There's Nothing Short Of Dying (standard:mystery, 4765 words)
Author: Thom	Added: Mar 25 2001	Views/Reads: 3399/2157	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
This is a novel in progress featuring Sean Murphy. He's a PI in Columbus,Ohio. A woman hires Murphy to find her brother who is a sixties radical missing since the early seventies. Like the era, nothing is what it seems. Chapters 1,2 and 3

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

protests and body counts on the evening news. And Viet Nam. Always Nam. 
I wrapped though the psyche of my generation like a monstrous tapeworm, 
poisoning everything it touched. 

The young people, confused and righteous, wanting to change the world
and not knowing how. And never realizing you can't. The cops and the 
kids. The freaks and the establishment. The heady feeling of 
discovering things could change, however slowly. Them wanting them to 
change even faster. Always faster. The Music. 

In the center of the circus at OSU, Jack Sowada was a  minor star. He
was usually on the edges clearly voicing the cause du jour. Jack 
articulated our outrage in front of the conservative Mid-Western media. 
The war. The draft. Civil rights and the environment. Sowada always 
spoke with eloquence and passion on it all. 

Then in 1971, a half step ahead of a bullshit conspiracy beef, Sowada
vanished. He went underground, like so many others. During the ensuing 
decades, most resurfaced one way or another.  Usually in a bungled bank 
job. Or they blew themselves and others to bits as an anonymous 
tenement flat in a big city exploded. Some. just older and too tired, 
simply turned themselves in. But not Jack. 

I drug myself back to the present and lit another cigarette while
walking over to the small wet bar in the corner of my office. From the 
tiny fridge I grabbed a cold can of coke Classic. I offered one to the 
lady. She declined when she found I didn't stock diet. I shrugged, 
popped the top and returned to my chair. The red can broke into a 
sweat, leaving a ring on my desk calendar. 

"So Mrs. Reynolds, what exactly do you want me to do?" 

"Find the worthless son of a bitch so Mom can say god-bye to him." 

I looked at her. She looked at me with anger and hurt in those
impossible blue eyes. 

"Mrs. Reynolds," I said slowly," twenty years is a long time. Look, the
FBI couldn't find him and believe me they tried. They are and were much 
better equipped for this than I am. Hell, Hoover's boys wanted Jack 
bad. If they couldn't find him then, when the trail was fresh, I don't 
know what I can do with it twenty years cold." 

"Mr. Murphy, I understand this. Just because I'm a woman doesn't mean
I'm stupid." 

"I never said, nor implied that." 

She gave me a small sheepish smile. 

"I'm sorry. I guess you're right, aren't you? I'm just, I don't know, a
little tense." 

I leaned back in my chair and smiled. It must have worked because she
stayed. Mrs. Reynolds lit another Merit. Being a polite host, I 
followed suit with one of mine. I didn't want her to have to smoke 
alone. 

"Look Mr. Murphy, I'm not naive. I know there's little chance you'll
find Jack. Mom just wants to make peace with him. She's dying and wants 
to see her son. I don't claim to understand why. I don't care if I ever 
see the bastard. After twenty years, he's dead to me anyway. "She 
brushed an errant lock of hair off her forehead and looked at me with a 
hint of  blued steel in those intense eyes." 

"Look," she said," Mom wants to see him. Fine. I'll deal with it. Spend
some time and try to find him. I'll tell Mom I'm doing what I can. Then 
she can put this behind her and do what needs done. I can afford it. 
Try. Please." Her voice was soft and had a hint of vulnerability that 
wasn't there before. 

I leaned forward, elbows on the desk and studied her a moment. 

"What the hell," I thought "I can use the money. Maybe I could do what
no one in the last two decades could do. Find Jack Sowada. Maybe I am 
as good as I think I am." 

I puled a contract out of a file drawer and rolled it into my low end
Smith-Corona typewriter. With its memory in may be smarter than I am. 

"Mrs. Reynolds, I charge three-hundred dollars a day plus expenses.
After al these years I sure can't guarantee results." 

"Fine. Of course. Thank you." A check book appeared and she filled one
out with a flourish. 

"You can reach me here." She said giving me a number. 

After signing the contract Mrs. Reynolds spent the next half hour
refreshing my memory of Jack Sowada's disappearance. 

