Lee Hacklyn 1970s Private Investigator in Pacifists Of Fury: Lee Hacklyn, #1

By John Leister

New York City. 1974.

 

Captain Don Gregory, a World War II veteran, hires Lee to investigate

the murder of his son, Sean, an ex-hippie who became a successful

entrepreneur.

Meanwhile, Lee's sister, Ann, is recovering from a savage attack on her life.

During Lee's investigation, he discovers a connection between the two incidents.

• Language: English
• Publisher: John Leister
• Release date: Apr 1, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215075326

Book preview

QUEENS, NEW YORK CITY.  1974.

CHAPTER ONE

The 1960s were the worst decade in the history of this country, including the early 70’s, which we may never recover from, even though the war has finally ended.  Nobody will be more surprised than me if America ever returns to her former glory days, which, in my humble opinion, extended from the beginning of the Industrial Revolution until the onset of that hell-spawn, alleged music called rock and roll.  I’m no puritan, Lee, but I grew up in an age when hard work, discipline and honesty were taken as par for the course.  Yeah, I’m an avid golfer, all right.  Anyway, you chip away at something beautiful for long enough, pretty soon all you have left are pieces that can’t be put back together again.  Are you an avid television viewer, Lee?

Only the shows that have the most sex and violence.

I had to give him a point for laughing.  He wasn’t a complete book-burning tight-ass.

He said, Lt. Houston warned me about you.  He said that you like to think you’re the host of your own private show and your dialogue is written by George Burns.

I lit a Blue Buzzard, chuckled and said, Sam’s warming up in his old age.  The last time I saw him, he told me I was as useful as a pet rock.

Don’t get me started on pet rocks.  Every generation has it’s share of snake-oil salesmen and hucksters.  Mood rings!  Crystals and incense sticks!  People actually hand over their hard-earned money for that stuff!  They might as well burn it.  Well, I can see that your young ears are about to fall off.  Perhaps I should get down to business and tell you why I’m here.

Sorry, did you say something?  I was preoccupied with my toothless gums and my long grey beard, Captain Gregory.

Marion, she’s my wife of fifty years, she’s forever busting my chops for prattling on about nothing.  Other than that, she tends to be the taciturn one.  Her nickname for me is G.I. Jovial.

His name was Captain Donald Gregory and he was a retired officer of the U.S. Army.  He’d served during World War II and Korea.

When he came in here, he politely asked me to refer to him as Captain, and I replied, No problem, Captain, as long as you don’t give my office the white glove treatment or expect a dime to bounce off any of my chairs.

He was eight-five, but could’ve passed for fifty-five.  He was taller than Ted Cassidy and wore a simple denim jacket over a blue Chambray shirt, blue jeans and cowboy boots.

A Mets ballcap sat on his square-jawed head.

I’d never watched a baseball game from start to finish and didn’t feel like I was missing anything.

I thought of myself as a fairly, typical All-American manly-man.

I liked beer, I liked my car—a white Dodge Charger, at that point in my life—I went through cars like Joe Namath goes through Gatorade, mainly due to the number of attempts on my life while driving.

Here’s a free tip to hitmen, just starting out:

Moving targets are harder to hit that stationary targets.

And then, a lightning bolt struck my solar plexus and I suddenly realized who was sitting across from my office desk.

I rubbed my smoke out into my Popeye ash-tray, leaned forward, linked my fingers together and said, Captain Gregory, I’m so sorry.  I rarely watch the news.

I don’t blame you.  It’s one soul-crushing apocalypse after another.

Tell me about your son.

CHAPTER TWO

He did something no other client of mine before or since has done.

He stood, walked to my one window, put one booted foot on my heater and looked to the sky, like he was posing for a Marlboro ad.

Anybody else, he would have looked