by John Holt
The Candy Man
John Holt
Phoenix Publishing – Essex - UK
© John Holt – February 2015
CONDITIONS OF SALE
John Holt has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1998 to be identified as the author of this work.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, scanning, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review to be printed in a newspaper, magazine or journal.
This book has been sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
Printing History
This Edition was published by Phoenix, Essex, UK, in February 2015
ISBN
ISBN 978-1-326-19601-1
Preface
The story that follows is totally fictitious. It is a story, nothing more and nothing less. All places and persons included in the story are totally imaginary, and any similarity to actual persons alive or dead, is totally co-incidental, and unintentional.
* * *
I am grateful to Lauren Ridley, Cherryloco Jewellery for allowing me to base the Phoenix logo on her design.
Once again my sincere thanks go to Michael and Barbara Morton for their un-tiring work in checking the formatting of the manuscript.
John Holt
Candyman - noun
a person who sells or supplies illegal drugs
Dictionary.com's 21st Century Lexicon
Copyright © 2003-2014 Dictionary.com, LLC
* * *
The term The Candy Man –is a noun phrase meaning:
A narcotics supplier; a pusher; a peddler (1960s Narcotics)
-
The Dictionary of American Slang, Fourth Edition by
Barbara Ann Kipfer, PhD. and Robert L. Chapman, Ph.D.
Copyright (C) 2007 by HarperCollins Publishers.
Chapter One
Jerry’s Bar
I’m just sitting here at my desk, in my office, wondering how I ever got into this situation anyway, ‘the how and the why?’ You know. As for ‘the who’, well I know the answer to that question well enough.
It’s getting late, it’s getting dark, and I’m getting cold. I really need to put on the lights, and put on the electric heater, but I’m either too weary or just too lazy, to get up, walk over and flick the switches.
So exactly how did it happen? Something to do with stupidity I guess, or was I just not thinking straight. Oh certainly it was that alright, but what else? Curiosity, I guess. Oh definitely it was curiosity, no question about that. What do they say about curiosity anyway? Curiosity and something about a cat, wasn’t it? It can get you into a whole mess of trouble, that’s what they say, it can even kill you.
That’s the trouble with being a private eye. Yes that’s correct, you heard right, I’m a private detective, that’s what I said. That’s me, private detective badge number five-oh-seven, registered with the New York Police Department.
You know the kind of thing we do, checking up on the wayward husband, you know the one with the roving eye who is playing around; or looking for the missing wife. Or perhaps it’s keeping tabs on some low-life hood; a blackmailer maybe, or a plain old-fashioned thief, or in this case a drug dealer, the Candy Man.
So as I say that’s the trouble with being a private eye, you are forever butting your nose into places where it shouldn’t go. Surveillance they call it, that’s the technical term these days, but to you and me it’s plain old fashion spying. What with listening devices, they call them bugs, and security cameras, it’s all around you. You get used to it though. It becomes a way of life almost. After a while it comes quite natural to you, requiring no conscious thought whatever. It’s automatic, like breathing, or eating, although not quite as enjoyable. It’s a habit that I just can’t break. I just can’t help it.
* * *
And to think that just a few short hours ago – twenty-four to be exact - I was minding my own business having a drink, or three in a bar, sheltering from the rain. All that was on my mind right there and then was wrapping up the case I was working on; then a pizza from Mama Dells, or a Chinese takeaway. Put my feet up, a large scotch in my hand, and then put on some records, John Lee Hooker or some Big Bill Broonzy.
Okay so that was my night planned. Funny how things don’t always turn out the way you want them to. Have you noticed that? What do they say, the best laid plans of mice and men often go wrong. So I haven’t got it quite right, so sue me. It’s something like that anyway. It means that no matter how well you plan something, you should always expect the unexpected. In other words, just because you think you've done all you can for something to go right, something can still go wrong, and your plans can all get messed up. There’s always a Joker in the pack, remember.
By the way the name’s Daniels, Jack Daniels, just like the whiskey. I should have introduced myself sooner. I’m thirty eight years old, and should have known better. Normally, I’d be more careful, more aware, but this time I made every mistake in the book. I even made some that weren’t in the book. Okay so we all make mistakes. Yes even you, there’s no use in denying it. What do they say? Anyone who doesn’t make a mistake doesn’t make anything. Yes I know that’s not exactly right either, but its close enough. You knew what I meant anyway, didn’t you?
* * *
So there I was, making my way along Collingwood, just past Kings. I’d just finished a stake out over on Forty-ninth and Larskspur, at the Carlton Hotel to be precise. Ever been there? No, me neither. At two hundred and fifty per night, excluding breakfast, it’s a wonder I was even allowed into the lobby. But hey, I digress. Now where was I? Oh yes, I remember, the Carlton Hotel.
