The Good Die Young: Carole Larsen Mysteries, #8

By charles fisher

Carla takes on Jimmy Anders with the help of her friends from the old west. Carole has her committed over her ramblings about reincarnation in a police report she submitted Anders is finally dead.....or is he? Carla escapes and hides out in Kansas.

• Language: English
• Publisher: charles fisher
• Release date: Nov 5, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386151487

Book preview

The Good Die Young

The Rest of You Can Go To Hell

Residence of Lou Ann Barnes

27 Peters Lane

Stratford, Connecticut

December, 1995

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Merry Christmas, Anders smiled as Lou Ann opened her present. I hope you like it.

Thank you, Lou Ann said as she looked at the matching set of wool knee socks, gloves, and winter hat. It’s real nice.

Well, it is cold this time of year, Anders said.

You been here over a year now, Lou Ann said. And we aren’t like getting it on or anything. What’s up?

The agency just contacted me, Anders said. Nobody knows where I am. The cops in Stratford haven’t bothered you lately, have they?

No. They ain’t been here in months.

Then you have nothing to worry about. I’ll give you another ten thousand for room and board. I have a mission coming up very soon.

Okay, Lou Ann shrugged. We’re cool.

Anders had decided  long ago not to kill Lou Ann, because that would draw more attention from the little skunk who ran the Detective Squad in Stratford. Anders knew that the pestilence known as Carole Larsen was watching for any sign of his whereabouts; she was like the Harbinger of Sexless Frustration who had sworn to follow him to his grave. If Lou Ann failed to show up at the appointed time at the A&P or anywhere else she shopped, creature of habit that she was, Carole would send her minions to pound on the front door within the hour. That would not be good; Anders called the shots, not Carole. He decided who lived or died, not her.

Good, Anders sighed. Don’t worry; this will all be over soon.

Cool. You want Cheeseburgers and Fries?

What else could a man want? Anders smiled. Blood, the demon that lived inside his head whispered.

Stratford, Connecticut  Police Department

900 Longbrook Avenue

Stratford, Connecticut

December, 1995

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Who’s the babe? Carole said aloud as a beautiful young woman came in and talked to Pat Kennedy. Pat pointed at Carole’s office, and the woman approached. She knocked politely on the open door.

Come on in, Carole said. What can I do for you?

I am Christine Connor, the woman said as she sat down. She had shoulder length platinum hair held away from her face with a simple barrette. She wore no makeup other than a touch of pink lipstick. Her pale gray eyes looked...........was it at you, or through you? Carole thought. The vision before her  was very unsettling. It was like being examined by a superior species.

I need security.

Get a better job, Carole giggled. Oh, I’m funny today. Sorry, she said as Christine just stared at her. I’m in a silly mood. Too much Christmas cheer. Nice watch, she said, looking at Christine’s stainless steel Rolex. Bet that cost a few bucks.

I purchased it because it keeps perfect time, Christine smiled. Not because I like extravagant things. The security I require is for my father’s automobile plant. We own the Monarch Automobile Company and the Orion Motorcar Company of Tarrytown, New York.

Monarch, eh? Nice cars, Carole nodded. Wish I could afford one.

We have purchased a substantial property on your Lordship Boulevard. The Mobil Chemical Plant.

I didn’t know it was for sale, Carole said.

It wasn’t, Christine smirked. I made them an offer they couldn’t refuse.

And what, pray tell, will an automobile manufacturer do with a chemical plant? Carole smiled.

Why, knock it down, of course, Christine laughed. What else would we do with it? The place is a mess. After we remove it, we intend to construct our second Orion plant. We do not wish to be bothered by the bums, hooligans, and second raters from nearby Bridgeport, some of which have already taken up residence in the building.

We aren’t the Pinkertons, Carole said. We don’t hire out as security guards.

I want those people removed forthwith, Christine said. That is certainly within your scope of duty, is it not?

