Mad Utopia

Part 1 (to start at the beginning)

The Client
The Butler

Part 2

The Associate
The Notebook

Part 3

The Cop
The Reporter

Part Four

The Boss

I dropped Cliff off back at the strip mall so he could pick up his car. Murphy was still there, and eyed me like a shark scenting blood. Cliff’s theory began to take on more substance in that cold stare. But I had a hard time accepting that Mrs. Jones was trying to set me up. For one thing, I didn’t think she was bright enough to do it. And then there were those baby blues.

Still, that didn’t mean Murphy wouldn’t try to pin something on me anyway. He’d been known not to let little things like the facts get in his way before. The sooner I got out of his sight the better, so I bid Cliff goodnight and drove off.

I picked up the tail right away.

That Murphy, what a jerk. He didn’t have anything and he knew it, but that wouldn’t stop him from harassing me. I sped up to test my theory, and sure enough, the unmarked car behind me kept pace. Great. Well, I’d just take them for a merry chase.

The Brougham stuck out like a sore thumb so my only hope to ditch them was to tie ‘em up in traffic and make a couple of quick turns to get out of their line of sight. So I headed down Jackson towards the business district where traffic would be heavier. I blasted through a couple of late yellows, but they came on through on the early reds. With luck, at 5th Street traffic really bunched up. A delivery van was double parked. As the flow merged into the left lane to get by the obstruction my tail got stuck at least seven cars to the rear. I looked at the light just ahead, and paused briefly along side the truck. The guy behind me started blasting the horn, but I ignored him. When I saw the Don’t Walk lights start flashing I gunned it and turned onto 5th just as the lights changed. The traffic behind me all got caught on the red and I was home free. I turned left on Monroe, then right on 4th and right on Jefferson. Here I picked up the on ramp to the Interstate and blew out of town.

By now it was getting dark and I was getting hungry. So I took the exit on old State Route 11 and headed for a little trout lodge I knew down in Lewiston. It was a quaint little place, set up like a 1950’s roadside diner, with china plates thick enough to be used as boat anchors and silverware made out of real silver. The china was generally chipped and the silverware slightly bent, but the fish was out of this world. I must have been deep in thought about my anticipated meal because it was some time before I realized I had picked up the tail again. Damn! That Murphy was going too far. I was out of his jurisdiction and he had no right to be harassing me now. I was tempted to pull over and give the jerks a piece of my mind.

I must have been deep in thought about the tail, for it was a while before I realized the car in front of me was consistently slowing down, to the point that we were just creeping along. Suddenly he jammed on his brakes and I stopped just inches from his bumper. Too late, I realized what was going down. The tail stopped on my bumper, ensuring I was going nowhere, and two big lunks jumped out, one on each side. The guy on the driver’s side yanked open my door and hauled me out by my shirt. He wasn’t a cop.

“The Boss wants to talk to you,” he informed me, inviting me to his car. Considering his size, and the fact that his three friends were just as big, I thought it best to accept the ride. He patted me down and once satisfied that I wasn’t packing, hauled me to the rear door of his Lincoln and shoved me in. My leg throbbed with pain, and the ribs felt no better. At least I wasn’t riding in the trunk, and I thanked God for small favors. They took my keys and one of his friends drove off in my car. I figured I’d never see the Brougham again.

We pulled up in the alley behind Rabeno’s on the far south side of town within a half an hour. Rabeno’s was a great Italian restaurant with some of the best linguine east of the Mississippi. It was also the favorite haunt of Micky Malone. Why a good Irish boy like Micky choose to eat at an Italian joint was beyond me, but I think it had something to do with the ambiance.

When the Lincoln pulled to a stop another large fellow was waiting and yanked open the door and hauled me out, again by my shirt. I told him to take it easy on my knee and hobbled along as best I could. He held my arm against his own like a steel trap, to make sure I couldn’t run. Like running was an option. I was actually glad for the support, since they had left my crutches in the Brougham. He steered me into Rabeno’s via the back door and I was hustled into a private room.

