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  Praise for the Jimmy “Soldier” Riley Series

  “Michael Lister has the world of Florida Panhandle noir all to himself. Tough, violent, and hard-boiled, This novel of obsession and suspense will remind you of Raymond Chandler, Graham Greene, and why you started reading crime novels in the first place.” John Dufresne

  “Tight, taut, terrific PI noir with a classic and fully-realized 1940s setting. Michael Lister is one of those rare, gifted writers who can immerse you with his first sentence. The “Soldier” series is a treasure—don’t miss it!” Kelli Stanley

  “Lister’s hard-edged prose ranks with the best of contemporary noir fiction.” Publisher’s Weekly Starred Review of The Big Goodbye.

  “Michael Lister successfully brings back the hard-boiled 1940′s P.I. with his Jimmy ‘Soldier’ Riley series. Soldier has heart, the dialogue is relentlessly hard-boiled, and the local is steamy and original. Lister knows how to mix it all together with the steady hand of a solid pro.” Robert Randisi

  “Michael Lister delivers the goods like Tyson in his prime, hard, fast and beautiful kind of brutal.” Gary Phillips

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  Books by Michael Lister

  (John Jordan Novels)

  Power in the Blood

  Blood of the Lamb

  Flesh and Blood

  (Special Introduction by Margaret Coel)

  The Body and the Blood

  Blood Sacrifice

  Rivers to Blood

  Innocent Blood

  (Special Introduction by Michael Connelly)

  Blood Money

  Blood Moon

  Blood Cries

  (Jimmy “Soldier” Riley Novels)

  The Big Goodbye

  The Big Beyond

  The Big Hello

  The Big Bout

  The Big Blast

  In a Spider’s Web (short story)

  The Big Book of Noir

  (Merrick McKnight / Reggie Summers Novels)

  Thunder Beach

  A Certain Retribution

  (Remington James Novels)

  Double Exposure

  (includes intro by Michael Connelly)

  Separation Anxiety

  (Sam Michaels / Daniel Davis Novels)

  Burnt Offerings

  Separation Anxiety

  (Love Stories)

  Carrie’s Gift

  (Short Story Collections)

  North Florida Noir

  Florida Heat Wave

  Delta Blues

  Another Quiet Night in Desparation

  (The Meaning Series)

  The Meaning of Jesus

  Meaning Every Moment

  The Meaning of Life in Movies

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  The Big Blast

  a Jimmy “Soldier” Riley Noir Novel

  by

  Michael Lister

  CONTENTS

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-one

  Chapter Forty-two

  Chapter Forty-three

  Chapter Forty-four

  Chapter Forty-five

  Chapter Forty-six

  Chapter Forty-seven

  Chapter Forty-eight

  Chapter One

  I didn’t like what I was doing.

  I was following a woman who reminded me of Lauren for a man who reminded me of me.

  Downtown was dark beneath a cloud-shrouded sky, the air thick with the threat of night rain.

  It was early January 1944, and unseasonably warm even for North Florida, as if the incoming rain was part of something equatorial.

  The woman in question, Rita Welles, was supposed to be at the Ritz Theater with her neighbor and coworker at the phone company, Betty Blackmon, watching Gary Cooper and Ingrid Bergman in Technicolor for the fourth time. Instead, she was walking down Grace Avenue the way women do when they’re meeting someone.

  Like the best lies, her cover story of seeing For Whom the Bell Tolls with Betty was partially true. She had started there. She had even watched some of the picture, but before Cooper could fall for Bergman, she had ducked out the side door and down 4th Street toward a place that was haunted for me.

  Nick’s was a dark, out-of-the-way bar that served hard liquor for serious drinkers. It had a Wurlitzer jukebox, a small dance floor, and a couple of pool tables in the back, but what it mostly had was hard liquor and plenty of it.

  This is where Ruth Ann Johnson, the Salvation Army nurse who had lost her leg helping wounded soldiers in the South Pacific and her life helping me hunt for who killed Lauren, and I used to meet to talk and drink. It was also the place I had tailed Angel Adams to—and where a short middle-aged man fighting over her had put a round into the mirror behind the bar.

  As Rita entered the joint, she looked lost.

  Seemingly unsure what to do, she began making her way around the fringes of the place, some part of her always pressed up against the wall.

  I eased onto a stool at the bar, ordered a bourbon, and watched in the huge mirror behind the bar as Rita move awkwardly around the room.

  I had a good view—and not just of Rita, but the entire place—even with the various bottles lined up in front of the mirror and the spider web etched in it above them.

  It was the usual raucous crowd. Wainwright Shipyard workers with money to drink, and boys who could die soon and didn’t want to think about it.

  The USO Club a couple of streets over, where Lauren was working right now, had been created to keep servicemen out of places like this. It just didn’t always work.

