Diabla Meets Large Lola

By Karl Tutt

This is the fourth installment of the Diabla Series. Our lady , ex-cop, ex-stripper, ex-junkie, and current P.I. is at it again. Ev, her Brazilian partner and certified knockout, encounter a frightening Amazon and her deadly bat boy. Money, sex, power --- all of the usual motives figure in, but the ultimate question is whether our intrepid ladies will come to the end of the trail dead or alive.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Karl Tutt
• Release date: Jun 13, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463450222

Karl Tutt

Karl Tutt is a retired English teacher from a dropout prevention program in Florida. He is a veteran cruiser who has published several sailing articles in national publications. His two new offerings, The Children of the Wolf and The House at Hull, continue the mastery of murder and mayhem demonstrated in the Ghostcatcher series with T.K Fleming, and his female sleuth, Dee Rabow, in the Diabla series. Quick, engaging, and satisfying . . . those words describe the approach that has lured thousands of readers to the pages of his murder mysteries.

Book preview

Diabla

meets

Large Lola

By

Karl

Tutt

Copyright Karl Tutt 2018

All rights reserved without limiting the copyright reserved above. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or introduced into a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. Names, brands, characters, places, media and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademark status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction which might have been used without permission. The publication use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated or sponsored by the trademark owners.

Thanks to Carolyn, my patient reader, who is generous with her time and attention.

Prologue

It washed up on the beach in the darkness not far north of the corner of Las Olas and Ocean Boulevard. At first no one paid much attention. It was basically formless, and it stunk . . . maybe a maimed Dolphin or some other dead thing shrouded in seaweed.

The first one to notice it was an eight-year-old boy. He said he saw something sparkling in the morning sun. He held his nose and got a little closer. He fixed on it for a moment more. Then he wanted it. He removed the thing gingerly, washed it in the surf, and took it his mother. It stole her breath. A ring . . . not just any ring . . . but an elegant, if somewhat gaudy, bundle of 24 carat gold and diamonds that even Mariah Carey would have been proud to sport on one of her meticulously manicured hands.

His mother thought about stuffing it in her beach bag and grinning all the way home, but there was the boy. She wanted him to grow to be honest and trustworthy. She showed him the initials A G engraved inside. It belonged to someone . . . or at least it had. He was baffled . . . not sure what he’d seen or what he picked up, but he did know it was of value, and he also knew his Mom would do the right thing. She flagged one of the bicycle cops that work the strip, held it out for him to inspect, and pointed. It was hard to like what he found.

Chapter One

I first met him long before I became Diabla. At the time, I was dancing with brass poles in my birthday suit, hooking a little on the side, and trying to make my way through a cloud of cocaine, opioids, and any other dope I could get my hands on. I may have even screwed him a couple of times. It’s hard to remember when your life is nothing but a frothy dark cloud. I was deep in the abyss, and in my mind . . . and my heart . . . or what was left of it . . . I didn’t think I’d ever climb out. It was only through the heroic efforts of my dad, Fritz, and old friends, T.K., Chris, and Sunny, that I made it through without much more damage than a couple of now faded tattoos. They had all risked their lives. But we all came through. Now it is a good time to forget, and I’d done my best. But sometimes, late in the night, I knew it would haunt me like a malevolent wraith, a banshee who would never stop baying.

One thing I did remember too well was the night the good Mr. Gianinni made it rain. I was working the All-Nighter, a gentlemen’s club in a strip center near I 95. Only there weren’t many gentlemen there.

Mr. G was at a table almost on top of the stage with four or five of what were, no doubt, his closest friends. I never heard a word of English from any of them except him, and that was confined mostly to grunts, groans, and get it on, Baby, accompanied by an occasional fondling of his crotch.

Avis was my business colleague (read fellow stripper) and neighbor. Nice girl, fabulous shape, and despite a voracious appetite for a variety of pharmaceuticals, I could trust her. She lived in a small apartment near the upper end of the New River. I was her downstairs neighbor. That was before I moved onto my old Pearson 365, GREAT GESTURE. We'd had many a nite cap on her tiny balcony laughing it up over the antics of some of our supposedly high class clientele.

Avis could definitely shake it up. We had been working the boys pretty hard and finally decided on a tag-team approach for our grand finale. Our garters were sporting a fistful of fives sprouting like green bouquets engulfing our thighs. We were jiggling our tits and shaking our asses for all we were worth . . . all close enough for the boys to damned near taste. I must admit it wasn’t one of my finest moments, but to say we were well received would be a monumental understatement.

Artie G. bounded up and howled like a wolf sniffing heat. He stuck his hands deep in his pockets, and came out with fistfuls of rich, dirty green currency. He thrust his palms into the air and the bills fluttered to the stage like wounded birds. Hell, I’d seen the Florida crackers roll in from the groves and do the same thing on payday. But this time it was different. The hardwood was flooded with wadded up tens. Avis and I were grabbing the green like two starving children snatching bread crumbs. Within minutes I had a month’s rent and more than enough to keep me in coke for time immemorial. It was certainly one of the more lucrative nights in my former rather dubious career, although I wouldn’t term it a smart move. I couldn’t say my own name for weeks after that. Thank God for Avis's homemade chicken soup. She bring it down every day or so . . . even feed it to me when I was damned near paralyzed. Kept me from starving to death and tasted mighty good. She finally swallowed one too many pills. I still miss her. I guess you could say she sorta saved my life. I wish I had saved hers.

You might have me wrong . . . think I’m bragging . . . that I’m proud of all that shit. I’m not. My Dad and Mom instilled a sense of morality deep in me. I