Fall Guy © 2015 by Heather Haven
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced
or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or
mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any
information storage and retrieval system, without permission
in writing from the publisher.
This book is a work of fiction. Characters, names, places,
events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s
imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to
any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely
coincidental.
The Wives of Bath Press
223 Vincent Drive
Mountain View, CA 94041
http:// www.thewivesofbath.com
Cover Art © 2015 by Heather Haven
Special thanks to Karma Bennett for her photograph
Edited by Baird Nuckolls
Layout and book production by
Heather Haven and Baird Nuckolls
Print ISBN (The Wives of Bath Press)
eBook ISBN (The Wives of Bath Press)
First eBook edition
Testimonials
"Percy is a great character, and I found myself smiling and laughing at her antics throughout the story. Anyone looking for a fun, fast read should certainly give this book a try. I know I’ll be on the lookout for more about Percy and her adventures."
Long and Short Reviews
"If you like to take a chance on a book, you won't be disappointed with this one. I am looking forward to reading her next book about Persephone Cole" Amazon Reader
“Another Hit Series for Ms Haven. Set in the 1940s this new series is about a female Private Investigator, something unheard of in those days. Hats off to Ms Haven for another fine series. I couldn't put it down.”
Roseanne Dowell
“As a Heather Haven fan, I couldn't resist leaving an encouraging word to those of you who love your genres mixed with a heaping of humor. I read her first series and absolutely loved it, so I was really excited to see this debut of her new heroine and series. Her spunky leading ladies are realistic, determined, and inspiring and her secondary characters are colorful and so well described you'll swear you'd recognize them on the street. I'm thinking of running for president of the Heather Haven Fan Club, so after you read her work and leave your own positive review, you can vote for me.” :) Ginger Simpson
Dedication
This short story is dedicated to my mother, Mary Lee, an original thinker if there ever was one; husband, Norman Meister, who loves strong women; and gutsy broads everywhere who get out there, do what they love, and blaze the trail for the rest of us.
Acknowledgments
I could never do any of this without my writing buddies, in particular, Baird Nuckolls, friend and editor, whose expertise in all things hold me in good stead. Thanks, too, to Robert Goldberg and Jeff Monaghan for help with the cover art. I get by with a little help from my friends!
I love you all.
Fall Guy
A Persephone Cole Vintage Short Story
by
Heather Haven
Holding the morning’s newspaper, Persephone 'Percy' Cole, one of New York City's first female detectives, sat in the office of Cole Detective Agency across from her father. The family business had recently been renamed from Cole Brothers Investigations in honor of Percy’s newly acquired private investigator’s license. But not much else had changed. The office was still in the corner of the parlor of her family's 4th floor railroad apartment in Manhattan’s lower east side. She filled her deceased uncle’s shoes, but continued the secretarial work. Theirs was a small operation.
“Persephone, why don’t you read me what’s going on in the world while I drink my coffee and wake up?”
"Sure, Pop."
Few people would suspect that he was her father just by looking at them. His eyes were a twinkling blue, hers a cool green. Whereas his hair had been brown before turning silver, hers was bright red. At 5’6”, Pop, whose real name was Habbakkuk, was shorter than many a man. At 5’11” Percy was tall and imposing. Adding to her larger than life persona was extra poundage, a result of her love of Pistachio nuts and rich foods. But like the rest of her family, Percy carried a given name that was a mouthful.
Dutifully, she read aloud the headlines of the morning’s New York Tribune.
"It says, ’May 14, 1942. President Franklin D. Roosevelt approves legislation establishing the Women’s Army Auxiliary Corps (WACS). General Douglas MacArthur calls the WACS "my best soldiers.”’ And then MacArthur goes on to say he’s creating a branch for women fliers. He’ll relieve his most talented women of clerical duties to train them in the Women's Air Force. There’s a list of names.”
She put down the paper and smiled at the man sipping his coffee.
“I knew it was coming, Pop, but I’m glad it’s official. If I was fifteen years younger and not the mother of an eight-year old, I’d join up myself.”
“Thought you got airsick, Persephone.”
Not answering, she raised the paper again, devouring every written word. After a few minutes, she lowered it once more.
“Listen to this, Pop. A midget got murdered last night after his performance at the Big top. It says there’s a full-fledged investigation into his death. Maybe you shouldn’t take Oliver to the circus this afternoon. Do you think it’s too dangerous?”
“Of course we should go, Persephone. My grandson’s been looking forward to it for days. Every cop in Manhattan will be there milling around in the crowds. The Big Top will be the safest place in the City. Besides, he’ll be with me.”
“True, Pop. A mother’s worry. I’d go with you, but I’ve got a new client coming. Seems she picked up one of those flyers you’ve been papering Times Square with.”
“You see? It pays to advertise, Persephone.”
