The Armagnac Vineyard

By Van Dimi

This is the #3 Isidore Ducasse, Private sleuth Mystery Noir series.
Isidore gets a secretary, (they all had one!) and takes a pro bono case to help a friend and while unraveling it, he becomes an armagnac connoisseur!

It’s a Noir fiction novel with all the old-fashioned Noir ingredients. (Been watching too many movies lately). First, there’s this hard-boiled Private Dick with the catchy name, out of the same mould as so many before him. Without help in his first two novels, he comes up with a 2m. tall secretary in this one, Norma, who has probably come to stay. The case is a pro bono request of one of Mamie’s-clan-members and an old friend, who appears in the first book “The Mechanic’s wife” for the first time. Pure Noir intrigue along with a family drama, femmes fatales, blue collar crime, revenge, betrayal, flash-backs and flash-forwards (!!!!!) with the accidental secretary indirectly involved in the plot. Too much music with it along with some movie pictures this time let alone the Opera and the Absurd theatre. Pulp fiction educative entertainment and not only about music. The armagnac beverage and its long history if nothing else, might send you to a liquor-store to buy a bottle.
By all means, this is a fictional story and any resemblance with real persons and facts is unintentionally coincidental. The idea of a 4th book, just the idea, is slowly cooking.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Van Dimi
• Release date: May 6, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005649258

Van Dimi

ABOUT ME. Retired from the grind. Reflecting on successes, failures, and regrets. Exploring new aspects of self, writing that book which will get me an Oscar, staying out of trouble - well, small amounts of trouble are OK. Alone in blessed singleness. Wicked sense of humor, enjoy my own company, glad I'm not young any longer. I do miss the intimacy of being in love. A good catch . . . at least. I love Intelligent conversation: hard to come by these days, though no one agrees with me, a good listener, intuitive, a good conversationalist, avoid boredom and boring people at all costs - that's a career all by itself.I am not a writer. I am a cooking chef. An educated cooking chef though. I’ve done my studies, got a University degree but instead of entering into the “system”, I’ve chosen to do what pleases me and not join the sheep -flock searching for a shepherd. A Greek old man living in France the last 20years,Vangelis Dimitroglou is my real name. Cinéphile and melomane confirmé, not un faux-cul. Here in France, they call the connoisseurs “pretentious” and the intelligent “arrogant”. I don’t care anymore.As a movie-music-literature lover I have a sweet spot for Jazz and the so-called Noir, films and books, not only the top class rated but al-so the B-movies and the pulp-fiction best sellers. Now, there are some great authors in that category like Dashiell Hammett, Raymond Chan-dler, Jim Thompson (the greatest), just to name a few from the past and some excellent new ones like Philip Kerr, Jo Nesbo, Michael Dibdin, again just to name a few. “writers” who at the age of 35 have al-ready produced 50 novels and are still writing a book once or twice a year aiming to sell books, commercialize the product, make money. They are largely different to those great ones that are/were AUTHORS, producing literature. I don’t care entering into either category, I honestly could use some huge money. No intention whatsoever to be-come immortal. An author writes a book expecting to be read, he writes for his readers with or without the intention to make money or glory. He-she has a target. I write books for myself! Fill up empty time. I don't expect anything from them and that's why they are FREE -and always be - The ones in Greek are the same under my real name(in GR) Βαγγέλης Δημητρογλου.I have not only watched but studied almost all the films-Noir and Neo-Noir if it matters, plus all the great movies the 7th art has produced, in decline nowadays thank you very much Netflix. As for music, my other passion, after classical music and Jazz all the rest is chill-out ambience sounds. And yes, I love aphorisms.World History has been my secondary passion. I believe we will never learn everything about our past and definitely never the truth. This “truth” has been suffering through centuries, it is not a modern invention. The fast-growing technology has created the terms “fake news” or “alternative truth” as if the truth is and always will be one and only. “The truth is rarely pure and never simple” said the great Os-car. Don’t ask Oscar, who? There was only one.History and crime, two things that go together like Siamese twins, let it be then. And a hard-boiled sleuth, not much different than the old, and new, famous ones. I’m a huge fan of Bernie Gunther, I confess.The East Roman-Byzantine empire has a history of 1000+ years, drowned in blood, intrigue, debauchery, violence and misery all at once, that led to its destruction, better known as Dark ages. Not at all a dull place for a sleuth!! They say that historic fiction is a difficult gen-re. Well, almost nothing in life comes easy. Otherwise, we would have nothing to be proud of every time we accomplice successfully a tough task, achieve an exploit, win a challenge.This is my first attempt to write a novel, to write anything. I definitely don’t want to insult your intelligence. I simply intend to challenge your ignorance and provoke your curiosity. The field is vast and intriguing and there might be more Theo Vardas adventures to come. I am getting older and older though every day, like you all, but I’m already 66y.o.OCTOBER 2020 EDIT: I think my Byzantine period is over, all old books removed to be re edited and republished...eventually, hopefully before I die. Not that I care about neither, republish or death. Yet, last time i talked with that hooded type with the scythe, he reassured me i still have time for more wicked Noir stories so, here i come with a new sleuth, Isidore Ducasse, transferring the action where i live in SW France. first book already out the next one's cooking in the oven. Considering I have some old Byzantine books to edit, re-write, enrich and republish ...i might live another 50 years and see grandchildren arriving. My twins, to whom I dedicate all books, are 22 now.

