Flower in the Sand (eBook)

Gregg E. Bernstein (Autor)

eBook Download: EPUB

2023 | 1. Auflage
322 Seiten
Bookbaby (Verlag)
978-1-6678-7812-6 (ISBN)

Infos

It's 1956, and LA is hot as an oven and smoggy as hell. Private investigator Cole Dunbar grew up on old Bunker Hill and rode Angels Flight to school, but angels have no place in this city anymore, where strippers and burned-out cops take their secrets to the grave. He already has a head full of nightmares from World War II, but after he receives a mysterious phone call from a rich client, her case, and her beauty, drag him into a witches' brew of arson, missing people, and murder. He's already seeing a therapist to help him fight his way back to normality, but after he takes a fateful trip to Mexico and is framed for murder by the LAPD, it's going to take a lot more than therapy for him to come out of it alive and finally pin the tail on the right donkey. Evidence stolen from a police locker, cutting-edge science and advice from LA's biggest con man help, but will it be enough to stop the man who's murdering his way to a fortune in blackmail money?

Textauszug

Chapter One

A dry summer wind had finally begun to stir, mercifully escorting the flannel blanket of smog out of town and making the world safe for human respiration again. 1956 was a real bad year for smog in LA, and July was one of its worst offenders. It was too hot to do anything but sit there in my creaky swivel chair and gasp, though I suppose I was doing my lungs no favors by fostering that orphaned cigarette I’d dug out of the blackness of my desk drawer, the crumpled survivor of a long-forgotten pack of Camels. My head hurt and I was tired because of those lousy nightmares I’d been having. I get mouthy and impatient with clients—especially the crackpots—when I’m in a foul mood like this, and I know it’s bad for business, but headaches every day and nightmares every night can do that to a guy. I rocked back, put my feet up on the desk and read the words backwards that the lettering guy had charged twenty-five bucks to paint on the frosted glass of my office door:

Cole Dunbar, Private Investigations

It didn’t really matter whether you read it forwards or backwards; no clients were coming in either way. Probably because it was too hot for them to do anything but gasp, either. And probably too hot to murder, blackmail, commit adultery, run away from home or skip bail, which left me out of work and wondering where my next chili dog was coming from. I mean, I am a private investigator, but if I got any more private, I’d be joining that smog on the next strong gust out of town.

I glared down at the phone and pleaded: “C’mon, Granite 5-6666, and earn that ten dollars the phone company is leaching from my bloodstream every month just so you can bring me some business.”

Ring! Ring!

God, I love a phone that listens!

I picked up the receiver.

“Dunbar Private Investigations.”

A woman’s voice said, “Dunbar? It’s not what you think.”

“You mean you don’t have Adolf Hitler trapped in your garage?”

“That’s not funny, and neither is the reason I’m calling you.”

“Then tell me the real reason, so we can both know it’s not funny.”

“I should hang up on you.”

“You could, but that would defeat the purpose of the call.”

“You’ve already done that.” Her voice was throaty, with a faint whiff of finishing school; definitely not the run-of-my-office type.

I sat up a little straighter. “Sorry. Can I have another chance? It’s hot, and I guess I’m a little out of practice being nice to people.”

“Well, all right, but mind your manners from here on out.”

I pictured my empty wallet. “Consider them minded.”

“Well, as I tried to say before, this is probably not the kind of thing you’re used to dealing with.”

“Okay.”

“And it’s going to be hard for me to tell you about it.”

I nodded to the receiver.

“I didn’t say become a mute, Mr. Dunbar; just mind your manners.”

“Okay. Uh, I mean, please go on, madam.”

“Miss.”

“Please go on, Miss . . . Miss . . . uh . . .?”

“Just ‘Miss’ is enough.”

“They say a Miss is as good as a mile.”

“I liked you better as a mute.”

“Check.” There’s no pleasing some people.

She said, “Where can we meet so we can discuss this matter in private?”

“Sounds pretty hush-hush.”

“I asked you a question, Mr. Dunbar.”

“Okay then, how about Pink’s, tomorrow at three?”

“Really, Mr. Dunbar, I hardly think a hot dog joint is the appropriate place to discuss private business matters.”

“All right then, you suggest a place.” As long as I’m not treating.

“The Tam O’Shanter, at three, then.”

“I’ll be there, Miss Blank.”

She barked, “Très drôle,” and slammed the phone down so hard it made my headache sit up and howl again.

Was it something I said? Like I mentioned before, she was probably right about my manners. But aside from my bad mood, I just wasn’t used to dealing with the carriage trade; my clientele usually skewed more toward the angry wives of philandering longshoremen. Well, I’d once had a brain with a year of college night school stuffed into it; I’d just have to dust off my courtly mien and learn to use a pickle fork again.

