The Price For Harmony

By JMTjr (BizDev Jeff's penname)

This is the first chapter of my novel published back in 2018 called The Price For Harmony. It's the second installment from my Duke Bradley mysteries. It's one of my favorite chapters to read and was also my favorite to write. Here I talk about the Akron Civic Theatre. A landmark in Akron, Ohio.

ONE

Seven months after I shot and killed Vinnie Torlino in self-defense, the city of Akron got this new assistant chief prosecutor who had it in for me. Now this guy, Robert Wells, is a special kind of jerk. He convinced the suits in the ivory tower to let him reopen the investigation of the Torlino incident, even though I’d been cleared of any charges. He liked to toss around the term ‘Vigilante Justice’. Apparently he got wind of the medical examiner's opinion that Torlino would have sucked air for another twenty to thirty minutes after I stuck my slim jim in his throat. Plenty of time to get him to a hospital. And that he was probably no longer a threat before I plugged him with his own bullet. I told Wells to bring it on. Because I’m here to tell you that I’m not a vigilante. I’m a private eye. Duke Bradley, Private Eye.

I didn’t have time for that jerk. I had other balls in the air. The three-minute egg of fame I’d enjoyed after bringing down that human trafficking circus was gone, and the five grand reward I got from the FBI for solving the Karen Linford murder had already evaporated. Cases were tapering off and I’d just gotten stiffed on a skip trace by a landlord looking for a tenant who went on the lam. Found the guy in less than a day, then waited two to report it just to make it look good. Then all I got was stories and excuses instead of payment. Things were getting hairy in a hurry.

That's when I met Harmony Bane. She was young, Gothic, and dead. Just twenty years old, she’d been sliced up, gutted, and stuffed into the trunk of her own car like a hunted deer. The Harmony Bane murder is one of the strangest cases I’ve ever agreed to take on. And it taught me a little about acceptance.

It was 8:10 p.m. on a sticky-warm July night. I walked out of St. Paul’s Episcopal Church, where I’d been attending my regular Thursday night AA meeting. I didn’t feel much like sticking around for punch and cookie time. With this new prosecutor looking up my dress and my lack of real cases, I wasn’t the greatest company.

The sun was just starting to set and the traffic on West Market Street was down to a trickle. Typical summer night in Akron, Ohio. One that hangs on to the heat of the day, but can still put a chill down your spine. I smoked half a cigarette, then hopped the bus going downtown. My Taurus was in the shop.

As we got close to Main Street, I pulled the cord and got off. I decided to take the long walk home. I had to spill out some of the nonsense that was rattling around in my noggin, and walking is great meditation.

I finished the other half of my cigarette and flicked the butt into the waterway that runs along Canal Street, then made my turn onto Main. I was heading to my regular bodega for a pack of smokes and some lottery tickets. At 8:37 p.m. the cell phone Shriya got me started cock-a-doodle-dooing. I wanted to change that ringtone, but I didn’t know how and Shriya wouldn’t show me. So for the meantime I was stuck with the rooster.

Now, I have a hell of a time with that cell phone. My fingers are too thick for the buttons, and every time I try to use the damn thing I end up pressing 3 or 7 or emergency call. This time was no different. At long last, I was able to answer it. It was Special Agent Shriya Thakur, FBI, on the other end.

“Hey Duke, how was your meeting?” 

I love her furry British accent.

“Nothing new. Twelve ways to not drink,” I reported. “What’s up, doc?”

“Don’t call me doc,” she said. “I’ve got one you might be interested in.”

“You have two I’m interested in.”

“It’s a case, Duke. Six years cold.” She ignored my innuendo. “I’ve already got my director's permission to bring you in on it, if you’re still willing to work for the possibility of collecting the reward money like you did on the Karen Linford case.”

“Honestly, it depends. If the reward is good I’m in. If not, I have to focus on —”

“Twenty thousand.”

She sang my favorite song.

“Shriya, my love, I’m all yours. What’s the case?”

“Her name was Harmony. Harmony – wait — Harmony Bane. What do you know about Satan?”

“I was married to his sister for awhile,” I said and switched ears. “Now I rent an office from his love child. Why do you ask?”

“They’re saying this is some sort of Satanic cult slaying. Could be right up your alley.”

