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

by John W. Mefford

  “I…uh, finished my workout and told myself I hadn’t tasted Campisi’s pizza in a while, so I drove up here for takeout.”

  “It’s not ready yet?” Justin said, looking around me toward the front, where it appeared he’d hoped to find a sign that read “Booker’s pizza is ready so he can go now.”

  My eyes caught an older woman shuffling out of a back room, a brown polyester skirt pulled up to her boobs. She attempted to squeeze between two chairs. She made it, but her sagging water balloons bitch-slapped a brace-faced boy. Shocked initially, his face grew wild with excitement as he turned and instinctively reached out, like he was looking for his pacifier. His mom popped him on the side of the head, then turned to his father and swung a mean finger, uttering something about “your son,” “Sunday,” and “confession.” Poor guy.

  “Did you say something?” I asked.

  Justin started laughing, and just by the sound of his jarring pitch, I could envision his shoulders bouncing up and down. Normally, I’d be laughing at him, but I kept my eyes on the old man and his bodyguard, my hand loose, ready to reach inside my jacket, unsnap the holster and draw my firearm if the situation called for it.

  “What are you all worked up about?” I asked, still not turning toward Justin.

  “Dude…” he started, but couldn’t finish. Dropping silverware onto the table, Justin had just about lost all control of his bodily functions.

  “Get a grip, man.” I chuckled while glancing over my shoulder at him.

  “I would if your tongue wasn’t hanging out of your mouth while watching that…uh, mature woman walk out of the bathroom. She’s got toilet paper stuck to her shoe.”

  He nearly spit up a mouthful of salad, his arm extending over my shoulder. I followed his pointer finger, my eyes noticing the tail of toilet paper fluttering behind her. Then she really caught me by surprise. She stopped…at the table with the old man and his bodyguard, if that’s what he was. Resting a hand on the younger man’s shoulder, she leaned over, pulled out dentures, and smooched the older man, who I guessed was her husband.

  “Did she just pull out her teeth and French kiss that old fart in the middle of this restaurant?” David’s eyes didn’t blink, and he brought his napkin to his mouth.

  “Is there no God?” Justin chimed in, the laugh all gone, his voice filled with horror.

  Unsure how anyone would have an appetite after witnessing that felony, I was more annoyed that my possible identification of Ferrigamo and company was no more than a loving family out for Sunday lunch. Or something like that.

  “I didn’t know there would be a third.” A waitress too old to be working the floor had stopped and pulled out her order pad. “Can I get you something to drink?” She then hollered toward the kitchen, “Hey Ramon, can you set a place setting for this one here in the shorts?”

  “He’s not staying. Right, Booker?” Justin stared at me, forehead scrunched like an accordion.

  As much as I wanted to share the inside information from Sciafini, I’d done my best in the past to keep Justin clear of anything smelling liked organized crime. Checking my phone, I saw it was twelve forty-five. Everything seemed quiet, normal even. Maybe Sciafini had bad information? The imminent murder maybe wasn’t imminent after all. For now, I was comfortable leaving Justin and David to drum up new ideas in their new business venture. I’d make another round through the restaurant, then check all the parking lots outside. If the scene remained uneventful, I could possibly dart home and pick up where I left off in my jog.

  “I can tell when I’m not wanted,” I deadpanned. Shaking my head, I held up a hand to the waitress, who shrugged her shoulders and walked off.

  David leaned back, splayed his arms. “From my perspective, you’re welcome to stay. As you know, I’m now an open book. I’ve got nothing to hide.”

  Glancing at Justin, he looked down, twisting his glass back and forth. I could tell he felt differently about me sticking around. Perhaps he was feeling judged, knowing my fondness of The Jewel and Alisa, professionally speaking.

  “I need to get going. Alisa and I are meeting in my office this afternoon. Need to compare notes on this crazy murder case.”

  Justin seemed to relax as I stood up.

  Suddenly, a splintering crash, as if someone just dropped a glass on concrete. I reached for my Sig. Then, two more glassy pings followed, but they were crisp, and then some secondary popping sounds. Screams from the other room.

