Hard Noir Holiday: Edgar "Doc" Holiday, #4

By Kirk Alex

Hard Noir Holiday: A Doc Holiday Private Investigator Mystery (Book 4)

 

Welcome to rattlesnake country.
Where a certain desert rat type is far deadlier
than a diamondback.

 

When L.A. Private Investigator Edgar "Doc" Holiday arrives at the home of an old friend in Tucson, Arizona, instinct tells him something is wrong: the car isn't in the driveway, fresh blood is dripping from a handprint on the doorjamb and no one appears to be in, not even the family dog.

But soon Doc makes a discovery far from the happy reunion he'd imagined, when he finds his friend's limp and lifeless body in the bathtub. Devastated, he vows to hunt down those responsible for her merciless killing as more horrifying murders follow in her wake.

And then an unsolved investigation begins to resurface that takes him and his associates to the other side of the US/Mexico border and a cartel stronghold.

 

Can Doc learn the truth behind their twisted connection in his biggest and most disturbing case yet?

 

Hard Noir is the fourth book in the heart-pounding Doc Holiday mystery series by the inimitable Kirk Alex. Perfect for crime thriller readers and fans of Jo Nesbo, Lee Child, Tana French, Sean Chercover and Derek Raymond.

 

 "Kirk Alex gets right down to it. There's not a wasted word. If you don't know his work, you should." (Throwback & Backlash: Love Lust & Murder series) – Mark SaFranko, author of Lounge Lizard

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tucumcari Press
• Release date: Sep 3, 2021
• ISBN: 9780939122974

Kirk Alex

Instead of boring you with a bunch of dull background info, how about if I mention a few films/singers/musicians and books/authors I have enjoyed over the years.Am an Elvis Presley fan from way back. Always liked James Brown, Motown, Carmen McRae, Eva Cassidy, Meat Loaf, Booker T. & the MGs, CCR. Doors are also a favorite.Some novels that rate high on my list: A Confederacy of Dunces by John Kennedy Toole; Hunger by Knut Hamsun; Street Players by Donald Goines (a street noir masterpiece, a work of art, & other novels by the late awesome Goines); If He Hollers Let Him Go by the incredible Chester Himes. (Note: Himes at his best was as good as Hemingway at his best. But of course, due to racism in the great US of A, he was given short-shrift. Had to move to France to be treated with respect. Kind of sad.Am white by the way, but injustice is injustice & I feel a need to point it out. There were so many geniuses of color who were mistreated and taken advantage of. Breaks your effing heart. I have done what I have been able to support talent (no matter what the artists skin color was/is) over the years by purchasing records & books by talented folks, be they white/black/Hispanic/Asian, whatever. Like I said: Talent is talent, is the way I have always felt. The arts (in all their forms) keep us as humans civilized, hopefully). Anyway, I need to get off the soap box.Most of the novels by Mark SaFranko (like Lounge Lizard and Hating Olivia; his God Bless America is one of the best memoirs I have ever read, up there with Ham on Rye by Buk);The Sun Also Rises by Ernest Hemingway; A Farewell to Arms also by Ernie; Mooch by Dan Fante (& other novels of his); Post Office by Charles Bukowski; The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath; the great plays of Eugene O., like Iceman Cometh, Long Days––this system has a problem with the apostrophe, so will leave it out––Journey Into Night, Touch of the Poet; Journey to the End of the Night by Ferdinand Celine (not to be confused by the Eugene O. play); Postman Only Rings Twice by James M. Cain; the factory crime novels of Derek Raymond (superior to the overrated Raymond Chandler & his tiresome similes & metaphors any day of the week; Jack Ketchum; Edgar Allan Poe; The Reader by Bernhard Schlink; Nobody/s Angel by Jack Clark; The Professor and the Madman by Simon Winchester, et al.Filmmakers: Akira Kurosawa (Ihiru; Yojimbo); John Ford (almost anything by him); horror flicks: Maniac by William Lustig and Joe Spinnell; original Night of the Living Dead; original Texas Chainsaw Massacre; original When a Stranger Calls; The 400 Blows by Francois T.; the thrillers of Claude Chabrol; A Man Escaped by Bresson; the Japanese Zatoichi films;Tokyo Story by Ozu . . . and many other books, films and jazz musicians like the amazing tenor sax player Gene Ammons; Sonny Rollins, Chet Baker, Jack Sheldon, Stan Getz, Paul Desmond; singers like the incomparable Sarah Vaughan, Shirley Horn, Dion Warwick; Al Green, Elmore James, Lightnin Hopkins . . . to give you some idea.However, these days though, tv does not exist at all for me, nor do I care for most movies, in that I would much rather pick up a well-written book. I get more of a kick from reading than I do watching some actor pretend to be something he is not.Having said that, I confess that as a young man I did my share of wasting time watching the idiot box and spent my share of money going to the flicks. But those days are long gone, in that there is no interest in movies (be they cranked out by the Hollywood machine, or elsewhere).Final conclusion when it comes to celluloid? Movies are nothing more than a big waste of time (no matter who makes them). Reading feeds the brain, while movies puts the brain to sleep. There it is.

