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

by Dan Taylor

  “You’re a penny-less jazz musician. In terms of the expense account, you’ll barely be able to afford a drink while you’re over there.”

  I turn to Gerry, who raises her glass again. Then I turn back. “Sounds like she won’t be able to resist me.”

  “I’m sure you’ll be able to charm her, Jake. Besides, you can hardly play a jazz musician of prominence. This woman knows the genre.”

  “Still…”

  “If there’s anything else, Jake?” He said it in a tone that isn’t inviting any more questions.

  So I say, “There is one more thing.”

  He sighs. “Go on.”

  “Would you like another brandy before I leave?”

  “Good lad.”

  15.

  “YOU ASS-KISSER,” GERRY says upon leaving.

  “The man looked parched.”

  We’re walking down the hallway, towards the front door. Gerry’s slightly in front, using her long legs to keep herself that way.

  “How did it taste?”

  “How did what—” I begin to say, then realize I’m falling for a trap.

  “His second-to-last sphincter?”

  “Very good. What’s gotten into you, anyway? Is it that time—”

  She stops. “Don’t say it!”

  “What? I was going to say, ‘Is it that time of the…week when you’re most angry?’”

  “Nice save!”

  “Thanks.”

  “I was being sarcastic.”

  “So was I.”

  We carry on walking.

  We put on our shoes and go out the front door, and Gerry looks to the heavens when she sees there’s only one car.

  I say, “Looks like we’ll be sharing.”

  “Could this day get any worse?”

  “I suppose we could get a flat during the ride.”

  “You’re hoping for it, aren’t you?”

  “As much as I love spending time cooped up in a car with a woman whose sarcasm could fuel Vince Vaughn through a day of British interviews, I’m not, no. I assume that hood deal will be the same on the way back.”

  “Only for you. Anyway, why does the hood bother you so much?”

  “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

  “Tell me.”

  I sigh. “I feel anxious when it’s on. I think I might be claustrophobic.”

  We start walking towards the car. “But it’s just over your face.”

  “It may as well be over the whole of my body. I can’t see a thing.”

  “Admit it. You’re afraid of the dark.”

  “Am not.”

  “Are too.”

  I glance through the window at the rear passenger seats, and then open the passenger door for Gerry. She says, “Nice to see chivalry isn’t dead.”

  I smile, and then wait for it. “You pig!” Gerry’s just discovered what I saw when I looked at the rear passenger seats. The driver has crazy-long legs and has his seat pushed right back, affording the passenger on his side little-to-no legroom.

  She squeezes in, her legs pushed to one side, and I get in. Before we set off, to the driver, she says, “Do you think you could move your seat forward a little there, Driver?”

  He’s silent a moment, then says, “I could…”

  “Good.”

  “…if you don’t want to reach your destination without finding out what my headrest tastes like?”

  He starts the car.

  I turn to her and raise an eyebrow. “Looks like you’ve got competition.”

  “Okay, we’re swapping.”

  “Just sit on the middle seat. Or you could ride up front in the shotgun seat.”

  She scowls.

  “Or there’s a third option.”

  Still scowling, she waits for it.

  “You could sit on my lap.”

  Gerry’s back to her old self, so she ignores me as she looks cool and intelligent.

  Before we set off, to me, the driver says, “You know the drill.”

  “Can I at least poke some eyeholes in it before putting it on?”

  That pause again. “I could…”

  “Okay, okay.” I grab the thing from the pouch on the back of the seat in front of me and then put it on.

  After a couple minutes of driving, I ask him, “Say, do I have a reputation as a bad tipper down the depot?”

  “You talking to me?”

  “Very funny.”

  “It wasn’t a joke.”

  “Yes…yes, I was talking to you.”

  “What depot?”

  I sigh, having just realized I was hoodwinked by that other driver.

  To Gerry, I say, “Thanks for not telling Andre I’m going through a dry patch.”

  “I was tempted.”

  “Why’s it getting your goat so much that Andre’s chancing me on an important gig?”

  “Because of what I said while we were in there: You haven’t earned it.”

  I can’t see her, but her tone of voice tells me she’s lying. I decide to drop it. “So, Gerry, what are you doing this evening?”

  “You know I don’t do small talk.”

  “Just humor me. I need to take my mind off the blackness that is my everything at the moment.”

  “So you are afraid of the dark?”

  “This is like being buried alive.”

  She’s quiet.

  “Fine. Driver, can you put on the radio? Whichever station you like. Just to take my mind off this God damn hood smothering my face.”

  “I could…”

  “You should really drop that, guy.”

  16.

  “YOU CAN TAKE off the hood now,” the driver says.

  I claw it off with hands that have sweat dripping from the fingertips. “It felt like a lifetime.”

  I look to Gerry’s seat and see that she’s not there. He must’ve dropped her off first.

  “So that’s what was happening when you stopped and I heard the door open.”

  “What did you think happened?”

  “Why didn’t she say goodbye?”

  He shrugs. I get out, tell him one of his buddies has his tip, and then he drives off.

  I’m standing in front of Herb’s Jazz Joint, a tavern with the Hills framing it in the background.

