the Mayor's Office to obtain a list of permits granted for construction projects in Manhattan. Over the next two days, I did footwork. I started downtown near the ferries, showing Tommy's photo at various construction sites. On the second day, a construction worker operating a mixer on Duane Street told me Tommy looked like a guy doing carpentry renovation on a project on the Lower East Side. He didn't know exactly where. 

"I worked with him on a building in Midtown. He told me he was headed over there to work on a brownstone. He wasn't union, but he did good work." 

"You're sure it's the same guy?" He took the photo again in large hands covered with gray cement powder. 

"Yeah, that's him." 

There were several ongoing renovation and construction projects on turn-of-the-century brownstones in the East Village, and they all centered around Tompkins Square Park. As it happened, I lived on the north side of the park. The whole neighborhood had been cleaned up in the late 1990's and was fast becoming an 'in place' to live. When I first moved in fifteen years ago, the junkies were everywhere. 

I knew that the Ukrainian restaurants on Avenue A were popular for serving great food at cheap prices, and that practically everyone went there. I frequented them regularly myself. 

I showed Tommy's photo to Eugene, the counter man at Odessa's. 

"Yeah, sure. He comes in for breakfast occasionally." 

"Was he in today?" 

"No, not today. You can talk to him probably tomorrow. Tomorrow kielbasa is our breakfast special. I remember he liked them. Everyone likes them." 

I contemplated checking the construction sites nearby on my list, but this seemed like a solid lead. Since it was late afternoon already, and I was close to home, I packed it in for the day. 

Later that night, Mary called me on my cell when I was at home going through The New York Times. 

"Mr. Beckett, its Mary. Did you find out anything?" 

"I've located the restaurant where your brother eats breakfast. It's in the East Village on Avenue A and 7th Street. I can stake it out tomorrow, if you want." 

"No. I'll go myself early tomorrow morning. Thank you so much, Mr. Beckett." Her voice sounded brittle over the phone. I figured it was the pressure of seeing her brother after an unpleasant breakup. 

up. I got out of bed and stepped outside to see where the white and blue Crown Victoria cruisers were headed. It had drizzled overnight, and the streets were slick and shiny. I saw flashing lights accumulating on Avenue A. 

Putting on some clothes quickly, I jogged over and my stomach knotted when I realized the center of attention was Odessa's. I knew one of the cops by the door and he let me pass, more from the commotion than anything. At the counter sat a man in work clothes and work boots, with his head down in a plate of kielbasa and eggs. I walked around him and saw a neat bullet hole in the back of his head, just under his left ear. Blood flowed from the wound down his neck and onto his plaid shirt collar, staining it a dark red. Blood also ran from his left ear. I looked at the face and recognized the man whose photo I had been showing around town the past two days. 

waiter who had been present the day before, when I had spoken to Eugene, recognized me. I had obviously been the topic of his conversation to two patrols in the process of interviewing him. 

"That's him," he blurted out. The sergeant grabbed me and shoved me down on a table and I felt the air rush out of my lungs. Cuffs were fastened around my wrists. When the sergeant pulled me back up, I saw Eugene shaking his head behind the counter. 

The interrogation room at the Fifth Precinct is like most of the other precincts. It's a squat, square room with no windows, stuffy and smelling of stale coffee and the nervous sweat of suspects. It was painted puke green. A single beaten up table sat in the middle of the room, and someone had carved "suck me" into the top. A two-way mirror against the far wall gave whoever was behind it a good look at the whole room. 

I knew one of the cops questioning me. Harry Pappas was middle-aged and looking to early retirement. He carried the weariness of his entire homicide career on his shoulders and in his face muscles. 

His thick fingers rubbed at a yellow stain he was trying to wipe out of his tan sport coat. "So take me through it once more, Miles." 

"Harry. You're not going to hear it any different. I'm not trying to get anything past you." 

"Smart man. But let me hear it again," he sighed. 

