Saturday, June 30, 2007

[From time to time, I have invited other authors to present an alternative view of the Hannibal Jones universe. Bernie Thomas has taken up the challenge and come up with a nice twist I just had to share. Bernie was a prize winner in this year’s Maryland Writers’ Association novel contest, which should tell you that it’s worth your time to read this little nugget all the way to the end.
Austin]

Nightmare in Apt. 301-B

Thinkin’ back, I shouldn’t o’ answered. A ringing phone at 2 a.m. is always trouble. This was no exception. The sexy voice on the blower says she needs my help. I’m a shamus. That’s what I do. Besides, I ain’t never said no to a dame.

She tells me she’s got trouble. The kind o’ trouble that shouldn’t involve the cops. She says Orson Rissik gave her my number. Rissik’s a Virginia police detective and a friend o’ mine. He’s always givin’ my number to birds in a jam. I gotta talk to him ‘bout that. It don’t pay so well.

So I pulls on a pair of trousers and loops my suspenders over my undershirt. Slidin’ into my loafers, I grabs my jacket and jams my fedora on my head. I’m out the door in two shakes. Halfway downtown and realizes I forgot my Sig 40—another problem with middle-o-the-night calls.

I pulls my jalopy up to the address she gave me. It’s a private club. You know—one o’ them after hours speakeasies they hide in the back alleys. I knocks on the door and some big palooka opens it a crack.

“What you want?”

“I’m here to see Cindy.”

“She’s workin’. Ain’t got no time to be talkin’. Hit the road.”

I ain’t expectin’ this. And there ain’t no getting’ in with this bimbo blockin’ the door. I gotta get him out here with me.

“Listen, sap…”

That’s all it takes, see? Next thing I knows there’s a couple o’ paws liftin’ me off the asphalt. I figures I’m gonna take a couple before I gets my licks in, but then I hears this dame’s voice yellin’.

“NO! Rocco! Leave him alone!”

Next thing I know I’m pickin’ myself off the ground. I looks up. Rocco’s a baby grand—a whole lot bigger than he looked on the other side o’ that door, see? I probably shoulda been nicer.

“You Jones?” she says, helpin’ me up.

“Yeah, Doll. But my clients call me Hannibal.”

I dusts myself off and gets my first good look at Cindy. She’s the berries. A real looker. And from the outfit she’s wearin’, I figures she’s a dancer. Hoofers with gams like hers can make some real dough in a joint like this.

"You all right?”

“Everything’s Jake. So, what’s this trouble you’re in?”

“Let’s talk inside.”

We step past Rocco and he gives me the evil eye. Followin’ Cindy, I checks out the joint, see? The place is full of smoke and everybody’s bent. I spots a couple o’ high hat sugar daddies buyin’ bootleg for a couple o’ quiffs. I figure they’re steppin’ out on their ol’ ladies. I’m glad I’m not in the business o’ tailin’ cheatin’ husbands any more.

We goes past the band, through a door and into the back dressing room. There was only a couple o’ girls there, but they was half-naked. They gives me the once over and smile. Suddenly getting’ up in the middle o’ the night wasn’t so bad. Cindy pulls out a chair and motions I should sit down.

“Can I get you a drink?”

“I don’t drink, Doll. But I’ll take a cup of Joe if ya got it.”

“Yes, we have coffee. And I bet you take it black.”

“Is there any other way?”

When she comes back she tells me her trouble.

“I been seein’ this guy. He says he needs me to keep a package for him. Wants me to keep it at my place so he can get it when he needs it. When I get to work last night, I hear the cops found him face down in the Potomac. Turns out, he’s a dealer. Then, when I get home, my place is all torn up—like somebody was lookin’ for somethin’. I’m scared, Mister Jones.”

“What’s his name?”

“Falcone. Maltese Falcone.”

“Rissik told me about him. Locked him up about a week ago. I bet he wishes he was still there. Where’s the package?”

“It’s still in my car. I forgot to bring it in the other night.”

“You better give it to me. And you better find another flop for a while.”

She turned those big brown eyes on me. “Do you have a couch, Mister Jones?”

I gives Cindy my address and the key to the front door. I keep another one under the mat. A real dumb thing as it turns out. I takes the package and heads to national Airport. I put it in a locker, then mails the key to myself. Somebody bumped off that small-time hood boyfriend of hers, see? And now she’s holdin’ the bag. I figure I’ll use the package as leverage to get her off the hook.

When I walks into my place, I gets jumped by a couple o’ goons. One guy pins my arms from behind and the other slugs me. I falls onto the sofa, see? Then the second guy walks over, reaches into his pocket and pulls out a set of brass knuckles. He starts talkin’ as he slides ‘em on.

“Where’s the goods?”

“Goods? What goods? I don’t know from nothin’.”

He holds up his fist and gives me a real good gander at those knuckles.

“I asked real nice once. I ain’t askin’ again, Hannibal … Hannibal! … HANNIBAL! Wake up!”