  When I go in there are only a few daytime drinkers sitting at the bar. Retired-with-no-family types with long expressions. Some reading newspapers, others staring into space, wondering where the fuck their lives went.

  I take a seat at the bar and one of them turns to me. “You must be Hancock.”

  Dude’s wearing sweatpants and a T-shirt, on which it reads ‘High, and not on life.’

  “And you are?”

  “Herb.”

  “Oh.”

  Herb goes back to staring into space.

  After a moment or two’s silence, I say, “Should we get started?”

  He turns to me, droopy eyed. Goes to speak, but a door behind the bar opens, interrupting him. A nervous, energetic fifty-something—African-American, dressed in a classy suit that’s slightly too big for him—walks around the bar. Shakes my hand as though he means to break it. “You must be Jake Hancock. Nice to meet you.”

  “The same. And you are?”

  He smiles, revealing gleaming dentures. “Why Herb, of course. Follow me around the bar, through to the back. I’m told you’ve never played the flute before.”

  “That’s almost true.”

  I follow him through to a back room. He takes a seat on a battered sofa, opposite which are shelves, on which are rows and rows of jazz records. I notice a good portion of them are by an artist called Art Pepper. He says, “Make yourself comfortable.”

  I sit down, but only perching on the edge. “I’m a little confused. That guy sitting by the bar said his name was Herb.”

  He laughs nervously. “Old Bill tells that to whoever comes in.”

  “And he knew who I was.”

  “He did. That’s because I warned him a
man by the name Hancock was comin’. Told him that he should cut that ‘I’m Herb’ stuff out this one time. Guess it didn’t work.” Nervous laughter again.

  “Guess not.”

  He takes a second to work me out. Fixes me with a stare as he shines those dentures at me. “So what do you know about jazz, Jake?”

  “Ask what you really want to know, Herb.”

  A nervous smile grows on his face. There’s a glint in his eye. “I get a call from a guy offering me $500 for an afternoon’s lesson. Not even that. Said a couple hours would do it.”

  “Is that all that’s on your mind?” I try and make him feel comfortable by offering a smile back.

  “No. Guy said his name’s Andre. But he didn’t sound like no Andre I ever heard of.”

  “Is that all?”

  “No. When I said I don’t teach, and especially not beginners, he doubled the fee. Didn’t think but twice about it neither. Came off his tongue faster than a mouthful of Pennzoil.”

  His skepticism makes me wonder what might be in his past. He could think I’m FBI or DEA. He was probably watching me with that fake Herb out front. Making sure I didn’t have a badge and to check how I was. What my groove was.

  “I understand you might think this a bit irregular, Herb. But let me put you at ease—”

  “Oh, I’m at ease already. Yes sir.”

  “I know you are, Herb. Truth is, Andre’s my soon-to-be father-in-law. Andre’s not his name at all. You’re right. I’ve got this romantic idea of playing a jazz version of ‘Lady in Red’ as the first song at our wedding. It’s her favorite. But the problem is I can’t play worth a damn—though I played a little in high school. I confided in the old son of a bitch during a whisky or three at his mansion one night. He doesn’t like flaunting his cash. He’s a good guy like that. I’m just minding my own business today, holding the fort while the ol’ ball and chain—though she’s not fully attached yet—shops for dresses downtown. Car pulls up. Driver insists I get in. I’m told by the driver to ask for a Herb when I get out. Doesn’t say why. Andre’s the name of my boss. Well, to tell the truth, my soon-to-be father-in-law’s my actual boss. Andre’s my immediate one. That’s what the confusion was about before with that—Old Bill, you said his name was? I connected the dots as I thought about the sign on the front of the tavern. You understand.”

  “Yes, Jake, I mean sir.”

  “So, if there aren’t more curiosities I have to satisfy, maybe we should get on with it?”

  He shines his dentures at me, blinks a couple times, still unsure. “So you want to play ‘Lady in Red’?”

  I shrug. Smile an embarrassed smile. “Hey, I’m a Pepper man. But you know broads.”

  He tosses his head back, laughs freer than last time. “Yes, sir, I do. You a quick learner, we get that in an hour. Maybe three quarters. What do you want to do with the rest of the time?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. I suppose we should make use of the old son of a bitch’s money.”

  “I agree, Jake.”

  “How about a bit of flashy stuff?”

  His eyes brighten. “Don’t see why we couldn’t have a little fun.”

  17.

  WHEN I COME out of the back room it’s evening. Many of the down-and-outers have left, and have been replaced by jazz nerds carrying brochures, looking around at the place like it might be Graceland. Some old smoothies arrived while I was learning flute. They’re wearing vintage suits, with neatly trimmed mustaches, and sipping at glasses of liquor like they might be props.

  I decide to take a beer at the bar before leaving. Soak the place in before getting an early night.

  Herb takes his position behind the bar, sends the barman who had been tending it out to collect glasses from the tables.

  It’s obvious how Herb makes his living when the jazz nerds go over to him. They ask for selfies and signatures, star-struck the whole time.

  I wait for Herb’s gushing performance as the bashful, forgotten jazz legend to finish, before I wave him over. “What would you like, Jake?”