I repeated the facts of the case. 

"So you never actually spoke to the stiff?" 

"Never. And there was no need to bring me in here cuffed." 

"The sergeant was doing his job. He didn't know the extent of your involvement." 

A voice in the corner boomed at me. "You have to admit Beckett that things seem too close together. You're asking around for the guy one day and he gets popped the next." Pappas' partner, Jorge Garcia moved from his leaning perch near the two-way and stood next to the table. He was chunkier than Pappas, and I could see under his expansive belly that he had made new holes in his belt. His tight tie looked like a garrote around his thick neck. "I think maybe you found him so your client could pop him." 

"I'm having the same thoughts. Only she didn't let me in on the plan." I turned to Pappas. "Are you charging me with accessory? If not, I'm going home." 

There was a knock on the two-way. Both detectives got up and left, closing the door behind them. The started drinking the coffee that Pappas had given me when we first arrived. I abruptly stopped when the bitter taste nearly choked me. Its amazing the shit that cops will drink. After ten minutes, during which time I went over in my head the means for tracking Mary Johnson down, which bottom lined at zilch, the detectives came back in and left the door open. 

"I want you to take a look at some mug shots. Then I want you to give a description of the woman to our artist." The expression on their faces had changed. 

"What did the Lieutenant call you inside for?" 

"Its private police information." 

"We're on the same page here, Pappas. She played me and I want her as much as you do. You got a line on something?" 

Pappas looked at Garcia, who looked away. Then he looked at me. "The stiff's real name was Tommy Phillipi. We ran his prints in the database and his name came up tagged to the Organized Crime Investigation Division. OCID has him listed as a shooter for garbage in Nevada, a Johnny DeStefano." 

"He's a long way from home." 

"Maybe he was working on a long-distance project for DeStefano. Or he was loaned out. Maybe your client is hired muscle mixed up with a gang war." 

I spent the next half-hour looking at several pages of female mug shots. The faces looking back at me were a combination of scared, defiant or placid. Many looked spaced out on drugs. The ones that showed no emotion scared me the most. None of them was Mary Johnson. 

My next stop was the forensic artist. I sat down next to him at a computer console and using a blank template and then pulling up screens of various facial parts, he compiled them together until he had a near-likeness of my client. He manually filled in the nuances of her face. It was nearly dead-on accurate. He printed it out and gave me a copy. 

Pappas warned me to be a good boy and to stay in touch. I promised him I would, but I'm a damn good liar. 

Back out on the street, I put on my leather coat and put my returned cell phone back in my pocket. I felt something in there and pulled out a book of matches. I remembered Mary had left them at the bar and I had picked them up. The cover read "Hotel Earl, West Fourth Street." I wrapped them in tissue and put them back. I would give them to Pappas to check for prints later, right now I was pressed for time. I hailed a cab downtown for what I hoped would be a rendezvous with Ms. Johnson, or whoever the fuck she really was. 

The Hotel Earl was a small, seven-story structure of dark brown brick nestled between apartment houses down the block from NYU. The drizzle had started up again and made the building look even darker. The lobby was small, not too clean and moderately lit, and it smelled of take-out. A desk clerk was behind the counter. He looked young, with frosted hair and a camouflage tee shirt and a pierced eyebrow. I made him for an NYU student. 

I put my copy of the sketch of Mary Johnson on the counter and slapped a twenty next to it. 

"I'm looking for this woman and I believe she was staying here as recently as this morning." 

The young man pocketed the cash and then picked up the sketch. "It looks like 6C." He turned to his computer and punched some keys. "Joanna Carlson. She checked out this morning before eight o'clock." 

"Does it give any other information on her?" 

"Nope. She walked in and paid cash deposit for her room. She was here for four days, including yesterday." 

"Has her room been given to anyone else yet?" 

He looked at the screen. "Nope. House cleaning hasn't gotten to it, either." 