“How’s the file?” I asked.

“Well,” she started with a fluttery high pitch. “It’s light. Never any suspects. No credible witnesses,” she said carefully, then added, “but there’s an evidence box.”

I thought it over for a minute just to let her stew. I heard her breath in the receiver.

“Sure, what the hell. No harm in having a look at it. Bring it on by and we’ll see what we can figure out.”

“Should I bring wine?” she asked.

“Funny. Just grab a veggie pizza. Extra olives, green and black,” I said.

“I know what you like, Duke.”

“Good, then you’ll know what to wear. Check ya later, Shriya.” I hung up.

~~~

I picked up my smokes and lottery tickets, then continued on down Main toward Howard Street. Nightlife traffic was picking up and the bars and restaurants were getting their early surge. I saw a lull in traffic, and was about to jaywalk to the other side when I found myself standing in front of the Civic Theatre. Now the Civic is a landmark in downtown Akron, been there since the rubber days when Akron was the place to be. A lot of famous faces have been through those doors in eighty-five years, with no signs of stopping. It’s one of the most majestic theatres I’ve ever been in and they keep tabs on the upkeep pretty well. The vestibule is all hand-carved wood, and the lobby and theatre are too opulent for me to describe.

The marquee was all lit up in ancient light bulbs with the announcement of a noir film festival for the coming weekend. I kicked around the idea of buying a ticket and getting a seat. Well, two seats. I knew Shriya would enjoy it, but then I’d have to listen to her mimic their slang for the next week and a half and ruin the whole thing for me.

I’d seen all the films on the menu a dozen times each, but not on the big screen like they did back in the Thirties and Forties. I love the old black-and-white noirs. Don’t make them like that anymore, and they probably wouldn’t fly nowadays anyway. People want shit exploding and super-sadistic villains. The simple crook just isn’t fancy enough and nothing is black-and-white anymore. It’s all gray. The real Noir is over. Those black days are gone, no matter how hard someone tries to hold onto them.

Maybe a new type of film and literature... Call it ‘Mystere Gris’. That's French for ‘Gray Mystery’. Came up with it myself. With Mystere Gris there’s always light at the end of the hallway. In those movies it seems the sun never shines and everything good happens at night. Well I’m here to tell you, it ain’t so. Sometimes the sun is shining bright as hell and you still feel lousy. Then others you can be happy as a hyena and it’s all gray and gloomy like I like it.

Akron gets gloomy. It’s a gray city with gray skies and people that’ll talk a gray streak if you let them. Akron, Ohio. It may not be as exciting and big-time as L.A. or New York, Boston, or Chicago. But it’s my town. It’s where I live and it’s where I work and I like it. Akron has its own color of gray sky. I haven’t seen a gray sky like it anywhere I’ve been in the world. It's a happy gray, a hopeful gray, a smiling gray. Stare into it and you know the sun’s behind it. Nothing depressing about it. Just happy.

Buildings smile from the skyline with broken, dirty teeth that still have a gray film left on them from the old rubber factories. Back then when all the assembly lines were in full force, Akron was in its heyday. Rubber capital of the world. That was over seventy years ago and they’re still yapping about it. I don’t think a single tire or anything rubber has been made here for God knows how long. I could be wrong. But just like Noir, they want to hold onto the past. Let’s move forward.

So now Shriya got this new name stuck in my head. Harmony Bane. Sounds pretty cutesy. I was guessing it wasn't her government handle, but more of a nom de plume sort of thing. Unless she had it legally changed. We’d have to wait and see when Shriya came over. I was ready for my veggie pizza. And I missed her.

I went ahead and bought the tickets to the film festival for Saturday night, and decided to just put up with Shriya. I crossed Main and huffed up the Mull Street hill, then hit Graham, which took me back to the Lillian Building where my office is. I’m on the second floor over top of that rat, Nick Sutherland, and his farce of an insurance agency.

I got inside, flipped on the light, turned on the fan, and threw open the window. Then I went over to the desk, took out my Beretta from my back waistband where I keep it hidden under my shirt tail, and locked it in the bottom right-hand drawer. I sat down on the couch, lit a cigarette, and waited for Shriya to get there. And my pizza.