The Foxy Four

By J McGaffey

Dashelle Jones, Los Angeles PI and ex-FBI crack shot. Business is failing, and her last case didn’t end well. Dropping out, she takes refuge binging Captain Morgan at a local dive bar.
Her mother calls to inform her that her cousin Cindy committed suicide. They were inseparable as kids, but had grown apart. Apprehensively, she returns to her small home town to attend the funeral. Cindy owned the struggling local paper. Her editor confronts Dashelle and confides her suspicion that Cindy was on a story so juicy, she was murdered to conceal it. Cindy showed no suicidal tendencies—another reason to raise suspicion.
In search for the truth, Dashelle must dig into the past by retracing Cindy’s tracks. This led her to discover that Lori, a high school friend of Cindy’s, also happened to commit suicide under questionable circumstances. Was there a connection? Her clues would come from four incredibly handsome boys—also classmates—appropriately christened the Foxy Four. Dashelle falls for one, now a local cop.
Her unconventional (sometimes dodgy) investigation techniques, coupled with her general disdain of provincial locales, wreak havoc on the idyllic town. She also struggles to reconnect with her estranged family, who have problems of their own. Not helping matters is her inability to stay away from the bottle; she reconciles her lack of sobriety by now mixing the Captain with Full Throttle energy drinks.
In search for the truth, she navigates ubiquitous trees, humidity, millennial receptionists, drug dealers, donkeys, lemon slices, and her pesky four-year-old niece.
The past is a dangerous place, and Dashelle gets unwittingly enmeshed in its tangled web, tempting the same fate as Cindy and Lori. The last thing she wants is for someone else to “commit her suicide”.

• Language: English
• Publisher: J McGaffey
• Release date: Dec 26, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463251218

J McGaffey

Graduate University California Irvine Playwriting ProgramWriting member, Theatre West, Los Angeles, 1995-2000ProductionsOld Man Johnson’s Play, 1992, YMCA, IrvineA Minute, 1996, Theatre West, Los Angeles, 1997A Hunter’s Obituary, Theatre West, Los Angeles, 2000NovelsAdventures of a LubiteThe Dream AlterThe Foxy Four

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The Foxy Four

A Dashelle Jones Novel

Published by J McGaffey at Smashwords

Copyright 2018 J McGaffey

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Table of Contents

Chapter 1: Before the Days Prologue

Chapter 2: Before the Days Epilogue

Chapter 3: Day 1

Chapter 4: Day 2

Chapter 5: Day 3

Chapter 6: Day 4

Chapter 7: Day 5

Chapter 8: Day 6

Chapter 9: Day 7

Chapter 10: Day 8

Chapter 11: Day 9

Chapter 12: Day 10

Chapter 13: End of Days

Connect with J McGaffey

Chapter 1: Before the Days Prologue

LA’s smog-filtered sunrise seeped through the blinds and spilled over me like warm piss. Time to get up, join this so-called paradise. I rolled my legs off my lumpy cot. The middle sagged like an old horse and my spine had taken the shape of a boomerang. I was currently residing in my office, not because I was a workaholic, but because I was broke. I had fifty bucks in my wallet, nothing in the bank, or any financial institution, for that matter. Last week, my apartment grew a lock box on the door and I didn’t have the key. My office was soon to follow; rent was more overdue than The Big One.

I stood up and straightened my warped spine and groaned while it cracked and popped as if it were made of bubble wrap. My t-shirt and panties had developed an unpleasant odor. I couldn’t remember the last time I had changed them. A clean pair was somewhere, worth searching for. First, time to clean the source of the odor. I jettisoned my underwear and pulled on some sweats and grabbed a grout sponge, toiletry bag, and towel. I exited my office and made my way down the hall to the community bathroom for a sink shower. It was early, so no one would witness the homeless ritual.

I gazed into the mirror to make sure I was still there. I was attractive, desirable—physically, anyway. At 33, I was holding my own, skin still tight to my bones. My hair was jet black with loopy curls, cut short, eyes mild blue. I was tall, my body tightly muscled, not from exercise, but from hardly eating, which was—much easier. I figured, if you shit, you over ate. I do shit, but not much. And yes, it stinks, but like day-old roses.

