Jake Darling, Private Eye

Jake Darling, Private Eye

By Jerry L. Fryrear

Copyright 2012 Jerry L. Fryrear

Smashwords Edition

All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious

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Acknowledgments

I wish to thank my wife, Caecilia, for helping to edit my manuscript. If there are any remaining typographic errors, they are mine alone. I also wish to thank Terry Moore for his encouragement and valuable suggestions, and Tina Samsom for more valuable suggestions. Other friends and relatives offered me encouragement. All of you made the story better than it would have been.

Chapter One

Monique

My furniture arrived at my new office on Canal Street at 1:00 P.M. on a Tuesday last April. Not the expensive end of Canal Street, but the cheap end out toward the cemetery. Paul, my ex-brother-in-law, brought it over in his 1982 Ford pickup. There was a used file cabinet, a pretty good sofa with not too many semen stains on the cushions, and a solid oak desk with cigarette burns along the edges. A swivel desk chair and a beat up oak occasional chair completed the ensemble. I had gotten the furniture at Manuel’s Used Furniture store on Magazine Street. I still had to find a cheap computer. My new office was upstairs over a flower shop, and the florists, Franco and Rachel Lagamdina, own the entire building. Franco and Rachel live in an apartment behind the shop. To get to my office, future clients would open a typical New Orleans style wrought-iron gate into a courtyard with a beautiful tropical garden. The stairs to my office wrap around the building with one landing halfway up and another at the top. The set-up suits me just fine. There are no other tenants. I like my privacy, and the courtyard filled with hibiscus, oleanders, and birds of paradise plants remind me that there is beauty in the world. In my line of work we often need that reminder.

Paul is a good man to have around when you have to carry a heavy load up two flights of stairs. He works on the oil rigs out in the Gulf of Mexico, 14 days on and 14 days off. Luckily, he still had a few days on land and got bored, so he volunteered to help me move. He has developed plenty of muscles out in the gulf, so I cajoled him into taking the heavy end of both the sofa and solid oak desk as we struggled up the stairs.

My ex-brother-in-law also has plenty of money, having earlier worked for seven years in the Saudi Arabia oil fields. There was nothing to spend money on over there so Paul saved seven years worth of generous pay checks. Paul has a beer gut from knocking back Dixies during the two weeks off every month, but that merely anchors his muscular torso to his beefy thighs.

After we finished moving the furniture, a sweat-drenched Paul went down to grab a cooler from his pickup. While he was doing that, I admired the new bold printing on the front door of my office--Jake Darling it said, and underneath that, Confidential Investigations. What with the deposits on the office space, the first month’s rent, the furniture, the door printing costs, and an ad in the paper, I was nearly broke, but it felt good to be my own boss for once. I had plans for marketing myself to insurance companies, attorneys and corporations so I thought I could make it financially if I lived cheaply for awhile. I had no wife or kids to worry about, so things looked pretty good.

Paul came in with the cooler, opened it, and threw me a cold Dixie. Here’s to the private eye business, Darling he said, and chugged his own beer. Paul always called me Darling, his idea of a joke. He especially liked to call me Darling when strangers were listening, like at the drug store. Darling, did you get the K-Y Jelly? That was one of his favorites. I held up my can in a toast and sipped the cold beer. We had two more, chatted about the Saints’ prospects for next year, and then Paul took off. I started arranging the furniture and unpacking the few things I had brought with me. I tacked my license on the wall, as required by the state of Louisiana, and put a few papers in the file cabinet. The stationery I squirreled away in the top right hand drawer of the desk. The business cards I displayed proudly on the desk top. I also had some standard contracts that I had found in a Staples office supply store, with blanks to fill in the details. The blank contracts went into another desk drawer. Having put those items away, I plugged in the telephone. There was a dial tone and I recorded a message on the answering machine-- Jake Darling, Confidential Investigations. Leave a message. Then I hung up the free 1999 calendar from the Bank of America and turned it to April. I was in business. Oh, and I got out the new Mr. Coffee, a pound of Community coffee, and six mugs donated by my mother. Now I really was in business.

The woman arrived at my office on Canal Street at 3:30 P.M. I was nervously fingering my pack of Camels, trying to decide whether to have one of my allotment for that day, when she spoke from the open door. It gave me a start, because I didn’t expect a client my first day as a private eye, especially one as beautiful and sexy as the vision in red that stood in my doorway.

Mr. Darling, Jake Darling? She had a sultry voice that sounded like cigarette smoke in a French Quarter blues bar. She lingered in the doorway, one perfect hand resting lightly on the door frame. Her expensive red dress came halfway to her knees and her shapely long legs reached all the way to the floor. Her cherry-red fingernail polish was the exact shade as the dress. The woman's silken black hair framed her perfect features and caressed her smooth bare shoulders.