  “What the hell?” I heard Justin call out as I cut toward the older, darker part of the restaurant, my eyes searching for trouble, a victim, a perp. My heart pinged my chest wall.

  Pausing at the border to the room, I saw everyone standing, wide eyes locked on the exit. First booth, a man was bleeding at the head; a lady was next to him shaking and holding a white cloth napkin against his ear. I darted to the table, my Sig down by my leg.

  “Is he okay?”

  “He’s bleeding everywhere.” Her quivering voice matched her hand.

  Glancing around to ensure I wasn’t in an obvious line of fire, I pulled her away and found a small chunk of his ear missing—Mike Tyson style—a sharp piece of colored glass buried in cartilage and skin.

  “Keep applying pressure until the paramedics get here. He should be okay.”

  A waitress appeared, holding a tray. She began to sob, as her hand pointed to the top of tray.

  “What?”

  “S...s…someone shot into the restaurant. Hit the beer bottle on my tray.”

  I noticed her face and shirt drenched, likely from the exploding beer.

  Turning my head around again, I saw no sign of Ferrigamo or the killer from best I could tell, unless they’d somehow blended in with the crowd. For now, I took my best guess and assumed not.

  “Has anyone called nine-one-one?”

  Scanning the room, I saw three of four heads nod, most eyes on me.

  “Good. Please move to the back of the restaurant and stay down until the police arrive.”

  A few people started to move, then a woman yelled out. “He’s got a gun. He’s going to slaughter all of us!”

  A piercing shrill splintered the room, and two large men moved in my direction as I pointed my firearm to the ceiling.

  “I’m a former DPD cop. I’m a private investigator. Do as I said. Now.”

  “Shots came from outside,” moaned the man with the bloody ear.

  “I’m headed that way.”

  The grip of the pistol clutched with both hands, I hit the first of the two doors, realizing it was padded with thick leather. I’m sure it helped maintain a quieter setting on the inside of the restaurant. What other purpose it served, I couldn’t be certain.

  Leaning against the door, I peeked through the crack into the portico and spotted broken glass on the floor, a small window above four feet of brick rimmed with only small jagged edges of glass. I kept my head below the line of the window and shuffled over to the brick wall, and tried to get a better view of outside through the second door to the restaurant, which was a metal framed glass door. There was a problem. The glass was coated in dark window tinting, old and warped, crinkling in spots. Angling my face to look down the sidewalk, I only saw gray. Wait. I noticed movement, a shade of purple.

  Ping-ping!

  Another shot, damn close to the door and me, and I slammed my back against the brick wall, my body still hunkered under the broken glass window. Breathing like I’d just sprinted four hundred meters in world record time, I replayed the gunshot. It must have bounced off the sidewalk, then hit the brick wall behind it, about five feet outside the door. Someone was likely using a rifle, wanting the cover of distance.

  Glass crunched under my shoes as I waddled back to the glass door. Extending a hand, I nudged it open. I could see upward, the blue sky and a few clouds, the trees at the median, and a building of some kind across the street. I couldn’t recall what it was. I shifted my neck to try to look west down the sidewalk.

  There! Three men
practically lay on top of each other huddled behind the front end of a Honda Pilot, a look of panic on the one face I could see. He wore a purple sweater—the flash of purple I’d seen earlier. Some movement, and a barrel-chested man with a buzz cut appeared to be looking my way, but I’m not certain he noticed me. Maybe he was contemplating running back inside the restaurant. Just then, his lips came together as if he was blowing out a breath. I noticed a pistol in his right hand. Pushing up to his knees in one quick motion, he brought the firearm in front of his face. Clutched in both hands, he fired three quick shots, then smacked the guy to his left on the back. Buzz then grabbed the third man, taking a fistful of purple sweater, and they lunged forward behind another sedan. They paused a couple of seconds, then jumped forward, now behind another vehicle.

  This had to be Ferrigamo and his bodyguards. They were trying to get to the west parking lot. Had they even considered waiting on help from the DPD?

