Jack and Tommy

By Pringle McCloy

In this fifth book of THE JACK series, PI Charlie Hampton and sidekick, Willy Chan, are off to Colombia in search of Tommy, Jack’s grandson, a millennial who knows everything and nothing. Tommy has disappeared again but that’s not the only problem. Crooked Jack and entourage land in Mocoa wanting to help out but only get in the way. Tommy’s dad, the infamous Triad drug lord, Richard Chang, also arrives with his own deadly enemies not far behind.

All your old favorites are back, including mob boss, Tony Chan, who controls the high roller rooms in Macau casinos; Reynolds ‘the wrap’ Woo who hasn’t forgotten that Richard killed his brother; Richard’s goon, Shorty Poo, is learning English and giving Charlie back some guff; Tina, the girl next door who previously took a bullet meant for Charlie, must face a family tragedy. Marco Midolo, the shoddy Vancouver lawyer, makes an appearance and, of course, fair Jillian, whose humanitarian efforts cost her dearly this time around. It’s not all fun and games but with Charlie and Willy involved there will always be espionage and serious guns.

Meant for lovers of the old-fashioned detective novel.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Pringle McCloy
• Release date: Sep 27, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463936863

Pringle McCloy

English major. Teacher. Tutor. My interest in mysteries began early in life after discovering a pile of Mickey Spillane novels in my dad’s library. I was taken with tough-guy detective, Mike Hammer, who then led me to Raymond Chandler’s PI, Philip Marlow, and so on. Chandler’s Marlowe and my Charlie Hampton have a lot in common but you’ll have to read THE JACK IN A BOX to see the similarity. Both are tough guys who take their whiskey straight and women tall. THE JACK IN A BOX was written while I was living and working in coastal Vancouver and is the setting for the novel. In the sequel, RETURN OF THE JACK, Jack is the same old shady, underworld figure, off to Beijing for more trouble with the Triad. Third in the series, POSSIBLY JACK AGAIN, is set in Santa Ana, California, where Jack follows Charlie to hopefully help find his own grandson who may have met with foul play. Fourth in the series, JACK THE KEEPER is posted now. Enjoy! J. Pringle contributes too with WOMAN COMING SOON and A MONTH IN THE COLONIES, the sequel. THE TAMING OF SAMANTHA ROE is now posted. All three chick lit novels are a lot of fun.

Book preview

Prologue

Tommy’s wedding day began quietly, so quietly I had too much time to think. Where had the time gone and why? Why was I the father of a five-year old girl who was leery of me, to say the least? She loved me. I knew this from the wet kisses she planted on my cheek before running away to hide. Well, most females didn’t like me period so Isabella was actually a step up. It had to do with her mother, I figured. Jillian wasn’t the most tactful person on the planet and tended to speak poorly of me in front of my child. She told Isabella, and Isabella told me, that there would be no more children as long as I was alive and that if Isabella wanted to lace my food with arsenic her mother would supply the poison. Nice.

There was a reason for all of this, I knew. Jillian was Jack’s daughter and had turned out exactly like him, by example. While she thought she was hilarious, like Jack she was about as funny as a tooth ache. Isabella had never seen my West End condo because Jillian convinced her there were gremlins, and possibly goblins, under the beds. Ghosts too. And likely criminals with loaded guns in the closets. So, I visited my daughter at 33 Terrace Place to watch her hide. Can you believe it? She even trusted Jack more than she trusted me and he hid her toys. He took away her treats and ate them in front of her and shamed her when she cried. Still, she ran to him when I came along, saying what about me? All I ever did was bring her expensive presents in pretty packages which she refused to open because they might contain bugs.

Standing at the church doors I was dragging on a cigarette while watching the parade of collector cars arrive. Jack’s gang was cruising in led by Sharp-dressed Tony, Sammy and the lot. And talk about distracted drivers… Billy the Bookie drove his Lamborghini smack into the curb just because the buxom blond in the passenger seat was doing bad things to him. I wanted to be just like Billy when I was seventy-eight. Richard’s Triad goons came prancing up the stairs looking tough. It irked me that I could no longer say I was meaner than King Kong Chin, thinner than fat Freddie Fong, and taller than Shorty Poo because Freddie was dead. But there was a new Freddie now. It seemed that Freddie Fong had been replaced faster than a light bulb by Eddie Wong, an equally sturdy type of guy. Eddie was young to be one of Richard’s goons who mostly clocked in at sixty and Eddie couldn’t be more than fifty-nine. He had muscles in his forehead.

