The Hot Client

By Stan James

Two murders on the same night - one in San Francisco, one in Preacher's Glen. Enter Simon Pardue, private detective, who just happens to be the next-door neighbor of one of the victims. And without even trying, he manages to irritate the local police, escape a hit man's attempt to drive him off a cliff, rattle his girl friend's cage while falling into the embrace of a beautiful woman who happens to be his new "hot client." And that's only the beginning.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Stan James
• Release date: Oct 14, 2020
• ISBN: 9781005357795

Stan James

Stan James is a Nevada resident, 80 years old as of 2020, and a Navy veteran. Having labored as a self-employed business owner and, for awhile, an employee and a manager in a Lake Tahoe casino, his working life has kept his literary endeavors to a minimum. He currently owns a business (Puzzle Junction.com) with his wife, Kathi, whereby they construct and supply crosswords and other word and number puzzles to clients all across the US and around the world in countries such as Canada, India, England, the Cayman Islands, and elsewhere. Their puzzles appear in some in-flight magazines as well as numerous student publications for colleges and universities.The Hot Client was originally written over 30 years ago under a different title and re-written last year for publication. As of this date (2020-2021) Stan has a sequel in the works for The Hot Client as well as six other projects that have been taking up space on his computer for some time. Hopefully, these will also make it to publication in the near future.

Book preview

Chapter One

In Which Bertha Notch Witnessed a Touchdown

And Butch Kassidy Came Unglued

The naked man sprawled out face down on the tiled walkway next to the hotel swimming pool had either jumped or been thrown from the fifth floor balcony directly above the landing zone where he had met his death in a rather messy conclusion to his hotel stay. At first it was thought that he had attempted to dive into the swimming pool and had missed badly; but a witness to the event by the name of Bertha Notch, an elderly woman from Tuscaloosa, Alabama who was in San Francisco for a conference on proactive senior participation in the snowboarding events of the upcoming winter Olympics, told police that she was sitting not three feet from where the man had landed and that she had instinctively looked up to see if any more bodies were headed her way. In so doing, she saw quite clearly that a particularly large woman with dark hair, boobs the size of two watermelons, and a whip in her hand was standing on the fifth floor balcony and squealing like a stuck pig. This led the witness to conclude that the unfortunate man who had narrowly missed landing in her lap had taken flight from that same balcony; and as it turned out, Bertha’s reasoning was right on the money.

Get an ID on the guy? Detective Inspector Ira Hanrahan asked after ducking under the yellow police tape and getting his first look at the cadaver.

Sgt. Andy Andrews, who had arrived twenty minutes earlier than his superior and was wont to show off his deductive genius, nodded and said, Yeah. He checked in as Mr. Renaldo Butterworth.

Hanrahan frowned. He knew that Sgt. Andrews lacked the mental capacity for the job in which he found himself, and he wondered how the sandy haired young man had managed to rise to the level of sergeant in the police force that was responsible for the safety and protection of the denizens of San Francisco; but Hanrahan was not privy to the fact that Andy Andrews was the nephew of a state senator with his fingers on the purse of needed funding for the department. Did you get an ID on the guy? he repeated.

Andrews was taken aback. I just told you …

He could have checked in as Benito Mussolini for all I care, Hanrahan snapped. Did you get an actual ID on the guy? You know, a driver’s license, a credit card, a fingerprint?

The county coroner, a man with many years of service under his belt, looked up from examining the body and smiled. Officer Grant took fingerprints and sent them in to be run. Should have an answer shortly, if they’re on file somewhere.

Thanks, doc.

Of course.

Well, one thing’s clear, Sgt. Andrews opined.

What’s that? Hanrahan asked suspiciously.

The guy made a perfect six-point landing.

Even the coroner took time out to hear this one.

Go on, Hanrahan said.