Jack, Joshua Berlin, Judy Winters and Phillip Nordstrom were indicted in
January of 1971 for conspiring to blow up the ROTC building at Ohio 
State. Although they didn't do the deed the FBI felt that talking about 
it over wine, weed and incense were enough. Things had quieted down 
after Kent State and the feds wanted to bust someone. More examples 
needed to be made. Someone had to show those degenerate commie faggot 
bastards the Government was going to protect the American way of life. 
Justice and Constitutional rights be damned 

On May 4,1971, a month before the trial was to start, Jack vanished.
Everyone said he'd gone underground, like the Weather People. No one 
has seen him since. The feds and the Columbus police tore the house on 
Thirteenth Avenue apart. They didn't find so much as a joint, let alone 
a trail to follow. Two weeks later the charges against the four of them 
were dropped. Sowada still had an Interstate Flight To escape 
Prosecution rap hanging over him. Not much to hide from after all these 
years. 

Mrs. Reynolds stood and looked around my office. The blue eyes took it
all in, the girl next door face unimpressed. The three stool wet bar in 
the corner. My "Chinatown" and "Big Sleep" movie posters. A set of beat 
up file cabinets. On the wall by the door  the sofa, a pair of chairs 
and a coffee table huddled in submission. 

Her dismissive glance at the brown carpet showed she felt it had seen
better days. She looked at me the same way. She was right in both 
cases. 

"You know Mr. Murphy, I wasn't sure I hadn't made a mistake when I came
here. This isn't the best part of town. Your office is over a bar, for 
Christ's sake! On the other hand, you're supposed to be fairly honest 
and pretty good at what you do. That counts for something I suppose. 
What are these?" She pointed at a couple of awards on a shelf behind 
the bar. 

"A Grammy and a CMA award." 

Her eyebrows raised, a hint of surprise there. 

"Yours?" 

"Yes." 

"So why this?" Her arm swept the room. 

"Why not." I said making a long story very short. 

"I see." She didn't. "Thank you Mr. Murphy. Please keep me informed." 

With that she left. 

"Why not?" I said to the walls. Bogart didn't look impressed. Well, fuck
it, neither was I. 

TWO I closed the office, went down the stairs and out onto High Street.
I fished the car keys out of the pocket of my sport jacket as I rounded 
the corner into the small parking lot. After opening my black Mustang 
GT convertible I took a deep breath and looked up. The mid June central 
Ohio sky was clear and blue. The afternoon sun was warm and the 
temperature wasn't matching the humidity yet. Another month and a 
person would need scuba gear to breathe. Summer in the city. 

I dropped the top, fired up the 5.0 liter V-8 and fed the cassette
player a tape. As I was heading north towards the Ohio State University 
area, the Indigo Girls were singing of the southland in the springtime. 


Ten minutes later the Mustang nosed its way down Thirteenth Avenue. As
usual there was no place to park. I swung south on Pearl Alley, hitting 
the alley between Twelfth and Thirteenth. I slid the car in behind the 
house where Jack and the others had lived in 1970. I had no idea why I 
was there. 

Twenty years ago the campus area was near slum housing going for
outlandish rents. Things haven't changed that much. Or maybe they have. 


Now large management companies control most of  the market. Some new
apartments have gone up here and there. The style, if you can call it 
that, is tacky modern. Low maintenance stucco and wood. These student 
beehives clash with the shabby charm of their dowager Victorian 
neighbors. 

Gentrification, so rampant in the city's other older areas was starting
to raise its  upscale head. The difference was the Government was 
throwing its weight around with the threat of eminent domain. This was 
forcing sales to a quasi-public corporation. The district was going to 
upscale right out of the poorer students reach. Starbucks was already 
here. Next would be the trendy stores and eateries. And the Porsche's 
and Boxsters parked out front. For now the area treads water as the 
crime rate skyrockets. 

In the OSU district, the massive herds of students are fair game to the
myriad of urban predators. Armed robbery, gang violence, assault, drugs 
and rape are growth industries. 

The street was quiet today. Summer Quarter was still new. There was a
party feeling in the air, warming up for TGIF in a few days. Beneath 
the surface a current of fear as large as the Gulf Stream ran barely 
noticed. After all, when you're eighteen you're indestructible. How 
could my days here at OSU go so horribly wrong? Maybe we just grew up. 
Or gave up. 

I shrugged and started the car. A primer gray  Neon  rolled slowly down
the alley pumping out enough bass to rattle my fillings. The car was a 
rolling speaker. If it's too loud you're too old, I thought sadly. Some 
perverse streak in me made yank the Indigo Girls out of the deck and 
slam in a Sixties collection. "Do You Believe In Magic" came leaping  
from the speakers. Yeah, sometimes I do. 

A few minutes I found a parking spot where I wouldn't be towed in a
heartbeat. I closed up the car and strolled over to High Street. 

Soon, without realizing it, I found myself in front of Long's bookstore
at Fifteenth and High, the gateway to OSU proper. Across High Street 
stood Sullivant Hall, a graceful stone dinosaur. Once a museum it now 
held some university offices. 

