The Midnight Eye Files: Volume 2 (Midnight Eye Collections) Read online

  THE MIDNIGHT EYE FILES

  Volume 2

  William Meikle

  The Midnight Eye Files

  Volume 2

  Return to the world of Derek Adams, a boozing, chain-smoking private investigator who moves in Glasgow’s lowest, deadliest, and darkest circles in this collection of Lovecraftian noir!

  This collection includes

  Rhythm and Booze

  The Weathered Stone

  The Inuit Bone

  A Slim Chance

  Farside

  Eeny Meeny Miney Mi-Go

  Deal or No Deal?

  Call and Response

  Home is the Sailor

  ~o0O0o~

  Praise for the Midnight Eye Files

  “Meikle’s writing makes you feel like you’re there, in the rain with Derek Adams, searching seedy pawn shops and bars for the answers. The atmosphere is terrific, and the author knows that sometimes less is more.” - The Lovecraft ezine

  “I encourage you to pour yourself a couple of fingers of whisky and visit Meikle’s and Derek’s Glasgow some evening as the shadows grow long.” - New Pulp

  “The writing itself is crisp, filled with good description and strong dialogue. The Scottish setting, while not prominent, grounds the reader in a sense of place. The characters, while themselves variations on noir tropes, are beleivable, and more importantly, likable. All of this, taken together, makes for a smooth, enjoyable read.” - Rich Ristow, Strange Latitudes

  The Midnight Eye Files

  Volume 2

  Copyright © 2019 by William Meikle

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission of the author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Gryphonwood Press

  www.gryphonwoodpress.com

  Gryphonwood Books by William Meikle

  The Midnight Eye Files

  Deal or No Deal?

  The Amulet

  The Sirens

  The Skin Game

  The Watchers

  The Coming of the King

  The Battle for the Throne

  Culloden

  Stand-Alone Works

  Berserker

  Island Life

  Sherlock Holmes: The Dreaming Man

  The Invasion

  The Valley

  The Concordances of the Red Serpent

  From the Author

  Who is the Midnight Eye?

  My series character, Glasgow PI Derek Adams, is a Bogart and Chandler fan, and it is from the movies and Americana of the '40s that I find a lot of my inspiration for him, rather than in the modern procedural.

  That, and the old city, are the two main drivers for the Midnight Eye stories.

  When I was a lad, back in the early 1960s, we lived in a town 20 miles south of Glasgow, and it was an adventure to the big city when I went with my family on shopping trips. Back then the city was a Victorian giant going slowly to seed.

  It is often said that the British Empire was built in Glasgow on the banks of the river Clyde. Back when I was young, the shipyards were still going strong, and the city centre itself still held on to some of its past glories.

  It was a warren of tall sandstone buildings and narrow streets, with Edwardian trams still running through them. The big stores still had pneumatic delivery systems for billing, every man wore a hat, collar and tie, and steam trains ran into grand vaulted railway stations filled with smoke.

  Also by the time I was a student, a lot of the tall sandstone buildings had been pulled down to make way for tower blocks. Back then they were the new shiny future, taking the people out of the Victorian ghettos and into the present day.

  Fast forward to the present day and there are all new ghettos. The tower blocks are ruled by drug gangs and pimps. Meanwhile there have been many attempts to gentrify the city centre, with designer shops being built in old warehouses, with docklands developments building expensive apartments where sailors used to get services from hard faced girls, and with shiny, trendy bars full of glossy expensively dressed bankers.

  And underneath it all, the old Glasgow still lies, slumbering, a dreaming god waiting for the stars to be right again.

  Derek Adams, The Midnight Eye, knows the ways of the old city. And, if truth be told, he prefers them to the new.

  Introduction

  By J. Kent Holloway

  I’ll never forget the first time I discovered William Meikle’s Midnight Eye Files detective, Derek Adams. My author friend Sean Ellis and I were chatting one day. During the discussion, he brought up the subject of my favorite author, Jim Butcher, and his amazing Chicago P.I./Wizard, Harry Dresden. We discussed the series in some length. Then, Sean proceeds to tell me how I should really check out Meikle’s Midnight Eye Files books. How he figured they were up the same alley, and assumed I’d probably like them too.

  Obviously, Sean hadn’t read Harry Dresden much by that point, because the two series are as far removed as the sun is from the moon. Granted, they’re both celestial bodies, so there’s that. They both shine brilliantly. There’s that too. But as far as similarities go, that’s pretty much where it stops.

  You see, where Butcher’s Harry Dresden series dabbles in mythology—picks and chooses bits and pieces here and there—Meikle’s Midnight Eye Files series plunges head first into the dark waters of folklore. Although the Dresden books are still in my top ten favorite series, the depth of its mythical subject matter is like a kiddie pool to the Midnight Eye Files vast ocean.