Book preview

High Praise for Kirk Alex

Lustmord: Anatomy of a Serial Butcher

Great book. Dark—yes. Grotesque—certainly. Sexually explicit—without a doubt. And the writing is excellent. Character & dialogue, is as real as it gets. A terrifying, non-putdownable horror.

—Jeff Bennington, Kindle Book Review

Throwback & Backlash

Love, Lust & Murder Series

Kirk Alex gets right down to it. There’s not a wasted word. If you don’t know his work, you should.

—Mark SaFranko, author of Lounge Lizard

Throwback:

Love, Lust & Murder Series – Book One

Starts out crazy, ends even crazier in the 2nd book. You don’t know what’s going to happen so you keep reading.

—Hidden Gems Review

Backlash:

Love, Lust & Murder Series – Book Two

I enjoyed the risqué nature of these books and was drawn to the ensuing hilarity and creativity of the story and characters.

—Hidden Gems Review

Zook

"Zook was a zoo ride! All of the characters were well written and you find yourself unable to put the book down! You might even find it a little sad. ***** out of 5 stars."

—NetGalley

Ziggy Popper at Large:

14 Tales of General Degeneracy, of Mayhem &

Debauchery – for the Morally Conflicted &

Borderline Criminal

Gruesome, violent, awesome! I absolutely LOOOVEEE Kirk Alex. I am always ready for his next book!! Extremely entertaining. A whole lot of violent, and just what I was looking for. Private detective Felix Choo-Choo Buschitsky and Ziggy Popper are now my two favorite characters. ***** out of 5 stars.

—NetGalley

nonentity

–A Rant For Those Who Can’t–

Presented as a Novel

This is a quick read and engrossing. I found myself wanting to know what happened. Many of the situations were funny in the way they were presented. Fast, easy read.

—NetGalley

This book is excellent. It’s full of honest, heartfelt writing that certainly shows a very different view of Hollywood.

—Paul Lappen, Dead Trees Review

Blood, Sweat and Chump Change

L.A. Taxi Tales & Vignettes

"After reading Blood, Sweat and Chump Change by Kirk Alex you understand why the American Dream needs liposuction. It’s all here: Hate, poetry, sadness, hope and the ache of an aloneness that never goes away. Belly up!"

—Dan Fante, author of Spitting Off Tall Buildings

by Kirk Alex

Crime Fiction:

Throwback: Love, Lust & Murder – Book One

Backlash: Love, Lust & Murder – Book Two

Ziggy Popper at Large – 14 Tales of General Degeneracy, of Mayhem & Debauchery – for the Morally Conflicted & Borderline Criminal

Horror:

Lustmord: Anatomy of a Serial Butcher

Zook

Chance Cash Register Tucson Working Stiff Series:

Paycheck to Paycheck

Loopy Soupy’s Motley Crew

Journey to the End of the Week

A Confederacy of Mooks

nonentity

You’re Gonna Have Trouble

L.A. Cab Exploits:

Working the Hard Side of the Street – Selected Stories/Poems/Screams

Blood, Sweat & Chump Change – L.A. Taxi Tales & Vignettes

Doc Holiday Contemporary Mystery Series:

Hush-Hush Holiday #1

Hubba-Hubba Holiday #2

Hollow-Point Holiday #3

Hard Noir Holiday #4

Hammer-Slammer Holiday #5

Hard Noir

Holiday

A Doc Holiday Private Eye Novel

#4

Kirk Alex

Tucumcari Press

Image1

Tucson – 2021

Copyright © 2020 Hard Noir Holiday — #4 by Kirk Alex

All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the canning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without permission of the publisher is unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the publisher. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

Tucumcari Press

PO Box 40998

Tucson, AZ 85717-0998

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

ISBN: 978-0-939122-96-7 (6x9 pbk)

ISBN: 978-0-939122-97-4 (ePUB)

First Printing, 2021

I am sick to death of a certain kind of genteel British thriller writer for whom murder is just a hobby. It ain’t. It’s a barbarous, horrible business.

—Derek Raymond, author of He Died With His Eyes Open

You couldn’t write the books I write unless you have been violently tempted to kill someone. Which I most certainly have in the past.

—Derek Raymond, author of The Devil’s Home On Leave

Chapter 1

Wrought iron gate was locked. There was a 6ft brick wall around the property. They hit the buzzer. Nada. Holiday looked at Lucretia Ferguson, not knowing what to think, while she went about inserting the key and unlocking the gate.

I don’t get it. Mom knew we were on our way.

Doc had nothing to respond with. The driveway that led to the garage in back was along the left side of the house. He noticed her look that way.

What is it, Lu?

Dad’s panel truck is gone. Mom’s car not being here, I can understand; but the agency van?

As they approached the house, climbed the stoop and crossed the porch itself, it became obvious to them both that the front door was ajar. And neither of them had failed to notice what may have been a bloody palm print on the jamb at about doorknob level. Doc slipped into a pair of disposable gloves, and they went in.

Chapter 2

Lucretia called out her dog’s name & got silence.

Mom?

About the only thing close to anything like a response came from Ilsa and Putsky pulling up in two Putsky’s Perfectionists vans. Woody Termite Putsky was the first to enter.

What’s up? he said.

