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    Dark Jaws: A Mike Angel Mystery
    Dark Jaws: A Mike Angel Mystery
    Dark Jaws: A Mike Angel Mystery
    Ebook243 pages3 hours

    Dark Jaws: A Mike Angel Mystery

    By David H Fears

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    About this ebook

    In 1972 Mike takes on a case searching for a stolen inheritance. The next day his dowager client is killed on a downtown Portland street. Clues she left leads Mike on a meandering case with murder, seduction and twists over three states, chasing a carnival con man and his stolen and counterfeit money. The finale carnival act involves a dangerous dance of death over an alligator tank. A twisted path takes Mike to Hardin Montana for the reenactment of Sitting Bull’s victory over Custer at Little Big Horn. Along the way Mike learns his suspect is connected to the most elusive counterfeiter in US history, “Mister 880.” Mike suffers hypnosis by a stunning belly dancer, is fascinated in Butte Montana by an Annie Oakley type and strung up and left to die in Vale, Oregon. 13th book in the stand-alone series.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherDavid H Fears
    Release dateMay 9, 2015
    ISBN9781311792082
    Dark Jaws: A Mike Angel Mystery
    Author

    David H Fears

    David was known by the handle “professor” as a boy (no doubt the thick black spectacles, Buddy Holly style), and has had a lifetime interest in Mark Twain. He has also written nearly one hundred short stories with about sixteen published, and is working on the 14th Mike Angel PI Mystery novel. Fears is a pretty handy name for horror stories, but he also has written mainstream nostalgic, literary, some fantasy/magical realism, as well as the PI novels. For the past decade he has devoted his full time to producing Mark Twain Day By Day, a four-volume annotated chronology in the life of Samuel L. Clemens. Two volumes are now available, and have been called, “The Ultimate Mark Twain Reference” by top Twain scholars. His aim for these books is “to provide a reference and starting-off place for the Twain scholar, as well as a readable book for the masses,” one that provides many “tastes” of Twain and perspective into his complex and fascinating life. He understands this is a work that will never be “finished” — in fact, he claims that no piece of writing is ever finished, only abandoned after a time. As a historian, David enjoys mixing historical aspects in his fiction. David recently taught literature and writing at DeVry University in Portland, his third college stint. His former lives enjoyed some success in real estate and computer business, sandwiched between undergraduate studies in the early 70s and his masters degree in education and composition, awarded in 2004. He was born and raised in Portland, Oregon, and has lived in New England, Southern California and Nevada. David is youthful looking and is the father of three girls, the grandfather of four and the great-grandfather of two; he’s written, “It all shows what you can do if you fool around when you’re very young.” David’s a card. How many of us think humor has a place in mystery tales or history tomes? He claims his calico cat Sophie helps him edit his stories while lying across his arm when he is composing, and sinking her claws in with any poorly drawn sentence. As a writer, a humorist, a cat lover and father of girls, he relates well to Clemens. Writing hardboiled PI novels is his way of saying "NUTS!" to politically correct fiction. UPDATE: Beloved Calico Sophie died on Apr 24, 2016 at 13 & 1/2 years. She is sorely missed.

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      Book preview

      Dark Jaws - David H Fears

      Chapter 1

      She had a face that would be at home on post office walls. Not the usual skirt that wanders in looking for a lost husband or dog, though she was richly dressed in a red summer dress with gold buttons down the front, large opal pendant, dove gray gloves to her elbows, and one of those old fashioned felt hats with feathers sprouting like crabgrass. Her weathered face was twenty miles of bad road only partly hidden behind wire spectacles, and her hair was something like stained gauze after being run through a blender.

      Dressed more for 1942 than current 1972. Moldy money. English Society maybe, except the face said Bonnie of Clyde fame more than Queen Mother of tea and crumpet fame. I’ve never known what a crumpet is, but I know what a pissed off granny is.

      She stilted to my desk with ramrod bearing. Her glare from deep inset slate eyes was unnerving. She looked down a hook nose slightly out of plumb. She might have been seventy or a hundred and ten. Whatever, she was old. A modest application of blusher was all that kept me from calling the coroner.

      She stripped off the gloves and said: I’m seeking Michael Angel, private investigator. I suspect you’re the man.

      I think there was a smile on her face — hard to tell with her face.

      All day, so far, I said dryly, looking up from the sports page and thinking wicked witch of the west.

      I see you don’t stand when a lady enters the room. Appropriate for your low breeding I suppose.

      I stood and offered her a chair next to my desk, which she plopped into as if she’d walked ten miles. Have we met? I said, knowing if we had, it would have been in some sweaty nightmare with me fleeing down a long dirty alley.

