Nice Girl Does Noir -- Vol. 2 (Intro by J.A.Konrath) Read online

  NICE GIRL DOES NOIR II

  A Collection of Short Stories

  By

  Libby Fischer Hellmann

  Vol. I: The Ellie Foreman/Georgia Davis Stories

  Vol. II: Chicago Then and Now; Other Places, Other Times

  Introduction by

  J.A. Konrath

  Copyright © 2010 Libby Fischer Hellmann

  Cover copyright Miguel Ortuno, PR Chicago

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from Libby Fischer Hellmann.

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  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  FOREWORD

  by J.A. Konrath

  To read Libby Fischer Hellmann is to love Libby Fischer Hellmann. Her writing is tight, fast, and highly entertaining. When I first read her Ellie Foreman mysteries, I set her as the standard that series fiction should aspire to.

  But I had no idea Libby was so versatile. My first inkling of this came a few years ago, when I asked her to contribute a story to an anthology I was editing. Frankly, I didn’t think she’d make the cut. While Libby doesn’t shy away from being tough in her writing, her Ellie books were not what I’d call hardboiled, and my anthology was a collection of hit man stories. I figured I’d give her a token invitation just to be polite, and I’d never have to reject her because she’d never submit anything.

  Boy, was I wrong. Her story, DETOUR, was pure, adrenalin-fueled noir, and wound up being one of the best of the book. Perhaps that was a catalyst (if it wasn’t, I still take all the credit) because soon after DETOUR Libby began writing some seriously diverse and seriously good yarns in various genres and sub-genres. She also edited the acclaimed hardboiled anthology, CHICAGO BLUES. She’s still great at the light-hearted suspense she’s known for, but the stories in NICE GIRL DOES NOIR—all previously published—offer a wide variety of styles, tones, and topics. Funny. Dark. Poignant. Exciting. Surprising. And yes, even hardboiled.

  You’ll laugh. You’ll cry. You’ll have a terrific time with this fabulous collection. And you can thank me for it, because I’m the one who gave her that first push. Come to think of it, maybe she should be paying me royalties…

  JA Konrath is the author of over a dozen thriller novels. You can find him at www.jakonrath.com.

  Contents

  Foreword

  Chicago: Then and Now

  Your Sweet Man

  The Jade Elephant

  Dumber Than Dirt

  The Whole World Is Watching

  Other Places, Other Times

  House Rules

  Detour

  The Rainforest Messiah

  High Yellow

  A Berlin Story

  Josef’s Angel

  CHICAGO: THEN AND NOW

  My contribution to CHICAGO BLUES (Bleak House, 2007) was way out of my comfort zone, but that’s what I loved about writing short stories. They allow me to stretch and experiment with different characters, plots, eras, and settings. This story is about a Blues bass player whose ability to love and forgive is tested by events out of his control. There’s also a historical element: the story takes place both in the 1980’s and the 1950’s. It turned out to be one of the sweetest stories I’ve ever written.

  YOUR SWEET MAN

  “Who’s Gonna Be Your Sweet Man When I’m gone?

  Who you gonna have to love you?”

  …Muddy Waters

  1982: Chicago

  Calvin waited for the man who’d been convicted of killing his mother. Outside Joliet prison the July heat seared his spirit, leaving it as bare and desiccated as a sun-bleached bone. Sweat ringed his armpits, grit coated the back of his neck. Almost noon, and no shadows on anything.

  He extracted a Lucky from the crumpled pack on the dash and leaned forward to light it. The ‘74 Chevy Caprice never failed to start up. As long as he kept enough fluid in the radiator, the engine ate up the highway without complaint. Even the lighter worked.

  He took a nervous drag. He hadn’t seen his father in fifteen years. His granny had made him come when he graduated high school to show him that Calvin had amounted to something, after all. Calvin remembered clutching his diploma in the visitors’ room, sliding it out of the manila envelope, edging nervously up to the glass window that separated them. He held it up against the glass, hating the sour smell of the place, the chipped paint on the walls, the fact that he had to be there at all. He remembered how his father nodded. No smile. No “atta boy—you done good.” Just a lukewarm nod. Calvin imagined a yawning hole opening up on the floor, right then and there; a hole he could sink into and disappear.

