Vengeance of the Rain God: A Thriller

By Jack Romig

John Adams was just a con man until he was wrongly accused and convicted of bloody murder. When given the chance to escape, he takes it and goes on the run. He hitches a ride with a northbound trucker and leaves the southern coast, headed for Ohio. Once there, he finds an opportunity he never could have expected.

He easily assumes the identity of a deceased private investigator, Marcus Phoenix. The set up is perfect for John to dig deeper into his own criminal case and find the real culprit, but hes soon distracted by a beautiful widow who suspects her husbands deathruled suicidewas actually murder. What can he do but give the lovely lady a hand?

Of course being a phony detective and con man doesnt make playing with local authorities much fun as John constantly worries hell be found out as a fake. Hes even more concerned when he realizes the grieving wife is actually a mafia princess. Apparently, no ones telling the truth in Toledo, and all the lies could get John killed.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Oct 8, 2015
• ISBN: 9781504949316

Jack Romig

Jack E. Romig spent four years in the US Marines, five as a police officer, and twenty as a state criminal investigations supervisor. He is past vice president of the Toledo, Ohio, chapter of the Archaeology Society of America and a past flotilla commander in the US Coast Guard Auxiliary.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

I hurtled from black void to terrifying wakefulness, an unfamiliar pebbled ceiling materializing before me. The phone rang again. I twisted until I spotted the offending instrument, then, snatched it from the swamp-green cradle.

Ad…. No, today I wasn’t John Adams I was… I was…

Phoenix.

Marcus, this is Woody. Hate to disturb you, but there is a lady here in your office, and I think you’d better come down.

I looked at the clock, eleven forty. The glare behind the drawn shade indicated it was probably a.m.

OK, Woody. Give me about ten to get a shower. Will it keep that long?

Yeah, I’m sure that’ll be okay.

The call bothered me. One thing was sure: I didn’t know any ladies here in Toledo. However, I wasn’t one hundred percent positive I could say the same for Marcus Phoenix, the man I was impersonating. I wandered through the shower and even found a new hair dryer and toothbrush. I began to feel like my old self. I’d find out who this woman was, and if jail wasn’t in my immediate future, Woody and I would go to lunch.

I opened the drawers and found clean underwear, socks and a new white shirt. The shirt and underwear were a trifle large, but close enough. From the closet I tried on one, of a half-dozen suits, finding it a near perfect fit, just a wrinkle too large around the waist. Down the road, I’d buy some clothes.

It was closer to half an hour before I walked off the elevator feeling, if not like a new man, at least a little less damaged. Woody was sitting at the secretary’s desk and smiled with relief when he saw me.

Marcus, this is Mrs. Putogether. He indicated a lady just rising from one of the side chairs.

It was like taking a hard right to the stomach thirty seconds into the first round. My breath stopped in my throat. Even without the high heels, she would have been tall, maybe five feet eight. I followed beautifully shaped legs upward to rounded, womanly hips curving gracefully to a narrow waist. Her upper body flared outward to weighty, high, breasts tastefully covered by a designer blouse. Masses of wavy, black hair hung well below her shoulders and swept in from the sides, almost touching very large, almond-shaped, brown eyes. It framed a face beautiful by any man’s standard. Her eyes had an impish glint when she smiled, as she was doing now. They penetrated to the center of my soul, to a point only one other person had ever seen.

Her skin was warmly tanned over her natural olive color. There was a trace of makeup high on her cheeks in a blush style. Her only jewelry was a pair of diamond stud earrings that flashed from under the waves of hair, and a pair of small gold wings on her blouse above her left breast. I doubted they meant she was an angel. She stood quiet for my inspection.

I’m Marcus, Marcus Phoenix, nice to meet you. Sorry to have kept you waiting; I was on the road most of the night. Contrary to the popular TV image, detectives do require sleep.

The subtle scent of her perfume moved with her.

Hello, Marc. I’m Nicely Putogether, and the wait wasn’t long at all. Her voice was educated, trained. Her grip was firm; slim fingers warm around mine.

