by John Holt
Trouble In Mind
John Holt
Phoenix Publishing – Essex - UK
© John Holt – April 2015
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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 April 2015
ISBN
978-1-326-23437-9
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, from Cherryloco Jewellery for allowing me to base the Phoenix logo on her design.
John Holt
Chapter One
Trouble In Mind
I guess you’re the same as me. Most people are I think. Do you get anxious for no apparent reason? Stressed? Worried? Do you sometimes get the feeling that things aren’t going to go right, you know, not the way you planned. Or the way you had hoped. Maybe you panic a little. You took a wrong turn somewhere along the way. Things are going decidedly badly. And you don’t know why. You can’t actually put your finger on anything in particular. Or maybe you do know why, but maybe there’s nothing you can do about it anyway.
Do you ever feel like that? I know I do, quite often. Something to do with insecurity I guess. Sure it’s just a feeling I know that, you know that, but you can’t shift it, can you? No matter what you do, it just won’t go away. It hangs around, and just nags at you. Twisting and turning it just eats into you, with no let up. It gets into you and takes over. Nothing else seems to matter. Logically you know it’s wrong, but logic has got nothing to say about it.
As Sam Lightnin’ Hopkins would say “You’ve got trouble in mind.”
Trouble in mind, I'm blue
I've almost lost my mind
Sometimes I feel like livin', and again I feel like dyin'
Well I got that feeling again just today. Only it wasn’t just a feeling, and it wasn’t for no apparent reason. There were plenty of reasons, good ones, believe me.
By the way the name’s Daniels, Jack Daniels, and I’m a private detective. And who is Lightnin’ Hopkins, I hear you ask. Well he came from a small town, Centerville, Texas, and he is only one of the greatest blues singers of all times, and that’s not just my opinion. Trust me.
* * *
Some weeks back I finished a job I was working on. A surveillance job, you know the kind of thing, butting my nose into someone’s private affairs. Snooping if you like, alright have it your way, it was spying. Okay so it’s not very nice, I grant you, but neither is cheating on your wife. Yeah, that’s what I said, cheating on your wife. That’s what the guy was doing. What do you think now? Changed your mind have you? Anyways, we can’t all have nice jobs, where we never get our hands dirty can we? Don’t forget it’s a wicked world out there you know, with a lot of nasty people, and someone has to do the dirty work.
Okay so I’d got my photographs, and I’ve got the necessary statements. Proof enough of the guy’s cheating. I’d made copies and delivered them to my client, a certain Mrs. Amanda Walker, the mistreated wife, together with my bill. And you know what? I’m still waiting on the check. So it’s only been a few weeks, well four to be exact, so why am I worrying so much you might think. Maybe she’s away somewhere, maybe taking a little holiday. Mexico maybe, Acapulco is supposed to be good this time of year. Or perhaps a cruise around the Bahamas is more her thing. As for me I’ll pick Mexico every time, over the cruise. If only, I hear you say, yeah, you and me both.
Or perhaps she was in a traffic accident and is now lying in a hospital somewhere, heavily strapped up, and not able to speak, her legs in traction. She’s rigged up to all of those wires and dials, and they take her blood pressure every five seconds. She’s suffering, the painkillers aren’t helping, and she’s facing a whole string of operations. Do I care? I mean, she’s in agony, and what am I doing? I’m worrying about a few lousy dollars, that’s what.
Well its twenty-five thousand lousy dollars to be exact.
But I have to tell you I don’t think she’s in a hospital, and I don’t think she’s on a holiday anywhere. In fact I know so. I’m not a betting man, but I’d lay odds. You see, I gave her a call.
“That number has not been recognized,” a mechanical voice announced smugly. “Please check and dial again.” Sometimes I wonder if it really is a recorded message, or a real person, with an odd voice, taking great delight that you are having trouble. Whatever, I checked the number and tried again, it was the same result. I checked a third time. Guess what? Yeah, you’re right, same result.
I’ve just been for a little drive, just a few blocks you know, not too far. I went to the address that she had given me, One-one-four Sycamore. Do you know it? I’m telling you if you’ve never been there, don’t bother. Oh sure, there was an apartment block right where she said it would be. The only problem is that it was vacant. It was also derelict, and scheduled for demolition in a few days time.
Then here’s comes the clincher. You know that final piece of information that tells you that there is something wrong and you were right to be worried all the time. For me it came in the form of a three inch banner headline in the morning edition of the Herald.
Five little words - “BODY FOUND IN THE BOWERY”.
The news item went on to say that the body of a woman had been discovered at Battery Park, in the early hours of the morning. The woman, who has been identified as Susan Brady, had been stabbed twice, once in the back of the neck, the other into her right lung. I’m guessing she died instantly. Next to the item was a photograph of the dead woman. It wasn’t the greatest picture I have to say. It didn’t do her justice.
