The Shamus Sampler II

by Nick Quantrill

  People having conniptions over how the NSA spends its time would dig holes, climb in, and pull the dirt over themselves if they knew what a licensed private investigator can access with a paid login to any of several online databases, a case number—real or manufactured—and some patience. I knew Oliver Willoughby’s date of birth, Social Security Number, educational and employment history, military service—or, in his case, the lack thereof—wife’s name and employer, the names of his children (Michael, Elizabeth, and Geoffrey), what he drove, his credit score, how much he owed on his house, and still had time to do a couple of hours of paying work before going for a turkey burger at SRO Chicago. The afternoon and early evening took real effort, but I was well prepared when I knocked on his office door nine o’clock Tuesday morning.

  Willoughby created the perfect impression of an elitist bending over backward to show he was a regular guy. His disapproval of my attire so subtle a non-professional would have missed it. He apologized for the wait, expressed sympathy for my situation, which had been explained to him as my wife’s job transferring her to Chicago, sending me looking for employment and checking out Yates Academy while I was in town interviewing. So we’d know if our housing search should take it into consideration.

  We spent half an hour examining every crevice of the campus. Lisa Meier knew me by sight well enough to call me “Mr. Forte” when we’d bumped into each other at the movies last summer. I didn’t see her in any of the classes we peeked in on, hoped she’d either not recognize me in an unfamiliar context, or would have the presence of mind not to say anything if she did.

  The tour complete, Willoughby and I sat in his office with cups of Earl Grey tea. “Is there anything else I can tell you to set your mind at ease, Mr. Forte? Something our tour didn’t address?”

  I sipped tea, replaced the cup on its saucer. Not as sweet as I liked it, but it wasn’t that kind of day. “Just one thing. I know no one is more aware than you of the challenge it is to raise a child today, what with peer pressure and the entertainment industry pushing them to do things they’d be better off avoiding. We all need all the help we can get. How does Yates handle these things?”

  “Excellent question.” I’d been tougher than Willoughby expected at times during the tour; he was grateful for the softball. “Yates has a firmly and carefully worded Code of Conduct. Bullying, exclusionary behavior, hazing, fighting, all are precisely defined and forbidden. Drug use and ethical study standards are also spelled out and, I’m happy to say, strictly enforced.”

  “That’s good.” I leaned forward, then sat back in my chair, trying to create the impression of a man struggling with a difficult question. “There are certain…uh…let me put it this way: it’s my daughter we’re thinking about enrolling. I looked for—I confess—pregnant girls in the halls and in class. I didn’t see any, which is what I’d hoped for. Aside from setting a bad example, I wouldn’t want to find out the school’s reputation was tarnished with loose moral standards.”

  “I understand completely. Rest assured we take both those concerns with the utmost seriousness. All students are required to sign an ethics and morals agreement prior to matriculation, outlining what is considered to be acceptable behavior, and describing the consequences, up to and including expulsion. Much of what you’ll pay for here is a spotless reputation, embodied by our graduates, which will accompany your daughter throughout her life.”

  “Perfect.” I sat back in my chair. “I’m relieved to hear you put it that way. I expect these standards extend to the faculty and staff, as well?”

  If that affected him, I missed it. “Of course.”

  “Outstanding. The last thing anyone wants is to have to watch a pregnant girl go through graduation.” His aura dipped for a second, recovered. “Bad enough to have to explain it to the younger kids, about the basketball under her gown. It has to reflect badly on everyone in the class.”

  “Indeed.”

  “That’s why I asked about the staff. From the custodians up through the administration, the staff as a whole has at least as much contact with a student as do the parents. More, in some cases, I’m sure.”

  “True.” Willoughby’s face started to slip.

  “Considering that reputation that’s going to follow my daughter around for the rest of her life—” not that she had any chance of acceptance now, even if we were applying—”seeing a pregnant girl on the stage would be bad, but a faculty blemish would be worse. I mean, they’re here as role models.”

  “True again.”