You can see for yourself, Andrews continued. Six points – two hands, two feet, his face and his peck …

Ah, Officer Grant, Hanrahan blurted out. "Officer Janet Grant. Any luck up on the fifth floor?" He turned to stare menacingly at Sgt. Andy Andrews, who was bent over in obvious pain from trying unsuccessfully to keep from guffawing like a drunken monkey.

Yes, sir, she said, pretending that she had not heard the sergeant’s assessment of the unfortunate man’s touch down. Found his wallet in his pants. We ran a quick check on him - his name is Wilfred Butterbean, married, from Preacher’s Glen. Prints should confirm that when we hear back.

Hanrahan shook his head. His real name is Butterbean and he registers as Butterworth, the cop mused. Now, that’s what I call originality.

Officer Grant smiled.

How about that woman who was in the room? he asked. Obviously not his wife, since he registered under a fake name. Mistress? Hooker?

The latter, Janet Grant replied. Dominatrix, actually. We had a problem with her.

Oh? How’s that?

She was so distraught that it took three police officers to get her from the balcony to the bed.

Why’d they take her to the bed? Why not a chair?

She weighs over four-hundred pounds, Officer Grant said. She didn’t fit in the chair. They finally got her into the elevator and took her to the lobby.

Sgt. Andrews, who had just regained his composure, chipped in, "Good thing she didn’t come flying off that balcony, he said seriously. Can you imagine the crater she would have left next to the pool?"

***

After sending Officer Grant back to her crime scene investigation unit on the fifth floor of the Baxter Hotel, and warning Sgt. Andrews in no uncertain terms that his career with the San Francisco Police department was hanging by the slimmest of threads, Inspector Hanrahan decided it was time to interview the dominatrix who had been sharing a room with Mr. Wilfred Butterbean of Preacher’s Glen.

He found the woman seated on a bright red sofa in the lobby. The sofa, which was large enough to accommodate three adults, was exactly the right size for her. The police officer who had the unenviable task of keeping an eye on all four-hundred and twenty-three pounds of the corpulent dominatrix heaved a sigh of relief as Hanrahan approached.

Ah, Inspector, he said, this is Miss Amelia Haystack, known professionally as Butch Kassidy. Ma’am, this is Inspector Hanrahan.

The lady in black imitation leather with encrusted metal trim looked up at the hulking cop standing before her. I didn’t see a thing, she said, pulling up her décolletage in order to keep her mammary glands from falling into her lap.

You were in the room with the victim, Hanrahan said, averting his eyes to avoid staring down into the lady’s cavernous cleavage. How could you not see a thing?

I was in the bathroom, Amelia Haystack replied. Mr. Butterworth was on the bed when I left the room. The next thing I know, there’s a scream. I come running out and the room’s empty.

Go on.

I saw the glass doors to the balcony were open, so I go out to see if he’s there. He’s not. Then I hear some old bag screeching down below, so I look down.

And …?

That’s when I see Mr. Butterworth – he’s splattered all over the ground next to the pool.

Hanrahan stepped back so that he could see the entire woman all at once, giving up for the moment his reluctance to peer into the void between her boobs. How’d you know it was your client? he asked.

Miss Haystack, a.k.a. Butch Kassidy, threw her hands in the air and said, deliberately, Well, like, come on now, Inspector, wouldn’t you recognize the butt of someone you were spanking?

Hanrahan gagged, turned to his assistant who had taken up residence behind him, and said blandly as he struggled to get the image of the obese dominatrix out of his mind, Andrews, get her statement. I’m going home. It’s already eight-thirty and I haven’t had dinner yet.

Gotcha, chief.

Preacher’s Glen – ever been there?

Can’t say that I have.

Well, we’ll be going there tomorrow to speak to Mrs. Butterbean. Pick me up at my apartment no later than nine.

Hokey-dokey, Sgt. Andrews said flippantly. You’re the boss.

And don’t you ever forget it, Hanrahan said.

