The Thrill of the Chase (Mystery & Adventure)

by Jack Parker

Aside from the devastating toll the utter humiliation would take on both Ego and Id, let's just say that things wouldn't work out. My mother, while far from intolerable, was a strict old lady of the generation past which had strongly believed in their men winning the bread for the family, working from the time they were young until the time their arthritic limbs ceased to function. Considering I'd just hit thirty-two months prior, I would put money on her booting me out within a week. She'd bought me a new tie, button–up shirt, and wallet, after all, and she wasn't likely to forget it. Gifts in my family always had practical incentives tied to them. Like double entendres without the fun.

  "Use them to find a job," she'd say in that incredulous tone of voice she always exercised when she was wondering where she'd gone wrong raising me. Because obviously she'd possessed the foresight to buy me interviewin' tools before my business had gone belly–up, and I should see her gifts as my saving grace and lavish thanks upon her for her wisdom.

  "Should I plop them on the interviewer's desk and use them as bargaining tools?" I'd ask instead, determined as usual to be difficult. "Me trade tie and wallet for job. You get shirt too if I get window office."

  "They make you look sharp," she'd say irritably. But she'd be trying hard not to smile. "Employers hire sharp–looking young men."

  "Yeah!" I'd agree facetiously, throwing the tie around my bathrobe collar and tying it sloppily. "'Nevermind his resumé! Hire Stikup because he knows better than to tuck his shirt into his underwear.' Can you buy me a clip–on next year, by the way?"

  And so–on and so–forth.

  I'd received my three–month notice from the pencil–pushers at the self–employment office a month ago, which meant that I'd already procrastinated long enough at finding a second job. Contrary to what it may have seemed, I was desperate to remain a PI, because it was what I loved doing. Plus, I didn't have the credentials to do much else.

  I felt like standing out on the front porch with a bullhorn and shouting down the street, "Doesn't anybody kill or steal around here anymore?" Jill had assured me – twice – that that course of action would be unprofessional.

  "Yeah," I'd agreed. "But, it'd be pretty goddamn funny."

  And so that Monday, the 29th of November, found me ankle–deep in the halfhearted search. The classifieds were all calling for nannies, petsitters, census takers, and the occasional custodian. Aside from the fact that none of those jobs interested me in the slightest, it didn't help my situation that I was a terrible procrastinator.

  And your ridiculous delusions of grandeur make it impossible for you to keep your feet on the ground.

  I sighed, twirling my pen between my fingers. Thinking optimistically, I still had those two months of cushioning – plenty of time for some bigwig to come waltzing into the office, seeking help in finding the devious perp who'd stolen his Lamborghini.

  And he'll pay up front and tip generously when I track down the car within a day.

  "Ahh, who am I kidding?" I asked aloud, slumping forward on my elbows, glaring at the bills, those dastardly saboteurs of my poorly fortified career. "I'll be wallowing in my little house soaking up unemployment until the bitter end."

  Making a face, I swiveled around in my chair and stood to look out the window. The snow was still falling, unsurprisingly. No one would be able to tell that a certain individual had wasted nearly an hour of his life shoveling the front walk.

  For a long while, I just stood there, what some might call wallowing in self–pity. Not for the first time, I found myself wishing that the universe had taken a different spin all those years ago when I'd first aspired to catch badguys and peer over neighbor's hedges.

  Finally – about the time my back started aching from slouching so badly – I checked my watch with another sigh and concluded that it was 7:30 already. Also known as "time to close the office and head home for a late dinner after another boring, uneventful day".

  I stretched, still deep in thought. It made me feel bad for Jill. At least I didn't mind the lifestyle. If only she hadn't fallen into this pit with me, she could actually have had a decent life. Unfortunately for her, commitment could also be a curse. She would never quit, not while I still had work for her to do and the money with which to pay her. Maybe I would fire her and do her a favor.

  Now, would that be considered benevolent or cruel? I sought the answer in the drab Kansas landscape, which hung above the sofa. It would certainly save me the trouble of finding her a Christmas gift.

  In my head, I envisioned her crying in front of me, like Scarlett O'Hara in Gone With the Wind.

  "Jill, you're fired," I said in my head. Maybe I said it aloud too. "It'll be better this way, babe, just trust me on this one. No, no – no need to thank me, I'm just doing a service to humanity."

  Shaking my head, I turned away. God, do I need sleep that badly?

  I locked my desk out of habit, extinguished the fire out of common sense, and exited into the hallway, locking the door behind me out of an obsessive–compulsive need for security. Chewing the inside of my cheek, I strolled down the hall to Jill's office, wishing that I had actually done some serious work that day – if only to justify the feeling of utter exhaustion that was creeping upon me.

  And the icing on the cake? It was only Monday.

  "Time to go home," I announced, poking my head in Jill's door.

  She glanced at the clock on the wall behind her for confirmation, as though I'd make up something like that.

  "Time flies when you're having fun, sweetheart," I said, downing the last dregs from my mug. The coffee was now lukewarm, borderline stone–cold, and it made me grimace.

