Benny James Mystery Series Box Set

by Jason Deas

The slip that held his forty-foot houseboat was rent free, since he was the marina’s security guard. The owner of the marina felt comforted by the fact a sign at the front gate warned passersby the area was under guard.

  Benny had the choice of a covered slip, but chose uncovered for nights like this. The rain drumming against the boat’s top was soothing in the early morning. Benny spent many nights stargazing in a rocking lounge chair on top of the boat. It brought him answers to his various puzzling questions.

  Benny was in the private eye business. His new message was from a Mrs. Clemmons. She was inquiring as to Benny’s progress in the case of her suspected unfaithful husband. Mrs. Clemmons was almost certain her husband had a girlfriend but she wanted some evidence to present in divorce court. She said to call at any hour since she was not getting any sleep. Benny decided he would take her word that she was an insomniac and get the call out of the way. Benny dialed the cell number and before the first ring was complete, she answered.

  “Mr. James?” she garbled.

  “Yes ma’am, this is Benny James. How did you know it was me?”

  She responded in a slur. “My phone shows who’s calling and I also don’t have any other people who would call me at four in the morning, Mr. James.”

  “I do apologize Mrs. Clemmons; you said call at any time. Did I wake you?”

  “Hell no,” she said with a saucy laugh. “What’s that asshole been up to? He’s not here again tonight. Surprise, surprise. He told me he was in Seattle this time. I bet he’s at that little slut’s house.”

  “Well,” Benny said cautiously. “I did wrap up the case about twenty-four hours ago, but have been trying to decide how I was going to present my findings to you.”

  “Shit, Benny.” There was a pause as Mrs. Clemmons was obviously taking a drink of something. “Can you hold on a second?”

  “Sure,” Benny said.

  He heard what sounded like the phone being tossed on a table clumsily, ice rattled into a glass, and he heard the glug, glug, glug, of a liquid being poured. She took a drink, sighed, and said, “All right, what’s her name? How young is she? How big are her fake tits? What’s Barbie’s name, Benny?”

  Benny composed himself and said, “Mrs. Clemmons, your husband is having an extramarital affair, but she is actually a he.” There was silence on the other end of the phone, so Benny continued.

  “Remember when I asked you for the places he often frequents?” Silence still.

  “I followed him three times to the Gregarious Gringo Restaurant over on West Peachtree.” Silence still.

  “He left all three times with the flamboyant host Joel. Each time they went back to Joel’s midtown apartment.” Silence.

  “I do have a few pictures of them making out in Mr. Clemmons’s car.”

  Finally, Mrs. Clemmons said, “Thank you Mr. James. Please send me my bill and the photos.” The phone went dead.

  Well, Benny thought, another happy customer.

  Chapter 4

  R.C. started working for Jimmy’s Uncle Sly at the diner, and the package deal was just as Jimmy had described. The job, the trailer, and the motorcycle were all real. Being a short order cook for country folks was a breeze after cooking for cons.

  The singlewide trailer was more like a camper, but even without electricity, it was the Taj Mahal compared to a dank, tiny jail cell.

  Sly brought the broken down Gold Wing over to the trailer in the back of his pickup truck upon R.C.’s request. The negotiated price was a few dollars shy of a gift. The bike needed a new clutch, carburetor, tires, and the exhaust pipes and seats had holes in them.

  Luckily, the Fairbrook County Penitentiary offered a vocational class to the inmates. After a time, R.C. was more skillfully competent than the instructors were. Outdated police cars, motorcycles, and other government vehicles passed through the prison. They became instructional tools and were repaired, if necessary, before auction.

  About two weeks into R.C.’s new job at the diner, Jimmy the guard came in one early morning for breakfast. He usually ate there at least twice a week, but he wanted to give R.C. his space. He didn’t want him to feel like he was checking up on him. Jimmy called his Uncle Sly every evening to do that.

  As Jimmy walked into the diner, R.C. immediately made eye contact with him as he looked up from his egg scrambling duties. Both men smiled at each other like old friends and Jimmy greeted him saying, “Hey R.C., how’s it going?”

