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

by D. W. Ulsterman

  The left side of Dedra’s face, the only side that could still form expressions, gave a brief smile as her shoulders shrugged.

  “I felt like I was followed here today. Let’s just say there are people who don’t want the FDA fast-track legislation being passed. Anyways, back to the assignment Mr. Bennington. Could you utilize this source of yours to try and find out who is specifically blocking us in committee? And not just the members of the committee, but the money behind them. We need to know who, or what, is putting up the opposition.”

  I swallowed the last of my eggs Benedict. Why Dedra was holding out on me, combined with her increasing nervousness, left me wondering what else I was being kept in the dark about.

  “You haven’t explained how this is T3 business. If they’re all about telling the truth, then what truth isn’t being told regarding all of this? What’s the connection with your buried legislation and the T3 Group?”

  Dedra’s eyes repeated her earlier agitation at my hesitation to simply take the assignment.

  “That’s why we need to know who is behind the opposition to the legislation Mr. Bennington. If our suspicions are confirmed, then we will also know it is in fact a T3 matter, and as I already said, from there we will plan and act accordingly.”

  “So you’re just sending me on some fishing expedition for now, is that it?”

  Dedra was again looking behind me toward the bar.

  “If that’s what you wish to call it, Mr. Bennington. I will say that your refusal would be a signal to those who pay for your services that perhaps we cannot rely on you as much as we’d hoped.”

  “What’s the assigned bill?”

  Dedra cocked her head slightly to the right.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “The designation, I need to know it if I’m going to go asking people about who is trying to kill it.”

  Dedra’s eyes widened as she realized what I was asking.

  “Of course! It’s H.R. 4221.”

  I stared back at Dedra and then gave her a wide smile.

  “Ok then, I’ll ask around. Give me a few days.”

  Dedra shook her head.

  “You have forty-eight hours Mr. Bennington. Sooner would be better. I will check in on your progress first thing tomorrow morning.”

  I watched as Dedra stood up and walked quickly toward the exit, admiring once again the tight, well formed lines of her ass. My appreciative attention on Dedra’s rear view disintegrated though as my eyes also noted both of the men at the bar closely watching her departure as well. Perhaps Dedra’s paranoia was well deserved.

  Then my own paranoia spiked upward as each of the two men left together no more than a half minute after Dedra walked out the exit. I moved from my table and walked to the bar, motioning for Reg to make his way toward me.

  “Hey Reg, you know those two guys who just left?”

  The bartender shook his closely shaved head as he cleaned a shot glass with a pristine white bar towel.

  “No, don’t recall them ever coming in here before, Frank, why?”

  I gave a soft shrug as I looked toward the Off the Record’s upstairs exit.

  “Just curious, Reg.”

  I decided then to follow the two men. If they felt the need to keep tabs on Dedra, it was only fair I did the same to them. It seemed like a good enough plan at the time, but a few moments later, I sure as hell regretted it.

  Man, did I ever…

  3.

  Getting hit in the face hurts, and as a general rule, I’d suggest you try and avoid it. Walking onto the sidewalk outside of the Off the Record, my face was rudely and regrettably met with a straight up sucker punch.

  Yeah, OUCH.

  From there I was half lifted, half dragged back onto my feet to the side alley that ran the length of the historic Hay-Adams Building. It was the same damn alley I had my ass kicked by Ivanka’s brother Arman months before, and the same alley Arman then helped me to escape some toughs shortly after that.

  I made a quick mental note that this particular alley was a place I should avoid. Way too much drama seemed to take place there, usually involving me getting planted onto my own ass.

  It was the two men sitting at the bar of course. Both appeared to be just a few years younger than me, late 50’s perhaps, average height, though one had a considerable belly on him, while the other was lean to the point of appearing starved. They had the look and mannerisms of former cops. Probably retired, making some extra cash working as enforcers, pretty typical of any big city in America. Living off a cop’s pension could leave one wanting for a little more.

  Mr. Pot Belly jabbed a pointer finger into my chest hard enough that I fell back against the red bricked side wall of the building behind me.

  “Where’d your friend go? The one you were sitting at the table with?”

  I smiled, not just because the guy’s voice had a high pitched, almost feminine quality to it, but the question meant Dedra had given them the slip.

  That’s my girl.

  “No hablo Ingles, buddy.”

  Pot Belly turned to his partner, Mr. Skinny, who smirked back at me. The fact the heavier man deferred to him told me it was Skinny who was in charge, so that’s who I’d focus on.

  I stared back at Skinny as I stepped away from the building and held both my hands up in front of me.

  “I’ll be going now gentlemen. Nice to know you.”

