Eye on You: Fear the Reaper

By Joe Hamilton

When Biloxi's fourth otherwise healthy resident dies of sudden cardiac failure Local reporters concludes the deaths are a wake up call about moral decay from drugs, drinking and gambling. Private detective, Gabriel Ross could accept a couple of deaths - a third might be a coincidence - but four?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Joe Hamilton
• Release date: Jun 16, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215025383

Joe Hamilton

Joe retired in 2013 after a long career in banking to pursue his dream of creative writing. He has written numerous short stories, two of which were recently published. Eye on You- Right Place, Wrong Time is his first novel. He has since written nine sequels

Book preview

Chapter 1

Biloxi, Mississippi

Saturday, August 17th, 1985

His B.F. Goodrich tires crushed the gravel as Wes drove his ‘71 Dodge Charger up the lane. Just like the car, the Beach Drive-In was an icon from the seventies. Drive-ins were cool – that is, if you went with the right babe. He looked over at Melissa Drake, sitting as far away as she could, reading a book. Who brings a fuckin’ book to the drive-in? He liked to call it the zipper palace on account of all the zippers going down.

Jesus, it’s hotter than the Devil’s armpit, he said to her. When there was no come back, he cranked up Don’t Fear the Reaper by Blue Oyster Cult on the radio and started slapping his hands on the wheel. Fuck, the sun has almost gone down. What’s holding up the line? He looked at his Timex – It’s 7:45 - the show’s about to start. He looked over at Melissa. Behind the coke bottle glasses, she had all the right parts - long blonde hair with a slight curl, sleepy blue eyes, and boobs that stood out like high beams.

It had taken some heavy lifting to get her to come out. Her grandmother had recently been diagnosed with the big C, and for some reason, Melissa felt the need to punish herself as if she had done something to make it happen. It was only the promise of Sixteen Candles and The Breakfast Club – a fuckin’ chick-flick-snore-fest double feature that had gotten her to agree. Hopefully, we won’t be watching too much of it. Hey, what-cha reading? he asked, adjusting the boner he was getting from leering at her funbags.

"Wuthering Heights by Emily Bronte. Have you read it?"

Sure, it made my dick wuther. No, does it have any sex in it?

Not really. It’s more romance.

He caught his reflection in the rearview mirror. He’d been told that he looked like Mel Gibson - according to People magazine, the Sexiest Man Alive. The line of cars moved ahead slowly. They were two back from the ticket booth. Hey, you know what we should do?

Melissa didn’t bother looking up from her reading. What?

My super on the road crew gave me the weekend off. We should grab our suits and head to the beach. He’d heard one of his buddies talking about having seen Melissa in a revealing black bikini. With the hurricane season, this might be our last chance in a while.

I don’t know. I was going to spend the day with my grandmother.

Sure, sure, of course. But you know if you want a break? Just saying, everyone needs a break.

We’ll see.

They finally made it to the ticket booth, where a skanky girl he recognized from high school was working.

Hiya, Wes! Ain’t seen you for a while. I love the car.

Just check this out. He pressed the horn. Instead of the normal beep-beep, they heard Dixie, just like in the Dukes of Hazard.

Cool, she said in between chomps of her chewing gum. Her name was Candy, Crystal, or maybe Connie. He thought he’d made out with her the night after winning the trophy as Biloxi High’s Most Valuable Player.

"You gonna see Sixteen Candles? she said with a sarcastic grin on her face. She bent down to see who else was in the car. Is that Melissa Drake? Well butter my butt! I remember you from high school. You were in a junior grade when Wes and I were seniors."

As Wes handed her the money, she gave him a wink. I’d park at the back if you want some privacy.

✻ ✻ ✻

Wes did as directed and hooked up the speaker to the window. The lot was maybe half full, with some people sitting in lawn chairs gazing at the sunset. Do you remember that girl back there?

I recognized her. But we didn’t hang out together. She seemed to know you well.

Football fan, I guess. I think she might have been going with a friend of mine. I can’t remember her name.

When it got dark, the movie screen lit up, and a Popeye cartoon played. Thankfully it was too dark to read, so Melissa put the book away. He coaxed her to sit a little closer on the Charger’s black leather bench seat.

Once the movie started, he asked if he could rest his arm on the back of the seat. He made a show of rubbing his right arm. Old football injury. Still kind of aches every once in a while.

