CHAPTER SEVEN

NOW WE’RE COOKING

Finally, in the warehouse, John thinks.

“Finally,” John says. A double confirmation for good measure.

John is so happy he can picture himself shedding a tear of joy. A drop of sweat runs across his eye; close enough, John thinks. So much wasted effort with his sad excuse for acrobatics, his running throughout the city and magnificent planning, magnificent in his mind; all to get in this dusty warehouse? John rarely spends so much effort to achieve something, and if it wasn’t for the pain in all his muscles, he would feel good. Good indeed.

The warehouse is large like all good warehouses should be; it is a reasonable warehouse. It is filled, like all reasonable warehouses, with lots of stuff; stuff here, stuff there, stuff everywhere. A lot of stuff, John thinks. Roaming across the maze of stuff, John searches for something of importance, like a mouse searching for a piece of cheese. Yet with less purpose and determination but good enough, John thinks.

The open crates inside hold a variety of items like clothes, books, pencils, dolls, etc. There is no real pattern to all the miscellaneous items here, similar to the warehouse of Mr. Malone. It seems like criminals in this city have a weird pattern, a pattern that makes little sense, but maybe there is something in that or the fact they do not understand what the hell they are doing. Maybe they are closet hoarders? It is possible.

Searching the crates, he champions on like a racehorse fighting to win a race. There are too many animal comparisons, but aren’t we all just animals? We are, surely, not mycelia, John thinks? The alcohol in the trusted flask made him drunk with a side-dish of spouting nonsense, John thinks. He is right. There is a time and place to have a drunk blackout and it is every day, but it is not now; later will do, perhaps in 30 minutes or so.

After an exhausting search or a search that would not tire out a person who doesn’t have the physical readiness of an elderly tortoise, he finds something. A freezer. He opens it as it reveals a dead body on the rocks. Success! It was about time and the animal comparisons are getting out of hand. What luck!

Inspecting the body, something clicks. It is the body of Mark Aubrie and near his heart a bullet wound. Frozen bright red. Perhaps saying what luck in this situation is not the most appropriate response, but when one is on the verge of falling in a drunk coma one should not judge too hastily. Searching the body, John finds a business card belonging to Daubrey Pink, the man in the checkered suit.

Suddenly, the world turns dark. Was I hit in the head again, John thinks? No, not this time. This results from a bad drinking habit; the one where you don’t stop drinking. It seems humanly impossible, but there are many people out there. Some of them so absurd like they come straight out of a fiction book.

In the pitch-black darkness, a voice calls out.

“John,” the voice yells.

“Who is it? Where am I?” John asks, stuck in darkness.

“John,” the voice yells louder.

“That is my name don’t wear it off,” John says being a smartass even in this situation.

A picture forms. It is Rebecca.

“Rebecca?” John says, surprised.

“John,” the voice repeats.

Well, this sure is a pleasant dream, John thinks.

“Might...” John says as he goes in for the kiss.

Suddenly, he wakes in a police interrogation room. His vision returned, he finds himself going in to kiss one of the Miller twins.

“OH MY GOD!” D. Miller yells as he, in shock, jumps back.

“Hm, not the best way to wake up,” John says.

On the side, B. Miller laughs.

“Brother, I think this may be love at first sight,” B. Miller says as he continues laughing.

“Unbelievable,” D. Miller says, shaking his head in disbelief.

“What are you two doing here?” John asks.

“Apparently, trying not to get kissed by you,” D. Miller says.

“You could do worse,” John adds.

“I seriously doubt that,” D. Miller says.

“Well, you are not exactly a catch yourself,” John adds.

“After all this time you finally snapped,” B. Miller says, approaching John. Remembering the recent incident, he takes a step back.

“Afraid of something?” John asks, mockingly.

“Just being sure,” B. Miller says.

“So, what do I owe this pleasure?” John asks.

