Big Guy

By Darryl Matter

Aided by several ex-servicemen friends and a beautiful policewoman from Internal Affairs, ex-MP Mel "Big Guy" Wakefield doggedly pursues not only the men who murdered Floyd Duboise but the crooked cops who set his friend up for murder.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Darryl Matter
• Release date: Jul 9, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463008072

Darryl Matter

Hello,I'm an ancient, long-retired college professor who likes to write stories. My educational background is somewhat varied. I first earned a B.S. Degree in Mechanical Engineering with a Management Option. The industrial management and psychology classes interested me in human behavior, and I eventually earned a Ph.D. in Human Development. In addition to writing stories, my interests include reading and stamp collecting.I grew up in a rural Kansas community, and I now live with my wife in a retirement community. I appreciate each of my readers, and I thank you for reading my stories. Furthermore, I encourage each of you to write something of interest to you and then publish it--to share with the world.Being the antique person that I am, the tech-side of publishing doesn't come easily to me and I appreciate the support staff at Smashwords.Again thank you for your interest in my stories.Sincerely,Darryl Matter

Book preview

Big Guy

A Mel Big Guy Wakefield Mystery

By Darryl Matter

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2019 by Darryl Matter

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book 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 Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the work of this author.

Big Guy

A Mel Big Guy Wakefield Mystery

This is a work of fiction. The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

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Chapter 1

Somebody put coins in the jukebox. It began to play a slow country song. A young couple, a blonde girl in bright orange shorts and a neon-green tank-top and a guy wearing faded jeans and a nondescript t-shirt, began dancing to the measured beat, hugging each other close as they swayed around the tiny dance floor in Al's Tavern.

The girl was as colorful as the boy was drab, just the opposite of birds, I thought, where the male is the flashy one and the female the mousey-looking one. Then, I had to smile, thinking of how my old friend, Henry Tucker, used to say that slow dancing was just hugging set to music.

I was seated at my usual table in a corner at the front of the tavern where I could keep an eye on the front door as well as the people in the tavern. Things were quiet. It was early yet. Still, a few of our regular patrons were already enjoying themselves at the pool tables or at the bar, and I knew the place would be filled to near capacity in another hour or so.

The jukebox music stopped. The girl and guy gave each other a lingering, affectionate hug. I watched as they sauntered arm-in-arm to the bar, then returned to their table with mugs of foaming beer in hand. Two other guys walked in about then, looking end-of-the-day tired. They soon were followed by three girls, all wearing similar cut-offs and t-shirts, laughing and calling out to their friends who were already there. I recognized them as some of our more lively regulars. Yes, things already were picking up.

The brown-haired girl in the carefully tailored suit and low-heeled pumps who hesitantly followed the three girls through the heavy double doors appeared altogether out of place in Al's Tavern. Oh, we get a few bored young housewives and affluent but jaded older women from the suburbs who wear skirts or tailored slacks and blouses and high-heeled sandals and come here to get picked up, but this little girl didn't strike me as one of them.

It wasn't just that her way of dressing, unlike our typical patron's tank-top and denim cut-offs, announced white-collar office worker because we get our fair share of after-office-hours drop-ins just about every weekday afternoon. This girl appeared so, well, innocent, so bewildered, in a tavern where sex and high-spirited carousing are uppermost in most of the patron's minds.

Once inside, the girl appeared increasingly anxious and ill at ease. She paused uncertainly, her eyes darting around the room as they adjusted to the flashing red and black neon lights that dimly illuminate the tavern even when it's broad daylight outside. I wondered if she ever had been in a place like ours before. Just as I started to go ask if I could help her, but before I had taken two steps, I saw Al come from behind the bar and call to her.

Al's my partner. The two of us, Al O'Brian and I, own Al's Tavern. He tends the bar and I manage the floor. So far it's been a good arrangement. Each of us does what he does best for our mutual benefit.

It's my job to keep order in the place. Yup, I'm the chief bouncer, and I enjoy my work. I looked around the room to be sure things were quiet and that another of our bouncers, Landon, was on the job. When I looked back toward Al and the girl, he was pointing her in my direction. I could even read his lips: . . . the big guy in the blue shirt.

Al's a tough old sailor who retired from Uncle Sam's Navy some 10 years back. He's been all over the world, in the worst bars and the best ones, both as customer and bartender, and he's as good a judge of people as I've ever known. He doesn't take anything off anybody, and he never would have pointed me out to the girl if he hadn't thought she was okay. In my book, his doing so was a good recommendation for the girl, whoever she was and whatever she wanted.

