I sat behind my desk, waiting for midnight to roll by. A flat hunk of worn wood once polished and beautiful. She wasn’t much, but she was mine, and I treated her in ways she didn’t deserve.

  I smothered her with page after page of case after case. I dyed her skin with rings of spilled whiskey and scarred her with cigarette burns.

  Sometimes, I missed the glass. Sometimes, I missed the ashtray, a brutal, steel pan that crowded my workspace and begged for attention from just one more cigarette like a starved and desperate lover.

  I oughta toss that thing out, I’d always tell myself. But I never did. One tends to do that with desperate lovers. My desk? She deserved better. She deserved to see the lovers go.

  I sat behind my hunk of wood and listened to the ceiling fan sing me his creaking, lullaby croon. My eyelids drooped like soggy veils trying to hide the night from me. I waited. What else to do? Drink and smoke. Felt like that’s all there ever was these days. I made enough to get by. Get by. What else to do?

  Putting the cigarette to my lips, I drew in the hot fire and let it run down my throat. Used to burn. Not anymore. You get used to the things that hurt. Most of them. Eventually.

  I washed the ash from my mouth with a low ball of neat whiskey, swilling it around like a fiery, caramel mouthwash. Then, I leaned back. Stared at the dusty ceiling light while I let it all go to my head. I should send for a cleaner tomorrow.

  She barged in. Almost shat myself, I was so startled. Wasn’t unusual; it’s how I got by. Dames coming in, that is. Dames were always barging in at late hours. My husband this. My boyfriend that. My ex-lover I tossed out this and that.

  I drained the whiskey glass. Clean. Tossed it and the bottle back in their drawer. Unprofessional to let a dame see you drinking on the job.

  “Jack!” she cried. They always cried some, make-up smeared around their eyes. That’s how you tug at heartstrings: little pricks strummed faint notes as they ran down her pink cheeks smeared with wet rouge and mascara. It’s a kind of sad music. I light another smoke.

  “Let’s start at square one, sweetheart. What’s your name?”

  You keep your distance in this line of work.

  “It’s Laura, Jack. Laura Softson. Don’t you remember?” she crooned through red lips. She was wearing a yellow hat with a large brim and a black bow. It matched her yellow coat and golden curls but not her sad girl act. A string of white pearls around her neck tied the ensemble together.

  I stood up and went to the window. You keep your distance. Went to the window to watch the impotent autumn rain wash Seattle’s grimy streets and alleys. Went to listen to its steady patter against the window pane, to wash her heartstring song out of my ears. Never does get all the grime out. The raindrops played their little game of Annie Over with the city lights. It was pretty.

  “I remember. Husband’s been dancing more than a Foxtrot with the street broads. Anything changed?”

  “No-”

  “Never does.” That’s how I get by. “What can I do for you now?” The answer was nothing. I didn’t think even God could help this dame. Husband was a chronic lecher. Little lead in the right spot might have done more good than praying.

  “I need your help, Jack. I’ve done something I can’t take back.”

  Sounded like she knew best. Sounded like she knew where to put the lead.

  “Go on.” This is dirty. I take another drag from my cigarette. I’d done dirty before. Didn’t like it much, but it got me by.

  “I sold him out, Jack. Sam’s … gone missing.”

  Not that dirty. We start at square one.

  “How much cash do you have?”

  [ I DRIVE ]

  She told me all I needed to hear, and I heard all I needed to do the job and protect my license. Old Sam the Lecher racked up more than a few dollars in gambling debts. Made more than a few gentlemen mad. She wanted to get back at him for all the cheating and all the beating. Most of all, she wanted to get back at him for making her poor. Like it was her money to begin with.

  Someone, and legally I didn’t need to know who, told those more than a few mad gentlemen where he’d be tonight. Told them what he’d be doing. Didn’t tell me what the mad gentleman planned to do with our lecher in distress, but I’ve done this long enough to know how it works: if he’s lucky, they’ll only break a few bones. If there was more to the story, and there always is, they’d be breaking a lot more than bones. Not a sight I like to see: a man’s whole body pummeled in like a grape that’s given all it’s got to make new wine.

  They liked to use old soda bottles. One good crack and the irate gentleman could sew splinters deep into his debtor’s face, shattering glass and bone, tearing skin, and breaking a man’s spirit. Might teach him to play his cards closer to the vest. Shame it won’t teach him not to be a sleaze. Take what you can get, though.

  She told me about a cabin. Said I might find something there. What, she couldn’t say. All I knew was that a little bird in red lipstick told some very mad gentlemen where to find Sam the Lecher. The same bird also told me where Sam would be.

  “You gotta find him, Jack! I couldn’t bear it if anything happened to him.”

