The Smokeout of Blackjack

By D.B. Dakota

Author of the tell-all about polls has a thing about their MO. Shanghaied, hidden from a blackmailer, all he has to do is write another blockbuster to undo the first book that trashed pollsters. He's also safe from the blackmailer, trying to nail him for a murder. The top cop claims a renegade cop did it. But the street cop suspects the top badge himself whitewashed it. The PI plays on the writer's psyche, moving him to rat on the blackmailer, a relative, swearing, the top gun is the killer—who won't confess. Media and props from the murder scene roll in to torment him. He can't stand it and befriends a terrorist bomber. The end.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wings ePress, Inc.
• Release date: Jul 25, 2023
• ISBN: 9781613090367

Book preview

Dedication

To our late, dear family friend

One

Lunging to a hard stop in the TV station’s guest parking spot, the minivan was hailed by the loiterer, chattering on her cell phone. Like a valet, she strode up to the car, swung the passenger door open and, so guest and driver could hear, told the phone: Doctor Cletus McKnott is here. Hold on and you two can rehearse right now.

I’m sick of this interview stuff, Cletus thought. Come on, move it.

Uh-huh—how’s that? retorted the valet to the phone. Aw, Claudia, he’s famous, an old hand at prepping by phone. Cletus gave her a speed-up cue—twirled his finger. I’ll put him on. Talking past the phone, the valet beamed, Hi, Doc! I’m Mack! Hey, glad you’re here!

Ticked off at the loud, pushy authority, looking like a football fan on her way to a tailgate party, he sneered, What’s with the doctor business? No answer.

Hello, there, Nadra! Mack called across to the driver. You’re Nadra—am I on target?

Well, uh, yes, Nadra Balboa, celebrity escort, smiled, dropped her keys in her purse, grabbed her appointment book, thumped the door locks and hopped out. Mid-thirties-trim, a misty Anglo with fashion model features, she was all business in her beige pants suit, toting her franchise in a fat binder.

Thanks a bunch for setting this up and making the delivery; you done good, the parking valet boomed, slamming the door after Cletus got out. With an easy but steely smile, high cheekbones and brassy green eyes, Macklyn Thornburgh was Ute. Long black hair poked out the back of her cap. Don’t know what the world would do without us commandos. I’m Claudia’s PC. Production coordinator, in show biz parlance.

Nadra chuckled. You’re service-minded, I’ll say that. I didn’t expect to be met out here.

There’s a reason for everything, yuk, yuk. Follow me and I’ll explain this chaos. Doctor McKnott, your host is on the horn, dying to get the prelims out of the way. That’s so she can get up to speed on you, fair enough? So let’s do that right now, if your appetite’s stable and you can, ha, ha, ride and talk at the same time. Back on the phone: Claudia, still there? Hello? Drat, we’ve lost the cell. Oh, well, let’s get on with it. This way.

Thornburgh stuffed the phone into an oversize fanny pack strapped around her waist and led the way, not toward the TV station’s front door and lobby, but toward her own car. Nadra took a few steps, stopped and called, There must be some mistake. We’re supposed to go here. She nodded toward the big sign. To the studio.

Wouldn’t you know? I was afraid you hadn’t been notified—bummer, replied Thornburgh, backtracking to the two. To double-check, I tried your answering machine, but it warbled at me. We needed you to arrive early. See, the show’s doing a remote at the amphitheater. Just this morning, our loopy producer decided to get out of the studio. For some fresh air, he said. She motioned. Right this way. Do you know Dunton, the producer, Nadra?

Don’t think I’ve met him. I usually line up my guests through his assistant. But that’s funny about my phone. Funny in that minutes earlier, she had paged it for her messages as she and Cletus were leaving a cafe where they lunched. What’s going on at the park?

Just us and a couple of wannabees. Such a brawny set, Dunt said. That’s reason enough for him. He doesn’t have to scramble. But the engineers were livid. And the director dashed out and got his head shaved so he wouldn’t be tempted to pull his hair out. The cameras are there, Claudia’s there as we speak, and the filler-inners too. So when we get Doctor McKnott there, we’ll have a show. Let’s hit it. Nadra can ride shotgun and Doc—may I call you Cletus?

