Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
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The Flower Man
A Steve Jobz PI Thriller No. 2
Vincent Zandri
“Curse is here and I don't feel a bump.
I guess your magic don't work when you're drunk.
Hold on! Your love is strong.
But you need to hold it back.
Before you lose somebody you love…”
—The Flower Man, Rubblebucket
“I have made terrible mistakes that have hurt the people that I cared about the most, and I am terribly sorry. I am deeply ashamed of my terrible judgment and my actions.”
—Former Congressman and NYC Mayoral Candidate, Anthony Weiner
Sound travels over water.
Which is precisely why I whisper in her ear, “We must be careful, my love.”
She giggles, runs her hands through my hair, kisses me gently, and lovingly on the mouth. In turn, I run my hands through her long strawberry blonde hair, look into her deep blue eyes, and kiss the smooth sun-tanned skin on her back.
She’s the girl of my dreams. The one I have been waiting for all my life. The one who’s given herself to me entirely—physically, emotionally, spiritually. We’re two halves of the same whole. Sure, she’s half my age . . . okay, maybe even younger. But what we have together is indescribable. It’s a bond that can only be formed by two people who have known one another for centuries or even millennia, not merely people who have only known one another for the few days since she first stepped foot into the New York State Department of Unemployment Insurance Fraud Agency building as a Junior Investigator.
The lake waves rock our sailboat gently. We’re moored maybe fifty feet from a rocky shoreline covered in tall pines and oak trees. There’s a large wooden dock where some other boats are tied up, and beyond that lies a small tin-roofed bar where vacationers are enjoying late evening summer-time cocktails. With Kate snuggled in my arms on the deck of this antique wooden sailboat, I can’t think of any other place I’d rather be on the planet.
I feel her lips grazing my earlobe.
“I want you, Jobz,” she whispers passionately. “I want you to take me right now. Right this second. I want you to be . . . the first. My. First.”
Taking hold of my hand, she gently places it on her breast. She’s wearing a black bikini top, but I can feel the warmth of her skin through the fabric, feel the tightness of her flesh. She’s breathing heavily now, her eyes opening and closing, her heart beating against mine, or should I say, two hearts that beat as one. I reach around her back and unclasp her top. She sits up enough to allow the top to fall off, exposing her beautiful white breasts.
“Now my bottoms,” she whispers.
My hand travels the length of her young, flat belly, to her black satin-like bottoms. The tips of my fingers slip inside the bottoms, and I begin to pull down on them. She’s doing the same to me, pulling my trunks off. The breeze moves across the lake, envelopes us, and the water laps against the boat hull. The boat gently rocks with the movement the water. When we’re naked, I shift myself on top of her, and she opens her legs for me. My mouth presses against hers, our open eyes lock on one another, my body and soul enter into her eternal warmth.
She makes a kind of gentle wince, pulls me harder into her, and says, “If you don’t get your skinny white ass in here now, I’m gonna come over there and take a giant dump on your desk!”
Trance officially broken. A quick shake of the head brings me back to reality.
Turns out, I’m not on a sailboat moored on a lake, I’m not locked in an eternal embrace with the woman of my dreams, hell, it’s not even summertime. All it takes is one quick glance out the office window to make out the frigid, mid-winter gray skies that cover Albany.
“I’m coming already,” I say to my African American boss lady, Henrietta, whose office is only a few feet away from my cubical. Of course, she has a real office with a real wooden door and her own private window that looks out onto the parking lot. The bathrooms are also located directly beside Henrietta’s office, or Henry, as we lovingly call her. That fact means I get to break up my otherwise painfully boring day by making a note of who heads into which gender bathroom for their regularly scheduled morning constitutionals or just a quick piss.
The young blonde woman who just entered the ladies’ room, Kate, has become a bit of an obsession since she arrived on the scene a few weeks ago. Sadly, she’s almost young enough to be my daughter, but that doesn’t mean a man can’t hope.
“And get your eyes off that young kid,” Henry barks from her office. “You get in trouble for that workplace harassment Anthony Weiner shit.”
That’s when I shoot up from my chair, exit the cubicle, cross the narrow corridor, and enter Henry’s offi
ce.
“Will you be fucking quiet already?!” I insist. “You and that mouth of yours is gonna get me in hot water.”