  Now, the black metal gates swung open, and a withered man emerged. Calvin was still wiping sweat off his face, but his father was wearing a long sleeved shirt and beige canvas pants. Even from a distance, his father looked smaller than he remembered. Frailer. The cancer that was consuming him, that had triggered his early release, was working its way through his body. He walked slowly, stooped over. His skin, a few shades lighter than the rich chocolate it once was, looked paper-thin, and he blinked like he hadn’t seen sunlight in years. Maybe he hadn’t. His father looked around, spotted Calvin in the Caprice. He nodded, took his time coming over.

  Calvin slid out of the car, tossed his cigarette on the dirt, ground it out with his foot.

  “Hello, Calvin…”

  Calvin returned his greeting with a nod of his own. Cautious. Polite.

  “Appreciate you coming to get me, son.”

  A muscle in Calvin’s gut twitched. He couldn’t remember the last time someone had called him “son.” “Son” was a word that belonged in the movies or TV, not in real life. Calvin gestured to the gym bag his father was carrying. “Let me take that.”

  His father held it out. Calvin threw it in the back seat. His father stood at the passenger door but made no effort to open it. Calvin frowned, then realized his father was waiting for permission. Twenty-five years in prison did that to a man. “Just open the door and get in.”

  His father shot him a look, half-embarrassed, half-grateful, and slid into the car. Calvin waited until his father was settled, then started the engine. As they pulled away from Joliet, he said, “Thought we’d go back to my place.”

  “You still in Englewood?”

  “Hyde Park now. Got ourselves a house near 47th and Cottage Grove.”

  His father’s eyebrows arched. “Well, that’s mighty fine.”

  “Jeanine fixed it up nice. Even got a little garden out back. She’s a good girl.”

  His father didn’t seem to notice. He should have. It was Jeanine who shamed Calvin into coming in the first place.

  “He’s dying, Calvin” she’d said. “And he’s paid his dues. Twenty-five years of ‘em.”

  Now his father turned to him. “How’s that job coming?”

  “What job?” Calvin made his way back to the highway.

  “The one you
was talking about when you come to see me. Janitorial supplies.”

  “I opened my own company six years ago. I got five people working for me now.”

  “Well that’s mighty fine, son. Mighty fine.”

  But it didn’t feel fine. It felt false. Calvin imagined that black hole opening up even wider. That was why he never wrote or visited his father, except for the Christmas card Jeanine made him sign every year. Any time he thought about him, even a stray fragment, the night his mother was murdered flooded back into his mind. He couldn’t help it. Better not to think about it at all, his granny would say. “Just go on and live your own life.”

  But Granny was dead, and the people at Joliet called him when they found the cancer. Calvin stole a glance at his father. He was quiet. Just staring out at the road, a dreamy look on his face. Calvin remembered that look. His father’s body might be in the front seat, but his mind was miles away. Calvin knew he was thinking about his mother.

  He tightened his grip on the wheel. How dare he? “So… You feelin’ okay?”

  His father pulled his gaze in and looked at Calvin. “For the days I got left, I’m doing jes’ fine.”

  Calvin turned onto the interstate. “You sure? Jeanine talked to our doctor. He can see you tomorrow if you want.”

  His father gave him a sad little smile. “Appreciate it son, but don’t go to no trouble.” His father went back to looking out the window. Calvin turned on the radio. The all news station was blaring out something about Israeli troops in Lebanon. His father didn’t react, just kept gazing out. He seemed somehow smaller, less distinct than he’d been just ten minutes ago. Like his shadow was slowly fading from black to gray. At this rate he might disappear altogether.

  Calvin snapped off the radio. For a while the whine of the air conditioning was the only sound in the car. Lulled by the air blowing through the vents and the rhythm of his wheels on the highway, Calvin was startled by the abruptness of his father’s voice.

