The Hobo Chronicles: An Acey Tapp Mystery

By S. E. Schenkel

A hobo turns up dead in a bin. Among the gawkers is Acey Albert Tapp, a jobless man facing the death of his mother. Acey finds employment with an aging PI. He takes on a case involving a local woman gone missing for five decades, and again crosses paths with the deceased drifter. Only this time the sighting is in an old photo showing the hobo and the missing woman as teenage sweethearts. Coached by his mentor and boss, and despite a series of seemingly unrelated personal tragedies, Acey delves deeper into the woman's movement prior to her disappearance. What follows is a roller-coaster ride for Acey, his boss and a killer determined to keep secret his involvement in multiple murders.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wings ePress, Inc.
• Release date: Aug 13, 2023
• ISBN: 9781590884515

Book preview

One

Something was up. You don’t send a platoon of county vehicles to a resale shop to catch the specials. I held the scene in my side mirror, fought with my conscience for all of a second, then tooled an abrupt right, turned down an alley, and parked in the back lot of a furniture store. I was maybe forty feet from the action. I killed the engine, lit a cigarette, and watched from the comfort of my Chevy van.

Ground zero was a bin. A big metal box with a pull-down chute. Its opened double doors exposed a mound of clothing and something heavy on top. Cadaver, I guessed. The granddaddy of discards. Some guy was up on a ladder clicking a camera, while the lab-coat twins stood by with their black cases waiting their turn.

People were spilling from shops and cars, and deputies were scurrying to keep them away. Above a feed shop across the street a man straddled the sill of a second story window aiming a camcorder. Probably hoped to tape the cops kicking the corpse.

Gravel crunched on my left. An obese woman wobbled by, hauling a huge purse and a lamp shade. She gave me one of those looks meant for hooligans. I blew her a kiss in a cloud of smoke. She glanced toward the officers, then back at me, and upped her gait.

With the crowd now blocking my view and my demons in need of a playground, I got out and followed the lady. She stopped at the edge of the throng. I eased up close, my chin an inch from her bouffant of blond curls. She turned into my armpit, gave me a belligerent glare, then wiggled out and around and over to another spot. She looked back. I winked. Acey, the agitator, that’s me.

I turned my attention to the bin. The cops were lifting the body out feet first and with one hairy, tattooed arm hanging down. An old coat covered the face and torso. The poor stiff had lost his shoes and his purple socks had more holes than fabric. Little guy. Old, too, judging from the colony of liver spots on the back of his hand.

They bagged the body, zipped it in, heaved it up onto a stretcher and headed for the coroner’s—Oh, shit. The lamp-shade lady was parked next to a deputy and pointing in my direction. No doubt spouting a theory about perps returning to the scene of their crime.

The coroner’s van sped off. People began to scatter. I stood my ground and waited. Sheriff Whitcomb was headed my way. We locked eyeballs.

Mr. Tapp, isn’t it? he asked.

I nodded, surprised he knew my name.

Seems you riled some feathers, he said.

I shrugged.

What are you doing here?

Gawking.

Don’t happen to know the deceased, do you?

Is that a trick question, Sheriff?

Why do you say that?

They brought him out with his face covered. And I haven’t yet learned to recognize a man by his brand of socks.

I hear your ma’s not well, said the sheriff.

I didn’t answer.

I say that in sympathy. The man made a small adjustment to the fit of his amber shades.

She’s doing better, I lied.

You still living in that flat above the barber shop?

I nodded. Damn, the man was a walking file.

I should take you back to the station. Show the lady I take tips seriously. He smiled and winked.

Is that what she is, a lady? I answered, winking back.

He continued to smile. So did I. He was a handsome man in an aging way. He kept his gray hair in a short brush, had a mustache to match, flat ears, few wrinkles, and a reputation for getting the job done. Should add a prodigious memory to the list. Willow Falls wasn’t exactly a one-store town with everybody knowing everybody’s business. And even if I did do an overnight stint in the county parlor for being drunk and disorderly, it was eons ago. We sparred for another few minutes, me allowing him the best lines, letting him keep the high ground. When he left, I trudged over to my van. My conscience was back and I had somewhere to be.

THEY WERE CHANGING her. I walked on by, two hundred and thirty pounds of self-pitying manhood hurrying away from hospital unpleasantries. The end of the hall forced me over to a window. I glanced out through the top sash. It was a fine evening for someone. Not for folks with death on their plate. I wiped dust from the top of the frame and thought back to the

day Ma’s doc delivered the news.

