by Scott Cook
She tittered, “Nope… never.”
“Guess that’ll keep you out of the poor house. So… did you hear about the big doins last night?”
“You mean about how Shade struck again and you and Lisa were there for it?”
“Sort of… she saw it happen, I was… otherwise occupied.”
“Scoping Pauli Franco, huh? I talked to Kelso.”
I blew out my breath, “Yeah… but that wasn’t all. A half hour, forty minutes before that, Shade tried to pull a prank on Paul, too.”
“Are you sure it was Shade?” Sharon asked, sounding very interested.
“I think so,” I replied. And related the story. “It could’ve been anybody… but my gut says it was him.”
“Hmm… Why go after Pauli Franco?”
“I have no idea…” I pondered. “Have you guys learned anything from the truck?”
“Scott… you know this is an official police matter, right?”
I waited.
She sighed, “Okay… there were no prints, no hairs no epithelials—“
“Really Horatio Kane?” I gybed. “Probably no spooge either, then, right?”
She made a rude noise, “Okay, no evidence at all… well, at least nothing that probably wasn’t in the truck before that is. The vehicle was stolen, as I’m sure you’re shocked to find out.”
I chuffed, “Floored.”
“The vehicle was registered to a Travis Bittle. He lives in a trailer park over off OBT.”
That piqued my interest, “Jinkies… let me guess… its behind Venus, right?”
Sharon chuckled, “Thought you’d like that.”
“Curiouser and curiouser…” I pondered. “So Shade pulls his little jokey-poo on Venus, then hops the fence with me in hot pursuit… and then jacks a neck-mobile and pulls a smash and dash on a couple of Pauli’s hard boys…”
“What’s it mean?” Sharon asked hopefully.
“It means the killer was Dave, of course,” I joked.
“Ha, ha, ha.”
“What do you think it means, L T? You’re the copper and all.”
She scoffed, “if I knew that, would I be wasting my time and breaking the rules by talking to a peanut grifter like you?”
“I thought we were friends…” I said in a faux hurt tone.
She giggled, ”Just kidding, honey bunch. You want to meet for breakfast? Unless you’re already preparing to stuff Lisa with sausage, that is.”
I laughed, “Good gravy, woman! My friggin’ dogs are ten times more well-bred than you!”
“You know you want me.”
I just shook my head, “When and where?”
“Right now and preferably bent over something,” She chortled.
“Dammit!”
“Okay, poopy pants. How about Le Gourmet Break?”
“Sounds good,” I said. “I can park at the office and walk over. Give me an hour or so.”
She snorted, “An hour? I figured you only need like two minutes!”
I hung up on her and sipped my coffee. That girl needed somebody to come along and straighten her out. Now that she had Juan Fuente in her life, I had a real sense of pity for the poor lad.
“Morning, baby,” Lisa said, coming out of the house with a mug of her own. “That your girlfriend on the phone?”
I laughed, “Cute. She wants us to meet her downtown for breakfast. You up for it? Then we can go to the office.”
She settled into the other rocker and moaned, “But I don’t wanna work today…”
“You never want to work,” I teased.
“Well, it’s hard…” Lisa whined and then giggled. “I have to sit at a big desk and look pretty and be nice and stuff.”
“It’s not all bad,” I prodded. “You do get to occasionally… just occasionally, mind… go on high speed car chases… witness high speed car chases… discuss high speed car chases… invade rebel army bases… infiltrate an evil lair… and even tangle with villainous private eyes.”
“Boring.”
“And you get to see meeeee…” I encouraged.
She smiled, “Sold. So what’s up?”
“Let’s go find out,” I said, rising. “I want to pick her brain a little. We should also give Marie a call, too. Make sure all is well. I’ve got a feeling Pauli is going to be in touch about his boys.”
Lisa and I drove our separate cars downtown and parked under the I-4 lot across from the Richardson building. We then walked up Central to Magnolia and went the half a block to Le Gourmet Break. It was one of the top rated breakfast spots in town and was quite busy when we arrived.
