Chapter 1
November 6, 1940
San Diego, California
Jack Stoner sat on the edge of his bed, debating whether to face another dreary day or burrow under the covers.
The past several months had dragged on without a hint of a case. It was the longest dry spell in his brief career as a private investigator. Unless his luck improved soon, he’d have to close the Stoner Detective Agency at month’s end and find other work, maybe driving a delivery truck. He dreaded the thought of being penniless and spending Christmas on a cold park bench.
Despite his grim outlook, Stoner pulled himself up and shuffled to the bathroom. The image in the mirror staring back at him was a shadow of his former self. His sunken eyes, sagging jowls, and expanding belly made him feel disgusted by how poorly life had treated him in his fifty-three years. But deep in his soul, he knew it resulted from his own neglect.
As the memories of better times drifted through his mind, the sheer foolishness of his past cases haunted him.
His reminiscing began with last June’s case, when the bank called to inform him that his client’s check had bounced. While they had him on the line, they informed him he had overdrawn his checking account. He scraped together the last of his savings to cover the overdraft. Now he was as destitute as a skid-row bum, and he still owed money to everyone.
***
Stoner put his heart and soul into the Agency, trusting everyone to a fault, but before taking a case, he carefully sized up each client. Yet, early in his career, an older woman who reminded him of his grandma played him for a chump and skipped town without paying his fee. He vowed never to let it happen again, but his last client’s long blonde curls, blue eyes, plush lips, and a youthful shape that could launch a thousand ships turned his head. He fell for her hook, line, and sinker. Before he realized it, she overwhelmed his defenses and wrapped him around her little finger.
He screwed up and broke his first rule: never get involved with a client. Not only did she make a fool of him, but she also paid him with a rubber check and promptly left for parts unknown.
***
As Stoner stared at his reflection, he wondered if he had “SUCKER” tattooed across his forehead in ink others could see, but he couldn’t. He shook off his feelings of defeat and mustered enough gumption to get ready and go to the office.
Who knew? Maybe a client would call, or a lost soul might wander in, wanting directions.
After Stoner inhaled three cigarettes and guzzled a couple of cups of strong, black coffee laced with a liberal splash of Scotch, Wednesday looked better. The coffee filled him with a glimmer of hope and added a bounce to his step—or perhaps it was the effects of the alcohol.
His uplifting feelings were short-lived when he discovered the nearest parking spot was a perilous four-block hike to his office. The gritty streets of this neighborhood were notorious for their seedy surroundings, and a simple stroll was a risky venture. He couldn’t shake the nagging worry that his tires might vanish by the day’s end.
After hiking what felt like a mile to his building, he turned the corner. A wave of anxiety hit him when he spotted two ruthless-looking characters loitering at the entrance. His last visit to the zoo had friendlier apes.
Sid didn’t waste any time letting loose his debt-collecting goons, he thought.
Choosing caution over confrontation, he found a hiding spot to watch them for a few minutes.
***
Stoner didn’t bet the ponies that often. But when the grapevine said, “The fix was in,” he called his bookie, Sid Devar, and laid a C-note he didn’t have on Leading the Charge to win. Yesterday’s temperature was one of the year’s hottest, and as luck would have it, the horse and jockey stopped for a mint Julip on the far turn and staggered across the finish line dead last.
He shrugged off this latest in a long list of poor picks—his horses usually hobbled across the finish line dead last more often than not. Win or lose, Sid expected debts to be settled within twenty-four hours. But Stoner had no clue how to raise the cash to cover his debt.
***
Stoner crossed the street and ducked down a nearby alley, leaving the two apes to swelter in the sun’s heat. But today’s luck was no better than yesterday’s, and he ran headlong into two more of Sid’s goons: Theo and Leo.
These primates could be the poster boys for the Neanderthal Gazette.
Theo’s bloodshot eyes were deeply set in their sockets, and his brow jutted far enough to shade his entire face. Innumerable fights had pancaked the bridge of his nose, and his cauliflower ears were long past harvest time. His chiseled chin could easily chip granite, and using his two o’clock shadow, one could sand the chips smooth. Nature made a big mistake creating one of them, but Nature made a bigger mistake creating a carbon copy: his twin, Leo!
Before Stoner could whimper a cry for help, Theo grabbed and slammed him against the building—his tiptoes floated inches above the pavement.
“Going somewhere, Stoner?”
Theo’s deep, gravelly voice would send chills down the Frankenstein Monster’s spine. His breath, a blend of stale cigars and the rancid smell of everything bagel—heavy on the onion and garlic—would wilt a rose.
“Easy on the shirt, pal... It’s the only good one I’ve got.” Stoner feigned defiance. “Besides, you got the wrong guy.”
“Says you, welcher!”
Theo sprayed onion and garlic spittle with every word. Loosening his grip, he let Stoner’s feet land on solid ground.
“What’s this Stoner guy look like, Leo?” Theo asked, keeping his eye on Stoner. “This deadbeat says he ain’t him.”
Leo unfolded a crumpled slip of paper. “Says here he’s medium build, fifty, graying, fat, and—”
“Hey! I ain’t fat!” Shaking his head, Stoner protested. “Pleasingly plump, thank you very much! Besides, me and a thousand other guys look just like that, you lug-heads.” He attempted blustering with as much bravado as he could muster.
