The Mystery Maxims
Of Jake Spade
Case #1
FORGIVEN
Henry H.H. Hittlebloome
About
Henry H.H. Hittlebloome and
The Mystery Maxims of Jake Spade
Henry H.H. Hittlebloome is a pen name used by Garry M. Graves, the writer and author of this book. The pen name is to distinguish Graves’ fictional pieces from his non-fiction work. It was thought the name Hittlebloome had a British feel to it and was entirely made up to aid reader correlation to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and his honorable writings of Sherlock Holmes.
The Mystery Maxims of Jake Spade is a modern-day version of The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes. This patriarchal ‘FORGIVEN’ piece will kick off a series of cases around the character, Jake Spade. You will also recognize other Sherlock Holmes pastiche-like characters contained in the narrative...differentiated by 100 plus years of technological advancement. You will read of stellar deductive reasoning enhanced by new-age gadgetry, sans the murderous gore and mayhem found in other mystery-investigative thrillers.
Should you find reading this book to your liking then aid other potential readers with your review at Amazon.
Thank You
Henry H.H. Hittlebloome
Garry M. Graves
Case #1 - FORGIVEN
Hector’s bulging eyes were glassed-over, tearing from fear of his impending death; his olive skin was bleached three shades lighter, starved of oxygen by the pair of huge hands surrounding his greasy neckline. As the throat-grip loosened, Hector’s eyes expressed hope he’d survive the greeting – then, whispering his native language through a burning esophagus, he gasped, “Jake, tú eres mi amigo?” Again Hector’s eyes grew bigger as cable-like fingers tightened once more, wrapping, overlapping, squeezing closed the malfunctioning tunnel of life. The end was near. Hector’s eyelids fluttered as his body-spasms calmed – his friendship plea gone unappreciated.
Jake’s quick and solid chest thump awoke the dying man; gasping, coughing for air.
Hector Arroyo, a first-generation American, born in Cleveland of Mexican descent, will continue his trade as a small time hoodlum and drug peddler, never again making the mistake of misinforming my cohort on an important matter of inquiry. Any real friend of Jake would have known that usually spells trouble.
Jake leaned forward, near Hector’s ear.
“You speak as a friend Hec-Tor, yet dishonor me with fiction; protracting your miserable existence. Your intolerable utterance disproves the rule: ‘When you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth,’ eh, dear Darby?” Jake stared up at me, seeking agreement.
I glowered back at Jake with a stern sense of purpose yet tolerance for his actions so far; inside I felt nauseous knowing Jake could burst forth with horrific actions at any time. For the moment, he appeared quelled of his aggression towards Hector.
“So you’ve concluded it to be impossible Hector is telling the truth?” I whispered, with my best perturbed and perplexing expression. “If that’s your interpretation, here, in this instance, dear Spade, so be it. But I caution you to recall your personal history of instances where later you questioned the soundness of your actions, your death decision, as it were. Are you so sure now, so sure that you take the man’s life?”
It was all first rate drama, employed misjudged I’m sure, from a Detroit street criminal too affected by strong hands encircling his throat. Nevertheless, our unique style of personal justice continued for the sake of onlookers, Hector's astonished yet vengeful cohorts who gaped at the spectacle before them, wondering if their turn would come next.
Jake stretched Hector's tee-shirt, wiping drool coming from the criminals face. Jake stares at me, proclaiming...
“What care do I have? Should we not rid our streets, our population, our civilization, of this classical delinquent?” Jake gazed off, upward into space, as if contemplating Hector’s value to humankind. “Who but I, alone now, should determine his fate, to make void this – this trespasser of all that is right?"
Jake hesitates, looking wildly among the other gang members while conspicuously tugging at Hector's ear. He had their full attention.
"Yet Dearest Darby, esteemed counselor and truth seeker, perchance you are right, perhaps delegation to the Irregulars may resolve a richer, fuller outcome. I suspect they would enjoy servicing our street justice, they are so creative that way…eh, Darby?”
