BOOKER Box Set #1 (Books 1-3: A Private Investigator Thriller Series of Crime and Suspense)

by John W. Mefford

  I pulled out my phone, then smiled back at my high school buddy.

  “Nice one. Really, I brought in Jorge just for tonight to cook up six tasty appetizers and those suckers are selling like—”

  “Apps,” I said. I patted a grinning Justin on the shoulder, and he floated to the back room.

  Seeking a wee bit of personal space, I scooted toward the side opening to the main bar, but was nearly run over by two more waiters. I heard a loud clinking of glasses or bottles and flipped my head in that direction.

  “Felix?”

  Two mascara-rimmed, beady eyes glared my direction. “Booker. What’s up?” he asked way too nonchalantly, leaning against a wall-lined, standup bar.

  Felix Upton, known as FU throughout his early days in the DPD, had apparently gone through another transformation. When I’d last seen him in person, he resembled a shorter, straighter version of the male host from the show What Not To Wear—Britney had forced me to watch two episodes during a Dallas ice storm three weeks back.

  Bye bye, ultra preppy…and hello, uber gothic. Felix’s hair was spiked and dyed as black as his made-up eyes. He wore two nose rings, three earrings on each side, a chain around his neck that could have doubled as a Rottweiler dog collar, and military boots.

  I think my eyes bugged out.

  “Good to see you, Felix. You seem to be dressed up for the night.”

  “Hell yeah,” he said, and I took a glance at his…wife?

  I nodded, leaning in to his ear. “Sara seems a little different.”

  “That’s not Sara. I figured you were still tapped into the DPD gossip channel. Sara dumped me as soon as they charged me with stealing evidence and selling drugs on the street. This is…”

  He turned his head, and I couldn’t hear a thing he said after that, other than, “And she’s my new bitch.”

  Not much in this world threw me for a loop, but seeing Felix with his “new bitch,” acting like they had just left a body-slamming rave, I was without words. Glancing at his companion, she looked just like him, but carried an angry scowl and was at least a foot thicker.

  I hadn’t been nearly as shocked when I’d learned months ago that Internal Affairs was investigating him for selling stolen drugs. He was either the dumbest criminal of all time, or damn naive.

  Just after I’d been suspended, while scouring for information on the bombing case, FU came up on my contact list. He’d just been promoted into the CSI team as a junior member. I typically saw Felix carrying a jaded perspective of the world, which I assumed was nothing more than an inferiority complex. But when I shared how my life nearly disintegrated when I believed for a few minutes that my little Samantha might have been on an exploding bus, his jerk personality evaporated. Turns out, he and his then-wife, Sara, had tried to have kids for a couple of years, and it was obvious he had a soft spot. He fed me the key piece of physical evidence found at one of the bombing crime scenes, but he also fed me too much personal information. Sara, who always seemed to be the alpha of the couple, had quit her school teaching job and they were renovating the house—a new addition and a pool. All of this with a slight bump in pay? Not likely.

  “How are things going on the professional front?” I asked, not wanting to be too nosy but still fishing. I had my reasons.

  He shrugged his shoulders. “As good as possible, I suppose. Attorneys got a delay in my trial start date, so I figured I deserve to let loose and have some kickass fun for a change.” He banged bottles with his partner, and beer sloshed on the narrow ledge.

  “Sorry to hear about…you know.”

  “Hey, shit happens, then you marry a…” His voice trailed off, and so did his eyes.

  I think he realized he didn’t quite master the slang phrase.

  “You want to join us for a jello shot?” He spit in my face with the last word. I grabbed a napkin and cleaned it.

  “I’m running security tonight, so I need to maintain a clear mind.”

  “Yeah, I waved at Paco out there. Makes sense, you two being former partners and all.”

  “Speaking of partners…” I paused, taking in a breath, wondering if I should ask him the loaded question. During an improbable night of excess at Marvel Restaurant months back, David had overheard my former colleague, Sims, and other cops speaking boldly about their conquests involving a drug-selling operation. While David dangled that information to force me not to turn him in to authorities, I finally had the dirt on Sims that could put the bastard in prison, where he could learn the finer points of racial integration.

