Book Excerpt for The Copper Quarter

The Copper Quarter -- Extract

Cover graphic design by Drew at idrewdesign on Fiverr.com.

The right of Richard Stooker to be identified as the author of this book has been asserted in accordance with Sections 77 and 78 of the Copyrights and Patents Act 1988.

Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying, and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the author.

All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired any individual known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention.

The Copper Quarter

Ten minutes before his murder, the stock, dark-complexioned man next to me in the bar snorted, slammed the Post-Dispatch down on the counter and drained the last of the beer in his Busch glass with deep gulps. He pushed the four-page paper towards me along the fake-wood plastic top and pointed to the picture of Jules Duncan, smiling with a toothy grin, the independent Whole Earth Party candidate for president.

“Know what he says he’ll do now?” the stocky man said. “Use all our shit for fertilizer. He’s crazy, you ask me.”

I’d just gotten off work spending several days subbing for a sick security guard at a jeweler’s across the river in Illinois. I was feeling good knowing I wouldn’t have to hide from my landlord this month, so when the bus passed a lighted tavern I decided to shoot my quarterly beer ration, and the Bi-State driver let me off at the next street intersecting Lindbergh Boulevard. Besides the owner, the stocky man and I were the only ones inside.

I said, “It’s better than dumping it. You ever swim in the Mississippi?”

The man grimaced. “Even when I was a kid I couldn’t stand it. Maybe Duncan’s got something. He’s crazy, but if that black bastard we got now wins again, in four years we won’t be any better off than them countries where they’re dyin’ right and left. You gonna vote?”

“Mister,” I said, “I was born the night Nixon beat what’s-his-name with Watergate. So when I was almost twenty, and ready to vote for the first time, Gilles postpones the elections for two years. By then I didn’t give a shit.”

“Paloma,” the man said, and stuck out his hand. “Call me Harry.”

I shook, and said, “Mine’s Crain Dalton. I’m a private investigator.”

Harry jerked his hand back, looking as if he’d turned over a rock. “Divorce?” he whispered in a hoarse voice.

“Depends. Your wife hasn’t hired me, if you’re worried.”

He slapped me too hard on the back and said, “Oh, hell, forget it, I shouldn’t have asked. You’re all right. But I want you to know Lil and I get along fine. I know it sounds funny, but we love each other. We tell each other when we swing, but it wouldn’t matter if we didn’t. We only want to live with each other.”

I couldn’t blame him for hating the slimy peepholes and one-way mirror photographers in my profession.

“I’m glad to heard about a happy marriage,” I said.

“Finish up, you guys,” the bartender said as he listlessly pushed a gray rag over the bar top stained by decades of cigarette butts and spilled beer. “It’s almost eight, and I can’t keep these lights on any longer.”

Harry slid off his stool in one fluid but uneasy movement. “Why don’t you come with me, Crain? My place is in Larksprings Haven, the aptcom just down the road.”

I was tired and wanted to catch the next bus home and get to bed. I said, “What do we use to go on with the party?”

“Give me a pint of your best, Lou,” Harry said to the bartender.

Lou said, “You maybe got another ration card I ain’t seen yet? And I know you used up your limit already, Harry.”

Harry smiled, and dug one hand far into an inside pocket of his nylon windbreaker. He pulled out a small disk of dull, whitish metal and flicked it onto the bar top. It landed with a clunk, rolled several inches and stopped.

Lou and I stood stiff and still, neither of us breathing. My muscles were tensed, my brain number with shock.

The quarter vanished underneath the gray rag. Without a word, Lou walked into the back room and several minutes later returned with a small brown bag. It rustled as Harry grabbed the neck of the bottle.

“You want a case?” Lou asked. “I give you a case if I can get one.”

“I got no use for a case of booze right now. Just set up the guys once in a while.” Harry giggled. “Someday you might get to Mexico where you can spend it. Come on, Crain, let’s go.”

Harry held the bag under his coat furtively, like a little kid sneaking a tit mag past his mother, and stumbled in the general direction of the door. I left a ten and two fifty-cent bills on the counter as an extra tip, and followed. Lou flicked off the side lights; and somewhere along the street I heard a motor start up.

The cold wind outside chilled me through my clothes, driving out the tingling warmth of the beer in my blood. An unusually large car engine growled as it headed towards us. It switched on its brights, filling my eyes with light, just as I glimpsed the long auto body. A gun roared, and I dropped.

Harry was outlined in the glare of the headlights like a figure in a shadow play. The first slug hit him in the shoulder, jerking him back and to the left. In quick succession, bullets slammed into his gut, throat and chest. As he fell he seemed to crumple and fold up like a limp rag doll. Blood spurted, then quit when his heart stopped beating.