* * * *
A young, but somber and plain looking woman stared back at Percy, alert brown eyes burning with determination. Something else flickered within.
"Your name is Emily Ahlbrect?" Percy said. "It sounds familiar. Didn’t I read it on a list of WFTD recruits in this morning’s Tribune?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“You a part of this thing?"
Percy watched the girl’s demeanor change. No more than eighteen or nineteen, she seemed to momentarily swell with pride. Then the flicker came back. She swallowed hard and nodded before speaking.
"Yes, ma’am. I've been accepted in the Women's Flying Training Detachment. There's only a handful of us. We’re going to be taking over for male pilots ferrying supplies into the war zone. It frees them up for combat."
"How'd you hook up with that?"
"I come from a family of crop dusters upstate, ma’am. I've been flying planes for as long as I can remember."
"We’re going to move along a lot faster if you stop ma’aming me to death.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Emily stuttered. “I mean, no ma’am.”
Percy let out a chuckle. “Never mind. And now you're going to fly a plane for Uncle Sam. Do your part in the war effort. Good for you. So what do you want from me? Looks like you're doing all right on your own."
"It's my brother, Hank. He's an army pilot. Last month his plane was hit by enemy fire over France. He managed to fly to Allied territory before the plane went down in flames. He had to parachute out and broke his arm in the fall. Until he can fly again, they assigned him to the Recruiting Office on Whitehall Street. Get more men to join, things like that.”
“S
ounds like he’s a hero. What’s the problem?”
“Yesterday they accused him of stealing some files and handing them over to German spies."
“What files?”
“The files on minority applicants. You know, Jews, Negroes, Mexican-Americans, Japanese-American, like that.”
“What would the Germans want with those files?”
“The army says the Germans want to keep purifying the races, even of their foes, ma’am.”
“They don’t want to dirty their hands killing unpurified foes?”
“Three male applicants on the list – one Jew and two Negroes – have been shot and killed since the files started getting stolen.”
"And they think your brother did this?"
"Yes, ma’am. If he isn't cleared soon he'll be charged with treason. He could even be shot but..." She stopped speaking.
"But? You mean that’s not the worst part?"
"Our father has a bad heart. If he hears about this, it might kill him."
The thought of Pop flashed through Percy’s mind. If any of his children were accused of being a traitor during these tumultuous times, it might kill him, too.
"Sorry about your troubles, Emily, but why come to me? The cops are better equipped to handle this sort of thing."
"No, ma’am. It’s strictly a military matter. The police cannot be involved.”
“That’s tough. They’re a good source and our taxes pay their salaries.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Tell you what, call me Miss Cole.”
“Yes, Miss Cole. Thank you.”
“I’d also say let’s can the politeness, but I don’t think it would get me very far. So other than Hank hanging around Whitehall, what makes the army suspect your brother?”
“It’s because of our last name, Miss Cole. Ahlbrect." She leaned forward. “They don’t say it, but it’s happened before. Some people, they think because we have a German name we’re in league with the Germans, even though Hank and I were born and raised in upstate New York. My father came here when he was seven. And because he’s the newest person there.”
“That would be Hank, not your father.”
“Yes, Miss Cole, of course.”
“Just clarifying. Go on.”
“Hank’s only been there about a week, when the files started missing.
"No kidding? That’s interesting."
“I came to you because it happened close by. Whitehall Street is only a few blocks away. Is it something you can look into right away, Miss Cole? Find out who really did this? I don’t want it to go any further.” She paused. “Or get into the papers.”
“The fear of being tainted by sin?”
“Ma’am?”
“Guilt by association. If your brother’s charged with treason, this could impact your career as a pilot.”
The girl’s face flushed and she looked down. “I'd be kicked out of the program before I can even start.”
Percy studied the young woman who sat before her, erect but nervous. “You got any money? Can you afford to pay me?”
The girl looked up, hopeful but hesitant. “I’ve saved one hundred and forty-three dollars. I was saving for a new crop duster. Ours is wore out. But without Hank, there’s not much use to any of it. Not the money, not the planes.”
“In that case, I’ll see what I can do.”
* * * *
It was an agreeable morning, so Percy hoofed the seven short blocks to the Army Recruiting Station at 30 Whitehall. Red hair tucked up inside her brown fedora, she stood in front of the building contemplating the design by Stephen D. Hatch in 1886.
The near fortress was eight-stories of red granite, sandstone, and red brick. The ground floor was marked by high, slit windows. Over the entranceway, a decorative granite panel carved with a cannon, a mortar, a chain-mail shirt, cannonballs and a spear caught the eye. Given to character studies, Percy thought that if the building could turn into a person, he would probably be a bully.
