AN EXCERPT FROM "WHAT'S A MOTHER TO DO?"

“Arnie Maroon,”  I said.
    He stared at me across his antique mahogany desk, which was the size of a small boxcar and shiny enough to count your nose hairs in.  He was easily the richest lawyer in Owensboro, a smug red-faced carp of a man whose incompetence was exceeded only by his bravado.  He didn’t like me.  The feeling was wildly mutual.
    “What do you want, Harley?”  His voice dripped rudeness.
    “We have a mutual client,”  I said.
    “I hire my own investigators.”
    “The client hired me.”
    “Piffle.”  He dismissed me with a shooing motion of his pudgy hands.  “Get out of my office, birdbath.  You’ve failed at everything you’ve ever tried.  As a priest, a marine, a cop, a husband---”
    I felt my face go crimson.  “How tall are you, Arnie?”
    He sputtered an answer that sounded like five-nine, visibly alarmed and backpedaling as I leaned over and got in his face.  “What’s it to you?”
    “Nothing.”  I straightened up and grinned.  “I didn’t know they stacked shit that high, is all.”
    “HEY!”
    I flipped my cell open as Maroon whirled and tried to run up the back wall.
    “Yo,”  I said.
    “You ain’t gonna believe this.”  It was Hammer.
    “Try me,”  I sighed, keeping an eye on Arnie, who had gone to a sideboard to pour himself a stiff one.
    No wonder his nose was so red.
    “Someone just took a shot at us.”
    I could tell by the background noise that he was in his pick-up, an ancient black Chevy that had begun to look retro stylish in a ramshackle sort of way.
    “Where are you.”
    “Headin’ west on Third.  We was about even with Sunlite Music when they opened up.  They only got off one shot.”
    “Everyone OK?”
    “Yeah, the bullet must’ve passed through both open windows.  It buzzed like a bee.  April’s still pawin’ the floorboard.”
    “Did you---”
    “Return fire?  You betcha.  I retched behind the seat and found myself an old Thompson.  I whipped the wheel around and got off dang near a whole clip at ‘em.  Hot damn, was them boys surprised.”
    “You had---you had a tommy gun behind the seat?”
    Maroon turned toward me with faint interest.
    “Haw!  You shoulda seen it, boss!  They was toolin’ around in a black Lincoln, still are, although they’re probably dang near to Lewisport by now.  They goosed that son-of-a-gun.  It’s pretty much a convertible now, so it’s probably kind of air-ish.  Most of the top’s layin’ in the middle of Third Street.”
    “You didn’t hit anybody?”
    “Naw.  I had to one-hand it while I steered.  Ever try one-handing a Thompson?”
    Shuddering, I called up a mental picture of the neighborhood.  Only partly residential, with several vacant lots.  With any luck nobody had been killed.
    “See any cops?”
    “Never even heard a siren.  Course, we high-tailed it, too.”
    Where are you now?”
    “You’re breaking up.”
    Right.  Hammer was heading for, or already at, an undisclosed location.  He would undoubtedly now do his best to soothe a thoroughly shaken client.  Some guys have all the luck.
    “Now,”  I said, pocketing the phone.  “Where were we?”
    Arnie Maroon swallowed about six ounces of Jack Daniels and attempted a grin.
    “You were asking for information on a mutual client,”  he said.  “I assume you were fishing for whatever I might have in the way of physical evidence.”
    “Well, yes.”  He was making way too much sense.  Had to be the booze.
    “I have her skirt and blouse.  You’re welcome to them.  The police lab went over them with a fine-toothed hair, I mean, comb.  They found a hair on the blouse belonging to Mr. Randall.  The hair, not the blouse.  “  He looked slightly confused, which was normal for him.  “Nothing on the skirt.  She wasn’t wearing a bra, and they couldn’t find her shoes.  They kept the torn thong for further examination.  I think they got one of them crime-sniffing dogs.  Maybe he’ll nose out something.”
    “They didn’t find her shoes?  Isn’t that a little odd?”
    Maroon’s office was starting to get on my nerves.  Too much dark paneling, intricate crown molding, and soft carpet, and too many shiny law books that looked never to have been touched, let alone read.
    He shrugged.  “Young women nowadays.  Here, look at the skirt.”
    He tossed me a pale blue handful of cloth, a micro-mini designed not to cover much of anything.  “Maybe she was barefooting it.  I dunno.”
    “So, aside from the thong, there’s very little evidence.”
    “None.  Zippo.  Her word against his.”
    So why was Jelly worried?  And he did seem worried.
    “You’ve seen the thong?”  I asked, glancing at my watch.  Three o’clock.  It had been a long day.
    I didn’t know where my client was, but Buddy Omaha had demonstrated an ability to find her, which bothered me.  I didn’t have a clue about Jelly’s situation, I was worried about a gangster who wanted me dead, and in a little while I was going home to God knew what.  Would Mavis even be there?  And my dad, bless him,  was probably going to need my help soon, if I could track him down.  It was hotter than hell outside, even for Kentucky in mid-June.  I was tired, make that exhausted.  I hoped there was some lemonade in the fridge.
    “Thong?”  Maroon looked blank.  “Oh, the panty thing?  Yes, yes I have.”  His expression turned grave.
    “And.”
    “Not much to see.  Wispy.  See-through.  Seemore undies.”
    “Any guess on how the thong got torn?”
    “The question is not how but who,” Maroon said.  “They got torn coming off the lady too hastily, that much is obvious.  But, was it her haste or Mr. Randall’s?”
    The question hit the nail so squarely on the head that it stunned us both.  I probably looked surprised.
    Arnie Maroon looked very surprised, as the liquor chose that exact moment to hit him.  Then he passed out, sprawled face down across his mahogany desk.

