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    Without A Clue: Mystery
    Without A Clue: Mystery
    Without A Clue: Mystery
    Ebook122 pages1 hour

    Without A Clue: Mystery

    By Harvey Stanbrough

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    About this ebook

    The young new guy is more defective than detective. But his snitch gave up the information so he's in charge.

    It ought to be a routine takedown, albeit of a rising Mafia star.

    But old age and treachery will overcome youth and vigor every time.

    On both sides of the law.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherStoneThread Publishing
    Release dateMar 21, 2017
    ISBN9781386148630
    Without A Clue: Mystery
    Author

    Harvey Stanbrough

    Harvey Stanbrough is an award winning writer and poet who was born in New Mexico, seasoned in Texas, and baked in Arizona. Twenty-one years after graduating from high school in the metropolis of Tatum New Mexico, he matriculated again, this time from a Civilian-Life Appreciation Course (CLAC) in the US Marine Corps. He follows Heinlein’s Rules avidly and most often may be found Writing Off Into the Dark. Harvey has written and published 36 novels, 7 novellas. almost 200 short stories and the attendant collections. He's also written and published 16 nonfiction how-to books on writing. More than almost anything else, he hopes you will enjoy his stories.

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      Book preview

      Without A Clue - Harvey Stanbrough

      Without A Clue

      Galecki!

      A moment later a gunshot sounded. Close but muffled. So inside.

      Right up to that moment I was standing on the sidewalk, leaning back against the brown stone front of the Herald Arms.

      The night was black, not even any stars out. Well, not that a guy could see.

      In the first place, it was maybe 20 ‘til 2 in the morning. I know that ‘cause Sanders, Jimmy and me left the station just a little after 1 to come down here.

      The other reason it was so dark was because the clouds. You couldn’t see them so much as you just knew they were up there, kind’a bundled up and hanging out. It wasn’t raining, not yet, but the air was really heavy.

      A few minutes before 1, Sanders—that’s Detective Robert Sanders, the mayor’s new favorite son—came running into the station. All five feet nine a hundred and forty skinny pounds of him. He didn’t even slow down as he grabbed me by the arm and jerked me away.

      Come on! he said. Caused me to spill a little of my coffee on the desk sergeant’s counter.

      Before I could say, Where? he dragged me off toward the captain’s office.

      He shouldn’a been able to do that so easily, given I had three inches and probably fifty pounds on him. Not to mention the twenty years or so.

      He didn’t slow down at the captain’s door either. It was open a crack, and Sanders hit it with his lead hand.

      When the door of his office swung open so suddenly, the captain looked up.

      He was the only captain I knew who wore his blues all the time. Even his hat, even when he was sitting at his desk. Behind him on the right was an old coat rack. His hat should’a been there, but only his overcoat was hanging there. I think the last time I saw him in it was at a funeral.

      His round, puffy cheeks were pink, his chin double. And all’a that was covered with a grey stubble. That was odd, considering he’d just come in on shift a couple hours ago, same as us.

      Under the stiff, curved black visor of his hat, his eyes were tired and his eyebrows were almost knitted together. He sounded tired, like he wanted to cue up a good butt chewing but wasn’t really invested in it. Aye, now! What in all the blue blazes might this—

      But then he saw it was Sanders, with me in tow.

      The frown went away like a breeze took it and his eyebrows arched. His blue eyes practically flashed. Ah, well, if it ain’t Detective Sanders. What can I do fer ye, lad?

      Still to one side in Sanders’ wake and still being towed, I was shaking my head. I wanted the captain to know I didn’t have anything to do with any of this.

      Sanders hauled me up in front of the captain’s desk and stopped. Like he could just barely catch his breath, he said, I’ve got a line on Moretti! Then he looked around like he just remembered I was there and let go of my arm.

      Moretti was Big Al Moretti.

      Now when you hear Big Al, you probably assume he’s larger than the average guy. And you’d be right. Actually, he’s a lot larger, standing at around six four and wearing almost three hundred pounds.

      Then again, word has it you could light a match on pretty much any part of it. The guy’s the size of a small country. A really rocky country.

      Anyways, we wanted Moretti as a matter of record ‘cause he’s a big guy in the mob, no pun intended.