  Here’s the cold hard truth of the matter: William Meikle knows his folklore. He strides past the children’s fairy tales. Snubs his nose at Hans Christian Anderson and the Grimm brothers. And begins excavating the deep recesses of ancient earth for the origins of these myths. The true spirit of these myths. It’s as if he bypasses the land of ‘fairy’ and goes straight for the land of ‘faery’, and doesn’t look back.

  It’s the biggest appeal for me to a William Meikle book. I know when I pick one up, a Kobold is going to be the Kobold of Celtic and Germanic legend, and not the bastardization developed for role-playing games back in the 1970s. I know that his mermaids aren’t simply going to be slightly scarier versions of Disney’s Ariel, but freakin’ Selkies of Scottish lore, who’s only desire is to eat unwary humans—primarily of the male variety.

  And then, there’s the whole Cthulhu mythos. Ah, The Amulet. The first book in the series, and honestly, the first book to ever really draw my interest in anything H.P. Lovecraft-esque. It’s embarrassing to admit this, but before reading The Amulet, I had never read a single Lovecraft story. I had no interest in it. Since reading Meikle’s first Midnight Eye Files book, I’ve devoured almost all of them. I consider myself a huge fan…and it’s all because of William Meikle and his wonderful series of books.

  Elder things. Selkies. The Norse god Loki. Werewolf lore—including a mystical wolf’s pelt. The man knows how to weave a story around a good myth or folklore. You’re about to see that first hand in the book you’re now holding. If this is your first William Meikle book, I envy you the awe you’re about to experience. If this is your hundredth Meikle book, you’re probably shaking your head at my last comment, completely understanding where I’m coming from.

  So whether this is your first time or you’re a frequent flyer, I have this to say: sit back, kick your feet up with a
cold one, and let yourself get carried along in a great P.I. story steeped in magic and folklore. I know I will.

  Rhythm and Booze

  A MIDNIGHT EYE FILES NOVELLA

  One

  I woke in darkness. I lay, fully clothed, on top of my bed. My eyes felt gummed together, and a family of small furry animals had slept in my mouth. The clock told me it was ten-thirty p.m., but that didn’t mean much to me as I had no idea when I’d got back from the bar.

  My bladder cried for relief, sending me struggling to my feet and staggering to the small toilet. I was still more than half-drunk, but as I stood at the sink washing my hands I realized I wasn’t quite drunk enough; my brain started up on me again; no client, no cash, rent overdue. I remembered the bottle of Highland Park in my desk, and headed through to my office.

  Somebody was already there, sitting in my armchair, feet up on my desk, with a large measure of malt in a tumbler in his hand.

  He weighed about 220 pounds, all of it ugly. His chest made him look like a barrel, with a weightlifter’s upper body, a small round, bald, head on top and dark, piggy eyes peering out from under a heavy brow. The fact he wore a very expensive Italian suit with a crisp white cotton shirt and a pale blue silk tie only made his bad teeth look more yellow and stained.

  He raised the whisky glass and toasted me. He looked me up and down.

  “They told me you were a movie buff,” he said, “But I didn’t know you wore the props. You’ll have to tell me where you get your clothes … I’ve been after a suit like that myself.”

  “I don’t think Oxfam is on your list of preferred retailers,” I said. “You look more like an Armani man to me.”

  He rubbed his lapel between two fingers.

  “Finest Italian silk,” he said. “But I’d swap it for a genuine thirties suit any day.”

  I sat down opposite him and poured myself a whisky.

  “Cigarette?” I asked, pulling a crumpled packet from my top pocket.

  He shook his head.

  “I’ll stick to my own,” he said, and took a stick of gum from his pocket. “Nico-gum, doctor’s orders. He said my lungs needed time to recover.”

  “Recover from what?”

  “About fifty a day for the last ten years,” he said.

  He raised his glass and waved it round the room.

  “I went through your record collection earlier,” he said. “I was waiting for you to wake up, and I didn’t want to put anything on. Do you mind?”

  He rose to his feet and went over by the stereo before I could answer. He lifted an album and showed me the cover, ‘The Cotton Club’.

  “Is this okay?”

  “Oh, it’s better than that,” I said.

  A minute later the horn section started up and Cab Calloway began busking his way through Minnie the Moocha. The big man sang along, miming Calloway’s arm-down, loping, sashay across the stage. I had to applaud as he stayed in time during the fast scat section, and I responded to the call-back section. When the song finished he fell into the armchair, a wide grin on his face.

  “My party piece,” he said. He motioned with his glass at the whisky bottle.

  “Can I have another?”

  “Help yourself whenever you feel like it,” I said. “You’re the most pleasant burglar I’ve ever had.”

  “Oh, I’m no burglar,” he said, pouring himself a large one. “You left your keys in the door.”

  He looked steadily at me across the top of his glass. His performance had charmed me, sure, but this man was a shark, and it wouldn’t do for me to show a weakness.

  I stood, managing to keep myself steady, and went to the stereo, turning King Oliver down.

