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

by John W. Mefford

  “Maggie, can you—”

  “He’s full of shit. I heard him speaking in English to his masturbate buddy over there when I walked up. He’s trying to play us, and I’m not going to let him do it. My father’s life is on the line.”

  She took a step forward, her fist cocked and her jaw rigid.

  I stepped in between them, then gave the guy a couple of options.

  “Since you can understand everything I say, you can either tell me who gave you the hat or we’ll take you behind the gas station and I’ll leave you alone with Ms. Feisty.”

  He closed his eyes, then took the white fedora off his head and clutched it against his chest.

  “No one gave me this hat, I just found it.”

  “He’s lying. I can see it in his eyes.” Maggie’s expression spewed venom.

  Perhaps he was lying, but Maggie’s overall temperament had devolved rapidly in the last hour. Not surprising, given no sleep and the anxiety of believing her dad might be out there plotting to kill innocent people because of a possible vendetta related to a presidential assassination more than fifty years ago. I had nothing but empathy for my diminutive partner, and a fervent desire to find Javier.

  “Have you seen this man?” Maggie shoved her phone six inches from the guy’s face.

  “Uh…” He looked away again at his buddy, who had unfolded the magazine centerfold.

  “Have you seen him or not?” I asked.

  “Uh…I think I recall seeing him now.” He held up a single finger, the last knuckle chopped off.

  Staring at his hands, I could see abrasions, discolored fingernails, and a deep coating of dirt and grime. This guy had been exposed to a rough way of life, the jobs he’d held, or maybe what kind of hobbies he enjoyed.

  “And?” Maggie’s voice pitched higher, her fuse about to go off.

  “I know, I was at a certain motel, and I saw him crossing the parking lot.”

  A quick glance at Maggie, then I moved a step closer to Peach Fuzz.

  “At the far east side of the city, on the border with Rowlett, a small place called Motel 9.”

  “You mean Motel 6?” Maggie asked.

  “He means Motel 9. I’ll explain it later.”

  Maggie gave me a confused look, then tried to snatch the white hat from Peach Fuzz, who jerked his shoulders around and hung on tight to the hat.

  “And you’re telling us this guy that you recognized from her phone did not give you this hat?”

  “No, he didn’t.”

  “So, where did you get it?” My voice had an edge. I felt like I was speaking with a five-year-old, one who’d already learned the art of bullshit.

  “No one gave it to me, that’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. I found it.”

  Now I was beginning to question this guy’s honesty, and I took another look at the hat. Some of the edging had been frayed. The brim had three creases like it had been crushed, and a black scuff mark stretched across the center of the top.

  Maybe this wasn’t Javier’s hat. Or maybe Peach Fuzz and possibly others had taken this from Maggie’s dad forcibly. I could feel heat gather at the edge of my collar.

  Just as I took a step toward Peach Fuzz, I heard the chamber of a gun load, and I turned around.

  “I’m tired of putting up with you low-life maggots. Take your shit out of here, or I’m going to fill you with lead.”

  A sawed-off shotgun hung next to the clerk’s leg, his stature much more confident than earlier. I assumed he was the guy who’d rather be tried by twelve, which didn’t sit well with me.

  Maggie’s eyes met mine, then I looked at the manager.

  “No need to get upset. We’re just having a discussion, trying to locate a sick family member.”

  “Every one of you coming in here has a pathetic excuse. I’ve heard them all, but it’s all bullshit. You can’t fool me.”

  I had a lot I could have said, wanted to say, but I wasn’t going to risk our lives.

  “We’re cool.” I reached out for Maggie, brought her behind me, and starting backing away.

  “Sure you are. Only because I’m holding a gun that could spill your guts all over this floor. But I really don’t want to clean the floor again. I already cleaned it last month after I shot another one just like your kind. Fucking scum.”

  Reaching out, I grabbed the arm of Peach Fuzz, and we all moved backward toward the front door.

  “There you go, keep it moving.” He swung his shotgun like it was a loaf of bread, his finger on the trigger. “You know how to take orders. I guess that’s what it takes sometimes.”

