Lost Souls

By Larry Flewin

It was late in the day and the joint was jumping, packed to the rafters with human sweat and cheap booze. A three-piece jazz band wailed away in a corner, ignored by a crowd too busy feeling sorry for itself and too drunk to care. Twists of cigarette smoke spiraled up to the ceiling dimming the lights to an ethereal shade of blue. The squeak and squeal of a dying art kept conversation to a minimum.
It had been a helluva day after a helluva week and my immediate future wasn’t looking any better. PIs aren’t known for their optimism, I sure as hell wasn’t feeling the love right at the moment.
And then she walked in.
“You Ford?”
“Depends. Who’s askin’”
Gave me the once over twice and made me an offer I should have refused. She wanted someone dead and wanted me to pull the trigger. I wanted to to know why, and why me. Her explanation lacked the conviction of the truly aggrieved but who was I to argue, she was paying in cash. Family, go figure.
Hard charging PI Tony Ford is her man for the job, but even he knows a C-note a week plus expenses doesn’t cover murder. So what does she really want. That’s the trouble with dames, what they say is never really what they mean. He gives himself a week to figure it all out and flush out the true meaning of her plea for help.
Armed with his .45 and a growing suspicion the case is more than it seems Ford gets to work. The moment he hits the street bullets start to fly. A damsel who’s really not in distress, a shady bank manager and a low-level gangster with high level ambitions only serve to complicate matters.
Things go from bad to worse. A confusing web of lies and deceit lead to the death of an innocent, a lost soul that hits home with Ford. This was supposed to be a simple investigation, she didn’t have to die just because his heart wasn’t in it. Now it’s personal.
Greed and betrayal rear their ugly heads as Ford makes his presence felt, determined to find the truth and avenge the dead. It’s not his best work but the case comes to a close with Ford in the driver’s seat, until the car crashes and he barely escapes the flames.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Larry Flewin
• Release date: Nov 22, 2021
• ISBN: 9780995816978

Larry Flewin

Larry Flewin lives and writes in Winnipeg, Canada. His love of writing runs the gamut from children’s books to mystery and western short fiction. He has many online publishing credits and several full-length novels. Larry is passionate about his craft and is never far from a pen; plots are where you find them. He is active in his community, works for a local food bank and is a long-time member of the Freelancers writing group.

Book preview

Lost Souls

A Tony Ford Crime Novel

Copyright 2021

ISBN: 978-0-9958169-7-8

All Rights Reserved

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters,

places, and incidents are either a product of the

author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Any resemblance to actual events, locales,

or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

No part of this book may be reproduced or

transmitted in any form or by any electronic

or mechanical means, including photocopying,

recording or by any information storage and

retrieval system, without the express written

consent of the publisher,

except where permitted by law.

Edited by Janet Brown

Published in Canada.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter One

It was late in the day and the joint was jumping, packed to the rafters with human sweat and cheap booze. Gin mills like the Moonlight Inn were a dime a dozen in this town. They drew in the great unwashed like moths to a flame and fed the fires of hope for better days to come. Only they never came.

A three-piece jazz band wailed away in a corner, ignored by a crowd too busy feeling sorry for itself and too drunk to care. The sax player could have been a contender, but he was too pied eyed to do much more than murder the sheet music. Twists of cigarette smoke spiraled up to the ceiling dimming the lights to an ethereal shade of blue. The squeak and squeal of a dying art kept conversation to a minimum.

My sorry self and I were parked at the far end of a battle-scarred counter, on the other side of a barricade of brightly polished ammunition. 24 rounds of .45 caliber stood guard over their Colt manufactured home, a model 1911 field stripped and waiting for oil and reassembly.

Not that I’d fired her much lately, but it felt good to give her the treatment, she’d earned it many times over. The bluing was a little worn, but the grip sat tight in my palm and the trigger was whisper quick.

The war was long over but not a day went by that I didn’t count myself lucky to be alive and feel guilty as hell about it. All that death and misery left a scar on your soul that would take a lifetime to heal, if ever. You wake up on a hot night shivering from the cold, duck incoming that wasn’t, get the shakes so bad you can’t light a smoke.

It had been a helluva day after a helluva week and my immediate future wasn’t looking any better. PIs aren’t known for their optimism, I sure as hell wasn’t feeling the love at this moment. Stella was pissed so her Café was closed to me, her firewater coffee and charred steaks sadly missing in action. My other intimate, Sandy, the one with the heart of gold and the finest social gathering place in town had a bee in her bonnet about something.

My last hope for refuge from the ills of the world was the Moonlight, into whose less than welcoming arms I stumbled into before passing out for two days straight. Upon my reawakening it was explained to me that during my stay, however temporary, I was going to be toning it down a whole bunch. Doris, waitress and chewer of gum, had standards and I wasn’t even close to meeting them. Not that I was trying.