“You can’t talk to me like that,” she grouses. “I should bust your ass for insubordination.”
“How’s this for insubordination?” I say, raising my middle finger high.
“That’s a racist gesture if I ever saw one,” she says. “Black lives matter, bitch.” She does a wide-eyed, wavy shoulder-neck-and-head kind of dance move when she says bitch like “beeyotch.”
“So do lonely middle-aged white dudes,” I say. “And that young kid is at least twenty-four. I was married at twenty-four.”
“That’s why you unmarried now.”
Henry sits back in her swivel chair, a Cheshire smile planted on her round, ebony face. Today, she’s wearing a bright yellow shirt over a matching long skirt. The outfit makes her look like a West African sun goddess. She’s lost a considerable amount of weight over the course of the past six months since she was attacked with a framing hammer in her bed by a psycho who spent his free time embalming pretty girls while they were still alive.
Her normally thick, long hair is short at present while it’s growing back in over her now scarred scalp. The good Lord was watching over her, because not only is she alive, but she didn’t suffer any brain damage from the incident. Which means she’s not only back to work, but back in full force. As in, I got me a second chance at life so now I’m gonna be a ball buster times two . . .
“You got a visitor coming up,” she informs. “That nice looking cop, Detective Miller.” She breaks out into a loving, wispy smile when she mouths the name, Detective Miller. Like she’s saying, Barack Obama or George Clooney or Denzel Washington.
My mind immediately shifts to the tall, wiry, white-haired cop. I worked with Miller before on the apprehension of said psycho embalmer—a situation which nearly cost me my life when the son of a bitch strapped me down to a table and inserted an embalming tube into my neck. I still bear the scar from that day. But The Embalmer got it worse when a couple of well-aimed bullets by a private detective pal of mine named Blood made jelly filling out of his brains.
A shot of ice water races up and down my spine.
“What? Am I in trouble?”
Henry rolls her big brown eyes around in their sockets.
“Why you always assume you in trouble, Jobz?”
I do some quick thinking. I haven’t gotten a DWI recently. Nor have I so much as blown through a red light. And I should be up to date on my alimony payments. Just then, I make out the sound of the ladies’ room door opening. I glance over my shoulder to see the person about to walk past Henry’s door.
She stops in front of the open office door. There she is. Kate. She’s applying lotion to her smooth hands. Heart be still.
“Henry,” she says in her lovely velvety smooth voice. “Is there anything I can get you from the kitchen? I was just going to make myself some tea.”
Henry smiles. “Why thank you very much, Kate. Tea would be lovely.”
“Coming right up,” Kate says with a smile. Then, brushing back her lovely long blonde hair with her delicate hand. “Oh, and how are you, Mr. Jobz?”
I swallow a dry lump that feels like a brick. I look her up and down. She’s wearing a short black skirt over black tights and brown Italian leather boots. Her brown button-down shirt is unbuttoned just enough to reveal considerable cleavage and a sterling silver angel pendant that hangs from a thin chain. My heart’s pounding in my sternum. For a moment, I think I might lose my breath . . . and my balance.
“I’m . . . fine, Kate.” Clearing the frog in my throat. “Thanks.”
Then, a spark in my heart. My memory comes speeding back to me. Something I did last night after way too many beers and whiskey chasers at Lanie’s Bar. At least, something I think I did. Is it possible I drunk-texted her in the middle of the night? It’s entirely possible considering I have her number. She gave it to me after we shared a friendly meet-and-greet drink with a crew from the State Unemployment Agency. She didn’t hand out the number because I was someone special to her. She gave it out to all the principal members of our work team just in case we needed something from her. We’re the senior people, and she’s the up and coming assistant. She’s trying to be helpful. Meanwhile, I thought I’d melt on the spot when she gave me the number. But I just can’t be sure if I texted her or not. Sometimes, when I’m drinking, I lose track of time, lose my self-control. Okay, I’ll just come right out and say it. I do stupid fucking things that stupid, lonely, middle-aged men do when they drink too much.
I’d check my cell phone right now to see if I sent her any texts if it wouldn’t be so obvious that I was checking them. Kate’s eyes shift from me to Henry, then back to me again. In fact, both sets of eyes fall on me.
“Jobz,” Henry says, “while I have Kate here, there’s something we both wish to convey to you.”
