Poetic Justice

By Denise McCabe

POETIC JUSTICE
Synopsis

The Wolf is developing a reputation as a predator. From Las Vegas to San Francisco, he has managed to elude discovery. In his eyes, he is not the monster the media is saying he is, but a misunderstood and misjudged man who loves and understands women and just wants to make them happy.
After yet another failed attempt at connection, he heads to Los Angeles. One night at a bar called Ryan's, he meets an attractive young woman named Wendy, whom he comes to believe is the soulmate he has been searching for. After a disastrous breakup and a history of picking the wrong men, Wendy has given up all hope of finding a soulmate, until the Wolf walks into her life.
When Wendy goes off the grid for a few days, her best friend Cilla is concerned, and asks for help from Sam, a private detective with a poetic streak, to find her.
He does, but as in life, nothing is what it seems to be. Feelings change; perceptions change; but destiny has its way in the end.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Jan 15, 2021
• ISBN: 9781098335632

Book preview

Copyright © 2020 by Denise McCabe

Poetic Justice

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted

in any form or by any means electronic or mechanical, including photocopy,

recording, or any information storage and retrieval system now known

or invented, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer

who wishes to quote brief passages in connection with a review written

for inclusion in a magazine, newspaper, or broadcast.

Paperback ISBN: 978-1-09833-562-5

eBook ISBN: 978-1-09833-563-2

For Kenny, my best friend,

soul mate, and muse…

and for Casper, the wisest cat I know.

Everything I need

is right here with you.

Special Thanks

To John Lescroart,

a superb author and great friend, for giving me the confidence,

support and enthusiasm to start my journey as a writer,

and for his invaluable feedback;

To Bart Edelman,

an insightful poet and superb teacher, who brought

out the writer that was always hiding inside me;

To Brian Lindgren,

for his excellent notes and enthusiasm,

and for being an all around great brother;

And to Kenny McCabe,

my husband, biggest fan, and forever muse,

who has stood by me throughout my journey.

The best is yet to come.

Table of Contents

PART ONE POETRY

THE WOLF

SAM

CILLA

SAM

THE WOLF

SAM

THE WOLF

SAM

THE WOLF

SAM

THE PREY

SAM

THE WOLF

CILLA

SAM

CILLA

THE PREY

THE WOLF

THE PREY

SAM

CILLA

SAM

THE WOLF

THE PREY

SAM

THE PREY

THE WOLF

SAM

THE PREY

THE WOLF

THE PREY

SAM

THE PREY

CILLA

THE WOLF

SAM

THE WOLF

PART TWO JUSTICE

SAM

THE WOLF

SAM

THE WOLF

THE PREY

SAM

THE WOLF

SAM

THE WOLF

SAM

CILLA

SAM

GLORIOUS JONES

Sam

WALTER

PART ONE

POETRY

THE WOLF

The Wolf checked himself out in the rear view mirror. He already knew he looked good, but it didn’t hurt to check again. Satisfied, he turned the key and heard the roar of the V-8 engine. It was a sound he never got tired of: they don’t make cars like they used to. His was a classic ’66 Mustang, not a convertible, but still cool. Original upholstery, radio, even a little tape player. Cars these days didn’t roar, they whimpered. People bragged about how silent they were; how many gadgets were attached; how many things the car could do for you. They could even drive themselves now! He snorted to himself at the stupidity of humanity.

It was date night, Thursday. Time to find some fresh young lonely soul he could literally charm the pants off. Most people went on the prowl on Friday nights. Payday. Pockets full of money, mind freed from the suffocating boredom or stress of the work week. But he had always been ahead of the curve.

He was not classically handsome, but he had a rough hewn, primitive quality that a certain type of female couldn’t get enough of. They knew he’d end up breaking their hearts, but they held a silent slice of hope that maybe they’d be the one who could capture him, bind their lives to his, live happily ever after. Women were so foolish, so easy to manipulate.

