Cheating Time

I keep having this reoccurring dream that I’m running down an empty street. It’s darker than a midnight where the dim shadow of a sliver blue moon and the intermittent blink of a couple faulty streetlights cast cruel lonely silhouettes.

All I can hear is the haunting echo of my kitten-heeled slingbacks against the pavement and the heaving sighs of my own breathless lungs trying to gasp for air. Then I wake up… every time.

For most people, it would be a terrifying nightmare that abruptly wakes you on a restless night covered in sweat from the frightening images playing like a movie right in your head. But not me.

As a newspaper reporter, curiosity is my bread and butter. If I wasn’t blindly intrigued by nearly everything, I’d be covering dog shows and penning obituaries. The newspaper game isn’t friendly to dames.

But I’m not scared. Beck’s Rule #35, If you’re chicken, you better stay on the farm. Fear is a commodity you can’t afford in my business. But the dream tells me two things. I will not live to a ripe old age. I must die young or I wouldn’t be able to run in heels. And I likely make someone so mad, they want to off me. Good. That means I’m doing my job.

Still, I have a clock on me. Beck’s Rule #42, Time is something you can’t control and can’t worry about. So I don’t worry. I just move forward.

I often feel time running out. But then, I just turn the hourglass over and cheat a few more hours, days, weeks, minutes, years… whatever I need.

Maybe Carrington is feeling the squeeze too. At least I hope so. Even though he’s a few steps ahead of me, I’m catching up. I trust my infallible instincts. I always get my story, no matter what.

My article on counterfeit money definitely ruffled his overstuffed feathers and a few others. I’ve always suspected Carrington’s deep pockets lined some corrupt police wallets and now I know it’s true.

When I reach down for another smoke from my desk drawer, I look over the paper in my faithful Smith-Corona typewriter and see blue wool and gold buttons. Only one organization is old and stale enough to sport that same combination since there was a beat to walk.

“Hello officers, how’s tricks?” I light my cigarette and relax back in my chair, showing little disregard for their imposing presence.

“May, we want to know what evidence you have to prove your counterfeit ring,” Officer Brown orders.

Brown thinks and acts like a hardass, but I know he’s really a stoolie for the Chief, who’s a flunky for the police commissioner, who’s in the mayor’s back pocket. He even looks like someone who’s dumped on. His head is flat and his nose is pushed in like it’s pressed against too many things.

“Now Officer Brown, you know the rules. My sources are none of your business, until you read them in The News Bugle,” I say coyly. I like to play with him.

He huffs and puffs like the proverbial wolf at my house door.

“If that’s the way you want it, I’ll go talk to your editor.”

“Go ahead. You’ll find him less helpful than I am. Puff, Puff Brownie,” I chuckle and he stomps away to my bosses hovel on the other side of the newsroom.

My friend, Officer Ernie, stays behind. He’s a sweet, but a very young rookie with a boyish face and red cheeks when he’s upset, like now.

“May, you shouldn’t talk to him like that. Why make enemies?” Ernie urges.

“Ernie. Trust me. I made enemies with the police in this town the minute I inked my first byline. You’re a good egg, but that guy stinks of payoff and Carrington is footing the bill,” I say.

“You need to be careful. Carrington is a powerful man,” Ernie warns.

“Yeah. They all are. Until they’re not. But Ernie, meet me tonight at the laundry on Jefferson Street and I’ll clue you in on my scheme. But don’t bring that wet blanket and don’t mention it to anyone. Stick with me and you’ll make detective before your pimples dry up,” I tease.

I make Ernie nervous. He takes off his hat to cover his flushed cheeks and walks over to the editor’s office.

Carrington would never send his goons after me, so he sent in the stooge squad to intimidate me? He obviously doesn’t know me. But he will.

Ernie will meet me. I have faith in him. I’m just not sure he’s ready to trust himself.

That night, amid a deep mist reveled by the lone bulb in back of the laundry, Erie’s waiting for me, as directed. Dressed in my sneaking-around outfit, black ballet flats and black pants and coat, I sneak up from behind and scare him.

“Stick ‘em up.” I poke him in the back and he jumps three feet in the air.

“May, cut out the clowning. What are we doing here, anyway?” Ernie uncomfortably asked.

“Carrington is using the back of this room for his illegal printing presses. I saw it myself a few days ago,” I explain and take out my lock picking set.

“Turn around so you don’t see a crime being committed,” I order and he turns his back with a disagreeable sigh.

Then I go to work on the lock. It was a one pin tumbler, easy as pie. I’ve become as adept as a locksmith at getting into places no one wants me in.

I carefully push open the door and motion Ernie to follow.

“Come on, Ernie.”

He looks around, shrugs and follows me. If I could see his face, I’d bet it was red and pink all over.

But when I turn my flashlight on, all I see is steamers and wash machines. The area in the back is vacant. The presses are gone.

“May, there’s nothing here,” Ernie says, wondering why I led him on this goose chase.

“Darn that Carrington. He’s two steps ahead of me, alright.”

I wander around the blank space in frustration, wildly moving my flashlight around, hoping for a clue, anything.

“Come on May. We need to leave. I could get busted down to meter maid for this.” Ernie edges toward the door, nervously.

I turn toward him and my light hits a glimmer of something in the corner.

“Wait a second.” I move toward the object and motion him to join me.

Leaning down, I pick up a ball of white paper. It was a partial print of a $10 bill. Then I see a splotch of hunter green ink smeared on the floor.

“See, Ernie, check this out,” I show him the paper and the ink.

He takes the paper from my hand and gazes at it suspiciously.

“I was right. They were printing phony baloney money, here. I got under their skin and tipped their hand,” I say with a satisfactory grin.

Ernie quietly examined the paper and the ink-stained floor.

“Ok. You’re on to something here. But now they know you know, so you better watch your six. I’ll make some discreet inquiries on the street. Don’t do anything else,” Ernie warns.

Grabbing the paper from his hands, I stuff it in my pocket.

“I think you know me better than that. I’ll let you know when I find our next clue. Stick with me, kid. This will be the first big arrest of your career,” I smile.

“Yeah, either that or we’ll both end up six feet under. Just be careful,” Ernie says as we exit the room.

“Careful and curious are two opposite directions, Ernie. I’ll be in touch,” I say and disappear into the midst of the dark night.

(c) 2024 Suzanne Rudd Hamilton

Author’s Note: This is a sneak peek from When Walls Talk: Beck’s Rules Mysteries Book 2, a prequel to Beck’s Rules.