J. J. Jameson
There and back again.
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Hi. I like writing alot and usually have a bejillion stories going on in my head at once. I started this one yesterday an i'm not sure how far I'll go with it. Here's the first part of chapter 1.
The Night Shift
Chapter 1 (The first part of it anyway)
I scanned my eyes over the map of the city and let out a sigh. “He comes from the north and we’ll miss him,” I said at length. Jasper eyed me curiously.
“Then position some men at northern 43rd. Once he exit’s Lewie’s he’ll be cut off from all sides. A trapped rat,” offered Jasper, lighting up a cigarette.
“That might work…unless he’s got some other plan cooked up in that crackpot noggin of his. That part of the city is a labyrinth of alleys and backstreets. He’s slipped through our fingers too many times. No more. We gotta nab him this time. We gotta nab Fredrickson.”
“Look, Tom,” said Jasper, taking a drag of his cigarette and rubbing his temples, “it’s getting too late for this…it’s two in the morning. Tomorrow night we’ll be ready. But I need sleep if I’m gonna be alert. Hang it up for the night.”
“You’re right. Drop by tomorrow and we’ll finalize this thing. Night, Jasper.”
“Good night, Tom,” replied Jasper, grabbing his worn fedora from the hat rack. He took another drag of the cigarette, and then smothered it on his pant leg. Without another word he headed for the door, stepped out, and closed the door gently behind him.
I sat down at my desk, loosening my tie and rolling up the cuffs of my shirt. The name on my door was Tom Jaxon, Private Detective. Yeah, that’s me. I like my job, but most people wouldn’t dare. It’s dirty, gritty, and turns your stomach on a regular basis. It’s necessary. All the scumbags of the city need someone to get on their trail. Someone to make them pay for the unspeakable crimes committed in the darkest alleys on the darkest nights. Like I said, it’s not a nice job. I’ve got battle wounds, two slugs in my hip from a drug bust back in ’47, and memories that will haunt me till the day I die. Death, it’s a curious thing. I’ve been around it so much I’ve become numb to it. But I guess that comes with the job.
Jasper’s in this unpopular business too. He’s competition. We don’t usually work together unless something big is going down. By the looks of my current situation, it would seem that this is big.
Japer’s a different type of crime-buster. He likes the day and more often than not takes the lighter cases. Me, I get the ones that are dirtier than dirt. I go after criminals so revolting that they were spit back out of hell, twice. I say let him take the day shift. Let him go yellow and take the easy route. Let him enjoy his life and not have his mind poisoned by the toxins of soot covered crime. Leave me the night shift.
I first met Jasper during the war. I didn’t see him much during that time. I was injured after a few days of fighting and sent back to heal myself up. I never went back. After the end of the war, I met Jasper again. I had already set up my bleak business and once I had been introduced formally to him as Jasper Muntagon, he informed me he was going in to the same living. And so our competition began. We both have made out favorably, despite his taking the good boy’s road.
I’m an honest guy, but that doesn’t mean I’ll always play by the book. Whatever it takes rid the streets of its profuse supply of low lives, I’ll do. If that means getting hurt, I’ll take it. If it means being the one doing the hurting, well, I’ll do that too. Have I ever crossed the line? Sometimes. Do I ever go too far? Never. As long as they can still give me a confession, it’s not too far. I get a confession every time.
I had a wife…once. I’d married shortly after returning from my injury and it was a lovely relationship. We had six months of pure bliss. But good things rarely stay good. That’s where I had my first case: my own wife’s murder. She’d been shot in the head three times. I came home one night, and there she was, lying lifeless on the porch. I swore revenge. I got dirty. I got grimy. I questioned every shady figure that crossed my path. I became part of the underground, participating in raids as need be, ever mindful of my ultimate driving force. I went on like this for months. I barely ate, flirted with death frequently, and became little more than a rat in an alley way. However, after one night of plundering for a crime gang, I ran in to a guy named Spur. He was drunk and as pliant as a rubber band. So, with a little persuasion, (a cap gun goes a long way on a drunk man) I got him to spill the information on Julia Jaxon’s murder. Through the mindless mumblings and gibberish of his stupor, I was able to gather enough dirt on a guy named O’Brian to convict him, in my eyes at least.
