Frank Driver, Private Eye

Dammit.

In the struggle, I managed to straighten my leg enough to get the leverage I needed to sit up. Before I could get prepared, though, Trixie threw her arm around me. She sobbed, holding her throat with her free hand.

"Thank god you're here, Mister," she cried after a few minutes. "I was a goner!"

I held her, rage filling my meter. Sure, she didn't have the most reputable of professions, but to do this took cowardice. She cried in my arms and her tears blended in with the evening's rain on my coat.

The events played over and over in my head. What could I have done differently? I could have stepped to the side. I could have not barged in without knowing what was behind the door. I could have -

Suddenly Trixie sat bolt upright and looked at me with suspicion. "Why are you here?" she asked. "Who are you?"

"The name's Driver," I said, calmly. I was angry, sure, but not at her. "I'm a private investigator."

Her eyes went wide. "You're a cop?" she asked, disbelieving.

I shook my head. "No, I'm a P.I.," I said. I reached into my pocket for my license. "I'm not a cop."

She shrank back as my hand moved, and I slowed down, wincing. That hit to the door hurt more than I thought. Gingerly, I pulled out my wallet and flipped it open to show her my license.

She scanned the ID and then looked at my face, squinting in the low light. She relaxed. Then she remembered that she had just been dangling from a piano wire two feet off the ground, and grabbed her throat again.

She was talking and moving, at least, so he hadn't severed her jugular or anything vital. From the look of her, though, she had been mere seconds from meeting St. Peter.

I adjusted her in order to make a move to stand up. "You got one hell of a set of pipes, lady," I said, getting to my feet. "Especially after what he did to you."

She sat on the floor, hand still clutching her throat. I reached down and helped her to her feet, and then brought her into the kitchenette and sat her down. I found the light and flipped it on.

"Let me see," I said, and gingerly pulled her hand away from her neck. The wound was bad, but not horrible. I was right. Another second or two and she'd need stitches that would make Frankenstein envious. As it was, she'd still probably have a pretty bad scar, though.

"Is it bad?" she asked me.

"We need to get you to a hospital," I said, dodging the question. "But first, do you have a first aid kit? Gauze? Boric acid?"

"In the medicine cabinet," she said, and I followed her eyes as she pointed me towards the bathroom.

The bathroom was far smaller than two people had any right to share. Every horizontal surface was covered with some kind of toiletry. Perfume. Razor. Lipstick. Creams. Lotions. My coat swept around and knocked a few things off the side of the tub. I cursed to myself, and opened the medicine cabinet and got what I needed.

I went to work, arranging items on the kitchen table. I pulled the only other chair in front of Trixie and took her hands away from her throat and tried not to wince.

"Does it hurt to talk?"

She shook her head. "No, it just hurts."

I nodded. "Do you know who that was?"

"Yeah," she said, tears beginning to reform in her eyes. "He was a john."

"A regular?" I asked as I applied the ointment. She winced. "Sorry," I said.

She shook her head in forgiveness. "No, only once, I think."

I was confused. "You 'think'?"

"Only once for me," she clarified. "I don't know about Pixie."

"He was a john for her, too?"

She sighed and looked at me like I was dumb. She was probably right.

"He was a john for us. I don't know if she had him without me."

Oh. Oh.

"Did you get his name?"

She shook her head slightly. The movement made her wince. Even if she had heard a name, it wouldn't have been a real one.

"Why do you think he came after you?"

I lifted her chin to get better light on her throat. Tears streaked from the corner of her eyes, and once more I had visions of plugging the bastard. I'd be replaying tonight for months.

She was cute. Small. The kind of gal that guys felt a natural protection for. The kind that made you wonder just what could have happened to put her in a life like this. She should have been some farmer's girl, laughing and playing chase through the corn rows on her Daddy's harvest. Instead she was here. With me. Bleeding through a slice in her neck.

"I'm pretty sure he killed Pixie," she said. "Maybe he'd think I would've fingered him to the cops."

The kid was bright, too. That's probably exactly what happened.

A thought occurred to me. "Did you and Pixie, uh, work together... often?"

I leaned back and double-checked my handiwork. She wore a gauze bandage like a choker collar. She touched it with her fingertips gingerly.

"Yeah, it was kind of our thing," she said. "Well, going to be. We only really did it a couple of times. We were going to look out for each other, ya know? No pimps, watch each other's backs. Plus, we could get more for the two of us than either of us alone."

