The Sword & Mr. Stone: An Edward Stone (Insurance Adjuster) Adventure!, #1

By John Gaspard

"A Fun Romp. An Unlikely Hero. A Great Pick-Me-Up."

 

Edward Stone's quiet life is completely upended when he's pulled into a wild and wacky search for King Arthur's fabled lost sword, Excalibur. 

 

From the towering monuments of Stonehenge to the dark mists of Loch Ness, Stone finds himself battling evil forces intent upon possessing this long-lost treasure. It's only when he embraces the magical nature of the legend that he's finally able to harness the epic forces behind Excalibur, the Sword of Power.

 

"A hero is no braver than an ordinary man, but he is brave five minutes longer." — Ralph Waldo Emerson

 

"If you need to laugh and a great story, read this!"

• Language: English
• Publisher: Albert's Bridge Books
• Release date: Apr 24, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201770471

John Gaspard

John is author of the Eli Marks mystery series as well as three other stand-alone novels, "The Greyhound of the Baskervilles," The Sword & Mr. Stone" and "The Ripperologists."He also writes the Como Lake Players mystery series, under the pen name Bobbie Raymond.In real life, John's not a magician, but he has directed six low-budget features that cost very little and made even less - that's no small trick. He's also written multiple books on the subject of low-budget filmmaking. Ironically, they've made more than the films.Those books ("Fast, Cheap and Under Control" and "Fast, Cheap and Written That Way") are available in eBook, Paperback and audiobook formats.John lives in Minnesota and shares his home with his lovely wife, several dogs, a few cats and a handful of pet allergies.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

This was not a nine-to-five kind of job.

Stone had come to understand that on his first day. Others didn’t, of course. Some figured you could clock in at 9:00 a.m., take an hour (or more!) for lunch and then mosey on home about 4:45. And things would take care of themselves.

That wasn’t how this business worked.

Things didn’t take care of themselves. They just didn’t.

Which was why, as the sun was beginning to dip below the horizon, Edward Stone found himself on the South side of the city. He was parking his car for what was to be his last call of the day.

He rejected the first two possible parking spots out of instinct. One placed him too close to a fire hydrant. Perhaps not illegally close, but near enough that–in the event of an event, as he liked to say–his car could sustain collateral damage from a hastily parked fire truck or poorly positioned fire hose.

The other option wasn’t even an option. It would have positioned his vehicle too close to an alley, creating a blind spot for any driver exiting that passageway. Stone knew his statistics when it came to blind spots. He also knew the odds favored those who avoided them. The numbers spoke for themselves.

So he circled the block twice until a spot opened up right in front of 621 23 rd Avenue, the location for his final appointment of the day. He grabbed his briefcase from the trunk and then locked the car with the key fob.

Stone started to walk away and then turned back, out of habit more than anything else. He tugged the door handle, re-checking that he had locked the door. As he did that, he noticed a leaf was stuck to the windshield. He brushed it off, giving the car one final inspection. Then he tried the door handle one last time. Just in case.

If nothing else, Edward Stone was good at noting details.

He glanced at his watch and noted that, if 621 23 rd Avenue had a working elevator, he would be knocking on the customer’s door at precisely 7:30 p.m.

He noted that the streetlights, which were just coming on, appeared to be the old incandescent lamps. That model gave off 17% fewer lumens than the newer, HPS sodium lamps. Brighter streetlights, he knew from the actuary tables, often resulted in a 7% decrease in crime and a 12% decrease in traffic accidents.

The numbers, though preliminary, were compelling.

What Stone didn’t notice was the dirty white van parked across the street. It was an older model, although it oddly sported new tires. The faded lettering on its side read McFadden Plumbing. This was accompanied by an exaggerated cartoon of a way-too excited plumber wildly wielding a plunger.

In addition to the van itself, Stone also failed to note the two uncharacteristically high-tech antennas which protruded from the vehicle’s roof.

Instead, as Stone made his way toward the main door of 621 23 rd Avenue, he immediately recognized it lacked any form of egress protection for the front entryway. Anyone could just walk in, as he was about to prove.

He made a mental note to suggest to his client the benefits of stronger security measures. Not only in terms of personal safety and property protection, but also the positive impact it could have on the monthly premiums.

Stone considered all this as he opened the door and stepped into the old apartment building. He was whistling softly and, if you looked closely, there was definitely something resembling a spring in his step.

We’ve got movement.

Detective Benson looked up and turned to one of the video monitors in front of him. He spotted the blurry black & white image of Stone just as he disappeared into the building.

Who is that? he asked as he turned to Detective Marinovich.

Marinovich shook his head. He just got out of that gray sedan. Dammit, I can’t grab a plate from this angle.

He toggled a joystick and the video image on his screen panned and then tilted and then panned again.

