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Ghosts, Smokes and Dames
A hard-boiled ghost story
Fiction by Cameron McFadden
Published on 10/29/2009
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Illustration by Jennifer Morales.
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The name’s Spade. Tracer Spade.
I’ve got eight slugs in me—one’s lead, the rest are bourbon. That’s right … I’m a private eye.
They say home is where the heart is, but the closest thing I’ve got is an attic space up on Thompson St., which suits me. My clientele, they don’t like to attract attention when they step inside my office. See, I ain’t your average flatfoot.
My door says “Tracer Spade, P.P.I.”—Paranormal Private Investigator. Ghosts, spooks, demonic old broads—if it goes bump in the night, chances are I’ve booked it. If business was as good as my aim, I’d be on easy street; now that the economy’s collapsing like an inverted pyramid of elephants, I can’t be choosy with my cases.
4:37 p.m.
It all started late Tuesday afternoon. I was at my desk, eying my last smoke when the doorknob turned and in walked trouble—blonde, as usual.
Dames. Why is it always dames?
Anyways, she’s a real piece of work, with piercing blue eyes and platinum blonde curls. I light a match and tell her to get cracking. The dame spins a tale of some haunted hotel joint, complete with possessed rocking chairs, undead prostitutes—the whole enchilada. But time is money and soon I’m stubbing my smoke, fresh out of patience and nicotine, when she finally starts speaking my language.
150 greenbacks. I start paying attention to detail.
Her name’s P. Bass. Place in question is called the Hotel Monte Vista, she says. Thinks it’s haunted. I raise to 200, plus expenses. She accepts and I collect half up front, in cash.
8:24 p.m.
I shift my ’87 ’Tang into park, kill the engine and step outside.
The arctic Flagstaff weather hits me harder than a .44 slug. I pop the collar on my trench coat and pull down my hat, then head downtown. Above, the moon hangs in the sky like an overcooked noodle thrown on a tile wall—sure, it might stick, but it was only a matter a time before this noodle slipped down past the horizon.
By then, I’d better have some answers.
You didn’t need to be a private eye to find the place. The Hotel Monte Vista was a real brick-and-mortar joint, ensconced on each direction by square turrets and inlaid windows, with a massive neon sign atop it that could be seen from space.
I head inside, and walk up to the dame working the front desk. She goes by Tessa Morely, which I think is strange. Would’ve taken her for a Susan … or maybe a Maude.
Anyways, she looks like trouble, with a disarming smile and smoldering gaze that could melt frozen butter.<
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I lean in and tell her I’d like a room.
She asks which one, of course, so I ask which room is most haunted.
“The other day I had these guests stay here in room 306,” she says. “In the middle of the night they heard someone trying to get in the room for five minutes.”
“What other rooms have you got?”
“Well,” she says. “There’s room 305.”
The dame must’ve let something big slip, because that disarming smile melts off like bird dung in a rainstorm, and she gets real pale. Before she can say anything else, an imposing figure walks up behind me and grabs me by the arm.
“Follow me, flatfoot. The boss wants to see ya.”
9:01 p.m.
For being the head honcho of a major outfit, Sean McMahan certainly didn’t look the part. For starters, the man didn’t wear a suit. With his curly hair and thick-rimmed glasses with chums, Sean seemed more than an accountant, except of course for his chummy demeanor.
In my experience, these are the people who have real power. I was walking on eggshells.
His hired hand had escorted me through the lobby, then up a half-flight of stairs, where Sean was sitting on a three-figure leather chair, legs crossed. He studies me a bit, but I ain’t an easy nut to crack, so instead he points to the opposite chair and says “Sit.”
He isn’t asking, so I sit.
“So,” I say, lighting up a smoke. “How’s the haunting business?”
The boss grimaces. “It does not contribute anything positive to the business. Try running a haunted hotel. I have 10 times as many guests that are unnerved by the idea that this is a haunted hotel. The small percentage of guests who do come who are haunted hotel seekers.”
I hesitate. It seemed like we had a common goal, so I decide to press my agenda.
“So, you don’t think the Monte Vista is haunted?”
“I’m no expert,” he says. “But when someone wakes me up at three in the morning and says that they have to leave, I don’t argue with them, because I know that their perception of it is accurate.”
“And room 305?”
“That’s the room, by far. The things that get reported in that room are really cool.”
9:46 p.m.
With Mr. McMahan’s blessing, I reach my destination: room 305.
I step inside, right as a chill chews through my spine. A cold spot … looks like I‘m in the right place.
