Jack hagee, p.1
Jack Hagee, page 1
Nothing Lasts Forever
by C.J. Henderson
A Jack Hagee, Private Eye mystery
Published by Bold Venture Press
boldventurepress.com
Cover design: Rich Harvey
Cover art: Robert A. Maguire
“Nothing Lasts Forever” by C.J. Henderson
Copyright 2017 C.J. Henderson. All Rights Reserved.
This book is available in print at most online retailers.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without express permission of the publisher and copyright holder. All persons, places and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to any actual persons, places or events is purely coincidental.
License Notes
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Table of Contents
Dedication
Nothing Lasts Forever
About the Author
Connect with Bold Venture Press
Dedication
A book about being one’s own man—no matter what the odds—about following one’s conscience and doing the right thing, could have been influenced by several people in my life.
However, if that book is to also be about quiet dignity and the sacrifices a person must make to do the right thing without ego, fanfare or gross reward . . . well, that narrows the field considerably.
Thus, I dedicate this book to my uncle, Gene Henderson. For the lessons, gently taught, over the years … Some of which may finally be sinking in.
Nothing Lasts Forever
“No man is so exquisitely honest or upright in living but that ten times in his life he might not lawfully be hanged.”
—MONTAIGNE
“You k’n hide de fier, but what you guine do with de smoke?”
—JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS
“It is often easier to fight for principles than to live up to them.”
—ADLAI STEVENSON
1
I WATCHED THE cab pull away through the frost etched across the front bay windows.
“Well,” I thought, as it rounded the clean mounds of snow neatly piled along the hedges edging the driveway’s end, “that’s that.”
The house was mine. Mine and the dog’s and the kid’s. Well, I thought, especially the kid’s.. After all, she lived there all the time. The dog and I had only been rented for the weekend.
My name’s Jack Hagee; I’m a New York City-based private investigator. The dog was Balto. He’s mine. Half-husky, half-German shepherd. One hundred and ten hard-muscled pounds of two-year-old playful energy—sometimes a pain in the ass, but pretty much my best friend in the whole world. And, trust me, the statement is not just campaign rhetoric. There’ve been times when that hundred and ten pounds of lung and life and unquestioning love has made the never-ending nights bearable enough that I could stand to see the dawn.
The kid was Leslie Stadler, the daughter of my client, Ms. Karen Stadler. I was the baby-sitter. Double my daily fee, just to eat and live better than I usually do and make sure nobody bothered the house. Or the kid. Maybe Sally and Hubert were right, I thought. Maybe it was time to start living my life as if there were a tomorrow. Truth to tell, I’d found myself doing a lot of thinking on that subject lately. It hadn’t taken much to get me started, either.
A week earlier, simply because I’d taken pity on a woman with a bad marriage and the brothers and sisters of my cleaning girl, Elba—a bunch of good kids who deserved a better lot in this life—I’d ended up being hunted by several gangs of drug dealers, the police, and the media. Without even trying, I’d fallen into about as bad a deal as you can find—one that came with a serial killer, crooked cops, corrupt city officials, machine-gunning maniacs, sex clubs, gang wars, and riots in the streets. During the whole thing people tried to kill me with clubs, knives, handguns, and utomatic weapons—sometimes by themselves, sometimes n pairs, sometimes in groups. It was a lot of fun.
To keep from having to rehash the whole lonely story, I’ll just say that I managed to clear my name and bring the bad guys low. I wasn’t able to do much for this lady or her marriage, but at least I made the people hurting her pay—plenty. I know when all is said and done that really isn’t very much, but sometimes it’s all we have to offer.
As for the kids in need of a better life, I’d managed to swing a deal where they could stay with their aunt instead of getting split up by the city. It meant that instead of just Balto’s and my mouths to feed, I suddenly had a few more, but hell, I figured, what’s money for, anyway?
And besides, when everything was finally over; I had found myself with my first four-figure bank account in a long time, a positive position in the community thanks to an embarrassed media, and a beautiful lady friend. The two of us hadn’t turned into Tracy and Hepburn yet, but it was getting close. I have to admit that it was a hell of a way to get ahead in life. But, I’ll also admit that if someone had to do it, all in all I’m glad it was me.
And that was really what had started me thinking. Suddenly, besides the weight of the responsibility for Elba and her siblings, I also had a comfortable position in life and a very attractive, possibly loving, female companion, all with thirty-five still a few years off. The morning I met Ms. Karen Stadler I was firmly convinced that, despite all the debits I’d piled up over the years, I was finally on a winning streak—finally in sight of the big chance. I was also firmly convinced that a man on a winning streak should not goof up the big chance.
