Locomotive to the Past, George Schultz [snow like ashes series txt] 📗

(or five or six) obscenities, he made his way, to answer the unceasing rapping!

Still mumbling to himself, he opened the door—possibly 18 inches—a cautious move, to ascertain who it was, that was so, inconsiderately, “disturbing his peace”! It was a woman!

The woman unleashed a completely-unexpected, bone-jarring, kick! The door was—immediately—flung wide open! It crashed—against the sidewall, inside! The resulting sound—from the ear-splitting collision—filled the entire building!

The woman then extended her arm—in the precise direction, of the renter of the slovenly apartment! At the end of that arm—was a hand! A steady hand! Extremely steady! At the end of that unwavering hand—was a gun! A .38 Police Special revolver—to be exact!

Before the intended victim could really fathom what was about to take place—it took place! The gun discharged! Its bullet crashed into Manny’s forehead—felling him! Immediately!

The unwelcome visitor moved—slowly and deliberately—forward! A mere two feet, did she advance! To a point, where she was standing—directly above her gasping, gurgling, panicked, “host”!

Taking careful aim—and with great deliberation—she matter-of-factly emptied the remaining chambers! Launching five, deadly, can’t-miss, missiles—

molten slugs—into the fallen man’s chest! Not rapid-fire! Just a steady. calculated, machine-like, staccato, outpouring—of lethal lead!

As the fourth bullet entered Manny’s upper body—piercing the heart, of the already-dead man—the elderly gentleman, who’d lived directly across the hall threw open his apartment door! The better to see what was going on! It, of course, was a rather reckless endeavor!

The pistol-wielding woman turned to face the “curious” neighbor!

“Easy, Lady,” cautioned the man—as he backed, slowly, into his abode. “I don’t want no trouble! I didn’t see . . . didn’t see nothing! I opened the door… and all I saw was that son of a bitch! And he . . . he was just lyin’ there! In a pool! A whole lot . . . of damn blood! I didn’t see . . . didn’t see nothin’ else! Wasn’t no one! No one else! No one else . . . was there! Not out there! Not a damn soul! I swear! I didn’t see nothin’ else!”

“It’s all right,” she responded—softly. Her voice seemed almost made of velvet! “Go ahead,” she urged. “Go ahead… and call nine-one-one! Please! Call nine-eleven! I’ll be right… right here! I’m not going to harm you! I’m not going to harm anyone! No one else . . . will I harm! Please, though… go ahead! Go ahead . . . make the call!”

When the police—three uniformed officers, and a plainclothesman—arrived, the woman was sitting, on the floor, at the top of the stairs! Her feet rested upon the second step down! The still-warm .38 dangled—freely, by the trigger guard—from her index finger!

Two of the cops had already drawn their side-arms—and the third was in the process of unholstering his firearm!

“You don’t have to worry,” assured the woman. “It’s empty . . . for one thing! All the bullets . . . they’re all inside Mister Foster! You’ll find him… lying in his doorway! I’m not going to cause you… any of you… any trouble! Not any more… than I may have already caused you!”

She handed her emptied weapon to the non-uniformed officer! Then, she extended her wrists—for the anticipated application of cold steel handcuffs!

The trio of uniformed men scurried past the instantaneous prisoner—and approached the lifeless body, of the victim! The plainclothes detective had made no motion—to handcuff the eerily-calm, certainly-remorseless, woman!

“He’s dead, Lieutenant,” announced one of the three. “Don’t even have to feel for a pulse! And I ain’t gonna put my hand, on his chest! Not gonna feel for no damn heartbeat! All kinds of blood, there! All kinds! He’s dead! Deader’n hell!”

“You wanna tell me about it, Miss?” asked the one, in street clothes. “You know… know the whole bullshit! The ‘Miranda Warning’ . . . and all that! Whatever you say . . . whatever you may be gonna tell me… it can be used against you! Probably will! Hell, it definitely will… I’m sure! There are three sterling witnesses . . . standing right here! So, you wanna say something… here? Now? Or do you wanna wait… till we get down to headquarters? And you can talk to… can tell the prosecutors, all about it! Or… you know… you can get yourself a lawyer! That’d probably be your best bet! Doesn’t make a damn to me! Any way you wanna do it! Anywhere you wanna do it! I could care less!”

“It doesn’t matter to me,” she replied, softly. “Who I talk to… or where I might wind up, talking to them. It isn’t going to make much difference. May I know… to whom I’m speaking?”

“I’m Lieutenant Phipps. Lieutenant Phillip Phipps.”

“Well,” her soft monotone remained unchanged, “What happened was… I’d come here. Come… earlier tonight. On the half-promise of a job… at Mister Foster’s place of business. A coffee shop… on Michigan Avenue, outside of Telegraph Road.”

“He gave you a promise?” queried the detective. “A promise of gainful employment?”

“Well, I thought it was. I’m a waitress, by trade. I worked… for the better part of eleven years… at Shoreman’s Cafe. Over on Warren Avenue. Worked there… till Mister Shoreman passed away. About two-and-a-half… or three… months ago! Mrs. Shoreman… she tried, but she simply couldn’t run the place. We all tried to help. But, you know… she just wasn’t able, to make the place run. I don’t know of anyone who could’ve… outside of Mister Shoreman.”

“That’s right, Lieutenant. The missus and I… we used to eat there. All the time. Just about every Sunday! In fact, I know this lady… a little bit. Joint closed down… a week or two ago.”

“I know,” snarled Phipps. “I’ve heard of the place too.” Turning back to the lady—still seated on the floor—he urged, “Go on, Miss.”

“Well, my name is Ella. Ella Mahoney. I’m thirty-eight-years-old. Divorced. Live on Normile Street. Down near Warren and Wyoming. Have two children. My daughter is eleven… and the sweetest little girl, you’d ever want to meet. But, my son!” For the first time, she was showing some emotion. “My little boy! He’s got problems! A lot of problems! For one thing, he’s autistic! And his father . . . my sainted ex-husband, who is one of your glorious prosecutors, one of Dearborn’s top