Lucretia was in the back part, going through the bedrooms. Doc looked at Putsky and shook his head. Ilsa appeared. Stood in the doorway.

Mrs. Ferguson knew we were on our way, said Doc. Fender-bender tied us up for about twenty minutes, still . . . I don’t get why she wouldn’t have waited.

Lucretia had returned to the living room and rejoined the others.

Mom did mention she had to run to the store for a pack of cigarettes. She quit smoking years ago. Losing dad drove her back to it. Nerves; the hospital stay.

You check all the rooms? asked Putsky.

Lucretia nodded. Except the bathroom.

Putsky walked down the hallway a bit. First door on the right was to a closet and was half open. He pushed it back to open it further, and saw the safe in the floor where a long rug and a pile of shoes had been shoved aside under racks of clothing. There was a safe down there. Lid was up. Safe was empty. He was back in the hallway. Took a few steps. Opened a second door on the right, and stepped in. A moment later he called Doc’s name from the john. Holiday followed the voice. The elderly woman’s body was in the tub. What had been done to her wasn’t pretty. They looked at each other.

Ilsa had joined them. Took a quick look, and her immediate thought was to go to the daughter and prevent her from being exposed to it.

We’ll need stills of this, Woody, as well as the kitchen. . . .

Doc reached for his camera and realized he was not able to follow through. He knew the woman; had known her husband. It was too much. His belly went tight inside. He faltered for a brief moment, leaning against the wall.

Putsky held him up.

Lucretia could be heard screaming in the hallway and Ilsa doing her best to keep her from getting any closer to the bathroom. Ilsa was pleading with her.

You don’t want to go in there.

It’s my mother! I need to see my mother!

No, you don’t. I can’t let you.

"Get out of my way, lady! Mom! No! Mom!"

Ilsa guided the woman away and down the hallway toward the living room in front.

Doc’s eyes were welling. He shook his head.

"Damn. . . ."

You going to be all right, Doc?

I don’t know.

Stow the camera. Step out. Go see how the daughter’s doing. I’ll get this.

We’ll need stills and footy of everything; the grounds: back yard/front door. Don’t contaminate the crime scene.

I said I’ll get it, insisted Woody. Go see to the daughter. You know her better than we do. She needs somebody right now.

Doc stood there. Nodded.

They cleaned out the safe.

Huh?

There’s a safe in the hallway closet, said Putsky. Whoever did this cleaned out the safe. Whatever was in it. Any idea?

How would I know?

Can you find out?

Doc stared at him without saying anything.

"I don’t mean this minute, Doc."

Holiday remained in a daze.

"Go on. Get out of here. Now, Doc. Go."

On that, Termite drew his own still camera. Doc left to rejoin Ilsa and one distraught Lucretia Ferguson.

Chapter 3

"I promised I’d take good care of her," cried Lucretia, that I wouldn’t let anything happen to her, after what was done to dad!

Doc was in the living room, wiped his eyes. He wished he could have done something to console his friend and ease her pain. Ilsa did what she was able: had her arm about the other woman’s shoulder. Lucretia could not stop sobbing. Ilsa looked in Doc’s direction.

Holiday had been about to say something, not that he knew what to say exactly that would ease the woman’s agony, when a stench, hard to ignore, drew him to the kitchen. It was a foul odor. Stench of death. Close to it.

He stepped in, looked around. Noticed a dark sludge oozing from the bottom of the partially closed microwave door. No, he thought. Not that. Mrs. Ferguson had had a pet cat. He didn’t know what to think. Walked over. Hesitated. Reached for the handle and swung it open, and the sludge oozed on out and down to the floor. He choked, fighting the urge to vomit. There was what remained of Mrs. Ferguson’s cat inside.

The sudden/harrowing scream made him jump. Lucretia and Ilsa both were standing there a few feet in back of him. The daughter was hysterical, shaking her head violently.

Doc helped Ilsa guide Lucretia back to the sofa, who could not stop screaming out her dog’s name over and over.

"What have they done to Ryder? Where is he? Where’s Ryder?"

Ryder was a West Highland terrier Doc had presented her with a few years back to ease the pain of having had her Maltese mix Mala poisoned by unnamed detractors. And now Ryder was missing. Whereabouts unknown.

Putsky had reemerged from the back and had paused running the video camera for the time being. He looked at Doc. Waited for him to let him know what had just transpired. Doc indicated the microwave. Putsky had the video camera up and shot footage of it. When he was done he looked at Holiday.

Call TPD?

Not yet, said Holiday. There was some money in the safe. Not much. Items of jewelry. Not inordinately expensive. Had sentimental value, for the most part.

Anything else?

Not that Lu’s aware of.

You sure?

Want me to give her the 3rd degree at a time like this?

Just trying to get why this happened; get at the motive.

Doc nodded.

So, am asking: Anything else in the safe?

Not that she is aware of, said Doc once more.

Wouldn’t be a bad idea to talk to the neighbors. See if they heard or saw anything. And we need to work it fast. Local fuzz won’t be happy to discover we didn’t notify them right away.

After I take a look around in the backyard, said Doc, and left.

Chapter 4

I’d like to get out of here before the cops show, said Putsky, walking up to where Doc stood at the edge of the rose garden.

