The Corpse in My Office
© 2024 by Walter Reimer

Thumbnail art by  rockbaker

Three.


Getting a shower and breakfast means I got to leave my office. I remember to lock the door on my way out, and the rain has stopped by the time I step out onto the sidewalk.

Rain.

The city gets a lot of rain, this close to winter, and some furs think that it could go on until it washes the place clean, clean of all the badness and downright evil in it.

Not me, though. I’ve seen things, and done things, and I know that there’s no washing this place clean.

I adjust my fedora, pop the collar on my overcoat to ward off the chill in the air, and head to Jim’s to get some food in me.

“Food? At a time like this?” the Judge asked.

“Yes, at a time like this,” I say as I step lively to avoid some jerk who aims his car at a puddle, trying to splash me. “I don’t live exclusively on booze,” I say as I head around the corner and up two blocks.

“It just appears so,” the Defense Attorney remarked.

Jim’s is one of those diners, a local place where everybody knows everybody, and nobody gets in anybody’s business unless they want you to know it. The food’s hearty and greasy and just the thing if you’re a habitual drunk.

Yeah, like me.

It’s also on the way to my digs. Two birds, one stone.

“Hey, Ernie,” Linda says as I come in. Linda’s the waitress, a big, blowsy cow with her headfur done up in a bun. “Whaddaya want?”

“Hi Linda,” I say. “Coffee, and the special. Been a long morning already.” I take a seat on a stool at the counter. A couple of the other regulars nod at me before going back to their coffee or their breakfast or the morning paper. Radio’s over in the corner, and it’s turned down low. I’m not in the mood for the news or carols this morning.

“Coming up,” Linda says, and she gives me a steaming mug of coffee.

I add sugar and milk, and I’m stirring it when the door opens and Margo walks in.

Margo’s a raccoon, like me; unlike me, she’s usually seen walking the streets looking for guys willing to pay for a little tumble.

Yeah, I’ve hired her once or twice.

“’Morning, Margo,” I say as Linda plunks my plate down in front of me. Eggs, bacon, hash browns; I add some ketchup, salt and pepper and tuck in while Linda refills my coffee.

“Hi, Ernie,” Margo says, and she orders a cup of coffee. She sits down next to me. “Feeling okay?”

I give a noncommittal shrug and wait till my mouth isn’t full before I say, “Not too bad today.” I look around and drop my voice. “Hey, Margo, um, were you out last night?”

She gives me an arch look. “Whatcha asking for, doll?” she says in the same low tone, batting her eyelashes at me. Before I can say anything, she chuckles. “It was raining like nobody’s business last night, so I stayed indoors and played with my pussy.” I nearly choke on my coffee, and she laughs, “My pet cat, you lech.”

I shake my head and grin at her. Margo’s got this little feral cat, named Bootsy because she’s all black fur with four white paws. Little monster, too; she bit me the last time I came over.

But, of course, I got a reason to ask her.

“What was that reason?” the Judge asked.

Simple. I have no idea when the dead guy, Ferguson, showed up on my sofa to get shot. I figure that Margo might have been out and about last night. “Last night, huh?” I ask as I slip a flask from my coat and add a slug to my coffee. “How long?”

She sees me do it, and tsks. “Since about six – oh, thanks, sweetheart,” Margo says to Linda as her breakfast arrives.

Hmm, so, raining since about six. Ferguson hadn’t been wearing a raincoat, or did he? I’d check my coatrack when I got back to the office.

I visit the washroom after I finish breakfast, and when I come out I take Linda aside. “How much do I owe?” I ask.

She gives me a look. “You thinking to pay your tab?” I nod, and she says, “Thirty-three dollars.”

“That includes today?” She nods, and I slip her two twenties. “Here. That pays for Margo’s, too.”

“And a tip,” she says as she pockets the bills. “What bank did you rob?”

I laugh. “Got a job.”

“Oh. Well, you be careful, Ernie.”

“I’ll try,” I say, and I head out of the diner.

“Using money looted from a corpse to pay off your debts,” the Prosecutor said accusingly.

“Yeah,” I mutter. “Guy came to me, and got killed. That money’s my retainer.”

“So you will try to solve his murder?” the Defense Attorney asked.

“He came to me for something,” I say, “and got killed in my office. You can’t tell me I got nothing to do with it.” I walk past a newsstand and catch the guy in the stall twirling a finger at his temple.

Eh, let him. Sometimes I think I am crazy.

