Blues In The Night: A Mike Lander Mystery by Aaron H. Oliver

Author:Aaron H. Oliver [Oliver, Aaron H.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2021-09-24T22:00:00+00:00

9

There was no message, so I made my way back to Creber's digs. There to greet me was a frail figure of a man hunched on the boarding house stoop. He was balding, with jaundiced eyes, a nose flattened from many falls, and skin merged with the dirt of the city. The stub of a cigarette hung from his lips as he slurred a request for money. I tossed him two dollars.

Nothing had changed since my previous visit. The foul-smelling foyer was deserted and the staircase rickety as I climbed to the third story. Except for the noise of my ascent, the structure was quiet. Then, as I approached Creber's room, the murmur of voices became audible. The sleazy shutterbug was arguing with a woman. Could it be Lucy?

I crept toward the door, trying to discern the conversation. The hallway floor should have been the focus of my concern. Because the gin bottle I kicked clanged along the surface, heralding my advance like a town crier. From inside the apartment, I heard the woman ask, "What was that?"

Creber replied in an undertone, "I don't know, but shut up."

The chance of a surprise entrance had ended. I pounded on the entry, "Open up, Creber. This is Mike Lander." I tried the knob. Locked. "Come on, Creber," I replied, thumping the wood again.

He yelled, "Okay wise guy give me a minute."

"Tell your friend not to duck out the window," I ordered.

"Just hold your horses," drifted forth.

Waiting was a lousy idea. I threw a kick at the door's weakest point. It busted loose with a crack, and I barreled into the interior like a bull. Creber stood in the middle of the apartment. His features twisted in red anger as he said, "What the hell are you doing." He pointed at the splintered frame, exclaiming, "I'll have to pay to fix that."

"Where is she?" I implored.

"Who?"

"Your girlfriend, Lucy Mitchell."

He unmindfully looked around. "I'm here alone gumshoe."

I gave the space a quick once over. The curtains to the fire escape fluttered from the breeze. It felt like a diversion. I pushed past the photog into the bathroom. The light switch snapped, and the room filled with a reddish glow. It was enough to see that the washroom was packed with equipment and no place to hide. Back at the window, I stared down through the metal webbing of the emergency stairs. The scene was lifeless and silent. She was gone.

In a temper, I grabbed Creber's shirt with a jerk. Then, in a tenor designed to rattle his nerves, I shouted, "Where did she go?"

He gave a cool and challenging reply. "You're whistling dixie, jackass."

The aloof demeanor angered me even more. I tightened my grip on his collar. "What do you mean?"

"She never went," he smirked.

The blow to the base of my skull was hard. It caused my intentions to fly around in a host of directions. There was a closet, you idiot, was my fading insight. Beautiful dreams eluded my forced slumber. It was five, maybe ten minutes before I regained my wits.

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