RETURN FROM THE SHADOWS
IVAN DUNN-The Final Chapter
A Novel by
Frank A. Perdue
Though some locations in the book actually exist, this is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.
Copyright 2015
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of Frank A. Perdue
Other books by Frank A. Perdue
JOURNEY OF SHADOWS 2012
LOST IN THE SHADOWS 2013
SHADOW OF A KILLER 2014
THE ADVENTURES OF F.R.E.D.
THE BLUE SQUIRREL 2014
REDEMPTION U. AND OTHER SHORT STORIES 2014
This book is respectfully dedicated to my live-in girlfriend Nonie, who is also my wife, for her tireless dedication to reading and editing my work, and to a girl named Sierra, who has so much talent wrapped up in her beautiful head.I hope she realizes it someday.
Acknowledgement
Many thanks to Wikipedia for accurate historical information not readily available from a single source. I could not hope to present World War II in such an interesting way as is found in their pages.
Chapter One
The first time I saw the guy was at the church. To be more precise, it was outside the cathedral. He looked like he didn’t belong. That’s why I spotted him. I’d been trained to look for things, or people that didn’t fit, and this guy seemed really out of place.
He was standing off to the side, away from the few people who had attended the wedding. We were congregated near the door, ready to throw rice at the hopefully unsuspecting pair. I remember wondering who cleaned the mess up after we departed the scene. Maybe a massive flock of birds would sweep down and devour all the little bits, or an army of mice might fight them for it. I have an active imagination.
Anyway, I had this big paper bag full of the white crumbly stuff, and I was ready to do my duty, before the happy couple came out the door to be pelted, when I spotted him.
He wasn’t hiding, but he was slouched some. He wore no hat so I could see his hair. There was a lot of it. In 1955 men wore their hair short, at least in the United States, so he stood out. He looked white, at least from what I could see. His light brownish hair, curly on top, was graying at the temples, and it hung down to his collarless brown shirt. He had bushy Groucho Marx style eyebrows that could have stood a trim because they were curling on the ends. For those of you who didn’t experience the fifties, the aforementioned Groucho Marx was a comedian deluxe who made a name for himself in movies of the thirties and forties, and descended into television, (or ascended depending on your perspective) in the fabulous fifties and sixties. My mystery man had a mustache and a stubble extending down his neck to his shirt, that made him look as if he hadn’t shaved for a few days. That was probably a good thing because it distinguished him from looking like a girl. He appeared to be in his middle or late forties, though he could have been younger. Hard to tell with all the hair. He was about my height, which was six feet. I got the impression from his appearance that he’d had a hard life. His brown pants were baggy and could really use a press, but they’d have to be dry cleaned first. Even from my distance, which was a good forty feet, I could see stains up near the pockets. He’d probably had dirty hands when reaching for them. That last part was pure speculation on my part, being the great observer that I was. I got the impression he was a laborer of some sort, maybe a ditch-digger-or grave-digger. That was it. He’d wandered over from some graveyard, looking for customers. I said I had an overactive imagination.
Just then the reason we were all there emerged smiling, unaware that they would be attacked, and my attention was diverted to them. After all that’s what we were waiting for. The bride caught my eye first. She seemed taller than I remembered from when we first met a few days earlier. Maybe it was the heels, which I couldn’t see. That’s not to say shewastall. She was average height for a woman of Asian heritage. But next to her new husband she was almost a midget. Then I was struck by her beauty and I forgot the rest. I suppose all women look better in white flowing wedding dresses. She was stunning, even for being short. I almost applauded Thomas’s choice. Some men like short women. I wasn’t one of them. You can tell I’m hung up on women’s height. If you have to bend over too far to kiss them, that leads to backaches and all kinds of problems. Again that’s just me. Thank God my wife was tall. Her son looked elegant in his black tux by the way.
Rachel took my right hand and squeezed it, as her son Thomas and his bride began walking toward us. My bag of rice was in my left hand. I disengaged from my wife and took a huge handful. When I threw the gob at my target, everyone else followed suit, and the two now married lovers broke into a run, with their hands up, as if that would protect them. They ran down the church steps and into a rickshaw of all things, which was parked at the curb, with a Japanese driver who, I’m sure, was anxious to whisk them away, and find something less boring to do. We chased after them so we wouldn’t have to eat rice for dinner.
I looked back to where the stranger had been, but he was gone. Being the curious type, I wondered if I would ever see him again.
My name is Ivan Dunn. The last name was shortened from Dunnopolous, because I’d always run off the paper when writing my name. Just kidding. It was much easier on other people. I used to be a private investigator, and because of that I am now rich. I know that doesn’t make sense, especially since I wasn’t that good at what I did. You had to be there.
In my past life I worked for a woman named Elizabeth Brecker, though I didn’t know it at the time. I was under the impression I was employed by a Chicago lawyer named Jeremy Taylor. He was the one who walked into my office in the city that day in 1950. I was hired to find a kid who had disappeared the day the stock market crashed in 1929; October twenty-ninth, 1929 to be precise. It didn’t end well, but I got paid anyway.
