BOOKER Box Set #1 (Books 1-3: A Private Investigator Thriller Series of Crime and Suspense)

by John W. Mefford

  “I cut myself shaving. Do you want ten dollars?”

  Scratching his thin head of hair, flakes of dandruff bounced off like lice. He turned his head in the direction of the unnatural disaster by the staircase.

  “Do you happen to know what happened to the railing? It’s a fucking mess!”

  “Shhh,” I said sternly. “One last time. Do you want ten dollars to shut the fuck up and leave?”

  He held out a hairy hand, but I yanked the bills back.

  “Not so fast. You leave right now, and I’ll drop the money by in less than an hour.”

  Glancing away like he was only half there, he turned his head and locked eyes with mine. I felt violated.

  “Or I could go knock on your neighbor’s door and let them know what you’re doing.” His lips formed a tight, straight line.

  “Okay, you can have the money up front. Here you go.”

  I grudgingly threw my hand out, but Carl moved faster than I thought possible, and he scooted by my left side and into the room.

  “I don’t care about your money. I just want to join the game.” Grinning like he’d just out-hustled one of the gamers on the Midway at the State Fair, Carl rocked back and forth on his heels.

  Given no other choice, I shut the door. Once again, he moved quicker than a cat, and in less than two seconds, he was on one knee, his eye pressed into the peephole. I now wondered what other function the peephole served.

  Damn, neither Alisa nor Justin would believe this crazy story. As for Britney, I wouldn’t want to freak her out, so I’d have to summarize the events into something less seedy.

  Carl started chuckling.

  “Shh.” I sounded like Momma when I was a kid yelling at the top of my lungs when she was on the phone. “Please keep quiet. What do you see?”

  Carl hesitated, then turned and fixed his glasses. “Nothing yet. It’s just the anticipation, you know.”

  “I know. Can you give me some room?”

  Lowering my body, I brought the camera lens up to the opening, just as I heard distinct voices.

  “I’m not sure we have enough,” she said out of sight of my lens.

  I heard a noise, similar to the crinkling of plastic grocery bags, then a smacking sound. Then more crinkling.

  “Let me see, let me see,” Carl said, clapping with his fingers.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I think I saw him frothing at the mouth.

  “There’s nothing to see,” I said in monotone.

  Shaking my head, I was pissed. After nearly breaking my neck from the war zone obstacle course to get here, then dealing with Carl and his creepy inclinations, I was already warped from the experience, and I’d be forced to go through a decontamination process before I set foot in my condo. It would have been worth it if Spencer and Lola had given me the material I needed.

  “Ah, man. Nothing works out when I get involved,” Carl said behind me. “Hey, do you want to join me back at the office? The owner just dropped off a box of used magazines, including that new one, One Tuff Muff.”

  I did a double take, then held back a smile, wondering if Britney would crack up from the word associated with the female Cromwell. I also wondered what he meant by used. “They’re all yours, Carl. Knock yourself out. Just close the door behind you…quietly.”

  “Eh,” he said, then traipsed through the stiff pile of towels.

  “Spencer, you’re one strange puppy, but I love you anyway.”

  “Lola,” I whispered, then lowered my camera back to the opening and watched her move into view. Propped on stilettos, she wore a tiny white skirt, a sleeveless white jacket scooped so low her watermelons were on the verge of flopping out, a white hat, and a stethoscope.

  “Playing nurse for the sicko with the odd fetishes,” I murmured.

  Off to my left, two quick steps, metal clanging, and then I saw Carl sailing through the air, his arms flailing. He landed with a thud, his face buried in soiled towels. He’s baaack.

  He mumbled something, then he spit out the towel. “Let me see. Let me see.”

  “Not yet.”

  Lola glanced toward our wall, but she didn’t seem bothered by the noise. “Come on, big boy. It’s time to play out your fantasy.”

  I’d seen some freaky shit during my days on the force, but nothing prepared me for this vision.

  “What is it? Tell me.” Carl’s mouth was only inches from mine, and my eyes watered from his rank breath, carrying smells of fish, chewing gum, and remnants from the soiled towels.