Room 305 is spacious, featuring two twin beds and a pair of nightstands, a dresser/mirror combo and an ornately carved rocking chair, the kind undead elderly broads like to sit in. The room’s painted forest green, with light green trim atop and on the ceiling.
It gives me the creeps; then again, you don’t hire a P.P.I. to look at rooms filled with unicorns and rainbows.
Time to punch in.
I kick off the party with Clementine, my EMF detector. EMF levels are low, around 1.4. So I start up my ion generator, to give them ghosts something to work with, and turn on the digital voice recorder.
I pawned off Lucille (my white noise generator) for a pack of smokes, so instead I fire up my flat screen TV and keep it on static.
Then it’s time to play the waiting game.
Sixteen minutes go by.
I’m on the bed, dreaming of somewhere nice like Acapulco, with a mai tai and a nice dame by my side, when I hear a noise.
A soft creaking sound.
It’s faint. Probably from downstairs.
“Quit acting like a damn greenhorn,” I tell myself as I pull the flask out of my trench coat pocket.
But then I hear it again, over by the rocking chair. Only, it ain’t moving.
Gripping Clementine like a .45 automatic, I roll off the bed and tip-toe towards the chair.
2.7 …
My heartbeat spikes like the EMF reading.
3.0.
More creaking, only louder now.
God, it‘s freezing in here.
“Is anyone there?”
Almost there. A few feet away.
Levels drop back to 1.5—the ghost is on the move.
Just then, I heard a keycard slip into a door. My door.
I creep back across the floor, my heart doing calisthenics, and duck down behind one of the beds.
Someone turns the doorknob but it won’t budge.
They try again, this time with gusto. No dice.
Quick as a leopard, I leap over the bed and slide up against the door, then put my good ear to it. No breathing outside. Just footsteps, going fast, fading down the hallway.
I fling open the door and step outside. The perp’s gone of course, but down the hall, Clementine picks up a level of 2.9. I follow the trail down the stairs, to the ground floor and through the empty lobby, into the entrance foyer.
Inside the bar, levels bottom out like a lowered truck on a speed bump. I’m about to turn around and retrace my steps when Clementine spikes again. 3.2. Thing is, she’s pointed at nothing but a set of shot glasses, each filled with a dark liquor.
“Hey toots,” I tell the bartender. “What’re those?”
The bartender’s a sweet brunette dame with piercing blue eyes. They’re Jaeger shots, she tells me. On special, $2 each.
I ain’t willing to let the trail go cold, so I fork out the cash and investigate the shot for paranormal activity.
Nothing, except a tiny buzz, but Clementine’s still spiking.
I order another shot.
Rinse and repeat 14 more times.
3:05 a.m.
Home sweet home.
What a waste of time. That trail was deader than a … wait, where’d my lighter go? (Hic!) I could’ve sworn I put it on the counter, or nightssstand, or whatever that iss.
Wait, someone musssve stolen… Ow!
Who put… who put that chair here?
Can’t a man invessstigate a haunted room without (hic!) some ghosst sssstealing hisss … sssswait, how’d I get on the floor?
(Hic!)
The window’sssss open … outside, the moon hangsss over the world like a jjhn uxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
8:35 a.m.
I woke up, face down on my typewriter.
An all-percussion symphony was playing in my head, and the acoustics were incredible.
First thing I wanted was a cigarette; second, some answers.
Something just didn’t seem kosher, and I wasn’t just talking about that Jewish hot dog stand on 47th. Sixteen shots of Jaeger might be enough to make me a better dancer; it wasn’t enough to turn off the lights.
I took stock of the room, only to discover that the rocking chair had been reduced to a pile of wood chippings. Not only that, the whole room was a mess. I knew the reason—I had been set up—but I didn’t why. Or who, even.
Who would want to set me up?
Outside, I could hear the faint racket of sirens, growing louder by the second.
Suddenly, all the clues aligned like numbers to a safe.
My client, P. Bass.
I’m a sucker for names, but with faces, I’m about a B+. And who could forget those piercing blue eyes? The same blue eyes I saw last night, at the bar. The broad was brunette, sure, but the hair sure looked fake.
I thought the bartender was just selling me shots, but she sold me out. All she wanted was a patsy to pin the crime on!
I didn’t have much time. I gathered up my equipment and my smokes and headed out via the rooftop.
12:34 p.m.
Outside, questions pour down like the rain, but like a lasagna cooking in the oven, there ain’t much point in thinking about them right now.
I had been set up, but this wasn’t the first time.
I’d move office, where, I don’t know.
I’d clear my name, how, I didn’t know, either.
But I did know this: nobody sets up Tracer Spade.
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