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    Gary Phillips' Hollis P.I.
    Gary Phillips' Hollis P.I.
    Gary Phillips' Hollis P.I.
    Ebook246 pages3 hours

    Gary Phillips' Hollis P.I.

    By Pro Se Press

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    About this ebook

    Gary Phillips’ Nate Hollis leaps from the comic page to his first complete prose collection. Authors Juliet Blackwell, Bobby Nash, Aaron Philip Clark, and Derrick Ferguson join Phillips to create six double barreled tales of mystery and action. The streets are mean, but they don’t hold a stick of dynamite to Hollis, P.I. From creator Gary Phillips and Pro Se Productions.

    “PI Nate Hollis originally sprang from the rich imagination of LA-based writer Gary Phillips, but he’s so real and tactile he could climb off the page and buy you a bourbon. Now, three other authors are getting a piece of Nate, too, and this latest collection of Nate stories is wonderful. This is contemporary noir at its best, offering all the familiar pleasures of the genre, but giving them a modern makeover. Yes, this is a violent world that Nate inhabits, but he steers a true and moral course through the layers of deception, skullduggery and sometimes worse that make these stories such high-density entertainment. Nate’s a great character and these stories do him justice and more.“
    T. Jefferson Parker
    Author of “The Famous and the Dead”

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherPro Se Press
    Release dateNov 26, 2014
    Gary Phillips' Hollis P.I.
    Author

    Pro Se Press

    Based in Batesville, Arkansas, Pro Se Productions has become a leader on the cutting edge of New Pulp Fiction in a very short time.Pulp Fiction, known by many names and identified as being action/adventure, fast paced, hero versus villain, over the top characters and tight, yet extravagant plots, is experiencing a resurgence like never before. And Pro Se Press is a major part of the revival, one of the reasons that New Pulp is growing by leaps and bounds.

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      Book preview

      Gary Phillips' Hollis P.I. - Pro Se Press

      GARY PHILLIPS’

      HOLLIS, P.I.

      Copyright © 2014 Pro Se Production

      Published by Pro Se Press

      The stories in this publication are fictional. All of the characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead is purely coincidental. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the permission in writing of the publisher.

      Table of Contents

      THE CHUCKLES JOB

      by Gary Phillips

      NAOMI

      by Bobby Nash

      BELLY OF THE BEAST

      by Juliet Blackwell

      TWILIGHT OF EL PERRO

      by Aaron Philip Clark

      BABY DADDY

      by Derrick Ferguson

      LAST STAND AT ECHO VILLA

      by Gary Phillips

      ABOUT THE AUTHORS

      THE CHUCKLES JOB

      by Gary Phillips

      THEN.

      Chuckles the Clown No. 2 hit the guard in the head with the butt of his sawed-off shotgun. The man crumpled to the loading dock and Clown Number 2 trained the other end of his weapon on him.

      No, no killing, Chuckles the Clown No. 1 warned. He was covering the other disarmed guard and a man in rolled up shirt sleeves. They were on their bellies, hands cuffed behind them.

      Hesitant eyes behind his grinning mask, Clown No. 2 wavered longer than he should have but relented. Pussy, he muttered behind his eerily happy frozen face.

      Chuckles the Clown for whom the masks were a Halloween item, hosted a local TV show beloved by children.

      Chuckles the Clown No. 3 was loading the last of the canvas bags into the back of the LTD station wagon. He slammed the rear gate shut, shouting, Let’s get the hell out of here.

      Clowns Nos. 1 and 2 hopped down from the raised loading dock to the vehicle, the motor having been idling, the car in neutral. With Clown No. 3 at the wheel, the three tore away from the Treasury facility. Several blocks later, as planned, they parked near a van marked Rapid Flowers complete with a bogus phone number underneath the logo of the nonexistent florist.

      They transferred the canvas bags to the van and left in that, abandoning the station wagon. They left their clown masks in the car too. They wore civilian clothes and also removed the gloves they’d worn. There was a custom rack bolted under the van where they stored their shotguns. A panel had been cut into the floorboard to reach the guns if need be.

      We did it, the one who had been Clown No. 3 said. He smiled as he drove.

