Double, Double Oil & Trouble

By Glenn Yngve

Anchorage, Alaska private investigator Danny Slayer has just been hired to find a missing petroleum engineer. Missing persons are some of the bread and butter for private investigations. By the end of the day, Slayer's entire world is turned upside down. Alaska is under siege by a foreign power. The prize is Alaska's immense oil reserves. Keeping Alaska and its oil independent is essential to the economic tranquility of the world. Slayer teams up with Anchorage Police Department Chaplain Hymie Rosenberg. Together they start the wheels turning to bring Alaska back from the brink. Buckle up. The action gets intense.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Nov 4, 2019
• ISBN: 9781645844235

Book preview

Chapter 1

As usual, things were slow here in Anchorage, Alaska. Slayer Investigations didn’t have a busy time of year. The late August heat wave, sitting on the Anchorage area, had temperatures soaring into the low nineties.

Alaska in general was burnt out on summer. The season’s deluge of tourists (eight hundred thousand of them) was beginning to thin out. Like the end of a salmon season, things were slowing down. The summertime effervescence of a tall cold gin and tonic were about to give way to the more autumnal vapors of a hot brandy in a snifter.

Finding missing people are a mainstay in private investigation work. People run away to Alaska all the time—disgruntled wives, disgruntled husbands, their disgruntled kids. The lure of the Last Frontier, with its promises of wealth and fortune, is a powerful magnet for those who have never tasted either.

People run away to Alaska just to get away from the bullshit of everyday living in the lower forty-eight. Surprise! We had to live through the same everyday bullshit right here in Anchorage. Rumor has it that everyday bullshit has been spotted in Fairbanks.

The case I was working on now didn’t fit any of the disgruntled categories. In fact, it didn’t fit anywhere. A doctor and Mrs. Karsegian of Bellevue, Washington, had reported their son Kirin Karsegian missing on August 10, 2004. Kirin had not arrived at his uncle’s house out in Muldoon; he was due to arrive on the afternoon of August 7.

Kirin Karsegian deplaned at Anchorage’s Ted Stevens International Airport and then he disappeared off the face of the earth. Kirin held a PhD in Petroleum Engineering from the Colorado School of Minerals and Mines.

He was due to go back to work on August fourteenth at the Kaparek Oil Fields on the North Slope. A guy with Kirin’s agenda, credentials, and credit cards doesn’t just evaporate at the airport—but he had.

The Anchorage Police Department had turned up zip—same thing at the Alaska State Troopers. My friend, Lt. Trooper Avril Maygar, and I had discussed the Karsegian case the night before out at Mulcahy Stadium during a night game between the Anchorage Pilots and the Fairbanks Gold Panners. It was good baseball. The Alaska League had produced some Major League greats: Jim Bouten, Tom Severs, Mark McGuire, and Randy Johnson, among some of them.

Lieutenant Maygar had referred Dr. and Mrs. Karsegian to Slayer Investigations. We’d also agreed that neither of us had a single clue as to what had happened to Kirin Karsegian.

It had been a perfect Alaskan summer night—good hot dogs, good Alaskan Amber, a good friend, good baseball, and good bullshit. Avril Maygar and I had suffered a lot together. We’d suffered through Service High School, suffered through Vietnam, suffered through the police academy, suffered through the APD—we’d done a lot together. Truth be known, we’d had one hell of a good time.

At eleven in the morning, my secretary, the lovely Lola, blew through the front door to my office. At five-two, well endowed, and stone-cold gorgeous, Lola looked good in yellow short-shorts, a watermelon-colored tube top, and no shoes.

You look exceptionally alive, Danny, for you this early in the day.

Maygar and I called it an early night. Fresh as a daisy!

Well, I hope you and Maygar came up with something ’cause I came up empty. Kirin Karsegian’s financial records stop with a Visa card steak dinner at Sea-Tac Airport in Seattle. No financial activity since.

I’d better get off my ass and start detecting. I think I’ll start my detecting up at Darwin’s Theory for a Bloody Mary.

Danny, you’re hopeless!

Hopeless but hopeful—you’re absolutely gorgeous this morning!

Don’t change the subject.

I’m out of here, the golden streets of Anchorage beckon.

My neighbor, Joe Scimataro, and his four associates were just arriving for their workday.

