EXTRACT FOR
Taking On The Orlando Mob
(Author Unknown)

Chapter 1

    

    I don't know why I should be surprised by anything anymore.

    When you've been operating a small one-man detective agency on Orange Avenue in the heart of downtown Orlando for five years, you see a lot of weird things. Florida is the Mecca for weird, Orlando the epitome for super weird. Adults sporting Goofy masks and Mickey ears wandering around as if Goofy masks and Mickey ears were the latest in high fashion.  Motorists getting out of their cars at the scene of an accident and approaching a traffic cop for directions. Elderly Asian men just off the plane trying to drive and read American road signs in heavy afternoon traffic.  Turban-headed men in suits running red lights, then jumping out of their rented Cadillac to scream in their native language at the motorist they've just T-boned.

    I've been living here for twenty years, have seen just about every mindless thing there is to see and keep hoping that what I haven't seen won't get me killed or maimed.

    But even though I'm a top-notch private eye and always on my guard, I still wasn't prepared for what would happen that evening.

***

    Earlier that afternoon, a tall, broad-shouldered woman bulled her way into my office.  

    She said her name was Sandra Brandon. She had a low voice and a hard femininity that would scare off most guys and have them covering their crotches while running for cover. Her thick brown hair reached her shoulders. She wore her clothes well and didn't overdo her makeup. But nice hair, a great figure and tasteful makeup don't matter much when you suspect the woman can easily knock you on your ass.  

    "My ex-husband's name is Don," she said, sitting down in the chair facing my desk. "He's big, strong and good-looking. He's also a pig." 

    "A pig?" I asked, more for verification than any sort of hearing disability.

    "Pig. P-I-G."

    I wanted to thank her for spelling it for me.  Sometimes I give people the impression I'm dim-witted. This is because I usually have too many things going on in my head and it makes me uncomfortable. As a result, I tend to appear confused and oftentimes constipated when I should really be showing off my customary wit and charm.

    "Does he walk upright?" I asked. "Or on all fours, like so many other pigs we know and love?"

    She was not amused. I had a feeling even my legendary captivating humor wouldn't be enough to get her to crack her face. Some women just don't understand the need for levity when they're furious. My ex-wife Phil was a perfect example.

    "Do you always try to be funny?" she asked.

    "Sometimes I actually achieve it," I said proudly.

    "This must be a slow day for you."

    "Depends on the crowd."  

    She pulled a small glossy photo from her purse and handed it over.  I laid it carefully on my desk blotter in front of the silver pen and pencil set Phil gave me for my thirty-fifth birthday, just four short years ago.  

    Sandra was right.  Don was a looker in a "bad-boy" sort of way.  He could easily be a contestant on Extreme Fighting--not exactly the sort of quarry I prefer for my usual assignments.  But it always made me wonder why so many women fell for such guys when bad boys wanted a quick roll in the hay, some booze, drugs, and a place to crash.  Pursuing a deep commitment or a lasting relationship was not high on their short list of priorities.

    But what did I know?  I was only one guy and, according to Phil--as well as several other women I'd known in my skirt-chasing career--I had no idea what it took to press a woman's buttons.

    "That was taken about a year ago."  Sandra Brandon snapped her purse shut. "He might have shaved off the goatee. He's always shaving something off or growing something else."

    That was a perfect lead-in for a zinger, but the vibes in the room told me to leave it be. I was heart-broken but forced myself to forget about it.  There would be other joke-making opportunities.

    "What's he done?" I asked.

    "He knocked me up.  Then he made tracks.  I told you he's a pig, didn't I?"

    "I vaguely remember you mentioning that, yes."

    Sandra Brandon sat back and crossed her arms in front of her.

    "How much back child support are we talking about?"

    "Three years, so far. Bastard's supposed to pay me six hundred a month.  Know what that comes out to?"

    "A handsome chunk of change." 

    She grunted.

    I wanted to ask if her grunt meant agreement or just a little residual reflux from sharing the sheets with a pig.

    "What are your rates?  Someone told me you're pretty cheap."

    I hated it when people didn't get their facts right.  "I prefer to say I'm more reasonable than my competition."

    "Whatever."  She opened her purse again and pulled out a thick wad.  The top bill was a hundred.  Unless everything else underneath was a one or a five, she could have an easy ten grand in those hot little manicured hands.  It made me wonder why she needed child support money in the first place.  But I was never one to cause trouble.  "How much will a grand get me?

    "Four days of my complete, undying cooperation."  I hoped she'd just hand me the wad.  I'd promise to give her back what I didn't need when the assignment was finished.  

    She carefully peeled off ten bills and dropped them on my desk.

***

    According to Sandra, Don Brandon spent a lot of his time in the dirtiest tittie bars on South Orange Blossom Trail.

    One of Brandon's favorite haunts, Kelsey's Bar in downtown Orlando, makes strong drinks for guys wanting to get drunk fast.  You can also buy drugs and find a fairly cheap hooker while you're there.

    Since Kelsey's wasn't far from my office, I decided to start my search there.

    I wasn't wild about going there, but since I didn't have any other leads, I didn't have much choice.  This area was popular for vagrants, hookers and druggies.  Not exactly the sort you wanted to meet at night--especially when you were alone.  

