Donahue: The Man With No Left Shoe

By James B. Riverton

A booze-addled, perpetually broke, down-on-his-luck private dick finds himself sprawled across the floor of his dingy office in the bowels of one of L.A.’s not-so-beautiful neighborhoods. Two bodies share his quarters; one the mysterious client who hired him not ten minutes ago, the other his faithful and beloved secretary. The client is minus his left shoe...

And so begins an incredible journey through the L.A. underworld as Jake Donahue vows to find out two things – who killed his beloved Agnes, and who really was this strange wealthy man who perished and had one shoe taken from him. Was he killed for the shoe? For what was inside the shoe? And who is this annoying but attractive oversexed teenager and this needy raven-haired beauty who turn out to be pivotal to his entire investigation.

Set against the seamy backdrop of late-1970’s L.A., Jake Donahue will follow a trail which will lead him to places he never knew existed, and into a world of technology he didn’t know had yet been discovered. The danger is all too real, and Donahue finds himself searching for a mastermind of startling proportions, all the while not only fighting for justice, but also for his very life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: James B. Riverton
• Release date: Dec 11, 2016
• ISBN: 9781370330904

James B. Riverton

James B. Riverton is a man of mystery and has been described by some as being "the most famous man you've never met." A reluctant author who spent his youth on a journey of personal discovery, hiding in plain sight. The author was born in San Francisco, Calif. Raised in Texas, Europe and the Middle East while living on an oil tanker part- time, at the age of eight, traveling from England, and France, transporting crude oil from the Middle East to those countries, with his parents. Endless days and nights tramping along at five knots, back and forth. The author learned to swim in the Suez Canal while waiting to transit the canal, traveled through the ruins of Europe and Middle East observing the destruction from the Second World War first hand. He learned to communicate in different countries, sometimes with gestures and good cheer by sharing Hershey Bars with the local children to make friends. At the age of 17 the author joined the Navy to see the rest of the world and especially the Far East. Serving during the 1960's he served three tours of duty during the conflict in Indochina, seeing much of the Far East, and learning about the culture and the people. One of the highlights of his service was meeting President John F. Kennedy, a month before his death, prior deploying to the Far East while aboard the aircraft carrier USS Oriskany, CVA-34. Upon discharge, the author traveled, working overseas construction for Brown and Root, dealing cards in Las Vegas, bartending, waiting on tables in various exclusive resorts, working as a Assistant General Manager in Vail, Colorado. In his travels during this period the author met and served movie actors, Senators, President Gerald Ford, and a host of characters of all walks of life. A graduate of Stephen F. Austin, with a BFA, the author wrote a few screen play outlines, and unpublished stage plays, but never found the time, or the desire to try writing novels. However, he did find the courage to pursue the love of his life, and after five years was successful, at the age of 37, to finally marry, starting a family. Over the next years he entered the world of Real Estate, selling homes, starting home building companies and developing land for residential use. This career of boom and bust carried his family from Texas to Washington, DC and back. Up and down, through thick and thin surviving roiling markets. During slim times finding alternate ways to support a growing family by starting up a successful pre-paid phone card and ad promotional business. Learning one of the most important lessons in life, raising children and learning how to be a father. Always, in the back of his mind remained the ultimate personal challenge, of writing a book, not for recognition, but to see if he could. During the 2008 financial collapse it seemed writing a book would maintain ones sanity. One book turned into a completed series, then more books, to the point that the next challenge was to publish this growing disease gumming up his personal computer. Someone explained writing a book was only 20 to 50% of the effort, the rest was sitting here inputting a personal bio and figuring out that it takes a whale of an effort to publish a book. All he can say is that after all he has seen, and experienced in life, that this is the most taxing thing he has ever attempted, and his hat is off to anyone that has ever contended with this process, let alone become successful. My only goal in life in the end has been to write, and it has become a joy to me. If one person reads anything that I write, and enjoys it, for whatever reason, then I have found success with this part of my life. If anyone can bring laughter or ethos into another's life, if only briefly, then what more can you ask for, except for a winning lottery ticket. My winning ticket has been family and friends, seeing the sun rise each day, thanking the main man for a great life and the passion to finally tell some stories. The author currently lives in Texas, and spends his quality time in the Hill Country and Houston with his wife, friends, family, and his German Shepherd, Yogi.

Book preview

THE MAN WITH

NO LEFT SHOE©

By

James B. Riverton

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without the written permission of the publisher. Requests for such permissions should be addressed to the offices Donald H. Dildy

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.

