No Hitmen in Heaven

by Dan Taylor

  Interrupting my thoughts, Julius comes into the café, coming through on his promise to give me a pep talk before the AA meeting.

  When he sees my face, which isn’t fully healed after the car crash, he says, “Shit. It’s finally happened, hasn’t it? And just before your birthday. Jesus, Blake, how could you be so stupid?”

  “Relax, it isn’t what it looks like.”

  He sits down. “Then what happened?”

  “I caught a stray elbow on the basketball court.”

  He looks at me a second. “I don’t believe it, but I do believe you haven’t touched a drop. So, are you ready?”

  “No.”

  “Right answer. We never are.”

  32.

  I tell the relative strangers at the AA meeting every detail of the night of the accident. It’s the hardest thing I’ll ever have to do. I’ve never told anyone, not even Terry.

  Julius was right. It does feel good, even though I cried in front of a newcomer.

  After the meeting, Julius comes up to me, says, “I’m real proud of you, Blake. That couldn’t have been easy.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Now you’re ready, really ready, to find God and stay sober, one day at a time.”

  As Julius shakes my hand, I wonder why he’s talking in AA clichés for the first time since he’s been my sponsor. And his handshake goes on a little too long.

  Still shaking my hand, he says, “Does it feel like the weight of the world has been lifted from your shoulders?”

  I smile. “It does.”

  “That’s great.”

  He stops shaking it.

  Then says, “Hey, what are you doing afterwards?”

  “I was thinking of going home, getting an early night.”

  “You don’t have time for a coffee, do you? It might be useful to debrief.”

  “I don’t know. I’ve kinda drunk enough coffee for today.”

  “Or a green tea, or whatever. We need to talk.”

  “Okay.”

  Twenty minutes later we’re sitting in a cafe.

  Julius says, “So, why’d you give us the dead cat version?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “That story. It was bullshit.”

  “I can drive you to Shady Acres, and you can see how much of it is bullshit, if you’d like?”

  “Oh, I believed that stuff about Sandy, and the crash. Still, you gave us the dead cat version.”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  He shakes his head. “How long have we known each other, Blake?”

  “You know how long.”

  “I do. And I get why’d you bullshit everyone at the meeting. I’m just disappointed you bullshitted me.”

  “I’m not bullshitting you.”

  “It’s just you and me sitting here, Blake. You expected me to believe that you careered into a cow?”

  “That’s what happened.”

  “Okay, buddy.” He takes off his glasses and rubs his eyes. “I want you to know, I’ll carry on being your sponsor. I’ve never given up on anyone. But this, this thing we have, don’t expect it to carry on if I don’t get the truth someday. Disappointed isn’t the word.”

  He gets up and leaves, but only after he’s settled the check.

  And I sit there, thinking.

  You can only block out details for so long. I imagine, when I’m sitting on that beach on Mu Ko Ang Thong, the details of my job will haunt me. They already do. I’ll get flashes of that moment when I wrapped my hands around Peter Hammer’s throat, of that look in his eyes. The way he pleaded with them. I’ll get flashes of the last moments of Margaret Hammer’s final seconds of life, and all the other countless final seconds. That’s my prison.

  I’ll get out on release, days at a time, maybe even weeks, but those memories will never go away.

  Julius was right. I did leave out a detail. I check the date. This is the longest period I’ve been able to forget. Thirty-five days, this time.

  But what was I supposed to do? Tell a room of relative strangers that I meant to crash the car that night?

  I take out my phone, thinking of dialing Julius’s number.

  But it starts ringing.

  I answer, and Jimmy says, “Blake Elvis, you busy?”

  The End.

  Personal Message from the Author

  I hope you enjoyed this book or any other of my books as much as I love to write them! If you have, click this link and tell me. I personally respond to each email I receive, and love reading what fans of my books have to say.

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  Lastly, it would be really appreciated if you could take a few minutes to write a review, helping me grow my community of fans.

  Thanks for taking a chance on my writing.

  Dan Taylor

  Want to read more by this author?

  The private investigator featured in this novel, Jake Hancock, is the primary character in his own series. Check out the first book Kiss Hidden Lies on Amazon here. Or click this link to read an excerpt.

  About the Author

  Dan Taylor is an English dude stranded in Oslo, Norway. His girlfriend, a blonde-haired Norwegian national, has kidnapped him, but he doesn’t require rescuing. He’s the author of the Jake Hancock series and doesn’t take himself seriously as an author, though he works his ass off to make his readers and himself laugh. He doesn’t like skiing, probably because he sucks at it, but he can build one hell of a snowman. He’s silly, but you already knew that. You can read his blog at JakeHancockBooks.wordpress.com

  Jake Hancock series

  Kiss Hidden Lies

  Out of Crime

  Served Ice-Cold

  Saving Grace

  Our Little Secret

  Dead Friends Don’t Lie

  Excerpt from Kiss Hidden Lies (Jake Hancock Private Investigator series Book 1)

  1.