  With my mouth hanging open, I felt a smack on my shoulder.

  “Como estas, Felix and…” Paco snapped his fingers and brought his hand to his mouth.

  Felix turned away, once again finishing with, “And she’s my new bitch.”

  I would have laughed, had the scene not been so surreal and awkward at the same time.

  “Ladies and Gentlemannnn.”

  All heads swiveled to the far stage, where Justin held a microphone. With the voice of a circus master of ceremonies, and parading around the stage like he was on acid, the bar owner challenged everyone in the bar.

  “Tomorrow morning when you wake up and recall the best night of fun you’ve had in ten years, are you going to remember where it all took place?”

  Motioning the mic toward the buzzing crowd, everyone replied, “Hell yeah.”

  “And where is that?”

  “The Jewel!” they said, morphing into a few Arsenio-like fist pumps. “Woo, woo, woo, woo.”

  Alisa had slid up next to me. “Damn, Justin’s full of himself.”

  I chuckled and released a wicked finger whistle.

  “The Jewel is proud to present the first man to take a hip-hop song to the top of the Billboard charts. Put yo hands together for Vanilla Ice!”

  The place exploded, and Ice jumped on the stage with his vintage oversized pants, his tower of hair, and more energy than I thought could exist in one person.

  “Dallas, wazzzzz up?” he asked the crowd, who chanted and whooped along.

  He pointed at the DJ, who cranked up the well-known bass riff, and the crowd hollered. Do, do, do, ta-da, do, do.

  “Yo, VIP, let’s kick it. Ice, Ice, baby. Ice, Ice baby. All right, stop, collaborate, and listen. Ice is back with my brand new invention.”

  With all the flare I’d seen on countless videos, Vanilla Ice delivered to Justin what he’d dreamed of—a marketing home run.

  7

  It was like watching the elongated face of a white horse grunt one out. Beads of sweat simmered on her forehead, green and blue veins snaked down her temples and into her cheeks, and her whole head was turning pink while quivering from the stress.

  “I. Got. This,” Cindy Valentino said while attempting to thrust a forty-pound barbell above her head on the bench.

  “Sure you do,” I said, holding two fingers under the barbell just to ensure she didn’t drop it on her enormous set of teeth. I shot another glance at Cindy’s face—not a pretty sight in the best of circumstances. And this was not her best. In fact, it might just be her worst. Ever.

  “Ahhh!” Locking her arms, she screamed with far too much ecstasy, and every head in the condo workout room flipped in our direction, wondering if she’d just reached the climactic moment for any reason other than lifting forty pounds ten times.

  Holding up a defensive hand, I addressed the keenly curious crowd. “It’s nothing, just building muscles.” I spoke just above a whisper, shaking my head.

  Cindy used a white workout towel to dab perspiration, her head still a ball of fire.

  “Whew!” she shouted, twisting off the bench, hopping up and down, her boobs nearly making a guest appearance for the world to see.

  I more than wondered if that was indeed the point.

  Thirty minutes earlier after a less-than-perfect night of sleep minus my prettier half—where dreams hogtied my thoughts into a continuous loop of Britney and me engaging in a personal workout on the f
ifty yard line of Darrell K. Royal Memorial Stadium—I’d decided the most effective way to deal with the extra blood rush was to work it off.

  Midway into my second set of stomach crunches, I spotted Cindy’s size twelve, monster workout shoe lift over my torso, and she straddled me. Each lift upward, I got a close-up shot of her crotch in spandex. I tried to finish my set without breathing, as she started babbling about how us running into each other was meant to be, which reminded her of the John Cusack romantic comedy, Serendipity.

  “OMG, Booker, did you know that John and Jeremy Piven are actually besties in real life?” She spoke about the co-stars like they were part of her inner circle. “I think they’ve even co-written a movie or a screenplay thingy together.”

  I just wished she’d remove her thingy from my face. Finishing my last stomach crunch, arms around my knees as I caught my breath, she stood three feet off to my side, shoes touching. Slowly, I raised my eyes from the ground up. Eventually, they locked with hers, although the hump on her nose caught more of my attention.

