I’ve hit a bit of a wall, but I know how the story is going to go… hopefully…
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The phone rang. It rang three times before it roused the man from his slumber. He sighed, and fumbled around in the darkness until he came up with an old flip phone. “Hello?” he mumbled sleepily.
“Morgan, you awake?” a deep voice said.
The man glanced at his alarm clock. The numbers “3:25” glowed dully back. “Julius?” he muttered questioningly.
“Yeah, it’s me.”
“What the hell are you calling me for?”
“I found him.”
Morgan sat up, groaning. “The bail jumper?”
“Corner of 35th and Main in Westbrook, Lucky Star Motel.”
Morgan flipped the phone close. He looked at the clock again. 3:26. He could hear rain splattering against his bedroom window. With a great effort, he heaved himself out of bed and started to get dressed. He shucked off his nightshirt and pulled on a pair of jeans, a patterned dark blue t-shirt, and a black jacket. He shuffled into his bathroom and looked into the mirror. It was flecked with brown, dirty around the edges, and there was a thin crack tracing from the upper left to the lower right corners. Morgan looked at himself. He pushed down his mussed-up brown hair but could do little to make it tidier. Dark circles lurked beneath his brown eyes. His lips were cracked. Morgan turned the cold water knob on the sink and water spilled out onto the grimy enamel sink. He splashed some water on his face and then turned away. Morgan stepped out into the living room and grabbed his keys. After a moment of thought, he also took his umbrella before stepping into the hallway.
As he turned back to lock the door behind him, he noticed an envelope taped to the door. Frowning, Morgan took it down and opened it to find a short message scrawled out in chicken-scratch: “Your rent’s already a week late. I better have $500 by the end of the week or else I’m evicting you.” Morgan smiled bitterly. Charming as always. He opened his door and chucked the letter in before locking up his apartment.
Each third ceiling light in the hallway was out. Morgan remembered his landlord telling him that he took out half the lights to save money. Apparently, cleaning the stained walls and replacing the leaky ceiling tiles also fell under the category of unnecessary maintenance. As Morgan moved down to the hallway to the elevator, he noticed a sign reading “Out of Order” taped to the metal door. Apparently, the landlord felt the same way about the elevator too.
Several flights of stairs later, Morgan stepped out the glass doors of his apartment building and headed across the street toward his car. The rain was coming down harder. What started as a light pitter-patter earlier that night had built into a full-on storm, thunder and lightning and all. Morgan cast a cursory left-right look as he crossed the street. This late at night the streets were mostly quiet, but all it took was a wayward drunkard behind the wheel of a car to turn a bad night into a worse one. Thankfully, tonight wasn’t one of those nights. Morgan squeezed past the security barrier of the parking garage and made his way to his car, a secondhand gray VW Golf from sometime during the mid-90s. The car was cheap and beat-up with dents in the hood, scraps on the doors, a crooked side-mirror, and a myriad of other defects, large and small. Morgan unlocked the door and slid in. It was clean inside but for an old spiral-bound notebook and a stack of legal processes. The soothing sounds of late night talk radio came over the speakers as Morgan started up his car. As he passed through the security gate, his cell phone beeped and buzzed. He fished around in his pockets and flipped the phone open to read the words “Hurry up.” He sighed and dropped the phone into his lap.
Morgan took as direct a path he could toward Westbrook. Westbrook, along with the Bends and Wallingford, were located in Breaker. Breaker was considered the shitty part of town and Westbrook was considered a shitty part of Breaker. Port City was basically a giant donut with a chunk bitten out of the western side with a tiny donut hole of an island in the middle of the water. The city was split into four areas: The Hill, Staunton, Breaker, and Waterfront. The Hill was geographically the tallest part of the city and located the north. It was made only taller by its cityscape of skyscrapers. Staunton was the furthest inland and was mostly composed of residential neighborhoods. Waterfront and Breaker together made up the center of the city’s historic fishing and packing industries and were generally considered the shittiest parts of the city because of the smell. They were the oldest parts of Port City and had been there long before the rest of the city had been set up. Breaker was the central island connected to the rest of the city with bridges and was so known because of the turbulent waters that surrounded it, eroding the sides of the island.