He nodded. Right.

You get in back. His scornful cast seemed to be fixed, but now he appeared uneasy, for he halted and glanced all around as if expecting a surprise. With one eye squinched, Thornburgh pointed firmly at her car and he crawled in. He can’t be as old as his picture, thirty, maybe? The gen-Xers three, seated in the black Mercedes sedan, took off.

Wondering how a coordinator could afford the luxury, Nadra asked, Is this your car? Thornburgh nodded. Glancing at maps of the city and outlying Wenden foothills, she wheeled out onto Shell Street and up the hill under a canopy of oaks and maples, orange and red. She eased through a neighborhood of aging manor houses to Eighth Avenue and into the outbound flow. In a few minutes, they were sailing out of town on a freeway westward toward the Granite Mountains. Ever seen Roca Stage, Cletus? asked Nadra.

Saw a picture once. I guess it’s gaga for the locals—an Easter-sunrise church thing?

She grinned. That too. Spectacular, and it’s all natural. Gigantic cliffs for walls, surrounding ten thousand seats. For a concert it is awesome. I used to go as a youngster. Went a few times, but I don’t let my own kids go. It belongs to the city, which means Wenden police are looking after it. And don’t get me started about those bunglers.

Thornburgh dialed the car phone, handed it over the seat and broke in, Here you go, Mr. McKnott. Rehearsal time. Talk to Claudia.

Hi. I’ve read your book and may I call you Clete? Not a question. Claudia, the voice on the phone, sounded blasé.

Fine. He had long since quit fighting the nickname. A cousin, a slick playmate bully dude, didn’t like Cletus’ looks, so he bossed, cajoled, pushed the smaller boy around, called him Clete and the nickname stuck. And thanks for the time slot.

Hey, I’ve got an hour to fill. Don’t get lost on your way up here. First question...

After a clumsy interview and a couple of miles, Thornburgh turned off into Roca Stage Park, haven of the amphitheater, and twisted her way between polychrome monoliths up a narrow mountain road. This was the backdrop of many a commercial where cars, shot in slow motion, screamed at redline. This view is kind of interesting, Cletus commented, sweeping a hand out at the coppery outcroppings and stunted shrubs. If you go for scruffy desolation.

Bitter, I reckon, thought Thornburgh. What is bothering him?

Approaching the lower parking lot, Nadra stopped scribbling in her calendar and folded it. Anticipating the long climb up to the stage, she took a deep breath and scanned the landscape for signs of the TV setup. Where’s your remote truck, Mack?

Look for a stack of suitcases. Thornburgh pointed and cleared her throat, pleased at how the excursion was going. And the dish is someplace up there on a rock, line-of-sight to Channel Twelve’s rooftop antenna. She kept driving up the mountain. Make that three dishes, one for each camera, because the director is back in the studio and does the switching there...cover, tight, and relief. We’re doing a sit-down interview, not a herd of rockers in rut.

You have an audience, I assume, inquired Nadra, looking for carrying cases.

We’ve got clapping and a laugh track, sure, but not live. We paste in stock footage from previous shows. When we do a remote, we go lean, light and snappy. No audience to bother with. If we’d promoted this Roca Stage thing, the rowdies would be here. She reset her cap to enclose the unruly ponytail. Let’s see now, which road is it? I think it’s... She angled to the right. This one.

Nadra craned around. Are you headed for the upper lot?

Uh-huh. Wouldn’t you rather walk downhill to the stage? After the show, I’ll do the walking back up, get the car and pick you up at the lower lot.

Mack, that is so thoughtful of you. But if I’m not mistaken, we should have gone straight and bore left to reach the upper lot.