He tended to stay away from the trendy, West Hollywood, Beverly Hills drinking establishments. The women who frequented those places traveled in packs, were there to be noticed and admired, and carried a sense of entitlement. They were more interested in a man’s financial status than his ability to connect on an authentic level. The Wolf was not poor by any means, but he wasn’t a trust fund baby either. He didn’t drive a Bentley, or own a home in the Hollywood Hills. Besides, the shallow sugar mama type held no interest for him. He was looking for a woman with soul; divorced, maybe widowed, preferably no children, but he could handle a well behaved child or two. His ideal woman needed more than anything to be listened to; to be understood; to be cherished. That he could do, easily. It was his stock in trade.

He also tended to avoid the San Fernando Valley, which was the polar opposite of the West Side. This was quintessential suburbia, with its typical helicopter moms, looking for companionship in between the kids’ soccer games and dance recitals. All they wanted to talk about was how badly their ex-husbands treated them, or how remarkable their children were. He wondered how it could be possible that all these children were in the top five percentile of intelligence (whatever that even meant). It gave him a headache just to think about it.

His favorite neighborhood was the East Hollywood/Echo Park area. The women there were interesting without being arrogant, and attractive without being narcissistic. They weren’t afraid to sit at a table alone, or maybe with a friend. They’d like to meet a man, but it wasn’t their sole purpose for an evening out.

He found a parking spot (never an easy feat) outside a small bar called Ryan’s, just on the eastern tip of Echo Park. He gave himself another quick look in the mirror, checked his teeth, sprayed some breath freshener, and locked the Mustang.

Show time.

The bar was just the sort he liked, somewhat seedy but not overly so. Not the type of place to attract hard core drunks, but instead what he liked to think of as introverted drinkers, women who could be coaxed out of their shyness by a few kind words and some much needed attention.

He walked up to the bar, which was pleasantly crowded but not noisy or rowdy, and ordered a tonic with lime. He never drank in these places; in fact, he rarely touched alcohol at all. An occasional glass of good wine, or a cold beer on a hot day. He was a purist, and didn’t believe in putting anything harmful in his body. No smoking, no drugs, no processed foods. He did not like women who drank too much either, or who abused their bodies in other ways. Moderation in all things was his belief.

At first glance, there were several possibilities that piqued his interest, but not enough to act on yet; the evening was still young and he was a patient man. Many times, he had walked out of bars and called it a night on his own if no one struck his fancy.

He was on his second tonic water when a woman walked up to the juke box and bent over to choose some songs. She was late thirties in his estimation, dark hair just covering her ears in a stylish bob. She wore a long skirt with Ugg boots and a frilly, feminine blouse. He waited to see what songs she would pick and where she was headed once she finished her selections.

She headed in the direction of the bar, several seats down from him, and tried to get the bartender’s attention to get some change.

The Wolf made his move.

Here, he said, reaching into his pocket for his wallet, it probably takes dollar bills.

He pulled out a handful of singles and reached out to her. She hesitated for just a second, then smiled and came over. She rummaged through her small purse, looking for a five or ten dollar bill to give him in return, but he waved it away.

It’s on me, he said, just play something by Tom Waits if there is anything.

There is, she said, and headed off to the juke box.

The first song she played was The Heart of Saturday Night, one of the Wolf’s favorites. She looked back in his direction and smiled shyly; he smiled and nodded his thanks in return.

The rest of the songs she chose were also good: Dylan, Joni, and a surprising Travelin’ Wilburys, Handle With Care.

Oh, I most definitely will, the Wolf said to himself.

SAM

I was just hanging up the sign over the door on my brand new office when I felt someone’s presence behind me. I turned around and there was a boy of about ten, looking like a character from The Little Rascals.

"What’s Poetic Justice?" he said.

It’s my company.

He didn’t respond, seeming to be mulling it over. But he didn’t move either.

Can I help you with something?

No.

Still he lingered. The sign now firmly in place, I stepped back to get a look at it.

What do you think? I asked my new friend.

It’s a little crooked.

I took another step back, and realized he was right. I adjusted it slightly, and looked to him for approval. He gave me a thumbs up.

I went inside to unpack; he followed me in. Not all the way in; just hovering near the door.

