Jake Hancock Private Investigator mystery series box set (Books 1-4)

by Dan Taylor

  I take out the antiquated phone I was given, press it to the back of his head.

  “Okay! Please! I’ll tell you.”

  “Attaboy, Donald.”

  “I’m supposed to tail you all night. I tried to tell them I need to get up early in the morning, but they didn’t listen to me. They were really insistent. Plus, they said they’d give me five hundred an hour for tailing you, making sure you didn’t use a phone at specific times, stuff like that.”

  “What other stuff?”

  “Make sure you didn’t phone any cops, gain access to other communications devices.”

  “Now it’s my turn to be insistent.”

  “What…what do you want me to do? I’ll stop following you, I promise!”

  I think a second. Then reach down with my left hand, start searching Donald.

  “Why are you touching my ass?”

  I pull out his wallet, flip it open.

  “Take everything. I don’t care. Just take it.”

  “I’m not interested in the five hundred and five dollars you have, Donald.”

  “Then what are you interested in?”

  I read aloud this time: “Donald Luke. Three-four-eight Tuscahony Drive, Suite 5A. This your current address, Donald?”

  He stutters, then says, “Yes…no.”

  “Don’t fuck with me, Donald. I know people. People who could find out how many farts on average you do a night when sleeping on your stomach, whether or not you use waxed or un-waxed floss, or if you piss while in the shower or wait till you get out.”

  “How…how would they find that out?”

  “I don’t think you want me to answer that, Donald.”

  He’s silent a moment. “Okay, yes. Yes! It’s my current address.”

  “Smartest thing you’ve said all day.” I put his wallet back in his pocket. “You are going to follow me, Donald. All night, just like you said would.”

  “Why would you want me to do that?”

  “Because I’m not dumb enough to think that Leo put a fuckwit like you in sole charge of tailing me tonight. Hell, for all I know, I’m supposed to be in here now, holding a gun to your head.”

  “That seems unlikely.”

  “I’ll do the guesswork, Donald. But thanks for helping.” I release him and put the phone back in my pocket before he has a chance to see it.

  He stands up cautiously, as though at any moment I’ll slap his pudgy face again.

  I say, “When you leave the bathroom, you’re going to act like nothing has happened—”

  “What has happened?”

  “You have a bad habit of speaking when you shouldn’t, Donald. Anyone ever tell you that?”

  “My sister…sometimes.”

  I shake my head. “You’re a pathetic man, but you have a chance to make amends tonight. You’re going to follow me, report to Leo when you should, go to the places you should, collect the money like you should, and give details about what I do, like you should.”

  “Got it.”

  “But there’s also one more thing I want you to do.”

  His eyes narrow. “What is it?”

  I lean in and speak quietly into the ear I slapped not long ago.

  9.

  BOTH DONALD AND I walk out of the bathroom, wondering whether or not he’s got the balls or competence to do what he’s got to do to keep Scottie McDougray, a top computer hacker and researcher I’m associated with, finding out every grubby detail about his pathetic Netflix-watching life. He goes before me and sits down at his table, his ear red and throbbing. I go after him, making a beeline for June, who’s waiting with my takeout food.

  She hands it to me with a smile and lingering eye contact.

  “Say, June, could you call me a cab?”

  Her smile widens. “I don’t get off for a couple hours.”

  “That’s a kind offer, but I’m busy tonight, doll.”

  She giggles. “Maybe some other time?” She raises a questioning eyebrow.

  “Some other time.”

  “Where do you want to go?”

  “Extreme Bowl in Glendale.”

  “Bowling by yourself?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Oh.”

  June goes off, and I lean against the counter, scanning the customers in the dining area, to check and see if anyone else has taken an interest in me. Nothing like a pair of enigmatic psychopaths using the kidnapping of your sister and nephew against you, to force you to complete as yet unknown tasks, to give you paranoia.

  No one seems to be interested in me, except a spinster with heavily applied lipstick, who’s stealing glances of me, in between sipping at what probably is a lukewarm coffee.

