Farlowe Gunfire Lights The Night

This is my entry for the

Hammered: an Ode to Mickey Spillane 2024

author's challenge. Thanks to ChloeTzang for organizing this enjoyable challenge.

—

Gunfire Lights the Night

—

The cop in the cheap gray suit, a lieutenant named Dickensey, stopped at Farlowe’s secretary’s desk before he went out the door. “I’d like to buy you a drink tonight down at the Blue Shield. What do you say, Lottie?”

Lottie shook her head just enough to see. “I say the same as always, lieutenant, thanks but no thanks. I don’t mean any offense though.”

“None taken, Lottie,” said the cop, his shameless gaze drifting down Lottie’s body. “Just don’t blame me if I try again. Heck, I first met you here in…when was it, ’51? Here it is 1953 and you’re still stringin’ me along.”

Lottie looked confused. “Stringin’ you along? I’ve said ‘no’ every time. How is that stringin’ you along?”

“It’s your eyes, Lottie. And the rest of you. Haven’t you ever looked in a mirror?”

Lottie blushed as she watched him leave, the office quiet again once the door was closed. Farlowe’s voice called to her through the open door to his office.

“Lottie, looks like we’ve got a job.”

The sound of her high heels on the dull wood floor let Farlowe know she was as on her way to see about it, a note pad and pencil in her hand. She sat down in the chair across from Farlowe’s desk, crossed her legs, her nylon stockings shimmering, her below-the-knee skirt draped in a lady-like way. The filtered light, mostly coming in through the dirty window from the red-brick alley, showed the thirty years of age on her face and the powdery makeup on her cheeks. Her modestly lipsticked lips were open a little, her plain but pretty eyes interested but waiting.

Farlowe told her what he knows. “Over the past two weeks two women were murdered. The cops think they were customers at an illegal gin joint out a ways near the river, a place called Numbskull’s. Dickensey says it’s set up like a private club of some kind, but it’s a real dump he says, a run-down old fish camp at the end of a dirt road. He says it might be set up to attract women, bored housewives and divorcées and widows, praying on their loneliness with the promise of easy men and easy sex. His men have been there during the day, talked to the owner, but they haven’t been able to find out as much about the place as they want to. They want us to find out how the nighttime operation works, without anyone sniffin’ cops.”

“Us?” said Lottie, surprised.

Farlowe nodded. “He thinks a team, a man and woman, can get in there unnoticed, get the scope on things without raising red flags. He thinks it’s best if we don’t go in as a couple. We go in separate, meet up in a natural way inside, like we don’t know each other, then see what we can find out. He says his men heard 8pm is some kind of meet and greet. Booze, I guess. ”

Lottie nodded. “So, we just go for drinks and look around? You still doubling my pay for field work?”

“Soon as you bill the city and the cops pay us, I’ll make up the double part. Sound fair?”

“Yeah, that’s fair. You think this is safe? If you get me in the middle of a shoot-out again I’ll…”

“Lottie, we’re not getting in the middle of anything as far as I know. We play it cool, no heat, no worries.”

“What are we wearing? A fish camp, you say? Should I wear sporting clothes?”

“I was thinking we’d go tonight. You’re dressed fine.”

Surprised, Lottie looked down at her tailored skirt suit and her legs. “High heels and nylons? To a dump in the woods?”

Farlowe nodded. “If it’s wives and upscale women looking for sex, you won’t look out of place.”

Lottie shook her head a little. “High heels to a dump in the woods. Are the men local, you think? A bunch of rubes and yokels?”

“We’ll find out.”

—

Farlowe took a cab to Numbskull’s, telling Lottie to wait twenty minutes and then drive there in his car. The cab’s tires hissed on the damp pavement, the day’s drizzly rain just ending as night began to fall.

“You want me to drive in there?” said the cabbie. “This cab ain’t a tractor, you know.”

“Go in as far as you can,” said Farlowe, eyeing the rutted dirt road that leads to the speakeasy. “Ever bring anybody here before?”

“Dropped a dish at the head of the road one time,” said the cabbie. “Kinda surprised me when she asked me to just drop her way out here and drive away. Good tipper, though.”

“A dish, you say? She dressed for a night out?”

“Yeah, she was quite the piece. Older broad, but…all painted up and smellin’ good. Yeah, she looked like she was out for it, if you know what I mean.”

“Just the one dame, that one time? No others?”

“No, no others. You a cop?”

“Just a friend.”

Farlowe payed the cabbie, stepped out onto a muddy dirt clearing used for parking in the woods, saw a half dozen cars there already, some expensive, some cheap and rusty.