Yes. I said, You are. My eyes once again flicked over her.

She smiled slightly, obviously having heard the quip before.

Why don’t we step into my office. Is that really your first name?

A nickname.

Ah… I opened the door and held it as she led the way into the plush interior.

Please have a seat.

Pushing the door closed, I slid into my leather chair, following her with my eyes.

She glanced around the room, her gaze stopping momentarily on the painting of the ruins at Tikal, then continuing to my desk.

I see you like the Mayans? she said.

Yes, it’s a very beautiful painting. The artist has caught the haunting loss of a great civilization. I jokingly refer to my office here as the den of Eighteen Rabbit, one of their illustrious rulers.

She stared into my eyes for a moment then again turned to look at the painting, nodding slightly, but not responding.

She sat down opposite me, and crossed her long muscular legs. Her skirt rode slowly up her thigh to the halfway mark, a thigh that a bathing suit model would have killed for. She was slow pulling the hem down to a point well above the knee. Her legs had the same deep tan.

Now, Mrs. Putogether, what can I do for you? I leaned back, needing the coolness of the leather.

Nicely will do fine.

Nicely.

"Marc, this can all be verified with the Police Department, but what I’m going to tell you may not agree with what they would tell you. Ah — maybe I should say — with their version.

"Four weeks ago, on Saturday, May 8th, my husband, August, died in a Eastside motor inn. A place commonly referred to as a trucker’s motel. The police say he killed himself. So far - they have found neither a motive, nor a reason he chose that location to do it. They insist he was there to meet a prostitute; that tests indicate he had sex not long before he died.

His wallet was found under the bed. The money gone. The clerk claims to have seen him earlier with about two hundred dollars in his wallet, when he stopped in for change. But he had two thousand dollars, money I knew he was going to receive that evening. He always put it in a zippered jacket pocket for deposit later the same night. Also, his watch, a Rolex, was gone, and the police are using those events as his reason for suicide. They’re saying he got rolled, then committed suicide over the loss of the money and watch.

She leaned forward.

Marc, we are quite wealthy. He could afford to lose that much money without being the least concerned. He’s lost four times that in an evening of poker. So it certainly wasn’t reason to kill himself. And the watch, while expensive, had no sentimental value and could easily have been replaced. Also, why didn’t the person who rolled him take his credit cards? I understand they’re worth cash and easy to get rid of.

Nicely stopped as though collecting her thoughts.

One other thing is puzzling to me, she continued. He was killed with a twenty-two, up close, in the head. Why was he carrying an unregistered twenty-two with him? If he was afraid of being robbed, he has a permit to carry one of his own guns, which would have been more protection. He has both a thirty-eight and a nine-millimeter. August was very strict about registering his guns, to my knowledge, he didn’t own a twenty-two. She slumped back into her chair and hung her head.

It just doesn’t make any sense.

When she spoke again, her voice was low and soft.

Marc, I know my husband. She raised her tiger eyes with the golden glint and stared steadily into mine. Believe me when I say he had no reason to visit a prostitute. He had all he could handle — and then some. She again dropped her head slightly but continued looking at me from under dark lashes.

For a minute, I envied August Putogether. I wondered if she was woman enough to die for. I decided she just may be.

I couldn’t keep my eyes off her, from her nylon-encased legs to the cream colored straight skirt and matching blouse. She had the look of an athlete without the gaunt features. I had thought, at first glance, that she was young. But the closer I looked, the surer I was that Nicely Putogether was probably tipping forty. Yeah, it was hard for me to see the husband of a sex kitten like this, swinging with a hooker.

Exactly what is it you want from me, Nicely? I said, letting my gaze dwell on her thighs as she uncrossed and re-crossed her legs.

There was a revealing flash of cream colored panties that obviously matched her other attire. This time she allowed her skirt to remain untouched, high on her thigh. My eyes finally returned to hers, which were watching me intently, a smile playing near their corners and around her mouth. She didn’t seem too broken up about the loss of her husband, only a month before.

