The Revolver

By Parker Felterman

Jack Jayson is a private investigator in New Orleans in 1984. The city is rife with greed, corruption, and murder, and not even the police seem qualified to put a stop to the gangsters running the show. Jayson is happy to stay out of ituntil a mysterious woman shows up at his office and he finds himself unable to deny her request.

Melissa Giannis husband was found dead, and everything points to a powerful underworld figure. The police turned her away, so she looks to Jayson for justice. She hires him to hunt down the villain who put her husband in the grave. Jayson has no idea, however, that his life is about to go haywire. The deeper he gets into the investigation, the more he realizes he has no one to turn to and no one to trust.

To Jayson, even the police commissioner is suspect. After a break in the case, Jayson realizes the murder of Melissas husband is related to the death of Jaysons own brother. What began as a search for justice has become a bloody vendetta for this PI. His actions are amidst a gruesome gang war, and hes about to make it worse. Or, for once, could the Crescent City find a little peace?

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Mar 7, 2013
• ISBN: 9781475974140

Parker Felterman

Parker Felterman has placed in national writing competitions. Besides reading and writing, his hobbies include tennis, running, basketball, chess, cooking, and playing with his dogs, Scooby and Scrappy. He currently lives in Patterson, Louisiana, and attends Berwick Junior High School.

Book preview

Chapter One:

An Intricate Case

T he year was 1984. I sat behind my desk; feet folded on top, as I looked up from my book and read backwards the frosted glass window. It read Jack Jayson, Private Eye. The frame darkened as a shadowy figure materialized from the next room. In came a beautiful specimen of a woman. A high-heeled, red-headed wonder, she all but stalked to my desk with tears in her eyes.

Her hair was as orange as fire and her eyes as blue as the Gulf. She had light freckles on her nose, light makeup completing her features. Her clothing included a knee-length skirt, a recent fashion statement that’s been brought back, with a black undershirt and one of those blue-jean jackets; she had the faint scent of lavender perfume, her accessories completed with a plastic headband on her head. A woman who has been pampered but knew her place.

Although she was in such a panic-stricken state, I could sense an air of defiance around her, an air of danger. Even with worry painted across her face like the Mona Lisa was painted across brilliance, she was stunning enough to dry most men’s tongues.

Fortunately for me, I wasn’t most men. I listened carefully as she began a grand story about her husband’s homicide.

Detective, she started, I have no one else to go to. The boys in blue basically turned me away, and I’m risking my life just coming here. She composed herself, taking deep breaths before continuing, slower. De Luca murdered my husband. He’s after me. It has to be him. My husband Frank had ties with the Family and he told the Commissioner, Antonio Dupes, everything about it! Frank was a good man. You have to do whatever you can. It started with Frank, but then my uncle disappeared, and then my brother. Detective, they all died today. I want to be in court one day soon to find the scumbag found guilty for murder and everything else he’s done!

I pondered for a moment before I answered. Tell me exactly what happened. She seemed nervous. She bit her lower lip. Ms. Gianni, if you want me to bring justice to this man, you will tell me everything. She nodded.

Frank had been a Made Man in the De Luca Mafia. He made a mistake, and I had found out quickly. A day later we received a trout wrapped in newspaper on our doorstep. I gave her a curious look. She understood. "It’s a message. It means that someone in our house will end up sleeping with the fishes. It means they were going to kill Frank.

We had decided it was best to stay apart. He got an apartment on Camp Street, we didn’t tell anyone. I stayed at our house so no one would know. The plan had been for him to meet with the Commissioner and we would leave the city under the Witness Protection Program. Something went wrong.

Is there no one else who could have done this? Enemies of your husband? Another mobster? She shook her head furiously. I drew in a deep breath. It’s a deal. Here’s my card and a list of payment options. Here’s a notebook. I need all names and addresses of your relatives, the officer you spoke to, the weapon used: everything. I will make you a promise: I will do whatever is within my power to bring this man to justice.

Satisfied, she wrote down a few details. An address, the weapon (a 9mm handgun), and then I watched Ms. Melissa Gianni leave. I had seen her before on several occasions while dealing with my cases and had grown a fondness for her. However, she was a grieving widow, and deserved to grieve. The one thing that surprised me was that she’s Italian. I had learned that only a few months ago. I had been sure she was Irish, and I pride myself on being rather good at figuring out ethnicity.

I thought of my next move. No other cases this week (well, this month, really), so I could give this my full attention. The address on the notebook sheet was Baker’s Apartment Complex, 421 Camp Street. Home of the victim.