I loved the way she said Jake Darling, and entertained some unprofessional fantasies for a moment or two. A breeze off the Mississippi river rustled my new private investigator’s license and the sound brought me to my senses. A client! I hustled over to the client chair, held the back of it, and offered her a seat. She strode into the office, sat down and crossed one slim ankle over the other. She moved like a panther in the jungle. As she sat I caught a glimpse of shapely breasts beneath the red dress.

As I waited for her to get down to business, I suddenly became aware of the shabby furniture and the yellowing paint on the wall. I felt some acute embarrassment as I looked at myself through her emerald green eyes. What could this gorgeous creature want from Jake Darling, Private Eye? I wished I had polished my shoes that morning. I sat down in the swivel chair behind the desk. What can I do for you, Miss……? I asked.

It’s Vargas, Monique Vargas, she answered. I'll come right to the point Mr. Darling: I believe I'm in danger. Monique reached one exquisitely sculpted hand into her bag and pulled out a box of Benson and Hedges 100s. Mind if I smoke? I jumped out of the swivel chair, came around the desk, and lit her cigarette with my lighter. As she inhaled gratefully, I sat on the edge of my desk, trying to hide the cigarette burns.

She looked up at me through lush eyelashes, blinked her eyes, and asked softly, Do you think you can help me?

Tell me about it, I prompted, using my toughest sounding private eye voice. I wanted to say sit on my lap, put your head on my shoulder, let me hold you, and tell me all about it, but bit my tongue.

Oh, Mr. Darling, it’s very upsetting and embarrassing, she said in a quavering voice. She hesitated and took a drag on her cigarette. Her hand shook slightly and ashes fell to the floor. I grabbed the ashtray off the desk and held it out for her. With an impatient gesture, she ground out the cigarette and sighed. There was a smear of red lipstick on the tip of the cigarette butt. I was envious.

Go on, I tried to be encouraging.

I work for Johnny McNally, she said, as if that would explain everything. Actually, it did explain some things. I happen to know that Johnny McNally is one of the biggest contractors in Louisiana. It is common knowledge that he has ties to the mob and is close friends with both Mayor Morrison and Governor Cartier. He is rich and powerful, I wouldn't like to have him as an enemy.

It started Saturday night, Monique continued. Johnny, Mr. McNally, was entertaining some important clients at his place on Lake Pontchartrain. He asked me to help him out.

What kind of help? I asked.

Oh, you know, she answered, with a vague wave of her hand. I didn’t know for sure, but I let it pass.

"Anyway, Saturday night I was there at Johnny’s place and three clients came in from out of town, Baton Rouge I think. I got the impression that they were connected with the government, maybe the highway department. They talked about a highway construction project around Lafayette somewhere. About midnight one of the men, Freddie Pitcher, asked me to go with him down to the Quarter for a late dinner at the Pink Parasol Grill. Johnny had told me to go along with whatever Freddie wanted so of course I went with him.

At the Pink Parasol, Freddie ordered a dozen oysters and gulped down a couple more drinks while waiting on them. Combined with the drinks he had already had, he started to slur his words and got loud and annoying. He was leaning on me and getting a little, you know, familiar. Well, I told him to keep his hands to himself, and he called me a…"

Monique stopped and blushed. He called me a, a whore, she said in a little girl voice.

I jumped up and patted her on her bare shoulder. She was warm to the touch. That was a rude remark, I said.

Yes, she said, and shrugged. But I guess he could get that impression. Anyway, I told him he couldn’t call me that, and he said, loud enough for the entire restaurant to hear, ‘I’ll call you anything I want! You are bought and paid for, missy.’

Monique got out another cigarette and with trembling fingers put it between her luscious lips. I lit it for her.

Monique went on, Then he reached out and slapped me, hard, right across the face. Her green eyes glistened with tears as she remembered. Johnny, you know, Mr. McNally, had given me this little lady’s .25 revolver that I keep in my purse. Without thinking, I grabbed my purse, took out the gun, and shot Freddie right in the Pink Parasol Grill. Nobody slaps me around! Then I ran out of the place and caught a cab out to Metairie where my girlfriend Rhonda lives. I’ve been there ever since, trying to figure out what to do next. I’ve been reading the Times Picayune every day since then, and there’s nothing in the paper about it. I guess Johnny, Mr. McNally, managed to keep it out of the papers. This morning as I scanned the paper, I saw your ad and thought maybe a private investigator could help me.

She glanced up at me with those limpid eyes that made me weak in the knees. Do you think you can help me, Jake Darling? she implored.

Of course, I replied consolingly, and patted her on the bare shoulder again. By gritting my teeth, I kept my pat from becoming a caress.

Chapter Two

Rhonda

We talked for awhile longer and I pulled out a contract from the desk drawer for her to sign. My first client! I agreed to act as her bodyguard and to smooth things over for her with Johnny McNally. She agreed to pay me $350.00 a day plus expenses, minus the $50.00 introductory offer for new clients. Monique opened her purse, took out a wallet, and counted out three $100 bills. I noticed quite a few more hundreds in there. Interesting. Monique wrote down her contact information and McNally's address and telephone number. When we completed the paperwork, she asked me to call her a taxi.