      I’m just in from St. Louis, so it’s doubtful. I have read of your many exploits, however, in Chicago and here. I especially enjoyed the way you stole the pornographic film right under Howard Hughes’ nose on that Vegas caper. I dated the skunk once, about a hundred years ago, and knew of his obsession with that old movie star, Gish I think her name was.

      Lillian Gish. What can I do for you Mrs….

      Cornier. It’s French.

      I was poisoned by a French dame once back in Chicago. You undoubtedly read of that case, too. She was appropriately obsessed also.

      She ignored that comment. Asked if she could smoke.

      I quit last year but have unending sympathies for addicts. Suit yourself. Tell me what brings you to my dump. I slid an ash tray in front of her.

      She eyeballed the digs while lighting a Canadian Black Cat on the end of a foot-long pewter holder. The nasty odor reminded me of reasons I quit the habit right after breaking last year’s big case, unraveling a smut film outfit that drugged underage over-ambitious girls posing as golden age Hollywood actresses. Since then my now-solo investigation dodge returned to the high drama of counting dead flies in the window.

      I watched the smoldering pill waft lazy smoke to the ceiling. She watched me watching her. Every now and then my old tobacco itch sneaks in. Not from this crap, however, which smelled more like old shoes burning. Watching dead flies for signs of life was preferable to watching this over-dressed hag.

      She leaned back and opened a brown leather purse to hand over a photograph.

      That’s the great Henry DeBoard, unfortunately my uncle, she said, like he was Al Capone. A cross between W.C. Fields and Mussolini stared out of the snapshot, taken next to a circus tent. A thick bald jasper who shared her deep inset eyes. He looked tough to the bone, but with too many teeth, too even, too white to be real.

      The old dame must have been on a diet of bones. Still, she had one thing in common with the man in the photograph: ugly must run in the family.

      He’s why I’m here. I wish to hire you to find him and retrieve money he stole from my mother. It’s a rather long story, as I discovered to my horror. Uncle ran off with well over two hundred thousand of mother’s nest egg. I know where he is, or rather, was recently, and I’d seek him out myself but he threatened to kill me should I come around again. Convincingly so. You may keep the photo.

      I slid the picture to one side. When was that last visit?

      Last December. In Fresno.

      What makes you think he still has the dough?

      "Because he’s a scrooge with, as you say, dough. Plus, I have a good idea where he’s stashed it, or most of it."

      Why not go to the cops?

      She snorted and gave out a whinny sort of squeak. They’d only laugh. I have no proof that the money was mother’s. She’s dead these past eight months. I can’t even prove Henry’s my uncle, or that he’s been involved in various illegal activities.

      Such as?

      Besides stealing what was to be my inheritance, you mean? I have suspicion he’s a bank robber, extortionist, and possibly a counterfeiter. The man’s an expert engraver. As a girl I once peeked in his shop and saw him working on what looked like a plate for fifty dollar bills. Oh, he said it was simply an art object but the way he whisked it away and brought out a piece of woodcarving said it was more. I was only seven then but mother didn’t raise any idiots.

      How does Uncle Henry support himself, or is bank robbing his main dodge?

      My tone often antagonizes the older crowd, though I’d just turned 40 on June eleventh and was fast becoming a member of that older crowd myself. Luckily my hair was still jet black, I had all my teeth, and frails as young as 20 still winked on the street. That is, until they saw the nasty scar down my jaw. Then they quickened their steps without saying hello or asking the time.

      Don’t get cheeky, young man. Believe it or not, my inheritance is quite important and I don’t wish Henry to cheat me out of it.

      I didn’t say I didn’t believe you, Mrs. Cornier. Private eyes have to ask all sorts of questions, many of them unproductive. If I seem cheeky, it’s because I am. Blame my upbringing.

      She looked down her nose at me and said, Indeed.

      Indeed — I need to be cheeky. If my nose gets too far into your personal business just give it a good whack and Mister Polite reappears. Or tries to. What else can you tell me about Uncle Henry? You said you had an idea where he hid the money.

      She put out her smoke and dropped the holder back in the small purse. It barely fit. She stared at the ceiling as if reciting: "Fifty years a carnie con man, grifter. My mother was his partner-investor in charge of recruiting talent and keeping them in line. We traveled with his troupe, mostly in small towns across the West and Midwest. As a child I enjoyed a rich upbringing, living around a band of diverse souls who looked out for each other. Oh, we had our share of miscreants, had to leave in the middle of the night often enough. When I was eleven I noticed we’d play a town for a week or two, then leave after one or more bank robberies took place. Now and then the authorities would overtake us and search everything, but since nothing was found and no evidence pinned to anyone in our troupe, they let us go.