Yeah, it is, but they’ll come back, Carole grinned. You don’t know what you bought, Missy. You’re what, a couple of miles  from Bridgeport? Not to mention you’re a mile from the worst part of Stratford. Those people love empty buildings.

Are your people allowed to moonlight?

They are, but it is discouraged. I’ve found that a police officer who works an extra shift after leaving duty can’t do his job the next day.

Then whom shall I hire? Christine said.

The National Guard, Carole smiled. Look, Miss Connor, there are lots of private companies around that do this type of work. The P.D. is not a referral service. We are prohibited from steering business to any companies in town from any other companies in town.

"What about companies not in town? I am an auto executive. Security is not my field of expertise. I have neither the time nor the inclination to learn about it, either.  I am willing to pay someone who knows the subject."

I cannot accept money from you, Carole sighed.

I didn’t offer you any. Do you have a fund for the families of officers who are killed in the line of duty or become disabled?

Yes, we do, Carole said, looking away. And for the victims of a certain murderer who is still at large.

Who is your most knowledgeable officer where security is concerned?

Detective Lieutenant Vito Antonelli, Carole smiled. He’s a real peachy guy. You’ll love him.

I doubt it, Christine laughed. I have no time for romance. My work is what I love.

You need to get out more, Carole nodded. You’re gorgeous. How old are you?

I am twenty five. I will donate one hundred thousand dollars to your fund in return for Detective Antonelli’s help. You may have your town attorney draw up whatever agreement you need.

You just said the magic words, Carole grinned. I’ll have that agreement ready this afternoon. How did someone so young get to be so high up?

I have three college degrees, and I worked on the assembly lines of the three major auto companies. I also worked on my father’s assembly line since I was fifteen. I can do anything in that factory with perfect skill. I did this because I wanted to avoid being called a spoiled brat hand fed a good job by my father. I am his Executive Vice President in Charge of Production. He didn’t want me to have the job, Christine grinned.

Then how did you get it?

Why, I took it, of course, Christine laughed. How else do you get things you want?

I usually order them from Salerno’s Restaurant, Carole smiled. Do you like Italian food?

Of course, Christine said. And Italian Opera. My favorite is Che Gelida Manina, from Puccini's opera  La Bohème.

I’m kind of partial to The Dave Clark Five, Carole said.

Bits and Pieces, Christine smiled. I’m down with the peeps.

Sure you are. I’m pretty good at what I do, Miss Connor. A lot of it is the ability to size people up. You are a beautiful young woman who is consumed by her job. You have a board about four feet long stuck up your ass, and nobody will ever be able to remove it. That is not meant as an insult, because our country would fail without people like you.

Thank you, Christine said.

You have obviously had no contact with..........I don’t know how to put this. The second raters, as you call them. Not everybody has your magnificent mind or your social standing, or a billionaire father.

All men have skills, Christine shrugged. Those who choose to use them are always welcome in my company. Those who do not, are not. All work has value, Miss Larsen. I need men who can put tires on our cars just as much as I need my Vice President of sales to market those cars. One job is easier than the other, and pays accordingly. I can train a man to install tires in three hours. It would take me three years to train a sales executive, and I choose not to do so. I hire men who take their own initiative. I reward skill as it comes. Does that make sense?

In one way, yes. What about the poor? Those who had no chance in life.

I am not responsible for them or to them, Christine said. I did not cause their condition. I have a business to run. It is not a social project. My responsibility is to those who work for me, not to those who do not and will not.

Or cannot because you won’t hire them, Carole said.

I will if they meet my requirements, Christine said. I will require five hundred people to work at Orion. Do you have a list of good candidates for me? she smirked.

I’ll find you one person, Carole said. And only one. The rest is up to you. After all, I’m not your personnel manager, but I can and will teach you a little humanity.

I doubt it, Christine said. Many have tried, and none have exceeded. Humanity has no place in business.

Neither do those who have none, Carole smiled. Do what you do best, Miss Connor. Write the check.

Who’s the Chippy? Pat Kennedy said as he came in an unwrapped a hot dog after Christine had gone.