  “You start making the arrangements?”

  Calvin cleared his throat just loud enough. “Not yet.” He wasn’t sure what to expect. Would his father lay into him? Cuss him out?

  But all his father did was to wave a weak hand. “I guess I got to do it myself.”

  “Why don’t we talk about it later?”

  His father’s shoulders sagged and he closed his eyes. “I ain’t got many laters, son.”

  ***

  1950’s: Chicago

  The hot breath of the blues kissed Jimmy Jay Rollins when he was little, leaving him hungering for more. His mama—he never knew his daddy—took him to church in the morning and the blues joints at night. By the time he was seven, he was playing guitar licks with whoever his “uncle” of the moment happened to be, and by the time he left school at 16, he knew he wanted to play bass guitar.

  The bass wasn’t as flashy as the electric slide guitar of Little Ed or Muddy Waters, but it was the glue that held everything together. No one could play a 12-bar chorus without him; no one could start a lick or riff. The bass was there through every number, from beginning to end, setting the pace. Steady. Unrelenting. The lead guitar, saxophone, even the drummer could take a break; not so the bass. Willie Dixon became Jimmy Jay’s personal hero.

  By day, Jimmy Jay worked in a steel factory near Lake Calumet, but at night, he bounced around playing gigs on the South side. You could smell stale cigarette smoke and yesterday’s beer in the air, spot a few guns and knives if you looked real close. But none of that mattered when the music started. The Blues flowed through his veins, transporting him to a place where he could let go, soar above the world, tethered only by an electric guitar, wailing horn, or harmonica riff.

  He was jamming at the open mike set in the Macomba Lounge one hot summer night, a thick cloud of smoke, perfume, and sweat choking the air, when a wisp of a girl—she couldn’t have been more than 18—came up to the stage. She was wearing a red dress that skimmed her body just right. A curtain of black hair shimmered down to her waist, and her skin looked pale blue in the light. She tentatively took the mike and asked them to play in G, then launched into a bluesy version of “Mean to Me,” an old Billie Holiday song.

  By the middle of the second verse, people set their glasses down, stubbed out their cigarettes, and a hush fell over the room. Her voice was raw and unpolished but full of surprises. At first a sultry alto, she could hit the high notes in a silver soprano, then dip two octaves down to belt out the Blues like a tenor. At first he thought it was a fluke—no one had that range and depth. He tested her, moving up the scale, changing the groove, even throwing her a sudden key change. She took it all with a serene smile, bobbing her head, eyes closed, adjusting perfectly. Her voice never wavered.

  After a few numbers, the band took a break, and Jimmy Jay bought her a whiskey. As he passed her the drink, he noticed the contrast between her face, soft and round, and her eyes, dark and penetrating. Her name was Inez Youngblood, she said, and she’d just moved here from Tennessee. She was part Cherokee, once upon a time, but mostly mountain white.

  “A hillbilly?” Jimmy Jay joked.

  She threw him a dazzling smile that made his insides melt. “A hillbilly who sings the Blues.”

  “Why Chicago?”

  “I listen to the radio. Chicago Blues is happy Blues. You got Muddy Waters. Etta James. Chess Records. Everybody’s here. Sweeping you up with their music. There just ain’t no other place to sing.” Those dark eyes bored into him. “And I got to sing.”

  By their third drink, he began to imagine the curves underneath that red dress, and what she looked like without it. She had to know what he was thinking, because she smiled and started to finger a gold cross around her neck. Still, she didn’t seem put off. More like she was teasing him.

  Another set and half a reefer later, a fight broke out in the back of the bar. Inez, who was singing “Wang, Dang, Doodle” took it in stride, even when knives glinted and someone pulled out a piece. She just pointed to the fighters, asked the bartender to shine a spot in their direction, and leveled them with a hard look. The brawl moved into the alley. Jimmy Jay was impressed.

  It was almost dawn when they quit playing. Someone bought a last round of drinks, and Jimmy Jay was just thinking about packing up when Inez came over.