  Yeah. Sure thing, lady.

  I was another piece in her game. She was hiring me to make sure she could legally deny being the cause of any harm that came to Sam. I knew full well I was being played like a pawn on a chessboard. But, she was paying me while she was playing me, so I’ll go along to help you cover your tracks, Mrs. Softson.

  So, I headed south. Drive toward Mt. Rainier. Through Tacoma. Keep going past Spanaway. When you get to Eatonville, take a left and head up to Lynch Creek Quarry. Fitting name. Take the first right up into the mountains. Follow along that road and you’ll see a cabin by itself. Looked at my watch. Midnight had sauntered in like the haughty bastard he was by the time I got near. Damn. Past my bedtime. Lousy broads are always keeping me up. This job’s simple though: find the cabin, sort out the details, go home, and go to sleep.

  I knew full well it was never that simple.

  I turned toward the quarry and left the streetlights behind. Whole world was as black as tar wrapped around charcoal. My headlights thumbed their noses at the dark, throwing shadows over shadows.

  Some of the shadows seemed to move.

  Feels like I’m being watched. What an imagination. Should’ve moved south to write films.

  After vomiting in my mouth at the idea of being a writer, I took a swig of the caramel mouthwash in my flask to make the hairs on the back of my neck lie down again. The whiskey burned my throat and soured my stomach. Again. Never got used to the stuff, not even after all this time.

  After I’d taken the first right up into the mountains, I found a fork in the road.

  Not supposed to be a fork.

  I went left.

  See where this takes me.

  After a minute or two of driving, an electric glow peeked out through the towering evergreens. A bright bulb by itself.

  Must be the place. They even left a light on for me.

  Shutting my lights off, I pulled up to the porch then shut the engine off. The yellow porch light burned bright to the right of the door. Moths danced and died around it, dashing their tiny bug skulls against the bulb then fluttering about the porch in circles like a man crawling from a toppled, burning truck after a Jerry shell has had mercy on him and only blown his legs off and left him deaf for perhaps a time. I lit another cigarette.

  The cabin’s lights reached out its windows through thin curtains. Nothing moved inside.

  Seems empty.

  From my car, the night was silent except for the creak of the cooling engine. No other cars. That bothered me. Far as I could tell, it was only me and the moths out there.

  Someone has to be inside the place, or else they left the lights on to keep the riffraff out. I guess the three bears learned their lesson from Little Goldilocks. Might have been here and then taken Sam out somewhere else… somewhere a little darker. Or, I went up the wrong side of the fork.

  I opened the car door and tossed my cigarette butt on the ground. Cold, I thought as I watched my breath curl in the night air. Reminded me to grab my hat and trench coat.

  I got out to put my coat on and let the car door slam shut, not trying to be quiet. Trying to be casual. I’ll play the bit about being lost. See where that gets me. Let’s see if there’s a phone I can use.

  I put my hand on my gun just to make sure she was still there inside the breast pocket of my coat. She was. Right next to my flask. Ma had always told me to keep those important to you close to your heart. What kind of son would I be if I didn’t listen?

  Had a weird feeling in the pit of my stomach, like a bowling ball in a washing machine. Must be the whiskey, I told myself, but I knew it wasn’t. It was the job. Something wasn’t right. My gut knew that better than my brain. My gut was always right, and the only time I didn’t listen was when it told me to stop drinking.

  Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.

  I walked up to the porch, hands in my long coat pockets to hide them from that biting cold. Watching my breath tangle with the fresh mountain air, I thought about lighting another cigarette. Lay off. Get the job done and go home.

  As I approached the door, the electric hum of the porchlight poured a numb rhythm in my ears. The staccato tap of dancing moths ran along with it. I watch one flutter on its back across the porch to my foot. You remind me of a Jerry I knew once. Poor guy. I step on him. I didn’t know him long either.

  Two knocks and I lit a cigarette. I gave it a second, but there was no answer. Something in my gut told me to leave. It’s that bowling ball. For once, I told my gut to stuff it. Need the money. I'm a professional. I know what I'm doing.

  Two more knocks. I stood still and let the breeze pass by a little longer until I decided I didn’t have time for these waiting games. I could’ve been home, drinking. I took another swig. I owe myself for taking this stupid job.

  An amateur would have kicked the door down. I opted for a more professional approach: I tried the knob. It was unlocked. I went in.

  The place reeked of reefer. Like having a skunk sit on your nose. Empty liquor bottles littered the floor. Cheap stuff. Bunch of magazines littered the place too. I picked one up and read the cover: “Weird Tales: The Unique Magazine.” Had an evil-looking fellow in a red robe holding some half-naked dame over his head. He was about to chuck her to a crocodile. Serves her right.