Copyright @2017

Lucky Lamb Publications

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author's imagination, or are used fictitiously.

Cover art and design by Guy Taylor Productions

www.jamesbriverton.com

THE MAN WITH NO LEFT SHOE

Chapter 1

The pain brought him out of it, his head felt like a chapel bell… ding dong, ding dong, the wicked witch is dead. Someone was in his face but he couldn’t focus on who it was. The pug dog countenance looked familiar, but whoever it was needed to use some serious mouth wash. Jake Donahue’s head was being tossed from side to side, and it was never good to be shaken awake like a rag doll. He tried to raise his hands for protection, but they were slapped down, and then someone grabbed his tie and suit lapel, almost choking him to death.

Wake up you piece of shit, snap out of it. Come on, Donahue!

He thought, his name was Donahue, that’s right, Jake Donahue. This looked like his office, or what passed for an office, hell, it was a dive, a couple of storerooms in the back of the Rusty Bucket Bar. When things got tight, Marie, the owner would let him tend bar to pay down his liquor bill. Christ, he always had a bar bill, the damn thing never went away. He was jerked to his feet and made to stand on tiptoe, nearly dangling in midair. Yup, it had to be Sergeant Connors Malloy, no one was that ugly, and no one had bad breath like Malloy. He once told him he would never be promoted until he bought stock in Listerine Mouthwash, Inc. or let the L.A.P.D. chief bugger him.

Donahue! You alive or just sleeping? Wake up!

Put me down, you big ox, my head is killing me, and you’re not an aspirin! Man, I need a drink!

Malloy threw him down into his desk chair with a thud. It was a beat up wooden affair that fell apart when Donahue leaned too far back. He had been leaning so far back these past few years that there were mornings when his secretary, Agnes, just put a cup of hot coffee from Sam’s Deli on the floor next to the hung over, inert body lying on the floor.

His head was spinning, round and round, when he leaned back in the chair for support he instantly crashed backwards onto the floor. He rolled his face to his left, and there facing him, dead as a doornail, on the same floor, was Stanley J. Debone, his latest and only client. You could always tell they were expired when rigor mortise began to set in, and when their tongues protruded out like a stuffed bell pepper.

While you’re in your natural position, do you recognize him, Donahue?

Kinda’ looks familiar! He must be related to you, see the sloping forehead, the thick lips and the dull fishy eyes.

With one big paw Malloy jerked Donahue off the floor, by the back of his only white sports coat, and plopped him back down onto the desk chair.

Don’t lean back. Why don’t you get a chair that works?

Must be money, one of those small unimportant items I seem to be missing. Say, my birthday is in a couple of months, you’re invited. I was thinking of having an office party and a new chair would make a great gift. You could have this one for your office, but it might interrupt your afternoon nap every time your mouth caught another fly and your fat ass would be on the deck. Ha! Ha!

If you weren’t so beat up, I would smack you around this room. What’s your relationship with the deceased?

He is a new client.

Jesus, and how long has he been a client?

What time is it?

Don’t fuck around with me. This thing is just getting started. It is 1:15 in the afternoon, really early for you to even be up off the floor.

I think about an hour and a half.

For what, may I ask?

He has been…, ugh, correction, was my client for about an hour and a half.

Can you prove that?

Yes, look in the file on the corner of the desk, I have a signed contract and deposited my retainer already. There is a bank deposit slip in my coat pocket, and the time should show about two hours ago.

You work pretty fast Jake, even for a dead client. Malloy picked the one-page contract up out of the file. Wow, this guy wrote in twenty-five grand cash for a retainer, forty-five hundred for a month's expenses, and another twenty-five big ones at the successful conclusion of your services. Your services, ha, fill me in here, and I hope it wasn’t for protection. Malloy dug into Donahue’s coat pocket and found the deposit slip.

Client privileged relationship, you know the drill. I don’t have to tell you anything. Donahue reached into his other coat pocket and pulled out a pack of Lucky Strikes. The pack was empty. He wadded up the pack and threw it left-handed across the room, banking it off the wall into a bent up wastepaper basket.

Nice shot!

Thanks, I never miss from this distance.

You got a bottle in that desk?

Yeah, why? You want a drink?

No, I am on duty, but you might want a stiff one.

Sure, why not. Donahue pulled out a fifth of Canadian Crown Royal Whiskey, half full, and chugged three swallows. Man, did it ever feel good burning its way down his throat. It almost made the splitting headache go away.

