“I thought you said we were going home. This isn’t the way home.”
“Sure it is.”
“Kissy, it’s not. How hard did you say he hit you again?”
I laughed. “He hit me plenty hard, but I know the way home.” I pulled into a parking lot of the Majesty Arms apartment block and shut off the engine. “Here we are.”
Norman just stared at me. “Have you lost your brains? Why are we here?”
“Because we live here, Norman.”
“We do? Since when?”
“Since yesterday.” I huffed out smoke. “Unless you’d rather go back to Mama Jose’s flophouse ...”
He craned his neck up to see the top of the building. “No, I think this’ll do. Can we go in?”
“Sure, pal. Let’s go.” We found the front door and entered the lobby. The tiled floor looked new and sparkling clean. The automatic elevator spit us out on the fifth floor. I stopped at room 503 and unlocked it with a key on a string. We stepped inside the apartment and I gestured around the room with my splinted fingers. “What do you think?”
His eyes bugged, his mouth hung open and he spun in slow circles. The green satin sofa and two armchairs flanked a low coffee table, and paintings of sailboats hung on the wall. “Kissy! How can we afford to live here?”
I waved that away. “We’ll get to that later. Follow me.” I led him to the bedroom, which had a double bed, a dresser with a mirror, and a tall cherry wood chest of drawers. I opened the closet and pointed to the three new suits that hung inside of it. “I hope they fit. I had to guess your measurements. We can have them altered if we need to.” I pointed to the chest. “Your socks and underthings are in that. The bathroom is over there. Wash the stink of the hospital off of you, and put on one of the suits. The blue one, I think.”
“Now?”
“Yes, now.” I threw him a smile. “Get moving.” I left the room and closed the door behind me. I waited until I heard the water start up before I went down the hall to my own place. I changed into one of my own new suits, no easy feat with splinted fingers and a broken arm, but I managed. I had five new suits of my own, hanging in the closet, plus the one I had just put on. I seated my new hat, a fedora like the one Humphrey Bogart wore in The Maltese Falcon, and found Norman, looking sheepish in his new suit. “You shine up like a new penny, Norman.”
He grinned. “I do, don’t I?”
“Ready for the surprise?”
“This wasn’t the surprise?”
I shook my head. “Not at all.”
“There’s more?” His eyes had the hungry gleam of a child.
“Yeah. Follow me.”
He locked the door to his new home and slipped the key into his pocket. “Where are we going?”
“You’ll see.” I drove into downtown proper and parked outside a particular building, a place of business. “Here we are.” He kept looking around, not understanding at all.
“Where are we?”
“You’ll see.” I led him up a flight of stairs, which neither of us could climb very fast, and down a hall. I stopped in front of a door with a large glass pane in it. Letters on the glass spelled out ‘Kissy Lisbon & Associates’, and beneath that, ‘Private Investigators’.
“Surprise!”
Norman’s eyebrows raised. “You’re putting me on, right?”
“No.” I laughed. “It’s no joke.”
“This was just a con job, Kissy! It’s not real! You’re not a real private eye!”
“The city of Cincinnati disagrees. I have the papers to prove it. I am a private eye, and so are you.” I smiled and cuffed him on the shoulder. “Congratulations, Norman!” I opened the door and we stepped into our new offices.
Norman put on a half-frown and followed me inside, then he hurled a groan at the floor. “Oh, no! Not that guy!”
“Good morning, Mr. Osterhagen, Miss Kissy.” Mikey Malone, former operator of elevators, grinned at us from behind his Remington typewriter.
“He’s our secretary?” Norman shot me an uncertain glance.
“He’s our partner.”
“Now I know you’re kidding, Kissy.” Norman flopped into a chair
“I’m not kidding, Norman. Mikey saved my life, and in case you forgot he also saved your life.”
Norman shook his head. “When did he save my life?”
“He called the ambulance for you after Greene had shot you. Don’t you remember?”
“No. I sure don’t.” He looked Mikey up and down. “Uh, thanks.”
“Certainly, Mr. Osterhagen.” He smiled and resumed his hunt-and-peck typing. “I placed the newspaper ad like you asked, Miss Kissy.”
“Thanks, Mikey. We’ll be run ragged with snoop jobs within a week. Won’t that be fun, Norman?”
He rubbed his abdomen where he’d been perforated by a .38 slug. “Fun? I got shot, Kissy!”
I jabbed my thumb, the only mobile digit on my right hand, toward him. “Listen to this guy, Mikey. Gets a bit of metal stuck in him, and he never stops complaining about it.” I poked a snipe between my teeth and lit it with my new Zippo lighter. “Tell you what, Norman, I’ll trade you your one measly bullet hole for my bruises and broken bones. Deal?”
Norman’s mouth worked for a few seconds before his voice box caught up with it. “We were just supposed to find a runaway girl.”
I nodded. “Yeah, and I found her. Job done.”
“And Nazis, Feds, cops, and colonels with guns.” He ran his hand through his hair. “I don’t understand what happened. Any of it.”