  “And what brings you to see me at this time of night?” I said. I sat back down … my legs weren’t feeling too strong. “I don’t mean to be a bad host, but it is past eleven o’clock, and I’ve had a long day. Is there anything else I can help you with?”

  He thought for a while, his eyes closed, lips pursed. He was so still I was convinced he’d fallen asleep.

  Then he rose, and the smile was back.

  “You know who I am?” he said, and I nodded. It was my job to know the players in town, and Brian Johnson was one of the big fish.

  “Come to my club tomorrow night,” he said, “I have a trad night every Wednesday. I get muzo’s from all over coming to play. I’ve got a wee job for you… it’ll get you at least a crate of that good malt.”

  He handed me a card.

  “Jazzers, 131 Union St, Glasgow. The Hip Joint.”

  There was a telephone number on the other side.

  He shut the door quietly behind him when he left.

  The room suddenly felt empty.

  There’s no law against liking a hardened criminal. At least I hoped there wasn’t. I’d met many worse over the years; and any meeting you get out of with all your teeth still in your mouth is a good one.

  I moved to my own chair, settled my back into its well worn contour, and put my feet up. I was asleep again in seconds.

  When I finally woke I checked my watch; five o’ clock.

  In the afternoon.

  My mouth felt like the small furry animals had shat in it.

  I dragged myself to the bathroom and showered and shaved. By then I was starting to feel human, and a small shot of the Highland Park completed the transformation.

  I changed into my ‘good’ suit. It was real wool, a dark three-piece with a thick white pinstripe. It had come from Oxfam, but it was in a lot better shape than I was. I put on my best pair of black brogues and selected the blue tie with the dancing girl on the front. I tried the fedora, and decided to take it with me.

  I spent a while in front of the mirror, trying to smoke a cigarette without taking it out of my mouth, but all I got was smoke in my eyes.

  Two

  On the pavement outside the club a wall of bouncer stepped in front of me. I looked up, and up further. He was about six-eight, and nearly the same wide. He looked like he would be more comfortable in wrestling gear, and he studied me with little interest.

  “I’m here to see Mr. Johnson,” I said.

  He didn’t say a word, just moved sideways to let me squeeze past him.

  “What, no token argument?” I said, “I’m disappointed.”

  He bent close to my face as I passed him.

  “An argument can be easily arranged,” he said softly. “Mr. Johnson will let me know if you’re going to get one.”

  “I’ll look forward to it,” I said, “It’s been a while since a wall fell on me.”

  He only grunted as I moved on into the foyer, through a narrow corridor and into the club itself. It was only just after seven, and the place hadn’t started to fill yet.

  Someone had spent a small fortune recreating the ambience of a twenties speakeasy, down to the uniformed serving girls, the ceiling fans, the chrome-laden bar and the wooden floorboards, tables and chairs. The place had a small elevated stage, and a slightly larger dancing area, but it was the posters that caught your eye; larger than life black and white glossies; Raft, Bogart, Cagney, Brando, Pacino and, yes, De Niro.

  I went across to the bar, but the barman waved me away.

  “Take a table sir,” he said, “A waitress will take your order.”

  “I’m looking for Mr. Johnson.”

  He looked at me, seeing me for the first time.

  “Ah. You’ll be Mr. Adams?”

  “That’s me.”

  “The boss said he had a wee call to make,” he said. “He said that the drinks are on the house till he gets back. You’re to have his usual table.”

  He snapped his fingers and a waitress appeared at my shoulder. She wore a starched white uniform that made her look a little like a nurse.

  “Could you follow me please,” she said. She tried for Mid-West, but her Glaswegian roots showed. She led me to a small table near the front, just to the side of the stage.

  “Can I get you a drink?” she said. br />
  “Beer please,” I said, “A pint.”

  “American or Scottish?”

  “Surprise me,” I said.

  She gave me a little salute and teetered off on heels that clacked on the hardwood floor.

  The place started to fill, and the best dressed roadie I’d ever seen got busy setting up a piano, double-bass and drums. I took off my hat and settled down to some serious people watching.

  Most of the clientele were older, but I didn’t feel out of place; my clothing ensured that. They obviously dressed for the occasion, and there were couples and groups in a variety of styles ranging from twenties flapper up to fifties Teddy-Boy. But by far the dominant look in the room was gangster-chic; black tuxedo and white wing collar for the men, ankle-length ball gowns and cigarette holders for the women. And that’s not to mention the slicked-back hair and the massive gold rings. I half expected to see someone picking their teeth with a flick-knife.

  There were some pillars of the community in attendance; I counted three members of the Scottish parliament, two Edinburgh City councilors and at least three high-ranking police officers. And that was only the ones I recognized. The smell of wealth permeated everywhere. The sharks were out in force, recently fed, just cruising.

  My drink arrived in a tall, continental lager glass.

  “Samuel Adams Pilsner. Compliments of the house,” the girl said.