by Rick Boyer
The Daisy Ducks
A Doc Adams Suspense Novel
Rick Boyer
1986
This book is for two important women;
Charlotte Wade, a special friend, and
Betty Hattan Boyer, magna cum laude,
Phi beta Kappa, and the best mom ever,
who saved time to instill in her children
a love of reading.
There's a race of men that don't lit in,
A race that can't stay still;
So they break the hearts of kith and kin,
And they roam the world at will.
—Robert W. Service,
"The Men Who Don't Fit In"
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The author would like to thank john Boyer, Bill Tapply, and Larry Kessenich for their comments and suggestions in preparing the manuscript.
THE
DAISY DUCKS
SIU LOK'S LOOT
LIATIS ROANTIS is a pit bulldog in human shape.
The stocky Lithuanian fought the Nazis as a teenager. He served with the French Foreign Legion in Indochina at the ill-fated siege of Dien Bien Phu and afterward in the Sudan, French West Africa, and Algeria. In the early sixties he was out of work and joined the U.S. Army. The Cold War had heated up and they needed men with his talents. He took to this line of work naturally.
He returned to Indochina, now called Vietnam, and served three tours. He quit because of America's unwillingness to mount a full-scale military commitment to win the war. He retired and settled in New England to make his living as a martial arts instructor at the Boston YMCU. It was in a beginners' karate course there that I first met him. He is still very good at what he does. He can open your jugular vein with his teeth.
While he was in Southeast Asia, he led a long-range recon team behind enemy lines into Cambodia. They loaded themselves up with supplies and walked far, far into enemy territory. They spied, and reported what they saw by radio. In the dead of night they blew up roads and bridges and supply depots, then vanished, walking softly under that dense canopy in the tropical night.
So much for all that. Except Roantis came to me afterward with an offer: if I could help him find an old army buddy, he'd make me rich.
It'll be a piece of cake, he said.
Right.
1
HOLIDAY TIME! Big party going on at our place.
I was just stopping by the sideboard, pouring myself a big jolt of the Destroyer, when Janice DeGroot oiled past me, cooing. Now there's a pretty lady. All over, I mean.
She looked just terrific, strolling past me in the dark hall. I wanted to grab her and plant one on her. But I had a hunch that that kind of thing would be frowned upon in Concord. Especially by Mary, no slouch herself in the form department. That being the case, you might well ask: why even look at another woman? Because, like the mountain, she's there.
It was almost one, and the gala was in full cry. Guests were swaying on their feet, howling with laughter and good cheer. And, as if a sign from above,Janice stopped right smack underneath the mistletoe. How about that? I snapped a mitt around her waist and drew her over for a chat. She tucked her mouth down into my lower neck. Wet.
"Cut that out," I said.
"Mmmmmm," she sighed. "Kissy-kissy?"
She gave me a quick hard kiss with a lot of suction to it. Very wet. l slid my hand down so it was caressing her flank. She moved her near leg around behind me and inserted her foot in between my shoes, then pressed the inside of her thigh against the inside of mine. It was a brazen and tawdry act. Despicable. It felt like a million bucks.
I sipped my new drink—just what I needed—and eyed the guests. They continued laughing and shouting in small groups. Glancing behind me, I could see the intense gathering that invariably forms in the kitchen. They were discussing the Important Issues like nuclear war, crime, and the Soviet Union. They were deciding what needed to be done about these things that nobody can do anything about. Some of them had even switched to coffee. Saps. Well, it was too late to kick them out.
Nobody noticed the two of us. It was a sign, definitely a sign. I slid my hand down farther until it was resting on the upper portions of her rump. It felt delicious. I walked my fingers down, down, like a tarantula creeping along a branch, until they cupped the shapely ham. Then I felt a bug at my waist. I looked down to see Janice's index finger inside my belt, right near my pelvis. She was wigwagging it. It kind of tickled. She planted another wet one on my neck and let it linger awhile.
"What are you doing after the party?" she purred.
"Stop talking dirty," I said. "You know how I hate it."