Literally, I thought.

"So we did that guy, and one other," she said. Then her eyes doubled up on the waterworks. The tough girl act was hard to keep up.

"Then he came back and killed Pixie," she said. She choked up. "I told her she needed to be careful."

She put her face in her hands. "Ow," she said, as the sobs caused her throat to hurt.

"Why did she need to be careful?" I asked.

"After we finished, he took a real strong liking to her, ya know?" she said, remembering. "I mean, sometimes we get a guy who claims he's fallen in love. But this guy, well, I think he really believed it."

"He fell in love with Pixie?"

"He said he did. We didn't believe him, of course, but he kept coming 'round. Told her that he was going to marry her, that kind of thing."

"Pixie didn't believe him?"

Once again that look. The look of Get serious, will ya?

"Do you have any idea how many guys have told us lines like that?" she asked, rhetorically. I didn't.

"Well, a lot," she said in response to my silence. "But this guy, he was persistent. He really scared off a lot of customers."

"You said that you two had another customer?"

"Yeah, a couple days ago. Rich guy."

Walker. Must have been.

"He takes us to this fancy hotel," she said. "Gets a room. Pays us each a hundred dollars. A hundred dollars!"

I was shocked. That would have paid their rent for four months. Each.

Her face told the story. The money was a windfall for her and Pixie, and the memory was a good one. Then her eyes began to get glassy and her expression fell.

"Then that other guy killed Pixie," she said, her eyes cast downward.

"How can you be sure?"

She looked at me. "This rich guy, he paid for the whole night. When we came out of the hotel the next morning, that guy - the first one - was waiting outside."

Despite myself, I was alarmed. "What happened?"

"He came up to us and got into it," she said. "He told her that she broke his heart, how could she, she was the love of his life, all that jazz. The other guy - the rich one - tried to get into his face but he told him that he would kill 'im if he didn't butt out."

The pronoun game was getting confusing, but I understood. Walker had tried to stand up to the murderer, but only wound up getting killed for his efforts. Slicer-Dicer must have followed Walker home, waited until the opportunity was right, then killed him on his perfect parquet floor. Mrs. Walker came home at exactly the wrong time, even before the murderer escaped.

She saw her husband on the floor and went over him. Touched him to see if he was still alive. Heard a noise. Ran to the kitchen to grab a knife. By that point, Slicer-Dicer had made his getaway, but the police were right around the corner. Neighbor called it in. Cops respond quicker in rich neighborhoods.

"Then what happened?"

She shrugged. Winced again. "Then Pixie was dead."

"When?"

"Later that night," she said. The tears flowed like little rivers across her pretty cheeks. She cast a glance at the broken door. "He killed her in an alley."

Something struck me as odd. "Tell me," I said, helping her to her unsteady feet. "Why did you go back out there tonight? And with him?"

She held onto my arm for support as we left the apartment for the hospital. "That rich guy," Trixie said. "His money definitely helped. But it didn't mean I could retire." Her voice made it clear that my question was stupid. Perhaps it was.

Chapter 5

"No. Absolutely not."

"Oh, come on, Frank! I can do it," Tammi said. I swear, she almost stomped her foot.

I shook my head. "No."

"Look, it's foolproof."

I cocked an eyebrow. "There's nothing foolproof in this business, Tammi."

We were in my office, the same place where we both had gotten some nookie not twelve hours before. I filled her in on the details and her overactive imagination had immediately taken her down Fantasy Lane with no stopping at Reality Station. Visions of grandeur blinded Tammi to the stark reality of life.

She pouted. "You know what I mean."

"Yes, I do. That's why the answer is and will always be 'no.'"

"So, you got a better idea, smart guy?" she challenged. She had gone from petulant begging girl to obnoxious vindictive smartass in less than a heartbeat.

"Yes, as a matter of fact I do."

"So let's hear it."

Truth was, I didn't. But I sure as hell wasn't going to go along with her plan.

"I think we should stake out Pixie and Trixie's corner," I said, finally.

"And then what?"

"And then we nab the guy when he comes for Trixie again," I said, trying to sound more confident than I was. I didn't want to give her too much, in case she ran with it and did something stupid.

