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    Dark Union: A Mike Angel Mystery
    Dark Union: A Mike Angel Mystery
    Dark Union: A Mike Angel Mystery
    Ebook235 pages5 hours

    Dark Union: A Mike Angel Mystery

    By David H Fears

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    After witnessing a barefoot bank robber two blocks from his office, an iron-fisted boss who ran the longshoreman’s union since the 1930s hires Mike to find the killer of his granddaughter. The victim was a loose-morals woman who slept with both sides of a labor war. The victim’s sister was a client’s secretary in his prior case, and Mike is drawn to her petite seductiveness and unabashed claims on him. Efforts to get information inside the union are fraught with danger and difficulty. His client is adamant Mike is not to pry into union affairs, but every lead takes Mike there, in ever deeper danger, until he’s shanghaied in a shipping container en route to Tokyo. Throughout the case Mike is tempted by three different women, one of whom comes on to Molly as well. Once again Mike goes solo as Rick is mostly retired and Molly decides her lack of reflexes is a field liability. She takes a job with brother in law’s insurance firm. Mike and the police see things as wrapped up, but are they? Set in Portland, Oregon in 1970, Dark Union is number 11 in the series.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherDavid H Fears
    Release dateNov 24, 2014
    ISBN9781311018946
    Dark Union: A Mike Angel Mystery
    Author

    David H Fears

    David was known by the handle "professor" as a boy (no doubt the thick black spectacles, Buddy Holly style), and has had a lifetime interest in Mark Twain. He has also written nearly one hundred short stories with about sixteen published, and is working on the 14th Mike Angel PI Mystery novel. Fears is a pretty handy name for horror stories, but he also has written mainstream nostalgic, literary, some fantasy/magical realism, as well as the PI novels. For the past decade he has devoted his full time to producing Mark Twain Day By Day, a four-volume annotated chronology in the life of Samuel L. Clemens. Two volumes are now available, and have been called, "The Ultimate Mark Twain Reference" by top Twain scholars. His aim for these books is "to provide a reference and starting-off place for the Twain scholar, as well as a readable book for the masses," one that provides many "tastes" of Twain and perspective into his complex and fascinating life. He understands this is a work that will never be "finished" — in fact, he claims that no piece of writing is ever finished, only abandoned after a time. As a historian, David enjoys mixing historical aspects in his fiction. David recently taught literature and writing at DeVry University in Portland, his third college stint. His former lives enjoyed some success in real estate and computer business, sandwiched between undergraduate studies in the early 70s and his masters degree in education and composition, awarded in 2004. He was born and raised in Portland, Oregon, and has lived in New England, Southern California and Nevada. David is youthful looking and is the father of three girls, the grandfather of four and the great-grandfather of two; he's written, "It all shows what you can do if you fool around when you're very young." David's a card. How many of us think humor has a place in mystery tales or history tomes? He claims his calico cat Sophie helps him edit his stories while lying across his arm when he is composing, and sinking her claws in with any poorly drawn sentence. As a writer, a humorist, a cat lover and father of girls, he relates well to Clemens. Writing hardboiled PI novels is his way of saying "NUTS!" to politically correct fiction. UPDATE: Beloved Calico Sophie died on Apr 24, 2016 at 13 & 1/2 years. She is sorely missed.

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      Book preview

      Dark Union - David H Fears

      Chapter 1

      Tuesday, September 1, 1970, warm and sunny, unlikely for a bank heist.

      First National Bank’s alarm bell jolted me from a daydream about a petite blonde secretary from last year’s case that averted a race riot in Albina, a black section of Portland, Oregon. I was hoofing it to the hardware store to buy washers for the office sink, a chore Molly had been pestering me to fix. Why I was dreaming of Dolly Wolenetz, secretary to attorney A.J. Enna, I couldn’t say. I hadn’t seen her since sharing coffee and a raspberry donut late last year. True, she was the sort of cookie who trips into a guy’s mind when the sun comes out, which isn’t often in Portland. I’d had no interesting fantasies about her until then.

      Who can figure mental jungles imagination rises from? Whatever the reason, that alarm yanked me from a tiny blonde’s curves, gripped my holstered Browning-Colt and seared my prophetic jaw scar.

      My scar often goes off right before a shooting, or when I walk into wrong rooms or alleys. I earned the jagged badge from nailing my late father’s killer at a Russian mob gathering in Mattoon, Illinois in 1960. I imagine he sends early warnings to the scar: heat, prickles, even stabs. Yeah, and I hear his voice in my head too, though rarely, and only in times where my life falls into a criminal’s crosshairs. Like my daydream of Dolly, my scar warnings and voice might simply mean I was dropped on my head as a baby.