“Oh, nothing much just wanted to see how you are doing, to check about your life, your hobbies, and stuff like that,” D. Miller says.

“And the minor issue of us receiving a call of a break-in at the warehouse, but other than that nothing important,” D. Miller says.

“Oh, and the thing about finding you passed out near a freezer with a dead body in it. You know? Just the standard things,” B. Miller adds.

“The body of Mark Aubrie, you mean?” John asks.

“So you admit you know the victim,” D. Miller says.

“Unfortunately, I didn’t have the pleasure because when I found him he was already dead,” John says.

“Because you killed him,” B. Miller adds.

“I thought you two mentioned he was long dead when I was here at the police station,” John says, frowning his eyebrows.

“I have no recollection of such an event happening,” D. Miller says.

“Neither do I. You must have been drinking again,” B. Miller adds.

“You should stop drinking,” D. Miller says, laughs and looks at his brother who is smirking. They turn around and look at John; he pulls out his trusty flask and takes a sip. All three of them stand like frozen in time.

“How the hell did you smuggle that in?” D. Miller yells.

“I smuggled nothing in, you dragged me here while I was unconscious,” John adds visibly annoyed.

“How do you know we dragged you here if you were unconscious?” D. Miller asks.

“You, literally, just said that moments ago like you said Mark Aubrie was dead when I was here but this isn’t the point and I have little patience wasting my time with you two, all so capable, policeman,” John says, frustration oozing from him.

“There is no need to waste time, we can finish this in a second,” D. Miller says, faintly smiling.

“Yeah. All you need to do is sign a confession, and it is done,” B. Miller says.

“Fine. Just give me a pen and paper,” John says.

John quickly scribbles something and returns the paper.

“Good, good, I will make a copy of this and put it on my wall,” D. Miller says, extremely pleased with himself.

“Read it to me, brother. I want to bask in the time we got this piece of drunk trash on murder,” B. Miller says.

“It would be my pleasure, brother,” D. Miller takes out John’s paper as reads it.

“I, John, confess that the Miller brothers are a complete and utter joke...” D. Miller stops reading as his smile changes into a deep frown.

“You think this is a joke?” D. Miller yells in anger.

“No. As I’ve stated in on the paper I think both of you are the joke,” John says.

“You are going down for murder so make all the jokes you want,” B. Miller adds, punching the table out of frustration.

“Me? For murder? Are you for real?” John asks as if he could not believe what these two are talking about, in fact, he could not.

“We found you next to a dead body,” D. Miller adds.

“You’ve found me passed out,” John adds.

“You could have killed him and passed out,” B. Miller says.

As they turn to John, they notice him taking another sip.

“Why didn’t we take this away from him?” B. Miller asks a rhetorical question.

The other brother, D. Miller, walks and snatches the flask from John’s hand.

“Hey. That is medicinal,” John adds.

“I’m afraid there is no cure for being a douche,” D. Miller says.

“Well you should know,” John adds with a huge smile.

The brothers do a facepalm restraining themselves from not unleashing, well deserved, police brutality.

“Even if that would be the case, which is ludicrous,” John says.

The brothers look at his hand, expecting to see him taking another sip of the drink. There is a slight pause.

“You took the flask away, remember?” John says, staring at them.

“Talking to you is exhausting,” D. Miller adds, sighing.

“Extremely,” B. Miller adds.

“As I was saying, even if that was the case you could verify when the body, the victim was killed. It is called forensics,” John says.

“Second, when you found me I didn’t have a gun on me or any gunpowder beneath my nails or me. I’m guessing you took evidence. EVIDENCE,” John adds.

“How do you know he was shot?” D. Miller asks.

“I saw the damn body!” John yells, taking a moment to compose himself.

How do they put their pants on in the morning? One leg at a time you say, amazing.

“Do you have an alibi?” B. Miller asks.

“I have about five or something,” John says.

“Why would you have so many, seems suspicious,” D. Miller says.