The bathroom had a couple stalls and a double sink. I damped the sponge and added some soap from the dispenser and worked it in. I removed my sweats and sponged what parts didn’t fit over the sink. With yoga flexibility, my vagina cleared the basin for a deep tissue scrub. I turned around and did the same for the back side. I rinsed the sponge and wiped the soap residue from my body, then dried off. I shampooed my hair, brushed my teeth, and headed back, with the towel wrapped around my privates. Dashelle Jones, Private Investigator was etched on a plaque fastened to my door. Taped to it, a yellow eviction notice. I collected it for disposal; it was bad for business. I entered, hung my towel on the doorknob, and studied the rolling garment rack I had borrowed from a nearby Hilton. I only wore pant suits, with the jackets cut slim over my waist; navy, grey or black; white dress shirts only, ties optional. It was a navy day, no tie—they all needed pressing.

Dressed, I plunked down behind my IKEA build-it-yourself desk—several leftover screws in one drawer, their intended location still a mystery. It was staying upright, which was encouraging. Atop the veneer, my laptop and one folder.

One folder meant one job. That was about four less than I needed to maintain my struggling business. Most of my jobs were infidelity, as is the case for most PIs. That market was drying up, thanks to social media’s erosion of privacy. Bombshell secrets uncovered beyond cell phone passcodes—usually shared between trusting spouses—did my job. Still, some preferred old school, not wanting the stress of a confrontation and denial. They wanted concrete evidence to deter that. The folder on my desk was a suspicious wife, Mrs. Hicks—a rich, suspicious wife, a prickly combination. I preferred progress billing, but she insisted on COD and gave me two weeks of surveillance time. Three grand, paid if he was faithful; ten grand for proof he wasn’t. It was a huge score, and I’m not talking about the three grand. I had to catch this guy with his stinger wet. I had two days left before her deadline and a few days left before a new lock grew on this door.

My assistant entered. She was a second-generation Asian—Korean, I think. Kim Dim was her name. I know. Her parents totally screwed up her American name. They should have christened her Charlotte or Gunga, better flow. She was significantly smarter than me—brilliant, actually. She answered an ad I had run a couple years ago. She was fresh out of Cal Poly—computer engineering, I think—top of her class. I still don’t know why she took the job. I never asked. I was lucky to have her.

Hey, KD, I greeted her genially.

If I don’t get paid this week, I quit.

And do what?

Get a real job.

Do you really want one of those?

Yes, I can start striving for my unlimited potential.

There’s no such thing. You’ve probably already peaked.

Thanks to you.

What’s the status of our Mr. Hicks? I asked, averting her bitching. This was a new trend with her that I wasn’t enjoying.

He’s been a good boy. He goes to the same bar every night, scopes, has a drink, leaves.

He’s finicky.

Seems so.

What type of clientele?

Plain, conservative, professional girls, mostly.

He likes hot and slutty, but won’t go to those establishments. He’s patient. Thing is, we can’t be.

Let’s pull a Hammer.

You read my mind. Call Lucinda.

She quit.

They do that?

She probably saved. Hint.

What about Candy?

Moved to Amsterdam, got a window.

Jesus, where’s a hooker when you need one?

Do you have $200?

No.

You couldn’t afford one, anyway.

You have any cash?

You never pay me.

A morsel from my past surfaced and I snapped my fingers. I know. Charlotte! She owes me a favor.

You’ve never had a favor returned.

You need to sell it. Call her. Set it up.

*****

I’m not proud of it, pulling a Hammer. I’ve done it a couple times before. Sometimes circumstances leave no other option. I don’t call it desperation; I call it survival. I must admit, I looked damn good in my slut attire. The push-up bra and tight, low-collar cami barely supported with shoestring straps; it brought my breasts to a Level 5 Alert. A clinging mini-skirt was like a WELCOME doormat on my ass. I spiked my hair, blued my lids, and glossed my lips burnt red. Giddy up, cowboy!

