DEAD & BUSY - Box Set: Episodes 1 - 4

CHAPTER 1

Drip, drip … Drip, drip …

The sound was coming from my best armchair, the one I like to sit in to watch the game. I stood, flabbergasted, gaping at Joe Murray, alias Giovanni di Mare, aka Stupid Joe (although you never called him so to his face). Stupid Joe was a mobster, well known in his neighborhood for the easy, nonchalant way in which he handled those who fell in disgrace with his family. If you dug deep enough, he was not a bad sort. I had often had a beer with him when fishing for information and from time to time he had given me useful tips. He got around and knew a lot about what was going on in his circles, but as his nickname suggested, he was not an owl.

Stupid Joe was holding a whacking big pistol in one hand, and a glass in the other. Judging by the bottle on the table next to him, what he was drinking was the low-quality Scotch with which I always fill a bottle of the best label. That is the whiskey that I offer my guests, who anyway can’t tell the difference between petrol and the finest Scotch on earth. He was directing me to the chair in front of him with a friendly movement of his gun. I, on the other hand, was too amazed to move. It was not the fact that Stupid Joe had broken into my apartment that had left me speechless—when you are a private eye it’s an occupational hazard—nor was the fact that he was drinking my whiskey that left me perplexed. Even his pointing a gun at me was not the reason for freezing as I did (I have had guns of all kinds pointed at me by assorted goons over the years, and one gets used to it). But I had been watching the news at my girlfriend’s house the night before, and that’s why I was spooked beyond words.

If you are like me, I’m sure that much of what they feed you in the news sounds unclear, wrong, or plainly a lie. But this time the news had been very clear about one thing: One Mafioso known as Joe Murray, they said, had been shot in the back in a busy bar. The gun employed to rid the world of this scourge of humanity, they explained in lavish details, was a big caliber hunting rifle that had bored an impressively large hole in Joe’s back, and had left an even larger exit wound in his chest—one through which you could easily poke your head.

The identity of the murderer wasn’t known, and the police were making inquiries. I bet they were. I could almost hear the sigh of ecstasy let out by those who, now that Stupid Joe had checked out and was lying on a slab at the morgue, felt that the world had suddenly become a better and a safer place for them to live in.

Only he wasn’t lying on any damn slab, if you follow me. He was in my living room, sitting in my armchair and drinking my whiskey. He did look a little pale though, as befitting one who had been clinically dead for a while, but apart from that you wouldn’t have thought that anything was wrong with him. If you overlooked the hole, that is.

At this point you may wonder how come I didn’t faint, freak out and lose it. Well, truth is that, apart from the first shock, the visit I was having was not entirely unusual for me. Stop me if you’ve heard this before—I’m not sure if you’re familiar with what I do—but I’m quite well known as a paranormal detective. I’m not bragging, just stating a fact. In a nutshell, that means that I can see dead people that you may not be able to see, and they have a tendency of flocking around me. That’s my gift, or as some people would say, my curse. It is sort of annoying having deadies dropping by at all hours, but on the other hand that’s how I make a living, so I can’t complain. Nevertheless, this Stupid Joe was a novelty item, because up to that point my visitors had been incorporeal, while he was plainly here in the flesh.

Joe was wearing a raincoat two sizes too small for him—he was a big guy, more or less my size, to give you an idea—which he had left unbuttoned. Other than that, he wore only a pair of dirty shorts. His feet were crammed into tight sneakers. The hole in his chest that had been so widely advertised on TV was even larger than I had imagined. The shot had apparently taken out an entire length of his esophagus, and drops of my precious Scotch were falling from its severed end, onto the rim of the carbonized exit hole, which accounted for the dripping sound. From the edge of the exit wound they flew out and splashed onto the cushion of my armchair. Every time he took a sip the stream of drops intensified, and the drip … drip … drip … quickened. I was hypnotized by that dripping hole and wasn’t able to take my eyes off it.

Take a seat, Dave, he said to me in a low, rasping voice, once again pointing helpfully to the chair with the gun. I’d hate to have to whack you.