  I wink at her, and she blushes and bites her bottom lip.

  June returns after a few minutes. “It’ll be pulling up front in ten.”

  “Thanks, June.”

  I go wait out front, the cogs in my mind turning.

  I try and think of who I’ve pissed off in the last year or so.

  The list is endless.

  I could probably narrow it down to a few strong suspects, but you never know who’s really pissed at you, especially when it comes to ex-girlfriends and the like. Besides, even if I could select a group of suspects who have good motives and who are possibly disturbed enough to do such a thing, investigating any of them is out of the question.

  My only solution at the moment is to play ball.

  To go and meet this Charles guy at the bowling alley.

  10.

  “THERE’S NO EATING in the cab. No eating,” the cab driver says.

  I look up from the paper bag I was given by June, to see the driver pointing at a sign dangling from the rearview mirror, on which there is a crossed-out burger and fries encircled, like a road traffic sign.

  Then I look down at the seat next to mine, see all manner of stains on it. “What are you worried about, getting grease stains on the other grease stains?”

  He shakes his head, and I assume he’s given me permission to eat.

  I open the bag and the first thing I see is a napkin lying on top of a polystyrene box. June’s written a note. Call me when that lump goes down…or before. Then her number. I won’t tell you that. I’m keeping that all for myself, so I put it in my breast pocket.

  I open the box and start sawing at the now-cold steak with a plastic knife and fork.

  The driver says, “I won’t be able to get the smell of steak out my cab for weeks.”

  I go to say, That smell’s the least of this cab’s worries, but stop myself. “What if I give you a handsome tip, would I be able to eat in peace, then?”

  “How much are we talking?”

  I put down the cutlery, take out my wallet, count out some cash and hand it to him.

  “With this, sir, I’d let you eat a whole cow in peace.”

  That sign hanging on the rearview mirror needs some small print.

  “Just this steak’s fine, but thanks.”

  “This is how you people call hyperbole, no?”

  “You people?”

  “You know, Americans.”

  I don’t know how to respond, so I lift my fork in an ambiguous gesture, and he nods, seemingly understanding.

  After a couple bites of steak, which aren’t going down well, I say, “Say, before you picked me up, did you happen to be approached by a sleazy-looking guy and a Jason Statham type?”

  He looks confused. “Sleazy, Jason Statham?”

  “Just two guys, asking about me.”

  “Oh, no—no two guys.”

  “And does it appear to you that anyone’s tailing us?”

  He turns and looks out of the rear windshield, and the car veers off to the left, nearly entering the adjacent lane.

  “Might want to use the wing mirror next time, chief.”

  He ignores me, turns back, then steers the car back to safety, not reacting to his driving error. “No, nobody tailing us.”

  “Good. Anybody tampere
d with your phone in the last twenty-four hours?”

  He shoots me a quizzical look in the rearview mirror. “I feel like I’m in airport security, traveling back to Lebanon. Why you ask all these questions?”

  “Because I find myself in a spot of trouble tonight.”

  “What kind of trouble? Is here ok?”

  I look out the window, see we’re nowhere near Glendale. “No, not that kind of trouble. I’m one of the good guys…” I lean forward, read the ID displayed on the dashboard. “…Ibrahim.”

  “What’s that got to do with me?”

  “Because you’re in a position to help me.”

  “I’m just cab driver.”

  “A cab driver with an un-bugged telephone.”

  He thinks a second. “If you want me to call you a hooker, you should just ask.”

  I laugh, and to my surprise, so does Ibrahim. “I like you, Ibrahim. Pass me over your telephone.”

  He does, then adds, “No long-distance calls.”

  “You got it.”

  I start dialing the number, but am interrupted. “Do you want to use this, sir?”

  Ibrahim has taken the Bluetooth earpiece out of his ear and is holding it out to me.

  “I think I’ll go ahead and make the call without it, but thanks.”

  11.

  “HERE WE ARE, Jake,” Ibrahim says.