  “Going good Jimmy.” R.C. glanced back at his eggs. “Going real good, man.”

  “It’s great to see you out here. How does it feel?”

  “Feels good. Real good. Step one, ya know? Do a little time here and on to step two. I been working on that bike.”

  “It’s a real piece of work, huh?”

  “Oh, it ain’t that bad. I seen worse. Some a’ them copper bikes that came into the shop that had been laid down make this one seem brand new.

  “Your Uncle Sly is a real good fella. Set me up real nice here and even fronted me some cash to buy a couple of parts. Waitress is running late this morning and Sly worked late, so I’m doubling as the wait staff till Sheila gets in. What ya gonna have?”

  “Did Sly teach you how to make his special house breakfast sandwich yet?”

  “Oh yeah. Made at least twenty something of them already. You want coffee or juice?”

  “Coffee.”

  “Back in a jiffy,” R.C. said as he filled out a ticket. When he came back with the coffee he said, “I put the meats on the grill and dropped the hash browns in the fryer, should be a couple minutes till I need to put the eggs on. Timing is everything with this sandwich here. All comes out hot at the same time. You need cream?”

  “Yeah, please,” Jimmy said. “And the container here is out of artificial sweetener. Would you grab me some?” R.C. handed him cream and sweetener.

  “If you don’t mind me asking, what is step two of your plan?”

  “Glad you asked. I was actually going to ask you a favor to help me out with that. Let me get those eggs going and I’ll be right back with your food.” When R.C. came back, he refilled Jimmy’s coffee and set his plate in front of him accompanied by a napkin and utensils.

  “Whoa!” Jimmy stared at the massive sandwich. “Looks better than when Sly makes it, and he invented it.”

  “Don’t tell him,” R.C. grinned, “but I’ve heard that more than once.”

  Turning serious R.C. continued as Jimmy tore into the meal saying, “When I get the bike fixed and I’m all settled up with Sly, step number two involves finding an old friend of mine.”

  Jimmy was looking into his coffee as the words “old friend” rolled off R.C.’s tongue. As he said the words R.C.’s eyes could not hide his evil intentions.

  “He wrote me my first ten years in the pen, but the letters quit after awhile and I don’t know what happened to him or where he is now,” R.C. lied. “Would it be possible for one of your copper buddies to run his name and find out where he is?”

  “I don’t see why not,” Jimmy said. “I got a friend who owes me a favor. Write his name on a napkin or something and I’ll get him to run it.”

  “I appreciate it, man,” R.C. said as he looked up at the door. “Oh good, Sheila’s here. Enjoy your breakfast Jimmy; I gotta get over to the grill.”

  “All right R.C. Keep up the good work.”

  Chapter 5

  The Sleepy Cove Marina was its normal uneventful self when Benny awoke a little past noon. Seconds after his eyes opened, his coffee pot was put to work producing his wake up juice. While it brewed, he walked over to the marina office, said good morning to the owner Donny, who told him it was actually after noon, and grabbed the day’s edition of the Tilley Bee. There was no mention of the crucifixion.

  Back on the boat, Benny poured a cup of Joe into his favorite mug, picked up the cordless phone, and dialed Jerry Lee’s number. It sounded as if Jerry Lee was on the move as he answered, “Tilley Bee?”

  “Are you brain
dead?” Benny asked.

  “I’ve been expecting this call all morning, Benny. It was too late to go in today’s paper,” Jerry Lee retorted.

  “Don’t even try to play this fucking game with me paperboy. I know, and you know, that the paper does not go to print until 4:20 a.m. What are you playing with here?”

  “Benny,” Jerry Lee sputtered, “I don’t think this town is ready for a front page crucifixion story. Yesterday’s lead story was about a ninety-year-old woman and her award winning squash recipe.”

  “When did you become the town’s conscience or the paper’s editor?” Benny asked.

  “Give me today, Benny. I wanted to give Vernon a day to catch this Louis von Sick Throat. If we don’t have a suspect by tomorrow’s edition, I will disclose it to the town. Until then, can you keep your mouth shut?”

  “All right. God, I love your stupid ass curse conversions.”

  “Thank you,” Jerry Lee said.

