by R Weir
The Case of the Missing Bubble Gum Card
A Jarvis Mann Detective Short Story
By
R Weir
The Case of the Missing Bubble Gum Card
By R Weir
Copyright 2014 R Weir
With love to my
wife and daughter
This short story is
where the journey begins
The Case…
I drove westward on Evans Street enjoying the beauty of the day, the driver's door window of my 1969 Mustang Boss 302 cracked slightly open. The afternoon sun filled the western sky and warmed me through the marred windshield. Despite what most people outside of Denver think, winter is not always freezing cold with snow up to your waist. On the contrary, this February day gave us sun with temperatures nearing 60 degrees. A light wind in the crisp air stirred the city’s fresh odor. I missed my turn while admiring the backside of a lovely woman walking down the street. It had been worth the extra drive, for it really was one glorious behind.
Making a left turn onto Broadway once the light had changed, I turned left again a block later down Warren past Lincoln and left into the alleyway. Dodging trash dumpsters, I drove slowly down the already narrow backstreet. Pulling into my parking space on a small deserted paved lot which faced Evans, I shut off the engine.
The building I lived in was an older raised dual level. I've rented the lower half for several years now. The bland gray color, with brown wood slats surrounding the outer middle third of the building’s main body, didn’t add much ambiance to the area. The neighborhood stood reasonably quiet, while at times adventurous. Walking the streets at night was not advised, and never should be done alone, though one might say that about most neighborhoods these days. The area had a good mix of cultures, with all races represented. No cushy suburb for me, but a real city with real city people and problems, the kind of environment I'd always wanted to live in.
My home served as a place of business too. A cheap plastic white placard with deep blue lettering anchored to the brick wall read “MANN PRIVATE INVESTIGATOR.” The mere words made one tremble with fear, though the sign itself was a letdown. One day I hoped to have a large luminous one, with lots of flashing lights. The more colors the better. Unfortunately, the bank account dictates those dreams of seeing my name in neon.
In thirty-five plus years of life, I've been doing P.I. work for the last ten, seven of which in my own practice. The glamour of the job had worn off after the first domestic case. The woman who had hired me took the bad news about her husband's infidelity out on me with the coffee cup she held in her hand. The scalding hot liquid had certainly burned the skin, while the stain from the horrid mud ruined my favorite Men’s Wearhouse gray sport coat, tarnishing my attempted G.Q. image. Her itemized bill not only included the cost of the jacket, but the cup as well.
Getting out of the Mustang, I noticed him; the young lad sat just inside the recessed doorway. To describe him as a boy would have been unfair, though he was not quite a man either. He appeared to be fifteen, possibly sixteen years old. My detective eyes deduced that he stood about 5’7” and around 150 plus pounds with a solid build of an athlete. Dressed in blue jeans, LeBron James T-shirt and sneakers, the young African-American gave a cautious smile. He appeared to be a bit nervous.
"Good afternoon," I said cordially. "Waiting for someone?"
"Do you work here?" he asked.
"Do you need a trim?" I said, referring to my upstairs neighbor, the hair designer business which was closed on Sunday and Monday.
"No," he said pointing at the sign.
"Beautiful, wouldn’t you say?" I remarked. "Draws in the clients from miles around!" I wasn’t trying to be snarky; just my usual banter with people.
"Are you a Private Detective?"
I found it difficult to believe he couldn't tell. My appearance didn't come off as tough enough for the line of work. Most people think we wear leather from head to toe. I wore an old brown leather jacket on my fit torso, which was all the cowhide I could afford besides my tennis shoes. Black jeans and a gray sweatshirt didn't ideally give me that macho tough guy look. With my sarcastic sense of humor he probably thought I did standup comedy, which is a common mistake many folks made.
"When there's Private Detective work to do," I replied.
"You look different than the actors on television."
"Just don't tell my mother. She wanted me to be a doctor. I wore a stethoscope around my neck when she used to come to visit." Not even a smile crossed his face. The humor seemed lost on him.
"I hoped you’d be available to hire as I have something I need your help finding."
I looked him over carefully. He seemed like a polite and sincere person. I was currently in between cases, which is normal if the truth be known. It wouldn't hurt to hear what he had to say. The possibility of making money always got my attention.
"Come on inside. You look cold without a jacket. It's warm out, but not that warm."
Two doors to choose from either up or down. Up a few stairs you get the hair designer’s entrance. Down some steps on the lower half of the building took us to where I lived and conducted my business. The big time detective agencies have large fancy buildings, with lobbies, elevators, and secretaries. I had a secretary for about two weeks once, an old girlfriend who helped me out. Unfortunately she found out I slept with another woman and quit on me. For some reason she never used me as a reference. Today my only secretary turned out to be a fifty dollar digital answering machine. It was always on time, polite to the customers, and couldn’t care less if you didn't feel like talking after sex. Though the black box certainly wouldn’t look or smell as lovely and it was probably mighty hard to curl up with at night. Too bad they aren't made with hourglass figures or they’d be enjoyable to stare at.
The little red light wasn’t flashing, which meant no one wanted my services. The LED would last forever, for it rarely blinked. Apparently the snappy greeting scared people off before they spoke. A masterfully designed website would be cool, while my Yellow Pages advertisement should be larger than one line but cost remained an object. I could have politely turned the lad down. With nothing of importance going on today, I'd hear him out and see if he'd surprise me with the case of the century.
"I'm Jarvis Mann," I proclaimed. "Have a seat."
He sat in one of the stiff wood seats reserved for clients. No fancy furniture in my living room, which also served as my office. Just an old desk and two chairs, both made of pine, a pair of white metal four drawer filing cabinets, and a worn brown sofa. Papers covered the top of the desk, neatly piled for easy reference, a LCD Monitor and keyboard to one side attached to a desktop computer sitting underneath on the floor. Behind my desk I sat in a chair I'd slept in on many occasion. The cushy high back chocolate brown leather rocked and swiveled with the best of them. The fancy agencies had this type of quality furniture for all to sit in. But my rates were better.
"I feel strange asking you for help," the lad said, his eyes focused on the polished natural wood floor.
"Why don't you tell me your name first?"
"Dennis Gash."
After hearing the name I had to ask. "Do you play football Dennis?"
"I'm a running back in high school. How did you know?"
"A wild guess." With a name like Gash one had to play football. John Madden would love this guy. Some mud, blood, and sweat would be the clincher.
"I'm a sophomore so I didn't play much this year. Coach says if I grow some I might be a starter in the future. I'm extremely fast, but need to get stronger. With a little work I hope to be like my favorite running back Adrian Peterson."
Now
Adrian Peterson was the best running back in the NFL, a back that came along once in a generation like Jim Brown. Dennis was smaller in size so it would be challenging for him to reach that stature. But smaller backs can be great too, like my personal favorite Barry Sanders. Sometimes heart is more important than size.
"So Dennis what can I help you with?" A question the expensive agencies would ask. Where did these brainstorms come from!
"Something valuable of mine was stolen and I'd like you to help me find it."
"Tell me?" More snappy questions. I had a million of them.
"You’re going to laugh, but it's valuable to me. Someone stole a baseball card of mine."
Holding back the laughter I would hear him out. No, not the case of the century.
"I can tell you’re not interested," said Dennis. "I should go." He started to rise but I waved for him to sit.
"I must say that it's not every