I pushed the paper to one side and with it went my twenty-five big ones. I had to admit that Susan Brady was, or I should say, certainly had been a good looking woman. A class act you could say and no mistake. I shook my head, and gave a sigh.
By the way, Susan Brady wasn’t the name that I knew her by though. Oh no. To me, she had been my client, Mrs. Amanda Walker, wife of shipping magnate Denis Walker.
No, I’d never heard of him either.
* * *
It was about two months ago that I had first seen her. It was late one Tuesday afternoon. I was looking forward to an evening at the 51 Club. Buddy, he’s the owner, had told me that there was to be a new blues combo playing that night. Gordon King, a young white guy, playing twelve string guitar; Leroy Henderson, a black guy from Centerville, Texas, on harp; and Billy Boy Floyd on piano. I had heard a lot of good things about them, but had never s
een them. It promised to be a good evening.
You know it’s a funny thing about promises. Have you ever noticed? I mean, sometimes, quite often in fact, they aren’t kept, and you get let down. Then sometimes they are kept, but they don’t live up to expectations, and you’re disappointed. In this present case, I never knew whether they were any good or not. I never did get to hear the band that night.
* * *
It was late, about a quarter after five. I’d finished for the day and was thinking about locking up. The plan was a Chinese takeaway from Chang, and then off to the 51 Club. In the meantime I’m just sitting there listening to a new Little Walter CD that I’d just bought, when there’s a knock on the door.
“Mr. Daniels,” a voice called out.
I looked up, as the office door opened and in she came.
Talk about good looking, this lady had class, real class, and all in spades. I stood up and moved quickly to the door.
Chapter Two
My Name Is Amanda Walker
“I’m Daniels, Jack Daniels” I replied. “Please come in.” I quickly removed a pile of files from the one visitor’s chair, and dusted it down with my handkerchief. “Have a seat.” I continued, as I pointed to the chair. “Can I help you?”
Why I said that I’ll never know. Of course I could help her. I mean why else would she have come? To sell me insurance maybe, or double glazing, or perhaps she had just taken one of the rooms down the hall, and was a new neighbor and wanted a cup of sugar.
She sat down, and opened her handbag. “My name is Amanda Walker,” she said. She took out a photograph and placed it on the desk in front of me. “That’s Denis James Walker, my husband I’m sorry to say.”
I picked up the picture. The guy was pretty good looking, I supposed in a rugged sort of a way. I guessed aged around forty, forty-five, one hundred and eighty pounds, with thick black wavy hair. Took care of himself I thought. Should I care? I guessed not.
I placed the photograph back down on to the desk and slid it towards her. “So he’s your husband, and you’re not happy,” I said. “What about it?”
“Denis James Walker,” she repeated. “You know the shipping magnate.”
I was none the wiser. “So, he’s a shipping magnate, and he’s your husband. I repeat what about it?”
She shook her head, and sighed. She opened her handbag once again, and took out another photograph. It was of a young woman, aged about twenty-five. Good looking, but skinny. Certainly not my type.
“Mr. Daniels, I have been married to that worthless piece of junk for twenty years.” She tapped his photograph. Tapped did I say, pummeled is nearer the truth. If she had an axe she would have chopped the picture into a thousand little pieces. If you’ve something to say lady, then don’t pussyfoot around, just come right out and say it.
“He is cheating on me, with that other piece of junk.” She pummeled the photograph of the young girl. “That tramp.” She took a deep breath. “Of course it’s his money she’s after. What else?”
Sure it was I thought, and who could blame her. Just out of idle interest I wondered what he, the worthless piece of junk, wanted from her. No need to answer that.
I was beginning to think that Mrs. Walker was no longer completely fond of the shipping magnate, and she wasn’t too keen on the young bimbo either. I’m quick like that. You know, perceptive.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I said, not really caring one way or the other. It was nothing to me after all. He wasn’t my husband thankfully. “Look, I’m a private detective, not a marriage counselor. So exactly what do you want me to do about it?”
She shook her head and started to smile. “He is worth two billion dollars,” she continued. “I intend to seek a divorce, and take him for every dollar he owns.”
Suddenly he sounded a whole lot more interesting, but she wanted a divorce. No need to ask why, besides I guessed it was probably to her advantage. Remember what I said. I’m quick like that, perceptive. Nice work if you can get it I thought. Although I was still unclear what it had to do with me.
“I want you to get evidence of his playing around with that, that flozzie,” she explained striking the photograph of the young girl once again. “Evidence I can use to get the divorce, evidence that he couldn’t dispute. I want photographs, I want statements, I want dates, I want times, and I want places.”
