Lee Hacklyn 1970s Private Investigator in Live and Russian Roulette Die: Lee Hacklyn, #1

By John Leister

New York City. 1976.

 

Lee is hired by none other than his mother, Alison Hacklyn,

to find a missing Russian ballerina, who wants to defect.

What is her secret?

And will her desire to betray her country trigger World War III?

• Language: English
• Publisher: John Leister
• Release date: Sep 16, 2022
• ISBN: 9798215671924

Book preview

NEW YORK CITY. 1976.

CHAPTER ONE

You said you’d take me home.

After.

If the after you’re thinking of, is the after that I think you’re thinking of, forget it.  Taxi!

Never mind the fucking cab.  My car’s just down the street.  I’ll drive you home.  After.  You don’t mind if my wife watches, do you?  She gets off on watching me fuck other chicks.  Am I the luckiest man in the world or what?

Let go of my arm!

We’re almost there, Farah.

Cheryl.

Whatever.  There are some things in life that are beyond your control.  This is one of them.

It was after two in the morning and I was the last patron out of the Night House, a bar/restaurant that was a stone’s throw away from my swinging bachelor pad in Queens.

It was July and I loved being outside on a hot night.

The scene unfolding in front of me? 

Not so much.

If you don’t let go of my arm, I’ll scream!

You scream and I’ll hurt you bad.  This is gonna happen, babe.

The man was tall, Kareem Abdul-Jabbar tall, thin and he wore a Brooks Brothers suit.  His shoes had tassels.  Well, now.  Isn’t that precious?

His hair had enough product in it to grease a frying pan and his moustache was pointy enough at both ends to impale an eyeball.

He looked to be fresh out of college, polished, the tilt of his chin indicated a demeanor of entitlement.

I was snap-sizing him up in my plastered state.

He was spoiled and he grew up denied nothing from his parents, who probably knew better.

Mom and Dad, when you give your kids everything they want, leave it them to figure any kind of moral code, fail to set any boundaries for them whatsoever, it’s just my opinion, but that’s not a recipe for creating a great example-setter of an adult.

The woman was in her early twenties, petite, busty and she was squeezed into a tight and clingy orange dress that left little to the imagination.

Her hair was long and parted in the middle, like Ali MacGraw.

She let her purse slide down her arm, caught it by the strap and whacked Slick-boys face with it.

Good for you, sister.

He responded by slapping her face.

I was drunk. 

I was tired.

But the thought of walking away from this one never occurred to me.

CHAPTER TWO

He saw me approach and said, Hey, buddy.  Stay out of this.  Mind your own business.  My dad is a powerful man.

I said, with a slightly slurred voice, If I squint hard enough, I can just make out the protuberance of your sack.  Oh!  There it is!

He tried to block the ball of my foot, but to no avail.

It landed dead center.  His Lurch-like body bent over and he fell forward, face first, right into my upward knee.

The crunch of his flattened nose was sickening and satisfying at the same time.

I got under him, pushed him up and pummeled him with a classic jab-cross-uppercut combo.

My last shot struck his Dick Tracey-esque chin.

His head jerked back.  His arm pinwheeled and his butt landed hard on the pavement, with all the force gravity had to muster.

You could say, Dear Reader, that the Force was with him.

Ba-dum-chee!

CHAPTER THREE

He flicked away some imaginary tweety-birds, flitting around his head and said, You’re dead.  I’m going to report you!

Make sure you include this in your report.

I spread his legs open and implanted the bottom of my boot into his groin.

He reacted accordingly and I asked him, Don’t you watch tv?  The bad guys always lose right before the last commercial break, unless it’s a two-part episode.

He snarled, You have no idea who I am or how powerful my father is.  Are you ready?  He’s the Secretary-General of the United Nations.

I laughed, feeling myself sober