Joe Detective

JOE DETECTIVE

Book One

By

JH Gordon

Copyright 2012 by JH Gordon

Smashwords Edition

As of this printing, there are seven Joe Detective books in the series.

Read more about them at the end of this book.

Contact Joel H Gordon at mailto:jhgordon@joedetective.com

Visit our website at http://www.joedetective.com

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Chapter One

Hands in his pockets, Joe does a Gene Kelly down the stairs. He whistles off key but it doesn’t matter. Joe’s in a very good mood.

A big case closed and he’d actually been paid in full. His Left pocket is stuffed with a very respectable wad of C-notes and in his right, the small automatic he never leaves home without. Life is good.

Now to hoist a few at Charley’s bar, trade a few fabrications, and vacate work for a while; maybe a long while. Life is good indeed.

Soft shoeing across the mid-landing he freezes with one foot in mid air. At the bottom of the stairs is a heap of something dark. Joe’s mood changes from whimsy to wary.

There’s little illumination at the foot of the stairs. The Marson Street Professional Building is a serial killer of light bulbs. What light there is comes from the second floor and it oozes dully off the walls below. Other than that, neon from across the street is filtered by a foggy San Francisco drizzle.

At first, he figures it for a pile of rags, or maybe some drunk crawled in from the cold.

Joe’s the kind of guy who leans toward the precautionary. His line of work makes for an encyclopedia of other people’s information; a library of potential enemies

When some people know you know, you never know what they’ll do. Fear and hate are two sides of the same bad penny. Joe leans toward the philosophical as well. Practiced pessimism reduces both disappointment and surprises.

Automatically he thumbs the safety on the Beretta to unsafe. Piles of rags almost always contain unpleasantness.

Descending slowly, his left hand finds his penlight and the little beam sweeps over the pile.

Joe decides it’s too new and well coordinated for your average pile of derelict.

Also, the legs protruding from it are of the willowy variety ending in spike heels with satin bows tied delicately around nicely turned ankles.

Joe dubs them Fuck-Me-Shoes, but holds the smile in check. His attention stays focused on the hands. It’s the hands that contain intent, malicious and otherwise.

A muffled groan tells Joe there’s life left in the laundry. He’s further relieved that the well-manicured hands are empty not counting a diamond ring large enough to cut glass, unless it is glass.

The green marble floor winks to dull gray from the flashing neon across the street. The slow red strobe is disconcerting. Part of the lady’s face is obscured by silky black hair and the collar of a heavy coat. Her eyes are closed.

He kneels over her and keeps the .25 auto trained in case things get arbitrary. Red and green do nothing for your complexion sweetie-bumps. He says it to no reaction at all.

He gently pushes the silky hair from her face and is rewarded. Not bad, is his initial appraisal. She has a look he likes.

The girl suddenly flails her arms and then collapses back into besotted oblivion with a sigh.

.Joe stares at her troubled face. He figures her for a high-end party girl lost on the wrong side of town and currently friendless. Perhaps it’s worse than that; there’s the blood.

The penlight reveals a crusted crease in her scalp that’s quickly becoming an unbecoming lump. Either she hit her head in a fall, or someone made her a present of it.

Taking her pulse, he then pries open one eyelid with the edge of his thumb. The retina is a little vague in its response so he checks the other.

The retinas are even enough, but she’s out colder than a banker’s heart. Her pulse is ok so he checks the head wound and determines it’s not very deep. That bump and blood are too far back to have been inflicted by a lamppost or a curb. That is unless she’d been doing back flips in a cocktail dress, someone has definitely planted it there for reasons unknown. So she was either bonked here or she has run from someone and this is as far as she could go. That would mean they may still be looking or maybe on their way back to finish the job.

Joe leaves her momentarily, to peer through the glass front door. Not much going on that he can see. The street’s empty but something is coming.

A dark sedan creeps into view. Two men on foot are keeping pace with the car and they’re definitely looking for something.

Not a cop car, Joe concludes, and not cops either. Moving quickly in and out of the recessed entrances, the footmen are rattling door handles across the street.

Quickly twisting the deadbolt to deadlocked, Joe ducks around the stairwell next to the heap of girl. Since it appears she has pursuers, she made the Marson Street Professional building on her own and then ran out of gas. Those guys hadn’t deposited her.

As he suspected, there’s a searcher on his side of the street too. Logic tells him they wouldn’t waste two men on one side if there weren’t at least one guy checking the other. Instinct also tells him to keep out of sight. Joe feels another blip of adrenaline course through him.

An inordinately large man trudges up the marble steps. Sneaking a cautious peek from the darkened stairwell the silhouette lumbers up and tries the door.

Not a savory type, despite the suit. Tall and hulking, the man is early-late middle age and showing a paunch, or he’s hiding a stash of donuts under the cheap suit. Not a cop type so the bulge isn’t donuts.

