Dark Blonde (27 page)
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I’d never been poisoned before. I’d been followed, chased, run down, beat up, tied, taped, gagged, sapped, spit on, clawed, slammed, twisted, knifed, slugged, and shot — but never poisoned. I’m Mike Angel, private investigator, Jersey transplant to Chicago. My credentials? An Army MP stint in Korea, two years with the New York blues, then picking up my murdered dad’s private investigation business for six yawn-filled years sludging into other people’s business. I’d absorbed and expected certain kinds of abuse, but didn’t much care for being drugged in a cozy lace and tea mystery. Or rather coffee. Here’s how it happened:
It was a rainy April afternoon in 1963 when a slender — to the point of emaciated — female in a tailored charcoal suit stepped into my office. In six years only three skirts had found my place of business. Not that I’m ugly or it’s out of the way — a walk up, in the middle of what Chicagoans call Wrigleyville, a few blocks from that boxy stadium on Addison where those beloved losers toss a ball around. Most of the time back then I did insurance fraud cases for corporate clients who called in the setup, boring me into senility before my time.
The few dames who did find me usually wanted me to trace a missing sot of a husband who wasn’t missing but should have been. Shabby sort of work that I didn’t seek out. But Jack Daniels money.
The silver-screen image of a breathless buxom babe offering more than retainer to the hardened, horny PI never came my way. Nothing breathless about this homely visitor, although she was more than buxom enough. She looked like she needed help sitting up in the morning.
She toed in tentatively, almost tiptoeing, I figured her way of balancing on those silvery stilt heels she wore.
“I’m seeking Mister Angel.” The voice came through a long nose with a brazen Romanesque jut that gave her mug a severe expression. That nose was what made her quite ugly — a Cessna could have landed on it — and taken off again — without turning around.
I confessed to being the name on the door, but resisted telling her she was only client number four who’d found my office in six years. My business mostly came on referrals from attorneys or insurance companies. I stared while pulling out the chair next to my desk because she was a real puzzle to look at.
She didn’t seem old or young; her face as timeless as a mantel clock’s. It was stretched tight around a bony skull and buried under smears of pancake mess and powder that crowded her hairline and crooked eyebrows. I guessed what was under all that stuff couldn’t be any worse.
She sat erect, shoulders back, then nimbly flared out a three inch ciggie holder that looked like real gold, and planted one of those Canadian Black Cats and waited patiently for me to light it. I knew the brand by the nasty smell as I held my Zippo under it. A buddy of mine was addicted to Black Cats before a North Korean bullet finished his addiction to breathing.
The holder trembled slightly but her eyes were as hard as her ramrod shoulders. I thought of Gloria Swanson in Sunset Boulevard.
…
To be continued…
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
David H Fears has written over 100 short stories, published 2 collections, and has had a long academic and personal love affair with all things Mark Twain. He is the author of
Mark Twain Day By Day
in 4 volumes averaging 1200 pages each. This work has received rave reviews by the top Twain scholars. He has lectured at Elmira College (Sept. of 2009) on the making of the work and Twain's first meeting with Rudyard Kipling in 1889.
He enjoys mysteries, especially in the vein of Raymond Chandler, Mickey Spillane, and Dashiell Hammett. For a season or two he joined the Private Eye Writers of America, and has benefited from the study of over 100 books in the genre. For several years David taught writing at two career colleges and now teaches at Devry University in Portland, Oregon. He believes “any one can write,” and espouses the “expressionist” theories of Peter Elbow. His greatest writing enjoyment comes from his detective novels, with the too-young PI, Mike Angel, “Dark Series,” now eight in number (soon to be nine).
David has enjoyed 3 successful careers in business, including his own wholesale operation for 17 years. He lives with his wife of 30 years, and his two adorable cats, including his calico “editor” Sophie, who loves to be either on top of his desk papers while he writes or draped across his arm.
With a non-stop teasing sense of humor, and 3 grown daughters, David sees life as full, and understands the ups and downs and what drama is all about.
