Phantom Point
by Gary Inbinder
July 1907: Chicago is sweltering, and hard-boiled detective Max Niemand has a hot, new case. A wealthy socialite hires Max to rescue her wayward artist brother from the clutches of a femme fatale and her dubious California artists’ colony. The job is lucrative, with the promise of a large bonus for good results.
Arriving on the West Coast, Max becomes embroiled in a murder case and a fight over oil rights. In the course of his investigation, he encounters hard-nosed cops, gangsters, an Old West marshal, a tycoon, a cagey lawyer, fast cars, faster women and a malevolent gold-toothed hitman. Before long, Max realizes the odds of living long enough to collect his bonus are definitely not in his favor.
Chapter 15: By the Sea
Max’s consciousness returned in waves with an increasing awareness of pain, like a patient coming out of anesthesia following an operation. His senses awakened gradually. He heard the surf rushing onto a beach, birds crying as they circled in the sky, a fly buzzing around his head. He smelled the sharp stench of mildewed wood and sea-bird regurgitated fish.
Max blinked his eyes open; he tried to focus. His blurred vision gave his brain the impression of a rough wooden shack, with a few rays of light penetrating through the unpainted slats. Where was he? He tried to move. Cords fastened to the arms of a chair bound his wrists; a rope looped around his chest secured Max and the chair to a roof-supporting post. Movement was painful, but it reassured him that he was still alive. But for how long?
He associated the throbbing pain in his head with the sap, and that association jogged his memory. How long had he been out? Was it just the sap that knocked him out, or had he been drugged, too? Had someone betrayed him, or did he betray himself through his own carelessness? It didn’t matter. What mattered was survival. What were his chances?
He took in a deep breath and exhaled slowly. It helped clear his head. He’d been in tight spots before, but this looked like the end of the line. Don’t give up, he thought. There’s always a way out. And if there isn’t, I won’t go easy.
A door opened. The sudden flood of light made Max turn his face to one side. A man entered the shack and walked toward him. Max turned his head back to confront his jailer. His squinting eyes recognized Duke Placco at the same time Max’s nose got a good whiff of the gangster’s body odor.
Placco flashed his golden grin. “So, you’re still alive? You may regret that, pal.”
* * *
The first blow was an open-handed slap across Max’s face, and that was before Placco had even asked a question. “Just something to get your attention,” the gangster said.
“What do you want, Duke?”
The next came swift and hard, a back-hand with a diamond ring for emphasis. “I ask the questions. You answer. First question: Who the hell are you?”
Max spat blood from his cut lip. “You know who I am. Matt Rogers, a real estate broker from Chicago.”
That answer earned a punch to the gut, but Max was prepared for it. He had taken beatings on the street and in the ring, but those were fights. He gave back at least as good as he got, and with interest. Now, Max was helpless, and Placco had iron in his fists. And this was just the preliminary; the main event was yet to come. How much could he take? He figured at the point where he couldn’t take any more, he’d give up some information just to buy time. But he wondered how much time he had.
Placco worked him over, face and body, until the punches and slaps started losing some of their pop. Beating up Max was like hitting the heavy bag. The gangster tired from the effort. Placco paused, took out a handkerchief and wiped away the sweat pouring down his face.
“I’ll hand it to you, pal,” Placco said, “you got guts. But don’t think that’ll save you. The sooner you talk, the better for us both.”
The door opened. Max looked up. From his right eye — the left was swollen shut — he saw the kid who had been following him. Roxy came in behind the kid. She was dressed in a boy’s shirt and jeans, as though she’d come on horseback, and she carried a basket.
“Hi, Duke. I brought beer and something to eat,” Roxy said. “Looks like you sure gave him a going over,” she added.
“He’s a tough one, all right,” Duke said. “But he’ll crack. They all do.” Then he turned to the kid. “You keep an eye on him, Jack. I got other business to attend to.” Then to Max: “Hey, tough guy. I’ll be gone for a while, but don’t worry. I’ll be back. If you don’t talk, I’ll start working on you with a sap. Think about it.”
“You sure you don’t want nothin’ to eat before you go?” Roxy said to Duke.
“No, baby, you can leave it for the kid.” He glanced at Max before adding, “You can feed a bit to the tough guy, too. We don’t want him dying on us, at least not yet.” Placco grinned and walked over to Roxy. He held her against his sweaty body and stroked her behind like it was the fender of his sporty car, a valuable piece of property newly acquired. “Be a good girl and hold down the fort while I’m gone,” he whispered.
