Lee Hacklyn 1970s Private Investigator in Don't Fly, Robin, Don't Fly: Lee Hacklyn, #1

By John Leister

Queens, New York City, 1976.

 

Lee is hired by Tom and Carly Winger to investigate the murder of

their daughter, Annabelle, a New York Star reporter.

Annabelle was working on a story about commerical pilot Robin Winger,

who may have been responsible for a plane crash that cost the lives

of two hundred people.

• Language: English
• Publisher: John Leister
• Release date: Jul 8, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223782247

Book preview

QUEENS.  NEW YORK CITY.  1976.

CHAPTER ONE

When you wake up at three in the morning in a stranger’s bed, and the first thing you see is a woman you don’t recognize poised to plunge a hypodermic needle into your arm, it might be such a bad idea to reconsider pose this question:

What the serious fucking good ever comes, no pun intended, from a one-night stand?

I grabbed the woman’s wrist, gave it a hard crank and the needle fell to the filthiest floor I’ve ever seen, including the one in my studio apartment.

Hey, baby!  That hurt!

Maybe I’m just getting warmed up.  Baby.

I don’t like to hurt a woman for any reason, but there are exceptions for every rule, and if someone is trying to hook you on heroine, then, according to the Gospel of Lee Hacklyn, such as it is, you have every right to put that person into a world of hurtin.’

With my other hand, I slapped her face and her buck-ass nude behind landed on the floor with a jarring thunk.

You fucking asshole!

Experts agree.  Your opinion is widespread.  Like your legs.  Would you please put a pair of panties on before I throw up?  Your crotch looks like an ant farm.

CHAPTER TWO

There was loud music playing.

Afternoon Delight.  Starland Vocal Band.

The woman’s hair was longer than her height.  She wore a frayed denim jacket with nothing underneath.  Her face was lined and hard and ravaged and her black eyes were devoid of life.

She picked up the needle and said, Come on, baby.  You’ll like it.

You won’t like spitting out your few remaining teeth, Mrs. Brady.

Woman hater!

Hate is a waste of energy.  Where are my jeans?

They were draped on a chair.  My shoes and socks were on the floor.  Some of God’s creatures were making themselves at home there.  Ugh.

As for my Browning and my shoulder-holster?

Parts unknown.

Better and better.

Where am I?

Queens, fucker.

Well, that was good news.  I got dressed.

It could’ve been worse.

Like that guy who woke up in a bathtub full of ice and one of his kidneys was missing.

Or was that an urban legend?

One certainly hopes so.

However,