Meet Hook

By Jeff Deitering

A cop who isn’t a cop. Kidnappers who aren’t kidnappers. Mobsters who aren’t mobsters. And a lady in distress who’s neither a lady nor in distress.

Hook never expected his career path to lead him to the most influential “legitimate businessman” in Kansas City but when he and his cat, Patch, faced eviction from their home that’s where they arrived.

Meet Hook and his small circle of “friends” as they navigate the streets of Kansas City while trying to not fall prey to crazy drivers, international mobsters, the local authorities, or a psychotic ex-girlfriend.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: May 15, 2022
• ISBN: 9781387959174

Book preview

Meet Hook

By Jeff Deitering

Copyright © 2015 by Jeff Deitering

All rights reserved.

This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review or scholarly journal.

This is a work of fiction.  Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner.  Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

First Edition

eBook ISBN: 978-1-387-95917-4

Imprint: Lulu.com

Jeff Deitering

P.O. Box 315

Lawrence, KS  66044

www.jeffdeitering.com

To Sandy, who never gives up.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

A huge thank you to Jes, Anzia, and Dana who encouraged me to turn a crazy idea into a novel. My sincerest gratitude to all my beta readers for their feedback and suggestions. Muchas gracias to Sue for her unique help.  Thanks, Eric, for the great cover design.  Major kudos to Melissa, Lila, and Ami for finding the many errors of my ways. And lastly, thank you Barbra; your positive words were invaluable.

Chapter One

My eyelids blasted apart at the crackle of my radio announcing a bank robbery in progress.  I whipped my head back and forth to see if anyone noticed I'd dozed off; fortunately, no one had.  More importantly, the robbery call wasn't for me.

Waiting for a call to come in isn't so bad when you have good barbecue — but it can make you a bit drowsy.  The Gates Bar B Q on Highway 40 is my favorite parking lot to wait for trouble.  If I don’t hear anything, at least I get a tasty lunch and can take home a pork rib combo meal on the cheap.

I stared at the traffic racing down the street.  A garbage truck and a blue Miata ignored a yellow light and zipped through the red light.  Apparently, the traffic laws were temporarily suspended and no one bothered to send me a copy of the memo.

Somebody really should do something about that.

My cell phone chirped to announce an incoming text message.  I glanced at the small screen.  It was a scoring update for the baseball game.  We just gave up a run and trailed one to zero.  It was only the top of the third inning.  I sighed.  Business as usual so far.

As I questioned the absurdity of my loyalties to my hometown sports teams, the radio under my dash crackled and announced a non-injury accident at 35th and Sterling.  Only a few blocks away from me.  Not exactly where I expected the first wreck to be and a bit earlier than usual for a game day but that's why they're called accidents and not anticipateds.  I reached to my dash and flipped a switch.  The lights on my roof began to dance as I rolled to the accident scene.

I was a little surprised by what I found:  a large orange Rosco’s Refuse trash truck blocked half the intersection.  A pearlescent white Lexus LX 570 sport utility vehicle blocked the rest.  In between the two vehicles in the very center of the intersection rested a pearlescent white bumper and a mangled front wheel.  My years of experience and trained eye told me those belonged to the hobbled Lexus SUV.  The garbage truck didn't seem damaged but, then again, who can really tell when a garbage truck gets scratched or dented?

My razor sharp instincts told me the two people gesturing wildly and shouting at each other were the drivers.  I don't condone profiling, but my hunch was the much tanned woman in the yellow sundress with long, wavy black hair and even longer, slim legs was most likely the luxury vehicle owner.  The short yet very round man in the orange coveralls, brown work boots, and dingy red hat probably belonged to the garbage truck.  The orange coveralls made most of the Rosco’s drivers look like prisoners out on work release.  This guy, however, looked more like the purple ribbon winning pumpkin at the Clay County Fair.

I picked up my radio’s microphone.  Dispatch, I'm out at 35th and Sterling.  Will need transport for one.

A distant woman’s voice crackled back a 10-4.

