Undertaker's Wind

Copyright 1997 by James Hubert


Chapter I

I first heard about the boat, oddly enough, while doing some local

advisory work for "Spenser, For Hire", the fine television series which

based itself in Boston and starred Robert Urich. The program did

considerable site work in the area surrounding Boston; today it was New

Bedford, an hour's drive to the south, and my work consisted mostly of

coordinating the show's shooting schedule with the New Bedford Police and

other city departments. It was an easy task, helped enormously by my

familiarity with local conditions and personalities. Which, of course, was

why I had the job.

As "technical advisor" I was allowed to be on the set during the

actual shooting, and during one of these periods, while drinking coffee and

waiting for something to happen between shots, I was approached by a New

Bedford police sergeant who I knew faintly. He shook the rain from his

greatcoat as he ducked under the awning set up to protect the crew's coffee

pot from the rain, ( in New Bedford, it rains or snows an average of nearly

one day in two; the climate is similar to London, England, and offers

similar results), and grinned at me. I noted the name plate neatly attached

over his badge and remembered that it had been he who had issued my

credentials at the station when I applied two days earlier.

He started to speak, but our conversation was interrupted by the

sound of an air horn, signaling that a shot was imminent. We watched in

respectful silence as an expert stunt driver screamed down the street in a

black BMW, closely followed by the requisite black Caddy, which in spite of

its bulk seemed to have no problem keeping up. The BMW came abreast of our

position and abruptly turned sideways, blocking the street. The Caddy,

unable to stop, swerved into a parked car on the opposite side of the

street and came to rest, impressively mangled. After a moment of silence,

the crew burst into applause as the Caddy's driver pulled himself from the

wreck, assisted by enthusiastic members of the New Bedford Fire Department,

who then crawled all over the wreck, checking for possible leaks or flame.

The sergeant smiled sadly and shook his head, and I wondered how

many kids would try that same stunt in daddy's beater Ford and end up in a

hospital bed for their efforts. Car crashes are a standard part of TV fare

these days, and the Spenser crew was certainly no worse than many others,

but even they were bound by the god Nielsen to compete. At that, they were

far more careful in their portrayals than that standard of automotive

improbability, The Dukes of Hazzard, who, I had learned from a crew member,

still showed their heroic vehicle, the Jumpin' General Lee, to packed auto

shows across the country, even though the series itself had been long

cancelled.

I grabbed two cups and filled them with coffee from the steaming urn

behind us, handing one to the sergeant. He took the cup and drank

appreciatively, ignoring the near scalding temperature, though he seemed to

grow several inches in the process. He drained the cup in three long

draughts, and tossed it into a nearby barrel. He regarded me for a moment.

"Shooting's over today?"

"Yup." It wasn't really, never would be as long as the show continued,

but the shots here in New Bedford were finished, as was my stint as

"technical advisor".

He turned to gaze across the harbor, visible to the east from our

location. He seemed to be debating with himself, and losing. He finally

seemed to reach a decision and turned back.

"I have a friend...lives in Dartmouth. He owned that big Marietta

that was stolen from Padnaram last week. He asked me for the name of a good

investigator. I could tell him about you...if you're interested in the job."

I considered. I was familiar with the story, if not this particular

chapter. Boat theft happened every day, and since most of those stolen were

both fast and infrequently used, the odds of recovery were rather slim. The

coast abounded with inlets and bays for hundreds of miles in each

direction, and with each one having an ever increasing number of boats,

finding one amongst the others approached impossible.

However, I DID need some kind of employment; the Spenser job had

been nice, and paid well, but between child support and my car payment,

steady income was truly necessary.

"Sure...as long as he understands the odds against finding it.

Which are slim to none. Tell him two hundred a day, plus expenses." I held

my breath.

The sergeant's eyes widened slightly, but he didn't laugh.

"I'll tell him...give me a number for you, just in case..."

So I gave him a business card, and promptly forgot the whole thing,

for NO ONE spends two hundred a day, plus expenses, to recover an insured

quarter million dollar boat. And it WAS insured, had to be, because no one

who can afford a quarter million dollar boat is stupid enough NOT to insure

it.

