Out Jumps Jack Death
A Clancy Evans Mystery
M. Glenn Graves
Contents
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Untitled
Prologue
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
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
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About the Author
Out Jumps Jack Death
(A Clancy Evans Mystery)
by
M. Glenn Graves
City Lights Press
An Imprint of Wolfpack Publishing
P.O. Box 620427
Las Vegas, NV 89162
This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events, places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2017 M. Glenn Graves
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced by any means without the prior written consent of the publisher, other than brief quotes for reviews.
ISBN: 978-1-62918-833-1
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to Cindy,
with abiding love and profound appreciation
let us suspect, chérie, this not very big
box completely mysterious, on whose shut
lid in large letters but neatly is
inscribed “immortality”. And not
go too near it, however people brag
of the wonderful things inside
which are altogether too good to miss—
but we’ll go by, together, giving it a wide
berth. Silently. Making our feet
think. Holding our breath—
if we look at it we will want to touch it.
And we mustn’t because (something tells me)
ever so very carefully if we
begin to handle it
out jumps Jack Death
~ e.e. cummings
Prologue
The sunshine was stunning, but the brisk wind coming in from the Potomac was making for a cold, blustery day in the nation’s capital. It was late March after all, exactly what you would expect from the weather as most of the east coast was enduring cold attacks from nature. The recent snow had finally melted, but the frosty air remained. It seemed to him that winter would never end, despite the tantalizing yet infrequent hints that spring might yet break out. It was what it was – Washington weather.
The cab stopped in front of the aging stately building on New York Avenue. It was a short ride from his building, but he was not about to walk while the cold still had its grip on the city. And the wind was too much to endure by walking.
He handed the cabbie a new, crisp ten dollar bill. The driver inspected it closely as if expecting counterfeit. After all, this was D.C. One could never be too careful, even if the fares wore suits and looked governmental. Especially if the fares looked governmental.
“It is not wrinkled,” the driver said with an enunciated syntax that revealed English was not his heart language.
“I like the feel of the new ones,” the middle aged man said as he opened the back door of the cab and stepped to the curb. “Keep the change,” he added, leaning down so the wind wouldn’t blow away his words.
He closed the cab door carefully, then turned and walked toward the refurbished Treasury Building whose official address was 1500 Pennsylvania Avenue Northwest. He approached his destination from his usual stop, the corner of New York Avenue and 15th. The side entrance was his way inside the grand structure.
The cab driver opened his glove box, removed a white envelope, and placed the new bill inside along with other nearly mint condition currency notes he was saving. His ten year old would happily add this one to his growing collection. He tapped his car horn twice gently and sped away in search of other fares.
The middle aged tipper entered the building and was greeted by the gray haired African American guard who had been working this checkpoint for more than a decade.
“Good morning, Mr. Dillingham. Been some time since you be over here,” he smiled as he waved him through. He watched the monitor carefully while Dillingham and his briefcase walked through the metal detector.
Dillingham smiled, nodded his greeting without saying a word.
“I see you ain’t packin’ today,” the guard said and chuckled.
“Some folks might not appreciate your sense of humor, Arnold,” Dillingham said.
“Yeah, I best be careful, but then there’s some people I don’t expect to be, you know, dangerous, Mr. D.”
“Those are the very ones who just might do you in,” Dillingham said.
“’Spec’ so, Mr. Dillingham. You just might be right ‘bout that. Have a good day.”
“Same to you, Mr. Abernathy,” he said after glancing at Arnold Abernathy’s name tag pinned to his official uniform shirt. He knew his name well enough, but it was his habit to always check even when he knew the name. Years of practice. Years of being cautious.
Dillingham waited along with a small crowd for the elevator to descend and to open its doors for the anxious, busy people who had to get on with their lives. He stood back away from the doors, behind the restless few, so he could study them. It was a hobby. He noticed one or two familiar faces mixed in with some that he had never seen. That was usual. This building attracted thousands of strangers each year.
Mercifully for the impatient ones, the doors finally opened. Mr. Dillingham followed the congested group into the small chamber. His reticence with aggressiveness in crowds caused him to be too far away to push the button for the floor he desired.
Luckily he caught the eye of a
young woman standing directly in front of the panel.