From 1968 through 70 the steps were a rallying place for the movement.
That's where, in late April of 1970, I first heard jack Sowada speak. 
The topic was Nixon and Cambodia. 

Just north of Sullivant Hall are two cement pillars flanking fifteenth.
Once massive iron gates stood there. Then came May of Seventy. The 
crowds in the streets shut those gates, symbolically closing Ohio State 
and bringing down the wrath of Governor Jim Rhodes. In no time High 
Street looked like Prague in sixty-eight. The American army occupying 
American streets. National Guard troops and riot suited Columbus cops 
everywhere. In the melee that followed, I was tear gassed for the first 
time. 

Armored personnel carriers rumbled through the streets of Ohio's capitol
city. They were manned by Guardsman not much older than this frightened 
high school senior. Even now, standing there, I could smell the fear 
mixing with the gas. And the rage. OSU was much more violent than Kent 
State. I guess we were lucky here. Yeah, lucky. 

I let the past wash over me like the California surf. 

Shaking off an incongruous chill  as I stood in the summer sun, I lit a
Marlboro and strolled south on High Street. The sidewalks were filled 
with young people bustling along with the insolent knowledge and 
serenity of youth. I found myself watching the coeds and thinking of my 
time here. 

The vestiges of that era were for the most part gone. Junk food
emporiums and semi-trendy boutiques had replaced the head shops. The 
bars lining both sides f High were still dedicated to getting trashed 
and laid. Amid the convenience stores and carry-outs the streets were 
littered with broken glass and lost innocence. 

I stopped as I realized my reason for being there. I was wallowing in
the nostalgia that had gripped me since my client's visit. Time to move 
on Murphy, I thought. The past has passed. 

I started the car, dropped the top and headed back to the office,
trailing jimmy Buffett's beach music behind me. It's a rag top day. 

back in the office I called the answering service. Nada. My watch said
4:30. I listened to it, locked the office and went downstairs to 
Zachary's, the tavern I owned. 

Zachary's is a neighborhood bar. Close enough to Downtown Columbus to
pull in the denizens of the glass towers to the south. It's also close 
enough to the trendy Short North area and the Convention Center to stay 
a fairly nice place. In my marginal location that meant not having to 
toss winos out of the restrooms too often. 

Zach's is large enough to book assorted bands on the weekends and remain
cozy. The interior is dark wood with some brass. There is an antique 
back bar and some neon look beer signs. I also have a primo CD juke 
box. There's not a fern to be found. Comfortable, friendly and not 
making a lot of money. But my drinks are free. 

Jessica Ryan, my lawyer and significant  other,(God, I hate that
politically correct phrase) was sitting at the bar as I came in. Jess 
flashed a thousand watt smile as we gave each other a hug. 

She stood and took my breath away. green eyes and long auburn hair
cascading past her shoulders. She was five foot eight and most of that 
was leg. Jess looked sweet as sin in her charcoal gray suit and dove 
gray silk blouse. I watched as she turned her pretty head and walked 
away. So did every other guy in the joint. I got a beer from John, my 
bartender and joined Jess at the table. Glen Frey's "Sexy Girl" was 
playing in the background. 

"Sean," She said with a smile, "you should concentrate on running this
place. A little more hands-on style. Like Rick in 'Casablanca.' 
Everyone comes to Rick's." Her green eyes flashed like stolen emeralds 
in the bar's dim light as she leaned across the table. "Play it Sam," 
She said in a husky whisper. "So dear," I said," will we always have 
Paris?" My lips brushed her cheek. 

Jessica smiled and patted my head. 

"A big spender like you? Paris Tennessee, maybe." 

"Thanks. So counselor, what's new?"  I idly picked at the label on my
beer bottle, the glass dark brown in the low light. 

"Same old, same old. just more of it and a smaller shovel. How about you
big guy?" 

I sipped my Bud as I recounted my day. The sister and Sick mother. The
missing brother and the coconspirators. 

"Jack Sowada, huh?" She asked. 

"Looks that way." 

"Damn. This case could be interesting." 

"That's one way of looking at it, Jess." 

"Sean, why hasn't  Jack resurfaced? I mean the conspiracy charges were
dropped. I doubt the Feds would pursue that Interstate Flight rap after 
all these years. It's too old and nobody really cares anymore. Face it 
baby, the Sixties are long over." 

"Who Knows? Hell, those were crazy times. Jack is probably happy in his
new life. Sowada is more than likely a card carrying Republican with a 
big house and bigger Mercedes by now." 

"Possible." 