Doc nodded. Pointed to a set of footprints, where evidently the perp may have stepped when he or she scaled the wall.

Get footy of this.

I see it, said Putsky.

Wish we could dust the house for prints.

That’s where police departments have the advantage, said Termite.

"I want to give the neighbors a try before we vamoose, and we need to clear out before the cops get here. I’m not in the mood to be hassled by the local gendarmes."

Who is? said Termite. Only what about Lucretia? We can’t leave her by herself.

I guess I’ll have to stay behind, said Doc. Don’t leave until after I talk to the neighbors.

Wasn’t planning on it.

Think you can make a plaster cast of the footprint? Holiday asked his friend.

In the short time we got left before cops get here?

It’s a relatively small force, said Holiday. People are always quitting. Chief leans way to the left, so does the mayor.

We could easily get nailed for tampering with a crime scene, said Termite. Contamination.

I’ll worry about it later.

Trouble is, none of us is really any good when it comes to making plaster casts. And besides, there’s no time.

What then?

Stills. I’ll take stills.

There’s other footprints with the same pattern. See ‘em? Same individual, looks like.

I’ll take plenty, said Termite., and started snapping away from different angles.

This better work.

I’ll try both, said Termite. To be on the safe side.

Chapter 5

Doc walked to the modest two bedroom house to the left of Mrs. Ferguson’s place. There was a short brick wall along the sides and front. The gate consisted of new planks that had yet to be painted. Doc reached over for the latch, and let himself in. There was a concrete walkway. Flower garden along the right side, and more flowers and rose bushes along the base of the red brick that was the front of the house. There was a palo verde tree in the center.

Doc walked up to the screen door, pressed the doorbell. He heard the chimes but no one came to answer. He tried again, with same results. Either no one was home, or else they weren’t inclined to come to the door.

He walked over to the left side of the house and the driveway. Walked to the backyard. Garage door was closed, the backyard much larger and pretty much barren, but neat, clean, the lawn trimmed to perfection. Nothing for him to do but try the house to the right of the late Mrs. Ferguson.

This was Spanish style, adobe. Waist-high chainlink fence. Gate was not locked. He went through. Knocked on the door. A woman in her 50s answered, her poodle at her side. Holiday knew Doris Chesky from previous visits to the Old Pueblo. Mrs. Chesky invited him in. Did what she was able to cooperate.

Had she heard anything? Seen anything?

It’s Ivy, isn’t it? What’s happened?

Doc didn’t have the words, nor did he wish to go into it.

Someone broke into her place. . . .

Was she. . . ?

Don’t know yet, Mrs. Chesky, but she’s . . .

Murdered?

Doc nodded.

Oh no. . . .

The woman wept. And Lucretia, does she know?

She’s in there now, and could use the support. I have a friend consoling her as we speak. She won’t be able to stay with her.

She looked at the business card again.

She spoke of you. Mrs. Ferguson’s husband thought the world of you. Loved you like a son.

He was a father figure, no doubt, said Doc.

Mrs. Chesky grabbed a sweater, the leash her dog was attached to, her purse. She opened the purse to make sure that her handgun was in it.

Dog-nappers, she said. Had to buy a gun to protect my Elsie. It’s the scum who engage in illegal dog fighting. Tried to grab her in my front yard one evening, and I chased them off with a ball bat. The gun works better as a deterrent. I’m a good shot. Let them try it again.

You get enough practice in, I suppose.

There’s an indoor shooting range at Swan and 29th. I’m in there at least once a week. Used to go with the Fergusons, the whole family. Well, Ivy didn’t like guns, but the daughter and her father, they went in to stay sharp.

Doc felt a need to go over some of the same questions.

You must’ve heard something. Lucretia’s dog is missing.

Elsie was barking. She has different barks for different things. This was a people bark, I was sure of it. But when I went to take a look, I didn’t see anything: front or back. I had water running in the tub, with epsom salt—for my back and ankles, so it made it difficult to make out much of anything.

She was back on the dog-nappers.

Dog nappers? said Doc.

Yes, sir. Dog nappers. How they train pit bulls for their fights, by letting them practice on defenseless dogs who aren’t aggressive to begin with. And they get mangled, literally. Gives me chills to even think about it.

Here in Tucson?

Of course not. Out of town: Tombstone/Bisbee/Three Points; other places. You’re a detective, I’m surprised you weren’t aware.

Based in LA. Dog-fighting is mostly extinct by now. Yes, it exists. Some still. Out in the sticks. It goes on, but hardly in LA proper.

They walked outside. Reached the Ferguson residence as an ambulance quietly pulled up. The coroner’s wagon drove up soon after. Putsky stood outside his van, waiting. Doc paused there, suggested to Mrs. Chesky she go in the house and that he would be there himself in a minute. She nodded, entered the front yard.

Got the plaster cast, said Putsky.

I want it, said Doc. Got to see to Lucretia for a second.

Termite reminded him that TPD people were also on their way.

Chapter 6

Doc entered the Ferguson residence. Lucretia remained a wreck, but at least the sobs were not as violent. She had her arms folded across her stomach and was leaning over from where she sat on the sofa. Mrs. Chesky was sitting next to her and had her arm about her shoulders.