Joe takes in what he can. The substantial Florshiem shoes have taps on the heels indicating a guy who’s on his feet a lot and who doesn’t like replacing shoes. He lumbers like a has-been heavyweight. The shoulders don’t need the pads. Back lit by the red flashing bar sign, details of his face are few. Joe decides he’s probably ugly. When the man turns away, the profile reveals a nose flattened to a bump above his upper lip. That confirms the has-been boxer theory. Either that or he chases parked cars.

Joe is anything but indecisive. He quickly pulls the party girl off the floor and into a fireman’s carry; Up by one arm and over his shoulder at the waist, she grunts but remains limp. The satin lining of her coat almost causes her to slip from his shoulder. He shifts her back like a sack of creamed potatoes. His hand slips on the silk stockings and is stopped by a garter belt; Nice, thinks Joe; an old-fashioned girl.

He turns and climbs the stairway easily. She isn’t a feather exactly, but the adrenaline helps.

It’s awkward getting his key in the lock with a slippery limp girl on his shoulder. Fumbling with the lock the door finally concedes. He pushes open the door to his office and dumps her unceremoniously on what passes for a couch. She groans again. Joe pays little heed to her remarkable vocabulary and dashes around his desk to the window.

The protruding bay window affords a view in three directions. Using the heavy curtains to shield his face, he peers into the rainy night.

In a drizzle of rain and street lamp he can see four men at the corner. They look like trouble. They’re not obvious. They’re milling around under the street lamp in animated discussion. It looks like they’re going to make another sweep.

The party girl is either important or in very deep shit; probably both. Pulling the blackout curtains tight, he switches on the anemic desk lamp which gives him a better look at his guest. She looks like a sexy pretzel.

She can’t be comfortable with her arms and legs all akimbo. One arm pinned under her torso, her head is jammed at an odd angle against the arm of the couch. He decides he’s a poor host. But, first things first. A damp cloth and the first-aid kit from the restroom are in order. It’s triage time.

Pulling her upright doesn’t bring her around. Taking off her bulky coat, he sponges the wound with Hydrogen Peroxide and pats it dry. Applying antiseptic cream and a gauze pad, he secures it with an ace bandage wrapped under her chin. She looks like she has a toothache.

She makes burbling noises as her head lolls from side to side. She’s incoherent but Joe thinks he hears a slurred thank you as he lays her back on the couch.

Moving her legs to a comfortable position, he removes the fuck-me-shoes. That’s to save his old couch the indignity of the spikes.

Shaking out the long coat to cover her he notices two things. One, she’s built like an adult version Barbie Doll, and two; there’s some heavy stuff in her pockets.

With a few seconds further appraisal, he covers her with the coat. He’d removed a man’s heavy zippered wallet from one pocket and a patent leather purse from the other. The man’s wallet is zippered breast pocket style for documents.

Tossing the items on his desk, he bunches a chair pillow beneath her head and watches her snuggle in. Twisting the knob on the old-fashioned radiator will soon take the San Francisco chill off the room. He’s sure she won’t go into shock but the room is stone cold. With the triage done, he pours himself a medicinal scotch. Just in case of snake bite he muses.

Another check of the posse reveals them at the other end of the block, apparently having words. The arm waving and shoving doesn’t make them look like convention revelers.

Joe parks himself in the desk chair and props his feet on an open drawer. Scotch in hand he inspects the man’s wallet. A soft regular snoring is emanating from his guest means she’ll be OK. He figures she’s plenty worn out and possibly quite stoned.

The man’s wallet is very interesting. It contains no identification. There are two checks and what looks like instructions written in code. The checks reveal numbers Joe has only seen on quiz shows.

One is made out to Zee Corp in the amount $100K the other to Citizens for Democratic Reforms for $2 Million. Both checks are drawn on the same account in an east coast bank. And both are signed by James Bader, Esquire. Gotta love attorneys, Joe thinks, and makes a note of the name.

There are two business cards. One for an escort service with the words tight night scrawled on the back and the other a cosmetic dentist on the better side of town. The woman’s wallet contains an ID for one Annie Lee with no middle name. There is another ID in rough shape in the name Soo Lee. Soo is not so odd if it’s Chinese. And she has a Eurasian look to her. Joe likes that. But her looks can’t compete with his interest in the checks.

It’s none of his business he supposes, but few things in his business are.

In the small supply room he copies everything including the inside and outsides of the wallets. For some reason, and he can’t explain why, he slips the copies under the machine between the wheels. The janitor comes through when the mood strikes, but he never moves the heavy copier. He hardly moves at all, Joe sighs.

Going over the documents a third time with a second scotch, he then tapes the man’s wallet to the back of the drawer and locks it.

The room is getting warm by now, probably from the scotch he guesses, but his guest has thrown off her coat so it’s not just the booze. Her position is substantially compromising. Her short skirt is at the point of distraction. Turning the heat back down, Joe covers her again, albeit reluctantly.

I’m entirely too moral, he mumbles as he checks her forehead again. She’s warm but not feverish. He can tell her faint isn’t just because of a head wound or wine. She’s chock full of some kind of narcotic. It’s unlikely the drugs are self-inflicted. The boys outside are rough types and possibly she slipped out of their grasp. The woman of mystery answers with a snort.

