Solomon McKay: The Case of the Astora Hotel

It was a run-down part of town that was half-industry, half-degenerate, not quite Jabi’d out yet. The hotel was located on Astora street, incidentally called the Astora, which had a habit of attracting all kinds of trouble, mysterious trouble. Three murders this week already: one was considered a double homicide, an altercation gone bad; the third was related to my case, a missing dog. The owner asked me to find his pooch, though my assistant keeps reminding me that a missing dog poster found on a telephone pole is not someone asking me to do work, nor is it proof of contracted work—something about accounting. Bah, I don’t have time for stuff like that when the trail is going cold by the minute.
 A Negro and an Indian–the regular kind, not the Dalit kind–were perched by the entranceway, their beady eyes sizing me up, giving me a queer look before turning back to whatever they were doing before. That must be the green light I can go in.
 “What do you want, josser?” The Indian moves to block me, his arms crossed.
 “I got questions for the staff about the dead chaser from last week, let me in.”
 “The Olga girl? She OD’d. Pretty shut case, what more do you need?”
 “Client confidentiality.”
 “Christ, you’re not a copper? Then get lost, we don’t have time for goofs like you hanging around here.”
 He shoves me away. I stumble and begin to walk back up the stairs again. The Negro reaches for something, though I can’t quite make out what, his body obscured by the guy in front me. I contemplate reaching for my own piece, but decide against it—it would just be more paperwork for me.
 I walk around to the back of the hotel, making my way down the alleyway that looks like it hasn’t seen the light of day, ever. The back entrance doubles as the smoking lounge for the hotel’s cooks. Cigarette butts litter the ground, along with all manner of foreign substances. The grease bin is overflowing, and rats go about their 9-to-5 in trash city. I rap on the door in the unmistakable code that the chefs will know. The door opens slowly, a young but prematurely-aged hollow face peers through the crack.
 “What you want?”
 “Let me in, I gave the knock.”
 “What knock? You the new guy?”
 I’ve been a private detective for a few years, so to be called the “new guy” is a bit insulting.
 “No, what?”
 “Then get lost or use the front entrance.”
 Blast, this isn’t going well. I need to think of something quick before my window of opportunity closes. I shove my foot in the open door.
 “When you say new guy, do you mean…,” I intentionally let myself trail off, hoping he’ll take the bait.
 “The new dishwasher, yeah. So is it you or not?”
 “It is—I mean, I technically start tomorrow, so I’m not the new guy yet.” Nice one, Solomon, this’ll surely get me in now.
 He gives me a blank look, his mouth slightly agape. Mouth breather. 
 “So? Come back tomorrow when your shift starts.”
 Damn, I slipped up. Could I threaten him with my piece…? No, better not. I’d just get in trouble with the police chief again.
 “I want to take a look around today before starting,” I slip him two Masons in hopes he’ll cooperate. “Think you can do that for me?”
 He takes them and shuts the door. One second goes by. Two. Did he stiff me? Then three and I hear the door unlock. 
 “Keep it down,” he says while pointing in the direction of the lobby. 
 “Who was that, B?” I hear in the distance as I head off. 
 “No, one. Just a drunk asking for directions…”
 I crack the door open a peep: the lobby is dark with a green tinge from a single light halfway on the other side of the room. No one is at the reception, not at this hour at least. I flitter across and make my way up the main staircase. At least, that was my plan. Instead, I’m met by a stairwell full of miscellaneous items of furniture and passed out, needled-up punks. Guess I better take the elevator. Doubling back I enter the elevator and tell the half-blind operator to take me to the top floor.
 “You the new Collector, sir?”
 “Not collecting yet, first I need to find my prize.”
 “Very good luck with the search then, sir,” he says as we arrive at the top. The rancid smell of the elevator leaves my nose and is replaced by a smell that time forgot.
 Walking to the end of the hallway, I start at room 532. I dig around in my jacket for my pack of dog-luring bacon, making sure not to take out the bag of peanut-covered M&Ms. I learned a while ago that dogs don’t like chocolate; lost a cool five Kings from that little fumbled case.
 I unfurl the packet and start wafting the scent of its contents around. If this floor had any dogs on it, I didn’t hear them. I try again on a few more floors, this time with a working stairwell. On the third floor that I try I hear loud music blaring from inside a room. Loud music means a loud mind, this must be our dog-napper. I knock on the neighbour’s door. No answer. It’s unlocked. A few junkies lay sprawled out on a couch, paraphernalia in hand, glazed over eyes but with those unmistakable constricted pupils. I ignore them and walk over to the window, looking for the fire exit. Bingo. 
