Trouble Has Million Dollar Gams: The Various Cases of a Mediocre Detective

By Rory Joe Heynemann

Do you crave SUSPENSE

Do you seek ACTION

Do you love a MYSTERY

Do you long for ROMANCE

Do you yearn for VIOLENCE

Do you have a lust for GORE

Or...

Do you just want to LAUGH?

Detective Joseph Quincy Kingly brings it all in shovels.

Except for the gore. And there's not much romance. Some mystery. A little violence here and there. The suspense is the time between picking up this book and reading it. So.................................................don't let the suspense continue.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Jan 31, 2020
• ISBN: 9781528966139

Rory Joe Heynemann

Rory Joe Heynemann is an infant of the 1980s, child of the 1990s and an adult of the 21st century who should have been born in the 1950s. He was born and raised in Western Australia, where he attended Curtin University studying Creative Writing. In his mid-20s, he moved to the Gold Coast, Queensland, where he resides to this day. At least upon the writing of this bio.

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About the Author

Rory Joe Heynemann was born and raised in Western Australia. After studying Creative Writing at Curtin University, Rory moved to the Gold Coast, Queensland, where he resides in Surfers Paradise.

Dedication

This book is dedicated to my mum, who went above and beyond for me my whole life. Thank you.

Copyright Information ©

Rory Joe Heynemann (2020)

The right of Rory Joe Heynemann to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781528930086 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781528966139 (ePub e-book)

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published (2020)

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd

25 Canada Square

Canary Wharf

London

E14 5LQ

Foreword

‘Who is Joseph Quincy Kingly?’ you may be asking. A loaded question if there ever was one. For, you see, there are many facets to this man. Is he a handsome man and the subject of all women’s dreams (and some men)? Yes, he is.

Is he a man of the world, wise beyond his surroundings? Of course, he is.

Has he overcome great adversity to reach the heights he has? You bet he has.

Is he a master of the written word? I think the answer is clear.

Is he an intelligent man and a snappy dresser? He has an IQ of 101 and wears a matching trench coat and hat combination. What do you think? Hmm.

But first and foremost, is he the greatest detective working today? A thousand times YES.

Documented here are only a handful of the cases Detective Kingly has handled over his varied career.

Everything from kidnappings, attempted murder, extortion and, of course, romance. While Mr Kingly could most easily keep the stories of tense excitement flowing, he wanted to display an unbiased view of the life of a detective and strongly insisted tales of his immense hardships be included. Strongly insisted.

To help give a complete and well-rounded picture of this remarkable man, there have been contributions by a family member and employee. Their accounts are from their own points of view and completely unedited, a feat unheard of in this sort of tome.

So please sit back, kick off your shoes and lose yourself in the incredible world of private investigations with the world’s greatest living detective, Joseph Quincy Kingly.

Foreword by Joseph Quincy Kingly.

Chapter I

Trouble Has Million Dollar Gams

Prologue

The chaotic life of a private investigator is not for all tastes. Our work is reliant on the flourishing careers of lowlifes, degenerates and all-around scum of society. Kidnappers are my steak and cheating husbands are my chips with the occasional background check as a light dessert. My office is located in the most putrid part of town, an ideal area to set up shop. My monophonic phonograph plays soft saxophone music on a continuous loop. The bright neon sign across the street fills the joint with an appropriate amount of eerie shadows and readable light, the perfect atmosphere and money saver.

Business has been slow of late, thanks to the budget increase for all the police departments in the city, supplied by some playboy billionaire making himself look good. Yes, the diminished crime rate is all well and good for the safety of families, but it means less work for me. It costs money to keep up my dick persona. The matching trench coat and hat, cigarettes and the many fines I receive from the police for trespassing on private property seriously drain my finances. To quote a renowned detective, Give me problems, give me work.

Part I: Snappy Subtitle

One uncharacteristically pleasant day, this million-dollar set of gams arrived at my office door. Attached to those gams was a sexy dame in a light-grey miniskirt and jacket, ringing my bell. Ignoring all the good sense in my mind, I let her in to my office, and my life. I knew this girl was trouble. Trouble with a capital T. Which rhymes with P. As in poor, poor pitiful me. Her shapely rear end moved with hypnotic rhythm as she slinked over to the chair in front of my desk. Yes, this woman was a man-eater, I had to watch out, boys, or she’d chew me up.

‘Please have a seat and rest those sexy pins.’

As she sat down, I got a perfect view of her concealed weapons, weapons she’s had plenty of experience using, no doubt.

‘If you don’t mind, could you please remove those switchblades and place them on the desk? You’ll find them unnecessary here.’

‘Very well. Can’t blame a girl wantin’ to make herself feel safe.’

‘It’s a dangerous world out there, especially for a lady as attractive as yourself.’

‘Oh, thank you,’ she said, trying to look surprised and flattered. But this femme fatale wasn’t duping an old wartime mule such as myself.

‘Cigarette?’ I gallantly offered.

‘Only after I’ve made beautiful music with a handsome man,’ she said with a sly smile on her face, ‘and I’ve gone through five whole packs today alone.’

‘Gulp.’ I actually said gulp. Those words from those lips with that breathy voice were a potent combination. This dame was good, an enormous hoochy by the sounds of things, but good. ‘So, what brings you to my door? A fella done you wrong?’ I inquired as I propped back in my chair, lighting my pipe.

‘What gives you that impression?’