This is a piece of crap, he said as he finally got the camera to land on a shot of Stone’s car. Yeah, there’s no way I can grab the plate from here.

He might not have anything to do with this, Benson said. He sat back in the cramped, uncomfortable chair. The van smelled of Doritos and sweat, with a lingering odor of gasoline. Lunch had been a long time ago and was a distant, disappointing memory. He reached for his pack of gum, noting he was down to the last two sticks. He tore one in half, unwrapped the semi-piece and popped it in his mouth. He would have to carefully ration the remaining one and a half pieces. Who knew how long they might be stuck out here. It had been days already.

We’ve got something, Marinovich said. He gestured at his headphones. Someone’s knocking. Are we recording?

Is this it? Benson said. He scrambled to pull his headphones up over his ears, pushing the cord off his face as he got them into place. He made a quick check of the VU meter in front of him. Is it going down?

It’s too early, Marinovich said. But, regardless, have back-up standing by just in case. I swear I can hear someone knocking.

Hey, shut-up. Shut-up you idiots. Do you hear someone knocking?

The cramped apartment suddenly became quiet as all the men stopped talking and laughing. The three in the cramped living room turned in unison to look over at the front door. The only sound was a radio playing a bass-heavy song somewhere down the hall. And in the far distance, a baby crying.

And then there were two sharp, professional raps at the door.

Hector looked to JayJay who looked to Dickens. The three men snapped into action. JayJay spun around to see where he had set his revolver. Dickens snatched up a semi-automatic rifle he had casually set against the worn and ragged couch. Hector checked the towel which covered the teetering coffee table in front of him and then turned to the others.

Two more business-like knocks and then a voice came from the other side of the door.

Hello? Mr. Gupta? Hello? Are you home?

The three men turned in unison toward the small apartment’s even smaller kitchen. Jeet Gupta, looking unkempt and nervous, peered around the doorway. In one hand he held a box of Captain Crunch. In the other, an over-sized cereal bowl. He looked at the front door and then turned to the scowling threesome as they stared back at him.

It’s for you, Hector said evenly, although Jeet easily recognized the menace in the man’s too-calm voice.

Jeet set the bowl down on the small counter and moved cautiously into the living room. He stopped and turned back to the kitchen, putting the box of Captain Crunch next to the bowl. He then pivoted and once again headed toward the front door. He did his best not to look at the other men as he reached for the door knob, but he couldn’t help it. He turned and gave Hector a pleading look.

Deal with this, Hector said, the ice in his voice chilling even JayJay and Dickens, who looked at each other nervously.

JayJay held his gun out of sight, while Dickens lowered his semi-automatic behind the arm of the couch.

Jeet’s hand slipped just a bit as he grabbed the door handle, the thin layer of sweat on his palm making it hard to grip the metal knob. Finally he opened the door a crack, yanking it until the safety chain pulled taut.

Through the slim slit, he could see a tall, well-dressed man in his early forties. A neatly-trimmed beard and clear blue eyes added just the slightest touch of warmth to his all-business demeanor. His suit, although clearly not expensive, was well-tailored and nicely pressed. He held a briefcase in one hand.

Good evening, he said with just the slightest smile. Are you Mr. Jeet Gupta?

Jeet looked at him for a long moment, then turned to check the temperature of the others in the room. They stared back at him coldly; Hector tilted his head to one side and narrowed his eyes. Jeet turned back to Stone.

Yeah, that’s me.

Good evening, Mr. Gupta, Stone said. I believe we had an appointment. For tonight.

Are you the money man?

Stone smiled at the use of the term. "That depends. I’ll have to examine the property in question first. But yes, to use your expression, I am the money man."

Jeet turned to Hector for some form of direction. Hector nodded oh-so slightly. Jeet turned back and slid the chain off the door.

Come on in.

Thanks, Stone said.

A moment later he was in the apartment as Jeet cautiously shut the door behind him.

This is it! It’s going down. All units, Benson barked into his radio. Get ready to move.

Hold up, Marinovich said as he looked closely at his video monitor. What the hell is this?

Benson turned from his radio to the video monitors in front of him.

A sleek black town car was just pulling to a stop near the front of the building. It parked in the spot that Stone had earlier deemed to be too close to a fire hydrant. The driver of this particular vehicle was clearly not concerned with that issue.

The driver, a large man, pulled himself out of the sedan. He adjusted his coat as he quickly scanned the immediate area. He towered over the large car and had the shape of a former wrestler, wide and bulky. He finished his quick perusal and opened the rear door of the car. The car’s other occupant stepped out and made his own practiced visual sweep of the block.

That’s Sanchez, Benson whispered, although the lowered tone wasn’t really necessary. The van was heavily soundproofed. Isn’t it?

Marinovich nodded in agreement as they watched the well-groomed man in an expensive coat emerge from the backseat.

