When the Night Bird Sings Read online

  WHEN THE

  NIGHT BIRD SINGS

  A Mecana novella by

  JOHN L. LANSDALE

  BookVoice Publishing 2018

  This story is a work of fiction. All incidents and all characters are fictionalized, with the exception that well-known historical and public figures are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Where real-life historical figures appear, the situations and dialogues concerning those persons are fictional and are not intended to depict actual events within the fictional confines of the story. In all other respects, any resemblance to persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

  When the Night Bird Sings Copyright © 2018

  by John L. Lansdale

  All rights reserved.

  Design Copyright © 2018

  by BookVoice Publishing

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN

  978-0-9990361-5-0

  eBook Edition

  BookVoice Publishing

  PO Box 1528

  Chandler, TX 75758

  www.bookvoicepublishing.com

  www.bvpstore.com

  THE MECANA SERIES by John L. Lansdale

  #1 - Horse of a Different Color

  #2 - When the Night Bird Sings

  #3 - Twisted Justice

  Other titles by John L. Lansdale

  Slow Bullet

  Zombie Gold

  Shadows West (with Joe R. Lansdale)

  Hell’s Bounty (with Joe R. Lansdale)

  Coming Soon from John L. Lansdale

  Long Walk Home

  The Last Good Day

  Broken Moon

  Shadow Warrior (Graphic Novel)

  Justin Case (Graphic Novel)

  Follow the author online at

  www.bookvoicepublishing.com

  www.bvpstore.com

  www.facebook.com/johnllansdale

  www.twitter.com/johnllansdale

  www.goodreads.com/johnllansdale

  What Others are Saying about John L. Lansdale

  “Mickey Spillane fans will welcome this page-turner... Lansdale effectively delays revealing the novel’s big secret until the end. Those who like their thrillers with a heavy dose of violent action will be satisfied.”

  – Publishers Weekly review of Slow Bullet

  “...the author’s innate ability to spin a complex tale painted with vivid characters and intense suspense provides readers with a well-paced book that they may find difficult to set down...a worthwhile suspenseful ride.”

  – Amazing Stories review of Horse of a Different Color

  “Slow Bullet is a straight-ahead thriller…it's about action, and there's plenty of that. Check it out.”

  – Bill Crider’s Pop Culture Magazine

  “Zombie Gold has something for everyone… It's exciting, entertaining and educational. A fun ride.”

  – Joan Hallmark, TV personality, movie actress and author

  “…something unique and comfortable and difficult to put down. Highly recommended.”

  – Cemetery Dance review of Hell’s Bounty

  “True to Lansdale tradition, John L. Lansdale has compiled a piece of work that should appeal to a wide range of readers.” – Amazing Stories review of Zombie Gold

  For

  Joe and Karen

  “You do what’s right because it’s right.

  You don’t have to have a reason.”

  Bud Lansdale

  Chapter 1

  I was standing inside my new office, admiring the freshly-painted sign on the open glass door, when she walked up and smiled.

  “You open?”

  “Yes ma’am,” I said.

  She had sparkling blue eyes and long, shiny blonde hair with red ruby earrings matching her sinuous lips. She was wearing a tight fire-red dress that showed all her dangerous curves. The big diamond on her left hand told me someone had staked a claim.

  I invited her in with a gentlemanly gesture and closed the door. She walked in, stopped and tilted her head slightly and looked at me.

  “You’re Thomas Mecana, right?”

  “Yes ma’am,” I said.

  “The one who solved The Mutilator case?”

  “Along with my partner and a lot of others.”

  “I used to see Doctor Durant and Lisa at social functions from time to time but never met them.”

  “Lucky you.”

  “My name’s Candy Kane,” she said. “I saw the ad in the paper announcing your new private investigation business. I want to hire you, Mr. Mecana.”

  “Really,” I said, contemplating her unusual name. “Have a seat, Mrs. Kane. Most people drop the mister and call me Mecana,” I said. “You’re our first client.”

  She sat down, crossed her long legs and looked at me.

  I sat down in my new swivel chair behind the desk, but didn’t cross my legs.

  “I have a problem,” she said. “It has to be kept hush-hush.”

  “I can be so quiet you could hear the proverbial pin drop.”

  “And what I tell you will be in confidence, right; it goes no further?” she said.

  “Maybe my partner, that’s it.”

  “Who’s Connors?” she asked, pointing to the sign on the door.

  “She was my partner on The Mutilator case. Darcie Connors, you can trust her. She will be here soon.”

  “How come you quit the police?”

  “A long story,” I said. “What can I do for you?”

  “My husband and I need protection. I have reason to believe someone is trying to kill us.”

  “Why?”

  “My husband is Ashton Kane, a psychotherapist M.D.,” she began. “A stock broker he was treating has accused him of hypnotizing him and planting a plot in his mind to acquire a million dollars of his money. He filed a lawsuit three years ago against my husband but it was thrown out of court for lack of evidence. And now he’s trying to kill us. I think he shot a hole in the window of my car yesterday, missing my head by about two inches.”

