[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.”