Black Jack Justice

By Gregg Taylor

"I did not move. I am not skittish by nature, but I know the sound of a hammer being cocked when I hear it. This one was a large calibre automatic, which meant it wasn’t a cop. I turned my head as slowly and non-threateningly as I could. It was my friend with the square jaw, and his friend the .45. “Hi,” he said."

It was a simple enough case. Sex, betrayal, sex, money, sex, murder and sex. But when a pair of His and Hers private detectives get involved, the sparks start to fly and the blood begins to spill in earnest. With every shot that’s fired, the hole digs a little deeper, and the list of people our sparring shamuses can trust gets shorter and shorter.

Fans of Decoder Ring Theatre’s long-running full-cast audio series Black Jack Justice will delight in the very first meeting between Jack Justice and Trixie Dixon, girl detective. New readers will appreciate the fast tempo, the noir banter and the classic hard-boiled feel of Black Jack Justice!
Show More
Show Less

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gregg Taylor
• Release date: Aug 15, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476456188

Gregg Taylor

Gregg Taylor's love of the classic adventure stories of the golden age of radio, comics and pulp fiction are the driving passions behind the "Tales of the Red Panda" series of books. The books began as a companion piece to his popular radio adventure series "The Red Panda Adventures", heard on independant radio stations around North America and around the world as part of the Decoder Ring Theatre podcast, and have gone on to reach new audiences who love the two-fisted adventure style that recalls the work of the legends of mystery and adventure. Like the classic Hero Pulps that inspired them, the Tales of the Red Panda books can be read in any order, with or without knowledge of the radio series.

Book preview

Black Jack Justice

by Gregg Taylor

Copyright 2012 Gregg Taylor

Smashwords Edition

*****

Smashwords Edition License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

*****

For Clarissa, Max and Tess

Who slept while I wrote this

Table of Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter One

The name is Justice. Jack Justice.

The life of a private detective lends itself to a certain amount of introspection. You live far enough outside the shop-worn clichés of day-to-day living that you never quite feel like a part of the world at large, yet you are forced to be a keen observer of it. And as you observe, you can’t help but notice some of the more unpleasant proclivities of that nice, normal society that goes about its business outside your door every day pretending that it doesn’t have a dirty little secret. But it does. They all do. And when it all goes wrong, that is when they come to see me.

Sadly, while the life of a detective lends itself to this sort of deep thought, the men who choose this line of work are generally pretty poorly suited to such meditation. At no point in my illustrious academic career did I flip a coin to choose between detective work and philosophy, and there are some pretty compelling reasons why that is true. So although my perch offers me a unique opportunity to analyze the human condition and the great truths that bind us all, I am frequently disappointed by how often those observations take the form of something that your mother always told you, and her mother before that.

Today that truth seemed to be, It’s always calm before the storm. The dull patter of largely disinterested rain against the windows, the soothing rattle of the coffee percolator, the radiator just beginning to sing – together they were a quiet symphony of comfort. And further to that comfort, there was a small, mousey man sitting in the client chair, which though it might mean trouble also meant rent money, and this I found good.

How do you take your coffee, Mr. Mayfield? I asked him. He seemed startled by the question at first and smiled a little sheepishly at his own reaction. I had only asked because it seemed polite, and it might imply that there were options available to him. There was neither milk nor cream in the small icebox in the corner, which also had not held ice in over a year. There might have been sugar somewhere but I couldn’t have sworn to it.

Black is fine, thank you, Roger Mayfield said conveniently, glancing back toward Tom’s empty desk to his left. Everyone did. A few years back I might have stopped to reassure him that my old partner was unlikely to come back and intrude upon our quiet conference, but I had mostly given that up. The letters on the door now read Jack Justice Investigations, and I didn’t think it needed more explanation than that. One of these days I was going to have to get rid of that desk. If I could get a couple of bucks for it.

Here you go, I said, handing him a cup of a new blend I was working on. I watched for a reaction. Sometimes the best way to judge a cup of coffee is by the effect it had upon others. Roger Mayfield took an absent-minded sip and did the smallest of double-takes, as if he had been pulled back to Earth from a considerable distance.

That’s awfully good, he blinked.

Mostly Costa Rican, I said with an effort of modesty, laced with some very dark varieties for texture on the palate.

What? Mayfield blinked again, and the moment was gone.

What do you do, Mister Mayfield? I asked, sitting behind my own desk and shifting a few papers as though I might start to take notes at any moment. The industrious gumshoe at work.

I’m a City Planner, he said as if that explained everything.

Cities have those? I asked with surprise.

Oh my, yes, Mayfield said, coming to life a little bit.

Always seemed to me that they kind of just happened, I shrugged.

Mayfield smiled as if I were a dull but adorable child. Well, even a few decades ago, Mr. Justice, that might have been true. But these days, particularly with the enormous investment of taxpayer dollars required to fund urban initiatives of any size, there needs to be thorough planning and development.