  We bumped into Peach Fuzz’s friend, who was still flipping through the magazine.

  “Did you rip open one of my magazines, muchacho?” The clerk’s eyes narrowed, a trench forming between his deep eye sockets.

  “Uh…uh.” The friend jerked his hand forward, the magazine pages bent every which way.

  “I don’t want a magazine you’ve already used. God knows what you did with it.”

  The kid dug in his pockets and pulled out fabric and lint, his expression pained.

  “Nada.”

  Apparently, his English wasn’t as good as his buddy with the fedora.

  I quickly dug in my pockets, but I had no cash on me.

  “Let’s go swipe my credit card, and I’ll pay for it. Then we’ll all leave, and everything will go back to normal.”

  The clerk gave me the once-over.

  “I’m charging you double. The rest of you out. Now!” He held up his gun.

  I nodded at Maggie, who corralled the other two and marched through the door.

  With his eye still on me, the clerk shifted toward the register, scooting around the counter to face me, his shotgun waist high, held in his right hand.

  “That will be seven bucks times two.” He punched a few keys with his left forefinger. “Then we have the PITA tax.”

  I looked him straight in the eye, and he slowly showed a wide grin, revealing a set of mangled, discolored teeth that looked like something I’d seen in pictures from the seventeen hundreds.

  “Pain. In. My. Ass. That’s what all of you are to me.” He chuckled.

  I managed to keep my expression blank, although a thin coat of perspiration lined my spinal column.

  “With the PITA tax, the total comes to one hundred fourteen dollars.” Another sickening smile.

  I swiped my card, but the little machine beeped and displayed an error.

  “Try it again.”

  I gave it another swipe, knowing what the response would be. I’d used the wrong side on purpose.

  “Give me your card.”

  I tossed it on the counter, then stuck my hands in my pockets, releasing a tired breath. He gave me a quick glance, then set the shotgun on the counter and picked up the card with his right hand. Just as he inserted the plastic into the card swiper on his register, I lunged forward, scooping up the shotgun then spinning it in the palm of my hand. He dove onto the counter for the shotgun, but was woefully too slow, and I watched his forehead drop with a regretful thud.

  Flipping the gun between my legs, I took hold of his forearm and yanked him toward me, scraping his torso on the edge of the counter.

  “Ah!”

  “With your left hand, tap the keys and charge me the cost of the magazine, and that’s all.” I spoke with a stern voice, my heart pumping adrenaline through a tired body.

  He tried twisting his body, and he acted like his left arm couldn’t reach.

  “I can’t. See?”

  I jerked his right arm up, then back down.

  “You’re going to pull my arm out of the socket!”

  “Do it. Now!”

  “Okay. Just don’t dislocate my shoulder.” Grunting as he did it, he tapped the keys, then said, “Swipe the card.”

  I completed the transaction, then let go of his arm. “Don’t move. Stay right where you are.”

  He looked silly splayed out on the counter, but after having a shot
gun pointed at me, Maggie, and the two teenagers, I considered tying his ass down. But I didn’t have the time or the energy.

  I backed toward the door while I emptied the shotgun of its shells and placed them in my pocket.

  “Your customer service needs serious improvement.”

  He grunted in disgust, his eyes glaring at me with his head cocked at an awkward angle.

  “If I ever hear of you pulling a gun on anyone who’s not robbing you, then I’m going to pay you another visit, and I won’t be as nice.”

  “Are you taking my shotgun? That cost me two hundred bucks.”

  “Call it a PIMA tax. Pain in my ass. That’s what you should have said earlier, asshole.”

  “Whatever.”

  My hand felt for the door handle. “If I see one strange charge hit my credit card, it better be a one-way ticket to Beijing, because when I find you, it won’t be pretty. Capiche?”

  “What do I do for a weapon?”

  “Buy a can of mace.”

  I swung open the door and almost ran over Maggie, who held the fedora in both hands.

  “Booker, you got to see this.” She’d put the shotgun incident behind us so quickly it caught me off guard.