Chapter 2

In Which Simon Pardue Stood His Ground

And a Goat Shed Became a Home

Preacher’s Glen lies north-northwest of San Francisco on two thousand acres of picturesque tableland sandwiched between US Highway 1 and the rugged cliffs overlooking the Pacific Ocean. It is small for a town, as towns go, but it makes up for its diminutive size by hosting some of the most expensive real estate on the West Coast.

It was in 1853 that Samuel L. Preacher, a man of questionable character and limited integrity, named the town after himself, buying votes for the new name with whiskey and prostitutes. The exciting and often dangerous California Gold Rush was in its fifth year, and Sam had reaped his fortune not from prospecting for that shiny metal but by taking gold from unsuspecting miners at the gaming tables in the gold fields to the north; and having accumulated an abundance of wealth in this manner, Sam Preacher had then seen fit to flee the gold fields and head south before his rough and tumble victims could retaliate by hanging him from the nearest tree or using him for target practice.

His original plan was to hightail it to San Francisco where he would purchase an elegant mansion and live out his life with his ill-gotten gains in a manner befitting a man of means; but his trip was interrupted when he stopped for a breather and a cocktail at a small town about half-way to his destination – a town called Mole Hill – where he was accosted at the local tavern by a pretty young woman named Martha Flynn.

Now Martha was no angel. In fact her income was derived from steering gullible male travelers to the town’s brothel, getting them ossified, and then offering her services for the evening. But Sam saw a different Martha, one with big blue eyes, a figure reminiscent of a sturdy pot-bellied stove, and lips the color of ripe cherries. And so it was that Samuel Preacher never made it to San Francisco, but instead asked the voluptuous Miss Flynn for her hand in marriage – which, of course, she accepted post haste – and then settled in to immediately buy up both the brothel and the tavern and to once again ply his trade as card sharp extraordinaire.

It didn’t take long for Sam Preacher to climb the ladder of success. In less than two years he had become the owner of two thriving businesses and a mansion that was so large he frequently got lost wandering its hallways and byways. He also became the mayor of the town that now bore his name, and the father of a bouncing baby boy. But all good things must come to an end, and when the gold finally ran out up north and to the east, so did the occupants of the town, and Sam was left virtually alone in the newly christened hamlet of Preacher’s Glen.

However, Sam was not one to sit idly by just because his source of income had taken a powder, so he called upon his knack for turning adversity into prosperity by buying up the vacated land and advertising the real estate as the future Utopia of California. He also hired workers to spruce up the land and even turned the brothel into a church, although he did keep the tavern, as that was the best place in town to get a good card game started.

It wasn’t long before Sam had either coaxed or coerced a dozen or so millionaires to build their dream homes on the land he had sold them; and suddenly Preacher’s Glen was back on its feet and the envy of Northern California.

Today, the mansion still stands on the outskirts of town, inhabited by Samuel’s great grandson, Roy, a small, cantankerous man equipped with an equal portion of his great grandfather’s deficient character and questionable integrity. It was once said that Roy Preacher had never worked a day in his life, but that was disproved when it was discovered that he had spent two months on a Georgia chain gang just prior to his twenty-second birthday for writing a bad check to pay for a speeding ticket. Other than that, however, one would be hard pressed to find any record of gainful employment in Roy’s past, although he was never in need of money thanks to his fabulous inheritance.

Preacher’s Glen listed other residents on its tax rolls, too, people with enough money to ensure that their tiny community remained upper class by keeping out those they deemed undesirable. There was, however, one exception, one person less affluent than all the others, who had penetrated the armor of the watchdogs of Preacher’s Glen. The exception’s name was Simon Pardue.

The fact that Simon’s house was relatively minute in stature and valued at approximately one percent of those of his neighbors was a major irritation to the good folks of Preacher’s Glen; but that was only half the story. The real bone of contention on which his neighbors gagged was Simon’s profession - the man was a private detective! They might have tolerated an unsuccessful lawyer, doctor or dentist with the possibility of future income somewhere in the same ballpark as their own, but – a private detective? How would they live it down?