I grabbed my clipboard and opened my door.  The argument would soon get out of hand if I didn’t establish my authority and intervene quickly.  I slid out of my vehicle.  My seatbelt snagged the corner of my clipboard and flipped it out of my hand.  It clattered to the street.  The drivers stopped arguing.  They watched me scrambling, trying to grab my pen and pad of forms before the southern breeze blew everything down 35th Street.

At least I got their attention.

Unlike southwestern cities such as Phoenix, the late July heat in Kansas City is far from dry.  My sweat saturated my clothes instantly.  My black polyester uniform adhered itself to my skin like a giant sweat-sucking leech.  I walked toward the drivers who resumed bickering.  Talking to them was going to be oh-so-pleasant.

I took a fresh form from the pad on my clipboard and quickly drew a sketch of the accident scene on it.  A crucial part of my job is documenting the accident scene precisely as I find it.  I pulled a small Bausch and Lomb laser range finder from a leather holster on my equipment belt and took some measurements of the scene.  The quarreling drivers got louder and more animated.  I glanced at them out of the corner of my left eye as I finished sketching the scene.  The tubby guy turned his cap backwards so he could get his face closer to the woman as he yelled.  Fat lot of good that did, though.  She didn’t seem the least bit intimidated.  She looked to be about five-foot-six including the three-inch heals she wore - and towered over him by at least a half a foot.  Besides, his protruding belly was the controlling factor, not the brim of his hat.

Even though the early afternoon traffic was still light, cars began to line up in all directions.  Drivers' patience was going to be even more tenuous in this heat.  I hoped that would help me get this done quickly.  I neared the drivers as the woman bent at her waist and began a new tirade.  Under normal circumstances, I would have stared at her a little longer.  She was a classic beauty not unlike Sophia Loren.

...and, you stinking toad, I know you had your head up your ass because you are so full of shit!

Her voice had a hint of a Hispanic lilt to it.  Kind of sexy, even with the sailor’s vocabulary.  I waited a couple of beats just so I could hear a little more.

You blew through that light and you will pay for my truck — plus emotional damages — or I’ll tear off one of your arms and beat you with it.

I stepped in before things got uglier.  Although, I have to admit when I got a closer look at Daniel (according to the stinking toad's name tag) I didn't think uglier was possible. I needed to take charge of this and get it cleared fast.

Ok, I began, it's too hot for this crap and we need to get this intersection cleared quickly.  They both turned their scowls to me.  I need your insurance cards right now.

Surprisingly, they both handed them to me straight away.  Usually I have to wait while people get them out of their glove compartment.  They also gave me their driver's licenses.  I jotted down their information on the form on my clipboard while they glowered at each other.  I handed them their cards and licenses.  I looked at my cell phone.  Its clock showed five minutes had passed since I arrived.  It also showed that we were now losing two to nothing in the fourth inning.  I needed to wrap things up.

Now, I snuck a quick look at my clipboard for her name, Maria, fifty words or less, tell me what happened.

Hey!  Why her? the toad croaked.

Quiet, Pumpkin, I said.  Ladies first, then you can have your say.

I heard him mutter Daniel but I already turned back to face Maria.

Gesturing to Sterling she said, I was at this light.  It turned green, I started to cross, and I was hit by this, this...this garbage toting toad!  He destroyed my truck and scarred me emotionally.  I will never, ever be able to erase the memory — or his stench — from my life.

What a performance.  Her words dripped with drama the way my uniform dripped with perspiration.  She looked at me as though she expected applause.  I guessed she had a few high school plays in her history and was probably a real treasure to be around — for someone else.  Judging by the size of the diamond on her left hand, her husband must be at least as rich as he is patient.

The stinking toad turned crimson which really clashed with the faded red of his ball cap.  I nodded to him and said All right, Pumpkin, let's hear it.

It's 'Daniel'!

Whatever, I said.

He turned a little redder.  Rivers of sweat streaked his ruddy face.