  There were far more men than women—an equation that more often than not added up to big trouble.

  “Hiya, Soldier. Buy me a drink?”

  I turned to see Betsy Dobbins, Panama City’s hardest-working working girl on the stool next to me.

  “Hiya Betsy.”

  “It’s Elizabeth tonight,” she said.

  Betsy—Elizabeth tonight—had had a lot of competition since the beginning of the war. Working women were everywhere these days—and not just in the factories and shipyards. Unlike Betsy, who was a pro before the war began and would still be long after they called the whole thing off, amateurs flooded the market—“victory girls,” “good-time charlottes,” and “patriotutes”—many of whom charged little more than a Coke or ice c
ream sundae.

  “Beg your pardon, Elizabeth,” I said. “Buy you a drink?”

  “Sure, soldier. I’ll drink all your hard-earned divorce work.”

  “Actually it’s my wife’s inheritance,” I said. “She’s loaded, so I don’t do too much divorce work anymore.”

  “And she wouldn’t object to you buying me a drink?”

  “She’d insist.”

  “Sounds like quite a catch you got yourself there.”

  I nodded, and returned my attention to the mirror.

  Rita was looking for someone. Little doubt about that. And she was going about it in such a conspicuous way that whoever it was couldn’t help but see her.

  “Pretty girl,” Betsy said. “Would your wife insist you watch her too?”

  “Actually she does. She chose the case and is footin’ the bill. She’s convinced the little lady isn’t stepping out on her little mister.”

  “Whatta you think?”

  “Clearly she’s steppin’ out,” I said.

  “Tell me more about this wife of yours,” she said. “She sounds too good to be true.”

  “She’s too good not to be,” I said.

  “That sounds almost religious.”

  “It kinda is.”

  “Geez fella.”

  “I know. Sorry. But . . . can’t help myself. You knew what we’d been through to be together, you’d understand. And the truth is I just came from seeing Bergman and Cooper. And a joint like this makes me maudlin—especially following a woman like that and sitting next to one like you.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Meant it as a compliment,” I said. “Thing is, I’m feeling guilty and ashamed too.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Of who I used to be, of who I thought my wife was back then—back when I was following her like I’m following this girl.”

  I nodded at Rita’s reflection in the mirror behind the bar.

  “Oh.”

  “Yeah.”

  I could see in the mirror that Rita had found someone—just not who she was looking for.

  In the back room, between the wall and the farthest pool table, a thick, dark-complected man with a sweaty neck showing out of an open collar was pawing at her like he’d never seen a pretty girl before.

  “Looks like your doll needs some help,” she said.

  I nodded.

  “Not that you’d be much with just the one arm. He looks plenty big and strong. And kinda mean.”

  I watched for a moment longer, hoping someone else would intervene—perhaps the poor sap she was supposed to be meeting. Hated to blow my cover if I didn’t have to. But when no one stepped up, I spun around on my barstool and stood.

  “Wish me luck,” I said to Betsy.

  “You’re gonna need it.”

  I started toward the back room, but was still close enough to hear her say, “Even money he rips your other arm off and clubs you to death with it.”

  Chapter Two

  Emboldened by Betsy’s belief in me, I weaved my way through the couples dancing and emerged on the other side more or less unscathed.

  “Rita,” I said in a loud voice over the music. “What are you doing back here, honey? I told you to meet me at the bar. Come on, we’ve got to go. We’re late to meet Steve and your sister.”

  She looked confused, but not nearly as much as Sweaty Neck or his pals.

  The men scattered around the back room were what you’d expect. Like him, they were redneck ruffians with a few drinks in them. Part of the reason they were here was to fight. They’d have his back in a brawl.

  “Beat it, pal. The lady and I are about to dance.”

  “That’s no lady,” I said. “That’s my wife.”

  “Finders keepers, little—”

  He stopped talking when he caught sight of my missing right.

  “Gee, soldier, I’m sorry. I had no idea you were—”

  “He ain’t no soldier,” another man said from the shadows. “He’s just a cheap peeper.”

  “I prefer affordable private eye,” I said.

  “You crackin’ wise with me, pal? Pretending you a soldier. I oughta rip the other’n off and give you a good goddamn thrashin’ with it.”

  “The prescient prostitute at the bar put down even money on you doing that very thing, but if we could go back for just a moment. How exactly did I pretend to be a soldier? I’m not pretending to be short a limb either. It’s on the level.”

  “We’re gonna enjoy kickin’ your teeth in, ain’t we boys? I mean more than usual.”

  “That a usual source of entertainment for you fellas, is it?”

