Lee Hacklyn 1980s Private Investigator in The Pageantry and The Gallantry: Lee Hacklyn, #1

By John Leister

New York City. 1987.

 

Lee is hired by his old friend, Flynn MacIntyre, a television producer,

whose brother, Lloyd, a security chief for the upcoming Miss B.U.T.T.

Pageant, was killed by a drunk driver.

Flynn thinks his brother was murdered.

During his investigation, Lee finally confronts District Attorney Prentice

Kane, who regards Lee as an out-of-control vigilante.

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: John Leister
• Release date: Sep 6, 2022
• ISBN: 9798215754887

Book preview

Chapter One

Queens, I think, New York City.  1987.

Oh, my God!  Who are you and what the fuck are you doing in my bed?  I’m calling the police!  Stop looking at my tits!

I didn’t break into your place, babe.  You invited me in.

I looked at my watch.  2 am.

This was one hour ago, at the Night House, if memory serves.

She was on her knees and doing that thing all women do, at least, in my not-quite Wilt Chamberlain level experience, pressing her bad sheet against her ample breasts, as if they might turn me into stone, like what happened to men when they into Medusa’s eyes, or a pillar of salt, like Lot’s wife.

She snarled, Did you just call me babe?"

If there’s a man alive who can remember a woman’s name after what’s sure to be nothing more than a one-night stand, then, I’d like to shake his hand and buy him a beer.

My name is Eeka!

My condolences.  What’s your last name?  Mouse?

You wouldn’t call me babe, if I were a man!

If you were a man, I’d be the one calling 911.  Oh, my jeans.

They were on the floor, in a pile.

So!  You’re sexist and homophobic to boot!

Sweet Tart, it’s not a great way to go through life doing what you’re doing right now.  Putting people into a perfectly square box, then slapping a label on it.  One that gives you comfort, because it relieves you from the burden of thinking.  Oh, great!  My zipper’s broken.

CHAPTER TWO

I just bought these, too.  Mind if I smoke?

She screamed.

I guess that was her way of saying, No, but thanks for asking.

Oh, you’re the worst.  Smoking gave my mother lung cancer when she was forty-five.

I’m very sorry, Eeka.  I’ll bet she was a lot more fun to hang around with on her worst day than you are on your best day.  Oh, and speaking of boxes?  There’s enough room in yours for a Christmas tree.  Lighting, ornaments, and a star on top, too.

As I slid into my T-shirt, wondering why I can’t keep my mouth shut for more than ten seconds, she ran her pretty behind out her bedroom and I could hear her bare feet padding on the hardwood floor, I was fearful that she might come back with a sharp instrument.

Bang!  No such luck.

She pointed a Remington Model 11-87 semi-automatic shotgun at me, well, if you want to get specific, Dear Reader, my groin, and fired again.

The blast jolted her arm upward.

Cuddles!

A headless grey tabby cat landed with a thunk beside me.  As much as I love cats, I love my balls more.

SIDEBAR:  Actually, I prefer cats to dogs, although I get why most people prefer otherwise.  I’ve never heard of a cat that brought its Daddy a beer from the fridge, but dogs require constant attention.  You leave them outside for a minute when you go to the bank and they have a nervous breakdown.  Cats?  You give them a few minutes of attention, they express their gratitude by scratching your arm, when they’ve had enough, then, they bugger off for the rest of the day.  They love you again, when they’re hungry.  Cats are much easier to understand than people.  Except for the whole finding-the-most- uncomfortable-place-in-the-house-to-sleep in-business.

END SIDEBAR

She dropped her gun and jiggled her naked body over to poor Cuddles, the Headless Horse-cat.

She looked up at me and screamed, You did this!

Tell you what, I said, as I laced up my Nikes, We’ll let the Judge decide.  Your prints are on that gun.  Mine aren’t.  Capeesh?

She sniveled, What am I gonna do?

Bury Cuddles in your back yard.  Do you have one?  Good.  Tell your friends she ran off.  I’ll bet they’ll buy that, which was probably a mean thing to say, but it went over her head, or so it seemed to me.

You won’t tell anyone?

No.  Accidents happen.  Assuming that none of your neighbors are Mrs. Kravitz and calling the police?  I wouldn’t worry.  Eeka, we met last night and had a great time.  You brought me here and we had great sex.  You wake up an hour later and lose all of your senses.  What gives?

I’m a born-again Christian.  I promised God that I’ll never sleep with a man again unless he’s my husband.  You see, last Saturday, while I was tidying up the place, I found Jesus.

Was he behind the couch?

Suffice to say, she didn’t laugh.  And as it turned out?  She was an excellent liar.

She reached for her gun, then fainted.  Or pretended to.  I picked her up and put her back to bed.  I checked her breathing, it seemed natural, and her pulse was normal. 

I finished dressing, put my leather gloves on, it was November and snowing out, picked up Eeka’s gun, unloaded it and put the ammo in my Goose-down jacket pocket.

I left.  Sorry, Cuddles.  At least you have a great story to tell your fellow cats in Cat Heaven.  Unless you were a bad kitty.  Is there any other kind?

CHAPTER THREE

My Superman-blue Mustang, complete with, SPOILER WARNING, spoiler, yellow stripe, red stripe, natch, was buried in snow.

At least I wasn’t far from home.

After clearing away the snow from...I always thought that guys who named their cars were idiots, but Sid Phelps, a fellow private investigator who worked for sometimes, had named his pink Cadillac, Loretta.

Alison.  I’m naming my car, Alison.  I guess I’m an idiot, too.  Alison was my mother’s name.

My mother, the car.

Boom!

Cat-killer!

I guess she had some more ammo.  Super-Sleuth makes another Sherlockian deduction.

Boom!

You’re a wet noodle of a lover!

Some lights in the house across the street from hers came on.

My windshield shattered as I piled into my driver’s seat, slammed the door shut, fired up Alison, put the pedal to the metal and slid around the slippery, snowy street like an