      I rubbernecked down the street, where a masked beefy crook ran out bank doors to a non-descript Ford van — white — one fender red primer. He swung a square canvas lock bag, like rent-a-cops carry dough in. Every time I spot rent-a-cops, it motivates me to try harder at investigations, worried I’ll wind up as one — vanilla duty to pay mortgage bills. Yeah, Molly and I bought an older two-story house on S.E. Flavel a half mile from the office. She spent her time that year revamping our digs in early whore-house style. I don’t stick my nose into her decorator fancies. Frilly she wants, frilly she gets.

      Bank heist in progress, right in Mayberry-like Westmoreland, one block from my office. I felt insulted. I prefer to choose my cases rather than cases choose me. Right then I didn’t realize I’d be involved in chasing bank robbers, but as it turned out, I’d run into them in a painful way.

      Two shots popped, echoing off buildings. Then a third. Patrol car at the corner, door open. Against a nearby building, a female officer, shooter’s stance. Her slug found the crook’s shoulder, whirling him around, though he managed to return a wild half-dozen shots after stumbling into the van. As wide as tall. Five-six, 225 if a pound. Dressed in black, including ski-mask. One other strange detail — he was barefoot.

      The van screeched and sped north through Westmoreland. I thought about throwing lead after it but too many pedestrians aborted my urge.

      I ran across to the officer, who was on one knee undoing her bulletproof vest.

      You hit?

      She shook her head and pointed back at her patrol car, My partner’s down. Please see to him.

      I ran fifty feet to the patrol car. A uniformed cop I hadn’t spotted before, some fifty pounds overweight. On his stomach, face in the gutter, hand gripping the door frame. He didn’t answer when I yelled. No visible wounds. Color ashen. Irregular pulse. I stepped over him and pulled out the radio mic, hollering mayday with officers down, corner Milwaukee and Claybourne, after a bank robbery.

      The ambulance got there first. I backed away to let them work, then jogged to the female cop who sat against the building with bewildered stare, rubbing her ribs.

      Was he hit? she asked. I thought he fell before shots were fired.

      I could tell she was in shock. Her face too nice for a cop — no grit, no age, more wholesome than sexy. Still, nice face for a cop.

      He’s in good hands. They think heart attack. I’ve seen those symptoms.

      One medic leaned over to see if she was okay. We waved her off, told her to rush the other cop to emergency.

      Who are you? the cop asked when the medic left. She stood and rubbed her ribs where a slug would have gone without her vest. I steadied her by the elbow.

      Mike. Private eye. Office, block away.

      Thanks, she said, smoothing her uniform. I’m okay now. Just stunned and thankful for the vest. She looked at me along her nose and said, Not the infamous Mike Angel?

      News gets around.

      Chief told the story about you and that black flap last year in Albina, catching the kingpin in the Oriental Theater.

      Don’t see many female cops in Stumptown. What’s a nice girl like you doing in a place like this? Besides getting plugged.

      Guess you don’t know about Lola?

      Guess not. Lola’s you?

      Hardly. Lola Baldwin, one of the first policewomen in the country. Right here in 1908. City’s got a long tradition of female law officers. I’m her great niece, Greta Baldwin.

      I’ve only been in town since ’65. Not long enough to absorb much history. My semi-retired partner Rick knows a bunch. I’ll have to ask him about Lola when he’s back from cruising Alaskan waters.

      A unmarked car pulled up. Two plainclothes dicks got out wearing gray with gray looks, like typical plainclothes dicks. The familiar one, Bret Fiskar, sauntered over like bank heists were routine. His partner, a tall stick with black greased back hair and a three-day’s growth, headed into the bank. I’d never laid eyes on him before. I hadn’t missed much. As cops go he’d make a good lineup suspect.

      Bret put on a few pounds since that Albina action the year before. Too many donuts, too longish stakeouts.

      You got sixth sense for trouble, Angel. How do you manage?

      Trouble’s my nickname, didn’t you know?

      He nodded to Greta and said, What’s the play here, officer?

      She related the tale, how her and partner Ed had been heading south on Seventeenth Avenue when they heard the alarm, and swung up Claybourne to head to the bank. A stalled truck forced them to get out. That’s when she saw the masked robber run from the bank to the van, idling in the driveway.

      Can you describe the man or driver? What about the van?

      I could tell by her stutter she was still disoriented. She said he wore all black, black cap, ski-mask. Couldn’t make the driver, only that the van was white. Didn’t know the make. Fiskar looked annoyed at the lack of detail in her account, and started to ask another question with pointed finger.