The folks we elect don’t do that? I wasn’t really that interested in what he did, but it seemed to be bringing him out of his shell a little.

Mayfield seemed amused. Oh my, Mr. Justice, politicians do not really have the time, inclination or training for this kind of work. Some of these projects require vast amounts of preparation; they require a continuity that elected office does not always allow.

I may have raised an eyebrow. So you make sure our city carries on being planned properly regardless of whom we vote for?

Yes, he beamed. He was pleased by this, and blissfully unaware of any irony.

All right then, I said, leaning back in my chair. So what brings a bright young man such as yourself into my office?

He flushed a little, but did not seem displeased at the implication of youth and intelligence. Men who are truly possessed of neither quality rarely object to the suggestion that they hold both.

He was about five-eight, maybe five-nine. Forty-five years old if I was any judge, though he could have been older. Not much more than a hundred and thirty pounds soaking wet. His suit was neat, his tie was tied with a precision to which my own was thoroughly unaccustomed and his spectacles sat neatly in their place without drifting down the bridge of his nose. He looked like an accountant designed by a team of actuaries. There weren’t a lot of things that could bring him to do something as exotic as hiring a detective. Had to be a frail in there somewhere.

I… um… His train of thought was boarding at the station, and he seemed to be unable to find the word that would start him down the track. He glanced at the empty desk again. Yeah, it was a frail. He didn’t want to have to say this more than once. But he didn’t have that hangdog expression, that defeated air of a man who wanted his own wife followed. Those were the worst. A man put in the shameful position of having to ask another man to help him prove himself a cuckold. And a stranger at that. I hated those meetings. It was like watching a film of a car wreck in slow motion. That wasn’t Roger Mayfield, not today it wasn’t anyway. So if he wasn’t the cheatee, he had to be the cheater.

What’s her name? I said with just the right amount of smile creeping across my face. Cheaters like to feel that their antics are adorable, and that other men are jealous of their virility. I had very little doubt that my virility could take Mayfield’s out back by the bike racks and beat the living tar out of it, but I knew when to play my part.

Roger Mayfield flushed a little, and even stammered. I… I’m sorry?

Come on, Mr. Mayfield, I said. We’re both men of the world, and whatever it is that you’ve been up to, I assure you that I’ve seen and heard a hundred times worse. Your detective is like your doctor. I can’t help you if you stammer and blush. So what’s her name?

He blinked a few times, as if saying the words out loud went entirely against his programming. Janet, he said at last. Janet Timms.

Nice name, I nodded.

Yes, he said hesitantly.

Nice girl? I asked.

Well… yes. His ears turned bright red. She must be a nice girl all right, but not in the way Ma Justice would have used the phrase.

Tell me about it, I said.

Mr. Justice, this is not really about Janet, he said.

Then what is it about?

I’m very much afraid that I am being blackmailed, he said all at once, as if it were a breath he had been holding in for days.

We looked at one another for a moment.

The activity which has provided the fodder for this blackmail, I asked without expression, do you perform it with Janet?

He turned crimson and stammered. Well, yes, he said at last.

Then it is a little bit about Janet, isn’t it? I asked.

He didn’t seem to have anything to say about that, so I continued. You see, Mr. Mayfield, a lot of people like to compartmentalize these things before they even sit down in that chair. But that isn’t your job. That’s what you pay me for. Right now everything has everything to do with everything, and I am the one person in the world from whom you do not need to protect your secrets.

Yes, he said, sounding unconvinced.

"First of all, so I can use the correct nomenclature, is Janet ‘Miss’ Timms?" I asked, pretending to make notes.

What? He seemed confused. Oh, yes. Yes, she is.

So the... complications... are entirely on your end? I gave a glace toward the wedding band on his left hand to gently prompt him.

Yes, he said quietly. My wife Anne. She knows nothing.

Of course, I said. And has your blackmailer threatened to tell her, or has he got something to show?

Mayfield shifted in his chair slightly. The blackmailer had something to show all right.

I may have misspoken slightly, Mr. Justice, Mayfield began.

Heaven forefend, I said quietly, mostly for my own amusement.

I have not, as yet, received a specific threat of blackmail, he said, folding his hands as if that were the end of it.

All right, I said, "what have you received? People don’t just pull blackmail out of the clear blue sky."

He shifted in his seat again. A photograph, he said at last.

We sat in silence for a moment.

And?

The photograph is... very indiscreet, he almost whispered.

Let me see it, I said simply.

He started like I had fired a shot. Wh- what? he stammered.

You did bring it, didn’t you? I said as plainly as I could. You wouldn’t have been careless enough to leave it anywhere. Which means you must have it with you.

I don’t think you need to see it, Mayfield said firmly. Janet would be horrified.

Does she know about it? I asked.

No, of course not, he said crossly. Janet is a very sweet girl. This would devastate her.

And your wife, I added.