The next day I dug through my things until I found my most presentable tweed sport coat and a blue knit tie that, like me, had barely survived the war. I glanced in the mirror and gave myself a stern lecture about leaving the jokes and the smart remarks at home. I hoped the lecture would take, because I couldn’t afford to muff this one.

I headed north on Highland then hooked a right on Franklin. Once I hit Los Feliz it was a straight shot all the way. I pulled into the parking lot and got my first look at the Tam O’Shanter. The place was kitted out as an auld Scottish country tavern, with half-timbered wood and whitewashed walls. I pulled open the front door and stepped inside. It looked like a good place to sign the Magna Carta: dark-beamed ceilings, dim chandelier lighting and criss-cross Tudor windows above red leather booths.

A man in earsplitting plaid presided at the front desk.

“May I help you?”

“Yeah, I’m with uh . . .”

“Oh, you’re the gentleman Miss Smythe told me to watch out for. Right this way.” He led me back to a dark corner table, where a gorgeous young brunette sat being admired by her martini.

She stood up and offered her hand. “Hello, Mr. Dunbar.”

I doffed my hat, took her hand and gave it a quick little shake. “Nice to meet you, Miss Smythe.”

“Monique, please. And how do you know my last name?”

I sat down across from her and gestured to the maître d’, still standing there. “The uh, greeter, was kind enough to mention it.”

The guy glared at me. “We usually say maître d’.”

“Okay then, we’ll split the difference: how about greeter d’?”

He slapped down two menus and flounced off in a tartan huff.

The lady shook her head. “Really, Mr. Dunbar, you must do something about your attitude.”

I nodded. “Call me Cole, and a drink might help tame the wild beast.” I looked around. “Where’d you get yours?”

“The maître d’ knows me; it’s my usual order.”

A waitress came up to us. “What would you folks like?”

Monique said, “I’ll have my usual tossed salad, no radish, with a glass of Burgundy.”

“And you, sir?”

I cased the menu. “Let’s see, bring me the Tam O’Shanter spaghetti and meatballs. And how about a beer?”

“Lucky Lager, Acme or Eastside?”

“Better make it a Lucky.” I glanced at Miss Smythe. “And bring it right away, please; I may need some luck.”

The waitress left, and Monique looked at me. “Sounds like you have a good appetite.”

I smiled. “I never have breakfast, so I’m eating for two.” Now I was close enough to see the strain on her face, a lot of it. And brittleness. It was time to quit fooling around. “So, can we get down to it? What is it that’s upsetting you?”

She twisted the red cloth napkin back and forth in her hand. “There are certain things I need you for, Mr. Dunbar.”

I nodded. “Good, but that doesn’t tell me much. Could you be a little more specific please? Is it a crime, man trouble . . .?”

Suddenly she flung the napkin down on the table. “I’m sorry, I just don’t think this is going to work!” She shot to her feet, grabbed her things and half-ran out of the place.

The waitress arrived, having just seen Monique rush past her. She looked confused. “Here’s your beer, sir. Is there, um, anything else I can do?”

It was time to do a little private investigating. “Is the lady usually, you know, this high-strung?”

The waitress shook her head. “Oh no, sir. If anything, cool as a cucumber.” Her hands went to her mouth. “Hope it’s okay to say that.”

I nodded. “Your secret’s safe with me.” Maybe if I hurried, I could still catch Monique in the lot. I stood and said, “Just bring me the bill, please.”

It took most of what I could dig out of my wallet and pockets, but I paid the tab and a good tip and hustled out to the parking lot, grieving my lost meal. Oh well, the Scottish aren’t noted for their spaghetti and meatballs anyway.

I hoped to find Monique sitting in one of the parked cars, maybe reconsidering that hasty exit of hers. I checked out every car in the lot but rolled snake-eyes. Whatever vehicle Monique had driven here in, it was long gone now, taking my fee with it.

Now what? Stupidly, I hadn’t gotten her phone number or address in that first phone conversation, so all I had to go on now was a name. I stood there with the sun doing a mean cha-cha on my ever-present headache and knew I’d have to go back into the restaurant and talk to that damn maître d’ again, after the lip I’d given him at our table. But a job is a job, even though my empty pockets reminded me that I was well in arrears on this one already, and as of now the job was just a three-letter word.

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Produkt-Details

• Erscheint lt. Verlag: 6.3.2023
• Sprache: englisch
• Themenwelt: Literatur ► Krimi / Thriller / Horror
• ISBN-10: 1-6678-7812-3 / 1667878123
• ISBN-13: 978-1-6678-7812-6 / 9781667878126