My heart is beating so fast I can’t believe they can’t hear it. I’m now convinced I sent her a text message. I know I must have. Holy Christ, did I pull an Anthony Weiner? Did I send her a picture of my own, ummm, weiner? What do the kid’s call it? A dick pic?
Please, God, say it ain’t so.
Get a hold of yourself, Jobz! You’re falling apart . . .
Henry gestures with her hand like she wants Kate to come closer.
“Step inside for a moment, would you, Kate?” she asks.
Here it comes, I say to myself. Let me guess, Kate is going to let me slide on my sexting her this one time only. If it happens again, it won’t only mean my job, it will mean my being brought up on sexual harassment charges. But then, I remember Detective Miller is on his way up here right now. Am I, in fact, about to be brought up on sexual harassment charges? Am I about to be arrested? I can see it now.
What are you in the slammer for, Jobz?
I sent a picture of my weiner to a beautiful young woman who works in my office . . .
“Listen, Jobz,” Henry goes on, “I have a sneaking suspicion Miller is going to want to enlist your services on an APD issue, which means your unemployment cases are about to suffer. That said, I’m assigning Kate here to work with you personally. She’ll work directly with you on your cases while you work on whatever it is Miller wants you for. Sound good?”
My spirit goes from zero to sixty in less than a second. Just moments ago, I thought I was about to face a scandal and a fine I could never pay out, probably jail, not to mention the destruction of whatever reputation I had left in Albany. Now, I’m about to be working with the hottest girl in the agency. My luck, she is getting better all the time.
I try to play it straight and cool. Maturely.
Pursing my lips, I nod.
Focusing back on Kate, I say, “Sure you’re ready for this, Kate? Could be a lot of work.”
She smiles. “I’m ready and willing, Mr. Jobz.”
“Please,” I say, “like I told you before, call me Steve. Or better yet, Jobz.”
“Okey Dokey, Jobz,” she says, her face lighting up brighter than a bulb. Then, her eyes on Henry. “Will that be all?”
“Yes, Kate,” Henry says. “As soon as Jobz here is ready, he will begin filling you in on the details.”
“Okay then,” she says, eyes back on me. “I’ll be seeing you . . . Jobz.”
Now, here’s the thing. She winks at me when she says Jobz. Maybe I’m reading too much into it, but she definitely gives me a wink. She turns then, that body-melting smile on her face. I watch her walk out of the office, her heart-shaped derriere bidding me a sweet adieu.
Heart be still, again.
“Jobz,” Henry says, snapping her fingers. “Jobz. Earth to Jobz.”
Finally, I turn back to my boss lady.
She sits up straight in her chair, points at my face with an extended index finger.
“Now, you listen to me,” she says. “You stay away from the sweet young thing. I see that look in your eyes. You got eyes like John Wa
yne Gacy.”
I pull off my black, round, tortoise shell eyeglasses, clean the lenses with my tie, slip them back on.
“That ain’t right,” I say.
She sits back in her chair, crosses her arms over her ample bosom.
“Go ahead, ignore my advice,” she says. “But you know the rules about sexual harassment. It ain’t the act that counts, it’s the accusation. Keep those hands to yourself, you here? ‘Sides, she’s young enough to be—”
“—My little sister,” I jump in. Raising my hands like I’m surrendering. “I get it, no hands.”
A knock on the door. We both turn, eye the tall, swarthy cop standing in the open door frame.
“Am I interrupting something?” Detective Miller asks, the slightest hint of a grin on his long, tight, clean-shaven face.
“Not at all,” Henry says, sitting up, her face now full of love and lust. “Won’t you please have a seat, Detective?”
He enters the room, holds his hand out for me.
I take the hand, squeeze. Miller’s grip is so strong, I feel like he’s about to pull my hand off at the wrist.
“Good to see you again, Jobz,” he says. “I’ve got a problem that needs attention.”
“What kind of problem, Miller?”
“A problem only one of my private Professionals can handle.”
Miller is wearing a blue winter weight blazer over professionally pressed gray wool slacks. He’s also wearing a purple shirt and a black tie, the ball knot of which is tied so perfectly it reminds me of the clip-on ties I was forced to wear when I attended Catholic grammar school. He takes the empty chair beside me, crosses his legs, exhales a breath.
The Flower Man Page 1