Richard held out his hand. Good to see you, old boy.

I shook it. When are you going to knock off that phony accent, Richard? I hear the queen is going to send you a cease and desist letter. You’re a disgrace to the Union Jack. And to England.

He smiled. Blame it on Oxford. That’s where I learned English.

The past came flooding over me like backwash. I’d been in my spying suite monitoring Leo the Lizard Cheng for Jack when suddenly Leo’s door flew open.

Flashback:

There they were! The big boys. Four of the most formidable dudes on the planet. Enter the boss, Richard ‘the Cleaver’ Chang, who stretched well above six-feet and oozed an air of importance, a presence mostly acquired at maturity, not mastered at thirty-three. He was a handsome devil too, with chiseled Asian features and the sharp eyes of a falcon. He meant business in his expensive, dark-olive suit and with his hair slicked seriously back, like he was suddenly DeNiro late for a funeral on the lot. There wasn’t a smile to be found anywhere on his face.

On Richard’s heels marched King Kong Chin, the Butcher, beady-eyed, balding and anxious, while Fat Freddy Fong, with no eyes to speak of, trudged along behind. Lastly, and most deadly according to the rumor mill, traipsed Sweet Shorty Poo, teetering on platform shoes and still not measuring five feet tall.

I was like an awestruck kid. I mean, scientists could launch a spaceship to Pluto with the energy in that room. I found myself smiling and wondering if these boys, as children, had played street games against other little kids who carried knives and won. Richard looked like a winner to me. And as for Shorty, well. I’d soon learn not to make fun of Shorty Poo.

So, there we were on the church steps, Richard and I, deciding if we could tolerate each other for just one more day, the day of Tommy’s wedding. It was harder for me since he’d tried to kill me and I’d only thought about returning the favor. The decision was taken out of our hands when Jack came bounding up the steps.

Can you believe it, Hamster? Richard is going to be a grandpa. And I’m going to be a great grandpa. Boy, am I going to get respect! He pawed his sandy mustache into place and patted his thick sandy curls. Got any whisky? His eyes were round and green and exact, like he would expect no less of me.

Is the sky blue? I plucked a flask from my inside jacket pocket.

He looked around. It is.

And it was. It was a beautiful summer day with the mountains rising to the sky behind us and the ocean bright blue below. Beautiful coastal Vancouver didn’t get better than that.

Richard was having some sort of breathing problem. Who is going to be a grandpa?

Jack’s eyes twinkled. You didn’t know?

Didn’t know what?

Sorry. It’s not my job to tell. You tell him, Hamster.

With a last name Hampton I was easy prey for Jack who christened me the day he brought me home at age ten. Hamster would be my lot. But I wasn’t stupid. If Tommy was afraid to tell his own dad about the baby then so was I. I know nothing.

We were saved by Willy Chan who came up the steps between two stunning Asian models. (Well, they were hookers but did anybody care? Not this crowd.) And the kicker? Willy was better looking than both of them. If you haven’t met Willy yet you’re in for a treat because you won’t likely meet a better-looking guy, present, past or future. Willy wears his dark hair shoulder-length and his round eyes speckled-brown. Whiter teeth come only on tooth paste commercials and they glisten when he smiles. Willy is a crook. He robs banks. He robs anything he can get through a firewall to so never count him out. My best bud since childhood days had often saved my ass. And vice-versa.

He smiled at me. I brought one for you, Hampton. Since you’re too ugly to pick up a girl on your own.

In my own defense I have slick dark hair and eyes the color of a swimming pool on a sunny summer day. It’s just that I was hung up on a spoiled brat named Jillian. My wife.

Willy shook his shiny dark hair. Is that your kid screaming in the church, Hampton? Have you taught no manners?