When Mrs. Brecker died, I was shocked to learn I was her only living son. She’d been playing footsy with Eric Dunnopolous, my father, when she was married but separated from someone else. I was the dividend no one wanted at the time. My dad, a poor but happy fisherman from Florida, raised me. I guess I grew on him, because he treated me well. I inherited the Brecker fortune, in the millions of dollars. I know it sounds strange, but that’s what happened. In all the time I was growing up, then involved in a war, to when I was trudging or traipsing across the country looking for a ghost,I don’t know the difference between traipsing and trudging, I was looking for a guy who didn’t want to be found. I had no clue I was anything but a dumb Greek. I’d been told my mother, originally of English descent, died when I was in infancy. So I was still dumb, but only half Greek.
The woman standing beside me is my wife, Rachel Dunn. She’s beautiful, but she doesn’t know it. It was my good fortune. She thought I was a catch, and I saved her life. That might have had something to do with it. Her last name before we met was Embree. She’s tall, nearly six feet in heels, so I can’t tower over her, even though I’m over six feet myself. We spend a lot of time kissing because our lips are at the same level, and because she’s beautiful, with her nearly black hair, which she now wears at mid-neck level. It’s easier for her to take care of. Nothing could hide her beauty. She could cut it all off, and wear a sack and go barefoot. I’d still feel the same. Did I mention she’s beautiful? I can still put my hands around her waist, and if I squeeze, I can touch fingers, honest to God.
I fell hard for
her right away but I had to wear on her. I literally fell hard because someone was shooting at us. I had pulled her down, out of the line of fire, and then I realized she was wounded. I managed to get her back into her house, and call the police. They caught the guy who did it later. After she was released from the hospital, with a very sore shoulder, I had to take care of her. It was my solemn duty. Because she was gorgeous, you understand?
Well I guess I wore her down because, when I packed up and moved to San Diego, California, she moved out west to be near me I had fallen in love with the area before they shipped me to the war zone in the Pacific right out of boot camp at the Marine Corps Recruit Depot. I came back to the Naval Hospital there to recuperate from the wound that got me my Purple Heart. I also spent a little time at Camp Pendleton just north of San Diego while waiting for my discharge.
After blundering into my good fortune with the inheritance I bought a huge mansion in the hills of La Jolla, California, overlooking the Pacific Ocean, and I had her move in with me. It was almost platonic, the relationship that is.
The house I bought with part of my newly acquired fortune was a masterpiece of architecture. It had huge pillars, two of them, framing the double-door entrance, and stretching to the eaves of the roof, three stories up. It was all painted bone-white. If you took the White House out of our Nation’s Capitol and moved it to La Jolla, you’d have an idea of what my place looks like. It has a circular drive large enough to hold six good sized limousines, and next to the house on the right side facing it from the street is a detached six-car garage, which is two-thirds empty. I still had an old Studebaker when I moved out west that probably made the neighbors cringe every time I un-garaged it. I didn’t have many neighbors though, just a busybody older lady across the street, who I actually have a soft spot for because she was instrumental in having murder charges against me dropped, and a widower next door. I never saw the people who owned the house next to the garage. You have to understand that next door doesn’t mean you can almost reach out and touch the other guy’s place. Both adjacent structures were probably half an acre away, and protected by hedges, which were six feet high. The previous owner must not have liked nosey neighbors. I was more outgoing, but I was too lazy to cut the hedges down.
Rachel bought a late model Ford coupe to help fill the garage. I’ve since sold the Studebaker, crashed the next car I bought, along with a rental car, and now I own a brand-new Cadillac. The first crash was my fault, but the second I can’t take the credit or blame for. I was forced off the road by a now deceased bad guy who had it in for me.
I’ve been tossing around the idea of buying an MG, not to replace the Caddy you understand, but to drive when we go to the beach on a bright sunny day, of which there are many in the city by the Mexican border-bright sunny days and long sandy beaches. I also like the idea of the wind racing through my thinning hair. Another consideration for getting the MG was that I had that open space in the garage. Those days I didn’t need much of an excuse to buy things.
Rachel has kept her Ford. I think she did it to make me feel guilty. I assuage my guilt by giving her a ride in the bigger, more luxurious car once in a while, but I make her sit in the front so I won’t feel like a chauffeur. Class is very important to me. I had very little of it for such a long time. But I guess it’s not really the same when you have to buy it. Oh well.
I was a grunt in the Marines during the big war, until I became a wounded hero, and I was reassigned to Naval Intelligence, a stroke of luck as it turned out. Were it not for my time behind a desk, rubbing elbows with real detectives, I would not have become a private eye, solved a big case, become wealthy, or found Rachel. You have to understand, that’s the short version.
So here we were, witnessing a formal wedding between Rachel’s son Thomas and a Korean woman named Kim Jong, in Japan, which was a mortal enemy of Korea just ten short years ago. It was a strange turn of events, right?