Micky was having dinner. He paused, looking up to see what the cat had drug in, and then continued to eat, making small talk with his companions. The blond on his right laughed obsequiously at all his jokes. The two “gentlemen” seated at the table looked vaguely familiar. I recognized the guy standing behind him, my old friend with the pipe. He glared at me.

I could see Micky was going to let me stand there for a good long time before he deigned to turn his attention to me, and since my knee was killing me, I decided to break the ice myself. “Evening, Micky. These gents told me you wanted to talk to me.”

He put down his fork and waved off the thug behind me, who evidently was about to teach me a lesson in manners. He took a long slow drink from his wine glass and then wiped his lips with his cloth napkin.

“Yea, Max. How ya doing? Sorry to hear about your little accident.” He looked at my knee with exaggerated sympathy. The blond giggled. “You should be more careful. Falling down steps can be fatal.”

“Yea. I changed the light bulb,” I told him.

“That’s good.” He didn’t offer me a seat. I was beginning to sweat from the effort of standing on my bum knee. “Listen, Max. I hear you’ve been poking around Jonesey’s place. Looking for anything in particular?”

“Mr. Jones,” I answered frankly.

The blond’s giggle died abruptly and the two guys at the table looked a little surprised. But Micky didn’t miss a beat. “Any particular reason?”

“Yea. Mrs. Jones hired me to find him. She’s worried about him.”

“Oh Yea?” He rocked back in his chair and lit a cigar. “Well that’s good. That’s good that she’s worried about him. She’s a good wife.” He puffed on his cigar for a few seconds and then looked back up to me. “I hope you find him, Max. Cause me and the boys, we’re worried about him too. Jonesy’s doing a little work for me.” At this he pulled a little notebook out of his vest pocket and laid it squarely on the table between us. I recognized it as the notebook Pipes had taken from me the night before. “It’s a shame the bookstore burned down last night. But bookstore’s can be replaced, ‘ya know? But people, good people like Jonesy, well they’re hard to replace. I’d sure like to find him. All safe and sound like. So you keep on looking for Jonesy, Max. And if you find him there will be a little extra in your Christmas stocking this year. And,” he added punctuating the air with his cigar, “If he’s dead, and you can find out who killed him, then I’ll really make it worth your while.”

I was confused. “You mean you didn’t…”

“Course not!” he scoffed. “I need Jonesy. He’s a vital part of my operation. See, Alice here likes to read the classics.” He winked. Alice laughed like a hyena. Then he turned to the thug behind me. “See Mr. Mann back to his car.”

“Yes sir, Mr. Malone.” The hulk behind me grabbed me by the arm letting me know in no uncertain terms that my chat with Micky was over.

“Careful of his knee,” Mickey grinned, turning his attention back to his linguine.

The Old Flame

I was escorted to my car, which had conveniently found its way to the alley behind Rabeno’s. I was handed the keys and the big gorilla walked away with a, “Have a nice day,” thrown over his shoulder as he left me standing there. I had to pinch myself to make sure I wasn’t dreaming. No pipes to the knee. No punch to the gut. No cement shoes. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say I had just been hired by Micky Malone to find Rodger Jones. I did know better, and I had just been hired by Micky Malone to find Rodger Jones. It didn’t make any sense. My head was swimming.

I got in the car and hesitated slightly before inserting the key in the ignition. I closed my eyes and turned the key. The old Brougham fired right up, the motor purring like a kitten – no explosion. I let out a long breath, relieved. I sat there for a few minutes trying to sort things out. The two people I suspected most of doing away with Rodger Jones were now both counting on me to find him. Up to about an hour ago, the way I had it figured was that if Mrs. Jones didn’t kill her husband, then Micky must of done it. If Micky didn’t do it, then I figured it must have been the dame. But damned if they weren’t both paying me to find the guy. Or at least I think Micky was going to pay me, if I followed the conversation correctly. My head was beginning to spin.

At last I put the car in gear and as I pulled away I noticed two of Mickey’s boys standing behind the dumpster, where they were keeping an eye on me. I gave them a wave and a nod, but they just watched me pass, stony faced. It didn’t exactly give me a warm fuzzy feeling that we were all on the same side.