No, I told her. I'm your bodyguard and I'll drive you wherever you want to go.

I feel safer already. Take me out to Rhonda's apartment in Metairie.

We walked downstairs, went around to the parking lot and got into my aging Toyota Corolla. I quickly cleared the passenger’s seat of Big Mac cartons and paper coffee cups so Monique would have a place to sit. She pretended not to notice and graced the seat with her curvaceous body.

I pulled out of the parking lot and coaxed the Toyota onto Canal and then turned west on Interstate 10. Luckily, this early in April we didn’t need the air conditioner because it quit working late last summer. Monique stared out the window with very little to say during the drive out to Metairie. She seemed deep in thought. If I had killed a man in a public restaurant, I would be worried and preoccupied, too. I had a lot of questions but I hesitated to interrupt her reverie. I guess they could wait. As I glanced at her out of the corner of my eye, I tried to remember when a woman as beautiful as Monique had ridden in my car. I decided that it had never happened before. My ex-wife Shirley was pretty, but not in the same league. Not by a long shot. I started to light up a cigarette but remembered that I had made a rule for myself to quit smoking in the car. That was one way I could cut down.

Monique directed me to Rhonda’s apartment on Severn Avenue, just around the corner from the Causeway over Lake Pontchartrain. She told me that Rhonda is a dancer at the Silver Fox in the Quarter, so she is home during the day. I found a parking place and walked Monique to the door of Apartment 233 on the second floor. She had a key, so we didn't bother to knock. We opened the door and I motioned for Monique to step back so that I could go in first. As I stepped into the room, a stunning redhead (Rhonda, I assumed), was sitting on the sofa. Rhonda gave a start and a little whimper and cringed back in the corner of the seat. Her lower lip dripped blood and raw-looking bruises marred her face. Her ripped blouse exposed the nipple of one breast, and a shoe with a broken heel lay on the floor. She grabbed the shoe and held it up feebly to protect herself. When she recognized Monique, Rhonda dropped the shoe and burst into tears. Monique rushed to the sofa, sat beside her and held her as she sobbed. I was envious but couldn't tell you of which woman.

I felt sort of useless and wondered what to do. I couldn't question Rhonda in her emotional state, so I left the two women crying and hugging and checked out the apartment. There wasn’t much to check, a kitchen, bathroom and one bedroom with a queen size bed. I guess Monique and Rhonda slept together…more fantasies. A glance into the bathroom and kitchen reassured me that no one lurked in the apartment. I came back into the living room and tried to appear tough and commanding. Between choking sobs, Rhonda babbled, I have to work tonight … how can I with my face looking like this … where is my makeup … how can I make any tips looking like this … do you think makeup would hide the bruises? Monique held her and made sympathetic noises. I was sorely tempted to hold her myself.

Eventually Rhonda got control of her sobbing and told us what had happened. About twenty minutes earlier she heard a knock on the door and assumed it was Monique returning from my office. She opened the door and two men pushed their way in. They wanted Monique. At first I didn't tell them anything, but then they got rough. I finally told them that Monique had gone to see you, Mr. Darling, in New Orleans. She looked at Monique imploringly, I am so sorry. I was terrified. One of the guys smashed my lip with his fist, and I think he must have punched me a couple more times. Rhonda gingerly touched her bruised face and muttered: That bastard! I think he was getting his rocks off hitting me. I heard the other guy calling him Slim. When he grabbed my blouse and ripped it down the front, I told them everything. Slim kept staring at me and licking his lips, but the other guy, the big one, told him to come on and get in the car. Then they left. I hope you get the bastards for me!

It's okay Rhonda, Monique said softly, I would've done the same thing in your place. I'm so sorry I got you mixed up in this mess.

I thought we must have passed the men as we came toward Metairie and they went toward my office. What to do? While I was thinking, Rhonda got a small compact out of her purse, opened it, and spilled out a line of cocaine on the glass top of the coffee table. She took a short straw from her purse, leaned over, and snorted the line. She seemed oblivious to the fact that her breasts were spilling out of her ripped blouse. She sighed deeply, sat up and looked a little brighter. Whatever helps you get through the day, I thought.

I suggested to Monique she had better not stay there and she quickly agreed. I followed her into the bedroom while she pulled out drawers and packed a few clothes in a small overnight bag. Then she disappeared into the bathroom and came back with a few toiletry items which she laid on top of the clothes.

I guess I’m ready, she said carrying her bag into the living room.

Fine, let’s hit the road. I opened the door expecting her to follow, but when I turned around the two women once more embraced each other. Both of them crying and hugging at the same time.

I stood around awkwardly until they reluctantly untangled from each other. As we left Rhonda was carefully putting makeup on her bruised face.

Chapter Three

The Next Step

The next step --find a safe place for Monique to stay. We drove around aimlessly while we figured out what to do. Except for