W. T. Quick - Whatever gets you through the night.pdf

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Whatever Gets You Through the Night
by W. T. Quick
The windows of Keller's, a small bar on a side street in a run down section of San Francisco, were
smeared over with dark green paint to keep sunlight from disturbing the early morning drinkers. The paint
was cracked in places and admitted a watery glow. The inside of the place was like a dingy aquarium
filled with red-eyed, wrinkled patrons who resembled those prehistoric fish they keep finding in
out-of-the-way parts of the world. I was filling my glass with Dewars scotch when the explosion rattled
the thin walls and flaked even more paint from the windows.
"Jesus," Herbie Johnson said. "What the fuck was that?"
I was pleased to note my hand didn't shake. I finished topping off my glass and placed the bottle back in
the middle of the table, where Herbie grabbed it and took a long, shuddering swallow straight from the
neck.
"Easy, boy. That jug has to last all day." Keller's was the kind of law-bending dive that sold booze by the
glass, the bottle, or the keg, for all I knew.
Herbie wiped his lips and let out a long sigh. "You want to go look?"
"Huh uh. If something out there wants us, it can come inside."
The morning bartender, a new guy whose name I hadn't bothered to learn, came round from behind the
bar, an anxious look on his bugeyed face and a sawed off baseball bat in his hand. He sidled warily to the
door and opened it a crack.
"See anything?" Herbie called.
The bartender shook his head. "I don't see nothing."
"Stick your head out. If something shoots it off, then we'll know." Herbie sounded cheered by the
thought. The bartender glared.
"Why'nt you stick your head out, you old gasbag? Then if something happens, it won't be no loss."
Herbie turned back to his own drink. "Young punks," he muttered. "Got no respect."
I tasted my scotch. It was my first of the day, and it went down smoothly, a tight little bomb of warmth
straight to my gut.
"Ah," I said. "Better."
The bartender was still peering nervously through the cracked door, shaking his head. "I'm telling you,
ain't nothing out there."
"So go on outside. Send us a telegram," Herbie advised. "We'll wait right here till you get back."
"God, you're a nasty man," the bartender said.
Herbie cackled. He was good at that. He had just the right kind of ruined face and gap-toothed mouth
for cackling. "I'll drink to that," he said, and raised his glass again. "I'll sure as hell drink to that."
 
My own scotch was extending rosy fingers into the rest of my body, scraping away the foggy remnants of
a moderate hangover. It hadn't been a bad night. I remembered everything, and everything I remembered
was okay. So you think scotch is a weird breakfast? Some people think eggs are pretty strange. I
happen to be one of them.
The bartender, who had extended his bony skull slowly around the edge of the door, suddenly jerked
back inside. A cascade of whistles and a long, low growling noise yammered at the green windows.
Herbie's eyes widened.
"What the hell now? Is it a gang war?" Immediately he shook his head. "Naw. No guns." He screwed me
with a glance across the rim of his glass. "Come on, Chandler. You're our hero. Go take a look."
I wasn't feeling very heroic. It doesn't come with only one scotch. But it didn't seem that either the racket
or Herbie was going to let up any time soon; and the bartender, now hovering against the inner wall of
Keller's, didn't look like he was coming up with any ready solutions.
I chugged off the rest of my drink and closed my eyes. Nine a.m. is too early for bravery. Hell, any time
is too early.
"I'll go look," I said.
"That's my man," Herbie said, and toasted me with his drink. For some reason I noticed his fingernails
were caked with grime.
My feet hurt. "That's me," I agreed, and stood up.
I stood just inside the door and looked out on the part of the street I could see. It was empty in a perfect
blue San Francisco morning. "Give me that bat," I said to the bartender. He handed it over and then
scuttled behind his bar. I hefted the thing. It was heavier than it should be, and weighted funny. The fat
end was taped. Lead-loaded, I guess.
I don't know what I thought I'd do with a sawed off bat if it was some of the local drug entrepreneurs out
there settling differences with bombs, but it made me feel better just to hold it. I pushed open the door
and stepped outside. The street -- called Rose Alley, but only the locals knew because the street signs
had long ago been ripped down -- was empty from one end of the block to the other.
The noises were coming from the right, where Rose Alley intersected with Twenty Fifth. I walked in that
direction, keeping close to the storefronts, holding the bat out in front of me like a blind man with a stick.
Feeling stupid.
The bizarre sounds had diminished. Now something like a final gasp -- a huge balloon collapsing, slowly
flubbering out -- filled the bright morning air. Then nothing. I reached the corner and stood there.
A long time ago in another world I was in the army. I ended up at an exclusive school in the Virginia
countryside, learning how to be a spy. It was a joke, of course, but at the time the choices had been
leading a company through the jungles of El Salvador, or learning how to be a spook. On balance
spookery had seemed the safer option. They called it tradecraft. Mostly it consisted of keeping your
mouth shut, your head down, and your ass covered at all times. Always good advice.
So what was I doing investigating strange happenings in a rotten neighborhood armed with a baseball bat
and a single glass of scotch in my gut?
Shit happens, that's what. It just does.
 