I don’t know, Carole said. I’ve never met anybody quite like her. She has an amazing presence, and she is very overeducated. She’s the V.P. of Monarch Motors.

Cripes, Kennedy said. You gotta be kidding me. She’s just a kid. How did she get that job?

Her father owns the company, Carole said. She says that had nothing to do with her getting the position, though.

And you believe that line of bullshit? Kennedy laughed.

Yes, Carole said after a long minute. I do. That girl can and will do anything she wants in this life. I’d hate to be the one who tries to oppose her.

Then don’t, Pat shrugged as mustard and relish fell onto his uniform.

I have to, Carole said. Just a little bit. There is a big hole in her soul that needs to be filled. You have mustard all over your shirt, you slob.

I’m a Sergeant, Pat huffed. It’s a job requirement. How are you going to fix this girl?"

I’m going to let Tracy fix her, Carole grinned. That should make her day.

Battered Women’s Shelter

Barnum Avenue

Stratford, Connecticut

December, 1995

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I am Chief Carole Larsen. Who went to Bunnell High School? Carole called out as she held up her badge.

I did, a woman called out.

What class?

1980. What of it?

Any further education?

Sure. Housatonic Community College and University of Bridgeport, the woman said. What do you want here? You never gave a shit about me when I called you.

When did you call me? Carole said.

1988, when my husband put me in the hospital. Where were you?

I was a Detective, Carole said. I didn’t catch your case. Who did?

Nobody, the woman laughed. My husband was Joey Rocco. Got any more questions?

Lenny’s brother, Carole said. We locked Lenny up this year.

Took your damn time about it, huh?

So, what happened to you?

I got strung out on Morphine in the hospital. They turned me out, and I became an addict. I kicked the habit nine years ago, but nobody will hire me. My parents disowned me, too. So here I am. Nice, huh? God bless fucking America.

What’s your name?

Joelle Simmons.

Ever work, Joelle?

Yeah. I was the managing director for the Marcroft Auto Group. I oversaw seven car dealerships. I went back there after I got clean, and they told me to piss off. Just like I’m about to tell you to piss off.

Can you still do automotive?

Sure. So what? Nobody will hire me. Now why don’t you go back to your job, and leave me the hell alone?

Because I made a deal with somebody, Carole smiled. And you’re it.

The Orion Motorcar Company

Lordship Boulevard

Stratford, Connecticut

December, 1995

––––––––

Where’s the boss? Tracy smiled as she went into the Mobil building.  Six ragged homeless people ran for the door. Get back here, ya bastards, Tracy yelled. Don’t be goin’ out there in no snow storm. I ain’t here for you.

Then what do you want? A girl called out.

Miss Connor. Ya know who she be?

I seen her, the girl shrugged. She comes around at noon to have herself a look.

Tracy looked at her watch. Well then, I’ll just wait for her. You folks want some food?

You can’t buy us food, the girl said. You’re a cop.

Aye, I am, but I was a human before I was a cop. How does Lasagna and pizza sound?

Good, the girl said. Thank you.

It’s okay, Tracy said. Jesus took care of folks like you. I figure it’s the least I can do, since he watches over me in bad times.

What bad times? the girl said.

I’m  a copper. It’s me duty to face down the bad people. Never you mind about me. You folks have to move on. You got a place to go?

No, the girl said. None of us do.

You will, Tracy said as a new $150,000.00 Monarch Promenade 400 convertible pulled up. And there’s the gal who’s gonna pay for it. Ya got my word on that. Can ya do a day’s work?

Of course, the girl said. The others chimed in.

Okay. Ya stay here. No drug addicts, no bullshit. You get one chance at the prize. You don’t show up or you do a shit job, or you pee dirty,  you’re out on your ass. You got that?

We got it, the girl nodded.

Good. And ya stay away from this girl’s car. Tracy went out to Christine’s Monarch. Nice car, she nodded. I am Detective Tracy O’Neil. Ya come with me, Missy. Get in me cruiser.