Likely. Dinner, Jess?' 

"Sure. Mexican?" 

`	"Yeah, why not?" 

"Oh Sean, I know a Judy Winters. She's never mentioned any of this." "Oh
gee, I can't under stand why." 

"Shush. If it's the same woman, she's a tax attorney with a huge
Downtown firm." 

"Now why doesn't that surprise me?" 

"Cynic." 

"Guilty. Could you get her to talk to me?" 

"Sure. Call me tomorrow." 

"Great. Thanks, Jess. You hungry?" 

"That's a stupid question for such a smart person." 

"Then babe, we are outta here." I stood. 

"Are you going to get me drunk and take advantage of me?" She turned
that soul stealing smile on me. My knees nearly buckled, but being a 
tough macho kind of guy, they didn't. 

"That thought had crossed my mind." I replied with a straight face. 

"Well darlin' in that case, fuck dinner. We'll order a pizza." 

Three 

The next day came early, as summer mornings tend to do. The perversely
cheerful chirp of the alarm clock hauled me out of an uneasy sleep. It 
had been a sleep dominated by a vague sense of foreboding. The details 
had fled like fog in sunlight as I  forced myself into a sitting 
position. I promptly stuck my foot into the remains of a large 
all-the-way, hold the fish, pizza. 

"Perfect." I thought as I lit the first of the forty or so cigarettes
that I would smoke that day. 

The attendant rush of nicotine and coughing helped jump-start my heart.
Now all I needed was coffee to kick start my brain and I 'd be more or 
less ready to face the day. 

I reached behind me and  gave Jessica's backside a nudge. There was no
discernible response. I repeated the motion, a little more forcefully 
this time. That netted me a  collection of muffled consonants. 

"Hey Red, rise and shine." 

"Lemme alone and don't call me Red!" 

"C'mon Jess, it's six-thirty." 

"Murphy, you're a dead man if there's no coffee in here in five
minutes." Jess snarled as she moved into a sitting position, the sheet 
tangled about her. The auburn hair was tousled as she peered at the 
clock. 

"Damn! If I was home I could sleep for another half an hour." 

"You know what I love about you, Jesse? You're not one of these
disgusting, chipper, early morning types." 

Coffee...NOW." 

"Right." 

I pulled on a pair of faded cut-off jeans and padded down the hall to
the kitchen, with a short pit stop along the way. 

Reaching the kitchen, I found Mr. Coffee was faithfully keeping the
beverage warm and ready. Somehow, somewhere, I'd found the foresight to 
set the timer. 

I poured two cups of the strong, dark Luzianne, Cajun style brew.
Creamer in hers. Creamer and sugar in mine. Caffeine and sugar, the 
poor man's cocaine.  I drank a third of mine and refilled. Bueno. Back  
to the bedroom I went. 

As I passed the bathroom door I heard the shower running. So, being your
basic nice guy, I took Jessica's coffee into her. My hand and her mug 
crept around the plastic curtain. Two soap slippery hands relieved  me 
of the burden. A cool draft from the open door worked its way through 
the steam. 

"Great.", she said. "Now get the fuck out of here, Murphy. No free shots
this morning." 

"Your wish is my command, beloved." 

"Get out!" 

"OK. OK." Sometimes she's even more surly than I in the AM. 

At 7:05, the Today Show was boring me to tears as Jessica came into the 
living room. She was wearing a cream colored skirt that went just past 
her knee. There was a discrete slit up the side that flashed a hint of 
thigh she sat. 

The chocolate bell-sleeved silk blouse went well with her auburn hair.
She put her coffee cup on the end table, leaned across the sofa and 
placed a soft kiss on my cheek. 

"Were you wearing Polo last night?" 

"Yes." 

She smiled and said," Darlin' I've left a few things on the bed. Please
be a sweetie and drop them off at  the cleaners." 

She stood, smoothed her skirt, grabbed her suit coat and reached into
her purse for  car keys. 

"Sean, I'll be in court all morning. Call the office and let me know
where lunch is. OK?" 

"Sure Jesse." I stood and took her in my arms. 

"You wrinkle this suit, Murphy and I'll kill you. Gotta go, bye." 

She vanished out the door. I heard  the BMW fire up and motor off. 

I went into the bedroom and got ready to face the day. 

Forty minutes later I'd finished my shower and was dressed. I was
wearing a pair of black Lee jeans, a faded black denim shirt and a 
narrow  gray knit tie. I grabbed  my brown Harris tweed sportcoat and 
killed the TV in mid-sentence. I turned on the stereo, slid Bonnie 
Raitt's "Luck Of The Draw" CD into the player and walked into the 
kitchen. 