“Third floor, please,” he smiled and nodded. He spoke softly to her.
She returned a brief smile and pushed the appropriate button.
Dillingham was the only one to exit when the elevator door opened on the third floor. No surprises there. There was nothing on this floor which would interest the D.C. tourists, nothing but offices, conference rooms, and a space for the working staff to take their breaks.
He had made enough trips to this floor to know the routine. Most of the time he came here for the conferences, sessions with the wheelers and dealers of the money industry of the Federal Government. Today he was merely a courier for a business associate.
The hallway desk was a perfect spot for him to stop, open his briefcase and remove the file that he was delivering to Sam Jeffers. He had never met Sam Jeffers, but the folder had the office number printed in the upper left hand corner. He closed the briefcase, stood as erect as his 5’ 6” frame would permit, straightened his suit coat, and headed in the direction of Jeffers’ office.
The office door was open but the space was empty. Dillingham looked around for a receptionist to consult. She was absent from her perch as well. Without further hesitation, he moved into the office, placed the file in the center of Jeffers’ desk and left.
As he was walking towards the elevator, he remembered one of his passions and stopped abruptly in the middle of the hallway. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and then turned in the direction from which the stimulating odor was coming. It was the reason his passion had been alerted.
He inhaled once again, delighting in the wonderful sensation of the java bean.
A female laugh from a room nearby broke his concentration and pleasure. He turned in the direction of her sound and followed the intoxicating aroma. The scent and the laughter were both emanating from the break room.
“Good day to you, Mrs. Jones,” Dillingham said as he entered the casual space. He walked directly past her to the coffee pot as she shifted just in time to allow him to brush against her. It was her intention to make that slight physical contact with Dillingham.
“I can see that my special brew has enticed you once again, Mr. Dillingham,” Jones said with a touch of fierceness in her voice.
He smiled without turning to acknowledge her words. Stopping in front of the brew machine, he put down his briefcase, retrieved a Styrofoam cup which he detested with a singular hatred, poured the coffee into the abysmal cup, and drank. He then turned to Mrs. Jones.
“Top of the day to you, Mrs. Jones. Your Jamaican Feast blend is quite alluring.”
“Of course it is. And what brings you to my corner of the district?”
“Courier errand. Just dropping off a file for one of the directors who work for you,” Dillingham said.
“Surely. Sorry about that Styrofoam business there,” she gestured towards the object in Dillingham’s hand. She knew him well enough to know that he preferred almost any type of drinking cup except the more prolific S-cups. They had been sharing coffee together for more than ten years, off and on. She also knew that his all-time favorite cup of choice was a pottery mug from Williamsburg, Virginia.
“And well you should be. What happened to the mugs you used to display?”
“Sanitation clause in the new regs. You know Washington. Issue another reg, destroy another forest.”
“Yes, indeed I do. Are you familiar with Will Rogers’ quip along that line, Mrs. Jones?”
“I don’t think I am, Mr. D,” she said.
“‘When Congress makes a law, it’s a joke; when they make a joke, it’s a law.’”
“I wonder if this originated as a joke or a law,” she said.
Dillingham took another swig of the delicious coffee that she had made earlier that morning.
“Same difference, madam. Same difference.”
“You’re a funny man, Mr. Dillingham. I trust life is going well for you these days.”
“Indeed, Mrs. Jones. Life is moving along rather nicely. But, I have missed your brew. Few are able to compete with the quality of coffee that you have over here in the high rent district.”
Betty Jones laughed as she headed out of the break room for her desk. Their conversations were generally informal, friendly to anyone who might be listening without seeming to contain too many undercurrents. She stopped in the doorway and looked back at Dillingham. A widow for nearly five years now, she wished that Marvin Dillingham would ask her out to dinner again soon. She had once thought that their relationship would take off in a positive direction after their first few dates.
“You know the secret of good coffee, don’t you?”
“Well, it most certainly has to be the java bean, Mrs. Jones,” he said with some certainty.
“That’s only half of the equation, Mr. D.”
“Then you have me at a loss. I don’t believe I know the remainder of your secret, madam,” he said.
“I was once told it was the soap one uses to clean the pot. Now you know what I know,” she said and left Dillingham to enjoy his java all alone.
