Denise Delgardo Episode Two: Some Beech Street Business

By jmax young

In this episode our anti-anti-heroes are again messing with powers and circumstances that are out of their control. Neither of them and their minions are ever prepared for the intrigue and danger they encounter. But the oddity of their cases has begun to identify them. They can either run away and continue their careers with mundane assignments that neither pay the bills nor fulfill their thirsts for misadventure. Wait till you get a load of the ensuing episodes!

The second adventure involving Denise Delgardo and her misanthropes defies the usual private-investigator tale. As all her assignments begin, she’s following a spouse suspected of infidelity. And as all her assignments soon morph, she’s up to her symbolic and literal neck in danger unimagined vis a vis time travel to a very scary time.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Nov 30, 2020
• ISBN: 9781647015756

Book preview

cover.jpg

Denise Delgardo Episode Two

Some Beech Street Business

jmax young

Copyright © 2020 jmax young

All rights reserved

First Edition

PAGE PUBLISHING, INC.

Conneaut Lake, PA

First originally published by Page Publishing 2020

ISBN 978-1-64701-576-3 (hc)

ISBN 978-1-64701-575-6 (digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

Denise Is Still Gay

Denise Meets Zamboni, Zambini

Oh Goodie, a Gun Fight

Denise Goes House Hopping Again

The Plot Doesn’t Thicken But You Deserve a Break

A Lot of Shooting

Pilot Used to Be More Understanding

Curly Zero, Denise, Scotland Bound

Some Realization, Not Good

Wholly’s Physique Comes into Question

Can We Return?

Back to Where?

Who the Hell is Calling?

Denise Proves to be Greedy

Is Denise Really Going Through with This?

Not a Spring-break Trip

Eureka! Treasure Found

Brigette Finds Us First

Pilot Has Some ‘Splaining To Do

We Return to the Treasure, But…

We Salvage the Dog and, Oh Yeah, the Girl

What a wonderful life I’ve had.

I only wish I’d realized it sooner.

—Collette

Other stuff by jmax young:

The She Devil from Fire Island

The Great Maine Down East Revue and Medicine Show

The Ribald Reader Trilogy

The Ribald Reader

The Ribald Revolutionary

The Ribald Roamer

The Birdy Head Trilogy

Birdy Heads

Birdy Brains

Birdy Beyond

A Stroll in the Park

Denise Delgardo, Episode One: Ash Street with Attitude

Denise Delgardo, Episode Two: Some Beech Street Business

Denise Delgardo, Episode Three: That Cedar Street Place

Denise Delgardo, Episode Four: Wanna Date!

Denise Delgardo, Episode Five: Desire Way Under the Elms

Denise Delgardo, Episode Six:*

The Final Prism

*Looking for a sub-title. Send suggestions to [e-mail]

Good Example; Denise Delgardo, Episode Six: Dead End on Fig Street

Bad Example Here’s a suggestion, Jerk. You can’t write! Give it up or go to Hallmark Cards!

[ 1 ]

Denise Is Still Gay

With all the turmoil I had dealt with, I didn’t end up with Pilot, who hooked up with some nurse, a blessed angel of the bedpan.

Megan followed through with marrying the old man, rich old man, very rich old man; and Evelyn stole my old ex-nun aunt’s boyfriend. Say that three times quickly.

Danny’s mom decided it would be safer if they moved away, back to her in-laws in New Hampshire. I hoped those knuckle draggers would have some social services for Danny back there and up there. I begged her to take Wholly with them, but she overruled that plea. Danny and I cried for different reasons.

I tried to remember that I vowed to keep Wholly Coyote forever even though I was under great duress at the time. And Pilot? So what? At least I’m still gay.

No one wanted to report the escapade we had gone through. So no one wanted to cover that remarkable adventure: four non-identified government agents killed, along with a dozen non-identified agents killed without government clearance. My father would not have allowed such tolerance during that Vietnam thing. But Dad was dead, RIP.

