Conquer (The John Conquer Series Book 1) by Edward M. Erdelac

Author:Edward M. Erdelac [Erdelac, Edward M.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2020-12-21T20:00:00+00:00

Conquer Comes Calling

“NYPD!”

Lt. Lou Lazzeroni and patrolman Mike Carmody entered the dim red apartment, service revolvers drawn. The main source of light was a garish lava lamp on the table beside the door which cast slow moving red amoebas sliding across the walls and ceiling like oversized blood cells out of Fantastic Voyage.

The only other light was through the window panes, where the slanting rain outside beat the glass like it was owed money.

As the door banged against the wall, a surprised cat standing on the sill arched its back and hissed, merging with the shadows on the floor.

This was apartment space converted to a business, or vice versa. The living room had been done up in fake gypsy crap the kind of sucker who shelled out his welfare check to a cat like Genie Jones would expect to see; a short table draped in a blue cloth festooned with magically delicious stars and moons, astronomy charts on the walls, astrological signs. A sparkling red and green beaded curtain lead to where the all-seeing all-knowing fortune teller kicked up his funky Aladdin slippers to watch Charlie’s Angels or roll a joint on the toilet, by the skunky scent just beneath the odor of patchouli smoldering in the ceramic Hotei Buddha incense burner, probably lifted from the counter of some Chinese restaurant.

It was also a mess. The chairs were overturned, and the crystal ball rested on the floor, cracked. Tarot cards were strewn everywhere, like somebody had busted up the world’s strangest poker game.

Carmody peered toward the bead curtain and listened.

“I don’t think anybody’s here.”

Lazzeroni wasn’t listening. He was watching a weird, plank-like black shadow moving among the red blots from the lamp. His eyes went to its source, and peering close, he gasped at what he saw.

Carmody looked back at him, and Lazzeroni quickly took his trilby from his balding head and set it on the lamp, obscuring its light.

He found the chord and switched it off.

“What gives?” Carmody whined.

“C’mere, Mike,” he said hastily, fighting to keep the panic out of his voice.

He stepped into the outer waiting room and when Carmody stood beside him on the raunchy green shag, he pulled the inner door shut.

Carmody put his gun away as Lazzeroni went through his own pockets and came out with his wallet, peeling a frayed and sweat-stained red and gold business card from the others and shoving it at the patrolman.

“Here. Get on the phone. Call Conquer.”

Carmody took the card dubiously and went to the desk with its mauve phone, barely able to contain his disgust.

* * *

The lights of the parked squad washed the dingy buildings hell red and Bermuda blue as the late model burgundy Cordoba pulled up behind it, wipers savagely sweeping the crystal beads from the windshield. Inside, Bobby Bland was lamenting the lack of love in the city when the driver cut the engine and the headlights winked out.

Harlem was nearly fifty years from the heyday of Langston Hughes and W.E.B. Du Bois now. The class was out of her.

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