Quentin & Mattie

By David H Fears

Following Pearl Harbor, Quentin “Q” Haggerty is working in an Oregon shipyard when his attractive assistant Mattie asks him to investigate the theft of a family heirloom. Q is drawn to Mattie and thinks of himself as something of an amateur sleuth, but soon stumbles on to two murders. While working the case he becomes torn between wholesome Mattie and the tempting but mysterious Angelina, a platinum blonde torch singer stalked by an overprotective mob boss. Mattie disappears, haunted by her past. Q needs brains, luck and perseverance to survive a saboteur at the shipyard, push aside dangerous temptation and bring back Mattie.

Novel #1 in the Quentin Haggerty Series

• Language: English
• Publisher: David H Fears
• Release date: Nov 8, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370755943

David H Fears

David was known by the handle “professor” as a boy (no doubt the thick black spectacles, Buddy Holly style), and has had a lifetime interest in Mark Twain. He has also written nearly one hundred short stories with about sixteen published, and is working on the 14th Mike Angel PI Mystery novel.Fears is a pretty handy name for horror stories, but he also has written mainstream nostalgic, literary, some fantasy/magical realism, as well as the PI novels. For the past decade he has devoted his full time to producing Mark Twain Day By Day, a four-volume annotated chronology in the life of Samuel L. Clemens. Two volumes are now available, and have been called, “The Ultimate Mark Twain Reference” by top Twain scholars. His aim for these books is “to provide a reference and starting-off place for the Twain scholar, as well as a readable book for the masses,” one that provides many “tastes” of Twain and perspective into his complex and fascinating life. He understands this is a work that will never be “finished” — in fact, he claims that no piece of writing is ever finished, only abandoned after a time. As a historian, David enjoys mixing historical aspects in his fiction.David recently taught literature and writing at DeVry University in Portland, his third college stint. His former lives enjoyed some success in real estate and computer business, sandwiched between undergraduate studies in the early 70s and his masters degree in education and composition, awarded in 2004.He was born and raised in Portland, Oregon, and has lived in New England, Southern California and Nevada. David is youthful looking and is the father of three girls, the grandfather of four and the great-grandfather of two; he’s written, “It all shows what you can do if you fool around when you’re very young.” David’s a card. How many of us think humor has a place in mystery tales or history tomes? He claims his calico cat Sophie helps him edit his stories while lying across his arm when he is composing, and sinking her claws in with any poorly drawn sentence. As a writer, a humorist, a cat lover and father of girls, he relates well to Clemens. Writing hardboiled PI novels is his way of saying "NUTS!" to politically correct fiction.UPDATE: Beloved Calico Sophie died on Apr 24, 2016 at 13 & 1/2 years. She is sorely missed.

Book preview

Chapter 1

The Andrews house on Vista Avenue was just uphill from the so-called Suicide Bridge, where an infamous Japanese banker jumped to his death on December 8th, 1941, seven months before. I got the willies just crossing that high bridge where, since the stock market crash of ’29, dozens of tortured souls took the easy but horrific way out. Pearl Harbor brought more jumpers, Americans with little faith.

The place was ornate, a solid looking giant with green brick walls, terra cotta roof and two flights of stairs to an expansive porch. The front windows were massive with leaded framed inserts on the margins. Second story windows were tiny, decorative, like one might see in wooded cottages sporting rococo trim. All in all the house looked German, if that makes sense. Gaping up at the fancy digs I felt like a kid reading brothers Grimm. I also felt the vast social canyon between my humble Oklahoma farm beginnings and old Portland money that built these mansions. I felt like knocking on the servants’ entrance.

I was a green 25 year old roustabout, sometimes welder, even though I’d landed a sweet critical role for Henry Kaiser’s shipyards, helping out Uncle Sam.

A half acre of lush green lawn surrounded the place sloping to a front wall at the sidewalk. The street was very wide and empty of cars. I parked right in front, shutting off the engine on my ’40 Chevy. I admired the peaceful tree-lined street. Several azalea bushes the size of small trees were in full bloom, the largest I’d ever seen. A chipmunk played hide-and-seek in the bushes while a blue jay cussed him out from the porch railing. I felt pleasure at the verdant beauty of the place and surprised I’d been invited up from the sweaty blue collar world of pipe fitters, hammers and tongs. I felt the misgivings of an interloper poking his nose where it didn’t belong.