"Ok. Can I get a look at it?" I put two more twenties on the counter. The kid pocketed them next to their brother and handed me the key. 

"Tell me what you can about her." 

"Nothing really. She wasn't talkative. She would come in and go to her room. We don't have a kitchen, so there would be no room service requests." 

"Any phone calls received or made?" 

He looked at the screen. "No. No messages received, no phone charges. Wait! She used the payphone over there." He pointed to the other end of the lobby. "There was some kind of gas line break yesterday morning and Con Ed shut down some power lines and Verizon had to disrupt the phone lines, too. All our house phones went dead and all the payphones in the area. For some reason bizarre reason, only that phone worked. She asked me to break a ten-dollar bill into change. She said she had to make a long distance call. I told her she should look into phone cards. I use them all the time. They're real cool." 

"How many people used the payphone that morning?" 

"Not many. The gas line break happened early, like six a.m. They had it fixed before most of the guests were up, like nine a.m. She was up early." 

I thanked him and went up to her room, stopping first by the payphone and copying down the number. Most street payphones don't have numbers, because the police don't want them used by drug dealers for business. Hotel payphones were another matter. They often have numbers for guest convenience, and the police leave it up to house security to monitor them. 

When I walked into Mary's room, I realized right away that Pappas and Garcia would get very little out of it. The room was a dump and would yield prints and DNA by the hundreds. She was smart enough to leave no garbage behind. 

I sat on the bed and called my police contact, Det. Charlie Driscoll. I had gotten him out of a major jam once, and I also used him as an operative from time to time. He appreciated both. 

"Charlie. I need to get the phone records for a payphone in the Hotel Earl on West Fourth. I need them starting four days ago, but I'm primarily interested in yesterday. Call me on my cell. I need it ASAP." I gave him the payphone number and he said he would see what he could do. 

I stretched out on the bed and napped for about a half-hour, I was tired from having been woken up early by the police sirens. My cell rang just as I was dozing off. 

"Miles, I got the records on the payphone." Charlie told me that eight calls had been made on the day in question, when Mary used it for a long-distance call. All were local calls to various Broadway theatres, or tour bus companies and museums in the city. One was to a number in Brooklyn. The only long distance call was to a 308 area code. I didn't recognize it. 

I hung up with Charlie and dialed the Brooklyn number first. Someone answered in Spanish, and our conversation didn't get very far. I tried the 308 number next. 

"Federated Bank of Wilson." 

"Wilson? Do you mind telling me what city and state I'm calling?" 

"You're calling Wilson, Nebraska." The operator sounded wary, like I was trying to pull a joke on her. All the jokes seemed to be on me, however. 

"Is this a bank?" 

"Yes it is. Can I help you with something, sir?" 

"I'm trying to reach my friend Mary Johnson, or her sister Joanna Carlson?" 

"I don't recognize those names, sir." 

I hung up. 

I sat back on the bed and thought. If Mary was muscle hired to kill Tommy Phillipi, then maybe she was checking to see if the hit money had been deposited. If the cash was there, then the kill would happen. 

I left the room and headed out of the hotel. I wanted payback. Mary had played me and I didn't like it. I went home to get my gun permits, and to check on flights to Nebraska. 

I drove about an hour southwest, past enormous fields of wheat and corn, and past large tracts of land covered with roaming cows. The city sign outside Wilson stated it was a town of 1500 hundred people, and driving through it I could see it had a fair collection of stores and restaurants. Nevada Street was just off the main drag, and the Federated Bank of Wilson stood on a corner lot by itself. It reminded me of the town bank where I grew up and had my first savings account. 

I grabbed the sketch of Mary from the front seat and walked in. I was going to start with customer service, until I saw the woman behind the counter. 

It was Mary. 

I did an about face and walked back to my car. This chick was full of surprises. Shooters naturally went to great lengths to conceal their everyday persona, but not this one. She most likely thought no one would actually trace her to the hotel and then the payphone, but still. 