I was heading west on 35th.  She pulled out in front me.  I tried to miss her but she hit my bumper.  See? he said pointing at the muddy, rusted front bumper on his truck.  Some of the mud was scraped off down to an older layer of mud.  Look, I gots a schedule to keep and this Johnson County bitch blabbin’ on her cell phone is puttin' me behind-

He stopped mid-sentence because Maria slapped him so hard the bill of his cap spun around to face the right direction.  A faded red bird logo was visible to me for the first time.  It was a St. Louis Cardinals hat.  I hate the stinkin’ Cardinals.

Ok, I've got all I need now, I said.

The toad sputtered.  Aren't you gonna do something about that?!

About what? I asked.

She assaulted me!

Look, Pumpkin, I was looking at my clipboard taking notes.  A squad car is headed over from the west side.  When it gets here you can give Officer Krupke your story.  I'm sure that won't put you behind schedule more than an hour or so.  But, like I said, I've got what I need.  Now sign this so I can start clearing the intersection and get these cars moving again.  The game is ending soon and traffic will be a nightmare.

The Cardinal loving toad snorted at the word game.  I thrust my clipboard into his spongy chest.  His ham of a hand absorbed my pen and he signed on one of the lines on the form just above the sketch.  Then he tottered toward his truck.

I called after him, You sure you don't want to give the officer a statement?

He held up his left arm.  I'm pretty sure the middle piggy on his hand flipped up.  The fucking Cardinal fan gave me the bird.

I'll take that as a no, I mumbled and turned back to Maria.

Now, Maria, if you would just sign here I can get your truck moved, I said gesturing to a line on the form.

What is this and why should I sign it?

Shit.

Usually people will sign forms without question.  It's just natural:  there's a form for everything, nothing gets done without forms, and nobody wants to be the one blamed by others for causing problems.  Most people anyway.  Turns out this drama queen wasn't most people.  I should have guessed that.

This is a sketch of the accident with the statements you and the pumpkin gave me.

Daniel, you mean.

Her too?  Sheesh.

I ignored her correction and continued.

You're signing to indicate this is what the scene looked like, I said pointing to the sketch.  I then pointed to my notes, and that is what you told me.

She stared into my eyes.  Her eyes were gorgeous café’ latte colored eyes that any other time I would have really noticed.  My knees buckled a little, probably because of the oppressive heat.  Probably.  Then she took my clipboard and slowly signed her name on the form.

Just then, a bright red 1987 Impala sedan with a yellow Drop Off Taxi Co. logo stenciled on the door arrived and parked in a strip mall driveway near the intersection.  A barrel-chested man clad in tight fitting red plaid pants, white and blue striped golf shirt, and white patent leather shoes with matching white belt got out of the car and strolled toward us.  As if the wardrobe wasn’t enough of a clue, his thinning, gray-brown hair confirmed his age to be fiftyish.

Nik, I said to him, would you be so kind as to take care of Maria here while I get her truck out of the intersection?  Be sure to stick around until the squad car gets here.

Shoore, Hook, vhatever you say, he replied with r's rolled as only a former Muscovite can roll them.

A look of confusion wafted across Maria's face as she walked with Nikola Andropov to his taxi.

My cell phone chirped again.  The score was now eight to one in the top of the fifth inning.  As usual, Harrelson, the pitcher, was a damned gas can and the fifth inning was like a road flare to him.

Ok, I wasn’t entirely forthcoming throughout this episode but time is extremely short in these situations.  I really did want to clear the intersection, but honestly, in late July the baseball season for most of us locals is already over.  When it's a hundred degrees in the shade, and our team, the Royals, are twelve games out of first place and fifteen games out of a .500 win-loss record, only the hardiest of die-hards are at the day games.  Sure, I was concerned the dozens — perhaps even hundreds — of fans at the game would leave soon but in reality there's more traffic created by the Gates Bar B Q restaurant lunch rush than what the typical July ballgame generates.

No, there was a bigger reason for me to work quickly.