Despite my lead, I ran into a wall. O’Brian had fled town months before I gained this knowledge. My work had been in vain. He’d won the first round. Every now and then, his filthy name popped up, but for the most part, his name was no more than a faded vapor in the air. However, on Friday afternoon I learned there was a twist which still sickens me every time I think about. O’Brian had been murdered. Dead. No more. Someone had beaten me to the punch. My lust for revenge would remain forever unquenched and unsatisfied. As I lie in bed at night, sometimes I battle with myself in the depths of my soul. Should I be thankful to this man who killed my sworn enemy which haunted me and caused me so much hurt? Is that not sinking to the sludge-filled level of a criminal? I try to efface the question from my state of being, pushing it into dust filled corners of my mind. That, in turn, raises another question. What happens when I rediscover those forgotten corners?
On nights like to night, me sitting here alone in my office, I think through the parts of her murder that were never illuminated. What was the point of killing her? What was his motive? Was it just a random killing? Was O’Brian just a nut who wanted to kill, and so he did? Most likely. So that’s why I do what I do. No one should have to suffer what I’ve gone through, not in a million life times. Questions should never be left unanswered.
A rap at the door brought me back to reality. I organized some papers quickly that were spread over the desk and cleared my throat. “Um, ahem, come in.” I felt the left side of my chest to make sure my gun was still there. Yes. I try to never be without my gun. Two A. M. isn’t exactly prime time for honest, paying customers. The door knob creaked as it turned. I could see the shady silhouette of the figure outside my office. Slowly, the door swung open to reveal a man in a black hat and proper attire to compliment his less than friendly appearance.
“Mr. Jaxon,” he said, “I would like to talk to you about Marcus Fredrickson.” The voice was low, and gruff. I couldn't make out his face; he had the brim of his hat pulled down, conceiling his mug in darkness. Stubble glittered on his chin and his teeth were in great contrast to the featureless face.
I eyed him curiously. “Yeah, what about him?”
“I hear you plan to interfere with his operation tomorrow night on 43rd,” said the man, twiddling a cigar between two fingers.
“Darn straight. And the lot of his filthy colleagues. What’s it to you?”
“I’m afraid I can’t allow you to do that. It’s unacceptable.”
I didn’t like where this was going. “Look, bub, if you think that…”
I was cut off. The man whipped out a pistol and pulled back the hammer. His finger rested on the trigger. I cautiously raised my hands. With half a chuckle I said, “So I take you ain’t exactly one of them Jehovah Witness?”
“Funny, Mr. Jaxon. Now listen and listen closely.” He looked swiftly around the room, checking to make sure no one else was around to hear. “Not everything is as it seems. Things are rotten in the underground. Trust me, I know. Things are haywire. There's no structure to the crime. It’s…haphazard.”
TO BE CONTINUED!
I scanned my eyes over the map of the city and let out a sigh. “He comes from the north and we’ll miss him,” I said at length. Jasper eyed me curiously.
“Then position some men at northern 43rd. Once he exit’s Lewie’s he’ll be cut off from all sides. A trapped rat,” offered Jasper, lighting up a cigarette.
“That might work…unless he’s got some other plan cooked up in that crackpot noggin of his. That part of the city is a labyrinth of alleys and backstreets. He’s slipped through our fingers too many times. No more. We gotta nab him this time. We gotta nab Fredrickson.”
“Look, Tom,” said Jasper, taking a drag of his cigarette and rubbing his temples, “it’s getting too late for this…it’s two in the morning. Tomorrow night we’ll be ready. But I need sleep if I’m gonna be alert. Hang it up for the night.”
“You’re right. Drop by tomorrow and we’ll finalize this thing. Night, Jasper.”
“Good night, Tom,” replied Jasper, grabbing his worn fedora from the hat rack. He took another drag of the cigarette, and then smothered it on his pant leg. Without another word he headed for the door, stepped out, and closed the door gently behind him.
I sat down at my desk, loosening my tie and rolling up the cuffs of my shirt. The name on my door was Tom Jaxon, Private Detective. Yeah, that’s me. I like my job, but most people wouldn’t dare. It’s dirty, gritty, and turns your stomach on a regular basis. It’s necessary. All the scumbags of the city need someone to get on their trail. Someone to make them pay for the unspeakable crimes committed in the darkest alleys on the darkest nights. Like I said, it’s not a nice job. I’ve got battle wounds, two slugs in my hip from a drug bust back in ’47, and memories that will haunt me till the day I die. Death, it’s a curious thing. I’ve been around it so much I’ve become numb to it. But I guess that comes with the job.
Jasper’s in this unpopular business too. He’s competition. We don’t usually work together unless something big is going down. By the looks of my current situation, it would seem that this is big.
Japer’s a different type of crime-buster. He likes the day and more often than not takes the lighter cases. Me, I get the ones that are dirtier than dirt. I go after criminals so revolting that they were spit back out of hell, twice. I say let him take the day shift. Let him go yellow and take the easy route. Let him enjoy his life and not have his mind poisoned by the toxins of soot covered crime. Leave me the night shift.