  “So no one’s going to be happy to find out a faculty member has a tarnished record, even a—what do they call them?—youthful indiscretion. You know, something like a drug arrest in undergraduate school.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Forte, I’ve been impolite. I neglected to ask what line of work you’re in?”

  “I’m a professional investigator.”

  “Professional? Are you a police officer? Or possibly a federal agent?”

  I shook my head. “Private.”

  Color drained from Willoughby’s face like sand through an egg timer. “Did the Meiers send you?”

  “The Meiers have no idea I’m here. And they never will. That’s going to be part of the deal.”

  “What deal?”

  “Lisa Meier stays in school.”

  “You said they didn’t send you.”

  “They didn’t. I represent someone else.”

  “Who?”

  I smiled without teeth.

  “A marijuana arrest thirty years ago—with probation, I might add—is hardly going to discredit the school enough to cost me my job. I’m sure many Yates parents avoided such a charge only through luck, in our society.” Eyes already looking for me to drop the other shoe.

  “No argument from me. Not even I’d hold that against you. That pandering thing, though, pimping out the girls in school and taking a cut, that’s different.”

  “I was not a pimp! What happened there was—”

  “A felony.” I left the word to stink on his desk. “Sentence suspended, no doubt thanks to your well-connected family. And, in fairness, no one was hurt. The girls all entered into it willingly, may even have come to you once word got out you had something going. Still, you were a whoremonger. I’ll bet it’s not on your resume. Even worse, on your application. Is lying on an application a firing offense here?”

  “That all happened thirty years ago.” His voice a whisper. “Surely there’s some sort of moral statute of limitations. I realized my mistakes. Changed my life. Made something of myself. If that doesn’t count for anything, then all we do here—teaching boys and girls to be men and women—is a travesty.”

  “I agree. And I expect the parents, and the trustees, are liberal enough to agree with us. Still, add those to your gambling problem—”

  “I do not have a gambling problem.”

  “I can see how you might look at it that way. What you have, in fact, is a losing problem. Second mortgage on your house, stacks of credit card receipts for Vegas, the boats in Joliet, even Tunica. Really? Mississippi? You have the Ph.D. in English Literature. Maybe you know a better phrase than ‘degenerate gambler,’ but that’s the one stuck in my mind.”

  Willoughby was pale as winter. “What do you want?”

  “Lisa Meier stays in school. At the meeting on Thursday, you announce a change of heart, how among the things Yates needs to embody is compassion. Dress it up how you want. But she gets a pass.”

  “The Meiers didn’t send you.” No doubt in his mind now.

  “I told you that already. Twice.”

  “You’d ruin me—ruin my life, my family—for people you don’t even know?”

  I’d had this discussion before. I knew where his desperation was leading him. “You have my name. You know what I do for a living.” I nodded toward his computer. “Google me. I’ll wait.”

  We sat while Willoughby tapped keys, clicked. His pallor grew. Snuck peeks at me as he read.

  �
�Don’t miss the good stuff. Google my name plus ‘Licati.’ Then try ‘Volkov’ and ‘Obersdorfer.’ I have time.”

  I don’t think he got any farther than Volkov. “You’re threatening my life?”

  “Don’t flatter yourself. Keep reading after I go. Everyone there, it was him or me. You’re barely a nuisance. I just want you to know ruining your life won’t cost me two seconds’ sleep, lest you get the idea of calling what you think is a bluff.”

  Willoughby stared at the monitor, eyes not moving. “We straight?” I said. He nodded, still transfixed. “I want to hear it.”

  “Yes.”

  “Yes, what?”

  “Yes, we’re straight.”

  “Yes, we’re straight on what?”

  He wanted to be indignant, too scared to pull it off. “Yes, we’re straight that Lisa Meier will be allowed to stay in school to graduate with her class.”

  I walked to the door without shaking hands. Paused at the threshold, said, “And I’m not going to have to come back here because I heard she’d been singled out for any reason, am I?”

  “No.” I had to listen hard to hear him. “Please leave.”

