Backfire

By Ray Lubeski

LUBESKI continues to thrill his readers with fresh ideas. His new book, "BACKFIRE" falls rignt in line.

Private Investigator Naish Berran seeks out an old friend, Justin Case, an attorney and part-time P.I. to help him solve and bring an end to the cold-blooded killings in Carlsburg. Berran and Case form a plan of deception to "backfire" on a murderous plot, hoping it will be sucessfull. .

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: May 1, 2014
• ISBN: 9781496906830

Ray Lubeski

Ray Lubeski was born and raised in Mount Carmel, Pennsylvania. He graduated Mount Carmel Joint High School in 1955. Being undecided, Lubeski chose the US Navy over college, and served three and a half years aboard the Destroyer USS Harlan R. Dickson DD708. After the Navy he worked forty years in New York City, in the Garment Industry and attended the school, F I T, at night. Lubeski also studied three years of Journalism and writing with the Connecticut School of Literature. He now resides at Perry’s Lake in Manahawkin, N J. with his wife Carol.

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AuthorHouse™ LLC

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© 2014 Ray Lubeski. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 04/30/2014

ISBN: 978-1-4969-0684-7 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4969-0685-4 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4969-0683-0 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2014907536

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

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BACKFIRE

Carlsburg, just before 6 A.M. on a Thursday. The Church bells began to ring. They were loud and quickening peals echoing through the density of the lifting fog. It was supposed to be just a normal Thursday. The Church bells ring every day of the week except on Thursday. Nobody knows why. Today is Thursday, why are they ringing?

Ken Autry, better known as the Cowboy groaned looking up into the sky. What the hell is going on? Is this the frickin’ Fourth of July? His breath misted in the air before him. He stopped what he was doing and listened. He turned his head to the left then the right. Damn those bells, can’t hear shit, he groaned. Damn this job. The Cowboy almost hated this job but this is where he was needed or so the powers to be said. He glanced at his watch and shook his head. Shading his eyes from the rising sun breaking through the fog, he looked down the pier. Nothing. The bells seemed to get louder. Damned bells. Shut up already! He yelled quietly. He sniffed and wiped his nose with the back of his hand. Then like always, he wiped the back of his hand on the back of his pants. Reaching into the back pocket of his jeans, he pulled out a small bag and slipped a chew into the side of his mouth. His jaws worked double time to moisten the tobacco and then he spat into the river. He checked the pier again. Where the hell is this bonehead? He kicked the side of his boat. He knew the pier would begin to stir in another hour. He better hurry his ass. He thought to himself.

The Cowboy is an unkempt scraggly man in his 50’s. Beneath his stubble he carries a hard scar on his chin. It looks like a stretched out pink night crawler, which was the result of a machete fight. He often scratches at it because of a nervous habit, which is the result of too many hours of having nothing to do. He spent too much of his life waiting for others to come to him. A disappointing aspect of being a jack-of-all-trades for hire. With most of those trades being very rudimentary, but inadvertently they enabled him to make contact and conversation with many types of clients from many different walks of life. He probably has an IQ that’s in a category of its own.

Bob Casey set out early on what would be his last day on earth. He’s a young man, but considers himself the same as many men of his generation. He refuses to think of himself as rich because of his new found wealth. Deep in his heart, he honestly entertains the possibility of never breaking down and perhaps living forever. While those people around him who are less successful and less driven, will likely drop away.

Cowboy checked his watch and started the engine on the motor launch. Minutes later a figure appeared on the pier, looking down into the boat.

Uh… are you the Cowboy? The passenger Bob asked nervously.

Hmmph, do you see any other asshole out here in a boat wearing a damn ol cowboy hat?

The passenger’s cheek twitched slightly. I… I just wanted to be sure.

I’m the Cowboy. Gimme yer bag and hop in. Yer late, ya know. He growled.

It couldn’t be helped. The passenger’s cheek twitched again. He sat on the pier and slid himself into the boat and sat down. He felt a little more relaxed. I did make the pre-payment to somebody called the ‘Phantom’. Did you get that payment?

