Bite Me dh-3 Read online

  Bite Me

  ( Devlin Haskell - 3 )

  Mike Faricy

  Mike Faricy

  Bite Me

  Chapter One

  It was bigger than a steak knife, not quite a carving blade, but still capable of doing some very serious damage. The knife came with a bright red handle, the kind sculpted to fit your fingers and hold a blade that gleamed viciously. I dodged the swipes again and pleaded.

  “Put the knife down, just put the knife down, please,” I tried to sound calm.

  Another wild swipe, this one slashing very close to the tip of my nose.

  “Look can we talk about this, take it easy.” I was aware panic had caused my voice to rise about two more notches. I was hoping I didn’t have to throw a punch.

  “Get out. Just get out, I want you out of here now, do you hear me, now. Get out,” she screamed.

  “Okay, okay, Christ just let me get dressed and…”

  “Get out now or I swear I’ll cut you up into the tiniest little pieces. I will, you creep, I swear I will.”

  “Hey Kiki, I believe you, okay? Just let me get my jeans on, if you could just hand them to me and…”

  “Get out of my bedroom,” she screamed, then slashed wildly through the air again.

  “Just give me my jeans, I promise I’ll leave, but I have to have some clothes, look you can keep the shirt, I never liked that one anyway.”

  “Get out, get out, get out,” she screamed, slashing back and forth with every shriek.

  Talk about a date going down the drain. Everything was fine until the shots of tequila, mores the pity. Still, I thought there might be an outside chance she was just playing hard to get.

  “Look, maybe if we just got back into bed …”

  She lunged at me, tripped over my jeans on the floor and fell. She curled up in a fetal position, naked on the bedroom carpet and began to sob. Even when she was trying to kill me she looked incredibly hot. I couldn’t stop staring at her thick brunette hair, creamy white skin, fantastic hips, those cute little feet.

  “Sorry, sorry, I’m just such a bitch, sometimes,” she sobbed.

  No argument there, but the only person I was feeling sorry for right now was me. I picked up the knife, quickly pulled on my jeans, slipped on my shoes.

  “Keep the boxers and socks Kiki, it’s been a unique experience. I’ve never spent the night with a woman who kept a knife under her pillow.”

  I pulled the shirt over my head then buckled my belt as I made for the bedroom door.

  “Phone me tomorrow, Dev, promise?” she called, sitting up and wiping the tears from her eyes. Her smeared mascara looked like hastily applied war paint.

  “Yeah sure,” I lied. Hoping she would just stay put so I could make it to the front door.

  “I’ll lock up behind you,” she called, then staggered to her feet and hurried to catch up, sniffling as she came. She stopped at the dining room table, poured herself a quick shot and tossed it back. “Ahhh.” Then grabbed an apple from a dish in the center of the table.

  I realized I was still carrying the knife and increased my pace without actually running. I made it to the door, opened it just as she hurried across the living room.

  “Do you have to go? You’ll call?” she asked, standing naked in the doorway. She calmly took a bite out of the apple and waited for my reply.

  The only call I was going to make was to 911, but then, why bother? One look at Kiki, gorgeous, naked, asking me to stay and the cops would haul me away.

  “Hey, I’ve got an early meeting, catch you later.” I said and then pulled the door closed behind me, she snapped the lock on the other side. I paused, left the knife on the porch and wondered what time it was, the sun was up, birds were chirping. My watch was still inside, probably somewhere in Kiki’s bedroom. Screw it. I could always get another watch.

  “Bastard,” I heard her scream inside. Then, the unmistakable sound of something shattering as the shot glass sailed through a pane in the side window.

  That was my traveling music. I climbed behind the wheel of my DeVille and raced off. The clock on my dash read three-twenty-seven, but it had been like that for the better part of the year. I started pushing radio buttons to see if someone might mention the time. They didn’t.

