Private Dick: Chapter Six-Double Wammy

   When I walked into the Parisian this time the low life scum had been cleared away. The only person there was the oaf of a bartender from yesterday. He led me back in silence to another room; different from the one I’d met Paris in yesterday. Obviously they were expecting me. We finally stopped at what appeared to be elevator doors; they were. With a small ding the doors slid open. It was a beautiful mahogany and brass elevator, much different from the bar. There was even a small table with a vase full of flowers and reading material. Before I even had a choice on the matter the oaf shoved me into the elevator car and the doors slid close, again the polite ding. I felt the elevator descend for what seemed an eternity. Luckily I had a copy of Gone with the Wind to keep me company.

 The elevator finally came to a halt about the time I’d finished the first chapter of the book. The complimentary ding alerted me that we had arrived to the final destination. I took a small step from the elevator car making sure I was close enough to hop back in, but the doors closed speedily the moment I did. Like a museum it was. Stacks of ancient books and bottles of expensive booze; Persian rugs and tapestries rolled up and set against the walls. Either that elevator led to the National History Museum’s storage room or this was Paris’ hang out. Paris had to be in here somewhere. I rounded a couple of stacks of relics to find an opening among the priceless, and dusty, treasures. A long gold gilded couch with Paris sitting atop it; a glass of wine in one of his clawed hands and a leather bound book in the other. He peered up at me from underneath his spectacles with a smile that suddenly faded.

  “Oh. It’s you, Riddick.”, he hissed this at me like the snake he was.

  “Well what can I say I’m a glutton for punishment.” I knew if I told him Johns had turned up dead I’d never get any info out of him. As far as I knew, he might have even ordered the hit.

  “I little birdie told me you were supplying Johns with drugs. Any truth to that?”, I waited for an answer.

  “I do not sell morphine here Detective Riddick.”, again the hiss.

  “How did you know it was Morphine?” Paris realized he’d let some of his façade slip.

  “I’d…I’d seen him pick it up outside in the ally once or twice.” Beads of sweat began to build on Paris’ forehead.

  “Well I was told you were his supplier.”

  “You should check your sources more carefully.”

  “Well I didn’t think I had to considering Johns told me himself.” It was a big bluff, but I thought it might work. “Said he was here last night picking morphine up from you.” The sweat began to drip off of Paris; looked like someone had held him under a shower for a few minutes. I could hear him swearing under his breath.

  “Look Paris, all I want to know is if Johns was here last night picking up drugs and how often he did. That’s it.”

  “Yes, he was here last night.” With a tone of regret he told me. “A shipment comes in once a week and I always set a bag aside for him.”

  “Well I wouldn’t bother putting that extra bag aside for him anymore. He was murdered about a mile away from here in a back ally last night.”

  “But you said…”

  “Hey, I’ll get answers to my questions anyway I can. It’s my job.” I heard the ding from the elevator. Who was coming down here? I felt a sharp blow hit the back of my head and the sound of breaking glass. When I spun around I saw the face of the bartender and the remnants of the bottle he’d broken over my head. Then I passed out.

 When I came to I was in my car outside of the Parisian. I limply lifted my arm to peer at the watch on my wrist. I had arrived at the bar around one in the afternoon; it was after three now. A sliver or two of pain shot thru my skull and I remembered my head. I reached back and my fingers found a little blood. At least I knew where Johns was before he was sliced and diced like sushi. It was probably time I called Caroline, and inform her she needed to find a new parking lot attendant for her parties.