Well, it looks like you’re correct, doesn’t it? She kept going for a quarter mile through the scrub, an isolated area with no traffic. This must lead back down off the mountain. Sorry ’bout that. I’d better turn around someplace. She pointed ahead. There, I think I see a wide spot. Slowing down, she got closer to the turnaround. A commercial delivery van with no windows was stalled in the roadway, making a U-turn impossible. The van’s driver-side door was standing open. A man leaped out and stood in the road, facing the approaching Mercedes. Uh-oh. I don’t like this, Thornburgh murmured and stopped her car. The man motioned her forward, to keep coming. He pointed to a wheel on the van while holding a fist to his ear as if indicating, ‘Got a telephone?’ I guess he’s got car trouble, but no thank you. Thornburgh eased closer. We can’t take time to let him use my phone; we’ve got a show to do. To hell with him. She swung sharply to the right and made a hard left, angling across the road. Bushes scraped her headlights and she threw it in reverse. Two more such maneuvers and she would be turned around and headed back to the amphitheater. She backed across the road. The man dashed forward. In an instant, he was at her right-side window with a handgun leveled at Nadra Balboa’s head.

What moron, thought Nadra, wrote those carjacker profiles she’d read someplace? The guy does not fit. He was dressed in jacket and tie, and, looking at his hands, she noticed they were white, but the face was black. And that fixed grin—no, that was a rubber mask covering his head.

With his gun he gestured for her to get out of the car and banged on the glass. Yeah, you with the funny do, out! Hands behind your head! His loud voice was muffled. Opening the door, clutching her purse and her livelihood, the appointment book, she swung her legs out. He grabbed the purse and pitched it toward the van into the ditch. Now, into the back seat with the fuzzy runt. Mister, don’t you say a word and don’t you move. Hands on that backrest! Sit right where you are. Sit reeeal still. The robber opened the back door and Nadra, with her schedule, squeezed in beside Cletus. Now you, rich bitch, out! The assailant aimed the pistol at Thornburgh. Real slow. Whatcha think you’re gonna do with those keys? Gimme ’em. Removing the keys, Thornburgh scooted out with her hands up and threw the keys over across the top of the car at the man. She threw them hard, missing him, and they landed in the road near the van, close to the purse.

Another man leaped from the passenger side of the van, flashing a pistol. Wearing a brown suit, he dashed around, scooped up the keys and called to Thornburgh, Yo, cowboy! Over here! Get over here! She ambled around the front of her car and stopped in the space between car and van. The second robber shouted, I said move it! Over to the van! Hands on the van—step on it!

Thornburgh hustled to the side of the vehicle, stretched her arms up to prop herself against it. He turned, scampered up and clobbered her on the back of the head with the butt of his weapon. She shrieked, not loudly, a Weep! and collapsed into the dirt, motionless. The robber in brown bolted to the Mercedes and angled into the front passenger seat with his weapon pointed at Nadra Balboa and Cletus in the back seat. Brown guy’s face was masked by a gauzy stocking pulled down over his head.

The first carjacker ripped off his rubber face and stuffed it into a coat pocket. Underneath he, too, was veiled with a stocking. He slid behind the wheel, took the keys from his accomplice and fired up the big S. Making two fast straightening-out maneuvers, he blasted past Thornburgh, crumpled in a heap on the road. Passing the abandoned van, the hijacked car with two thugs and two back-seat passengers sped around the mountain, then down, out of sight. The black car began a torturous zigzag downhill, arriving at a gravel side-road with a one-way sign. The jacker cut onto it, coming to a stop at a formation of tall red boulders. Okay, lady, the thug in the front passenger seat barked, steadying the pistol at Nadra’s face. This is as far as you go. Get out.

Oh, no! What! Don’t hurt me, please?

Get moving!

Gripping the seat-back, Cletus glanced out to see a wide-bodied man—he had no mask—jump from behind a boulder and sprint toward them. Hey, watch it! Cletus shouted, pointing. Nadra’s door was yanked open from the outside. She jerked her head around to see who it was. A fat, mustachioed man of Latin hue in his fifties with hair resembling a black feather duster was leering and rubbing his hands with glee. A long-sleeved black shirt unbuttoned to his belt revealed much chest hair and a red tattoo.

"Ah-ha! Let me at her! Señora Balboa! Buenas tardes!" he shouted. A large knife was noticeable tucked under his belt buckle. He grabbed Nadra’s wrist, tugged her out of the car, clamped her mouth at the first scream, slammed the door and stood holding her. The jackers, laughing, jerked their stocking masks off and put their guns away.