Sharon and Juan met us there almost as soon as we arrived. We waited about ten minutes and were shown to a table well away from any others. Even now, people were still practicing social distancing inside restaurants in an attempt to balance living a real life and avoiding the dreaded beer virus.
Although Florida had been among the states with the lowest infection rate when COVID broke out at the beginning of that year, once some of the travel and other restrictions had been lifted, we’d shot up to become one of the states with the highest rates. Well… it’s good to be popular.
Breakfast was excellent but the information didn’t quite live up to my hopes. The cops didn’t know much more than I did. They had no evidence, except for the two notes that had been left by the mysterious Shade.
“Well, I suppose we’ll have to wait and see what he does next,” I offered as the four of us walked out into the now hot morning. “I don’t like it… but what else can we do?”
“Just be careful, huh?” Sharon warned Lisa and I. “This guy means business and I suspect he’s far from done.”
“Yeah, but now he has to contend with the cops and two world-class private investigators!” Lisa enthused.
“I’ll keep you posted,” Sharon told us, “but it has to be very inconspicuous, Scott. You know how the department is about outside interference. Even Harry O’Malley made a point of telling me to keep things under my hat. We don’t want this Shade asshole to become a public figure, you know what I mean? One of these romanticized criminals who people love to hate.”
“True… maybe you can use Juan to pass me information then,” I suggested.
Juan, who had worked for a former client and had recently graduated from the Police Academy laughed, “I’m a rookie, amigo. They only tell me what I need to know. Sometimes I don’t even get to put bullets in my gun.”
Lisa laughed, “They’ll come to appreciate you soon, miho. Just tell them about Nicaragua.”
Sharon scoffed, “Jesus… we need to keep that along with this on the down low, people.”
I nodded and shook hands with Juan, “I’m discretion itself. You guys stay safe, too. By the way, how’s Bryce?”
Juan grinned, “He’s recovering at home.”
“On suspension,” Sharon added. “Until this is resolved.”
I grinned, “Bet he loves that.”
Lisa and I had a visitor when we arrived at the office around nine-thirty. A puffy looking guy dressed in a blue Hawaiian shirt, cargo shorts and leather sandals was sprawled across my sofa and munching on some kind of breakfast sandwich. A McDonald’s bag sat next to a large coffee on the table that had, by a huge coincidence, been specifically designed and purpose-built for just such an occurrence.
When he stood to greet us, a visible collection of crumbs dropped from his shirt and onto my floor. I scowled.
“Mornin’ Jarvis,” The man said in a fattish sounding voice tinged with what seemed to me to be an affected southern accent. He was about six foot three and probably weighed two-eighty or so. He was maybe forty or so with an unruly sweep of chestnut hair curling over a wide forehead. His brows were heavy, his eyes small and his chin was well on the way to birthing a twin.
“You often come into people’s offices and have your breakfast?” I asked in mild irritation.
“Hey, it’s early and a boy’s gotta eat,” He said in a friendly tone that I thought was less t
han genuine.
“Think you can do it without crumbing up the joint?” Lisa asked, seeming equally unimpressed.
“How can I help you, Mr.…?” I began in a professional tone.
“Name’s Thomas P. Lissard,” the man announced. He pronounced his name “lih-sard,” stressing the last syllable importantly. He then proceeded to annoy me further by brushing more crumbs from his shirt and onto the floor. More than a few landed on the table as well. “Can we step into your office and have a chat?”
“That’s why I’m here,” I said patiently and walked into my inner office and took the command chair.
Lissard followed me and eased his frame into one of my client chairs. Lisa took the other one, surreptitiously moving it to the opposite corner of the desk when she pulled it out. I got the impression that she still felt far too close.
Lissard eyed her with a wry grin on his face, “This is a business discussion, darlin’. Would like to keep it private.”
“Oh come on, Mr. Lissard, sir…” Lisa simpered, her tone dripping with derision. “you know us ladies are allowed out in public now… we can even vote and everything.”
I managed not to laugh but it took character.
Lissard scowled at her, “Real upitty ain’t ya’?”