Kneeling down closer to Hector, positioning my smirking face directly in front of his, I whispered, “Do they ever.”
My friend Spade is unencumbered in his behavior and methods with anyone abusing his time, his energy and particularly his sensitivities relative to speaking the truth. It so frustrates him that in some cases he becomes agitated to a point of not being cognizant of the degree which he employs good judgment, nor more importantly, his strength. In Hectors’ encounter, I was glad to be present for the event as Spade typically temper’s his persuasive methods in my presence – I say typically.
Jake is neurotic like most people, not psychotic. He is no pathetic, chronic murderer; however, he and I both practice immediate justice, which is our way in this horrid industry. And yes, admittedly, our methods, and at times subsequent manner, could be categorized as extreme. It is not Jake’s demeanor, nor mine, to take the ‘law-in-total’ into our own hands; nonetheless, many officiates seem tolerant if not pleased that we administer justice post haste. After all, it is a new time, a new era, and things are different now, not like they were. The general public always serves as the final judge and jury relative to our mission – and they vote our methods with 99.6% approval – so we continue enjoying a slim margin of error. And that’s a good thing, don’t you think?
Coincidently, and that which I find most amusing, Jake channels his great-great-great grandfather Sherlock Holmes. This is made obvious by his sometimes different voice and language. His verbiage and voice inflection mimics Holmes, resulting in an audible clue to his Holmes-esque state of mind, creating Jake’s unique and different persona. Additionally, he addresses me by my last name, which is Darby; assuredly channeling Holmes addressing his Watson.
My name is Clarice Darby, Counselor at Law; daughter of the late Max and Irma Darby and friend, partner and lover of Jake Spade. Lover in no sexual sense but of an approving sense where my belief in Spade measures such enormity that any Richter Scale would certainly indicate my fondness of his manner, his spirit and general undertaking of life – aside from these sometimes psychotic episodes whereby unique, stylistic, street justice is meted out beyond normal limits.
From early childhood our family paths crossed in no coincidental way, for it has been so for generations, in that my ancestry of numerous medical doctors and attorneys were imperiously mated with the family of noted, legendary, Sherlock Holmes. In the time of Holmes; my great-great-great grandfather, Dr. John H. Watson, chronicled the many investigative events, as well as friended the ingenious Holmes who marveled police authorities and populace alike with inventive deductive reasoning technique and comportment. How that our families came to be so intertwined, no less five generations; across continents, cities, locales for some 130 odd years is certainly a mystery in itself. Nevertheless, here early in this 21st Century our similar interests conjoin Jake and I from our both 28 years existence, duly nurtured from birth to solve the many difficult dilemmas and criminal escapades doled out on life’s lesser, poorer, unsuspecting populace – resulting in our mission. Our task comes natural, we suspect, to each from an unknown blood gene; driving our
interest, our quest and our passion. Fortunately, we both relish each case and conundrum with as much verve our gullets can contain.
After graduating Summa Cum Laude from the highest-rated law school in Michigan four years ago, then succumbing from a relentless corporate practice a year later in the rat-hole they call New York City, I again struck a friendship of harmony and enlightenment with my old childhood pal Jake Spade, present day July 2013. As the result of a tragic automobile accident having left my parents dead, I became a trust fund brat at the tender age of twenty-four; living day to day from a quite sufficient amount of money transferred to my bank account, supplying more than enough means to offset my meager existence. Enough so, that most of my present time and energy is spent with Spade in his unquenchable thirst in righting the many wrongs that have befallen the lives of, what some may term, life’s disenfranchised. Most clients are poor and downtrodden with hardly any official remedy to their plight – then immediately turn to the man who has aided their challenge with a honed, keen sense of historically-bequeathed investigative technique, deductive reasoning and measured justice. In disclosure, perhaps again from my ancestry gene pool, I too am mesmerized by the skill, knowledge, and competence of this special family, and particularly this individual, who brings to every endeavor or case as it were, exuberant compassion. Jake has genuine concern for the clients’ dilemma and wellbeing no matter their life station or social strata; my union, our union, stands with oak-tree strength streaming the bloodline of Dr. John Watson and Sherlock Holmes.
