Hooked Up

By Jeff Deitering

When Hook's boss, Jimmy Penders, said Custom & Classic Hauling added a lucrative new contract, Hook knew there would be difficulties. But he never expected someone to put a hit on Jimmy. And he certainly didn't think trouble would take the form of...a vampire?

Book 2 in the Hook and Patch series

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: May 24, 2022
• ISBN: 9781387932191

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Copyright © 2016 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: 978-1-387-93219-1

Imprint: Lulu.com

Jeff Deitering

P.O. Box 315

Lawrence, KS  66044

www.jeffdeitering.com

To Sandy and her laugh.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

A big thank you to Jes, Anzia, and Dana, the first people to meet Hook. My sincerest appreciation to my beta readers Ed, Dawn, Nina, and Tony.  Thank you again, Eric for another great cover.  A huge thanks to Lila and Ami for proving over and over I’m not perfect.  Most of all, thank you to all the pet rescue organizations and their volunteers who take care of Patch’s friends.  Adopt and adopt often.

Chapter One

I woke up with my left wrist handcuffed to the headboard of my bed.  Light from the October morning sun streamed into my bedroom, illuminating the thirteen pound, grey, one-eyed cat sitting on my chest.

The cat, Patch, is my roommate.  We share a loft apartment in the historic Western Auto building, a hundred year-old, twelve story brick building near Downtown Kansas City.  Patch is also my best friend in the world; we have a special...connection.  He sometimes jumps onto my chest to remind me I’m just a human and exist to serve him.  I could tell by the way he twitched his whiskers Patch believed it was time for me to get out of bed and feed him.

The handcuffs belonged to Samantha.  We share a sordid history.  Sam is my ex-girlfriend; we had a lot of...common interests.  She jumped into my life for a few weeks then left with no warning just to remind me I’m pathetic and have no will.  I could tell by the way she left last night she wasn’t likely coming back.

She waltzed into my loft using a key I never gave her.  The kiss she laid on me made my toenails tingle.  What little common sense I have evaporated before she pushed me onto my bed.  All the blood in my brain departed for parts south when she cuffed me to the headboard.  When she pulled a duffle bag from my closet and started gathering the few things she still had in the loft I realized this late-night call was only for her to gather her booty and sail away.  I dozed off while she was rifling through my kitchen.

Patch looked at the empty half of the bed and purred.  Ironically, it was Sam’s idea for me to get a kitten.  "It would be adorable," she purred.  I put my foot down and said there was absolutely no way there would be any cat in my loft.  So, naturally, a few days later I adopted a kitten.  It never occurred to Sam that Patch would bond with me — and hiss and hide from her.

Meow.

Happy as he was that Sam was gone from our home, he made it clear I was late with his breakfast.  I rattled the handcuffs in response.

I’m hungry too, buddy.  But, I said still shaking my wrist, she got me again.

Yeah, it wasn’t the first time Sam left me cuffed to furniture.  At least my parents didn’t find me this way.  Again.

Patch put his ears back and squinted at me with a feline glare.  He stepped off my chest and walked across the bed to the nightstand.  He sat in front of the clock still blinking 12:00 from last week’s power blip and pawed at one of the two cell phones lying next to it.

Unfortunately, it was my work phone he batted.  The phone rang a few seconds later.  That was the same trick Patch performed to get my attention the day I found him at the Kansas City Pet Project shelter.  He’s been sending me subtle warnings in his own kitty way ever since.

I stretched across the bed for the phone.  Sam was thoughtful – or, more likely, careless – enough to cuff me within fingertip distance of my phones.  I caught the edge of the screen with my fingernails and drug it closer.  The screen simply said BLOCKED.  It always does.  I knew before I pressed the answer button, though, who was calling.  So did Patch; he leapt from the nightstand and ran to the living room.

I call it the Jimmy Phone because my boss, Jimmy Penders, gave it to me when he politely coerced me into working for him.  It’s the hotline used to send me on errands for his business interests.  However, it’s his right-hand man, Stanley, who always calls me.