The building looked like a shack, a big, sprawling one, an old fishing camp like Dickensey had said, patched up with rough-split boards, the roof littered with leaves and green moss, an old ripped and tattered tarp up there helping to keep the rain out. The woods were damp and dank and getting darker by the minute. Farlowe looked back toward the dirt road and into the darkness beyond, wondering if he’d see the headlights of his car, but Lottie was nowhere in sight.

At the door Farlowe heard at least a few people inside, the normal sounds of a normal bar. A big man was there at the door, giving him the eye.

“You’re a new man. Who sent you?” said the big man.

“I heard talk at the bar at the Capricorn, downtown,” Farlowe said. “Two men, one tall, sandy hair, one short, half bald. Didn’t ask their names. Didn’t know I needed to.”

The big man nodded, eyed Farlowe’s clean but rumpled suit and his loosened tie. “Don’t get too many city men out here. The drinks ain’t cheap, but…you look like a guy who’s got some dough. My name’s Numbskull. This is my joint. Them men tell you how it works?”

“Just…good booze, good women.”

Numbskull laid out the rules. “Men pay top dollar for drinks, women drink free. It’s a Ladies Club, is what it is. They join up for a fee, get a month’s worth of it. Free drinks and any man they pick. ‘Course some of the nicer dolls stir up some of the men, more than one man wantin’ ‘em for themselves, but we don’t allow no fightin’ over dames. They’s all makin’ it free for you boys, so they get final say on who they want. If you’re lookin’ for a place with clean beds, find yourself a high-dollar whorehouse. Numbskull’s is just raw and down to it. Sound okay to you?”

“Sure. How much is the fee for the ladies? Any old dame able to roll in?”

“No sir, we keep out the drunks and the tramps. Fifty dollars buys a girl in. Ain’t no poor-ass girls here. Course that fifty buys her a fishin’ pole and a whole month’s worth of fishin’. The fuckin’ is all free. No laws bein’ broken.”

“Fifty clams for a month in your club? A lot of dough, but I guess it brings ‘em back. If the women are here over and over again, men must get to know ‘em some.”

Numbskull nodded. “Bunch of repeaters, yup. Go on in and get yourself a drink. You’ll probably find a broad you want to get to know.”

Farlowe nodded, moved past Numbskull, a big hairy bear of a man with a sandpaper voice and breath that smells like old trash. He gets his kicks watching sex, the live flesh-and-blood kind, so a few years ago he turned his grandfather’s old fishing lodge into a den of iniquity, the kind where women of all ages, as long as they’re legal, come to get fucked so deep with big-ass cocks, cocks on men who love it and don’t ask for anything more than the pleasure of these horny women’s company.

Farlowe could see that the place was just one big room; no walls, no ceiling, the inside just the same roughhewn patched-up wood he’d seen outside, even the same green moss visible up on the edges of the roof boards, some of it damp and dripping. The biggest surprise was all the military-style beds with bare-spring mattresses, lined up in two rows of ten, twenty beds in all, taking up two-thirds of the big room, the rest of the space a rough-built bar against a wall, with a scattering of old chairs and two couches nearby. Farlowe sidled up to the bar, its bare barnwood top water-stained and wet-looking, an older woman, probably in her sixties, holding court.

“You’re new here,” she said, eyeing Farlowe. “I’m Hester. I’ll take dibs on an hour with you, later, when I get off work.”

“You’re a member of this fine club?”

“I am. Numbskull pays my fee long as I work a couple hours beginning of the night.”

“How long have you been fishing here, Hester?”

“Year, maybe more. What can I get you? We got whiskey, whiskey and whiskey.”

“Pour me a double.”

“Ten dollars,” said Hester. “I’m standin’ here waitin’ for you to flinch. Ain’t you wanna tell me that’s more than two whole bottles cost?”

Farlowe peeled eleven dollars off of his money roll. “A dollar tip good enough, Hester?”

“A big tipper! Hoo baby! City boy, huh? Damn right I got dibs on you for an hour. Don’t you be leavin’ before I’m done workin’.”

Farlowe gave a nod, slightly smiling, picked up his glass and took a sip of this ‘whiskey’, clear moonshine if he ever tasted it, probably from a still out in the woods. Hester chatted up another man and a woman at the other end of the bar, so Farlowe let his eyes take in the rest of the place again, wondering about the fifty-dollar problem, knowing, as he does, that Lottie probably has about two dollars in her handbag, if that. She’d either make it through the door because Numbskull goes easy on first-timers, especially well-dressed dollys who look like her, or she’d drive back to the city and Farlowe would learn more about this place on his own. Either way would work.

