Dick Burton P.I.

By Ron L Henslee, Sr

Dick Burton has established himself as a formidable Private Investigator after having a hand in solving what the press pinned as the ‘Apple Orchard Murders’ in the small mountain town of West Point, California. He fancies himself a modern day Phillip Marlow with a keen mind, and sharp wit, not knowing he is way over his head as he bungles forward relying mostly on dumb luck.
Not long after setting up shop, in downtown Los Angeles, he is hired to solve the murder of a struggling actor AND prove the innocence of his eccentric friend, Percy Pumperknickle who is a primary suspect in a separate murder case.
With cunning, luck - mostly luck - Dicks sets out to solve the murders with the help of his friends as they encounter some unusual, and at times dangerous, characters.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ron L Henslee, Sr
• Release date: Aug 1, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370064243

Ron L Henslee, Sr

Old, one wife, two kids, six grand-kids, no dogs, cats, or chickens.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

DOUG SHIITE

Doug Shiite is a conspiracy theorist. According to Doug, everything is a conspiracy if the local, state, or national government is involved. He knows he’s a little off-kilter and blames his outlook on life entirely on his last name. His father and Grandfather always insisted their name was pronounced ‘Sheet' and went through life, as did Doug, correcting people on the proper pronunciation. This did not stop his classmates from calling him Doug Shit, 1st through 4th grade, then progressing to DOG Shit, 5th grade through high school. He believes ‘Shiite’ is an Arab or Persian name, yet he could find no evidence of any lineage, and he does not look Middle Eastern in any way, shape, or form. Doug was blond (until his hair turned gray), blue-eyed, fair-skinned Anglo-Saxon. He does know the Shiite name means A Muslim of the Shia branch of Islam. Upon further research, he found out his Great Grandfather, Sam Shiite, changed their last name from Schetney to Shiite because he got tired of being called Sam Shitty. Doug was perplexed as to why his Great Grandfather didn’t just change the name entirely since he went to the trouble of legally having it changed. He also believes his Great Grandfather was illiterate and did not know how to spell ‘Sheet.' Even though he never knew the man, he felt Sam Shiite was a short-sighted buffoon. He would legally change his last name if it didn’t involve dealing with the government. He thought it would draw attention to his person since he was sure the Government already believed he was a terrorist because of his last name, and changing it would raise a red flag.

Although Doug believes all Muslims want to kill Americans, the most imminent threat to the good ole USA is the illegal Mexicans sneaking across our borders, thousands a day in his mind, and infiltrating our infrastructure. He believes they will eventually overthrow the Government. A secret plan that has been in the works for fifty years and backed by the Mexican Government. He will tell anyone who listens that this ‘grand plan is close to fruition. He writes his views frequently on his blog under the fictitious name of Gringo Jesus. A perfect name to attract the right-wing zealots. Doug is not religious by a long shot, but he suspects he would pray like a motherfucker if someone had a gun pointed at his head. There is a substantial minority of right-wing Republicans that agree whole heartily with Gringo Jesus. Still, Doug is leery of this group since they suggest, ‘Government,' and he suspects they’re more concerned about the Mexicans taking over through the ballot box rather than an armed revolution that Doug purports.

Doug’s wife, Loraine, is a closet alcoholic and pill popper who hides it from everyone except Doug. She sits home at night, drinking her wine, watching all of the murder shows; the true stories are re-enactments, and most are of the husband killing the wife or the wife killing the husband. Doug is sure his wife is plotting to kill him and trying to find the best way to accomplish this task through these shows. He thought he caught her red-handed one day because she was furiously jotting down notes while captivated by one particular show. When Doug snatched the notes from her hand and proclaimed, AH ha, the jig is up! He knew he shouldn’t have been so hasty grabbing the summaries because she had used code substituting grocery items for weapons of murder. He would have difficulty proving that asparagus spears were a knife, and baking powder was gunpowder or bullets. Of course, the cucumber was the gun. The tell-all item that REALLY stood out was liver, which, of course, was code for poison since Doug hated liver. Of course, she denied it and told him (for the millionth time) he was crazy. Doug thought, ‘yeah, crazy like a Fox.'

Doug would leave his wife, but she would financially take him to the cleaners. In his mind, he would end up on the streets pushing a grocery cart filled with the few possessions he was able to walk away with after the lawyers and government got through with him. Doug is well off and would remain so even if his wife received half of his possessions, which would occur, adhering to the laws of the state they reside in, but Doug doesn’t think that way. He’s sure the Government would find a way to give it all to her.