    But when someone just paid you enough money to make your rent for the next few weeks, you forced yourself to ignore a little minor discomfort.

    A shot of Jack's would also have helped start the ball rolling.

    My supply in the flask had run out just before lunch.  I hadn't had time to put in my usual grand appearance at the local liquor store yet.  I still had a splash or two left in the bottle in the bottom drawer of my desk and a quarter-bottle back at the apartment.  

    It would have to wait. 

    Except for the flashing neon, the aging brick building reminded me of one of those giant sea creatures living at the bottom of the ocean.  The kind that doesn't move until some unsuspecting prey gets a little too close to its huge mouth.

    I cautiously approached, keeping alert so I couldn't be jumped by someone hiding between the parked cars lining the curb.  My penlight lay nestled in my jacket pocket, ready to douse the darkness.  I'd only flick it on in an emergency.  You never knew who was hiding between parked cars.  I figured if someone was hiding between cars, he wouldn't appreciate a sudden jolt of blinding light in his eyes.  I'm a sleuth, not a skull-crusher.  I don't mind finding out a few things for people, but I'm definitely not the type to risk broken bones for some walking-around money.  

    What good is walking-around money if your legs are broken?  

    As an independent sleuth, I don't have the money to buy medical insurance.  Even if I did, it would take much too long to find a carrier who wouldn't laugh hysterically when I told him my profession.  Insurance agents are funny about such things.  

    As usual, I had my little Bersa .380 with me.  It makes me feel more confident even though I've never had to use it.  I hoped I never would.  

    I'm a lousy shot.  I have this irritating habit of shaking whenever I point my gun at someone.  When you're shaking, hitting your target is a real challenge.  And when you aim, you'd better have the balls to pull the trigger.  I just can't put myself into that mindset, and whenever I try, I shake.  I figure that if I spend enough time at the shooting range, the experience will improve my aim and give me the confidence I need.  It hasn't worked yet but I'm still hopeful.  

    Kelsey's throbbed louder as I approached.  It hadn't sucked anyone in since I'd gotten out of my car but I remained cautious anyway.   The windows blazed with light.  Even outside you could hear Elvis in his heyday bellowing from the juke.  

    I always thought the name Kelsey ironic.  It's right out of All in the Family.  But that's where the similarity ends.  I'd been here once before, and if there was any humor floating around, I hadn't picked the right day to see it.  Truckers, dock workers, fishermen and laborers came here after work, some to get drunk, others to get drunk and fight, still others to get drunk and proposition the hookers.  They weren't what you'd call a humorous bunch.  I was never too fond of placing myself at the mercy of a roomful of drunken blue-collar testosterone.  You could get seriously hurt.

    I paused before going inside.  The best and safest thing a detective can do is have his subject's face clear in his head.  When you have a clear picture, you can scan the perimeter quickly and make tracks if things get hairy.  Brandon was six-one, weighed in at around two-ten, shaved his head and looked like someone you'd expect to see on a Post Office wall or escorting an MTV diva to an awards ceremony.  He'd been in the Navy, did some boxing--which explained the broken nose--was a sucker for boilermakers and cheap hookers and thought nothing of snorting his paycheck.  

    He was definitely bad news.  He probably wouldn't appreciate knowing the lovely Sandra had just paid an expert sleuth a thousand bucks to track him down.

    My pulse hastening, I carefully pushed open the door and hoped it wouldn't swallow me whole.

    The room was deafening, this time with Garth Brooks.  Some intense arm-wrestling went on at a couple of tables, but mostly everyone just drank and stared glossy-eyed at the three plump hookers sitting at the bar in their bright spandex outfits.

    A quick scan revealed no sign of Brandon.

    Rule Number One for finding someone in a crowded bar: Always approach the barman first.  He sees and knows everything and could care less who is cheating on who or dodging child support payments.  Slipping him a ten-spot always gets you somewhere, and when you use your charm as an added bonus, you can't lose.  

    "Whaddya have?"  He was around thirty and an inch or so taller than me--which put him at around six-one.  He hauled around a pair of muscular arms covered with tattoos and kept his black mustache trimmed and waxed at the ends.  His coal-black eyes were dead-steady.  He seemed upset.  He was probably waiting for the right CEO position to open up and forced to work in this loud, dirty place until his Big Moment arrived.

    "Seen this guy?"  I placed the photo carefully on a dry section of counter.  

    He picked up a glass and polished it with the white cloth dangling from his belt.  He'd either had his fill of the professional sleuth's Rule Number One in the past or wasn't in the mood to be helpful.  Instead of looking at the photo, he stared at me.  He didn't appear to be gay, but you never knew nowadays.  Prison oozed with homosexuals who looked like Conan the Barbarian on steroids.  Also, a lot of guys went into prison straight and ended up gay or bi.  I tossed him a pleasant grin but it didn't go very far.  A ten-spot would have been better.  I pulled one from my pants pocket and slid it over.

    He didn't touch it.

    "I take it that's a no."  I pocketed the photo but left the ten-spot.  He was probably sizing me up to see if I'd leave the bill even though he wasn't going to be cooperative.  I decided to keep him guessing.  I left it there.