I rolled the window down and took a deep breath of the heavy scent of summer that blanketed the place. The air was strangely still. The street overlooked Portland as far as Mt. Hood. It was cool for August. Something awaited me in that idyllic house and I was a bit antsy at the thought of the woman who’d invited me, a woman I worked with at the yard.

I knew very little about Mattie Andrews. She invited me up on our a day off from the shipyards on Swan Island where we made Liberty ships and other vessels, plus an occasional submarine chaser. A shipment of critical materials was on the way from the Gulf and we were given time off to recharge our batteries. My body and mind were still in the whirl and grind of quotas, schedules, overtime and stress.

Mooshie, as we sometimes called her, was just another mousy dame with smudged face who could have been a dish had she not hidden in work clothes with hair bobby-pinned under red bandanas. Always red.

Hell, a lot of those shipyard mommas would transform into real sirens once out of work duds. A few wore them two sizes too small trying against odds to advertise their gender.

My work partner and cousin Orville Hamilton went off to join our boys in the Pacific. Lucky stiff. He had chronic asthma bad but they didn’t care. Asthma won’t keep me from pulling the trigger he bragged.

Orville signed his new Chevy over to me before he shipped out for the Pacific Theater, convinced he wouldn’t make it home. Hell, I told him, being named after one of the Wright brothers was his lucky charm. I was certain if anyone could make it, Orville could. We shook hands on a gentleman’s agreement that I’d sign it back over to him should he return unscathed. Orville met his end at Midway, our first punch in Tojo’s nose. Not the way I wanted to earn my first car. I felt waves of guilt when the news reached the yard.

Mattie was promoted to my assistant two weeks after Orville shipped out.

I’d been classified 4F. At first I thought it was my right leg shorter than my left, but the boss, Bull Bryant, called me in to his filthy office and gave me the straight scoop: I was the only manjack in the yard who knew how to properly cut and bevel keel plates for sub chasers and mine sweepers, sensitive work. They couldn’t spare me; no one else could be trained in time to make production schedules. By God, production was paramount. We all hated Japs for what they’d done in Hawaii. They had it coming. Nothing would stop Uncle Sam from smacking them again, following up on our success at Midway. I felt love of country I’d never known in the months following Pearl. Most Americans did. With every completed keel I felt pride and pleasure, heaving to for the next go around. The country had a chip on its shoulders, and rightly so.

My work gave me pleasure but I hated not going after the Yellow Peril. Fortunes of war Bull said. A lot of my buddies didn’t make it back. The lists of dead in the papers made me sick. Sick and angry and more dedicated to making, even beating, murderous schedules. Fourteen hour days were the norm. Drained but satisfied I sank into deep sleep every night. No more carousing in bars taking my pick of lonely dames who haunted them, taking the opportunity to hook up with anything male. Not too faithful. We had a name for those dames: cheaters first class.

So I was stuck. Not only working with a moxie skirt in overalls named Mattie, short for something she wouldn’t admit to, but engaged in critical work that meant long hours and constant shift changes of Rosie the Riveter types. Only a few geezers and one or two teen boys salted this all woman band. The rest of our boys were chasing Japs. The closest I got was to root for the troops in newsreels at the Moreland Theater down the street.

Mattie was quiet and inward, not exactly shy, just focused. I felt her eyes following me at times as if sizing me up, and any question I threw her way would be answered in one or two words or a shrug. I didn’t press the matter or pry into her mind. I wasn’t sure if she had much of a mind, though she caught on fast to intricate details of the projects we were assigned.

I knew nothing about Mattie’s family, but one glance at the Vista Street house told me money, moldy old Portland money. The street wound up into the heights where few children lived behind Grecian columns and staid respectability. Sitting there with the city spread out below I felt slightly lost, like a delivery man looking for a non-existent address.

Mattie mentioned her mom one day in a fit of swearing at a jammed pulley and when I asked her about it she acted like she didn’t remember. She didn’t talk about personal matters at work she said, handing me that loose lips sink ships line so popular on the home front. I pointed out to no effect that her mother wasn’t a ship. All I got for the crack was a dirty look, maybe deserved. Other than that tiny episode, Mattie was sunshine and roses. She did her job and learned everything I knew, which made me wonder when they’d reclassify me and ship me out. I was ready. I felt pride at how well I’d trained Mattie. I knew she could do my job and keep the war effort on track, while I swapped lead with the damned Nips.

