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    JANUS A Crude Kill
    JANUS A Crude Kill
    JANUS A Crude Kill
    Ebook90 pages1 hour

    JANUS A Crude Kill

    By J.D. Blair

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    About this ebook

    Janus Payette is a private detective based in San Francisco. This story takes him far afield to his home town in the Central Valley of California. He is asked to investigate the murder of the husband of a school mate.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherBookBaby
    Release dateSep 1, 2019
    ISBN9781543982961
    JANUS A Crude Kill

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      Book preview

      JANUS A Crude Kill - J.D. Blair

      2019 by J.D. Blair

      60 Maple Lane

      Walnut Creek, CA 94595

      925-935-4290

      Blairj28@gmail.com

      ISBN: 9781543982961

      Table of Contents

      CHAPTER ONE

      CHAPTER TWO

      CHAPTER THREE

      CHAPTER FOUR

      CHAPTER FIVE

      CHAPTER SIX

      CHAPTER SEVEN

      CHAPTER EIGHT

      CHAPTER NINE

      CHAPTER TEN

      CHAPTER ELEVEN

      CHAPTER TWELVE

      CHAPTER THIRTEEN

      CHAPTER FOURTEEN

      CHAPTER FIFTEEN

      CHAPTER SIXTEEN

      JANUS

      A Crude Kill

      John Steinbeck said something like, ‘You can’t go home again because home didn’t exist except in the mothballs of memory’.  Like the ignorant fool I am, I’m about to scatter my mothballs the hell and gone into the dusty bowels of the San Joaquin Valley.

      My shrink Alex Bender winced, What in the hell brought this on?

      I need to say goodbye to someone who gave me a chance and a ticket out of the wilderness.  Of course, I tore up the ticket. My chance disappeared in a hazy cloud of cocaine and gin on the streets of San Francisco. 

      My climb out of the gutter doused any lasting memories of my scarred youth growing up in a dustbowl fed oil town. But, my mentor died and the call has gone out to see him off.

      I can’t imagine you’ll get into any trouble, said Bender, until they find out you’re a loose cannon and a snoop.

      Thanks for the ringing vote of confidence.  I’ll be in touch.

      After the city, after the bay and beyond the east bay and Altamont Pass I caught up to the endless sliver of high-speed pavement,  interstate five, the highway to oblivion.  Eighty is the speed of choice with an eye out for the CHP.  The only hazards are big rigs taking up the fast lane.

      But, where I’m heading isn’t on this fast track.  My target is a forgotten dune of oil shale and sand on long-ignored Highway 33.  Thirty-three snakes its way around and through barren settlements with names like Buttonwillow, McKittrick, and Fellows.  My ultimate destination was known at one time as Moron…Moron for Christ sake.  You have to wonder.  At some point, saner brains took hold and changed the name to Taft.

      As I approached Taft I realized it had been turned into a strip mall. The downtown I knew as a kid has pretty much dried up; most commerce has taken up business on the outskirts.  As I cruised into the heart of town there were remnants of my past; ramshackle houses leaning against each other, paint flaking off sidings as warped as the failing memory of the boom times.  They hold on tightly to crumbling curbsides along the highway.  With its’ heart quivering Taft has been transformed into…something I don’t recognize.

      So, what,  I won’t be here that long.

      The object of this trip is Royal Gains.  Gains coached basketball and taught Social Studies.  As teenage punks we would often call him a Royal pain in the ass, not to his face, of course, then we would laugh our butts off at how creative we were.  But, Royal was a standup guy who for some reason took me under his wing and put me on a path out, out to anywhere but where I was, a dead end.  Cancer got the best of Royal and services were planned for tomorrow at the Elk Lodge. It took me ten minutes to case the city and my next task was to find out if they knew how to spell Martini. 

      The bar at the Pump Jack barbeque restaurant on the fringe of the old town was a dark paneled moody place with dusty low-lit chandeliers and worn and padded leatherette barstools.  I picked my spot at the end and studied the liquor bottles reflecting in the mirror behind the bar.  I was halfway through my survey when the bartender sidled over with a bar towel over his shoulder. 

      What can I get you, he asked.

      I continued to scan the bottles, Gin martini over, two olives. What are you pouring?

      He turned and scanned the bottles.  Looks like Beefeater.

      Beefeater it is, forget the Vermouth.

      He headed for the liquor shelf at the far end of the bar grabbed the bottle and a glass and scooped up four ice cubes, You said two olives?

      I held up two fingers.

      He worked on the drink, strolled over, dropped a coaster on the bar and placed the drink.  What brings you back Janus?

      I took my first sip, stirred the drink and shook my head letting him know I didn’t have a clue who he was.

      He smiled, Packey, Packey Stiles.

      I nodded and stuck my hand out to shake his, Sure, Packey.

      Stiles was a runt. He always wore his hair in a buzz cut and it was that way now. He was pudgier than I remembered but I should have made the connection. He was the shortest guy on the basketball team, struggled to make five feet two, but he was a gamer and fought to overcome his lack of height in a game of skinny six-footers.

      He arranged a pile of napkins,  I guess you’re here for Royal.

      Yes, I lost track of him but the school put out a notice.  It’s too bad.

      He was sick for a long time. Said Stiles. After he retired he always showed at all the games.

      The bar was beginning to fill and Stiles went to take care of other customers and I concentrated on my gin and thought about Gains. I finished off the second olive, left a twenty on the bar and gave Packey a wave. He waved back and said, See you tomorrow. I headed for the restaurant, had the roast beef special then set out to look for a place to sleep.  It’s strange how the body reacts to quiet.  I’m used to the continuous clamor of North Beach.  There was none of that in my motel.  It was a restless night and I’m not positive but I thought I heard coyotes.

      The next day the Elks Club was packed for Royals send off and I laid back and took a seat at the end of the last row.  As people filed in I scanned the procession looking for faces I might recognize.  It was futile.  Some were familiar but tended to be fatter or greyer so a definite identification couldn’t be made.  Some looked at me like they knew me but I’m sure they were making the same calculations;  "is it, can that

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