      Now we hide the money and lay low, the boss of the job, Clown No. 1 said. We do the exchange a month from now.

      You two are a couple of nervous Nellies if you ask me, Clown No. 2 groused.

      Then it’s a good thing no one’s asking you, the chief said. He and the other man exchanged malevolent glares.

      Okay, old man, we do it your way, the one who’d been Clown No. 2 eventually said.

      The driver kept driving, frowning. He’d heard something about this new thing, like fingerprints but having to do with matching hair fibers and scrapes of skin. He had a mustache and wondered about leaving hairs in his clown mask. DN...what was that new method called? Some cops were getting on to it, but not all of them. Well, no sense mentioning it if he couldn’t remember what it was. Why cause more static?

      CLOWN NO. 2 sat silent, inwardly pleased. He’d palmed several of the five hundreds during the takedown. He was going to go to Reno, see that redhead with the big titties, and live it the hell up. Screw these two worry warts.

      NOW.

      Wilbur Strossen finally remembered where the TV remote control was. He had misplaced it, what, two days ago, three days ago maybe? Funny how he could effortlessly summon that memory but not actually where he’d put the thing until now. There, tucked inside the folded over Sports section of the newspaper like it was lettuce in a taco was the TV remote. He picked it up, smiling with the elation at his small victory of mind against time.

      Time...time to do what he questioned. The hint of answers fluttered at the edges of his brain but wouldn’t gel. Once more he was taunted with trying to recall the mechanics of forming words and complete ideas, but his thoughts were yet again fragmentary and incomplete. The paper, that’s what he needed to see.

      Strossen crossed his compact apartment to the tidy kitchenette. Now why had he done this he asked himself? Right, the paper. There tacked next to the old-fashioned Princess-style phone attached to the side of the cupboard was the yellow sheet of lined paper. On the sheet with Cora, his landlady’s help, he’d written in block letters his vitals.

      Index finger touching the first letter of his first name, Strossen read his full name then dragging his finger down to the next line, his address here in his apartment, then to his phone number and so on. The name of his doctor and a contact number was on the sheet as well as the address of the Veterans Affairs hospital in Long Beach.

      He looked up from the paper to the dingy acoustic tile of the ceiling. Was he a vet and is that where he lives, Long Beach? He frowned at the paper and traced his finger tip upwards again and found his apartment address. No, he lived in Mar Vista it read. He used to live in a lot of places he vaguely knew. But how did he get to his doctor? Who took him? Oh sure, that’s who took him to his appointments. Good ol’ Cora took him sometimes in her worn but reliable Mazda mini-van. He could see the vehicle real good in his head. He always had a thing for cars since he was a kid.

      Kid, yeah, Cora had a grown nephew and didn’t he take him to the doc sometimes too? That was why when he returned he’d known to come here, even though they didn’t know him. But he knew them, sort of, and, well, he had no other place to go. Blinking, he tried to remember where he’d returned from but couldn’t. That notion slipped away from him like smoke blowing across glass as he focused on the sheet again and by golly, there was his name of the nephew right there, Tony, Tony Levitt.

      Him and Tony, they talked about cars didn’t they? For sure there was the kid’s phone number next to his name. Strossen picked up the phone to call Tony to see what time he should get dressed for his doctor’s appointment, but he didn’t finishing pushing in the squares on the phone. A humming distracted him and he gazed again at the ceiling. What was that? A bunch of mosquitoes flying over the roof? Then just like that another picture formed in his mind. Sharp and clear was the image of a plane, what you called a single engine aircraft. Yeah, that’s right, he lived near the airport where those kind of planes and choppers took off and landed.

      The restored knowledge of being near an airport comforted Strossen. Airports meant a quick getaway but why was it he needed to get away he asked himself as he quietly replaced the handset and turned to stare back into the other part of his apartment. Of course, the score they’d pulled off. Right under their noses it was and yet, why the hell was he living in this dump? No offense Cora.