Come here. I want to show you something. Malloy drug Donahue out through the single door of his storeroom office into the small waiting room where Agnes worked as his secretary, confessor, and all around best blow job this side of Manhattan Beach, California. Agnes was face up on the floor, behind a shoddy desk, her throat cut from ear to ear. The blood had already turned black on the dirty wood floor. The look on Agnes' face was of surprise, like she didn’t see it coming. Donahue turned and threw up all over Malloy.

The morning had started out normal. A line of ants was in a train, robbing the bar’s pantry of sugar, next to his office. They were streaming out from under the old unfinished drywall baseboard, climbing over Donahue’s out stretched arm. Lying on the floor with his nose pressed up against the baseboard, he had a perfect view. It had been another night, sitting in his office nursing his bottle of Rye, trying to figure out how he was going to settle up on his markers. The ponies at Del Mar had gotten him again. He owed almost eighteen grand to the bookies, plus another five grand he had borrowed from Marie, the owner of the Rusty Bucket. He hadn’t paid Agnes in six weeks. She was starting to hook again on the side out of the Rusty Bucket. What could he say, she loved her job, was loyal, but he needed to settle up every once in a while. He reached over and found the hot cup of coffee Agnes had put down next to him, after kicking him three times in his kidneys to wake him up.

We have a customer, strange looking little dude. Really weird though.

Donahue rolled over onto his side, attempting to pull the lid off the coffee and looked up at her with his fogged up eyes, matted with sleep. He could smell her Channel Number Five perfume caressing his senses, and thought about reaching for a handful of breast to help get the morning started, when the sharp pain between his eyes stopped him. He blinked his eyes and rubbed his temples with his fingers.

Weird. What do you mean weird? Anyone who finds us is weird.

He is only wearing one shoe.

One shoe, and I thought today was starting out good for a change. Did he tell you what he needed?

No, that is your job, mine is being a secretary, wet nurse, and giver of blowjobs. So get up and I will send him in.

Donahue pulled the crumbled pack of Lucky Strikes out of his coat pocket, lit one with his Zippo, and sprung up to his feet, holding onto his head to make certain it didn’t fall off. He sat down behind his desk, straightened his tie, and put on his sports jacket. He ran his fingers through his thinning hair, reached down and pulled his bottle of rye off the floor behind his desk, poured a liberal amount into his coffee, and said "breakfast of champions".

Agnes escorted Mr. Debone back into the small office. He sat down in one of the two lawn chairs in front of Donahue’s rather worn desk. Mr. Debone look frazzled, sweating in his crummy, wrinkled smudge-stained white linen suit. He was an odd looking duck, small, maybe five-five, skinny, with a large nose and thick horn rimmed glasses. He was a cross between Don Knots and Woody Allen, with thin, dirty blond hair. He looked like a fugitive from justice, a typical client of a low rent private investigator. He had tired eyes set back in a head which pivoted on a thin neck that provided a channel for his bobbing Adam’s apple. He was nervous and continuously wrung his hands.

Mr. Debone gazed around the office. Man what a dump, you know you need to put a sign up outside in the alleyway so people can find you.

Someone always steals them, and besides, I need the privacy.

Why is that?

Bill collectors, bookies, and the alley is a necessary exit sometime. Undercover operations, you know.

I see. Well, each to their own, I guess. Do you feel alright, you looked like you’re sick?

No, just horribly hung over is all. Now, what is it I can do for you?

I need to retain your services.

Well, I am fairly busy right now, working on a couple new cases… I take a retainer plus daily expenses.

How much is your retainer and expenses? Mr. Debone asked. He looked like he was going to cry. Another deadbeat broke and down on his luck, Donahue thought. How did they find him?

Well, if I can free up some time, it is five hundred dollars for a civil matter, fifteen hundred for a divorce, and around seventy-five per day for expenses.

Man, you’re cheap. How do you make ends meet?

I don’t. That is why I office in a storeroom, to save overhead.

Well, I checked up on you. You used to be a cop, until they kicked you off the L.A. Police Force, the youngest to make detective in the history of the department and the youngest to ever get canned. Drugs, I believe?

No, even though I worked vice. It was on moral charges.

Moral! What kind of moral charges?

My captain stated in my review that it was my lack of morals. In particular, drinking on the job and cavorting with known prostitutes in the line of duty.

I guess that was not acceptable, even being in the line of duty?

Not especially, since I was engaged to his daughter at the time.

Are you a drunk, then?

No, not at all, I am just an alcoholic now.

What’s the difference, then?