Once back out on the street I remembered that I hadn’t eaten and decided to grab something quick, preferably from someplace that had a well lighted parking lot. I headed over to Cousin Charlie’s, a little bar on 7th Street that was renowned for roast beef sandwiches and slaw to die for. Fortunately, it was also on a busy street and had it’s own well lit and guarded lot. With luck, I’d be able to satisfy an appetite that had come roaring back without getting piped, kidnapped or killed.

Well, luck was with me. I made it into Cousin Charlie’s without incident and took a booth in the back, where I could keep an eye on things. It paid off. I saw Cliff Williams come in just after the waitress left for my beer. I gave him a wave and he came over to join me.

“How’s it been going?” he asked as he slid onto the bench opposite me. “A Mich,” he told the waitress as she plunked my beer on the table. “In the bottle.”

“Don’t ask,” I replied.

“Tough day?”

“You wouldn’t believe it if I told you.”

“Any closer to finding old man Jones?”

“Nope. I’m shooting blanks, Cliff. I just about had Micky Malone pegged for it, what with the shop getting torched last night.”

“Yea? So what changed your mind?”

I told him of my little encounter with the Malone boys. “Shit Cliff, he’s gone and hired me!”

“So’s the dame,” he observed. I could tell by his tone that he didn’t think a little thing like paying me would exempt someone from suspicion.

“So, you still think it’s the wife?”

He took a long pull off his Michalobe and nodded. “I’d look into the insurance angle if I was you.” The waitress came back and we ordered our food, and more beer. Cliff watched her retreat towards the kitchen before coming back around to the conversation. “Hey, good news,” he told me.

“What’s that?”

“The Fire Marshall has cleared the scene. Definitely arson. But,” he grinned over his beer, “definitely no signs of a corpse. Murphy’s beside himself. He sure wanted to nail your ass.”

So the next day I decided to take Cliff’s advise and began digging into the insurance angle. I got on the phone and called my old buddy, Jenny Andrews. Jen was an insurance fraud investigator for one of the big east coast agencies. We went way back – Jenny and me – when she was still Jenny Carter. But things didn’t exactly work out. When we realized that we weren’t exactly simpatico, we went our separate ways. It had been many years ago, but we parted with no hard feelings.

Jenny was glad to hear from me and asked me when I was going to get a real job. She always asked and I always said when Hell freezes over. Then I asked her how Jim and the two kids were doing. They were doing great. Jim had gotten a promotion and they had moved into a new house – one with two and a half baths. It was just what she had always wanted, she told me. And it was. That was what had made us incompatible. Jenny had wanted security and stability, something a private dick can’t exactly promise, and I had wanted the freedom to be my own boss, to set my own hours. The feast or famine lifestyle, the lack of fringe benefits, no hope of ever having a house with a yard drove the final wedge between us. We had made a great team, and still had the utmost respect for each other. It took me two years to get around to scrapping the “Carter &” off the door so that now it read simply, Mann ~ Private Investigations.

I explained the current case to her and she said she would see what she could do. In less than an hour she called me back. It was beginning to look like Cliff was right. The insurance trail on this dame stuck out like an iceberg in the desert.

Her first husband, Jeremy Abrams, was insured for a cool one million dollars. The insurance company did not want to pay off, since no body was ever found, but after years of stalling and haggling between their respective lawyers, they had finally caved and paid out in full. Plus there was the house, listed at a cool 750 grand.

Her second husband, the car dealer, was insured for 2.5 million. The insurance investigators were all over that one like flies to honey, but they could never prove any foul play. Eventually, they had to settle without a fight. Plus she got the dealership, worth an estimated 25 million.

So I was a little surprised when Jen told me that her latest husband, Rodger Jones, was only insured for 200K. “That’s odd,” I observed.

“Well, Yea,” she agreed, “but there’s more.”

“Oh?”

“Yea. That bookstore of his – the one that just burned down… It’s insured for three million dollars.”