  “You said we could have a workout date. You do remember that, don’t you?”

  Using my shoulder, I wiped sweat off my sideburns, recalling some conversation months back when she’d invaded my condo with the sole purpose of disrobing, grabbing my junk, and tugging me into bed—not exactly subtle or appealing in any respect. Already late to a meeting, I’d cowered and promised we could be workout buddies for one session. I never labeled it as a “date.”

  I thought more about the irony of this situation. How did the girl with a horse face have a memory like an elephant?

  Releasing a regretful breath, I relented. “Okay, we can work out together. I only have forty-five minutes, so we’ll have to make it quick.”

  “That’s fine, I love quickies.” She cocked both eyebrows, holding them at the elevated position for so long I thought they were stuck. Suddenly, she dropped her head, eyeing her wardrobe: black spandex bike shorts that went almost to her knees, some type of spandex sports bra underneath a baggy white T-shirt. In blue lettering, it read on the front “Turkey Trot 2014,” which meant she’d run or at least walked eight miles. Impressive. On the verge of communicating my first-ever authentic compliment, she jerked her head up, stared at me for two seconds, then zipped away.

  I couldn’t predict Cindy’s behavior any better than college football games, but for whatever reason, I was given a welcome reprieve.

  It lasted less than five minutes.

  This time I was in the middle of my pull-ups and a blur of hot pink swooshed around me.

  “Come on, Booker, I know you can do this. Come on, you big stud,” she barked.

  I would have chuckled, at least initially, had I not been exerting so much energy and focus.

  “Two more. Can you give me two more?”

  “Err,” is all I could muster in response.

  “Up, and down,” she said, forcing out a breath. “Up, and down. I could get used to this.”

  Dropping to the floor under the bar, she nestled closer, using a workout towel to soak sweat from my shoulders and arms. I wasn’t sure what was more annoying, her invading my personal space to the degree where it felt like I was short of oxygen, or her boobs giving me the one-two jab every time she moved her arm.

  As I glanced down about eight inches, setting my eyes against hers, she seemed obliviously proud, and she lowered her own set of eyes to her new wardrobe.

  All pink, including shoelaces and headband, and far less clothing than she had on five minutes prior. The spandex shorts were at least a size too small and the rim of her ass hung out like the sliver of a moon. Her sports bra looked more like a display case for two melons with a pink outline.

  Adjusting her cleavage to assure proper symmetry, she peered into my eyes, popped out a model-like knee, then extended her rear end. “Ready when you are, Booker.”

  Part of me wanted to locate her daddy, or her brother, to determine if we could work to find Cindy some help, a sex therapist, or anyone who’d divert the obsession away from me. Unable to communicate what I was really thinking, I took the easy way out…again. Not really, the easiest way in the whole complex was Cindy. Thinking more clearly, I decided to suggest another activity that would hopefully adjust the proximity and manner in how we were interacting.

  “How about you go first, and I’ll spot you?”

  Tipping forward on her toes—I held out my arms thinking she might topple onto the rack of dumbbells—she grinned so wide her pearl teeth lit up the room. “You’re such a gentleman, asking the lady to go first. I bet you’re the same in—”

  “What can you do with the bench press?” I asked, finding a good excuse to walk to the other side of the gym.

  After completing her bench press, I reminded her of the time.

  “Just one more?”

  Scratching my goatee, I debated my options.

  “I’ll be a good girl.” Fake eyelashes fluttered like bat wings. “Don’t they always say that releasing endorphins is the best way to stay in shape? I guess if you want to cut our workout short, I could think of another way to release my endorphins.”

  Enticing she was not, but I couldn’t think of an excuse that would keep her from harassing me all the way back to my place.

  “Okay, which machine do you want to use?”

  She giggled and looked pointedly at me.

  “Ha-ha.” I draped the towel over my face, wiping perspiration while thinking ahead to my planned brunch with Britney.

  Out of nowhere, a husky voice shouted, “Hey, why don’t the two of you get a room?”

