Moonshine

Moonshine By G.D. Penman Vergil’s shift was almost over when he caught a case. The sun was poking one lazy eye over the horizon by the time he got down to the riverside to look at whichever Prom-trotter from the university had decided to try and catch a bullet in his teeth. The bull on guard was some poor patrolman who looked like his balls hadn’t even dropped and Vergil had to flash his badge before the kid took his hand off the butt of his gun. It was probably easy to get spooked by one corpse if you hadn’t been in the war. Every time he left the station, Vergil made a bet with himself that the case was going to come back to the Miskatonic University. If it wasn’t a student pulling the Dutch act over nothing, then it was some scrap between boozehounds that had gotten out of hand. The townies in Arkham didn’t get murdered, except by students, and if they committed any murders themselves then they were tidy enough about it so it didn’t become Vergil’s job to track them down. He was pretty sure he had lost his bet when he spotted the body. None of the rich kids at the university would have been seen dead wearing anything as nondescript as a flatcap and an olive slicker. The dead mook was lying face-down on the grass, pointed towards the row houses of the town proper, and the only bullet hole Vergil could see was in his back. Blood would have looked almost black on the grass in the dull red of the early morning light, but a spray of it would have sparkled in the beam of his flashlight, which meant all the blood was under the body. Which in turn meant the victim had been on foot, in a pair of rubber-soled sailor’s boots, heading from the Miskatonic River up towards town when somebody shot him in the back. Vergil strolled over to the river, looking for boot-prints to confirm his theory and he found them in the riverbank mud. First a deep sunk pair—side by side—then a row of them—heavy on the toe and light on the heel. The victim had jumped off a boat and run for it. Commercial traffic didn’t run up the Miskatonic River at night, the depth was too unpredictable, and the turns got tight after town. Which meant smugglers. Bootleggers. Gangsters. Vergil sighed and went back to roll the dead man. He had a drop of tan in his complexion, still showing despite him catching the big one. Thick eyebrows, thin lips, heavy jowls. The clothes under the jacket didn’t shake Vergil’s assumption that he was a sailor. He had no wallet, no papers, nothing to identify him. A smuggler wouldn’t want to carry any of that, would they? The front of his shirt was a bloody mess, the ground underneath him stained dark where his life had gone trickling out. Nothing useful. He was just about to call it a night when he caught a glimpse of something on the dead man’s hand, a little bird worked into the skin with faded blue ink. Sailors had tattoos. He could work with that. With a quick glance to make sure that the bull on guard was facing the other way, Vergil pushed up the dead man’s sodden shirt. The bullet hole certainly drew the eye, but there were patterns on the skin under the blood. A shape like some sort of fish was splayed over his stomach, under the curly hair. A heart, a flapper girl, and a dog were dotted around his chest. They’d certainly help identify the body, but they didn’t give much else away. Vergil was just about to cover him over when he saw the tattoo hidden in the thick thatch of hair down below the fish. It was a scratchy jagged symbol that hurt his eyes, barely big enough to be legible but familiar enough that it made Vergil’s stomach heave. He fell backwards onto the dew wet grass and had to scramble to his feet before the uniform turned around. The shirt was still bunched up, but his stomach was churning at the thought of touching the tainted cadaver again, so Vergil used his foot to drag it back down. His heart was hammering in his chest, so hard, he was surprised it couldn’t be heard. A steadying breath completely failed to do its job, so he embraced the panic and started to move. With completely false camaraderie, he slung an arm around the shoulders of the nervous bull and asked, “Where could a man go to get a quiet drink in this town?” “Excuse me, sir?” “You’re a young man, you’ve got to take your moll somewhere.” “I don’t have a…That is to say…” Vergil resisted the urge to shake him. “Listen, I’m not looking to put anyone in a jam.” There was a long moment where the uniform was conflicted then he finally said, “I’ve heard about a place on Haverhill Street, around the back of the old piano store. But I’ve never—” “Thanks kid. The coroner will be along soon. Keep your nose clean.” It was either too late or too early to visit a speakeasy, depending on your point of view, but there was no chance Vergil was going to sleep with his heart still hammering away, so he went back to the station to cause some trouble. “Who runs the panther-piss racket in Arkham?” Lieutenant Williams looked up sharply from his newspaper. “You leave mob work to the mob squad. Or the FBI. Preferably the FBI so they catch all the flack instead of us.” “I’m not looking to pinch anyone for it. I just need to speak to somebody up the ladder to get some dope on anybody that might be passing through in their line of business.” Williams gritted his teeth but jerked his head in what might have been an invitation to come inside his office. “You go out there causing trouble and I’ll have your buzzer, you hear me? Last thing Arkham needs is war on the streets. Particularly since I’m pretty sure we’d lose.” When Vergil didn’t say anything, he grumbled on. “There are two outfits in Arkham, but they dance around each other so they don’t step on nobody’s toes. One of them sells local shine and a bit of corn from the fine farms of New England. The other one brings in brown plaid from abroad. Higher class joints.” “Like the one on Haverhill?” The lieutenant turned red. “You been poking around there already?” “No sir.” “Why is it you always look like you know something everybody else don’t?” “Asking questions, sir. Isn’t that what you pay me for?” “Get out of my office.” “Who runs Haverhill, sir?” “Did you hear me?” Vergil smiled placidly. “No sir, could you repeat the name again for me?” “A skinny mick called Jimmy Hogan. Now get out of my office before I call some uniforms in here to give you the bum’s rush.” He smirked all the way out of the room. “Thank you, sir.”