Ilsa gestured with forefinger against her lips that he not say anything, and walked him over to the phone. She picked it up and unscrewed the receiver. There was a bug inside. Doc sighed. Looked down. Ilsa made another gesture, that he follow her to a bedroom in the back, whereby she repeated the process with this phone as well. There was a listening device inside. She returned the receiver, walked him to the other bedroom. Indicated the same thing.

Doc asked if Lucretia knew. Ilsa nodded. The two of them walked outside to talk to Putsky, who held a paper sack that contained the plastic container with the plaster cast. He handed it to Doc, who stowed it in the trunk of his car.

What are you going to do? asked Termite.

I can’t leave Lucretia by herself right now, not the state she’s in.

She’s got the neighbor woman with her, Doc.

Can’t just take off. Someone will have to stick around to deal with whoever TPD sends out. Then: Wouldn’t be a bad idea to talk to people who live on the other side of the alley in back, as well as the people who live in the house to the left.

How about if we let Tucson PD handle it? said Termite.

Who’s saying they won’t be?

We’re not law enforcement, Doc. I realize you were close. . . .

Forget it, then. I’ll get on it.

We can do it, Doc, said Ilsa, and we should.

We won’t be able to canvas the entire block, but if we could talk to some of the neighbors at least. . . . I can’t think clearly right now.

We get it, Doc, said Ilsa. Let’s go, Woody. You knock on three or four of the houses to the left, I’ll knock on as many doors to the right. See what we can come up with.

And what about the neighbors across the street there? said Doc.

We can do that, sure said Putsky. Only it looks like whoever did this came in from the back alley.

Yeah, but it looks like they drove out the front gate in the family van, Doc pointed out. Then said: I’ll meet you at the shoe store.

What shoe store?

Up there on Broadway, next door to the Funky Monkey burger joint. Cops are going to want to ask a few questions. The daughter’s not in any condition to deal with that.

Good enough. Ilsa and I will meet up with you at the burger place, after we canvas the area. Come on, Ilsa.

I’d ask if you’d like for us to order a burger for you, said Ilsa. In light of what’s happened, I doubt you’re in the mood for food.

I’ll get there as soon as I can, said Doc. I’d like to stop by the shoe store in that strip mall up there and see if they can pinpoint the type of shoe we got that cast of. Right now I’ve got to see to it Lucretia is taken care of and not left by herself

They drove off, just as the first marked car pulled up.

A cop, about 30, got out. Short, white, with light brown hair. Uniform was dark blue, close to black, not unlike the typical LA cop uniform. Holiday showed him ID. He was told that the homicide investigator was on his way, and they went inside.

Chapter 7

Doc entered the Funky Monkey. Paused there for a bit, taking in the place. Noticed Ilsa sitting at the counter on his left, and appeared to be consoling a brunette in her mid-20s. The woman wore a flight attendant’s uniform. Termite was sitting at a table in the middle of the room eating a burger. He also had a basket of fries in front of him. Holiday walked on to his table. Pulled up a chair.

Any luck?

Termite shook his head.

All the peeps home?

But one.

And no one heard or saw a damned thing? Even with all the dogs in the area?

Oh, dogs barked, said Putsky, but no one bothered to go out and see the reason why.

Doc was looking down, from side to side; rubbed his hands together.

What the cops say?

The usual, said Holiday, and not to leave town.

We got a few clean-up gigs anyway. Would like to stay long enough to get established here; sell a franchise or two. Maybe spend some time with my kids. If the ex hasn’t decided to skip town while I’m here. She’s got a habit of pulling stunts like that.

Oh yeah. Fuzz noticed you took off in the van, and wanted to know why.

Dig in, said Putsky, indicating the pile of jalapeño fries. Doc ate a fry, but his heart wasn’t in it. A waiter stopped by their table, inquired if Doc wanted to order anything. PI ordered coffee. Before the man left, Putsky let it be known he had something to say to him.

"Let the owner know you folks make the best damned burger I’ve ever had, anywhere. And I mean anywhere. Period. Bar none."

You just did. And thank you.

What was that? said Woody.

I’m the owner.

Man was tall, dark-haired. Mid-30s.

We’re based in LA, said Termite, "but this here is reason enough by itself to come out to Tucson. Love In ’n Out, mind you. But you guys have them beat by a mile. Some others are not bad, either. But yours remains tops."

Thank you, sir, said the man. You’re very kind. And he left.

Doc turned his head, his eyes on Ilsa, who continued to comfort the woman back there at the counter.

What’s going on with Ilsa and the distressed lady?

Woman was in a bar on 4th Avenue the other night. Was slipped a Mickey. When she came to on a bus bench not far from here the next day she realized she had a fresh surgery scar along her right side. More accurately: she’d been cut open, the wound stitched sloppily together and a half-ass Band-Aid slapped on there afterwords. A doctor at a clinic in the area informed her she was short a kidney.

"Wait a minute."

You heard right.

She was drugged, and had a kidney taken without her consent.

She missed her ride back to the airport earlier with the rest of the crew she came in with. Too upset over what happened. Who can blame her? He chewed on a French fry, said: Crew stays at the Marriott in back of us.