I first met Jasper during the war. I didn’t see him much during that time. I was injured after a few days of fighting and sent back to heal myself up. I never went back. After the end of the war, I met Jasper again. I had already set up my bleak business and once I had been introduced formally to him as Jasper Muntagon, he informed me he was going in to the same living. And so our competition began. We both have made out favorably, despite his taking the good boy’s road.
I’m an honest guy, but that doesn’t mean I’ll always play by the book. Whatever it takes rid the streets of its profuse supply of low lives, I’ll do. If that means getting hurt, I’ll take it. If it means being the one doing the hurting, well, I’ll do that too. Have I ever crossed the line? Sometimes. Do I ever go too far? Never. As long as they can still give me a confession, it’s not too far. I get a confession every time.
I had a wife…once. I’d married shortly after returning from my injury and it was a lovely relationship. We had six months of pure bliss. But good things rarely stay good. That’s where I had my first case: my own wife’s murder. She’d been shot in the head three times. I came home one night, and there she was, lying lifeless on the porch. I swore revenge. I got dirty. I got grimy. I questioned every shady figure that crossed my path. I became part of the underground, participating in raids as need be, ever mindful of my ultimate driving force. I went on like this for months. I barely ate, flirted with death frequently, and became little more than a rat in an alley way. However, after one night of plundering for a crime gang, I ran in to a guy named Spur. He was drunk and as pliant as a rubber band. So, with a little persuasion, (a cap gun goes a long way on a drunk man) I got him to spill the information on Julia Jaxon’s murder. Through the mindless mumblings and gibberish of his stupor, I was able to gather enough dirt on a guy named O’Brian to convict him, in my eyes at least.
Despite my lead, I ran into a wall. O’Brian had fled town months before I gained this knowledge. My work had been in vain. He’d won the first round. Every now and then, his filthy name popped up, but for the most part, his name was no more than a faded vapor in the air. However, on Friday afternoon I learned there was a twist which still sickens me every time I think about. O’Brian had been murdered. Dead. No more. Someone had beaten me to the punch. My lust for revenge would remain forever unquenched and unsatisfied. As I lie in bed at night, sometimes I battle with myself in the depths of my soul. Should I be thankful to this man who killed my sworn enemy which haunted me and caused me so much hurt? Is that not sinking to the sludge-filled level of a criminal? I try to efface the question from my state of being, pushing it into dust filled corners of my mind. That, in turn, raises another question. What happens when I rediscover those forgotten corners?
On nights like to night, me sitting here alone in my office, I think through the parts of her murder that were never illuminated. What was the point of killing her? What was his motive? Was it just a random killing? Was O’Brian just a nut who wanted to kill, and so he did? Most likely. So that’s why I do what I do. No one should have to suffer what I’ve gone through, not in a million life times. Questions should never be left unanswered.
A rap at the door brought me back to reality. I organized some papers quickly that were spread over the desk and cleared my throat. “Um, ahem, come in.” I felt the left side of my chest to make sure my gun was still there. Yes. I try to never be without my gun. Two A. M. isn’t exactly prime time for honest, paying customers. The door knob creaked as it turned. I could see the shady silhouette of the figure outside my office. Slowly, the door swung open to reveal a man in a black hat and proper attire to compliment his less than friendly appearance.
“Mr. Jaxon,” he said, “I would like to talk to you about Marcus Fredrickson.” The voice was low, and gruff. I couldn't make out his face; he had the brim of his hat pulled down, conceiling his mug in darkness. Stubble glittered on his chin and his teeth were in great contrast to the featureless face.
I eyed him curiously. “Yeah, what about him?”
“I hear you plan to interfere with his operation tomorrow night on 43rd,” said the man, twiddling a cigar between two fingers.
“Darn straight. And the lot of his filthy colleagues. What’s it to you?”
“I’m afraid I can’t allow you to do that. It’s unacceptable.”
I didn’t like where this was going. “Look, bub, if you think that…”
I was cut off. The man whipped out a pistol and pulled back the hammer. His finger rested on the trigger. I cautiously raised my hands. With half a chuckle I said, “So I take you ain’t exactly one of them Jehovah Witness?”
“Funny, Mr. Jaxon. Now listen and listen closely.” He looked swiftly around the room, checking to make sure no one else was around to hear. “Not everything is as it seems. Things are rotten in the underground. Trust me, I know. Things are haywire. There's no structure to the crime. It’s…haphazard.”
TO BE CONTINUED!