While sitting at the breakfast bar, sipping cup five, smoking cigarette
four and listening to Bonnie's cut number three, I called Jim Harrison 
at the "Columbus Dispatch." 

That is the city's only daily paper. Jim writes a column and knows
everybody in town. Whether they want to know him or not. The man was a 
walking, talking, city directory. 

Harrison had come over to the Dispatch after the Citizen- Journal had
been forced into oblivion. I missed that paper. It was a feisty little 
rag. The politicians didn't miss it. 

"What do you want?", Harrison growled. 

"Just thought I'd check the state of the city, the world and mankind in
general." 

"FUBAR'D." 

"What?" 

"Fucked up beyond all repair. Now what do you want?" 

"Do we still not like the smoke free environment?" 

"I hate it. There's a substance abuse program too. Shit. No smokes and
wine coolers instead of bourbon neat. then there's off set printing and 
word fucking processors. 'The Front Page 'this ain't." 

"It's not even 'My Girl Friday.' " 

"No, I guess not. What's up Sean?" 

"Do I owe you or do you owe me?" 

There was a moment as he checked his mental ledger. 

"I owe you." 

Over the phone I could hear his chair creak as I pictured his
two-hundred pound,  six-two frame leaning back, long legs stretched out 
on the desk. His lean face would be chewing on a Bic. The short brown 
hair would be neat. The brown eyes would be alert and the tie already 
loosened. 

"OK Jim," I said, "I need to know if these names sound familiar." 

Sure. Shoot." 

"Joshua Berlin, Judy Winters and Phillip Nordstrom." 

After a moment he said," Yeah, they sound familiar" 

"And?" 

"Josh Berlin runs a shelter for the huddled masses in the Bottoms. OOPS,
I mean Franklinton. One must be developmentally correct. Judy is a tax 
lawyer and Phil Nordstrom is a car dealer. A buy here pay here lot. the 
guy's a little shady. Worse than a priest and better than a politician. 
Now Murphy, what do these people have in common, other than your 
interest?" 

"Jack Sowada." 

"No shit?" 

"I don't know for sure, that's why I'm consulting the fourth estate, you
ink stained wretch. So, can you find out if they're the trio indicted 
with Sowada back in '70?" 

"Don't be silly." 

"How about lunch then?" 

"Great. Oneish? Mark Pi's. City Center?" 

"Great. Thanks, Jim." 

"Sowada, huh?" He said thoughtfully. 

"Looks that way." 

"Well there's a blast from the past. See ya." 

Click. Dial tone. Two sounds I hear as often as my name. 

I left Whitehall, the blue collar, far east side suburb where I'd grown
up and still lived. Cruising I-70 west, going Downtown, I scanned the 
skyline in the distance. Once, not long ago the LeVeque Tower was the 
skyline. now, post-modern granite and glass monuments to commerce and 
government were springing up like toadstools after a summer shower. 
Cookie cutter creations suggesting Columbus only has one working 
architect. 

Boomtown blues. Twenty something years ago Columbus was a sleepy college
cowtown. Woody Hayes and OSU. Now it's a booming service industry 
giant. The largest city in Ohio. How times change. Woody was gone and 
my business was thriving. 

In the office I was sipping a Coke and finishing a background check for
a small software firm. They wanted to hire a new CEO. The man was clean 
except for the wife's girlfriend. The three of them seemed very happy 
together. A modern day romance. 

I filed my copy, placed the client's copy in an envelope with an
invoice, all ready to mail. Seized by a burst of responsibility, I 
sorted my mail. The bills I paid. The junk was tossed. I did the bar's 
payroll. This burst of efficiency passed with no lasting side effects. 

I closed the office and headed for the Downtown City Center Mall. That
is an upscale, tax abated, city aided pretentious, upscale commercial 
bunker. However, Mark Pi's on the lower level was a good Chinese 
restaurant. Over general Tao's chicken Jim, Jess and I talked.. 

Jim assured me the trio I'd mentioned were indeed Jack's comrades in the
revolution.   Jess said she'd set up something with  Ms. Winters for 
later that afternoon. God. That gave me an excuse to talk to Jessica 
later.  I'm a devious SOB when I need to be. 

The tree of us talked awhile and I put the tab on my overburdened visa.
I hoped this wouldn't be the proverbial straw. 

I stopped at Doubleday's book and got the latest Sue Grafton.  That was
compliments of my anemic Mastercard. American Express wasn't returning 
my calls. 

I decided to go see Josh Berlin. His place was on the west side and
close. I bailed out the Mustang, dropped the top and went. Hi-ho, hi-ho 
you know. 

21 


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