Private Detective: BENNINGTON P.I.: A thrilling four-novel political murder mystery private detective series...

by D. W. Ulsterman

  “Absolutely, Ivanka, I am your canvas. A little torn and frayed at the edges, but if anyone can make it look better, it’d be you.”

  Ivanka flashed that rare smile of hers again, and then pointed to my half full glass of scotch.

  “Want me to top that off for you?”

  Be still my beating heart. First we have sex. Then she gives me a massage, feeds me, and now is asking me if I want more to drink.

  Ivanka was proving herself the ideal woman. If this keeps up, I just might have to get married so I can lock this down for good.

  A couple top offs later, and Ivanka called her brother Arman to come pick us up. I knew Arman – he’d kicked the shit out of me last year outside one of my favorite bars. No hard feelings, he was just doing his job. He was a big, scowling, dark clouds always gathering kind of Russian. Had connections to the local crime syndicate, but worked mostly with his sister providing security at her home, helping to keep the working girls safe, letting the clients know Ivanka wouldn’t put up with any crap, etc.

  An hour later, Ivanka was looking back at me in an outfit she picked out from a men’s boutique store in the upscale 14th Street D.C. shopping district. The store owner, a woman who was apparently one of Ivanka’s former call girls, even poured me a drink while she and Ivanka looked over various clothing options.

  I began to feel like I was living out a scene from Pretty Woman, except I was the Julia Roberts character, and Ivanka got to be Richard Gere. Have to admit though, I really did look the part of a high end private investigator. I had the designer trench coat, Rat Pack era dress hat, shirt and tie, matching dress slacks, and a pair of handmade, Italian shoes that shined almost as much as my new cuff links.

  Ivanka and the boutique owner, whose name was Melanie, both remarked how well I had “cleaned up.” And you know what? They were right – I looked pretty damn good. Like somebody who might actually know what they were doing. Maybe there really is something to that “clothes make the man” thing.

  “You look so handsome, Frank, like an ugly movie star!”

  I downed the last of my drink and nodded toward Melanie.

  “How much for the new threads?”

  Melanie glanced at Ivanka and then looked back at me. She appeared to be not quite forty yet, her dark hair cut short, her china white skin smooth and flawless. She was slightly shorter than Ivanka, though far less imposing. I sensed she was just a little nervous at disclosing the cost.

  “For a friend of Ivanka’s, I’ll give you a discount. For everything, just thirteen hundred.”

  Even in my political operative, better money days, thirteen hundred dollars for a new outfit would have caused me serious heartburn. I knew my face had fallen into open shock after hearing the price.”

  “Uh, I don’t need the cuff links. Or the shoes, and maybe---“

  Ivanka cut me off with a wave of her right hand as she placed her other hand on Melanie’s shoulder.

  “Send me the bill, Melanie.”

  Now like most men, I have an inordinate amount of pride in wanting to appear self sufficient. I had played along with the whole kept man thing out of fun, but actually having Ivanka pay for my clothes didn’t sit right with me.

  “Hold up, Ivanka, I can pay for myself. I appreciate it, I really do, but no thank you.”

  Ivanka regarded me with her dark eyes, her face a stern mix of determination and understanding.

  “You will owe me Frank. There will come a time when I will need your services. This will be a down-payment for when that time comes. Don’t worry, I have every intention of making sure you pay me back. Your manhood remains intact.”

  I wagged my pointer finger at Ivanka, hoping my face expressed how important it was I do just that.

  “You’re damn right I’m paying you back. I may be a lot of things, but I ain’t no mooch”

  Ivanka’s eyebrows arched slightly as her mouth curled upward into the familiar almost smile I had grown accustomed to seeing.

  “You spent all those years working in politics, Frank, an entire system based upon mooching off of taxpayers, right?”

  I opened my mouth to voice an indignant response then quickly shut it.

  The damn woman had a point.

  5.

  Four months later…

  Business was ok. Not great, but I was bringing in just enough cash to keep me pleasantly buzzed most nights, and a roof over my head by morning.

  Mine was a strictly cash and carry operation. No business license from the District of Columbia regulation Nazis. No receipts. No paper trail. Thing is, I spent decades working for, and with, Democrats on the Hill. Now we Democrats, well, we’re all for higher taxes, right? But man do we hate to pay those taxes, and most of the politicians I worked for took advantage of every tax loophole they could find, and if they couldn’t find it, they’d just legislate one out of thin air. That’s the D.C. way. Tax policy is a means to buy votes, but at the end of the day, we all share in a mutual disdain for government. It’s a matter of degree I suppose, the real difference between Democrat or Republican. Two sides of the same coin, and neither one of them worth a damn.