I spouted smoke from my nostrils. “It’s really simple, if you want me to explain it to you. Before the war, nobody saw anything wrong with Hitler; in fact, quite a few Americans admired his take-charge approach, including Colonel Greene, Gottlieb, Braun, Hirsch, Wexler and too many others to name. That’s how the Bund got started, as a place for Americans of German heritage to get together, shoot the bull, and reminisce about the old country. Harmless as pie until Germany invaded Poland. Then the Bund became something different.” I mashed my burned-out smoke in a ceramic ashtray.
“When the Nazis started eating up Europe, Hirsch and Gottlieb had a change of heart, so they contacted the Army and eventually got referred to Greene’s intelligence unit. Hirsch, as a big shot in the Bund, had access to all the juicy gossip, including the stuff coming out of Berlin. He’d pass it to Gottlieb, whose nephew Ruger worked in Martingdale’s law office. Ruger gave the goods to Martingdale, who handed them off to an Army courier to give to Greene. False information was fed back to the Bund by reversing the process. Everybody along the way got a paycheck from good ol’ Uncle Sam.
“After a while though, Hirsch became suspicious that the false information being passed to the Bund from Greene wasn’t false at all, and of course it turned out he was right. So, without telling Gottlieb, Hirsch contacted the FBI, and started informing them of the Bund’s activities too. Unlike Greene, who had a vested interest in doing nothing to upset the milk cart, the Feds acted on what they learned, which alerted the local Bund that they had a rat in their cheese-wheel.
“One of the last bits of info Hirsch ever got his hands on was a list of eight saboteurs who were being ferried to America aboard two U-boat submarines. Four to land on Long Island, and four to land in Florida. Once their feet were on dry land, they were to meet up right here in good ol’ Cincinnati, where the Bund would shelter them and help them blow up munitions factories and the like. Unfortunately for Hirsch, a Nazi spy named Richter filled him full of peepholes before he could get the list to the Feds. After that, Gottlieb wanted out of the spy racket but needed money, so he arranged to sell the list to Martingdale. He needed Braun’s help to get the list, because Richter was the shoot-first sort of fella, but he and Braun were drinking buddies from way back. Braun was able to distract Richter long enough for Gottlieb to find out where the list was stashed. In return, Braun got half the list and half the money from the sale. With me so far, Norman?”
&nbs
p; His eyes had a faraway look in them. “Yeah, got it.”
“Gottlieb sent Ruger to break into Hirsch’s place, just to mess it up, so when the list came up missing Richter would suppose someone had stolen it. Unfortunately, Richter saw Ruger leaving Hirsch’s place and followed him back to his house. Ruger had found the thousand-dollar marker that Wexler had issued as cheese to lure in their rat, but dropped it as he fled Hirsch’s house. Richter assumed Ruger was his man and meant to plug him. Heloise Kendall walked in on Richter waving his gat around, and she put two rounds in his back. Gottlieb came over and finished the job.
“Enter Eva Weber. That’s when I showed up claiming to be Eva Weber, the daughter of a chieftain in the New York Bund, and Gottlieb saw a chance to make even more money by turning up the heat on Greene. That backfired because Greene got so scared he almost soiled his olive drab drawers, and he came to town with a presidential appointment and a powerful need to silence a goodly number of people. He knew about the list from Martingdale, but also knew that if the Feds managed to end the sabotage operation, his own counterintelligence unit would be in jeopardy. There would be no more free money, and no more position of authority for poor Colonel Greene.
“He took the list Martingdale bought, then killed him. He’d previously killed the three couriers who’d worked with Martingdale, and he later shot two others, including one named Corporal Wills. He killed Braun, who’d already killed Gottlieb, and damned if he didn’t try to kill me. He tried to fly away without an airplane. They had to sop him off the sidewalk with a sponge. The end.”
Norman blinked. “I can’t believe I’m asking this, but what happened to the Kendall girl?”
That made me smile. “Ruger got arrested for trying to pick up the bundle of money that I’d taken from Gottlieb, so he’s doing fifty years for conspiracy to commit treason or something such. Heloise Kendall is living with her sourpuss old mother, who is quite pleased with how we handled things. Not bad for our first gig, huh?”
The outer door opened, and Paolo Belvedere stepped through it. He smiled his old smile. “Hello, all. Kissy, I’d like a word with you if you don’t mind.”
“Come into my office.” I limped into my private office and sat behind my mahogany desk. “What do you want, Paolo?”
“I heard that the city issued you a P.I. license.”
“Yeah, they did. So what?” I lit a cigarette. “What’s it to you?”
“Kissy, this is madness! You’re gonna get yourself killed. Or, you’ll get those two knuckleheads out there killed!”
I plopped my feet up on my desk. “Your faith in me is touching, copper.”
“This isn’t a game, Kissy.”
“Of course it’s a game.” I laughed. “That’s all there is in this world, the game. For years, I cheated just so I could keep playing the game, to keep myself—and Mary—from starving. I got tired of being a grifter, Paolo. So, I gave it up. This is my newest move, and from what I can see of it so far, it’s a good one. At least I’m not conning old ladies out of their pennies anymore.”
“You could have been something else. Five years ago.”
