Curt Colbert - Seattle Noir

Gus took a deep breath in the cold air. It hurt his lungs-he wasn’t used to breathing that deep. Next, he hoisted himself up and into the dumpster, gingerly stepping into the smelly mess. He pushed aside the gunk until he’d made a place for the dealer’s body. Gus turned him over so that he lay facedown, his dick on the freezing metal bottom of the dumpster. Then he covered him with the stinky mash of rinds and peelings and other discarded food.

It was a fitting end and a lesson the dope dealer would live with painfully for a long time.

Gus climbed out, closed the lid, and went inside again. He tidied up after himself, cleaning his pants and shoes and socks. He found white vinegar in the restaurant kitchen and wiped down all the surfaces he had touched, then moved outside and wiped down the dumpster too.

He went back inside and checked around one more time before he turned out the lights, flipped the lock, and closed the door.

Gus collected the drug money that hadn’t gone into the Rasta’s mouth, and he took all the dope and stuck it in his gym bag. The money would make a nice anonymous contribution to the Gospel Men’s Mission. The dope he’d unload into the nearest sewer drain. He hoped the salmon would get a good buzz when it reached the Sound.

Gus heard the heavy motor of a truck pulling into the far end of the alley and the squeal of brakes. He ducked around the corner and looked back. It was a city garbage truck, the big kind that compacted the garbage. Gus stayed to watch. He saw the truck’s long skid arms slip under the dumpster, lifting and then emptying it into the truck. The dumpster’s lid clanged as it was lowered. Then the mechanical sound of the compactor’s motor revved as it efficiently ground up the contents.

Gus leaned back against the rough brick side of a building, hidden from view of the garbage crew in the alley. Then he bowed his head, but it wasn’t in prayer. He was staring at the realization, as clear as if printed on a poster in front of him. He could’ve stopped the truck-and the compactor. Maybe shouted or waved his arms before the terrible sound of the grinding wheels.

But he hadn’t. Now he’d have to live with that memory too. Gus shrugged.

It was a bad end to a bad creep.

Gus stuffed his free hand in his pocket and started walking. Before he caught the bus for downtown, he fed the dope and pills into a sewer grate and tossed the bag into a garbage can.

Gus got off on First Avenue and walked to Pioneer Square. He found a dank tavern and had some quick shots-he knew from practice exactly how many dulled the sharp edges of memory but still left him able to figure out next steps.

The odds were that the trash collectors would find or see something funny. Maybe the dealer’s skinny bones would jam the mechanism. Or the garbage collectors would notice a lot of blood and do some checking. Once something like that was reported, it would be carried on the local news. Probably say, What’s Seattle coming to? Do-gooders would be up in arms at such a heinous crime. Gus laughed at the image. Peaceniks armed with pitchforks, not rifles.

Gus welcomed the mellow numbness beginning to spread in his body. He wanted it to reach his chest, to surround his heart. Still its beating. Gus shook himself. Now was when he had to be really careful. He needed to think, and he pushed his shot glass away with a shaking hand.

Seattle PD had good cops. They might not care if a dope dealer ended up as beef stew in the city dump. But they’d follow through with their investigation. The headlines and the City Council would demand that.

A good investigator would interview all of the shopkeepers and restaurant folks around the alley. Ask the drifters and bums if they’d seen anything. The cops would sure as hell assume there was some connection between a Rastafarian and a Caribbean restaurant. And the owner could ID him. So could some of the punk kids he’d approached about buying drugs.

If they did a sketch from the café owner’s description and ran it over the wire, his picture might turn up. Sure as hell, his name and the fact that he’d been a cop in San Jacinto would come out. And why he’d left the police force.

The word would spread. Rogue cop.

Gus threw a couple bills down beside his glass and left the bar. He started walking, not caring where. He had a headache that was the granddaddy of all headaches, knocking the sides of his skull and traveling down to his shoulders. Suddenly, Gus felt too weary to move, his feet, dead weights. He couldn’t lift them. He shuffled into a doorway and leaned against the shop window.

Gus thought of Sweet Sue… and Jenny, and he wanted to cry. But couldn’t do that. The well had dried up a long time ago. He muttered, “Gus Maloney, you’ve screwed up your life. Big time.”

He nodded in agreement with himself. Then, after a long while, he slowly pulled himself together and swiped his eyes with his hand.

There’s no going back.

But Gus did change direction.

He headed for the hospital and Sweet Sue. Gus knew what he had to do. After he checked on Sweet Sue, he’d pack up and get out of town, head south, maybe just to Tacoma. Lay low. But be close enough that he could check on Sweet Sue. Soon as the old geezer was well, he’d let him know that he wanted his aide-de-homeless-camp with him again.

Belltown

I hate domestic cases. As long as I’ve been a private eye, they’ve been as unpredictable as counting on a sunny day here in Seattle. Harry Truman upsetting Dewey in last year’s election was no big surprise at all compared to domestic cases. They can ruin your day faster than losing a bundle on the wrong nag or saying “I do” to the wrong dame.

So why did I do it? Take the Dorothy Demar/Harold Sikes case, I mean. I’ve been asking my bottle of Cutty Sark that question ever since it was full and I still don’t have a good answer. It has been getting a little easier to ask the question, though. Decent Scotch doesn’t do a thing to solve the eternal mystery of sin and sordidness, but it does make it slightly easier to swallow.

Dorothy Demar entered my office without knocking while my girl Friday, Miss Jenkins, was out having her usual at the Woolworth’s lunch counter. At least Miss Jenkins could afford to go out to lunch. Me, I was dining on yesterday’s liverwurst slapped between two hunks of last week’s bread. I had some slight money troubles. It was payday and I’d sucked my bank account dry forking over my girl Friday’s salary. Worse, I’d blown the last C-note I had in reserve for the down payment on the fancy-schmancy two-way radios that I’d had my sights set on for the better part of a year. Cops had them, why not me? Yeah, well, now I had my two-way radios, but my name was going to be mud at Queen City Electronics without the dough for the balance of the account, which, coincidentally, just happened to be due today. Nothing I hated worse than a welcher-and that was going to be me, I was thinking, when Dorothy Demar sashayed in.

“Jake Rossiter?”

Husky voice for a female. More like a command than a question.

“Who’s asking?”

I glanced up from my desk, startled that the owner of the whiskey voice turned out to be such a hot number.

“Dorothy.”

The way she peeled off her long white gloves reminded me of a woman slowly taking off her nylon stockings. This dame just dripped with sultry allure. Got me excited-got me nervous-didn’t know which emotion to act on.

So, there I sat-and there she stood-tall, slim, busty, early thirties at most, with a blond Veronica Lake hairdo over high cheekbones, perfect skin, and a button nose, her powder-blue, two-piece silk ensemble so snug that I had to catch my breath.