Lisa speared him with a steely gaze that had an astonishing effect on the man, who I was rapidly coming to believe was an unredeemable satchel of douchery. He blushed and fidgeted nervously in his chair. Way to go Lisa…
“Ms. Gonzalez is my assistant,” I informed him coldly. “So why don’t you just get on with it, Mr. Lissard.”
“Very well,” He said tolerantly. The more he talked, the more I was reminded of Foghorn Leghorn. “The fact of the matter is, Mr. Jarvis… I’m here to offer you my services.”
“That so?” I asked with lidded eyes. “And exactly what would those services entail?”
“Protection,” He said and reached into the paper bag that he’d carried in with him and withdrew several hash browns, which he began to eat… and then continued with his mouth half-full. I saw Lisa bite back something unkind and had to school my face. “A little birdie tells me you might need it.”
I stared at him for a long few seconds before asking: “Lissard… do I look like a guy who needs a bodyguard?”
He seemed unruffled, “that’s the thing about protection, Scott… mind if I call you Scott?”
“I do.”
He chuckled and shoved another tater cake in his tater cake hole. I had to wait while he chewed and swallowed this time. I was happy to do so, however. The sight of masticated fried breakfast food escaping his maw was making me regret my own recent meal.
“Okay, Mr. Jarvis… the thing about protection is that often, by the time you realize you need it… it’s too late.” Lissard stated.
I saw Lisa’s eyes narrow and her mouth harden into a thin line. She held her tongue, though, waiting to see what I’d do.
I reached into my desk, pulled out my pipe and filled it. I then lit it with my cigar torch and considered Lissard over the bowl. The whole sequence had taken me half a minute, and he was clearly growing impatient, “Lissard… why don’t you enlighten me as to just exactly what kind of danger you believe I’m in?”
He chuckled and reached into the bag for another hash brown, “Look at old Sherlock Homes here. Let me put it this way, Jarvis… it can be dangerous to avoid the sun too long.”
This guy was about as subtle as a marching band in a funeral parlor. I laughed in his face, “So you know about Shade, do ya’?”
That seemed to startle him. He lost his affected cool for a moment before I watched him rebuild his casual air, “pretty good. Guess that’s why you’re a successful detective.”
“And what are you?” I asked. “Who do you work for and who sent you? I know a lot of people in this town, Lissard. I don’t know anybody who offers personal security services… legal or otherwise… that fits your description. So why don’t you leave off with the nifties and just speak plainly.”
“Come on, now, Mr. Jarvis,” he said. “I can’t reveal everything I know.”
“You know what I think, Tom,” I needled. “I think you’re a bag of hot air. I think you’re a grifter, a flimflammer, a fake-a-loo artist… a hoopla spreader and a shinola peddler. In other words, I think you’re full of shit. What do you say to that?”
“I think you’re being foolish,” he replied as he reached into his bag again. “I think you’re in a lot more trouble than you know and I think you might want to listen instead of being a smart ass.”
His hand, which now certainly did not hold a hash brown, froze halfway in and halfway out of his bag. It was clear that he held a gun in his hand. It was also clear, though, that Lisa’s pistol was jammed firmly against the roundness of his belly.
“Don’t you fuckin’ move, Lizard,” She said dangerously. “This is a small gun, but her bullet will plow through your vitals as fast as you motor through a box of Krispy Kreams.”
“Damn,” I said appreciatively. “Wish I’d said that.”
“Pretty good, huh?” Lisa beamed and winked at me. “Now why don’t you let that piece go, friend. Nice and easy, like. Then tell us who you really are. Let’s go, chum… make with the wallet.”
He did the smart thing and let his pistol fall back into the bag. He looked at me and then at Lisa, “You talk funny, girl. But who you kiddin’? You ain’t gonna shoot me.”
I reached across the desk and snatched the bag away from Lissard, “I suggest you do as she says, ass hat.”
“How about you fuckin’ make me?” he sneered.
