Deadly DeJa Vudu: The Tony Mandolin Mysteries, #13

By Robert Beers

When Tony Mandolin upset the plans of the international child slavery ring, he had no idea just how far up the chain the consequences of doing that would run. Now he has a Vatican wetwork team after him and they have no problem taking out whoever is between them and a certain San Francisco PI. To add to the chaos, someone has figured out how to make paper money in the city deadly to the touch. Pickpockets are dropping like flies, and guess who has to solve the mystery in order to prove he's innocent?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Robert Beers
• Release date: Jul 26, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223937517

Robert Beers

Robert Lee Beers (born 1951) is an author and an artist involved in graphic arts, illustration and fine art. Originally from Eureka, California, Beers attended Arcata High School and Humboldt State College. He currently resides in Topeka, Kansas. In 2008 as a state Assemblyman Robert was nominated to be a recipient of the JFK Profiles in Courage Award. After leaving office, Robert became a licensed mediator for the Nevada Supreme Court’s Foreclosure Mediation Program. Upon retiring he was the most successful mediator of his type in the nation, compiling an agreement rate nearing 85%. He continues to write, and to paint. His Tony Mandolin Mystery series has ten completed novels and several short stories. The first four novels were produced into full-cast audio dramas by Graphic Audio Publishers. As an artist, Robert is an accomplished painter of portraits, both human and pet, and in producing landscapes that capture the chosen scene with incredible depth and clarity.

Book preview

Chapter 1

I put the book down and said to myself, "Well, that’s interesting... if true. I wonder what Frank would say about this?"

Frank was Father Frank; a Catholic Priest I’d known for over a decade. He ran the church down on the borders of San Francisco’s Tenderloin, a district not even the cops spent time in. I knew Frank was a real believer and approved by God because I was there when the big man told him so, and I don’t mean the twerp in Rome who wears white. No, I’m talking about the real big man.

I’m Tony Mandolin, and I’ve been in the city nearly all my life. For me, traveling means the odd trip across the bay. I don’t own a passport, hell, I don’t even own a car. The bus system gets me around town just fine, thank you.

I run a Private Investigation office, mostly from my house, but I do have an office. It’s in old downtown, another place where the cops tend not to gather. It’s on the ground floor of an old pre-earthquake office building that is probably being held up by cobwebs. Go to the back of the hallway past the loan shark and the dominatrix’s office and I’m right there. The lettering on the glass in the door is a dead give-away.

That’s Private Investigator in chipped black paint, see? I am not a Private Eye, that I in PI stands for Investigator.

There are a few cases I tend to pass along to a compatriot or two. Those include the problems where one spouse is suspicious or upset with the other. There’s no winner in those things, regardless of the money. Another type is wet work. I’m an investigator, not an assassin, even though I do admit there are more than a couple of folks who would better the city by no longer being around.

I started my office because I had a knack for finding things. Maybe it’s a gift or a talent, but I think it’s just stubbornness. You see, I hate losing. So far, my record is one hundred percent, even when what I found did not please the client. I still found it. I also fight dirty. There’s no percentage in fighting fair when your life’s the ticket.

Around twelve years ago now, I bought a house from the proceeds of a case that sent my entire life... and my career over into the world of the weird. It turned out the bad guy was a vampire and that all of those things folks get into costume for on Halloween? They are freaking real; we humans just don’t pay close enough attention. Those Disney animated movies? They’re more documentary than fiction. Don’t blame me, that’s reality.

My house faces south and there is a small park where the neighbors can exercise their dogs. I’m one of them. Several years ago, my business partner, Frankie, a reformed cross-dresser with a diva complex who could stand in for the entire Niner’s front four brought home this six-inch high puppy. A German Shepherd he claimed was from a championship line. I don’t know where that line came from, but the only things larger than Greystoke are black bears and Fluffy, a neighbor’s Tibetan Mastiff. They say Fluffy’s food bills aren’t too much as he gets to dine on the occasional burglar.

My business partner is also my housemate. Besides being really handy in a fight, he can cook better than any TV chef. I have to say, it’s getting more and more difficult to appreciate what was once my favorite cuisine, the crab shacks along the Embarcadero by the bay. It used to be my version of the perfect meal was a freshly boiled Dungeness crab, a loaf of Sourdough, and a beer. Now... not so much.