I had enough evidence to clear my name in McKee’s death, so we walked away from the carnage that was committed back in Couture’s world. At first we didn’t find The Phantom’s special green diamond. Though you better believe we stripped that Tucker down to its very essence. I heard it was so denuded even avid Tucker collectors didn’t want the carcass.

Oh yeah, somehow the authorities tracked us down and scared even Pilot and his contacts into believing the gems belonged to the good old USA because of some obscure reason. Our reward was immunity from the heinous crimes we had committed, along with my exoneration from McKee’s death.

I don’t know why anybody would leave San Diego because I’m stuck with a cool office in Hillcrest, thanks to Megan’s ill-conceived hookup; and I pray he dies soon, which was her prayer at first. Now she’s a caretaker and is loving it, adult diaper-changing and all! What the fuck happened to her?

My phone doesn’t ring as much as it needs to, and it’s back to infidelity cases. I couldn’t afford agents, so I’m back to sitting in my jeep, spying on naughty husbands and/or wives.

This target was some attorney’s diva wife who favored the clubs in Hillcrest—kinda my turf. I parked and carried my tools of the trade, just one tool this time—a camera. I had a lot of photos, a lot of photos, a lot, all of the wife, fully clothed, engaging in normal faithful activities. My client had handed me a portfolio with enough notes to take down a small country. Good for him; he’s committed. So it was very easy to spot Sylvia. She was very attractive. I always measured my target’s value as to my wanton desire for them. Hey, not that I would violate my client, detective relationship much. It was just something I would do, but there were points to be scored and not by me but by the people of interest, the new media heavy non evidence.

So I parked in a nicer neighborhood for three days and watched the diva’s house. My client rode in his Rolls Royce to work in the morning three or four times each week and left the Jaguar in the driveway. I followed her and watched her buy organic food in more than one deli. It would be much easier to follow some suspicious spouse in City Heights or North Park, but why? But I never lost her, and she always returned to the house.

Was she fucking the pool boy? My client didn’t think so, neither did I.

When he was ready to dismiss me after a month, I lied and told him I thought I saw something emerging and that I should follow that lead. I hated being a big fat liar, but I needed the work. And my jeep needed tires. I got another week of nothing. I told him to fire the pool boy to cash in some uneasy money.

And I was working solo. Megan was too busy pureeing food and changing big-ass baby diapers. Pilot thought it would be better if we didn’t work together because of his angel-of-mercy wife. And my girlfriend had put me in bad stead with my sweet aunt by stealing her boyfriend. Don’t know where they migrated off to. Oh, I still have the damn dog, complete with matching bullet-hole ears. If I wasn’t scared shit of the dog, I’d try and put some fashionable turquois or cheap faux gold plugs in the holes.

Arnold, Sylvia’s husband, my client, appeared to be dumping me ’cuz I couldn’t find a lover. I read it in his body language. His hand headed towards his checkbook.

I think you gave it your best, but I’m not seeing any results. You know, Chuy was an excellent pool boy, and he protested a lot when I fired him.

Too much, methinks.

Me doesn’t. I think this generous check will settle our arrangement.

Arnold, I still believe I’m close to an answer. Give me a week.

Listen, Denise, I’d like to continue to use your services.

Then do, Arnold. Sylvia seems like a good girl, seems. Give me a couple days to put this to bed.

Let’s meet next Tuesday. You give me your honest assessment, and I’ll decide then. You good with that?

Of course!