I grabbed everything I might need (the notebook plus my trench coat and fedora) and then proceeded for the door. I was almost there when I realized I would have to use my biggest nightmare; and my only friend. I proceeded to remove a painting off the wall of a Blue Dog imitation. It was a good look-alike.

Behind the portrait was a small safe. I slowly used the combination that I so rarely use and looked upon my treasure inside. My miniscule savings, a picture of Hunter and me from when we were kids. And, my misnamed friend, a .38 Special revolver. I held it in my hands and recounted the terrible night as if it were yesterday.

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Hunter and I were right on thief Chet Hernandez’ trail as he sprinted down a dark alley. Four months we’ve tracked him down and now I could almost smell the stench of stale tobacco on his breath, a trait he is known for. He was the final piece to the puzzle of a long line of crimes leading to a powerful man.

It was dark and I lost him. Hunter didn’t. He tackled the crook, yet all I saw was a mass of entangled shadow struggling with its counterpart. I was merely feet away when I saw a knife flash. Knowing it was Hunter’s best shot to live, I pulled out my weapon of choice; my Model 12 revolver. I aimed it precisely as the knife flew to the air. I fired. The top shape wriggled more as the bottom tried to depart from it. For our safety I fired again. If this man had planned to stab my brother, then he deserved no mercy. I fired my final bullet.

Alive and well, the other rose and dusted himself off, then ran. I called to him but he never slowed, so I frantically pulled out my flashlight and turned it to the corpse. There was Hunter, dead. I had shot the wrong man. Chet Hernandez got away. As this realization dawned on me I cried out in anguish. Not because the perpetrator escaped justice, but because I had just watched my best friend and only brother die by my own hands.

The gun, a .38 Special, is a gun I thereafter swore I would never use again. Or at least, that’s what I told myself.

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I looked up from my haze and was startled to find myself back in my office, gun in hand. The past was the past, yet five years sure didn’t feel so long ago. Shakily, I went back to my desk and took out a vanilla Pepsi: the flavor and texture always helped calm my nerves. I downed it quickly; throwing it into the trash can by my desk. I holstered the gun and headed out the door. From my workplace, Camp Street was a five minute taxi ride.

I strode into the building, a large modern structure yet only about five floors high, and went straight to the clerk’s desk, meaning business. I showed him my identification and asked for the room previously belonging to Frank Gianni. He escorted me to the fourth floor and gave me a key.

I quickly used my key to gain entry and immediately noted something was wrong. The chalk lines had scuff marks, as if from boots. The police should have been more careful.

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But then I heard a slight creak. Not of a door but of stiff human limbs suddenly moving. I spun around just as a small rat-faced man lunged at me. I ducked and turned. He landed right in front of the window.

I sprang into action hurling a nearby vase at his head. The projectile hit its mark, yet it fazed him only for a moment and he proceeded to the fire escape. I saw my only possible lead fleeting and drew my gun. I shouted, Freeze! to no avail.

Instead, he pulled out a weapon of his own. I didn’t know who this man was, but he meant business. On the fire escape, he fired blindly twice into the room. Aiming for his arm, I fired; apparently hitting his calf by the way he fell sideways. He tried scrambling back up, and then groaned, his firearm just out of his reach. I rushed over, still aiming.

Who do you work for? I asked. He grunted in reply. Answer me! I yelled. His voice was hoarse; sandpaper on gravel.

It doesn’t matter if I tell you. If you don’t kill me, the Boss will. I knew my interrogation wasn’t working, so I tried a new method. I grabbed both his legs. He grunted in pain. I threw open the window and hung him by his legs over four stories.

Talk! I commanded.

He laughed. In an almost perfect replica of a 20’s mobster accent, he spoke to me as if he was in control. Fine, he began, but only because through all your tough-guy moves, you still haven’t recognized me. Then to my horror, recognize I did. This was the criminal who caused my brother’s demise. Chet Hernandez. Even in the dark recesses of my mind that name resounded with hate. This was an intricate case.

He said, So you do remember me. Heh. If you want to catch the fly, get honey, not vinegar. But if you want the queen, you’ll have to be smarter than just a bear with a sweet tooth. Search 347 St. Charles. I think I’ve been helpful, now if you’ll just let me down, I need to go get a fake passport, you see, and-

I realized with hatred this man was insane. I held up a hand to stop him and began questioning him.

Who is ‘the Boss?’

And here I was thinking you knew a thing or two. The Boss is the Boss, that’s all there is to it. I tried to control my anger.

Next question: what are you, of all people, doing here?

