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"The Strange Death of Perdition Jones"
"The Strange Death of Perdition Jones"
3/28/2007
It was two a.m. Jeremy Bane had been standing by the door of the Paradise Hotel, watching the lobby from an angle where he could not be seen from within. As the old desk clerk hobbled to the men's room and closed the door behind him, Bane entered the lobby and trotted to the staircase going up. The Dire Wolf did not seem to be hurrying but he was in from outside and out of sight up the stairs in a blink. At the second floor landing, he paused to listen. Now nearing fifty, he looked much the same as he always had.. a tall, gaunt man with black hair and pale grey eyes in a narrow face. As usual, he wore all black, a turtleneck, sport jacket and slacks. Not hearing anything, not spotting the desk clerk emerging, he moved warily up the worn wooden steps, placing his feet on the edges of each step to avoid creaking.
On the third floor, he stood motionless and waited, letting his senses search for him without consciously trying. Faint Spanish music came from one door. The Dire Wolf moved forward, toward the second door. From what he had spotted on the street hours earlier, that was the door to the room he wanted. Bane paused again near that door. It had just been chance he was on 17th Street at eleven, just chance he had glanced up to see a familiar figure gazing down at the street below before pulling that flimsy curtain. It had been enough. Bane remembered Perdition Smith. So many crimes to answer for. Bane knew Smith had been raised by a family without an address, wandering the country and surviving by stealing and con games. What his real name was, no one knew... perhaps it really was 'Perdition.' God knew he deserved it. He had killed his first man at sixteen for a coat and shoes. Dozens of murders had followed. Most were for money but a few seemed to be just for amusement.
It was time to enter, Bane knew. He had only clashed with Perdition Smith once, ten years earlier, and had been forced to let him go in order to capture a bigger menace. Despite all his killings and robberies, Smith had never quite moved up to the big time as a hit man. His only claim to distinction was that he had never been caught and never even arrested. He was just too slippery. He had a dozen IDs, a hundred names, a thousand alibis. Bane almost sighed at the thought that he had not even realized Perdition Smith was in his town, running around unpunished.
From within the room came a loud popping noise that did not sound like a gunshot. Silencers didn't really make the shots silent, they just muffled them enough that most people would not recognize the noise. Drawing his elbow back, Bane smacked the palm of his hand above the door and broke the lock cleanly, diving in and ready for a possible firefight. All he found was a dying man. Lying on a shabby faded rug in a cheap dive, Perdition Smith still had his pistol in his hand. Closing the door behind him, Bane searched the room quickly but there was no where for anyone to hide and the window was locked from inside. He knelt over Smith and kicked the pistol away. The gun was still warm. The silencer was a big cylinder screwed onto the barrel, smelling of cordite. Bane saw the blossom of bright red blood on the white shirt, an inch or two over the heart. That was odd, suicides usually put the gun to their head.
Perdition Smith was maybe thirty-five, average in size and build, with blondish hair and dark blue eyes that darted around wildly. Those eyes fastened on Bane without recognition. The man only had a few minutes left and Bane's experience told him that an ambulance would only get here in time to take the corpse to the hospital. He said, "Smith, you don't have long."
"The fear is gone."
"What? Listen, why did you do this?"
"It's hard to hear you. I'm wrapped up in silence..."
Bane did not understand. "Smith, I'm Jeremy Bane. You know me. I almost caught you when you were working for Cobalt Jack. Remember?"
"I'm slipping away..."
The Dire Wolf frowned and stood up. Maybe there was something in the room to help him figure this out. A suitcase lay open on the bed and a smaller satchel beside it. The satchel was open, filled with wrapped bundles of hundred dollar bills, a passport and an airline ticket to Brazil. Bane opened the suitcase and found just clothing neatly packed. He was baffled. He went back and took the man's pulse, finding it weak but steady. The whole front of the shirt was red with fresh blood.
"Smith, listen! Was someone after you? Have you been targeted?"
"No. No... I'm too slick. Been laying low for a year. All set for Rio, no one knows."
"Then why did you shoot yourself?" Bane almost shouted.
It did not seem like the dying man would have strength to answer, and only the words "..now that I've gone too far" were audible. The breath rattled in his throat and he went limp. Bane stood up, not particularly upset over the death. Perdition Smith had many dead men to atone for, a thousand victims robbed of their last dollar. He just wanted to understand.
