Dev Haskell Box Set 8-14 (Dev Haskell - Private Investigator)

by Mike Faricy

  “You know, Stella is actually a Belgian product.”

  A blank look washed over her face.

  “Yeah, brewed in the city of Leuven, I think since the late twenties. It’s part of the Budweiser family now-a-days.”

  “Budweiser?”

  “Yup, capitalism at it’s best,” I said and raised my glass in a toast. Natasha appeared too shocked to respond.

  After a long, quiet moment she changed the subject. “I wanted to thank you for interrupting your walk yesterday evening.”

  “Not a problem.”

  “I fear I could have been just a little more gracious last night.”

  “No, no you were great. I’m just glad there wasn’t a major incident in the end.”

  She smiled, took a sip and set her glass down on the table.

  “So tell me about your business, a Private Investigator, it must be very exciting.”

  “Sorry to disappoint,” I said. “Actually, it’s quite boring. Just today I spent hours online and on the phone checking work experience references listed on a stack of resumes. The word dull doesn’t even begin to cover it.”

  “But you must get involved in some exciting situations investigating crimes, gangsters, murders and that sort of thing.”

  “Actually, no. Most of that type of business would fall under the heading of Police Work. If there was some sort of crime committed I might be hired by a defense attorney to get a second pair of eyes looking at something. If that’s the case, nine times out of ten what I find usually corresponds to the official findings.”

  “Do you always carry a gun?”

  “No, in fact I left it locked up at home tonight.”

  “How thoughtful,” she said not sounding all that sincere. “Tell me, do you ever provide protection?”

  “I have, on a few occasions. Most often it’s in the form of an event rather than extended protection for a specific individual. Someone comes to town and they need a local guy to get them to and from a place. Maybe ensure they don’t get hassled by reporters or fans, something like that.”

  “What is it you do in that case?”

  “Oh, I don’t know, just use common sense, make sure I try and keep a low profile, maybe take the occasional back way into some place.”

  “How long have you had your dog?” she asked glancing at Morton chewing the toe on my shoe.

  “Oh, Morton He’s not really mine. I’m just watching him while a friend is out of town for a couple of days.”

  “Just a couple of days?”

  “Yeah, bit of a medical emergency in the family. She’ll be back probably late tomorrow or the next day.”

  “Oh, a girlfriend? Partner? Sorry am I being too inquisitive?”

  “No, no and no,” I replied.

  “Then we should talk,” she said and took a large swallow of wine.

  Chapter Twelve

  “I’ve an inordinate amount of time and money invested in Princess Anastasia,” she said. This was after she’d been going on at length about the dog’s blood lines, the schools Princess Anastasia had attended, the past couple years worth of dog shows all across North America that they had competed in and won. Not to mention the reporters, potential advertisers, breeders and movie producers who were begging her for a contract and a piece of the princess action.

  “Is that why Tommy Allesi was here last night, he wanted to make a movie about your dog?”

  “I’m afraid not,” she said using a dismissive Ivy League tone. “Through some sort of unfortunate circumstance, which I must admit I don’t fully comprehend, Mr. Allesi has assumed a one-thirty-second percent share in Princess Anastasia. He was here in an attempt to persuade me to withdraw our entry in the Blessington Kennel Club show.”

  “And how did that work?” I asked setting my empty glass on the tray next to the three empty beer bottles.

  “I believe the behavior you witnessed was the result of my rejecting his request. It would appear Mr. Allesi is an individual who is used to having his own way.”

  “You mean, just because you intend to compete in some dog show, he went off the deep end?”

  “Precisely.”

  “Blessington Kennel Club, where’s that?”

  There was a long pause before she answered. “The show is here, in town, actually, it’s held at the Xcel Center.” She said that last bit in a tone that suggested everyone in town except me would automatically know this fact.

  “No shit?”

  “Yes, Mr. Haskell, no shit, as you so aptly put it,” she said then flashed an insincere, broad smile for just the briefest moment.