Like me, Stanley went to work for Jimmy due to personal misfortune.  I like to believe we’re akin to brothers-in-arms.

Good morning, Stanley, I said.

Shut up, Hook.

Yes, sir.

Brothers in a he’s-a-Major-I’m-a-Private kind of way.

Patch returned carrying a short piece of blue ribbon in his mouth.  He dropped it next to my free hand then sat down beside me.  He pointedly ignored me by washing the back of his front paw.  I picked up the ribbon; a small silver handcuff key was tied to it.

Like I said, bound and abandoned in our loft is a rodeo Patch and I attended before.

Wake up and get dressed.

Stan, it’s only— I stopped and glanced at the flashing clock.  Hell, I didn’t know what time it was and didn’t really care.  It’s early.  What do you want?

What did I tell you about questions?  Get your ass out of bed.  I’ve got a run for you to make.

Being the lowest man on the Jimmy Penders organization chart meant I didn’t have the authority to ask questions.  However, I wasn’t very good with that rule.

Very funny, Stanley.  It’s only morning.  We never have morning runs.

Stanley replied in his quiet, I’m-going-to-punch-you-in-the-spleen voice.  I told you ‘no thinking’.

Oh, yeah, I also don’t have authority to think.

Stanley continued.  Starting today, Custom & Classic Hauling is under contract to the KC police to tow abandoned cars.  From now on we’ll be towing cars all day, every day, so get moving.

I smiled.  Stanley sounded gruff — like he always did when he called me with a job — but this was just a practical joke.

Ha.  And ha, I said.  You had me going there for a minute, Stan.  But, my piece-of-shit uncle has that contract and it doesn’t expire for another three years.

"Had.  He had the contract.  Jimmy has it now.  He laughed which sounded like a braking semi-truck with muffler issues.  Your family’s Thanksgiving dinner should be real fun.  NOW QUIT ARGUING WITH ME AND GET YOUR DUMB ASS UP!  If you aren’t ready when I call in fifteen minutes I’m tearing out one of your kidneys."

Click.

Really, shame on me for thinking Stanley has a sense of humor.  Before getting my own tow truck, I worked for my uncle as a driver for his tow company for a year.  He was a complete bastard the whole time.  He hired me because my grandmother made him, then assigned me the oldest, crummiest truck he had in his fleet — one that used a cable and a big iron hook.  The jackass gave me my nickname just a few seconds after I climbed in that truck.  Unfortunately the name stuck even after I quit the job.

Despite the rude wake-up call, I had to smile.  It warmed my heart knowing my boss just boosted the city contract from my jerk of an uncle.  Stanley was right, though: my Thanksgiving was going to be a little chilly.

Chapter Two

Stanley always gave me nearly unmeetable deadlines coupled with threats of vital organ removal.  If it was anyone else, I’d dismiss his threats as a lot of hot air.  However, Stanley is more than capable of harvesting my innards.

Twenty years ago, Stanley was an All-City running back for Kansas City South High School with full-ride scholarship offers from every Division I football school that mattered.  All of the local universities, too.  Then he blew out a knee in his last high school game and all the offers disappeared.  Jimmy believed he had a lot more to offer than just carrying the pigskin.  He brought him into the family business he’d recently inherited.

Most people assume Stanley is just Jimmy’s bodyguard; all profane muscle and nothing more.  He’s really Jimmy’s business manager, taking care of the day-to-day operation of Jimmy’s numerous enterprises.  Even after two decades with a bum knee, he’s still a very large and physically imposing business manager.  The pair is the most successful and influential legitimate businessmen team Kansas City has seen since 1939.

I used the first five minutes of the time Stanley so generously provided me to uncuff myself from the headboard and, more important, give Patch fresh water and food.  Stanley might tear out one of my kidneys for being late but that pales in comparison to the wrath of a hungry Patch.

I had a toothbrush in my mouth when the phone rang again.  I spit and answered.

Hello, Stan.

Shut up.  You dressed and ready? he asked.