Determined to see that firm conviction through wherever it led, I’d walked through the doors of Morrison, Mason, and Merzon, the city’s third biggest advertising firm, fifteen minutes before my meeting with Ms. Stadler. Her secretary had made the appointment the day before, his tone promising that promptness was still a virtue that got rewarded in some circles. He met me in reception with a handshake, passing me a menu and taking my hat and overcoat while we walked to the elevator bank, apologizing for the fact that while I might be on time, Ms. Stadler was going to be “Oh, just a wee bit late.”
Watching my face carefully, looking for a reaction that might betray the fact I’d noticed his boss was not one to practice what she preached, he confided to me,
“She’s really stacked up against it today.”
“Meaning what exactly?” I asked him, putting the most innocent spin on the words that I could.
“Oh, God—I mean, oh my God,” he answered, stopping abruptly in his tracks, spinning around so he could face me. “It just means madness. I mean crazy madness.” His tone slipped to a quieter, conspiratorial level as he continued to feed me confidences.
“Forgive me. I mean, you’d know if you were in the business. Trust me when I tell you that it is just brutal this time of year. Just brutal. Campaigns for the new fall season—everyone’s first, everyone’s best, everyone deserves everything—oh, what a headache.” His hands flew up in front of him, his elbows tight at his sides, emphasizing how frazzled he was as he sighed dramatically through his chatter,
“Anyway, if you could jest pleasssseee forgive us, Ms. Stadler wanted me to tell you she could be delayed up to fifteen minutes. But, she swore it wouldn’t be any longer, though, and she told me not to let you get away. So, that simply leaves me to begggggg you to bear with us.”
Although the sighing stopped, the chatter continued. It continued into the elevator, while we rode upward, exited, and worked our way back to the boss lady’s office. I learned that it was time for lunch at M. M. & M., which explained the menu—thus making our meeting a tax write-off, so I should get whatever I wanted—just whatever I wanted. I learned that the firm handled al!!! the big ones, just allll!!! the big ones—that the competition would give just anny, annnything to get their hands on what his boss was doing for the Radiant account so they could use it—that Karen Stadler was one very heightening woman—and that the coffee bar was around the corner, just over there . . . and that it had, well, you know, anything I desired:
Just anything.
I gave the menu a once-over then ordered a pair of medium-to-well-done bacon cheeseburgers with lettuce and creamy mustard, an order of onion rings, and a tall lemonade. He gave me a smile that told me there was fun in my future and asked me to take a seat. I gave him a nod that I’m not sure told him anything and sat down.
I told myself not to scowl, not to let on that I was pissed as hell—that it was indeed annoying to be told to wait after how snidely I’d been instructed to not keep anyone there waiting. I held it in, somehow. I couldn’t have five years earlier. Could have done it a year earlier, but wouldn’t have bothered. That’s the game, though. They know they’re raking your ass over the coals. They—all the “theys”—do it on purpose. The deal is to find out if you’re a good little monkey, one they can trust to feed their inflated egos.
I’ve learned a lot of the lessons the hard way. When a man hits thirty, though, he begins to think more seriously—suddenly some of the things that never seemed important before begin to take on new meanings—things like wives and kids and a home in a building to which only he and his family have the keys. I’ve never come close to any of those things before. Of course, a quick review of my life makes it easy to see why.
The things I saw and did over the next six years soured that feeling. I left the service fairly disillusioned about honor and higher callings and the such. Despite what I’ll label “the tension between us,” an officer I had little other use for, Major Rice, pulled a few strings that got me a spot in the Pittsburgh Police Department. I did their street thing for a while until I got myself into the middle of a race riot the brass decided to pin on me for lack of a better scapegoat.
Usually that kind of plan never fails. Luckily for me, however, it backfired in their faces. The people of Pittsburgh—white and black—instead of howling for my blood, howled for a hero. The department was forced to give me a detective’s shield instead of the bum’s rush they would have preferred. I got married after that to a woman more in love with my headlines than myself. She cut out when no more headlines came along. I cut out a little while after that.
Where she went, I don’t know. Don’t really care, either. I went to New York and used the last ounces of juice left in me to try just one more time for a life. Getting myself a P.I. license, I opened an office and set out to put my life back together. That had its ups and downs and, in its own way, tried to kill me just as hard as either the military or the police force had. Up until a week ago I’d been getting more and more tired—weary, really—weary from being shot at, from worrying about being shot at, from a life that seemed to consist of not much more than me and the dog and the smell of gun oil. Sure, I had friends and the diversions most people can afford, but there’d been no purpose to my life that I could see, no goal down the field or even a clear direction in which to run.
But, as I sat there in the outer lobby of Morrison, Mason, and Merzon, thumbing through theft magazines, I smiled to myself as I rolled over the notion in my head that maybe, finally, that had all changed. Sure. I reminded myself, I’d thought the same thing when I’d left the service, when I’d made the police force, when I’d been married, when my divorce had come through, when I’d moved to New York, and even a couple of times after that.