The house? Like my downtown office, it predates the 1906 earthquake, but in this case, it was built far enough away from the epicenter so only the crockery got rattled. The bones of the place are solid clear-heart redwood from the basement to the attic, four floors up. It’s an authentic Victorian. Not a mansion, but more than big enough for me and mine, that’s Frankie plus my dog, by the way.

Since that case with the vampire, I’ve dealt with trolls, ogres, pixies, faeries, demigods, and not-so-demi. Out of the whole thing I’ve come to one main conclusion, bad guys are still bad guys regardless of what they look like.

Oh, yes, and there’s a wizard involved. Forget what you’ve seen in the movies and the books, this one is not what the writers of storybooks were thinking when they thought of the word. No, this wizard is an on-and-off-again alcoholic with a temper that scares bad tempers. His name is Landau Bain. Nightmares use it when they want to keep their kids in line.

The book I was reading was a biography, of sorts. It was the account of a Spanish kid who became a Jesuit Priest. I’d picked it up because that particular order had decided to put me on the to-be-killed-for-the-good-of-the-church list. I thought it would give me an edge to gain a bit of background on the folks intent on whacking me. If what I’d read was even halfway true, these fellas made the Yakuza look like pikers. Yeah, I was going to have to see about paying Father Frank a visit.

The last big case hadn’t brought in much money. In fact, I wound up paying a bit more than the police commission made, but it was worth it. A group of real lowlifes, complete wastes of oxygen had been selling little girls into slavery. I had a part in stopping them. The shockwaves of that case went all the way into the upper offices in Washington DC and I think that’s where the boys in Rome got upset. As I said, if even half of what I read was accurate...

Pat Monahan finally got his promotion. My best friend in the cop world was now a Chief. Not the Chief, but one of them. I suppose having your boss and most of those involved in deciding on the promotion list become part of a grand jury indictment that led to multiple life sentences tends to push certain things along.

He got a new office on a floor a couple of stories above his old one. He didn’t get a new attitude, but he wouldn’t be Pat Monahan if he had. Of course, there were a few floors still above his, but I tended to not visit those heights, the air and the personalities were much too thin.

Chapter 2

Toneee... phone.

That was Frankie. I’d been doing my reading on the front porch. The rain had switched to high fog, and I kind of like that setting. I hadn’t heard the phone ring.

Nope, no cell phone for me. I’m not at all interested in having a social reputation, much less any kind of footprint. My phone is supplied by Ma Bell, its black plastic, almost as old as the house and it has never once broken down. Besides, I enjoy seeing the confusion on some folks’ faces when they drop a name and I can honestly say, Who?

Taking the receiver from the big guy’s hand, I held it to my ear and said, Tony Mandolin here.

Mandolin, It was Pat Monahan, We’ve got one for you. Some real MM. None of the Captains even want to try to tackle it.

That sounded like something that might prove interesting. When I can take on a job that upsets the police bureaucracy, I consider it a win-win. That MM? It stands for Mandolin Madness, meaning that there was something in this job that made the higherups in the Police Department uncomfortable, something that didn’t make sense to them. That put it squarely into my lap. I’m the Mandolin and I get to handle the Madness.

I asked, All right, so what’s the job?

Not over the phone, Mandolin, Pat replied. This is something I need to talk to you about where it’s a bit more private.

Looked like I was going to be riding the bus downtown.

I said to Frankie, Monahan wants to see me. Make sure Greystoke gets fed, okay, big guy?

He called back, sounds of pots and pans clattering came with it, Sure thing, Tony. Take your time, I’m working on a cassoulet.

I think that’s some kind of bean and sausage stew, but with the big guy doing the lifting, it was bound to be tasty.

My typical ride to police headquarters takes two transfers, meaning I have to ride three different buses to get there. Yes, a taxi would be faster, and yes, ever since the case involving the actual Count Dracula I could afford it, easily. But that’s not the way I did things before the score, and I’m not a guy who changes his habits just because of a little money. Okay, it’s more than a billion dollars, but there’s a principle at stake here.