"Get real," she said, trying to reason with me. "Trixie isn't going to be bait for this guy. Especially after what he did to her. But as you said, this guy has a type."

I had told her about the other victims. I knew what she was going to say. I didn't like it.

"I'm obviously his type."

Dammit.

"Trixie can give me a signal or something to let me know if the guy is the right one," she continued. "Then I can do what I need to do."

"He's a murderer, Tammi," I said quietly.

She shrugged. "One for the bucket list," she said.

I frowned. "Tammi..."

"Lemme finish," she said patiently. "He takes me into a hotel close by, then he takes me in the hotel, then he falls in love with me."

I narrowed my eyes, but she was unperturbed. "Then, afterwards, you take me to the hotel. If his MO is solid, he should come after both of us."

"Why do you want to sleep with a murderer?" I asked, incredulous.

Her eyes glinted. "He's a sure thing," she joked.

I knew I wasn't going to get a straight answer from her. Instead, I asked, "What if he doesn't fall in love with you?"

She put her hand on her hip and pouted. "Now who couldn't fall in love with little ol' me?" She hooked a fingernail into her mouth. She had a point.

"Besides," she said, playing it straight. "You said that you think this guy falls hard and falls fast, right?"

I nodded.

"And if we don't sleep together," she continued, "that's not likely to happen, right?"

I was afraid that every time she asked me a question I had to say "yes" to would get her closer to me saying "yes" to everything.

"And we don't have a lot of time, right?"

Again, I nodded my head, slower this time.

"And you don't have any other ideas, right?"

My jaw set. I could see by the look in her eyes that if I didn't agree, this crazy broad was going to try to snag the Slicer-Dicer on her own.

I said nothing for a long time, and Tammi made exaggerated prompting motions with her hands.

Finally, I said, "I don't like this one bit."

"Is that a yes?" she asked, hopefully.

I sighed.

She squealed and clapped her hands together, and then bum rushed me for a hug and a kiss. "We'll get the guy, Frank," she said. "You won't regret this, you'll see."

That's usually what they say, just before you regret everything.

Chapter 6

According to Trixie, our man had a schedule. He always seemed to appear between 5 and 6 o'clock, which seemed to correlate with the coroner's estimated time of death for the prostitute victims.

That meant we had some time to prepare. For my part, I went home and got some sleep. My dreams were unpleasant, trying to fight some Japs in trench coats and Fedoras while slipping on ice in the Philippine jungle. I wondered where that came from.

Not surprisingly, I woke up feeling more tired than when I fell asleep. I needed to get on my game. This guy had already beaten me once like an egg.

The rain fell on the early afternoon day, a wet blanket that covered everything and protected nothing. I needed to pick up a few things at the office before heading over to Trixie's side of town.

Marcus was there again. I nodded to him, and he nodded back. He looked like he'd been there all day, but hadn't even broke out his shine box. No business today. It may be time for him to find a new line of work.

Billy - or was it Bobby? - wasn't manning the door today. New kid opened it for me with a blank expression. I nodded at him in anticipation of a greeting that never came. No personality with this one.

"Hey there," I said. "Call me a cab?"

"Ok, you're a cab."

I stood corrected. Funny guy. I looked at him just as funny.

He shook his head, still deadpan. He sighed. "Tough crowd. Sure thing, Mr. Driver."

I had no idea who he was, but evidently he knew me. "Thank you," I said. Or maybe I just nodded. I headed up to my office and made a mental note to get the doormen's names right.

My office was exactly the same as I had left it the night before. As always, the smell of the wood varnish assailed my nostrils, along with something else. My mind flickered back to Mrs. Walker playing my mouth organ, but then thought about Tammy and her boy toy. I frowned.

The girl needed a man. Trouble is, she could probably get any one that she wanted, just not the one that she needed. She was too cute for her own good. A battle-axe trapped in a waif's body.

I hated her plan. Not only because it put her in unacceptable risk -

Well, if it's so unacceptable, why did you accept it, Frank? Dammit.

- but because it probably was the best plan we had in the time that we had. Ah, screw it, it was the only plan we had.

My job was to find out who killed Walker, not capture or arrest him. That changed when I caught him in the act of attacking Trixie. He would probably try it again, and I couldn't let that happen.

The thought filled me with rage. A powerful man. Tiny girls. They had no chance. My inner knight rattled his sword and shield in impotence. I needed to get calm. Stay calm. Calm never got you killed.