A drunk is wasted all the time, an alcoholic chooses when he wants to be wasted. Would you like a nip? I happen to have a bottle of really good rye whiskey from Canada. He offered the bottle of whiskey to Mr. Debone, trying to remember where he had put his only two rye rocks glasses.

No, I never touch the stuff; it’s bad for my liver.

You don’t mind if I partake, do you?

Be my guest, it’s your office.

Donahue took a chug, corked the bottle, and put it away. Now, let’s get the retainer settled after you tell me what your problem is. I have a one-page contract here for you to sign. Shit, where are they? Agnes, would you come in here please?

Agnes opened the office door, walked across, and put two copies in front of Donahue on his desk. She leaned down and put her hand gently on Donahue’s shoulder, two mounds of thirty-eight inch tits falling out of her low cut blouse. She looked into Mr. Debone’s eyes, walked stylishly around the crummy desk, and flipped her long blonde hair, then strutted out of the small office swinging her beautiful thirty-six inch hips, quietly closing the door behind her. She had looked at Donahue behind Mr. Debone’s back on the way out, moving her lips, Money, get the money! Donahue had nodded his head discreetly in affirmation. Money, that was the point, get the money, any money would help.

Mr. Debone read the one-page contract in about three seconds. This is a piece of crap! It doesn’t say anything about anything, except your retainer and fees.

Yes, it is a great little contract, all out in the front, you pay and I do the job. Now what is the job, so I can figure out the numbers and decide if I want the job?

Mr. Debone put the contract on the desk. Someone is trying to kill me, and I need protection.

Who is trying to kill you and why are they trying to kill you? Plus, how do you know someone is trying to kill you? Has there been an attempt on your life?

Listen, I was lucky to get here. I made a phone call to someone and they told me you were so fucked up most of the time, broke, and in debt that you would do just about anything, except cheat a client or take a bribe. Looking at your office I can accept that you don’t take bribes, even though he said you were kicked off the police force for stealing drugs from the evidence room.

Moral charges only. You didn’t answer any of my questions.

I don’t know who is trying to kill me, or why. They just missed me today. I had to abandon my car in a parking garage and run until I found your office.

I see. Well, this is a little different case than I normally handle, why don’t you try one of the bigger P.I. firms in town?

Because it would be too easy to bribe anyone, and I don’t trust anyone at this point.

And you trust me? After what you know about my background.

Yes, you’re honest about your problems, you don’t hide your issues, and at one time you were a very good cop. You are also so low on the totem pole that no one would ever suspect me of hiring you, and I don’t want anyone to know I have retained a private detective. I need to keep this under the hat, so to speak. If you accept me as a client, I need to know your lips will be sealed, agreed?

Ok, mum is the word. So let’s sign you up and get the retainer done.

I am going to sign this pathetic contract, give you a retainer of twenty-five thousand dollars today, with another twenty-five thousand upon completion of your services. I will also advance another forty-five hundred for the first month at a per diem of one hundred fifty dollars a day. I want your exclusive time on this matter. Is that a problem?

Donahue heard a body slip and hit the floor outside his office door. Agnes has been eavesdropping again.

No problem, now just sign here. Sure you wouldn’t like a little nip to seal the deal?

No, and I am writing an addendum on the bottom of this pathetic contract that one of the conditions of this contract is no drinking on the job. That is, until after the end of your work day, because I want your full attention in this matter.

What other conditions?

Only that you don’t tell anyone of our arrangement, and that you don’t try to screw my wife or stepdaughter until after the terms of your contract have been fulfilled. Debone finished filling in the few blanks in the contract on the financial terms and pulled out his checkbook.

You have the retainer with you?

Yes, here is a check made out for the two sums, a total of twenty-nine thousand five hundred dollars drawn on the Bank of Beverly Hills. He passed the check over to a now sober Donahue. This should get you out of hock, and give you a little breathing room. I understand certain people are waiting on you to settle up today.

Yes, this is certainly heaven sent. You don’t mind if I run across the street and take care of something? I will be right back. I will just leave you here and go out the front of the bar. This will only take ten minutes or so.

Go, the check is good, I assure you. Am I safe here while you are gone?

Of course, Agnes is a good shot and the bar has customers in it so there is no way for anyone to disturb you.

If you say so, I will remain here in your office until you return.

Donahue slipped out the front office door, gave Agnes the thumbs up, flashing the check at her with a big smile, moved quickly up the hallway leading to the bar past the liquor storage area. He ran into a doorjamb while looking at the check, damn, this was unbelievable, things were turning around! Jake passed Marie behind the bar and waved the check in front of her.