I tugged the SUV bumper over to the sidewalk.  Then I tugged the wheel — and the ball joint that was still attached to it — over to the walk next to the bumper.  I got into my vehicle and backed up to the front of the Lexus.  I stepped back out into the afternoon sauna just as a KCPD squad car arrived.  I glanced at my phone again.  I'd been on the scene just over fifteen minutes.

Stevens, I said, nodding to Officer Craig Stevens exiting the cruiser.

Hook, he said nodding back.  Then with a mischievous smirk he asked, How's Samantha?

Go to hell, Stevens, is what I thought — but didn’t say.  Instead, I only glared at him.

All right, then tell me just what the hell you’re doing, he said.

You know she left me months ago.  And, I, I said as I activated the tilt-bed of my truck to make a ramp for the disabled Lexus, am doing you and our fair City of Fountains a favor by clearing this intersection so that there is no post-ballgame traffic snarl.

Yeah, you see, the other reason I try to hurry is because I'm not a cop.  I'm an independent tow truck driver.

Chapter Two

I never really intended to become a tow truck driver.  I was a scrawny little kid and towing cars was the last thing on my mind.  I wanted to be a cop like my hero.

After getting stuffed into my school locker seven or eight dozen times by kids who weren’t so scrawny, I learned to hang close to our portly, gray-haired school guard, Officer Charlie.  I didn’t score any popularity points with the bully crowd by cozying up to Charlie but I didn’t get stuffed into my locker anymore, either.

Charlie figured out what I was doing fairly quickly.  He chatted with me without ever really looking at me.  He continually scanned the school, panning his head back and forth gazing at the munchkins terrorizing his hallways.  He always seemed alert but it was the ‘80s and I think he was there mostly for show.  Considering how much he talked to me, a little kid, I think he was generally pretty bored.

I learned he was a retired Los Angeles policeman.  Without ever breaking his constant surveillance, he told me dozens of stories about his time patrolling the streets of the City of Angels.  The people he described to me didn’t sound very angelic, though.  Bank robbers, car thieves, murderers, shoplifters...they all sounded like a bunch of out of control dirtbags.  Each story, though, ended with my hero, Charlie, finally getting his man.

His LA career sounded very exciting to an eight-year-old runt.  Even though I was only a third-grader, I resolved two things.  First of all, I was going to be a cop, just like Officer Charlie.  Secondly, I was going to grow up to be six and a half feet tall and strong enough to throw a one hundred mile per hour fastball just like my other hero, Mark Gubicza.  Okay, Charlie didn’t have anything to do with the second goal, but Gubi was a hell of a pitcher for my Royals at that time and I knew there was no way he ever got stuffed in a locker by anyone.

Ten years later, I was only a hundred and sixty pounds and topped out at five foot ten.  My doctor helpfully assured me I wasn’t going to grow any taller but I could put on all the weight I wanted.  I thanked the jerk for the prognosis.

My fastball wasn’t fast enough to even break the highway speed limit, either.  Fortunately, that wasn’t a requirement for joining the Kansas City Police Department.  Aiming to do Officer Charlie proud, I completed the Administration of Justice program at the nearby Johnson County Community College and then applied to the force.

A few weeks after being accepted by the KCPD, I stumbled onto a marathon of Adam-12 episodes on the Nickelodeon network.  I watched one after another, becoming more and more disillusioned after each episode.  Every single one of them was like a Charlie story.  I don’t mean they were similar to his stories, I mean they were exactly like them.  Same situations, same names, same outcomes, all identical to my hero’s career.  The old bastard ripped off Jack Webb Productions.  I shoulda been suspicious when he told me his partner’s name was Jim Reed.

I should have suspected then becoming a Kansas City Police Officer wasn’t the future I thought it would be.  Although Adam-12 was on television for seven years, my time as a police officer was much shorter than that.  Actually, I was only in training to be a Kansas City Police Officer.  For circumstances I choose to believe were primarily out of my control, I agreed to part ways with the Department right around the same time they fired me.

Shortly after