Yeah, I got it. Cowboy growled in his usual tone and untied the bow line. The launch started to drift toward the open river. He untied the stern line and the launch evened itself out. The foghorns moaned and the mounted bells on the buoys clanged fitfully with the natural symphony of the river. The timid swells caused the launch to rock ever so slightly. The Cowboy rammed the throttle forward and the engine roared arousing hundreds of sleeping river birds. They flew recklessly in every direction. The Cowboy and the passenger constantly fought them off, and amazingly, minutes later the atmosphere relaxed. Conversation went from scarce to none, and after awhile the Cowboy slowed the engine and stuck to the shadows of the shore line. Suddenly he brought the boat to a stop. The passenger gave a quick look around. Why are we stopping? He asked surprisingly.

Because this is where you get off. Cowboy smiled.

The passenger immediately filled with fright. OFF! . . . HERE? No, no, I don’t get off here. You’re supposed to take me to the Still Water Dock. I paid you to take me there. The passenger reached for his bag, but the Cowboy pulled it away.

Yeah, I know, but things change. Cowboy smirked and pulled out a Classic Colt 45-1911 A and shot the passenger once in the head, blossoming it into a burst of blood and bone. His body fell backward onto the deck of the bow. Then the Cowboy shot him twice in the chest.

Sorry ol’ chap. Sorry I had to cut your escape route short, but I changed the plan of action somewhat. I hope you ain’t mad. Cowboy sniffed and looked down at the almost headless passenger. Ya ain’t sayin’ nothin’ so I guess ya ain’t mad. Cowboy coughed and spit out his chew into the river. He grabbed a prepared length of rope and tied it around the passenger’s waist. Then he uncovered two prepared cement blocks and secured them to the dead man’s waist rope. He struggled but was able to roll the dead man’s body over the side into the river along with the cement blocks. He wiped his hands on his pants and went to his utility box. He took out a pail and a few rags and returned to where the body had been. Damn, what a shittin’ mess I made. He filled the pail with river water and began to clean up the bloody mess. When he finished cleaning to his satisfaction he put away the pail, and put the rags into a plastic bag which was already partially filled with rocks and threw it over the side. He turned to admire his work and sat down.

Cowboy knew he had to wait an hour or so before calling Indian Joe, so he grabbed the passenger’s bag and opened it. Well, there better be what I’m hopin fer, or I killed this fella fer nothin’. Let’s give her a look. A change of clothes lay on top. He took out the Christian Dior shirt, Hmmm, he snorted. This is beautiful and just my size. He placed it on the empty seat. Next the pants came out. Hmmm, the man must like this Christian Dior, who the hell ever he is. I guess he’s one of them designer whatchamacallits they got in New York. He checked the label. Well now, I’ll be danged. They’re my size too. He took out the socks and tossed them onto the deck. The last of the articles to come out were a brand new pair of alligator skin Florsheim loafers. Hmmm, rats… A half size too big, but a little paper in the toes and they’ll be a perfect fit. Before he continued, the Cowboy leaned back on his seat and took a couple of deep breaths, and leaned forward again. Now he looked into the half empty two foot by one foot carry bag and noticed a plain white cloth covering what was left inside. He slowly lifted it up and half gasped. Holy… holy… holy. Merry freaken Christmas Cowboy. In the bottom of the bag perfectly secured side by side were stacks and stacks of money. He reached in and worked a stack loose. He took his time and counted out ten thousand dollars of fifty and hundred dollar bills. After fiddling around with the stacks he came to realize that there were three layers of sixteen stacks per layer. He took a stack from the middle layer and counted out twelve thousand dollars of all hundred dollar bills. His sophomore high school education led him to figure that he was now worth at least a half million dollars. He took in another deep breath and carefully brought the boat back to the pier. He chose the pier to tie up rather than his rented mooring lock because he would be less conspicuous leaving his boat and carrying a large carry bag from a pier than from his mooring lock, where a lot of his friends have their boats tied up. After securing the bow and stern lines he took out his cell and pushed in the speed dial number for Indian Joe.

Yeah, this is Joe. He saw it was the Cowboy on the caller ID. Where the hell are you? Are you on your way?

