Joe Detective: Money in The Middle (Book Five)

Joe Detective

THE MONEY IN THE MIDDLE

(Book Five)

by

Joel H. Gordon

As of this printing, there are seven Joe Detective books in the series.

Read more about them at the end of this book.

Contact Joel H. Gordon at mailto:joedetective@gmail.com

Visit our website at http://www.joedetective.net

Copyright 2010 by Joel H. Gordon

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Joe Detective

THE MONEY IN THE MIDDLE

(Book Five)

by

Joel H. Gordon

Chapter One

You’ve got thirty seconds to throw down your weapons and come out with your hands on your head, the loud speaker crackled a mechanical sounding voice. It had a kazoo like quality just before it screeched into a high-pitched electronic scream.

The old house was surrounded by cop cars. Red lights spinning on top of a dozen or so police cruisers de-optioned any escape option.

Joe’s head was spinning too. Three dead bodies were on the floor. The gun in Joe’s hand had been fired; bullets from his gun were in two of the three bodies. Two of the three bodies were freshly dead cops. The morning had reached a new low.

Joe slumped against a wall covered in blood some of which was his own. The intense pain in his right shoulder wasn’t as severe as the one running down his left. That pain shot up into his neck and jaw and his vision turned to black tunnels and a pin of light.

Thirty seconds before we commence firing; drop your weapons and come out with your hands on your head now! Joe couldn’t hear the command. He was as out as a black cat on a foggy night.

Chapter Two

An insular life doesn’t mean you don’t have a lot of friends. And no matter how insular, people and their troubles get in the way of solitude. There’s a long white palm studded beach on deserted Tropical Island that’s surrounded by an azure turquoise sea. It resides in the minds of most men and escape to it is never far from realization if all options have been exhausted and common sense finally prevails. Joe understood both fight and flight but all in all preferred a slow smooth sail under a gentle blue sky.

Joe had been comfortably attending to his wanderings. The San Francisco Bay Area backwaters and back roads were both his amusement and muse.

He’d been spending a lot of time on his catamaran he named Parenthetical, and he hadn’t checked his messages, mail, or email in weeks. Interest in taking on new cases had dropped to minus zero. That minus was a demarcation into unreserved resistance. He didn’t need money and he didn’t need aggravation. He kept his mind busy daydreaming up new projects to never finish. Joe was a happy man.

A day sailing, then a few days with his wife Laurie and adopted daughter Amy was his time well spent; they were busy too with dance, gymnastics, shopping, and all the things furthest from Joe’s mind.

He’d spend companionable hours with his buddy Charley in Charley’s bar. He’d help Bruno his building superintendent, buy paint or plants for Joe’s Marson Street Professional Building and the sixth floor penthouse garden where Joe, Laurie, and Amy lived. He’d follow his commercial fishing buddies out under the Golden Gate a few miles and then wave them good luck, come about, and return to a late breakfast in Marin or Richmond or Vallejo. It depended on the wind. Life was good and Joe should have known better.

Enemies aren’t trouble, friends are. Joe’s acerbic attitude was honed on the point of a thorny relationships good and bad. But the sharpest jabs always started with; Joe, I need your help.

Chapter Three

Here Willy, tie this off, Joe said, and tossed the mooring line. The man caught it and wound it around the cleat. Joe stepped off Parenthetical’s stern onto the dock and tied off while the man waited expectantly. Joe knew better than to ask what the problem was straight out. Lately, he never rushed into anything.

Joe, can we talk a minute? We really need your help.

Willy was a wharf rat. The term wasn’t derogatory. He made a meager living cleaning or making small repairs on small boats. He’d been around this harbor as long as anyone could remember. And he’d forgotten more sea stories than Joe ever knew. Willy was a drunk as well as a wharf rat and, that made his age and his grasp on reality a permanent question mark. Paint fumes probably hadn’t helped much either.

Willy, it’s good to see you. The boat’s in decent shape but if you’d like some lunch, I’d be happy to oblige.

Joe spun on his heels and walked toward The Sardine Can where burgers were famous and the service friendly. Willy hopped along behind and tugged on Joe’s arm urgently. Joe, can we talk out here?