  The publishing date read May 1929. Almost 20 years old. I guess these goons like the classics.

  Another magazine had an Elvgren girl on the cover. A maid bent over with a feather duster. Long legs. Black hose pulled tight by garters. Smooth skin below the hem of her skirt. What kind of broad exposes herself like that? I take a drag. The kind Sammy the Lecher likes. The kind that causes trouble.

  I looked around at all the other magazines. More of the same trash.

  What have they been reading in here? Bunch of ungodly smut, that’s what. This country’s gone to Hell. God save us. If you’re out there, that is.

  I didn’t know if I believed in God, but I did believe in evil. I had seen too much of it at war and even more on the job. If there's evil, there's probably God. Probably not too happy with me. We'll sort that out later. I have work to do now.

  I tossed down the smut and carried on. Legs like that distract you. Distraction gets you killed.

  A window on the back wall arrested my attention. An orange flame stared back at me through its thin curtains. I stepped over a pair of dirty panties on my way to the window. Gross. Pulling the curtains back a touch, I got a good look outside. A bonfire. People. Looks like five men. Maybe. Their silhouettes passed in front of the flames like ghosts wandering a haunted forest.

  Doesn’t look like he’s here. All this party trash doesn’t exactly scream “rich socialite.” Maybe it screams “mad gentlemen;” I don't know what they're into these days. Even the cabin looks pretty drab. Looks more like something Sam would rent out rather than use himself. Well, Jack, you can turn around and look for another cabin, or you can take a peek at what’s going on outside and tell Mrs. Softson he wasn’t at the place.

  Curiosity got the better of me. I finished my cigarette and dropped the butt in an ashtray. Looked for the back door and slipped outside. I shut it gingerly behind me. This time, I was trying to be quiet, not casual.

  The cool mountain air hit me like a glass of water splashed in the face. Believe me; more than a few dames have taught me how that feels. The ashy scent of bonfire tickled my nose. Reminded me of when I was a kid and would have been comforting if not for the fact that everything else felt so sleazy and strange. Dangerous, even.

  I crept through the brush as careful and slow as the Jap infantry. Held my trench coat tight so it wouldn't snag on the thorns. I held my hat to my head with the other hand; it was as if the tree branches were reaching for it, trying to rip it off.

  Finally, I was close enough to really see: a bunch of guys in crimson robes danced around the fire. They looked like the guys from the covers of one of those magazines. Weird Tales, not the Elvgren ones. I couldn’t take my eyes off the scene.

  Yeah… these don’t look like the “mad gentlemen” I thought I was looking for.

  One of them grabbed a chicken from a cage. He said some words I couldn’t make out. Doesn't sound like English. Doesn't sound like any language I've ever heard. He cut the chicken’s head off like he’d done it before. I guess this is one way to cook your supper.

  He flicked blood from the chicken corpse all over his red-robed pals. Like a priest flinging holy water on a congregation, I suppose. Couldn't remember; hadn't been to church in a while. Starting to wonder if I should regret that.

  Stay focused. Distraction gets you killed.

  Speaking in more gibberish, the robed men raised their arms up, swaying and writhing as if swept up in the abusive ecstasy of drugs. Maybe one of those is Sam. I'm starting to think Laura didn't tell me all I needed to know. Maybe she didn't even know. They chanted the same strange words again and again as if reciting some brief prayer to an abominable deity.

  Someone needs to tell these jerks this is America: we pray with English, Latin, or money around here.

  From the darkness, one of them led out another. The leader turned around and opened up the robe of the follower, knocking back the hood. The garment fell to the ground, revealing the fair skin of a young woman. She wore even less than an Elvgren girl. Her blonde hair curled around her face in a short bob. She stared at the flames with dead eyes. She’s drugged. The sick creep who led her out stepped away, joining in infernal prayer with the others.

  I crept a little closer. This has to be the right place. I followed the directions. There were no other cabins. One of those creeps has to be Sam, and that has to be one of his broads.

  As I moved up, my eyes were fixed on the scene around the fire. I felt something hard under my shoe. Glass bottles littered the ground, glinting in the firelight. Pills. Of course. She’s drugged. That explains the dirty panties too. This is how these rich creeps get by. Even if I haven’t found Sam, I’m staring at a crime scene. How far is this going to go?

  I crept up to the edge of the firelight, forgetting to keep my distance. The man with the knife rattled off more in that arcane speech. Then, he stood between the young woman and the fire. He put his hands on her face and ran his fingers up into her hair.

  “I’ve always wanted you, Clara. You wouldn’t so much as smile my way. Tonight, though, I will make you mine forever.”

