Blackjack Fowler: Private Investigator

Contents

Chapter 1: Not the Beginning

Chapter 2: CEO of Security

Chapter 3: The Suite Life

Chapter 4: Guns and Bombs, Yes!

Chapter 5: Sports

Chapter 6: Code Rewards

Chapter 7: The Powers of Money

Chapter 8: Shadow Business

Chapter 9: Wake-Up Call

Chapter 10: Fireworks

Chapter 11: Supernova

Chapter 12: Interference

Chapter 13: Away

Chapter 14: Setting Up Shop

Chapter 15: Emma St. John

Chapter 1

Not the Beginning

It has been over a year, and I’m doing pretty good running my detective agency. Is it an agency if it’s just me? Well, I don’t have an office per se. I meet clients at the Twenty-Four Diner. Bet you can’t guess how long they are open.

So far, the business has been by word of mouth. Of course a lot of people read stories about me and the crimes I solved in the police department. My reputation was my business card. Plus I made a lot of connections in the nine years I was on the police department. People trust me, and I work for what they pay me. Of course, sometimes it’s a home-cooked meal, or a painting made by my client, or just a promise to do me a favor. Since the people (unknown to me) who forced me to resign had launched a campaign to smear my name and had made me look guilty, but not of anything tangible, just rumors of what I most likely did, I didn’t think I would survive a year.

I raised myself and grew up in this city. Even when I left for a few years to join the army, I never forgot my city, I returned to it when my work abroad was done. Nothing ever felt as good as stepping back onto the streets I call home. The city and its people never forgot me either. It welcomed me back with open arms. The people watched me rise in the ranks of the police department and saw me walking among the community, so when the shadow force pushed me down, the people were there to soften the fall and pick me back up. Now I stand up for the city and the people.

I didn’t tell my best friend and partner, Artie Harris, why I was resigning because they threatened to kill him and disgrace his name in the public. They knew me well enough to know that if they threatened my life, I wouldn’t budge. But with my best friend Artie, they knew I would resign.

They wanted more, but I gave them what I gave them and told them to be happy with it. I will bend, but I won’t break. I never saw them or talked straight to them. I let them be, for now. But when they least expect it, I will identify every one of them, and they will wish they never heard my name.

They have kept the part of the bargain about leaving Artie alone. He made detective sergeant and is now lead detective in the homicide section. We still are partners and best friends. A lot of guys on the department think I’m dirty but not Artie and not guys who knew me.

The ones that don’t like me are not much in the way of being cops, especially good ones, so I’m not missing much. Most of the populace still knows and respects me and trusts me. I’m thankful for that.

The owner of the Twenty-Four Diner was one of my first clients. I solved the case of the supplier who was stealing him blind and almost put him out of business. Now he holds a booth for my office, here in the back of the diner and half price on food and coffee. He wanted it to be free, but I have some money, and he’s running a business now short one table because of me. Fighting him about that almost put him in tears. Sometimes you have to accept other’s gifts, not because you need it, but they need to give it. Giorgio Romano was one of those men. His family took pride in being good friends and good people, and they are.

So I ran my days and my business in the Twenty-Four, one huge benefit, the best coffee in the city. Of course, sometimes my clients call me and ask for me to meet them at their homes and or businesses.

This morning, I got a call from real estate mogul and financial banker, billionaire Frederick Boorman Spellman III.

Spellman was one of the shrewdest businessmen I had ever heard of. Now he was asking me personally to come to his home in the suburbs. Well, who am I to turn down that kind of offer. I was impressed that he called me himself and not some lackey. One point for the mogul. The other thing was he did not demand I come out there. He asked if I minded coming out there. That either means he’s a decent man, or this problem is really bad and everyone else turned him down already.