So, my trademark wall of empty shot glasses and heaps of peanut shells wasn’t, my therapy a black tar of her own making, straight up no cream no sugar. I still had moments of drink induced delirium so I wasn’t allowed the fine china, just a tin mug. It could survive bouncing off a wall, and if was a really good boy I got one with a handle.

And then she walked in.

She took a long look around the room with a sultry gaze and swayed up to the bar like she was mixing drinks with her hips, pencil heels clipping loudly across the scuffed tile floor. A tailored tweed suit parked its curvy derriere on the worn leather stool beside me, clutch up on the bar like she owned the place. Smokey grey eyes threw Dutch a look and he hustled off to track down a clean glass.

You Ford? The voice was smooth as silk.

Who’s askin’? I rumbled, the words doing a slow burn through my disinterest. I had a slide spring in my hands and really didn’t want to drop it again. I had better things to do with an hour.

I am, she purred.

And? I set the spring down carefully and picked up a cleaning patch and a patch holder. Focus was everything. The slide assembly was feeling a little sticky to me, so I was on the hunt for any lead or powder residue.

I’ve been looking everywhere for you, you’re a hard man to find.

I’m kinda busy right now. I shot down another two fingers of Doris’s arabica, feeling the burn as it fed the inferno below.

She fingered two smokes out of a silver embossed case, lit them off with a matching lighter and stuck one in my lips, lipstick first.

Thanks, I grunted. So, what’s on your mind doll.

Celebrating something? Blue smoke curled lazily past her ruby red lips.

Nothing to celebrate here, just keeping things in perspective is all.

And what might that be, she asked, blue smoke curling lazily past ruby red lips.

My last client, he’s not doing so good.

Oh?

He kinda got in the way and I kinda shot him. It happens.

You shot your own client? My my what were you thinking? she asked, eyebrows raised in mock surprise.

Not very clearly at the time. I had a job to do and like I said he got in the way. I finished with the slide and continued to address the barrel, looking for anything that might hinder a good performance. Any speck of dust or sign of rust. I pumped blue smoke out of the side of my mouth, the ash from the burnt end drifting lazily down to settle on my lap. Specks and rust not found I took a break and downed the rest of that inky goodness.

I’ll keep that in mind, she said in a husky voice.

You do that, safer that way. So, what’s this all about sister, no one walks in here by accident.

The drinks arrived. Mine steamed quietly alongside the wall of brass and lead while hers went up and down politely. Her eyes swept over me like she was looking for something beyond what she could see. I could have saved her the trouble, I didn’t wear my heart on my sleeve or anywhere else for that matter, just a .45 under my left arm and a dark outlook. I turned back to my work, picking up each piece in turn for one last inspection and a dab of gun oil.

I’m looking for a lost soul, I hear you’re good at that.

Don’t look at me, I didn’t steal it.

I never said you did. Just want you to find one.

Better not be mine cuz I ain’t seen it for a long time.

If this is what you drink no wonder, she quipped, peering into my mug. That looks perfectly disgusting, no offence.

None taken. Doris is a good kid, does her best but her idea of making coffee needs a little refining. She’s got me on this high and dry kick, seems to think I’m a bit of a loose cannon. This is kinda her place and she kinda takes it personal if I practice my aim in here. I took a deep breath. Makes for a long day.

I’ll just bet it does.

I turned on my stool to face her and took a good long look at her. I wasn’t smiling, not that I had anything to smile about, I was just curious. About the me part.

Don’t bet on it or me honey, it’s safer that way. So why do you want him found?

I never said it was he, she purred.

So why do you want HIM found.

So I can kill him. That spit out of her ruby red lips with all the vengeance of tommy gun.

Why not hire me to do both, save us both a lot of time.

Would you? Do that?

Nope

She tried hard not to smile but it leaked out anyways. I shook my head and went back to toying with the slide assembly. It snapped back together with a nice tight click, followed by me twisting the barrel back into place. The tricky bit was the retainer and spring, difficult enough sober especially with that teeny tiny wrench Colt gives you.

I am being serious you know.

I’ll just bet you are but you’re asking the wrong guy. I’m a PI not a psychiatrist, you got a problem with Mom and Dad grow a pair or get a lawyer. I’m busy.

Another surprised look. And you know this how?

Just do. I’ve done this enough to know you’re the daughter, mom is lost to you or gone to ground, and dad doesn’t care about either of you. You blame him.

Stepfather.

I stand corrected, mom and stepdad are on the outs with you, and you want me to fix it. Yeah, no, not my kind of trouble.

I turned back to focus on the last few pieces. I’d done this a million times but today she wasn’t playing nice, and the barrel wrench had gone into hiding. I was tempted to make my mug go look for it, but I’d been warned that they weren’t baseballs. Dutch was a big baseball fan, a former player who almost made the bigs, so he understood my hankering to smoke one once in a while. Doris however, tired of stepping on the ones that didn’t survive my throwing arm, had given me an earful on that score and more than once. Hence the tin cup and the inky contents.

I want her found and I want him dead, that trouble enough for you?

