THE HAMMER FILES: My Home My Office

This entry is part 16 of 16 in the series Chapter 1: The Case of December's Debt.

Home at Lost

The cab was an old yellow dog, its engine wheezing with every turn. I paid the fare—plus a dime for good measure—and stepped out onto the worn concrete. The cabbie, a grizzled old man with a face like a forgotten map, tipped his hat before I told him goodnight, a whisper that got lost in the city’s hum.

The door to my office was a familiar friend, the key a silver promise, and inside, the stale air felt like a second skin. It was quiet, the dim lamplight like an old friend, hiding the dirt on the carpet. This place was home once, but old Jack died out on the street tonight, along with the angel and the two rat stooges. Jamie walked away, but a piece of his soul stayed behind with them, a wound that won’t ever heal. This office, with its filing cabinets and its ghosts, was the only home I had, and maybe it was time to retire from this racket and find a new one. It’s been a good game, but the price is too high. My hands, which had so often held a gun, now held a stack of papers, all the secrets and lies of a city I was done with. The names, the faces, the betrayals—I took every single one and dumped them on the floor, standing there for a long time just looking at the pile of my old life. That pile of filth had grown deep enough. That’s it. I’m through. I cracked open a bottle and began to drink. As the morning sun began to trickle through the blinds, chasing away last night’s shadows, I drifted off into a nightmarish maze of angles and demons, saints and sinners and those who blur the line—a twisted world from which there was no escape.

The Wake-up Call

I was awoken from my fitful sleep by the clanging and banging of my obnoxious telephone. I knew what time it was—past ten. The message service had started forwarding calls, which they always do at ten, and the night messages would get here about 10:30 by messenger service. A call this early meant something was important, but I didn’t care. The phone was a tether, and I had cut the line. I was done.

It rang again, a long, desperate wail that bounced off the dusty walls. I ignored it. Two rings. Three. Four. I’d let it ring all day if I had to, for the clanging, a symphony of a life I’d left behind, was too much. On the ninth ring, I grit my teeth, and on the tenth, I lifted the receiver.

“Jack Hammer,” I said, the words a low, gravelly rasp I didn’t recognize. My plan was to tell whoever this was that I was done, out of business, through, but before I could get a word in, a voice answered. It was old and sweet, like a grandmother’s, a voice that had no business on the other end of a phone to a man like me.

“Is this Jack Hammer?” the voice asked, a soft whisper that cut through the years. “The Jack Hammer who lived on the streets of Old Town?”

My plan vanished. Old Town. The word hit me like a slap from a ghost, for nobody knew that part of my life. Nobody.

“Yes, it is,” I replied, the words a cold, practiced reflex. “How may I help you?”

“This is Erma Bennett from Old Town. Do you remember me?” she replied.

Erma Bennett. Of course I remembered Erma Bennett, the mother of my first true love. The girl who took a sparkle to me when I was a young gangster running numbers for Claude Bronson. Angela Bennett—my mind began to wash backward to the summer we spent… But my thoughts were interrupted.

“Jack, can you meet with me? I have so much to tell you. So much I need to tell you,” she continued.

“Well, yes,” I said, “but could you please tell me what this is about?”

She in turn said, “No, Jack, I’m sorry but I can’t. This water is much too deep to go into with sandals on. Today is Tuesday. I’ll be arriving by train to Old Town tomorrow. Could you maybe meet me Thursday?”

“Well, surely,” I said, “but can you at least tell me…”

Her voice interrupted me again. “No, no, Jack, I can’t. Will you meet me at my sister Alison’s house in Old Town? Here is the address.”

I scribbled down the address while she was speaking. Again I protested for more information, but she was adamant. “No, Jack. This needs face to face.”

And with that, she hung up the phone.

Series Navigation<< THE HAMMER FILES: On the Lamb.

Chapter 1: The Case of December's Debt.