No one really lived in Breaker. They all just sort of passed through. Breaker was the central connecting point of the city, sort of like a gigantic Grand Central Station without all of high ceilings and whatnot. The island was always fairly crowded and noisy, even at night. There weren’t any skyscrapers, expensive townhouses, or fancy restaurants here. Rather, one was more likely to find dimly-lit strip clubs, rundown motels, and masturbating hobos. It was a place favored by transients and people who wanted to stay close to a way out and didn’t really care where that way took them as long as it was away. Morgan liked to think of himself as a private investigator, but more often than not his jobs were to find and bring in bail jumpers or serving legal processes informing people of their court dates. This often took him crappy parts of town at odd hours of the day and night.
Even this late at night, there was still some traffic on the roads. Morgan didn’t exactly encounter traffic jams or anything. Most of the danger at this time of night came from drunk drivers and tired workers coming and going for late night shifts. Yellow and orange light shone down from lonely streetlamps as Morgan’s tiny car passed beneath them. A green overhead freeway sign reading “Breakers, right 1/4 mile” rapidly approached. Morgan eased his car into the correct lane and reached into his lap for his cell phone. He tapped out a quick message reading, “About to come off the bridge”. Several seconds later, a reply came back: “Meet me at Round Holes”. Morgan rolled his eyes. Even now, Julius needed food.
Round Holes was a 24-hour establishment known locally for its cheap coffee and good donuts that catered to the sort that would find a 24-hour location handy. It was plopped conveniently between a package store and an unmarked building Morgan suspected was a brothel. Morgan pushed past the glass and metal door, a tinkling bell preceded his entrance. He scanned the room before seeing an older black man sporting a red, black, and white plaid shirt and a visible paunch. The man looked up from his corner booth and waved him down. Morgan approached, saying, “I hope you called me out for something good.”
Julius Brown gestured at the empty chair. Laid out before him were a half-eaten burger, hash browns, some greasy sausages, and a large mug of coffee. Julius was a large, round black man with a shaved, waxed dome of a head and pearly white teeth that he somehow kept immaculate regardless of how much coffee he drank. He didn’t bother trying to hiding his overflowing midsection, instead choosing to wear dress comfortably in loose-fitting clothing. He took a quaff of coffee before reaching down to the seat next to him to lift up a beaten manila folder onto the table. He opened it, pulled out a couple choice pictures, and passed them to Morgan. “I thought you might find this interesting.”
Morgan squinted at the photo. “What’s this supposed to be?”
Julius rolled his eyes and snatched the photo out of Morgan’s hand. He gestured at a figure in the photo with a sausage speared on the end of a fork. “Mac Griffin,” he said simply. “The bail-jumper.”
In Port City, bondsmen paid between five percent to skip tracers who managed to get any information on bail jumpers and ten percent if they could track them down and bring them in. Five percent was good, but it wasn’t $500, and apparently Morgan’s landlord needed $500. Julius handed a photo to Morgan and bit into his sausage. Morgan grimaced at a spot of grease on the photo. It was a dark, unfocused picture of a white man staring out a window. His only defining feature was a shock of red hair. Everything else was blurry. “It’s a shitty picture,” he said. “You can barely tell it’s him.”
“It was nighttime and I didn’t want to use flash,” Julius managed through a mouthful of some hash browns.
After several seconds of silence, Morgan asked, “When did you take this?”
Julius swallowed. “Last night.”
Last night. Dark. Rainy. Morgan considered it. He really did need that reward money. He let out of a breath and said, “You remember the room number?”
Julius thought for a moment. “Room 213.”
Morgan nodded. “Alright, so when are we going then?”
Julius chewed for a moment before managing a muffled, “Let a man finish eating first,” between a mouthful of potato and sausage. A little bit of food flew out of his mouth and landed on the table. Julius deftly swept it off the table with a flick of his hand. Morgan stared at him for a moment before turning to the counter to say, “Can we get a doggie bag here?”
“I don’t see why you couldn’t just give me 5 minutes to finish my breakfast in peace,” Julius grumbled.
Morgan didn’t turn to look at Julius, instead choosing to continue staring out the windshield of his car at the squat, yellowish building across the street. They had parked Morgan’s little car in an alley off the street. Police in the older and poorer parts of the city like Westbrook usually ignored illegally parked cars as long as they were out of the way and weren’t selling drugs or guns out of them. He stared up at the second floor where Room 213 was. The room was dark and they hadn’t seen any movement. “You’re sure this is the right place?” he asked.
Julius rolled his eyes. “Yes, I’m sure,” he said, exasperated. He shifted his weight around. Fitting his bulky body into the comparatively small passenger seat was never comfortable. “My guys are good. If they say someone’s here, then they’re here.”
Morgan tried to suppress and a yawn and failed. His job often had him getting up and going around at odd hours of the day and night but he still wasn’t used it. Damn it, he liked getting at least six hours of sleep. “Tired?” Julius said.
