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"Old Man With a Hatchet"
May. 24th, 2022 06:59 am"Old Man With a Hatchet"
8/9/1954
I.
At six o'clock that night, the breeze through the open window was still insultingly hot. Dry infernal Santa Ana winds had been blowing all day, setting everyone's nerves on edge, igniting fires out in the eastern woodlands and making the city more miserable than the norm. In the two-room office over Muneca Street, the slowly rotating ceiling fan only redistributed the stuffy ovenlike air in a half-hearted way.
Only a small reading lamp on the desk was on. In its limited circle of light, Pilgrim's big sinewy hands could be seen pouring a little more bourbon into a shot glass, then raising that glass to be studied in self-reproach before it was gulped down. On the desk was a glass ash tray holding six crumpled butts, conveniently next to a nearly empty sterling silver case holding two thin black cigars and a black Zippo lighter. The phone rested silently in its cradle, the metal IN and OUT trays had been emptied. The office was dark and silent. Pilgrim sat there, thinking about life and death, mulling over what had happened little more than a week ago.
Killing wasn't the frivolous pastime it seemed to be in those tough-guy movies he had devoured as a kid, where the hero shot down a dozen bad guys and then made a snappy remark before moving on with the girl. It wasn't even like it had been during those hellish days on those stinking mud islands in the Pacific ten years ago, where the bullets hummed overhead like hornets annoyed at missing you and where agonized screams echoed from just out of sight. Service in wartime was duty. This week had been personal. He had been close enough to see the expression on the gunman's doughy face when he had glanced up to see Pilgrim looming in the doorway. Both men had fired, but only one had aimed accurately. And Pilgrim was here tonight to remember it all.
There had been no other way. The child had been tied up and drugged in the next room. Once a ransom had been agreed on, the kidnaper would have killed her away and hidden the body before going to snatch up that paper bag of hundred dollar bills. Kidnapers had little to lose, they had already commited a capital crime with a death penalty attached. And certainly there had been no alternative action for Pilgrim to try. Gus Jacob's hand was already rising with that big .46 automatic ready to blast. Definitely, Pilgrim had done the only thing open to him.
It shouldn't bother him. But it did.
At forty, Pilgrim seemed older than his years. There was no grey in the curly black hair, nor in the thick mustache under a rather prominent nose. But the face had deep fissures down each cheek and there was were lines at the outer edges of the watchful dark eyes. What he had survived had marked him. In the dim light of the single lamp, he was almost invisible wearing all black clothing. The well-fitting suit with its black dress shirt had a medium grey necktie as the only break in the monochrome. That jacket had been skillfully tailored so that the holster strapped to his left side not far below the armpit was not noticeable.
In sudden disgust at himself, Pilgrim firmly capped the bottle of bourbon and placed it with the shot glass in the deep lower right drawer of his desk. This brooding was all a waste of time. He should be back in his apartment on Benitez Boulevard, taking a steaming hot shower and then seeking comfort in cool dry satin sheets where he could sleep without dreams. Tomorrow would mean a fresh start. Maybe he would close his office and spend a day at the racetrack or driving up the coastline and breathing in salty ocean air. Have a slow indulgent lunch outdoors at some bistro, perhaps find a used book store...
Out in the hall, he heard the street door close, then the tapping light footsteps up the stairs. He listened with a practiced ear. Not a man stepping stealthily but the clack of heels. A woman, not weighing much. At this time of night, the real estate office and the travel agency which also shared this floor were both closed but the light in his window could have been seen from the street.
Reaching up under his suit jacket, Pilgrim thumbed off the safety and loosened his handcrafted Colt revolver in its holster. He had no active cases at the moment, but there were many in the City of Angels who bore him bitter grudges.
When a soft double tap sounded against the frost glass panel on his door, Pilgrim called out, "It's unlocked, come right in."
As the woman entered and peered uncertainly about, Pilgrim leaned back in his chair and flicked the switch which turned on the two standing lamps, then rose to his feet. In a flash, he added up his impressions. Asian, either Chinese or maybe Korean, not more than twenty years old and possibly still in her late teens. The glossy black hair was cut short in a professional style. She was wearing shoes with short heels, a snug black skirt and a long-sleeved white silk blouse with a double strand of pearls under the collar. Over one shoulder hung a small black handbag which she now swung around to hold defensively in front of her.
The woman was presentable, attractive in a well-kept healthy way but by no means gorgeous. Her make-up was so minimal he only saw it because he was studying her. The large dark eyes had a single fold in the inner corner, and those eyes held the same fear and uneasiness he had seen in so many clients at first meeting.
"Mr Pilgrim?" she asked without any noticeable accent. "It IS Mr Pilgrim, am I right?"
"That's right, please make yourself comfortable." He gestured to the single chair facing his desk and waited for her to be seated before sitting back down himself. "My office hours usually end at five, you realize."
"There was a light in your window. Your agency PILGRIM INVESTIGATIONS is written on the glass. I had to see if you were still here. Mr Pilgrim, you MUST help me. First, I'm trying to find my mother, I don't know where she is in this city, I have come here to locate her. But more urgently than that, I believe I'm being followed. By an old man with a hatchet!"