I got down on my hands and knees and put my head right up to the corner of the building about six
inches above the cracked sidewalk. If any hyperspaced cowboys around that corner looked in my
direction, they'd be looking head high. Or so I hoped.
I sneaked a quick peek, pulled back, then stood up. Walked around the corner and crossed the street.
The big black maserlimo had hit the dirt right before the intersection and plowed a few feet into a
corroded light pole. Now the pole was bent over the receiving lenses of the limo like a wilted daisy.
I peered into the car. The chauffeur was crumpled in the front, his neck at a crazy angle. There was a lot
of blood. In the rear, the passenger safety bag was deflating slowly, making soft flup-plup noises. Her
eyes were closed but she looked okay. I turned back to the chauffeur and reached through the blood to
touch his neck.
Nothing.
On closer examination the big hole in his skull was quite obvious. Like somebody had pounded him a
good one with a baseball bat.
Just like the one I held in my right hand. Was still holding, as cops began to fall from the sky like rain.
The first cop hit the ground rolling, came up in a crouch, and did what any cop would do if he saw some
ragbag standing next to a wrecked maserlimo holding a baseball bat. He raised his tangler and pulled the
trigger.
Whereupon one Chandler, only recently recovered from a mild hangover, became one hundred eighty
pounds of nerve-frozen meat. Or so I assume. I wasn't really there any more.
I woke up in a cell. Not surprising. People the cops tangle usually wake up in a cell, if they wake up at
all. There's an old joke among drinking folk. Some mornings they say that if normal people felt this bad,
they'd check into a hospital. I felt that bad. And there was no hospital. Worse, there wasn't even a drink.
My skin ached.
So did my head.
I knew it was a cell because I could see bars. Sort of. Sudden bursts of white light kept exploding in my
retinas, making details hard to decipher. It was an aftereffect of tangling. It would go away. I hoped.
I was lying flat on my back on a hard bench against a dirty tile wall. I managed to roll over. Just enough,
and just in time. My morning scotch hit the floor instead of hanging up in my throat and going back down
to my lungs. Thus I avoided drowning in my own vomit.
Us poor folk lead such exciting lives, I thought, as my exciting life faded into merciful darkness.
When I woke up again the pain had receded a bit. No more than a Grade One hangover. I could handle
that. My vision was a bit blurry, but the starbursts had disappeared. So I could see her standing on the
other side of the bars looking at me. The heavyweight three-piece with her, who might as well have
tattooed "Lawyer" on his forehead in big neon letters, carefully didn't look at me. Instead he spoke
rapidly into her ear.
"This is crazy, Marie. He's just a bum. You don't owe him a thing."
"Get him out, Henry. Save the lecture for later."
 