  Once home I pushed a chair in front of the door just in case Kiki showed up to make good on her promise to kill me. I napped fitfully on the couch until I finally gave up and drifted over to my office. Not that I had anything to do here, except look out the window at The Spot bar across the street. It was too late to join the lunchtime crowd and too early to stop in for a nightcap.

  I got six months office rent free in lieu of payment on a case I’d worked last New Years. A guy I knew bought a bar, hired a number of employees based on breast size then wondered why he was losing money. Three nights of me posing as a new hire got the answers to most of his questions. If he ran his bar anything like the building where my office was he wasn’t going to stay in business very long.

  I’d been staring out my second story office window for fifteen or twenty minutes, leering at female passers by when the phone rang.

  “Haskell Investigations,” I answered.

  “Mister Haskell, please,” a male voice said, then coughed.

  “You got him.”

  “Oh well, this is Farrell J. Earley, I got your name from my sister, Kiki.”

  “Kiki?”

  “Yes, I spoke with her about an hour ago.”

  “Yeah, well look I can explain, see your sister…”

  “Relax, I know, she can kinda go over the edge every now and again.”

  “That’s an understatement. It would have been nice to know that before she had a knife in her hand. She threatened to cut me up into tiny pieces.”

  “That’s Kiki.”

  “Well, look I don’t know what she told you, but I can assure you that I behaved like a perfect gentleman.”

  “Yeah, sure you did, that’s her hot button, gentlemen. To tell you the truth, Mister Haskell, I don’t really care, thing is, while Kiki was ranting she mentioned that you were a private investigator. I’d like to hire you.”

  “Call me Dev,” I said.

  “Okay, Dev. I’d like to contract your services, that is, if you’re available.”

  The only thing I had going on was Jameson night at The Spot on Thursday.

  “Well, why don’t we meet, discuss your needs and then if you’re still interested I’ll see if I can adjust my schedule.”

  “Can you make it today?”

  “I can, where would you like to meet?”

  “I’m over here at Craze, K-R-A-Z,” he pronounced each letter like it would mean something to me. I hadn’t the foggiest idea what in the hell he was talking about.

  “That still in the same place?” I asked hoping for a clue.

  “Yep.”

  “I’m in a meeting until about four, rush hour and all, what would be the quickest way over there from downtown?”

  “You know with the construction and all, take 94, get off at Snelling.”

  “That’s what I figured, pretty sure I know the building, but give me the address anyway,” thinking come on, man.

  “Fifteen thirty-seven, we’re up on the sixth floor.”

  It was like pulling teeth to find out where in the hell he was.

  “Mister Earley, give me your phone number there in case I’m running late, I don’t anticipate any problems, but better safe than sorry.”

  He gave me his number. I hung up, then dialed the number, figured the receptionist would tell me the street.

  Someone answered with a cough, it was Farrell’s, apparently his cell phone.

  “Hello?”

  “Mister Earley? Dev Haskell, again, must have mis
dialed, in the process of adjusting my schedule, sorry to bother you.”

  “Not a bother, still see you at four?”

  “Four it is.”

  Chapter Two

  It turned out KRAZ was a radio station. Who knew? Probably not too many people based on the tiny office and even smaller broadcast booth. The first three floors in the grimy building served as a warehouse for the Abbott Paint Company. The halls were a version of government grey, the stairs worn, poured concrete. What sounded like a printing press was clunking away up on the sixth floor far down the hall. Most of the small office suites appeared to be vacant.

  A walnut stained door led into the corner suite, there was a hand written sign crookedly taped above the mail slot, ‘KRAZ National Headquarters’. I opened the door and walked in, or at least I tried. About three quarters into opening the door struck the edge of a desk forcing me to make a quick side step.

  “Hello,” I called, still holding the door open.

  The desk, a mid 60’s surplus model was covered with stacks of files. Random scrawled notes were taped to the wall behind the desk. Aging newspapers littered the stacks of files and spilled onto the floor.