Hey Joe. Listen up, the passenger was a no show. I gave him at least three hours as you can tell from the time it is now. Anyway, thank the good Lord I got the pre-paid no-show payment from the Phantom’s flunky. Do me a favor and call your brother and tell him what happened. When I get home I’ll call you and we’ll set up a meeting so I can pay you and Jack your three grand.

Whoa, whoa, what do you mean three grand? It’s four grand, you shit head.

Oh, is that what it is?

You know damn well that’s what it is.

Well then, that’s what it will be.

Just call me. Joe said and hung up, shaking his head in a little disbelief.

Cowboy looked at his phone, hit the off button and slid it back into its case which hung from his waist belt. He knows it’s very unwise to fool with the Indian brothers. They are two mean Cherokees with killer instincts.

The Cowboy had taken over the first part of this operation after he killed Jelly Bean Jim Dent, the previous leader. Jelly Bean’s body was never found because it too was weighed down with cement blocks and tossed into the river. The Cowboy had Indian Joe’s job at the time but didn’t do all the things that Indian Joe does now. Indian Joe is a computer genius. He works hard hacking into networks so he can have free reign to romp through main frames and servers and have his way with local and Federal government computers. Even places abroad. Sometimes it makes him laugh. He could now register a car in another state or obtain a New Jersey driver’s license. He could really be anybody he wanted to. He could create half a dozen new identities for anybody, complete with credit reports, licenses, and passports, uploading them into State and Federal computers. Now, that individual could leave or enter the country through an airport and his ID would hold up.

Hundreds of different ideas filled Cowboy’s brain as he lifted the carry bag onto the pier. Being filled with anxiety, he moved swiftly down the pier. His gray observing eyes never stopped searching every inch of the pier for anyone he might know or those who looked the least bit suspicious. So far, so good. He murmured and smiled when he saw his 1990 Ford pick up truck in the parking lot. He couldn’t hurry his pace because the carry bag was big and awkward. But he was at his truck in less than a minute. He opened the passenger’s side door and put the bag on the seat. Searching the floor, he found an old Wendy’s take-out bag. He reached for it and unrolled the crinkles. He dumped out the empty French fry container and burger wrapper onto the floor and then opened the carry bag. He worked two stacks of money loose from one of the layers and put them into the Wendy’s bag. He closed it the best he could and rested it on top the carry bag and then drove home.

His house was empty when he arrived. Mona, his wife, works the breakfast and lunch shift at the local diner which means he would have time to figure out where to stash his treasure. He knows he can’t tell her about the money right away because she would quit her job and spend half the money in less than a minute. That ain’t gonna happen, he thought to himself. He went into the garage and pulled down the steps to the crawl space above. He slid the carry bag in front of himself as he climbed the ladder. He flicked on the light and headed for the largest box he could find. He found the perfect one. It was more than big enough for the carry bag. He removed the twenty books it held, but before he put the bag into the box, he removed three more stacks of money. He fit the bag into the box and covered it with the books. Perfect, he said.

1

THE COWBOY WALKED into the Hungry Duck Bar and Grill a half hour early for his meeting with the Indian brothers. A young couple sat sipping a couple of beers in his favorite booth. He walked over and stared at them, Beat it! He grumbled, and the booth emptied miraculously in seconds. Tulip, the waitress, waltzed over to take his order. Hey Cowboy, you shouldn’t chase my customers away like that. You’re a bad, bad boy. She said scolding him by shaking her pencil and flashing a smile. Whacha gonna have?

Hey beautiful, they were in my booth. How about bringing over a pitcher of Bud and three glasses. I’m expecting guests.

Tulip blew him a kiss and scampered away. Tulip, on a scale from one to ten is about a four. If she had her teeth fixed and the scars on her cheeks removed, she might make a five. Although character-wise, she’s a ten. She returned with the beer and glasses followed by Indian Joe and Indian Jack.

Look what the wind blew in. I thought you were expecting somebody important. Tulip squeaked and stepped aside.

Beat it bird brain. Joe said and slapped her on her backside.

Hey, good timing. Cowboy greeted them.

The Indians nodded and together slid into the other side of the booth as the Cowboy filled the glasses. Tulip waddled over to the booth again. You guys want anything to eat? She asked as her jaws moved in triple-time, chewing her gum.

You guys hungry? Cowboy asked.