Book preview

VAN DIMI

THE ARMAGNAC VINEYARD

A Noir mystery novel

Isidore Ducasse #3

DEDICATION

For the twins, Melina & Odysseas as always.

For Mrs. Maria Skiada-Sciaranetti, a loyal friend

Post mortem for Jacques Dartenuc alias Toutou, my Bridge mentor and partner. R.I.P.

DISCLAIMER

It’s a bunch of crap full of lies! NOTHING of what’s happening in this book is real or connected to real people dead or alive. Names have been randomly chosen and any actual synonyms are purely coincidental

The Greek word for a novel is mythistorima (μυθιστόρημα), a compound word with Myth and Historia (narrative). So, ex officio, it’s all a myth, not a historical fact.

I have tried to be as accurate as possible with the Geography of the locales along with the distillery procedure and its products and this is as far as my civil responsibility goes. Apologies in advance for any minor mistakes.

VAN(gelis) DIMI(troglou)

THE ARMAGNAC VINEYARD

Copyright © April 2021

VAN DIMI’S OTHER BOOKS

They come in two (2) categories.

First, a series of the Byzantine sleuth Theophilus Vardas in two BYZANTINE REQUIEMS, under the tag of Historical Fiction (Noirish) and ..

Second, the Isidore Ducasse series with that private detective with the catchy name in southwest France.

Self-published on paperback exclusively at AMAZON worldwide and as eBooks in many formats at smashwords.com.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Chapter titles come out of Jazz standards which may create a pleasant playlist