  "Fun?" she questioned skeptically, taking the now–empty mug out of my hands and placing it in the bathroom sink (adjacent to her workspace) to be washed later. I kept telling myself that if I ever got some extra money, I would someday add another larger bathroom onto the office.

  Yeah, well that hasn't happened yet, has it?

  I grinned at her. "Every day is a new adventure when living your working life with the one and only Chance Stikup."

  Jill paused to place a folder in the top drawer of her cabinet – probably something to do with my finances. They were a complicated mess, something only she could have organized. "Episode 27: The Continuing Adventures of His Caffeine Addiction," she said, framing the subtitle with a sweeping motion of her hand, reminiscent of a rainbow.

  "I hear this show has terrible ratings," I returned sadly.

  We bundled up in the hall, piling on the coats, gloves, and hats, and then stumbled outside into the snowstorm. It took about fifteen minutes to clean the snow off our cars, but scraping windows was one of my specialties. And it was a marketable skill. Now if only I could find someone gullible enough to pay me by the hour and leave me alone while I worked...

  "See you tomorrow, Mr. Stikup," Jill called as she climbed into her vehicle. Despite the fact that I constantly pleaded with her not to call me that, she still insisted. She waved as she pulled away from the curb, leaving me smiling in the cold.

  Jill was only 25. She was fresh out of college and had somehow stumbled across my ad for an assistant about two years ago. No one else had wanted to play secretary for a third–rate detective, but Jill had taken the job. I suppose I paid her well enough, despite her teasing to the contrary. On several occasions, I'd encouraged her to quit and pursue a better career. Each time, she'd always insisted that she was happy with the work and wasn't ready to move on yet. She certainly was a sweetheart, as I've already stated: polite as one could get, a modest dresser, and not profane in any sense of the word. She arrived at the office early every morning, always wore the same perfume – something that reminded me pleasantly of crisp autumn days – and was forever smiling.

  She's a gem.

  Wrenching myself from my thoughts, I fumbled with my keys to unlock the battered Ford Anglia. Daydreaming, fantasizing, complaining, and my mother still makes me PB&J when I visited. I was a goddamn kid in an adult's body, masquerad
ing as someone who knew what he's doing.

  By the time I reached my house, the snow was nearly up to my thighs. The plows had come through at least twice, stacking the snow against the telephone poles. The cars parked on either side of the streets were spattered with muddy slush, most almost buried.

  Cursing, I fought my way through the drifts to the front door and unlocked it. The house was small and disorderly, and I never had any company. It was probably too small to fit anyone else in there beside myself anyway, and come to think of it, I really didn't have any friends to entertain.

  I turned up the heat the moment I was inside and threw my coat and gloves haphazardly over the coat rack. The smell of the furnace quickly filled the little cottage, comforting in its homey familiarity. Warming my hands in my armpits, I headed to the kitchen, where I fished leftover Chinese out of the back of the refrigerator. I ate my pitiful meal of cold broccoli and rice over yesterday's newspaper, and turned in for the night sometime around 11:00, sighing as I thought about the prospect of another boring day already rising to greet me.

  It was just another typical day in the life of an indebted, third–rate PI.

  And yet, I loved it.

  Chapter Two

  Tuesday, November 30th

  I got to the office at 6:00 the next morning, a half–hour before Jill would arrive. The snow had ceased sometime during the early morning hours, leaving in its wake drifts deep enough to house cathedrals. Muddy strata caked the curbs, a testament of early–morning traffic and the dutiful township snowplows. The winter wonderland was far from "pretty", but the empty sky overhead – maybe not sunny, but not stormy either – was a sight for eyes weary of the premature winter.

  Fishing the office key out of the pocket of my trench coat, I let myself inside. I scooped up the day's paper and headed down the hall to my HQ, shaking ice off of the bag along the way. Hopefully the floor would dry before Jill arrived.

  I tossed the newspaper onto the worn sofa and hit the light switch with my free hand as I entered my office, but then remembered that the bulb had burned out. Irritably, I headed to the fireplace instead. Once the room was filled with the warm glow of a cheery fire, it would be time to fill out the bills I'd neglected the day before.

  Might as well get the worst over with first, I thought.

  Jill arrived at 6:40, ten minutes late. She poked her head in to apologize, citing car trouble as the reason for her tardiness. I reminded her that she could show up at six in the evening for all I cared. Wondering aloud how I could survive without her, she headed down the hall to her office – to do some paperwork on which she had "procrastinated long enough".

  Ah–ha, I thought to myself bemusedly, listening to the sounds of her moving around her office. At least there's one thing we have in common. It was good to be reminded that we weren't complete polar opposites.

  I placed the finished bills and accompanying checks in the "out" tray for Jill to collect and mail and then decided it was time for a cup of coffee. Once I had gotten that, I decided, I would lounge on the sofa and check the business section while I waited for something exciting to happen.

  Maybe the piping in the bathroom will freeze up and explode, I thought as I strolled down the hall to my secretary's office. That would certainly be exciting.

  I halted in the doorway, hands thrust deep into my pockets, and affected my best whiny–child whimper. "Jill? Can I get a cup of joe?"