The girl spotted me, then actually turned back and took time to thank Al for his help before she headed my way. That act of thanking Al set her apart from many of our patrons who, although they're nice enough people, are typically a little shy on manners.

I met the girl halfway to my table, studying her as we approached each other. Pretty girl, no doubt about it, and without a lot of makeup. Soft, delicate feataures. Tiny little thing, no more than 5'-2" and very slender. Dressed very conservatively, a secretary maybe. Wearing a very light, floral scent. By the time she reached me, I also could see that her face was puffy around her eyes. She'd been crying, and she looked, well, tired.

This girl's light fragrance brought back thoughts of another girl, another time, another place--half a world away. It was the same scent my Stephanie had worn. And it brought back with it beautiful memories of Stephanie along with the hellish memories associated with her death, memories I thought I'd successfully repressed. Maybe you never do repress memories like those.

Mr. Wakefield? Her voice was a shy and girlish whisper, almost apologetic, as if she was afraid she'd bother me. Maybe that was just because she was feeling out of place in Al's.

I nodded. Friends call me 'Mel'--or 'Big Guy.'

Mel. May I call you . . . Mel? Somehow, my name sounded smooth like honey on her tongue.

Please do. I grinned at her, and she managed a little smile of her own in return.

Mel, I'm Sandy Duboise, she whispered in her breathy way. She held out her hand primly and I took it, my big hand swallowing her little one.

That man, she continued, I guess he's the bartender, called you 'Big Guy.' She almost smiled again as she looked at my hand wrapped around hers and then tilted her head upward to take in my shaved head and closely trimmed beard. "He sure is right about that! You are a big guy!"

Duboise. I guessed right away who she was, but I'd let her tell me. No way could I think of a way to respond to what she was saying so I just grinned down at her. Al and a bunch of other people call me Big Guy. I don't really feel big, but because I stand 6'-6" and weigh 245 pounds, I guess they are right!

What can I do for you, Sandy?

Any hint of a smile disappeared. She was all business now. I'm Floyd Duboise's sister. Do . . . Do you remember him?

Of course, I remembered him. Floyd Duboise and I had been in the service together, and we'd seen each other through some pretty scary situations. Sure, I remember Floyd, I replied. Haven't seen him for quite awhile, though. How is he?

Big tears welled up in Sandy's soft brown eyes. She daubed at her face with a tissue as they rolled down her cheeks. All of a sudden, I guessed why she had come here looking for me. He . . . He's dead! she blurted out and put a little fist to her mouth to stifle a sob much as a child might have done.

I'm sorry, Sandy. I didn't know. I've been out of town all week and haven't caught up on the news.

It's okay. Sandy wiped hard at her eyes and cheeks with the tissue. The tears were coming faster now. You might not have heard about it even if you were here. They . . . didn't even mention him on the television news, and there were just four or five lines in the newspaper, way back in the back pages. It was like . . . like nobody cared.

Sandy paused to fumble in her handbag for another tissue, blow her nose, and wipe her eyes, then continued. My brother always spoke so highly of you, Mel. Said you were the best friend he had in the service. Said you were a real good man. Military Police, I think he said? I nodded that she was right.

Well, I came to you because there are things that I've been told about my brother's death that don't add up in my mind and . . . and . . . . Her voice trailed off into a little sob.

I gave her a minute, then asked as gently as I could, and what, Sandy?

"And I . . . I'm . . . I'm scared! Something happened last night that . . . that really scared me. When . . . When I got off work today, I was even too scared to go home. My brother was my only real friend, and now I feel so . . . so alone. That's why I came to talk to you. He . . . Floyd . . . told me you worked here and if I ever needed a friend, I could trust you."

It was obvious from the look of helplessness on her face that she really was hurting. Maybe a little talking would help. Tell me what's been going on, Sandy.

I pulled a chair around next to mine at the table, and she sort of folded herself into it. I sat so that I could keep a vigilant eye on the growing clientele without giving Sandy the impression that I wasn't interested in what she was saying.

I . . . just . . . I don't even know where to start! She was crying now.

Just start anywhere, Sandy, I encouraged her. We'll fit things together later.

