He had picked a good spot. A dozen scrub trees blocked the view from the north and west. The road ran south for fifty yards through open land, then turned east. The only structure with a view of Bartelles and the truck was a long, low, metal building eighty yards back.
That building faced away from Bartelles, and besides, it looked empty, possibly deserted. There were no windows in the back wall, only a stretch of corrugated iron with a single padlocked door. Empty asphalt, a loose jumble of rusty pipes, a stack of rotting pallets, and a big ABCO trash container.
The Mustang and I were hidden behind the trash container.
I had already taken two pictures of Bartelles by then, both of them reasonably tight and clear once the long lens of my dented old Minolta had dragged him up close to me. I snapped him again as he nodded his head twice and turned to stride briskly toward the stand of trees.
When I took the camera away from my eye, I couldn’t see him. There was too much contrast between the bright sun and the dark tree shadows. But he was still visible through the Minolta, and I clicked away steadily as he used his pocketknife to saw through his belt and free the chain connected to the large leather wallet that held the company money.
Bartelles put the cash in a plastic bag he took from his pants pocket, then threw away the wallet with an artistic flip of his wrist. Then he took off his shoes, walked gingerly to the far end of the small forest, and buried the bag of cash under loose dirt at the base of a tree.
When he’d walked just as carefully back to where he’d dumped the wallet, he ripped the front of his shirt and threw himself down on the ground. He rolled around in the dirt for a minute, scrunching his back against the ground like a dog. I fought ’em, boss. Like a tiger, I swear. But they were just too strong for me.
Bartelles got up, looked around, and found something on the ground, probably a rock. Whatever it was, he dragged it sharply across his forehead three times. He winced noticeably each time.
Finally he stood still for a moment, apparently thinking; then he let his shoulders sag, and he staggered out into the sunlight again.
It was quite a performance, well worth the full roll of thirty-six exposures I’d run through the camera.
By the time I’d followed the road around to the parked truck, Bartelles was standing in the middle of the road. When I stopped, he developed a bad limp and waved his arms feebly.
“Help,” he cawed. “I’ve been robbed.”
I leaned over and opened the passenger door. “Get in, Camille.”
He threw himself in, babbling about his ordeal, saying take me to the cops and oh, my Gawd and things like that. During all that he mopped at his gashed forehead with a handkerchief and made sure I noticed his grievous wound.
After five minutes, though, when I hadn’t said anything and had driven past two patrol cars, Bartelles pursed his lips and said calmly, “You wanna tell me what the fuck is going on here?”
“You’ve been a ba-a-a-d boy.”
“What are you, pal, a cop or something?”
“Private,” I said. “Shanahan will tell you all about it.”
“Shanahan! That bastard. Hired you to catch me, huh?”
“Yup.” Power repartee à la Gary Cooper.
Bartelles said, “You oughta know, pal, my brother-in-law is very big down at the local. Very big.”
“Yup.”
“You a union man, pal?”
“Federated Guild of Thugs and Leg-breakers,” I said. “I’m on the committee negotiating our new contract.”
“Get fucked,” he said.
“Good idea for a contract provision. It beats the hell out of overtime and sick pay. You think your brother-in-law could give us a hand with that?”
Our relationship soured after that. He didn’t call me pal again, for one thing. And he tried to kick me on the shin when I trotted him into Shanahan’s office.
Grinning, Shanahan offered him a quick way out with a hastily typed letter of resignation and confidential confession. Bartelles spit on Shanahan’s desk, so we did it the hard way.
It took several hours to recover the cash and the truck and help the cops assemble the small mountain of paperwork they needed to put one petty thief in the slammer. A sergeant named Worthington ramrodded the job; we’d been rookies together years ago. Worthington didn’t like my wisecracks about terminal writer’s cramp.
It was after nine-thirty that night, and the temperature was down to bearable, when I finally got away from all that heavy-duty crime busting. I had missed the planned candlelight Italian dinner with Hilda, which was bad. I phoned her a few hours back, though, and she’d suggested Whoppers and double onion rings whenever I could make it. Which was good.
Tomorrow, I wouldn’t have to chase that stupid truck around town, which was also good. And Shanahan’s check lay heavy in my wallet. Another good.
As the Mustang clattered along, I wondered whether the mysterious Max had enjoyed his day. I decided he could not have fully appreciated it, if only because he didn’t know how close he had come to running out of days to enjoy.
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THE RAFFERTY P.I. SERIES
RAFFERTY’S RULES
Download here from your favorite ebook retailer.
15 years ago, Rafferty saved Vivian from a junkie who tried to blow her head off. So when he’s hired by Vivian’s parents to hunt down her kidnappers, it’s personal. Rafferty saved Vivian once. Can he do it again?
LAST SEEN ALIVE
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Rafferty’s vacation goes to hell as he works his way through a small Texas town breaking the rules as fast as they can make them, searching for the vicious killer who butchered Cindy Lawson.
POOR DEAD CRICKET
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He’s been around the block; this isn’t the first case he’s had involving a dead woman. But this time Cricket Dawes is dead, and no-one cares—except Rafferty. And that’s a bad scenario for everyone else.
WRONG PLACE, WRONG TIME
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A double caseload means multiple mayhem for Rafferty. A trigger-happy octogenarian collides with a larger-than-life bounty hunter. One will win him an unexpected friend. The other could buy him a bullet.
