Nob Hill Towers: Book One

By Jarrett Young

After a classic car is stolen from the mother of his ex-partner, a retired LAPD detective is driven to chase a two-bit con artist through the underbelly of Los Angeles.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: May 20, 2011
• ISBN: 9781617926594

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Chapter 1

Do you like milk or honey in your tea, Mr.…I’m sorry, what did you say your name was, dear? the old lady hollered from the kitchen.

Shuffle. Hardy Shuffle. And just a dash of milk, if you would be so kind, the con man replied. As he sat in the living room and waited patiently for the woman to reappear, Hardy quietly observed various sentimental ties throughout the old lady’s apartment.

Nadine, you say it’s a 1970? Hardy asked.

1971, the eighty-three year-old replied as she rounded the corner from the kitchen. She carried two saucers with teacups on them. I bought the car in November of 1970. Her hand shook slightly and the spoon that rested on the saucer rattled as she handed the teacup to Hardy. He sat upright and alert in Nadine’s wicker chair. His jet-black, stiffly creased jeans remained straight and rigid as he sat cross-legged with his right ankle resting on his left knee. Hardy brought the cup to his mouth as Nadine took her seat. His nostrils inhaled the hot tea’s steam.  His moustache twitched as he took a sip.

How did you find the car? he asked with keen interest as if it mattered. She began to tell him about how she fell in love with the car when she first saw it on the lot and about how she flirted with the young sales gentleman as she took a test drive. She gave herself credit for talking the salesman down fifty dollars as if she was some great negotiator, crediting it to her superb flirting style. A mistake in the sticker price, however, showed the car at one hundred dollars more than it was supposed to be. The old lady actually overpaid fifty.

Hardy had seen Nadine’s ad in the newspaper last week. 1971 DODGE DART FOR SALE, ORIGINAL OWNER, SLANT SIX 225, LOW MILES.

That slant six is a great engine Hardy thought as he perused the ads. He called up on a few other car leads first before he got a hold of Nadine. The first answerer sounded like a middle-aged man, a bit of a fast talker. Might be a salesman Hardy thought, someone he wouldn’t be able to pull a fast one on. Some high school-aged kid picked up Hardy’s second call, who then handed the phone off to his dad for assurance. Too many people Hardy thought as he immediately hung up. That’s when he saw this old lady’s ad and dialed to get Nadine. Ah, Nadine, whose sweet, frail, grandmotherly voice that oozed naivety floated tenderly over the telephone lines. She had married once, but never re-married after her husband died. She had only one son, who had also died recently. She lived in the same apartment for forty years, and she worked at the same hospital only two miles away for thirty-five years. Nadine never saw it coming.

Hardy glanced up from his tea and looked at Nadine, whose white hair was permanently pasted up and back as if she was stuck in a wind tunnel.

Where is the car now? Hardy asked, as he glanced at his watch, the one he won in a poker game seven years ago.

Downstairs, in the parking garage. That’s where I always park it. It has been garage parked all its life.

Sitting in her apartment was like a nostalgic trip back in time for Hardy, back to his grandmother’s old house. The quaint flat smelled of lavender and damp cat. Royal Doulton ceramic Corgi figurines occupied the top of an old wooden dresser. A photograph of President Truman standing outside the White House hung on the wall. Nadine’s old grandfather clock chimed two o’clock in the afternoon. Hardy noticed that the clock’s minute hand sat just to the right of the twelve o’clock hash mark. The sight reminded him of his own grandmother’s grandfather clock that also had an askew minute hand. Hardy stroked his moustache with his thumb and index finger.

Is that a Chippendale? Hardy asked, pointing at the grandfather clock.

We better go take a look while we still have some daylight, Nadine initiated, staying focused. She got up to get the car keys. As Hardy stood up he looked past his black boots and noticed the apartment’s gray rug bore sporadic stains throughout the flat. Two identical dark gray cats sat in the corner of the apartment farthest from the front door. They stared at Hardy and wouldn’t dare approach him.

With her keys in her purse, Nadine strode past Hardy and out the front door. Hardy followed. Just before leaving Hardy spotted an old IBM Selectric typewriter, just like the one his grandmother used to own.

On the way downstairs Hardy noticed that every other unit in the building had at one time or another been renovated, except for Nadine’s. He recalled the curvature of the ceiling where it meets the wall that was reminiscent of an old 1940s or 1950s architectural style. He had noticed Nadine’s dark red velvet curtains that were unlike every other apartment’s vertical blinds.

Well, here it is, Nadine muttered, pointing to the car as if Hardy might have mistaken it for another one. They had arrived downstairs and stood in the parking garage, but Hardy had hardly noticed. His thoughts were elsewhere, in the memory of his grandmother’s kitchen with