With quite a few men but just one woman there so far, Farlowe wondered if Numbskull’s business plan was about as smart as his name, but then two women came in through the door. And then another one. And then Lottie. After listening to Numbskull’s sales pitch at the door she had an unhappy look on her face, and she was heading straight for Farlowe at a pace so quick he thought she might break one of her pretty high heels.

“How much do you know,” she whispered. “Did you talk to that barbarian at the door? He said every woman in the place needs to be stripped to their underwear by 9pm! Lingerie, he called it! Where does a creep like him learn a word like that!”

Farlowe nodded, whispered, “Bartenders have big ears. Chat me up. Pretend we just met. Then we’ll find a quiet corner so we can talk.”

Still blushing from what she’d learned at the door, Lottie whispered her shock. “We’re…staying? Farlowe, it’s a whorehouse with no walls!”

“It’s very nice to meet you, too,” he said somewhat loudly. “It’s my first time here.”

Lottie’s eyes showed her unhappiness, but she played along. “Yes, me too.”

“I’ll buy you a drink, then let’s get to know each other. Hester, a double whiskey for the lady. I’m buying.”

Hester ambled closer. “Ain’t no need to buy her one, ladies always drink free. Don’t be lettin’ a missie sneak you a free one, though. Numbskull keeps an eye on that.”

With a generous double pour of moonshine in her hand, Lottie was glad to have Farlowe guide her to a dimly lit corner, far enough from the bar that their quiet conversation wouldn’t be heard.

“Did you keep your eyes open on the way in?” asked Farlowe. “See or hear anything case related?”

“No, I didn’t see anything related that I can think of. Not that I can think straight now that I’m in the middle of this…this place. Farlowe, the beds! It’s a whorehouse! With no walls!”

Farlowe slightly nodded. “Except they’re not whores. Did you see the four women that are here? Look, there’s another coming in, and two more men. The women, they’re from the city, most likely. Upscale. The men look like a mix of types. I haven’t seen one yet that looks unhinged in any way. Keep your eye out for that. Any kind of crazed look in a man’s eye.”

Lottie’s eyes searched Farlowe’s. “You sound like we’re staying. I’m not comfortable with this. And I’m not taking off my clothes!”

“Stay with me, you’ll be fine,” said Farlowe. “Go to the bartender, ask her if you need to call dibs on me. Tell her you want me. That way we can stay together.”

Lottie nodded nervously, her high heels giving a muted click as she walked on this age-old worn floor. Farlowe listened, heard old Hester say that no, there’s no need to tell her anything about dibs on him, then she told Lottie that she has dibs on him when she finishes bartending in two hours time, and that Lottie needs to be done with him by then. Then he saw Hester refill Lottie’s glass even fuller with a fresh splash of moonshine.

Lottie’s heels sounded a rhythm on the floor as she walked back to the quiet corner. “Apparently you’re already popular. Why am I not surprised. This whiskey is terrible, but…I’m so nervous I’ve already drank half of it.”

Farlowe nodded, saw Numbskull looking their way, so he put his hand on Lottie’s arm, smiled like he usually doesn’t smile, and leaned in for a close whisper that looked friendly and intimate. “It’s going to be difficult to ask anybody any questions without raising suspicion. Sticking around and keeping our eyes and ears open is our best bet.”

Lottie shook her head but didn’t say no, nervously drank another gulp of moonshine. “This tastes terrible,” she said, then took another nervous sip, the throat burn not so bad anymore.

“Corn liquor. Moonshine,” said Farlowe. “It’ll calm you, but…take it slow and keep your wits if you can.” Farlowe took a big sip of his own.

“If I can?” said Lottie. “Who’d want to keep their wits in this place! It’s a nightmare!”

Farlowe and Lottie walked over to the back wall. A back door was there, and the only windows in the place, all along this back wall, all of them looking out at the river, just visible in the gloomy darkness. The last bit of twilight hung in the gray clouds on this warm summer night. “I’d like to walk around out there in the daylight,” he quietly said. “The cops found the bodies in the river, but quite a ways downstream of here. Nearby they found their clothes. Signs of sexual activity. Hammer blows to their heads. Two separate women, two separate days. I can see footprints in the mud leading down to the river, but maybe they really do fish here during the day.”

“Fifty dollars to fish,” Lottie quietly chuckled, this the first easing of her nervousness.

Farlowe nodded, looked at her drink glass, knows she rarely drinks. “Take it easy on that stuff. It’s got a stinger like a scorpion.”

“Oh, I suppose men are better at that, too? Better at drinking, better at driving, better at running a business. You do realize your office would fall apart if I wasn’t there.”