Hi, Joe, I said, regaining some of my composure at the sound of his voice. It was not a beautiful voice, but it was as human as it had always been. I’d heard reports …

That someone had whacked me, right? He rubbed his right ear with the muzzle of the gun and made a face.

Right. And you do look a little the worse for wear, I must say—no offense meant, I hastened to add. You didn’t offend Stupid Joe, if you wanted to see the next sunrise standing up.

Yeah, it stinks. Do you want to hear what happened? Of course you want to hear what happened. I am at the Blue Bird bar, you know, the one downtown where they have this new number with this girl curling up … have you seen it?

No, I haven’t, but I know the place you’re talking about. It was in the news.

You should go and see it. It’s unbelievable what this girl can do … but that’s not the point now. The point is, I am there, talking to a broad and passing the time of day, when I hear a shout and a shot, and the next thing I know, I wake up on a slab at the morgue, really pissed off, you know.

You woke up? How did that happen?

I have no idea. I just did. At first I couldn’t remember what had happened to me, but after a minute it all came back.

And they simply let you go? I mean, how sloppy can the morgue’s personnel be?

Nobody was around to stop me. I looked for someone, but it was dead bodies all over. The place was empty at this time of night, otherwise I would have whacked somebody just to feel alive again. SIT DOWN! he boomed when I instinctively got up.

No need to get excited, I said. I’m not going anywhere. But I’m glad you didn’t find anybody to whack. Whacking someone who’s not involved in what happened to you wouldn’t be nice, I added.

It would be a relief, though. I may still do it. Anyway, I’m on this slab and I sit up and start thinking what to do about it. I’m naked, you see, and I can’t go out like that. So I look around until I find this stuff I am wearing now, and then I figure I should come and talk to you.

Why me? Why don’t you talk to the police? They’re investigating right now, and I am sure they’ll find the person who did this to you, in no time.

Bah! The police couldn’t find your dog’s shit if it left it under the lamp in front of the police station. No, everybody knows that Dave Callaghan is the best private eye there is, so it’s you who is going to find this guy for me, so that I can get even with him.

It appeared that I was being engaged, and wasn’t getting to say no. Still, it was worth trying . . .

But, Joe, I don’t think you have any money now. How will you be paying for the investigation? I mean, I like you, and I am sorry for you, but I never work unless there is something in it for me.

But you stand to gain from it too.

Yeah, what?

Well, if you find him, I won’t whack you. That’s fair enough, I think.

That was Stupid Joe in a nutshell. A sudden thought occurred to me.

"Sorry for asking, but you are dead, right?"

I guess so. I can’t tell you how sore I am because of it. But I’m pretty sure that I’m dead. I’m dead cold. Here, he said, pointing at his arm, feel my flesh. I’m cold and no pulse. FEEL MY FLESH, I SAID! he ordered, when I made a polite gesture declining the invitation.

Well, it did feel cold. And there was no pulse. He was dead all right, but somehow his brain had not yet caught up with it, and refused to stop commanding the body. Perhaps the amount of intellect involved in running Stupid Joe’s business was so minimal that it could go on, at least for a while, even after his death. I’ve seen that happening before, but usually only for a few minutes before the machinery gave up. With Stupid Joe it seemed like he would go on forever. Still, I had to find a way to make him realize his situation if I wanted to get rid of him any time soon.

Yeah, I agreed, you are as dead as they come. Look here, I added, trying to bring our little discussion onto a more businesslike plane, I’m ready to help you find who did this to you, on one condition.

I didn’t say anything about allowing conditions, but shoot anyway.

My condition is that the moment we find this guy and you get even with him, you go straight back to your nice slab at the morgue, where you belong, and let nature take its course. Do we have a deal?

Oh, I don’t know.

But Joe, be reasonable. You came to me because I’m good and you want me to find this guy. But to do a good job I need motivation. If you can’t pay for my work, you must at last give me your word that once I deliver, we’re done. That’s motivation enough for me to find him.

Stupid Joe’s countenance became one of deep thought, meaning that he looked like a badly cut marble statue forgotten in someone’s junkyard. After a while, he lowered his gaze, which he had directed to a light switch at the other end of the room, and nodded.

