The Missing Professor— Episode Ten

𝗔𝗿𝗸𝗵𝗮𝗺, 𝗠𝗮𝘀𝘀𝗮𝗰𝗵𝘂𝘀𝗲𝘁𝘁𝘀 𝟭𝟵𝟯𝟴

The DeSoto growled and coughed itself dead in the parking lot of the Arkham Gazette. The building wasn’t fancy. One story. Brick. Few windows.

Jackson gripped the door and hauled his battered body out. Darla was already out and walking toward Lucy. There was no trace of the fragile and weeping Darla that he’d spent the night with. She was good at burying things. Jackson knew all about that.

By the time Jackson got to the ladies, they seemed old friends. Darla had offered to have Lucy ride with them.

Jackson felt more like a chauffeur than a PI.

“Where to, Lucy?” Jackson asked, sarcasm dripping.

“Oh, Jackson, stop being jealous. Head to City Hall. There’s someone I need to meet.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

The DeSoto crept along behind a few other cars. They passed a gray Nash. It took everything he had not to look at the men inside.

Looking meant recognizing.

What would he do if he recognized one of them?

They turned down a side street and Darla sucked in a breath suddenly. Jackson let off the gas in response before he saw what had alarmed her.

On the sidewalk sat a man who looked dead. His head rested back and his mouth hung open. A black stain ran down his chin and soaked his white collar. He was dressed respectably enough, a pair of trousers and a white button-up shirt. Next to him lay his crumpled coat.

He sat motionless as they passed.

“Should we... see if he’s dead?” Darla asked.

“Not yet, but he’s gonna wish he was when he comes to,” said Lucy. “Black spit. Leaves ‘em like that ‘til it wears off. New in Arkham. Bad stuff.”

“Why?” asked Darla. “Why would someone do that to themselves?”

“Escape,” said Jackson. “Anything to escape whatever they’re in. A few bucks and for a while, you get to not care. Just like opium I imagine.”

“Or alcohol,” said Darla.

“’Cept this is worse. They say it takes ‘em somewhere they’ll spend everything to get back to.”

Darla’s gaze stayed on the man ‘til he was out of sight.

Jackson checked the mirror and for a moment thought he saw more of them with the black stained faces.

“We’ll be seeing more of it... Nobody knows where it’s coming from, but it’s bad news,” Lucy said, snapping him out of it.

***

“My contact will meet me on the bench. I gotta go alone when he gets there.”

Jackson nodded.

They sat in the parking lot across from City Hall and waited.

Two hours.

No contact.

No one even paused at the bench.

Darla laughed as Lucy told her a story about Jackson. Then they began swapping Jackson stories. He got out of the car and walked around.

Another half hour and Lucy got quiet. Her banter dropped off a cliff.

She went to the bench and brought back a piece of paper. She walked slow. Head low. Jackson watched her tracking everything as she walked.

“Looks like he was here before us. Left a note,” Lucy said.

She read the note with a perfect poker face.

“Well shit,” she said, handing the note to Darla for her and Jackson to read.

𝗦𝘁𝗼𝗽 𝗽𝗼𝗸𝗶𝗻 𝘆𝗲𝗿 𝗻𝗼𝘀𝗲 𝗶𝗻 𝘄𝗵𝗲𝗿𝗲 𝗶𝘁 𝗱𝗼𝗻’𝘁 𝗯𝗲𝗹𝗼𝗻𝗴. 𝗡𝗼 𝗺𝗼𝗿𝗲 𝘄𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝘀.

It was short and to the point. No signatures, no clues.

“This ain’t from Spence,” said Lucy. “Somebody got to him. Damn.”

She opened the car door and stepped outside and lit a cigarette with trembling fingers. Jackson knew it wasn’t because of the cold.

***

“We’re going to go shake some branches. See what drops. But this is higher than I usually reach. Without Lucy’s guy, we may be sunk.”