  So I took a few small, simple cases here and there. Is that congressman doing a low profile deal with the lobbyist from the big drug company? Yeah. Can you look into if that White House senior staffer is actually gay? Yup – here’s the picture. How about checking up on the senator from Montana? They say he’s seeing a shrink every Tuesday afternoon. Is that true? Nope. He’s actually getting a regular happy ending from a sleazy little Oriental massage parlor tucked between the high end professional buildings on 14th Street. Everyone thinks 14th was cleaned up years ago, but there’s still plenty of sin to find around there if you know where to look. Apparently this senator does.

  I’m not making the big bucks, but I have something to wake up to, and my name’s getting out there. Seems people kind of accept the fact I’m a guy to go to when they need a particular type of information. For once, my reputation and personal habits of the past are helping me to secure employment in the here and now. And another thing, I don’t miss working at the Capitol. Thought I would, but let me tell you something, I feel like I’m making a more honest buck as a private investigator than I ever did as a political operative for those scheming bastards on the Hill.

  I’ll say this too, if America knew just how corrupt, arrogant, and self serving these politicians up here really were, they’d run ‘em all out on a rail. The fall of Rome has nothing on Washington D.C. These people are plain bad. So why not make a little money sharing all that corruption from one person to another? Sure as hell isn’t any worse than what passes for legal business in this town.

  Remember all the fuss being made over that mayor in Canada who liked to get his drunk on and do a little meth while chasing prostitutes around?

  Well don’t forget, Washington D.C. had its own mayor actually filmed smoking crack with hookers and was then sent to a federal prison for six months. And what happened after that? We re-elected the cracked out hood rat of course! Only in America, right?

  Today I was making my way to a guy I used to hire out for the same kind of work I was doing myself now. He helped us out several times on opposition research for some campaigns a while back. His name is Walt, and he always delivered the goods for my campaigns back in the day, and had been among the best private investigators in D.C. for several decades. I’d forgotten all about him until my phone rang and it was him on the other end. He sounded older, more tired, but I recognized the voice right away.

  “Heard you got into the business, and thought you might like some advice.”

  Walt said he had been living the last few years on his boat moored down at the Gangplank Marina, a facility just a short drive from the Washington Monument. I knew of it, and said I’d be happy to stop by and talk. I meant it. Like I said, Walt used to be one of the best at this P.I. stuff, and I was hoping to get as much advice from him as he was willing to give.

  Walt said he moored i
n slip C-42. The facility was secured by a gate that required a code for access, which he gave me. Walking slowly down the docks I was impressed by how clean the marina was, and the mix of big money boats that sat alongside some real old ladies of the sea who had once seen far better days, but still managed to float atop the water with an air of dignity and grace.

  It was on one of those older boats Walt lived – a forty five foot, wooden hulled Chris Craft Constellation. Despite some obvious deferred maintenance and the need for a fresh coat of paint, the boat had an undeniable charm, its bow jutting out proudly just above the dock as the sound of seagulls flying overhead reverberated around the slip.

  I could hear music playing from inside as I walked down the slip’s finger and stood next to a rickety set of wooden steps leading up to the side of the boat.

  “Hey Walt – it’s Bennington! Permission to come aboard!”

  The music stopped and then several seconds later, I heard a door slide open, followed by Walt’s smiling face looking down at me while a withered right hand motioned for me to climb aboard. I was shocked at how old and frail he appeared. He had lost at least a third of his body weight since I had last seen him about four years earlier, and his face was a narrow, sunken shadow of its former self.

  “Come on inside Frank. Get out of the cold.”

  I silently noted it wasn’t all that cold, the slightly humid outside temperature already well into the 70’s.

  I walked along the side of the boat and then stepped down into what is called in boat terms, an aft deck. It housed a small outdoor table and two chairs, and a slight smell of rotting wood and freshly smoked tobacco. A coffee can sat atop the table, nearly full with old cigarette butts.

  “In here Frank, I need to sit by the heater.”

  A sliding door opened into the main living area of the Chris Craft. It appeared much larger on the inside than the boat’s exterior indicated. Walt sat in a corner of the salon on a cushioned chair next to a small diesel powered furnace. The inside of the boat was stifling, likely nearly twenty degrees warmer than outside. There was little smell of cigarettes, and the furnishings, though dated, were in good shape, and lent a warm and inviting atmosphere to the room.

  Walt motioned to have me sit down on a large, light brown couch opposite him. The couch was soft, its thick, textured fabric enveloping me as I sat down and tried to adjust to the warm temperatures without being overly obvious about my discomfort.

  “Apologize for the heat. I’m always cold these days. Doctors say it’s the lack of oxygen. Got the emphysema pretty bad.”

  I noted the small green oxygen tank just behind where Walt sat, and how the last few words of Walt’s sentences came out in low, raspy releases of air.

  “Sorry to hear that Walt. How long since the diagnosis?”