Of course, Mayfield said as if the thought had just occurred to him. Of course, her too. But she isn’t... Anne isn’t in the photograph.

Just as well, I said. That sounds like it would be complicated. Show me the photograph or get out of my office.

Roger Mayfield’s eyes opened wide and he puffed in protest for a moment. But at last his shoulders sagged in defeat. Very well, he said, reaching in to his briefcase and pulling an eight-by-ten photograph out of a large manila envelope.

He handed it to me across the desk. For a moment I did not look at it but kept my gaze firmly on Mayfield, as if to reinforce the idea that I had no particular interest in seeing him do his business, which was truer than words could possibly have said.

Is that the envelope the photo came in? I asked. He seemed surprised but nodded and handed it towards me. I glanced at both sides of the envelope. One side bore the typewritten address of Mayfield’s office at City Hall and the word PERSONAL, underlined in red ink. It told me nothing, but I nodded wisely at it, set it down upon the table and turned my attention toward the photograph.

Very little of Roger Mayfield was in evidence in the photograph. Enough to stand up in court, if it came to that, but he certainly wasn’t the star of the show. The picture was taken at a distance, through a window. The bedroom was well-lit and Mayfield, on his back, certainly had no idea he was playing to an audience of more than one. The girl, however, Miss Janet Timms, was a real performer. Her back was arched and a mane of blonde hair was thrown back as if she were in the midst of the most excruciating pleasure. The kind that I found difficult to believe that Roger Mayfield was capable of inspiring, but maybe I was just jealous. Wildly, rabidly jealous.

She was a beauty, that much was for certain. What she was doing with a married, mousey City Planner, beyond the obvious, I couldn’t say. I tried to devote no more time to the picture than professional interest would require, and made several entirely fictional notes as I did so.

Good quality print. Looks professional. Where were you when this was taken? I said, looking back to Mayfield with as little expression as I could muster.

Janet’s apartment, he said. Canon Street, near Chapel.

So it would be, what, second floor? Above some shops?

He nodded. That’s right.

So obviously this was taken from across the street with a telephoto lens, I said.

Mayfield seemed oddly surprised. What makes you say that? he asked.

Because I think you might have noticed a peeping Tom on stilts standing in the middle of Canon Street, I said. I glanced back to the print, just for a moment. Then again, maybe not.

Mayfield flushed and took the photo back from me without comment. He wasn’t embarrassed for himself, he was protecting his lady’s modesty. This would not be easy.

Do you usually meet at her apartment? I asked.

Yes, he said, always. Tuesdays.

You two keep the blinds wide open like that every Tuesday? I asked.

He seemed a little sheepish. I couldn’t say, Mr. Justice, he said. I was a little distracted.

I nodded. Fair enough, I agreed. What’s across the street? More apartments?

No, he said, puzzled, a row of offices. They’re always dark. I suppose that’s why we never gave them a thought.

I nodded and said nothing. There were two possibilities. Perhaps Janet Timms had an admirer with a very, very good camera who waited untold Tuesdays in the hope that she would one day forget to close the blinds before playtime. With a body like hers, it was hard to argue with that logic, but I didn’t buy it. There didn’t seem to be any point getting into this with Roger Mayfield just yet. Plenty of time to crush his hopes and dreams later, once he had paid his retainer.

So someone knows about your affair with Miss Timms, I said as much as possible as if it were the simplest matter in the world. They have, as yet, made no demands, but it seems likely that will follow. What would you like me to do?

Mayfield blinked. I’d like you to take care of it, he said.

You aren’t hiring me to do any murders, I said, filling in the blanks for him, just to represent your interests in this matter in a lawful manner.

He hesitated at this last part. In so far as it is possible, yes, he said at last.

Are you prepared to pay, if necessary? I asked. The blackmailer, I mean.

He nodded slowly. This must be kept quiet, Mr. Justice. Whatever it takes. Find the man who has these photos and deal with him. There was mettle in his stern but purposefully vague assignment that I didn’t expect from him.

I nodded. I get thirty dollars a day, I said, plus expenses. And I’ll need three days in advance.

Chapter Two

The name’s Dixon. Trixie Dixon, Girl Detective. That’s what it said on my business cards, that’s how I answered the telephone and that’s what the neatly printed card on the office door read. When you’re something of an oddity, you have three choices. You can pretend you really aren’t different from the norm at all, in this case I suppose becoming oddly androgynous, like the two or three other lady private eyes of my acquaintance. This was plainly not for me. I’m not vain by nature, but the amount of labor that would be required each and every morning to make Miss Dixon seem mannish would be entirely unreasonable, and for too little return.

Option two, of course, would be to do what Ma and Pa Dixon had always expected – realize that you hadn’t a hope of carving out a share of hardboiled human misery for yourself, poor female that you were after all, and meet a nice man, or perhaps go to secretarial school and then meet a nice man. I met lots of nice men. I just didn’t keep them around after they