  As I had been talking, I had been making eyes and head gestures at Rita, and evidently a few had finally gotten through, because with Sweaty Neck savoring the frivolity his boots and my teeth were about to have, she was able to slip away, slinking back along the wall the way she had come in and out the door without him ever noticing. Not that he would have cared much at this point anyway. His one appetite had overtaken his other.

  I began to back away, leading the men out of the poolroom and onto the dance floor. I had wanted to see how many would actually pursue. Four followed me.

  “I was hoping it would be fewer,” I said, but it was lost in the song on the jukebox and the noise of the crowd.

  Now it was time to decide what to do. If I drew my gun, I’d have to use it. Something I didn’t want to do. The risk was too great I’d wing one of the dancers. Or worse. Without the gat, I was no match for any one of the men, let alone all four. It occurred to me I could offer to buy them a drink—a not injudicious use of Lauren’s money, and one I was certain she would wholeheartedly approve of.

  “Whatta you say I buy you fellas a drink?” I said. “Hell, a couple of ’em.”

  “Whatta you say we mop up the dance floor with you, then take your milk money and buy our own drinks.”

  That milk money crack meant this sweaty neck bastard was a proud bully.

  “Technically, I’d still be buying them,” I said. “Or my wife would.”

  “Oh, we’ll get to your wife,” he said. “Just give us time.”

  They didn’t even know Lauren and that still made me mad as hell.

  I was still trying to figure my next move when I backed into a wall and had to stop.

  But something wasn’t right. I was now only in the middle of the dance floor—a place I was fairly certain they hadn’t put a wall since I had crossed the floor just a few minutes before.

  “Nothin’ in this world I hate so much as a bully,” the wall said.

  “I recognize that voice,” I said.

  I glanced back and up to see Orson Ferrell, one of my oldest and best friends from school.

  “Orca?” I said. “Is that you?”

  “It’s me, Jimmy my boy. Whatta we mixed up in this time?”

  Before I could respond, Sweaty Neck rushed us—a move I assumed meant it’d be quicker to show rather than explain to Orc what was going on.

  With one fluid motion, Orca reached over and past me and brought his hammer of a hand down in a fist that bopped Sweaty Neck on the top of the head like a field mouse.

  The thick, sweaty, mean man crumpled to the dance floor, his huddled heap now being danced around.

  Suddenly, as if remembering they were in the middle of an important match, the other men turned and all but ran into the back room.

  “I’ve always found most people can be reasoned with,” Orca said. “Haven’t you?”

  “Can’t imagine I’ve found it to quite the extent you have, big fella, but I certainly see what you mean.”

  “By God but it’s good to see you, Jimmy,” Orca said. “You’re just the person I been lookin’ for. I need your help.”

  Chapter Three

  It was funny to see Orson without Ernie. They had always gone together like Moby and Ahab.

  The three of us had been the best of buddies growing up, often referred to by those around
us as the Three Musketeers, but the truth was, Orson and Ernie were closer to each other than I was to either one of them. I was always odd man out, even if only slightly so—a dynamic that had increased with the war. They got to serve; I did not.

  “Where you been keepin’ yourself, pal?” Orson said. “It’s been too long.”

  We had largely lost touch—something that had far more to do with my shame and embarrassment at not being in the trenches with them than the trenches themselves.

  “My life is boring,” I said.

  “Ain’t what I hear, pal. Don’t be so modest.”

  “Tell me about yours, the war. What’re you doing home? Doesn’t look like you’re missing any parts.”

  “Didn’t leave any parts over there, but brought a few extras home with me. Shrapnel in my leg and a metal plate in my head. Let’s grab a beer and head outside. This screwy music has the plate in my head vibrating—and not in no kinda good way.”

  I grabbed a couple of beers and we walked outside, Sweaty Neck still sleeping as dead hoofers trembled around him.

  It took some effort, but we found a nice quiet place down a little ways on 4th near a dark warehouse.

  “Was it as bad as everybody says?” I said.

  “Worse.”

  I nodded and frowned, a fresh wave of guilt washing over me.

  “I believed in God before I went over there,” he said. “Now I only believe in hell.”

  I wasn’t sure what to say to that, so I said nothing, and we fell quiet a moment.

  I thought about how different our experiences over the past few years had been. We had both been through hell of a sorts, but Lauren had made me believe in God, in love, in spite of hell, while for Orson there had only been hell.

  “God, but it’s good to be back,” he said.

  “Really great to have you back,” I said, awkwardly patting him on the back with my left hand.

  I felt bad for him and wanted to express some kind of sympathy, of solidarity in the hell he was in—and for as awkward as the past was, it seemed to achieve the desired effect.

  He looked at me, our eyes locking, nodded, and began to smile.

  “How about Ernie?” I said. “Where is he? How is he doing?”

  “Be home soon. Convalescing in a hospital over there. Lost an eye and two fingers.”