The driver, a hunk with wavy blond hair and fluffy mustache, called out the window, Save her for us, Jorge. Tonight! Jorge pushed his victim along out of view between lofty slabs of redstone thrusting out of the ground. The Mercedes lurched forward. It spun gravel, blew dust and roared away through the tall-rock corridor out onto the park’s main artery. Descending to the park exit, the car turned right and headed toward Maywood crossroads with the bewildered Cletus McKnott in the rear seat. He looked back at the kaleidoscopic vista, but saw nobody around to help Nadra. After a few yards, the car whipped to the side of the road and skidded to a stop.

BACK AT THE HIJACKING site, when she could no longer hear the car taken from her, Thornburgh peeked around. Seeing no activity, she jumped up, brushed off some dirt, rubbed her head a bit and shook it. The cold-cocking was a soft landing, a theatrical glancing blow by the man’s fingers. She fluffed her hair, stuck her cap back on and retrieved Nadra’s purse. Sauntering to the van, she climbed inside, stuffed the purse under the driver’s seat and started the motor—the van’s keys were in the ignition. Creeping away, she followed the sedan’s route around the mountain, down through the switchbacks to the one-way trail and turned onto it. She stopped where Nadra had been dumped out and left in the care, or at the mercy, of Jorge the luchador—the wrestler. Thornburgh left the van’s engine running, crawled back into its cargo space, pulled down upholstered seats and took one.

AMONG THE BOULDERS, upon hearing the vehicle, Jorge said to his captor, "Hear that? That’s our ride, Señora. What did I tell you? They were sitting on rocks, facing each other. Do not worry, no one will harm you. But you must do everything Mack Thornburgh tells you. You have been spared."

Shouldn’t have listened to her in the first place, Nadra retorted, rising from her seat, stomping, trying to clear her bone loafers coated with red dust. Spared?

"Yes, Señora, Mack will look out for you. She has everything all worked out. She will tell you what to do."

What will happen to Mr. McKnott?

I do not know, Jorge shrugged, standing up, but in time we will find out.

That’s why I’ve been dragged into this, isn’t it?

"You ask the wrong questions of me, Señora. Mack may have your answers. Come, let’s be on our way."

I could run, you know. She looked around to see if anyone was in sight.

Ha! From Jorge? He pulled the knife from his belt, leered and stuck it down into a boot. As he bent over, the tattoo fell off his chest, because it was a decal that didn’t stick. He scooped it up before she spotted it and with a light touch guided her toward the road. Coming to the van, Nadra shrieked upon spotting it. Jorge opened the passenger door and folded down the front backrest. He took Nadra’s hand, assisted her into the back and she gasped at the sight of Thornburgh.

He motioned for Nadra to have a seat opposite Thornburgh, who grinned and said, You were a very good actor. And I need to get a talent release from you, but we’ll do that later.

Actor? Release! For what?

We’ll talk about it in a minute. Let’s get on the road first.

Jorge got behind the wheel, pulled away and followed the tracks of the Mercedes toward Maywood. Outside the park exit, on the main road at the first wide spot, he stopped. Sounds like this thing’s got a flat, he said, left the engine running and hopped out. He circled the van and climbed back in. Nope, everything’s fine, real fine. The traffic cleared; he U-turned right there and sped back past the park entrance, backtracking up Hoggins Road through the valley toward the Interstate.

Nadra glowered. Where are you taking me?

Thornburgh offered a half-smile. You still have your appointment schedule.

But my purse is back there in the ditch.

Jorge, if you please, Thornburgh called, reaching forward. He stuck a hand down under his seat, fished out the handbag and passed it back.

Nadra rifled through it and found her billfold, whatnots and keys. Oh, thank goodness. This was a carjacking, wasn’t it?

They took my Mercedes, and left this clunker, Thornburgh sneered, surveying the interior. On the floor and attached to shelves were strange-looking electronic instruments. Isn’t it gruesome?

But, Mister, uh, Jorge, wasn’t he a plant? I mean he just happened to be right there where they stopped!