  “When I pressed the boys further about my father and where they got the hat, the one boy tossed it in the air and they took off running, escaping into the dark neighborhood behind the gas station.”

  Turning the brim over, she put a finger next to two small letters written in ink: JC.

  “Javier Calero,” I said out loud.

  “This confirms it. My father is in Dallas. He was shooting from the window of that apartment complex.”

  I could see her chest heaving, as if she might start hyperventilating.

  She fell into my arms, her head nuzzled into my shoulder. “We’ll find him, Maggie. You have my word. We will find him.”

  I just hoped it occurred before anyone else died.

  18

  He swirled the colored liquid in a plastic cup, then dipped his head back and let the smooth liquor coat the back of his mouth.

  Javier released a hearty “Ahh,” then set the cup on the pockmarked table, wanting to savor the one serving he was allowing himself to drink the night before his final act.

  He felt a slight burn at the top of his chest, and he wondered if his body was rejecting the alcohol. He thumped his chest twice with a closed fist, a trace of emotion entering his thoughts, catching in the back of his throat.

  Magdalena, his eldest daughter, had the natural beauty of her mother, but also possessed the feisty spirit of a Cuban crocodile. He was almost certain he’d seen her through the scope of his rifle fifteen hours earlier, and she of him. His heart had skipped a beat when he saw her leaping through the air in the parking lot. While he’d taken steps to cover his tracks, he wasn’t shocked to see her. Not only was she a damn good private investigator, but she reminded him of the neighbor’s pit bull. Nothing stopped her when she set her mind to it, and there was no sacrifice too great to reach her goal.

  Perhaps she’d inherited that dogged determination from her father.

  Leaning back in his chair, he placed a hand on his freshly cleaned custom rifle, a Bergara Tactical BCR-17. His accuracy had not been the best when he attempted to take down Dominic Ferrigamo. A bright sun and too much distance between him and his target had allowed the breeze to alter the trajectory of his hollow-point ammunition.

  He’d considered going after Ferrigamo again, earlier, before midnight. The chickenshit mobster assassin hid behind the walls of a compound, afraid to show his ugly mug in public, aside from his weekly visit to Campisi’s. With the crime families now alerted to his plans, though, Javier knew any future attempt on Ferrigamo, or any other similar person from that way of life, would not be successful. Javier would likely never survive a gunfight where he was up against a dozen or more men.

  Javier at age twenty-eight would have never been able to tame his inner fury, to not make another attempt at taking down Ferrigamo. Whether it was old age or the fact his life was near its end, the man with nothing to lose now was driven by the end game, the ultimate impact of his body of work.

  The pit of his stomach felt a sharp pain. Unsure if it was a return of his ulcers or another side affect from his worsening condition, Javier willed his mind to bypass as much of the pain as possible.

  He flipped on the projector and replayed the home movies that captured the moments of John Fitzgerald Kennedy’s last day as president of the most powerful nation in the world. He heard the cheers and adoration from the crowd as hands reached for John and his beautiful, classy wife, Jacqueline, a joyous occasion on a picture-perfect day in Dallas, Texas.

  Javier stared at the remarkable, but grainy, November blue sky and was reminded again of the sacrifice so many people had made, his father included. As a youngster, his family meant everything to Javier, and in the blink of an eye, it was gone, taken from him and thousands just like him.

  As he slid aimlessly into a life of crime, with no respect for anyone, Javier knew he’d lost his way. But instead of analyzing how it all happened, how he could repair the broken relationships and shattered dreams of his parents, he wallowed in the slimy ditch of mud like a pig in slop. He ignored his family, just like he’d ignored the searing pain in his skull for far too long. He had been in a pit of despair when Magdalena appeared in his life like an angel from above, although it took her relentless prodding to get him to see the first doctor. The first of many. Too many.

  Grabbing the bottle of Bacardi rum by the neck, he eyed the red and white label, thumbing the words, Made in Cuba, and a wave of bile started its ascension. He massaged his right temple and waited, prayed, for the surge to subside. He’d hoped he could avoid another episode, but perhaps it was meant to be, to remind him of the fragility of life, to sharpen his bludgeoned mind so that he could fulfill his ultimate mission.