Patch was sitting on the bathroom counter next to the sink.  He looked over his fuzzy shoulder at the dark blue polyester uniform laid out on my bed and then to the towel wrapped around my waist.  I shrugged at him.

Sure.

Liar.  Get dressed and get into your truck.  AND DON’T WEAR THAT STUPID FAKE COP GETUP!  Nobody falls for that shit and it embarrasses our company.

It is not a fake cop uniform.  The Kansas City Police Department uniforms do — coincidentally — bear a strong resemblance to my navy blue towing uniform.  Coincidentally.  At 5 foot 10 inches, and a soft 175 pounds, I’m hardly intimidating.  So, when I ran my own towing business, I wore the uniform.  It usually helped me clear accidents much faster.  If people assume my Dragnet Fan Club badge affords me a higher authority than I actually have well, then, that’s their problem.  Obviously, Stanley felt otherwise.

Pbbfff...I stopped wearing that weeks ago, I lied, crossing my bedroom quickly to pull some jeans and a tattered red Kansas City Chiefs sweatshirt out of my dresser.

Whatever.  There’s a bronze colored ’93 Cadillac Seville on Jefferson near 8th Street.  I told the dispatcher we’d have it off the street by 9 o’clock.

What the hell?  I get why our night runs need to be done fast but who gives a shit how soon some old Caddy gets pulled off a side street?  I really think you have OCD issues.

Just get the damn car.

Click.

I looked at the screen on my personal phone.  The time and weather app said 8:43 and 38 degrees.  Not much time and chilly.  Once the sun cleared the downtown skyline, it would warm up quickly.  Nothing, however, was going stretch time.

I only took a couple of minutes to pull on my clothes and get down to my truck.  I started it and let the heater run on full blast while I scraped a few viewing holes in the frost covered windows.  Stanley was always a prick about time; it was theoretically possible to make his asinine deadline, but with all the one-way streets around downtown, it would be tight.

I drove the circuitous trip from my place to the Quality Hill neighborhood where the car was parked.  The area is a bluff in central Kansas City overlooking the Missouri River.

I saw right away why they wanted the car towed:  it was parked on the sidewalk wedged between a streetlight pole and the entrance stairs for Case Park.  Its rear bumper rested against a low stone retaining wall.  A pair of parking tickets chattered under the windshield wiper.

Hmph...drunk drivers.

The dumb sumbitch was lucky the retaining wall stopped him.  Case Park is just a tiny, backyard-sized patch of grass with a statue, some picnic tables, and a few benches overlooking the confluence of the Kansas and Missouri Rivers.  The West Bottoms part of Kansas City sits on the south river bank and the Downtown Airport resides on the north bank.  The far edge of the park, only a couple hundred feet away from the street, abuts a 150-foot drop onto the streets of the West Bottoms.  Nobody would survive that wild ride.

The sun crested the apartment building across the street warming the park and the cockeyed Cadillac.  The last patches of frost that defied my truck’s anemic defroster succumbed to the rising sun and slid off my windshield.  I backed over the curb and onto the sidewalk, stopping in front of the foundered Seville.

I activated the tilt-bed of my truck and unspooled a few dozen feet of cable from the winch.  I crawled under the car to attach it to the frame.  Even though the air under the car was warming up, my ass told me the sidewalk was still ice cold.  The sunlight reflecting off the concrete lit up the underside of the car so connecting the cable was fairly easy, though.

At least that’s what I thought until I caught the shoulder of my sweatshirt on the frayed winch cable and tore another hole in it.  The tearing sound startled me; I lurched and cracked my forehead on a brake caliper.  I rolled out from under the car and stomped around the sidewalk clutching my bleeding head with both hands.

Damn...son-of-...mother...shit...bastard!

My swearing gets a bit incoherent when I’m frustrated.  Sure, the sweatshirt was old and already had several holes in it, but it was still one of my favorites.  And I tore it on a game day.  That couldn’t be a good omen.