      She took one in the vest, Fiskerman, I said, pulling the idiot’s finger down. Go easy. It knocked her down. She’s still woozy. I threw detail at his scowl: barefoot, height, weight, also red primer rear fender. Sixty-one Ford econoline. Hood swung a canvas lock bag like rent-a-cops haul dough in.

      Notice anything about the driver?

      Small silhouette. Midget or twelve-year old kid.

      Greta smirked and poked a finger in my arm.

      Or, a midget dame feminist wheelman, I said with a wink.

      Fiskar didn’t appreciate the wordplay, told me to scram, knew where I worked and would get on the horn should any bright ideas occur to him. I was tempted to say he hadn’t had a bright idea since Ike was in office, but I let it go.

      Greta thanked me and went to move her patrol car into the bank lot.

      I got washers and a pipe wrench from Moreland Hardware, then hoofed back to the office, knowing I hadn’t heard the last from Fiskar.

      Chapter 2

      Back at the office I created new swear words fixing the sink. I had no audience to appreciate my extravagant offerings, as Rick calls them. He’d fallen in with a shapely widow who owned a yacht and was spending what was left of summer on a cruise to Juneau and back. Molly was happily wallpapering over old wallpaper in our new bedroom, and picking out draperies, the kind of decisions I want no part of.

      I was cleaning up from doing and undoing and doing again the faucet fix when Molly did her Loretta Young imitation, swirling into the office with bags of fried chicken. Once she had her mouth full, I said,

      You missed today’s shooting fun at the bank.

      Her eyes got big and she struggled to swallow, uttering only huh?

      Bank job down the block at First. Masked pudgy got off with a bundle. Plugged a female officer but her vest saved her. Partner keeled over before the shooting. Heart, I’d say. If he makes it, desk job awaits.

      Don’t tell me — you nabbed the culprits? Caught the robber by his short hairs?

      You flatter me, toots. I was across the street heading to the hardware store. Pulled my Colt but too many people around. Our old pal Fiskar and some new partner rolled up and took my statement, not that he liked the duty.

      I’ll bet he was glad to see you.

      Like a bad case of hemorrhoids.

      Tell me, shamus, why is it that you often butt heads with Portland’s finest? Do they resent your relationship with Chief MacNamara, or does spitting in their face set them off?

      Both, I’d say. Mostly they don’t like being told how dumb they are.

      In your diplomatic style, right Mikey?

      We sat focusing on lunch. I listened to Molly’s redecorating plans for our new house, longwinded though they were. I agreed to split for a new couch and some chairs for the living room. Even though I missed having Molly in the office, I was somewhat relieved she wasn’t a field agent now. The home beautiful stuff was good therapy for her, taking her mind off what she’d lost by the coma and operations two years before. She’d up and quit our agency after pistol freezing in that Albina case last year. After long talks and two bottles of vino, she admitted she might never recover reflexes and didn’t want to be a drag in the field, even though she was still quicker than Pops, as we affectionately call Rick Anthony. Rick didn’t want field work either. His aim was still spot on, mind sharper than ever, but at 68 he couldn’t chase bad guys farther than a few feet.

      So, here I was, solo again, just like my years in Newark and one in Chicago, before Rick came up from Florida and convinced me to take him on as a junior partner, and before Molly threw her shoes under my bed adding judo skills to the mix.

      Working alone might not have been as stimulating, but at least I didn’t have worries about wing men or protective crazies about my best gal, now my spouse. I went where I wanted when I wanted; investigated how I wanted. True, I wasn’t as headstrong as the old Mike, since Rick had taught me well how to analyze a scene or a problem, and I still could use his brain when I got stumped. Molly tried to compensate for her withdrawal from agent status by pulling me into various Portland society levels. I didn’t have the heart to tell her it was mostly a bore, though I sensed she knew.

      Everyone loved Molly, and she’d made good social contacts through her sister Sue and brother-in-law Bob Ellsworth, who occasionally threw insurance fraud cases at my door. So it didn’t surprise me when Molly announced she’d received another invite.

      Saturday night. Benson’s Kon-Tiki Room. Retirement party for A.J. Enna. Remember him? Engraved invitation came today. I love their Polynesian drinks.

      Yeah. Attorney who worked with Mac to put me in a crooked card game in Albina. But retired? The man isn’t much past 45. Who quits at that age?

      Hookers, professional athletes, smartass gumshoes — wait, nix that last one.

      Wouldn’t know about hookers or athletes, unless you include chestnut-haired bedroom black belts who never get enough.

      Molly giggled and waggled a chicken bone at me. I need a new gown to wear. Lipman’s has a sale. And it’s darker now than chestnut. Try to keep up.

      I often wonder how you know about all those sales. Telepathy?

      No, dummy. Something called the morning paper. Ever read it?