THE PREVIOUS YEAR

Chapter One

So, it was complicated. Jillian didn’t want to divorce me because of tradition. She wanted Isabella to grow up in a traditional house with a traditional family. I mean, 33 Terrace Place? Thugs on Sunday and lesser thugs during the week; laundered money under the floorboards with excess going off to foreign bank accounts; Jack; who was about as traditional as Kim Jong Un. Just a little bigger.

To compound matters, Jillian was prone to making up lies about me. She told the day care people that I was actually a CIA operative so she couldn’t give my name, lest everyone be killed including them. John Doe was best, she said, since I couldn’t even be truthful with her. And since my P.I. practice was tanking I was flattered. I bought a new sign for my Denman Street office door. Charles Hampton CIAA. It now became more conversational than Chestnut Gelding, the portrait I won at a silent auction for five bucks.

Tony Chan was the first to comment on the new sign after dropping by to torment me on a rainy spring day. Now pushing ninety, Tony didn’t mince words. Not that he ever had. He sat in the chair across from me and grinned. What do the letters mean? CIAA? Charlie is an asshole?

A word about Jack’s fake chauffeur who personified the word ‘scam’. Tony controlled most of the high roller rooms in Macau with his well-oiled machine, primarily his nephews. He was a big deal in Vancouver Chinatown where he showed up on Sundays dressed to the nines and accepting the respect owed a mafia godfather who had earned his stripes the hard way growing up in Beijing. Tony had raised Jack and hadn’t done such a terrific job. Controlling high roller rooms in casinos was more his style.

I lifted my feet to the top of my nice tin desk. It clanged. Don’t know yet. It’s a conversation piece. A lot of people have phony letters behind their names. Maybe it stands for Charlie is an astronaut.

He giggled. Space cadet, maybe.

Behind me, Robert the Plant coughed. I swear he did. Is there a purpose for your call today, Tony?

He scratched his old grey head. You know there is. Where’s the whisky?

I lowered my feet and extracted two tumblers from a desk drawer. Double?

Triple. I’m going to hire you for a job.

Well, that sounded interesting. Without family business I’d essentially be broke. When will I know about this exciting new job?

Sunday. We’ll meet after the mob leaves. And the girl goes to bed. She’s a whiny little thing, your Isabella.

I nodded. I could hardly wait for Sunday.

Flashback:

Jack’s house in British Properties perched on the mountainside four stories deep. Sprawling behind lush hedges the concrete fortress hosted thick black doors, electronic surveillance, and a garage for myriad cars. Inside, a sea of hardwood flowed down the stairways like a log run on the Fraser while crystal chandeliers lit the halls. To get to Jack’s domain I typically followed the trail of artifacts – from lewd to lewder statue – to the very end of the hall. The library was where Jack hid from the Jones women and he also hid on me, except when he wanted something. Then he tore the town apart to find me.

About Jack’s statues… Most were benign in nature but I had a problem with David in the foyer alcove. David didn’t like me. Not that he’d verbalized such, it was just his swaying back and forth and threatening to fall over and crush me whenever I showed up at 33 Terrace Place.

It’s penis envy, I told him upon arriving at Jack’s house on a rainy Sunday afternoon last April. You’ve been shriveling, buddy, likely due to the statue cleaners and their habit of rubbing you the wrong way.

Nothing. Just swaying.

Jack’s bodyguard came to the door. Talking to David again, Charlie? Hope you know he isn’t real. Shoeshine Fatso was a large handsome dude, a Jackie Gleason type with thick dark hair, glossy brown eyes, and a big gun. I respected Shoeshine. I had to. Jack threatened me with him all the time. Got any weapons? he boomed.

Just the usual, Shoeshine.

Good. We may need your firepower later on. He winked at me. When things get hairy.

Behind Shoeshine’s back Renaissance David was flexing his muscle. And not the good kind.

I could smell money. Old money and new money. Money coming out of the woodwork and floorboards, freshly laundered and still with bubbles on the Queen’s stern face. It was trip money, money soon to travel to Switzerland or the Caymans or the British Virgin Islands and