  “Give me some space. Please!” I hissed.

  Blinking my eyes, I attempted to keep the camera steady, as Spencer waddled toward the bed, my mind still not believing the sight.

  “Holy shit!” At first glance, Spencer resembled a flabby Chewbacca.

  Lola ran a finger down his hairy back and licked it. “Yummy for my tummy. It’s nice and smooth, just the way I like it.”

  Every inch and pore of Spencer’s naked body was coated with peanut butter.

  “Disgusting,” I said.

  “What? Let me see, Jay Z!” Carl begged.

  Lola sauntered toward the camera, and my heart started racing, thinking she’d heard Carl. Then she reached to her right and picked up a ping pong paddle.

  “Spencer has been a bad boy. It’s time to crack some balls.” She lifted her cleavage out of the white barricade, allowing the blimps to float like they were filled with helium, and her eyes relaxed.

  With Spencer’s arms planted on the bed, Lola spanked his ass, peanut butter spraying everywhere, including her jug-like breasts, and he turned toward the camera and laughed like a pig in mud.

  Click. Click. Click. Three shots for the Janice portfolio.

  Bending down, she reached between his legs, pulled, and swung an uppercut, connecting with his peanut butter sac.

  “Owwwww!” He howled for a good ten seconds, his lips puckering while his red face glowed through the peanut butter spread.

  I held the rapid-fire button continuously for another half-minute, capturing about three hundred shots, knowing there must be at least a handful of Warhol-like gems amongst the pictures.

  Closing the shutter, I pocketed my camera and pushed myself upright. Carl nearly knocked me against the wall as he lumbered into the free space, his mouth already open.

  “Your dream come true, Carl. Enjoy,” I said, already thinking about the nearest place I could stop and wash off.

  I twisted the doorknob and took a step out, my lungs quenched by a clean batch of air.

  “Did I tell you why this place is called Motel 9?” Carl shifted his eyes my way.

  Shaking my head, I closed the door behind me and never looked back.

  10

  “Would you do anything in the world to protect me? Anything at all?”

  I recalled the words from Britney overnight, following a passionate lovemaking session. Spooning each other, and my mind drifting off to sleep, her questions cut through my mental fog.

  Out of character, her query caught me off guard, and I must have paused for at least ten seconds. Wiping my face, I started to utter a response, “I hope you know how much—”

  “Never mind,” she said dismissively. She huffed an annoyed breath and flipped to face the opposite wall.

  I considered making another attempt at convincing her she had my support and, yes, my protection, but there seemed to be another meaning behind her words. Perhaps the tentacles of guilt or despair from seeing Ashton murdered had grabbed hold of her thoughts, forcing her to remember the feelings from months back. I didn’t know for certain, but our interaction, especially the timing of it, didn’t sit well with me.

  I think we’d experienced our first rift. Weren’t all rifts with significant others unexplainable?

  The cheap coffeemaker ground and hissed, brown liquid drooling into the stained glass pot. I yawned, brought an arm across my chest, stretching ligaments and muscles in my shoulder, the one that had caused me so much trouble recently…hell, ev
en back to when I suffered my first dislocation in high school, ending my senior football season two games in.

  Britney had actually beaten me out of bed, slipping on her clothes, washing her face, and grabbing a banana before kissing me on her way out the door. I suppose her issue had faded away.

  “Wake up, lazy asshole, asshole, asshole.”

  “Hey now. I’m awake. I’m just daydreaming a bit,” I said, slurping coffee while staring out the window at sun and shade splitting an empty pool. Even if he was obnoxious, it was difficult not to respond to Big Al’s comments, as random as they were.

  Glancing over my shoulder, I noticed the time.

  “Shit!” Only forty minutes until my meeting with Renee Dubois. I took another stimulating swig of coffee and tossed it in the sink, then hoofed it into the bedroom.

  “Wake up, lazy asshole, asshole, asshole.”

  Big Al. Stopping on a dime, I flipped around and jogged back into the kitchen, scooped out a half cup of his food, then bounced over to his cage and fed him just as he snapped at my finger.