I was slightly embarrassed being caught looking up her dress like a schoolboy, but there was a lot about Nicely Putogether that made me feel like a schoolboy. I was ready to show her my pet frog, and walk the fence in front of her house to show off my balancing skill.

I want to hire you to find the murderer, or at least prove he was murdered, so the police will reopen the case.

That perked up my ears. She didn’t necessarily want me to find the killer, only to prove there was one.

It was more within my talents than solving a homicide, since all of my investigative skills had been learned from the books of Dashiell Hammett and John D. MacDonald. If there had been a homicide, it shouldn’t be all that difficult to find enough information to reopen the case. If there wasn’t, I should be able to determine that rather quickly. After my own recent conviction, I knew how easy it was to make the evidence fit a murder. If the guy didn’t kill himself someone should stand up and say so, then the cops could look for the real killer.

I decided to try for more information before I committed myself.

What business was your husband in?

August was an entrepreneur. He had interests in a number of companies. The largest, and the one where his office was located, is Paleo Oil Company, a bulk oil distributorship. It’s a very lucrative, volatile business, and he wanted his office there to keep his finger on the daily operation. it’s a tough business. A number of times I’ve heard him on the phone fighting about how much the Russians and Indians — India nationals, not native Americans — owed him. A couple of times he even threatened to take more drastic action to recover it.

Did he ever say what form this drastic action would take?

No. He complained daily about the Russian Mafia intimidating some of his accounts, but not what he was going to do about it.

Does he have any partners?

Yes, the Vice President Cal Morgan… er Calvin Morgan, owns twenty-five percent of Paleo Oil. Otherwise my husband and I own all the rest of the companies outright. August never liked partners unless they were family. He always said you couldn’t trust them to do the job the way you would do it. But Calvin was one of the founders of Paleo. While we were in negotiations, the major partner was accidentally killed. Morgan was unable to buy out the widow, so we bought the major partner’s shares. August always hoped that sooner or later Morgan would sell to us.

Where is all the paperwork on the company and the partnership?

Most is at the Paleo office, but at my home I have all kinds of papers on company business and transactions, bank deposit book, and anything else he wanted to keep from prying eyes at the office. I’ve never been through it; I’m not sure what is there. It will take me a little time to assemble them, since they are in boxes in two or three locations. Why don’t you come out to the house Friday afternoon, and I’ll allow you to — examine — whatever you wish. Her hand absently rubbed her thigh.

Well, I haven’t said I’d take the case yet. In the first place my fees are pretty high. I get… I picked a number out of the air, eight hundred dollars a day plus expenses.

She didn’t bat an eye. I was wishing I’d made it a thousand.

Plus two hundred seventy-five dollars a day for each additional operative I have to use. Minimum five thousand up front, non-refundable. I thought that would stop her.

That will be fine, Marcus. Money is not a problem. I believe I’ve already explained that. She appeared slightly annoyed at my reluctance to take the case; the impish glint had turned to flint. Underneath that silk-smooth skin, this baby was made of solid marble.

I was stumped. I didn’t really know if I could pull off enough of an investigation to satisfy her and not let everybody around me know that I wasn’t who I pretended to be.

She tapped her foot in obvious annoyance.

Damn, I needed time to work into this role, and she wasn’t giving it to me. Besides, I was more interested in using my time to figure a way to prove Felix Rondeau murdered Capt. Alverez and stole the statue. I didn’t like being a fugitive. Still, if I turned her down, and the word got around, it might be worse. I decided to bluff it out.

OK, Nicely, I’ll take the case. I’ll do some checking around and see you Friday, say about one thirty. Then, you can… show me what you’ve got. I looked into her big brown eyes.

She stared back unblinking, a knowing smile touching her generous mouth. Something primitive stirred.

Why don’t you call me tomorrow, let me know what you think of the case after you read the police report? Or better yet, why don’t we meet for lunch tomorrow, since I’ll be downtown? I could pick you up, say about one?