  “Hello, anyone home,” I called again.

  I heard a raspy cough which was followed by the appearance of a guy in the doorway off to the right. He wore large, dark framed glasses, wrinkled, cream colored cotton slacks and a grey t-shirt that read “KRAZ, America’s Right!” in bright red letters. He held a cigarette with a two inch ash in his right hand.

  “Hi, I’m looking for Farrell Earley,” I said.

  He took a drag, thought about that for a moment, then asked, “Do you have an appointment?”

  “Yeah, Devlin Haskell, he’s expecting me,” I would have handed the guy my card, but I’d run out a few weeks back.

  He exhaled a blue cloud, gave a slight cough.

  “Oh yeah, nice to meet you, Farrell J. Earley. Any problem finding the place?” he asked extending his hand. He looked nothing like his gorgeous, knife wielding, crazy sister.

  “No, no problem, exactly where I thought you were,” I lied.

  “Come on back to the office, I want you to meet Tommy. Give you an idea of what we’re dealing with, see what you think.” He was saying this as we walked through what must have been an office at one time. The room was crammed with stacks of blue and red plastic crates filled with cords, key boards, three or four antique computer monitors. The things probably leaked radiation and looked as old as me.

  “Pardon the mess, we’re in the process of updating,” he said, making for a door on the far wall.

  Through the door we entered a dusty office with walls painted a baby shit brown color. A red faced guy with a crew cut sat behind the desk, typing on an electric typewriter.

  “With you in a moment,” he said, not looking up, fingers dancing across the typewriter keys. With every key stroke a ball about the size of a golf ball struck the paper.

  Farrell motioned me toward a dusty, black leather couch. We sat there and waited in a blue cloud of his cigarette smoke. Eventually the typing was complete and the guy pulled the sheet from the typewriter, then placed it face down on a stack of paper, turned in his chair and looked from me to Farrell, then back to me.

  “Sorry about that, can never be too careful. Tomorrow’s broadcast, do that on the computer and there’s no telling who’ll get hold of it, use it for their own degenerate purposes. Alright then, who do we have here?”

  “This is the fella I was telling you about, the private investigator, Dennis Haskell.”

  “Devlin, Devlin Haskell,” I corrected.

  “Thompson Barkwell,” he said holding out his hand.

  I had to get up off the couch and take two steps to grab it. He gave me a limp shake for the effort.

  “Nice to meet you, Mister Barkwell.”

  “Please, call me Thompson, we get to know one another better and you can call me Tommy. But, let’s keep it at Thompson for right now, shall we?”

  Fine with me jerk, I thought, smiled and nodded,

  “Yes sir, I look forward to getting to know you much better.”

  “Farrell bring you up to speed with our situation?”

  “Not really, what seems to be the problem?”

  They looked back and forth for a long moment. Eventually Thompson took a deep breath, leaned back in his chair and said, “Here at K-R-A-Z we like to think of ourselves as the voice of the American future. A right thinking America. We….”

  The future of America is the electric typewriter? I was wondering why I should even be surprised? After all they got my name from that knife wielding lunatic, Kiki. I wondered if she’d calmed down yet? Then I remembered her breasts bouncing up and down while she swung the knife at me. Wondered if maybe it had just been a one time sort of melt down and maybe we could …

  “… view us as a threat to their socialistic ways, and therefore intend to deal with us accordingly.”

  They sat and looked at me, waiting for a reaction. I tried to erase Kiki from my mind.

  “So what do you think?” Thompson finally said.

  “Give me that last part again.”

  “Not much to it. The note said that we were a threat to their socialistic ways and therefore they intended to deal with us accordingly.”

  “So many questions,” I said, stalling for time.

  “Would you care to share them?” Thompson asked.

  “Well first off, tell me about the note. How did it come to you? Where is it now? Did you inform the police?”