  Benny drank his coffee more quickly than usual. When the buzz kicked in, he was off. Even though he’d had the short phone call with Jerry Lee, he decided to pay him a personal visit. He strode into the Tilley Bee office and went straight into Jerry’s office.

  “What’s my favorite news hound doing?” Benny asked, as he made himself at home.

  Jerry looked up from his keyboard. “I knew you’d come down here, Benny. I thought we discussed this earlier?”

  “We did,” Benny spoke quietly. “I just want us both to be clear that I’m not fucking around either with this murder investigation or you.”

  “Benny, you never shimmy around,” Jerry shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

  “I know I’m not an official part of this investigation, but who do you think is going to crack this case?”

  “You are, Benny.” Jerry sat up straight in his chair.

  Benny stood. “Glad we got that cleared up. I’ll be in touch with any updates on my investigation for your story tomorrow.”

  Jerry swallowed. “I’ll look forward to your call, sir.”

  Chapter 6

  Sly strolled in a half-hour before the throng of lunch goers arrived with a smile on his face. He was a white Mr. Miyagi from the Karate Kid and the Quaker Oatmeal man rolled into one tubby little package. He had not felt nearly as rested in years. It was nearly impossible to find a cook that could outdo him.

  Customers don’t frequent diners four and five times a week for mediocre victuals. Sly opened and closed the diner six days a week. It was years since he saw The Price is Right from the comfort of his La-Z-Boy. There was not a worry in his heart that R.C. would cross him. The motorcycle was still a few parts and two tires away from being ready for the road, and anybody who talked to R.C. for more than three minutes knew he wasn’t going anywhere without the bike.

  Sly knew he itched to get somewhere, and he figured he would move on in a month, give or take a couple of weeks. He also knew ex-cons generally did not like to live in the shadow of the prison that held them for long, if at all.

  When Sly walked through the doorway, it was as if Norm had just entered Cheers as the patrons bellowed his name in unison. He did a lap around the room, shaking a few hands, engaging in simple banter with customers finishing late breakfasts or beating the oncoming lunch crowd.

  When he made it back to the kitchen, he noticed that R.C. fully prepped for the upcoming rush and the place was spic and span with the dirty breakfast dishes and utensils a distant memory. R.C. was under the sink, tightening a joint in the piping, and did not see Sly behind him.

  “R.C.?” Sly spoke up as he tapped R.C. on the leg. R.C. slid his head and arms out from under the colossal stainless steel sink and stood, unfurling like an ostrich pulling its head out of a hole.

  “You trying to get employee of the month?” Sly laughed.

  “No sir, just fixing a little drip. I think I got her though.”

  “Looks like everything’s set to go for lunch.”

  “Yes sir. I done just as you told me. I memorized that list you made me. Don’t even have to look at it no more.”

  “R.C.,” Sly sighed. “Is it possible for you to stop calling me sir? I’m not that much older than you.”

  “No sir,” R.C. responded. “You been real good to me and I intend to show you respect any way I can while I’m here.”

  “All right. Not a problem. Grab one of your cigarettes there R.C. and let’s have a talk out back real quick before the folks show up for lunch.”

  “Did I do something wrong, Sly?” R.C. asked.

  “No. No. God no. Just the opposite.” Outside, R.C.’s concern dissipated as he lit his cigarette, curious as to what Sly wanted to talk to him about in private.

  “R.C.,” Sly began. “I know we don’t know each other too well—and you haven’t let me down—just like Jimmy said you wouldn’t.

  “I can tell that you’re itching something fierce to get the hell out of Dodge. The way I’ve figured it, you probably need three to four more weeks a’ pay to put that bike back together and leave yourself with a few bucks for gas. Am I right?”

  “Yes sir,” R.C. responded, wondering where this was going.

  Sly continued, “I haven’t been fishing in Montana since I opened this place. Been eleven years. I believe you know my older brother Ted, Jimmy’s daddy?”

  “Yeah, he was a guard up at the prison until about five or so years ago.”

  “Then I imagine you know he’s retired. He has agreed to come help out at the diner if you will agree to my proposal.”