  He lowered his hood. The bonfire behind him made his face dark. His voice seemed younger than I expected. He leaned in to kiss her.

  Alright. Far enough!

  “Step away from her!”

  “Huh?”

  “What’s the matter? You’ve never had a gun pointed at you before, asshole? I said step away from the girl. Now! Or I’ll blow your head off.”

  I was far more likely to aim for the hip. Easier to hit, far more agonizing, and just as deadly, give or take a minute.

  Then it hit me: the chanting’s stopped. I glanced to my left and right. The choir had fallen on the ground and started seizing.

  Are they reacting to the pills? Maybe I should do something, but what was I gonna do? Give’em more pills? There was no phone inside. I was no doctor. If they’re screwed, they’re screwed. If they’re not, they’re not. That’s what I told myself anyway.

  “We’ve done it! The stars smile upon us with their wicked maws! Tonight, Clara! Tonight, we will join together forever!”

  His back was to me now with his arms raised. Black smoke spewed out of the bonfire in a thick plume. Must be something nasty getting burned up.

  “Witness our devotion, oh eldritch scions of might and ecstasy! Show us to our glory!” He fell to his knees, then onto his side, shaking like the rest. The girl just stood there.

  I ran over to the seizing men, looking around for Mr. Softson so I could say I did my job. All I saw were the sad, ugly faces of teenage boys covered in pimples and chicken blood. Long, greasy hair clung to their foreheads. White foam rolled out of the corners of their mouths. Their dads should’ve hugged them more. Too late now. I need a cigarette. I took a quick swig instead. Better drive down to where I can find a phone. I’ll call the police. Maybe the boys will be okay. Maybe we won’t have to bury anyone.

  That’s when the bonfire caught my attention. I saw myself standing in it like some pagan effigy. We, myself and I, that is, locked eyes, and then a cruel and wicked smile curled across my face. His face, rather, but maybe mine too. Hard say what was really happening: I felt like I was swimming in a dream.

  The flames turned purple. That’s strange. Wonder what they had to burn to make it do that. I remembered the moths and the porch light. Kind of pretty. Really pretty. I stared a little longer. The flickering tongues made me sick to my stomach in a way I couldn’t describe, so sick my head started to go light and my vision blurred in and out of focus. I haven’t had that much to drink. What did they put in this fire?

  A black ooze bubbled out of the purple blaze. Looked like a tangle of copulating octopi made of tar. The way it moved churned my stomach even more. Or… maybe that was the whiskey this time. The wicked smile of my counterpart pushed me to the edge and over.

  I bent over and froze still, about to heave out my intestines. I looked up at the black ooze and purple flames like a rabbit staring into the eyes of a rabid wolf creeping toward him. Your gun. I kept staring, eyes as wide as hubcaps. Shoot it or something, Jack. Anything!

  The tar kept creeping toward me. I threw up in my mouth. The whiskey burned again. I gagged. I vomited more, spewing everything I had down between my feet. The stinking cocktail of whiskey and stomach acid stained my shoes and my pants. This is the end for you, Jackie: no more getting by. I hate when people call me Jackie.

  I watched as the soup from Hell slowly slurped up the comatose boys. The girl stood there, staring at nothing with her dead eyes. Then, she started to laugh. I wondered what she found so funny. The vile ooze ignored her. It pulled the boys toward the fire.

  The black stuff grabbed me by the ankle. Yanked me down; I hit the ground with my tailbone, landing in vomit and threatening to heave up more. The hell do you want with me, weirdo? I’d have asked, but my mouth was more keen on retching than talking. That was until I started to shake like a man caught and wrapped in the fury of winter as the ooze dragged me closer and closer to its wild, purple flames. The manic eyes of my effigy never left me. Black smoke curled around his face. There was nothing warm about the flames.

  The only sound I made was the beating of my heart against my sternum like a mad prisoner slamming against the bars of his cell.

  The thing pulled me closer to the fire. Closer and closer. I stared. Eyes wide. Mouth, still silent. Lungs gripped tight with fear.

  Bang!

  I fired again.

  Bang!

  And again.

  Bang! Bang! Bang!

  My ears rang. The twisting tar kept pulling me in as if I’d done nothing. A waste of good .38.

  I looked up at the girl. She only laughed, staring at everything and nothing with eyes wilder than a feral dog caught in a trap. I gritted my teeth as the bones in my legs snapped.

  “What’s so funny?” I ask through teeth clenched like a steel trap. “Never seen a man dying before?”

  She never gave me an answer.

  Fade to black. Lights out, kid.

  [ SEE YOU IN SPACE, PRIVATE EYE ]