A Fancy Piece of Homicide by E. D. Bass

The road as was dark, an inky black tunnel with only the headlights of the car lighting a small funnel of fading white leading me through it. My hand throbbing, bruised and bloody, gripped the steering wheel like a lifeline, I drove fast, not sure where I was headed, just as long as it was away from where I had just been.

She was asleep in the back seat, I hoped it was sleep, as she was barely moving, and the familiar sounds of a restful slumber hadn’t come from her in more than a few minutes. Her name was Medora Fielding, and soon she would be known as the wealthy widow, of the late Maurice Fielding, obscenely rich diamond merchant, and now, leaking fluids in an unmarked grave.

My name is Ozzie Tumbler, I’m a private dick, and I’m the man who killed him.

This little blood-soaked soiree started 28 days ago, when the soon to be widow Fielding walked into my office, on a  day that saw me in less than perfect form. I deal in cheat cases, and until now, they were pretty standard fare. Find the cheat, take the pics, and standby with a clean handkerchief or a shot of whiskey, and wait to get paid.

But recently the cases were few and far between, and I had to make ends meet, as private muscle for Vincent Casper, a reputable villain with more money than the Getty’s. He’d occasionally throw me a bone or two, out of his rare bouts of generosity. All for saving his son’s life one night, in a bar dust-up turned knife fight. Since then, you could say he’s been my guardian angel, with less than angelic tendencies.

Last night, while escorting him to the bombay haggis, in the boiler-room of the Paramount Hotel, a few of his rival’s goons took offense to his large winnings, and got up enough steam to make a run for him, A few broken jaws, and a .38 to the temple, and they backed off. But not after one nearly punched my nose off. The endless shots of bourbon, courtesy of Casper, eased the pain that night, but caused a greater pain that morning Mrs. Fielding walked through my door.

Most dames that come into my office, are crying, distraught, in a state that could only be described as truly screwed up, but not this dame. She was cool and calm, like a woman who just stepped out of the salon, into the Four Seasons. She was gorgeous, pale luminous skin, a face that could turn priests against their vows. Her coal black hair falling in curls around her face, with lips so red, they made apples seem pale and colorless.

She wore a deep purple suit, with a cream colored blouse that had shiny black flowers as buttons.The suit seemed to  flow over her body, it was a silk like fabric, and not being a tailor I couldn’t tell you what is was made out of, in my gut I know it looked expensive, she’s got dough, and probably buckets of it. It takes every bit of addled concentration I have, to keep from drooling because this is going to be a good case.