I’m Jack Stoner, a private eye between cases—way between and desperate for a case, any case, except divorce. Well, maybe... Because I'm in hock to everyone. Then, out of the blue, I got a call offering me a case. Here's the catch: the caller wouldn't tell me details about the case unless we first met. I should’ve hung up and slammed the receiver hard, but desperation only began to describe my predicament. So, I got the where and when and left with little time to spare.
Excerpt:
Wednesday, November 6, 1940
San Diego, California
The Stoner Detective Agency wrapped up its last case months ago, and Jack Stoner vividly remembered the date: Thursday, June 20. It was when the bank notified him that the client’s check had bounced and that he had been overdrawn. After covering the overdraft from his savings, his accounts were as empty as Oliver Twist’s bowl, and he owed everybody. This wasn’t the first time a client played him for a sucker, but he vowed it would be the last. Yet if things didn’t take a turn for the better by month’s end, he’d be forced to close the agency and find work driving a delivery truck or spend Christmas sleeping in the park on a bench. Despite his bleak outlook, Stoner religiously went to the office. A client might call, or someone might get lost and wander in, needing directions.
The day started with a hopeful spring in his step, but it soured when he had to park four blocks away and hike to the intersection three doors from his office building. His misfortunes worsened when he noticed two gorilla types pacing by his entrance—the last time he visited the zoo, the ape pen had better-looking occupants than these two. He hid and watched them for a few minutes.
Sid didn’t waste any time letting loose his debt collectors, Stoner thought.
He didn’t habitually bet the ponies, but when the grapevine said, “The fix was in,” he called his bookie, Sid Devar, and laid a C-note on Leading the Charge to win. Yesterday’s temperature was one of the year’s hottest, and as luck would have it, the horse and jockey stopped for a mint Julip on the far turn and came in dead last.
Stoner didn’t mind losing, but Sid’s credit limit was twenty-four hours, and he didn’t have enough to cover his wager. So, he left those two apes sweltering in the hot sun, crossed the street, and ducked into a nearby alley.
Today’s luck fared no better than yesterday’s, and Stoner ran headlong into two more of Sid’s Neanderthal debt-collection goons: Theo and Leo. Theo’s bloodshot eyes were deeply set in their sockets, and his brow jutted far enough to shade his entire face. Innumerable fights pancaked the bridge of his nose, and his cauliflower ears were past harvest time. His chiseled chin could chip granite, and his two o’clock shadow could sand it smooth. Nature made a mistake in creating one of them but made a bigger mistake in creating a carbon copy, his twin, Leo!
Before Stoner whimpered a cry for help, Theo grabbed and slammed him against the building—his tiptoes floated inches above the pavement.
“Going somewhere, Stoner?”
Theo’s gruff voice might scare Frankenstein’s Monster, and his breath reeked of cheap cigar and everything bagel—extra onion and garlic—and rank enough to wilt a rose.
“Easy on the shirt, pal... It’s the only good one I’ve got.” Stoner feigned defiance. “Besides, you got the wrong guy.”
“Says you, welcher,” Theo said, spraying onion and garlic-saturated spittle with every word.
He loosened his grip, and Stoner’s feet landed on solid ground.
“What’s this Stoner guy look like, Leo?” he asked without taking his eyes off him. “This deadbeat says he ain’t him.”
Leo unfolded a crumpled slip of paper. “Medium build, fifty-ish, graying hair, paunch, and—”
“Yeah! Me and a thousand other guys, you lugheads.” Stoner attempted blustering with as much bravado as he could muster. “But that doesn’t make me the sadsack you’re looking for. So I’ll say it again, but slower this time... And maybe... Just maybe it’ll get through those thick skulls of yours.” Stoner took a deep breath and shouted, “You. Got. The. Wrong. Guy.”
But his plea fell on deaf ears.
“And a cross-shaped scar above his left eye,” Leo said, poking Stoner’s forehead with his hairy finger. “That’s ‘im, all right, Theo.”
“The cross nailed it, chump,” Theo said, grabbing Stoner’s lapels again. “Pay up, or we’ll pound every nickel out of yer hide.”
‘Roughing up’ someone was a lost art, and a true artisan of the craft never went for the face where bruises showed; instead, they concentrated on the softer or hidden places like the arms, legs, abdomen, or back. Stoner knew Theo and Leo. Neither struck him as the artistic type, and he didn’t relish being worked over by two cavemen who didn’t know what to do with a stick of colored chalk.
“I ain’t got it,” Stoner said with a confident grin. But he felt his lower lip quiver.
“Says he ain’t got it,” Theo said, cocking his head toward Leo.
“The boss don’t like ta hear them words,” Leo said with a grin that grew until it stretched from ear to ear but quickly morphed into tight lips. His brow furrowed. “Lemme pop ‘im one.”
“Not this time, brother,” Theo said, wagging his head from side to side. “He’s all mine. Next time, he’s all yers.”
Theo released Stoner’s lapels, made a fist the size of a football, and let it fly. It came at him like a runaway freight train, and with nowhere to run, he stood waiting in the middle of the tracks for the crash.
He didn’t have to wait long.