  “Little fucker!” He’d missed, but he needed to learn a lesson. Yeah, right. What could I do, take away his video games? I’d never been in such a one-sided relationship. If I did anything that didn’t agree with his mood at the time, he could make my life a living hell.

  I did myself a favor, however, and quickly changed out the newspaper in his cage. “You’re lucky I don’t make you smell your shit all day,” I said, scolding him like he understood.

  Padding back to the bathroom, Big Al got in the last word, like he did every time. “Smell your chit. Smell your chit.” He used a “c,” but he got his Miranda-like point across—anything you say, can and will be used against you, in this condo.

  I flipped the shower handle to allow the water to warm up while I shaved, ensuring I outlined my goatee, one I’d grown just in the last year or so. It worked for me, just like my new PI gig.

  Plugging in my razor, I noticed the reddish wound on my chest, reminding me of my battle against the booby trap otherwise known as the staircase railing at Motel 9. While I’d coated my chest with anti-bacterial cream when I’d walked in the door the previous evening, I knew the biggest test was right now. Steam fogged the top of the bathroom mirror, and I braced my psyche for a knifelike jolt of stabbing pain.

  It didn’t disappoint, and I finished the shower in about two minutes, hoping Big Al didn’t catch wind of my string of cuss words. Dressing just as quickly, I had about twelve minutes for the trip downtown. No problem with my driving skill behind the wheel of the Silver Streak.

  “Later, Big Al.”

  I swung the door open, took one stride, and nearly ran through a female bust—one that was attached to Cindy Valentino, wearing blue neon spandex this time.

  “Jesus, Cindy,” I held up a hand, then bounced back a step, shaking my head. “What are you doing right outside my door?”

  Setting both hands on her curvaceous hips, she tilted her elongated head, her face contorting like she was taking a crap, which could mean any number of thoughts.

  “What?” I said, not comfortable with the silence or her horse-eyed glare.

  “Did you enjoy feeling me up?”

  “Uh, what? No. I didn’t feel you up or down. Hey, I need—”

  “Get a load of this!” She cocked her eyebrows, then danced, or jogged, in place, twisted around, and continued jogging, or dancing as if there was a music accompaniment. I couldn’t determine her intent. The entire time, her eyes shot laser beams at me. I was afraid to look away, which battled my other inner conflict, a fear of looking at her, as if she was Medusa and I’d turn to stone.

  Opening my jaw to speak, she held up a finger, then started shimmying her shoulders, moving forward and backward in the hallway. Her twins bobbed like ocean buoys. On one pass, she added in an extra vertical thrust, and I thought they might smack my chin. I jerked my head back.

  “Cindy, I don’t have time for all of your games. I have an appointment.” I turned and closed my door, then slid in the key and locked the padlock. I attempted to take a step down the hall, but she shifted left like she was protecting the lane to the basket.

  I held two hands above my shoulders, ensuring no foul on my part.

  In typical Cindy fashion, she grabbed my waist. “Damn,” she said. “You want to play a little game of one-on-one?”

  Shrugging my shoulders, I said, “You know that’s not going to happen. I don’t want to be mean to you, but can’t we just be friends?”

  Taking a step back, blowing a strand of brunette hair out of her face, she paced left then right, and each time I tried to squeeze by, but she and her bust were right there to block my path. She rubbed her sweat-slick forehead, her eyes not focused on me…for a welcomed change. But something was darting around in her mind. That much was all too obvious.

  “Who’s that girl with the flamingo legs that is always visiting you?”

  Licking my lips, I eyed the elevated ceiling, searching for a response that would allow me to not tell a bold-faced lie, but also escape her wrath. Horse face or not, I didn’t need a Fatal Attraction in my life.

  “She’s just a friend of mine, Cindy. She lost someone close to her recently, and I’ve been helping her through it. Have you ever had friends like that, where you just need to be there for them?” I’d made my best attempt to keep Britney’s name out of it and help Cindy understand every relationship wasn’t all about sex.

  She crossed her arms, propping up her bustline another couple of inches, her lips in a pouty straight line.

  “Seriously? What does chicken legs have that I don’t?”