The bus was nearly empty when I got off for the first of the transfers at Van Ness. From there I’d catch the line that took me down to Mission, and from Mission it was a short ride to where I could hoof it to Monahan’s private kingdom.

Some things never change. Sure, the aftermath of the child slavery case cleaned out about 85% of the city’s hierarchy, including most of the police administrators, but the rank and file, the beat cops remained mostly undisturbed. This meant they also were still around when I walked in to the station.

You smell that?

Yeah, who ran over a skunk?

Naw, it’s worse than skunk. Smells like... Mandolin.

And that was the stuff that’s printable. A few got rather personal, but I, through years of practice managed to walk past the insults and to the elevators. That’s just the kind of guy I am.

Pat’s office wasn’t at the end of the squad room this time, but to get there I had to run the insult gauntlet anyway because the elevator to that floor was not for public use. You had to be invited, and I wasn’t, so it was working my way through the squad room, getting picked on, and then taking the stairs.

After leaving the stairwell, I walked into an office with a secretary outside the door with Monahan’s nameplate on it.

It had to be a Secretary Monahan chose instead of some human resources functionary doing it for him. She was middle-aged, matronly, and looked as immovable as the Rockies.

She looked up as I opened the door and said, You must be Mister Mandolin, The Chief is waiting for you. Go right in.

I heard a buzz indicating that a button had been pushed, so I went in.

Pat was behind his desk, a stack of report folders on its top. I didn’t see a computer, just a phone.

He glanced up at me and then returned his attention to the folder open under his nose, and said, Grab a chair, Mandolin, you’re going to love this one.

What’s it about? I asked.

I got a question as the answer, How many pickpockets and muggers would you say the city has?

I replied, Pat, I don’t have that many fingers and toes.

He growled, Just take a guess.

I shrugged and said, Okay... say about four or five thousand, on the low side.

He glared at me, You’ve been looking at police records again.

I shrugged again and asked, So, come on, Pat. What’s this about? I was told it’s an MM case.

He grunted and flipped the report around, saying, Read it.

I grabbed the folder and began reading. It wasn’t one case, it was dozens. Every single one of the victims had a record of petty theft, usually relieving tourists of the weight of their wallet or purse. Every single one of them was also a victim of poisoning, substance still unknown.

Monahan must have been watching my expressions.

He chuckled sourly, Sound familiar?

I nodded. Several years ago, I’d been asked to check into a blackmail scheme against the city’s elite eateries. Diners were being poisoned and nobody could figure out what was being used, or how back then.

Then I said, Yeah. And continued to flip through the file.

After another moment or two, I asked, How many, so far?

You think this isn’t over? Monahan asked, an eyebrow raised.

I shook my head, and replied, Not a chance. Look at the rap sheets on these... I guess the law would call them victims. In skimming the records, I didn’t see one who wasn’t a career thief. Most of them should have the country lockup as their main maildrop. Whoever’s doing this is a fed-up citizen who was probably stolen from for the last time and figured out a way of fighting back.

Monahan grunted, nodding.

I asked, Has Ignatova figured out how these folks are being poisoned?

He answered, Through their fingertips, mostly, but it seems to be a contact poison, so some got it from their nose, lips, tongue...

I thought about that and then asked, Why me, Pat? This doesn’t seem to be something I’d be called in on. Frankly, it looks pretty straightforward. And, honestly, if you ask me, I’d say someone is doing the city a favor. If the muggers want to live, they can stop mugging.

Pat sighed, stood up, and walked out from behind his desk, saying, If these were the days back when I was a lieutenant, Tony, I’d agree with you and pour a scotch to celebrate, but I’m now a chief, and that changes the picture, just a bit. Want a coffee?

As I’ve said before, I’m not a coward, I said, Sure, why not?

Monahan reached out and pushed a button on his phone, Mrs. Cartwright, bring in two coffees, black, please.

I was thinking, Hey, Pat’s a Chief now, he probably has some pretty decent coffee these days.

And then the smell hit my nose when I was handed the cup. It was somewhere between sniffing caustic lye and nearly sentient gym socks.

Monahan sipped from his cup and sighed, Ah, nothing like a good cup of coffee.