“No,” Morgan said stubbornly.
“Get some sleep,” Julius said. “I’ll keep watch.”
Morgan didn’t need any more encouragement.
Morgan opened his eyes several hours later. The sun was out, its weak light filtering through a thick layer of gray clouds. He glanced at the car clock. 9:07. “Anything?” he said groggily, turning to look at Julius.
The larger man was sitting half-reclined in his car seat. There was an empty Styrofoam container in his lap and a large thermos in his hand. He yawned and said, “Nothing.”
Morgan looked at the car clock again. “I’m going to go up to the room, you try to find the manager or whoever it is in charge of this place, find out if he checked out or not.”
He reached into the backseat and fished around until he found the manila folder of information that Julius arranged. “Find the picture of Griffin in here, it might jog his memory.”
Julius looked at the folder doubtfully. “I dunno man, people in Breaker… they usually try not to remember faces. Plausible deniability and all.”
“Just don’t make it seem like you’re the cops and we’ll be fine,” Morgan said. He opened the door and got out. Julius did the same, albeit with a bit more difficulty.
“Got an idea for a story?” Morgan asked.
“I’ll make something up,” Julius said.
“Right.”
The two of them crossed the street. Julius went first. He looked around and then made his way to a ground-level room with a red “Vacancy” sign in the window. Morgan waited three minutes before making his way up the stairs on the side furthest from the front office. He didn’t like motels. Specifically, he didn’t like the fact that the hallways were open to one side. He didn’t mind it when he was the one spying, but he didn’t like it when he could be the one being spied on. More than one bail-jumper escaped because they saw people nosing around their hidey-hole.
Morgan’s eyes scanned the numbers on the doors. They started from 220 and counted down. He finally came down to 213. His eyes did a cursory once-over the room. The drapes were down. The door was slightly open. Morgan passed it. He stopped at the opposite end and leaned against the railing, staring out at the street. A couple minutes later, he heard Julius struggling up the stairs. The big black man settled next to him. “What’d you tell him?” Morgan asked.
“I said I was a friend of the guy in 213, his wife was looking for him, and some other bullshit.” Julius nudged Morgan. “What’d you find?”
Morgan looked back at Room 213. “The door was open.”
Julius sucked in a breath. It was never a good thing when a door that wasn’t supposed to be open was open. It invited trouble. “What do you want to do?”
Morgan turned back to look at the street. “Can’t hurt to look.”
Julius looked at him meaningfully. “It could.”
A moment passed. “Do you have your gun?” Morgan asked.
Julius nodded. “Right, well, good,” Morgan said. “Well, we’re going to find him if we don’t try, and we’re not going to get paid if we don’t find him.”
Julius frowned. “You don’t normally take these risks.”
“I need the money,” Morgan said. “My rent’s late.”
“I can loan you some,” Julius offered.
“$500?”
“I can’t loan you that much.”
“Well it’s settled then.”
Morgan pushed off the railing and walked swiftly to Room 213. He stopped and then rapped the door sharply a couple times. When there was no response, he looked at Julius. Julius had produced a revolver from somewhere in his pants and nodded at Morgan. Morgan stepped back and made as if he was going to kick the door open. He thought better of it and leaned forward to cautiously push the door in.
A sick, putrid air blasted him in the face. He turned away from the door. “Holy shit,” Julius whispered.
Morgan looked back. In the weak daylight, he could see blood splatters and… parts. He leaned over the side of the railing and emptied his stomach.
“I’m calling the cops,” Julius muttered. He buried his face in his coat and moved in to close the door.
Morgan sat in a small wooden chair in a small office. There were three battered-looking filing cabinets in one corner of the room. Sunlight streaked through the Venetian blinds. The desk in front of him was covered in papers, folders, pens, candy wrappers, empty sandwich bags, and the accumulated detritus of countless hours of work. A plaque sat on the desk with the words “Detective James Zhang” stamped on it.
Morgan stretched. It’d been at least two hours since Julius called in the police. They explained what they were looking for, but they had been brought down to the station anyways. Two hard-faced officers had escorted Morgan to this office and told him to wait until they could get the lead investigator. Morgan looked up at a clock on the wall. 11:30. He could feel his stomach rumble. He hadn’t eaten anything since last night.
The door opened behind him. Morgan stood up and turned around. A short, Asian man with short black hair and glasses stepped in. “Alexander Morgan?” the man said.
Morgan nodded. “James Zhang?” he said. The man nodded.