The rest of the day I spent "advising" the Spenser gang...mostly

watching their efficency in operating WITHOUT any advice...and accepted an

invitation to join them at a local inn after the day's shooting ended.

To my surprise I found that I was the subject of some little

interest on the part of the cast and crew. They plied me with drinks and

food, and encouraged me to share my past with them. Even the writers, whom

I had heard variously described as odd forms of semi-humanity during the

shoot, were accepted and joined the convivial group. The writers seemed

most interested in my past, and I soon learned that they grilled all their

technical advisors in this manner; it provided them with some excellent

ideas for future scripts, when suitably edited for television.

I had just finished a ribald story of a divorce case I had worked

on a few years earlier when I felt a tap on the shoulder. I looked up to

see a waiter holding a cordless telephone, which he handed to me with the

comment that I had a call. I took the handset and pushed the switch to ON.

A rough, squeaky voice sounded in my ear.

"Knox? Frank Knox?"

I answered in the affirmative.

"This is Jacobs. Be in my office at nine tomorrow morning...I want

you to find my boat."

I nearly dropped the phone, and made a secret vow to make sure my

friend the sergeant never did me any more favors. Charles "King" Jacobs was

as near to organized crime as New Bedford offered...a kingpin of local

activities who had twice served time in state prison, in spite of his high

priced legal talent. He was known as colorful, merciless and unforgiving,

and was the last person in the world I wanted to work for. I tried to be as

humble as I could, and explained that I did have a job, and would not be

available for several days. Perhaps he would prefer to hire someone else

who could begin immediately?

"I want you, Knox. I know what you guys make, and there ain't no

way that anyone is paying you two hundred a day to take pictures of their

old man in bed with some broad. Be in my office tomorrow...or I send out

for you. Got it?"

Having little choice in the matter, I agreed, and King Jacobs hung

up with a crash. I turned off the phone and sat back, thoroughly disgusted

with myself. Why hadn't I just refused?

Because, you dummy, my subconcious reminded me, you like you as you

are, and if you make an enemy out of King Jacobs, Social Security is a very

real possibility. So you look for his boat for a few days until he gets

impatient and buys another one. That's not too tough at two hundred a day,

is it?

I silently agreed with me, and vowed to be less receptive of

sergeants bearing gifts in the future...to insure that there WAS a future.

Working for the King could do considerable harm to one's respectability, if

it became generally known that one did such work. Of course, I could just

leave town...if I planned never to return in the King's lifetime...let's

see, how old is he?

Around me the Spenser cast was continuing their noisy party, and I

took the opportunity to escape to the lobby, then to the parking lot and my

car. I climbed in, and reached for the keys, buried in my pocket.

Only the fact that a modern computer type had a hand in designing

this particular product saved my life, for as I inserted the key and

snapped the ignition on, an unfamiliar light gleamed on the dashboard. The

offending light was part of a larger display which was in the shape of a

car seen from above...and the lit portion displayed was the hood.

HOOD UP, the light blinked.

HOOD UP.

HOOD UP.

I looked out the windshield, but the foggy darkness gave no clue as

to whether the hood was really up, or perhaps the car had finally succumbed

to whatever passes for computer insanity in Detroit. I climbed back out,

and moved around to the front of the car.

Sure, I was tired. Yes, I was preoccupied with King Jacobs. No, I

had no reason to even suspect that anyone would be trying to scatter me

around a parking lot in New Bedford, Massachusetts. Don't be silly, the

little voice said. The hood is just loose. You just push it down and you're

off.

Right?

I dropped to my stomach and eased under the car. A tight fit. The flat

cardboard package was mounted at the base of the firewall, where the

blast would sweep up into the frontal area and continue up into the sky

with whatever remained along for the ride, as well as trashing the interior.

There were four wires leading up into the recesses of the engine. I squirmed

around and followed their path.

One was obviously a ground. It ended at a shiny engine bolt,

fastened tightly to it in clean and ready contact.

I explored further.

A second lead ended on the starter post, where the key's turning

would supply plenty of amperage.