What’s the matter Willy, they toss you out again? I’ll talk to ‘em, you’re my guest, you could use a burger, right?

Yes Joe, thank you, but I need to talk to you out here. The concern in his eyes was more than a man needing a drink, something else was on Willy’s mind.

There was a nice municipal bench under a nice municipal tree and Joe walked toward it. Willy was in step one-step behind. When they were seated, words poured out of Willy. They came so fast they tripped over one another, changed tense, stuttered, restarted, and had the continuity of herd of worried cats.

It took Joe awhile but between slowing Willy down and asking some judicious questions Joe determined Willy’s problem wasn’t a public drunkenness charge or impending incarceration. Willy had availed himself of that system when he did a self-imposed dry-out, particularly in cold winter months. This was different. This was about Willy’s mother.

Joe marveled at the fact that Willy even had a mother. It came as a further surprise that Willy was only 58 and his mother was a young 77. Willy looked like an ancient walnut burnished by the sun and much older than his years.

In order to get the story straight, Joe insisted he’d give Willy all the time he needed to explain; but since he was hungry, they would go have some lunch first and Willy could organize his thoughts and make it easier for Joe to understand. Willy was hungry too.

Joe realized Willy was seriously worried when he ordered ice-tea. He would normally have ordered a beer. The waitress was surprised too. But The Sardine Can is nothing if not friendly. And wharf rats like Willy were part of the ambiance and therefore afforded a modicum of neighborly respect. Joe expected her to crack something wise at the tea order, but he guessed she liked Willy and kept her thoughts to herself.

They ate in silence for which Joe which grateful. The boats bobbing under the covered births and the bright banter of the cook and the waitresses was all Joe wanted to hear.

Joe finished his beer and paid the check. Willy was waiting. There was an anxious look in his eyes. They returned to the municipal bench.

Joe, I think my mom’s stealin’n’ if I don’t find a way to stop her she’s gonna go to jail. They throw old ladies in jail too, I know, I seen em’.

Well Willy, I don’t know where to start. What makes you think your mom is stealing?

Well, you know we live over there on York Street and we still got that big old house with apartments. Well, she n’ her friends been buying stuff and actin’ crazy. She says she knows she’s goin’ ta jail and she don’t care.

How is she stealing? Is she robbing banks?

No, I dunno how they’re doin’ it, but I know they’re stealin’. I don’t want her to go to jail, Joe. She’d die in there. You gotta help me, please.

Were you waiting for me to show up or something?

Yeah, I been here every day waitin’.

I haven’t been here in weeks. You’ve been waiting that long?

No, just about two weeks I been waitin’, I just found out awhile ago.

I don’t know if I can help you, Willy. But I’m surprised you didn’t call me instead of keeping watch in the unlikely event I’d show up. Joe was beginning to doubt the whole story.

But you got here. I looked in the phone book, but you’re not in there.

"Probably not, do you know my last name, Willy?

Detective…? Everybody calls you Joe Detective.

I…see. Ok, Willy, how do you think I can help you?

You could talk to her. You could maybe keep her outa jail. Please Joe, she’s a good old lady even if she is my mom. I know I’m no good, but my mom is a good lady and never hurt nobody.

That life turns surprisingly vague on you once in awhile just keeps you from being bored. Joe knew there was a can of worms here. He could feel it in his bones. But, Willy needed help beyond a beer or a chance at casual labor. Willy also wasn’t the kind to ask for help unless he was in deep shit. He too was an insular character. Joe decided to see what he could do even if it was only to calm Willy down.

They took Willy’s old VW to York Street. The house was pre Great War which put it cruising on 90 plus years old. Like most of the stately old houses in that section of Vallejo, it had done its duty in two world wars offering small chopped up apartments to shipyard workers and Navy families. This particular house had been divided in the first war, and then hacked into even smaller spaces in the second war. There was even one apartment that you entered through a closet in the hall.

The house was tall and white with large bay windows and a large front porch. And ancient elm tree filled the yard with shade. Above the second floor gabled widows showed, even the attic was utilized as living space.

Joe followed Willy onto the front porch past a dozen mailboxes and well-worn wicker chairs. In side, Willy took him down the hall into that closet door and into his small apartment. Joe’s eyes were filled with the trappings of an unrequited pack