“Don’t worry, sugar. Go take care of your business. Jacky and me will keep an eye on the chump until you get back.” Roxy looked up at the ugly mug and smiled sweetly.
Placco grinned, let go of Roxy’s arms, turned and clomped out the door.
Max observed the scene through his serviceable eye. Placco’s making his move, he thought. He’s already got Doyle’s woman, the rest will follow.
Roxy waited a moment before approaching the kid. She lifted the basket and uncovered the tempting contents. “Come on, Jacky. Have a beer and some eats.”
The kid glanced at Max and looked back at Roxy. “What about him?”
She lowered her voice, but still spoke loud enough for Max to hear. “Screw him. He’s fish food.”
Jacky laughed. Then he grabbed a bottle of beer, uncorked it and took a long swallow. Roxy left the basket with the kid and walked over to Max.
“Well, big boy, it looks like Duke’s cut you down to size.”
“What’s going to happen to Doyle, now that you’ve sided with his stooge?” Max’s cut and swollen upper lip curled in a wry grin.
“Still a wise guy, huh? We’ll see how smart you are when Duke starts working on you with his sap.”
Max was about to reply when his attention turned to the kid.
“Roxy... it must be the beer... I...” The kid dropped the bottle and staggered a few steps before he went down like a poleaxed steer.
Roxy ran to Jack, hunkered down and checked his eyes and breathing. Then she whipped out a hunting knife from a sheath on her belt, got up and ran back to Max.
“What are you going to do with that pig sticker?” Max asked.
“Shut up,” she said and started cutting the cords. As soon as she got his arms free, she began sawing away at the rope around his chest.
“Did you slip the kid a Mickey?”
“Shut up, will you?” she said as she cut through the last strand.
Max got up slowly and rubbed his sore wrists and cramped legs.
Roxy sheathed her knife, put a finger to her lips and went, “Shush!” She waited and listened until they heard the roar of an engine in the near distance. Roxy turned to Max and smiled. “Duke parked his car on a trail that runs up from the beach to the top of the bluff. We should be clear to go now. And don’t worry about Jacky. That beer was loaded with chloral hydrate.”
“Don’t you think we should tie him up, just in case?”
“OK, but let’s be quick about it. The sooner we’re out of here, the better.”
“Roxy, I don’t know how to thank—”
“Save it. Can you ride?”
“I... yeah, sure.”
“All right. Let’s hog-tie the kid and then blow this place, pronto.”
* * *
Max required the aid of a footstool to climb up onto Roxy’s gray gelding. Once he was planted steadily on the horse’s back, with his arms around Roxy’s waist and his battered head resting on her shoulder, she kicked the horse’s sides and started it galloping up the beach.
They headed for a trail about a half-mile up the moonlit cove. Max tried to ease his pain by breathing the fresh salt air and embracing the warmth of Roxy’s soft yet firm body. He hated showing weakness to anyone, much less a woman he had dismissed as a grifter and a whore. Now he owed that woman for saving his life, a debt that would weigh on his conscience for some time to come. Notwithstanding that burden, Max was grateful to be alive.
He sensed the horse slowing as they climbed the steep bluff. Max lifted his head and nestled his bruised cheek against the nape of her fragrant neck. His hands instinctively moved up her rib cage to feel the rounded contours of her un-corseted breasts.
“Glad to see you’re still alive,” she said.
When they reached the top of the bluff, Roxy spurred the horse up a winding, tree-lined trail. Moonlight filtered down through the treetops. An owl flew overhead in search of its prey. Surf crashed on the rocks far below.
The horse took a couple of short jumps over brush and scrub; Max clenched his teeth to keep from crying out. They continued for almost a mile until they reached a small clearing. Roxy reined in the horse and they came to an abrupt stop.
Max sat up, opened his available eye and scanned the area. The first thing he noticed was John Merwin’s white Mercedes parked on a paved road about forty feet inland from the old trail.
Roxy turned around. “Here’s where I leave you, big boy.”
“Roxy, I don’t know what to say. I owe you—”
“You owe me nothing,” she broke in. “Save your thanks for her.”
He turned his head toward the car and saw a woman walking in their direction. As she approached, he could just make out her features. It was Eve Sinclair, the “modern American girl” he had met in the Los Angeles depot.
Copyright © 2022 by Gary Inbinder