Farlowe smiled a little. “I do. Now stop talking to me like you know me. Numbskull is looking at us again. Put your arm around me. Whisper in my ear, the way a wanton woman would. We need to keep selling this or he’s going to make us as moles. If he does, no telling what happens.”

“Put my…arm around you? Farlowe, this assignment, it’s…making me warm.”

“I told you. A stinger like a scorpion. Either go easy on that stuff or don’t. It’s your call.”

Lottie blushed, sidled up close, put her arm around Farlowe’s trim but manly waist, this the first time she’d ever touched him in such a blatant way. “Don’t forget, out of here by 9pm,” she whispered close, her voice a few degrees softer and more womanly now, her modestly lipsticked lips feeling her own warm breath reflected back off of Farlowe’s ear. “Lingerie, the big oaf calls it. Haha!”

Farlowe’s eyes scanned the darkness outside the dirty window. “I wonder if they’ve got a boat out there.”

“He’s looking at us again, that oaf,” said Lottie. “I’d never come here alone in a million years, but…I feel safe with you. Have I ever told you that, that I feel safe with you?”

Farlowe returned his gaze to the indoors, this time on Lottie. “What are your instincts about him? The ‘oaf’.”

“I think his name, Numbskull, suits him,” Lottie said, smirking. She took a big sip of moonshine. “I think he’s dreadful looking. He undressed me with his eyes before he even said hello.”

“Women often do the same.”

“They do not!” said Lottie. “Unless…are we talking about him, or…a man like you?”

Farlowe gulped some ‘shine, then smirked. “What did the ‘oaf’ see? What kind of ‘lingerie’ did he imagine?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know! Farlowe, is this side of you…is it why you went through so many secretaries before me? Which reminds me, I’ve been with you for over two years now. Isn’t it about time I got a raise in pay?”

“Figure out the paper work tomorrow.”

“Don’t you want to know how much I want?”

“You’re worth it.”

“Why do I feel like you’re sweet-talking me,” Lottie smirked.

“This is good, more natural,” said Farlowe. Shifting himself close-up in front of Lottie, he looked down at her eyes and she looked up at his. “Numbskull is still looking at us, but he looks happier now.”

“I suppose you want my hand on your hip,” smirked Lottie as she did it. “Are you a dancer, Farlowe? Do you dance?”

“I know the steps.”

“Yes, but…do you

dance

?”

Farlowe smiled. “Lottie, are you hearing music inside your head? I told you, this moonshine will sting you. Too bad there’s no jukebox here. No electricity. Just oil lamps,” he said, glancing up at them.

“Always the observer,” said Lottie, her lips curled in a faint smile. “Were you this way as a child? Were you ever a child?”

Farlowe smiled. “I rode my little red wagon down Bronson’s Road hill. Crashed it and split my head open. Never been the same since.”

“Thank God for that,” Lottie smirked, eyes twinkling. “I shudder to think what would happen to you if you were even more of a thrill seeker.”

“Numbskull’s on the move, heading this way,” said Farlowe. “Mind if I kiss you?”

“Kiss…me?”

Farlowe put his lips on Lottie’s, both surprised by warmer, softer lips than either of them had expected.

“You folks make a fine lookin’ couple,” said Numbskull, suddenly near, with another big, dirty, hairy oaf at his side. “Yes sir, a fine lookin’ couple. This here’s my little brother. Most call him Knucklehead. He don’t say much but he handles our…security, let’s call it. Keeps all the rules kept. I thought you might like to meet him, so that you folks know everything’s done safe and proper around here. Knucklehead, wanna ring that 9pm bell?” said Numbskull, looking at him.

Knucklehead held a bell in his hands, a dome-shaped electrically operated type, mounted to a box-like housing, the kind of bell that you’d see on a wall at a factory or on a wall at a boxing ring, not mounted on a wall here at Numbskull’s because the walls are nothing more than years of split-wood patches, with barely enough substance to hold up the windows, not to mention there’s no electricity to trigger the ringer.

Farlowe saw the hammer before Lottie did, hooked under Knucklehead’s leather belt. Knucklehead pulled it free and used it to ring the bell, twice, hard strikes that rang loud, a sound that echoed in Lottie’s ears.

“There’s a coatrack next to each of the beds, pretty lady,” Numbskull said to her. “Pick yourself one and you can hang up them nice city clothes, then come on back and pretty-up the bar some more. Or you two can get right to it over there. Quite a few don’t like to wait much. You don’t look as fast as some, though I do like that city-girl look of yours.”

Numbskull and his dim-witted brother walked away, Lottie seeing women undressing, some doing it with their own hands, some letting a man do it. “This is like some kind of dream,” she said to Farlowe.

Farlowe smiled a little. “A few minutes ago you said it was a nightmare.”