( the rest of the story )
8/9/1954
I.
At six o'clock that night, the breeze through the open window was still insultingly hot. Dry infernal Santa Ana winds had been blowing all day, setting everyone's nerves on edge, igniting fires out in the eastern woodlands and making the city more miserable than the norm. In the two-room office over Muneca Street, the slowly rotating ceiling fan only redistributed the stuffy ovenlike air in a half-hearted way.
Only a small reading lamp on the desk was on. In its limited circle of light, Pilgrim's big sinewy hands could be seen pouring a little more bourbon into a shot glass, then raising that glass to be studied in self-reproach before it was gulped down. On the desk was a glass ash tray holding six crumpled butts, conveniently next to a nearly empty sterling silver case holding two thin black cigars and a black Zippo lighter. The phone rested silently in its cradle, the metal IN and OUT trays had been emptied. The office was dark and silent. Pilgrim sat there, thinking about life and death, mulling over what had happened little more than a week ago.
Killing wasn't the frivolous pastime it seemed to be in those tough-guy movies he had devoured as a kid, where the hero shot down a dozen bad guys and then made a snappy remark before moving on with the girl. It wasn't even like it had been during those hellish days on those stinking mud islands in the Pacific ten years ago, where the bullets hummed overhead like hornets annoyed at missing you and where agonized screams echoed from just out of sight. Service in wartime was duty. This week had been personal. He had been close enough to see the expression on the gunman's doughy face when he had glanced up to see Pilgrim looming in the doorway. Both men had fired, but only one had aimed accurately. And Pilgrim was here tonight to remember it all.
There had been no other way. The child had been tied up and drugged in the next room. Once a ransom had been agreed on, the kidnaper would have killed her away and hidden the body before going to snatch up that paper bag of hundred dollar bills. Kidnapers had little to lose, they had already commited a capital crime with a death penalty attached. And certainly there had been no alternative action for Pilgrim to try. Gus Jacob's hand was already rising with that big .46 automatic ready to blast. Definitely, Pilgrim had done the only thing open to him.
It shouldn't bother him. But it did.
At forty, Pilgrim seemed older than his years. There was no grey in the curly black hair, nor in the thick mustache under a rather prominent nose. But the face had deep fissures down each cheek and there was were lines at the outer edges of the watchful dark eyes. What he had survived had marked him. In the dim light of the single lamp, he was almost invisible wearing all black clothing. The well-fitting suit with its black dress shirt had a medium grey necktie as the only break in the monochrome. That jacket had been skillfully tailored so that the holster strapped to his left side not far below the armpit was not noticeable.
In sudden disgust at himself, Pilgrim firmly capped the bottle of bourbon and placed it with the shot glass in the deep lower right drawer of his desk. This brooding was all a waste of time. He should be back in his apartment on Benitez Boulevard, taking a steaming hot shower and then seeking comfort in cool dry satin sheets where he could sleep without dreams. Tomorrow would mean a fresh start. Maybe he would close his office and spend a day at the racetrack or driving up the coastline and breathing in salty ocean air. Have a slow indulgent lunch outdoors at some bistro, perhaps find a used book store...
Out in the hall, he heard the street door close, then the tapping light footsteps up the stairs. He listened with a practiced ear. Not a man stepping stealthily but the clack of heels. A woman, not weighing much. At this time of night, the real estate office and the travel agency which also shared this floor were both closed but the light in his window could have been seen from the street.
Reaching up under his suit jacket, Pilgrim thumbed off the safety and loosened his handcrafted Colt revolver in its holster. He had no active cases at the moment, but there were many in the City of Angels who bore him bitter grudges.
When a soft double tap sounded against the frost glass panel on his door, Pilgrim called out, "It's unlocked, come right in."
As the woman entered and peered uncertainly about, Pilgrim leaned back in his chair and flicked the switch which turned on the two standing lamps, then rose to his feet. In a flash, he added up his impressions. Asian, either Chinese or maybe Korean, not more than twenty years old and possibly still in her late teens. The glossy black hair was cut short in a professional style. She was wearing shoes with short heels, a snug black skirt and a long-sleeved white silk blouse with a double strand of pearls under the collar. Over one shoulder hung a small black handbag which she now swung around to hold defensively in front of her.
The woman was presentable, attractive in a well-kept healthy way but by no means gorgeous. Her make-up was so minimal he only saw it because he was studying her. The large dark eyes had a single fold in the inner corner, and those eyes held the same fear and uneasiness he had seen in so many clients at first meeting.
"Mr Pilgrim?" she asked without any noticeable accent. "It IS Mr Pilgrim, am I right?"
"That's right, please make yourself comfortable." He gestured to the single chair facing his desk and waited for her to be seated before sitting back down himself. "My office hours usually end at five, you realize."
"There was a light in your window. Your agency PILGRIM INVESTIGATIONS is written on the glass. I had to see if you were still here. Mr Pilgrim, you MUST help me. First, I'm trying to find my mother, I don't know where she is in this city, I have come here to locate her. But more urgently than that, I believe I'm being followed. By an old man with a hatchet!"
( the rest of the story )