  “You’re pretty damn good, Jimmy Jay.”

  He grinned. “Thanks, Hillbilly. You got a set of pipes yourself.”

  She laughed. “We oughta do this again.”

  Jimmy Jay suppressed his elation. “I could probably get us a couple of gigs.”

  She nodded. “I’d like that.”

  He nodded, just looking at her, not quite believing his good fortune.

  She offered him a slow sensual smile. “Meanwhile, I got a favor to ask you, baby.”

  Jimmy Jay cleared his throat. “Yeah?” His voice cracked anyway.

  She turned around, and lifted her hair off the back of her neck. “Help me take off my cross.”

  She ended up in his bed that night. And the next. And the night after that. She might only have been 18, but she was all heat and fire. All he had to do was touch her and she shivered with pleasure. When he ran his fingers slowly up her leg, starting at that perfectly shaped ankle, past her knee, stopping at the soft, pliant skin of her thigh, she would moan and grab him and pull him into her. Sliding underneath, rocking him hard, like she couldn’t get enough.

  “You are my sweet man,” she would whisper when they stopped, exhausted and sweaty. “My sweet, sweet man.”

  ***

  They were a team for almost ten years. Inez, the hillbilly, soaring like an angel in one number, moaning like a whore in another; and Jimmy Jay, steadfast and sturdy, setting the beat, making her look good. Inez drove herself hard, and her talent grew. Her timing was impeccable. She rolled with the band, but could carry the show. If someone missed a chord, she covered them, and if they messed up their solo, she’d make light of it by singing scat, humming a chorus, or talking to the crowd.
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  Before long they were headlining at places like the Macomba before it burned down, South Side Johnny’s, and Queenie’s. Their only disagreement was over Chess Records and the two white owners who wanted to sign them. Jimmy Jay was all for it—not only did his idol Willie Dixon work for Chess, but a record contract was something he’d dreamed of all his life. Inez kept saying they should hold out for a better deal. So far they had.

  Even Calvin’s arrival didn’t slow them down. Calvin was a good baby who turned into a good boy. The same face and nappy hair as his Daddy; the high cheekbones and coffee-with-cream skin of his Mama. Inez seemed thrilled. She cooed and sang to him all day, but if Jimmy Jay figured she might retire, he figured wrong. Calvin came with them to the clubs on the South and west side, even to Peoria and East St. Louis. They’d bring blankets and put him to sleep in the back room on a ratty sofa, sometimes the floor. When he was older, Jimmy Jay or Inez would drop him off at school before they went to bed themselves. Jimmy Jay didn’t mind. His own mama had brought him to all the Blues joints.

  Inez started calling them both her sweet men. Jimmy Jay would grin. They were happy. Real happy. Until the gig at Theresa’s.

  ***

  It was late autumn, and a chilly rain had been falling for two days, flooding the viaducts and lots of basements. Jimmy Jay and Inez were headlining at Theresa’s Lounge on South Indiana. The place wasn’t as upscale or as large as Macomba’s, and the regulars, mostly people from the neighborhood, treated the place like home, dancing and talking with the players during the set. Tonight the smell of wet wool mixed with the smoke and booze and sweat.

  A promoter from Capitol Records was in town and supposedly coming down that night. Inez was excited—Capitol was huge, much bigger than Chess. Jimmy Jay was glad he’d talked a new lead guitar into playing the gig with them. Buddy Guy had just come up from Baton Rouge, and everyone was saying he was gonna change the face of the Blues.

  It was a knockout performance. No one missed a chord and the solos kicked. There were no amp or mike problems. Jimmy Jay and the drummer locked into a tight groove, and Buddy Guy’s guitar was by turns brash, angry, and soulful. Inez’s voice was as rich and mellow as thick honey. Even with the lousy weather, the place was packed, everyone swaying, dancing, bobbing their heads. It was like great sex, Jimmy Jay thought. Hot, sticky sex that trembled and throbbed and built, and ended in a long, fiery climax.