When I was six years old, my father newly discovered and then reunited the families from decedents a hundred years prior. Feeling some great energy to do so, he moved the family to Detroit, Michigan; more near a family named Spade. The Spade family, having been credited with recognition of past private investigative exploits by the grandfather and family patriarch, a rogue independent contractor; known to be a slick, cunning intellectual and a moderately successful private detective named Samuel Quincy Spade. The only grandson, Jake, achieved early celebrity as a mischievous but attentive loner who not only adored but studied his grandfather Sam Spade, but also, great-great-great grandfather, Sherlock Holmes.
And, so it began.
Much of our high school days were spent as it is today with a plethora of cases stemming from word-of-mouth endorsements of friends, teachers, parents, pastors, attorneys and occasionally, the cops. From thirteen through high school to our eventual separate college parting, Spade and I were recognized as relentless righters of truth – known for unconventional analytical methods, processes, and a modus operandi employing a network of other friends who we lovingly term, ‘Irregulars,’ with their cask of computers, scanners, GPS, smartphones and other varied electronic gadgetry. We were digitally connected in every way possible and our hardware greatly supported the firepower of Spades intellect and my imagination. Enjoying those youthful days as I did; the great exciting experiences, the meager remunerations; it was aiding the many who had no other resource that stirred my emotion to reunite with Jake Spade, again, to establish a team like our forefathers.
So...we began anew.
“He’s lying, Clarice, I’m feeling it big time. We need to take care of this scum-bucket right now, this instant,” Jake scowls, as his fist knuckles thump the top of Hector’s head.
From his language and voice inflection (he also used my first name); Jake has now conveniently slipped back into his own personality, evading the Grandfather Holmes persona and perhaps any unpleasant experience relative to Hectors possible demise. At least that’s how I interpret the back and forth shifting of ‘Jake Spade 2013,’ and his channeling of late 19th Century (Victorian Era) Holmes persona. Neurosis is a grand and mystical thing, and perhaps, a Jake Spade protective device.
“Easy big boy,” I told him, waving my arms back and forth like a football referee signaling an incomplete pass, “let the Irregulars pursue it for a while – let’s see what they can come up with.”
This Hector encounter stems from information sourced through another low-life-crum-bum criminal, named Billy Jo Stackhouse. Stackhouse and Jake had conversed about a missing backpack full of money, snatched from a downtown Detroit Police precinct a couple days ago. Naturally, the cops wanted it back and called us to aid their efforts. We were happy to oblige.
Let me fill you in on what had happened leading up to Billy Jo ratting-out Hector and Hector being at the end of Jake’s boa-like fingers choking the crap out of him.
It was an extraordinarily hot day in June – Jake and I were lounging on the rooftop of our building, taking in the sun while I sipped my favorite, cold green tea...
3:37 P.M., Wednesday, June 12, 2013
“...Clarice, dearest, please fetch me some of that iced green tea crap you like so much,” Jake mumbled, not missing a stroke to his Droid keyboard.
“No, no,” I shouted back, “you don’t like it, remember?”
Spade and I co-habited a too damn big, but comfortable, nondescript brick warehouse close to the Ambassador Bridge, near the water in inner city Detroit. The loft was cold in the winter and hot as hell in the summer. We had three gas-log pits with blowers that heated the area to a tolerable level when it was cold. But, in the summer the two humongous window-fans, one in each end of the building, were totally inadequate on the hottest days. However, we survived, mostly by escaping to the top of the building, the roof, where the breeze off the river was constant at that height. The bright maple wood floors were always cold, winter and summer. Three super-sized potted trees, as much as the thirty-foot ceiling would allow, accompanied the dozen or so plants, all watered from a trickling fresh water pool located near the lofts center. It was our home and we liked it fine – although, our address; 666-15th sort of creeped us out.