Portland’s Japs had been mostly rounded up and sent to camps in Utah or Wyoming. Maybe other spots that weren’t much publicized. The only Jap I knew was Willy, the kid who sold papers on Union Avenue where I bought morning coffee and sometimes read the Oregonian. A nice kid who called me Tiny, though at six-three and over two-ten I was anything but. I had to smile at Willy’s toothy exuberance and felt sad when he was shipped off somewhere with his grandmother.

The gang of tough babes in the yard caught Willy’s nickname somehow and said it in unison under their breath when I walked by. Mattie finally whispered they were mocking the rumored size of my organ. Some dames. How would they know? I had a feeling a bunch of them would jump at the chance to measure me. I told her I’d never had a complaint in that department and she gave me her silent twinkle-eyed look like she was tucking the information away to use later. Her signature look that hinted things were going on in her noggin, like secrets a kid keeps to herself.

At that time I had no inkling or impulse or leaning about doing the bone dance with my quiet assistant. That kind of chase would hurt the war effort, muck up the critical laying of keel plates, a job that took our intense concentration. Pussy on the job was readily available but a definite no-no, what they called fraternization. Uncle Sam and our Super expected us to do our job and keep our noses clean, which meant no grab-ass allowed. One dame was shitcanned for continually rubbing up to an old guy, though he didn’t complain. Why should he?

Everything had to do with the war effort in those months after Pearl. Rationing was in full effect. My tires were bald, my spare was flat and I had no way to buy more even if I had the ration tickets and dough, which I didn’t. My A gas sticker allowed only three to four gallons a week, barely enough to get around. Plus the national speed limit was set to 35, so taking a trip to Mount Hood or the beach, even if I saved up the fuel, would take twice as long.

You have to understand, the cruel events at Pearl Harbor enraged and changed the country. Politics were out the window, for the most part, though noises were continually being heard about placing blame: was Navy Commander Kimmel or Army General Short to blame for getting caught with our pants down.

Or, was it Washington and FDR who failed to convey the seriousness of degrading talks with the Japs? Everyone had an opinion, and questions, lots and lots of questions.

Where had our recon planes been? Why was the entire fleet of battlewagons lined up like a damned arcade? How did the Japs get close enough to send waves of planes over the islands without being detected? All those questions bedeviled minds — how could such a disaster happen?

With subterranean misgivings I climbed the concrete stairs covered with dormant moss and rang the bell under the massive porch roof. Who and what would Mattie be away from the Swan Island shipyard?

A pair of concrete lions guarded the top step that someone had painted years before, color flaking with red mouths still vivid. The big cats looked forlorn, as if they yearned to return to the forest where they’d be royalty again.

The intricate carved cats made me feel good, like I was in brotherhood with them. I patted one on the mane while I waited for someone to answer the door. I drank in the view. I felt the pleasure of the place.

I know how you boys feel. Before the war I was king of Stumptown’s night spots. Japs spoiled it all, sneaky bastards. It’s all about the war effort now. Just do your part, boys, stay alert.

After five minutes a one-eyed middle-aged frowner in a maid’s outfit opened the door a tad and gave me the once over. One of those doors with a full length beveled pane and a frosted scene of two hunters closing in on a massive elk. The aspect of the portrait made me want to root for the animal.

Quentin Haggerty, I said. Calling on Mattie Andrews. I’m expected.

Sourpuss threw a harrumph out her turkey-flab throat, started to shut the door and stopped. You have a card? she said in a harsh voice like a shovel scraping gravel.

I didn’t like her tone, much less her manner. I doubted she’d ever been young. I could get a warmer greeting in Antarctica. Plus penguins are better looking.

I’m Mattie’s coworker. The only cards I own I play rummy with. I doubt you’d want the ace of spades. Purposely I mentioned the death card, though she didn’t respond in a way that said she caught the reference. We were at war. Death was the elephant in most homes, especially those who’d had boys on the Arizona, the Utah and other battlewagons.

Ace of spades. Maybe up here on uppity street death was a distant thing. In the yard we heard of death daily. It underlined the urgency of our work. Ace of spades — get it lady?

The crone slammed the door holding up one finger. I felt like returning the gesture with my middle digit.

Time passed. A big slug of time. Enough so I took a seat on the step between Lion Number One and Number Two, trying to think of cute things to say that might lift them out of despondency.

An ice cream crate putted up the hill playing Pop Goes the Weasel. I doubted there’d be many sales in that geriatric neighborhood. The driver must be desperate. I wondered what his gas sticker code was—had to be more than three gallons a week, though the gutless rig likely ran all day on a tablespoon.

