Max and Friends: This Is Not a Children’S Book

By James Beeson

Max Crater is a private investigator who construes all his clients to be his friends.
His mundane life took a dramatic shift when one of his friends was shot to death and another friend embroiled him tangentially into the recreational drug business and directly into the intrusion of a Russian crime syndicate.
Along the way, he found new meaning to such words as brothel, paternity, cremation, bloody stubs, evolution, and (ah!) true love.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Dec 15, 2015
• ISBN: 9781514434222

James Beeson

Dr. Beeson was born in 1926, the son of an Indiana farmer. He skipped the 12th. grade, was accepted in to the Navy College Training Program, and sent to Notre Dame University. He graduated from Indiana Medical School at 22. He is a board certified anesthesiologist who practiced his profession for 42 years in Jacksonville, FL. He was a caregiver for his beloved wife for six years. He married his late wife's best friend (widow). who was, is and ever will be beloved. He has five children, several stepchildren, grandchildren, step grandchildren, and a growing number of "greats" whom he loves with all his heart. He is chronically happy. How could he be otherwise?

Book preview

Chapter One

His name was Max Crater—crater, as in a lake or a bomb’s excavation. I guess it’s English. He asked his mother why she named him Max. Her insightful response was I liked the name.

That’ll do.

When he was a kid, he was fascinated with dinosaurs, and he wanted to change his name to Rex, as in Tyrannosaurus. She said he could give it a try as soon as he was self-supporting. At ten years of age, he determined that would not be anytime soon. She said he could petition the court then. That sounded kind of whiney to him. He got a lot of that stuff from her when he made efforts to mature too early.

She’s still alive and well, bless her heart. They’re not geographically close, what with her being in Richmond, Indiana, and him with his weathered shingle hung out in Florida, but they do stay in touch.

He loved his late dad, but he hoped he had inherited his mother’s longevity trend rather than the coronary artery disease thing that shortened his father’s stay here. He did leave Mom comfortable, so she didn’t have to work when he passed. Stents and open-heart surgery didn’t seem to benefit him all that much. Bad for statistics.

She’d been a widow for fifteen years or so. He wouldn’t have minded if she had found another soul mate and married again. She casually dated some. Couple of months tops and he’d be history. She would come to the conclusion that her suitors were more interested in her bank account than her soul. Imagine that!

Max was forty now. He had a poorly developed abdominal six-pack in his youth. It was more like a keg these days. It’s said that life begins at forty. He’s waiting.

He received a criminology degree from FSU when he was twenty-two. He admired the police, generically. He admired the military too. At that time, our country was trying to make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear called Iraq. Flipped a coin. The army won.

Before long, he was a second lieutenant stationed in Iraq, in security work. He wasn’t keen on the concept that he could have gone out and tried to kill people who very much wanted to kill him, so the cloak-and-dagger job suited him just fine.

He didn’t do any world-saving maneuvers there, but he did seem to have a faculty for ferreting out of sticky wickets. He had an English buddy there. That’s where the idea of becoming a private eye came to pass.

He exited the army on schedule, and he was still a Max. Rex the king! Arrrughhh! Oh well.

Chapter Two

He opened his office fourteen years ago. Didn’t have a short-skirted low-bodiced secretary back then. Just him.

His first case, as you might guess, was a lady who was sure her husband was cheating on her but needed proof so that she could financially emasculate the poor man when she divorced him.

It was like tracking bleeding elephants through the snow. The turkey used his own credit card at the hotel—several times. Max easily made pictures of the hotel ledger (a twenty-dollar bill to the clerk, who turned his back on him for ten seconds). That’s a $7,200-an-hour rate. He got some dandy pictures of him and his playmate.

His client was ever so pleased. A week later, her philandering husband was ever so displeased, and Max had his first thousand-dollar fee.

Little by little, his client base enlarged to where he could afford that trophy secretary, complete with the perennial gum chewing. Linda. She was a looker, but he wanted to keep church and state separate, so it was strictly professional with them. Of course, he had a concealed weapons permit that he knew how to use—the gun, that is. He hadn’t fired his gun in anger yet.

He was strictly hetero. Girls had come and gone. He couldn’t commit. Several wanted to make a nest, which might have allowed consideration, but they usually wanted to lay eggs too. He was totally unready for that. So here he was at forty, and Mother has quit nagging him about not giving her a grandchild. He kept telling her that his sister had four adorable children, and they were very nice, or so he had heard.

He was six one, 182 pounds, and fairly muscular. He had a very strong grip. Not cultivated, just natural. He didn’t exercise just to exercise. Alligators don’t do much exercising, and look how strong they are.

He’d been told that he had that ruggedly handsome Richard Boone look without the acne overlay.

Right then, he was sorta twixt and tween in his love life and current cases, which allowed him to respond promptly to a request from one Nora Ortega for a consultation. She owned a statuary and antique business and, to use the news media term, allegedly was the local queen of the recreational drug providers.

They met first semisecretly at a restaurant of her choosing. She had suspicions that there was a traitor in her organization, and she needed an outsider to investigate. While he was at it, she wanted him to upgrade her twenty-year-old security system. She wanted to dismiss the deviant. He did not ask her to define dismiss.

Oh, she said he would not be involved in any activity that might be (allegedly) illegal.

His secretary, never reticent about minding her own business, thought he shouldn’t work for a lady with such a shady reputation. When he told her he’d be getting five hundred a day, she changed her tune, but Just this once!