Yes, he could pay me a big payday, but some things in this line of work I do not do. I don’t do the honey-trap play, the one where a wife or husband is set up to cheat. No, the guys who only shower once a week and use soap on holidays can pick up those cases. I don’t go out to find and make up dirt. Everyone has enough baggage that you don’t have to add more. I don’t extort people in any way, not my thing. I have been called a choir boy, but I’m far from that.

Basically, if you need help, or can’t find someone, or something, or you are in a jam and don’t know where to turn, then I’m your man. Mind you, there are a lot of in between that occur. For some reason, the little things always turn out to be just tips of icebergs, and sometimes I am the Titanic, straight on a collision course. Of course, that could be on my tombstone, Here Lies Blackjack. Straight on a Collision Course. Let the reader figure out which way I’m colliding, up or down. Personally I don’t think either place is going to want me.

I walked down to the rail station, where I would catch a train out to the suburbs and take a taxi out to Spellman’s estate. When you have a lot of land and a house bigger than an office building you call it an estate. I walk and take public transportation as much as possible. I do have a car, but I keep it stored in a parking garage downtown. I know a guy who works there, and he takes and cleans it in the garage every week. He owed me a favor just like the owner of the garage.

Riding the train is like meditation for me. I watch the people, the thrum of the tracks quiets my soul, and the scenery flying by is a quiet distraction. I don’t hate the suburbs and trees and things. I just prefer my city. So the colors and the scenery are a welcome change as long as I know my city waits.

The train pulled into the station, and I got out on the platform and headed for the taxi stand to pick up a ride out to the estate. I was walking down the line of cabs, looking for an interesting driver. I like to make it a whole experience taking a cab. I was walking past a limo when the driver swung open the door as I got near it. I reflexively went to get my gun and was prepared to be hit from behind, so I spun and looked, and no one was there. Okay, so I may have been jumpy, but in my defense, I have had that happen to me on a usual basis. It seems the crime bosses in the city think I will refuse to go with their goons when I have been invited. To be clear, the way they invite is by their goons knocking you in the head and throwing you in a limo and whisking you away. This is different than when they take you for a ride. In that respect, you don’t meet the crime boss but the boss up above. Luckily, I have avoided, in many ways, the latter ride but have taken the former too many times to remember or maybe the hits on the head are just finally taking their toll.

As I turned back around to the driver, my hand on my gun, still in my holster, he quickly put his hands up shoulder high, fingers spread, showing he wasn’t trying anything. I stood up straight from the combat position I was currently in and somewhat loosened the grip on my gun. I say somewhat, but I was still weary.

He looked like he was ready to scream, turn and run, or just plain old cry.

M-Mr. Fowler! I…I…I… He swallowed and blinked three times in a row. Um, Mr. Spellman, sir.

Okay, I get it. Relax, I said, took my hand out of my jacket, and grabbed the door and slid in the limo. Sorry about that. I don’t know how you knew it was me though. I waited till he shut the door and ran around the limo and got behind the wheel. I started asking him, and he ignored me. I got pissed, and then I realized he couldn’t hear me with the divider up. I don’t have this problem with my driver because I don’t have a driver.

I knocked on the window, and he slid the partition down, which was a big thing because I could tell he was still scared of me. His hands were shaking on the wheel.

Relax, kid. I thought you were some gangster’s driver. My apologies for the reaction thing.

Yes, sir, Mr. Fowler. I didn’t know if that meant he accepted my apology or if he just figured he needed to humor me.

Blackjack.

Excuse me, Mr. Fowler? he asked. I don’t think he knew what to do with that. Sometimes I do that just to mess with people.

Call me Blackjack. So how did you know where, when, and who to pick up?

Mr. Spellman, sir. He figured it all out and showed me your picture in an old paper article, said to just ask you to ride to the estate with me. I didn’t get to ask you. I’m sorry I didn’t.

I smiled I wasn’t sure if he was sorry for my inconvenience or for the fact I scared him to death. Well, I can’t apologize for my reflexes nor would I want to, and he now has a story to tell the other staff or drivers. Oh wait, isn’t he a chauffeur. If you make over ten an hour, you are not a driver, but rather you are a chauffeur.