She said okay, and moved forward so he could put his arm around her. The opening credits rolled.

Have you seen a physical therapist? Melissa turned to look at him.

Wes was deep in thought about how much he hated Molly Ringwald. Sorry, what? Oh, yeah. Been to a mess of them. There’s nothing they can do. If it gets bad, I just pop a couple of pills.

I’ve read there are new laser therapies.

That-so? Do you want some popcorn or something?

Sure, if you’re going.

✻ ✻ ✻

By the time Wes returned with popcorn and drinks, he’d missed the movie’s first twenty-five minutes. It was partially Crystal Morin’s fault. She was helping out at the concession stand and insisted that he help her with something heavy in the back room. Once there, she pulled out a flask from the manager’s desk, and they had a quick drink for old time’s sake.

If she doesn’t put out, come back around 10. I have a break. Crystal wrote her number on his hand, and Wes promised to call her.

✻ ✻ ✻

What took you so long? You’ve missed a lot, said Melissa as he got back into the car. They stole her panties.

Had to wait until they made some fresh popcorn for you, but not to worry, I can catch up pretty quick. He settled in with the popcorn on her lap and his arm around her once again. Slowly he started to caress her shoulder. Your hair smells nice, or is that your perfume?

"Probably just the shampoo. I use Body on Tap…That’s the one Kim Basinger uses. You know, the one brewed with beer?" she replied, turning towards him.

Maybe we should drink it. He took the opportunity to kiss her. It lasted only a moment before she broke it off and put a handful of popcorn in her mouth. For the next five minutes, she shoveled popcorn after popcorn in her mouth like she was Lucille Ball trying to keep up with a conveyor belt. "Do you want some? she asked in between mouthfuls.

No, thanks. I had a candy bar while I was waiting on the popcorn.

When she finally went to take a sip of Coke, he pulled her near and tried it again. This time the kiss lasted a couple of extra moments before she put her hands on his chest and shoved him away. Let’s watch the movie.

Melissa, I don’t know what it is. Maybe it’s your shampoo. I’m pretty attracted to you.

Watch the movie. Besides, people can see into the car.

It’s dark out. No one can see, plus they’re all doing it anyway. Just give me another kiss, he pleaded.

All right, but then we watch the movie, she said sternly. This time he put his hand behind her head, holding her. Things were going fine until he slipped her the tongue. That’s when she started to squirm to get away. He decided to go for it and grabbed her breast as if he was reaching for a football. Melissa retreated as far away as she could.

What’s the matter, baby?

I hardly know you.

Wes let out a big sigh. After a moment, he looked over, and her mouth was once again full of popcorn. I don’t suppose you would… look, he said, pointing to my jeans. I have a skyscraper in my pants. You can’t leave me this way.

Ugh. Melissa opened the door to get out.

Don’t go. You know, it might make you feel better too. Get your mind off Granny.

What? Giving you a hand-job is going to make me feel better? Who the fuck are you?

She was half out the door when Wes started to feel funny. It came over him all of a sudden - he couldn’t catch his breath - he arched his back as his body stiffened - his heart racing, Something’s wrong…Can’t breathe.

She looked back at him - her eyes narrowing as she chewed her lip. Sweat was pouring off him as he grabbed my chest. Wes? This better not be an act.

The words had just left her lips when he slumped forward with his head hitting the steering wheel. The last sound he heard was Melissa’s scream and then the horn playing Dixie.

Chapter 2

Gulfport, Mississippi

Saturday, August 17th, 1985

Gabriel

Are you sure you want to go ahead with this, Gabriel? asked Rachel, my former receptionist-turned-associate, now office manager.

I took a sip of the coffee she’d brewed that morning, hoping it would clear out the weekend cobwebs. She’s a client, I said, shrugging my shoulders. What kind of stuff should I talk about? A client had asked me to speak to her 4th-grade summer school class. In a moment of weakness, I’d agreed, and I’d been stewing about it ever since.

It’s like career day, so probably a day in the life of a private detective.

I was momentarily distracted. Rachel looked particularly beautiful. Her long dark hair curled around her shoulders. She wore a bright floral print dress that hugged her curves like a California highway. A day in the life? Well, kids, the pay is crap, the work is dull, and I hate most of the customers.

You can’t say that, Rachel snapped.