Doug believes the solution to his problem with Loraine is to kill her first. They have no children that they claim. Doug knocked up Lorraine in high school, both seniors, the class of ‘75’. Neither Doug nor Lorraine's parents were about to help raise the child, but being upstanding Republicans, they were against abortion, which was Doug and Lorraine’s first choice. They were sorry they even told their folks but needed money for the procedure. Doug suspected guilty consciouses had much more to do with the pressure applied by the parents than ideology. Not to mention the fact that Lorraine's father was running for mayor. Their baby was born and IMMEDIATELY was taken by the state to be put up for adoption. The child was not to be mentioned again.

Doug suspects he will have to hire someone to off his wife because he is a bit of a pussy when it comes to violence and, at times, has been known to faint at the sight of blood, especially if the blood is his. There are a few potential prospects he has found from the readers of his blog. The most promising candidate is hovering around central and northern California. The last time he contacted him (through the internet), he was in a little mountain town called West Point and probably would remain there for the immediate future, even though he seems to move around frequently. Doug had to look the town up on Yahoo maps since the only West Point he had ever heard of was the Army Academy in New York.

His blog candidate was most promising for three reasons. The prospect lives in California - Doug lives in Los Angeles, California, about a seven-hour drive from West Point. The fact that the man lives in California is a huge deal for Doug since he believes that the Government records all vehicles crossing state lines, and every time he flies’ he breaks out in hives because he’s sure there are at least fifty Air Marshalls watching him, because of his last name. The second and most important reason is the correspondence (through Doug’s blog) which revealed a whacked-out, religiously disturbed man. And finally, the man shares his distrust of the Government.

Doug has set up a meet and greet with the man that just goes by ‘The Minister' at 3 pm on Thursday at The Rattlesnake Café in West Point, California.

CHAPTER 1

There is a mist in the air, more like a light spray of spit, gloomy. One of those days that want to rain but just can’t seem to pull it off. It is cold and dreary, splashed with patches of fog. The rain hits my face like an annoying person chasing me with a spray bottle of cold water, with the nozzle turned to mist. An all-day drizzle that can make your bones ache for a tropical island, the sunshine, and one of those umbrella drinks.

The lid of the dumpster is raised to the same height as the lens of the camera, which gives me three inches to peer out at the dumpster with a clear view of the alley. The trash container belongs to ‘Chang’s Number One Noodle Bowl,' an upscale Chinese Restaurant in Beverly Hills, California. I have been watching and waiting for over three hours with no results.

The owner of Chang’s, Charlie Chang, hired me to catch a thief. Someone is stealing his garbage. My job, observe and record any activity in and around Chang’s dumpster.

When I pointed out to Mr. Chang, Who gives a shit about garbage? It was most likely a homeless person or persons. Chang berated me and informed me that it belonged to him until the city took possession of the garbage. He went on to say. Even though you, Mr. Burton, are somewhat the toast of the town and talked about in the inner circles of the private investigator because of the case you cracked up north last year, it means nothing to me. I could easily replace you.

Chang’s threat caused me to suppress a smile. That’s right, I thought. I cracked that case up North. Everyone in the business knows it. ‘Dick Burton P.I..’ Chang must have researched before hiring me, and the West Point murders came up. Very cool. I made a mental note to Google myself when I returned to the office.

I ascertained Charlie Chang did not want the cops involved - if they would even bother with a garbage thief - because there was more going on than just the theft of refuse. Chang’s reasoning was whoever was stealing his garbage could end up getting food poisoning and sue him. Of course a ridiculous theory.

I figured it was the old drop and snatch going on. When I told my brother Fred, I’m fairly sure it’s a ‘drop and snatch’ caper. I said it as if I owned the phrase, like it's been around for a long time. Maybe, I coined the phrase, ‘drop and snatch.' Maybe not. Perhaps I read it in one of the Chandler books.

What’s a drop and snatch? Fred asked.

I looked at Fred as if he were a novice and patiently explained. Somebody is placing an illegal substance in the dumpster. My guess, opium. Then someone comes by and picks it up.

Why opium?

Hello. Chang. Chinese.

So it’s Chang’s operation, and someone is stealing from him ? Fred asked.

No. I don’t believe Chang is in on it. If he were, it would only happen once, I replied.

I don’t understand, said Fred.

It wasn’t my style, but I gave Fred a condescending look as I paced the floor with my hands clapped behind my back. Chang is not in on it. If he were, why continue to place the product in the dumpster. It would be a one-time occurrence. I pointed my finger in the air - to make a point. If you put your bicycle out front, and someone stole it, you’re not gonna go buy a new one and put it right back out front? Right? And even if you did, the perps that stole the original bike wouldn’t be expecting another one.

Yes, I suppose that’s correct, Fred answered.