Where are we going? Christine said. I can’t leave my car here.

Yes ya can, Tracy said. Them folks inside will watch it for ya.

They’ll cut it up and sell it for parts, Christine laughed.

No they won’t, because I told ‘em not to, and folks in this town do what I say. Them folks is your new employees, Tracy smiled. They said they can do the work. You give ‘em a chance, and they won’t be squatting in yer building no more.

You can’t make me hire those people, Christine huffed.

Yeah? Tracy grinned. Care to bet on that, Skeezix? I am the law in this town. I can make you do anything I want, and you’ll damn well like it, too. Now get in me car. I ain’t got all friggin’ day.

This is absurd, Christine said as she got into the cruiser. This car is disgusting, she said. I never rode in a police car in my life.

That’s because you be a spoiled rotten little bitch who spends her Daddy’s money, Tracy smiled as she drove away. I know about people like you. Dealt with ‘em all me life in Ireland. I could have been one of ‘em, but I chose a better path. How about you, Missy? What path you gonna choose?

I am a businessperson, Christine snapped. The best there is. I have a greater responsibility than you will ever know.

Here’s the greatest responsibility you’ll ever know, Tracy said, taking out her .45. The power to end  a human life.

Are you going to shoot me if I don’t do what you want? Christine laughed.

No, Tracy said. I might kick your uppity ass a little bit, but I ain’t gonna shoot you. Ya don’t listen very good, do you, girly?

What’s your point? And please open the window. This car smells like dogs.

It’s a K-9 car, Tracy said. Ya don’t fancy dogs, do ya?

I have one, Christine said. That doesn’t mean I have to smell yours. And where are we going?

To meet your new Vice President in Charge of Production for the Stratford Orion Plant, Tracy said. You’ll like her.

You’re insane, Christine laughed. I decide who gets that position, not you.

You ain’t never been up against the coppers, have ya, Tracy smiled. You made a deal with the Chiefy. You will honor that deal, or  by the time you build that plant cars will be out of style. You’ll have every homeless asshole in the state campin’ out in that building, and we, being overworked as it is, won’t be able to do nothin’ about that. We will find a reason to stop any outside security people from comin’ in here, too. You know, permits and such. Could take a year to clear ‘em all. Meanwhile, we’ll get a judge to put yer construction permits on hold until we resolve the social problems you created.

You wouldn’t, Christine said. You can’t do that. It’s illegal.

Went to law school, did ya? Tracy said. I did. It ain’t illegal. The law works both ways, Missy. Ya best learn that. You ain’t in New York. You’re in my town.

Maybe I should have stayed in New York, Christine said.

Maybe, Tracy said. You’ll do fine here, Missy. Just do what the good Lord says is right.

Battered Women’s Shelter

Barnum Avenue

Stratford, Connecticut

December, 1995

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I don’t like this place, Christine said. This is a bad neighborhood. 

Ain’t half as bad as some I could take ya to, Tracy said. Feel like goin’ on Patrol on Stratford Avenue at midnight with me? That’s where the darker animals do their thing.

You’re a bigot, Christine said as they went inside. Black people are just as good as you.

Aye, we got us a black Chief of Police now, Tracy said. Temporary of course, but he’s okay. Some day he’ll learn his place.

I don’t believe you said that, Christine said as they walked up to the desk. Tracy held up her badge.

Detective O’Neil, she smiled at the young black man behind the desk. Why you look so nervous, Skippy? she smiled as the boy fidgeted. You got something to hide?

No Ma’am. I just passed the civil service exam. I want to be a cop.

Oh, you do? We got enough of your people in our department already, Tracy said, trying not to laugh. Most of ‘em is in holding cells.

Cripes, Christine sighed. Just tell him why we’re here, will you?

Keep quiet, girly, or you and me will go at it. Now as for you, boy, Tracy winked. We are here to interview Joelle Simmons. Fetch her, fella, she said, snapping her fingers.

