Tim Wohlforth has had fifty-one short stories accepted for publication.  A 2003 Pushcart Prize Nominee, he has received a Certificate of Excellence from the Dana Literary Society.  His noir novel, No Time To Mourn, was published by Quiet Storm in 2004.

Mr. Wohlforth lives in Oakland, California and is a fulltime writer.  Visit his website at www.timwohlforth.com

Direct correspondence to Tim Wohlforth or Editor.

Killer Fog:
A Jim Wolf Short Mystery

             A thick fog had swallowed up Jack London Square. I could hear the dolorous braying of a foghorn as I made my way across the promenade toward the shimmering orange glow of Big Emma’s. Normally, I view the fog as a friend that, realizing my need for solitude, has blocked off the rest of the world for me. But not this fog. It left me no space. Pushed in on me from all sides.

             Beads of moisture dripped down my face. My damp flannel shirt and jeans clung to my body. No wind but it was cold. I turned up the collar on my sports jacket. I stopped and looked around. I saw no one. No footsteps. Once again the bleating of the distant foghorn. Every ninety seconds. Incessantly. Never missing a beat. I felt a cloud of white pressing in on my face like a down pillow. Suffocating. I began to breath harder.

             I have a client to see, I told myself. A private eye has to take what he can get. Can’t panic. I shook myself like a dog after a dip in a cold stream. I trudged on toward the bar.

* * *

             I blinked, adjusting my eyes, as I passed through the black wrought-iron gates of the Nineteenth Century building. Big Emma’s was dimly lit by ornate brass lighting fixtures with golden candle-shaped bulbs. A wide mirror in a carved oak frame covered the wall. Dice cups, some with players’ names engraved on gold plaques, were stacked on a shelf in front of it. A large brass antique National cash register with monstrous keys stood in the middle. A tantalizing whiff of garlic and cheese floated through the air from the kitchen where cannelloni was being prepared. I breathed easier, immersing myself in light, the murmur of voices, warmth. I turned down my collar and wiped the drizzle off my forehead with a cotton handkerchief. Would have straightened my tie if I ever wore one.

             Lori Mazzetti polished the mahogany surface of the bar, her platinum blond ponytail bobbing up and down. She wore a white turtleneck sweater and a black skirt. A black velvet ribbon held her hair high up on her head. Some customers came to Big Emma’s just to watch her. I was one of them. She was my best friend. Once my lover. She looked up and saw me. A frown came over her small face, her deep blue eyes looked downright solemn. Not the usual bubbly Lori.

             "What are you doing out on a night like this?" she asked.

             "Not my choice. I got a panic call from a woman. Claims someone is following her, stalking her. So I told her to meet me here."

             "She picked one hell of a night." Lori said. She turned from me, reached for a bottle of Oban single malt Scotch – my bottle – and poured me a double shot. Neat. Lori frowned and the corners of her mouth turned down as if she’d just bit into an extremely sour pickle.

             "You heard about those deaths on the Nimitz?" she asked.

             "Deaths?"

             "All over the news. 'Killer Fog,' the newscaster on the Evening News had called it. Eighty car pile up. Ten dead. Happened not far from here. Down in Hayward. Weird. The fog rarely gets this thick."

             "Watching the Weather Channel?"

             "Yes. The fog's already started to mix with car exhaust, making it even thicker. The stuff's gonna stick around awhile."

             "Might hurt your business. Nobody will be able to find the place."

             "Look around you. Once they find us they don’t want to leave. Don't blame them. Can't remember a fog like this in Oakland."

             She waved her fingers at the crowded bar. I spotted regulars. A group of longshoremen. Some political cronies playing liar’s dice with a tall black man. An inebriated paper salesman. But others I didn’t recognize. A group of secretaries. Gray-haired couples. Must have dropped by and couldn’t face going back out into the fog.

             People were talking louder than normal, as if to buck up their spirits. I found the false camaraderie positively oppressive. Made me want to escape back out into the fog. But I'm not Big Emma’s typical customer. And I had a client coming. I needed the business. And it certainly sounded on the phone like she needed me.

             Killer Fog. Lori had something there. I had felt its menace when I crossed Jack London Square. I wondered what it would be up to next? I took a gulp of Oban.

             That’s when the door began to open. Fog swirled in around a lone figure wearing a gabardine full-length raincoat. Not Target. More like Neiman-Marcus. Water dripped from the rim of a matching hat. A large leather bag – I'd bet Coach – hung from her shoulder. She had short bobbed rich brown hair and the largest deep brown eyes I had ever seen. The pupils left little room for the white of the eye. Gave her a child-like look. She seemed bewildered as she searched the room for someone. I would bet that someone was me.

             "You looking for Jim Wolf?" Lori shouted out before I had a chance to speak.

             She nodded, pushed the door closed behind her, and walked toward the bar. She ordered a vodka martini, Absolut, no olive.

             "I'm Jim Wolf," I said as I swung off my stool to greet her. She nodded again, clinging to me with those eyes. "Let's sit over here".