  “What’s his name?” I asked.

  “Edward G. Fillmore. He’s insane. I need someone to protect us.”

  “Your husband know about the window?”

  “No. He’s in New York to meet with Landon Fritz, a professor at the medical school Ashton attended where they became friends. I didn’t want it to upset him.”

  “So you’re whistling in the dark?” I said.

  “What’s that mean?” she asked.

  “Means it could be anyone. Maybe an accident. Something my daddy used to say.”

  “It was no accident,” she said.

  “Then you should go to the cops.”

  “No cops, that’s why I came to you.”

  “Could I see some ID please?”

  “You don’t believe me?”

  “I don’t trust myself.”

  She reached into a small purse she was holding and took out a Texas driver’s license and laid it on the desk. The name she gave me was the one on the driver’s license. I recognized her address as one in the upper crust sections of suburbia Dallas. And she was 28, still in the youthful splendor phase of life.

  “Thank you,” I said.

  She picked the license up and put it back in her purse.

  “I’m willing to pay you a hundred thousand dollars to silence this nut in whatever way you see fit as long as it’s permanent and soon. Do we have a deal?” She held out her hand.

  “You’ve got the wrong man. You’re looking for a hitman, not a private investigator.”

  “I’ll double that,” she said. “Two hundred thousand.”

  “Not even for that.”

  “Very well,” she said. “I’m sure someone wi
ll see it my way.”

  She stood up and I did too. She reached for the pen my daughter Emily had given me and wrote down a phone number. She shoved the notepad toward me.

  “If you change your mind call me.”

  “Tempting, but no cigar,” I said.

  “You talk in riddles, Mecana.”

  “It’s my daddy’s fault.”

  She looked even more perplexed. “Think about it. Half up front,” she said.

  “You know I have to call the cops?” I said.

  “For what? I thought our discussion was in confidence.”

  “It was, until you got around to discussing murder,” I said.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said. “I was asking you to persuade him to leave us alone.”

  “That’s not what I heard,” I said.

  She laid the pen back on my desk and walked to the door and opened it. She stopped in the open doorway and looked at me over her shoulder. “There could be other rewards,” she said and ran her tongue over her bright red lips.

  “Some days are harder than others to navigate,” I said. “I think this is one of them.”

  “Your daddy?” she asked.

  “Nope, me,” I said.

  She smiled again and walked out, leaving the door open.

  I stood at the open door and watched her hips sway back and forth as her red high heels clicked on the shiny tile floor to the elevator. It was a tempting sight.

  I closed the door and sat back down at my desk, picked up Emily’s pen and looked at the phone number she wrote down on the pad. A voice in my head that sounded like my daddy said, “Don’t even think about it.” I wadded the paper up and threw it in the trash can.

  About ten minutes after Mrs. Kane left, Darcie showed up with two sacks of paper, folders, pens and other office supplies, looking beautiful as usual with a black dress to match her short black hair and dark brown eyes.

  I usually didn’t wear a suit but I was glad I did today. Jeans and a pullover would have clashed with her little black dress ensemble she had on for our first day.

  She sat the sacks on her new desk. “Where’s the coffee?” she said, looking at an empty coffee pot on a table next to the wall.

  “I’ve been busy,” I said. “I can make some.”

  “No, I’m good,” she said. “You left early this morning. I’m no Sara Lee but I would have fixed you breakfast if you had waited.”

  “That would have been nice but I had to be here to unlock the office for the painter so we would be ready for our first day. What do you think?” I said, pointing at the door.

  “Alright, except I think it would have had a better ring to it if it was ‘Connors and Mecana Private Investigators.’”

  “Never thought about it.”

  “I know. Men don’t like women on top unless it’s their idea.”

  “I’ll have them change the damn thing.”

  “Forget it, its fine,” she said.

  “Then why are we talking about it?”

  “I smell perfume,” she said, changing the subject.

  “A Mrs. Candy Kane was here.”

  “You’re kidding,” she said.

  “No, that’s her name. She had the driver’s license to prove it. She thinks a former psych patient of her husband is trying to murder them. She wants me to snuff him before he does the same to her.”

  “She give you a name?” Darcie asked.

  “A stock broker named Edward G. Fillmore who thinks Mr. Kane hypnotized him out of a million dollars.”

  “Gets right to it, doesn’t she?” Darcie said.

  “She offered me a hundred thousand and when I refused it she raised the price to two hundred thousand. Her husband doesn’t know about the offer.”

  “He’s better off not knowing, he would be an accomplice,” Darcie said. “You know her?”

  “Never saw her before. She said she saw our ad in the paper.”

  “You know she will find someone that will probably do it for less. You going to make the call, or do I?”