“Whoa!” It didn’t compare to 25 mil, but still three mil was nothing to sneeze at. Then a notion crossed my mind. “So tell me, Jen, what insurance agent in their right mind would sell a policy to anyone related to this dame?” I already knew the answer.

#

The Independent Insurance Agency was on the east side. It only took me a few minutes to get there. I called ahead to be sure he was in, giving the secretary a false name for my appointment, to insure that he’d still be in when I got there. He was.

“Mr. Hensley to see you.” She stepped aside to allow me to enter. Alex Marino was in the process of raising to greet a prospect when his smile froze and his handshake withdrew. So did the secretary.

“You?” His smile was replaced by a frown. “What’s with the bogus ID?” He sat back down, all signs of warmth now gone.

“I just wanted to make sure you would see me,” I said.

He scoffed at that. “And why wouldn’t I see you, Mr. Mann?”

“I don’t know,” I shrugged, helping myself to a seat that was not offered. I picked up a large crystal snow globe and gave it a shake. It had a little scene of a cottage in the woods, and the snow swirled all around. “Cute,” I observed. “Real crystal?”

“Waterford.”

I looked around the office. It was quite nicely furnished. The paintings on the walls really were paintings, not prints. And they were framed in expensive wooden frames. His desk was solid cherry, and the rug on the floor a genuine Persian. Mr. Marino was doing quite well for himself, it seemed.

“Nice place you’ve got here. Insurance business must treat you pretty well.”

“I don’t do too badly,” he conceded.

“I must be in the wrong business,” I said. I rocked back and forth in the visitor’s chair – solid as a rock. No need for a matchbook wedge under the leg of this chair. “I used to have a secretary.” I jerked my thumb back towards the reception area.

“That’s nice.”

“Yes sir, it must take a hell of a lot of sales to afford an office in this suite. Or maybe just a few really big sales will do the trick, eh?”

He sighed in exasperation. “I’m a very busy man, Mr. Mann. How can I help you?”

“I understand that you sold the insurance policy on Mrs. Jones’ husband.”

His eyes narrowed. “Yes, I did.”

“And you sold the policy on her late husband, Henry Ferguson.”

He just stared at me, irritably.

“And on Jeremy Abrams – her first husband, as well.”

“Indeed. It helps if you know someone in the life insurance business, Mr. Mann. Someone you can trust.”

“Oh, I see,” I said.

Again, he just stared at me.

“And in the fire insurance business too, I assume?”

“Just what are you getting at, Mr. Mann?” His gaze was cold as steel.

“Well, Mr. Marino, don’t you think it looks just a little suspicious that you keep selling bigger and bigger insurance policies to the husbands of Mrs. Jones and that bad things keep happening to them?

At this he leaned forward and locked me in a cold glare. “Be very careful, Mr. Mann. Liable can be a nasty business.”

“Yes, it can, “ I said. “So is murder, Mr. Marino. And fraud.”

“Quit playing your little game, Mr. Mann. If you have something to say, just say it.”

“OK, Mr. Marino. The way I see it you and Mrs. Jones have a thing going. She marries a rich guy, you sell the big insurance policy, the rich guy dies, and you make sure the policy pays off.” He looked at me in a complete deadpan. If I had hoped to strike a nerve, I had failed miserably. I may as well have suggested that I did not care for the office decor for all the rise I got out of him. “And maybe you two have got a little something else going on the side?”

His eyebrows knit at this. So I gigged a little deeper.

“You sacking up with her?”

At this Alex Marino rose from his desk wound up tighter than a spring. Both jaw and fist were clenched. The veins on his temples throbbed, threatening to pop. I’d certainly struck a nerve there. “Get out of my office.” He managed to speak without shouting – just barely. I rose, keeping the desk between us. His hand grasped the crystal snow globe as I edged toward the door.

“Hit a nerve?” I asked with a wicked grin. I heard the crystal shatter as I slammed the door on my way out.
~

Next week – Chapter’s 9 & 10: The Maid, and The Sister

Just three more installments. Yet to come: Part 5 – The Beagle, and The Waitress; and Part 6 – The Collar
(c) 2010, by J. M. Strother – All rights reserved.