Chang has a suspicion someone is moving product out of his restaurant. There're several reasons he won’t involve the cops. Maybe it’s his son, Little Boy Chang, who is tired of working 10 hours a day six days a week with not so much as a thank you from his father.

That sounds logical,’ Fred said. And maybe he’s in that Chinese gang. What’s it called? The Tongs?"

I was unsure if that was the name of the Chinese gang in LA, or if they even had one, so I said, Yeah could be.

Why not put a tail on him.

On who?

Little Boy Chang, brother.

I haven’t seen him, so I have no idea what he looks like.

I’ve got an idea, Fred said. I’ll go in as a customer. You call and ask for Little Boy. He comes to the phone. I I.D. him.

Okay, he put me on the spot, There’s no, ‘Little Boy Chang.' That was just my hypothesis.

Oh…Well, you know there very well could be.

That’s what I was thinkin.

Alright, but you said the theft of the merchandise was a one-time snatch, right?

Wrong, Fred, you’re not grasping the whole scenario here. Someone is up to some shenanigans, and Chang wants to find out what’s happening without involving the police. It’s a drop and snatch that will continue. And I’ll be there to record it.

I think my explanation of the drop and snatch totally confused Fred. It had to because I was. I changed the subject because trying to explain it gave me a massive headache, and I needed to relax my confused brain.

. . .

I heard a noise to the left. I lifted the dumpster lid slightly to retrieve the camera on which the trash cover was resting. I close it. Seconds after, the lid flies open.

What the hell’s goin on here! The man yells as he stares at me.

I fall back into the corner of the dumpster. Luckily my fall is broken by cardboard. The only thing hurt is my ego. Startled, I compose myself and put my detecting skills to work. The man is tall, old, unshaven, black, and obviously homeless. A skid row bum, broken, downtrodden. So I thought.

Still, a bit stunned by the sudden outburst, I right myself and retrieve a business card from my trench coat pocket.

Dick Burton, Private Investigator, I said as I handed him my card.

The derelict looks at my business card closely before saying, Well, when you’re done investigating that cardboard, it belongs to me. This is my turf.

No. No. I’m investigating that dumpster across the alley at ‘Chang’s Number One Noodle Bowl.'.

Sooo, what you took a wrong turn? Man don’t know the difference between noodles and cardboard; man should maybe seek other means of employment.

I’m not investigating the dumpster; I’m investigating the possibility of a drop and snatch.

Never heard it called a drop and snatch before. You make that up? Yeah, you did. Whatever, but you need to work on your descriptive style. What I’m ascertaining here is someone's moving product using the Chinaman's dumpster, the pick-up site. Right?

I ignored his question for a moment and asked, What’s wrong with drop and snatch? What would you call it?

Drop and grab, he said.

What’s the difference?

Well, snatch is pussy. Grab is grab.

I patiently tried to explain that many words carried more than one meaning. He must have felt my long explanation was a bit condescending because he said, Maybe here’s a word you’ll understand. Go fuck yourself, motherfucker.

I said, That’s more than one word.

Sensing I was starting to piss him off, I said, Hey, could you help me outta here? Maybe we could do a little business.

The bum helped me out after I agreed to hand him all the cardboard in the dumpster, which he broke down and placed in his shopping cart. A time-consuming proposition, but I needed his help.

The Vagabond stated his name was Whitey, which gave me cause to believe he was not truthful. The man sensing my skepticism pulled out a tattered social security card with the name ‘Bartholamue Whitey Cumberbun.’

Which name would you go by, he asked? And didn’t wait for an answer.

Before the cops got to know me, they thought I was somewhat disrespectful when they asked my name. Course I’d usually answer, Whitey, Motherfucker. I suppose there was a bit of impertinence goin on, on my part. You related to the actor?

You mean Richard Burton? I asked. I get that quite a lot. Even got asked for an autograph once.

You musta been sittin down. Cause if I recall, he was a bit taller than you. And ain’t he been dead for fuckin, decades. That must have been one stupid sum-bitch went thought you were the actor. You know you are a fuckin midget?

It’s dwarf or little person. How’d you like me to call you the ‘N-word or ‘Boy’? Same thing.

Excuse me, your highness never made it to Miss Manners school.

Whatever. Listen, I’ve got a proposition for you.

Cost you a sawbuck.

To hear my proposition? You want me to pay you to hear my propositions?

You learn fast, Henry.

The names Burton, Dick Burton.

I prefer to call you Henry 'cause you remind me of Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec. He was-

My detecting skills were on high alert. The hobo had some knowledge.

I know who he is, I said. "Paris, early nineteen hundred’s, painter,