             I gestured to the empty booth under the portrait of Big Emma. The Sierras of Nineteenth Century womanhood. Mountains of naked pink flesh cascading over a red satin settee with gold flake legs. Big Emma had a contented in charge look that my new guest lacked. But then Big Emma once owned this establishment and the ladies therein worked for her. My client seemed ill at ease. She glanced back at the front door. Who was she expecting to enter? I would find out soon enough.

             "I'm Jim Wolf. And you are?"

             "Judy."

             "Judy who?"

             "Judy."

             I don’t like clients without last names. But it was a foggy night and I needed the business. I would hear her out and then make a decision. I took another sip of my Oban.

             "Okay Judy. What’s this all about?"

             "I broke up with my husband. He used to beat me. I won't allow that. Now he's stalking me."

             "Why not get a restraining order against him?"

             "I did. But it's no help. He comes to the house. I call the cops. He leaves, then comes back after they go. They're not about to station a cop at my door 24/7. That's why I want to hire you."

             "I charge $90 an hour. 24/7 could add up."

             "I thought maybe you could talk to him. Dissuade him."

             It sounded like this lady with no last name wanted me to break her husband’s legs.

             "Not my thing," I said, and started to get out of my seat. "You want a thug, not a PI."

             "No, no. Nothing violent. Just let him know you're watching me all the time. That you'll call the cops if he tries any rough stuff. I figure he'll get the message and leave me alone."

             She looked up at me with those puppy dog brown eyes of hers. Begging. Damn it, she was begging. I don't do well with begging ladies.

             "Please, here." She reached into her purse and pulled out a wad. She counted out ten $100 dollar bills. "A retainer. I have money. Whatever it takes."

             A tear. Oh shit, now a tear. She was one scared lady or a hell of an actress. I just wasn’t sure which. But the money was real. A grand for a night’s work. Not bad at all.

             "You have a deal. Not promising anything but I’ll talk to the chap. Where can I find him?”

             "Out there." She gestured toward the door. She chugged down her martini in one gulp.

             "In the fog?"

             "I think so. I didn't see him, but I heard footsteps. I know his gait by now."

             Great. I had to track down a stalker on a dark night in the densest fog in Oakland's history. I would earn the money.

             "Tell you what we’re going to do. You go back on out into that fog. Walk to your car. Where'd you park it?"

             "In the lot on the other side of the promenade."

             "Perfect. Don't look back. I'll watch you and pick up on him when he picks up on you."

             "Thank you, Mr. Wolf."

             The smile. Was she going to kiss me? Lovely full lips. But it was the damned eyes I couldn't resist. I got up and waited for her to precede me out the door. I caught Lori's eyes as Judy stepped out into the dark.

             "Fast work," Lori said.

             "Just a job."

             "Of course. I saw that smile of hers."

             "Seriously, if I don’t return in an hour or so, call the cops. I don’t like the feel of this one."

* * *

             I turned up the collar of my sports coat, buttoned the top button, and involuntarily shivered in anticipation of what I faced on the other side of the door. I stepped out of the bar and into Jack London Square. I felt like I had walked right into the middle of a cotton candy machine, damp fog clinging to me, blinding me, binding me.

             The fog was thicker and the night darker, like some giant squid had squirted black ink over the Square. Big Emma's disappeared completely after I had walked only a few feet.

             I stopped for a moment, engulfed in darkness and fog, searching for Judy. I could hear the lapping of water against the hulls of a hundred private yachts, while halyards slapped the aluminum masts, at the nearby marina. The more I stared into the fog the less I could see. The fog pressed in ever closer around me. A strange hue, almost yellow, unnatural.

             There. I spotted a shadowy figure. Tan raincoat, that hat. It had to be her. She was walking deeper into the fog. I followed at a distance that kept her right on the edge of visibility.

             I sensed that something else was out there. Something that kills. The stalker? But why would he kill? He must love her in some demented way. Maim, but not kill. Yet it was the sensation of death that I felt. To the extent that there was a place for me in this crazy world – and I had some big doubts on that subject – it was here in Oakland, at the bottom of Broadway, on the edge of the estuary across from the island of Alameda. This was my turf and I intended to cleanse it of a man who preyed upon women. No greater crime in my book.

* * *

             A dark phantasm, looking like a giant gargoyle, separated itself from the fog. Perhaps ten feet behind Judy. She didn’t tell me what a big guy she had married. The figure stopped and turned around. He had heard me coming. He sported a shaggy mane of red hair. Torn tee shirt and dirty jeans. Tattoos covered his massive biceps. He grinned like a little boy let loose in a toy store with papa's credit card. He stared right at me, gun in hand. Not your ordinary run-of-the-mill stalker. Industrial strength.

             "Who the fuck are you?" he asked.

             "I could ask you the same."

             "But I have the gun."

             "Name's Jim Wolf. I’m a PI."

             "And a lousy one. I heard you coming but you didn't see me until it was too late."

             "Win some, lose some."

             "You chose the wrong one to lose. What's your interest in the lady?"

             "Judy?" I asked.

             "So that's what she's calling herself."