1 Good morning heartache

2 It could happen to you

3 I didn’t know about you

4 I’ve seen that face before (libertango)

5 It had to be you

6.From rags to riches

7 That old black magic

8 C’est si bon

9 Fine and mellow

10 One for my baby (and one more for the road

11 Baubles, bangles, and beads

12 Peel me a grape

13 A million dollar baby

14 Let’s face the music and dance

15 Isn’t it romantic

16 Ain’t that a kick in the head

17 Abracadabra

18 You’re gonna make me lonesome when you go

19 But not for me

20 Bye-bye blackbird

21 You’d be so nice (to come home to)

22 Devil may care

23 Midnight at the Oasis

24 Fly me to the moon

25 Aguas de Marco (Waters of Mars)

26 Makin’ whoopee

EPILOGUE

1 Good morning heartache

Marilou was not there when I woke up with Purcell’s mewing. That feline hair-ball is always hungry and has started looking like a small bear after its castration. Marilou … Marilou is a pole dancer I have met one evening in The Pirate, the city’s strip club I have visited once by curiosity – I’m fooling myself, not you intelligent readers -. Marilou had immediately hit me and came over to join me for a drink after her number, and treated me like no normal customer wasting money on expensive drinks but as a friend. As she said, she was the only girl in the club who didn’t do extras and she was not lying as I found out later. The affair was soon closed in my bed after closing time and had been repeated several times ever since. Marilou is a medium-high girl, neither short nor tall if you consider 170+cm medium tall for a girl, a Eurasian more Euro than Asian with long hair and a pair of big dark eyes. She has one too many quality assets, I’ll just name a couple, a list of all would have been rather long. Marilou has big tits. And I may not be a big-tits-guy, prefer ‘em rather small and perky, but Marilou’s tits are not that kind of empty pockets hanging on the chest. Marilou’s tits have defended gravity and they are all full and natural, of course, gazing at you impudently fully aware they are great. With dark big nipples that once hard, remain hard forever. Next, Marilou talks dirty during sex, and with her amazing vocabulary, this is a terrible turn-on. A free spirit, open-minder, and independent, Marilou had never woke up with me in the morning, she had always been leaving in the middle of the night, early morning actually, to return to her own studio which was ten minutes’ walk from mine. To my protest walking alone in the middle of the night, she opened her handbag to show me a pepper spray and a little tiny 6 rounds Beretta automatic. Lately, she had been rather pushy to get her a Teaser pistol using my Police department. Connections. Marilou had a 3-months contract with The Pirate and we both knew that our relationship was like a bottle of milk. It had an expiring date.

As usual, I woke up with no way to hold my head that didn’t hurt (borrowed Kris Kristofferson albeit it was not a Sunday) heavy as a marble Praxiteles Hermes statue and hold it with both hands with my elbows piercing on my knees with its weight (this one is also borrowed, a Greek poet, Seferis, this time). As you might have guessed, I’m not doing well! I go through Nobel prize laureates and country music songwriters to describe a morning hangover after heavy boozing and wild sex. There’s absolutely no way to make coffee by myself so I get dressed fast and stumble down the stairs into a thick fog to the bistro. I couldn’t avoid the cat waiting for me by the door looking very angry and with his nails out so I returned to fill up his bowls with croquettes and water to his dislike but I had no time to open a tin. Finally, he realized that it had to be croquettes or starvation.

I entered the bistro to fell upon a charming and smiling with full energy Marcel – he can be awfully antipathetic in moments like this.

Well, well … here comes Ace. What happened? You fall out of bed? Why don’t you put a bar to it like the babies? And, by the way, you have to get yourself a secretary.

Something didn’t strike me well but into the fog, I didn’t bother. Marcel may not be an Einstein but he knew exactly what he had to do. After a couple of mouthfuls of strong coffee and half a Lucky burnt, I asked.

"How did you call me a while ago? And, what is that crap about a secretary?

There’s an old lady waiting for you in the booth and she’s been there for a while. This is for the secretary. I called you Ace, from Ace Ventura. The old lady has lost her cat and I guess she wants you to find it.

He said and burst out laughing loud. I remember, when I first came to town and started doing what I’m doing, Marcel had asked me to recommend some literature concerning my trade and I remember suggesting some Raymond Chandlers and Dashiell Hammetts not neglecting my favorite Jim Thompson but … Ace Ventura???? This had to be his own initiative.

Are you completely nuts? Why didn’t you send her off?

"First because I am not your secretary and second because it has been some time since the last time you had a client. Too busy with the strip clubs, I guess.

I gave him the sourest of my sour smiles with a grimace of disgust and I went to see the old lady waiting in the booth that it would have come much cheaper to buy a new cat than to cover my fees to find the missing one.

You mean you don’t do cats?

Right. We only do elephants and crocodiles

I returned to the bar after the good riddance and thoughtful caring Marcel had prepared a king-size sandwich heavily garnished, that is too much ham and cheese and little salad. This one along with the second coffee and third-fourth Lucky straightened me up to become friendly and playful with my best friend and caretaker Marcel.

2 It could happen to you

I decided to drop by my second-best friend Didier the geek whose little shop with electronics is in the Chateau Henri IV Cartier, all streets in cobblers. I don’t think it could have happened to anyone but it happened to me. Crossing a narrow little street, not sure if it was pedestrians-only, I was knocked down by an old car, a Peugeot 504 of the 70s, driving on 30klm/h! I didn’t get any hurt, I only dirtied my clothes in a paddle remaining of last night’s rain when I heard a heart-breaking shout and the wreck’s door slamming

"Oh my God! I’m so sorry! Didn’t see you at all, completely distracted into my thoughts. Are you all right? Want me to take you to a hospital?

And she started crying with a baby tied in the back seat crying along.

You don’t need to cry, I said raising my eyes but apart from a terribly used Stan Smith, the more I raised them the longer the legs looked like. Legs and thigh had to be around 130cm, the girl was tall, very tall.