Just when I decided to buzz the door again, a dark Buick pulled up and an emaciated man in a jacket two sizes too large clambered out and haltingly climbed the stairs. He leaned on a cane, stopping every stair. As he got closer I could see he wasn’t old, even though his movements gave that impression.

A washed out complexion belied recent illness. His dirty, wrinkled suit hung on him like he’d slept in a barn. He reminded me of a scarecrow I’d seen in Wyoming. His hair was dishwater brown suffering from a bad haircut. As his eyes raised to mine he slightly smiled, more like a grimace. His features were sharp and Roman, eyes gray like old ice, hairline receded and ears too big for his head like older men get.

He came up to me and stopped with a questioning expression that challenged me without words. I was about to introduce myself when Mattie came around the side of the porch pulling off garden gloves, looking all the world like nature’s beauty with only slight resemblance to the Mattie I knew. Yet it was her, proof being that mole above the left side of her mouth and the same twinkle in her eye. No face smudges, amber glowing hair free from bobby pins and bandana, flowing to bare shoulders. She wore a summer flimsy that made her look so young. I realized I didn’t even know her age.

Without shipyard duds, Mattie was a looker. If my tongue hung out I couldn’t be more pleased. Nervous, I felt suddenly nervous and didn’t understand right then why. Later I thought Cupid had flown by and stuck me with his first arrow.

Standing there clear eyed and somewhat entranced by Mattie’s fresh appearance, I wanted to know her better, and hoped her other male visitor wouldn’t be in my way.

Chapter 2

She went up to the man and hugged him. George! I didn’t know you were being released today! I would have sent a taxi for you.

He cleared his throat. I borrowed my brother’s car. Plenty of gas. No worries, Mooshie. When he talked to her his eyes lit up and his whole expression warmed. I could easily see his regard for Mattie and felt like some kind of an interloper the way they touched each other and smiled. That he used her nickname said she hadn’t been given it on the shipyard job, as many workers had.

It was uncomfortable seeing them together, but I couldn’t tell why. Maybe it was I didn’t much care for the sickly guy’s appearance.

After minutes crept by like a slug, Mattie finally acknowledged my presence.

Hey Q! You made it. I was gardening out back. The maid had to search cellar and attic before finding me. Sorry for the delay. Quentin Haggerty this is George Grayle, an old school chum. He’s been in a sanitarium the past few months out in Gresham.

By the look of him and mention of a sanitarium it could only be tuberculosis. I didn’t know any other reason to be in one of those places.

It’s okay. A day off’s for lounging, right? Anyway, I’ve been chatting with the boys here, I said, pointing at the lions.

She laughed a glorious melody I hadn’t heard on the job. I also hadn’t noticed what without the bulky overalls and wool shirts she had enough curves for a twisting mountain road, like the one that went around the back of Mount Hood where I’d fished for trout a few times. Yeah. Mattie was a woman. I felt strange surprise mixed with anticipation at the discovery, though surely I wasn’t the first man to notice. Clearly George had. I saw the way his eyes took in the curve of her hips and shapely legs and the way my eyes fell into the same admiring route.

Her nickname Mooshie sure didn’t fit. She led us around the house to a loggia sheltered by large elms.

She offered me a seat on one of those fancy summer swings. George gingerly sat in a wide wicker chair with high decorative back and hooked his cane over one arm. Mattie trotted off to bring iced tea on a silver platter.

Awkward. We didn’t exchange words. I tried to ignore George’s searching stare. Instead my spirit sang with the newly revealed sight of Mattie. I’d been working next to her for weeks and was blind, dumb and stupid. When she came back and leaned over a wicker table, I got another zing looking down her top.

George doesn’t drink. Or shouldn’t. I took the liberty of something stronger, she said. Just for you Q.

George stood and said he wasn’t feeling very good, that he’d come against his doctor’s advice only to let her know he’d been released and would rest up a few more weeks at his brother’s place out on the east side.

He went to Mattie and kissed her on the cheek. She hugged him long enough for me to feel antsy. Clearly there was more than friendship between the two, or had been. George tottered back around the house, insisting she needn’t escort him.

Mattie put the tray in front of me and sat across the glass top table. I felt a silly puppy love pang like I’d known back in high school. Was that old flame of hers simply my jealous reaction when I wanted to be alone with Mattie? I could hardly have been jealous since I had no reason to be. More like uncomfortable having to entertain him while waiting for Mattie, not knowing what to say. Maybe I should have been friendlier.

TB if you’re wondering, she said.

I nodded. Sorry if I chased him off.