  We didn’t have enough time for me to provide a full list, and I had no desire to attempt to fix Cindy’s numerous issues, which may not have been fixable anyway.

  “Britney’s legs do not resemble that of a flamingo or a chicken, that I can assure you.”

  “Britney. Hmmm,” she said, tapping a forefinger to her chin, her eyes narrowed a bit.

  Dammit. My Britney defense mechanism had kicked in, and I’d accidentally shared her name.

  “Just because you know her name shouldn’t mean a thing to you. She’s just a friend,” I said matter-of-factly. “Now, if I don’t leave right now I’m going to be late for a new client.”

  “Has anyone ever asked you, ‘Where’s the craziest place you’ve ever had sex?’”

  Was this girl bipolar? Between her wild antics and bizarre questions, she was as unpredictable as she was…

  “Cat got your tongue? Or should I say macaw?”

  “Good one.” I decided to chuckle, anything to move forward with my life.

  “And?” she said, knowing she was pinning me against the wall, figuratively speaking.

  “And what? What do you want me to say? The woods, on the top of a washing machine?”

  Twisting her head, she attempted to reveal a wry grin. Then, she ran her tongue across her lips. She either had a bad memory, or a she needed a man in the worst way.

  “Are you waiting for something?”

  “I know you have an important appointment, but I thought you might ask me the same question.”

  Rubbing my neck, I released a tired breath.

  “It will give you something to think about all day, I promise you.”

  “Okay, I’m a sucker. What’s the craziest place you’ve ever had sex, Cindy?”

  “Have you ever seen that YouTube video from the old TV show The Newlyweds?” She unveiled a shit-eating grin, as if she’d just shared her darkest secret.

  I nodded hesitantly, still wondering why she didn’t say something like, “At the top of the Empire State Building.”

  “In the butt, Bob.” She snorted out a giggle, then extended her rear end against my jeans, rubbing me down like she’d attempted in the workout room.

  I paused a split second, replaying what she’d just said, my mind now connecting her words to her actions. Damn, this girl had issues. “Cindy, you need help. That’s
all I can say.”

  Spinning around her heavy-duty caboose, I found freedom and picked up the pace with each stride.

  “Booker, where you going? I thought you’d be into that. No? That’s okay. We’ll catch up later, and I’ll show you how flexible I am.”

  Finally outside, puffy clouds dotted the sky, and my lungs begged for a deep, clean breath. I closed my eyes for just a moment and smelled sweet syrup and bacon from a nearby eatery, along with a scent of exhaust. Eager to put as much distance as possible between Cindy and the Saab, I popped the clutch and jolted out of the parking lot, heading south into the mouth of the city.

  I allowed my mind to replay what I’d just experienced, and I found it hard to keep a straight face. In some respects, Cindy was harmless and nothing more than comic relief. But damn, she tried way too hard. I’m sure there must be a guy in this world who was meant to be hers.

  But I wasn’t that guy. And why was it that every time I had one of these disturbing interactions with Cindy I felt like I needed to put in an application to change my name and location under the Federal Witness Protection Program?

  Regaining my focus, I caught nothing but green lights, and squeaked tires while pulling into the garage next to the offices of the Dallas Performing Arts off Ross.

  Three minutes later, I hopped off the ninth-floor elevator and approached two open glass doors, a gold sign affixed overhead that read Dallas Performing Arts Executive Offices. Just to the right of an expansive receptionist desk, a woman wearing a purple pleated skirt and black-and-purple-striped silk top tilted a plastic container two feet over her head and water poured out of a curved spout. Her left foot stretched upward onto the toe of her heeled pump, providing just enough clearance for the watering jug to reach the vine plant. My eyes caught the rigid bulge of her calf muscle, and I knew this woman was in shape.

  “Mr. Adams,” she said with her back to me.

  I assumed she’d heard my heavy breathing. “Yes, hi. I have an appointment with Renee Dubois.”

  “Right, at eight o’clock.” She flipped around and took pronounced steps on her silver heels to the desk. Her skin was about my color, maybe a bit lighter. Her pleasant complexion looked like something you’d see on one of those face cream commercials, and her black hair was pulled back into a tight ponytail.