CANNON’S MOUTH
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Rafferty’s mistaken for a hitman. Before he knows it, the mark is dead and he’s left holding the bag. Full of cash. Now the real hitman wants his money and he’s prepared to burn down Rafferty’s world to get it.
FATAL SISTERS
(Shamus Award Winner)
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.
Finding Sherm isn’t that hard, but telling his naïve wife that he was killed in a mob-connected whorehouse is. And with the witnesses now being murdered one by one, Rafferty must face the truth: sometimes it’s a simple matter of kill or be killed.
FALSE GODS
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Rafferty should wrap up this runaway case easily, but by the time he can find Kimberly in a remote desert compound, they’re trapped in the middle of a deadly game. Can Rafferty get Kimberly out before all hell breaks loose?
Praise for W. Glenn Duncan’s Rafferty P.I.
“At first sniff, it may smell a like Spenser with a cowboy hat, but take a good whiff: W. Glenn Duncan's Dallas, Texas private eye Rafferty was actually a blast of fresh air in what was becoming a glut of sensitive, soul-searching, overly politically-correct cookie cutter P.I.s … of course, it helps that Dallas ain't Boston.” | Kevin Burton Smith
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“The thing about Rafferty is the fun with the noir aspect. Only a deft hand at word magic could accomplish the mix so smoothly.” | 5 star Amazon review.
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“Duncan truly captured the essence of the definitive smart-ass P.I. in his character Rafferty. Take part Sam Spade with a little Mike Hammer, mix in some Spenser and you have an awesome character.” | Cliff Fausset
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“I love this series. Rafferty returns with his regular cast of characters: his beloved, sexy and intelligent Hilda Gardner; rumpled and overworked Lt. Durkee and his sidekick Ricco; feisty and fun Mimi with her arsenal; and Mimi’s beloved, the down-to-earth Cowboy with his charming Texas drawl.” | Alice - 5 Star Amazon review
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“I have all of the Rafferty titles in my collection. I've gotten rid of a lot of stuff over the years, but the Rafferty books are a mainstay. I think they're terrific!” | Paul Bishop
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“Rafferty tends to play dirty, boasting at one point that he ‘hasn't fought fair in twenty years.’ No brainiac, his chief MO seems to be to stir things up, and then see what happens. And he tends to be pretty stubborn, as well. ‘I often ignore what people tell me to do,’ he says. Like, no kidding. And that's part of the fun.” | ThrillingDetective.com
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“I don't know much about W. Glenn Duncan except that he wrote a dandy private eye series set in Dallas, Texas … and I think of them as throwbacks to the kind of P.I. books … in the '50s, except influenced as much by Robert B. Parker as by Spillane.” | Bill Crider
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“If you love hardboiled P.I. mysteries, don’t hesitate to dig in to this series! I absolutely love the Rafferty PI novels! Fast-paced, exciting, and with twists that keep you guessing, the humorous, sarcastic, and likeable Rafferty is a character with the depth to carry the series and make fans of his readers. I love the relationship he and Hilda have ... it just adds even more depth to the books. I eagerly await the next book in this series ... that’s the hard part: the waiting.” | Suzanne - 5 Star Amazon review
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“I love that Rafferty is straightforward about who he is and what he's good at. The dialogue is witty when warranted and the action moves well. As a woman, I also like his girlfriend, who isn't whiny about his work or odd hours, and that he talks to her about his work. So often in this genre, the girlfriend/wife are just for sex or to give the hero a soft side.” | Minnie - 5 Star Amazon review
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“At first blush, the framework for Rafferty appears to be yet another Spenser clone (Cowboy, Rafferty’s semi-sociopathic partner channeling Hawk; Hilda, Rafferty’s significant other who is a less irritating version of Susan Silverman; an equal number of wisecracks, fists, and bullets), but it’s quickly apparent in the first few pages of the series, Rafferty and company are in a class of their own.” | Paul Bishop
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“Rafferty: Fatal Sisters won a 1991 Shamus for Best Paperback Original. All in all, an entertaining, and very highly recommended series.” | ThrillingDetective.com
About the Author
W. Glenn Duncan, a former newsman, politician, and professional pilot, has lived in Iowa, Ohio, Oregon, Florida, Texas and California. He now lives with his wife in Australia. His novels in the Rafferty P.I. Series are: Rafferty’s Rules, Last Seen Alive, Poor Dead Cricket, Wrong Place Wrong Time, Cannon’s Mouth and Fatal Sisters.
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Fatal Sisters won a Shamus Award for Best Paperback original.
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The Rafferty P.I. Series is continued by his son, writing as W. Glenn Duncan Jr., with the release of False Gods.
Get in touch. We’d love to hear from you.
RaffertyPI.com
[email protected]
This one is for Dad and Jeanne
Wrong Place, Wrong Time
Copyright © W. Glenn Duncan 1989
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The moral right of the author has been asserted.
All rights reserved.
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No parts of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the copyright owner.
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This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. Under no circumstances may any part of this book be photocopied for resale.
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This is a work of fiction. Any similarity between the characters and situations within its pages and places or persons, living or dead, is unintentional and co-incidental.
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First published in the United States in 1989 by Ballantine Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and simultaneously in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto.
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This edition published in 2017 by d squared publishing.
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Ebook ISBN: 978-0-6480370-6-4
P’back ISBN: 978-0-6480370-7-1
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For enquiries regarding this book, please email: [email protected]
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Cover Design by Jessica Bell
Wrong Place, Wrong Time Page 21