The Boss wanted me to clean up the Russian’s tracks. I think I did pretty good, but then I heard someone in the hallway, and I hid. Now here I am.

What Russian?

The Russian. Some guy who needed to take the mook who got shot. I don’t know. I don’t care. Now I was really confused.

Wouldn’t the body be in examination, or at least in the morgue?

You would think that, wouldn’t you? But no one except the dead go to the morgue. Excluding morticians. I’ve had it with this guy.

Who killed Frank Gianni? How did De Luca find out he was here?

No one is incorruptible is all I have to say. As for the latter: Frank told the Boss where he was. As I began thinking this over, Hernandez made a dash for his gun, screaming in pain as he stood, raising his pistol. Sweet ironic revenge was all he deserved. I fired twice more, into his chest. Totaling the three shots I had meant for him all those years ago.

He flew through the window and fell like a stone. I didn’t watch his fall to his doom, but as I turned I heard him. An inhumane scream sounded loud and clear, as if all the demons of Hell filled his voice with anguish and agony. I wondered if he deserved such a fate. Immediately I shook the thought out and focused on the task at hand: 347 St. Charles. This was becoming more than intricate. More like a wild goose chase.

Chapter Two: The Commissioner

A s I walked out of the Baker’s Apartment Complex, naturally a crowd had gathered around the body of my enemy. I slipped out unnoticed as the first police cruiser drove up. I wisely decided not to stick around and walked the few blocks to St. Charles.

The address turned out to be a massive estate, almost a mansion, a looming building in the center and the entire area surrounded by a wrought iron fence with barbed wire. Everywhere was the rich vegetation of the summer, cultivated with a gentle hand. A large stone statue of the Virgin Mary was in the very center, beneath a large oak tree.

I buzzed in at the front gate and very soon a security guard arrived and with no introduction walked me to the mansion’s entrance. Mr. Dupes will be with you shortly he announced somberly. That’s when it dawned on me that this was the estate of the police commissioner Antonio Dupes. How he could afford such a place on a police captain’s salary I had not the slightest. I had heard that he came from a wealthy family, but this… This was too much. Unless…

The massive doors swung inward, revealing the famous commissioner. I’ve had several cases in which he was somehow linked to nefarious dealings, but had little evidence on the matter. He was well over six feet, with a commanding and charismatic air. This I felt, but all I truly saw was a corrupt cop with a black French mustache and silk robes no doubt bought with dirty money. Strange that he would wear such a thing. It was almost noon.

Ah, and you must be the esteemed detective Jack Jayson that my friend has told me so much about, he stated in a grand voice. I nodded and shook his hand. A very firm grip. He was tanned, very dark, and seemed used to hard work and heavy lifting. That he came from a family of means didn’t add up.

Commissioner, I’ve come to talk to you about Frank Gianni’s murder. He cleared his throat.

Of course. Is there anything I can do to assist you? I would think the New Orleans Police Department capable, but if this will help you, then ask away. It just so happens I took a special interest in this case. I believe it is being led by Detective Harry Woods. He said this all very fluidly, in an almost musical voice.

When I had arrived at the crime scene, there had been a man there, working for the crime boss Domenico De Luca, I believe. Because of him, I didn’t get a chance to look at the crime scene. What was the murder weapon?

9mm. A very fine weapon. I actually had it passed with a few political friends so all my officers have one. As do I.

Any leads to who committed the crime? I asked. He shook his head.

I almost forgot. A friend of mine was impressed with your skill, and wanted me to give you a pie. My wife made it, you see. Just for you. Give me a moment. And he strolled out the anteroom that may have served as a sort of meeting or party room for guests; possibly a ballroom.

I surveyed my surroundings and found an impressive establishment. Paintings decorated the room, the marble floor was spotless. Whatever doubt I had that this man wasn’t dirtier than a bag of garbage covered with flies was gone.

I glanced out the window, watching a black Chevrolet pull into the driveway. Two men got out, and I watched as one loaded a pistol and stored it in his waistcoat.

Dupes entered the room, carrying a pie covered with a cloth. Fresh out the oven he said. I overturned a corner of the cloth with my thumb and saw a pie, possibly apple. But that wasn’t what made me blink. Between the pie and the pan was a large wad of cash. I thumbed through it and realized this was five-no- 10 times more than my savings. I looked up.

The famous Police Commissioner Antonio Dupes had a drop of sweat coming down his cheek. He was all smiles. His posterior was erect. He seemed like a man of authority who knew what he was doing. But that’s when it hit me: he’s scared. And such a man, even a corrupt man, wouldn’t be afraid unless his friend was too. This took seconds, and instead of accusing him for the fraud he was, what I said was,

Thank you, I do have quite a sweet tooth.