I was thinking of the cliché that followed that phrase in regard to what I held and decided against it. Pat’s taste in wakeup juice was his and nothing I did was going to do anything more than hurt his feelings.

I mentally held my nose and sipped. Yep, I was drinking carbon remover. It probably would not be wise to ask for a spoon. The poor thing would dissolve if I tried adding sugar.

Putting his cup back down, Monahan looked at me and said, My concern, Tony is that some civilian is going to wind up being a victim, and if it’s a civilian with connections, then that brown stuff we know, and love will begin hitting the fan. The folks in homicide have gotten nowhere. Whoever’s doing it isn’t making a ripple in anybody’s pond. We need some help.

Who was this and where did they have Pat Monahan stashed?

I was about to say something when he got up and said, Come on, let’s go see Ignatova.

The elevator ride was just Pat and me. He said nothing all the way down, but then when the door opened, he said, You have to wear a mask before going into the exam room.

I said, Huh?

He replied, There’s a concern that the examination of the bodies could release the poison into the room’s air. Ignatova doesn’t want to take any chances.

That was reasonable.

I asked, Where’s the mask?

He pointed at the metal cabinet next to the double doors leading into the morgue proper and said, There’s a box of the things in that.

So, we masked up and pushed through the flappy doors.

Ignatova, the Medical Examiner was bent over the open torso of a body, dribbling muffin crumbs into the cavity as she rooted around.

She had a pretty smooth routine going on, drop mask, take a bite, replace mask and do some more spelunking in the intestines.

Monahan asked, Doctor Ignatova, shouldn’t you be keeping your mask in place?

She glanced over her shoulder and said, Oh, hello Chief, Tony. No, it’s merely a precaution now. There really isn’t any danger. The toxin is fully imbedded into the body tissues and is beginning to break down already. Most of it is concentrated into those parts of the hand that first made contact with it.

That was said with a mouth full of muffin backed by a heavy Russian accent. I caught the no, and that was enough for me.

I pulled the mask off my face and asked Ignatova, Seen Paul lately?

Oh yes, she replied, smiling through her mask, He is back from the Amazon with some intriguing samples of things we think have never been seen before.

Paul was Paul Verona, a professor at the university across the bay and one of the world’s top experts in all things moldy. He hooked up with Ursula back when I was dealing with another case involving a poisoner. Both of them have IQs on the scary level and both of them seem to have a bottomless pit for a stomach. Doctor Ignatova is about five-foot nothing and Paul isn’t much larger, but either one of them can eat me under the table and then want dessert.

Paul was the go-to guy when it came to toxins and if he was back in the states, I was going to have to check him out. The problem was, he was also about as absent-minded a professor as you could ask for.

I asked Ignatova, Well, if you see him, please have him contact me, okay? It would be about this case. I pointed at the body.

She looked at me through thick lenses and then said, Oh... yes, yes indeed. Take a look at this.

She turned back to the body and lifted a flap of abdomen off to the side.

Then she beckoned, Come, come.

Monahan shrugged and moved forward. I went around the table so I could see without having to elbow Pat.

Okay, Doctor Ignatova, Monahan said, What are we looking at?

Isn’t it obvious? She asked, popping the last of the muffin into her mouth.

No, Pat replied, I’m an old copper, not a doctor.

She looked at me and asked, Tony?

I shrugged and asked back, I’m not sure, it that supposed to be that color?

I was pointing at a blob of tissue that was a lot greener than I thought any organ should be.

Her eyes crinkled as she grinned at me through her mask, Exactly, Tony. That is the spleen. If healthy it would be purplish, not green. A biopsy showed a high concentration of an as-yet-unknown toxin. Yes... I can see where Paul’s expertise would be invaluable.

I thought back to the last case where the body of the former police commissioner turned out to be a construct of Puck’s evil twin, K’cup. I had this sense of déjà vu all over again.

To Ursula, I said, Yeah, I agree. I’ve got a bunch of other things to do, do you think you and he would like to meet me at the Snug? I’m buying.

Paul and Ursula never turned down a meal in their lives.

I said my goodbye to Ignatova and headed back up to the street. I figured I’d get back with Monahan after I dug up some more information. I had a few hours before lunch with Paul and Ignatova, so I figured it was time to see what some of my street informants had to say. I had the time; Frankie’s French bean stew took a while to cook, and besides that was dinner tonight. There was lunch at the Snug first.