The Dire Wolf moved around the room, looking for clues that might explain. Nothing came to light. He knew he was not a first class detective, his skills lay in combat. Maybe a real expert like Michael Hawk could glance around and rattle off a dozen observations but that was beyond him. He knelt and went through the man's pockets, nothing but keys and cash and an empty pack of Winstons with a lighter that didn't work. The corpse had something in its left hand and the Wolf pried it open to find a tiny golden earring. Bane looked down at the sightless eyes fixed on the ceiling. Suddenly he didn't care why Smith had done this. What was it to him? Maybe the man had been building a sense of guilt over time, maybe he had crossed some dangerous underworld czar and knew an executioner was on the way. Maybe Smith was just plain tired of taking chances. Whatever. Bane stood up coldly. It meant nothing to him, he had other cases underway.
Taking a silicone cloth from an inner jacket, Bane painstaking wiped every surface he had touched, even those which normally did not hold prints. Leaving the room reluctantly and closing the door, he went down the stairs to the second floor landing and stopped by a window. It came up easily and he stuck his head out. Fifteen feet below was an alley. Good enough. He slid through the window, hung by his fingertips for a second and dropped lightly to the alley floor to catch himself with bent knees and fingertips. The Dire Wolf was uneasy for some reason he couldn't explain. He stepped out into a cold windy winter night. Under the moon and stars of an unusually clear city sky, Bane started moving. A block away, he drew out his Link and patched into the phone service so that his call could not be identified. He called police HQ down on Centre Street and said there had been a gunshot and a dead body on the third floor of the Paradise Hotel on 17th Street. Hanging up, he crossed over to a nicely dark doorway of a shuttered store where he could watch and waited for the police cars.
Before that could happen, a bulky man stepped quickly from the front door of the hotel and looked both ways before crossing the street. The goon had enforcer written all over him, with a cloth cap pulled down over his face and both hands in his coat pockets. Bane thought he understood. As the executioner crossed almost within reach of him, the Dire Wolf spoke quietly.
"He cheated you, didn't he?"
The thug gave a start but couldn't spot where the voice had come from. He growled deep in his chest and moved on without a word. Bane watched him fade into the gloom as the first black and white cruiser pulled up and cops ran into the Paradise.
10/8/2013
3/28/2007
It was two a.m. Jeremy Bane had been standing by the door of the Paradise Hotel, watching the lobby from an angle where he could not be seen from within. As the old desk clerk hobbled to the men's room and closed the door behind him, Bane entered the lobby and trotted to the staircase going up. The Dire Wolf did not seem to be hurrying but he was in from outside and out of sight up the stairs in a blink. At the second floor landing, he paused to listen. Now nearing fifty, he looked much the same as he always had.. a tall, gaunt man with black hair and pale grey eyes in a narrow face. As usual, he wore all black, a turtleneck, sport jacket and slacks. Not hearing anything, not spotting the desk clerk emerging, he moved warily up the worn wooden steps, placing his feet on the edges of each step to avoid creaking.
On the third floor, he stood motionless and waited, letting his senses search for him without consciously trying. Faint Spanish music came from one door. The Dire Wolf moved forward, toward the second door. From what he had spotted on the street hours earlier, that was the door to the room he wanted. Bane paused again near that door. It had just been chance he was on 17th Street at eleven, just chance he had glanced up to see a familiar figure gazing down at the street below before pulling that flimsy curtain. It had been enough. Bane remembered Perdition Smith. So many crimes to answer for. Bane knew Smith had been raised by a family without an address, wandering the country and surviving by stealing and con games. What his real name was, no one knew... perhaps it really was 'Perdition.' God knew he deserved it. He had killed his first man at sixteen for a coat and shoes. Dozens of murders had followed. Most were for money but a few seemed to be just for amusement.
It was time to enter, Bane knew. He had only clashed with Perdition Smith once, ten years earlier, and had been forced to let him go in order to capture a bigger menace. Despite all his killings and robberies, Smith had never quite moved up to the big time as a hit man. His only claim to distinction was that he had never been caught and never even arrested. He was just too slippery. He had a dozen IDs, a hundred names, a thousand alibis. Bane almost sighed at the thought that he had not even realized Perdition Smith was in his town, running around unpunished.