“Remember Jules Jones, black detective down at the 2nd Precinct?” Jake said, staring up at me from his phone.
“Sure, I know Jules.”
I carried a tall, slim, test-tube-like drink glass, which was Jake’s favorite; containing the iced green tea he so eloquently termed ‘crap.’ It had dew drops on the outside from the jammed-to-the-brim ice pellets. It looked cool. It was cool. He squint his eyes, looking at my cool drink, as I came nearer and sat down on his deck lounger next to him. I touched the glass to his leg, his eyes widened.
Jake and Clarice’s Residence − 666 15th St., Detroit
“Why do you torment me so?” he mumbled.
“It’s my way,” I countered.
“Given that way about you, you’ll probably enjoy hearing this...Detective Jones wants to introduce us to the new Captain of the Precinct. The newbie, it seems, has heard of us through the crime-vine and now wants to meet face to face telling Jones to make it happen,” Jake said, snickering while making pig-snorting sounds.
It wasn’t particularly uncommon for local law enforcement agencies, specifically individual cops on the beat, to inquire of our aid in their efforts or perhaps only our thoughts on a case. Many times it was just to employ our strength in numbers...our Quantitative Easing, as Jake and I referred to it, i.e., the Irregulars, whose gadgetry made quick work of a capture. ‘Quickness,’ as Jake always said, is the most important component in crime fighting.
“How nice,” I giggled, knowing Spade, like his famous ancestry, took immense pleasure when other official law enforcement types took interest in our work, our methods, even our existence.
“When?” I said, tipping my glass to his lips, purposefully causing an overflow, running off his square chin.
“Tonight, eleven sharp, last parking slot at the McDonalds across the street from the 2nd Precinct. Jones says we need to keep our meeting private for now.”
Eleven sharp came and we were sitting in the last parking slot with our parking lights on, facing the Station House, as instructed. Two men, we were told, would be walking from the Station House vicinity to our car at 11:00 P.M., exactly. Sure enough, two black men, one in street clothes, the other in a uniform, walked towards us. The one
in the uniform was gigantic, weighing 300 plus, at least. He wasn’t fat so much; he was just big all over, maybe standing six five or more, with shoulders that could carry a Volkswagen.
Jake popped the power lock switch on his black Mercury Mountaineer, unlocking the back doors. They entered.
“Good to see you again, Jake,” Detective Jones said, “and to you Miss Clarice.”
The detective was a good man, as I now remember him from our joint work on a case last year for the Assistant-Mayor of Detroit. He was a solid, intelligent, and honest cop, the kind you wished made up the 90% of DPD population instead of the 10%.
The cops knew who we were profession-wise...that’s why we were here meeting in the dark of night with the obscurity of Mickey-D’s. They were official city law enforcement representatives; we were freelance investigative pursuers of justice. Both entities, working together, protecting the weak, while stomping the crap out of the perps. It was great fun even though we didn’t admit it out loud.
“Uh,” Detective Jones slowly interjected from a measured pause, perhaps contemplating his next words...
“The man with me is the new Captain of the 2nd Precinct, he arrived this morning, and he’s the one who asked me to arrange our meeting.”
“Does he have a name or should we guess?” Jake mumbled, with a tinge of agitation.
“My name is Elmo Cranbury,” the big one bellowed.
When I turned and looked at Jake he was already staring at me. The minute grin on his face reflected his state of mind, that being; humor, sympathy, and horror from someone being named Elmo Cranbury. Elmo’s Mother must have been a Saint to have not considered the ramifications of such a moniker.
“Elmo Cranbury! I would never have guessed,” Jake said, turning around to face the big man. “Did I hear you right, is that ‘bury,’ and not ‘berry?”
The Mystery Maxims of Jake Spade - Case #1 FORGIVEN Page 1