I decided to try my canvassing down around Mission and Main. There’d been several attempts at urban renewal, but they never took. The City likes itself the way it is.

At least half of the windows I saw were boarded over. When you tell a small business it cannot stay open because of some whacko cooking up a bug in China... no, I have yet to find something more stupid having been done, but then again, I am a Private Investigator. Give it time.

The district never recovered, and unless the people decide to think ahead about their votes, I doubt it will. All you have to do is take a stroll into Hunters Point. That area’s been a wasteland for decades.

In one of the few open doorways, I saw Fats Muller. Fats used to be one of Walter Rorche’s best buds. Rorche was a police Lieutenant who was tied deeply to the conspiracy that attempted to frame then Lieutenant Pat Monahan for their corruption. I dropped a few wrenches into that machine and as a consequence saved Pat’s career and made an eternal enemy to the bent cop Walter Rorche. Fats was right there with Rorche, but when Antonio Luccesi let it be known I was working for him... I wasn’t, it was just that the case I was on benefited his interests. It’s a long story. The notes on my first case explain it thoroughly. Regardless, people like Fats took it to be that a slightly rough around the edges PI named Mandolin had become the crime lord’s top hitter, a walking weapon, something to be feared. It’s been over ten years and I’m still trying to ditch that reputation. Where folks like Fats are concerned, it doesn’t even pay to try.

Fats saw me crossing the street and flinched, freezing in place. I gestured with a finger for him to go inside the bar. It was a dive, but then most of the surviving places were. They had; shall we say... alternative revenue streams to keep the doors open. 

He nodded, using all of his chins, and ducked back into the dive.

I followed, pausing just long enough inside the doorway to get my eyes adjusted.

The place was dark and, a sure sign it didn’t consider the city’s edicts more than suggestions, smokey. The smell of stale beer mixed with that of tobacco, and other herbage smoke made for a lovely background ambiance.

I was recognized immediately.

Hey, Mister Mandolin.

How ya doing, Mister Mandolin,

Sup, Mister Mandolin.

They all used the formal greeting. They were all frightened of the rep, and I hated every second of it, but this was one of those times when my feelings would just get in the way.

I spotted Fats bellied up to the bar and walked over to him.

Clearing my throat I said, Excuse me, I need to have a chat with Fats here, to the guy filling the spot in front of me.

He snarled, Get lost ya— as he turned around, and then he gulped, Ah... umm, sorry M-mister Mandolin. I didn’t know it was you.

He grinned a sickly grin and asked, Umm... can I buy ya a beer?

I said back, No thanks. How about I take Fats over to a booth, it’ll be more private.

Sure, sure, Mister Mandolin, He babbled, Here, I’ll clear one for ya.

He had a point; the bar was crowded.

I said, No thanks, I’ll take care of that myself.

Fats was still where I found him, sweating.

Jerking my head in Fats’ direction, I said, I’ll be right back.

Then I made my way across the floor to the line of booths. Every one of them had patrons in it. I leaned on the first one and said, Hi, I’m Tony Mandolin and I —

That’s as far as I got. The drinkers cleared out like the seat cushions had developed spikes.

I turned and waved at Fats, One just opened up. Then I made the come here gesture.

He scurried over and slid into the furthest bench, still sweating.

M-Mister Mandolin, he stammered, W-whatcha need from me?

Take it easy, Fats, I said, This is just me asking you a few questions. First one, what can you tell me about the pickpockets dropping dead?

Is Mister L. pissed about that? He asked.

I had no idea, but I wasn’t about to let on.

I answered, Don’t worry, Fats. This part is mine. All I need are some answers.

Sure, sure Mister Mandolin, whatever ya want, He babbled, his chins wobbling as he nodded.

I waited for Fats to realize I’d already asked the question. It took a bit.

Finally, the message slogged its way through.

Oh yeah, He said, Word’s getting round about that. Fingers Jones, Pocket Henry an’ Sir Francis Dip... all dead. Nobody knows why. It’s like some village ante is cleaning up the streets or something.

Vigilante, I corrected.