  I guess they lived in a different world than the rest of us. Opening the door a few more inches, no one fired in my direction. I could feel my pulse pounding like a rabbit’s foot, shaking the breath leaving my nose. I scooted one foot forward, shards of glass embedding in the rubber soles of my running shoes.

  Eyeing my landing point at the Honda Pilot, I licked my lips, a hint of uncertainty peppering my mind. I was a private citizen, not a cop. My job description no longer required me to put my life on the line, particularly not for a man who most likely killed for a living. In some respects, this was his payback, wasn’t it?

  I forced out a breath. “Dammit!” I was mad at myself. I could feel the power to protect others impose its will over the power to protect me. Three. Two.

  “Booker!”

  My heart felt like a smashed tomato as I turned to the interior door, Justin’s small head poking through, no more than two feet off the ground.

  “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

  “Nothing. Go back inside. Get to the back of the restaurant and stay down.”

  I kept my eyes outside, peering through the swaying branches of the trees planted at the median. I’d almost forgotten there was a fancy apartment complex right next to the grocery store parking lot.

  “Are you actually going out there in the middle of a gunfight?” His voice pitched so high it sounded like prepubescent Justin.

  “I’ll be fine.” I swatted a hand at him.

  “Are you fucking crazy?”

  “Justin, I’m trained to deal with this. Go back inside.”

  “Cock-sucking asshole,” he said under his breath as he disappeared inside.

  I knew Justin didn’t understand. Hell, even I questioned my judgment. But I couldn’t change where I came from or who I was.

  One more peek outside, and I spotted the three men attached at the hip, farther down the sidewalk, practically kissing concrete behind the sleek, low frame of a black Corvette. I glanced toward the complex, but mostly saw leaves and branches. Unsure of the sniper’s exact location, I didn’t count this time. I jumped out, still no more than three feet high, and scooted to the Honda Pilot, practically eating my knees along the way.

  The three men hadn’t noticed me. Buzz smacked his partner on the back again and tried to move the man in the purple sweater. But he didn’t budge. I could hear yelling, then the heavyset guy with a bushy mustache that seemed to droop over his mouth plodded back into position behind the Corvette. More discussion, then a “Fine, fine. Enough already.” I was more certain than ever that the man in the purple sweater was Ferrigamo. I could see his face. It was round and wrinkly with an enormous nose, thick glasses, and a mat of dark brown hair on top.

  I realized no shots had been fired in the last couple of minutes. The sniper probably knew he only had a few minutes before cops and SWAT arrived on the scene. We might be clear.

  Just then, the three wise guys took off from behind the Corvette, Ferrigamo moving pretty well for a guy who must have been in his upper seventies, maybe older by the number of lines on his face.

  Ten steps, and they dipped out into the front parking area and circled a wall at the end of the sidewalk. Just as the first bodyguard vanished behind the wall into the west parking lot, shots rang out. Buzz and Ferrigamo skidded to a stop, hands first, on the pebbled pavement. I heard a scream to my right, a young lady walking down the sidewalk headed my way.

  “Get back. Shots fired,” I yelled. She scampered away in the opposite direction.

  A car honked as it passed, and I flipped my head back around. I could see the purple sweater moving slightly. Crouching, with both hands on the pistol while aiming across the street, I shuffled my feet like a linebacker and moved down the sidewalk. I got to a sedan and noticed an opening in the tree canopy. A quick scan, and all I saw were a few shut windows. The reflection in the sedan’s windshield showed I was in front of a bridal shop, white wedding dresses splashed all along the front display windows.

  A quick glance over at Ferrigamo, and I could see him inching along on his elbows, as if he was scooting under barbed wire at boot camp. It couldn’t get any more real than live bullets whizzing over your head.

  Three quick shots. Chipped concrete sprayed a layer of dust just next to Ferrigamo. Then I heard a man. I think it was the large guy with the mustache.

  “Shit. Ah! I’ve been hit,” he moaned.

  More voices, muffled, but angry and even scared.

  Feet scraped the hard surface, and I felt certain the sniper had them pinned on the other side of the wall. Raising my pistol toward the complex, I searched for the gunman. Nothing. Was this guy fucking invisible or what? Dammit!