Kim dolled up, too. My petite firecracker with that gleaming black Asian hair. She wore a tight white dress, barely sheltering her privates. We were piercing LA in my Beamer 318i. I loved my big panoramic windows, virtually no blind spots—city lights in full view through my revealing bubble. I loved LA like this: at night, kinetic, an endless quilt of diversity. One block up, a makeshift homeless community in front of an abandoned building, blue tarps, and shopping carts, the homeless peering ghostly through rotting dreadlocks and hoodies. Two blocks further, a new apartment complex—modern, clean, blending nicely, young professionals milling about with breezy purpose. Kim was next to me. In the back was Charlotte, a mid-class prostitute. Her red dress was strapless and skin tight, her boobs nearly popping out of the top like eggs in an egg cup. Awhile back, I saved her from the nightmare of the justice system and she granted me the favor currently being served. She was pouting; nobody likes to return favors. She wasn’t speaking, either, so I felt the need to engage her.

I asked, How’s tricks, Char?

Funny. What am I doing?

You mean tonight?

No. The rest of my life, she said. You gotta love sarcastic prostitutes.

A bait and switch.

What’s that?

I’m going to pick up a guy, bring him to a hotel room, then you’re going to switch with me and deliver the goods.

Won’t he see this switching?

What’s it called when you blindfold someone during sex?

Why are you changing the subject?

I’m not. Hang with me. What’s it called?

I dunno, a mystery fuck.

Good one. That’s the play. I’ll get a blindfold on him and we’ll bring you in.

To bust him for cheating?

See, you’re already on top of it.

Why can’t you do it?

I’m the director.

What about Kim?

Cinematographer.

This favor is costing me 300 bucks.

If this works, I’ll peel some off my score for you.

I want $400.

Why the extra $100?

For calling the favor.

That is supposed to be free, calling favors.

Not mine.

And people pay?

You’re the first bitch who’s ever called in a favor. I didn’t think it was possible.

I was glad I was pulling up to our destination. My conversation with Charlotte was neither engaging nor fruitful. Mr. Hicks’s favorite bar was tucked between a couple glass office buildings on Wilshire, all by its lonesome, no competition; a good place to avoid going home—or anywhere unnoticed. I parked next to the building. Stay in the car, I told Charlotte. I cracked the window, so she wouldn’t suffocate. Kim and I put on our sexy faces and did runway strides into the establishment. It was a sleek, urban bar, acrylic surfaces glowing with imbedded LED lights. The overall lighting was dim and the liquor was strategically placed on shelves in front of a mirror. I saw the Captain—Morgan, that is—and his reflection; he was coaxing me over.

Don’t forget to dumb it down, Poly Tech, I reminded Kim, as we approached the bar.

Don’t forget to act feminine, she countered.

Hicks was a central bar sitter; doubled his odds. Damn, crowded. I scanned the bar, mostly women dressed professionally. Jesus, what was this, a dog kennel? He was flanked by two woofers, bulldog mixes. I pouted my lips and expanded my chest and moved in. Bingo, eye contact with Mr. Hicks. Yes, here I am, big boy. He gave me the once over twice; steam wafted off his crotch. Game on. I approached the bulldog to his left. She had fat cheeks, a sunken nose, and an under bite.

Excuse me, is anybody sitting here? I asked.

She regarded me, confused, and snorted, Where?

In your seat.

Uh…I am.

Well, you’re not an ‘anybody’ are you?

What is your problem? she asked, a perplexed look on her face.

Go on, scram! I barked.

Pardon me?

Beat it! I’m sitting here now!

She stared at me, stunned at my aggressiveness. She contemplated her next move. I grinned at her, the kind of grin you don’t fuck with.

You’re lucky I was just leaving! she lied, uncomfortably. She fumbled in her purse and placed some cash on the bar. You’re very rude, she snarled, her jowls quivering.

She scrammed with a bow-legged waddle, and I sat. Kim settled next to me. That seat was empty. I felt Hicks’s eyes. I turned. Wow! Nice-looking, confidant, masculine, well-groomed—a man of means.

That was interesting, he said.

Changing my inflection to be sexier, I said, What? Oh, that. I did you a favor. Did you really want to sit by such a thing? I rolled my eyes.

I hadn’t given her much thought.

Exactly, I said, raising my eyebrows coquettishly.

The bartender showed up and placed our napkins. He was tall with black hair greased old school. He appeared attentive, which was a requisite for a good bartender. I was relieved that I would be in good hands during this play.

What can I get you two? he asked in a gentle voice.

On me, said Hicks.

I have a friend, too. I leaned back.

Oh, hello, he said, leaning over the bar.

Hello, said Kim in her horrible Asian accent, the stinker.

