Jim Cogan - The Dirty City

“Dr Del-Ray, my apologies for being late.”

“Mr Jerome, thank you for fitting us into your busy schedule,” she offered a dainty hand, which I shook politely. “This is my lab associate, Dr Walter Smitts.”

Christ, I hadn’t even noticed him! He was sat to her right side, sporting a look of general disinterest, a short, skinny, runt of a guy – I estimated about mid-thirties. He sported a conservative shirt, trousers and tie coupled with a truly tasteless waistcoat. He was evidently also a brainiac, but without the social skills that Dr Del-Ray possessed. He barely acknowledged being introduced, so I merely smiled briefly in his direction then turned my attention back her.

“And how can I assist you both?”

“We’re both research academics at the Santa Justina Institute for Advanced Studies. Our current research is a little, unusual .”

“Unusual is always good, keeps life interesting. Do go on.”

“The occult, Mr Jerome,” piped up Smitts for the first time.

“Excuse me?”

“Paranormal activity, unexplained phenomena – places modern science doesn’t normally go,” said Del-Ray, in a diffusing tone.

“What, ghosts and shit?” Great, yet more crazy talk.

Smitts rolled his eyes, but Del-Ray persisted, “I appreciate this sounds a little - farfetched , I can assure you, we’re not crazies, We apply scientific methods to investigating things that don’t provide simple, rational explanations. Like all scientists, we are seekers of the truth.”

“Okay, sounds swell, but what do you need me for?”

“Why indeed?” Smitts muttered under his breath, but knowingly loud enough for me to hear. So there was a dynamic here, she was the one who wanted to hire me, he was against it – but she was the senior partner.

“Walter, please. That’s enough, let Mr Jerome hear us out first.”

“I’m all ears, sweetheart.” I could tell right away she hated being labelled with such a disposable term of endearment, I could read the disapproval in her face. Which cheered me a up a bit, I was coming to the conclusion she was a bit of a tight-ass.

“There are some strange things going on in this city, Mr Jerome. People are going missing, the city is being flooded with cheap, plentiful supplies of an extremely dangerous and addictive narcotic-.”

“Yep, know all that.”

She hated being interrupted too!

“Witnesses are reporting very unusual sightings. People, after dark who lurk in the shadows-.”

“Dr Del-Ray, you’re describing three quarters of the underworld gangsters in the entire city.”

“Please can you refrain from interrupting me with your petty wisecracks, there is no-one else here in this room to appreciate them.”

Well, that told me!

“These people, they’re described as being fast, unbelievably stealthy, impossibly strong. And they only come out at night.”

Oh boy, I couldn’t believe it, yet more crazy talk!

“I still don’t see what you want me to do?”

“We want to understand what they are, Mr Jerome. And what they want with the people they’re kidnapping,” interjected Smitts.

“Sounds really fascinating, honest – it really does,” which was my nice way of saying that this sounds like time wasting bullshit! “But, this is the stuff of teenage Halloween fiction and I’m a serious private detective, I don’t see a job for me here.”

“Frankly, you disappoint me, Mr Jerome.” Del-Ray’s features hardened, I figured she’d finally had enough of me at that point. “Two respected academics want to hire you to investigate something of extraordinary scientific and social significance, and you’d sooner be doing what? Finding missing drug addicts and spying on unfaithful spouses?”

“Hey, I do my best to keep an open mind, but this – this is a folly that could damage my credibility.”

“I’m sorry you feel that way – most PI’s share your sentiment, but I was led to believe that you might be more understanding, evidently I was mistaken.”

“I apologise if I’ve been misrepresented.”

“This is my card, it has my contact details for me at the Institute. I would urge you, if in a few days time things start going a little bit insane, then you might actually find you need our help.” She dropped the printed card onto my desk and briskly rose from her chair, “good afternoon, Mr Jerome.”

“And good afternoon to you, Dr Del-Ray,” I looked over at Smitts and couldn’t resist a last jibe at him, “And whatever your name was, my friend.”

Smitts sneered and turned his nose up at me as if he’d just seen me defecate on the floor. What an asshole. She was feisty, though, but definitely a tight-ass.

I found Del-Ray and Smitts somewhat laughable, I was an ashamed sceptic, but the days strangeness quota kept on increasing. I had to admit, it was interesting and I was curious, but I was also a realist – I had real work to do and chasing shadows was surely going to be a distraction from that, so I tried to put it out of my mind…

With the trail on Anton Jameson going colder by the hour, I decided to change tack a little. I’d tried talking to the mob, I figured it was time to get the inside track from the cops.

I got told once, by a pretty senior cop, that if you see a cop in his fifties, working the beat on the streets, no promotions, no upwardly rising career - still one of the guys and seemingly no aspirations to go any further, you can bet that cop is as crooked as a bag of snakes. No-one could afford to live on a patrol officers salary their whole life, let alone retire on their measly pension. It stands to reason that they must be supplementing their income – and in a city like Santa Justina that was pretty easy to do.

One such cop was Edgar Blunt. He was already a fifteen year veteran of the streets when I arrived in town, and to be fair, the police work that he did do, he did it pretty well. He was good with the general public, always jovial and fair. But he could be bought really easily. $10 was all it took to get a person off being arrested for minor offence, $5 if they were under twenty one, but that was just beer money. He was paid the real money for turning a blind eye to things. The illegal distillery on Harper Street, $50 a month to pretend it wasn’t there. The brothel in Noon Town, $75 a month – and some ‘perks’ from the girls every now and then. $500 in unmarked bills – for arriving two minutes too late at the scene of a bank heist. The list went on, and the money kept coming in. I’d hazard a guess that in a year Officer Edgar Blunt probably earned more than the Police commissioner and the Chief District attorney combined.

But he knew how to play the game, you mustn’t get greedy, you mustn’t publicise your wealth, just quietly accumulate – only occasionally enjoy the profits, live humbly, well within your means, keep it all on the down low.

One of Edgar’s many income streams was cash for information. I was a pretty regular customer of his.

He was a portly man, now in his early fifties and sporting a reasonable middle-aged spread, but he was bulky and powerfully built. He didn’t do too much of chasing perps these days, but if you were within reach and weren’t fast off the mark, he’d probably get you.

His face showed a number of lines, etchings from years of being outdoors on the beat, and he sported a shock of greying hair, with the start of pattern baldness usually concealed by his hat.

I’d arranged to meet Edgar while he took a brief afternoon sabbatical in the park plaza downtown. It was a popular lunch and meeting spot, a picturesque grass park, with winding paths, ornate flowerbeds and pretty water features. After lunchtime it got real quiet, almost deserted, and that’s why Edgar liked meeting his clients there.