Might be, so what did he do that’s so bad you want him to take a dirt nap.

I don’t want him to take a nap, she cursed. I want him dead. D E A D dead, okay?

Okay okay I got that part, I groused.

That sharp tongue of hers wasn’t helping to ease the growing pain between my ears. I hadn’t heard anything worth my time, but I was finding it hard to dismiss her out of hand. Two words kept her sitting on that stool, murder and missing.

Frustrated by my lack of enthusiasm she turned back to the bar and signaled Dutch to pour something a little stronger. One of Dutch’s two finger specials, the stuff he made out back, came her way. Mystery woman raised it in salute, shot it back and all but coughed herself to death. Dutch shook his head, retrieved the empty and went back to polishing glasses. She stared back at him, daring him to say something but I could see a slight flush to her cheeks.

In between the clouds of the verbal smoke she was blowing at me, I was picking up a hint of Chanel. Slightly floral, slightly woody, a scent favored by the rich and lazy. If there’s one thing I’ve learned about the female of the species, it’s the scent of a woman that sets the tone. Expensive doesn’t mean less guilty and this one was soaked in the good stuff like a dime store demonstrator.

I’m no Galahad, ready to slay a dragon or slice up an alligator, but more of these sad sack stories came my way than I cared to shake a stick at. A sign of the times maybe but trouble seemed to afflict the female of the species like no other. They didn’t trust their man, they couldn’t find their last lover, he done me wrong, where is that deadbeat. What they were looking for, the truth of the matter, was painful and expensive but that’s why they knocked on my door.

So, I asked, taking a deep breath, let me get this straight. You want your mom found, assuming she’s even missing in the first place, and your stepfather dead. You still haven’t answered the big question, why, and more importantly why me. I’ve got a gun and a badge which means I can shoot people, usually because they’re shooting at me. Has he been shooting at you lately? You look okay to me, I said, finally locating the errant wrench.

I waited for the slap but it never came. That’s the thing about women, they don’t mind dressing up like a tree at Christmas but the second you start eyeballing the presents, whack.

In the PI business you never know who or what’s going to walk, crawl or kick in the door. I tell them straight out I’m not the justice they’re looking for that’s up to the law, all I do is look for trouble and get paid for what I find, good or bad. It’s a C-note a week plus expenses, extra if I have to shoot someone. Bullets cost. Those two items alone tended to winnow the field a lot.

So that’s the deal honey. Take it or leave it.

That’s a whole lot of money, you that good?

I’m a whole lot of PI, and yeah, I’m that good.

The slide assembly and barrel finally locked back into place and I had a functioning weapon again. Picking up a small rag I started in on a last polish before rearming her.

Manicured hands snapped open the clutch on the bar, tugged out an actual honest-to-God C-note and slapped it down in front of me. I stared at it through red-rimmed eyes, not sure whether I should take the money and run, or just run. That kinda cash meant that kinda trouble and I wasn’t exactly at my best at the moment.

She shifted position on her stool to face me, crossing really nice legs and smoothing out some invisible wrinkles on her lap. Three drinks in her and she was still nervous as hell. Can’t say as I’m the friendliest guy around town, I can take a little getting used to. I took a longer look at her, trying to read what was on her mind. The money stayed on the counter.

I put it to her again why did she want me in on what was at first blush a family dispute? That set her off.

Because he stole my money and kicked me out! The accusation spat out of those boozy red lips of hers with all the venom of a drunk rattler. That rat bastard took all of it and left me with nothing but the clothes on my back and a cheap walk-up I can’t even describe it’s so disgusting! That was followed by a grimace that would have broken every mirror in the fun house at the Fair. The clenched fists she waved in the air were a nice touch.

You can prove all this can you? I mean If I’m going to kill someone it’s got to be for the right reasons, I countered quietly.

Yeah I got proof, she hissed between clenched teeth. I got the will, her will, mother’s last words on paper.

Uh huh, that’s it? You’ve got a piece of paper that says what, according to mom you get everything? And I’m supposed to do what with that, cast a spell to make the bad man go away? Like I said you need a legal eagle not a gumshoe.

She wasn’t listening. The story poured out of her like I was some kinda therapist and she had to unburden her soul before they came for her. Most of it raced through the canyon between my ears but enough of it stuck around to keep my interest alive.

It read like a chapter right out of the society pages. The father, Charles Beaumont, was in the banking business and successful as hell until his ticker tocked. The mother, Veronica Beaumont, was a socialite with all the skills of a hangnail, mostly doing charity work around town. The whiner in the tight skirt on the stool next to me was the daughter, Marion. One big happy richer-than-God family.

By the sounds of it the prospect of hitting the skids sent them both into a tizzy. Long story short mom gets hitched to the senior clerk at the bank, some desk pusher with Richard Barnham on the nameplate. He made his move right after the funeral, giving Mom the schmaltz about having the magic formula for making everything better. She leaped at the offer like a salmon swimming upriver. Now she was completely out of the picture and Marion was having her own moment.

That’s