What’ve we got going on here? Organ harvesting? I thought that sort of thing happened in third world countries.

It happens here, but you don’t hear about it; particularly at the border, with illegals. How they pay their way in, to the coyotes, or else once they get them inside, can’t pay? The relatives refuse to, or can’t afford it, they take them to a secret facility, knock them out; help themselves to a vital organ. Bingo. Else they’re forced into prostitution. Males have to pay it off in other ways.

What other ways?

Manual labor for slave wages: digging tunnels, or pull a hit or two or three for the cartels; do other things for them. Smuggle weed/crystal meth/Ex/steroids/Fentanyl.

I knew organ harvesting went on. In other countries. Nothing new. But now it’s taking place here in the States?

Have another fry.

Doc shook his head.

Order you a burger?

Doc shook his head.

Got Lucretia on my mind. I should be with her. I should have stayed behind.

There’s that shoe store you wanted to check out, talk to someone inside, see if they can recognize the print design.

If it was even bought here, said Doc.

What do we got to lose?

Doc’s eyes were welling.

I know, said Putsky. When someone like that gets it it hurts.

Her husband was a good man, kind, so was Mrs. Ferguson. Treated me like a son. Lucretia’s by herself. She’s got a brother, but he’s overseas, in the military. He paused, rubbing his temples. They took her dog.

Her dog?

Doc nodded. "Lucretia had this dog that I got for her, a West Highland terrier, to replace her other dog that was poisoned a while back, not long after her father was killed. I thought I mentioned it to you and Ilsa. Lu and her mother were getting threatening phone calls, hang-ups, then the dog was poisoned. Had her line tapped, no doubt. I didn’t mention the bugs in the current phones. Ilsa discovered them. Follow the money, find the truth is what Mrs. Ferguson told Lucretia to pass on to me. What Mr. Ferguson told his wife: Follow the money, find the truth."

Putsky bit into the burger. Had a hit of beer. Ilsa joined them.

Chapter 8

The lady’s name is Mercedes De La Paz, said Ilsa. She hasn’t got a dime. All IDs taken, credit cards and cash. She lives in Phoenix. Her boyfriend’s a flight attendant himself. In Spain at the moment. Her mother passed away years ago, and she has no idea where her father is, not that they were on good terms to begin with. What do we do?

She try the cops? There’s a sub-station not far from here.

They laughed at her.

Hold on—

They filed a report, but you know nothing will come of it. We should help.

She’s a flight attendant?

With a regional airline.

She bit into her burger; had a sip of her beer. Looked up.

We should help. Somebody needs to. After what she’s been through.

Keep one thing in mind, Ilsa, said Putsky.

We’re here on business, said Ilsa.

First and foremost. We’ve got cleaning gigs to tend to, people to train I sold permission to use our name.

Yes, said Ilsa. I still think we can do both.

We can’t leave Lucretia dangling in the wind after what’s happened there, said Doc. First she loses her father, then her mother is murdered.

It just occurred to me, said Ilsa. Your friend Lucretia is by herself right now. That’s a big house. Three bedroom, is it not? Mercedes needs a place to stay for a while, until her IDs are restored and credit cards replaced. Also, it’s not a good idea to leave Lucretia alone at this time.

She rose. Reached for the basket her fries and burger were in, the beer.

I almost forgot: Lucretia would like for you to stay with her, Doc. We were all invited, in fact, to stay with her while we’re here in the Old Pueblo.

On that she walked back to where the flight attendant sat at the counter.

Chapter 9

Putsky gave Doc the look.

It’s not like that at all, Woody; especially not at a time like this. She’s a great lady, class. I like her more than I can say. She can use the support right now.

What I’m getting at, said Putsky. Nothing more.

I know you.

You need a woman in your life. She needs a man.

Doc’s cell went off. He spoke into it for a brief spell. Looked up.

The neighbor, said Doc. Mrs. Chesky. Lucretia can’t face staying in her parents’ house by herself after what’s happened, nor would it make any difference if anyone else stayed there with her. It’s just not possible. Too tough to bear. She’ll stay with Doris, the neighbor, for a while, then hopes to go back to her own place.

Woody nodded. Doc rose.

I’m going next door to see what I can dig up.

Luck, said Woody.

Chapter 10

When Holiday returned a short while later he had some info.

Running shoe. Not cheap.

And?

Sold a few. Not many. Due to price.

Yes?

Salesman was new. The guy who may have sold them was not in. I’ll have to try tomorrow.

Can’t be the only shoe store that sells them, reminded Woody. Don’t get your hopes up.

I’m not, said Doc. Not many shoe stores that sell high-end, top of the line running shoes like that in a town like this. We’re not in LA. Tucson is spread out, sort of like LA, but way smaller.

Pop half a mil, said Putsky. With another half mil if you included Pima County. Nothing compared to City of Lost Assholes. Anyway, we should decide what to do about the flight attendant.

Ilsa was back. Pulled up a chair.

Not a good idea to discuss something like this over the phone, guys, she said. I suggest we go talk to Lucretia in person.

Doc and Woody informed her of the latest with Lucretia, that she was staying with her next door neighbor for the time being.