  Pot Belly jammed his finger into my chest again, though this time I didn’t let him push me back. Thing is, despite what my epic hangover this morning would suggest, I’d spent the last month on something of a health kick, pushing myself to get into better shape. That included lifting weights, stretching, treadmill, and even a bit of boxing work at a longtime D.C. gym off of F Street owned by a long retired congressman named William Cryder who recently celebrated his eighty-sixth birthday. Good guy, and still tough as nails. He had been among the leading Republicans in Congress pushing for passage of the Civil Rights Act back in 1964. He was also kind enough to show me how to make a proper fist, and then how to throw a punch.

  So after Pot Belly stuck that sausage finger of his into my chest for a second time, there was a part of me that was ready to put into practice some of my more recently acquired skills. It was time I fought back against some of these bully prick assholes of the world.

  My clenched right fist flew toward Pot Belly’s head. For a fat guy, he moved fast, easily avoiding the blow and striking out with his own right fist, which glanced across the side of my head.

  “If you’re gonna hit a guy, it’s about balance! You keep yours, and wait for him to lose his, and then knock the shit out of him!”

  Cryder’s words echoed in my head as my left fist struck out with a sharp jab that received a gratifying, fleshy smack of bone on flesh. Pot Belly’s head snapped back and I could see his eyes widen in surprise at how efficient and effective the punch was delivered.

  Bastards didn’t think I’d put up a fight.

  My self satisfaction in actually connecting fist to face was short lived as Skinny grabbed me from behind, his arms locking around mine, leaving me unable to defend myself. Pot Belly took full advantage, mashing his right fist into my stomach, causing me to gasp for breath as I fell over onto my knees.

  I sensed, more than saw, one of the two men preparing to kick me, and braced for the impact. Thankfully, that impact never came.

  From above me I heard the sound of a scuffle, and moved my head upward in time to glimpse Dedra delivering a powerful, lightning fast roundhouse kick to the side of Pot Belly’s head that sent the man tumbling to the ground some ten feet from where I was attempting to regain my feet.

  Skinny had backed away, his right hand now holding a long, thin, seven inch knife while his partner remained on the paved ground of the alley, holding his face and groaning.

  Dedra’s eyes glanced at the man’s blade, and then looked back into his eyes, the left side of her mouth curled downward into a snarl. Her good left hand motione
d for Skinny to come at her.

  “Well go ahead then, you pulled that knife. Let’s see if you know how to use it.”

  Pot Belly was rolling over to get back onto his feet. I decided I’d rather have him stay down, and sent my right foot crashing into his ribs. He cried out once, and then fell back onto the ground where he remained unmoving. Dedra had already stepped past me, now only a handful of feet away from the knife wielding Skinny. She again beckoned with her left hand for the man to attack her as the rest of her body tensed, preparing to both defend herself, and return the attack with one of her own.

  Skinny made his move, the knife rising upward and then slashing downward in a powerful, single motion of deadly intent. I stood frozen in shock, realizing the man was truly hoping to kill Dedra.

  Unlike me, Dedra was not frozen in shock – far from it. Her prosthetic right hand met the knife, the blade sinking deeply into the artificial flesh while at the same moment, her open left palm struck just under Skinny’s chin, snapping the man’s head backwards. She then slammed her right foot across both of Skinny’s legs, causing him to lose his balance and crash to the ground. No mercy was given her attacker as Dedra then took her same right foot and brought the hard heel of her designer boot directly down upon the center of the man’s chest, causing Skinny to scream loudly. Like Pot Belly, he too was left unmoving on the ground.

  Dedra nodded for me to follow her away from the alley, not wanting to draw any more attention to ourselves. She signaled for a cab, and soon we were driving back toward my apartment as I sat silently considering just how bad-ass Dedra truly was.

  Amazonians got nothing on her!

  My quiet amazement of Dedra’s fighting skills was interrupted by the sound of a quick inhalation of breath, followed by Dedra bending over, her eyes closing tightly as a wave of pain washed over her.

  “Are you hurt? Did he get you?”

  I feared she had been stabbed, but Dedra opened her eyes again and shook her head, waiving me away.

  “I’m fine.”

  She instructed the cab driver to stop and let her out. Before exiting the back seat, Dedra turned to me, her eyes hinting at a mix of serious amusement.

  “You did good back there, Mr. Bennington. I’m impressed.”

  I scoffed.

  “Uh-huh, it’s not like I just had my butt saved by a woman or anything. You want to talk impressed, good God girl, you must have been quite the soldier.”

  Dedra’s eyes retreated into the past, her response coming from somewhere far away within herself.

  “Yes, I was Mr. Bennington. Yes I was.”

  Her eyes then refocused on me, and the here and now.

  “Don’t forget, you have forty eight hours. We need to know who is really behind the attempt to block our bill. And be careful. As you just experienced, we have our share of enemies.”

  The rear door of the taxi closed, and Dedra was gone, leaving me to ponder just how many enemies I faced on this assignment, and how far they were willing to go to prevent me from completing the task.