  “And you’d like me to do what, exactly?”

  “I’d like you to make sure no one interferes while we work during this final week. The show begins in just six days and we’ll have no further need of your services at that point. I fully intend to win best of show with Princess Anastasia.”

  At the sound of her name Morton’s head bobbed up.

  “I really don’t know.”

  “Perhaps if you gave the matter some thought, Mr. Haskell. I don’t need an answer this minute. Maybe sleep on it, unless, perhaps you’d care to remain here and see what develops?” she said raising an eyebrow and smiling.

  “I’ll sleep on it and give you an answer in the morning.”

  “Does my directness offend? Perhaps shock you, sir?”

  “No, it’s just that I….”

  “I’ve always found the events leading up to a competition extremely stressful. This competition, the Blessington, is no exception. It has been my experience that the sexual act can serve as an extremely effective stress release. Does that offend you, Mr. Haskell? Perhaps make you uncomfortable?”

  “No, not really,”

  “A woman speaking of sex, Mr. Haskell, of intercourse, does that give you pause?”

  “Hunh?”

  “The act of coitus, Mr. Haskell. The physical union of male and female genitalia accompanied by rhythmic movements usually leading to ejaculation on your part and orgasmic pleasure on mine if you know what you’re doing, does that bother you in some way, Mr. Haskell?”

  “I guess I’ve never really felt bothered, at least that I can recall.”

  “No doubt,” she said and flashed another one of her nanosecond smiles. “Very well, to all things there is a purpose. Thank God for batteries,” she seemed to half say to herself then raised her glass and drained it. “I shall await your call tomorrow. Please consider my offer.” She stood up and held out her hand to shake.

  “Yeah, I’ll think about it and call you in the morning. You know, about the protection thing.”

  “Excellent. I can offer you employment along with a rather unique benefit package, she winked. “Well, good night, Mr. Haskell.”

  “Please call me, Dev.”

  “Very well, Devlin, good night,” she said then walked into her mansion, closed the door firmly behind her and then we heard the lock click. Morton and I stood there alone on the front porch. A moment later the overhead porch light went off, and then the lights in the fancy room that looked out onto the porch were turned off.

  Morton and I were alone in the dark with the empty bottles. For half a second I thought about stealing the silver tray, but the odds were I’d never get away with it. Morton gave me a look that seemed to say, ‘Don’t be stupid,’ so we just started to head home.

  Chapter Thirteen

  It was a G class Mercedes, dark blue not black, sporting some kind of fancy chrome wheel rims. I think the car went for somewhere north of a hundred grand. It had driven past us three times now, circling a couple of blocks and passing again, slowing down ever so slightly to check us out. The windows were tinted so I couldn’t see who was in there.

  We turned the corner at Summit and Arundel to walk the four blocks down Arundel over to Selby and home. It was dark now, close to ten o’clock. Morton was at my side and behaving, for the moment.

  I saw the Mercedes sitting about a block ahead under a street light that was ou
t. It was parked on the same side of the street that we were walking on. Arundel dead ends at the parking lot we cut across to get home. It’s not like it’s a busy thoroughfare, it’s more the kind of street you’d be on only if you had business there. I had a bad feeling we might be tonight’s particular business for the guy in the Mercedes.

  When we were about a half block away from the car I crossed the street so we’d be on the opposite side. I kept walking, thinking maybe I was being just a little too paranoid. That thought stopped the moment the doors opened up on the Mercedes and two guys climbed out.

  They were large, way larger than me, either one probably came in at double my weight and looked like they hadn’t missed too many meals. At the moment, the one coming out the passenger side looked to be eating a large submarine sandwich wrapped in paper. Neither one appeared to be in what I’d call tip-top physical shape.