Your mother has a twenty-five percent chance to finish the year, he’d said, in our man-to-man talk in the hall with people passing, the clock ticking, and my bladder begging for attention. Said it like Mom was in a race and the finish line, Christmas. And the prize if she got there? An extra serving of pain, maybe? Pain prettied up with pills? Then the doc gave me this back slap, changed the odds to thirty-five and spouted something about how we all got to go, and all I wanted to think about was finding a john.

I turned from the window and headed back down the hall. Go get some coffee, I told myself. Another donut to keep company with the one you had for lunch. They’ll be a while, yet. They being the pint-size lady aide doing for Mom what needed to be done. I picked up speed, my feet slamming the hard gray linoleum. I had the sudden sensation of being back on the football field. Revved up, ball in hand, running like the wind.

Mr. Tapp. Your mother was just asking about you.

Tackled.

I looked down at this little lady with the splotchy face, chapped lips, and a bundle of soiled linen held away from her person. A gold bar engraved with the name, Gertrude, dangled from chains attached to a smiley pin on her uniform pocket. She gave me a knowing smirk, and I stepped into the room, sure Ma had been telling tales about her only child.

She seemed asleep. I closed the door as quietly as a man can. The game plan, sit five minutes, then bolt. Her eyes opened and lighted on me with all the warmth of a long ago summer. I wondered who I was to be today. Yesterday I was husband, Karl. My father. Can you imagine how upsetting it is to sit at the bedside of a seventy-year-old woman, who happens to be your mother, and have her flirt with you as though she were twenty and you her beau? I know what brings it on. I mean, besides the illness and the drugs. It’s that damnable phenomenon called the spitting image. At least they got the spitting part right. As that’s how I’d greet my father, if we ever meet.

A sudden thought made me shudder. What if he hears of Ma’s condition and comes to pay his respects to ex-wife, Laura. Pay his respects! I pictured an older version of me standing near Mom with his wallet open and handing out all the IOUs of a life time—slips of paper with scenes of a man hugging her, a man holding her, loving her, cutting the grass, fixing a leak. Then I saw this sorry figment of my imagination turn and toss me a scrap of paper with the image of a little boy astride the shoulders of a six-foot hunk. IOU to a son.

Hi, Ma, I quickly said, hoping that would clue her in on who I was.

Acey! she exclaimed.

I touched her plump arm, shut my eyes and gave thanks to whoever collects them in these Godless days. I walked past the bed, put my hand on the back of a chair, pushed down hard and dragged it back with an earsplitting scrape.

Acey Albert. For heaven’s sake. Would you kindly pick that chair up.

I smiled. Felt the tears well. Okay, Ma.

I lifted the chair high and brought it down on my head like a hat. Now what? I asked, in this rehearsal of a time long gone.

She giggled softly and I wanted to cry. Despite a ghost-like pallor, her face blossomed and her hand emerged from under the covers and pointed toward the floor.

Sit with me, she said.

Sure, Ma. I set the chair down with the seat facing away from the bed. Straddled it. That had become my bedside manner, sitting astride the seat, my chin on the chair’s back. For greater comfort, I explained in my head. Allowed me to stay longer. But the truth was, it stopped Ma from grabbing hold of me and hanging on. For dear life.

Two

Tony’s Tavern came into sight. A dark brooding structure that lifted my spirits. Home is where a man can count on the loan of a shoulder or a twenty. I turned in, my thoughts on the Tavern Triple—mug of beer, a granddaddy of a burger and that mother of desserts, apple pie with raisins, walnuts and a sugar-crisp crust.

Patch was where he always was, behind the bar. I moseyed over. He took a frosted mug from the fridge and filled it.

How’s your ma, Frog? he asked using the nickname he’d given me when we both played football and I used to vault over the opponents.

Can I just relax, please? I answered.

He locked his lips, moved aside the black patch over his left eye and pretended to drop the invisible key into the eyeless socket. Motorcycle accident on an icy street. Slid into a fat twig with such force it popped the eye.

You in for the triple? he asked.

Sure as hell didn’t come for the company.

He pushed a button on a wireless intercom. Frog’s here for his usual.

