South Central Noir

Eric fell silent. Going over it all in his mind. “I don’t believe it,” he said finally.

“I didn’t think you would,” Melvin said, “which is why I didn’t want to waste my time telling you.”

“It’s crazy.” Eric shook his head. “So this older brother. Greg. How come he’s not in prison for murder?”

“Well, he was locked up for a while. But for manslaughter, not murder. His brother’s death was an accident and he was halfway insane, so they only gave him a few years.”

“And he’s been coming here ever since, picking what he thinks are his mother’s jewels off the towers with a damn spoon?”

“Oh, that’s not him,” Melvin said. “That’s Pops. The brother died a couple years ago, from what I hear.”

“Wait, what?”

“You heard me.” Melvin was finding Eric’s confusion extremely amusing. “The brother’s dead.”

“Then who—”

“Greg and Darrel used to come in here like clockwork, for years. Then they stopped. Three years later, Greg shows up twice, all by himself, and Jimmy wants to know why. So he follows Greg out of the park and asks: ‘What happened to your brother?’ And Greg tells him. The whole story, exactly as I just told it to you.”

“Jimmy?”

“Jimmy Dutton. The guard who used to work here I mentioned. Only nobody calls him Jimmy. Everybody calls him—”

“Pops.”

“Exactly. That was Pops we threw out of here today, not Greg. Greg figured out pretty quick it was hopeless, trying to find a few dozen needles in a haystack of thousands, but Pops?” Melvin shook his head. “He’s lost his mind trying.”

Eric couldn’t think of anything to say.

“Now you know why I didn’t want to tell you,” Melvin said. “It’s a sad damn story for everyone involved.”

Eric nodded.

“But now that I have told you, there’s one more thing you need to know.”

Eric waited, afraid to ask.

“First time I catch you in here with a spoon, your ass is fired.”

Part II Cold Sweat

Collections by Eric Stone

Central Avenue

There’s never enough fucking hours in the day. Not if you want to get in a nap. The bedside clock said seven thirty. Vince laid down for a minute around six. He was supposed to have called in a half hour ago. You don’t want to piss off the Lucca brothers. They’re nice enough guys when you do what they want, exactly what they want. They aren’t so nice otherwise.

His mom was out, working the night shift, hoping like hell they weren’t gonna let her go to make room for all the soldiers coming back. She’d left some dinner on the table. He sniffed at it, got a Lucky out of the icebox instead, and lit a Pall Mall before sitting down to make his call.

“Where ya fuckin’ been, Ears? You’re supposed to call half hour ’go. The boss don’ like you guys callin’ in late.”

Ears, shit, why’d they have to call him that? He hated it. The name’s Vince, Vincent, even Vinnie, but just because he has big ears. Hell, his father’s were even bigger. No one had ever called Harold P. Lasker “Ears.” Not more than once anyhow.

But there sure as shit wasn’t anything he could say to Earl about calling him that.

“Yeah, sorry, some trouble at home. Got anything for me tonight?”

“Sure do, Ears, lotta mooks took it on the chin in the sixth at Holly Park last Sunday. Seems some popular tipster got it wrong.”

“Okay, gimme.”

“Gotta pencil and paper, kid? There’s a bunch of ’em.”

Earl rattled off a dozen names and addresses. They were all right around Central Avenue and it was mostly guys who wouldn’t give him too much trouble.

“No names? I like it when there’s names, Earl. Don’t you have any movie stars for me? A singer? Someone?”

“Nope, not this week. Jeez, kid, they can’t all be Jimmy Stewart.”

Vince hadn’t ever actually gotten to work over anybody as famous as Jimmy Stewart. That’d be a story that would buy him a few drinks. He’d had his share of drinks off of pounding on a few B-grade actors, a singer or two, a pretty well-known horn player. Tonight’s list was mostly small-fry, working stiffs, schmos into the Lucca brothers for a few hundred, no more than a grand or two tops. That was never much fun. They were just regular guys trying to get ahead, who’d screwed up.

Still, they were chumps and it wasn’t Vince’s fault they were deadbeats. Maybe he was doing ’em a favor. He’d thump ’em and collect. Maybe they’d learn their lesson and either stay away from the ponies and cards or at least not get in over their heads next time. If someone had knocked some sense into his dad back when he was starting out, maybe the family would’ve been better off.

He got off the phone and cracked open another Lucky. Charly’d know who was where over on the Avenue, so he called him next. Vince was hoping Eckstine was playing somewhere. The singer always brought out swarms of girls. A set or two of that voice and they’d be easy game. On a good night it wasn’t all work.

“Nah, sorry, Vince, no Eckstine tonight. Billie Holiday’s over at that big place on Western. I might drop by there later.”

“It’s all junkies and dykes, isn’t it?”