  Walt held up four fingers from his right hand.

  “Four years ago. They told me I’d probably had it for at least ten years before that. Said it’d get worse a lot faster if I didn’t stop smoking.”

  Recalling the almost full coffee canister of spent cigarettes, I tilted my head toward the back of the boat.

  “Looked to me like you haven’t been taking their advice.”

  Walt shrugged.

  “If I get there, I’ll be eighty in a couple more years. How long is a man supposed to live? I’ve already made it past most the people I knew before. Had a younger brother, and he died last year of congestive heart failure. I still like to smoke a little here and there, so the way I see it, what’s the harm? I’m already an old man, so to hell with all these doctors and their advice.”

  I gave Walt a little smile and nodded my head, finding myself agreeing with everything he just said. I too was sick and tired of everyone being so afraid of being sick and tired. All these people so worried about living a few years more were missing out on living at all.

  “You said you had some advice for me Walt. Lay it on me.”

  Walt placed a dark colored blanket over his legs and then looked back at me through old-age watered eyes.

  “Yeah, about this business you’re getting into Frank. Thing is, you’re already way ahead of the game than when I started out. You have the contacts, you know how things work around here, so that’s in your favor.”

  Walt paused, and I waited for the warning I sensed was coming.

  “But, you’re also not a young guy Frank. I heard you had some health problems of your own. This job, there’s gonna be times, I mean I’ve had guys trying to kick my ass for the last fifty years. This line of work tends to piss people off. There’s real danger in that, and I’m not sure how capable you are to handle it. You carry a gun on you?”

  I shook my head. Carrying a concealed handgun was banned in D.C., had been for years. Trying to get one to keep inside your own home was tough as hell too.

  “No, that’s against the law. You have a gun?”

  Walt nodded, his eyes growing wide as he did so.

  “Hell yes I have a gun! And when I was working, I kept one with me everywhere I went. Had it taken away by the cops a few times, and would just replace it with another one. Think about it this way Frank – you think the bad guys are following this town’s gun laws? No way. They’re armed to the teeth out there, and some of them would be more than happy to pay you a personal visit if someone you’re looking into gives them a few bucks to mess you up. So if you don’t have a gun now…”

  Walt stopped speaking and stood up slowly from his chair.

  “Just a sec - got something for you.”

  The older man disappeared down a narrow hallway and then returned a short time later, gasping for breath and carrying a handgun.

  “Just a little Ruger 32 caliber. Easy loading, cheap ammo, and will do you fine up close when you really need it to.”

  Walt handed me the weapon. It felt heavier than I anticipated, its light metallic gleam seeming out of place in my hands. I had never really liked guns, though had always thought it wrong for anyone who wanted to take them away from people who did.

  I handed the gun back.

  “No thanks Walt. Not now. Maybe later, but for now, I want to do things my way.”

  Walt was already making his way back to his chair, his breathing becoming increasingly raspy as he did so.

  “Suit yourself Frank.”

  After getting himself seated, Walt placed a clear plastic oxygen line under his nose and turned the valve on top of the green tank next to him.

  “Need to catch my breath.”

  I waited a moment before deciding to find out the real reason Walt called me to his floating home inside of the Gangplank Marina.

  “Besides trying to make me among the armed and dangerous, what did you really want to see me about Walt?”

  Walt took several slow, deep breaths and then removed the oxygen line with a slightly shaking hand.

  “Getting to the point. That’s good Frank, that’s how you have to do things. Let me say this to you about this business – every investigator worth their salt will at some point be presented with a case that can make them or break them. For me, that moment came in the summer of 1972. My reputation was made in the weeks and months that followed, and I made a very good living for many years after that.”

  My mind instantly recalled the historical significance of what was going on during the summer months of 1972 in Washington D.C.

  Watergate.

  My face must have registered the shock of hearing Walt implicate himself in what remains among the most riveting and influential political events of the modern era.

  “Yes Frank, that’s what I’m talking about. I had already done some work for one of the operatives, one of the burglars as they came to be called. I don’t wish to re-hash all of that with you right now, but that was my moment Frank. That was the case that could have made me, or broke me. I took it on, and history was made – including my own.”

  I was trying to figure out what Walt was getting to, how any of this history lesson involved me, but was coming
up blank.

  “What’s this have to do with me Walt?”

  Walt’s desiccated face broke into a wide smile, his eyes momentarily clearing, and shining bright with excitement.

  “I’m offering you the same opportunity Frank – a case that could make you, or break you. The chance to be a part of history, just like I was over forty years ago.”

  Leaning back on the couch I again heard the sound of gulls passing overhead. Did Walt really have access to an investigation similar in significance to whatever he was up to all those years ago that was connected to Watergate? And if so, would it make me, or break me?

  I didn’t know, but sure as hell intended to find out.