And Simon’s house was small. It had once been a goat shelter that his great grandfather, Wilton Pardue, Sr., converted into suitable living quarters for himself and his wife. Then it had passed on to Wilton, Jr., Simon’s grandfather, who, on his passing, left it to Simon.

It wasn’t until Simon took up residence in his new home that he discovered the irony of his inheritance and the past prejudices that ultimately led him to Preacher’s Glen; for the goat shed that Wilton, Sr. had converted and that was now his sits for all to see on the Preacher estate, not far from the mansion that Sam built.

It went something like this:

Having encountered Samuel Preacher during a rare interlude during which luck and skullduggery had deserted him, Simon’s great grandfather, Wilton Pardue, Sr., a successful prospector and horse trader, had been dealt a number of poker hands that eventually led to his adversary’s short-term financial embarrassment. In order to remain in the game, Sam Preacher had reluctantly put up his little barn and an acre of land around it to call Wilton’s final bet; and Wilton, holding three kings and a pair of nines to Sam’s three tens and a pair of sixes, became the proud owner of one acre of Sam Preacher’s estate and a shelter that was used primarily to house goats.

Subsequent offers from Sam to buy back the barn and the acreage fell on Wilton’s deaf ears, for there was no love lost between them, and both men went to the grave hating each other. Later generations of both houses fell prey to the same emotions that had afflicted the gaming adversaries, and the two properties remained under separate ownership. Wilton, Jr. outlived his son, Hubert, Simon’s father, but he, too, eventually succumbed to advancing age and died just weeks before reaching his ninety-sixth birthday. His will was read shortly after his death, and his grandson and only living blood relative, Simon Pardue, was officially named heir to his estate. This did not faze Roy Preacher at the time, as he was of the misguided impression that his money would solve the problem; but he had yet to meet Simon Pardue and he was totally unprepared for what was to follow.

***

This is my final offer, Pardue.

Roy Preacher, as we already know, was a man of limited stature; for even in his three-hundred and fifty dollar Italian boots with built up heels and his thickly padded burgundy hose, he only reached five feet seven and one half inches in height. Simon Pardue, on the other hand, stood six feet three inches tall without any help from specially designed shoes and socks; and the differences didn’t end there. Whereas Roy was a bit roly-poly with a midsection that preceded his every forward movement, Simon was athletic of build and, notwithstanding his penchant for Coors, Budweiser, Heineken, and any other brand of beer that he could afford on his limited income, relatively slim about the gut. The other noticeable difference that set them apart was Roy’s stringy thinning hair compared to Simon’s full dark crop on top.

Up yours, Roy, Simon said, smiling. Don’t trip on your way back down the hill.

They stood facing each other across the chain link fence that Simon had seen fit to install in order to leave no doubt in anyone’s mind that his property was in no way part of the larger piece that bore the name Preacher on the deed possessed by his neighbor. The fence actually enclosed Simon’s acre on three sides while the fourth side was bordered by the road, so that his fenced acre, although a separate piece of property, was completely surrounded by the Preacher estate while appearing to be a part of the whole.

It’s a good offer, Roy persisted, wagging a neatly typed legal document at his tormentor. Very generous, I assure you.

How much? Simon asked.

Two-fifty.

Two hundred and fifty dollars? Wow, that’s a hell of an offer, Roy. Why, I’ll bet your realtor nearly fell through the floor typing that one up.

Of course not, Roy cringed. He was finding it hard to concentrate on his objective due to his inability to keep from being suckered by his neighbor. "It’s for two hundred and fifty thousand dollars," he rasped, trying valiantly to hold his temper in check.

Well, that’s different, Simon said, placing two fingertips to his lips as though he was considering the offer. This pose lasted approximately a minute and a half, which gave Roy a glimmer of hope; but it was not to be. Simon rested both hands on the top of the fence, looked Mr. Preacher straight in his beady little eyes, and said, Not enough, Roy. Besides, I like it here. I plan to retire on this property someday – along with my twelve kids, my three donkeys, my pot bellied pig, and my converted school bus slash camper. Why, I might even buy some goats, since this place was once a goat shed. He stepped back with a grin on his face and waited patiently for Roy Preacher to start foaming at the mouth.