He was in his late forties, with slicked-backed hair and a regal demeanor. Even on the grainy video image, his eyes had a dark, sinister cast to them, suspicious and feral. The beginnings of a spikey tattoo could be detected directly below his left ear. Both Benson and Marinovich knew it was of a snake. And they also knew the rest of the tattoo famously circled Sanchez’s torso, tightly hugging his muscled frame.

He reached back into the car and pulled out a dark briefcase, gripping the handle tightly. He glanced at the driver, who continued to look up and down the street, like a pivoting human surveillance camera.

Clearly comfortable with what he was–or wasn’t–seeing, the driver nodded and the two men headed toward 621 23 rd Avenue. They climbed the front steps and the driver held the door for Sanchez before giving the street one final, intense look. They both disappeared into the building.

So, wait, Benson said as he turned to Marinovich. If Sanchez is just arriving, who is the guy in the apartment right now?

I’m Edward Stone, Stone said as he set his briefcase down on the small kitchen counter. He gently inched the box of Captain Crunch and the cereal bowl out of his way to create a small workspace on the cramped kitchen counter.

We don’t need to do names, Jeet said nervously.

Stone smiled. He looked at the three men in the living room who were silently staring back at him. He turned back to Jeet. Certainly. It looks like you’re in the midst of a bit of a gathering, so I won’t take up much of your time.

Yeah, let’s get down to business, Jeet said.

A man of action, good for you, Stone said. And down to business we shall get. I have some paperwork to go over with you, but first can you direct me to your garage?

Jeet looked back at him blankly. Paperwork? My garage? What for?

Isn’t that where you normally keep it?

Jeet looked to the group and then turned back to Stone. He shook his head. There was a nervous stammer building in his voice. No, man. It’s here. It’s right here.

Right here? Stone repeated. He looked around the small apartment. He caught Hector’s eye and gave him a smile, which was not returned. You mean, here…in the apartment?

Jeet nodded and gestured toward the coffee table. Yeah, it’s on the table there. Under the towels.

That’s all that’s left? Stone looked from the toweled heap on the table and back to Jeet. Just that?

Hector took a menacing step forward. What do you mean, all that’s left? That’s all we agreed on, man!

Stone held up his hand as politely as he could. Thank you for the input, but I’m conducting my business with Mr. Gupta here.

Hector began to take another step forward, but JayJay reached out and grabbed his arm.

Be cool, he said in a hoarse whisper. Let Jeet deal with the man.

Hector shook himself free but didn’t move any further forward. He rocked on the balls of his feet and gestured for Stone to continue.

With two deft moves, Stone unclasped the locks on his briefcase and opened it, quickly sorting through its well-organized contents: a blue book, several file folders and his company checkbook.

Well, Mr. Gupta, if that is truly all that’s left and you can demonstrate proof of ownership, I believe I have some good news for you.

What’s that? Jeet said flatly.

"You’ll be happy to know I’m authorized to write a check for you right now. No red tape, no waiting for the funds to arrive. As we say, ‘It’s Your Money, Right Now.’"

Hector took another menacing step forward. A check?! This deal was for cash only!

Well, I’m sorry, but it’s strictly against company policy to pay claims in cash. However, have no fear, the check is bank certified…

Company policy? What the hell are you talking about? Hector barked as he moved toward Stone. He glanced into the open briefcase. Where’s the money? ‘Cause I don’t see it in here!

Hector slammed the briefcase shut and swept it off the counter in one swift, violent move.

Stone looked at the briefcase on the floor and back to the men, all of whom were staring at him with what appeared to be intense distrust and possibly even hate.

He took a deep breath as he shifted into a relaxed but confident posture. He had learned this helpful skill in a six-hour conflict-resolution class. Be the calm one in the room, the trainer had repeatedly said. Let them model your behavior, not the other way around.

As I was saying, Stone began, but he was interrupted by a sudden knock at the door.

JayJay and Dickens instinctively pulled out their respective weapons as Hector turned toward the entryway. JayJay cocked his gun and Dickens took a fighting stance, aiming the semi-automatic at the apartment’s front door.

Stone, seeing the guns and feeling the sudden rise in the level of tension in the room, turned to Jeet.

You are Jeet Gupta, correct? he asked, trying to keep a business-like tone in his voice. The owner of a 1998 Cadillac Seville?

That’s my mother’s car, Jeet said. He was surprised at the sudden change in topic. Hey, how’d you know that?

Hector took a step toward the door, checking that JayJay and Dickens were still flanking him.

Who’s there?! he barked.

Open the door, Hector. The voice was quiet but direct.

Hector’s eyes widened at the sound. He quickly stepped forward and pulled the door open.

"Senor Sanchez? I wasn’t expecting…you!"