“Aw, come on, honey,” Lisa drawled in an overly-exaggerated southern belle accent. “Don’t be a big bad mean man and scare me so! I might feel unsafe… Yall know I’m just a weak little girl. I might go and get myself a case of the vapors and faint dead away… course… I might also accidentally squeeze this here little old trigga if’n I do.”
He frowned, looked at her and then at me, “I ain’t carrying no wallet. I know better.”
“Yeah, huh?” I asked. “Because you’re a fuckin’ liar, and you wouldn’t want anybody to verify it. That’s okay, though, Li-sard… I have my ways of finding out. Might be better if you talk now.”
He folded his arms across his chest and glowered.
“Should I shoot him?” Lisa asked.
“Probably,” I said, “but let’s let him live for now. He’s much more useful alive. Hard to imagine, but it’s probably true. Get your sorry ass out of my chair and out of my office, Lissard. Don’t’ let me see you again unless you’re willing to open that nugget grinder of yours and let something useful drop out… y‘know… other than moist crumbs ya’ nasty bastid’.”
Lissard stood and eyed his Mickey D’s bag. I honestly didn’t know if he was more concerned about the gun or the remaining food inside.
“Forget it,” I snapped. “Take the air while you still can.”
“This ain’t over,” he menaced.
“Eek!” Lisa breathed, placing a hand to her heart.
“It’s better if you shake your fist,” I said.
Lissard spun on his ample heel and stalked out, no doubt pining away for the remaining taters he’d left behind.
I started to laugh, “Jesus… this lil’ ole trigga… that’s some funny shit.”
“See? I’m not just here to look cute,” Lisa observed.
“Of course not, that’s just a bonus,” I replied and opened my laptop. “Now let’s go to the instant replay!”
Some time ago… not long after I’d returned from Key West last summer… and after learning that my office had been bugged, I installed a digital security camera system. This system would record several days of video before wiping the memory and writing over it.
Sure enough, there was Thomas P. Lissard in all his crumbly glory walking into my office and tucking into his repast of health food. I captured a couple of clear images and emailed them to Juan Fuente with a request t
hat he look the guy up in the FBI’s Next Generation Identification system. Essentially, NGI is a vast database of a variety of biometrics and is rapidly becoming the 21st century equivalent of the mug books.
“Think you’ll get a hit?” Lisa asked.
“Hope so,” I said. “In the meantime, I’ve also got his gun in this sack. I asked if Juan could also run it through ballistics and forensics and get me some info… that is, if the fuckin’ sausage grease doesn’t mess up the results.”
“It’s never dull with you, baby,” Lisa said, putting her small pistol away and coming over to kiss me.
“Fun, excitement and really wild things is what I promised.”
“And you haven’t disappointed yet, Zaphod Beeblebrox,” She giggled.
“Nice Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy reference,” I said with admiration. “and I liked the hardboiled dame dialogue earlier, too. Good stuff, punkin… good stuff.”
“You know you want me.”
“Well… duh.”
Chapter 7
A visit to see Travis Bittle, the owner of the souped up pickup revealed nothing. At least, nothing that seemed useful.
He mentioned how he’d been awakened by every dog in the neighborhood and by the time he’d gotten his britches on and gone outside to evaluate the circumstances, his truck was gone. Being considerably fermented in cheap liquor, having had a disagreeable conversation with his parole officer that afternoon and a general dislike of law enforcement, Mr. Bittle did not immediately notify the constabulary of his misfortunes.
It was in fact the constabulary that informed him of the fate of his beloved Jolene… the name he’d given the pseudo monster truck that he’d lovingly crafted with his own two hands. They’d delivered the vehicle to him in the morning.
“They was all up in my binnis,” Travis Bittle explained to me after I’d presented him with a complimentary twenty. “Talkin’ bout some hit and run on the Trail. I done told them cops that I didn’t know nothin’ about it. Said I was home watchin’ TV when all the dogs started barking to raise the dead.”
I explained to my interviewee that no one thought it was he who’d committed the deed. I said that I was the one who chased the person who was probably the thief over the wall in the first place.