  “SO, WHAT MAKES you tick, Jake?”

  “What makes me tick? Seriously? That sounds like a question you learned in Psychiatry 101, Doc.”

  “Let me rephrase the question.”

  “Please do.”

  “What motivates you in life?”

  I turn to a reclined position on the leather sofa, sitting lengthways, using my interlocking fingers as a headrest. “I suppose it would have to be fast cars, big boobs, and a base instinct to spread my seed.”

  “I’ll take that as sarcasm.”

  “Oh, and one more, a need to destroy the lives of my loved ones through gambling, sex, and hard drug addictions.”

  “I feel like you’re mocking me.”

  She’s right. I am.

  I make a quick judgment about Dr. Hannah Rogers. She isn’t much of a shrink, but I’ll probably come back for a second session. Why? She’s got that older lady, slightly nerdy thing going on.

  She’s noticed me looking at her in that way, and she’s pretending she hasn’t caught me. She’s distracting herself with writing notes. But I know that writing ‘sarcastic jerk’ doesn’t take that long.

  She asks, “As this is our first session, I’ll keep it simple. Are you happy, Jake?”

  Why wouldn’t I be? I’ve got a job that most people would kill for. I work as a private investigator to the stars, and in Hollywood, no less. On top of introducing me to an endless stream of young, sexy starlets and wannabes—the latter being my favorite—my job affords me a dream home and lavish lifestyle.

  I give her the short version. “Who wouldn’t be, with what I’ve got?”

  “That was an evasive but telling answer.”

  “I gave a plain answer.”

  “Yes or no would’ve been plain.”

  “I implied yes.”

  “No, wi
thout knowing it, you implied that most people would be happy with your material gains and lifestyle, and that you’re not. Your answer was an introspective one. It asked, why am I not happy when I have everything I seemingly want?”

  Okay, so she’s better than I thought.

  My cell phone interrupts us. Upholding my superstition, I answer it between rings. “Jake Hancock, PI.”

  “I have your wife and kid, Jake,” a voice says.

  He’s using one of those voice-changing devices, like the one from that slasher movie. But this guy must’ve dropped his in the can while he took a piss. It sounds like Joe Cocker singing a chorus underwater.

  I wait for a laugh, but none comes.

  “Nice try, asshole,” I say.

  Silence, breathing.

  “I don’t have children, and if you have my wife, be my guest. We’re separated.”

  A gargled sigh, then he hangs up.

  I’m not alarmed. Nuts like that ring from time to time.

  “Sorry about that, Doc.”

  “If I could ask you to refrain from taking any phone calls during our sessions.”

  “You can ask.”

  She’s silent a second or two, has this funny look on her face, as though she’s just read the text messages on my phone.

  Then she says, “We’re making progress.”

  “What? Because I may or may not answer my next phone call.”

  “No, because you revealed why you’re here when you attempted to answer my last question.”

  “I’m happy. Seriously, Doc.”

  My phone rings again. I take it out of my pocket, then look up at my shrink. She raises an eyebrow, and I reject the call and put it away. She has an effect on me. I’ll give her that.

  “Where were we?” I ask.

  “We were discussing whether or not you’re happy.”

  “Oh yeah.”

  “And I told you your answer revealed that you’re not content.”

  “You’re barking up the wrong tree, Doc.”

  “Then why are you here, Jake?”

  I let the question hang in the air. It must be getting warm in here, because Dr. Hannah Rogers adjusts her shirt collar. And I’m pretty sure she’s blushing. I was right. She has got that older lady, slightly nerdy thing going on.

  “I guess I’m just lonely.”

  “Are you being sarcastic again?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Let’s explore a different question.”

  “Explore?”

  She ignores my sarcasm, adjusts her glasses.

  “Why did you specifically choose me to be your shrink?”

  I don’t answer the question, hold her eye contact a little longer than what’s considered appropriate.

  After making her squirm, or at least attempting to, I say, “You’re the first one I came to on Craigslist.”

  “Are you always this flippant, Jake?”

  I don’t answer the question, and there’s an awkward, silent couple minutes, as though she’s expecting me to advance the conversation.

  What she does next surprises the shit out of me. She puts down her notepad, gets up, adjusts how her shirt hangs on her, as though to leave, but comes over to the sofa, and perches herself on the edge.

  She says, “I think I know why you’re here, Jake,” then strokes my thigh. “And why you chose me.”

  Okay, I admit it. She isn’t a shrink. Dr. Hannah Rogers is actually a high-class hooker called Jade, who offers role-play experiences. I’m her most loyal customer. I asked her on the phone if she’d ever seen The Sopranos, and the arranging of the date went from there.

  She takes off the glasses, which are a prop, and then kisses me.

  Between kisses, I say, “What makes me tick?” and then we both laugh.