I should probably call Murphy and let him know what happened. I just didn't have anything to report. I had a suspect, but I didn't have a name. Hell, I didn't have much of a description. Besides, Mrs. Walker didn't hire me to provide leads for the cops. She didn't have that kind of time.

I went to my filing cabinet and pulled out my "trusty" Kodak Ektra. Well, about as trusty as an Arab trader. Still, if I could get the damn shutter to work right this time, I might be able to get the shots I needed.

Prepping the camera always took longer than I wanted. I opened the bottom of the camera and reloaded the film. You never knew if the film loaded properly, so I carefully wound to the first frame and took a couple of practice shots. I found myself holding my breath as the shutter clicked. Good.

I looked at the clock. I needed to time it right. Too soon, and I'd be suspicious. Too late, and I wouldn't have enough time to set up.

I checked my .38 and dropped a few extra loose change in my pocket. An extra six should be fine. I wasn't looking to get into a prolonged gunfight. If things went south, I needed to grab Tammi and get the hell out of there. The bullets were just to use as distraction and cover if needed.

I thought about Tammi. How in the hell did she convince me to do this?

Dammit.

I stuffed the revolver into my ankle holster and slung the camera bag over my shoulder. The cab should be here by now. Time to go.

Sure enough, the cabbie was sitting at the corner. The unnamed doorman was standing in the rain waiting to open the door for me. I hesitated in the shelter of the doorway, and looked to my right. There was Marcus, huddling in the corner of the alleyway. An idea struck me.

"Marcus!" I called. He looked up, suspicious. "You want a job?"

His eyes brightened. I jerked my head, indicating that he should come over. He grabbed his shine box and raced over to me.

"How fast can you run?" I asked.

"Faster than you," he said, sizing me up.

I grinned. "You're hired," I said.

He looked down at his box. "What do I do with this?" he asked.

"Bring it," I said. "We're gonna need it."

I moved to the cab with Marcus in tow. The doorman opened the cab door for us to get in.

"Hold it, buddy!" the cabbie shouted. Marcus froze, but I got in the car anyway.

"What?" I asked, getting myself comfortable.

The cabbie looked from me to Marcus, and then back. He shook his head. "Can't you read da sign?"

He pointed up at the hand-written sign on the back of the passenger seat. "NO JEWS, NO IRISS, NO COLURDS."

Well, at least he spelled Jews right.

City cabbies didn't actually care who was in the back of their cars. They just wanted their customers to think that they cared.

"What if my friend Abraham joined us?" I asked, fishing out a fiver from my pocket. The cabby flicked his eyes from Honest Abe to Marcus and back to the loot.

He searched around looking for witnesses, and then reached for the bill and snatched it out of my hand. I waved Marcus into the car and out of the rain.

Marcus put the shine box on the floor and had just set back in the seat when the cabbie took off. I gave him the directions, then looked at Marcus. The boy watched the cabbie for a few moments, but the motion of the street caught his eye soon enough.

"First time in a cab?" I asked.

He looked at me and nodded. "First time in a car!" he said. His excitement was getting to him.

I should have been thinking about the case, but I couldn't help but get wrapped up in seeing Marcus experience the world in motion.

"You ever been on a bus?"

Marcus looked at me and screwed up his face. "Of course!" he said, his voice contemptuous. "But the bus smells."

"You got dat right," the cabbie piped up from the front.

I looked up in surprise. I wasn't expecting contributions from him.

"What?" he asked, defensive. "I take care of my cab."

He lapsed into silence after that, and Marcus put his hands on the cab door frame and peered out through the streaked window. I was left to my thoughts about Tammi and what she was going to do.

Chapter 7

The cabbie dropped us off about a block away from Trixie's corner. Somehow, the rain seemed to be falling harder in her neck of the woods. It hadn't been all that bright in the downpour to begin with, but now the streets were caught in a timeless grey-blue dusk. The kind of light that lasts for hours until - poof - it just goes out all of a sudden.

I took Marcus' shine box from him and hefted it.

"Good grief, Marcus!" I exclaimed. "This weighs a ton!"

Marcus shrugged. "It was my Daddy's," he said, as if that explained everything. In a way, it did. I nodded. We started walking towards the corner.

After a few steps, Marcus asked, "So what's the job, Mister?"