Ah, anytime for a fellow enforcer of the law. He replied, Now if you would excuse me, I must attend to some business. If you would wait a moment, my men will show you out. And he turned away and made for a door. His men must be the ones that just showed up. The ones with guns.

I turned, then immediately changed direction and hurled the bribe at the cop’s back. I missed by an inch and the pie shattered against the wall. He jumped around, and we met each other glare for glare as thousands of dollars littered the ground. All he said was, Well, you’re less cooperative than I thought. Jose, Alejandro, show my guest the door. He seems unable to do so himself. As he turned to go, he added, And no need to be gentle. The two large men from earlier entered the room from where Dupes was leaving, each in a black coat. Both were reaching inside their overcoat. I couldn’t get a cold case now, so I drew my .38 Special revolver with ease and hip-fired at the Commissioner, not thinking of the consequences until after that involved harming the most heroic figure in the city.

He twisted as the hot lead hit his side and he fell. The Latinos each reached into their coats but I was faster, dispatching each in their stomach. The slightly shorter one fell instantly, yet the taller staggered only slightly, and I found I had only grazed his side.

He drew his pistol, but before he aimed I shot once more and missed. I fired again and I hit his gun-hand. I pulled the trigger- nothing happened. I pulled it again and I found out I had used all six chambers; I hadn’t reloaded after the apartment incident. I made a tackle that would have made any football star proud. I gave his jaw a hit and as I drew back for another I saw something out the corner of my eye. Antonio had a phone in his hand and was dialing from the floor.

My hesitation gave the brute a chance to haul me off of him. With his good hand he pile-drove me into the gilded wall. He still had me by the neck, and for an instant there were two of him. I was losing air; he was choking me to death. Desperately I tried to loosen his grasp. Then I went to my only chance: his knees were spread apart so I kicked with all my might. He let go on impact and clutched the affected area with a dazed expression. I gave him a kick to the face to knock him over and rushed to where my piece lay on the floor.

The Commissioner threw his phone at me; a bad aim from on the ground and with a bullet in his side. Still, I stepped on it and slipped. Antonio used the table for support and stood weakly, leaning over me and gloating. The two calls I’ve made have ended you’re life, amigo! Not only will De Luca skin you alive when he gets you, my boys down at the station are tracking you down and will be here in minutes. Game over! I noticed one of his men’s guns on the ground just out of reach.

I hopped up and swiped it. Dupes, when I was a kid, I was a sore loser. Here’s how it works: it’s not over until I say it’s over! I ran up, hitting the patsy on his temple with the butt of my weapon. His eyes rolled back and he crumpled to the floor. I sprinted out the room into the courtyard, then from there to the sidewalk. No one pursued me.

The street was empty except for the occasional passerby. I tried to keep it cool as I walked back to my office/apartment. I heard sirens and ducked into an alleyway. A fire truck passed. Realizing there was no threat, I came back out. Then I saw where the vehicle was headed. My place was on fire! I rushed over; thankfully no police had arrived yet. I ran into the flames, hoping to rescue my only photograph of Hunter. A fireman yelled after me but I refused to listen. I ran into my office and behind my desk was a body, untouched by the flames. I didn’t recognize the man, but he had a knife through his heart and on the wall next to him was a note scrawled in blood.

It read: 637 Decatur Midnight. The fingers of his right hand were covered with dried blood, and I deciphered that the man scrawled the note as he was dying. Or it was a trap. I didn’t have much of a choice. I threw down the Blue Dog painting and opened my safe with haste. Quickly, I took out the picture and savings. I looked out the window and found two patrol cars along with a crowd of civilians and firemen. To cause confusion I hurled the painting out the window, not far enough to hit anyone. I left the back way and headed to my only chance. I looked at my watch. Three hours to midnight. Who was that man?

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DETECTIVE WOODS

I toyed around with my name plate on my desk. Det. Woods. I put it down and looked at the file on my desk. It was the newest development to the Gianni case. Two criminals part of the same syndicate, found dead at the same place, same day, only hours apart from one another. The only real difference was a murder weapon.

I glanced out the window. It was getting late. I shook my head. I need to see if I can find anything unusual. When I interviewed the clerk at the apartments, he had said he showed a private investigator to the room, but for some reason didn’t stay with him. Before that, Frank Gianni was found by the Commissioner, who was a close friend of the victim. The Commissioner left to call the police, and while he was gone for approximately