  “Anything Sly,” R.C. said.

  “Now hold on,” Sly cautioned. “You don’t know what you’re signing up for yet. I’m wanting to go for two weeks. Ted can barely make a ham sandwich, so you would have to work open to close every day except Sundays when we’re closed. That’s a lot of fifteen-hour days.”

  “Them hours will get me down the road a whole lot quicker.”

  “Yeah, it certainly will. I calculated twelve, fifteen-hour days, including overtime pay, which I aim to pay you—comes out at right under nineteen hundred dollars. We’ll call it an even two thousand dollars. What do you say?”

  “Go buy yourself a new fishing pole,” R.C. said with a smile.

  “Oh, I almost forgot,” Sly said. “If you can keep Ted from cooking anything, I’ll buy you that set of tires you were talking about with that fella from Earl’s Tires as a thank you and good luck present.”

  “Why you trust me so much?” R.C. asked.

  “I believe in second chances,” Sly said contemplating something.

  “I didn’t do it,” R.C. said in a low voice.

  “We gotta get back in there,” Sly said as he held his hand and index finger up, signaling he had one more thing to say.

  “I’ve heard a few whispers out there saying that you make my breakfast sandwich better than I do. You want to know why you are a better cook than I am?” R.C. didn’t say a word or move.

  “You spent three times as long as I did in prison.” Sly gave R.C. a wink and walked back into the diner, leaving R.C. standing there with his mouth open, dumbfounded.

  Sly took off for Montana a few days later. The days that followed flew by with R.C. working so much, and after waiting nearly thirty years for something, two more weeks was merely a stitch in time. Toward the end of the first week of Sly’s absence, Jimmy came into the diner one late evening shortly before closing.

  “How you holding up, R.C.?” Jimmy asked.

  “I’m a little tired,” R.C. responded. “But it’s a good tired.”

  Jimmy handed R.C. the same napkin he had given him a week before with the name of the person written on it he wished to locate. “My buddy at the police station gave that back to me this morning. He found a record of your friend.” R.C.’s eyes lit up.

  “He wrote the city and state on there for you. Your friend got a speeding ticket last month. When you see him, tell him to slow down,” Jimmy joked.

  R.C. grasped the napkin in the palm of his hand as if i
t were a precious treasure map that would lead him to hidden booty. He read the words, and he read them again. R.C. continued to read and study them like a fortuneteller deciphering the meaning of the lines in one’s palm. The napkin read: Miles Davenport, Tilley, Georgia.

  Two weeks later R.C. said his goodbyes and expressed his thanks to Jimmy and Sly. He cranked up the motorcycle he brought back from the dead and with his heart pounding like a predator tracking its prey, he made a beeline for Tilley, Georgia.

  Chapter 7

  Benny motored over to the post office to mail Ms. Clemmons the incriminating photos of her husband and the disreputable host Joel. He included the bill, hoping for prompt payment. Lisa, the postal attendant, asked in her southern drawl, “Why weren’t there anything in the paper about last night’s murder Benny?”

  Taken aback Benny answered, “What are you talking about Lisa?”

  “Come on Benny, ain’t no secrets in this town.”

  “Don’t know what you mean honey. I haven’t heard anything,” Benny lied stone faced.

  “All right sugar,” Lisa said with obvious disbelief. “Should I call you if I hear anything suspicious? You know we get all kinds of folks in here blabbing their mouths when they think no one’s listening.”

  “You do that honey; you got the number.” Benny winked and strutted out.

  His next stop was the Hair Palace. His hair was starting to curl. Time for a cut. Even though the name of the place was dumb as hell, Michelle was the master of taming Benny’s locks. He walked in just as she was finishing a cigarette.

  “Slow morning, Michelle?” Benny smiled at her.

  “Yeah,” she ground the butt into an overflowing ash tray. “Looks like you’re getting curly again. Sit on down, sweetie. You want the usual?”

  “Give it to me Michelle,” Benny responded. “What’s new with you?”

  “Why don’t you just come out and ask if I heard about the murder?” Michelle said smacking gum. “I know you come here for haircuts, but you also come in here for information.”