  Sirens echoed in the distance. About damn time.

  Another shot. A man screamed like he’d just lost a limb.

  Tension built in my body, my throat too parched to swallow. Another shot instantly followed by another wail, this one sounding like the end of life.

  “Fuck!” Gritting my teeth, I sprinted to the end of the sidewalk, ramming my shoulder against the white-painted cinderblock wall. Not wanting to give the shooter a stationary image, I flipped around the corner. The man with the mustache lay on his back, blood trailing across the pavement starting near his thigh where a hole ripped through slacks. He whimpered, his hands covering his face, almost as if he was praying.

  Just beyond him, Buzz and Ferrigamo were crouched behind a dented metal trashcan turned on its side. Buzz held his gun toward the complex, but his eyes were on me.

  “I’m on your side. Don’t shoot.”

  Taking a slight chance, I holstered my Sig, ran behind the wounded man, grabbed his elbows and dragged him as quickly as I could behind Buzz and Ferrigamo. The closest car was fifty feet away on the other side of the lot. But I did spot another trashcan behind us.

  “Hold on,” I said as I ran back to retrieve the metal can.

  Just as I set it down next to the one lying horizontally, another shot. I could feel the air move as the bullet whizzed by before I heard the noise.

  “We gotta get out of here and get me to the hospital.” The man with the mustache reached up and pulled at Ferrigamo’s sweater.

  Buzz swung his gun and clipped the guy’s hand. “Shut up!”

  Another shot, and Buzz fell back, his hand covering a gruesome wound on his opposite shoulder.

  We were fucking sitting ducks, the sirens too far away to make a difference in the next thirty seconds. And I could sense it would be all over in less than that.

  Out of nowhere, a spear of light bounced off my eye. Was that from the sniper? Removing my pistol while looking toward the complex, I spotted movement five, six floors up. I think it was a rifle. Knowing I had little chance for an accurate shot, I had to put this asshole on the defense, force him to take cover until the blue uniforms showed up in droves.

  I set my arms on top of the trash can and found the target. I couldn’t be off by much and have one of my bullets harm an innocent person in a neighboring apartment.

  I could hear a pair of moans from behi
nd me, one whimpering, the other coming out in sputtering gasps.

  Seeing the barrel of the pistol shake, I inhaled and forced out a slow breath, steadying my aim. Three. Two.

  “No!” A woman cried out just as someone tackled me from behind, smashing my head against the trashcan.

  For a few seconds, I only saw metal and the pavement. I hadn’t been blindsided like that since I played quarterback in high school.

  My pistol. It wasn’t in my hands. Pushing my body up, I lifted my head and saw two legs covered in some type of yoga pants. A woman’s legs. Inching my vision upward, steely eyes glared my direction, the barrel of her pistol aimed right at me.

  “Who are you?” I asked without thinking.

  “You can’t shoot that man.” She was demanding, but there was emotion behind her voice, and a slight accent. I noticed her bronze skin against her silver jacket, her dark hair pulled back in a ponytail. But her eyes still meant business as the pistol moved from me then over to Buzz, now leaning on an elbow.

  I should have said, “Anything you want. Please put down the gun.” Instead, I asked, “Why?”

  “Because I believe that’s my father.”

  16

  Justin flipped the sign on his front door to “Closed” and locked the deadbolt for good measure. Behind the bar, Alisa shoveled ice into tumblers, then added shots of alcohol and carbonation to finish off the mixed drinks.

  “A vodka tonic and a rum and Coke.” She set the drinks in front of her.

  I reached for the glasses, but my partner/assistant held tight. Looking into my eyes, she whispered, “Can you trust her?”

  “I’m not sure. I think so.” It was an honest response. Walking to the lounge area, I paused at the first leather chair, seeing Magdalena Calero talking on her cell phone, standing with her back to me. I heard a lot of Spanish, not understanding a word. She shook her fist with emotion, then turned and leaned her hand against the white and brown brick wall. A baseball game played on the big screen just to her right, but she never noticed.