The detective held up a plastic Subway bag and a cardboard tray holding two drinks. “I thought you might be hungry.”
He moved behind his desk, set down the bag and tray, and motioned for Morgan to sit back down. Morgan sat down. The man was neatly dressed in a collared shirt, tie, blazer, and khakis. His hair was slicked back, and upon closer inspection Morgan could see flecks of gray. A golden band glinted on his right hand. “Do you prefer turkey or tuna?” Zhang asked.
“I’m sorry?” Morgan said.
“Turkey or tuna,” Zhang repeated. “My wife’s trying to get me to eat healthier and eat more fish and less red meat and whatnot. So, turkey or tuna?”
“I’ll take turkey then,” Morgan said.
Zhang nodded. He reached into the Subway bag and pulled out two footlong subs. He unwrapped one, saw that it was tuna, and handed the other to Morgan, along with one of the drinks. “It’s just water,” he said. He paused for a second. “Oh right.”
The man reached into his desk and pulled two wet naps. He handed one to Morgan and wiped his hands with his own. Finished, he set it aside and gestured to Morgan’s sandwich. “Well dig in,” he said.
Morgan peeled back the paper wrapping and bit off a large bite. It was delicious. They ate in silence for a couple minutes. Morgan’s sandwich was half gone when the man began to speak. “So, as you may know, I’m the lead detective on this case,” Zhang said. “I’ve already spoken to your friend Julius Brown and you guys are pretty much in the clear. You’re not under suspicion or anything, so you don’t have to worry about what you say.”
Morgan nodded but didn’t say anything. Zhang set down his sandwich and sipped a bit of water from his cup. “Just for the sake of procedure, can you tell me what me you were doing there?”
Morgan swallowed his bite of sandwich and said, “I work for a bondsman. Arthur Goldstein. I’ve done a couple jobs for him before. He wanted me to find a bail jumper named MacDonald Griffin.”
“Do you know what he’s wanted for?” Zhang asked.
“I’m sure you do.” Morgan took another bite and swallowed. He looked up. “Something nonviolent. That’s really all I know.”
“Mmm.” Zhang took out a notepad. “When did you get the job?”
Morgan looked at the notepad for a moment. “Today’s what, Tuesday?”
“That’s right.”
“Mmm. Friday then, probably.”
Zhang looked up. “And you’re what, a bounty hunter?”
Morgan shook his head. “I do odd jobs. Some snooping, some process serving, and yeah, I find people every now and then for Arthur. He pays good money.”
“How long have you been working for Arthur?”
“Two years, maybe. Maybe a little less.”
“And… these odd jobs?”
“About the same time. Maybe a little more.”
“Are you a private investigator?”
“Sort of.”
“Do you have a PI license?”
“No.”
“You don’t have a regular job?”
“I did. I got fired.”
“Why?”
“Does it matter?”
“Maybe.”
“I came in late.”
Zhang took a moment to drink some water before continuing. “How did you find Griffin?”
“I didn’t.”
“So how did you get there?”
“Julius found him. He has his contacts, I have mine. We work together.”
“Mmm. Have you ever seen Griffin?”
“Only in pictures.”
“Mmm. Did you enter the room?”
“No.”
“Did you touch anything?”
“Just the door.”
“Mmm. Good.”
Zhang slashed a line through the paper on the notepad, set it aside, and picked up his sub. “So what can you tell me?” Morgan asked.
“What do you mean?” Zhang took a bite into his sandwich.
“Well, since I didn’t see a body in there and I didn’t see a body be taken out, I’m assuming that Griffin’s still out there, and if he’s still out there, that means I can find him.”
“Why are do you need to find him?” Zhang asked.
“I need that money,” Morgan said simply.
“Bad enough to find a guy who left a room painted in blood and human limbs?”
“Yes.”
“What, are you on drugs?”
“No, I need to pay rent.”
Zhang took a bite of his sandwich. “Why don’t you just borrow some money?”
Morgan shook his head. “I don’t have anyone to borrow from and my credit sucks.”
“Mmm.” Zhang sat back. “Well, there’s not really much I can do. I can’t tell you to stop looking for him. We weren’t looking for him with real urgency, but obviously the situation has changed. I can tell you that if we do find him, you’re probably not going to get paid.”
Morgan was silent. “You have to understand, I can’t tell my guys to slow down,” James continued. “But—”
“So, what, I’m screwed?” Morgan asked. “I’m going to get thrown out of my apartment?”
James let out a breath. “I’m sorry, but—”
“I need that money.”