I felt liquid trickling down my neck, either perspiration or rain,

as it had begun to sprinkle and the water ran readily off the shiny waxed

surface of the car. The third wire apparently terminated at the battery,

though I couldn't see exactly where. The fourth wire headed for the center

of the grille, and terminated at the hood latch, in a small switch from

which another wire ran gaily to the battery. A trap within a trap. I was

supposed to see the HOOD UP warning (maybe), climb out, slam the hood, and

scatter myself all over New Bedford.

But why?

I considered this even as I disarmed the nasty thing. Who had I

been mean to, of late? Nobody, the voice said. You've been disgustingly

nice to everyone around here. So do we eliminate the local people? I

doubted that New Bedford could provide the talent to rig a bang like this

on short notice, anyway. It HAD to be someone from out of town, or somebody

brought in from out of town by someone IN town. Back to Question #1.

Why?

I removed the offending wires, ending up with a tightly wrapped

package about the size of a cigar box, packed tightly with some type of

plastic explosive, probably C4. I wasn't expert enough to tell. The whole

job had a distinctly smooth appearance....but I had a funny hunch about

this. To check it out I would need someone who KNEW explosives, and

devices. I placed the package gingerly in the back of the Shelby and lined

out down I-195 for Providence, RI, and the home of the New England Mafia,

and also Eddie Mancuso (USN, UDT, SEALS, Cosa Nostra, Ret.), who could tell

me everything I wanted to know.

Chapter Two

Providence, RI, is a funny place. You could live, work and play here

for years and never realize what that this whole city is a living breathing

hotbed of morality. In the 1970s, the state triumphantly arrested and

subsequent imprisoned Raymond L.S. Patriarca, purported head of crime in

New England. Having depicted Mr. Patriarca as a one man crime wave during

the trial, and at great lengths to publicize the mortal wound that his loss

gave to crime in general, it no doubt shocked the prosecution team, most of

which were busily redecorating new political offices, when the removal of

this one man from the streets, amazingly enough, failed to halt the spread

of crime in the region.

Recently the Chief Justice of the Rhode Island Supreme Court was

heard to comment that he was acquainted with, nee a close friend of,

another purported organized crime figure of the area, and the public again

reacted with commendable speed and severe punishment. A year later, the

Chief Justice was suspended for two months, and only after returning to his

seat on the Court did public opinion force his resignation.

And everyone has heard of Claus Von Bulow. If you ever get a chance,

read the trial transcript; it would make a great movie. I wonder if

Hollywood would choose to find him innocent, though, as he was in RI.

Don't get me wrong. I like Providence. The bars are clean, the police

aren't excessively obtrusive (as long as you pay your parking tickets), and

the laws are sufficently flexible to allow a certain amount of latitude in

the way they operate, and on whom. There are plenty of girls around, both

free and of the charging variety, and neither intrude upon the normal

citizenry. Even the trains run on time...but then, so did Mussolini's.

They even have Brown University, a lovely Ivy League school where some

co-eds reportedly added substantial income to their part time jobs by doing

short term rentals on their bodies to affluent local businessmen. Newspaper

reports being what they are, of course, I tend to doubt that the arrest of

three such students was more than coincidental...there are entrepeneurs in

all walks of life. The cruelest blow was a sign held up at a Brown-Syracuse

basketball game by male students from Syracuse on which was printed in huge

letters:

"How much are your cheerleaders?"

The Brown cheerleaders dissolved in tears...and Brown lost.

No, what I really like about Providence is that it is alive. Alive as

New York, Chicago and Miami are alive. Alive with the noisy satisfaction

that here is a place where you CAN! Providence entices that special feeling

of freedom in those who choose to come here for entertainment. There is

always something going on within the Civic Center, be it basketball, an

auto show, a rock concert or the Ice Capades. The Trinity Square Repertory

Company has offered New York class stage performances for years, and in

general you can partake of any of these with a less than average chance of

misadventure on the streets. Less visible are the multitude of lounges and

nightclubs, which abound with enough good amateur and professional talent

to suit even the most discriminating party.

It was in one of these lounges that I found Eddie Mancuso, crouched

over a beer and looking every bit of his 50 or so years. He was currently

engaged in a hushed conversation with a slinky brunette who was comfortably

draped over one of his huge shoulders, head nestled close to his. He was

not happy to see me. I waved and took a seat in the back.