  I look out the window and see we’re at Extreme Bowl. I get out, smile warmly at Ibrahim, then, through the open driver’s-side window, say, “And remember, Ibrahim, you’ve got to lubricate the engine before you can crank up the revs.”

  We both laugh.

  Reason we’re both on a first-name basis with one another and using inside jokes is because during the ten minutes’ drive, after I’d made the phone call, he and I really hit it off. He told me about how his daughter is becoming Westernized and her use of urban slang, which I sympathized with, then I recommended a few movies to put his daughter off the wrong crowd she’d fallen in with—Boyz n the Hood, Menace II Society, and Don't Be a Menace to South Central While Drinking Your Juice in the Hood. He thanked me for the help, and the rest, as they say, is history.

  I go to shake Ibrahim’s hand, but he holds his fist out, wanting to give me a fist bump. There’s an awkward moment while I wait for him to open his hand, so we can shake hands like gentlemen, but he doesn’t. I give in, kind of, and wrap my hand around his fist and shake it. “You’re all right, Ibrahim.”

  “So are you, Jake.”

  He grins widely then drives off.

  As I walk into Extreme Bowl, I hear tires screeching, then swear words shouted in Ibrahim’s unmistakable accent, after somebody presumably cut him off.

  I shake my head, thinking about what a terrible country it is and the mistake Ibrahim made by coming here, just so he could drive a cab for a living.

  Extreme bowl smells of shoe disinfectant and stale beer; strikes and partial-strikes sound from the lanes to my left as I walk past the booking desk to the bar.

  There’s a gorilla of a man in an XXL polo shirt, vet type, with broad shoulders and coarse gray hair. He’s slouched over the bar, sitting on one of the stools.

  There’s no one else there apart from the barman, who’s at the opposite end of the bar, taking out glasses from a steaming dishwasher.

  I take the one next to him.

  He glances at me, and for a moment, I don’t think he’s the guy I’m supposed to meet, Charles Anderson, as he looks at me with empty-eyed indifference. Until he says, “What are ya havin’, Jake?”

  “I think I’ll pass.”

  Slowly, he turns to fix me with a stare. “No you won’t. You’ll take one, or it’ll look like we’re a couple o’ homos, meeting on a whatever-the-fuck-night-it-is for a bit of old-on-young strange.”

  “Then I’ll take a mocktail. I’ve had enough for today.”

  He raises an eyebrow.

  “Okay, what are you drinking?”

  “What the fuck does that matter?”

  “I suppose it doesn’t.”

  “Right, matters like a pin dick in a whorehouse. But if you’re just making conversation, I’m drinking a Bell’s. Can’t stand that hick bourbon shit, and there isn’t a single malt in the house.”

  “Then I’ll take that, too.”

  “No you won’t; this is the drink I’m drinking. I want you to drink what you’d usually drink.”

  I look at the taps, then realize I’m at Extreme Bowl; they only have domestic and one cerveza. The fridges are no help either. They’re stocked with alcopops and premade cocktails in cans, and a few ales. “They’ve got nothing I drink usually.”

  “That makes two of us.” He holds up his glass. “Get the closest thing resembling it.”

  “I’ll take a can of Special Brew.”

  “What are you tellin’ me for?”

  “Fair point.”

  I nod to the barman, who comes over, then I order my drink.

  We sip silently a minute.

  Then he looks at the can, says, “You know the Brits don’t touch that stuff. Not people like you and me, anyway. Nah, that’s what the bums drink over there. Most bang for your buck.”

  A couple things strike me as curious: our speaking about drinks for the last couple minutes when there are more pressing matters; and our meeting here when the place clearly disagrees with the man, who doesn’t look like he’s subordinate to anyone, let alone Leo.

  “Is that so?”

  “It is.”

  “I feel a bit silly for asking this, but haven’t you got a task for me to do?”

  “Why’s that silly? That’s what Leo sent you here for, aint it?”

  “It is.”

  “Then it aint silly.”

  “If you say so.”

  He sighs, then his candidness surprises me. “How’d a kid like you get mixed up with these guys?”