      Sports. Funnies. Not much else.

      Explains your deep intellect.

      Hey. One intellect in this outfit’s enough. I wonder when he sails into port. Rick’s been gone two weeks.

      Well, if my instinct’s good, I’d say he won’t hurry back based on the dish what took him to the dance, if you catch.

      You meet her?

      Only from afar. Makes his older flames look sad. But we know Rick — if you wait awhile there’ll be another canary in his socks before long.

      Socks? That Chicago slang?

      Mebbe, Bub. Eat that breast before I haul the garbage out.

      I wrapped the left over chicken up and put it in the fridge. Then moved to the door and threw the deadbolt.

      Bring your breast over here so I can eat it — both breasts. I’m not partial.

      Molly’s red sweater found the chair. So did her jeans. I lifted her up and swung her around, then pulled her on top of me on our leather sofa. Her red bra unhooked itself almost. Molly was dessert. One that lasted a sweet hour.

      When she left we were both beaming at how hot and electrifying spontaneous sex can be. I kissed her at the door and reminded we’d met ten years ago tomorrow. I wasn’t positive about the date but figured it was sometime in early September.

      Oh? You sentimental sap! Guess I didn’t mark the date. I recall how blunt you were that day, how you laid my boss’ murder on me without pussyfooting. I also remember I cried on your lapels. My tears must’ve slid a hook in you.

      They did, but didn’t want to confess that weakness.

      Remember your duds that day in Verona?

      Hmm. No, and I bet you don’t either.

      Blue and white secretary outfit cinched at the waist. White belt, scarf.

      I’m impressed. You thought I was a kid, but I could tell when you blocked my car and got in mine that you had a funny look in your old eyes.

      That look was courage to tell you your admired boss had been killed. Wanting to kiss you came later, when you brought the victim’s calendar to my office.

      Yeah. A girl remembers first kisses. It was in Sam’s bar, not your dump of an office. Guess you discovered I wasn’t a kid in Sam’s?

      Seriously — happy meet-a-versary.

      Molly gave me the same sweet kiss as her first. I squeezed her ass as she went through the door. Of all the asses in all the world, I loved it when it swayed next to me. If a mug like me has to be tied down, God let it always be to Molly. Not that I didn’t still appreciate dames, all shades and sorts from nasty to elegant, but looking and touching were separated by a grand canyon of danger and doubt and devotion. I won’t claim I was oblivious to feminine temptation, but Molly Ann Bennett Angel had a long head start on any fluff who floated by.

      Speaking of fluff, in my career opportunities I often meet them in distress and in bunches. In my line of work they often rub smoldering intentions on me having nothing to do with the case at hand, nothing to do with solving it, everything to do with seduction and sundry traps. I’d come to see all those detours as dead ends even if delicious dead ends. This case was no different.

      The invite to Enna’s retirement gig yanked my thoughts back to his petite blonde secretary, Dolly Wolenetz, a toy dame if I ever saw one — everything miniature save for her libido. I don’t like coincidences when I’m investigating a case, though they arrive now and then. Mostly they confuse or point to a setup. This coincidence, daydreaming about Dolly earlier, then being invited to a shindig where she’d no doubt attend — mark one up to karma and unavoidable temptation. No way was Molly going to decline the party. I’d have to keep my little brain in wraps for a few hours.

      Chapter 3

      All the Polynesian atmosphere anyone could cram into a bar was on display at the Kon-Tiki room downtown. I ordered their famous fog-cutter and Moll a chardonnay. We stood sipping and scanning the crowd for anyone we knew. My daydream object slid from a bunch of blathering suits and bounced over.

      Dolly shot a little half-embarrassed laugh and slid her paw in mine for a quick shake, fingers thin but warm.

      Don’t you adore this place? she said, blue peepers shining magic.

      Molly’s eyebrow rose. I doubted her eyes could be any greener. No two lovelies couldn’t have been more different, chestnut haired Molly in a cute flip, and flawless skinned Dolly, petite curves and a lickable cleavage titillating my eyeballs. Rick says a cleavage is the only thing a man can look down on and approve at the same time.

      I’m Molly Angel, Mike’s missus, she said stiffly before I could properly introduce them. The rat seldom mentions me to females on his cases, which may be why he doesn’t wear a wedding ring, but I know about A.J. and Chief Mac’s sting and how you helped.

      Right then sister Sue waltzed over and begged Molly to follow her for an introduction to more Eastmoreland dowagers at her table.

      Go easy with the shamus, Molly threw back at Dolly, taking Sue’s arm and heading across the room.

      I swam in Dolly’s wide smile and said, A.J.’s too young to retire. What gives?

      "Family inheritance. Decided to run

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