 I hobble out onto it and crouch along as I make my way over to where the dog-napper’s place should be, the cover of night being my greatest ally. There was all manner of depravity going on inside that canine cell-or so I imagine-but seeing my prize… the dog on the kitchen floor was the only thing that mattered. The window didn’t open. Knocking on it was lost to the occupants due to the cacophony blaring from their music box. Either I break the glass and grab the dog or wait for one of  the dog-nappers to enter the room and get his attention. 
 I wait it out and soon enough some dame in a French nightgown walks in. I knock on the window and this time get the attention of someone. She opens it.
 “The hell you doing out there? You one of Rich’s skeevs?”
 Dealing with women is always a problem. I contemplate giving her a pair of Irish sunglasses but worry that my masculine strength might be too much for her, and number four for the hotel. 
 “I got a package for the dog,” I say as I reach into my pocket and hand her my dog lure.
 She takes it and walks back towards the dog. A cold chill runs down my spine. I feel like my gut has fallen out from under me as I realize what package I gave her: the M&Ms. No, this is not good. I call out to her but she can’t hear me. Damn that music! For some reason she walks past the dog, who pays her no mind, and goes back to the other room. I quickly take out the correct package this time, enticing the dog with the smell of meat. That gets the little pooch’s attention as it rises and rushes to the window, yapping along the way. I see her handing the M&Ms to some man, barely seeing the silhouette of her pointing to me from the dimly, blue-lit room. It’s go time. I drop the bacon as I’m grabbing the dog, which gives out a squeaky yelp when my hands seize its sides. A loud shriek overpowers the music. 
 “He’s stealing Princess, Rich!”
 The apartment begins to quake, heavy footsteps approach me but I’m already making my way down the fire escape. Shifting the dog to one arm, I take out my piece and yell: “Here, Fido, fetch!” 
 A loud bang echoes through the night. Great, more attention. Wrong bullet load. I speed up my escape and hop down into the back alley, my shins scream at me but I don’t have time to review the complaint box. By the time I’m back in the office it’s nearly a quarter to three in the morning. I give the dog some food and pass out on the couch.
 I’m awoken by streams of sunlight passing through the gaps of the blinds. Groggy and dazed, I make my way to the coffee machine to prepare a batch. I ring up my assistant and tell him to get his mongrel hide down here before I fire him. Some time later he arrives. He walks in and notices the dog.
 “Whose dog is this, Solomon?”
 “What a moronic question. It’s obviously the dog from the missing poster we found the other day, I even found it in the same neighbourhood.”
 “I’m afraid to ask but where exactly did you find her?”
 “In a den of evil, Assistant, a den of evil.”
 “What does that even mean? Solomon, did you steal her?!”
 “Rescue, Assistant, rescue. There’s a difference. The law can’t prosecute me for rescuing a stolen animal.”
 He shakes his head, seemingly realizing the mistake he made. This is why I have to teach him this stuff otherwise he’d be lost without me.
 “Assistant, prepare to move out, we’ve got a reward to claim!”
 We arrive at the location of the drop-off point, another abode of ill repute with overgrown foliage everywhere. You’d think these people would clean up their yard. Sheesh. I notice a fellow walking towards us. His breath slow, face flushed, and covered with ticks–I assume so since he’s scratching his arms like a man possessed.
 “Take your clothes to Ruby’s, down on Terminal and Union street, they’ll get those ticks out no problem,” I say.
 He gives me a disconnected look with his pinpoint eyes before wandering off. We make it through the seemingly endless jungle of weeds and vines to find the owner standing there staring at us in a rather standoffish manner. You’d think he’d be more grateful to see his dog returned.
 “Can I help you?”
 “I’ve come for my reward, here’s your dog,” I say, holding the dog out in front of me.
 He doesn’t take it—just stares at us. Maybe he’s forgotten about it, better remind him.
 “Assistant, show him the wanted poster.”
 He takes out the wanted dog poster and shows it to the owner.
 “As you can see, we saw your wanted dog poster. $50 dogs a pop, it says. Well, here’s the dog!”
 He stares at us again. Clearly, he’s in shock that someone has returned his dog to him. My arms start to tire from holding the dog out this whole time. I give him a friendly smile of encouragement to let him know it’s okay to take the pooch back.
 “That’s not my dog.”