You like Mr. Spellman and look, I won’t tell him. It’s just I like to know who I will be talking with, you know, like how they treat people.

He smiled and looked in the rearview mirror. You mean, how does he treat his staff, right?

The kid was quick. He found that amusing and relaxed a bit more. I don’t think anyone ever asked him that question, and he so wanted to answer it. So I nodded. That is exactly what I meant.

You know he was right about you, he said. I let that lie there because I knew he wanted to talk now. He said if you asked me questions, to answer them as honest as possible, and for God’s sake, don’t lie. That man will see it a mile away. You would, too, wouldn’t you?

I nodded again. He was right. Spellman was a smart man.

Well, Mr. Spellman is probably the most honorable man I ever met. He found me years ago and hired me. I was an orphan on the street as a teenager. He had the previous driver train me to take this job. Barney, that was the previous driver. He was getting older and really having a hard time with the demands, you know. He paused, I think remembering that time. Most people would think that he would have got rid of or retired the man. Out of sight out of mind, right?

I nodded in agreement.

Not Mr. Spellman. He retired him all right. He relocated Barney and his wife to Hawaii where he had a home, and he made them caretakers, still drawing a salary. He video chats once a week with them, make sure they got all they need, hire whoever they need. He doesn’t want Barney doing anything but thinking.

He shook his head with amusement. Go figure. You ever hear anything so crazy. I think that answers your question, Mr. Fowler.

It did, but can anyone be that good. I was skeptical all right, but the kid wasn’t lying. I could tell.

Blackjack.

He chuckled. Yes, sir, I mean Blackjack.

Well knowing the man was a saint made me weary of what kind of problem he may have. I mean, was he taken in by a woman of low morals, or had he been bilked of millions buying a bridge in some famous city? Well, I guess I was on my way to finding out.

What’s your name, kid? I asked as I leaned back and tilted my hat over my eyes. My hat, a very broken in fedora that I have worn since I could, when not in uniforms. Along with my long overcoat, which is in decent shape, and it’s my comfort zone.

Zach, Mr. Blackjack. He looked up in the mirror and squinched his face. Sorry.

Close enough, I said as I smiled and enjoyed the ride, happy not having to have a head trauma to enjoy the luxury.

We came up to a gate, and Zach put his hand on a screen, and the gate slid back. Cool, biometric security, and pretty good tech.

I sat up in the back and slid my hat back, the picture of the place I found online did not do it justice. It was gorgeous in a classic style. It was big, and rich, but somehow it did not convey ostentation at all. It just looked…I couldn’t think of anything other than just right. It looked just right.

Zach looked back at me like he was reading my mind. Somehow it looks like a home, not a showpiece, but that’s Mr. Spellman.

I nodded in agreement. Sure hope I can help him, whatever the problem is.

You will, Mr. Blackjack. He is never wrong about the people he trusts.

He has never met me, Zach. He couldn’t possibly trust me.

Zach didn’t reply. He just pulled up, put it in park, got out, walked to my side, opened the door, waited till I got out, shut the door, hopped back in the driver’s seat, and drove over to the side of the house.

I made it to the huge wooden front door and was half-expecting a munchkin to pop open a little window in the door and yell go away.

It didn’t happen. I rang the doorbell, and a man a little taller than me, a bit older than me, and a little heavier than me, answered the door. And he seemed to be twice as friendly as me, which actually wasn’t too hard. I have trust issues.

At first, I was going to ask for Mr. Spellman, and then I realized the smiling man in front of me was him.

Mr. Fowler, please come in and thank you for coming, he said and stepped aside and used his freehand to show me the way.

Usually, I let people call me Mr. Fowler till I get a feel for them, but somehow, it felt uncomfortable to have this man call me that. Just wrong.

Please, Mr. Spellman, call me Blackjack, I said as I passed him.