             "She hired me to keep you from stalking her. Says you were once her husband."

             He laughed hysterically. His whole body shook. His face grew as red as his beard.

             For a moment he lowered his bead on me. My chance. I took off into the fog. I knew I had only to move a few feet and I’d be invisible. One shot, then another. Wild. He was blinded by the fog. I ran across the promenade in the general direction of Sea Wolf Books. Where had Judy disappeared to? I would have thought the commotion would have flushed her out of the fog. Who the hell was she? And her bearded companion?

             I had no time to give the matter further thought. I heard footsteps. He was gaining on me. Somehow he sensed where I was.

             The blast of a whistle. The beam of a headlight. An Amtrak train pierced the fog running on rails that passed right through the promenade. The light silhouetted me. I was like a duck in the shooting gallery. Another shot. This one whizzed past my ear. Too damn close. The next shot would get me. Only one chance.

             I dashed in front of the engine. Had to cross those tracks. If the train didn't finish me off, I would be safe. I felt the wind from the advancing engine. The locomotive slowed, massive brakes screeched as they gripped iron wheels. A blast of compressed air knocked me onto the macadam. But no pain. I must have made it. Scraped my damned knee. But that was all the damage.

             I lay on the ground transfixed as the cars crawled by. I could have reached out and touched the cold steel. Passengers sat comfortably in plush seats, reading novels, snoozing, chattering among themselves, oblivious to the drama outside. No one bothered to look out the window. What was there to see? Just fog.

             The last car crawled by. Quiet descended once again on the Jack London Square waterfront. Patches of fog, Blasts from that damned foghorn ricocheted through my skull every ninety seconds. I counted the time between brays. I started to rise from the tar.

* * *

             "Don’t move."             

             It was red beard. He held an automatic in his hand. Looked like the kind of guy who would use it, too. A bit much for a stalker.

             "So what's your angle?” I asked him.

             "You honestly don't know?"

             "Honestly."

             "That bitch stole from me. "

             "Stole what?” I asked.

             "What we stole from B of A."

             "Ah."

             I remembered a big bank heist a couple of days ago. Over $500,000.

             "How much did she offer you to help her?"

             "$1,000."

             "Pretty good for an evening’s work," he said. I had thought so myself at the time. Too good.

             "Hand it over,” he continued.

             I did.

             "Now you are going to help me find her."

             "No, thanks."

             He kicked me in the groin.

             "That’s not an acceptable answer. Where was she headed when she left the bar?"

             I figured I owed her nothing. She'd lied to me and she was as much a thief as this guy. Maybe more so.

             "Across the promenade to the parking lot on the other side. That’s where her car is parked."

             "Get up."

             I obliged. It was my night for obliging. The price I had to pay for being so stupid. I had sensed something wrong from the beginning. She was too damned perfect. Those eyes. That smile. But I walked right into this mess. Now I would have to pay my dues. I hoped not with my life.

             Why should he let me go? I could identify him and he had confessed to the robbery. I had to think of something. Nothing came to mind. If there was an angel up there watching out for me, she couldn't see through fog. My luck to have a fog-blind angel. The foghorn bleated again. Crying for me. Great help.

             I started to walk slowly in the direction of the parking lot. Red beard poked his gun into my back. I stumbled as my left foot snagged on one rail of the train track. For a brief moment his gun separated from my back. Now or never.

             I threw myself to the ground and began to roll. He fired blindly, wildly. I rolled and rolled deeper into the fog. Away from red beard. More shots. I felt the cold wet steel of the train track under my back. My body came to rest against an object. A foot. Hers.

* * *

             This time her hair was blond, eyes blue. Same gabardine raincoat and hat. Full lips. God knows how many changes of appearance she kept in that shoulder bag of hers. It was Judy. Or whatever was her real name was.

             She must have read my thoughts because she said, "The name's Susan."

             "This time."

             "Yes."

             She held a small pistol in one hand. Probably a derringer. The beam from the Maglite in her other hand focused on my face. There were certainly a lot of gun-toters out on Jack London Square for a foggy night.

             "Nice hair, eyes," I said. I’m good at small talk when a gun is pointed at me.

             "You should see me as a redhead."

             "Why did you bother to hire me when you had a gun?"

             "He had a bigger one," she said. "I needed a diversion." She moved her flashlight’s beam from my eyes to the ground. "It worked."

             The light illuminated a very dead red beard lying no more than three feet away.

             "I suppose I’m next," I said.

             "You suppose right. Then I’m headed down to LA. A rich redhead. How about green eyes?"

             "Would suit you."

             She began to squeeze the trigger. A whistle blasted through the air. A train was no more than a few feet away. The powerful headlight silhouetted my executioner. She froze in the beam and became a statue. Like Michelangelo would have made had he only been into noir. The train rushed toward us. I stood and ran. I looked back. She started to move. Too late.

             The engine smashed into her. Her body flew into the air. It was as if a child had discarded her rag doll. I felt a soft object hit my head. It was a blond wig.

Copyright 2005 by Tim Wolhforth