  “Excuse me, sir, I wonder if you might help us, we seem to be lost,” the driver called, he wore one of the largest black T-shirts I’d ever seen. He appeared neckless, had thinning ginger colored hair with pork chop side burns. He looked an awful lot like the Fat Bastard character from the Austin Powers movies and after he spoke he reached into the back seat and pulled out a baseball bat which he proceeded to swing slowly from side to side. I had trouble believing he’d be able to run to first base, let alone make it all the way around to home plate.

  “Sorry, but I’m not from around here,” I said and picked up our pace.

  Morton’s head perked up as Fat Bastard cut between two parked cars. He continued to swing the baseball bat back and forth and wore an evil grin on his face. His pal behind him wore a Hawaiian print shirt roughly the size of a table cloth, powder blue with large red flowers the size of dinner plates. As he waddled across the street he took another large bite from his submarine sandwich and seemed to chuckle at my response.

  Fat Bastard suddenly wobbled forward and swung the bat at me, wide, missing by a good six inches which to my way of thinking was still too close.

  Morton looked up for the first time, noticed the sandwich in the other guys hand and leapt toward him. “Get the hell out of here,” he shouted and kicked at Morton.

  Morton jumped back, in the process wrapping his leash around Fat Bastard’s massive legs. He swung the bat at Morton and missed, strike two. Morton jumped for the sandwich again this time knocking it out of the guy’s hand.

  As he jumped the leash pulled tight and Fat Bastard suddenly went down with a groan. His forehead bounced off the concrete sidewalk, I felt the ground shudder when he hit and then he just lay there, very still.

  Morton immediately began to gobble up the sandwich on the curb. I grabbed the bat off the sidewalk and headed for the Hawaiian shirt backing up into the street.

  “Now just hold on there a minute, buddy. We weren’t gonna really hurt you or anything. I’m sure Denis was only kidding,” he said glancing at the massive figure face down on the ground. He raised his hands in an effort to plead his case, apparently trying to calm me down at the same time. It wasn’t working.

  “You follow us for the past twenty minutes and then come after me with a damn baseball bat.” I gave him a quick jab in his massive beer belly and backed him up a few feet.

  “You try to kick my dog.” I jabbed him again backing him up a couple more steps. He attempted to swat the bat away, but he was too slow and I poked him again, hard.

  “I think we might have made a mistake, pal. I’m sorry, about that, really I am.”

  “Seems to me like you weren’t being very friendly,” I said then faked a jab to his beer belly, he flung his arm wide to the right, opening up. I swung the bat low and caught him across the kneecap.

  He was suddenly down on his back in the middle of the street moaning and rolling from side to side. “Ahhh-hhhh, oh God, sweet Jesus,” he groaned.

  I walked over to the Mercedes and opened the driver’s door. The keys were still in the ignition and the alarm gave off a classical music tone.

  Morton was finished with the sandwich and wandered out into the street, dragging his leash. He stopped to sniff the guy holding his knee, rolling back and forth.

  “Come on, Morton, come on up, boy.” I called then indicated the open car door.

  “Oh, no, no, you can’t do that, come on. That’s not really our car, we borrowed it from, from a friend,” the guy in the street called then groaned some more through gritted teeth.

  “Nice talking to you, enjoy your evening,” I said then tossed the bat into the back seat, climbed behind the wheel and we took off.

  Chapter Fourteen

  I pulled the Mercedes into my garage then backed my car up the driveway and against the garage door. Once in the house I slipped the pistol into my belt, opened up a beer and some Bar-B-Que potato chips then flaked out on the couch in front of the flat screen. Morton took up his position on the floor next to the couch and gave me the sad eye routine.

  “Okay, okay, I’ll get you a bowl and you can have some of these as a reward for taking that guy out tonight.” I went out to the kitchen and put some chips in a bowl for Morton then went back into the den. My beer bottle was on its side, empty. Morton had licked all the beer up off the floor and just sat there giving me an innocent look.

  “Pals don’t do that, Morton,” I said, giving him the bowl of chips before I went back out to the kitchen for another beer.