Mrs. Ortega was a survivor, unlike her husband, his brother, her younger daughter, and her niece and nephew, who mostly succumbed to lead poisoning. That’s PI jargon for shot.

At two different times (one from a Miami group and one from a Lost Wages group), attempts were made to horn in on her operation. Both groups drew back bloody stubs and didn’t stay around long.

On one occasion, an undercover policeman infiltrated her organization. He was identified and fed disinformation, leading to a high-profile raid that found nothing.

She was a pillar in her church. What’s a pillar? Moral compass deviations count less than donations. She allegedly had somehow managed to have an absconding husband of a terminally ill parishioner from her church eliminated a continent away. The money the scoundrel had taken was returned to the lady just before she died. The money then inured to her church.

Despite all the wild stories about her, true and false, she appeared motherly and benign on the surface. She offered more than the going rate for his services. She did leave out one little wrinkle when she told him what she wanted. He accepted.

Two days later, he came on board her compound in the Mandarin area. There were two big adjacent houses involved. At first glance, the security seemed satisfactory. She wanted it better than that. You know how home inspectors are; there’s always something wrong. Otherwise, they’d be out of a job.

Max was introduced as a consultant on the property’s security system. The first day or so, he was viewed with some suspicion by her staff, but as he made valid suggestions here and there, he earned grudging credit for his expertise.

You seen her daughter? one of the staff asked him.

No, what’s she like?

Not bad lookin’ but cold as ice. Hates to smile. Doesn’t associate with us mere mortals much.

Is she the only other female on the compound?

Yeah, well, there is the cook, she’s a lady.

Mrs. Ortega seems very nice, Max offered.

She is, but don’t cross her. She’s a good friend but a badass enemy.

Have you seen any of her enemies?

Not directly. Which meant the conversation was at an end.

Right off the bat, their security cameras were all sticking out like sore thumbs and were probably outdated. Newer models were less obtrusive, had more clarity, and ran much longer without a rewind.

She thanked him and asked whom he might suggest for such an upgrade. He knew a dependable source and gave his name, rank, and serial number to her. She wrote it all down.

I’m not remembering things as well as I used to, she said disarmingly.

My photographic memory ran out of film a long time ago, he countered.

She gave a hearty laugh, a nice laugh. He liked her.

About then, the daughter showed up. She was prettier than he had been led to believe. Lots of raving beauties at twenty are considerably less so at forty, which was about the age he took her to be. She had the early crow’s feet by her eyes and a bit of graying of her hair, but she was beautiful. He was wishing she would smile. Her mother introduced them. She was Vanessa (call her Van). She had a wisp of a smile as they shook hands. Very firm grip for a lady. He returned the favor.

I like a firm handshake, she said with a decent smile.

So do I.

You’re what? Six feet, 188 pounds? she asked, looking him up and down.

Right. You’re 36-28-36, or thereabouts. He wondered why he said such a thing!

Well done. She gave an almost indecent smile.

He reviewed his suggestions for enhanced security with the two of them. They listened quietly.

The invitation that followed was a surprise: Can you have dinner with us tonight and spend the night here? There may be some nocturnal facets that we might improve upon, Mrs. O asked.

Happy to.

We have toothbrushes and razors, Van said with an impish smile.

Mrs. O had a phone call then and left the two of them alone.

Your father is deceased? she asked.

Yes. Coronary artery disease. Otherwise healthy.

Your mother is in good health?

Yes, and my sister is too.

Any diseases run in your family?

None that I’m aware of. Dad’s parents and grandparents lived well into their nineties.

What was this all about?

You look sturdy enough. Again, she looked him up and down.

I could say the same thing about you. I’ll bet you work out.

Most days. Why aren’t you married?

Resistance to commitment. No, I’m not gay.

Good. Me neither.

What did that mean?

Mrs. O returned, and it seemed the meeting was over for the time. Six suit you for dinner? she asked.

That would be fine.

Don’t overdress for the occasion, Van said, with her pixie smile returning.

I’ll try hard not to.

They thought that was funny for some reason.

Chapter Three

Six p.m. He washed both of his hands well just before then.

Do you like wine? Mrs. O asked after seating him in a plush living room chair.

Yes. Don’t encounter it that often.

Red or white?

Either, I’m ambidrinktrous.

Is that a real word? Van asked.

Is to me.

Then it will be to us too, she said brightly.

They were having shrimp and pasta, it seemed, so a nice chardonnay appeared.

A moderately corpulent lady peered out at them a few times from where he took to be the kitchen area. Presumably the cook.

Here’s to security and happiness, Mrs. O toasted.

He could go along with that.

What’s the sickest you’ve ever been, Mr. Crater?

Strange question!

I’ve never really been all that sick. Maybe the flu a decade ago. Still was up and about.

Any suggestions for us you haven’t mentioned yet? Mrs. O asked.

Van didn’t exactly keep staring at Max, but they seemed to be making a lot of eye contact.

Well, your generator is twenty years old and runs on gasoline. It should be replaced by a propane unit with a large underground tank.

The current one has done its job the few times we’ve needed it.

It’s too old to be dependable.

Do you think I’m that way too, Van? Mrs. O looked at her daughter.

Certainly not, Mother. Your word is your bond.

Both of them laughed. Must have been one of those inside jokes.

They had a second glass of wine. Very tasty.

We had a pleasant conversation, which came easily.

Finally, the cook’s peeking paid off when Mrs. O gave her the high sign to serve dinner. Max was surprised to be seated at the head of the large dinner table with the two ladies on either side of him.

"I like a man at the head of the table. I