Joe was in labor relations. An unfortunate run-in with Manny Toro and his Filipino Tong had left three of Scimitaros men dead. In a funk of Sicilian blues, Joe had pulled his organization back to negotiating strength. Manny Toro, I had a feeling, would be paying back heavy one of these days. A good waste is a horrible thing to mind.

Morning, Joe, top of the day to ya!

She’s a nice one, Danny. How’s biz?

Still trying to find something on that missing petroleum engineer.

You try all the bars and cathouses out in Spenard?

Nada. Scimataro puffed on his Havana cigar, enveloping himself in a cocoon of blue haze. I knew that a deep thought process was in the works.

"Danny, it’s unfashionable to disappear on foot these days. People always disappear in cars. Try pickin’ on the airport cabbies and limo services."

Sounds logical… Later, Joe.

Yeah, don’t take no wooden nickels, kid.

I got into my 1982 Ford Bronco and turned the key, and it started on the first crank. Due to the spread of numerous rust blotches all over the body of the car, it was nicknamed Spot. Cal Worthington was my main car guy.

Like a compass to north, Spot pulled to a stop at Darwin’s. Barbara Jean was just unlocking the front door. Immaculate timing on my part!

Chapter 2

Good morning, Danny. Since I’m not set up yet for the Bloody Mary’s, you get your second favorite summertime breakfast refreshment. B.J. set double Glen Livet, three ice cubes, in front of me.

My exact sentiments, Doctor. Thanks for the concurring opinion.

Any luck with that missing engineer, Danny?

Not much. I’m going out to talk to airport cabbies and limo drivers today. Tedious-going.

Save yourself some grief. Call up my girlfriend, Estelle. She’s a dispatcher for the airport. Them cabbies’ll kiss her ass whereas they won’t give you the time of day.

Point taken…

Here’s Estelle’s number and work address. Take the picture and the information over and have her check around. A bud of Thunderfuck will get you the world!

Again, point taken. I also gotta stop in Muldoon. Kirin Karsegian’s uncle is Abdallah Karsegian, owner of Honest Uncle Abe’s Persian Rug Emporium.

Estelle usually has an after-work drink at 6:10 p.m. at La Mex. Catch her there. I’ll call her.

I thanked B.J., slid a twenty-dollar bill across the bar, and left. Spot took the leisurely drive in stride and found a space right next to the front door of Honest Uncle Abe’s Persian Rug Emporium.

The business was an older model cement block building. It had been here when I was a kid. Honest Uncle Abe had been peddling Persian rugs for a long time in the Anchorage area.

There weren’t any carpets from Curstain, Mohawk, or Armstrong. There were, however, carpets from Timbuktu and Tikrit. Directly in front of me lay an eight-by-twelve Persian, exhibiting a peacock in full plumage. It was bordered by wreaths of multicolored roses. The no-bullshit price tag said $46,000. The plush deep colors broadcast a mellow hue throughout the room. The only thing missing was a big bowl of hashish.

The spring bells mounted over the door hadn’t quit ringing as Honest Uncle Abe made his appearance. In dark-blue, neon-colored suit, Honest Uncle Abe cut quite an avant-garde figure. Atop the monk-like fringe of gray hair sat a red fez with a black tassel. I felt like I’d stepped into a parallel universe, into downtown Cairo or a bad Shriner’s convention in Hartford, Connecticut. Abe’s five-foot height and four-foot-ten-inch-girth well hid the fact that Abdallah Karsegian had represented his home country, Lebanon, at the Athens Olympics on the Greco-Roman and Freestyle wrestling teams. And what’s with the fez? Egyptians wear the fez, not the Lebanese! Maybe it’s good for business…

Ah, Mr. Slayer, I’ve been expecting you. My brother and his wife are, needless to say, highly distressed over the disappearance of their son. As I understand it, my brother has retained your investigative service to find closure to their horrible circumstances. Kirin never arrived, never called. He was to take a cab from Stevens International.

Everything stops at the airport from what we have traced so far. Did Kirin have anything else to do, other friends to visit with, shopping to do?

Not that either my brother or I are aware of. Kirin doesn’t drink. He will occasionally have dinner or coffee at the Derrek or the Westward, at the Oilmen’s Club. They are popular spots with the professional people.