      He has a giant stuffed crocodile on a pole entrance to the carnival, one he claimed to have killed himself, though I doubt it. A record length. I once saw him messing with the inside back of the thing. As a kid I was terrified it would come to life and bite me. I think it’s inside the carcass. The money, that is. It’d be an easy thing for a daring man like yourself to find the trap door in its tail and snatch the money. I’m offering twenty-five percent as a reward. You’re daring, judging by your press clippings. You wouldn’t even have to interview Henry. He wouldn’t guess who took the money, mother having died last year.

      Let me get this straight, Mrs. Cornier. Your theory is Henry and perhaps others were behind the robberies, that he hid cash in the croc’s tail where the cops wouldn’t think to look, then took your mother’s savings before she died, and in his spare time engraves plates for counterfeits? Busy man.

      Possibly he sold plates like that, because I never saw a printing press or even new bills. We did collect bogus ten spots once in Omaha. He called the police and Treasury agents took the bills and didn’t reimburse us. Henry was hopping about that, claimed the government steals from the little man, so why should he walk the straight and narrow.

      Caveat emptor, I said, sipping some of Rick’s mud java.

      How’s that? she said, as if embarrassed by the reference.

      Meaning, the Feds don’t pay for fake bills. It’s up to the receiver to tell if they’re fake.

      Yes, except these were quite good fakes. Henry looked at them with something like envy. The treasury men pointed to the flag on the reverse side. Evidently the flag drooped more than normal. Henry later said he thought whoever engraved the bills was trying to make a political point. I wanted to ask what he meant, but as a child I was quite intimidated by the man. He seemed to know everything and made everyone feel ignorant. You know the type. With a man like Henry around you don’t need encyclopedias.

      I’ve known one or two, I said, thinking of Rick, since he’s extremely well read, over-educated and owns a vocabulary that might as well be Swahili to the average Joe.

      She took out a check from that tiny bag and aimed a fountain pen at it, then looked up at me.

      What is the normal retainer in such cases?

      I’d never opened a crocodile’s tail so I didn’t have a flat rate for it. And, things cost more in 1972. I was raising my rates each year just to keep up with the curse of inflation. Growing older’s not for wimps. I’m cursed for recalling the price of gasoline and bread in 1952, figuring those Washington slobs caused the curse.

      This is no normal case, madam but three hundred retainer will do me for the first week. After that a hundred a day plus expenses. You’ll get an accounting of those twice a month.

      What do you call expenses?

      The usual — gasoline or travel for out of town stops, if needed, small bribes to informants. Beyond that I can’t say, but if there’s anything unusual beyond ten bucks I’ll let you know first. Before you write the check, give me a couple of days to do a bit of background work. I can’t say until then if I’ll take your case.

      I see. Do you expect to be paid for this background work?

      I’ll leave that up to your charitable principles, assuming you have some.

      You’re not humorous, though I’ll take the chance.

      I’m taking the chance here, Mrs. Cornier, at least with my time for a couple of days. You’re fortunate to catch me between cases. Plus devious types such as your uncle interest me.

      She stood and wrote her number and address on the desk pad. She was staying at the Benson Hotel in downtown Portland. Not a flophouse by any stretch.

      I can’t say this early but cases like this can take time, especially with Henry’s migrant lifestyle. I’ll solve it in a week if possible, but it might take many months. Can you afford it if it drags on? You may call it quits at any time.

      How much would you spend to recover two hundred long ones, she asked, taking my card from a holder on the desktop and piercing me with those deep eyes.

      I thought about that, nodded and watched the old dame totter out the door. Unlike many older women I’d met on cases, Mrs. Cornier held no vestige of earlier beauty. Likely she’d always been ugly, even as a kid.

      Chapter 2

      Evangeline Cornier had no record to June 1972. Being ugly was no crime unless assault against the eyes counted. Henry DeBoard was another matter — a long rap sheet back in the fifties when he did a nine-month stretch in Des Moines, Iowa for pickpocketing, fraud, and petty theft. Since then he’d been clean, except for that big heist of the Cornier funds. That is, if the old dame was laying it out straight. I had no reason to doubt her. Her complaint wouldn’t be the kind Portland cops would look into, or any other cops for that matter. For all I knew the two hundred thousand were ill-gotten from her mother’s split of the bank dough. If a carnie owner like Uncle Henry had graduated from petty crimes to bank robberies, a Federal offense, nothing in his rapsheet suggested the idea. Of course, moving around as he did might help him stay one step ahead of the law. He struck me as a slick one.