How about - we do most of our work for big companies who want us to investigate their prospective employees and chase down scumbags who skipped on a debt?

Better. I wouldn’t use big words. Instead of prospective, maybe say people they want to hire. Keep it at their level.

I took a deep breath. Sometimes a customer comes to the Agency and wants us to find a missing kid, which usually turns out to be their loser teenager who’s partying and playing humperdink down on the beach. Sometimes the customer wants us to prove what they already know – their no-good spouse is plowing the cornfields with someone else.

No, no! Rachel laughed. You can’t say any of that. The teacher, our client, will be in the room.

The client’s name was Sylvia Cosgrove, and she was suing her husband for divorce based on some pics I’d taken. The husband had switched teams and was carrying on an affair with another man.

Plus, they’re what, nine years old? They won’t understand plowing the cornfields.

These are summer school kids. Most are thugs who failed a bunch of grades. I remember summer school in Detroit. Most of these little jerks carry switchblades.

You were in summer school?

One year, I was sick and missed a lot of school.

Rachel nodded warily. Aren’t you going to talk about some of your bigger cases?

Like when my wife, Jacqueline, almost got buried alive? Most of these assholes just want to know how it feels to kill somebody.

Seriously, Gabriel, maybe you should call in sick, and I’ll do it.

Would you? I smiled, rocking back and forth on my feet.

✻ ✻ ✻

I was reading about the latest plane hijacking later that morning when Rachel called out to me. Hey, there’s something you should read in the paper. We’d fallen into a habit like old married couples of sharing the Herald each morning at work.

What’s up? I walked out and stood behind her as she sat at her desk. I suppose I should be upfront about Rachel. After the second burial attempt, Jacqueline had briefly left me to live with her parents in Chicago. I’d been devastated. It was only natural for me to take solace with a beautiful woman. But, while the attraction had been magnetic, it never amounted to anything because of that stupid candle burning in my window for Jacqueline.

Do you remember Reverend McGloyn?

The bombings? Bay Vista Baptist? While I was on vacation, Rachel got caught up trying to stop a domestic terrorist plot. One hundred and sixty-eight people had died in the bombings - the worst terrorist attack in the State’s history. Had it not been for Rachel, it could have been much worse.

He’s not a working Reverend anymore. He was terminated when all the talk about his involvement in the bombings came out.

Did he ever get charged?

The Baptist Church hired a big-shot lawyer. Unlike the others, the DA felt there was insufficient evidence.

So, what about him?

He’s dead.

The article featured a picture of a Cary Grant lookalike wearing a collar.

Reverend Leonard McGloyn, long-time Minister at Bay Vista Baptist Church died Saturday while being rushed to Memorial Hospital. Representatives from the hospital advised that the 62-year-old man had suffereda massive coronary. Reverend McGloyn had recently decided to leave the Ministry and was in the process of moving when he collapsed. Deputy Sheriff Weber of the Harrison County Sheriff’s Department issued this short statement:

I’ve seen a lot of this type of thing in my time. With this heatwave, old folks need to pace themselves.

The Reverend is survived by his wife Grace and will be remembered for his work in the community.

Work in the community? I asked. Didn’t he rent a bus specifically to take people to the bombings that day?

He denied that. Just like he denied ever supporting any white supremacist causes.

I made a comment about God righting a wrong and went back to the office. In hindsight, I should have taken the issue more seriously.

Chapter 3

Gulfport, Mississippi

Sunday, August 18th, 1985

Don

I don’t usually drink alone. But tonight, I have my reasons. I was at a bar called O’Shay’s, an Irish pub by the waterfront. Me and about ten other losers who were drinking on a Sunday night. I looked up at the large Chinese waiter standing by my table.

Want another? the Chinaman said, using a damp cloth to wipe the table.

Leave the bottle, Wing. I’d met the owner before. He didn’t look Irish, but as he put it, who’d come to an Irish tavern named Wing’s?

He nodded to my hand, What happened? I looked down - the blood had started seeping through the paper towel. I waved him off. I have a first aid kit behind the bar.

Just the bottle.

One hundred and sixty-eight reasons. The bombings last January had originally gone unpunished because I, Don Kooper, AKA Don Kittyburg, had not secured the evidence needed for a conviction. I’d lost my job with the Mississippi Bureau of Investigation. My boss, speaking off the record, conceded it wasn’t entirely my fault, but as the Governor had said, Someone has to pay.

