See That Woman Walk the Street

SEE THAT WOMAN WALK THE STREET A Novel by Edward McInnis ACKNOWLEDGMENTS Special thanks to Lynda Connolly for her invaluable assistance in preparing this book. Website, book conversion & publication by Kendrick * * * "You see that woman who walks the street. You see that police on his beat. But when the Lord gets ready, You gotta move." "You Gotta Move" by Mississippi Fred McDowell as sung by The Rolling Stones CHAPTER 1 "I'm dead," the white guy said, walking into my office. The guitar I had been strumming I propped against the wall. "Who put out the contract on you?" I asked. "Mafia?" "No contract. I'm already dead." "Practical joke, right? Who put you up to it? Phoenix Chan? Had to be." "No joke," the guy frowned. "I'm dead. Simple." "My condolences," I said. "Sorry I missed the funeral." "I'm serious. I'm dead. And I want to hire you to find out who killed me." CHAPTER 2 The guy already looked half-dead. Tall, pale, stick-thin, haggard, hollow-eyed, unshaven, disheveled hair, voice a hoarse croak, deep sorrow stamped into his features. Thirty-five or forty. Wearing only torn blue t-shirt and shabby blue jeans and sneakers. "Why do you believe someone killed you?" I asked. "I'm dead, aren't I?" the guy said, indignantly. He was serious. "What's your name?" I asked. "Not sure." "You must be hungry. Let's get a bite. Like Chinese food?" "I never eat," he said. "What's the point? I'm dead." "Have to ask. What makes you think you're dead? You're walking and talking. Generally speaking, activities not normally associated with the deceased." "That's what baffles me," the guy frowned. "I can't understand it either." "You're not a zombie?" "Good God, no," he said, horrified. "They're the living dead." "So what are you?" "The dead dead." "Not living dead?" I asked. "No. Plain and simple dead." "How do you know someone killed you? Maybe you died from natural causes." "I've considered that possibility," he said. "But it doesn't seem right. No. I'm sure someone killed me. And, believe me, it's not easy being dead." "How does it feel?" "Everything and everyone seems unreal. For example, right now, I'm talking to you. But I'm not completely sure that you're real. And sometimes, other people seem real but I feel unreal." The poor shnook was farther out than Saturn Sammy. I'd seen delusions before, but never one so extreme. Way outside my area of expertise. Fortunately, I knew just the person to consult. She was always as busy as a one-winged honey bee doing the waggle dance. But a delusion of this magnitude might motivate her to quickly free up time in her warp-speed schedule. "I want you to see someone," I said. "Psychiatrist," he said. "Yes." "No." "Why not?" I asked. "They've already taken me to see psychiatrists. Didn't help." "Who are they?" "You know," he said. "They." Paranoia on top of believing himself dead. "Do you have a spittoon?" he asked, glancing around. "Left it behind when I moved from Dodge City," I said. "But make you a deal." "What?" "You talk with Shree. Doctor Srivayana Anandan." "What kind of name is that?" he asked. "Indian," I said. "Dot. Not feather." "And if I talk to him?" "Her." "If I talk to her?" he asked. Then I'll take your case." "Find out who killed me?" he asked, eagerly. "Yes." "Deal." CHAPTER 3 Into my office swaggered a young black man. Head held high and haughty. Smiling face angled with arrogance. A raven of ill omen. "Castille," he said. "My man. My main man." "And to what do I owe this dubious pleasure, Laughing Death?" I asked. "Laughing Death. Sounds like a Native American name. Like Sitting Bull. Or Standing Bear. Or Pees While Squatting." "Ain't no Native American," he replied indignantly. "I a proud African-American. So don't be doin' no drag with my name. What is this, anyway?" He nodded at the wooden statuette on a pedestal of a crouching dog - an animal that 'hunts down the truth' - given to me by a client. "Carved by a member of the Kuba tribe of the Congo," I said. "Not up on your own African heritage? Tsk tsk." "I knew that." "What do you want?" I asked. "Not me. Cleo. Midnight meeting at The Hot Spot." "Oh no," I groaned. "I beg of you. No more Combat Zone wars." "Not no war zackly." "Then what? Exactly?" "Some kinda hairy-ass booshit goin' on in the Zone," he said. "Strange-like." "Anything to do with...this?" I dramatically pointed to the flurry of newspaper articles from the previous several days on a corner of my desk. About a hooded, robed freakshot