Anything they want, Jim, said Hicks to the bartender.

I’ll have Mountain Dew Me, hold the Mountain, said Kim, keeping her fake accent. She hadn’t outgrown her coed cocktails.

You mean a Dew-Me?

Yes, in long glass.

I think I know what that is, he said.

Goody, goody, said Kim.

And you? he asked me.

Double Morgan and Diet Coke with a lemon, wedged not sliced, I ordered. You can’t squeeze a slice.

I haven’t seen you two here before, said Hicks.

Or ever again. This place put like the ‘ore in bore, I said.

It is, isn’t it? Convenient for me, close to work.

Convenience is convenient, I said, struggling with my improv.

Sure is. Where are you from?

A womb, I said.

I like your style, he said with a bright smile.

What does that mean?

Well, the way you carry yourself, your confidence.

I never think about that kind of stuff, I said. I hated micro-talk. My drink arrived to aide my tolerance. I squeezed the lemon wedge of most of its juice and dropped in the rind. I lipped the straw and drew about half. Ahhhh! Years of searching brought me to this masterpiece of a drink. The combination of the spiced rum and carbonated aspartame laced with the sour citrus just worked. Now I could return to micro-talk.

I’m Jim, he said, holding out his hand.

I took it softly and yanked it. I’m Esmerelda and this is Gertrude.

Pleasure, he said.

Hello, said Kim. Nice evening we’re…

So, what do you do? I asked Hicks.

I own a capital equipment company. Today was a great day! I just sold ten machines, $3-million-dollar sale. I’ve been working the deal for months—a Chinese company. Let me tell you, dealing with the east is an alternate universe, with the bribery, back door payoffs. They can’t be trusted, and just when you think…

Jesus! I’d rather watch rocks travel across salt flats than listen to this boring chump. His words were like Propofol drips. I’d better expedite the process.

Hey, Mr. Capital Equipment, is your equipment capitalized? Oops, too sharp. Dumb it down.

My equipment? he said, with a confused grin.

My story is shorter than yours. I just broke up with my two boyfriends. They just didn’t do it for me anymore. Plus, three’s a crowd in bed, if you know what I mean.

Well, not exactly, unless you’re talking about an old golden retriever.

Don’t make a joke unless it’s funny, I said.

Just testing your sense of humor. You failed.

My friend, here, this Asian blossom, liked to watch. They didn’t like that, though. I did. Someone watching is exciting. Privacy is so lonely, don’t you think?

Depends…

I voyeur long time, said Kim with way too much panache. I reminded myself to kill her later.

So, what are you intimating? he asked.

Wow! Is your cock as big as your words? I asked. That ought to get his balls rising.

You’re something else.

Well, I’ve never been called an ‘else’ before. Do you like ‘elses’? What the Hell was I saying? Keep on track. Look, I came here to get laid. It’s been days, like two. And she came here to watch me get laid. So, tell me, El Capital Equipment, did the $3 million get you off?

In a way, yes.

Well, there’s my way, or no way. I know what you’re thinking. Shame is not an indignity I subscribe to. Besides, this was survival. A rugby team ass munched their freeze-dried teammates, didn’t they? That wasn’t desperation.

Your way, then, he said, caving like a sink hole.

Close out, I said.

We decided on a Hilton down the street. Hicks booked the room. He said he’d be there in fifteen minutes; he had to make a call. That would be in our favor. Kim and I left and walked the few yards to my car; no Charlotte. Shit! I looked around and, to my disappointment, spotted her across the street, talking to a couple cops. Cops and prostitutes were like oil and vinegar. I didn’t have time to toss that salad; all my favors with LAPD had been ignored. The switch was no longer in play.

We done? Kim asked hopefully.

No, I replied.

*****

We waited in the hallway, feeling stupid, hoping no one would see our charade. Hicks arrived on time, the look of the prowl in his eyes.

Hello, he said, trying to be sexy.

Hello back, I said, trying to match.

He let us inside. The room was a few stars above any place I had ever stayed. One wall was a window offering a view of an office building across the street, some people working late, the glow of their laptops reflecting on their faces. Kim, my director, sat in a chair and pulled out her Samsung Galaxy and set it on the desk.

Does she really need to be here? he asked, nodding toward Kim.

Make look long time, said Kim.

