Nelson Algren - The New Black Mask Quarterly (№ 1)

“You have any idea what he could be talking about?”

“Not a clue. But wackos don’t need to make sense.”

“What did you do?”

“Nothin’ is what I did. But then, two days later, he calls again. And this time he says just one word: ‘Tomorrow.’ And hangs up.”

“So?”

“So I didn’t go out the next day. Stayed at my hotel. I own a .45 and I kept it out and ready. But nothing happened all day and I figured it was an empty threat.” He took a final swig from the can, squeezed it double with one hand, tossed it into a wastebasket.

“Want another?” asked Charlene.

“Yeah,” said Spillane. “How about you, Nick?”

“I’m fine. Got half the can left.”

“Okay, so around eleven o’clock I drive down to an all-night market for a six-pack and just as I’m about to park on the lot somebody lets go with a pumpgun. Blamo! Took out the left side window. But I’d seen a flash of metal from the dark side of the building just before he’d fired. I ducked and floored the pedal. Really hot-assed it outa there!”

“Did you report it to the cops?”

“No, I just got the hell back to Big Sur. Then, this month, with more commercials pegged, I had Charlie here rent me this Malibu joint. So now I’m worried that this wacko will make another try for me.”

“Have you heard from him this trip?”

“Not yet. But I expect to.”

“I still don’t see why you haven’t called in some law.”

“If I went to the cops on this they’d just tell me to wait till he takes another crack at me, then give ’em a ring. I could be stiffed by then! Also, I don’t need any publicity right now. Like I said, outside of the commercials, I keep a low profile.”

“You just might get your low profile blown away by Johnny-boy’s popgun,” I told him.

He squinted at me, gripping my left shoulder. “Look, I want you to find this psycho sonofabitch. I’ll pay whatever it costs.”

“Why me? There’s a pisspot full of private investigators in L.A. with reps better than mine.”

“Your brother recommended you,” said Spillane. “Hell, Bart and I go way back. I wanted him to handle it, but he says he’s leaving the detective game. Gettin’ too old for blonds and bullets.”

“Well, I can believe it about the bullets,” I said.

“Speaking of bullets...” Spillane gave me a hard look. “Do you pack heat?”

“When I have to,” I said. “But I don’t play it the way Bart does. He’s the family gunslinger. Enjoys shooting people. I try to avoid doing that.”

“Then you don’t carry a piece?”

“Not on me, no.”

“I make it you’ll need one when you find this guy.”

“Maybe,” I said.

Spillane leaned forward to give me a flash of the .45 holstered under his left armpit.

I whistled. “Impressive.”

“And I know how to use it.”

“Obviously you’re a lot tougher than I am,” I said. “How come you don’t go after this wacko yourself, with your big .45? Play Mike Hammer for real?”

“Hey, listen Buster, don’t kid yourself — when I was younger I did my share of mixing it up with the bad guys.” He was well into his second beer and pacing again, talking as he paced. “Even worked with the FBI to break a narco ring. That was a mean job, and I got the scars to prove it.”

“So why hire me?”

“I’m like your brother. Gettin’ too old for the rough stuff. Hell, I’ll be sixty-seven next year. I need younger muscle.”

He walked over to a desk, did some quick scribbling, and handed me a check. I looked at the sum, whistled again. It was a fat check.

“This should cover you for awhile. When you want more, give a yell. Money’s no problem.”

“I’ll need that letter,” I said. “It’s the only thing I’ve got to work with.”

He handed it over and we said our good-byes.

Charlene even smiled at me as I walked out the door.

First thing I did was run a computer trace on all of the John Carrolls in the L.A. area. Just in case the name might be legit. I found six John D. Carrolls, but there wasn’t a psycho in the lot. Which proved that the would-be killer was using a phony name.

But sometimes you get lucky.

The creep’s letter talked a lot about past lives — and it mentioned a “Kathleen.” She could possibly be somebody who did regressions... guided people back into past lives.

It was a long shot, because Kathleen might have turned out to be the guy’s wife or mother or girlfriend, even his sister. But my gut said no, that she was someone who did this kind of thing for a living. A long shot, like I said, but I played it out.

And got lucky.

I contacted a professor I knew at UCLA who was into paranormal research and right away he brightened when I asked him if he’d ever heard of anybody named Kathleen who was into the past-life bag.

“Kathleen Jenks,” he said. “She’s done several hundred regressions. A very dedicated woman. And quite friendly. You’ll like Kathleen.”

I nodded. “Where can I find her?”

“She works out of her apartment,” he told me, looking up the address. It was on Harbor Boulevard in Oxnard Shores, which is up the Ventura Freeway a few miles beyond L.A. County.

I drove there after phoning for an appointment. Told her I wanted to find out who I’d been in my last life.

It was dark by the time I arrived.

A tall, rail-thin character was just leaving her place. He gave me a long stare as we passed. Something about the way his eyes looked told me I’d be seeing him again.

I thumbed the buzzer and Kathleen Jenks opened the door of her townhouse unit. One of four apartments in the building. She shook my hand, smiled, and asked me to take off my shoes. “It’s a house rule.”

I followed her inside, carrying my shoes. My bright Irish-green socks made me feel a little silly.

Kathleen was slim and small-boned, with hazel eyes and dark waist-length hair that streamed thickly down her back. In her thirties, I guessed. Wore a long burgundy gown and had a kind of melodic voice, low-pitched and compelling.

She told me she’d been regressing people since 1974, and that she tape-recorded every regression. That interested me a lot.

“Was the guy I passed coming in here one of your clients?”

“That was Sam,” she said. “I’ve regressed him several times. Quiet sort of fellow. But with a fascinating background. He was one of Napoleon’s generals, you know. Died at Waterloo.”

“Sorry to hear that,” I said.

She smiled indulgently. “Death is never a thing to be sorry about; it’s something to look forward to. It allows us to enter the next house in our universal cosmic journey.”

“I never thought of it that way,” I admitted.

Her apartment was jammed with books and seashells and mirrors and colored rocks and oil paintings and stained-glass globes. In the middle of it all was a huddled puffball of white fur with slitted black eyes.

“Her name is Shanti,” said Kathleen, scooping up the cat. “It means ‘peace’ in Sanskrit. Say hello to the gentleman, Shanti.”

The cat hissed at me.

“She’s very tense around males. I’ll put her in the kitchen. She won’t bother us there.” Kathleen moved toward the kitchen. “Why don’t you go upstairs and lie down?”

“Huh?”

“That’s how I conduct my regressions,” she said. “With the subject lying down. There’s a couch up there in the loft. Use that. I’ll join you in a moment.”

I climbed up to the loft, found the couch, and eased onto my back. She turned the lights off downstairs and came up carrying a hooded kerosene lamp and a notebook. “I use this to provide enough light for my notes,” she told me.