Yeah, Fats nodded, Like I said, some kind of village ante."

Inwardly, I sighed. This was going to take a while.

Chapter 3

Outside of the list of known grifters and sneak thieves leaving this life unexpectedly, Fats gave me nothing I could use.

I decided to work my way up to Market and see who was around there. The sidewalks were more crowded than I thought they would be. I was still seeing a lot of masks. They might work for pollution or the odd case of terminal halitosis, but against a virus, it was a wasted effort. Even the Centers for Disease Control said so, but you can’t fix politics or stupid. Both seem to go hand in hand.

It may have been my nose, or it could have been the obvious hole in the crowd up ahead, but the reason could only be one thing.

Sommbtchhgwannamubfug rainninonmebonns... sprradime?

The weaving ambulatory trash heap heading my way had to be Mumbling John. Mostly his speech was a melding of the profane and the incomprehensible. Sometimes it seemed he was communicating with someone, or something other than you, but there were a few times when he really did help, once it resulted in Momma Mandolin’s baby boy remaining alive.

I stopped walking and let the crowd on the sidewalk flow around me. Mumbling John continued his slow, somewhat jagged way to me.

Finally, he stopped, just about a foot away and stood there, swaying. A hand emerged from the landfill that was John.

Fugginay gwannagetta dringortoo. Budyacanyasparadime?

I saw additional eyes as tiny spots of shine in the beard that was most of John. Seems he’d added a few residents since I’d last seen him.

Pulling out a bill I dropped it into his hand. It vanished.

Then I asked, Nice seeing you, John. What can you tell me about the pickpocket deaths?

Dunnonothingboutnuthin, He muttered, Dumbsumbitchs puttinhands wearnotwanted servewuttheygit.

Mumbling John came from the conservative school.

I asked, Do you know what part of the city most of them got poisoned?

John didn’t answer. He just stood there looking at me through the thatch and detritus.

I held out another bill, This is yours if you can give me a hint, John.

He didn’t take it.

I asked, What’s the matter?

This time I got an answer, Gottago. Gottago nownownow, and he began heading down the sidewalk at a pretty quick shamble.

That spot between my shoulder blades began to itch. Having learned history’s lesson, I turned and looked. I’m glad I did.

Three guys wearing all black, no dog collar, but the tailoring definitely said Vatican City all had me in their sights. I didn’t see any weapons, but that meant zip. As far as I knew, they were all like that Jesuit Priest Timothy and packed a certain amount of supernatural weaponry.

I was near Second Street on Market. So, I headed north to where I could shift west and make my way toward Union Square, and hopefully get lost in the crowds. Today was supposed to be a market day and the booths would, hopefully, be up.

Glancing over my shoulder, I saw the boys in black had gotten closer. I didn’t know if they spotted me looking their way or not. I quickened my steps and turned off onto Post, into the direction of traffic. The Square was just a couple blocks away... uphill.

Unless the Vatican had an Ironman team, I thought I had a chance of putting some distance between us. A block away from the Square, I glanced back. I was wrong, they’d closed even further.

I turned right on Grant and then ducked into Maiden Lane, more of an alley than a street, but it had the storefronts of businesses on it. I was thinking maybe I could hide in one of them. Every single one of the damned things was closed. Of course, all but one of them was a clothing store, by appointment only, because of the virus scare.

Something buzzed past my right ear and hit the brick of the wall next to me. The boys in black had silencers. Another steel-jacketed insect took out some more brick just above my head.

They were getting closer.

I upped my speed using terror as fuel and left the alley at roughly lightspeed and went right through the traffic on Stockton. I was lucky and didn’t join the flattened trash on the blacktop.

Fortunately, or not, having them flattened would have been my preference, the would-be assassins didn’t make the light, so I was able to make it into the underground parking beneath Union Square.

What is known only to the chosen few, there’s a subterranean entrance to the Saint Francis on the Powell side of the garage. Something every nearly five-star hotel should have. It looks more like a maintenance hatch than anything else.

I didn’t see the boys in black, so I pulled out my lock pick tool and, as quietly and as quickly as possible, unlocked the door.

It squeaked when I started to pull it, so I took out the small bottle of oil I usually carry, hey, you never know, and used it on the