It doesn’t matter. You won’t see her, I said. I pulled my black velvet blindfold from my skirt. I’m blindfolding you.

I prefer to watch.

I don’t like peepers. If you want to have the best sex you ever had and never saw, you need to take off your clothes and put this on.

I’m intrigued, he said.

Does that mean yes?

Okay, I’ll go with this, he said. He frantically unbuttoned his dress shirt and tore it off; okay body, a two-pack. He popped off his shoes, unbuckled and dropped his drawers, kicking them awkwardly from his feet. He dropped his underwear; boing, his penis was in full anticipation mode—fully erect, though diminutive. He lunged at me for an embrace and, I assumed, some dog-like licking, but I pushed him back.

Turn around, I said. He obeyed. I tied the blindfold tightly over his eyes.

I’m blind! he cracked.

I spun him around and pushed him onto the bed, pole up. I checked on Kim; she had the camera aimed. I gave her the scene marker sign with my hands.

Bring it to me, yeah baby, bring it strong! cried Hicks playfully. I crawled atop the bed, straddled him, and shimmied into position. He grabbed my waist and I slapped his hands away and said, No touching!

Pound me, pound me good!

You want it bad? I said in a husky mommy’s voice.

Full force! Pile drive me!

What’s my big boy’s name?

Jim Hicks! Jim wants the pile driver!

Enough was enough; the play had run its course. I forgot something important, I said. I’ll be back in a second.

You’re shitting me!

Leave the blindfold on.

Okay. I’ll be here in the dark!

I rotated off the bed. Kim was quietly opening the front door. We exited stealthily, leaving Hicks and his throbbing member in the lurch. Yes, we rolled him, but left his wallet, taking his wife’s trust instead. For me, it was a risk not dipping down. All I did was show intent. It could be construed as a staged entrapment. If a wife sniffs that out, the husband can use it to his advantage and could plead his way out, saying it was a weak moment and he came to his senses and nothing more happened. Bullshit always gets a first pass. Regardless, Hicks deserved to be busted and I was hoping the Hammer worked.

*****

The Hicks residence was swanky. All the cold colors and polished stone sucked the warmth out of me. I had my laptop on the kitchen island. It appeared to be floating on the green swirling marble. The kitchen was enormous, centered in an open floor plan; dining one side, family room the other; overpriced furniture meticulously arranged, an interior decorator’s eye for detail apparent. What do you do with so much space? I always felt I should say something at this juncture of the process. I had a stock phrase.

Mrs. Hicks…

Let me see it, she said, cutting my phrase short. Fine. I hated saying it anyway.

I opened the video on my laptop and hit play. Mrs. Hicks moved in close. Wow, I looked pretty good from behind; a nice ‘V’ from waste to shoulders, some visible muscles. Kim stopped filming right after I got Hicks to say his name (in case Mrs. Hicks didn’t recognize him with the blindfold). Luckily, it was a short film. I turned it off, shut the screen. She was understandably stunned, but strangely puzzled, also.

What the Hell was that?

I’m sorry, Mrs. Hicks.

That was you, she said.

No! You’re mistaken.

I was a hairdresser for six years. That’s definitely your hair style.

A lot of people have that style.

Thirty years ago.

You’re…

Did you screw him?

No, I said. I couldn’t deny anymore. She was a hairdresser and I had no point of reference on how many in that profession had this uncanny ability to recognize hairstyles from any angle.

Why was he blindfolded…don’t answer. I know why. You didn’t want him to see your deception.

No…I didn’t want him to see us filming and escaping.

That was entrapment.

Intent and the truth are synonymous.

What does that mean?

Mrs. Hicks, I hate to say it, but your husband is unfaithful. If he went up to that room with me, he’s done it before. You heard him.

What is a pile driver? she asked, curious. This conversation was turning into a winding mountain road. The post shock had her emotions processing vainly. She seemed balanced, but walking a tightrope. I decided to ride it out and answer her question which had no relevance in this matter. I said, It is a piston-like device that pounds poles into the ground with great force.

What?

I’m guessing it was a metaphor for vigorous sex.

He never asked me to do that.

That’s why people have affairs. They’re afraid to ask, I said, as if I was some marital expert.

I would’ve pounded his little dick into the box springs.

You still can.

None of this seems right.

You asked me for proof and I delivered, I said, deciding to turn