Crossing the Rubicon

Crossing the Rubicon
Written: 2006
Synopsis: A private eye gets set up
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Sometimes you turn on the TV in the middle of the afternoon. It means you’re bored to tears, but there’s nothing better to do then rot your mind. The same television shows are running on a loop. It’s a different show every time, to be sure, but its always the same story. And in every story, there’s a tall, dark, stranger. The kind of man whose face you never see, the one who shows up at your door at night, asks some questions and leave. The man who shoots first and asks questions later, like a modern-day Clint Eastwood. That man is me.

It's raining outside. It's always raining. The weatherman comes on the telly every morning, going on about "percentages of precipitation" and all sorts of technical mumbo jumbo, but all he's saying is that it's going to rain. Again. It's always raining.

My name's Darrel McCrimmon. I've been living in this city for almost three years now, and I don't think I've seen a clear sky since I left Scotland.

Still, a wee bit of water is always a good excuse to visit the bar. A stiff drink and a bar of chocolate always makes the day seem a bit dryer. And there's no better place for information.

I'm an investigator. Some people call me a private eye, and I laugh at them. I have two eyes, you see, so I'm twice as good. And twice as expensive, but you get what you pay for.

I'm on the job today. Some dame got her diamonds pinched by a mugger. Rich girl like her ought to learn to keep her jewelry hidden, but then where would I be? Living on the street somewhere, not that my apartment's much better. Anyways, its damned hard trying to find two men in a city of thousands when all you have is a picture to go by.

I slip into a barstool and slip Lenny a fivespot. "The usual." Lenny nods and passes me a glass and a bar. "Say, Lenny..." He looks up from an empty glass he's been wiping. "I gotta case. You seen either o' these fellas?" I slip the crude drawing across the bar.

"Yeah," he says, "That's One-Eyed Fred." He leans forward conspiritorily, "You can tell cause he's only got the one eye."

Day's starting to look brighter already. "You know where he lives?"

"27th and Bryce. What'd he do now?"

"Pinched some shinies. I won't hurt him too bad." I slip him another fivespot for the scoop and leave. My glass is still full, but you can't let a lead go cold. And if the dame pays up, the price of a beer isn't going to be a problem.

The buildings loom over my head like unflinching gods as I make my way up Bryce street, their gloomy windows staring into my very soul. The rain has slowed to almost a drizzle, and it pools in the crease of my fedora. I slog through the gloomy streets and watch the eccentricities of the ants. Here, a shopper tries vainly to shield her purchases from the rain. There, a drunkard argues with an SUV. I glance at the streetsigns as they go by. 21st. 22nd. 23rd. The numbers rise in a steady rhythym, mingled with the ceaseless torrent. 24th. 25th. 26th. I reach into my inner pocket and pull out my glock. Subterfuge is a lost art. 27th.

The street corner has an old Amoco station, a Dunkin-Donuts, a Walgreens, and an old warehouse. I check out the warehouse first. I knock on the large wooden door. No answer. I shout. Still no answer. I try the handle, but it's locked. My Glock makes a good lockpick, even if its a bit noisy. The door swings open easily.

The place has been ransacked. Papers are scattered everywhere, and a rather large cabinet has been knocked over. The oven is still on, and there's a bowl of cereal on the table. Somebody left here in a hurry. I reach over to turn of the often.

My hand is just barely on the dial when I feel cold metal on the back of my head. I put my hands up slowly. "Hello, Fred,"

"That's right, Inspector. How about you keep your hands up and lets have a nice little chat,
shall we?"

I turn around slowly, my eyes falling upon my Glock, lying abandoned on the table near the cereal where I set it when I went to turn off the oven. Fred is a well-muscled man with a wide face and a buzz cut. "I'm sure we can be civil about this."

He grunts, and gestures to the chair with the gun. I sit down slowly, and he ties my hands and legs. "Come now, can't we come to a deal?" Fred only glares at me, "If you just gave me back the diamonds I'm sure I could come up with some monetary recompense--"

He laughs. "There are no diamonds," he says bluntly.

"But I was hired-"

"It was a ruse. Sheila, say hello to our guest." A women, clad in a blue dress with long blonde hair steps out of a backroom.