  ***

  Caroline called Thursday night. “Dad! Tyler’s sister can stay in school! The principal changed his mind!”

  “Very cool,” I said. “How’d they do it?”

  “Tyler doesn’t know. She said they’d given up, but when they got there the principal—that’s not what they call him, I forget what it is—said he’d been thinking about it and said something about how a school like Yates that wanted to prepare kids for life needed to teach empathy, too, and said she could stay, and they’d work with her if she had any problems that might keep her out of school more than a day or two at a time. Isn’t that great?”

  “Sure is. Well, the Meiers are good people. We talked about karma before. This time it paid off.”

  “I thought you told me it takes a long time for karma to come around.”

  “Usually, but Tyler has a good friend. Maybe some of that good Forte karma speeded things up a little. You never know.”

  *****

  Dana King’s first print novel, Grind Joint was published by Stark House Press in 2013. He has also published three e-books: Wild Bill, Worst Enemies, and A Small Sacrifice, the first in a series featuring private investigator Nick Forte. His short fiction has appeared in Thuglit, Powder Burn Flash, New Mystery Reader, and Mysterical-E, as well as the anthology, Blood, Guts, and Whisky.

  Girl Gone Wild

  by

  Jochem Vandersteen

  I’ve been experimenting with several new PI characters over the year. Lenny Parker was my more humorous version of the PI. He doesn’t exactly know what he’s doing and sure as hell isn’t the martial arts master my Noah Milano is. Still, he solves the case in this story that first appeared online at my blog http://sonsofspade.blogspot.com

  ONE

  I’d just finished a tour with an awesome metalcore band and was eager to get back to my life in San Diego. As a roadie, I’m gone for pretty long periods of time and as a result my friends are scattered all over the States, hell even the world. I live in a seedy second floor walk-up apartment that squats above a little mom and pop Thai restaurant. The smells from below are intoxicating. I can’t prove it, but I swear I can gain weight just by inhaling too deeply. Gottta be a reason the pounds keep packing on. The few days a year I’m actually home, I love catching up with the owners. The fact their English is almost as lousy as my Thai makes conversation challenging.

  “You lose weight, yes?” Mr. Janpong asked me.

  “I guess. I would’ve lost a hell of a lot more if I didn’t drink so much beer with the band. Carrying around sound systems is hard work, you know. The band was such a great group of guys though, they invited me to party with them every night.”

  “So you had much sex?” Janpong leered. He could be quite a dirty old man sometimes.

  I almost blushed. “Not really. Even though I’m a roadie I’m still a fat slob. The groupies usually pick the better looking roadies to suck some dick.”

  “Ah yes, understand.”

  I wasn’t sure if I should be offended. Mrs Janpong was pissed off for sure. She wacked her husband on the head with a menu and cussed at him in Thai. I was pretty sure she could go toe to toe with any Thai sailor but she didn’t allow bad words to leave her husband’s mouth.

  I love these two oldies. They’re anywhere between sixty and a hundred years old and dress like American tourists in Miami. They serve me free meals and even allow me to use their restaurant as an office whenever I need to receive clients for my second job. You see, the few days I’m not touring, I work as a private investigator—officially licensed even.

  “I got call. Client coming over to see you in half hour,” Mrs Janpong told me.

  That’s right, the phone number listed in the Yellow Pages for Lenny Parker Investigations is the Janpong’s. It’s a lot cheaper than hiring a secretary although I’m sure some clients never get to see me, tangled up in Babylonian speech confusion with Mrs. Janpong. It’s not a big problem, though. Being a PI is more of a hobby than a real job anyway. I just love reading hardboiled mysteries and have dreamed about being a wisecracking shamus almost as long as I’ve wanted to be a rockstar.

  “Cool, I’ve been hoping I could do some PI work while I’m here. Next tour I’m doing won’t start for a month.”

  “Great names?” Mr. Janpong asked me.

  “Well, they supported Iron Maiden once.”