  She was sitting Indian–style on the floor, surrounded by advancing ranks of manila folders. Apparently, they'd escaped the file cabinet next to Jill's desk and were intent on conquering the entirety of her workspace. Viva la France! I imagined them screaming as they charged, because for some reason they were French. At least they'd be easy to defeat.

  Interestingly enough, it didn't seem like my career had been all that eventful, but all those case folders meant something. Something like pride started in my chest, but it was like the carburetor of an old Model–T: jug jug jug spat!

  "Sure, but you'll have to get it yourself," Jill said, vaguely gesturing toward the cabinet on the opposite wall, atop which the coffeemaker resided. "You know I can't quit when I'm on a role! And you drink too much of that stuff."

  "Says the addict tea–drinker." I snorted a laugh as I began the coffee–making process, deeply amused by the fact that Jill had – in essence – just told me "no". We were really co–workers anyway, considering I wasn't much of a boss and Jill's head actually sat on her shoulders. "Still intent on breeding some kidney stones, huh?"

  "Hey, I can knock the tea habit anytime I want, Mister," Jill said.

  I shook my head severely. "That's what they all say."

  And that was when something very unusual happened. In fact, had someone stopped me on my way to work that morning and prophesied that it would happen, there's no way in hell I would have believed them. Not because I'm a skeptical person by nature, although that would certainly have something to do with it. The fact of the matter was that this type of occurrence was so rare it was practically nonexistent.

  The phone in my office rang.

  The phone in my office rang.

  I had two phone lines in the building. One was in Jill's office, and that was for personal calls, appointments, clients, and those annoying telemarketers. I let Jill deal with all that, primarily because she was a hell of a lot more patient than I was, and besides, that's what I paid her to do. The second line in the office was unlisted and exclusively for the police – so they could reach me directly if they ever had any need a third–rate PI with bottom–line credentials and a temperament better suited to bad TV than police work. Needless to say, that "hotline" was usually frozen solid. But every now and again everyone gets an icebreaker.

  "Hark!" I said, cupping a hand to my ear as I abandoned the coffee maker. "I hear business calling."

  Jill rolled her eyes so severely that I had to laugh, but before she could say anything, I was out the door. Walking briskly down the hall, I assumed what felt like a business–manner and scooped the phone up off my desk on the fifth ring.

  "Stikup Agency," I said, and liked the way the words felt rolling off my tongue. It was an alien sensation, considering Jill was the one who usually got to say it.

  The caller barely waited for me to finish before demanding, "Is this Stikup?"

  "As far as I know, that's the name on my door," I replied sweetly before I could stop myself.

  If the man on the other end was perturbed by my sarcasm, he chose not to express it. Instead, he introduced himself in a pointed tone. "This is Captain Slyder – SPD."

  A grin quirked the corners of my mouth upward, but I controlled the smile carefully. It wasn't very often I got a call from the chief of Swedesboro police himself.

  "Been a while, Chief," I said casually, like we were buddies. In fact, I wasn't sure that I'd ever spoken to him directly more than twice. Had Jill overheard, she would have dissolved into fits of laughter, and I would have begun stammering like an idiot.

  "What can I do for you?" I asked, trying not to think about it.

  "Believe it or not, we could use your services," Slyder replied in a grunt. "There was a break–in at 264, Franklin Drive early this morning. Obviously, we would have called in Scarlotti, but he's in dispose at the moment, so we need you down here."

  In some ways, the way he was taking deliberate care to make it clear that I was the second choice for the job irritated me, but I was used to such prejudice. Scarlotti Benson was the local sheriff affiliated with SPD. Fifty–four years of age, he was a detective much like myself – the key difference being that he was a professional and always got the pie. I was the amateur who always got the crust.

  If anything.

  When I failed to respond immediately, Slyder coughed pointedly. "You know where that is, right?"

  I narrowed my eyes. He was testing my competence, even with something as small as knowledge of Swedesboro geography. Being treated as an incompetent always rubbed me the wrong way, but there are
things you learn to deal with in my profession, and as juvenile as it may have seemed, there was a lot of weight behind that probing question.

  "Sure," I said, deciding it would be in my own best interest to create a good impression from then on out. "Two blocks from my office."

  He seemed mollified for the time being. Abrupt speaking seemed to be more of his forte than cloak–and–dagger probing. Which was fine with me, considering I tended to be just as blunt. "I'll see you shortly."

  I dropped the phone onto the receiver, resisting the urge to let out a whoop. Obviously the job wasn't anything permanent, but it was an opportunity. At the very least it meant several decent paychecks from the district, and with those paper knights in shining bank envelopes keeping the vile tentacles of Self–Employment at bay, I could further worry postpone worrying about the future.

  I crossed the room to the cabinet and unlocked the top drawer. From the inner compartment, I withdrew the 9mm along with several clips – heaven forbid I be forced to use them – and tucked the weapon into the chest holster (strewn across the mantle). My concealed firearms license was still in my wallet, although it might have expired some time ago. Hopefully no one would be checking it before I got a chance to.