Sanchez stepped through the doorway. He immediately became the commanding presence in the room, reeking of calm assurance. He set his briefcase down and began to slowly, deliberately remove his gloves. His driver stood behind him, his bulk blocking the doorway, his eyes scanning the small apartment.

We had a deal, Hector, Sanchez said slowly.

I knew you were sending somebody, but, but, I had no idea it would be you, Hector stammered. He suddenly turned toward the kitchen, his focus shifting to Stone. Hey, you’re not the money man. What are you, a cop?

All the eyes in the room–and all the guns as well–turned toward Stone. He stood in the doorway to the kitchen, staring back at them. He swallowed, trying with all of his will to not make an actual ‘gulp’ sound.

To his credit, he came close to succeeding.

Who the hell is that? Marinovich snapped.

He jammed his headphones closer to his ears as he strained to hear the conversation in the apartment. The placement of the hidden microphones had been a quick and haphazard affair and the sound quality was less than ideal.

I don’t know, but I do know this: It’s not one of us, Benson said. He spun some dials and turned up the volume on the recording device. It was deathly still in the room; all he could hear was breathing and, in the distance, the continuing deep, bassy thump-thump of music from another apartment. But whoever he is, he’s in it deep.

But we’ve got Sanchez, Marinovich said. We’ve got him, finally. Tell back-up to get ready to move. Once the goods change hands, we’ll have a lot of people to arrest.

Assuming this guy doesn’t get himself and everyone else killed.

Yes, there is that, Marinovich agreed. He reached for his flak jacket. Let’s go.

JayJay had relaxed his grip on his gun when Sanchez entered. But now, with the gun pointed at Stone, he re-cocked it. He took a step toward Stone, his arm extended. His hand was shaking just a bit, as he readjusted his grip on the pistol.

I’m Edward Stone, Stone said, trying to keep the tremor out of his voice and almost succeeding. From United Affiliated Insurance.

As he said this, he instinctively reached toward his breast pocket to grab a business card. JayJay grunted menacingly and pushed his gun closer. Stone decided the exchange of business cards ritual could wait until later. If it was needed at all.

Insurance! Hector barked. You never said nothing about being no damned insurance salesman!

I’m an adjuster, Stone said. He turned to look at JayJay’s gun, which was much closer to his face than he would have preferred. He looked back at Hector. An insurance adjuster. Mr. Gupta filed a claim regarding a 1998 Cadillac–

A look of recognition flooded across Jeet’s face. Right, he said quickly as it all became clear to him You’re the insurance guy–

You called an insurance guy?! Hector took a threatening step toward Jeet.

JayJay, sensing the revelation of a betrayal was in the offing, stepped back and shifted the direction of his pistol. He rocked back and forth as he let his aim float between Jeet and Stone.

Hey, man, it’s my mother’s car, Jeet pleaded. It’s not her fault we slammed into that guy. She’s paid the premiums every month, she deserves what’s coming to her.

That she does, Stone agreed. That she does.

He turned toward the coffee table and continued. So, if I’m following, what’s under those towels on the table are not the remains of a 1998 Cadillac Seville? Instead, it’s–

It’s none of your goddam business, Hector snapped.

None of my goddam business, Stone repeated. Exactly.

Sanchez, still standing in the doorway with his goon looming behind him, cleared his throat significantly.

Hector, have I come at a bad time? he said quietly. His calm tone made him sound all the more frightening. Perhaps I picked an inappropriate moment for our transaction?

Hector quickly turned back to Sanchez. He waved his hands in protest. No, no, it’s okay. He turned back to Jeet. Jeet, take this sonofabitch outside!

Should I show him the car?

Waste him!

Right, Jeet said quickly. Got it.

He reached around and pulled a gun from the small of his back. He jabbed Stone in the ribs with it.

Let’s go, Mr. United Associated.

United Affiliated, Stone corrected as he moved hesitantly into the living room. There was a bit of awkward choreography as he reached down to grab his briefcase from the floor as Sanchez stepped aside to let him pass.

Pardon me, excuse me, Stone recited robotically. Sanchez moved one way and his goon moved the other to let Stone and Jeet pass. Sorry to have interrupted your … encounter, Stone added as he clutched his briefcase.

And then Jeet jabbed him again, directing him into the hall and toward the back stairway.

Which, as it turned out, was a prudent choice on Jeet’s part.

At that same moment, Benson, Marinovich and a half dozen heavily-armed cops were on their way up the front stairs.

CHAPTER TWO

Jeet shoved Stone roughly down the narrow stairway and through the weathered backdoor into the building’s small parking lot. Much of the asphalt had long-since disintegrated, as had–it appeared to Stone–many of the vehicles. The lot looked to be a fledgling junkyard, with some cars up on blocks and others missing doors, windows and in one case, an entire roof.