My watch said it was two p.m. and the bank closed at three. I walked around town and ordered burgers from a joint called Mack's, then sat in my car, ate and waited. At 3:30pm, she came out and got into a blue pickup. I gave her some lead-time, then followed her along low-hill terrain to another small town of scattered houses called Holbrooke. She pulled into the drive of a white ranch house. I parked and waited about ten minutes, then got out. No one was in sight. I looked in the front windows. I didn't see her, so I tried the front door, which was unlocked. 

The TV was on in the living room and I heard activity in the kitchen and drew my gun. She walked in and I raised my custom-made Ed Brown .45 to her eye level. She gasped, but quickly regained her composure. 

"You're sloppy for a shooter. The silk suits usually demand better quality." 

"I don't know what you're talking about." Her deceitful eyes didn't cooperate with her lying mouth. 

"I'm talking about Tommy Phillipi. He obviously wasn't your brother, unless you're into fratricide. Who paid you to take him out? Another family, or DeStefano?" 

She wiped her hands on her jeans. "No one paid me. I killed the sonofabitch for myself. The bastard was my husband." 

"Your husband?" 

"I married Tommy three years ago. I had met him in Los Angeles, where I had moved from Kansas. I had followed a girlfriend to the West Coast. We had the stupid idea we could be actresses. I met Tommy and married him after knowing him only one month. I didn't know what he did. After we married, we moved to Las Vegas. I stayed married to him for two years. Two years of hell. He beat me constantly and I found out who he was. A killer. I ran before he finally killed me. 

"I ran to this town. He found me somehow. He called me one night. He told me I would never be rid of him. He said that he had some work to do for DeStefano in New York. That meant he was going to kill someone. Then he said he was coming to see me. I think he planned to kill me, too. I had heard on the national news that DeStefano was under investigation and that his crew was being rounded up. I think Tommy feared what I knew about him." 

"Why didn't you go to the police?" 

"Police? What could they do for me? I know first hand that Tommy killed two men in police protection. He was crazy. I had to kill him. I decided to surprise him. I went to New York, but I wasn't thinking. I realized I had no way of finding him. I was about to give up, when I met you in the bar." 

I lowered my gun. "What's your real name?" 

"Joanna Stewart Phillipi. I just go by Joanna Stewart now." 

"Why did you call your job?" 

"I wasn't sure how long it would take you to find Tommy. I was calling in for more sick time." 

The glare from the television coupled with the fading light washed out the color from her face. She looked gray. Probably the realization of the deep shit she was in contributed to that. She moved over to the sofa and sat on the arm. 

"In my mind, I was killing an animal. And now I have a question for you, Mr. Beckett. What are you going to do with me?" 

My favorite part of flying back to New York is when the plane goes directly over Manhattan. The skyscrapers seem to take on an inverted personality. They are no longer behemoths that I look up at, but rather things of considerable size that are somehow smaller than I am. I feel like a giant. 

I had left Joanna sitting in a Kearney police cell waiting for the local FBI. She knew enough about Tommy's past to do a lot of damage to DeStefano. I figured the FBI would be willing to make a trade-off. Her agreeing to testify against DeStefano and any other wise guys she had information about, in return for immunity and non-prosecution of murder. 

I would call Pappas when my plane landed. I figured he would fight to get her extradited, and he would hold me responsible for obstruction of justice. But I could handle him. Tommy Phillipi was a murderer. In my book, he had gotten what he deserved. If Joanna had been honest with me in the beginning, I may have even iced the scumbag for her. 

The End


Anthony Vincent Rain makes his home in New York City. He has contributed stories to Without A Clue, Plots With Guns, Thrilling Detective and has an upcoming story in Nefarious: Tales of Mystery. He currently reviews books and movies for Over My Dead Body! and he is a new member of the Mystery Writers of America. He is completing a hardboiled novel.