  For weeks going on months, exasperation had churned in his mind like a blender, his skull on the verge of exploding. But then he’d read an article that literally made what little hair he had stand at attention. The pieces and parts of how the world had evolved, or devolved, since the untimely death of the thirty-fifth president of the United States.

  But Javier knew it was only untimely for those who drew hope from JFK, from what he represented to so many people across the land, and many who lived beyond the U.S. borders.

  As if on cue, he felt a prick at the base of his skull. Grabbing his head with both hands, he rocked back and forth, knowing the ensuing attack was unavoidable. Every second that passed felt like someone was twisting in a needlenose corkscrew, burrowing deeper and deeper into the core of his skull. Tears flowed and perspiration coated his entire body as the intensity of his scream matched the tortuous pain.

  “Please, God. Help. Me. Please!”

  With the echo of his desperate plea lingering in the musty air, the inescapable agony pelted his body until there was nothing left. Minutes passed, and he realized he was curled up on the floor, the touch of the matted carpet against his fingers, the rhythmic click of the off-balance fan providing a focal point for his thoughts.

  Counting the beats of the fan up to thirty-five, the intense pressure in Javier’s head dissipated, his pulse dropping below a hundred. Just as he heard a breath leave his mouth, he sensed part two of this act was only seconds away. He pushed upward, his veiny arms shaking to support his weight, and crawled toward the sink. It felt like he’d just returned from an extended trip to outer space, the gravity ten times what his body was accustomed to holding up. Twice he crumbled to the floor, giving his face a rug burn.

  Javier’s fingers touched the cold porcelain edge of the sink at the exact moment his gut launched an attack for the ages, the initial blast of vomit spewing like a runaway geyser. Up on his elbows, he caught a quick vision of someone he hardly recognized in the mirror. Two deep breaths of precious air, and then the heaves started, his abdomen thrusting grenades to the surface, his body nothin
g more than a witness to the rapid-fire assault. All he could feel was fire, towering flames of hate, flames of self-loathing, flames of shame for not being the man he could have been. Should have been.

  And then there was calm. Again he counted the clicks of the fan up to thirty-five, and again he searched his mind for peace and then for purpose. There had to be a reason he was being put through this hell. But after his disgraced life, he knew the reasons all too well.

  He picked his frail body off the floor, washed off the grime, amazed at how much of him was pasted on the mirror, walls, and counter. Wearing a sleeveless T-shirt, he found the chair and opened the box of Montecristos. He paused, then plucked the last cigar he’d ever smoke from the container. He lit the end, took a few puffs and sat back, allowing his mind to play out the next several hours.

  He’d rarely felt fulfilled with any endeavor. But as he took in a long drag, savoring the Montecristo, he also knew nothing could stop him from finally proving to the world and himself that life is a gift to be cherished.

  Until it is taken.

  19

  The door opened, then shut in less than a second, a spotless pair of Santoni silver-buckled shoes peppering the dense hardwood floors in Granville’s office. I almost had to peel my puffy eyelids apart to notice.

  “Did Mary get you guys a drink, water, orange juice, a coffee maybe?” Granville spoke as fast he walked, his thin forefinger scrolling through something important on his iPad mini.

  “I think she forgot that part of the routine,” I said through a gravelly voice. My knees locked into a standing position behind two stylish plaid armchairs that angled toward the chic glass desk of the Sixth Floor Museum director. Maggie was already seated, her crossed leg kicking up a storm. A strange sensation permeated my body, my hyperactive mind fighting through an overwhelming feeling of exhaustion. I think Maggie’s hyperactivity had already won the battle with her body.

  “Assistants. Are there any good ones left?” Granville shook his head, then called his admin to fetch a tray of drinks.

  My mind instantly went to Alisa, and I chuckled internally, thinking about what her response would be if I asked her to serve drinks to our clients. Likely, she’d quit on the spot and post another sign on The Jewel’s door advertising her own PI firm. And she’d be a tough competitor, no doubt.