"No worries, I’m fine. Only dirty but I live just around the corner to go get changed.

"I cry monsieur because the car is not insured and if you report it, I’m gonna lose EVERYTHING.

When I had a look inside the car, I realized why she had accentuated everything. The lady and the baby lived in the car!! Well, that car is rather large and comfy but it’s definitely not a caravan. Let alone that in its condition, it might get stuck and useless in the middle of nowhere at any moment. The whole scene yelled of a single mother with a baby, penniless and obvious malnutrition in a miserable situation.

Are you a basketball player? How tall are you?

It’s not me that is tall, the others are short, she said with a bitter smile. Seemed like a stereotypical statement frequently used.

When was the last time that both of you I nodded to the baby have had a proper meal

‘Is it THAT obvious? Well, in this case, a few days since you’ve asked"

"My name is Isidore, by the way, and I will be very glad to buy you lunch. I live in the neighborhood.

"Nice to meet you, Isidore. My name is Norma and the little devil in the car is Estragon.

Estragon??????

Sounds weird, I know. That’s why I call him Gogo. It’s a long story

I see. ‘I tried and failed, I tried again and failed better (Samuel Becket)

Waou! You seem to know a lot, Isidore. Splendid!

Long story and bull! The only Estragon-Gogo is found in Becket’s ‘Waiting for Godot’. But Norma was a total surprise far beyond the baby’s name. First, she was tall, I mean tall, real tall like a basketball center. I’m not a shorty myself at 180cm but she was much taller than me. In tennis shoes! I couldn’t imagine her in high heels. She seemed to be of a mixed-race, neither Caucasian nor afro-black, and her skin was not after heavy sun-tan. Milk chocolate with lots of milk like the one I hate. I love bitter dark chocolates. As for the female, I’ve never had a sweet tooth for color, not even a fantasy. Denero has, not me. Norma was a Calypso, a semi-goddess nymph café-au-lait, nicely curved where she was supposed to be and … climb up to kiss-climb down to fuck. Straight short hair in French caré, and a pair of intelligent eyes of a mysterious complex. Something between golden and emerald that looked like a panther’s at night. Unique, the mold had been destroyed after she came out. After a bath and some elegant clothes, she was ready for the fashion catwalk. The kind of woman that rock ballads are written after and become No1 in the charts. How the fuck a dame like this has ended in such a state? The investigating detective in me emerged. Maybe upon lunch.

In Marcel’s bistro at noon time during lunch, it’s usually panic. Today it was panic plus Norma and a swinging baby in his baby seat amazed among so many people. All glances regardless of sex on Norma, I saw someone with his mouth open and his fork in the air. With the liberties honestly and honorably earned in this place I had been working in during my first weeks in town, I went with them in the kitchen and did it myself. A large tray with various edibles and two large bowls with the plat du jour. Today it was a blanquette de veau, creamy and smelling wonderful coming with steam boiled potatoes. Tray in hand we all walked out to the backyard through the kitchen backdoor and to my office. Purcell, as expected, came running down from my studio on the other side of the yard over the garage. Attracted by the smell obviously but he didn’t neglect to check upon the new input, and after making a round around her, he immediately rubbed his mustached face on her leg. Might have been her ankle, I’m not so sure. Then, in a pretentious imperial pace, he pushed in the plastic cover of his entrance and waited on his ass same as imperially for his treat.

A private investigator, monsieur Ducasse! » cried out enthusiastically Norma when she saw the bronze plate next to the door. How exciting!" she continued smiling for the first time, a smile that could have made Simon Stylite abandon his column.

I emptied my desk of the unnecessary to place the tray on it and Norma grabbed a bowl immediately crushing meat and vegetable with a spoon to feed the baby first. I took advantage of the moment to prepare the cat’s treat. I was watching her ecstatically, tenderness mixed with grace in motion like a ballerina. Once the baby fed, he started sucking on his bottle relaxed in his seat already half asleep. Norma enjoyed her food slowly and with small bites but she was obviously starving given there were even no crumbs left. With Gogo asleep in his seat and the cat in digestion, we took our glasses with wine and moved outside on the cobblers for me to smoke. There and then she looked at me and sighed.

"Isidore, I have just arrived in this city and I desperately need