Kim had been in the army of her country, when she met Thomas while on a rest and recreation assignment in Japan during the Korean War. He was on temporary duty there as a Military Policeman. It was a respite from the war for him, but with work. I won’t go into the details here, but suffice to say they fell in love.
Rachel and I had never had a honeymoon after our marriage in 1953, so we decided to combine our celebration with attending the wedding of the two unlikely lovers.
Kim had no living relatives, and Thomas had only us, so the church wasn’t exactly full. That’s why later I noticed the man standing back. He had seemed interested in not only the two lovebirds, but Rachel and I as well.
There was no reception after the ceremony because of the expected sparse crowd. Thomas and Kim had asked us to join them for dinner, but we politely declined. We both remembered how it was after our marriage, when all we wanted was to be alone. We didn’t want to be in the way. They didn’t pursue it, and I’m sure I saw relief on both their faces when we told them.
Our flight back home wasn’t scheduled to depart until the next morning, and for some reason we both felt amorous after witnessing the wedding, so we headed directly back to our hotel.
Later we drifted down to the hotel restaurant for a late supper. I’m not much for Japanese food, but the menu there included western-style dishes too.
We held hands under the table, while waiting for my steak, and her whatever Japanese dish. Anyone watching would have decided we were the ones who’d been married that day. After dinner we took a walk down the main street in Tokyo, and we couldn’t help noticing the western influence on many of the neon marquees. How quickly things change in history.
We’d just about reached our hotel, both of us exhausted after a long eventful day, when I spotted the stranger again. He was on the other side of the street, but he was obviously staring at us. He was standing directly under a street light, and it seemed to me he wanted to be noticed. He was wearing the same clothes as before. For all I knew he’d been following us all along. Maybe it was Rachel or me he was interested in, but I had no idea why.
I decided to confront the fellow, to satisfy my curiosity. I didn’t want to alarm Rachel, perhaps for no reason, so I made an excuse that I wanted to go to a tobacco shop nearby, as long as we were out and about anyway. Everyone smoked in those days. As I crossed the street and began walking in his direction, the stranger turned and began moving hastily away. I didn’t want to be obvious for Rachel’s sake, so I turned back toward her.
She questioned my actions, and I made a lame excuse that I just realized the store was probably closed at that hour. When I looked back the man had disappeared from sight around a corner.
We continued our walk for a little while. Every few minutes, I looked over my shoulder, expecting to see the guy, but there was nothing there. Somehow I felt we hadn’t seen the last of him.
Chapter Two
It was early 1942, and Jeb Lee was contemplating his future. He was in a loveless, arranged marriage, devoid of affection that is for him, though he was sure his wife Margaret still cared for him.
The country was in an uproar, especially the people on the West Coast. They were sure a Japanese invasion was, if not imminent, then surely contemplated. People also wondered how such a small country could have the audacity to attack the more powerful and resourceful United States.
Young, virile, and some not so virile, men were flooding to the various recruiting offices across America, anxious to do their part to end what they perceived to be a very short war. Jeb could have avoided military service, since he was nearly forty years old, and he was married with a child.
He wasn’t exactly in an essential job. He did rope tricks in the Reno rodeo, and he occasionally donned the garb and paint of a clown, rescuing the real stars of the show from certain death at the horns of a bull. Not the greatest credentials for a resume toward any profession.
His best friend Charlie Redbird had a draft number that assured he would soon be called to serve in the Army. Charlie, whom he had first met wh
en the Indian was homeless and fleeing Virginia by rail, joined the Navy instead of waiting to be drafted. It seemed like a better life than slogging through the mud as an infantryman carrying a heavy backpack and a rifle.
For Jeb, his choice was clear. He could stay in Reno, Nevada and be unhappy, or he could join his friend and satisfy the patriotism he and the rest of the country felt.
Before heading downtown to the recruiting office he discussed his decision with his wife Margaret. She cried but she knew there was no dissuading him. Whenever he made up his mindthat was the end of it. Theirs was not a give and take marriage, if there was such a thing in the early forties. He made all the decisions and it was up to her to go along.
It was a time when women had no political voice, and if they earned a college degree it was often because they went to schools of higher learning to find a suitable husband. Few graduated, after finding the man of their dreams, which consisted of a handsome guy with a hefty paycheck or the prospect thereof, who would provide a home or cottage they both could share, and two children, a boy and a girl, in that order. But that was about to change, as was the rest of the world.
A precursor of one change was when women were needed to occupy jobs in the defense industry previously reserved for men, who werethen released to go to war. They were no longer the sole breadwinners. Rosie the Riveter became a fact not a cartoon, and women found another rewarding purpose in life.
Military pay for men was very low, and as a result their wives had to work to make ends meet, and support the two children mentioned earlier. Not only that, we were all patriotic in those days. The carnage at Pearl Harbor the previous December was on everyone’s mind, and filmmakers such as John Ford and Frank Capra did an outstanding job of making sure we didn’t forget what had occurred, as if that would happen.
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