"Ohhhh Charlie," she said in a sleepy kitten voice, "you know we've always been close." The finger waggle got more intense. She moved her head and I could smell her hair. Janice seemed to be pulling at me, leading me somewhere. Where indeed? Then I spied the phone closet right underneath the main stair- way. Four feet from where we were standing. Dead ahead. She had it all planned out. I, of course, was merely a bystander. But getting fresh with Janice DeGroot in the phone closet seemed like a splendid and sensible idea at the time. Booze will do that. But then a voice from within cried out. It was the voice of Reason. Of Virtue, and Common Sense. It said: "Watch it, Doc! The game's going too far too fast. Don't be a jerk!"
The voice was heaven-sent, and just in time.
I ignored it.
I disengaged my hand and cranked open the doorknob to the phone booth. All around us was the chuckle and chatter of merrymakers. The house was dim, especially the central hallway where we were standing. Nobody was even glancing in our direction. Janice was busy with my neck again, and I didn't want to keep her waiting.
Inside the phone closet it was dark. I planted a big one on her face. Dee-lish. This was gonna be my night. No question. . . . gonna be my night . . .
The door flew open and the light went on. I blinked in the sudden brightness, like a kid awakened in the dead of night. I turned around and looked at the face staring at me, and my blood went cold. A swarthy Latin face glared in at us. The eyes were intense, and black as obsidian. The general look was piercing and full of death, reminiscent I'm sure of all the hit men who've ever jumped out of shiny black limousines toting violin cases. In southern Italy it's called il malécchio. The Evil Eye. It's how the Godfather looks at you when he kisses your cheek, and you know it's only a matter of days before those big forty-five-caliber slugs will come sailing through your insides. That look can put a crack in the Great Pyramid.
"Hi Mary!" I trilled. "Hiya hon!"
"Ohhhh! Hi Mare!" cooed Janice, wiping her face with her sleeve. "Great party!"
We smiled and gaped at Mary. Janice even managed a little wave: a tiny circular motion with her palm, as if she were polishing a bit of glass. It was cute. We wore the hysterical faces of the condemned. Janice's hand was now placed demurely across my abdomen. Seeing the swift Calabrian eyes dart downward, she removed her hand and placed it on a hip. Mine. Oops.
Mary filled the tiny doorway like the Colossus of Rhodes. She fixed her steely gaze on me.
"I want to talk to you," she said.
"Sure. What about?"
"I think you can guess."
The door slammed and she was gone. Janice stood staring blankly at the door for a few seconds and sighed. Then she squared her shoulders, took a deep breath, and marched out. It was like the final scene from A Tale of Two Cities.
I was alone in the closet and didn't want to leave, knowing what awaited me on the other side of the door. I needed help. I glanced down at the phone and considered calling the police. But Concord's police chief`, Brian Hannon, was at my party, not twenty feet away at that very moment. Also, another law officer was likewise present: Lieutenant Joseph Br
indelli of the Boston State Police. Mary's baby brother. I had a feeling I wouldn't get much help from either quarter. I wanted to stay in the closet, and was contemplating possible barricades and various sleeping positions when the door flew open again. Attila was back.
"Hiya honey. I guess —"
"Don't hiya me!" she hissed. "I saw that vertical foreplay with Janice. And let me tell you —"
"Ah, a momentary lapse, my dear. I assure you that —"
"Shut up! " She looked like Ivan the Terrible on one of his bad days. "You're in trouble, Charlie. Serious trouble. I don't know what's been bugging you lately, but you've been behaving like an adolescent for two months now. I've about had it. I just had a nice talk with Jim and his adorable wife with the nice tail section. You're both going to get it. Jim is looking for you right now—hunting your head. It's doubtful you'll last the night in one piece. Also, your commando friend, Liatis Roantis, just cold-cocked Phil Newcombe in the sunporch."
"He what? "
"You heard me. They got into an argument and Phil took a big swing at Liatis."
"That's not a smart thing to do."
"Come on," she said, taking me by the coat sleeve, "and don't think this lets you off the hook."
"About that. Listen, I —"
"Shut up. You'll hear from me later."
Of this, I had no doubt.