“Because I was running around the city talking to people,” John says.

“Why would you do that?” B. Miller asks with a puzzled look.

“To get the exercise,” John adds, sarcastically.

“You have nothing on me and you know so either book me or let me go,” John says.

“Just put your alibies on the paper and go,” D. Miller says, passing the paper and pen to John.

“We will be watching,” B. Miller says.

“A monumental threat,” John adds as he writes.

“One of these days you will screw up John. You are a ticking time bomb and a drunk and when you do...” D. Miller says as he stops.

He looks at John; he is taking a sip from his flask again.

“Why does he still have that?” D. Miller asks as he looks at his brother who shakes his head.

They both growl with visible disappointment.

Outside the police station, John takes a cigarette out and lights it.

The pieces are coming together, well together-ish, John thinks. Jane von Riyn hired me to check if Mark Aubrie is cheating on her while being diligent to not give any clues on his whereabouts; seems fishy enough by itself, as it looks more like a missing person case hidden with some subterfuge. Mark Aubrie and his wife who died had a girl who they left because of their issues. The little red-haired girl is probably the child in question. Mark and his sister Rebecca seem to want to find this girl with all their shenanigans and the reason for their coming to the city. The man with the checkered suit and Mr. Malone seem to have something in common with Mark’s path of finding his missing girl; all of this is obvious because of his involvement with these two. Based on the information that Mark Aubrie borrowed money from Mr. Malone and that his sister was at the casino with the checkered man. Why else would such a nice girl be anywhere near a sleazy criminal like that? Why else would anyone be in a sleazy city like this unless they had a purpose and I’m not talking about the purpose of drinking yourself away? It involves the Miller twins as they are more corrupt than a bread left alone in the Sun for a week. They seem adamant about me leaving this case and about the fact that Mark Aubrie is dead but when he was found dead they, oh so conveniently, forgot about what they said. It must connect the reason the orphanage headmistress lied. Could she be in cahoots with one of these two wannabe crime bosses? Wait! A red-haired girl? That little smelly orphan boy said something about a red-haired girl gone missing and the files conveniently vanished. Is the orphanage connected? It all seems dirty, very dirty... I should probably wash my coat but besides it everything apart from it, everything concerning the case seems dirty. I think it is time for me to get my trusty pistol and ask some serious questions. It is time to get things moving, John thinks with great enthusiasm. But first, it is time to get a drink or two. Just for good measure. You can’t work on an empty liver or something like that, however, the saying goes.

A moment later, John returns to his office. He takes a sip of booze, takes out his trusted pistol from a drawer, followed by another sip of booze; truly I am getting ready, John thinks. He takes another sip and starts rubbing his coat with an unnecessarily small handkerchief. Rubbing it good. He is ready, and he feels good; better than ever before in his life he thinks, which isn’t much to go on but as the old saying goes... you take what you can get.

“I am ready!” John yells with enthusiasm.

Walking to the door majestically; the moment is spoiled as he stumbles on a shoe lying around in his apartment/office. John takes a moment to balance himself out as he stands again majestically, confident this is badass. Those are his thoughts, though.

“Badass!” John says just to make sure.

Badass and after everything that went down I say we let him have this; badass indeed.

At Jane von Riyn’s estate, a bell ringing is followed with some good old-fashioned hard knocking. He knocks two times. The bell was loud, but he knocked either way just because he can and he feels badass.

The door opens as the butler appears.

“Well, if it isn’t our favorite guest,” the butler says with crystal clear sarcasm.

“I knew if someone would miss me it would be you, Jeeves,” John says.

“Very good, Sir,” the butler adds with all the emotion of stone.

We can consider this as an art form, John thinks; so much so he finds it hard to not be impressed.

“Is the mistress of the house here?” John asks.

“I shall go get her. If you would please wait in the lobby and if you would be so kind as to not...” the butler says as he gets cut off.

“Touch any of the valuables?” John says.