  Lowering the towel, I felt the glare of a squatty woman with alligator arms, standing over two hundred pounds she was about to lift.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I sensed movement, of the pink variety. Lowering my head, I saw Cindy bending over, purportedly to change weights on the inner thigh machine. She wiggled her ass just in front of my junk.

  I yelled my ridiculous defense across the gym. “What, she just stuck her—”

  “Hoochie coochie,” Cindy added, not even raising her head.

  I think I turned as pink as Cindy’s outfit.

  Finally observing my mood for a change, Cindy chilled a bit, and we finished the workout without alligator arms calling nine-one-one for witnessing a lewd act. Although in watching her power the pliable barbell over her head, her mouth seething with intensity, I was probably lucky to have a personal shadow who was essentially harmless. At times, I laughed at Cindy; other times I just felt sorry for her, but at no time did I truly feel threatened. Annoyance was another story.

  Following a quicker-than-expected farewell at Cindy’s door, which was just three down from mine, I safely entered my condo. A hot shower soothed my muscles, and I toweled off while listening to squawks from Big Al.

  Rounding the corner into the living room wearing only trunks, Big Al whistled like a construction worker who’d just spotted Britney strutting down a sidewalk.

  “Let’s get it on. Let’s get it on. Let’s get it on.”

  “You’re one sick puppy.” I was beginning to wonder if I could pawn off…rather, give Big Al to David and Dax as a type of colorful housewarming gift. With feathers as blue as a clear sky, an egg-yolk yellow underbelly, and a green tuft on top of his head that looked like a woman’s golf cap, Big Al’s vibrant body of feathers was striking. If not for his foul mouth, which was akin to brushing off the Grand Canyon as a minor divot in the landscape, he’d be worth thousands on the open market.

  I changed out shredded newspaper and poured pellets in his bowl.

  Slipping on my signature black leather jacket, I also snagged an old gray sweatshirt to throw into the backseat, for if and when I was called to trail Spencer Pittman and attempt to capture more digital dirt on the two-timer.

  “So long, Booker. So long, Booker.” Big Al bobbed his head, undoubtedly trying to kiss my ass. He’d probably read my mind about sending him off to the Double Ds.

  “Later, B
ig Al.”

  Twenty minutes later, I pulled into the one open parking place in Highland Park Village, a quaint, high-end shopping and dining complex that attracted Dallas’ old money crowd. Situated in the heart of Highland Park, a cozy community of multimillion dollar estates nestled on the north edge of Dallas, the Village was always decorated for the season, a shopper’s delight for anyone with unlimited funds.

  Opening my car door, I noticed slices of blue sky, a bright sun popping through remnants of last night’s thick layer of fog. I clicked the door lock button on my key chain and hopped onto the sidewalk, live oaks casting splintered shadows on the sidewalk.

  “Hey there, hot stuff.”

  I raised my eyes, a smile already covering my face. Britney was strutting around a cluster of small shops, moving in my direction at a pretty decent clip.

  Without slowing down, she plowed right into my chest, her lips meeting mine. She twisted her body and dug her nails into my back, massaging her moist lips against my face. Finally upright, she giggled at her own playfulness. Looking into radiant eyes that redefined the color blue, my melting heart pounded my chest wall, and I felt something that I’d never felt before.

  “What?” she asked. She popped her eyebrows, then reached around and smacked my ass.

  “Damn, you’re spry today. Hello, by the way.”

  Leaning in, she rested her hands against my chest and gave me a soft smooch. “Hi,” she said in a quiet voice, her eyes locking with mine, shifting to my lips, then back to my eyes.

  I decided to let her know I noticed.

  “Okay, let’s review the outfit of the prettiest girl in Dallas.”

  With a black-and-white-print Gucci bag curled under her arm, she set hands on hips, as her blond locks flitted in the breeze. “Just Dallas? So, if we visit Fort Worth, or you travel for your job, I may not make your top ten?”

  Damn, she took my breath away.

  “Good point. You’d easily make my top five,” I said with extra sarcasm.

  Holding up her arm as if I was about spin her into my arms, I completed my review of her tight outfit.