stalking women after dark in the Combat Zone. "Cleo wanna tell you her own self. So. You comin'?" "I'll be there," I sighed. "If for no other reason than curiosity." "Y'all be careful now, y'hear?" "Why?" "Cause curiosity kill the cat," said Laughing Death. "Then I laugh and laugh and laugh." CHAPTER 4 "Chinatown Service Center, mah wai?" answered Pinky Tran on a record-breaking third ring. "How goes the battle, Soldier Pinky?" "Castille," she answered in a crying-the-blues voice. "Don't feel good." "Me or you?" "Me." "What is it?" I asked. "It is...oh, cannot say. I speak few English." "Seen a doctor?" "Spirit-doctors," she said. "In Chinatown." "Good luck with...spirit doctors. Keep me informed." "You want talk to Margie?" "If I may be so bold," I said. She connected us. "Speak," said Margie. "Margie, apple of my visual orb," I said. "I have an opening in my schedule. I thought I might pop over for a conjugal visit." "Here? Are you crazy?" "Yes. But what does that have to do with it?" "Do I really have to explain?" she asked, exasperated. "Dear Margie, my lifeline of love," I said. "You inflame my blood to heights of heat. And you cast my imagination to the depths of depravity." "Oh really?" I pictured her arching one eyebrow, archly. Though, in fact, unlike myself, she couldn't actually raise one eyebrow at a time. But I chose to overlook this character defect. "We'll just lock the door to your office. Tell Pinky 'No calls or visitors for a while.'" "Is that all you think about?" she asked. "Sex?" "Is that all you think about?" I asked. "Money?" "I told you how poor we were when I was growing up. Besides, I have a meeting soon with Alan Chang, The Great Wall Of China." "Nunzio." "You never told me why you call him Nunzio," she said. "Al Chang," I said. "He thinks he runs the whole show in Chinatown." "And steals half the money coming in from the government." "Like Al Capone ran Chicago during Prohibition. Capone's family nickname was Nunzio." "Chang laughs like a banshee when you call him that," she laughed. "Only known method of stopping him from talking." "No jobs?" she asked. "Trifling odds and ends," I said. "Mere bagatelles." I didn't tell her about the Combat Zone midnight meeting. Margie feared for my body and soul in that sinkhole of physical violence and moral turpitude. Hence: liberally apply oil of the little white lie, so necessary for social lubrication. "Face it," said Margie. "You've got a savior complex." "Like you don't," I said. "But I was born with mine. Yours was acquired. By trauma. Big difference." "Which is?" "I'm free," she said. "You're not." "Meaning?" "Meaning I do it as part of my nature. You do it because you're in the grip of a repetition compulsion." "Which is?" I asked. "The compulsion to repeat and complete a traumatic experience over and over, in varying ways under different circumstances. You're compelled to rescue people because you could and can never rescue the people around you who died." "Monsters!" I said. "Monsters From The Id!" "What?" "Captain of the team to rescue Dr. Morbius. Forbidden Planet. 1956. Surely you've seen such a classic." "As a kid, maybe, on TV. I can hear Al - Nunzio - bellowing his way in," she said. "Gotta go." "Wait," I said. "Lunch?" "Can't." "Tomorrow," I stated. "Can't." "The following day. Thursday." "Can't." "Can," I said. "Will." "All right," she sighed. You'd think I was dragging her off to be interrogated by an All-Star Team made up of members of the FBI, CIA, KGB, Iranian secret police SAVAK, Haitian voodoo vampire secret police Tonton Macoute and SMERSH from Bond James Bond movies. "Thai food," I said. Her favorite to clinch the deal. "Where?" she asked, meaning 'which restaurant?' "Chez moi." "Your place?" "No distractions," I elucidated. "So?" "So, in case you feel frisky." She giggled. "Pick me up at noon," she said. "High noon." "Do not forsake me, oh my darling," I sang. "What?" "Theme song from the classic Gary Cooper western High Noon." "Oh brother." CHAPTER 5 I diddy-bopped up Harrison Avenue toward the bazaar of Chinatown Crossing to get lunch. April! Best month for sports in Boston. Celtics begin basketball playoffs. ('Could go all the way!') Bruins start hockey playoffs. ('Anything's possible!') Red Sox begin their baseball season in fabulous Fenway Park. (Opening day fans' rallying cry: 'Wait till next year!') Boston Marathon - oldest in the world - takes place on the third Monday of April.

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