Five Decembers

by James Kestrel

“Classic noir reminiscent of Chandler and Hammett…Taut, smart and electrifying.” —Liv Constantine

“You ever heard of someone putting himself upside down on a meat hook?”

“It’s your first murder. You’ve been here five years. I was clearing cases with Apana Chang before you were born. Remember that, and we’ll get along.”

He lived in a rented room above a chop suey shop on King Street, the smell of onions and oily pork seeping out of the walls.

“No, and be glad it isn’t. You don’t want to answer to them. Sonsofbitches dressed up like waiters, pushing toy boats around on a map.”

It was one of the last private conversations they would ever have.

McGrady had never worried too much about getting ink on his hands. He liked fieldwork, but more often than not, cases got solved in rooms like this. It was part of the job. He got the first drawer full of 1938 vehicle registrations, and carried it over to the reading table.

“I’m tired, Mr. Takahashi,” he said. “On top of that, I’m starving. My skull’s cracked. I’ve got a broken bone in my wrist. I’m worried about a thousand things besides this case. The only thing I see is I’m an American in Japan and I’m liable to have my head chopped off.”

He had control over exactly nothing. He could watch, or he could close his eyes. Those were the only choices. And if he closed his eyes, it would all happen anyway.

He tried to stick to his routine. He was aware what it was doing to him. The routine kept him quiet. The quiet was growing inside him. A deep black space. It was easier to let it grow than to look at it. If it spread far enough, it would erase him. That was okay.

He was in his element. A dim basement full of rotting files. It was all fine and good to tie a man to a chair and beat him for answers, but cases got solved in rooms like this.

I did a lot of things in France that were a hell of a lot harder than it would have been to take your five hundred dollars and get you out of that cell. And I’m sorry I didn’t.”

McGrady could see metal shelves lined up in rows down the middle of the long room. He felt that twinge of excitement. This was the kind of room where cases got closed. Where scores were settled.

Call it a fifty-fifty chance Smith would beat him to a pulp and unzip his guts in an alley. One of them was going to win, and one of them was going to lose. If the worst happened, then at least he’d have come close. At least there’d be no uncertainty.

John Smith would know a lot of men who needed to disappear. Men who were working hard to bury their real names and their old ranks and the deeds they had done in service of the Reich. The hunt for them was on. The gallows stood ready. The trapdoors would start dropping open any day. The Army had plenty of rope, and no shortage of men willing to climb the thirteen steps and pull the lever.

“It’s in your shoulder. You’ll be okay.” “I know. I’ve done this.” “Done what?” “I got shot in France,” De Vries said. Smith’s gun was next to him on the floor. De Vries was looking at it. “Same fucking German Walther. But that time was in the other shoulder.”