Havoc Swims Jaded by David J Schow

Author:David J Schow [Schow, David J.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: horror short stories
Publisher: Crossroad Press
Published: 2015-03-18T00:00:00+00:00

SCOOP VS. LEADMAN

The inscription on the office window—chipped black enamel, pebbled glass like a shower door—read:

FUCK CONFIDENTIAL INQUIRIES LTD.

The office was squirreled away on the third floor of a rat warren somewhere in the low Thirties amid garment wholesalers and cryptic business fronts, accessed by a turn of the century “elevator” about the size of a casket, except that caskets smelled better when occupied, and lurched this way only when lowered into the dirt. It stopped on the second floor no matter what button was pushed; Mikey caught a glimpse of what appeared to be a piecework sweatshop next to an iffy “passport photographer” whose establishment consisted of a single Xerox machine from 1973, a folding metal chair, and a cashbox. Its proprietor, a heavily-mustachioed Persian, apparently checked the corridor every time he heard the elevator doors grind open. He glowered at Mikey. The doors took their time tweezing shut, leaving a wide crack of light through which Mikey watched the man watching him. The claustrophobic car dropped about a foot, then rose as though being pulled slowly on a rope, making the same sound as an old man laboring up from an easy chair. When in operation, the elevator car went completely dark inside.

Eventually, Mikey arrived at the third floor. The doors, each about a foot wide to begin with, did not want to release him to whatever fates awaited. He had to shove them apart in order to complete his quest to find the gentleman known as Franklin Fuck, private investigator.

“Just put them papers anywhere,” said the detective-for-hire, indicating a barstool stacked with yellowed manila and extending a thick hand. Good grip, knotty fingers, almost a cop’s hand. “Franklin Fuck, at your service.”

Feeling like a janitor, Mikey shook the guy’s hand, while juggling the teetering stack of paper, which was doomed to end up on the floor anyway.

“Don’t fret that stuff,” said Fuck. “Old news. Now, you—your wife dumped you, am I right? Took off with the petty cash and heirlooms, and now you gotta car payment to make?” He settled into a desk chair that must have been old when Linotype was new.

Mikey climbed onto the stool, still not sure what he should call this rotund man, who wore a vest that could not possibly button over his belly, who wore suspenders and belt, both, to hold up pinstriped trousers over wingtipped shoes. He was naturally bald except for a fringe of mad scientist hair that ended, dead straight, eartip-to-eartip, more pepper than salt. The knot in his tie was casually yanked south and the top two buttons of his shirt were open, revealing what used to be called a wife-beater tee and straggles of unruly chest hair. His eyebrows were bold and vast, and moved with cartoon character exaggeration. At the curve of his brow the eyebrow hairs were long and backswept, like questing antennae. They tended to catch the light in odd ways, as though chitinous.

“Okay, so that’s not it. Let’s see—embezzler? No, too weak a chin; nothing personal.

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