  “Like I said, it was shoved under the door when we arrived yesterday. Yes, we did call the police,” Thompson said.

  “They’ve got the note now,” Farrell added.

  “I see, I see,” hoping to sound like I did.

  “Of course they’re probably worried about equal rights and the other nonsense that’s become the left’s mantra. While patriots like us just soldier on, moving forward, constantly under fire,” Thompson said.

  “So you consider this a threat, the note? You don’t think someone might just be pulling your leg?”

  “Pulling our leg? You’ve got to be kidding? No, we’ve struck a nerve, probably more than one. No doubt you’ve listened to our broadcasts, you know how they are.”

  “To tell you the truth I don’t listen as often as I’d like to.”

  “Which was your favorite?” Thompson asked.

  Farrell exhaled another blue cloud and leaned forward on the couch.

  “Oh, it would be tough to pick one,” I dodged.

  “But, you must have a favorite.”

  “I really like them all, no, no, too tough to narrow it down to just one. Honest.”

  “I know what you mean,” Thompson said, looking thoughtful.

  Farrell nodded, fired up another cigarette using the butt of his last one.

  “Okay, so we’re working with what, a death threat?” I asked.

  “Exactly,” replied Thompson.

  “Yeah, death threat, definitely a death threat,” Farrell chimed in.

  “And what, exactly, would you like me to do?”

  “Well first and foremost, protection, that’s paramount. Something happens to either one of us and the movement dies, right here, right now.” Thompson struck the desk top four times with his index finger in perfect time to ‘right here, right now’.

  “Then, when you’re not protecting, we’d like you to get to the bottom of this. Find out what sort of pinko, commy group of misfits uses murder and intimidation as a logical consequence of open dialogue.”

  “What about the police?” I asked.

  “Can’t be trusted?” Farrell said.

  Thompson nodded his head in agreement.

  “What sort of protection do you want?” I asked.

  “You carry a gun don’t you?”

  “Yeah, I’m licensed.”

  “For the love of…, hell we’re all licensed, if that’s what you want to call it. Part of our second amendment
rights. But we need some extra firepower. These folks will stop at nothing.”

  “Look no offense, but so far all you’ve got is a note slipped under the door. You’ve given that to the police, they’ll check it out for you. From what you tell me it sounds like it could be as simple as a college prank.”

  “A college prank? You can’t honestly believe that threat represents a college prank. Although given the state of what passes for education now-a-days…” Thompson seemed to drift off somewhere distant, then slapped the top of his desk. “No, I’m afraid we don’t have the luxury of living in such a cavalier fashion, Mister Haskin.”

  “Haskell, Devlin Haskell,” I reminded, with a smile.

  “We’re the last line of defense before the damn train goes off the rails.”

  “Meaning?” I was beginning to think Thompson was a legend in his own mind.

  “Meaning we’ve hit a nerve, sir. They know we speak the truth and they can’t stand that, the truth.”

  In for a penny, in for a pound I thought.

  “So you’d like protection, here, at your office?”

  “Our station, and yes, here, while we broadcast,” Thompson said.

  “It’s when we’re the most vulnerable, when we’re on the air.” Farrell added.

  “Like I said before, I haven’t been able to listen as often as I would like, remind me what your hours are,” I said.

  “We’re on from ten to ten-fifteen in the morning, noon to twelve-fifteen, three to three-fifteen and then the drive home hour, five-thirty to five-forty-five.” Thompson squeaked back in his office chair and look like he’d just won the lottery.

  “We tape our message the day before, then play it four times the following day,” Farrell said, he exhaled another long blue cloud.

  “It’s a well known fact people have to hear something four times within twenty-four hours before they begin to pick it up,” Thompson expounded.

  “You guys have any sponsors?” I asked.

  They looked back and forth from one another again, eventually Thompson said, “I really don’t feel comfortable divulging that information at this time. Suffice to say we do have sponsors and are enlisting more everyday.”