Bein’ Superstitious Don’t Pay the Rent

Roy Dorman

Eddie Johnson was glad to be back in Detroit. 

The job had gone well in Miami.  And except for that little snafu in Southern Kentucky involving an overzealous small town police force, the drive home had been pretty routine.

He parked his car a block from his residence as he always did.  He’s never experienced any trouble at this address, but in his business one never knows.

 The Corktown Neighborhood was the oldest surviving neighborhood in Detroit.  His one-bedroom apartment was on the second floor of a century-old house in the middle of the block on a quiet street. His landlady had the entire first floor and there’s one other apartment across from Eddie’s on the second.

Eddie walked a side-street until he came to the alley that led past the rear of his house. 

“Alleys are so cool,” he thought to himself, walking slowly, checking out the backs of the houses to his right and left.  “Wonder why housing developers don’t put them in anymore.  Pity.”

When he got to the back of his house, he looked up at the three windows that faced the back alley.  Not good.  He’d left the shade in the living room only halfway down so his cactus could have some afternoon sunlight. 

Now that shade was all the way down like its two neighbors in the bedroom.

Company?

As he walked around the house toward the front porch, plans were developing in his head.  It was possible he was being watched, so he’d just let himself in as he always had. 

Except to maybe be a little quieter in case he wasn’t being watched.  The element of surprise has its advantages.

He knew which of the stairs creaked the most and avoided them.  When he got to his door, he saw light under the space at the bottom.

“Made themselves at home,” he mused.

Now, did he want to kick in the door and go in shooting, or use the key and give his visitor a chance to explain?

He walked down the short hall until he came to the light switch on the wall.  He flipped the switch to off and went back to his door.  Crouching to the right of it against the wall in a hunkered down position, he noisily jangled his keys and muttered under his breath.

“Damn light’s burned out.  How am I supposed to see the stupid keyhole,” he said in what he hoped was a drunken voice.

The light under his door went out.

Two shots fired from a pistol equipped with a silencer pierced the center of the door about chest high, the slugs continuing into the door across the hall.

Eddie waited.

The door opened a few inches as if trying to draw him in, in the event the shots had missed.  After a couple of seconds, it opened all the way and a large somebody stepped out into the darkened hallway.

The door across the hall flew open, throwing light everywhere, and a shot from a large caliber pistol hit the guy in the forehead, sending him back into Eddie’s apartment.

“What the hell?” Eddie shouted.

“Well, hey, don’t mention it.  I’m sure yer very welcome,” said an older man dressed in his pajamas.  An older man with a Glock.

“Who are you?” asked Eddie.

“Claude de Pere.  Yer neighbor.  Pleased to meetcha.”

“Did ya call 911?”

“The few times I’ve seen ya around, ya never struck me as the 911-type of guy, so, no, I didn’t.”

Eddie stared at Claude.  “Wanna come in for a nightcap?” he said.

“Don’t mind if I do,” said Claude.  “Lemme get my robe on and I’ll be right over.”

After going through his would-be assailant’s pockets, Eddie propped him up against the living room wall.  He was sitting at his little dining room table when Claude knocked on the door.

“Come in.  It’s open.”

Claude looked at the body by the wall.  “Big son of a gun, ain’t he?” he said.

“Yeah, he is.  Driver’s license says he’s Rollie Dawson from Cincinnati.”

“Course that don’t mean it’s true, right?” said Claude.

Eddie stared at Claude again.  Who was this guy?  “Ya think ol’ Mrs. Connors heard yer shot?”

“Nah, it’s way past her bedtime.  She told me once she takes her hearing aids out when she goes to bed and sleeps like a baby until the sun wakes her.”

Eddie poured two tumblers of Jack Daniels.

“To us,” he said, lifting his glass in a toast.

“To us,” said Claude.

Eddie wondered where he was going to go with this. 

First, he’d have to get rid of the body.  There were a couple of guys in town he could trust with that job.

He’d also have to call his boss, explain the situation, and wait to hear back from them what they’d managed to find out about one Rollie Dawson from Cincinnati.

But what about Claude?

“Sorry about yer door,” said Eddie, sipping his Jack.

“No problemo,” said Claude.  “Gives it a little character, right?  And it matches yers.”

“That it does,” Eddie said, nodding sagely.

For a few minutes, the two sat and sipped, saying nothing as old friends are often able to do.  Except they weren’t old friends.

“So ya said I didn’t seem to be the 911-type of guy.  What did ya mean by that?”

“Oh, I don’t know.  Odd hours.  Parking down the street. Shoulder holster….”

“Hmmm.  How come I never saw you seein’ me?”

Claude smiled, but didn’t say anything.

“Well?” asked Eddie.

“I imagine you’ve got some calls to make,” said Claude, standing and finishing his drink.  “I’ll be up for about an hour if ya need anything.”

“Ya didn’t answer my question,” said Eddie.

“I used to be in the business,” said Claude.  “Good night.”

***

The next morning, Eddie knocked on Claude’s door.

“Morning, Claude.  After ya left, it occurred to me that I didn’t thank you for last night.  Here, this is for you.  Half of what was in Rollie’s wallet.  Figured he didn’t need it where he was going.

