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Private Investigator – Chapter 7

Posted in erbooker by erbooker on 12/15/2014

Private Investigator

Frank Francis is a private detective. A private eye. A private dick.

Chapter 7 – Can’t We Be Friends?

My secretary Dolly set up a meet between me and Tommy Dorsey at the Bennigan’s out by the airport. I’m getting ahead of myself. First, Dolly let out a long world-weary sigh and then she set up a meet between me and Tommy Dorsey at the Bennigan’s out by the airport. Dolly seemed to be letting out a lot of long world-weary sighs prior to completing simple tasks these days.

I wanted to meet Dorsey in a public place, so there could be no funny business. Plus, I had a coupon and I was in the mood for meatloaf.


I got there first, took a booth in the back and ordered the meatloaf from my lovely waitress, Ethel.

“This coupon’s expired,” the suddenly-not-so-lovely Ethel told me, handing it back.

“He’ll take it to go,” a voice from behind me said as a gun stuck in the back of my ribs. Suddenly I wanted ribs.

“Ethel, I’m gonna wanna change that order,” I hollered after her as she scurried into the kitchen.

I turned around and the crime kingpin of New Jersey Tommy Dorsey was pointing a gun at my ugly mug. We already covered this in chapter one. I said some things, he said some other things and then we flashed back to the beginning of the story. It would have been odd to start from here. You would have been like, “What the heck is going on?” “Who are these people?” “Why am I reading this?” “Why don’t I go enjoy a meal at my local Bennigan’s instead?” It’s called foreshadowing.

“What are you gonna do,” I smirked confidently. “Shoot me in a crowded Bennigan’s?”

Tommy motioned to the now-completely empty restaurant.

“I own every Bennigan’s in the tri-state area.”

“You sonuvabitch.”

An odd thing to get angry about, I’m sure; but family-style dinners at an affordable price shouldn’t be associated with organized crime.

“Look, I just want Albert to get his money. He threw the fight. Now pay the man.”

“The payment has been made already.”

Olivia St. John sashayed out of the kitchen and joined Dorsey at his side. This dame sashayed more than any lady I knew. She must have taken a class.

“I’m sorry, Frank.”

“She’s with me now, Detective,” Tommy sneered. “I paid her to string Garaventa along and convince him to throw the fight.”

“So why am I here? Olivia, why did you hire me to take on this case if you were in on it the whole time?”

“Because I wanted you dead,” Tommy barked. “I thought I’d give you one last case before I put lead in your brain.”

My knees were quaking and more importantly my meatloaf was getting cold. “Dorsey, I know we have our history; but I hardly think killing me is going to solve anything.”

“It’ll solve everything. It’ll solve literally every single thing.”

“Well, I wouldn’t much care for it.”

It was at that moment that the door burst open and in stormed former heavyweight runner-up Albert Garaventa. Albert smashed a bread loaf-sized fist into his palm. “It’s clobberin’ time.”

And then Tommy shot him in the dick.

“OH GOD, MY DICK!”

In the ensuing chaos of a heavyweight boxer getting shot in the damn dick, I made a dash for it through the kitchen and out the back door, hollering “Good luck with everything!” behind me.


Send all hate mail to ethanrbooker@gmail.com

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