“Couldn’t you sell your information to your bondsman?”
Morgan shook his head. “I only get paid if the guy gets caught using my information, and even then I’d have to split it. Julius got most of the information anyway, so I probably wouldn’t even get any money.”
Zhang shrugged. “There’s not much I can do.”
There was a moment of silence. “Well, can I go?” Morgan asked.
Zhang nodded. “I have no further questions. You can go, I suppose.”
“Thank you.” Morgan stood up, collected the rest of his sandwich, and made toward the door.
Julius was waiting for Morgan outside the police station. “They grill you too?” he asked.
“A bit, yeah.” Morgan tugged his coat closer to himself. It was cold. “Where’s my car?”
Julius jerked a thumb behind himself. “They left it across the street.”
Morgan nodded. “Do you need to go anywhere?” he asked.
Julius shook his head. “I’m probably just going to go home. I need some sleep.”
“Want a ride?”
“Nah, I’ll take the bus. What about you?”
Morgan shrugged. “I’m not sure. I might go back to the motel and ask around for information.”
Julius stared at him. “You’re still going to go looking for him?”
Morgan sighed, exasperated. “I need that money.”
“You crazy dumbass, you’re going to get yourself killed.”
The two didn’t say anything for a while. “We’ve been through some crazy shit,” Julius said quietly. “Things have gotten messy every now and then, but the stuff in that room is… not right.”
Morgan was silent. “Ask Arthur for an advance,” Julius urged.
“He’s never given me one before, I doubt he’ll do it now,” Morgan replied.
“It’s at least worth a shot.”
“Maybe.”
They didn’t speak for a moment. Morgan blew his breath in a sharp exhale. “Fuck it, I’m going home to sleep. I’ll figure it out when I wake up.”
Morgan began walking away toward his car. “Don’t get yourself killed,” Julius said.
“I won’t,” Morgan replied.
(BREAK)
Morgan pulled up outside the motel for the second time that day. It wasn’t unusual to see yellow police tape in Breaker. There were a two police officers standing around outside the motel. Both of them looked a bit bored. Neither of them looked familiar, so Morgan began walking toward the front office. As he approached the caution tape, one of the police officers looked up and saw him. “Hey!” he called. All of the other police stopped and collectively looked toward Morgan as well. “What are you doing?”
“I’m trying to check out,” Morgan said. “What happened?”
The officer waved a hand in front of face dismissively. “Don’t worry about it.” He lifted the tape and motioned for Morgan to come over. “In and out, make it quick.”
Morgan muttered a quick thanks and made his way to the front office. It was a dingy little thing, but it was neat. There was a front counter with fake wooden paneling. Behind it sat a pudgy little man wearing a bad suit and an even worse toupee. He looked up. “Can I help you sir?” he asked.
“I need to know a bit about the guy in 213,” Morgan said. “I just need a quote. You can stay anonymous.”
The man licked his lips nervously. “Are you the press?”
Morgan nodded. The man glanced outside his window. Both of the police officers were still looking at the street, away from the people inside. “I can’t really tell you anything. The police told me not too.”
Morgan reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet. He took out a ten dollar bill and waved a bit. “C’mon. I just need a little something. No one will even know about it.”
The man looked out the window and again before nodding and motioned Morgan closer. The held out his hand and Morgan passed the bill over. “The guy looked a bit off, to tell you the truth,” he said. “He was all pale and nervous and I think he must’ve been sweating. He looked like he was sick. I didn’t want to get near him, but he paid in cash and the room was open so I didn’t think too much about it.”
“Was there anyone with him?”
“I thought you said you only need a quote,” the man protested.
Morgan placed a five on the counter. The man’s hand shot forward, snatched the bill, and snuck it into his pocket. “Well, there was this… I guess she was a, uh… prostitute. Not that I’m making any accusations or anything, I’m just saying that’s what she looked like. She certainly dressed like one.”
“Did you catch a name?”
“Yeah, he called her Roxanne. I doubt that’s her real name, but there you go.”
“Mmm. Well, you’ve been very helpful.”
(BREAK)
Morgan woke up to the familiar noise of his alarm clock.
Morgan shivered and pulled his coat closer towards him. It was cold, dark, and not particularly pleasant on the rooftops at night, especially in October. He leaned forward in his chair. He scanned the street below him. It was still empty. He leaned back, sighing. Morgan reached to his side to pick up his thermos. He unscrewed the cap and took a small sip of hot coffee. The hot bitterness warmed him up a bit.