Yeah, girl, I thought.
He said something else, too low for me to make out, and she tightened her lips and shook her head. He
paused, then turned stiffly and marched away.
"Are you awake?" she said at last.
"I think so." My voice sounded like somebody had punched me in the larynx.
"What?"
I whuffed and gurgled and tried again. "Yeah, I'm awake."
"Good. I'm going to get you out of here."
"That would be fine."
"It wasn't your fault. You didn't do anything."
She made the statements sound like questions. I started to shake my head, thought better of it, and said,
"I was just trying to help, lady."
"You were just trying to help," she repeated. The conversation trailed off and we stared at each other. I
knew what she saw. She saw the results of what I called, in my occasional moments of sentiment, a long,
slow, bad trip down.
I didn't look as bad as I could have, but the years and the booze had left a trail across my face even I
couldn't ignore. Of course, I had to look at it every time I shaved, which might have been why I had a
three-day stubble across the evidence right then. The rest of the hundred eighty pounds was about what
you'd expect from a resume that included not only spooking but short order cooking, tech writing, the
kind of pro boxing where the outcome was determined in advance, bartending, (of course), and some
freelance stuff for friends that probably should be listed under "other."
She didn't look impressed. But she didn't look disgusted, either.
I saw a woman pushing that indeterminate age which might have been anything from thirty to fifty. Straight
black hair cut like a cap. Strong cheekbones and large, disconcertingly blue eyes. A perfect figure both
concealed and revealed by a red silk outfit that would support my bad habits for a year. And the Bobby.
I don't know why I hadn't noticed it at the beginning, in the maserlimo. I probably wasn't thinking. But I
saw it now, the elegant golden bracelet with its distinctive bulge, like a watch without a face. On her right
wrist.
The going price, I recalled, was twenty million dollars.
And I wondered what I'd got myself into now.
Old pinch-face Henry, her lawyer, handled clout as effortlessly as I did Dewars. He had me out in less
than ten minutes. The two cops who brought me up didn't look happy about it, and neither did Henry. I
made a note to avoid those cops if I saw them on the street. I didn't think I'd be seeing much of Henry.
He left as soon as he did his duty, with a final warning to her about my obvious lack of character. She
ignored him.
"Sorry," she said. "Three piece suit and all, he's still a flunky. Sometimes I have to remind him who makes
the decisions."
 
"Sure," I said. As if keeping a guy in line who could buy the entire block I lived on was a normal
problem. Good old Chandler. So hard to find decent help these awful days.
She glanced at me. "You don't look very well."
"I don't feel very well."
"Was it . . . painful?"
"The tangling? No." One of my more useful talents is a convincing ability to lie.
She nodded. "Well."
We'd reached the steps leading down out of the station house. She looked around uncertainly, as if
wondering where her limo might have gone.
"Hey," I said. "I haven't thanked you yet."
"That's not --"
"No, really. Let me buy you a drink." I felt giddy, lightheaded. I wanted to talk to her. Get to know her.
And I did need that drink.
She licked her lips. Thought about it.
"I'll get you a cab," I said.
"Okay."
Oh, Lord, what fools these mortals be.
The Hallcrest Cafe was right across from the station house. I'd been there a few times, on those
occasions when I'd had business with the local cops. Usually bailing out Herbie Johnson when he'd had
too much and decided he was superman. Herbie was a cop fighter, a stupid avocation for a man who
weighed about a hundred twenty soaking wet. Or just plain soaked, which he usually was.
It wasn't a bad place as San Francisco bars go. Clean and neat, with a row of tall windows across the
front and around the corner, so you could sit and sip and watch the bag ladies mumble at the bluecoats
across the street.
I looked a little out of place there. The bartender saw it, but wasn't about to say anything when he caught
the golden glint on the lady's wrist.
I settled into a thickly padded lounge chair and let out a long sigh. "Scotch," I told the bartender.
"Dewars, straight up. Make it a double." Then I remembered my manners. "I'm sorry. What would you
like?"
"Oh, whatever. Same as you, I guess."
My eyebrows rose a bit. I figure scotch comes in two sizes, large and larger. But nobody ever called my
drinking habits ladylike. "You sure? That's a pretty hefty drink."
Now her eyebrows rose. Probably the effect was totally different than my expression. On her it looked
nice. "No problem." She seemed amused.
 

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