Young Blood

By Brett Wallach

Bored and desolate, the fortyish divorced Allman begins an innocent, though questionable online dialogue with the pretty teen Marci Downes. Phil’s initial “comments” of advice plunge into something deeper, as he descends into the abyss of forbidden love, put to the test when Marci is kidnapped.

Romantic, suspenseful, often funny, and certainly controversial, Young Blood is both a cautionary tale for this still new virtual world, a kind of Lolita for the 21st century, and in the end, a love story...of sorts.

Once you start to read it, I am confident that you will be hooked...just like Phil.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Brett Wallach
• Release date: Mar 7, 2020
• ISBN: 9780463358672

Brett Wallach

My name is Brett Wallach, and I'm a father of two daughters from the Philadelphia area. The protagonist in my Phil Allman, P.I. series of mysteries is a misanthropic, sentimental, bitter, funny, romantic, lustful, tough, sometimes amoral, slightly (?) insane divorced father of two daughters from Philadelphia. Any resemblance to myself is highly coincidental. I've tried to create a character who often says and does the wrong things, after reading so many books in this genre where the main character, despite quirks, is usually unrealistically virtuous. Think Travis Bickle from Taxi Driver, only funnier. My favorite authors are John Steinbeck, Graham Greene, Raymond Chandler, Elmore Leonard, Dennis Lehane, and many others. I have no delusions that my novels are on that level, but as my reviews (please see them on Goodreads) show, most people seem to find them entertaining. After my former publisher recently went out of business, I decided to self-publish, and my six books (so far) in the series (Jesse Garon, And I Love Her, Young Blood, Freeze Out, Susceptible, and Torment) are all available on Amazon, and candid, objective reviews are always welcome. My seventh book, The Last MAN On Earth, is a sci-fi/social and sexual satire, and I hope you like that as well. My email address is [e-mail], and feedback is welcome.

Book preview

Young Blood

A Phil Allman P.I. Novel

Book 3

by

Brett Wallach

Cover art by Jennifer Givner

Copyright 2015 by Brett Wallach

SmashWords Edition

* * * *

This book is dedicated to A.W., V.W., M.S., and A.J.

* * * *

Author’s Note

While Phil Allman's morality is left open to the reader's

interpretation, his actions are in no way condoned.

* * * *

TABLE OF CONTENTS

PART ONE

PART TWO

PART THREE

PART FOUR

PART FIVE

Back to Top

* * * *

PART ONE

I Want You, I Need You, I Love you

Don’t call me Humbert. This isn’t Lolita in the Digital Age. Loneliness, more than anything else, trapped me. I can blame the Internet, questionable judgment, and good intentions. But loneliness is the real villain in this story. And she’s a bitch.

Unlike Nabakov, I will not execrably rhapsodize about the erotic desirability of preteen girls. That’s just vile, no matter how brilliantly written.

Consumer alert out of the way, call me Phil Allman: middle-aged, middle class, divorced Private Investigator; living and working in the blue collar, multi-racial Philadelphia neighborhood called Oxford Circle, where I was born and raised; providing for two daughters away at college, usually too busy to even talk to me; running a steady, if unsatisfying one-man business; and not a whole lot else.

Don’t call me a pervert, pedophile, or predator. And while I’m a guy who’s triggered violence, as both a pitcher and catcher, I am not a man who could ever harm an innocent. But I could never just stand by and let an innocent get hurt.

Bored, with nothing to do on a rainy Saturday afternoon in late September, I cruised around YouTube, not looking for anything in particular. One video, through keywords or however it works, led to another; I was simply killing time.

I don’t even know how I connected to her video, it was just there. Anyone who’s done random, casual searching for anything on the Internet, whether for books, bathrobes, or babes, knows what I am talking about.

No doubt she was cute. Not drop-dead gorgeous, or model material, but undeniably pretty, probably eighteen or so, but it was hard to tell. Her video was something of a confessional monologue, seemingly recorded from a cell phone in her room, complaining about the stresses in her life. Her voice had that quality of despair unique to teenage girls. She wore no makeup, dressed in sweats, and her spiky, uncombed brown hair reached out this way and that. This was not a video meant to tantalize or tease. It seemed mostly like a cry for help, or solace, or advice, or something, but not meant to entice. And having made my own cries that weekend for help, solace, and advice, albeit silent whimpers to no one, I immediately understood her angst like it was my own.