  “Nothing domestic and nothing from your taps. Choose one of those bottles from the fridges behind you.”

  He doesn’t make a show of looking, then pulls out a Leffe. “That do you?”

  “It’s what I would have chosen had I been back there.”

  “Well that’s just dandy.”

  I think about that as I decant it into a glass. I stir the sediment in and take a sip. Raise my glass to him. “Join me?”

  “Love to, but I’ve been dry since seventy-six.”

  “Strange profession for a teetotaler, owning a bar.”

  “Guys down at AA think I’m crazier than a barn full of cats. I get tempted every day, but never give in. Besides, gives me an opportunity to play to a decent crowd every night. Not swinging, but decent.”

  “I hear ya.”

  At this point three aging white guys come into the bar, carrying large hard carry cases of varying shapes and sizes. They put them down on a modest stage, where a drum kit is already set up.

  Herb says, “Getting arthritis in my fingers. Don’t know how many years I got left.”

  “You could always play the horn when it gets really bad.”

  He laughs. “I like your style, Jake.”

  With that said, Herb gets up on the stage. He helps the band set up the equipment, and they laugh and joke like old friends, as I sit and watch.

  I decide to stick around for half the set, thinking I can learn a thing or two.

  The old boys can play. That’s for sure.

  18.

  I SIT UP IN MY bed, after experiencing that falling feeling just before waking. I say, “Shit! She was right.”

  About the tree, that is. I’d made my way onto the first branch.

  I decide to give Dr. Hannah Rogers a call after I’ve showered and shaved.

  “Jake?” Sounds like I woke her.

  “You were right about the branch.”

  “It’s too early to be talking about this, Jake.”

  “I wanted to call you before I forgot about my dream.”

  She sighs. “Okay, tell me about it.”

  I think a second. “No, it’s gone.”

  “Write it down next time. Then we can discuss it.”

  “I remember one bit. I got that falling feeling just before waking.”

  “Psychologists think that might be a hangover from our days of sleeping in trees, a vestigial reflex that evolved in humans.”

  “Can’t it be a warning of some kind? That sounds like it might be more interesting.”

  “More interesting for whom?”

  “Whom? Who still says that?”

  “So I was right about the branch. You were on the first one?”

  “Right.”

  “And I take it you didn’t sleep with anyone last night.”

  “There was no need to spell it out like that, but yeah, that’s how I know I was wrong about what the tree symbolizes.”

  “And there was some sort of career progression yesterday, a significant development?”

  “You could say that.”

  “Don’t use double speak. Just give plain answers, like we discussed.”

  “Okay, there was a development.”

  “Let’s go back to this warning thing. Is there anything you feel apprehensive about?”

  “Not that I can think of. I’m flying to Oslo today. I suppose I could feel apprehensive about what in-flight movies I’ll have to endure. Last time I flew long haul, I had to sit through back-to-back Rob Schneider movies.”

  “Is the trip to Oslo anything to do with your career progression?”

  “It is.”

  “Okay, so ignoring the theory about the trees, you could be experiencing apprehension about carrying out your job in a foreign place. The falling could symbolize the lack of control you’ll feel when dealing with people who are of a different culture and about operating in a place you know nothing about.”

  “Shit,
if I wasn’t before, I am now. I’m not paying you for this phone call. Can’t it just symbolize something flippant, the falling? Like my apprehension about digesting plane food?”

  “It could, but I think your phoning means it isn’t.”

  “Come to think of it, I’m totally ill-prepared for this trip. I haven’t even bought a phrase book.”

  “I’m going back to sleep, Jake.”

  “Okay, I’ll stop messing around.”

  “Let’s back up a bit. Can you remember what you were thinking about before you started falling?”

  “I was trying to decide if it was a dream or not.”

  She’s silent.

  “Doc?”

  Still silent.

  “Are you doing that thing again where you wait, seeing if I’ll say something that’s revealing without you having to probe for it?”

  I hear her snoring, so I hang up.

  Great, I’m on my own on this one. I think about what we discussed, decide that it’s a warning. A terrible warning. But about what?

  19.

  I GET OUT of bed to take a shower, and just after I’ve lathered up, I get that intense burning in my chest. Only worse this time. And for longer.

  I’m pretty freaked out, so I phone Dr. Jennings’s office, only to find he’s not there today.

  I dress and shower, glossing over it. Then go down when the driver buzzes on the intercom, though he didn’t hang around for a chat.

  “Is this it?” I say as I get in the waiting car. On the seat next to me is Bertha Handvinkle’s dossier. The thing’s a couple pages. I open it up and find that the text is double-spaced. There goes the reading material for the seven-and-a-half-hour flight.

  I spoke to myself, but the driver answers anyway. “I could answer…”

  I look up, find that it’s ‘I Could…’ who’s driving me to LAX airport. I shake my head. “Not you again.” I roll my eyes. “Go ahead. Entertain me with your colorfully sarcastic response.”

  “I could answer…but there’s a stone in my shoe that I care more about.”

  “Nice.”

  “Where to?”

  I give him some of his own medicine. “I could answer…but I stood in dog turd on the short walk here, and I care more about poking at it with a stick than telling you.”