Like I had a choice. And of course, I could just not watch Sylvia and get my severance pay as the fatted cow was going to be pulled. Integrity! I had too many bullet scars not to have acquired or re-learned integrity. So I devoted at least three days following Sylvia’s Jaguar from home to nice places to shop. She never drove to a motel or hotel. She never met some guy in a park, bar, lounge, coffee shop, deli, Victoria’s Secret, or big box warehouse store. She never did anything wrong, yet Arnold insisted she was a wanton woman. I did watch her share tea with a man who seemed to prefer men. We gays can tell. And he wasn’t in Sylvia’s class in any fantasy. As a feminist, or at least a slut feminist, I had to go with Sylvia’s life path. She wasn’t cheating on Arnold. If I had the resources, I would have spent a few days seeing if he was the infidel, that same old redirection ploy! But I took the very last day to follow her out of La Jolla and downtown. She exited the freeway and headed south towards Market Street. She pulled over on Beech Street and left the Jaguar double parked. I had to leave the jeep double parked in the same block as well. She went into some old architectural monument in Bankers Hill. She came out very quickly. I couldn’t even set up my usual surveillance stance. She headed to her Jaguar, but before I could hurry to the jeep, I heard the ugly sound I now knew too well. I fell to the ground and pulled my .25 from its holster.

Wow, I had heard and recognized my ability to discern the sound of AK-47s and a couple other automatic weapons. This was like the AK. And by the time I thought I was going to defend anyone, especially me, the firing stopped. I lay down behind some sedan until I counted the time when the assassin was done. Then I moved aggressively towards Sylvia’s location. Bad for me and her. She was dead, four bullets dead. Some big-ass Mercedes actually grazed me as it sped away from the crime scene. I was lying on top of Sylvia. I memorized about half of the California plate on the back of the speeding car. If the killer was driving it, I would have thought he or she would have done a better job of hitting me. From my awkward position I couldn’t get a look at the driver’s head. I did get two shots off, I think, striking the trunk lid, and then remembered to holster my weapon before too many people had gathered, but not all. I waved my private investigator certificate in a lot of faces fast enough so that no one could read it.

Having cowered a little bit too long when the shooting started, I wasn’t able to determine where the bullets had come from.

I couldn’t imagine collecting many clues before the cops arrived, and most of them hated me. Because of that sexual assault incident…against me! From the male chief!

But I started asking for any witnesses. They all thought cars were backfiring. I was sure in this neighborhood no one had ever heard an automatic weapon or a car backfiring for that matter.

Inside the building Sylvia had visited, everyone was chipmunking around, chattering, trembling, scratching fleas. I looked for a bowl of acorns. I flashed my cert again and asked for someone who might admit to being in charge.

What was Mrs. Jacobs doing here? Who did she see?

They were all staring at Mrs. Jacobs’s blood on the front of my Pride 2009 t-shirt—one of my scores from the Salvation Army thrift store. It took away whatever authority I had tried to create.

Who are you?

Aha, a leader, spokesperson, the alpha chipmunk.

I’ll ask the questions. This is a homicide investigation now.

No, I’ll ask the questions, Denise.

Sanchez! I even recognized his voice before I turned around. How did he get here so quickly?

Nice shirt, Denise. I’m going to need to confiscate that. Sargent, escort Ms. Delgardo to her jeep and let her change her shirt.

I didn’t need Detective Sanchez trying to pin another murder on me. A lot of people died to get me off the McKee murder.

Gosh, Sanchez, I don’t have a change of clothes in the jeep.

Follow her home and retrieve the shirt.

Sanchez. It’s the freakin’ victim’s blood. I fell on top of her when I was checking on her. This ain’t a Sherlock moment. Haven’t you learned anything since your last bogus bust on me?

I learned you got a good captain axed.

If you think that asshole was a good, honest man, then you’re a Dirty Sanchez.

That pissed him off, which wasn’t a good idea. One of my gay associates had punned that title on him the last time he and I clashed. This was the first time I used it against him.

Get her out of here!

I thought of losing the sergeant on the way home, but the streets ran perpendicular to each other in North Park. I couldn’t lose a pizza delivery teen here. He insisted that I show him what shirt I was going to wear and that I not close the door to my bedroom. I did better than that. I changed in front of him and took my time so he could take in my braless breasts. I thought he’d take it as an offer, which would give me some points, but the cop blushed and turned away. As soon as he left, I headed back to Beech Street. I didn’t see any way Sanchez could try and implicate me, but I wasn’t going to take any chances. I also owed something to Arnold, more so to Sylvia.

