The Boa Murders

By Wayne Greenough

One look at the two teenagers told me they were scared as much as humans can be and with good reason. They were wearing scarlet Boas, a symbol for a certain group of streetwalkers who were being murdered by a maniac the police hadn’t been able to nab. They introduced themselves as Doris and Maisie and asked me for help. I said I would. But how? The police had zero information on the killer. That meant I was on my own.

• Language: English
• Publisher: eXtasy Books Inc
• Release date: Apr 19, 2013
• ISBN: 9781771114929

Book preview

I’m Thanet Blake, Private Detective. Ladies, if your husband is sniffing somebody else’s panties besides yours, come and see me. Men, if you discover briefs in the laundry and you wear boxers, come and see me. I deal in sleaze.

One look at the two teenagers told me they were scared as much as humans can be and with good reason. They were wearing scarlet Boas, a symbol for a certain group of streetwalkers who were being murdered by a maniac the police hadn’t been able to nab. They introduced themselves as Doris and Maisie and asked me for help. I said I would. But how? The police had zero information on the killer. That meant I was on my own.

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The Boa Murders

Copyright © 2013 Wayne Greenough

ISBN: 978-1-77111-492-9

Cover art by Carmen Waters

All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher.

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Smashwords Edition

The Boa Murders

The Private Detective Murders Six

By

Wayne Greenough

For my wife, June

Chapter One

A wise old man once said, Hollywood’s science fiction movies about aliens conquering Earth are nothing but bullshit. If the invading aliens would observe twenty-four hours of the insanity we display on daily television, they would blast at full speed to the other side of the galaxy. You know, without a doubt the guy was right. Question is, who was that old man?

I’m Thanet Blake, Private Detective. Earlier this morning a look in the mirror informed me that growing on my head was a stork’s nest busily defying gravity and beating hell out of a comb. At the present time I am sitting in a Barber’s Chair at Stanley Sudowsky’s Tonsorial Parlor. He’s in the process of shearing my bush, which is a name he gave my hair some time ago. Out of all the hair stylists dabbling in the fine art of cutting hair, Sudowsky does best by me so far. Even at that, he’s far from perfect. He usually leaves too much hair where my head meets my neck.

Well Blake, I haven’t seen your name in the obituary column.

I’m glad you haven’t. I wouldn’t want it to be there. Sudowsky could substitute for a gravedigger in a Frankenstein movie. If anything ghoulish is printed in this city’s feces rag he always passes it on to his customers. A good kick in the nuts would likely shut him up, but then he might get real stylish with a pair of scissors.

I saw my name in the obits one time. It said, Stanley Sudowsky born in Salem, Oregon, moved to this city and died. He was ninety five. It wasn’t me. I was born in England.

I’m glad it wasn’t you, Stanley. I wouldn’t want a dead man cutting my hair.

A hair pull coupled with a yell of pain from me later, Oh wouldn’t you, now? Listen Blake, was that a complaint, just because I nicked your left ear the last time you were in here, which was all of three months and three days ago. Incidentally, you still owe me for that one. You know, a sheep dog gets more haircuts than you do. And how come every time you step into my parlor you have several days’ growth of beard all over your misshapen face?

Sudowsky should talk. He needs a haircut, which makes me