  I looked down at my left fist, noting the knuckles were reddened where they had struck Pot Belly’s face. It felt good to hit somebody like that.

  Real good.

  4.

  “Hello Bruce, this is Frank – Frank Bennington. How are you doing?”

  Bruce Morehouse paused on the other end of the line, likely trying to determine who the hell I was. We hadn’t spoken in years.

  “Oh, Frank, yes, how are you?”

  I had forgotten the slight British accent of Morehouse’s voice. Born and raised for the first eleven years of his life in the London borough of Ealing, Morehouse came to the United States via his father’s work with an international banking firm. Very bright, Harvard educated, with a propensity for both hard work, and hard living, I recalled admiring his rather dashing, English authoritarian presence during his time as a D.C. lobbyist. Though he had to be well into his 70’s by now, his voice still exhibited that powerfully low, timbered tone I remembered.

  “I’m doing ok Bruce, getting by I suppose. I was hoping to speak with you for a bit about something. Would it be possible to meet with you for lunch, or whatever other time works best for you?”

  There was another pause. Can’t say I blamed Morehouse for wondering what the hell I was doing calling him out of the blue like this.

  “What is this in regards to, Frank?”

  Morehouse’s tone had turned guarded, perhaps even suspicious.

  “I just need some advice, Bruce. You still doing lobbying work? Haven’t seen you around for a while.”

  Yet another pause.

  “I still do a bit of consulting here and there, why?”

  “No reason Bruce, anyways, like I said, I could use a bit of advice and figured you’d be the one to give it to me, so about that meeting…”

  Morehouse cleared his throat and paused yet again before responding.

  “I suppose that would be fine, Frank, but I don’t go out much anymore. Can you come to my home?”

  I closed my eyes as I focused on trying to remember where Morehouse’s D.C. home was. The faint memory of a party over there some ten years ago emerged – a vast, colonial styled residence in the upscale Cleveland Park neighborhood.

  “You still in Cleveland Park?”

  “That’s right, two blocks from Sidwell.”

  My mind brought forth a mental photograph of the home. The entrance was a large, black ironed gate, behind which was hidden a long red bricked driveway that brought you to a huge, white, two story structure resembling a smaller scale version of the White House, which sat on several immaculately manicured acres.

  “Are you available in say, an hour or two Bruce?”

  “That would be fine Frank. How about 1:00?”

  I confirmed the meeting time with Morehouse and then sat alone in my studio apartment replaying Dedra’s earlier instructions to me.

  “There is pending legislation in the House regarding fast-tracking FDA approval for newly developed cancer drugs. Congresswoman Mears is a co-sponsor of the bill. We’re having a terrible time gaining support within the House Subcommittee on Health. The entire bill is going to be killed unless we can gain some traction…Don’t forget, you have forty eight hours. We need to know who is really behind the attempt to block our bill. And be careful Mr. Bennington. As you just experienced, we have our share of enemies.”

  If anyone knew of planned opposition to a bill involving the FDA, it would be Bruce Morehouse. Like I said, he had been the king of lobbying for the drug corporations for years, and it sounded like he still had a toe or two dipping in those waters to this day.

  An hour later found me taking a taxi to D.C.’s Cleveland Park area. Most folks who don’t know better would say Georgetown is the place to be in this town, but people who’ve been around a time or ten like me know better. While the politicians and politicos swarm around Georgetown, or Foggy Bottom, there is a vein of old money power and influence that has long centered itself within Cleveland Park. There was a time when I could afford a residence at most of the high end neighborhoods in and around Capitol Hill, but I never came close to the kind of coin required to spend my way inside of Cleveland Park.

  I instructed the driver to slow down as we passed the Sidwell Friends School, possibly the most exclusive private K-12 education facility in the entire country. It was the home to the children of presidents, senators, and other assorted political elite, with more Secret Service and other security personnel per square foot than could be found anywhere else but the White House itself.

  If my memory was correct, the entrance to the Morehouse residence was just to the right another hundred yards or so. The cab neared a shallow turn off in the road that ended in front of a massive, twelve foot high, black ironed gate on top of which was attached a gold encrusted sign that simply read MOREHOUSE.

  I stepped out of the cab and walked to the left side of the gate where a small, silver intercom box was located, as well as a s
ecurity camera housed in a red painted, metallic box.

  Nodding to the camera, I leaned over and spoke into the small circular speaker of the intercom system.

  “Frank Bennington, here to see Mr. Morehouse. We spoke on the phone about an hour ago.”

  I stood waiting for a response. Above me, clouds were moving slowly across the D.C. sky, hinting at possible rain to come later in the afternoon.

  Nearly a minute passed before the gate swung slowly inward, allowing me to make my way down the long, red bricked drive of the Morehouse property. I marveled at how perfect each blade of grass, shrub, and tree looked along the way.