Maybe I should have been the first one to let Arnold know, but it was technically the cops’ responsibility. Anyway, he called me within an hour of the shooting. He seemed genuinely upset for a husband who thought his wife was a cheater.

Denise! What do you know? The damn cops wouldn’t tell me anything.

Arnold, I was there, but I don’t have a lot of clues yet. Me and the cops don’t get along, but that won’t stop me from digging into this. Arnold, I’m real sorry, and I’m pretty sure Sylvia wasn’t cheating on you.

You keep digging, Denise. I’ll double your fee.

I could hear his sobbing before he hung up. Well, I didn’t expect that offer. I had snapped and decided that I would spend whatever time I could to make sure the cops did their job. Now Arnold was going to pay me—more—to follow this. I had parked on Ash Street in case Sanchez was still there. I could still see, in my mind, where McKee’s body was outlined in chalk. Then in that state I could hear so many bullets whizzing through the air, hitting flesh, sometimes mine. There were explosions, crashes, loss of lives. And loss of friends, associates. I still had Wholly Coyote. Shit, I forgot to fill his bowl with kibble before I left. I walked around the corner and watched the building, Sylvia’s last visit. The body was gone, not the Jaguar. And there were a lot of unmarked and marked police cars. I decided to wait for a while to see if I could question anybody. I had dressed the part in a pantsuit and found one of my more official-looking badges. I had donned a black wig and some tortoise-shell glasses. I looked silly, but not like my earlier appearance, silly different. There was some Asian bistro across the street, so I took a sidewalk seat and bided my time. Four cups of tea later I couldn’t identify any more cop cars and strolled over to the building in question. I had watched them tow the Jaguar away and watched Arnold mill around and be questioned. I kept my distance then. Now it seemed like a good time to try and gather some clues.

We’ve talked to a lot of police already. I want my staff to go home and recover from this trauma.

I understand, mister…

Wallingford. I told the police all of that.

I work out of a special division. We deal with the increasing homicides of women in the city. I’m sure you understand how horrible this is and our need to curtail it. I only have a few questions, and I appreciate your cooperation. Your name will be entered into a special roster of supportive individuals who support women’s rights.

Of course, I understand. I’ll assist in any way.

I understand that Mrs. Jacobs was receiving some services here. Can you tell me what they were?

The placard outside was inconclusive. It announced that you could have your nose adjusted, as well as your mentality challenged. I think there was even a dentist. There were also a number of names that claimed no title or area of interest. Those piqued my curiosity.

She usually met with Mr. Zambini, but today she came in, and when we told her that he wasn’t in, she seemed very upset and hurried out. That’s when the shooting started. She was the second client who was most upset by his absence.

Zamboni?

No, Zambini, Oscar.

When will he be available for some questioning? I’m sure Detective Sanchez has asked you the same thing.

He didn’t ask me. Maybe someone else did.

And what exactly is Mr. Zambini’s specialty?

I don’t pry.

Who else was upset?

I didn’t get her name, sorry.

Can I see his office?

We have a policy of protecting our tenants.

Murder most foul, Wallingford. I need to see his office.

You take away a title as simple as Mister, and you’ve established a heavy off-balance of intimidation. He led me to the third floor and unlocked it. Inside seemed like some mystic charlatan’s wagon. The room was filled with taxidermic animals, all very small—squirrels and such. I wondered if men would have snickered at the size of these stuffed creatures; no lions, tigers, or bears, or penises. The room seemed like a Chinese museum filled with stuff looking like it came from The Old Orient. One really large cabinet, large enough to take up a whole wall, was filled with glass and pottery jars. As I moved to investigate the contents, I heard the door close behind me. Wallingford wasn’t going to hang around for whatever might happen if Zambini returned. I opened the