Homework, parents, friends, boys, the usual teenage suspects were all in there, and she actually ended the seven minute, thirteen second shoot almost pleading for comments to her video, as if the assholes out in cyberspace were there to help her.

Probably because she was dressed like a slob, she’d only gotten twelve views to the post, uploaded two weeks earlier, according to the gods at YouTube/Google. No comments were logged.

Well, I sure wasn’t going to write a remark. I didn’t even have a Google or YouTube account. I felt compassion for the girl, and wanted to tell her things that could help, learned through my experience with two teenage daughters. But fuck it, I closed out of YouTube, and made myself dinner, with nothing on television except for bad, one-sided college football games.

I nuked a Stauffer’s lasagna, devoured it in about three minutes, washed it down with a can of beer, and sat down to read a book. Not Lolita.

But there was something about this girl that I couldn’t shake. Cute, no doubt. But it wasn’t that. Her self-deprecating sense of humor, the way she wrinkled her brow telling an anecdote, and laughed at her predicaments as well as taking them too seriously, was engaging as all hell. I wanted to comfort her. That’s all. I swear.

What the hell, I signed up for a Google account, using my real name, personal email address and birthdate, but used a pseudonym, P.A. Systems, for my YouTube/Google username, taking my initials, and doing something marginally clever with them. I said marginally.

Her YouTube name was Heather Stewart. Was that her real name? I don’t know. Or didn’t then. After finding that first video, I saw that she had posted about two dozen in the previous few months under the Heather Stewart name, and I watched snippets of each; most were just flat-out hilarious teenage rants, but a few like the one that I first saw were more introspective. In the majority, she was by herself, but in a few, she was joined by a female friend; most saw her slovenly dressed, but in a few, she wasn’t, and okay, she looked damn good when she made the effort. Yet she always put her own appearance down, which made her that much more appealing in my eyes, I admit it.

After dating an endless series of self-absorbed, wrongly self-confident, out of shape, humorless, and yes, old-looking middle aged women, found on an Internet dating site that I’d recently and reluctantly joined, it was easy to find Heather so sweet, so innocent, so compelling, and alright, so adorable. I couldn’t take my eyes off of her. Her voice sounded intelligent in a teenage-y way, and had a slight Southern drawl, also endearing as heck. Or ensnaring as hell, take your pick.

I had visions of the authorities circling my apartment building, or the prick from To Catch a Predator knocking on my door, but I wasn’t coming on to her at all. I wrote to her, I swear to God, mostly as a concerned parent:

Heather, you are pretty, and have real talent in front of the camera. The things you’re stressing over are normal, and trust me, they will resolve themselves and pass. Just enjoy this time being a kid as much as you can. Your videos are terrific and really funny, you ought to look into studying Theater or something. Posting videos on YouTube is likely to draw attention from the wrong kind of people, and you deserve better than that. Take it easy on yourself, and please, take care of yourself.

See? Nothing bad. I didn’t say anything leading in any way, and I assumed that would be that, and I closed out of YouTube.

That wasn’t that.

Before I shut my computer off, I checked my email on my personal (not business) Comcast account. I hadn’t for a few days, because the only correspondence I generally received was Spam of one sort or the other. But the P.A. Systems account on Google received a reply from Heather Stewart right away, and was transmitted to my Comcast email.

Thanks for writing and your nice words. Your right about stressing out, I know everything will be ok, I’ve just been extreamly busy lately, and I’m like freaking out. I’m not pretty or talented, but thanks for trying to make me feel better. You sound nice. Talk to you soon.

Okay, I said to myself, you said what you wanted to, and assuming she’s a teenage girl and not a producer from To Catch a Predator, or an F.B.I. agent, you done a good deed boy-chik, now let it go.

And I began to read my book, the same page for about twenty minutes, the words just a jumble. Her face, her lovely face, was everywhere I looked. I turned the computer back on, signed onto YouTube with my P.A. Systems name and password, and replied.

Heather, you ARE pretty and talented, don’t let anybody tell you anything different. I’m glad you aren’t taking life’s little stresses too much to heart, I was afraid that you were. I don’t think we’ll be talking, but I wish you the best. Have a nice Saturday night.

I sat there staring at our dialogue, which the entire world could also see if so inclined, for what seemed like an hour, my heart pounding away the entire time, but it was probably closer to two minutes. Then came her reply:

Its Saturday night, and I have nothing to do.  But homework. Ha ha. What are you up to?

Let it go, Allman. But I couldn’t.