Anyway, I now had all the evidence I needed for my client, a certain Mrs. Amanda Walker. You may have heard of her. Socialite, married to shipping magnate, Denis Walker, currently seeking to get a divorce. You don’t know her, no matter. As I said, I now have all the evidence she needs. Dates, times, places, and photographs, lots of photographs. This, together with sworn statements from the receptionist, and the bell hop, from the hotel, was proof enough that her husband was doing her wrong, big time, and no mistake.
Nice work if you can get it, I guess, but it was going to cost the guy plenty. I wondered if the lady friend was actually worth it.
All I had to do now was get back to the office, print off the pictures, make copies of the statements, and it would all be over bar the shouting. I’d deliver them in the morning. She gets her divorce, with a six figure settlement, and a house in the Bahamas, or somewhere equally exotic, and I get a nice fat pay check. The guy gets a kick in the wallet, and maybe he will think twice before he does anything like that again.
So the surveillance, and tailing the guy, paid off. Not a very fancy way of spending the day I hear you say, in fact you might say it was a bit shabby, a bit underhanded. Spying on a fellow human being like that, invading their privacy. Maybe it is, but hey it’s a living, and sadly in this wicked
old world somebody has to do it. I like to think that I provide a valuable service. It pays the bills, and keeps food on the table, and a roof over my head, so I’m not knocking it. What more do you need?
* * *
I was just about three blocks from where I’d parked the car when the heavens opened up and the rain started. Within seconds it was coming down pretty heavy, and me without a top coat. I was getting wet, and I was getting cold. Then the thunder and lightning started. It wasn’t going to go away in a hurry that was sure. So I decide to go into a bar, Jerry’s. At least I found out later that it was called Jerry’s, but it could have been Mike’s or Flannigans, or any of those other names, who knows they are all alike. You know the kind of thing, dark and dusty, full of cigarette smoke, and smelling of sweat and alcohol.
It was too late for the commuter crowd - you know ‘the one for the road’ guys before they hurried for their train home. And it was far too early for the evening clientele. They were still having dinner, and deciding where they were going that evening. I wasn’t complaining. I hate crowds. Even so there was still a few shivering souls sheltering from the rain, or maybe they were just keeping away from home just a little longer, for some reason.
I took a seat by the bar and ordered a scotch and water, very little water. On the television was the big game, the one they had been talking about for weeks, Baltimore against Miami. Obviously it was a major news item, although it meant nothing to me. I wasn’t a great sports fan.
“What’s the score?” I asked not really interested, but trying to be sociable. After all it didn’t cost anything to be friendly did it?
“Baltimore twenty-eight,” the barkeep replied as he poured the drink, about as disinterested as I was. “Miami twenty-two.”
Clearly conversation was not the first thing on Jerry’s mind, and maybe being friendly did incur a charge after all. I picked up my drink. Jerry, if indeed that was his name, went back to wiping down the counter. At the far end two guys were trying to get service. Jerry decided to keep them waiting and started to wipe the counter even harder. I watched for a while, and then stood up and took my drink over to one of the side booths.
Somebody had left a newspaper behind. I spread it out on the table. The front page story was another of those seemingly endless battles between the Senate and the White House, that left you wondering just who was in charge of the country. The answer was apparently everybody thought they were, when in reality nobody actually was.
I turned to the inside pages. The news was no better. Prices were going up, salaries going down. There had been another car bomb explosion in Iraq, and more talk of Britain leaving the European Union. Big deal I thought, as I closed the paper and tossed it on to the next table.
There was a sudden roar from the television. Clearly somebody had scored. I couldn’t care less who it was. I’d already forgotten who was playing. I drained my glass, looked over at the bar and caught Jerry’s eye. I signaled for another round. He nodded, and continued wiping the counter. Much more of that rubbing, and he would wipe the plastic covering right away.
I was just thinking about recovering the newspaper when Jerry arrived with my refill.
“Baltimore twenty-eight, Miami twenty-three,” he said, by way of explanation for the loud roar. He placed the drink on the table, turned, and headed back towards the bar.
“Has it stopped raining yet?” I called out.
He shrugged, and shook his head. “Heavier than ever,” he replied, and continued walking. I looked at my watch. It was just after seven. It looked like I was going to be here a bit longer yet. I wanted to get back to the office, and get those pictures printed. The sooner my client got them the sooner I got paid. But already my plans for the evening were being stymied.
The door suddenly opened with a loud crash, and two men came in, both very wet, confirming that it was indeed still raining. The planned double cheeseburger was beginning to fade. I wondered if Jerry did meals. I looked around. There was no evidence that he did. It didn’t look promising. The two men walked to the counter. I idly wondered how long it would be before they got served.
* * *
Three drinks later, the rain had stopped. It was a quarter after eight. I decided to leave the office until the following day. Something to eat sounded like a good idea though. I decided on the full works at Mama Dell’s just down the street. Okay so it was bad for you, so was smoking, so was living. Nobody ever survived that one. One day it would kill you. In the meantime a pizza and fries sounded like a good idea, Chicken, and ham, topped with mozzarella, sweet peppadew peppers, spices, red onions, and tomatoes, and …. Well you get the idea.