      Strossen blinked several times again, willing himself to remember but only brief flashes of coherency came and went but whole thoughts wouldn’t settle. Yet again he was tantalized with the idea he knew, but it was as if there was an invisible devilish imp holding onto his sentences in a big glass bowl. This creature would shake the bowl before him and as he lunged for them, the demon delighted in poking him with a heated pitch fork while he scurried out of reach.

      Bastard, Strossen swore at his unseen harasser.

      Looking around as if he might catch a glimpse of the imp, he happened to glance down and saw his bare feet sticking out of the bottom of his pajama pants. He pulled on the material of his athletic-T and remembered it was nighttime. That’s why the lights were on and he was dressed for bed. It was bedtime. On the little table under the tear drop light hanging from the ceiling were several pill bottles. There was a small pale blue saucer before the bottles, pills on it, and a glass of water too. There was also an index card leaning against the glass and he picked it up to read: TAKE YOUR PILLS in big block letters.

      Strossen smiled and did as the note ordered. Something almost like clarity descended on him after a few minutes and he turned off the lights and walked into the bedroom. The room consisted of a bed, second hand dresser, nightstand, and clock-radio on the nightstand. He stood for a moment, more humming passing overhead. He nodded, having reached a decision and sat on the edge of the bed. Tomorrow he’d look up Shelly and see if he could tell him where they’d stashed the loot from their score. That was important to find out.

      With a sureness that was too often fleeting with him nowadays, Strossen pressed the correct button on the clock-radio and it buzzed to life. Cora had set it for him to the sports station. He liked to listen to the ex-jocks trash talking the teams they used to play for, sometimes even guys they used to play with before they got out of the game.

      Strossen lay down and as a former third baseman for the Angels talked about how these young players coming up today had no command of the fundamentals, he slid easily into slumber. In his dream the imp tripped as he chased him holding onto his sentences. The words, his plans, his complete thoughts spilling out, scattering everywhere. Strossen bent and picked up one of the sentences. He didn’t have to read it, for simply touching it imbued him with sense memory. He and the others pulling off the score of a lifetime, ripping off the shipment on its way back to the Mint. But he couldn’t quite see the money or recall the amount...something about McKinley’s face? Who the hell was that, Strossen wondered.

      But he sure could remember after the heist went down being at the motel, stuffing a handful of those bills in Earline’s frilly panties and bra as she danced and twirled on the bed. Oh man he was king of the world then. Until it all went to shit. But not before he managed to hide the swag.

      Strossen rolled over from his side to his stomach, a deeper sleep pulling him comfortably into the folds of rest. While the host of the sports show went on about how the new NFL rules for what constituted a clean tackle were asinine, there was the humming again coming from a light aircraft outside his apartment. But unlike the usual, this time the noise didn’t pass by but seemed to be getting louder and closer.

      THE CESSNA WASN’T at the proper altitude. Rather its nose was down and was heading for the two-story building containing Wilbur Strossen’s apartment.

      FALLING ASLEEP, COMING into perfect form in his head was the paper. This wasn’t the sheet next to the phone. On this paper was where he’d hidden the nearly three million he and Shel and that asshole, whatever his name was, had stolen. He’d been trying to remember where he’d hidden the damn piece of paper for several years and he blurted awake as the memory just that instant crystallized in his mind.

      Everdale, he announced proudly, sitting upright in bed.

      So excited was he to finally remember this important fact he didn’t pay attention to the loud drone of the aircraft bearing down on his bedroom. The Cessna crashed into the building, the front end spearing through the stucco and lathe wall. The pilot was ejected through the plane’s windshield and he torpedoed across the compact room, colliding with and breaking apart the dresser. Wilbur Strossen’s bony chest was crushed instantly, a broken rib piercing his heart and killing him almost as quickly. He died with a knowing smile on his face.

      ***

      Nate Hollis awoke to the sound of pleasant chirping. Eyes opening, he could tell it wasn’t morning and the warbling wasn’t the Blue Jays who resided in the maple tree outside his bedroom window. Rolling over he could also tell he wasn’t in his bed or any bed at all. He was lying on a worn hardwood floor. The inside of his head was a jumble of fuzzy signals, and he had to fight through the murk to remember what were his last waking moments before now. A bar, a bar in Riverside called Mama Thursday’s. Why the hell had he been there he wondered briefly then remembered.