See this? Thornburgh asked, reaching into her shirt. She unclipped a gadget on a wire and pulled it out part way. You never spotted this, did you?

Why, no. Oh, I see.

And you didn’t notice them on the jackers either, did you?

Wireless mikes! Nadra exclaimed, twisting around.

I’m sitting on my transmitter. Thornburgh indicated a bulge in a rear pocket.

But I didn’t see cameras.

Did you look for them? Thornburgh asked, folding her arms.

Well, no. But my client had a live Claudia interview! Nadra glowered, glancing at her watch. Why take valuable time to shoot a hijack bit?

We had time. We allotted five minutes for two scenes, one take only.

Why didn’t you use actors? Nadra asked, with a skeptical look.

"We did. Cinéma vérité! Thornburgh snapped and smiled. No rehearsal, low budget. You’ll get a fee too, but not scale."

I think that mike is a prop to fool me and the carjack was not a fake.

Thank you. Realistic, didn’t you think?

Well, yeah, said Nadra, frowning hard. Everything. Right up until they dumped me out. Then they took their masks off.

Thornburgh jerked her head around and exclaimed, They blew it!

Also, as they drove off with Mr. McKnott, they were laughing.

Damn, Thornburgh whined, dropping her eyes. Maybe the camera didn’t see them do those miscues. I’ll look at the tape.

But that’s when I realized what was going on. What I witnessed was a kidnapping, a real one.

Oh, Nadra, come on. Of whom?

Nadra hesitated and contended, Why, Cletus, of course. Jorge laughed. Cletus should be standing there in the wings right about now, all set to go on camera if the guys delivered him, Thornburgh, in a calm voice, assured the escort.

You mean I’m the one that’s kidnapped! Nadra asked and the driver laughed again. Where are you taking me!

Back to the TV station, back to your minivan and let you go home.

We’re all actors, then? And I’m not kidnapped? Nadra sighed, glancing back and forth at the other two.

Of course not, but... Thornburgh paused, leaned forward and squinted at the passenger.

Something else is going on and you’re not telling me about it, Nadra mumbled, stiffening her arms.

Thornburgh straightened up, clipped the mike back on, smoothed down her shirt front, crossed her legs like a man to finger a piece of gravel out of a sneaker. She cleared her throat and asked, What is it worth to you to find Blackjack?

What! Blackjack? You mean...? Nadra bolted up out of her seat. You know about Mom’s death! Furious, she bowed her neck. You say you’re a coordinator—Who are you? Who is he! She pointed to Jorge and sat down.

Yes, I know about the Brett murder case, said Thornburgh, the orchestrator of the fake carjack. It was a hideous crime. In all the papers. And in a few other places as well. In one place in particular, and Jorge was there. He was at the crime scene, investigating.

Sort of, he snorted, hunching his shoulders, glancing in the rear view mirror.

Thornburgh sighed and shook her head. Jorge used to be a Wenden cop. He wants to get back on the force and needs you to help him. That’s why you’re sitting there. Nadra, you’ve got to help us.

Nadra cocked her head sideways. Are you an investigator?

Me, a detective? Damn right.

How come you drive a Mercedes?

It belongs to a client. Thornburgh rubbed the back of her head. I borrowed it to make an impression on Cletus. What I’m doing now is a special assignment to help Jorge collar Blackjack.

You do sound confident. Nadra puffed, looked aside and stroked her face with an icy hand.

That we’ll take him down? Listen, we’re not doing it like—oh, shut my pie hole. Jorge was on your mother’s case. He found her town car at Gold Diggers restaurant where her attacker had abandoned it. Jorge got disgusted with police bungling, as you called it, exactly as you called it, and quit. He works for a surveillance and security outfit now.

Nadra covered her burning face with both hands for a moment and stated, We could never get anything out of those cops. Mom wasn’t anybody important, just a real estate saleswoman, and the family, well, we didn’t have any pull.

That was over two years ago.

"June ninety-three. Long time ago, Mack, but it hurts so bad it seems like last night. She had taken over this apartment house on Lafasing at Eleventh near Chero Park