I leaned back and ordered a beer from the waitress who appeared. I

sipped, then studied the surrounding crowd and watched the door casually. I

had sensed a tail shortly before I passed thru Fall River, a new turbo

Thunderbird, and had taken the Shelby up to soprano range for several miles

as soon as I cleared the Braga Bridge. I had held the speedometer off the

dial, and the tach at a steady 5200. Everything had become still for a few

minutes except the scenery flowing past, the occasional other car, and the

headlights of the Thunderbird fading in the mirror. When I slowed at the RI

border, they were no longer visible.

A stock Dodge Daytona Shelby, is a good little sports car. Its 134

cubic inch four is torquey, albeit noisy and rough, the standard

intercooled turbocharger system is reliable and relatively maintenance free.

Title weight is around 2800 lbs, and it claims a top speed in the

neighborhood of 135 mph. It's pretty, too, stylish and comfortable.

It is not, however, a kick ass pavement scratcher. Its cornering

ability is limited by both its weight and its rather mundane and dated

suspension. The horsepower is only average. Soon after I purchased the car,

I realized that if we were to peacefully coexist, changes were needed.

The stock wheels were replaced by a new set of 7X16 beauties, shod

with 245/50ZR16 Bridgestone RE-71Rs all around, accomodations within the

wheelwells being made for these. The turbo elves in Old Lyme had reworked

the standard intercooler, added the 16 valve Shelby head, and smoothed the

power curve to the tune of 240 horsepower. A larger, firmer anti-sway bar

was installed at each end, bigger shocks were added on all four corners;

a Bose stereo system rescued from a Corvette and Recaro seats completed the

package. Aside from the wheels and tires, the image was unchanged, and

performance far exceeded the original. Plenty to lose the overweight

Thunderbird, which sported a considerably more anemic power to weight ratio.

The tail, however, alerted me to the fact that my failure to die in a

flaming mass of wreckage hadn't gone unnoticed. Obviously someone had

stayed around to document the blast, and once aware of its failure, had

either tailed me himself, or called for help. Only the speed edge I had

held had prevented a second, possibly more fatal, confrontation.

Someone was out to get me, big time.

I had nearly exhausted the beer, as well as my patience, when Eddie

finally peeled the brunette off, patted her bottom suggestively, and

wandered over to the table, looking even more unhappy than before.

Eddie Mancuso was a stocky bear of a man, carrying fully 250 pounds on

a frame something under six feet. His shoulders were huge, his arms massive

and his legs short and powerful. I had seen him carry a V8 engine block,

with crankshaft and pistons installed, clear across a garage, and lift it

onto a workbench located there. He had once pushed a Cadillac Seville 8

miles, explaining that he was afraid to leave it, for fear it would be

stripped in his absence. Much of the trip had been uphill. He armwrestled

for beers frequently, and even today I had yet to see him lose. His voice

was comparable to the sound of a cement mixer, and he had the general

personality of a wounded grizzly. He also owed me ten years of his life, to

date, which was of considerable comfort when trying to deal with him. He

was not a real friendly man.

He was, however, one of the best explosives experts on the East

Coast, and had plied the trade for several different employers over the

years, including the government, who repaid him by sending three people to

see to him shortly after him last period of employment. The three had been

very good, and only the appearance of a young beat cop named Knox had

prevented the demise of their intended target. I had taken out the third

one. The other two were already out of it, one with a broken neck. The one

remaining talked at length before dying, saying enough to convince me that

it would be best for me if the thing had never happened.

It also told Mancuso who was responsible for the incident, and anyone

reading the paper for the next few weeks later would have been briefly

curious at the number of government employees who retired, resigned or

were victims of freak accidents. Fast Eddie had sent a simple message to

his former employers, and after several such accidents, they understood.

Not so simple his dealings with some of the other employers, most of

whom carry a very pragmatic opinion of hired help. Eddie simply dealt with

them directly, and never took contracts within the family. There had been

two tries, but the results were so abysmal and the retaliation so swift

that Eddie Mancuso was one who was left alone.

His gravel truck voice was low as he sat down.

"What's on your mind tonight, Junior, that you gotta ruin my love

life? I ain't gettin' any younger that stuff like that grows on trees. This

better be good."