  “I was kind of hoping you’d tell me.”

  “There are two kinds of successful men in this business: the brains and the muscle. Which one do I look like to you, Jake?”

  “The muscle?” Though I don’t know what business he referred to.

  “Got it in one. Even if I knew, which I don’t, I wouldn’t say shit. I have my orders, and you have yours. But who’s to say we can’t be cordial and drink the drinks we’d normally drink before we get this done?”

  He raises his drink and we clink glasses.

  After we sip our drinks, he says, “Who are you doing this for, Jake?”

  “Doing what for?”

  “This, life. Getting up in the morning, making money?”

  “I suppose I do it for myself mostly. Though Mary and Randy are a big part of my life.”

  “I’m doing it for my nephew, too. He’s funny in the head. Dumb as a truck but has the heart of an angel. Sis can’t provide shit for him, and you can be damn sure he won’t make but a buck or two in his sorry life. If not for me, that is.”

  “Sounds like a good kid.”

  “Damn straight.”

  As cool as you like, he looks around, as though he just saw a cute piece of ass walk past. He goes to speak, but a late-twenties girl wearing a baseball cap and sunglasses blindsides us. Says, “Say, mister, I’m visiting from Utah. You couldn’t snap a picture of me with Mr. Bloom here, could you?”

  Charles smirks, looks from her to me, then back again. “Mr. Bloom?”

  “You know, Orlando Bloom.”

  Charles goes to speak, but I stop him, put my hand on his shoulder, and wink at him. “No, miss, he wouldn’t mind.”

  I take the camera from her, hand it to Charles. He looks at the phone, almost inspecting it while he shakes his head. “No, miss, I wouldn’t mind. And it seems Mr. Bloom here doesn’t, either.”

  She comes and stands next to me, leaving a bit of distance, but I pull her in close, put my arm around her shoulders, which she reciprocates.

  She says, “It’s on the cam app already. Just click the white button at the bottom of the screen.�
��

  Charles takes a second to balance the slim phone in his clumsy hands, holds it up, and then snaps off a couple photos.

  “There you go, miss.”

  She takes the phone, says thanks, then runs off.

  Charles watches her ass as she goes out the door, then he turns back to me. “Who the hell is Orlando Bloom?”

  “Beats me.”

  He laughs. “I know one thing for certain. You don’t look the fuck like him.”

  He laughs again, coughs up some phlegm, and I watch his eyes. I only see amusement.

  Charles is right. I look nothing like Orlando Bloom.

  12.

  Twenty minutes earlier…

  KATE CANS IS DOING what she does most evenings at eight o’clock, working out to her No More Rolls workout DVD.

  She’s just getting into her groove, bouncing on her yoga mat as she alternately raises her thighs up and into her chest as she rotates her abdomen, making sure her opposing elbow makes contact with the raised knee. When Mr. Heis bangs on his ceiling, her floor.

  She stops. “Jesus Christ, Mr. Heis, how many times do we have to go through this? The workout video is thirty minutes long. You know this.”

  As usual, Mr. Heis says nothing, nor does he bang again. But this isn’t the end of it.

  She whispers, “You old son of a bitch,” then carries on.

  She does five and a half knee raises before Mr. Heis bangs again.

  This time she stops the DVD.

  She’s got half a mind to go down there and give him some shit. God knows her through-the-floor diplomacy hasn’t gotten her anywhere. She’s met him in the stairwell a few times—quiet man, smiles at her every time he sees her, as though oblivious to who the lady is that shouts at him through his ceiling most evenings—so it wouldn’t be that bad to have to go down and speak to him, make him come to see her way of thinking. Maybe show him a bit of cleavage.

  But she doesn’t get the chance to decide. Her phone starts to ring.

  She sighs then answers, “Yes?”

  “I haven’t asked yet.”

  She sighs again. “Jake, what do you want? That rain check expired weeks ago.”

  “Listen, Kate, I don’t have much time.”

  “Wait…what? Oh, you son of a bitch…”