“We can’t be, Jackson. There has to be a way. There must be someone.”

Jackson exhaled slowly. He knew exactly how high his reach went.

Mozzie saw him coming and stepped to the curb and straightened his coat. Jackson pulled up to his best chance and rolled down his window.

“Moz,” he said with a nod.

“Jackson. Looks like you got a whole carload o’ trouble.” He grinned as Jackson rolled his eyes. “What can I do for you?”

The short, heavy-set man with a scrunched-up face let his eyes wander over the ladies again. A pair of black coals set into his dingy toothless face.

“Be good, Moz,” he said, capturing the man’s attention again. “I need to know what Arkham knows about a pair of men. High-ups. Not the usual.”

“’Course, I keep up with all the current events. You ain’t the only mug I see, Jackson.” Mozzie puffed out his chest and smoothed his coat again as if it could do any good. “You flatter yourself.”

“Keep your hands to yourself, and get in.”

Mozzie opened the door and plopped down next to Lucy. He managed to keep his hands folded into the sleeves of his heavy coat, but his eyes crept over Lucy as he worked the tiny red tip of his tongue back and forth across his lips.

“You put that tongue away and look straight, or it’ll be in your pocket when you get out of this car. You hear?” The air in the DeSoto went frigid.

The corner of Darla’s mouth twitched. Her eyes struggled to hold the smile in.

The little man grumbled as they drove around the block.

The four of them sat at the table in the back corner of Booker’s. Tom brought a pot of mud and three slices of cherry pie. Moz ate them while the others sipped coffee.

“Everett Carlisle and Maxwell Hollingsworth,” Jackson said.

“What do you know about ‘em?”

“Mmmh, I know this is good pie. And I know you’re gonna be mad,” he said, spitting a cherry pit into his napkin. He shoveled another bite in his small mouth before he continued. “They’re outta your league. I can tell you what everyone already knows, but my ladder don’t reach that high. You know that.”

“Damn,” said Jackson. “What do you know?”

“Enough to stay outta their way. And so should you. All’a you.”

Next to him Darla was gripping her mug so tight, Jackson thought it might burst. Red rimmed her eyes.

“You’re still paying for the pie though, right,” Mozzie said as he slid the last plate toward himself.

“I’ll be outside,” said Lucy.

“You’re sure you don’t have anything? Come on Moz. You must have heard something.”

“Well, only thing you might not be aware of is a new player in town. Goes by Bridges. Buyin’ up old houses. French Hill mostly. There’s word Hollingsworth don’t like it, but this Bridges has cash. Lots of it. Other than that, sorry, Jackson. I’m tapped.”

Darla turned to Mozzie, her brow furrowed in thought.

“What do you think this Bridges fellow wants with the houses?”

“Probably the same thing as anyone with that kind of money. More money. Bulldoze and rebuild is my guess, doll.”

Mozzie finished the last piece of pie and looked at the plate, contemplating. He raised his eyes and saw Darla looking at him and sighed, then stacked the plate on the other two.

Darla looked at Jackson. She was holding, but barely.

“They shut us down this fast…” Jackson muttered. “They’re ahead of us.”

He closed his eyes and drummed his fingers on the table.

“You good here, Moz?”

“Yeah, I’m gonna stick around and warm up. Go on. Careful.”

Jackson stood and laid four quarters on the table.

He helped Darla to her feet and turned to go. When he glanced back, only three coins remained.

Mozzie slid the plates back toward himself, his eyes darted between Darla and the red smears.

“Bye, Moz.”

Jackson swung the door open for Darla. The cold evening air caught in his lungs. Jackson’s toolbox had given all it had to give.

 If Hollingsworth or Carlisle had gotten to both Lucy and his informant network, this quickly, there was only one option left. He’d avoided it for the better part of ten years.

Thanks for reading this week's installment. If you're enjoying the series or just coming in fresh, please let me know. Until next week...