  “I’ll do it,” I said. “Verves will be surprised to hear from me so soon. I told her our conversation was in confidence but that was before we got around to discussing murder.”

  “You record the conversation?”

  “I forgot the recorder. She left her phone number but I threw it in the trash.”

  “Verves might want it,” she said.

  “Yeah.” I reached in the trash can and picked up the paper with Kane’s number on it. “You sure you’re alright with the sign?” I said.

  “Yes its fine,” she said, smiled and batted her big brown eyes.

  Beautiful women know they have a hypnotic effect over a man whatever their profession is while working their charms to get whatever it is they want. She knew damn well I’d have the sign changed because I don’t want to sleep alone for however long the punishment is for a crime I didn’t know I committed until I was verbally convicted.

  She sat down at her desk and looked around the office. “This place looks a little drab. I think I’ll get some pictures for the walls, and maybe a plant or two.”

  “Fine with me,” I said and propped my feet up on my desk and gazed out the sixth floor window at the interstate. The morning traffic had slowed to a trickle before lunch time. I couldn’t get Mrs. Kane off my mind.

  “First rule, no feet on the desk,” Darcie said.

  “That’s my thinking position,” I said.

  “Find another one,” she said.

  I dropped my feet back on the floor. “I don’t think it’s going to work, I’ve been doing it too long.”

  “You’ll get over it. Maybe we should put a partition between the desks to create an illusion of privacy when we’re talking to clients.”

  “Whatever,” I said.

  “You going to call Verves?” she said.

  “Yes.” I fished my phone out of my pocket and dialed his number.

  Robert Verves was a small black man who used his intuition, intelligence and Hercules-like strength to rise from recruit to Navy SEAL to Chief of Homicide in record time.

  “Hello, Mecana. The new name is showing up on Caller ID,” he said.

  “Darcie and I opened our PI office today.”

  “What about her twin, is she in with you?”

  “No, she decided she would rather face the dangers of teaching.”

  “Good for her. I received some forms a while back the state sent me to verify your employment for your PI licenses. I gave you good marks.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “I had a visit from a pretty lady this morning before the paint could dry on my door, asking me to cancel a guy. I think she was serious. Thought you should know.”

  “What do you have on her?” Verves asked.

  “Her name is Candy Kane, believe it or not. Kane with a ‘K.’ I verified it with her driver’s license. The address on her license was a penthouse at the Ellison Plaza hotel.”

  “The uptown crowd,” Verves said.

  “Yep.”

  “Who’s her intended victim?” Verves asked.

  “Edward G. Fillmore,” I said. “Fillmore is a stock broker and a former patient of Dr. Ashton Kane, Mrs. Kane’s husband. Dr. Kane is a psychotherapist - hypnotizes his patients - he’s in New York now.”

  “What was Fillmore’s problem,” Verves said.

  “She said he was insane.”

  “Not very descriptive,” Verves said.

  “He sued the doctor for hypnotizing him to get his money but it was thrown out for lack of evidence. She said someone shot a hole in the driver’s window of her car yesterday, just missing her, and she thinks it was Fillmore. I haven’t seen the car.”

  “I’ll put somebody on it and let you know,” Verves said.

  “Good, when I told her I would have to call the police she tried to change her story.

  She’s in a hurry so you should be, too. I got her phone number.”

  “Give it to me,” Verves s
aid. “Seems like I’ve heard that story before but we couldn’t find any proof on the doctor. I’ll check it out again.”

  As I talked to Verves I watched Darcie bend over her desk using her arms as measuring sticks for the length of her desk, weird fantasies ran through my warped brain.

  “You can have your old job back anytime you want,” he said.

  “Thanks but I’ll try this for a while. Talk to you later,” I said and hung up.

  “Is he going to get on it?” Darcie asked.

  “Yes, he said he’ll get back to me.”

  “I’m going to look for some picture and plants,” she said. “You want to meet me at Brogans for lunch? I know men don’t like shopping for anything that doesn’t fire bullets or have an engine so I won’t ask you to go with me.”

  “That’s very considerate of you. I’ll find something to keep me busy until lunch.”

  “Okay, see you at noon.” She opened the door and looked at the sign for a long moment, stepped outside, closed the door and was gone.

  I looked around the office at the blank white walls and the slow turning white ceiling fans with little designer bulbs in the light fixtures. Darcie was right, it did need something but it wasn’t changing the sign.

  I took off my tie and propped my feet back on the desk. What she doesn’t know won’t hurt me. I picked up the pen Emily gave me and thought about the promises I made to my two daughters that I couldn’t afford to keep. A new convertible for Emily’s high school graduation was going to cost thirty thousand dollars and Morgan’s trip to Disneyland for graduating to high school was probably another five thousand, with no idea where the money was coming from unless I drained my savings.

  My ex sure wasn’t going to help. She said it was my promises and my problem.

  Maybe I would have to kill someone.