I stood up, signaled across to Jerry, gave a wave and walked towards the door. Jerry was far too busy wiping the counter to notice.
* * *
Chapter Two
A Damsel In Distress
It was as I came out of the bar, that’s when I saw her for the first time. She stepped out from the shadows of a doorway, where she had been sheltering from the rain. She walked straight out in front of me, not taking any notice of where she was going. Not looking to the left, or to the right. I almost ran into her. She never even noticed me.
If only I had stayed in Jerry’s for just one more drink; or if only I had left five minutes earlier; or if only I had turned to the left instead of to the right coming out of the bar, it could have all been so different.
If only? How many times have you said that in your life? Hundreds of times I guess, thousands maybe. I know I have. If only I had done that, instead of this. If only I had gone there instead of here. Two little words that are so significant, so judgmental, telling us what we should have done when it was far too late to do anything about it anyway.
We can all be wise after the event can’t we, when the consequences of our actions are glaringly obvious. But we can never turn back the clock can we? We can never undo what we have done, can we? Sorry, I’m getting a bit too deep. Let’s just skip that last part shall we. It never happened.
Okay so I saw her, what about it? I could have walked by, couldn’t I? So why didn’t I? Dozens of other people walked straight past her. They never even gave her a glance. So why me, why did I stop? Nobody was forcing me to stop were they? There was no one pushing me in her direction. There wasn’t a sign with a pointing arrow, saying ‘this way.’ So you tell me.
Perhaps it was because she looked like she was crying. I’m a sucker for women crying. I hate to see it, I just can’t handle it. I just have to help, you know.
Or maybe it was because she was good looking. Trim figure, nice face, sensitive you know. Five feet four or thereabouts, hundred and ten I guessed. Age, about twenty-five, or twenty-six, maybe. Auburn color shoulder length hair, and blue eyes. Yes you would certainly say that she was good looking, no doubt about that. A good enough reason for stopping you might think. Well who’s arguing? Not me.
Or maybe it was the blood-staining on her coat that caught my attention. I tend to notice things like that. Comes from the years of training I guess.
My mother had always told me to be careful of strange women. Funny, I remember that now, but at the time the thought never entered my head. Besides I’d seen much stranger looking women in my time. Some had been downright odd. Take my ex-wife for example. Just kidding, Annie.
Okay so I’m no Saint George, and I don’t have a white charger, and there were no dragons around, but she struck me as being a damsel in distress, and in need of my help.
The mistakes were already beginning to mount up.
So she starts to walk towards the corner. I follow, a few paces behind. Well it’s on my way you understand. So where’s the harm in that? She’s about ten yards from the corner when she stumbles and falls against a street light. So she stumbles, what about it? Did that mean I had to stop, that I had to see how she was? I’m no paramedic. What do I know? What would I do in a real medical emergency? Panic I guess.
I could have just walked on couldn’t I? I could hav
e crossed the Street, or maybe just turned around and went the other way. She would never have known, and I guess ma would have been real proud of me.
Do I do any of those things? Walk away, cross the Street, or walk past. No, I mount my trusty white steed, and run to where she is leaning against the light column. No bones broken as far as I could see, but she doesn’t look too good, not that I’m any kind of an expert you understand. And wouldn’t you know it. It starts with the rain again.
Now at this point anyone with half a brain would have simply called 911, or taken her to the local hospital emergency room, or maybe just walked away. After all I ain’t no Good Samaritan. But I do none of these things. More of those mistakes I mentioned earlier I hear you say.
There’s a patrol car coming along right now. I could just step off the sidewalk, and wave it down. And that would be that.
“Officer I saw her fall, right there, right in front of me. Take care of her will you. Bye.”
Here it comes, another hundred yards, and it would be all over. So what’s stopping me? That blood-staining maybe or is it simply my curiosity?
Do I stop the patrol car? No I don’t. Instead I hail a cab and I help her inside. “222 Ashby,” I instruct the driver. She starts to protest, but I place my finger across her lips, and shake my head. “It’s alright,” I said. “There’s no need to worry.”
Famous last words.
As we pulled away a flash of lightning lit up the sky, followed by the loudest thunder clap I had ever heard. Signs of a storm to come.
* * *
Ten minutes later we pulled up outside of a four storey Victorian building that goes by the fancy name of “222 Ashby Gardens.” This is home to Jack Daniels, Private Detective. That is to say, room 304 Ashby Gardens is home. As for the gardens, well maybe back a few thousand years ago, when the building was first put up, maybe then there were gardens. I don’t know, acres of them maybe, but now there wasn’t a hint of greenery to be seen anywhere. There wasn’t a single blade of grass. There wasn’t even a window box. Still the building served its purpose. It was cheap, and it was convenient, and, by the way, did I say, it was cheap.