Wing brought the bottle and refilled my glass. As he was about to leave, I said, W.C. Fields once said, always carry a flagon of whiskey in case of snakebite, and furthermore, always carry a small snake. Wing just gave me a blank look. I guess Chinamen don’t get W.C. Fields.

After having botched the investigation, I was celebrating because I’d recently redeemed myself. With the help of a few friends, I’d gotten the evidence needed to arrest those responsible. Both Bubba Lange and John Dietz, the money men and organizers, were jailed, awaiting trial.

On Friday, my boss had called to say she might be willing to discuss reinstatement depending on the outcome of their trial. It took me all of ten seconds to tell her to take her job and shove it. In hindsight, that might have been hasty. I’m now unemployed with no prospects and with barely enough cash in the bank to pay three months of rent. Rachel, my girl, said if things got desperate, I could stay with her until I got back on my feet. It wasn’t a wholehearted invitation, more of a ‘well if you have to.’

I swirled the amber liquid in my glass. I smelled the rich vanilla, caramel, oak, and because it was local and cheap, maybe just a hint of old gym socks. I topped off my glass again in my race to the bottom of the bottle. Looking down at my bleeding hand, I thought about what had happened an hour earlier…

✻ ✻ ✻

I’d been sitting on the beach with my binoculars watching a pelican as it klutz-dived for fish. The beach was crowded with sun worshipers looking for a bit of relief from the sweltering temperature. On the pier, I noticed a couple of guys fishing who appeared to be looking my way. One guy was vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t place him. He was wiry, shirtless, and wearing denim shorts - his long hair, down to his shoulders, was cut short on top, making him look like…well, an idiot. The other guy was barrel-chested, and despite the high temperature, wore a flannel plaid shirt, overalls and sported a Grizzly Adams beard. Looking at him was making me hot, so I turned the glasses to look at an oil tanker out in the Gulf headed to Texas.

I was still thinking about what to do with my life. Rachel had told me her boss at the Agency had moved down here from Detroit to work on the oil wells. She said you could make a lot of money. It was good, honest work. For once, I could just be myself - no more undercover.

I looked back at the two guys. They were still looking in my direction. They had a cooler of beer yet threw their empties in the surf. For some reason, that pissed me off. I wondered if they might have recognized me. When the news of the arrests had broken, the Herald had covered the story and put my picture in the paper. Most, you would think, would have cheered, but this is Mississippi. I sat on my towel, thinking about life for another ten minutes - lots of thoughts, no decisions. Occasionally I used the glasses to check out the sights and the latest swimwear styles - bikinis were back in style. The skimpier, the better.

Standing up, I shook the sand from my clothes. It was dusk, and soon the beach was going to fill up with teenagers and their bonfires. The sweet scent of pot was already mixing with the salt air. I decided to head back to my truck. When I got to the municipal lot, I realized I hadn’t had anything to eat since lunch and decided to try one of the places by the waterfront.

I put my binoculars in my truck and noticed that Grizzly Adams and the idiot must have had the same idea. So I hurried across Beach Boulevard and walked a couple of blocks heading east. I stopped to look in a store window, and I saw their reflection across the street. They looked like the dogs in the Spike and Chester cartoons.

I took a turn and slipped into an alley, and waited in the shadows. I didn’t have to wait long. Once they stepped into the alley, I moved out of a doorway. Didn’t your Momma tell you not to throw beer cans into the ocean?

Grizzly gave me a look suggesting he had no sense of humor. You’re Don Kittyburg.

I already know who I am, asshole. I suddenly remembered where I’d seen the wiry guy before. It was at a militia camp. As they approached, I noticed their fists were clenched - they meant business. I pointed to the idiot, I remember you – your name is something like Zeke, Geek, Freak, something like that, right?

The recognition caught him off guard. Still, he nodded and turned to his partner, He’s a dirty fighter.

No, no, no, I’m not a dirty fighter. To be fair, the rules weren’t properly explained. In a fair fight, I knew I was no match for Grizzly. I figured I had to get rid of Zeke quickly. Thankfully they didn’t coordinate their attack. The idiot rushed me, and I sidestepped him and kicked the back of his knee. The blow caused him to buckle and drop, screaming in pain. As he was going down, I grabbed a bunch of hair and delivered an elbow to