The break room was a large enough area to have three separate spaces – there was an outer space where Dillingham and Jones had conversed. It was where the coffee was brewed along with several other items available for drinking. The second space was a smaller room that housed a sampling of vending machines full of both enticing and not-so-enticing items such as peanuts, crackers, chips, and sweets. It also provided three small tables sufficient for two people per table to eat and converse. Or whatever. There were sliding double doors at the entrance/exit of this space which could be closed for more privacy if need be. The final space was separated from the outer break room by a wall with the usual space for a door. The door was no longer there. Once upon a time there existed a hinged door. It housed the sandwich vending machines. It contained five tables with three chairs per. There was no privacy available in this section.
As soon as Mrs. Jones had left, Dillingham walked into the space that housed the vending for the peanuts. Sometime during his nearly sixty years of life he had developed a taste for good coffee and peanuts. Together. An unusual mix, to be sure.
While he was retrieving his salty treat, two male voices entered the break room. Dillingham sat down at the table which was partially hidden from view from the outer break room even with the sliding door open. He ate his peanuts slowly while he listened to the two voices in the other room. One could generally count on some Washington secrets to be exposed if one took the time to sit quietly and listen to others. Some might refer to this as eavesdropping.
“So are you in or out?” a man with a deep voice asked.
There was no immediate answer. Dillingham thought he heard something being poured. It sounded like coffee being added to a Styrofoam cup. If that were the case, Dillingham concluded that at least one of the two men had good taste in coffee.
“Well?” Deep Voice asked.
“I’m thinking,” a higher pitched voice answered. “Let me drink down some caffeine here while I think about your suggestion.”
Dillingham was certain that the higher pitched male voice was from Maine. Unmistakable accent. Dillingham drank a swig of his coffee from his Styrofoam cup silently. He had no real interest in their conversation, but the confluence of the two distinct voices captured his attention. There was also his curiosity. And who could tell? This might indeed become one of those famous Washington secrets. He listened, despite his preoccupation with peanuts and coffee, to the mingling of their sounds and to what they might say while conversing.
“What’s your reticence?” Deep Voice said.
“Boy, that’s a big word for you, chief,” Maine answered. “You want some coffee?”
“I hate the coffee in this place,” Deep Voice said.
Dillingham shook his head in disbelief at the words from a man who obviously had little appreciation for the finer things of life.
“I don’t like loose ends,” Mai
ne said.
“It will be handled.”
“I don’t much like that either, but …” Maine’s voice trailed off.
“This could be your one chance at that proverbial pot of gold at rainbow’s end,” Deep Voice said.
“That’s what I keep thinking. Just don’t like the path we have to take to get to the golden goal.”
“Opportunity is knocking. We’re either all in or … well, we won’t get rich on our salaries,” Deep Voice said.
Dillingham continued to listen and sip his coffee quietly. He seemed to be stimulated by this turn in their conversation. He did find making money rather intriguing. He stopped crunching peanuts in his mouth. The sound might give away his presence. His interest in their subject matter was peaking and he was curious as to what else they might reveal.
“And you are sure that Washington is the only person who knows about those special plates?” Maine said.
“I sent him to Bangkok myself, to retrieve them. Clandestine mission. No one else knows. Except you.”
“And you have a contact in Thailand who will pay?” Maine said.
“Willing, able, and anxious to pay.”
“So Washington has to be eliminated?” Maine said.
“He’s a straight arrow. Can’t be bought. It’s the only way for us to be free and clear here to make a mint. I can hire it out, or use my resources at the Treasury,” Deep Voice said.
Dillingham put down his cup ever so gently. He now really desired that his presence be unknown to the two men in the other space. The subject of their conversation had turned even more sharply for Marvin. He was now concerned that the sound of his breathing might reveal his presence to them. He certainly did not want to risk that. He began to control the flow of air through his nose and out of his mouth. He purposefully slowed his intake and outflow.
“Which source do you think will be more efficient?” Maine said.
“I think we should go at him from both sides. Just to be sure. He’s a former S.E.A.L. and will not be an easy target,” Deep Voice said. “Come on, we need to get back to the office.”
Out Jumps Jack Death: A Clancy Evans Mystery (Clancy Evans PI Book 8) Page 1
