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Private Investigator – Chapter 8

Posted in erbooker by erbooker on 12/22/2014

Private Investigator

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

Chapter 8 – When Your Lover Has Gone

It’s been a month since my face-off with Tommy Dorsey. Now he’s in the slammer, his girlfriend Olivia St. John is running the Dorsey Gang, her ex Albert Garaventa is out of the hospital after getting his dick shot off and I’m out of hiding and back at the private dick office after almost getting my head shot off.

I need a new case since I lost money on the last one. Lesson to self: If you hire the guy whose case you’re working on to be your bodyguard make sure you’re paying him less than he’s paying you.

A high-profile case with a guaranteed reward would get this private detective business back on track. Dolly was running through some possible cases from her planner with me and Albert.

“Let’s see, the Governor’s mistress has gone missing.”

“Hmm, the Governor’s gonna wanna keep that quiet. No front pages there.”

“Fire department thinks that wildfire up north was arson.”

“It was.”

Dolly looked up from her planner and Albert looked up from twiddling his thumbs.

“When I was hiding from the Dorsey Gang in the woods my hot plate got a little out of control and I burned my cabin down.”

Dolly’s eyes welled up. “All those poor bunnies and squirrels.”

“Next case.”

“Well, there’s a handsome African-American gentleman in the lobby who says he has something for ya.”

“Well whatever it is, I hope I can put it in a bank. Send him in.”

Dolly left and I turned to my glum bodyguard. “Albert, you’ve been quiet. What’s on your mind.”

“I miss my dick.”

I never know what to say in these situations.

“Well…that’ll happen.”

A bald-headed black man entered my office and Albert nearly toppled over with what I first assumed was racism, but turned out to be excitement.

“Slapsie Brown! You’re the greatest bluesman in New Jersey!”

“Aw, thanks man. Ain’t you that boxer?”

“I was. But then my dick was shot off.”

“Oh.”

I gave Slapsie a knowing look like, “Yeah, what can ya do”; but I think the bluesman thought I was flirting with him ’cause there were a lot of winks involved in my knowing look, so he gave me a look like “No thanks, not interested”; but his look involved winks too, so we all just kinda sat there uncomfortably for a while until I broke the ice.

“Mr. Brown, what can I do you for. Not ‘do you’ like I wanna, just, I mean–“

“Detective, I’m being extorted by the Jewish mob. I haven’t made a dime off my last three LP’s. All the cash is goin’ to the Schmeir Family.”

A black man being ripped off by the Jewish mafia. A case so rife with explosive racial dynamics was just the edgy kick-in-the-ass my P.I. gig needed. Tiptoeing the razor’s edge of racial prejudices. So edgy. So risky!

“I’ll take the case. Let’s get those Jews.”

“Whoa, boss,” Albert winced. “Easy. Sounds kinda sinister.”

“Yeah, man,” Slapsie frowned. “That’s not what this is about. The fact that they’re Jewish has nothing to do with this.”

“No, I’m not, uh,” I stammered buffoonly. “It’s just, uh, heh. Hoo boy.”

This case was gonna be edgier than I thought.

Look, I’m not racist.


Send all hate mail to ethanrbooker@gmail.com

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