      I debated taking the case and sat down with my bride Molly to chew it over. Rick and Cathy Hawthorne, now Cathy Anthony, were sunning in Bora Bora judging from their last post card. The Cornier case was the type of pickle that would turn Rick’s crank and I wished he’d show up at my door, though I was used to working cases solo since cupid caught up with him and since Molly turned well-paid white collar worker for her brother in law’s insurance firm. Back when we all worked the same cases we often stepped on each other, though there were plenty of times having partners was crucial.

      Molly came home and we sat to dinner. I had spaghetti ready, the one thing besides boiled water and toast I can make. I gave her the scoop and she began her wise ass questioning. Usually Moll’s questions were more helpful.

      Did she have shifty eyes, an anchor tattoo on her forearm, and plastic surgery on her nose?

      None of those Mrs. Angel. Her eyes could burn a hole through a Sears catalog, though. Only marks on her I observed were too much age on the face, one even plastic surgeons couldn’t fix. Think wicked witch of the west.

      You’re retained by funds. Not counterfeit?

      Funny. No. I wanted to check the old bat out first. Her uncle, too. His rap sheet’s grown cobwebs two decades back. She was clean.

      So you’re taking it on?

      Likely, though something held me back when she asked.

      You mean she’s not a busty blonde with honeyed voice and deed to a liquor store?

      You really should have gone into stand up comedy, toots.

      Instead of sleuthing for a sleuth? Honest engine, Mikey, I miss those old days when the three of us worked the field.

      I don’t miss worrying about you eating lead, lady.

      And I don’t miss kicking the babes away from you, either.

      If you haven’t noticed, I just turned 40. Maybe that’s why harpies like Evangeline Cornier crowd me now. You remember Mona Desire, that retired stripper who felt she was being stalked and wanted me to post at the foot of her bed for a week? Old enough to be my mother, for cryin’ sake.

      Mid-age crisis. I doubt you need help kicking the senior set away.

      Molly came and straddled me, planting a wet kiss that invited my tongue to play.

      Unless you have the afternoon off, don’t have to get back to paper shuffling, I suggest you belay that brand of kisses.

      Molly wiggled her ass against me and said, Oh come off it. Quickie?

      I nodded. In a flash she slid off her panties, hiked up her skirt and had my dick pointed north while I was laughing. I didn’t struggle, not that I’m henpecked or anything.

      Gee, Moll, I didn’t realize talking about old nags got you wet.

      Shut up and give a girl a thrill, willya, Bub?

      I clammed up and met her motion with my own until our fire built hot enough to announce my eruption. I flipped her on her side across the couch, pulled her leg up and finished our noon fun at a delicious angle. Except she wasn’t quite finished.

      After some deep breathing exercises she moaned and led my hand to her tender pearl. She was holding out for more, but after a tease or two I helped her up, promised we’d pick it up again when she got home. She agreed and a sweet smack on her butt was my goodbye.

      ***

      Back at the office I sorted through the mail. Bills and junk. A blue envelope with back-slant handwriting, E. Cornier in the sender’s corner, no address. Inside a check written on the First National Bank of Chicago for two thousand. Also a short note:

      Had to leave town unexpectedly as I learned uncle

      was packing troupe to leave Medford, Oregon.

      Consider this retainer the clincher for you to take this on.

      Mrs. Cornier.

      I sat wondering what she’d do if she ran up against Henry in Medford, as he’d threatened to kill her once. She didn’t seem the type to carry a rod. In fact she didn’t fit into any type I could think of.

      The phone rang while I was mulling over her note. Donald MacNamara, Portland’s Chief of police. He’d forwarded my request for rapsheet info to his assistant, so knew of my interest in Evangeline Cornier and her Uncle Henry DeBoard.

      Mike, that woman you inquired about, Cornier, looks like you won’t have to investigate for her. She met a hail of bullets outside the Benson this morning.

      I listened to the scant details. No suspects, no chase given. Since she was standing alone by a taxi stop, it was clear she was the intended target. A sailor a block away saw what looked like a grease gun and heard a dozen or more shots. Grease guns, so called, were brought out late in World War Two and didn’t see much action. Replaced the older Tommy gun since it was lighter and more accurate. But in a rainstorm of .45 slugs, accuracy from twenty feet isn’t an issue.

      My first thought was Uncle Henry got to her. My second: wondering if I could cash the check.

      Chapter 3

      The check cleared the next week while I looked around for any Corniers in the local area. None. Evidently, news of her demise hadn’t hit her Chicago bank. I wasn’t bashful about cashing the check and taking on the case, even though there was no one to report my progress to,

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