I could eat something. Joe shrugged. "You buyin’?

Yeah, I’m buyin’. Cowboy said.

Medium burger with fries. Joe said.

Jack nodded and pointing to his brother said, I’ll have the same.

Might as well make it three, Tulip. Cowboy added.

Tulip cracked her gum and walked away smiling.

Cowboy reached into his vest and pulled out two envelopes. He pushed one over to Joe and the other to Jack. Check em out. He growled.

They opened the envelopes and eyebrows rose. Okay, they’re filled with money. How much is in there? I don’t want to count it here. Joe said.

Five grand each. Cowboy faked a smile.

How come five and not four? Jack asked.

Cowboy cleared his throat. I got sixteen grand from the Phantom’s flunky and being the nice guy that I am, I did a three way split and gave myself the extra grand cause I’m the Chief.

Yeah, you just keep thinking that way, Cowboy. Jack murmured.

Tulip interrupted with their food. Enjoy! She smiled and as she walked away she whispered to herself, I hope you choke on it.

The nefarious threesome ate wordlessly and when they finished the brothers thanked the Cowboy for the money and food. You’ll call us, right? Joe asked as he and Jack got up to leave. Cowboy nodded and stayed behind to finish the beer and pay the bill. On the way out, Joe and Jack brushed past Tulip. She had to step aside to avoid being knocked over. She gave Joe a stern look, raised her right hand and grunted, HOW!

Joe smiled and answered, NEVER GIRL.

2

THE POUNDING ON the door woke him. Naish Berran was on his feet next to the bed before he was fully awake. He took a moment to remember where he was. He was in a room at the Concord hotel. The pounding sounded again.

Hey Naish, a voice called from the hallway.

He went to the door and looked out the peep-hole. It was Tony Capucci, one of the city’s detectives. Berran opened the door part way.

Get dressed ol’ man. The Chief needs a favor and wants to see you.

Bullshit! Now beat it, I’m on vacation.

Yeah, he knows that, and said he’s sorry to pull you away.

Then why didn’t he come to get me instead of sending a yo-yo like you. And by the way, how did you know where to find me?

Your brother Billy told us… . Come on man, I know you don’t give a damn about me, but the Chief is your friend.

Berran breathed out and gave Capucci a five second stare. Do you know what this is all about? He asked while opening the door to let Capucci in.

I think it’s about the body that washed up in the river.

Son-of-a-bitch, another body? Berran breathed out again and shook his head. Give me a couple of minutes to get washed and dressed.

Capucci walked over and sat on the unmade bed. Minutes later, washed and fully dressed, Naish Berran walked through the hotel lobby at Capucci’s side.

I trust you had a pleasant night. Capucci said with a smirk.

Berran considered several replies, and then simply shrugged, I slept okay.

Naish Berran is a retired police Lieutenant from the Carlsburg Police department. At six feet tall and weighing in at two hundred thirty pounds, he swears he’s thin. He’s in his late forties, a man who is both loathed and admired, but before that he was a gifted detective. In the past and even today, Naish was and is still known as a very rugged individual. During his career he has carried two nicknames. His friends and those who worked with him, called him The Hunter. Those he hunted and put away called him The Wildcat. Both those names fit him appropriately and followed him into his new Private Eye Business he formed with his brother Bill.

Bill is the younger and bigger of the brothers. He stands at six feet three and weighs in at two hundred forty pounds. This is way down from his playing weight of two hundred seventy five when he played linebacker for Penn State. Then, Bill studied law at Harvard and graduated at the top of his class. He has his own law firm and when he’s not lawyering, he’s helping his brother at the P.I. agency.

Naish was also the winner of sixty million dollars in the Pennsylvania lottery, which enabled him to take an early retirement after his wife and daughter were killed in a very suspicious car accident. Naish was on another case when the accident happened and the accident had been turned over to Capucci. Capucci never had the brake linings or steering checked before turning it over to the squash factory. Capucci claimed that the car was totaled and it was impossible to check anything. Naish not only had the fury to survive, but the faith of mind to persevere and flourish. He always wears a gold cross around his neck that his daughter had given him for Father’s Day. He was unafraid of death, understanding that it was