She clutches her coat tightly to her chest and turns on her side. She’s apparently slept on couches before.

Another check of the street finds the sedan now parked in front of Charley’s.

So it’s time to have a drink and see how old Charley is fairing. Joe figures the girl will be in cruise mode for quite some time, so leaving her for a bit shouldn’t be a problem. The bathroom light and the door ajar will be enough for navigation if needed. She’ll be fine.

He turns the key in the deadbolt to dead bolted and leaves the distressed damsel to her dreams.

Chapter Two

Joe and Charley are old friends. They make a point of not recognizing each other in public. Joe enters the old long-bar and moves to his usual seat at the far end. From the corner, he can see what goes on behind the bar and all the patrons sitting at it. He can clearly see the front door, the rest rooms, and the rear exit to his left. The two Billiard tables can be seen through a window to the other room. Some guys like their back to the wall and Joe is one of them. At least there’s nobody behind you.

There aren’t many patrons in Charley’s tonight. There are the four guys from the sedan and two regulars; an elderly pensioner and his equally elderly wife. They’re in their usual spot near the door and in front of the jukebox. They’re deaf so the volume of their domestic squabbles often forces Charley to turn off the music until they quiet down and return to depleting their monthly Social Security check. Charley’s cheapest wine and old tunes on the jukebox keep them happy. Everyone needs a hobby, Joe figures.

The four men are absorbed in conversation. They’d paid little attention when Joe came in, but two of them seemed interested now. Charley ambles toward him blocking their view.

"What can I getcha Mister? He says with a wink and an upturned furry eyebrow. Charley raises his apron to wipe his hands and Joe catches a glimpse of a big revolver stuffed in Charley’s belt. Charley communicates well. The clear message is: the dudes at the bar are hostiles of some kind and Charley doesn’t trust em’ at all, so stick around.

Joe slips the automatic out of his pocket and puts it in his belt; un-tucking his shirt a bit, he lets it hang over the gun.

He nods at Charley and mumbles morning to you too.

Comin’ right up, says Charley cheerily, and moves to the call bottles displayed on the back bar.

Joe watches keeping his eyes on Charley and avoids looking directly at the four men. They are all looking at him.

Joe takes out his Zippo and a pack of smokes. He’d given them up two years ago but he always carries a pack just in case he changes his mind. A man without options is a slave to his desires, Joe always says.

He fumbles through the motions of tapping the cigarette on the bar and then flicks the old Zippo lighter. It doesn’t work. He’d been carrying the damn thing since he quit and it's out of fluid.

One of the four men walks toward him. It’s the boxer who’d rattled the door, Joe knew from the taps on his shoes. The big man holds out a cheap lighter with the flame too high and lights Joe’s cigarette.

Thanks Joe says and takes in the big man’s face. If he’d been a boxer, he’d not been a contender. His face has more dents than a Mexican taxi.

You live here? The big man asks. He has the hollow sounding voice of someone who’d grown way too large way too fast.

Nope, just came in for a drink, you? Joe tries to look and sound a lot more loaded than he is.

Naw, I ain’t from around here. We’re looking for my little sister. You’d know her if you saw her. She drinks. But she’s good lookin’ and she’s got a fine body. She’s wearin’ a gray dress ‘n a black coat. You seen her? There was something both menacing and anxious in his voice.

I’m afraid not. But if I do, I’ll tell her you’re looking for her. What’s her name? Joe is half expecting him say Velma but he doesn’t.

Her name is Annie Lee, but we call her Shade.

Annie Lee, or Shade; I’ll remember that. OK, you got a number for her to call? If I see her, I mean.

Naw, no number; she knows it. You sure you ain’t seen her?

"Not as far as I know. I’ve never been introduced to anyone named Shade, or Annie Lee either.

What’s your name so she won’t think I’m, well, like I’m trying to hit on her, or anything?"

She’ll know me, I’m her brother.

OK, sure thing, if I see her I’ll tell her you’re looking for her. Nice meeting you and thanks for the light. He tries to make the dismissal seem casual.

Charley brings his drink and leans on the bar. So mister, what were you saying about the Mets? Charley knows Joe hates baseball. He’s just messing with him. But it makes the big guy move back to his bar stool.

Charley’s the kind of guy who knows everything about anybody in under a minute. Joe could count on Charley for reams of useful information, but it’s his insights that are pure gold.

Charley has heard every story known to man. He’s an authority on the human condition. A walking repository of relevance, romance, loves lost and found, morality, lust, theft, fraud, mayhem, politics, cabbages and crumbs, Charley has heard it all and lived through most of it.

He has an uncanny ability to finish almost anyone’s sentence. And he is an almost psychic predictor of events in and around his bar.

He’s good for an eye-opener if you’re broke or you have the shakes n’ snakes. And the kind of a friend who will send you home in a cab and pay the fare. He’s also the lord of his realm and defender of peace at any price. Charley is a man of reckoning.

One or another of the men go to the front door and peer outside every couple of minutes. Snippets of their conversation become more audible as more drinks flow. People have a tendency to talk louder after a few, and these guys were no exception.

The words alley and