A brief excerpt from Crazy for the Heat: Arizona Tales of Ghosts, Gumshoes, and Bigfoot
by Roger Naylor
The Midnight Door
By Roger Naylor
“Every time the sun comes up I’m in trouble.”
Sharon Van Etten
The bullet took me low and hard on the left side. I felt that searing bite an instant before I heard the gat cough. Tried to spin around to see who plugged me but ended up on my knees kissing sidewalk. When I reached to pull my piece, the momentum rolled me into the street. That concluded my travel plans for the immediate future.
Seemed like a fitting way for a gumshoe to go out—bleeding in a neon-splashed gutter in Jerome, Arizona. This town sure knows how to hold on to its rowdy past.
Funny what flashes through your mind when the jig is up. All I could think was that if I took the big sleep right here on Main Street, I’d be breaking two of the three cardinal rules that keeps this nighttime burg running wide-open—no corpses, and everything has to be cleaned up by dawn.
It made me sore. Me croaking shouldn’t gum up the works for everyone. I should try to stick around past sun-up. Also, I’d like to square things with the mug that killed me.
Footsteps hurried along the sidewalk. Some palooka leaned over me; the neon wreathed his fedora like a jazz age halo. “Geez, mister, you been shot!”
“Thanks, Scoop. You should be writing for the Jerome Evening Star.”
I saw a pack sticking up out of his pocket and gestured. “Can you spare one of those?”
He fished one out and handed it to me. I took it between two fingers that suddenly didn’t seem to have any strength. Black licorice twist. Good. I can’t stand Red Vines. I leaned forward to take a bite but never quite made it.
I guess I died.
###
Tourists think they know Jerome. They don’t know Jerome. Not really.
Jerome hangs off the side of a mountain a mile in the air. Not much to it, just a few clustered blocks packed with history. Hilly, narrow streets are lined by staircases and old Victorian buildings, some spiffed up, others down at the heel. It’s been called picturesque. Huff and puff up a few flights of stairs just to grab a hamburger and you’ll be calling it something else. It looks sort of like San Francisco’s little punk cousin—the one that’s always in and out of juvie.
Copper mines boomed going all the way back to the 1800s. That’s what brought everyone running to these sunbaked hills. When the ore played out the burg nearly went belly up. Hippies moved in and bought on the cheap. A few businesses opened. Pretty soon the town developed a rep as an artists’ hangout. Jerome caught on as one of the best day-trips in Arizona. Tourists make the drive along mountain roads to spend a few hours in Jerome prowling shops and galleries, sipping vino in wine tasting rooms pretending that they can detect notes of blackberry, plum, and fresh-cut grass, while feeling disconnected from the real world. That’s a pretty nice feeling.
End of the day rolls around and they ankle it off the mountain fast as they can. Sure, a handful might stick around, bunking down at one of the local inns. They’ll roam the pockmarked streets in the cool twilight, grab a bite of dinner, maybe knock down a shot of hooch at one of the bars, then stagger back to their room thinking they just had themselves a wing-ding of an adventure.
Then the whole town goes beddy-bye. At least for a couple of quick hours.
Midnight changes everything. Something happens to Jerome in the late night darkness. Magic maybe. Or voodoo. Some kind of ghostly jive that I can’t explain. But when the clock hits straight up twelve, the town really comes to life. It just doesn’t look anything like the Jerome tourists know.
Somehow every midnight spins the calendar backwards—all the way back to the 1940s, back when times were good, before the mines closed.
Neon flickers on. Businesses open their doors, without the art and wine. Gin mills, dance halls, and nightclubs rub shoulders with diners, pawnshops, malt shops, and candy stores. Taxis locked away in garages by day idle at the curb. Newsies hit the streets squawking the headlines of the Jerome Evening Star, which puts out two editions nightly.
Palookas pull their fedoras down low and dames slither into their slinkiest dresses matched with wide-brimmed hats like platters of flowers and billiard balls. They hit the town, and hit it hard.
All that’s missing is John Law. Cops prefer to keep regular hours. That’s where I come in.