I removed a cigar from my jacket, handed it to Eddie, who sniffed

with pleased interest at the imported fragrance. I ordered another beer for

both of us. I sat back, lit a cigar of my own and sipped the beer.

"When you finish, I've got something to show you. In the car."

His eyes watched me through the veil of blue smoke.

"I see. Do I need any tools to look at this?"

"Nope....but bring some opinions."

Ten minutes later, we approached the Shelby in the lot outside. I

stopped as a thought struck me, but Eddie strolled up and leaned against

the fender casually.

"No sweat, Junior, this place is covered. One man on the fourth floor

across the street with night glasses. The place is OWNED, if you know what

I mean."

I dug the cigar box out of the back, and Eddie tenderly removed a

tiny pinch of the contents. He rubbed it softly between thumb and

forefinger, sniffed cautiously, and touched it to his tongue, after which

he spat viciously several times. He shook his head in sorrowful anger.

"Not military, Junior, and not even good quality commercial. Maybe a

portable lab, or somebody's kitchen. How did they wire it?"

I raised the hood and showed him the remains, including the switch on

the hood latch. He was much more respectful.

"Nice job. If you had closed the hood, you'd be landing soon. Very

neat, and the placement was perfect. Most of these little jobs have a

fiberglass or tinfoil firewall, not real metal. The blowback from under

here would have creamed whoever was inside. Funny though, that they used

the kind of crap they did for the charge. Real garbage." He stared at the

engine briefly,taking in everything, fished the unfinished cigar from his

pocket and relit it, then closed the hood.

"Junior, you need a vacation. Never mind the material quality, this

was a good job. Sloppy, but good. Maybe somebody in a hurry, or they had a

plane to catch. What the hell have you been up to?"

So I told him. About the Spenser job, what went on before it, during

it, and especially after it. Specifically, King Jacobs. He grinned, a

grizzled old campaigner, at the name.

"He still around? He's older than me, and meaner, too. He ran that

rumor about being connected into a good thing. Every fisherman in New

Bedford goes by his place every few months to pay their respects. A regular

godfather, the guy. What kind of boat?"

I admitted I didn't know yet, and really didn't want to, either. He

laughed.

"Probably that Marietta he bought at the DEA auction a couple of

months ago. I had some friends bidding on that one, but he ran them right

out. There's a rumor that somewhere aboard is a big stash of something the

Coasties and DEA couldn't find. A ghost boat."

He shrugged, relit the cigar, and stared at me.

"Just consider the vacation, Junior. Whoever planted that firecracker

wants you to go away, permanently. And next time they might not be so

careless."

I asked him for an opinion. He considered, studied the stub of the

cigar significantly, and lit the replacement I provided before answering.

"If anything, I'd guess maybe foreign. They train kids in Lebanon now

right along with school work. Good training, but not a lot of opportunity

to practice. They know the theory, but never did it before, at least not

much. Could explain the sloppy job, and the junk they were using. Look,

junior, if you find that Marietta, call me. I want to have a quick look at

it before Jacobs gets it back. I got a couple of ideas from my friends, ya

know?"

I promised him a look, thanked him, climbed into the Shelby, and

headed out of Providence. Behind me in the parking lot, a cigar glowed

softly as the Shelby's matching taillights faded from sight.

Chapter Three

I lived in North Dartmouth, a few miles west of New Bedford, but that

night I had no plans to go there for a while. The housekeeper had the key,

there was little worth stealing, except in the windowless room I used as an

office, and kept very securely locked. Going there would be a study in

futility, for there was no doubt in my mind that the mysterious enemy

trying to kill me would be there, waiting. No, I could not go home.

I did, however, have a place to stay. A summer cottage, used

infrequently by a photographer friend from Boston, who had left me a key

and urged me to use it. I had had occasion to go by and check for vandalism

a few days earlier, and as a result the key was still in the console of the

Shelby. Since the cottage was rather remote, and my connection to it nearly

unknown, it would provide a fine hidey hole.

As I pulled the Shelby in off the road, lights danced off the trees

and sparkled on the windows of the tiny cottage. Barely 3 rooms and a bath,

it sheltered among a stand of mature hardwoods, their lush greenery

shielding it from the road and sheltering it from wind and weather. Its

clapboard siding was faded, but it was sturdy, and the small high windows

were all unbroken. A porch extended from the back, and a large traditional

fireplace dominated one end of it.