    Someone tapped me on the shoulder.  A little bald-headed guy perched on the barstool to my right grinned at me.  He was probably around fifty or so, but I've always had trouble determining a bald man's age.  He could've been forty or even younger. 

    "Back there!" he yelled over the throbbing juke.  He stabbed a thumb at the lighted doorway marked BABES and BULLS.

    I tried a gamble.  "Men's room?" 

    He shrugged.  "Something going on down that hall."  He picked up his beer and had a big slug.

    "What's going on?"

    "Can't see much from here."

    "I can see that."

    "See what?"

    "I can see that you can't see much from here."

    "You're good."  He had another slug of beer.

    "You need to tell my ex-wife, but she probably won't believe you."  

    I left him scratching his bald head and slipped through the open doorway.  The well-lit carpeted hall went past the restrooms to a door marked OFFICE.  A sliver of yellow light showing beneath the door told me something was going on inside.  

    Procedure in this case?  Act innocent.  You don't know what's happening and you don't know anyone.  If something illegal is going on, avoid all eye contact and get out fast.  If it's just a high-stakes poker game, the situation will be much less stressful.  Say, Oops--sorry, guys, thought this was where Lila told me to meet her.  Lila was always a good name to use.  Lila or Amber.  That'll usually get them wondering if they know anyone by that name.  Hopefully, one or more of them won't actually be involved with someone named Lila or Amber.  If so, then you're in seriously bad shape.  If not, someone will invariably say, Can't you read?  Or, if you're really lucky, Poker, fella?  A buck gets you in.  Then you can always successfully bow out with any number of stupid lines.

    Stupid can get you out of a lot of trouble.

    So can a snappy line.

    I reached for the doorknob.

    Locked.  Damn . . . 

    The men's room, then.

    The room reeked of urine, mold and bleach.  The closed window, sealed shut with several layers of paint, kept the stench contained.  A naked light bulb hung from a long, frayed cord.  The filmy mirror barely showed my reflection.  A beat-up white trash can shoved against the grimy tile wall stood beside the stained sink.  Crumpled towels littered the soiled linoleum.  The urinal looked like it hadn't been cleaned since the Reagan years.  

    The only feature in the room pleasing to the eye was the slender brunette staring curiously at me from the open stall.

    She was about twenty-five, with long dark hair, large dark almond eyes, high cheekbones, and full lips.  She was two or three inches shorter than me and dressed in tight jeans, a red tee shirt, tan jacket and tennis shoes.  Small gold necklaces glittered beneath her collarbone.  Her face sure was nice.  Too nice for a dirty men's room.

    This is where protocol turns vague, and discretion takes over.  Since I was never very good at discretion, I always managed to get into trouble in tight situations.  I'm looking for a guy, someone tells me to come back here and now I'm facing a good-looking chick in a foul-smelling men's room.  

    My lack of discretion urged me to say something witty, like, "Pizza delivery" or "We've got to stop meeting like this."  But since I was nervous about being here in the first place, I knew my usual dry casual wit would be lacking.  I decided to be cool and ease as gracefully as possible out of the room.  Then I could take my chances with the little bald-headed guy who told me to come back here.  

    "Hi," I said, oozing my usual charisma.

    She nodded but said nothing.  

    Since I obviously hadn't scored any points with my charisma, I decided to sound clever.  "Could've sworn this was the men's room."

    She just kept staring at me.

    "This is the men's room, isn't it?" 

    Still no reply.

    I decided to break the ice with a little humor.  "I didn't by any chance switch genders while I wasn't looking, did I?"  I raised and lowered my brows in my best Groucho Marx.

    That didn't faze her.  Maybe she was too young for Groucho.  I'd try Harpo, but I'd need a harp and a bicycle horn.  With Chico, I'd need a piano and a bad Italian accent.  I never could quite figure out Zeppo and was even less sure about Gummo.

    "Is one of us . . . lost?"  I tried to be subtle and informative at the same time.

    Still no response.

    She obviously didn't care too much for humor, cleverness, wit or charisma.  Not even being subtle or informative.  What was left?

    I was a private detective.  I was supposed to be calm, calculated and professional.  Equipped to handle every type of weird situation.  

    And most of all, unshakable.

    Debonair, perhaps.  That wasn't exactly one of my better qualities, but I could wing it.  When you're calm, calculated and professional, you can do just about anything.   

    This situation called for the Cary Grant touch.  I was about to break her down with one of his best lines from Philadelphia Story when she whispered, "You really need to get out of here."  

    "No problem," I whispered back.  In my own voice, of course, since I didn't want to confuse her.  I gave her a sly wink.  Sort of a buddy-buddy type thing to put her at ease.  

    "I'm serious.  Someone's about to come in here, looking for you."

    I wanted to ask how she knew but all I could manage was, "It's okay.  I'm a private eye.  I'm used to shit like this."

    Voices out in the hall.

    The bathroom door swung open.  The juke increased in volume, this time with Elvis from his Vegas days.  

    I didn't have time to turn to see who it was before something heavy and hard cracked me on the back of the head.