I lifted my glass for that first cold sip, and then glanced around. Old Burt was in his favorite corner nursing a drink and running a hand through a mop of gray hair. Last summer Patch

and I took him into the shower in the back and gave him a bath through his clothes, then laid him out on the picnic table out back to dry. He’s been keeping pretty clean ever since.

I traded my glass for a handful of pretzels, Seen Sharon?

Nope.

You missed the excitement, I said.

Good.

They found a stiff out behind that resale shop on Summit.

Wasn’t me. That’s all I care.

I wiped my mouth, took another swallow.

Find a job yet? he asked.

Haven’t looked. I slid off the stool, came around to the bar side and picked up the receiver of a phone shaped like a voluptuous whore. I punched in Sharon’s number. The rings started. Ten plus the few I hadn’t counted. I slammed down the receiver and returned to my seat. My meal appeared at the slot in the back wall. Patch carried it over, along with a bottle of catsup.

I ate the burger and watched myself in the bar mirror. Patch returned to his newspaper. I said, What Ma’s got is terminal, okay?

He brought me another beer. Is she hurting?

Don’t think so. I shoved the empty mug over to his side of the counter. I need to find a job.

A door squeaked. Old Burt, Patch and I turned toward the entrance. Sharon stepped in, all made-up and magnificent. Patch went back to his newspaper. Old Burt stared and licked his lips. I smiled and patted the stool next to mine and furthest from Patch. He didn’t like Sharon. I wasn’t sure how much I did. But she was one-hundred-percent female. Something warm. And she could make me forget.

Sugar, she said, giving my ear a tweak.

I gave her a kiss. The way she liked it, wet and long. She wiped my lips with the sleeve of her pink blouse, and glided onto the stool.

Want something to eat? I asked, hoping Patch wouldn’t bring up the little matter of an account in the red.

I got a six pack cooling in the fridge. She squeezed my thigh.

Patch brought over a huge slice of pie and two forks.

Mind wrapping it to go? I asked, figuring to eat it off a softer plate in a different place. I downed my beer, got off the stool, took Sharon’s arm, and told Patch to put the meal on my tab.

IT WAS LATE MORNING the following day when I woke. I was alone in bed and staring at a pair of black lacy briefs and a matching bra.

Sharon, I shouted. I could hear traffic out front and a neighbor across the yard yelling at someone named Fred. Hey, I got me a load that needs firing!

Silence.

Cocked and ready.

I sat up. Guess she’d gone to work. Feeling better than I’d felt in days, I got out of bed and stepped into the shower. I lifted my head to the full force of the water and thought of last night. Sharon naked. Sharon astride, underneath, asleep.

My thoughts turned to food. Breakfast. I picked up a bar of soap and wondered if Sharon had more in her fridge than I had in mine.

She didn’t.

I got in my Chevy van and headed home.

Through the windows of the barber shop, I could see Morris circling a customer with his scissors. For the umpteenth time, I wished my second-floor flat had a separate entrance, instead of those stairs that rose in full view of whoever was in the shop. Landlord Morris hadn’t threatened yet to change the locks, but I knew it was coming. Knew I wouldn’t get past the first step before he’d start in on the rent I owed. I drove on by.

Ma’s house was across town on Oak Street. I parked at the curb, and took out the spare key I’d had since my days as a night-owl teen. I let myself in, turned on the TV in the living room, and then leaned against the door jamb and watched a talk-show diva try to stop a fight. My attention moved from the screen to Ma’s room upstairs and the possibility of finding cash squirreled away. A loan, I assured myself.

I climbed the stairs and entered the bedroom. I stuck my head in the closet. On the overhead shelf was a blanket in a plastic bag and a hat box. I tried to recall seeing Ma in a hat and couldn’t. I reached up and dragged the box toward me. A newspaper came with it. Something used to line the shelf. I let the paper fall to the floor, and placed the box next to it. The box seemed way too heavy to hold a hat. I knelt and removed the lid, already envisioning rolls of quarters, rainy-day cash. Instead I found old school tests, report cards and class photos. All in neat plastic bags marked with the year and my name. A chronicle of caring. And here I was, the apple of her eye, rummaging through her things.

I put the box back and closed the closet door. I picked up the newspaper, was about to toss it, when an ad caught my eye. A sudden excitement grabbed me. I glanced up at the date. March of this year; just a few months back. Sitting on the bed, I studied the short text. It gave an address for the neighboring town of Washburn, and read:

Looking For a Loved One? Call Us.