One will be fine, I said. The way I looked at it, I didn’t have much choice.

She took a checkbook from her purse, and wrote out a check for the five thousand. That should cover the basics, and I’ll be looking forward to our meeting tomorrow. She rose and held out her hand, Good-bye, Marc, and thank you.

Her hand was slightly moist. Neither of us was quick to let go, and for a moment we stood just holding hands. She gave me a strange smile, then turning, walked to the door, moving with the grace of a model displaying a Paris gown. It was obvious she liked playing games. Well, that’s what I was best at. The trouble with games, there always has to be a loser.

Woody was still sitting at the secretary’s desk, an approving look on his face, as he watched her glide across the room. She turned at the outer door, and our eyes met. The heat went clear to my toes.

Mr. Woodley, Marc. Her voice would have attracted any bee within a mile. Then she was gone.

I looked at the check. N. I. Putogether and A. Putogether, 3 Canal View, Ottawa Hills, Ohio. Her signature was unreadable and I wondered what the ‘I.’ stood for. It could be Inferno, I thought.

Now I know who they created the word ‘class’ for, Woody said. His eyes still focused on the door. She makes the world’s top models look like gawky thirteen-year-olds.

I think you’re right, Woody. Ken would probably leave Barbie for that. Nicely Putogether obviously wasn’t the first beautiful woman I’d ever seen, but she was the first one that had such an affect on me. I pulled my mind back to the business at hand.

Give me about fifteen minutes, Woody, then we’ll get some lunch. We’ve got a hell of a lot to talk about. Oh — and after lunch, don’t let me forget to call a girl named Eva — about a job,

Fate had dealt me a strange hand in a new game. I couldn’t help but wonder if I would play this game any better than I had the last one. That one had lasted forty years and ended with my conviction for murder.

I returned to my office, and all the recent events came roaring back into my mind. It was as though I were standing outside my body viewing the past two months like a movie.

CHAPTER 2

It was New Orleans in January with everyone already preparing for Mardi Gras when I entered the Pirates Galleon Saloon on Bourbon Street. What I didn’t know but found out later was that in the deep shadows of a second floor balcony, a gray suited figure watched me. As soon as he saw where I was heading, he slipped down the stairs and followed me to the saloon.

In the saloon, on a small, corner platform, a huge black man straddled an old, wooden kitchen chair. He fingered a guitar, worn white between the frets, and sang the mournful strains of New Orleans blues. Other musicians, wielding age-battered instruments, followed along. The big man wiggled a finger at me and winked, as I chose a small table along the wall. I smiled and nodded.

The U-shaped bar almost filled the small room, leaving space for only a few tables along each side. The Pirate’s Galleon had its usual five or six hard-core blues aficionados scattered around the room. A few others had been drawn in by the mellow tones of the big man’s bluesy voice, which carried well into the crowds meandering by the open front of the building.

John? An attractive woman caught my eye from the area of the bar and held up a beer stein. I nodded again, and turned back to the singer on the platform. In seconds, she was setting a cold, moisture-covered glass of draft beer in front of me.

Hi, Johnny Adams. How ya been? She sat down in the chair opposite. Haven’t seen you in a couple of days.

Hi, Patty, how’s tricks?

Well, I don’t turn tricks — but if that’s an offer — for you, I’ll make an exception. She laughed. To tell the truth, if business doesn’t pick up soon, I may have to resort to that.

Business bad? Hey, I can let you have a grand or two if you’re hurting.

She reached over and squeezed my hand. No, John, I’m fine for now, but thanks for asking. She got up, moving toward the bar. Well, guess I better get my fanny back to work, or I won’t even have a bar.

Patty, has Captain Alverez been in the last hour or two?

No. You expecting him?

Yeah, but I’m a little early. He’ll be showing up I imagine. He’s probably still on the ship. I sipped my beer, and my attention was again drawn to the bandstand as the full group fell into the bouncing strains of The Milenberg Joys.