I’ll check them out. Anything else that seemed out of place or not quite right?"

Nothing. I’ve been wracking my brain for clues or explanations…nothing.

If you think of anything, call my office.

Have you talked to your mother recently, Mr. Slayer?

The question took me aback. How would this Lebanese bozo know my mother? Ah no, not recently, two, three months probably. She was on a speaking tour for the AARP.

Such a gracious woman. I’ve met her at several conventions. She has a remarkable talent for spicing up otherwise dull cocktail parties.

That sounds like dear old mom, all right. Forever the Libertine! I’ll let her know you said hello.

I speak with my brother daily. He says Lt. Trooper Avril Maygar speaks very highly of you.

I’ll take that as a compliment. Meanwhile, I’ve got a few other people to question. People just don’t disappear without a trace, Mr. Karsegian. I’ll be in touch.

Spot meandered slowly back to downtown. It took the back roads. In the older neighborhoods, there was still a large sprinkling of old trailers and even an occasional log cabin. Large portions were slowly giving way to urban sprawl. Large tracts were bulldozed and Ugly America homes put in. Anchorage’s growing pains were directly proportional to the amount of oil money moving through the state. The state was on a roll again. The gas line was going in, and ANWR was getting drilled.

I had a couple of hours to blow. I pulled over and checked my emergency medical kit. I put the Afghani hash in the bowl and grabbed a large hit. It was a beautiful day on the shores of Cook Inlet. My mind drifted off on a hash-induced wander through the Kasbah. I felt like I was in the market for a good, used, flying carpet. I was also due to meet Estelle shortly.

Chapter 3

La Mex at cocktail-dinner hour was a fun place. Good drink, good food, and good friends. They served perhaps the finest Margarita Grande north of Nogales.

From the description Barbara Jean had given me, Estelle wasn’t too hard to spot. At six-foot-one, 250 pounds, and black as the ace of spades, she was very easy to copy. All 250 pounds of Estelle was stacked into a pile that screamed all girl.

Estelle, I’m Danny Slayer of Slayer Investigations. Can I sit down?

Course you can, honey. An honest-to-goodness gumshoe! Come here so I can pinch you. You’re even cuter than Barbara Jean said you were.

It’s the barroom lighting that enhances my better features!

Go on, Danny! What can a poor girl like me do for you?

Well, I’m not real sure. Estelle was already drinking a Grande, so I ordered two more. I’ve been investigating the disappearance of one Kirin Karsegian, a petroleum engineer. It looks like he disappeared at Stevens International. Barbara Jean tells me you dispatch the airport cab traffic.

Yeah, it keeps a roof.

I took out a stack of blow-up photos and a résumé of Kirin Karsegian. If you could show some of the drivers these two sheets, maybe I’ll get lucky.

Estelle took the sheets and read them. Hon, looks like he comes from Lebanese descent. Most of my guys come from Pakistan, Afghanistan, India, Iran, Iraq, Morocco, and Armenia, not much sympathy for a Lebanese petroleum engineer. These guys come from the bottom rungs of Arab society, or more specifically, the bottom rungs of Muslim society. Now they’ve graduated to the bottom rungs of Alaskan society.

Well, anyhow, I’m at a standstill unless something breaks. I slipped Estelle a seven-gram bud of Purple Polio weed under the table. She acknowledged the gift by crushing my face into her massive bosom and rocking back and forth, cooing, My sweet baby, in my ear. I regretted not having brought more buds.

I very, very slowly extricated myself… I didn’t want to hurt Estelle’s feelings. What about the limo services?

I’ll talk to my friend. She dispatches the limos. She likes herbs too.

I’ll see what I can do. Estelle and I discussed our friend, Barbara Jean. Three Grandes later, I excused myself. At this stage of the buzz, I was having trouble conducting myself like a gentleman in the presence of this woman. Under some hokey pretense, I excused myself with the promises to stay in touch.

The parking lot was a large unpaved area that took in most of a city block. Paying a whole lot of attention wasn’t my strong suit. Lounging around my Bronco were four dark, surly-looking guerillas.

Everybody sported a Saddam mustache. These very Arab-looking men didn’t resemble Omar Sharif…more like Anthony Quinn. They also sported what looked