It didn’t take long.

There was open hostility on Roy’s pale face and a trace of spittle on his thin gray lips. He repositioned his glasses by sliding them down his nose so that he could look over them as his face took on a telltale reddish-pink tinge that announced to the world that his blood pressure had just reached an unhealthy level. What about that? he cried, pointing.

What about it?

Roy glared at a sign prominently displayed just inside the fence only a few feet from the road. It was staked into the ground like a real estate For Sale sign, and printed on it in large letters were the words, NO PREACHERS ALLOWED!

So? Simon said.

That’s got to be illegal, Roy hissed. It’s – it’s libelous!

Not at all, Simon said. I just don’t want clerics on my property, that’s all. They usually want donations.

I’ll sue you if you don’t take it down.

Be my guest.

I’ll break you, Pardue.

Simon took a step forward, his belt buckle clinking against the metal fence. And how will you do that, Roy? he asked pleasantly. Right now, I can afford a lawyer. But if the bill gets too high and I start to run out of money, I can always sell the place – to a drug rehabilitation clinic, or to some poor, down-and-out ex-hippie who’s holed up on a rowboat in Marin basin with his stash of LSD and God knows what else. I could probably get three, maybe four hundred for it. You lose, either way.

Roy Preacher’s face changed color – it went from that rosy hue described above to an exotic and exciting shade of purple. Simon wondered if his neighbor was about to explode, sending body parts flying hither and yon across the fence and into his yard.

You’ll regret this, Pardue. There was a menacing tone in Preacher’s voice. You’ll be out of here before the end of the month. Take my word for it.

Wanna bet on it? Simon asked without malice. I understand that’s how old Sam lost this place to begin with. He’d be proud of you, Roy. A cow chip off the old block.

Roy Preacher shoved the buy-out offer into his coat pocket, readjusted his glasses, then turned without a word and stumped off down the hill toward the mansion. Simon watched his neighbor’s retreat until the little man was out of sight. He knew that he hadn’t seen the last of Roy Preacher.

***

You didn’t sell it back to him? Sally Fuller asked later that night when Simon had found the strength to relate the story to her, knowing full well that she was in no way enamored of his inheritance or his stubbornness about keeping it.

Of course not, Simon replied, looking into the light brown eyes of his secretary who also doubled as his girl friend and most ardent supporter. He realized that this slim blonde with the terrific figure and a face that caused many young men to dribble on their bibs when she walked into a restaurant also had a volatile temper when it came to his sometimes inexplicable actions.

How much did he offer?

Two hundred fifty thousand.

Dollars! Sally collapsed into a chair that was conveniently and thankfully positioned just behind her knees. She looked up in disbelief at the man she intended to marry one day, even if he hadn’t proposed yet. A quarter of a million dollars? You turned down a quarter of a million dollars?

I did.

You jerk!

Simon backed away. He knew that Sally was capable of violence.

You shit head!

Now, Sally …

You horse’s ass!

Simon wondered if she’d run out of expletives.

You – you piss whistle!

He should have known better.

How could you? Sally asked, wiping away a tear. All that money! We could have gotten married! You could have paid for our honeymoon with enough left over to buy a little house close to San Francisco, away from all these snobs here in Preacher’s Glen. How could you, Simon?

That wouldn’t buy a tool shed anywhere near San Francisco, he reminded her. But there was no use arguing with her. He should have kept his mouth shut to begin with.

I’ll never forgive you, she said.

Simon realized that arguing with Sally was a losing proposition, so he excused himself and went to the door.

Where are you going? she asked.

Out on the porch.

I’ll come with you.

Simon nodded. He had hoped for some peace and quiet, but it appeared that he wasn’t going to find any that evening.