I carefully placed the Shelby in back of the cottage to hide it from

the road, and studied the terrain as I got out. The driveway was packed

gravel and showed no tire tracks on its surface. The Shelby was safely

invisible from the road; a curious visitor would have to drive completely

up the drive and around behind the cottage to see it. The road in front was

rural and traffic was nearly nonexistent, except for a handful of local

residents. I dug for the key, and moved to the door of the cottage.

Listened. The Shelby ticked noisily behind me as its exhaust cooled, the

sound slowing as the temperature decreased. A smell of woodsmoke hung

peacefully in the air.

I looked up. The smoke hung dark in the moonlit haze which permeated

the south coast at this hour on most summer evenings. Must be a neighbor,

taking advantage of the plentiful supply of dried wood left by Gloria a few

summers before.

But the nearest neighbor was a quarter mile away, and there was no

wind...

I left my feet in a dive, curling up in a ball as I sought the

shelter of the neatly stacked wood next to the cottage. The Beretta AutoMag

I had removed from the concealed compartment in the Shelby during the ride

back from Providence was a comforting presence in my hand. The .44 Mag was

a nicely balanced firearm, and its artillery like penetration and massive

stopping power were a great comfort. I could virtually guarantee to down

whatever I aimed at, provided I could hit it. The thing would stop an

automobile, drop a Kodiak bear, and as a side effect, severely damage the

user if mistreated. The recoil was brutal.

After a long moment, my mind began to work again. Anyone interested

in me would hardly have lit a fire to warn me off before I even got in the

place. I gathered my feet under me and rose, staying close to the wall of

the cottage. I took one step toward the door, and it burst open, exposing a

scantily clad girl in full flight. I tried to grab her, but with the

Beretta in my outside hand, the attempt was awkward, clumsy and far too

slow. She did, however, see the gun, and screamed a scream of pure terror

as she fled. I followed, stuffing the useless weapon in the pocket of my

jacket.

She ran well, lithe and graceful, arms swinging in step with her

stride and long legs white in the faint light. She was crying like a child

would, sobs indisbursed with little screams of fear, and ran heedless of

obstacles, blindly. I knew if I just waited she had to trip or stumble and

would be unable to move once she stopped. Animals do it. They run for their

lives, but if cornered by something totally terrifying, they simply

surrender and are eaten. The girl was like that. I was driven to catch her

before she broke, to save the spark that dies when it happens. My chase was

complicated by the shoes I was wearing, the gun in my pocket, and the fact

that I was taking some moderate precautions to prevent a painful

and disasterous fall.

At last I drew close enough to make a midflight grab, and we rolled

together across a tiny clearing covered with a carpet of pine needles. She

went rigid at my touch, and we lay still for a moment, gasping for breath,

my torso lying half across her and my hands on my shoulders.

She was blonde, I noticed, and even what the dirt and tears had done

to her could not conceal her attractiveness. Her eyes were wide with fear,

and her body beneath me was taut and firm, and warm to the touch. She was

wearing a grubby pair of shorts and a thin white T-shirt, and her full

breasts heaved without restraint as she gasped for breath. Her arms lay

outflung around her head, and she watched me with a fixed gaze, a strange

yellow light in her eyes.

She was still breathing in little sobs, and I waited until she seemed

calm enough to understand, then moved my body carefully off hers,

maintaining my grip on her shoulders. I relaxed my hands slightly but

stayed ready to renew my grasp if needed. She remained still and tense,

waiting.

Her breathing had slowed to near normal; most of her fatigue had been

emotional, not physical, and she was beginning to relax a little. She

looked at me and without a word, reached down and began pulling her T-shirt

up, exposing the lovely curves of her lower breasts. I released her

shoulders and grabbed her wrists, preventing the movement, and firmly

pushed the garment back down. She did not resist, but let go and raised her

hands to their former position.

I noticed that the left side of her face was badly bruised, and I

suspected further damage farther down; an involuntary wiggle had told me

all was not well there when I had moved a few seconds earlier. No doubt

about it, the girl had been abused, probably sexually as well as

physically. She required some professional help, and fast.