Inside was a mob scene. Dozens of recruits were lined up in six rows, young and determined, waiting for their chance to fight for the cause. Some of the boys she recognized. One or two were from the neighborhood, even an Italian-American youth of about twenty, son of one of the local dons of the Sicilian Mafia. He stood in the last processing line. Two bodyguards hovered close by, trying to look unobtrusive.
Army corporals and sergeants sat behind long tables chatting earnestly with the next in line, sometimes giving an animated pep talk or sharing pamphlets. Behind all this controlled chaos were stacks of metal file cabinets, opening and closing, as various levels of the process were finalized for each recruit. Clerks, male and female, came and went at will, emptying or filling the cabinets. Military Police patrolled the large, echo-y space.
Percy leaned against a far wall, studying the room. It would be easy, she thought, to lift a file; no one can be watched at all times. But it would be chancy. Maybe it didn’t happen during open hours. Locks were meant to be broken into or there was always the easier way, a pilfered key. Or….
She glanced up. The ceiling looked about thirty feet high in the dull brown room, with slit windows set in the walls at twenty feet or so.
One of the older MP’s approached her with a swagger. As tall as she, he gave her the once over.
“Well, you’re a big one. What are you, six feet tall? They could use somebody like you on the front lines, especially with all that padding. But you look a little old for the job to me.”
“Listen, you want to play the insulting game, I could say something about your jug ears or maybe what’s between them. But you don’t see me complaining.”
He let out a booming laugh. “You’re my kind of gal, honey.”
“Says you. But answer me this, do those windows open?” She pointed to the high, narrow windows, ten of them.
“Only in the summer. Otherwise, it gets like an oven in here. But you have to get up on a ladder to open and close them, and then use a long pole. It’s a big pain. They ain’t been opened since last September.” He leaned in and whispered. “Listen, I get Sundays off, if you’re interested.”
“Thanks for the info, soldier,” Percy said, pushing away from the wall. “See you around.”
She left the recruiting room and turned back to the entryway, where several phone booths were line up against a far wall. Choosing one, she pulled a nickel from the pocket of her trousers, lifted the receiver, dropped in the coin, and dialed a number she knew by heart. The other end of the line answered on the third ring.
“Detective Ken Hutchers speaking,” said a brusque, baritone voice.
“Hey, Hutchers. It’s Percy.” Even though they ‘stepped out’ occasionally, she always addressed him by his surname.
The tenor of his voice changed immediately, becoming warm and soft. “Well, hey, Perce. To what do I owe the honor of a phone call from my favorite lady shamus?”
“I need a little information on that midget that got offed at the circus.”
“And what do I get in exchange?”
“I might let you buy me dinner one of these days.”
“Fair enough. I actually saw the coroner’s report somewhere; the whole precinct is on it.” She heard the rustle of paper. “Ah! Here it is. One bullet to the back of the head. Found him in his dressing room late last night. Died around nine, ten o’clock; must have been right after his last show.”
“What kind of act did he do?”
“Do?”
“You know, juggler, clown, high-wire.”
“Acrobat.”
“That’s what I thought. Hutchers I’m going to need a couple of other things from you, but I’m not sure you can get them for me.”
“What’s that?”
“First, a list of all the acts with the Big Top, including their names.”
“That’s easy. I got one right here. The town’s in an uproar about this midget being killed where a lot of families and kids go. The Big Top’s cooperating with us, like
nobody’s business. But we got nothing.”
“I may be able to help you with that.”
“That wouldn’t surprise me, Perce. You mentioned a couple of things. What else?”
“Here’s the long shot, copies of the missing files taken from Whitehall Recruiting Center last week. Think you can do that?”
He was silent for a time. “I know the ones you’re talking about. I can’t help you there. The military has their own police, their way of doing things. Even when it happens on city streets, they don’t like no interference.”
“Yeah. That’s what I thought. I’ll have to do this another way; talk to some people around here. I’ll drop by the station and pick up that list later this afternoon. How’s that?”
“I’ll be the one with the red rose behind my ear.”
“See you, Hutchers.”
* * * *
Percy stood in the phone booth adjacent to Happy Pastures Funeral Parlor. It was early evening and raining. “Hey, Pop, how was the circus?”
“Glad you called, Persephone. We had a lot of fun. Where are you? Staying dry?”
“I’m as dry as I’m going to be without an umbrella. I’m south of Delancey Street. Don Carbone’s place.”
“What are you doing there?”
“I’ve spent the day looking into a few things about our flier and those missing files. The Don needs to know.”
“You think he’s the one behind these army killings?”
“If I did, I wouldn’t be going straight into the lion’s den.”
“That’s my girl. You eat?”
“Not since this afternoon. Save me some dinner, Pop.”
“Will do.”
“See you in an hour.”
“You be careful, Persephone. I’ve got enough gray hairs. And Oliver don’t need to be an orphan.”
“Amen to that, Pop.”
* * * *
Fall Guy: A Persephone Cole Vintage Short Story Page 1