Mary marched me around to the sunporch, where Philip T. Newcombe lay stretched out on his back. He twitched a little and moaned. Well, he was alive at least. You can't say that for some people who've tangled with Liatis Roantis. The crowd around the fallen man murmured and stared at Roantis, who was nonchalantly leaning against the doorjamb. He held a glass of ice cubes in his left hand and a newly opened bottle of Dewar's in his right. He filled the glass carefully and set the bottle down on the record cabinet behind him. He looked absently at the fallen man, who was now getting to his knees.
"Hi Doc," he said.
"What the hell happened?"
"I'll tell you what happened!" cried a shrill voice. It belonged to Marge Newcombe. She advanced toward Roantis, pointing her finger. "This animal attacked my husband and tried to kill him."
"Uh-uh! Not true!" said Jim DeGroot. "Your husband called him a Nazi pig and hit him in the stomach first. Are you forgetting that?"
Marge Newcombe was unimpressed by this tidbit. She went up to Roantis and slapped him hard across the face. It sounded like a rifle shot. Everyone said ohhhhhhhhh! He didn't even blink. Undaunted, she grabbed the Dewar's bottle. I grabbed her arm and replaced the bottle on the cabinet.
"Hold it, Marge. That's good booze. Uh . . . maybe the party better end here. I don't know what's happened, but everyone's a little crazy tonight. Must be a full moon or something. Where's Brian?"
"Here," said a gruff voice to my immediate right. Brian Hannon, Concord's finest (mostly according to him), stood next to me. "Possible assault," he said to me under his breath.
"But the other guy hit him first," I said.
"We'll see. Considering your friend's background and training, I'd call it possible aggravated assault. You know, with a deadly weapon."
Nobody heard us talking because the party was breaking up now, people heading upstairs to get their coats. Marge Newcombe helped her husband to his feet. Newcombe was a florid, heavyset man with strong opinions and a loud manner. Nobody in the neighborhood liked him, and Mary and I had invited them only because we'd invited everyone else on Old Stone Mill Road. Newcombe had made it big as a tire distributor, and two drinks were all it took to get him going on what a hot ticket he was. Two more drinks and his prowess and talent increased in proportion to everyone else's weaknesses and failings. Not a nice guy. It gave me secret pleasure to see him stagger to his feet, his eyes still glazed. He'd had it coming a long, long time.
Apparently he'd been badgering Roantis all evening, making fun of his heavy Lithuanian accent and his short stature. Now it's true that Roantis is not tall. But then, neither is a Gaboon viper. Newcombe now accused Roantis of assault and demanded I call the police. When Chief Hannon informed him that he was the police in this particular town, Newcombe demanded that his assailant be taken into custody. Chief Hannon then advised the plaintiff he would have to file a complaint at the department. Then the remnants of the crowd started throwing in their two cents worth. What a nice ending for a party.
"Mistake, Charlie. Mistake! " said Mary.
"Huh?"
"Inviting him!"
"Who, Newcombe?"
"Him too. But mainly that trained killer. Look at our guests, Charlie. What kind of ending is this for a Christmas party? Oh, why do I ever listen to you!"
Close to tears, she stomped away. I considered the situation. It was a wreck. From across the room Janice stared in my direction with feline eyes. Jim glowered at me. My two sons, Jack and Tony, who'd been promised pocket money for helping to tend bar and clean up, came and went clearing up the glasses, ashtrays, and plates. More and more guests were bidding adieu and donning their winter wraps.
"Hey Doc, I'm asking you a question, " boomed a voice.
"Huh?"
"What are we going to do?" asked Brian Hannon. "You're the host. Can you keep this man here until further notice?"
He was motioning toward Roantis, who hadn't moved. He stood like stone against the doorway woodwork.
"If he wants to stay, he's welcome. Personally, I wouldn't try to move him. Mr. Newcombe, are you going ahead with your complaint?"
"Damn right!" he bellowed, buttoning his sport coat. He rubbed the side of his jaw and grimaced as he started for the door. ‘
"I would advise you to reconsider," I said, looking at Roantis, "But we'll stay here until two. If we don't get a call from you before then, Brian, I'll assume he's free to go, okay?"
