Chilli Dawgg: Private Eye

By Charles D. Taylor

A beautifully prostitute hires P.I., Chilli Dawgg to prove a cutup body found in barrels near Vero Beach, Fl. Is or isnt her girlfriend that is missing.
The case takes our P.I. from Vero Beach, Fl. Via cattle farms, the Florida everglades, Mexican vacation resorts, Mexico city and back to Florida. Meeting many interesting characters, our hero falls victim to a human Santeria sacrificial rites. Red Dog, Chilli Dawggs former partner, saves the day and our protagonist. Chilli Dawggs client and girlfriend are analyzed revealing true cause of investigation.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: May 6, 2011
• ISBN: 9781462865130

Charles D. Taylor

CHARLES D. TAYLOR Author was born and raised in west end of Louisville, Ky during roaring 20s and depression 30s, Joined Navy in 1943..After the war he spent 3 years at Spenserian College majoring in accounting. Began writing in his early 70s as a hobby.

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Copyright © 2011 by Charles D. Taylor.

Library of Congress Control Number:       2011906828

ISBN:         Hardcover                               978-1-4628-6512-3

                   Softcover                                 978-1-4628-6511-6

                   Ebook                                      978-1-4628-6513-0

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted

in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system,

without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the

product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events,

or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

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96271

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1

It was going to be another hot and salutary afternoon. The ninety-four-degree air takes one’s breath away. I was searching desk drawers for my bottle of Wild Turkey, which was wrapped in a dirty brown paper bag and sporting sweaty handprints. It was in the last drawer as expected.

I unscrewed the top and poured it into the only glass left from the original four I’d purchased the day I moved into this dilapidated storefront office and home.

A few drops of brown liquid trickled into the bottom of my glass. The bottle was dry and empty, just like my throat and wallet. There was $38 left from my monthly retirement, and it’s only the fifteenth of the month.

I was out of money, out of whiskey, and out of clients, with a ton of bills addressed to Chilli Dawgg, Chilli Dawgg’s Detective Agency, 4435 A1A, Vero Beach, Florida, unopened atop a cluttered desk.

Sidetracking from the mail, I picked up the Vero Beach Press Journal. The front page was dedicated to the murders. I read with interest: "In Holopaw, outside of Vero Beach, Florida, investigators drawn by the stench of rotting flesh and the sight of reddish-brown ooze found the bodies of the missing wealthy Palm Springs industrialist and his girlfriend stuffed in fifty-five-gallon barrels in an irrigation ditch last Saturday.

"`It’s definitely the bodies,’ said Carl Dittimore, communication supervisor for the Vero Beach police.

Detectives had been searching for the bodies ever since an immigrant worker told them about a horrible stench in a cattle field off SR 60. The police said they had no indication the couple were dead until Thursday, when detectives found a bloody packing box and a fingernail believed to be the man’s in a Ft. Pierce alley behind a Santano store.

I stopped reading when Mikey, my stubby-legged purebred Munchkin cat that looked more like a mutant sausage than a cat, meowed and rubbed herself against my leg to be fed. I put the paper down, still pissed at her for killing a baby lovebird.

The small bird tried to get away, but when it knew it was going to die, it went into shock. Mikey dropped the dead bird at my feet as a trophy.

Feeling remorse for the poor exanimate bird, I mused why some die early while others live a full life. I pondered life and death as I marveled at Mother Nature’s way of providing shock to offset the fear and pain of those facing their demise.

Many cat fanciers used to say that Munchkin’s truncated forelegs are a deformity and that it was wrong to breed for the trait. Others said the cat was just different and that it can menace mice and shred upholstery just like the rest of them. I never fancied cats, but I took to Mikey because she reminded me of myself—a breed all to her own, independent, and resourceful. Maverick people admired but didn’t care to emulate. I found Mikey cowering from a pit bull under my Chevy station wagon. I fed her from a fifty-pound bag of dry cat food, and she took up residency.

A plastic bowl under the sink, which would catch a dripping pipe I had planned to fix someday, was her personal drinking fountain and one of the reasons I kept her around. She would come and go via a torn hole in a window screen and would never do her business inside. She may have been ugly, but she was not dumb, for she knew that if she ever messed up, she’d have to find another abode.

We had an agreement: she would keep her distance and I would keep mine. The only time she was friendly was whenever her fifty-pound bag of feed would start to run low.

I looked over the pile of bills, thinking, Why open them . . . I can’t pay any . . . when the front doorbell tripped.

2

A gorgeous blonde poured through the sunlit opening. Her beauty took my breath away again. Once inside, she didn’t move. The sun at her back created a sexy long shadowgraph over the desk and ceiling. She wasn’t wearing bra or panties. The x-ray sun exposed a mound of fuzzy mane between her slim legs, while her large firm breasts and hard nipples protruded through her tight-fitting thin cotton dress, augmenting a Miss America physique. I was staring at sex personified, the essence every red-blooded man dreams of. The atmosphere cooled when I questioned her presence in my humble establishment.

I’m looking for Mr. Chilli Dawgg, the detective. Am I in the right place, you all? she purred, with an acquired Southern drawl, in one of the sexiest voices I’d heard since Lauren Bacall asked Humphrey Bogart if he knew how to whistle.

You got your ducks in the right pond, I replied, awestruck, waving her to my sofa bed I used for a couch, tossing the dead Indian in the trash and giving her my undivided attention.

Can I get you a drink or something? Knowing damn well tap water was all I could muster.

No, thank you, all. It just makes one hotter, doesn’t it? she purred again as she took out a silk handkerchief from an