Twin Cities Noir

“What is it? More or less?”

“I hate it when you get like this.”

“I just wanted you to know that I know you’re full of shit up to your ears, Court.”

“Up yours, plumber lady.”

Jane reinserted her upper body into the sink cabinet. “You let me know when you find that number.”

“I find it, you better believe you’re the last person I’d share it with.”

“Probably a good idea,” she said as she tightened the nut.

She was still struggling with the drain trap when Courtney left an hour later to play in a Sunday afternoon hold’em tournament with a $5,000 guaranteed prize pool. “Lotta dead money in this thing,” he said, referring to all the weak players who would be entering. “See you around dinnertime.”

“You better find yourself something to eat at Canterbury,” Jane said.

Courtney got knocked out of the tournament on the “bub-ble”— one place short of the money. To make himself feel better he got into a juicy 6-12 hold’em game, took a couple of bad beats, and found himself down another $320. He tugged his lucky cap down low over his eyes, dialed up some vintage Pink Floyd on his iPod, and waited for a hand.

Four hours later he had come all the way back to even. He considered going home, but the thought of finding Jane still under the kitchen sink made him twitchy. Besides, had she not implied that there would be no dinner waiting for him?

He flagged down a waitress and ordered a cheeseburger, fries, and a beer.

Courtney pulled into his driveway at midnight feeling quite proud of his $130 profit. It was after midnight. Jane would be done with her little plumbing project and, he hoped, asleep in bed. He parked the car and quietly let himself into the house. All the lights were out. He made his way to the kitchen, thinking to have a little nightcap before bed. He turned on the light. The bucket was back over the kitchen faucet handle. He shook his head. There should be some kind of law against women wielding tools.

What was that sound?

He stopped, listening. Music. He tilted his head, searching for the source. Was it coming from outside the house? No…he turned in a slow circle, then focused his ears on the door to the basement stairs. He opened the door. It was definitely coming from the basement. Fleetwood Mac, Jane’s favorite. He hated Fleetwood Mac. Why was Fleetwood Mac coming from the basement? Jane must have left the stereo in the rec room running.

Courtney flipped the light switch at the top of the stairs. Nothing. Another goddamn light bulb burned out. He started down the steps in the dark. On the third step his foot hit something slippery and the world turned sideways; he was falling, crashing down the steps in three incredibly painful jolts. He heard an ear-bending howl come from his own throat and landed hard on his hip in the dark at the bottom of the stairs.

Christ. Was he broken? Had he busted his hip? Or worse?

After several seconds he tried to move his right leg. It worked. It hurt, but it worked. He moved his left leg, then each of his arms. Everything hurt, but it all seemed to function. He untangled his body and got onto his hands and knees. He waited in that position until the spinning stopped, then carefully stood up and groped for the light switch at the bottom of the stairs, and turned it on.

What had happened? What had he slipped on? He saw something black puddled at the bottom of the steps. He picked it up. One of the slippery nylon things Jane wore under her dresses. A slip. He’d slipped on a slip.

Christ, he could have been killed!

Jane heard her husband’s footsteps coming back up the basement stairs. She closed her eyes tight and took a deep, shuddering breath, her first since she’d heard Courtney’s shout and the crashing of his body tumbling down the steps.

He had survived the fall, and he was walking.

“Goddamnit, Jane!” she heard him shout from the kitchen. She heard him stomping through the house toward the bedroom, the faint, steady beat of Mick Fleetwood on drums in the background. She turned on the light and sat up in bed. He came in gripping her lacy black slip in his fist.

“What the hell is this?” He shook the undergarment in her face. “I could’ve been killed!”

Jane shook her head. “I’m sorry, honey. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“This slip! I fell all the way down the goddamn stairs…” He went on for some time, describing his fall in graphic detail. Jane stared up at him, waiting for him to wind down.

“It must have fallen from the laundry basket,” she said as his rant faltered.

That set him off again. “I coulda been killed,” he said for the third or fourth time.

“I’m sorry,” said Jane. “I was careless.” After all, he was absolutely right. He was right about the sink drain, and he was right about the slip.

Next time, she thought. Next time she would call the guy.

THE BREWER’S SON by Larry Millett West 7th-Fort Road (St. Paul)

On the morning of June 10, 1892, as the Republican National Convention droned toward its uninspired conclusion in Minneapolis, the news across the river in St. Paul proved to be far more riveting. A great mystery preoccupied the Saintly City, and it seemed to grow more confounding by the hour. As a result, when a special edition of the St. Paul Dispatch appeared on the streets at 10 a.m., copies were snapped up so quickly that the newsboys were sold out within a matter of minutes. The story that everyone wanted to read sprawled across the front page beneath a headline of the size normally reserved for the outbreak of war or the death of a major advertiser. RANSOM VANISHES, screamed the headline above the story, which began as follows:

A shocking development occurred early today in the kidnapping of Michael Kirchmeyer, who yesterday morning was abducted by parties unknown while on his way to work at the brewery operated for many years by his father, Johann, at the foot of Lee Avenue.

The Dispatch has learned that the police late last night set a trap for the kidnappers, who had demanded a $10,000 ransom for the young man’s safe return. At precisely midnight, Johann Kirchmeyer, following new instructions from the kidnappers, personally delivered the money to a wooded area in a ravine near the brewery. Once again obeying instructions, he then returned immediately to his palatial home on Stewart Avenue.

The police, meanwhile, closed in. Under the direct supervision of Chief of Detectives O’Connor, a contingent of his best men secreted themselves in the woods so as to have an unimpeded view of the locale where the ransom had been left. A full moon provided ample illumination for the policemen, who formed what Chief O’Connor described as a “perfect noose” in which the kidnappers would inevitably be caught, or so it was believed.

During the long vigil which followed, however, the police detected not the faintest sign that anyone was trying to steal away with the ransom. As the sun rose, O’Connor’s confidence in his “noose” began to fall. Fearing that his men had somehow been spotted by the kidnappers, the chief called off the surveillance at 6 o’clock this morning.

It was only then, when O’Connor went to retrieve the money, that he made an astounding discovery. The ransom was gone! A frantic search ensued but as this story went to press, there was no word as to where the ransom had gone or how it had been taken from beneath the very noses of the police.

As no fewer than eight policemen had the area in view and yet not one reported seeing or hearing anything of a suspicious nature, there appears to be but one possible explanation for the disappearance of the ransom. The chief, however, refused to entertain the possibility that one of his own officers might have absconded with the money, saying they are “to a man of the highest moral character and would never resort to thievery of any