  I woke the following morning just before eight. After sleeping on the couch all night I felt like a bent piece of plumbing. I sat up and rolled my shoulders and neck, listening to my body snap and crackle. Morton remained asleep.

  I picked up the empty chip bag, collected the beer bottles and headed out to the kitchen. I was halfway through my first mug of coffee before Morton showed up. He did a long stretch in the middle of the kitchen then headed for the back door. I filled a travel mug with coffee and grabbed the leash.

  We didn’t walk for Maddie’s prescribed hour, it was more like ten minutes before we were back in the kitchen. Morton didn’t look all that thrilled when I filled his bowl with healthy dog food instead of Bar-B-Que potato chips.

  “Don’t look at me like that. We got your shrink appointment this afternoon so we better get you back on good behavior. We might have to stop and see Princess Anastasia though, after your appointment,” I said.

  Morton moved his head from side to side in time to his wagging tail.

  “Well, I’ll give you this much, you’ve got good taste in girls, pal.”

  We finished breakfast and just on a whim, after our little incident last night, I brought my AR-15 out and placed it in the trunk of my car then drove down to the office. Morton was curled up in front of the file cabinet while I used the binoculars to check out the third floor apartment across the street. Based on the body language it looked like the two roommates weren’t the best of friends this morning. There seemed to be words exchanged with heads wagging back and forth in an “I told you so” manner. When one of the girls turned around to get into the refrigerator her roommate stuck out her tongue and gave her the finger. Unfortunately, they were both dressed.

  Louie suddenly came through the door and headed for the coffee pot.

  “That’s all you’ve accomplished this morning, window peeking?”

  “It’s a particular skill I’ve developed. Besides, I got a gig.”

  “You’re kidding, doing what?”

  “Don’t sound so surprised, I’ll be providing protection, for a full week as a matter of fact.”

  “Seriously? Hey, that’s great, anyone I know?”

  “Princess Anastasia,” I said. At the sound of her name Morton raised his head and began to wag his tail, it sounded like a base drum beating against the file cabinet.

  “Princess? Where the hell is she from? Sounds Eastern European.”

  “No, French, actually. I told you about the trouble the other night where I sort of stepped in. That basically got me the gig. In fact, she just made the offer last night. I’m gonna gi
ve her a call and let her know I’ll do it.”

  “You didn’t mention anything about royalty. French? Really, is she good looking?”

  “I suppose you could say so.”

  “And this was on that front porch the other night? With Tommy Allesi?”

  “It wasn’t much, really. Which reminds me, I better make a phone call now that I think about it, I’ve got to check something out.”

  Louie shuffled back to his picnic table desk while I punched in numbers on my cellphone.

  Chapter Fifteen

  “Thank you for calling the Department of Motor Vehicles, how may I direct your call?”

  “Donna at extension four-one-three, please.”

  “One moment and I’ll connect you.”

  I waited two rings before she answered. “This is Donna, how may I help you?” She sounded fairly professional, maybe even cheery on a good day.

  “Hi, Donna this is Dev Haskell.”

  Silence.

  “Hello?”

  “I thought you were finished with this sort of harassment,” she hissed.

  “I just need you to check the registration on a license for me.”

  “I’ve told you before, but this time I really mean it. This has got to be the final time, I think I’ve been more than patient and you have certainly gotten more than your pound of flesh from me.”

  “Maybe. Of course that hardly even begins to stack up when compared to all the action you got. I suppose we could check with the Governor’s office, see how they feel about a state employee, now a supervisor no less, shacking up with a college intern. Course if the Governor was busy I suppose I could just call your husband.”

  “That’s always your answer, isn’t it?” she whispered.

  “Then why do you even bother to ask?”

  “Just give me the license number.”

  I gave her the license number of the Mercedes parked in my garage. “Do you want to just email me that information?”

  “Oh please, the last thing I need is an audit trail leading to the likes of you. I’ll have it up in just … here we go, all right, that’s a dark blue G class Mercedes, 2015?”