  “Ah, yes. I see.” I was pretty sure he had no idea who Iron Maiden was.

  I had a bottle of Singha beer and ate some Khao phat kai. All compliments of the house. I regaled the Janpongs with some more stories about being on the road. There were no guests for them to take care of until the arrival of man in his forties wearing a football jersey and a troubled expression.

  Mrs Janpong greeted him with a polite bow. She ushered him inside and seated him. She told her husband to fetch the man a beer and a menu. She told me this was my client.

  I walked over to the guy and shook his hand. I could tell I wasn’t what he was expecting. He was probably waiting for someone wearing a fedora and a shoulder-rig and thrusting a chiseled jaw. Instead he got a fat slob with a goatee, arms covered with tattoos, wearing baggy jeans and a Rise Against T-shirt.

  He introduced himself as Howard Bagley. I introduced myself and asked him what I could do for him.

  “It’s my daughter… I’m afraid she’s been doing some illegal things…”

  “I wouldn’t worry about it too much. I’ve had my share of reefers in the past and look at me… I turned out fine.”

  The look he gave me made it obvious he wasn’t too sure that I had. “No, no. I’m afraid she’s been stealing stuff. Or maybe dealing drugs.”

  “That is more serious,” I admitted. Meanwhile Mr. Janpong showed up with two bottles of Singha and the menu. I ordered some Miang Kham and recommended him the Khao phat kai. He told me he’d just had dinner, so he settled on having some Mian Kham along with me. The dried shrimps make for great beer snacks.

  Bagley got back to his story. “The last few months my baby girl, Melinda, has been showing up with all kinds of new clothes, shoes, and gadgets. There’s no way she could’ve bought all that stuff just from her allowance or from working in the convenience store weekends. I’m afraid she stole the stuff or sold drugs to get the money to pay for them.”

  “Did you try asking her how she paid for the stuff?”

  “I did. She told me she had some money saved up and knew how to use coupons like nobody’s business. She also got mad at me for not trusting her. I hate it when she gets mad at me. She’s my little girl you know. You got any kids?”

  I put down the beer I’d just sipped. “Not that I know of. So, what do you want me to do?”

  “Find out where she got the stuff. Discreetly.”

  “Could’ve been my middle name,” I beamed.

  Th
e food arrived. I took a bite of Mian Kham and washed it down with another sip of Singha.

  “I hope so. You don’t look like a PI. I figure that will work in your favor keeping an eye on her.”

  I pointed my finger at Bagley. “You got it, man.”

  “So… I guess we need to talk salary. I heard you work cheap.

  That was probably why he wanted to hire me. Not that San Diego is full of private eyes. This isn’t LA or Las Vegas. He was right though. I work cheap. I’ve been known to take a case for a six-pack of Miller.

  “A hundred a day plus expenses,” I told him. I pegged him to be wealthy enough to pay my premium rate.

  “Sounds more than fair,” he said and shook my hand to close the deal. “Should I sign a contract?”

  “Let me get a napkin and one of Mr. Janpong’s pens,” I said.

  TWO

  Melinda had red hair and an ivory face full of freckles. She was 15 years old and looked as innocent as a Carebear. I watched her leave the convenience store where she worked behind the cash register. She was still in the slacks and polo shirt she was required to wear to work there.

  I was pretending to be window shopping. The guy who taught me the ropes and got me my license, Old Man Jackson, always told me it was nearly impossible to follow a target while remaining unseen. Most professional investigators work with at least three people. Unfortunately, I didn’t have any people to work with. Fortunately I wasn’t a tough looking six foot tall black guy like Jackson but just another slacker with too many tattoos.

  A passing hottie wearing shorts and a white tank top gave me a funny look. Disapproving really. That’s when I noticed I was window-shopping at a lingerie store. Good thing I don’t embarrass easily.

  Melinda didn’t seem to notice my choice of window and walked past me. She walked around the corner. I sauntered after her, hands in my pockets. Just another slacker enjoying a walk in the sun.