Claude looked at the three hundred-dollar bills in Eddie’s hand, but made no move to take them.

“Appreciate it, but no thanks.”

“Superstitious?”

“Might say that.”

“If I’m right about what ya meant about bein’ in the business once, ya must’ve had the occasion now and then to help yourself to money like this.”

“Many a time,” Claude said wistfully.  “But toward the end, when I was thinkin’ about gettin’ out, I started to give that kinda money away.  Just didn’t want it anymore.  Know what I mean?”

“I think I do, Claude.  And when it comes time for me to start windin’ down, I may do the same.”

Eddie folded the bills and stuffed them in his pocket.

“Tell ya what,” he said.  “How ‘bout we go out to dinner tonight?  I’ll buy and I’ll use my own money, not Rollie’s.”

“I’d like that,” said Claude.  “I don’t get out enough anymore.”

***

It was a nice night, so Eddie and Claude walked the four blocks to Mama Rosita’s Italian Restaurant.

Mama Rosita’s was a small family-owned place with secluded booths along a back wall that were just right for private dining.

After dinners of Seafood Tetrazzini for Eddie and Spaghetti and Meatballs for Claude, they were having coffee.  Eddie’s phone lit up with an incoming call.  Marty Paulson.

“Sorry, Claude, but I gotta take this.  It’s my boss.”

Eddie stepped away from their booth.

“Hey, boss.  What’s up?”

“Got some info for ya, Eddie.  Seems yer deader, Rollie Dawson, wasn’t after you after all.  Just using yer apartment.  Billy Larson in Cincinnati says Dawson was stakin’ out yer neighbor, Johnny Adams, one of their guys who took a powder about a year ago.  This Adams guy had taken the money for his last three hits, but had tipped off his targets instead of doin’ ‘em.  They managed to pull disappearin’ acts and then so did Adams.  Nuts, right?  Anyhow, yer neighbor is using the name Claude de Pere.  Be careful, he’s probably unstable.”

“Thanks, Marty.  Yer not gonna believe this, but I’m havin’ dinner with Claude as we speak.  He’s lookin’ at me kinda funny right now, and I don’t see the bulge under his sportscoat anymore.  I’ll call ya back.”

“Wait, Eddie, I already sent —”

Eddie walked back to the booth and sat down.

“Yer phone’s ringin’ again,” said Claude.

“I don’t wanna talk to him, Claude.  I wanna talk to you.”

“Yeah?”

“How long was Dawson in my apartment?”

“He got there early yesterday afternoon.”

“The call I just got told me he mighta been waitin’ for you, not me.  Is that about right?”

“Yup.  That’s right.”

“You have yer Glock in yer lap?”

“Yup.”

“Gonna use it?”

“Don’t rightly know.”

“Ya know they’re gonna send somebody else from Cincinnati to get you, right?”

“Somebody’s probably on the way.”

“I’ve got a place in Costa Rica and a couple a hundred thousand in the bank.  I could help ya get set up there if yer serious about retirin’,” said Eddie.

“Why would ya do that?”

“I dunno.  Maybe I see a little of me in you.  A little of me in ten years or so.”

“Let’s talk about it on the walk home,” said Claude.

They paid their bill and started back.

Eddie turned onto the side street and they headed toward his alley.

“Better safe than sorry,” he said.

When they got to the back of the house, they were startled by someone saying their names.

“Eddie and Johnny.  How ya doin’?”

Both men reached for their guns.

“Don’t,” the voice said.

“Alicia?” said Eddie.

A trim, thirty-something woman stepped out of the shadows, holding a Sig Sauer.  Her smile seemed genuine, but it was somewhat compromised by the pistol.

“Yeah, Eddie.  Long time no see.  Still like alleys?”

“What are you doin’ here?”

“Marty told his counterpart in Cincy that I would help you take care of cleanin’ things up here.  Said he owed the guy a favor.  And then to Johnny: “Sorry, Johnny, but ya know how it is.  Business is business.”  And then back to Eddie: “I’m not gonna have a problem with you, am I?”

“This guy, here, is a good guy.  He just wanted to retire.”

“Maybe he shoulda just gave his two weeks’ notice.”

Thinking Eddie was trying to distract Alicia, Claude started to back away from the two and reached for his Glock.  But Alicia was quick and she shot him.  Eddie went for his piece, but stopped, knowing he didn’t have a chance.

“We had a good thing once, Alicia.”

“True dat, Eddie.  We did.”

“Ya gonna shoot me too?”

“I’m thinkin’.  Turn around and put yer hands over yer head.”

Eddie turned around as told.  His mind was racing, frantically trying to find the right thing to say.  He and Alica had been lovers a number of times over the years when their paths crossed.

He’d try and go with that.

“I still have feelings for you, ya know,” he said.  “Don’t you for me?”

Nothing.

“Alicia?”

Eddie turned and… Alicia was gone.

“I guess she still had feelings,” he said, laughing.

Eddie called the two guys who’d taken care of disposing of Rollie Dawson.  He went through Claude’s wallet, and then tossed his apartment looking for anything of value.

Eddie wasn’t superstitious.

THE END