      But we also wanted him on a beef against another guy, another major player named Morgan Frisk. Only Frisk ain’t mob. He’s legitimate big business, the CEO of Frisk Industries, only with a lot of ands attached.

      For instance, and a bad gambler.

      And a tax fraud. Not that we cared that much about taxes.

      And a ladies man, so to speak.

      The guy looked good in a suit, which is good in business too I guess. Dark brown hair, a normal face, good shoulders, all that. You wouldn’t notice him in a crowd, except that he stuck up above it.

      Of course where women were concerned, his money made up for whatever he lacked in looks.

      Only his ladies were usually young and new to town. And they had a habit of disappearing soon after they meet him.

      For that, he usually employed one Albert Moretti.

      More often than not, Frisk paid his bookie, none other than Petraeus Sloan, with funds he borrowed from the company.

      But besides Petraeus Sloan and their occasional mutual business interests—namely Frisk using women and Moretti making them disappear—about the only thing Frisk had in common with Moretti was his size and how untouchable he was.

      Like Moretti, Frisk was around six four, though he was only carrying around two hundred and twenty pounds.

      And like Moretti, Frisk was all but untouchable.

      Ironically, that ended when we found out about his connection to Moretti.

      If we played it right, this could be a two-fer.

      The captain’s lips pressed hard together for a moment and his eyebrows knitted again. Then he said, A loin?

      I almost grinned. His brogue always did that to me.

      But Sanders quickly nodded and then swallowed, nervous like. My snitch puts him at the Herald Arms over on Madison. The kid was practically yellin’, he was so excited.

      But his snitch? When did he have time to develop a snitch? He’d barely developed a blood type.

      I hoped this wasn’t some fake line of stuff someone was handing him ‘cause he was fresh faced and wet behind the ears.

      Anyways, I didn’t wanna spoil it for him.

      But the Herald Arms? He must’a heard wrong. What would a heavyweight like Moretti be doing in a third-rate fleabag like the Herald Arms?

      Yeah, this was gonna go nowheres fast. And I was just about to say so.

      But without looking around, Sanders reached back and tugged at my sleeve again like he was pulling on a dumbwaiter cord. Then he named me and Jimmy to go with him for backup.

      The captain nodded. Ah, well, good idea, boyo. Good idea.

      Good idea? I felt my own eyebrows strain to touch each other. I didn’t mind helping the boy out, but I liked to be asked first. Besides, chances were better than even Sanders’ snitch was an imaginary friend.

      Aw but Cap, I was just gonna say—

      But his finger was already in the air, wagging side to side. No no, now, none’a that. Young Sanders here is woise to want two so experienced detectives such as yerselves to go with him.

      There was a slight glimmer in his eyes, a sure sign that he knew he was nailing me to a cross. But that didn’t matter. He’d said the words. That was that.

      Me and Jimmy both been on the job since his nibs Sanders was beginning to realize girls weren’t just soft boys. We’d both forgotten more than he was likely to learn in the next ten years.

      Still, we learned something new every now and then. Like for instance, as Sanders and I exited the captain’s office, I learned Jimmy wasn’t as fast as he used to be.

      I happened to look down the hall to the left, away from the sergeant’s station.

      There I spotted Jimmy’s slightly hunched figure moving away, his hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket. He was leaning a little left, just about to duck around a corner.

      A shot of quick math told me Jimmy was probably passing the captain’s office when Robert was laying out the squeeze and requesting me and him for backup.

      I grinned, then raised my arm and yelled, Hey Jimmy! Jimmy Bigs!

      His name was Jimmy Valentino. We called him Jimmy Bigs because of his size 12 feet and all that was attached to that. Well, and his Italian ancestry. Or maybe Sicilian for all I knew.

      He looked the part, too. The guy could star in a mob film.

      Straight up good looks, broad shoulders and no hips. Always wore suits that had a sheen to them.

      He wore his raven-black hair slicked back and had thick, heavy eyebrows to match. His nose was even offset a bit, and he let people think whatever they wanted to think about that.

      I knew it was from a basketball to the face when he was in junior high school, but then me and him were buddies.

      Didn’t take any guff, either, especially off perps.

      Good guy though.

      Anyways, at the sound of my voice, Jimmy pulled up at the corner like somebody was jerking him from behind with a ghost rope. He

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