T.K. O’Neill’s hardboiled Jackpine Savages will be available in trade paperback and ebook in the spring (May) of 2013. Enjoy Chapter 2 and Carter Brown’s introduction to the private investigator field, northwoods-style:
PART VI
Tommy Basilio wore a look of pity as he calmly informed me that Thanksgiving was in two days. I had lost track. I was embarrassed. The others looked at me kindly for a change. I didn’t like it.
“Look you guys,” I said gravely. “I don’t want to ruin your holiday or rain on your parade or piss in your beer, but this is my ass on the line. There was a murder charge hanging over my head, in case you forgot. And they could still come back at me. The only reason you guys aren’t facing charges is because I kept my mouth shut, and I expect something in return.”
“I won’t say anything bad about you, Carter,” Tormoen said from his chair, eyebrows rising, “Pinky swear.” He crooked the little finger of his large right hand.
Dan Burton snickered. Tommy covered his mouth with his hand. I looked at Tormoen’s cherubic face stuck in childlike innocence and sincerity and I started to laugh. The laugh had a life of its own. Took over my belly and then I was shaking with it.
“Much better Mr. Brown,” Tormoen boomed in his rich basso as he stood up and spread his hands benevolently. “We are behind you all the way, honorable private dick, but one must not forget the mirth of the universe. We are—all of us here—caught up in a conundrum of inter-galactic proportions. The only way we can possibly succeed is by embracing the madness and riding the comet like interstellar cowboys.”
“Well said, Jeff,” Tommy said. “But I’m still going to have Thanksgiving with my family.”
“If that is what the universe demands, my son,” Tormoen said. “Or your ol’ lady.”
“Indeed,” I said. “What about Friday? A holiday weekend could be a good time to reach a lot of people. I want to hit the bars up there, hear the whispers and the shouts. Buy a few drinks and bring up Rosie’s demise, see what comes back at us.”
“Here-here, and I’ll drink to that,” Tormoen said tipping a beer bottle to his lips. “Let’s all vow to return on said Friday to begin our crusade for freedom. Freedom for Carter and for the whole world. But the question I feel most taxing—the nagging doubt of which torments me like a droning mosquito—manifests itself as a plaintiff inquiry as to who will be paying for the liquid enticements we must use to ply the tongues of the natives? I’m afraid I find myself in a position of temporary financial embarrassment.”
“All expenses will be taken care of by Carter Brown Investigations,” I said.
“I’ll second that,” Burton said, standing.
We all stood. I felt like a puppet on a string as we clinked bottles (and one aluminum can) together and solemnly pledged to meet at two o’clock on Friday to begin our quest.
My assistants made their way out and emptiness came in to fill their spots. I turned on all the lights and gathered up the small pile of mail waiting for me in my still immaculate reception area, hoping something there would change the dangerous direction of my thoughts.
I sat at the desk and distractedly shuffled through the utility bills and junk mail and weapons catalogs. One distinctly different envelope caught my eye. A small hand-written white envelope addressed to Carter Brown. No return listed. The seven in the address had a line through it like Europeans use.
I got a funny feeling in my chest—a lightness. Then a twinge in my solar plexus. I tore open the envelope and slid out a carefully folded piece of stationery. The paper was heavy bond and the piece was shorter than normal size, as it had been cut neatly across the top, possibly to remove a logo or business name.
It was a brief note. Brief and to the point, handwritten with ink.
If you seek answers about death of Rose Talbot, see Petr at Sky Blue Waters Lodge.
My first thought was that it was a ruse. But the juice buzzing through my chest told me something else. It could’ve been nerves kicking up, the fear and anxiety of a rank amateur out of his league and out of his mind, but what the hell else did I have?
Not much.
The way the name was spelled—Petr—without the second e, indicated he was either European or there was a spelling error on the note. Maybe Petr was one of those guys who pretend they’re from somewhere exotic and foreign in order to impress people. Kind of like a guy who becomes a private detective to impress people. Maybe Petr and I had something in common other than Rose Talbot. Maybe Petr didn’t even write the note. Maybe I was crazy.
(End of Chapter 2)
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