She has her own place, reminded Doc. The only reason she’s staying with Mrs. Chesky is because she’d rather not go home and be by herself. With Mercedes there, and either Ilsa or myself—that changes things.

You and Ilsa go on, take the flight attendant with you, said Putsky. I’m taking my dogs for a walk, then I go looking for a bar, have a couple of beers before I head back to the motel. He paused. Scratched the back of his head. Let’s not forget the neighbor on the left. You said they were out?

Or at least not answering the door, said Doc.

Write that one down, said Termite. One of us needs to go back there and talk to them. Ask Lucretia, better yet: ask this Doris Chesky about them. See who they are; what they’re about.

Good enough, said Doc.

Woody wiped his mouth with a paper napkin and was out the door. Ilsa and Doc walked to where Mercedes remained seated at the counter and was doing her best to calm down.

Ilsa introduced them. Explained the situation to her. Mercedes nodded. She was fine with it.

So long as it’s not an imposition.

No matter what happens, said Ilsa, you won’t be left stranded. One way or another, this will get resolved. You’ll be fine. Even if I have to drive you back to Phoenix myself.

Mercedes’ eyes had begun to well again. She wiped at the tears with the back of her hand.

You’re kind, she said. Thank you both.

Doc handed her one of his business cards, so did Ilsa. Doc called Lucretia on his cell. Spoke with Mrs. Chesky, and let her know he and his associate Ilsa Goth were stopping by. Thought to ask about the neighbor who resided to the left of the Ferguson house.

He’s a nasty old curmudgeon who talks to himself all the time, said Mrs. Chesky. Likes to yell and curse at people when their dogs go on the property, or even if they should drop a cigarette butt on the sidewalk in front of his place.

Man have a name, Mrs. Chesky?

Zeb Spiffle, she said. Certified jerk. Forgive my French, but that’s what he is. One unhappy bastard. Rumor is he had trouble down there; you know? Manhood. And the ensuing surgery didn’t take. Cost him a fortune, too. So he’s angry at the world over it.

He does what for a living?

"Was a security guard—somewhere, not here. New Mexico, I believe. He’s a bitter/wannabe cop. Applied with more than a dozen different police departments over the years—and got rejected by every single one. Worked in security for different companies. About as close as he ever got to law-enforcement. Was let go, fired, every time—for one reason or another. Finally got caught stealing tools while employed as a department store dick in Santa Fe. Washed buses and worked as a mechanic at a local shuttle company for years. He’s retired now. His daughter and her baby stay with him. She’s a sweet kid; the baby is simply an angel. Spiffle is something else, and we all do what we can to avoid him. The creep even threatened to shoot my late husband once because our dog stopped to relieve himself on the patch of grass on the sidewalk. Not even on his own lawn, but on the sidewalk. That’s the type of chronically unhappy creepo the man is."

Doc thanked her. The trio walked outside.

Chapter 11

Ilsa, Doc and Mercedes arrived at Mrs. Chesky’s. Evidently Lucretia had taken a couple of sleeping pills and was resting in one of the bedrooms in the back.

The police and their questions. It was tough on her, said Mrs. Chesky.

Ilsa explained Mercedes’ situation to the woman. Doris Chesky was willing to help. Ilsa, Lucretia and Mercedes were welcome to stay, but as this was but a modest two bedroom house, one of them would have to sleep on the sofa.

I have blankets and enough pillows, said Mrs. Chesky.

Doc thanked her. The woman gestured that he follow her to the kitchen for a chat away from the others. She had something to say in private.

Have you talked to Spiffle?

Doc didn’t pick up on the name right away.

You know?—Zeb Spiffle. The congenital SOB.

Not yet, ma’am.

Well, just watch yourself. He’s probably got an arsenal in there. Keeps to himself. Just as well. Makes everyone around here nervous. This is a wonderful community. Lived here practically my whole life. Neighbors are good people, nice. It was a good place to live, until Spiffle moved in about ten years ago.

You say he was a security guard once?

She nodded.

California and New Mexico. My late husband knew more about him than I do. He had him checked out when he was threatened. That’s why I say watch yourself.

What did your husband do for a living, if you don’t mind my asking, Mrs. Chesky?

Mitch? Rest his soul. He was a pilot with American Airlines.

Doc thanked her again. He and Mrs. Chesky returned to the living room.

Ilsa, having decided not to stay here, would return to her motel instead. Mercedes, it was agreed, would stay with Ilsa for the time being. Doc and the two women left the premises.

Chapter 12

Holiday had recounted the info Doris Chesky had confided in him to Ilsa. They had Mercedes wait in the van while the two of them walked to Zeb Spiffle’s front gate. Opened it, and walked through.

Lawn was spotless; in fact, everything about the two bedroom house appeared absolutely spotless: house had evidently been painted recently; the windows were clean and sparkled. The driveway did not have a bit of litter along it. This was certainly a cared for domicile.

They were at the front door that was solid wood. Rang the doorbell. Once, twice; then a third time. A narrow slot at about eye level was slid open, and a pair of piercing blue eyes stared at them through it. To the right of the right temple, held vertically, section of a shotgun barrel was visible.

State your business.

Mr. Spiffle?

"Got the name right. State your business."

Doc held up a calling card.

Would like to speak with you, sir, about what happened next door to your neighbor.