NOVEL IS ON AMAZON

My novel, "What's a Mother to Do" is for sale at amazon.com at a cost of $14.99 plus shipping. Is is what is called a trade paperback, which is larger than a regular paperback.

 The novel takes place in Owensboro, Kentucky, the author's hometown.  It concerns the adventures of private eye Frank Harley, who is often referred to by his family, friends, and associates as Mother, or Big Mother.  A target of bullies in grade school, Frank had a sudden growth sport, and suddenly his tormentors couldn't whip him anymore. Frank settled a few scores, and then went on to protect other kids, regularly teaching the bully boys a lesson.  One of them, who came to be known as Buddy Omaha, went on to become a major crime figure who never forgot nor forgave Frank for humiliating him. There was no question that he would someday try to kill Frank--the only question was when.

Frank, along with his brother Hank, owns Big Guy Investigations.  He started the agency shortly after being thrown off the police force, for drawing a naked picture of a female officer. Franks draws pin-ups, and is very good at it.  It tends to get him in trouble.  For one thing, his wife Mavis, a lipstick lesbian, likes his drawings of nude women a shade too much. She often finds out who the model is and looks her up.

In "What's A Mother to Do," Frank is hired by stripper Autumn Wicker to protect her from a man who thinks she cheated him out of money.  The man turns out to be Frank's old nemesis, Buddy Omaha.

Frank's dad, the Rev. Edmund F. Harley, is a preacher who owns a big non-denominational church that routinely draws huge crowds--some view its services as entertainment--and brings in tons of cash.  The Rev. Harley has a taste for the finer things, like booze and large-breasted women, and has a history of taking "vacations" with buxom married women.  He's gotten away with this for years, but when he runs off to Vegas with Gladys Horsefellow, her huge Native American husband Gary is less than amused.  Finding his dad and protecting him from a grisly death is a challenge Frank would as soon not face, but he has little choice.

Then there is Frank's former squad-car partner, soon to be ex-policeman Tristan "Jellybean" Randall, who needs Frank's help in fending off a bogus rape charge.

Frank's main operative, known only as Hammer, is a ex-con who is a major loose cannon, a man with a flair for magic who can pull a quarter from your nose or a .44 Magnum from thin air.  And Frank's receptionist-secretary, Sherry, a temp he is afraid to let go, claims to be 19, but nobody believes her. She would like very much to seduce Frank, and he's dead-certain she's jailbait.

The cop who got Frank kicked off the force, Richard Johnson, is laying for Frank, whom he's known and disliked since childhood.

Frank is deeply in love with his wife, Mavis, and has tolerated some of her lesbian affairs, but there is a limit to how much he can take, which she's forever on the verge of exceeding.

All in all, Frank has a lot on his plate.  Just staying alive may prove to be a major problem.

This book is highly recommended by the author's friend and compatriot, Cosmo Hatt. (See travelsofthehat.blogspot.com.)  Cosmo thinks it's the best book he's ever read, or perhaps ever will read.  And Cosmo reads a lot, for a hat.