      He got off the floor and heard the clink of metal. He looked down, eyes widening at what he saw. Damn.

      His right wrist had a chain padlocked around it, and was attached on the opposite end by a length of that chain to an eye ring, its short, stout shaft screwed into the floor.

      Son of a bitch, the usually articulate private eye muttered. He had no shoes or socks on, but was clad in his jeans and athletic-t undershirt. A quick pat down told him his pockets were empty. He yanked several times on the chain and not surprisingly, it didn’t loosen from the floor.

      Miranda, he said glumly. That was the name of the woman who’d called him yesterday...wait was it only yesterday? He looked at his watch and from the date, confirmed it had been less than twenty-four hours since he was now in this predicament.

      When she’d called him on his phone he’d been in the office of his lady friend, Kristy Simons, publisher of the political and cultural blog, and its hardcopy weekly tabloid version, the L.A. Voice.

      The Thai-Mexican joint on Hyperion or Primadora’s? he’d said. They had a lunch date and were deciding on where to go to eat. The offices of the Voice were in the Silverlake area of the city.

      Let me finish this layout, sweetie, and I’ll decide. She was at her desk, gazing at her monitor and moving her wireless mouse about.

      Sitting across from her, he’d answered his phone when it rang. After saying hello the female on the other end told him, I have information on your father’s murder.

      This isn’t a news flash with me, ma’am, he’d said evenly, staring into space. "I get calls like this all the time.’

      The coldness of his tone caused Simons to gaze from her monitor to him. She knew Hollis’ father Earl had been an LAPD detective ambushed and killed by person or persons so far unknown in the early morning hours in West Hollywood years ago. So far, the various leads Hollis had pursued had not yielded a suspect, only more questions about who his father really was.

      THIS AIN’T NO bullshit, the woman had answered. All those calls tell you Earl Hollis had sixty grand in hundreds tucked away with that half-blind hoochie who ran the hotsheet Spur and Saddle motel on Figueroa?"

      That was something only Hollis and his granddad, Earl’s dad Clutch Hollis knew. "What do you have to tell me?’ His voice softened.

      Five thousand for what I got to sell Mister Private Eye. It ain’t everything, but it’s more than what I got now.

      Okay. Where and when?

      That was how he’d found himself at Mama Thursday’s on a stool at the tail end of Happy Hour when the dishwater blonde with straight hair arrived and sat next to him at the bar. It was Monday night, and the Broncos were skinning the Jaguars live and in gorgeous color on the large flat screen above the rows of bottles.

      You Hollis, right?

      She was younger than him, not more than 26 or so. She’d purposely made herself sound older on the phone Hollis realized. But there were measures of hard living lined in her face and rigidness of shoulders. She wore her hip hugger jeans well. Her eyes examined him like someone used to disappointments from men.

      I am. Before him was a glass of ice and seltzer.

      You gonna buy a girl a drink?

      Why not? He signaled to the bartender, a clean cut type built like an MMA fighter.

      Vodka tonic, she told him. Then she added quickly lest the spell of generosity be broken, Make it Grey Goose, huh?

      The birds chipped again, bringing Hollis out of his reverie. It wasn’t birds but the artificial chirping of a cell phone. It belonged to a man lying on his side near him in the house he was prisoner in. He was alive because Hollis could tell his torso expanded and contracted as he breathed. But he was unmoving and wasn’t shackled to the floor like he was.

      Hey, man, can you hear me? he said. Nothing. The phone on him quit sounding. The man was fully dressed in his clothes.

      The front door opened and briefly, three forms were backlit by diffused lighting behind them. The three came into the house and a light was turned on. It was a battery-operated camping lantern on a plastic milk crate. There were few pieces of furniture about. What few items there were it was clear to Hollis they’d been brought in after the legal occupants of this house had quit being homeowners. Too, there was the tell-tale smell of acetone permeating the air.

      What the hell is going on here? One of the men said. He was in jeans and western-style shirt with a trucker’s cap on his head of curly hair. He looked from the other two back to the chained Hollis and the man on the floor. He was older than the other two, middle-aged, a

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