Yes, Ma’am, the boy squeaked. Right away, Ma’am.  He scampered off to the back

You are disgusting, Christine snapped. What was the meaning of that little performance?

Ya shut yer hole, or else, Tracy warned. Don’t be tellin’ me how to do me job.

The boy brought Joelle out. She was cleaned up and wore  a floor length summer dress. She wore wire rim glasses and had a flower behind her left ear. She came out and took Christine’s hand.

I am Joelle Simmons, she said, her keen eyes boring into Christine’s.

Indeed you are, Christine said as she took Joelle’s hand. Let’s talk. They headed for the back.

Aye, now that’s what I call love at first sight, Tracy smiled. What about you, boy? Ya fancy the Irish?

I don’t know, the boy squeaked. Please don’t kill me.

You’ll do well, Tracy said, handing him her card. I was just havin’ fun with ya. You let me know when ya want to  wear a badge. Ya have to do yer duty, though. Never forget that.

Stratford, Connecticut  Police Department

900 Longbrook Avenue

Stratford, Connecticut

December, 1995

Damn drunk ass sumbitch get me up at noon fer this shit, Carla grumbled. What’s your problem, girl? 

Who am I talking to now? Carole said.

Me, asshole. You think I look like Rita damn Hayworth or something?

Not hardly. Time to do your job.

I can do my damn job, Carla grumbled. That Lemon Death kicked my ass a bit.

You should be used to that, drinking Moore’s whiskey, Carole said.

What you know about that? Carla laughed.

I know more than you think I do. Are you going to return Wyatt’s call?

I don’t know any Wyatt, Carla said. Told you that before.

Okay. What are you going to do about Anders?

I’m gonna find him, drag him down here, and burn him at the stake on your fucking front lawn, Carla said, a mean look on her face. What do you care, anyway? He got special meaning to you?

Yes, he does, Carole said. Nobody has been able to catch him in over 25 years. He escaped the death penalty chamber in Texas. I watched him die, but he’s still alive.

Well, Shorty, Carla smiled. You don’t know how to kill people. Neither does the State of Texas. I’ll show you how. You got any Tylenol?

Tylenol does liver damage if you take it after alcohol, Carole said.

My liver sends its condolences, Carla said. You think I give two shits about my liver? I got more than that to worry about. Where did that call from Wyatt come from?

Stratford, Carole grinned.

Must be some wrong number. Wyatt be a common name.

Sure it is, Carole said. I suggest you go look for Anders.

I suggest y’all grow six inches so’s you kin reach the toilet to pee at night, Carla grinned.

I’m not short! Carole yelled.

I told you I’d take care of this boy for you, Carla nodded. And I mean business. Now give me that phone number for that dude Wyatt.

Howard Johnson’s Motor Inn

Honeyspot Road

Stratford, Connecticut

December, 1995

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Wyatt? That you? Carla said when the man answered. 

In the flesh, Wyatt said.

What are you doing here?

We have unfinished business, Wyatt said. We never did finish that contest.

I finished it, Carla said. This isn’t Dodge City. There are no gunfights in the street. Well maybe once in a while, but not the kind you’re thinking about. If that’s why you’re here, you wasted a trip. I am a Detective in this town.

I know, Wyatt laughed. I was just twisting your tail. From the way you were talking back in Kansas, I figured you might need a little help.

I have an entire police force to help me. I hope you aren’t wearing a gun.

Man has to go heeled in a bad town, Wyatt said.

That’s a felony here.

A what?

Felony. A crime punishable  by more than a year in jail.

You’re kidding, Wyatt laughed. A man can’t wear a gun in this town?

No, and not  in this state. You need a license to carry a firearm.

Well dang, girl, where can I get me one of those?

You can’t. You are not a Connecticut resident. Do you have any official papers that say you are a law dog in Kansas?

No, but I can get some, Wyatt said.

Good. You get them, and I’ll have Chief Larsen hire you as a temporary Deputy. That allows you to carry, just like any cop.

I will do that, Wyatt