***

Simon gazed up at the moon. It was a full moon, unobscured by clouds, and bright enough to light up the entire Preacher estate. Standing on the front porch, he could see the gabled roof of Roy Preacher’s mansion, which sat just down the hill behind a grove of tall trees planted exclusively for the purpose of making damn sure that Simon could not see the rest of the house and, even more importantly, so that Roy Preacher did not have to look upon the barn-turned-cottage in which Simon resided.

He hates you, Sally said. You should have taken his money, Simon.

Not yet.

When?

When the time is right.

And when will that be?

When hell freezes over.

Sally stamped her foot on the wooden planks, causing her curly blonde hair to dance on her slim shoulders. You’re being difficult, she snapped.

Maybe, Simon replied. But I can’t give in to him. After hearing all the stories that my grandfather told about the history of this place, I believe that my life’s work is to make Roy’s life totally unbearable. I don’t hate the man - but I dislike him, that’s for sure. It’s what he represents that I hate. And the more I can get under his skin, the better I like it. I’m having fun with this, Sally.

You’re throwing away our future.

Hell. Our future can be here. It’s a beautiful spot.

Sally cringed. She was a city girl, through and through. Preacher’s Glen wasn’t too far from San Francisco, but she liked the idea of being able to hop in her car and go shopping when the mood hit. Next thing you know, you’ll be talking about raising pigs and chickens, she lamented.

Simon laughed. Great idea!

Go fly a kite, Sally mumbled.

Simon was about to contribute another wisecrack when a loud report suddenly shattered the silence of the lovely spring evening. A gun shot? A car backfiring? It had come from the direction of Roy Preacher’s house, or so it seemed.

Geez, Simon said.

A second blast rang out.

He’s shooting at us, Sally cried.

No. But it definitely came from down the hill.

What should we do?

Don’t know. Maybe old Roy is out hunting rabbits.

Oh, great. Wild animals, too.

The silence following the alleged gunshots was now deafening. Only the breeze in the treetops and the distant roar of the surf could be heard.

Maybe I should go down there and see what’s up, Simon mused.

Not on your life, Sally retorted. Suppose you run into the gunman?

Do you really think they were gun shots?

Sure sounded like it, Sally said.

Even with the light from the full moon, Simon could not see anything awry at the bottom of the hill. He could see that the front light was out because there was no glow emanating from the area around the front of Preacher’s house; but that was it. There had been no cars driving up to or away from the house, and there weren’t any on the road. I guess it was nothing, he said.

Then let’s go inside. It’s after midnight and it’s getting cool out here.

Sure.

They went into the house. Simon flicked on the TV and Sally headed for the bathroom to take a shower. By the time she returned to the living room, Simon was snoring in his recliner. Great, she said, standing over him, her hands on her hips. The pig farmer has pooped out. She turned off the TV and the lamp and went to bed.

***

The thunder claps hammering away above his head caused Simon to sit up and clasp his hands over his ears. He didn’t remember the meteorologist on the late news mentioning a thunder storm in the forecast, but there was definitely something brewing.

Get the door! Sally cried from the bedroom.

Simon winced, pulled himself up out of the recliner, glanced at his watch, saw that it was almost one in the morning, and then staggered over to the door, stubbing a toe on the leg of the coffee table along the way.

Cringing in pain, he flicked on the outside light and threw open the door.

There was no one standing on the opposite side.

He looked down and saw why.

Who the hell is banging on the door at this hour? Sally asked, coming up behind him. Don’t people have any sense?

Simon ignored the questions and dropped to his knees.

Sally screamed.

Roy Preacher lay in a heap on the porch, and he was covered in blood.

Chapter Three

In Which Lt. Bond Was Suspicious

And Hanrahan Was, Too

Since Preacher’s Glen did not have a police department of its own, it was a county sheriff’s deputy who answered the call to duty. He was a young man with red hair and broad shoulders, and, judging by his constant fondling of his equipment,