I stood up, and helped her to her feet. She stood uncertainly, all

the former grace and beauty gone from her pose. She was only a frightened,

hurt little girl, and there was no trace of life in the lovely eyes. I took

her arm and led her back through the silent woods, heading for the car.

* * * * * * *

I delivered the girl to the hospital in New Bedford and turned her

over to the staff there, who promptly and correctly called the police. As I

waited for their arrival, I was beseiged by a string of endless questions

from one of the staff members there, most of the content of which had to do

with who was going to pay for the girl's treatment. Since giving the

exasperated woman who was questioning me my name was not on the menu, I

simply ignored her requests and told her to take it up with the police when

they arrived. I was not inhuman, and if necessary I would have paid for the

girl's treatment, but a glance at her in decent light had shown the

remnants of a well groomed and manicured young lady, who I suspected would

have someone more than ready to pick up the tab, as soon as she was

identified.

Outside, a cruiser pulled up, and two uniforms exited the vehicle and

entered the lobby. After a hurried consultation with the woman who had so

recently badgered me, they headed my way, moving apart in a way that made

it clear just what kind of story they had just received. A malicious glare

from the woman confirmed the possibility.

I held up my hands, palms out, and made no move to get up as they

approached. They like you seated, the minions of law. Seated you are

basically immobile, and in addition, I have always felt that the height

advantage gained by standing over someone contributes to the feeling of

superiority every cop eventually surrenders to. Finally, if the idiot does

make trouble, it's easier to cave in his skull when standing over him.

These two were a matched pair, both around six feet, broad shouldered

and trim, appearing for all the world like a police recruiting poster.

Their belts were festooned with an endless variety of gadgets, ranging from

a suitably large handgun (holstered), to handcuffs (also holstered), to a

can of what I assumed to be chemical MACE (you guessed it, holstered), and

a black nightstick in a donut loop. Also included in the belt were several

snapped pouches containing, no doubt, Batarangs and Bathooks. A hand held

transceiver hung by a strap from each, occasionally adding to the

atmosphere by squawking some unintelligible gibberish which, not being a

police officer, I was unable to translate.

The Dynamic Duo would have been proud.

The pair stopped next to me, one on each side of the chair, and the

one on the left spoke.

"Got some ID, fella?"

I produced my driver's license, my permit for the Beretta, still in

my pocket, and my PI license, and handed them to the officer who had

spoken, apparently a sergeant, as evidenced by the silver chevrons on his

collar. He examined then briefly, and passed them to his partner, who sat

down and began writing industriously. The sergeant gestured at the bulge in

my pocket.

"Carrying?"

I produced the AutoMag, getting a raised eyebrow from my

interrogator. He handled it carefully, ejecting the clip and jacking the

shell from the chamber. He then made to pocket it, a motion halted by my

outstretched hand. He considered, then handed it back reluctantly.

"And the clip".

I was in no mood to leave the hospital unarmed, if indeed these two

would allow my eventual departure. He was even more reluctant, but gave me

the clip, which I shoved into my trousers, placing the Beretta back in the

jacket pocket.

After a short pause, Number Two finished with my IDs, and handed them

to me. The sergeant then headed back to the desk, and disappeared into the

emergency section. I leaned back and closed my eyes, finding sleep almost

instantly. It did not last long, however, as the next thing I felt was the

click of handcuffs around my wrists, and the weight of the Beretta lifting

from my pocket. The sergeant, flushed with anger, hauled me to my feet and

trundled me toward the exit, mumbling under his breath.

"Youhavetherighttoremainsilentifyoudonotchoosetoremainsilentanythingyousayc

anandwillbeusedagainstyouinacourtoflawyouhavetherighttoanattorneyandtohavea

nattorneypresentduringquestioningifyoucannotaffordanattorneyonewillbeprovid

edforyouatthecourtsexpensedoyouunderstand?

Miranda would have screamed. I nodded, and dodged the roof of the

cruiser as Number Two sadistically tried to decapitate me with it.


Editors, the rest of this novel
is waiting for your call right now.
Our number is 1-601-224-9139
Fax is 1-601-224-6352

Contact the Talewins Literary Agency

We can submit in hard copy, or on disk.

1