“Very good, Sir,” the butler responded.

“You know I hear that these things cost more than I make in my lifetime,” John adds, smiling.

“But Sir, I hear you make very little,” the butler responds.

“Touché my old friend, Touché,” John says, nodding with acceptance.

Truly a worthy foe, John thinks as he continues to nod.

Sitting down on a spiny chair, John spins around. He has a fancy for spiny chairs.

“You have a fancy for spinny chairs,” Jane von Riyn says, descending the stairs.

“I do? I haven’t thought about that,” John says as he takes one mighty spin to the left and back.

“You know I find it weird that amongst all these fancy things in here you would have a spiny char,” John says.

“Yes, it is a bit out of place here but my late grandfather quite enjoyed them and when he passed away I just didn’t have the heart to throw it out,” Jane says.

“A man of culture, I see,” John adds.

“Any progress on the case?” Jane asks.

“Yes, but I’m afraid you will not like the news,” John adds, spinning inappropriately.

“You can tell me. I am a big girl,” Jane says.

“Perhaps you would like to sit down, perhaps on the spiny chair?” John asks.

“Thank you for the offer but I would like to get straight to the point,” Jane says.

“I found Mark Aubrie, and he wasn’t cheating,” John says.

“What is that bad news?” Jane asks.

“Well, the reason he wasn’t cheating is that it is hard to do when you are dead,” John says.

“He is dead?” Jane asks in disbelief.

“I’m afraid so,” John adds.

Jane turns in silence as she focuses her gaze elsewhere.

“Are you okay?” John asks trying to check her. She turns back, appearing composed.

“Thank you for your hard work. I guess that will be it,” Jane says, appearing composed.

“I’m afraid the case isn’t over yet,” John adds.

“How so detective?” Jane asks calmly as John looks at her with a puzzled look.

“Well, for one I need to find who the murderer is and why was he murdered,” John says.

“That won’t be necessary. I’m sure the police will handle things. I assume they are aware of Mark’s untimely death, yes?” Jane asks.

“Well, yes, but...” John says as he gets cut off.

“I am done with this matter and it discomforts me,” Jane says.

“I see,” John says.

“I will have George give you the rest of the money and that will be that,” Jane says.

“But...” John says as he gets cut off.

“It is done, detective,” Jane says.

“Done or not, I will finish when I finish,” John says.

“I will not compensate you for it,” Jane adds.

“There are some things in life that are more important than money,” John says, lying. Lying or not, it is still the most badass thing to say.

“I see,” Jane says, leaving the lobby. Leaving in an elegance stating I am a queen and you are all my pawns, and the pawns don’t mind that they are pawns. The red dress slightly flutters like a flame, burning hot and bright. The view is splendid enough to enthrall anyone.

John shakes his head as he tries to regain his composure; he fails. He shakes his head again, and it is back. Not a lot of composure, but enough.

Hardly any reaction, even for a reserved person. It seems cold even for me, and the worst thing of all is that the butler’s name is not Jeeves, John thinks.

On the way out with George, the former Jeeves gives an envelope to John before closing the door.

John looks at the closed door with a hint of sadness on his face.

“You will always be Jeeves in my heart,” John says, turning around and walking away.

Walking through the city he remembers Rebecca; an angel in the heart of hell. She doesn’t know about her brother? I must tell her, John concludes. She deserves to know. But telling someone bad news is a chore and nothing good can come from it. I will get no money, no recognition, nothing in return, so why bother? Why bother indeed?

“Only a fool would bother,” John yells out loud.

“And I am no fool,” John yells again.

“J-E-E-V-E-S,” John yells even louder as he gets closer and closer to dementia. Small steps, John, small steps.

Two people with a small child walk by.

“Why is that man yelling, mommy?” the child asks, slightly fearful.

The parents grab their child’s hand as they speed up, looking back at the madman yelling in the street.

“Stay in school,” John says to the fleeing parents.