Smell it baby, Daddy… is back!

Marie laughed at him, glad to see him excited. She had been in love with Donahue from when she was a hooker, always refusing to charge him because he protected her from all the wrong elements. He was young then, and she was growing older, but there was a connection between them, and he had helped her get the lease done on the bar. He had put up some capital to get her started in the bar business and also helped keep the mob away from her, even now. He was so crazy no one wanted to mess with him, especially when he was drunk, which was when he was the most dangerous. They no longer had a relationship. She was twenty years his senior, and as time passed they had just become buddies, supporting each other through life’s ups and downs. A broken-down whore and a promising young police officer that had become a former shell of himself, always broke and coming up short at the track. He had become a loser. L.A. had a way of doing that to you; taking all of your youth and handing you nothing back but busted dreams. City of Angels… my ass.

She watched him disappear through the front door of the Rusty Bucket, and turned her attention back to a customer at the bar, You want one more on the rocks, Phil?

Donahue deposited the check in the Bank of Manhattan Beach Savings and Loan across the street. He felt like a big shot when the teller asked him if he wanted to deposit the whole amount, or keep some out in cash. He didn’t need any cash, but could the teller verify that the check was sound? She made a call to the Bank of Beverly Hills, and said it was good, no hold on the funds.

Donahue danced out of the bank, his feet barely touching the hot sidewalk, and skipped across Highland Blvd back to the Rusty Bucket, dodging cars that were honking at him. He didn’t care, the sun was extremely bright today, and the world was full of hope once again. This would be a good day to stop drinking, to clean up his act. Boy, another twenty-five big ones waiting in the hopper. His ship had finally come back in. Fate worked in strange ways… and what in the hell did that mean, don’t fuck his wife and daughter until after he had finished the job? Debone looked like he was in his late thirties, but he must have married early. Strange little guy, and what was the deal with the one shoe? He decided that he and Agnes would take Marie out to dinner at the Chart House tonight. Order a steak, baked potato with the works, and a bottle of good California wine. Yes, things were looking up.

Donahue whistled his way through the Rusty Bucket, waved at Marie behind the bar and reentered the back hallway, passed the telephone and restrooms, went through the double doors leading back to the rear storage area where his office was. He came through his side office door and said, Ok, took care of that and I…

Everything went black. A sharp pain in the back of his head as he fell to the floor, cold cocked and out like a light.

Chapter 2

The cheap ceiling fan whirled its rusted life away while Donahue lay on the bed in his one room studio apartment. It had a small kitchen the size of a closet, and a concrete shower with a clear plastic shower curtain. The double Murphy bed pulled out of the wall and took a full one-third of the miserable room. The landlady was another former hooker whom he had bailed out of trouble when he was on the force, and she let him skate on the rent when he was short, until he came into some dough. Or she took it out it trade. He always tried to find the money to pay his rent. She wasn't bad but it was a matter of honor with him. A man needed his castle, even if it was a piece of crap.

He watched the fan blades turn and blew smoke from his Lucky Strike into the air. What a morning. Agnes was dead and so was his new client. Someone had slit Agnes’ throat, and by the look on her face she never suspected it was coming. Agnes was one sharp cookie who had grown up on the streets turning tricks, a real friend indeed, and the best blowjob he ever had. She was more than that, she was family, his family, and no one messed with his family. Malloy had left him alone while the crime lab dicks worked their magic, but they didn’t find traces of anything. Malloy told him he was going to get a cleaning bill for his suit, and that he was going to have to come downtown to sign a statement in the morning. Marie was beside herself, Agnes had been her best friend. Out of both grief and respect she had closed the bar down for the afternoon.

Donahue had paid off the bookies and had taken care of Marie. Agnes had died without a dime and so her back pay would take care of the arrangements for her burial. After settling up with everyone he still had a few grand left in his bank account and a contract with a dead man wearing only one shoe. Who was Debone, who was trying to kill him and why? It must have been a pro; one that could cut Agnes' throat and strangle Debone with what looked like piano cord.

He got up and went out into the hallway where there was a pay phone, and looked in the phone directory to find a Stanley J. Debone’s address. There was an S.J. Debone listed at 2341 Brentwood Drive in Beverly Hills. He wrote down the phone number and the address on the back of a business card and went back to his quarters. He took a shower, shaved, polished his black wingtips and put on his dark blue suit, a fresh white shirt and his only tie. He looked into the mirror and groaned, what had happened to that youthful, bright person so full of vigor and hope who had mustered out of the Marine Corps after Vietnam? He had attended