Mike Hammer
- You're never around when I need you.
Velda
- You never need me when I'm around.
Mickey Spillane (Kiss Me, Deadly, 1952)
I
IT WAS ABOUT FOUR IN THE MORNING when I got the call. The phone's incessant ring—at first a distant hum, kept rising in volume—clawing at the surface of my subconscious like some crazed snow crab in a midsummer's heat wave. I tried ignoring it—tossing and turning and hoping to get back to sleep, but to no avail.
I finally gave in and got up, balancing myself on the edge of my bed. Even if the phone hadn't rung, I would have woken up. A recurring nightmare that I’d been having over the past few weeks usually kicked in around this time.
As a private investigator, reality sometimes got scrambled up inside one’s head. That included one’s dreams. When it came to mine, it seemed, someone always ended up dead—usually murdered, and for obvious reasons—love, greed, or plain stupidity.
In this one specific recurring dream, I was shot point blank by an unknown assailant. There was no face—only its presence taunting me through deserted city streets. I had no idea if the assailant was a man, women, or thing. It'd keep shifting its shape and movements; its fleeting shadow playing out like something out of a Nosferatu film, where everything became harsh and over-exaggerated.
But, as such nightmares go, I'd always wake up before the bullet's impact—gasping for air and drenched in a cold sweat. A cloud of dread and anxiety would then hang over me throughout the day, wondering if today—was that day.
The phone was still demanding my attention, so I pulled it hard against my ear. With a course, broken and uncertain voice I attempted a response, “Yeah, Cartwright here.” The female voice on the other end seemed out of sorts. The voice sounded familiar, but who I couldn't place.
“James. James, is that you?”
“Well, yes—if it's JC you're looking for, you've got the right number.”
“James. It's Ann. Ann Mercer. Shelby's wife.”
I suddenly made the connection. Shelby was my partner when I was with the Detroit Police Force, some fifteen years back. I hadn't spoken to either Shelby or Ann for the past five years since they moved up north to Toronto.
“What's going on, Ann?” Knowing it must be important if she was calling me in the middle of the night.
“It's about Shelby. He's. Well. He needs your help.”
“For what?”
“He's been arrested. For murder.”
There was a long pause as I got my mind up to speed with what Ann had just thrown at me. Shelby had been a stand-up cop—never got his hands dirty with drugs or payoffs. But like me, he wasn't a saint either. While on the force, we both had our own brand of justice. We both tried to play it by the book, but sometimes the rules had to be bent. In the process, we pissed off the wrong people.
“What do you mean arrested for murder? Who? When?” I heard myself asking with an edge of anger rising in my voice.
“Another cop. A few days back.” I could hear her voice wavering, “please James. You must come. We need you.”
“But Ann, what can I do? My PI license isn't any good up there. I'm sure this is all some misunderstanding.” But I knew full well that arresting an ex-cop was not something other cops took lightly. They must have some hard evidence on Shelby.
“When did a little thing like a license ever stop you, James?” Ann said, inserting a bit of humor to a stressful situation. But she had a point. Kissing up to bureaucrats was never my strong suit.
“Ok Ann. One question before I decide. Do you think he's innocent?”
“Yes. With all my heart.”
“That's good enough for me. I'll be on the next flight out.”
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