The Case Of A Head Collector. Adult. (standard:mystery, 3239 words)
Author: Oscar A Rat	Added: Jun 23 2020	Views/Reads: 1542/1050	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
A private eye aides a lost teenager and finds himself in deep doodoo.

At one time PI Sam Muscosolvo hoped to turn his company over to one of
his children but that was not to be. Instead, he paid for one kid to go 
to medical college, the other to become a lawyer. Although somewhat 
disappointing to Sam, it was better than starting out as a mob 
bartender like he had. 

He did stay in the business by moving out of an expensive office into a
much cheaper one in a rundown neighborhood in the Loop. Younger than 
him, wife Tamiko held down a good city job. Sam figured playing 
part-time PI better than lying around the house as a couch potato. 

It was a cold morning in Chicago as he left the Illinois Central train
station in the heart of the Loop.  After sitting for an hour and a half 
in a commuter car, he considered a three block walk to his office good 
for his bad back. Since it was snowing, he chose underground delivery 
streets under Madison Avenue to keep out of the wind and wet snow. 

It wasn't so bad, in that he planned to stop halfway at Louie's Diner in
the basement of the Adams building for breakfast. In bygone days, he 
would have trudged on but, at seventy-six, had to make some concessions 
to Old Man Time. Staying dry was one of them. 

Many of the homeless congregated on those underground streets for that
same reason. Air-conditioning grates for many high-rise buildings 
extruded hot air onto sidewalks sheltered from snow and ice, bringing 
alternating hot and cold breezes across his exposed face. Homeless 
residents took advantage of the warm blasts by tossing cardboard onto 
the grates as makeshift beds. 

It could be dangerous to walk through there early in the morning, though
Sam's 6' 4" height and 245 lbs gave him a certain advantage. He still 
looked like a cop, though an old one. That alone kept muggers away. Why 
fuck with him when there were enough weaker victims around to accost? 

That winter, the bicentennial -- 200 years into the country's existence
-- wasn't as cold as George Washington had it back then, but still 
damned chilly. 

Sam noticed something happening across the street, shadows shifting
rapidly at the mouth of an alley back-lighted by an unseen streetlight. 


Curious, he angled across the street while releasing the middle-button
on a navy peacoat, the one closest to a shoulder-holster. Although 
having a carry permit for a Colt .45, the weapon currently resided in 
his office. Sam didn't carry it all that often. The holster, though, 
was light and fitted a bastard-beater he'd picked up in his patrolman 
days. It consisted of an 8" tube. When flicked, it extended to 
eighteen-inches with a lead ball at the end; easy to hide and deadly in 
a confrontation. 

The air on his side of the street was heavy, allowing foul odors from
the alley to reach him along with sounds of struggling. As he eased 
around a corner, he saw several people shifting rapidly in the light 
from an open door. 

"Hey," he called out in a slightly-elevated tone, "what the hell's going
on here?" 

"Fuck off. Non'a yer business, Jack." 

"Help me, he--" 

"Shut up, bitch." 

By that time, Sam had advanced close enough to sort them out. Two
would-be toughs had a small figure backed up against a wall, white skin 
shining thorough holes in its clothing. One had a hand clamped across 
the kid's throat. Closer yet, he saw long yellow hair circling and 
almost hiding a tear-streaked face. 

One of the others, the smaller, stepped back, hand sliding into a
trouser pocket. 

Uh, oh, Sam thought. With a flick of a wrist, he was ready,


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