The Book of Extraordinary Amateur Sleuth and Private Eye Stories Page 7

  I typed in a website address and stared at the screen. “According to the database, you’ve been sued over twenty times. And lost. Ouch. Big time. ‘Legal’ and ‘ironclad’ might not be the best words to use, Art. Coercion, duress, misdirection, ethically challenged, those are the words which occur to me.”

  “You a lawyer?”

  I grimaced. “Mom didn’t allow such creatures in the house. And I was raised to respect my mother.”

  “Those contracts were different. And we didn’t lose.” He shuddered. “We settled. And my ethnicity has never been called into question.”

  “These cases don’t look like they’re distinguishable from Mr. Dunphy’s. So what are you willing to settle upon him?”

  A look of cunning flitted across Delahanty’s face. “Are you empowered to negotiate binding terms for him?” He glanced around my office. “Your time must be valuable. We’d be willing to pay a substantial—” A pigeon lit on the windowsill, deposited a juicy load which hit the floor with a splat, then flew off. “A nominal amount for your services.”

  I smiled. “What’s a nominal amount, Art?”

  He quickly checked a printout. “Say, five thousand.”

  Seeing my face, he added, “Plus expenses, of course.” I thought I heard him mutter, like for a cleaning service, but I ignored it.

  “Hmmm. Five K plus.” My eyes wandered to the ceiling. A small red light, indiscernible by Art, stared down at me. Good. The remote A/V camera was working. My oldest son hadn’t disabled it yet this week.

  “Sounds like a pittance, Art.” I dropped my eyes to his face. “Sounds like an opening offer. A pretty insulting one.”

  “We could go as high as ten. Plus.”

  “What’s in it for Mr. Dunphy?”

  He held the printout at arm’s length and puffed out his chest. For a moment, I was afraid he might emulate the flying rat and deposit his own billet-doux. “We’re prepared to give Mr. Dunphy, once he signs all releases, the sum of $24,000.”

  I tapped the monitor. “These cases, Art, also list the judgments, or settlements, if you prefer. Twenty-four is a drop in the bucket.” I punched in another website and pointed to the screen. “You guys stand to make millions. The cartoon alone will spawn a juvie movie mega-hit. I’ll tell Mr. Dunphy, of course, but in my opinion that offer needs to be a lot sweeter.”

  He replaced the printout in the briefcase and snapped the locks. “I’ll take that back to the principal. You’ll hear from me.”

  I reported the offer to Walter, fended off his premature gratitude, and returned to deconstructing the traditional cozy.

  ***

  Overnight, the pigeon poop had dried to a sticky mess. I sighed and pulled paper towels, disinfectant cleanser, two resource books, a can of WD-40, and a sandwich from my purse. It took an hour to biodegrade the cracked linoleum.

  Dunphy burst into my office. “Do you know what they’re offering now?”

  I looked up from the keyboard. “Was Lord Peter a duke, or was that his brother?”

  “I don’t know! I write children’s books!”

  I closed out and turned to Dunphy. His sparse hair was wilder than on Monday. Veins throbbed under the bluish skin on his neck. His hands shook.

  “Fifty thousand! They’ll give me fifty thousand dollars!” He dropped onto the chair. It rocked, but stayed upright.

  I noted the amount on the file. “Who made the offer?”

  “Their lawyer. Delahatty or something.” His eyes closed. “I haven’t made that much on all my books put together. I can quit working at the RTA and write full time.”

  “Did he phone you?”

  Dunphy opened his eyes. “No. He came to my apartment. I was just sitting down to supper.” His eyes closed again in ecstasy. “Now I can afford beef. I really hate soy burgers.”

  “Soy is an excellent source of protein and calcium. It also helps ease some symptoms of menopause.” I eyed Dunphy. “In your case, it couldn’t hurt.”

  A small bubble of spit appeared in one corner of his mouth.

  “Hey, Wally! Wake up! Time enough for erotic bovine dreams later. Did you sign anything?”

  He sat up. “I learned my lesson, Miss Gore. Delabunny shoved papers at me, but I told him I wasn’t signing anything without clearing it with you first.”

  “You have learned well, grasshopper. Did he say why they would pay that much?”

  “My publisher is willing to pay me,” he gulped, “fifty thousand dollars as a kind of a bonus.”

  I snorted. Money was flooding in faster than springtime backwater in a Louisiana bayou. Edacity must have wanted to avoid another lawsuit like politicians avoid clear sentences.

  “Let me talk to him again. I think you can do better.”

  Dunphy goggled at me. “Better? Are you crazy? I’ll take it!”

  “Walter,” I said patiently, “think. He offered twenty-four thousand yesterday afternoon. Then he offered fifty last evening. By Friday you could outstrip the Sultan of Brunei.”

  “I don’t want to blow the deal.” Big time wheeler-dealer. This from a man who couldn’t be bothered running his contracts past the Union advisor.