From within the room came a loud popping noise that did not sound like a gunshot. Silencers didn't really make the shots silent, they just muffled them enough that most people would not recognize the noise. Drawing his elbow back, Bane smacked the palm of his hand above the door and broke the lock cleanly, diving in and ready for a possible firefight. All he found was a dying man. Lying on a shabby faded rug in a cheap dive, Perdition Smith still had his pistol in his hand. Closing the door behind him, Bane searched the room quickly but there was no where for anyone to hide and the window was locked from inside. He knelt over Smith and kicked the pistol away. The gun was still warm. The silencer was a big cylinder screwed onto the barrel, smelling of cordite. Bane saw the blossom of bright red blood on the white shirt, an inch or two over the heart. That was odd, suicides usually put the gun to their head.
Perdition Smith was maybe thirty-five, average in size and build, with blondish hair and dark blue eyes that darted around wildly. Those eyes fastened on Bane without recognition. The man only had a few minutes left and Bane's experience told him that an ambulance would only get here in time to take the corpse to the hospital. He said, "Smith, you don't have long."
"The fear is gone."
"What? Listen, why did you do this?"
"It's hard to hear you. I'm wrapped up in silence..."
Bane did not understand. "Smith, I'm Jeremy Bane. You know me. I almost caught you when you were working for Cobalt Jack. Remember?"
"I'm slipping away..."
The Dire Wolf frowned and stood up. Maybe there was something in the room to help him figure this out. A suitcase lay open on the bed and a smaller satchel beside it. The satchel was open, filled with wrapped bundles of hundred dollar bills, a passport and an airline ticket to Brazil. Bane opened the suitcase and found just clothing neatly packed. He was baffled. He went back and took the man's pulse, finding it weak but steady. The whole front of the shirt was red with fresh blood.
"Smith, listen! Was someone after you? Have you been targeted?"
"No. No... I'm too slick. Been laying low for a year. All set for Rio, no one knows."
"Then why did you shoot yourself?" Bane almost shouted.
It did not seem like the dying man would have strength to answer, and only the words "..now that I've gone too far" were audible. The breath rattled in his throat and he went limp. Bane stood up, not particularly upset over the death. Perdition Smith had many dead men to atone for, a thousand victims robbed of their last dollar. He just wanted to understand.
The Dire Wolf moved around the room, looking for clues that might explain. Nothing came to light. He knew he was not a first class detective, his skills lay in combat. Maybe a real expert like Michael Hawk could glance around and rattle off a dozen observations but that was beyond him. He knelt and went through the man's pockets, nothing but keys and cash and an empty pack of Winstons with a lighter that didn't work. The corpse had something in its left hand and the Wolf pried it open to find a tiny golden earring. Bane looked down at the sightless eyes fixed on the ceiling. Suddenly he didn't care why Smith had done this. What was it to him? Maybe the man had been building a sense of guilt over time, maybe he had crossed some dangerous underworld czar and knew an executioner was on the way. Maybe Smith was just plain tired of taking chances. Whatever. Bane stood up coldly. It meant nothing to him, he had other cases underway.
Taking a silicone cloth from an inner jacket, Bane painstaking wiped every surface he had touched, even those which normally did not hold prints. Leaving the room reluctantly and closing the door, he went down the stairs to the second floor landing and stopped by a window. It came up easily and he stuck his head out. Fifteen feet below was an alley. Good enough. He slid through the window, hung by his fingertips for a second and dropped lightly to the alley floor to catch himself with bent knees and fingertips. The Dire Wolf was uneasy for some reason he couldn't explain. He stepped out into a cold windy winter night. Under the moon and stars of an unusually clear city sky, Bane started moving. A block away, he drew out his Link and patched into the phone service so that his call could not be identified. He called police HQ down on Centre Street and said there had been a gunshot and a dead body on the third floor of the Paradise Hotel on 17th Street. Hanging up, he crossed over to a nicely dark doorway of a shuttered store where he could watch and waited for the police cars.
Before that could happen, a bulky man stepped quickly from the front door of the hotel and looked both ways before crossing the street. The goon had enforcer written all over him, with a cloth cap pulled down over his face and both hands in his coat pockets. Bane thought he understood. As the executioner crossed almost within reach of him, the Dire Wolf spoke quietly.
"He cheated you, didn't he?"
The thug gave a start but couldn't spot where the voice had come from. He growled deep in his chest and moved on without a word. Bane watched him fade into the gloom as the first black and white cruiser pulled up and cops ran into the Paradise.
10/8/2013