“But that doesn’t make me the sad sack you’re looking for. So I’ll say it again, but slower this time... And maybe... Just maybe it’ll get through those thick skulls of yours.” Stoner took a deep breath and said, “You. Got. The. Wrong. Guy.”
His plea was brushed aside.
“And a cross-shaped scar above his left eye.” Grinning, Leo poked Stoner’s forehead with his hairy finger. “That’s ’im, all right, Theo.”
“The cross nailed it, chump.” Theo grabbed Stoner’s lapels again. “Pay up, or we’ll pound every nickel outta yer hide.”
Stoner was well aware of Theo and Leo’s gruesome debt-collection methods and was familiar with the lost art of ‘roughing up’ someone. A true artisan of the craft never went for the face, where bruises showed. Neither Theo nor Leo struck Stoner as artistic. Following their visits to helpless victims, they consistently left behind their calling cards: injuries around the head and face. Stoner wasn’t looking forward to being worked over by two cavemen who weren’t artisans and wouldn’t know between them what to do with a stick of colored chalk.
“I ain’t got the dough.” When Stoner felt his grinning lower lip quiver, his confidence faltered.
“He ain’t got it, Leo... So he says.” Theo cocked his head toward Leo. “The boss don’t like ta hear them words.”
Leo smiled until his mouth stretched from ear to ear, but quickly morphed into a tight-lipped expression. His brow furrowed.
“Lemme pop ’im one, Theo.”
“Not this time, brother.” With a quick wag of his head, Theo restrained his brother. “He’s all mine. Next time, he’s all yers.”
In one fluid motion, Theo made a fist the size of a boxcar and let it fly. It came at Stoner like a runaway freight train, and with nowhere to run, he stood waiting in the middle of the tracks for the crash.
Stoner didn’t have long to wait.
Theo’s solid punch landed just below Stoner’s solar plexus, knocking the wind out of him. Before he could gasp any air, the pavement reached up and whacked his chin. He saw stars twinkling against a darkening background. Once the ground found him, he curled up Roly-poly-wise, holding his gut.
“Looky ’im, Theo.” Leo laughed and pointed at Stoner, writhing on the ground. “All crumpled up like a pile of dirty laundry. Hold ’im up, so I can pop ’im a good one, too.”
“Not today, Leo. Ya’ll get yer chance tamorra.”
Leo smacked his palm with his fist, and a flock of birds roosting on the overhead phone lines took flight. “Ya always ruin my fun!”
Meanwhile, Stoner lay on the ground, faking some—but feeling most—and hoping Theo would knock off work early today. Theo bent close to his left ear and showered him with more onion and garlic-laced spittle.
“Here’s how it’s gonna be, pal. We was friendly and nice taday. But we’ll be back tamorra, and it’ll be Leo’s turn fer two more reminders ta pay up. Next day will be my turn fer three more, and we keep comin’ back till ya pay up. And if ya can count that high, pal, ya ain’t gonna be feelin’ too good in a week... If ya last that long.”
Stoner was as quiet as a mouse, not moving a muscle.
“Get the picture, Stoner? Huh?”
Leo leaned closer and watched Stoner’s facial expressions. “He’s too dumb ta figure it out.”
Stoner nodded, showing the apes he’d reached his limit.
“See, Leo, Stoner ain’t so dumb after all.”
“Is, too. He’s dumber than he looks.” Leo narrowed his eyes and raised his eyebrows as he watched Stoner. “He’s fakin’. Fakin’, I’m tellin’ ya.”
“No, he ain’t. He got the message, all right.” Theo wagged his head. “One look’d tell ya.”
“Don’t believe ’im. Ya should’ve hit ‘im harder. That’s all I’m sayin’.”
“Wait yer turn, brother.”
Theo turned and signaled to the gorillas at the office building.
Figuring Theo’s punch had ended today’s beating, Stoner got to his hands and knees. But Leo’s walnut-sized brain must have decided Stoner was faking his pain and let him have it with his size twelve in the forehead, knocking him against the wall.
“Not in the face, Leo!” Theo grabbed Leo’s arm. “Aim for the gut... Like this.”
Theo’s size thirteen landed square in Stoner’s mid-drift. Now, he wasn’t faking anything: he hurt from his head to his toes. The gorillas arrived in time to join the party.
“What we miss?” the first gorilla said.
“Nuthin’ much,” Theo said. “Just showin’ Stoner how we collect Sid’s debts.”
After they yucky-yucked standing over him, Theo said, “Let’s blow befer we draw a crowd.”
“Yeah. Blow,” Leo said.
He bent close to Stoner’s ear. “Be seeing ya tomorrow, chump.” As he stood to leave, he said, “And if ya don’t have that C-note... Ya know what’s comin’.” He slammed his hand with a tight fist to drive the point home.
Then the foursome hightailed it and left Stoner lying on the pavement.
Hopelessly outnumbered and out of his league, Stoner clenched his jaw, gritted his teeth, and swore. But he didn’t move, couldn’t move. Instead, he swallowed his pride, which came easy, considering he had no dignity left. He waited for the worst of his pain to subside, dusted himself off, and felt above his right eye. Sticky blood oozed from a cut.
Stoner stumbled to his workplace across the street and headed for the washroom. After splashes of water, he was better, but a glance in the mirror told his morning’s story: matching scars.