"He doesn't have to stay at all, but we'd appreciate it. Now Mr. Newcombe, I'm going home. I'm going to sleep. If you feel you must register a complaint, you're going to have to drive to the station yourself. Goodnight everyone. Thanks Doc. Where's Mary?"
"Out milking the elk."
"Well, thank her too."
People dribbled out. Some even bothered to say they were sorry that the evening had terminated as it had. I felt a soft touch along my lower back and turned to see Janice and Jim departing. Jim deliberately looked away from me. Janice leaned over and pecked my cheek. She whispered into my ear.
"I'm getting a nasty lecture when I get home. How about you?"
"I am home, dummy. And I think I'm due for a lecture too. Actually, I was hoping this fracas would dispel some of the anger. We've got to stop this stuff you know."
"Nah. We've just got to start doing it right. A cheap motel for a nooner. The whole shot. Right?"
"What're you two talking about?" growled Jim.
"Nothing, love," said Janice, gaily tripping her way down the hall stairs to the front door landing. I saw the last of the guests off. No doubt Janice's little kidding toward the end was meant to cheer me up. It did not. A beefy paw latched onto my shoulder and spun me around. It was Detective Lieutenant Joseph Brindelli.
"You're in trouble."
"Don't I know it. Hey Joe, listen: why don't you stay awhile and have another drink? Maybe you and Mary could —"
"Have a talk? And I could get my sister to forgive you? No way, pal. I grew up with her. When Sis gets mad you can clear the decks. Besides, I've got an early day tomorrow. I'm gonna feel had enough as it is. Good luck, Doc. Believe me, you're going to need it. Arrivederla."
l started back toward the porch and was intercepted by my second son, Tony, who was hauling a dozen glasses back to the kitchen. He stopped and regarded me as one regards a wounded soldier returning to the front.
"You're in trouble, Dad."
"Do tell."
"What did you do?"
"Nothing really. It was a misunderstanding."
"Hell it was," said number one son, jack, who entered stage left bearing a pile of dirty ashtrays. "You were necking with Mrs. De
Groot in the hall corner. Tacky, Dad. You're in a lot of trouble."
"I know, I know."
I returned to the porch and found Roantis leaning against one of the windows. I thought for a second he was feeling sick. Lord knows, with all the booze he'd drunk—neat, mind you—he should feel woozy. But I noticed he had cupped his hands around his face to block out the room light. He was looking out the window, searching for something.
"You okay, Liatis?"
"Hm? Oh yeah. Fine."
He walked over to the card table and sat down. He shook out a Camel from an almost flat pack, flicked open a shiny Zippo lighter, and lit it. The lighter had a silver and blue crest on it of a winged arm holding a dagger. Underneath were words in French. It was the battle insignia of the French Foreign Legion. Roantis opened a deck of cards and began to shuffle. The cigarette rested between the middle and ring lingers of his left hand, deep in, toward the palm. It stayed there automatically, an appendage. The hands were what palm readers call "earth hands." Straight across the knuckles, straight across the fingertips, with hardly any difference in linger length. Palms squarish. Average size. Earth hands, the palmists say, denote a person with minimum sensitivity and a strongly practical outlook. Such people are supposed to make good middle managers, staff sergeants, and craftsmen. That would fit Roantis, I thought.
The hands didn't look menacing. Only an expert, or one familiar with lighting, would notice the bulbous calcified knobs on the oversized knuckles. Only when shaking hands were you conscious of the horny ridge of callus that ran up the side of the hand from the little finger to the wrist. These were hands that had severed windpipes, broken sternums, mashed jaws, gouged eyes, torn scrotums, splintered collarbones, and fractured skulls.
Just your little old average pair of mitts . . .
They floated in front of my eyes now, snapping the cards down on the poker table's green felt top. Roantis said nothing. He took a drag of his cigarette and a long pull from his tumbler of straight Scotch, then looked up.
"Wanta play gin?"
"No."
"Wanta drink gin?"
"No. I'll have Scotch."