Only if you promise to call me Fred, then it’s a deal. I turned and smiled and nodded. Deal. I took off my hat and held it in my hands. So far, I was doing things I wouldn’t normally do. Artie wouldn’t believe it was me. I mean taking my hat off.

Some people think I’m bald, so I wear the hat, but I have a thick head of hair that grows quick. I just keep it short. Some people assume I wear an overcoat because I’m insecure. I’m not. I wear it because I like the look, and it hides things in the pockets that people can’t tell are there. Same with the hat.

He led me through the great hall, which lived up to its name, and into what was a den and an office. We sat in big high-back leather chairs, which I never wanted to leave, across from each other and a fireplace. It was like being in a turn of the century men’s club in London.

So if I can ask, what is Blackjack, and how did you get that?

He asked the number 1 question I have been asked forever. I have over a thousand answers, and only one of which is true. I never tell anyone, why, who, when, or what the name is. I don’t care how close you are to me; it’s mine, and it takes a lot to walk in that circle. To say I keep it close is an understatement. Artie does not know. I know, and maybe less than a handful know. One day, I can tell the details but not now.

It’s because I once dropped my issued one in a public toilet.

Really? He looked excited.

No, it’s because I was born on the twenty-first.

Fred looked at me and studied me and started laughing. I smiled.

I bet you never tell the truth, and you make stuff up about it. And you know, I like that about you.

Got it in one, sorry. Maybe someday, but you don’t know me. Zach says you trust me, and now you say you like me. Is this why you wanted me. You are too trusting.

Heavens no, Blackjack. I…Well, let’s just say I get these feelings about people, and as I’m sixty-eight years old, I have been wrong exactly zero times. I say that’s a record to trust.

He watched me for a reaction. I have heard crazier stuff. Hell, I believe crazier stuff, so he wasn’t going to get an argument from me. That was one impressive record. Hell, I was probably about a fifty-fifty record, and I was twenty-eight. I nodded that I accepted his reason.

"See right there. You don’t go, this man is nuts. You think it over and make the sane decision that you believe what you believe."

"I would watch using the word sane around me. It seems it’s bad luck."

He laughed aloud again. At least I was amusing him. I could tell he was getting ready to tell me why he had me here and what he needed me to do.

You understand I have enough money to hire a whole army of investigators, he asked, and I nodded consent to that fact. I chose you because I have been following your career since you found the armored car robbery plot and recovered all the money. Since then, I have watched every story and listened to firsthand reports.

He paused to let that sink in, and of course, I didn’t know whether to be scared because he was pretty much stalking me or scared because he was a super fan of mine. I wasn’t sure which one was scarier or most unlikely.

Why? I was a man of few words sometimes, like when I didn’t want to give up how much I know, or like now when I wasn’t sure what I should be thinking, so I tried to get more information before I made a judgment.

He nodded that it was a good question and a fair one. Well, you see, I am a shrewd businessman. I get what I want, but I don’t walk on people to get things. Unless that person is walking on people already, then I show them how and why they are wrong. I feel we are of the same mold. I like to—no, I hope I have as much courage as you. I know before you downplay yourself value. I know what you did and why when you resigned from the police department.

I stood up fast and had a look to kill. I was about to say Good day and storm out. How could he know unless he was part of the group doing it.

Please, please, Blackjack. Don’t assume the wrong thing. Please sit, hear me out. What does your gut tell you?

I stood there as my blood was pumping wildly through my veins. I could feel the heat in my face, but what he said struck a chord with me. He was genuinely upset that I had taken what he said wrong. I did trust him, at least my gut said I should.

I realized I had balled my fist and wrinkled my hat, and when I released them, I felt the skin ache from the pressure. I looked at the fire and loosened my shoulder muscles and stared.

I nodded to the fire and sat back in the chair. I looked back at him, his eyes pleading with me to hear him out. I leaned back and put my hat on