"Hello, Mr. McCrimmon. Are you comfortable?" It's the dame who hired me in the first place.

"You filthy low-down wh-" I strain at the ropes.

"Language, Mr. McCrimmon," she coos, "Please try to be dignified on your final day alive." She picks up an old piece of wood that looks like it fell off the rotting wall. She holds it over the oven until it ignites, then drops it on the floor, which catches flame. "Oops, I dropped it," she giggles, "Have a nice death, Mr. McCrimmon. I'll be seeing you." She walks out the door.

"Or not," growls Fred, with a one last glare at me before he follows her.

I was a boy scout once, a long time ago. I never made it past Tenderfoot. Wish I had. Then I might know something about how to untie a knot. As it is, I seem to be totally screwed. Unless...

I shift in the chair, scooting across the floor away from the flames. I have to do this just right...

The fire reaches my glock. As the flames roar up along the table, the bullet in the chamber began to superheat....

And nothing happens. Blast it. The flames are too close. I blow on them, but to no avail.

BLAM!

The Glock fires, and the bullet passes through rope and chair leg, freeing my legs. I just had my timing off, that's all. With a good backwards kick, the old chair falls apart and I can slip my hands free. I dodge a burning timber. Wrapping my hand in my trenchcoat, I grab my Glock and dive out the door just as the warehouse collapses.

As I sit in front of the ashes in a cloud of smoky rain, thoughts meander through my head. Why were they trying to kill me? And how did he know I was going to be there? Unless there was a third man in that nefarious trio, one whom would lead me in the right direction, send me unknowing into my doom....



"You’ve crossed the Rubicon, Lenny,"

The bar is closed, and the patrons have left. Only me, Lenny, and Buster are left. Buster is my Glock. Lenny is behind the bar, I'm on the other side. Buster is between us, his muzzle in the bartender's throat.

"I have no idea what you're talking about, Darrel."

"The Rubicon. When Caeser crossed it, it was his final act of treachery, forcing Rome to take action," I press Buster further into the folds of his skin, "You sold me out. Ratted on me. I want to know why. How much did they pay you?"

“If I’m Caeser, then, you’re Pompey,” he says slowly

“I guess I am.”

“Pompey died. Caeser won.”

There’s only one thing I hate worse then a traitor, and that’s a man who twists my words against me. “Let’s change times, then. I’m thinking Ides of March.”

BLAM!

There's a searing pain in my left arm as something slams into it. I spin and fire three times at the new assailant. Sheila falls, her blue dress stained with red.

A left hook from Lenny drops me to the floor. I taste blood in my mouth, and I don't mouth. "Why, Lenny?"

"Fred, take his gun," says Lenny. Fred steps out from the shadows, too, and takes my Glock.

"Well, well, the gang's all here. Now will someone tell me what this is all about?"

"Richard Montalesci's out of jail, Darrel," says Lenny, "and he's mad at you for busting his Alkali Lake ring. He's offering a million for your head. That's too much to resist."

"A million!" roars Fred, "You were only payin' Sheil' and me 250 grand."

"I would have paid you more, but--"

"You lying bastard!" BLAM! Lenny taks the slug in a belly and he's down beside me. "And now to end your meddling influence once and for all." The Glock swings round to point at me.

"I'm sorry, lad," I say.

"Too late for apologies, McCrimmon." He pulls the trigger.

"I'm sorry for being out of ammo." I kick out with my leg and send him spilling to the floor with a thud. I dive for the bar and grab an empty shot glass. Fred's flailing hand grabs my wounded arm and I can't help but scream. Screaming or no, I manage to bring the glass down on his head. The glass shatters and his eyes roll up. He falls, releasing my arm. I take Buster from his limp hands and holster it.

I check pulses; all three of them are alive, even Sheila. I put my fedora back on as I move behind the bar. I take up the phone and ring up the station. I tell the cops I have three wounded suspects, and the chief says he'll be right over.

I won't be here when he arrives. I'll be on the docks, looking for Montalesci. No one puts a bounty on my head unless they want me to come looking for them. That means it's a trap, and I love springing traps. Rather a hobby of mine, come to think of it. Ah well, the night is young, and it's still raining.