Brisco Waters, Private Eye (Part 2) (standard:mystery, 2158 words) [2/5] show all parts
Author: Red Storm	Added: Jul 18 2001	Views/Reads: 2918/2088	Part vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
In the second part of this unique murder-mystery, Brisco finds himself looking for answers in a pub full of cutthroats and mobsters.

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

“Why?” I asked. 

“Don’t know, just heard what I told you.” He shook his head slowly, and
I knew I had been too obvious. After all, there was no other way to ask 
questions but to ask with this crowd. You just had to know who to ask. 

“Look, Waters, give it up. You comin’ in here askin’ questions like
that, and you know you’ll be pushin’ up daisies before you turn 35. I 
mean, look around. These people got nothing better to do.” He swallowed 
another scotch and grabbed the bottle from the ‘tender. 

“You’re right, I guess. Thanks.” I turned in my stool to get up, and
found a knife blade across my neck. Behind the thug holding the blade 
were two more men, both flashing pistols. 

“Well, well, well, if it ain’t Waters. Whatcha up to pal?” He asked, and
I finally placed the faces. 

“Oh, not much guys, just having a drink. Business has been kinda slow
since you paid me that visit, might want to tell your boss that. Oh, 
and tell him that I’ll have his money before long. I got a new client.” 
The blade withdrew, and the men stood back. 

“Watch yourself, Waters. You might get hurt if you don’t.” Then, just
like that, they were gone, blended in with the rest of the brutes in 
the bar. Hell of a night. 

I quickly decided that I was getting nowhere, so I thought I would blow
this joint and grab a bite to eat. I hadn’t eaten anything in the last 
few days but cans of condensed soup and potted meat, and a good meal 
would probably do me good. As I walked through the front door and down 
the dock toward the spot where I had parked my Ford Coupe a couple of 
hours earlier. As I approached, I noticed only too late that I had been 
followed. A blunt object found itself bouncing violently off the back 
of my shoulders, sending me crashing into the side of the car and onto 
the pavement. I yelled sharply at the pain, but was cut short by a 
series of kicks to the gut. My lungs lost the air that they were using 
to support my screaming, and all that came from my mouth was a hissing 
sound and some blood. 

A large man, one of the three that I had been confronted by in the pub I
noticed, picked me up and threw a rock-hard fist into my jaw. I heard a 
crack, then saw stars. He held me against the cold blue metal of my car 
while the other two threw a few punches of their own. I couldn’t 
respond, since my entire body was burning with pain and a little numb 
anyway from the alcohol, and the beating continued until I was dropped 
in a bloody heap at the base of the coupe. 

“I told ya, Waters, to watch yer back,” came the weasel-like voice of
their leading man. The other two laughed at the smaller man’s joke, 
then straightened their spines and looked hard once again. I figured 
they’d kill me right there, but that wasn’t possible. If they had, Big 
Al would have their heads for killing me before I could make good on 
our little “deal”. I knew one way or another, that if I couldn’t pay 
up, I would find myself at the bottom of Lake Michigan dead or alive, 
hopefully dead at that point. I had heard rumors of Al dropping living, 
breathing guys into the Lake with concrete slabs molded around their 
feet so as to anchor them down and drown them, and drowning was my one 
and only phobia. 

“Look here, Waters,” one of the larger bodyguards grumbled in a thick
Italian accent, “Jimmy the “Knife” don’t like you too much.” Jimmy was 
the short weasel-like thug that lead this unruly trio, his nickname 
coming from the fact that he liked to do his killings with a 
razor-blade or knife. “And that means we don’t like you. You come back 
around here asking questions about that girl that paid you a visit, and 
you’ll get more than a warning.” The other large guard grunted his 
agreement. “Get lost before we lose you for good.” All three were now 
toting  Thompson submachine guns, commonly referred to as Tommy guns, 
and I took that as my cue. Stumbling into my car and punching the gas, 
I got as far away from that place as I possibly could. 

Later that night I was flipping through some old photos of my former
partner and my younger days, when a sharp knock at my office door 
startled me. I had been spooked enough for one night, and decided not 
to take a chance. One of my .38’s answered the door, right in the face 
of Lt. Chuck Mallard, Chicago P.D. Chuck was a good friend of mine on 
the force, and liked to stop by from time to time and drop off some 
bulletins and reports that the department subscribed to. He knew that I 
made good use of the old police papers that the department threw away 
after the news was old, and also that I couldn’t afford to subscribe to 
the bulletins myself. He was a good guy, a friend of mine since grade 
school. 

“Jesus, Brisco!” He shouted as he stumbled back down the steps onto the
ice-covered sidewalk, “What the hell happened to you?” 

I gave a sigh of relief, then remembered the blood-soaked bandages I had
applied all over my broken and beaten body. 

“Nothing, Chuck, just a little trouble I ran into down at the docks.
What’s up?” I motioned him inside with the pistol. 

“Just came by to drop off some reports that we were getting rid of at
the station.” He dropped the stack on my desk and took a seat. 

“You off duty?” I asked, holding up my bottle of bourbon. 

“Yea, and that reminds me...” He pulled an identical bottle of the good
Kentucky bourbon from somewhere inside his heavy officer’s jacket. It 
was unopened, and the price sticker was still attached, “a little 
Christmas gift.” He smiled and placed the bottle on my desk beside the 
bulletins. 

“Aw, Chuck, you shouldn’t have done that.” I poured two glasses and we
drank for some time, discussing everything that had happened in the 
city’s crime reign since we had last sat down to a drink. It had been 
only two months, but the conversation could have gone on forever. 

“Look, Brisco, whatever you’re in on, don’t let the bad guys get the
better of you. If you need anything, and I mean backup or anything, you 
give me a call.” He was serious, I could tell. 

“Yea, thanks, Chuck.” I followed him to the door and watched as his
patrol car slowly pulled away from the curb and the bright red tail 
lights drifted lazily away into the dark night. Chuck really was a good 
guy, and I had to respect him for giving a bum like me the edge that 
most private eyes didn’t get...police assistance. 

So, I knew that Schillaci was being targeted by Jimmy the “Knife”, since
his thugs were in on the fact that I was asking questions about her at 
the pub. They had obviously been watching her, and knew that she had 
hired me to investigate the situation. Whether or not it went higher 
than the Knife, I couldn’t tell. Probably not, since mob hits wouldn’t 
normally be a concern of a boss. Since Jimmy the Knife’s boss was Big 
Al, I knew I was going to have to be extra careful finding out. What 
else could I do to get information? 

“Come on, Waters, think.” I told myself as I drank another glass of
bourbon. Suddenly it came to me. There was one other place that I could 
probably find out what I wanted to know. A casino about three miles 
from the pub, located on the same docks, frequented by lots of big-time 
gangsters. I would have to watch myself, as the Knife had so kindly 
suggested, but I had no other choice. I forced myself out of the chair 
at my desk and removed the bandages from the spots that were no longer 
bleeding. I checked both of my .38’s back into their appropriate places 
in the shoulder harness, along with my army knife attached to a sheath 
in my right pant leg. My shotgun was lying in the back seat of my Ford 
Coupe, and I was ready to go. I also swore to myself that I would use 
all of these if I ran into Jimmy the Knife or his cronies again 
tonight. 

To Be Continued Next Week...(If the ratings for this part are high)


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