I feels this shakin’ like I got the heebie-jeebies or somethin’. Then I hears another voice.

“Hannibal! Wake up, dude.”

“Wha? Where am I?”

“You’re in my apartment. You fell asleep on the couch and started flailing around and yelling.”

“Orson?”

“Yeah, buddy. It’s me. You okay?”

“Whew! Yeah. I was having a nightmare. Cindy was there and she was in trouble and a couple of guys were beating the crap out of me…”

“Really. … Well, I invited you over to watch these old Bogart movies because I thought you’d enjoy them. They’re classics, you know.”

“Yeah, I know. But I couldn’t keep my eyes open.”

"I could see that. You laid down on the couch and fell asleep in the middle of The Maltese Falcon. So, I left you sleep. If I’d have known it would give you nightmares, I’d have waken you.”

“It wasn’t the movie that caused the nightmare.”

“Oh? What was it then?”

“You should’ve heard the way I was talking.”

Friday, June 15, 2007

Who Needs Nuclear Bombs?

My little pal Monte lives with his grandmother and Mother Washington seldom reads anything except her bible so lots of days he comes to me with his homework. This particular day I was laying out the ingredients for Cindy to make us Cuban Sandwiches for lunch while he went through is social studies.

“So what do you know about the Nuclear Nonproliferation Treaty?” Monte asked. He tried to hand me a photocopy of the treaty, but lucky for me my hands were full.

Usually current events is one of my strengths but this time I had to say, “Not much, buddy. What’s the question?”

“Well, the teacher’s talking about this ex-president Carter,” Monte said, moving his books to take up less than half my kitchen table. “Carter’s saying the U.S. doesn’t support this treaty because we’re not getting rid of our nuclear weapons. He’s like, we’re the reason Iran and North Korea don’t stop trying to get their own nukes. Then he says, “discuss.” I hate it when he does that.”

“Well, I don’t know about the treaty,” I said, buttering the bread, “but claiming that America is responsible for somebody else wanting nukes doesn’t make sense to me. Do you really think Iran, North Korea and other countries wouldn’t want nuclear weapons if we didn’t have them? That nut I can’t pronounce in Iran, Ahmad-whatever, says in public that he wants to dominate the Middle East and wipe Israel off the map. He can use nuclear weapons to do that and whether or not we have them is irrelevant.”

I kept talking while I pulled the dill pickles and roast pork out of the refrigerator. “And anybody who’s studied Kim Jong Il in North Korea knows he’s just plain power hungry. I think he’d be even more interested in having nuclear weapons if he thought he could be the only leader on earth to have them.”

Right about then Cindy came in, in her typical whirlwind fashion. She dropped her briefcase, gave me a quick kiss, slipped out of her suit jacket and draped it on the back of her chair. I dropped the ham and Swiss cheese on the table and handed her papers Monte had tried to give me.

“Before we get started with food, tell the kid here about the Nuclear Nonproliferation Treaty.”

“I’m impressed you could even pronounce that,” she said, accepting the papers and starting to scan them. “What about the treaty, Monte?”
“I guess the real question is, is the USA setting a bad example by not obeying the treaty.” I could see Monte perk up. I guess he was happy to get a more educated opinion. I was only a little insulted. But I could see Cindy examine the treaty language more carefully and knew she was still in lawyer-mode. In this case, that was probably a good thing.

“Monte, I’m not going to tell you I agree with the way our country has handled this,” she said in her courtroom voice, “but the claim that we are in violation is legally false. Look here. When you talk to your teacher you can say that this is the pivotal provision, Article VI.”

I read it over her shoulder. It was short: Each of the Parties to the Treaty undertakes to pursue negotiations in good faith on effective measures relating to cessation of the nuclear arms race at an early date and to nuclear disarmament, and on a Treaty on general and complete disarmament under strict and effective international control.

“See, fellows, there’s no binding legal obligation to give up nuclear weapons. The only legal requirement is to pursue negotiations in good faith on effective measures relating to nuclear disarmament. We’ve been negotiating on such matters for more thirty years. We’ve also signed and implemented several arms control agreements that have reduced our nuclear inventory quite a bit.

Monte’s brow wrinkled. He likes to debate. “But right after that, doesn’t Article VI say we need to have a treaty complete disarmament?”
Cindy dropped the papers and started building sandwiches. “That’s right. But keep reading. You’ll see that “elimination from national arsenals of nuclear weapons" would take place not prior to, but "pursuant to a Treaty on general and complete disarmament." That means we get rid of the rest after everyone agrees to a treaty.”

“Then why’d Carter make this remark?”

Cindy stopped to push up her blouse sleeves before putting the first sandwich in our little press. “That’s politics, Monte. Because the language of Article VI doesn’t actually say what the disarmament fans want it to say, they have worked for decades to reinterpret it. But you can tell your teacher that your lawyer friend says it’s not good legal strategy for one party to go beyond the letter of a legal agreement until all the parties agree to do so. Now clear off the table. I’ve been waiting all day for this sandwich.”