  She stands up, starts getting undressed. “I thought you’d like that one.”

  “I did. But your transition from sensible professional to wanton cougar who’s about to fuck me despite her strict ethical code could’ve been smoother.”

  She ignores my critique, and I just watch her undress.

  Now that she’s naked apart from a pair of stockings and stilettos, she asks the question again, “So, are you happy, Jake?”

  2.

  I’LL GO AHEAD and say it was a successful first session with my shrink. She really got me to open up, at least by my standards.

  I take out my phone and return the call I rejected during the session.

  “Gerry Smoulderwell,” she answers.

  “You’ve got a new number.”

  “Every three months. It’s regulation.”

  I’m not just any PI. I mentioned that I’m one to the stars, but there’s more to it than that. I’m part of an elite private investigation organization called the Agency. Basically what I’m saying is, if I were heroin, I’d be the white-as-driven-snow shit, the kind that if your regular street junkie got a hold of it, he’d OD…okay, think of your own simile.

  Gerry Smoulderwell is my immediate boss.

  An enigmatic man called Andre heads up the Agency. I’ve never seen or spoken to him.

  Gerry says, “Why didn’t you answer?”

  “I was with my shrink.”

  “As your boss, is this something I should worry about?”

  “What? No…she’s actually just a hooker.”

  “I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that.”

  “Why did you phone?”

  “I have a job.”

  “What kind of gig?”

  “Can’t you just say job like the rest of us?”

  “Gig sounds cooler.”

  She sighs. “I’ll brief you on it tomorrow. Midday, Basil Bush.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  “Oh, and Jake, park in the long-stay parking lot two blocks away.”

  “That sounds ominous.”

  “If I wanted you dead…”

  “I would be already. I get it.”

  I hang up.

  Noting the time, I say, “Shit!” rush to my car, drive across town.

  I pull up beside a brightly colored building. The sign on the facade reads ‘Big Hugs Kindergarten.’ Formerly it was Little Rascals, but a group of parents banded together, complained that the title suggested their little ones were misbehaved. Between you and me, Rascals was a befitting title.

  Uttering “sorry” as I go past, I weave a path through children and parents exiting the kindergarten.

  When I reach the door, an overweight middle-aged lady, who I recognize, is waiting not far from the entrance in the main play area. She has her hands on her hips, looking theatrically up at the clock.

  She comes over, checking her watch as she walks. Now that she’s close to me, I notice her unsightly amount of nostril hair.

  “Are you picking up Randy today?” she asks.

  She knows damn well I am.

  “Sure am.”

  I look over to find Randy playing with a wooden train set. Pretending to be as excited as him about pushing one of the trains ‘round the track is one of the assistants, wearing a rock band T-shirt, on which it reads “Slave to the Slaughter.”

  “He’s over there,” she says.

  I’ve been here more than my fair share of times, and I’ve spoken to this lady a few times. Her pointing out Randy is her snide way of highlighting that a) I’m late, and b) his mother isn’t picking him up, again.

  I ignore her and make my way over.

  I didn’t lie to the nut on the phone, who I’ll call Scuba Joe. I don’t have children. At least any that I know of. My sister was diagnosed with progressive-relapsing multiple sclerosis two years ago. She experienced a whole heap of shitty symptoms—blurred vision, dodgy balance, tingling sensation in her extremities—which went away before she got around to arranging a doctor’s appointment. She put it down to stress and got back on with her life, but they came back. To cut a long story short, out of the different types and grades of the disease, she’s got the bitch of the bunch. Her symptoms ar
e getting progressively worse. They go away once in a while, giving her a bittersweet taste of how life is as a healthy woman, before coming back and fucking with her again. Her long-term boyfriend and father to Randy left her when the going got tough.

  Which brings us to now. Yesterday her symptoms came back with vengeance, so she’s not up to picking up her bundle of joy today.

  I kneel down next to Randy, and the assistant nods at me, and slinks off. Randy is so fixated with the train set that he doesn’t notice me. Or at least I think he hasn’t.

  “Hey, Uncle Jake,” he says, without looking at me.

  “Hey, kiddo.”

  “Mom too ill to pick me up again?”

  He sighs and it breaks my heart.

  Another kid goes past, one of the older ones. His dad is ushering him out of the door, choosing the pushing-between-the-shoulder-blades method, as opposed to risking using the arm-pull method that would most likely get him the raised-eyebrow scorn nose-hair lady dishes out. The snot-nosed kid whispers in his loudest voice, “That’s Randy. His mom’s a cripple.”

  As with my entrance, Randy pretends not to hear, but his hearing it is given away by a momentary lapse in his playing.

  Kids can be harsh, and I don’t care for most of the brats, but I’m a big fan of Randy. He’s got a heart of gold, he says please and thank you like a pro, and when he kicks you in the balls, he holds back.

  “Time to go, kiddo. We’re late.”

  He sighs again, and we attempt to leave.