Got nothing to say to you, said the man with the gravely voice. Talked to the piggies. Answered their stupid questions. Now, you two need to get off my property.

A woman was murdered, sir, said Doc. She was a good friend. It would really help if you might give us a few minutes of your time, Mr. Spiffle.

You must be hard of hearing, ass-wipe, said Zeb Spiffle. Walk off, or get carried off—in a slop bucket. Makes no difference to me.

You’ll talk to us, sir, said Ilsa. One way or another. This will not be swept under the rug.

You got balls, for a broad, said Spiffle. Some punks get an orgasm over it, I don’t. I’m not impressed. He cocked his shotgun. The distinct sound could be clearly heard from where Doc and his associate stood. If I open this door, you won’t like what follows.

Ilsa and Doc exchanged looks: this guy was clearly some kind of a-hole. Mrs. Chesky had him pegged right.

All right, sir, said Ilsa. We’ll give you this round. So long as you remember: We’ll talk. It may not be today, or tomorrow, but we will talk.

Up your ass, said the man. And don’t bother coming back. Because if you do, it’s my shotgun that will be doing the talking.

Doc and Ilsa turned to walk back to the van, when they heard the door in back of them open. Both paused long enough to take a look at the balding/middle-age male standing in the doorway, scowling. Spiffle was stocky. Had a beer gut hard to miss. At least he knew enough to keep the pump-action/two-fisted sawed-off pointed at the sky. Doc and his friend continued on toward the sidewalk.

Ilsa was on her cell to Termite. Related what had gone down with Spiffle. Termite could be heard chuckling at the other end.

Sounds like a real punk, said he. No problem. We’ll pay him a visit when he least expects it. We definitely need to talk to this mook.

Termite asked for his full name, address; what he looked like, who lived with him. Ilsa did that.

Chapter 13

Goth drove off with the flight attendant. Doc drove his Falcon to a liquor store to pick up a 6-Pack, and then to his motel to mull things over and deal with the anguish that came with losing a friend. Only the way the woman had been murdered made it doubly tough. Mourning was never fun. The gruesome images that had settled in his mind’s eye made it close to excruciating.

He guzzled a can of brew, then he had another, fighting off tears. He hoped for sleep to make it all go away, and finally succeeded late into the night. He had loved the woman, had loved her hubs and the daughter. These folks epitomized kindness. Had reminded him so much of his late parents.

He knew it was pointless to ask Why? He did so anyway. Did so knowing the answer was always the same. And answered nothing; cleared up nothing: Because life could be a bitch sometimes. Because life hit hard at times—and you wasted your time asking for it to make sense.

The universe didn’t give a damn; that’s why. There’s your answer, Doc. And god was a powerless mook with no more power to do anything about any of it than Bozo the Clown.

He wiped tears, and wiped—and wished they would go away. But how in hell do you stop it? It happened on its own. Teardrops, and the aches in your belly. He missed the woman, missed her husband: Jerry J. Friends. And he had to remind himself to make sure nothing of the kind happened to Lucretia now. Lucretia, the good-hearted offspring. Raised by two caring peeps, who was parentless now. Out of the blue. For no real reason that he could think of.

He cursed under his breath. Stared at the ceiling. Looked away. Had his right forearm over his eyes. Rubbed at them, rubbed at the tears that would not stop flowing. He kicked out with his right leg; kicked at the air.

He thought of his own parents: the brother who was gone, and the bent cop who had squashed his life so quickly and recklessly and never showed a bit of remorse. McCrud, better yet: McTurd.

There were times he had come so close to doing to him what he had done to his brother. Dudleigh McTurd. Useless human. Walking scummy miscreant. The badge they gave to some of these psychos was nothing more than a license to kill. And they killed. And walked to tell about it. Chuckle it off. Another notch on the belt.

Get off it, Doc. Get off it. You’re hurting no one but yourself this way. Stop. Stop it. You’ve got Lucretia to think of, to help. She’ll need your support to get through this. Be there for her. Be there. Be a good friend to this wonderful human being; to this exceptional woman. Be there. Pull yourself together. Be there for her.

It was late when he finally, at last, gratefully dozed off.

Chapter 14

Doc was awakened by his cell way too early the next morning. Ilsa was calling with a sense of urgency.

I don’t have time for this, Ilsa.

Doc, hear me out.

He looked at the clock. It wasn’t even ten a.m.

She went into it.

Mercedes had been talking to a blond man with a deep tan—from California, and a local girl.

There has to be more to this, Ilsa.

"There is. The man’s name is Maynard. We were in the bar. I had Mercedes walk me through the whole thing, repeat exactly what took place that night she was here and slipped the Mickey. She was woozy, escorted to the ladies room by the girl, and she feels she was walked outside through the rear exit toward the parking lot just before she passed out."

"Ilsa, I’ve got a friend whose mother was murdered. Follow The Money Trail, remember?"

We walk outside, and who should we come across? This Maynard guy from LA; aka Eric Love. Ring a bell?

Hold on—

"Eric Love, Doc. ‘Johnson Appleseed.’ The very same. Staggering about—in his boxers. No clothes or shoes, and he’s got a scar along his right side. Get this: the