“Your wife? I told you then what the price of my ‘I do’ was. Nothing’s changed my mind so far.”
His eyes widened. “You’d still marry me?”
I smiled and stood up. “Thanks for the visit, copper. Come back when you have something to tell me.” I showed him to the door. “And not until then.”
“Kissy ...”
“Goodbye, Detective Belvedere.” I shoved him out the door and shut it in his face. I took a seat next to Norman. “The nerve of that guy.”
“What did he want?”
“The usual.”
“Kissy, how can we afford the new apartments? This office? I thought Belvedere took Gottlieb’s money away from you.”
I grinned. “He did. He just didn’t take all the money. I managed to squirrel away a few bills, in case of a rainy day. Or a rainy year.” I watched Norman blink until he started to laugh.
“Kissy, I hope every case isn’t like this one!”
“Me too, Norman. I hope most of them are much more interesting.”
Thank Yous
Writing this book took some time as writing any book does, and during the writing I wanted to talk about it. Non-stop. I subjected my friends, family, and coworkers to endless tales of Kissy Lisbon and her adventures in Cincinnati, only a few of which made it into the finished product. I don’t know for certain, but I suspect that many writers have this problem, and were it not for the indulgence of our victims, we’d have a lot less to say, and far fewer people to say it to.
Big Shots and Bullet Holes began life as a short story written for the writer’s group at Ohio University-Chillicothe, so I’ll start there. Big thanks to Debra Nickles, Cortney Vonloh-Shirkey, and Matt Givens for the early feedback and encouragement for what eventually grew into this novel. Writing groups like the one at OUC are invaluable resources for anyone who one day hopes to become a writer, so keep up the good work.
Next are the poor coworkers that had to endure the endless stories about Kissy and the writing of the book. These long-suffering individuals not only listened, they asked questions that made me rethink scenes or even entire chapters. Were it not for their indulgence, I might still be stuck on Chapter Two. Kristy Anderson, Ken Knipp, and Zach Campbell probably took the brunt of my chatter, and I thank them all profusely. Thanks for listening, guys.
I’d like to thank my father, Robert, my brother Brandon, my sister-in-law Lori, and my nephew Austin for their unending support over the years, not just for the writing of this book, but for all my literary endeavors. I’d like to offer a special thanks to my late mother, Karen, who never doubted I could do it but always wondered when I’d get around to it. Wish you were here to read it, Mom.
My friends Scott Bolderson, Aaron Booth, Mark Sowers, and Rob Thompson each supported me during the writing of this book, offing encouragement when I needed it, or the occasional nudge (with a word or with a sledgehammer) when things got tough. I know it doesn’t sound like much, but just listening to the plot, or offering an opinion on human nature, really helped me pull this rabbit out of my hat. Thanks for everything, I really wouldn’t have been able to do any of this if it weren’t for you guys. You really are the best friends anyone could ever hope to have.
Finally, I need to thank Caitlin Keaton. She was there at the very beginning, the very first person to read the short story that blossomed into Big Shots and Bullet Holes. Throughout the entire writing of the book she was there: reading, encouraging, critiquing, demanding, and most of all, keeping me typing. Thank you, Caitlin, for forcing me to overcome my own insecurities, and for never letting me give up on my dream. I owe you more than you’ll ever know, and more than I can ever repay. If everyone had a friend like you, more people would achieve their goals. Thanks for being my friend and never giving up on me. You’re the best.
About the Author
Brian David Spicer was born and raised in the Appalachian foothills of Ohio. He took to reading early, already knowing how to read by the time he entered kindergarten and developed a lifelong love of books before most kids had ever read one. While reading came naturally to him, the other subjects were a challenge. His education was always a mixed bag of excellence and mediocrity, much to the exasperation of his parents and teachers. Having just finished reading the Chronicles of Narnia during the fifth grade, Brian was looking for something new and exciting, but also similar to the Narnia books. What he found changed his world. He read The Hobbit three times that year, and has read it at least twenty times since then, and it still ranks as one of his favorite books. It was the book that made him want to be a writer.
Despite deciding to be a writer at age 11, it took many years before he tried to publish anything. Like many writers, he is a harsh critic of his own work, and most of his early writing remained unread by anyone and was eventually destroyed. After high school Brian attended Ohio University, where
he obtained an Associate of Applied Business in Computer Science Technology. A few years later, after the urge to publish began to grow again, he returned to Ohio University and finished his Bachelor of Arts in English. During this time, he finally began publishing short stories: first in university publications, then in short story anthologies. He’s had short stories in more than a dozen anthologies, including Cosy Crime from Flame Tree Press, Out of Phase and Wicked Deeds: Witches, Warlocks, Demons & Other Evil Doers from Sirens Call Publications, Strangely Funny II and III and VI from Mystery and Horror, LLC, and Pernicious Invaders and From the Corner of Your Eye from Great Old Ones Publishing. Big Shots and Bullet Holes is his first novel.
Brian, who writes under the pen name B. David Spicer because it sounds more artsy and pretentious, still lives in Ohio, not far from where he grew up. He’s not particularly active on social media, but you can find him on Facebook at:
http://www.facebook.com/spicerwriter/
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