Shouldn’t you be in school or something?

It’s summer.

Does anyone know you’re here?

He shook his head vigorously from side to side.

Where are your parents?

My mom works down the hall, he gestured with a turn of his head, and my dad lives in Florida with his new family.

I could relate. When I was about five years old, my father decided that family life was not for him. He took me to a Mets game - we were living in Forest Hills, Queens at the time - and told me that he loved me, but he had to go away for a while. That’s not something a five year old can process. I remember him hugging me and buying me more hotdogs than I could eat. I can still smell the Marlboros on his clothes, and feel the sick stomach I had all night. I attributed it to the hotdogs, but of course it was much more than that. I think he dropped me off at home and left, but I can’t remember that part. I know that the Mets won, not because I remember the game, but because my mother later used it as an anecdote with her friends: My husband left me, but the Mets finally won a game. I saw my father a few more times over the years, less and less as time went on, and finally the visits dropped off entirely. Mom used to tell me that we were a team and didn’t need him, and I always agreed, but the hurt never went away.

I don’t know how old this kid was when his father left to start a new family, but I certainly was not about to broach the subject. Instead, I asked what I assumed to be a safe question.

Does your mom know you’re wandering around the halls?

I’m not wandering. I came to help you.

The kid was a born lawyer.

I don’t actually need any help, but thanks.

What kind of office is this?

I do work for different attorneys.

What kind of work?

A little of this, a little of that.

Before he could badger me with the next question, a cute blonde appeared in the doorway.

There you are. I told you not to wander around, and then, to me, Sorry. I hope he wasn’t bothering you.

Not at all. He wasn’t wandering around. He was helping me.

I winked at the kid; he didn’t wink back.

I’m Cilla. Short for Priscilla. This is Jeremy.

Sam. Short for Sorley.

She gave me the same look I always get when I tell people my true name.

It’s Gaelic for Samuel. I had it legally changed, for obvious reasons.

Ah, got it.

She smiled.

I leaned over the desk to shake her hand; she moved in closer and I could smell her perfume, light and summery.

Well, we’ll get out of your hair.

You’re not in my hair. Actually, I don’t have much hair to get in.

It was true, and it made her smile.

I’ll probably see you around. Welcome to the building.

I tipped my imaginary hat and got back to my unpacking. It didn’t take long, as I was well organized and didn’t really have that much to unpack. This was a new business for me that I hoped would grow or I would be forced to work for someone else, and I had not had much luck in the past working for other people. I don’t like time constraints; don’t like clocking in; don’t like taking orders and relying on someone to pay my bills. I know that sounds obvious, like duh, who doesn’t hate working for someone else? But if you think about it, most people are content going to an office, or a restaurant, or wherever, doing their job, going home, and having a life. It’s a rare breed that can tolerate living on the edge: actors, writers, gamblers. I’m none of those. What I am is a problem solver. The last place I used my skills was at a large downtown law firm, where I was their in house investigator. I got into an argument with Jennifer, one of the so-called senior associates, who was not happy with the fact that I was, as she put it, unreachable by phone when she needed me. I explained as tactfully as I could that I did not need to be monitored; she disagreed and made a fuss to one of the partners. He didn’t fire me; he suggested I might want to play nice with the associates. I told him that I got along well with the associates, and the secretaries, and basically everyone else in the office except for Jennifer. It turns out that he and Jennifer had a thing going, and therefore it seemed the rest was moot. We parted ways.

I didn’t leave empty handed. I had a nice sum stashed away in my 401K, and a check for three months salary. Rather than do something frivolous with the money, I decided to open up shop on my own.

The name Poetic Justice came to me in what I humbly call a stroke of genius. When I first moved to Los Angeles, I was 22 and needed to make some money quickly. I had graduated from an east coast liberal arts college, which basically meant I had no marketable skills. But I could type, and I got a job at a law firm as a word processor. This was a while back, when it was a plum job and paid extremely well. Every out of work actor or writer in town wanted to do word processing, because there was plenty of down time to work on their