Private Detective Edgar Potts Episode Four

By Raymond Groves

A group of short stories based on a private Investigator set in an anonymous us city

• Language: English
• Publisher: Raymond Groves
• Release date: Apr 4, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476161136

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These are works of fiction. All names, characters, place and incidents in this publication are either the products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.

Private Detective Edgar Potts

Episode Four

By Ray Groves

rev 5.28.12

Copyright Ray Groves 2006-2012

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Detective Edgar Potts

Private Investigator

Episode Four

Part One

The bright light shone directly into his face. The men’s voices echoed around the empty warehouse, their questions sharp and brutal; his exhausted but still defiant answers could barely be heard. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the massive fist coming straight for his face, but with two large goons holding him down in the chair there was nothing he could do. The anticipation of pain was worse than the actual impact. He was glad that the black hole swallowed him; it meant peace for at least a short while.

He didn’t know if it was the cold or the agony that woke him. He found himself lying in the doorway of one of the many derelict shops at the rear of Main Street. Needless to say it stank of stale urine. He looked at his right hand that was beginning to scream at him. And that confused him, his hand had been professionally bandaged-although as far as he could remember there was nothing wrong with it. Yet his Index and middle finger were shorter than the others and the ends of the dressings were caked in dried, but still glossy red blood. His entire hand throbbed, and hurt like hell. As he staggered to his feet, a piece of paper fluttered to the floor. Picking it up he read the child like pencil writing-

‘Potts, you dumb bastard. You were found unconscious near my Brother Jake’s dead body. Either you shot the stupid son of a bitch, or someone else did and put you in the frame. And who was the dead broad that was found on the back seat of your car? If it was you that killed them, then your fingers are only the beginning of what will be sliced up and fed to the dogs. If you didn’t, then find out who did. And you’d better be quick.

PS

‘The doc has your two fingers; he says that if you come back here with the killers name in less than six hours, he’ll sew them back on. Any longer and you can put them in a jar. Oh and go easy on the packet of pain killers that are in your jacket pocket. Wouldn’t want you becoming a junkie.’

Damn he’d forgotten about the pretty woman, but he did remember who’d sent her.

Mr Eric Liebermann’s home was quite a grand looking place, set back from the road behind a curtain of cypress trees. Just like the other rich business people who dominated this part of town, the man wanted privacy for his growing family. At dinner parties Eric simply said that his company provided entertainment for busy executives. Only the truth was, he controlled the pimps who worked the girls, everything from your local street corner hooker, to a penthouse madam and everything in between.

He lent on the door bell with his left hand, his right pushed into his jacket pocket - there was no need to upset the hired help.

The big leather armchair felt comfortable, like the fat cigar that he was now puffing. His eyes followed the wisp of blue Cuban smoke up to the elaborate plastered ceiling. The very rotund man sitting behind the large oak desk opposite fiddled with a gold pen and smiled at him, but he could tell from Liebermann’s face that he was scared. This accounted for the extra guards standing outside the room, their guns in plain view, fear overcoming the need for propriety.

I heard that the Greek had....

Cut off two of my fingers. Well, it’s true, so you don’t have to worry about me shooting you.

I wasn’t. After all, I only arranged for her to visit, on request by Jake.

Jake knew her?

Not really, they’d met at a pool party, two days previous. Apparently she was a model come bit actress. During the afternoon he wouldn’t leave her alone, until something was said and she allegedly slapped his face.

And what? He liked this new kind of conversation?

Possibly, but more likely it was her legs, they were awfully long. As was her blonde hair

Okay, so who was this leggy, blonde broad that ruined the back seat of my car?

That’s a problem, as far as I can find out, she didn’t exist till three weeks ago.

She was a Fed?

Probably.

Then why aren’t they asking the questions. I’d be black and blue by now. But at least I’d still have all of my fingers.

Somebody made a phone call and called them off.

Who the hell can do that?

Don’t know.

Potts looked at his watch. I’d better go, only five hours left.

Liebermann pointed his pen at the bandage Have you any idea who did the shootings?

Potts hesitated, before answering, Nope, the crack on the back of my neck destroyed my memory bank. Looking again at the white face of his watch, sorry, but I’m running out of time. I’ll come back when it’s all over.

Where are you going? Who in this city is going to talk to you?

The only people that will of course, - the Feds.

Liebermann waited as long as he dared, then, with a deep sigh, he picked up the phone and dialled the hated number. He’s left, said he’s going to the Feds.

There was no reply, only the noise of the receiver being hung up.

The Federal building looked like a Roman or Greek temple; perhaps the city architect’s had wanted to impress the public with a solid looking mausoleum that gave its occupants a feeling of superiority over the rest of the community. As if walking up its many steps and past its large marble columns would be sufficient for all to confess their guilt.

From Panino’s front window the view wasn’t very spectacular, consisting mainly of the rusting air conditioning units hanging from the rear windows. Frustration was beginning to gnaw at his mind, not that surprising, when you’ve been waiting for over twenty minutes and you’ve had to show your hand to every member of staff. Now the brilliant white bandage was a dirty grey and the dried blood had lost its glossy coat. He was beginning to wonder if everybody in the city knew about his fingers.

She walked straight in, her ginger mane flowing behind her, the glass door rattling on its hinges. Without bothering to look around or hide her arrival, she didn’t care who saw her, friend or foe, she strode over to his small table, kicked over a spare chair and sat down. Her eyes, her entire body screamed anger. There was no ‘How are you?’ or ‘It’s been a long time;’ not even a ‘You look terrible.’ Instead the big, fat red lips snarled, Did you kill Mazy?

For the first time he heard the dead woman’s real name. He stared into her face, meeting the fury head on. No!

Then how did you get involved? What were you doing there?

She rang me.

Where did she get your number from? You’re not the only Private Dick in yellow pages.

She said a redhead, a very red...headed friend, told her, if she ever got into a bad spot, give this number a ring. The antagonism towards him dissipated into the atmosphere. A slight smile crept out of the corner of her mouth, Perhaps this friend thought you could handle yourself.

That makes two of us.

So what did happen?

Don’t fully know. I’ve vague, grey ghosts running around inside my head. For the first time she saw his pale, haggard features, the grey stubble and an old feeling crept into her heart. So what are you going to do next?

Take a pain killer. Think, and drink lots of coffee.

His reply surprised her, it went against his character. "I’d thought you’d be