‘It’s always a fella. I have dames comin’ here all the time with stories of their men tomcattin’ around on them. Men are nothin’ but snakes, screwing like rabbits with any pussy they can find.’

‘You have a unique way with words, Mr Kingly.’

I offered my hand in the hopes she would reciprocate and join me in a shaking of said hands, ‘Please, ma’am, call me Joey.’

‘Joey then, I’m Mrs Elaine Caroline-Priest but my friends call me Kiki.’ Removing her jacket as she spoke, she revealed her true hidden weapons. This was turning into a deadly game of chess, and she just made a move that nearly sunk my battleship. ‘Tell me, do you see much action in your line of work?’

I took a long puff on my pipe, ‘You gotta be prepared for anything with what I do. I have found myself staring down the barrel of a baseball bat once or twice. Fortunately, my buddies Smith & Wesson are always there to back me up.’ I pulled my revolver from under my desk in a style worthy of John Wayne. The pride I had in my gun was diminished by the look of amusement on Kiki’s face.

‘Not very big, I see,’ she said with a giggle.

‘It’s not the size of my weapon, honey, but the skill with which it is used.’ The innuendo was extremely subtle but she got the message. ‘You wanna know if I can protect myself?’

Kiki removed a small photograph from her pocketbook and handed it to me, the photograph not the pocketbook.

‘Is this Mr Caroline-Priest?’ I queried about the man in the photo, hoping she would say no. For if he was indeed who I thought, I was a dead man in waiting.

‘No.’

Thank God.

‘It’s just Priest. Caroline is my maiden name.’

Dang it to hell and back five times over. Bad luck had a new name and it was Joseph Quincy Kingly.

Part II: More Story

‘I’ll be candid with you, sugar. When I first saw you, I was certain you were trouble wrapped in a miniskirt. Going against my better instincts, I opened my door and let you in. But had I known that you were trouble wrapped in danger with a coating of darkness, I would’ve opened my door then slammed it on your shapely backside. Now take those delicious gams and get outta my office.’ The many shades of grey drained from Kiki’s face as she frantically took hold of my arm.

‘Please, you gotta help me. What chance does a gal have in this man’s world alone? I need ya, Johnny.’

‘Joey.’

‘I need ya, Joey.’

Kiki took my hand and placed it on her chest, causing my gun to misfire, literally not euphemistically. I don’t know how. She had me in the palm of her bosoms and she knew it. ‘What do you need from me, Kiki?’

A smile grew on her face that screamed devil woman with evil on her mind. At this point, however, she could have sprouted horns from her pretty little head and all I would’ve seen were those glistening grey lips. Kiki drew me down and gave me a kiss that made my jaw lock and my heart beat like a lovestruck wolf in a Tex Avery cartoon.

‘So, let’s get business to down,’ I think I said, hoping she didn’t notice. And if my hopes were booze then the whole world would be stone sober.

‘You know who my husband is. You know what my husband is. He’d kill us both just for talking and not give it a first thought, let alone a second one.’

How true those words were. If you didn’t know who and what her dearly beloved was, you must be living under the surface of the planet with blocked ears. Vincent Priest was the full-bodied head and shoulders of the third most powerful numbers racquet in town. It was rumoured that if one were unable to come up with the dough, Priest would fit said person with a pair of concrete gloves. After that, he’d smash the gloves with a sledgehammer. Then he’d get nasty. I heard when a musician owed him money, he dropped a piano on his head. Yes, this was one fella it was not wise to offend. It’s never wise to offend anybody but especially not this man.

‘I don’t blame ya for freakin’ earlier.’ Kiki rose from her chair and made her way to my personal bar in the corner of the office. She helped herself to a glass of my fine twelve-year-old single malt and downed it like a clichéd metaphor. ‘Mr Priest is a frightening man, and I’ve made him powerful angry.’

The fear in her eyes appeared as genuine as the leather used to make my shoes. I was gonna make it my mission to protect her. ‘I’m gonna make it my mission to protect you.’

‘Thank you, Joey.’ Kiki sauntered over and embraced me, ‘I’ll have that cigarette you offered in a few minutes.’

‘Humminnah humminnah humminnah.’

Part III: After That

Her cigarette was well earned, and my fee well paid. (Metaphorically paid, I would still be requiring my monetary fee. I am running a business after all.) Now all that remained was the job itself. With her womanly wiles in full control, I was willing to do whatever it took to keep this classy dame safe.

‘How’d you arouse your husband’s monstrous temper?’

Kiki exhaled a ring of smoke in the air in a most seductive manner. ‘He found out how much money I was spending on cigarettes.’

Ah. ‘Whatta you want me to do, Kiki, stay and guard you? Sneak in somewhere and pilfer something incriminating?’ I sat back at my desk, resting my feet on the stack of papers I keep there to give the impression I’m in high demand.

‘I need you to kill him.’

I fell right out of my chair. ‘Whatchoo talking ’bout, Kiki?’

‘I got a gun off the black market. I had money transferred into an offshore account and I got two tickets to Tahiti. You drive to my house, shoot my husband in the back of the head, put the gun in his hand to make it look like suicide, meet me at the airport and we spend the rest of our lives laying on the beach making beautiful music together.’

A side note: In hindsight, it was more than a little obvious I would wind up in this position. However, at the time, I was as clueless as that inspector with all those gadgets whose name I cannot recall.

Her femme fatale hold over me faded like cheap