Or just crazy drunk.

My belly’s full, so I got another item on my list of things to do this morning.

And that’s to get my gat out of hock.

Lehmann’s Pawn is at the corner of Sixth and Delaney, and been there since the current owner’s dad came to America from somewhere in Germany. He’s good people, and he’s had a soft spot for me ever since I helped him with a little problem involving stuff that he’d acquired under slightly less than legal circumstances. Always willing to lend me some cash, and not too picky about interest.

I walk past the door and around the block to make sure no one’s following me, and I go inside.

The little bell over the door tinkles, and I wipe my shoes before I come in. “Mister Lehmann?” I ask.

Levi Lehmann’s a little guy, feline, and always dressed in a suit, watch fob and all. He pokes his head up out of the ledger he’s reading. “Hallo, Mister Dawson! Charlie, giff the good chentleman forty dollars,” and a younger feline with the same fur pattern heads for the register.

“Hang on, Charlie,” I say. To Lehmann I say, “I want to buy her back.”

“Oh?” The feline comes out from around his desk and squints up at me. I ain’t really tall, but taller than him. “You haff a chob now, yes?”

I give him a smile and nod. “Yeah, I do,” and I walk up to the counter.

I put my pawn ticket and forty dollars on the counter, and after a pause my gun’s back in my shoulder holster. I pat the bulge in my suit jacket. “Hi Susie, miss me?”

“You named a gun,” the Prosecuting Attorney said. I ignored him.

Lehmann gives me a smile as he writes some notes in his ledger. Without looking up he says quietly, “The police vere here, earlier.”

“Yeah?”

He nods. “As soon as I open. Vanted to know if you had pawned your gun.” He glances up under bushy eyebrows. “You in trouble, Ernie?”

I shake my head. “Nope. They’re just making sure I was telling the truth.”

“Ah.” He just nods. See? Lehmann’s a good guy. I thank him for taking care of my gun and step back outside.

Now, even without my gun, I’m not totally unarmed. I’ve got a straight razor in my sock, and a pair of brass knuckles in one pocket. I just feel safer with Susie riding in my armpit.

I buy a few groceries, yes and booze, using Ferguson’s retainer, and finally head to my building. Not because I need a nap, I do, but because I had to start finding out who killed the priest and left him in my office. In addition to giving whoever did it to the cops, I want to tell the guy that what he did was poor manners.

“The defendant will stick to the subject,” the Judge said.

“I am,” I mutter.

I catch up with my landlord and pay my back rent. Doesn’t look too happy, and I guess he’d been looking forward to kicking me out and giving the room to someone who’ll pay regularly. The goat mutters something in Yiddish as I let myself in.

It’d been a long day so far, so I put the groceries away, take a couple belts and catch a quick nap. When I wake up, it’s just after noon. I take a shower to freshen up and head back to the office to get cracking.

First, yeah, Ferguson had an umbrella with him when he came calling. Had it stuck in a corner near the door, which is why both me and the cops missed it. The puddle had dried out. Okay, that mystery solved.

Ah, the glamorous side of detective work; walking around and asking questions. I start by paying the building super, and he looked as disappointed as my landlord. Well, too damned bad. Then I go around knocking on doors and asking questions. Most of my neighbors can’t give me any help. The storm, one said, was pretty loud, and the others usually lock up and go home at five.

Was the thunder loud enough to hide a gunshot? From what I heard after I woke up, and what Margo told me this morning, yeah, could be.

I go back to my office and write down a few notes.

“Very methodical,” the Defense Attorney said.

“Of course,” I say. I break out a bottle of Scotch from the bottom drawer of my desk and get a drink or two.

Three glasses later, I hear whistling out in the hallway.

The night janitor looks up from his mopping when I step out of my place. “Oh hi, Ernie!” the cougar says.

“Hi Pete,” I say. “Got a question or two for you, if you don’t mind.”

“Heh, yeah, I can take a break,” and he plunks the mop into the bucket. “Whatcha got?”

“You were working last night, right?”

“Yep.”

“See anyone come in, say about nine o’clock?”

Pete thinks a while. “Yeah. Closer to ten, though.”

“Okay. Recall what he looked like?”

He nods. “Looked like a weasel. Priest, from his duds. Shook water off his umbrella all over the floor in the lobby.” The cougar grimaces. “Ticked me off. I’d just mopped that.”

“Okay. Thanks, Pete.” I lock up and go back to my place, and sit down to think.




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