McMunn and Son Investigations.

Specialists in Finding Missing Persons.

As I drove toward Washburn, I worked on my selling points. A man applying for a job ought to at least have that down pat. Size and height should count for something. You can observe more when you stand a head taller than most. My years as a road jockey gave me a good working knowledge of major cities. I don’t mind flirting with danger. Not adverse to a little illegal activity. No family to keep me house-bound. I could fit into the bar scene or work the suit circuit, providing I had the cash to buy the clothes. I had blue eyes and a mug that people took to—one that aped the Duke’s cuteness, according to an old girlfriend.

The office building stood at the corner of Ninth and Lincoln. I went in through the main entrance, checked the wall directory, and then took the stairs to give me more time to rehearse my lines.

Third floor. I’d seen busier throughways in cemeteries. I passed the offices of a dentist, a CPA and a palm reader.

Three thirty-three. McMunn and Son Investigations. I rapped and entered. A man turned from what appeared to be his lunch. He had a high forehead, and thinning gray hair combed back. Must be daddy-snoop. No sign of junior. Maybe he skipped town and I could fill in. We shook hands across a mound of papers and office machinery that seemed too old to still be in service. Like their owner, I thought, settling into what was probably considered the client’s chair. I looked around. One wall was nothing but shelves of reference books and paperbacks. Hope I don’t get hired as some sort of research assistant.

He offered me a beer, then disappeared into an adjoining room to fetch it. The guy was maybe five foot eight and as skinny as a kid. I could make out a couch through the opened door. A black couch with a pillow at one end. Probably takes naps. I waited. Heard a sound I took to be the fridge closing. Waited a while longer. What was he doing, downing one on his way back? I stepped to the door.

THE AMBULANCE ARRIVED ten minutes after my call. McMunn was stabilized and carted away. I found the beer I was supposed to get, settled on the couch and waited for my disappointment to subside. I looked around, pleased to see a place that was more of a sty than my own. I stared at a toy truck on top of a TV, and wondered at the age of McMunn’s son, and who was going to tell him about his dad. And I wished I hadn’t gone into Ma’s closet.

A soft voice broke the silence. Someone had entered the office. I set my beer on the floor and hurried out. An elderly woman paused in her trek to the desk. She was bent, looked as frail as a newborn, and walked with a cane. She gazed directly into my eyes as though she were sizing me up.

She said, Mr. McMunn, I’m Karen Grout. We spoke on the phone.

Three

Amiddle-aged couple was in McMunn’s hospital room. I walked on by and found the rest room. When I returned he was alone, and I went in. They had him on a drip and hooked up to a heart monitor. Other than that, he seemed the same.

Remember me? I asked.

He nodded and smiled. Sorry, but I can’t recall your name, he said.

Acey Tapp.

The doctors told me I was five minutes away from checking out.

I guess that makes you lucky, I said.

Pull up a chair, Acey.

I carried one over and set it down the way I did with Mom. A chair’s back can block a punch as well as a hug. I locked up your place.

Appreciate it.

You had a visitor. A Mrs. Grout.

Damn, he said.

She came by to tell you she changed her mind.

Just my luck. His face grew somber.

I said, She thought I was you. I reached into my shirt

pocket, and then handed McMunn a cashier’s check for two

thousand dollars. Gave me this.

He eyed the check, then me. You didn’t tell her you weren’t?

I shook my head.

Why not?

Thought you could use it. I set my chin to the chair’s rim and waited.

He said, You’re right. Only you accepted money for something I can’t deliver.

They keeping you here? I asked, honestly trying to hide my pleasure.

For a few days.

What about your son? I asked.

My son?

McMunn and Son? The sign on the door?

He managed a small smile. I’m the son.

Oh. Well, then, maybe you could find some temporary help. I stared him down.

You? he asked.

I smiled.

You mean you came by yesterday looking for work?

I let my smile widen.

Are you a licensed investigator?

No, but I’ve got tons of common sense, balls, and the best teacher in town. I also lie easily. That’s got to be a plus in the PI business.

He didn’t look amused. His eyes closed. I looked at the heart monitor. The line kept making its hills and dales.

I said, You still alive?

His eyes opened with a wee smile. What exactly did you tell Mrs. Grout? he asked.

That I had an emergency meeting and would drop by her place today.

You do have balls, don’t you?

I smiled nicely.

He sent me out for a notepad and pen, and then