For a smart guy, you’d think I’d learn.
2
I GAVE UP on the magazines pretty quickly. The perfume cards were nauseating and the subject matter was mostly snooty or childish, what little politics there was to be found naive to the point of humor. The models used in them didn’t do much for me, either. It wasn’t their shapes or their hair or their outfits. It was their sneers—the condescension they wore as perfectly as their makeup. I’m not afraid of women, but I’m damn tired of the ones who think I’m supposed to be.
Waiting for lunch, I studied the architecture around me. It was the usual midtown Manhattan throw-together of easily erected and equally easily destroyed corners, arches, and cardboard facades—the kind one finds everywhere nowadays. The walls were strewn with plastic block-protected art—half of it blowups of some of M.M.&M.’s more chic campaigns and half of it fine art prints—none of it telling me anything essential about the corporation, about its character. Then again, I thought, I wasn’t being hired by the corporation.
About ten minutes after I tired of trying to entertain myself, Ms. Stadler’s flunky took two calls; one told him lunch had arrived—the other told him to get it and deliver it and me to his boss. Seconds later, a small platter of vegetable slices—green pepper, carrot, mushroom, and some things I didn’t recognize—a platter of bacon cheeseburgers, and myself were all presented to Ms. Karen Stadler, senior vice president in charge of special network promotion. Handshakes she did not deem necessary. She told Flunky to turn on her fan as he left so it could pull the meat smells out of the office. The look on her face had me wondering if she was referring to me or the burgers.
As we sat on opposite sides of her desk, I tried to drink in everything around me quickly. Ms. Stadler herself was a fairly nondescript woman. Her height and weight were average; her hair a neutral shade of brunette, cut to a functional, easily maintained length, in a functional, easily maintained style. Her eyes were guarded, made up in a minimal fashion, okay enough, but nothing special. She was not an unattractive woman, just one who did absolutely nothing with what she had while projecting an air that said she couldn’t understand those who did, Her suit and office decorations fell much into the same range.
“I’ve got a very tight schedule, Mr. Huggie . .
“That’s Hay-gie.”
“Excuse me . . . ?”
“Hay-gie. Gie—rhymes with lee. Please, don’t worry about it,” I insisted for the four millionth time in my life, almost sounding as if I meant it. “Everyone gets it wrong. You were saying?”
“Ah, yes.” She drew a pepper slice to pop in her mouth, encouraging me to eat. I did. “I’m sure my assistant explained everything to you.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I assured her. “You’re going to Hawaii for the weekend to work on the set of one of the network’s new shows. I’m to provide security for your home, grounds, and daughter. A registered nurse will be staying with us to act as chaperon, and obviously as nurse, if necessary. Everyone is their own cook. You have an alarm system, but after the two B&Es in the area last month you don’t want to chance your home being hit.”
I took a breath, glanced at her eyes just long enough to make sure she was getting the fact that I was jumping every hoop in sight for her, then I leapt for the next set.
“I’ve already studied what newspaper clippings I could find on the two incidents as well as the diagrams of your property which you had sent to my office. I’ve already discussed my possible presence with your local police as well.
“Your daughter has last weekend rehearsals for a school play, which is why she has to stay in New York. The nurse is already installed in the house. I have three different numbers for you in Hawaii—hotel, studio set, and the network’s mobile remote wagon. I also have the numbers of your father in Westchester, your friends, the Crandells— three doors down to the left—and your doctor’s. I have two routes to the school memorized. I will take her to rehearsal by one, wait for her to finish, and then bring her back home by another.
“I also have Xeroxes for you of my insurance, my license, weapon’s registration, and my carry permit.”
I took another bite while she studied her copies. The burgers were done perfectly, the thin line of soft pink in theft centers the only bit of them not bursting with hot, tongue-pleasing juices. The bacon was perfect as well, four long, thick pieces to a burger, all of their folds covered with a thick layer of sweet, bubbling mozzarella. As I was finishing the first of the artery-cloggers, Ms. Stadler said,
“You seem to have everything mapped out, but there is one more thing. No one comes near Leslie.” She swallowed another bite and then added, “Especially her father.”
“I wasn’t told anything about this.”
“Don’t you dare think you’re going to walk out on me at the last minute…”
“I didn’t say anything—”
“Or run your charges higher…”
“Excuse, me, Ms. Stadler,” I blurted sharply, loud enough to force a pause, soft enough to not chase away a big-money client as long as I was still entertaining dreams of settling down and maintaining a regular life. Having regained her attention, I continued, saying,
“All I said was, nobody has given me any information about this. I’ll need your husband’s name...a photo…some idea of why I should be worried about keeping him from her. Would he harm her? Kidnap her? What are we talking about here? Would he use a weapon? Would he use her as a hostage if he got desperate? Did you break up because of something between the two of you, or between him and Leslie?”