Stomping around like an idiot didn’t make my head hurt any less so I decided to just grimace and bear it.  The cut on my noggin wasn’t deep; it only stained my fingertips before clotting shut.  Gritting my teeth, I stalked away from the car back to the winch controls next to the cab of my truck.  I gripped the lever for the winch and jerked it back.  I looked back to the Seville to make sure the cable didn’t kink as the slack in it disappeared.

The entire street was fully bathed in the morning sunlight.  The vintage Cadillac’s metallic bronze paint sparkled.  The frost, now covering only the bottom half of the windows, twinkled.  The spectacles, slightly askew on the elderly man’s head behind the steering wheel, reflected the sun directly into my eyes.

Dammit.  The drunken dipshit was still passed out in the car.

I slammed the lever ahead, stopping the winch.  Trust me, I know all-to-well that towing a car with a person in it does not turn out well.  Oh, I was still going to tow the car — I was already attached and not about to stop just because nobody bothered to look inside.  But first, I was dragging his inebriated ass from behind the steering wheel.

I walked back to the car and looked into the driver’s window.  The sun melted most of the frost.  The guy was wearing a dark gray suit and looked to be about a bajillion years old.

He didn’t move when my shadow covered the window.  I smacked the glass to give him a wake-up call.  He still didn’t move.

I looked at my cellphone screen and saw I’d already missed Stanley’s 9 o’clock deadline by ten minutes.  Since light and noise didn’t break through his stupor, I decided to try a more hands-on approach.

I grabbed the door handle and gave it a tug.  Nada.  The door didn’t budge and he didn’t flinch.  He was totally oblivious.

I paused for a moment to try to remember the last time I’d been that drunk.  Probably the night after I was kicked off the police force.  I woke up the next morning with the taste of burned Doritos in my mouth and wearing only a Pizza Hut kitchen apron.

Don’t ask.

I put both hands on the top of the door.  My left foot twitched as though a pair of needles jabbed into it, like Patch nipping at me to get my attention.  I looked around but didn’t see anything unusual; the drunkard and I were the only people stirring.

I took a wide stance on the sidewalk and gave the car a shove, yelling Hey! as the car rocked.  He finally moved —though only due to me rocking the car.  He slumped against the window revealing two holes in the right side of his neck.  His maroon power tie blended into his blood-soaked shirt collar.

Aw, shit.

Chapter Three

I backed the hell away from the car and grabbed my cell phone.  I hurriedly dialed 9-9-1 and jammed with my thumb.  After two minutes of no response, I started a tirade (to no one in particular) about the worthless, overpaid, overweight, unresponsive pieces of no-good, lazy...

...oh, I misdialed.

My bad.

So, I hit and then dialed 9-1-1 and hit again.  This time I reached the police dispatcher in seconds.  She sounded a bit skeptical when I told her what I found.

Two holes in his neck?  Like a vampire?

"No, two holes in his neck like a vampire bite.  There’s blood all over so he either tasted stale or it wasn’t a vampire," I replied.

I’ll see if Detective Van Helsing is available just the same.  She giggled at her lame joke.  I wasn’t as amused.

The noon start time for the Chiefs football game meant most of the street officers were on drunk-patrol in the Arrowhead Stadium parking lots.  The dispatcher asked me to sit tight then told me don’t touch anything because someone would come over real soon now.

Sure they would.

I turned on the police scanner hidden under the dash of my truck.  The staticky chatter made it pretty clear the pregame tailgaters had all the officers tied up.  I sat on the curb next to my truck and waited.

Except for the dead dude in the Seville, it was a gorgeous, early fall morning.  The breeze was light and the smattering of clouds in the sky didn’t hinder the sun at all.  A few joggers altered their path from the sidewalk into the street to get around my truck.  They shot me disapproving looks for parking on the sidewalk.  Their pace picked up considerably when they saw the dead driver gazing blankly out of the car window.

A shabby looking Ford Festiva popped and wheezed up the street and parked a few spots beyond my truck.  An unshaven, middle-aged guy wearing khaki cargo shorts and a dingy long-sleeved t-shirt crawled out of it.  He reached back inside the car and rummaged