OK. You have my word. I promise that as soon as I’m through working on this guy you’re going to find for me, I’ll go back to the morgue and you’ll never hear from me again.

It’s a deal, then.

Yeah. No more chin wagging now, ordered Joe. How are we going to start this investigation?

We? You have no part in any investigation. I’m the detective, remember?

We are a team, said Joe, speaking softly.

No, we aren’t. This is detective work, not team work.

WE ARE A TEAM, I SAID! Joe boomed again. I realized that arguing wouldn’t do me any good. I had to play ball, at least until I discovered who the shooter was, or I found another way to get rid of Joe.

Well, I said, resigned, then we must get organized. First of all, we need to get you some decent clothing. You are more or less my size. Come here, I said, moving toward my small bedroom, I’ll find something that fits you.

I looked into my closet and selected a suit that I had always thought too bright for me, and matched it with a pair of shoes, socks, and a dress shirt with a tie. I had let a former girlfriend talk me into buying that suit, and the next week we had a row that ended it, so I never had to wear it.

Soon it became clear that we had a problem, though: the liquid oozing out of the hole in Joe’s chest would drench the shirt and suit in no time.

Here, I said, handing him a towel. Stuff that into that hole, to stop the liquid from wetting everything. I watched him do it and, encouraged by his apparent docility, I asked, Why do you go on drinking, anyway? Do you taste the stuff at all?

To tell you the truth, no. I’m kinda unable to taste anything. It’s just the habit. I can stop drinking, if you prefer it.

I do. Yes, I definitely prefer it. It’s not that I’m begrudging you the booze, but we need to avoid being conspicuous, and if you come around with me spilling Scotch from your chest, it doesn’t help that.

OK, he said quietly. Joe now seemed much more manageable than I had ever seen him—pensive, is the word I was grasping for, and one never associated Joe with thought. Perhaps death softens the toughest guys, though.

I felt sorry for him—but not half as sorry as for myself. If I wanted this nightmare to end, I realized, we’d better start getting busy.

Let’s begin by going to the Blue Bird. You’ll need a disguise—we don’t want anybody to recognize you and to freak out. Here, I said, pushing a false beard and mustache at him, paste this on your face. The mirror is over there.

The result was quite impressive, I must say. The shop where I buy my disguise gear is very good, and even I wouldn’t have recognized him with that beard. We left the apartment and went down the flight of stairs to the car park. He walked a little strangely, in a sort of side-to-side wobbly fashion, but overall, he looked quite normal. When we reached my car, he extended an open hand.

The keys, he said curtly.

What!

You heard me. Gimme the keys.

If you know me, you have heard that the one thing I love more than my mother is my shiny, blue Jaguar. It’s the apple of my eye and you’re not allowed to eat, drink, or smoke in it. Above all, nobody—and I mean nobody—besides me drives it. I panicked.

But you can’t drive, I pleaded. I don’t trust your reflexes, and your driving license expired by law when you legally died. I was looking for excuses, any excuse, to keep him from driving my Jaguar. And you smell of whiskey—the whole towel is soaked with it—so what do we do if a policeman stops us while you drive?

Simple, we whack him and go on.

Joe’s simple logic was hard to defeat, but I didn’t give up.

Now you listen to me, Joe. You can’t go around whacking people. Particularly police officers. Someone is bound to take notice, and it may get in the way of our investigation. You must correct this tendency of yours to whack everybody in sight. Forget it, expunge it from your thoughts!

All right. Now gimme the keys.

Sorry. You don’t get to drive my Jaguar, and that’s final!

This is why we were now driving at twice the speed limit along Rosebud Boulevard with Joe at the wheel and me trying to remember whether I had mailed the check to the insurance company. We finally reached the Blue Bird, and not a moment too soon. Joe parked the car right in front of the entrance to the bar, which was swell since it improved our chances of finding it again when we came out, and we moved toward the door.

Let me do all the talking, I commanded, before we went in. While we are on the job, I’m the boss. Agreed?

"Agreed. You are the boss. Now move your ass