So there you have it, the very thing that I was dreading, and there it was, out in the open like that. A snooping job! I shook my head. That type of surveillance work was always pretty tricky. You had the weather to contend with, the rain, and the cold. And then there were the long hours stretching into the middle of the night. In fact they could go on all night, and there were no guarantees that the subjects would be where they were supposed to be anyway. “I’m not really that interested, Mrs. Walker ….”
“There’s twenty-five thousand for you when I get the evidence,” she interrupted. “And another twenty-five when the divorce is settled.”
Suddenly I felt my enthusiasm growing. After all it wouldn’t be that difficult a task, I mean how hard could it be. So there’d be a little rain, some cold, a few late nights. I mean what else did I have to do anyway? It would be a chance to get out of a stuffy office, and out in the fresh air. Well out of the office anyway. And besides it wasn’t everyday that someone was offering fifty thousand dollars for a couple of days work. I wondered if that included expenses. Of course the IRS would want their share, but even so it might be worth it. Did I say might?
I reached across for the photographs, amazed that there were still in one piece. Looking at the young girl even though she was skinny, I really couldn’t blame the guy, but was she worth fifty thousand? I didn’t think so.
“So what can you tell me?” I asked.
She heaved a sigh, and shook her head. “Not much I’m afraid.”
“Well let’s start with a name shall we?” I coaxed. “The girl, what’s her name?”
She shook her head again. “I’ve no idea,” she replied.
“Do you have an address for her?” I asked
She shook her head once more. “All that I know is that my louse of a husband has been seeing her on a regular basis, for the past six months or more.”
That was all very interesting, but it wasn’t getting me anywhere. “Do they have a regular place to meet? A regular time maybe?”
“The Carlton Hotel is one place they meet,” she replied. “Every Monday, and Thursday, usually at five.”
At last we were getting somewhere. Well it was a start I guess. I picked up the photographs. “Can I keep these?” I asked, before any more harm befell them.
“Of course you can,” she replied. She handed me a piece of paper. “One-one-four Sycamore, that’s my address,” she said, pointing. “But I don’t want you coming round, and him seeing you. So that is only to be used in an emergency. Do you understand?”
I understood. I didn’t need telling twice. It made perfect sense. I nodded. “No problem,” I replied. “What about the phone number, is that your home number?”
She shook her head. “No, it’s my cell phone number. Only use it if you have to.”
Once again that made perfect sense, although I would hardly ring her just to pass the time of day now would I? I stood up. “I’ll be in touch,” I said.
She stood up and I walked her to the door.
* * *
Chapter Three
I Started Work
Well unbelievable as it now seems, I did do a check up on Mr. and Mrs. Walker. Okay, so it wasn’t as thorough as it should have been I have to admit that. In fact it wasn’t thorough at all, as subsequent events clearly showed. But hey, so I made a mistake, it happens. You’ve never made a mistake I guess. So you’re perfect, must be nice. Anyway, I did find out all about his shipping business, it was pretty impressive. And all about the house in The Hamptons, and the house on Honeysuckle, and the apartment in Manhattan, oh and the house …. You get the general idea. He
certainly doesn’t lack a roof over his head.
Let’s skip that though shall we? Let’s just say that he wasn’t doing too badly for himself that was for sure. He wasn’t going to be on welfare any time soon, you’ll be glad to hear. I think the term is he was comfortable. I should be so comfortable I hear you say. That goes double for me.
So I started work. Over the following few days I made several trips to the Carlton. I told the management that I had been employed by Mr. Walker to keep an eye on the girlfriend. Well it wasn’t a complete lie was it? Anyway it was accepted, no problem, and with no questions asked.
In fact the Hotel reception was very helpful, supplying dates, and times, going back over the last eight months, not six, every Monday, and every Thursday, regular as clockwork. What happened the rest of the week I have no idea. Dane, the young bell hop filled in several more details, and actually supplied a name, and an address, for the young lady.
“How do you know her address,” I asked.
The boy smiled. “It was easy,” he replied. “I called a cab for her, and I heard her give the cabbie instructions, two-two-seven Albany.” He smiled pleased with himself. “It’s over on the east side,” he added helpfully. “Do you know it?”
I knew it. It was a nice quiet residential area, nothing fancy but not too bad. I’d been there a few times. Once to visit an old friend and the second time was a stake out. Drug dealing if I remember rightly. The third time was car-jacking. As I said it was a nice quiet area.
Then I saw them come into the hotel lobby. “There they are now,” Dane said un-necessarily.
There was no doubt as to who they were, Mr. Denis Walker and his lady friend Miss. Terri Franklin. I ducked behind a column. They slowly walked past me, arm in arm, laughing at some joke or other, and headed towards the elevator. I have to admit that I’m no photographer, but I got some pretty good pictures of the two of them together right there.
