The Mystery Danger Serials: Dead Man Running

A Dead Man

A dead man...

     That's what Jim was, a dead man.

     The rendezvous with Rose Jones wasn't something I was looking forward to in the slightest. I hadn't quite figured out how I would spill the beans about losing her bag. Nor was I sure I could keep my cool about her sending me into a damn war zone to retrieve a satchel full of postcards, pictures, and memories.

     She had to have known someone was going to be there. She wasn't worried about being spotted by the police. She was concerned about running into the Pallbearer or someone else like him.

     So, she sent me instead.

     I knew she was trouble. From the moment I saw those devil-red lips, I told myself she'd be trouble. True, I hadn't imagined she was the "nearly get yourself killed three times" kind of trouble. Never in my life would I have thought she was the "leave you tied to a chair over lit dynamite" kind of trouble.

     I paused to catch my breath. Making it to the rendezvous location had proven another obstacle. After nearly biting the big one at the train station, I couldn't just stroll back to get the car. A bitter thought ran through me as I stood there leaning against the wall of some unnamed building on 11th Avenue.

     Had Rose Jones really become the 'put a bullet in your partner for botching the job" kind of trouble?

     She wasn't evil. By many standards, she wasn't necessarily bad. The organizations, businesses, and individuals targeted by the Dynamite Gal all had connections to the corrupt underbelly of the city. She was acting as Justice, in her own form or fashion, bringing swift judgment against the criminals who fed off the good people of the town. In her eyes, it didn't matter who you were, what title you held, or how much influence you had. If you hurt good people, you were one of the bad guys.

     No. Rose Jones wouldn't shoot my partner. Jim was safe. Hell, he's more of a good guy than I am. Even she could see that. While he might not technically be on her side, any jury in the land would say that James Adams was a decent man. He was on the side of truth. Jim fought to protect the innocent. He was a good guy.

     With this renewed hope, I strode to the corner and hailed a taxi.

     "Where to, guy?" the cabbie grunted over his shoulder.

     "Drop me at the corner of McClaren and Lancaster Parkway," I said.

     "You got it, buddy."

     As the cabbie switched on his meter, another thought crossed my mind. Jim was going to be safe, yes. But what about yours truly? The Dynamite Gal had already tried to punch my ticket the first time I disappointed her. Undoubtedly, she would find this most recent event anything less than disappointing.

     Was Jim about to fall out of the frying pan just in time to see me thrown into the fire?

     We merged smoothly into the hustle and bustle of downtown traffic and were off.

...

     The cabbie was the real McCoy. He navigated the congested streets with ease. Within no time, I handed him his fare and stepped out of the car onto a street corner crowded with pedestrians. Men and women headed here or there. Overcoats and umbrellas were ebbing and flowing back and forth in a never-ending current of swirling people.

     My guess was that a man probably couldn't spit without hitting a pickpocket. After a few minutes of careful observation, I could nab a baker's dozen.

     However, I had more pressing issues. I had an appointment to keep.

     I was getting ready to drown myself in the hundreds of people making their way up McClaren Boulevard when a familiar voice called to me from the street.

     "Lincoln, hey Lincoln."

     The same Packard limousine from the flower shop had pulled up to the curb behind me. Jim sat nearest to the passenger door. His face looked worried. Clearly, he had noticed I didn't have a bag with me.

     The door opened.

     "Get in." It was the satin voice of the devil herself, summoning me Armageddon.

     I took my seat between two blockheads with pistols. Rose Jones, her black revolver in hand, sat opposite me. Jim was next to her, to my left. He looked a little ragged.

     "Hiya, partner," I said to Jim.

     He didn't nod. He didn't look at me. He stared out the window like a man waiting for the shoe to drop.

     Was this his last ride?

     "Where is it?" The burning lips hissed under dark eyes.

     "Where's what?" I said, feigning ignorance.

     "You know good and well what! Where's my bag?" She punctuated her response with the barrel of a revolver in my face.

     "Oh, the bag," I said defensively. "Sorry, I wasn't sure if you meant the bag, the bullet holes you thought I'd catch, or the train that climbed halfway up my back!"

     With the last few words, I realized I was in no position to shout. Yet here I sat, shouting it out, in the back of a limousine, with the woman who tried to blow me to kingdom come.

     "You got some nerve, doll. Sending me there like a newborn lamb, knowing the wolves were waiting. Did you even expect me to get the bag before that hatchet man made swiss cheese out of me?"

     "Where?" With a delicate thumb, she pulled back the pistol's hammer.

     "The bag is gone. It got blasted to smithereens by the Express that wanted me to give it a piggyback ride. Here's what's left!"

     I thrust my open hand out to reveal the tiny photo fragment.

     "That's all that's left of whatever was in that bag. This piece, and a billion just like it, scattered across a quarter-mile of train track."

     She stuck out her free hand. I let the flake fall upon her upturned palm.

     "That's it. Shoot me if you want to. But, that's all that's left of that wretched bag." I crossed my arms with a sense of finality. Now, on to judgment day.

     Rose Jones looked at the small fleck of paper, regarded it carefully, then began to laugh. She lowered her pistol and called to the driver, "Pull over here."

     The car moved quickly to the curb. The goon on my left opened the door and shuffled out Jim and me.

     We stood looking at each other, bewildered.

     The Dynamite Gal smiled at us with her dazzling face framed in the limousine window.

     "Detectives, you have done far better than I could have imagined. Thank you. Now, do stay out of my affairs. I would hate to be put into this sort of situation again."

     I turned to Jim. Both of us were speechless.

     The limo began to merge with traffic but stopped suddenly. Rose leaned halfway out the window.

     "Oh, Lincoln, would you do me one more favor. If you see Raymond Hammett, tell him he's...

...a dead man."