My enjoyment was interrupted by the arrival of a short, thin man in a light gray suit and equally dull tie. The man from the balcony. His appearance caused the hackles to stand up on the back of my neck.

What do you want, Rondeau? I said. I kept my voice low and nasty.

Now easy there, brother Adams. He dropped into the vacant chair. That’s no way to be talking to a man that’s done you many fine favors over the years, and may be about to do you another. He leaned back, and his head made reptilian moves back and forth as he stared at the package lying next to my hand. Have you gotten a new art object you’re in the market to peddle? If you’ll let me see it, I can make you a cash offer right here and now. His tongue flicked across his dry lips.

Felix, I don’t have a thing to sell. However, if I did, you’d be the last damn person in the whole Mississippi delta that I’d sell it to. I took a sip of beer to calm down, and set the mug back on the table, but I lost it anyway. I pointed a finger at the reptilian face. If you don’t leave me alone, I’m going to splash your puny nose all over your faggy-looking mustache. You’re a cheap, slimy, crooked, little bastard. Personally, I don’t want anything to do with you.

Johnny, Johnny, I’ve told you before, that was nothing but business. Besides, where do you get off calling me a crook? You’ve conned more people with phony artifacts than anyone on the Gulf coast.

I may be a con-man, Rondeau, but I’ve never conned a friend. Unfortunately, I can’t say the same for you.

Hey, Johnny, it’s not my fault you’re a poor dumb river rat that doesn’t understand the ways of the business world. His flim-flammer’s phony smile had gone. He scowled. Your mamma should have taught you better.

Well, at least I had a mamma, Rondeau. I didn’t hatch under a rock. I raised my hand to get the bar owner’s attention as she passed. Gimme another, will you Patty?

What would you like, Mr. Rondeau? she asked.

I answered before Rondeau could open his mouth. Nothing. He was just leaving.

Felix Rondeau slowly got up from his chair, pulled down on his vest, and tried puffing out his sunken, bony chest. You’re making a mistake, Adams, he hissed. I’m gonna enjoy the day you say, I’m sorry. The corners of his eyes crinkled, and his mouth became a thin line. You should have done business with me." He pushed Patty aside as she returned with the beer, and slithered out the front of the building.

What’s eating him? Somebody step on his rattlers?

I laughed. Yeah, I think you hit the proverbial spike on its flat side.

Patty joined in with a guilty laugh. Sorry, I don’t usually talk bad about my customers, even the slimy ones like Rondeau.

He does that to people, I said.

As she left, I turned my attention back to the group in the corner. My glass was almost empty again when Captain Francisco Alverez finally slid his massive bulk into the chair across the table. The scent of after-shave and deodorant wafted through the still air.

Buenos días, Johnny, my man. ¿Cómo estás?

I’m good, Frankie. How’s the Mexican bandito?

Good, good, gracias. He lifted the large glass of beer that had appeared in front of him, his fingers making wide imprints in the droplets of water clinging to its sides.

Gracias, Patty, he said, smiling.

De nada, Captain. Waving, she hurried away.

A girl after my heart. He raised his glass in my direction. To your health, my friend, then poured half its contents into his three-hundred-pound frame. Ahh, that helps clear the salt spray out of your gullet. Wiping the foam from his upper lip, he leaned toward the table. His eyes roamed over the string-tied paper block.

Is that my little item?

Right you are. You got the green?

The captain tilted his huge bulk, and dug into the pocket of his uniform pants. When his hand reappeared, it contained a fistful of rubber-banded bills. They appeared to be all hundreds. He held it shoulder high. The second half of the deal, nine thousand, just like we agreed. Plus there’s a little extra, for me to have a night or two ashore, of course. Hell, Johnny, I might even buy you a drink. His laugh was loud, raucous. I quickly reached for the hand holding the money, pushing it toward the table. A patron or two glanced our way, eyes fixed on the money.

"Hey, careful, Frankie. You don’t want to flash that kind of crayfish bait around