Nothing either. Not even homework. Ha ha. I have two daughters probably around your age, but they have their own lives to lead I guess. Maybe there’s a movie on TV or something. Anyway, have fun if you can, and have a nice weekend.

Turn off your fucking computer, Allman.

I was about to, really, but she replied right away. So your like forty? Thats cool. My moms boyfriend is too, but hes a jerk and probably one of the wrong kind of people you talked about. Ha ha. Are you divorced? Why no girlfriend? Are you a troll? Ha ha.

My stupid male pride couldn’t leave it there.

No, ha ha, not a troll. I’m tall, in good shape, still have my hair and teeth, and have been told I’m not bad looking. I am no longer married. Finding a girlfriend at this age isn’t so easy. Anyway, have a good night, don’t get too bogged down with homework.

Shut it down, Allman, what is fucking wrong with you? But she sent a reply back right away. Can I see a picture of you? No fair, you see me, but I can’t see you. Whats P.A. Systems?

Goddammit, I couldn’t let it go.

Heather, it’s just my initials, P.A., and Systems is kind of a bad joke, it doesn’t mean anything. I don’t feel comfortable sending you a picture, not on here where the whole world can see, not that I have anything to hide, I swear, but it’s just not a good idea. Listen, you sound really sweet and smart, you are very pretty, and I wish you nothing but luck and success. I am going now, take care of yourself. If I were you, I wouldn’t put so much of myself out on the Internet. I don’t want to lecture you, but I think your talent in front of the camera can be better served in other ways. Have a real nice rest of the weekend, but I really have to go.

At which point, I logged out of YouTube, shut off my laptop and spent the evening reading my book, the words all a jumble, and Heather’s fetching face on every damn page.

I can’t tell you how boring it is to be a Private Investigator. Forget the books and the movies. I spent most of my working days and nights following supposedly cheating husbands (and they usually were cheating), and allegedly cheating wives (and typically, they were not). Shadow them, then video them if I caught them doing anything naughty. I use an independent contractor for my computer work, Daniel Lee (yes, he’s Asian), and he has ways of checking Internet activity, emails, cell phone calls and texts, credit card use, etc., to provide further proof of guilt or lack thereof. Technologically, I’m still living in the twentieth century.

Wives are usually relieved in the few instances when their husbands are innocent; husbands are mostly disappointed if the wives are. It would take another book and a half to try to explain why.

But the work is monotonous. No real sleuthing like Sherlock Holmes, or fistfights like Mike Hammer. Generally, my job is to stay out of sight and trail people, and I’m pretty damn good at it at this point, having done it for almost twenty years.

I didn’t plan it this way, but my clientele evolved into cheating spouse work almost exclusively. Handle a few of these cases, and handle them well, and lo and behold, you get referrals up the yin yang, first mostly from suspicious wives, then from mistrustful husbands, then from scumbag lawyers looking to make a nice score for their clients. That faucet never turns off, and I had all the work that I could handle threefold. At that stage of my life and career, I was taking it a little easy; I’d made pretty good money, and usually referred prospective clients to my scumbag colleagues and competitors. For a referral fee of course, I’m not an idiot.

There is no adrenaline rush when I nab someone in the act, at least not for me. I always feel a little sad that another marriage, often with kids involved, is going down the toilet. I treasure the occasions when I can confidently tell my client, No, your husband isn’t cheating, he’s been working a second job, or No, your wife isn’t having an affair, she’s just a raging alcoholic. Good times.

My personal life was no more exhilarating. Television, TV dinners, reading, the occasional awful date with baggage and flab-laden women, conversations with my two daughters in college every couple of weeks or so (I’m busy, I can only talk for a minute). Life sucks and then you die. How can you tell the difference?

I say all this not to excuse anything, or even explain it. I was simply susceptible to a girl like Heather, and given things in her life and background, she was equally vulnerable to a man like me; attractive, smart, funny, caring, and of course, modest.

My name’s not Heather Stewart.

My name’s not P.A. Systems.

She laughed, and it was like hearing the angels themselves tittering up in heaven, that’s what happens when you’re alone too much.

I turned on the computer first thing the next morning in my lonely, under-furnished bedroom in my lonely, under-furnished two bedroom apartment. She had replied the previous evening that I sounded really nice. After a bit more banter, I suggested that we talk, after putting in writing, for the world (and possible authorities) to see that I was not a perv or a predator, that I didn’t want to meet her, but that I’d rather talk than write. Still would.

I gave her my Comcast email address, and