Decker’s the name. Jake Decker. I’m a sleuth, a shamus, a private dick. It’s up to me to keep things in line between midnight and dawn. Because when that big ball of Arizona sun chins itself above the eastern horizon, everything goes back to normal. And everything better be looking normal by then, too, or it’s my ass.
That’s what the three rules are for. Cops were adamant about each of them. No mess. No corpses. And no smoking in the buildings. Long as none of those rules are broken, they don’t much care what goes on in the deep moonlight.
You might say this is my dream job. We fit together like my .38 slides into my shoulder holster, all snug and comfortable but ready for action. I’ve always been a creature of the night. A condition I got. Sawbones called it hallucinogenic insomnia. It means I can’t sleep anyway and when this town gets jumping who wants to doze off?
###
The night I got shot started out like they all do. Midnight found me in my office, a second floor walkup above the Flatiron, a tiny café in a hatchet-shaped building. I was getting ready to buy myself a drink from the bottom drawer of my desk where—surprise, surprise—I kept a bottle.
Then she walked in. She wore a red satin dress that shimmered like the memory of a fire that would never let you feel cold again. A cascade of dark hair spilled down her shoulders. Her skin was pale but luminous as if the moon had followed her indoors just for the privilege of shining across her face. When she spoke, there was the slightest trace of Old South. Dogwoods and magnolias bloomed in my office.
“Mr. Decker, I presume.”
“You presume just right. Please take a seat.”
Watching her bend at the waist, smooth her skirt, and slide into the chair was an event I would have bought a ticket for. She crossed her shapely legs. Python legs. They wrap around you one time and you might never breathe again.
“Can I offer you something?” I asked, extending a pack of licorice whips. “Licorice? Chick-o-Stick? Taffy?”
“Thank you. I have my own.”
Her hand slipped into her purse and she pulled out a Dum Dum lollipop and unwrapped it. I pushed an ashtray across the desk and she folded the wrapper, once, twice, three times, and then dropped in the tight little square. The sucker slid between her glistening lips as my testicles suddenly swapped places.
“What can I do for you, Mrs…. Miss…?”
“Miss Vera Savage,” she said, briefly removing the world’s happiest lollipop. “I need to hire you, Mr. Decker. I want you to find someone for me. Is that the sort of job you do?”
“On occasion. Who am I looking for?”
“My sister. Gilda Savage. She disappeared a few nights ago and I’m afraid she might be in trouble.”
“What makes you think so?”
“Gilda works at Spook Hall, the big nightclub in town. She’s in the chorus of the floorshow but has been hoping to get a chance to perform a few numbers on her own. She really has a lovely singing voice, unlike me. I couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket. A couple of weeks ago the manager of the club seemed to take an interest in Gilda and offered her a chance to sing with the band. But on the night she was going to debut, she never showed. She hasn’t been seen since.”
“What’s the manager’s name?”
“Ted Conniff. An unsavory type who is not exactly beloved by his employees. I’m afraid he did something to my sister.”
“All right, Miss Savage. Let me look into it. And not to be crass but my landlord, bartender, and bookie would be upset if I didn’t mention that my rate is $25 per night plus expenses.”
When her hand came out of her purse again, it held a crisp hundred-dollar bill. She slid the C-note across the desk and for a moment our hands touched.
“Will this be sufficient for now?” she asked as our eyes locked. Hers were as green as emeralds, crushed and sprinkled atop bigger more perfect emeralds.
“It feels like a wonderful start. How can I get in touch with you?”
I’m registered at the Jerome Grand Hotel. Please find her, Mr. Decker.”
She rose and ever the gent, I did likewise. Standing there she looked as if she had been built out of curves, fantasies, and sin.
“One last question, Miss Savage. Do you think Conniff is interested in your sister in more than just a professional way?”
“I wouldn’t be the least bit surprised.” She turned toward the door. “You see, of us girls, Gilda was always considered the sexy one.”
To finish this story, and enjoy several more, grab a copy of Crazy for the Heat.