CHAPTER ONE
by DON TACO
Foreword
When we were growing up, we used to hear the term 'obsessive-compulsive' all the time, a description for certain people's behavior. I don't keep up, but I believe it's been swallowed up in the autism spectrum, and isn't used much now. I could be wrong. I was once. Or I could be obsessive and research it. That's a joke. I am obsessive. At least by the definition of the term as we used it back then. But I am not compulsive. I can easily get completely focused on a task, in this instance, writing. But I am not compelled to finish the job. I can set it aside and begin another. I expect to start procrastinating soon. Perhaps tomorrow. As a result, I have ended up with a number of pieces that could be the beginning of a much longer story, but no complete books. But I began to think there might be some interest in the first chapter of some books that will probably never see print. So here we are.
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The Way It Always Starts
Chapter One
"They say you're a stand-up guy."
He stood before my battered wooden desk in my shabby office, the perfect picture of a TV show Mafia lawyer, or 'mouthpiece,' I guess. The sharp suit, sedate tie, oiled hair, upright posture, manicured nails, pinky ring, right down to the shiny black FBI shoes. Even the faintest hint of garlic.
"Well," I replied, "I have no idea who they are, but I'm glad to hear they think that."
"Enough with the wisecracks."
Since I hadn't actually thought I was wisecracking, I wasn't sure how to respond to that, so I just waited. After a slight pause, he went on, "Even the boys in the neighborhood precinct say you play fair and don't gab too much."
That would mean he hadn't spoken to Lieutenant Murphy. Murphy despised me. It wasn't personal. Murphy hated every private detective in the city. Saw us as fraudulent and unnecessary competition, bleeding his constituents dry of their hard-earned honest dollars down to the last nickel in their savings accounts. One look around my office should have been enough to convince Murphy that I wasn't bleeding anyone dry.
I said, "I'm glad to hear that, too."
He gave me just a hint of side-eye, as if checking if I was being cheeky with him. I decided I'd better play it smart, though I wasn't really sure how I could be any more polite or neutral. One does not want to accidentally turn away business by carelessly handling a potential client. Especially with business as scarce as it has been lately. The only reason the landlady wasn't breathing down my neck was the windfall I'd gotten from the Sphinx case, which I had smartly used to pay a year's rent in advance. I had two months to go. To be honest, another reason was that Ms. Sheffield, proprietess of the seedy but more-or-less clean Sheffield Arms, the brownstone that housed my headquarters, had lately taken an interest in my neck, and was actively trying to provoke an opportunity to breathe down it, and other spare parts, and I wasn't pleasantly reciprocating.
"So, the boss would like to have a few private words with you, and he needs me to brief you on the ground rules."
For the first time in the conversation, it crossed my mind that he might actually be a Mafia lawyer, or whatever equivalent our little burg was privileged to have.
I had seen this sort of thing before.
I don't have any idea how the field of private investigation came to have such a lousy reputation for untrustworthy dim-witted sneakiness. My theory is that since they're all hard-boiled with a big heart, poor but honest, and so forth, in the movies, people assume that the opposite must be true in real life. They seem to have us confused with those dudes who repossess cars. It doesn't make the job any easier. It doesn't make sense, either.
"Wait a minutte," I said, tapping the desktop gently with my pencil. "Aren't you supposed to be blonde, buxom, and pretending to be in peril?"
For the first time since he had knocked at my door and I had ushered him in, he cracked a smile. A little one. "Oh, a wise guy?" he quipped back. I returned, "If you're doing the time, you might as well enjoy the crime, no?" He chuckled. "You and the boss might just get along after all.One problem with protecting your privacy is how hard it is to tumble into like-minded individuals."
I got business-like. "I get fifty bucks an hour, for the hours I say I was working. Half that to sit in a car watching and waiting for something to happen. Expenses as I see fit. And a healthy retainer up front."
He nodded. "We knew all that. Asked around. That Sphinx case made your reputation, you know." I said, "I didn't know, but I assumed it wasn't my boyish good looks and native charm." If you're going to wisecrack, after all, you might as well go all in.
"Don't shoot the messenger," he said. "But I'm not really all that funny a guy. I just have a job to do. Save it for the boss."
"Am I going to learn who he is any time soon?" I queried.
"No," was all he said.
"There's a little matter needs looking into that the boss doesn't want the police, the press, members of his family, his friends, or especially his enemies, to know anything about. When he meets with you tomorrow, he'll decide whether to hire you, and how much to tell you. You will, or you won't, know who he is. I can't guess."
After another half hour of cut-and-dried details, mostly about non-disclosure, the importance of privacy, the setting of an appointmen tto be picked up by limo the next morning, and the writing of a very comfortable check, he departed, leaving me none the wiser but consideravly wealthier. Relatively speaking.
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GARDEN OF DELIGHTS
Chapter One
Manuel, the gardener, was raking leaves from under the sprawling oak tree in the Simpson backyard, with a langorous sweeping motion that emphasized his broad shoulders and well-muscled arms. "Is he teasing me?" Laura wondered to herself, watching through her reflective sunglasses from a lounge chair by the pool. "Does he even know I'm here?"
In fact, Manuel was merely prolonging his time under the shade of the massive oak before heading back out into the punishing sunshine to finish the task. From his distance, with the large round shining lenses of her dark glasses, and her skin almost the color of the chair she was lounging in, Laura resembled nothing so much as a large predatory insect, which was not far from the truth.
Laura set the paperback she was pretending to read in her lap, pages spread wide, tossed back the dregs of her drink, and sucked on the lone remaining ice cube until it melted in her hot little mouth. She reached over to the nearby side table, and lifted and rang a small silver bell. Nothing seemed to happen for several minutes. She returned her attenrtion to her book.
Without a whisper, Alphonse was standing behind her, bearing a fresh drink. Stiffly upright, in his starched kitchen whites, he bent from the waist and placed the lime rickey and a fresh coaster on her table.
"Alphonse?"
"Yes, madam?"
"What is that gardener's name?"
"I will inquire, madam."
"Thank you, Alphonse."
He deftly whisked away her empty tumbler and headed back inside with a speed and feline grace that belied the tufts of grey beginning to show at his temples.
Laura returned to her idle inspection of the gardener's intriguing physique, holding the paperback casually, as if it meant anything at all to her. Equally idle daydreams drifted in and out of her thoughts, pumping up her heart rate.
Manuel never even looked at her. He moved in and out of the sunlight, his swift strokes whipping the leaves into a frenzy.
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And Then...
Chapter one
[Available elsewhere in this log]
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To Be Continued
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