Sandy wiped her eyes again, shook her head like she was trying to put her thoughts back in place, and began: Okay. I . . . I'll try. Maybe you know Floyd's been working over at the Hit and Run, that sporting goods place over at the back of the mall? I listened without comment, not wanting to let her know how little her brother and I had seen of each other over the past few years.

Well, she continued, about two weeks ago Floyd mentioned that he might quit his job at the sporting goods store and start working for the police, not as a policeman but, well, as part of some kind of an undercover sting operation. I didn't understand quite what he was saying or what he would be doing, and I didn't think much about his working for the police at the time, but after all that's happened lately, well, I've been wondering about it, and I wanted to mention it.

I nodded my encouragement, then glanced around the room. Things seemed to be in good order. Before Sandy could continue, though, Annie Lee, our number-one waitress, came over. I introduced the two girls, telling Annie how Sandy's brother was a good friend of mine from the service and how he'd been killed just a few days earlier.

Oh, Sandy, I'm so sorry! Annie has a ring or two on every finger, and they all seemed to sparkle or glow as she impulsively put her hand on Sandy's and gave it an affectionate squeeze. I couldn't help but notice that Sandy's fingers, in contrast to Annie's, were without ornamentation. Annie asked if we'd like something to drink.

I turned to Sandy. Would you like something? My treat?

I'm sorry, I . . . I don't drink. Sandy obviously was flustered by my offer.

We've got soft drinks. Annie's a good ole gal and picked up right away on Sandy's discomfort at being in Al's. How about a Coke?

That would be nice. Thank you.

Sandy, you must be hungry if you came here directly from work, and we do serve some great sandwiches. Still my treat, I offered.

Can we tempt you? Annie asked.

Sandy looked tempted.

Levi--Levi's our cook--makes a great ham sandwich, Annie coaxed. It's one of our specials tonight. I've just had one, and it was extra good.

Sandy was smiling again. Thanks. That would be nice, too. I am hungry, and I'd really like one. Most folks find it hard to resist Annie's coaxing, one reason why she's our very best waitress.

Bring me a Coke, too, I told Annie, then unobtrusively pointed to myself to let her know I wanted her to put Sandy's sandwich and Coke on my tab.

Annie nodded her head in understanding and hurried off, and Sandy continued: "Like I was saying, that was the last time I saw my brother, about two weeks ago. I didn't see him again. Then, just two nights ago, about four in the morning, there was a loud knock at my door and a man's voice hollering for me to open up because it was the police. All the commotion scared me half to death, but I let the man in when he flashed a badge. He just blurted out, 'I've got bad news for you. Your brother's dead.'

"Well, I almost fainted before he pushed a chair under me. When my mind stopped reeling, I asked him what had happened. All he would say was somebody had killed Floyd and it looked to him like a drug deal gone bad.

"I told him right out that he had to be mistaken because my brother never used or dealt in drugs! And do you know what he did? He just laughed at me and told me in a very condescending voice, 'Honey, that's what they all say.'

Then he told me they found traces of cocaine and maybe other drugs in Floyd's jacket pockets. Said somebody hit him on the head with a baseball bat or a pipe or something like that. Said they'd found Floyd's car and had impounded it, and that they were going to search his room. He lived at the Pleasanton Hotel, you know. Then that cop just got up and left. Didn't say he was sorry or anything! Just walked out and left me sitting there numb and all by myself.

Just like that? He didn't ask you anything about Floyd or--?

"Nothing. Just when he first came in he said something like 'You are Sandy Duboise and Floyd Duboise was your brother, wasn't he?' Just to check, you know, to be sure I was the right person."

Did you get his name?

Not for sure. Something that started with a 'B' like 'Bloom' something or . . . I'm . . . I'm sorry. I was just too shocked to focus and . . . and he didn't leave a card or anything! I . . . I'm sorry I didn't get his name.

It's okay. As shook up as you must have been, I'm not surprised you didn't catch his name. Have the police been around to see you since, Sandy?

"That's . . . That's the scary part. Last night, just as I was going to bed about nine, there was another loud knock on my door. There were two cops this time. Maybe I made them mad, but I asked if they had some identification before I let them in. They flashed their badges and then just shoved me out of the way and pushed their way into my living room! Sat down on my sofa. Told me that my brother had $100,000 in cash that belonged to them--well, to the police. They wanted to know if I knew anything about it. Well, stupid me, I said that the guy who killed him probably stole it! That's when they got really