  “I won’t blow it for you, Walter, I promise. Let me talk to him one more time. Then our guy will look over the releases and you’ll get your money.”

  Walter finally agreed. As the door creaked closed behind him, I accessed my book and plunged back into teatime at the vicarage.

  ***

  “He’s begging for trouble,” Delahanty snarled across my meager Thursday afternoon snack. “How will it look? Headlines screaming Children’s author gouges publisher! Kiddie writer reneges on contract! He’ll never publish another Dick and Jane. Get him to sign the releases.”

  He waved two checks under my nose. I noticed the one bearing my name had increased by quite a sizeable sum. I waved them away. “You know what they say, Art. Any publicity’s good publicity, as long as they spell his name right.”

  “He can’t eat publicity. And you’re supposed to get the best deal possible for your members,” Delahanty growled. “This is it. Get him to sign. Take the checks. Then Edacity’s happy, I’m happy, Wally’s happy, and you’re happy.”

  “Happiness is relative, unless your relatives live next door,” I said. “And he doesn’t like to be called Wally, Art.”

  Delahanty’s flush subsided. “Hot bull spit, pardon my French, it’s more than reasonable. He walks away with a hundred thousand. You pocket twenty thousand. We all go our merry ways. That makes sense to you, surely.”

  “What makes sense is that you’re hot to trot on buying off Mr. Dunphy and me. Too hot. And don’t call me Shirley.”

  “We have to carpe diem. With juvenile books you never know how long you’ll be popular. The little bast— ah, darlings have the attention span of an aged gnat.”

  I took the releases. They were longer than the original contract. They covered almost every possibility, including print runs on other planets.

  I looked up. “I think your offer is pretty good.” Delahanty let out his breath. “I’ll take this to Mr. Dunphy tonight. Let’s talk tomorrow, say, ten-ish?”

  “Bring Mr. Dunphy to the publisher’s office,” he countered. “He can sign the releases and while they’re being notarized and copied, we can celebrate. Punch and donut holes all right?”

  “Faboo, Art. Now let me get to work.”

  As soon as he left, I ate a cookie and inspiration struck. Unfortunately, it wasn’t for my book. I called my younger daughter, who immediately started squealing excitement. After a few more calls, I carefully leaned back and smiled. For once, the chair didn’t squeak.

  ***

  Friday dawned bright and clear. The ozone index was lower, the pollen count was down, and pigeon droppings were, well, dropping. Walter stuffed a donut hole in his mouth and scrib
bled his signature on the last page. I brushed off powdered sugar before handing it to Delahanty. The publisher sat a mile away behind his desk and beamed at us. At least, it looked like beaming. It was hard to tell. The red glow from his eyes hindered my vision.

  I swigged punch as Art handed over one check with Walter’s name and six figures on it. I swallowed and said, “If it were done when ’tis done, ’twere well it were done quickly.”

  Walter and Art looked at me. “What the heck does that mean?” Wally asked. A hundred thousand dollars had shifted his voice several octaves lower. Or maybe it was the beef.

  I put down my plastic cup, met the publisher’s glare, and said, “It means let’s hustle to the bank, Wally, and cash that check.”

  “Afraid it’s no good, Miss Gore?” Art sneered. ”Or anxious for your cut?”

  “Saving this poor man’s ranch from you, Snidely Whiplash, is the only reward I need.” Not my best exit line, but close.

  I bustled Walter to the bank, saw the check transformed into cash, helped him open a money market account, then scooted back to the office. The faint voice of my muse could be heard above the racketing trains and belching buses.

  ***

  Two weeks later, my door burst open. I quickly swung my feet off my desk. I had worn a skirt that day and didn’t want anyone looking up my old address.

  Delahanty started yelling before my feet hit the floor.

  “We had a deal! He signed the releases! You helped him cash the check!”

  “Why, Mr. Delahanty! You’re so attractive when you scream.”

  He pounded on my desk, sending papers and puffs of dust flying. “I’ll have you in court so fast your head will spin! Did you really think you could get away with it?”

  “Get away with what?” I asked demurely.

  “Wally, with your nefarious help, cut a deal with a cookie manufacturer. All kinds of cookies. Plain, frosted, filled, chock full o’ nuts, you name it. All chocolate! All shaped like underpants!”

  I shrugged. “So? Wally likes cookies. And please remember, he doesn’t like to be called Wally.”

  “We own that character! We own all rights!”

  I pulled Walter’s file from the blessedly silent drawer. Several pigeons cooed on the windowsill. Darn. Had to get something else to shoo them away. Maybe I could find a cat.

  “Says here, Edacity has the rights to the character and all publications, whether print, animated, digital, Web, or live action, in all languages in all mediums, whether now known or to be developed.”

  “Right! So how can he sell his character to a cookie company?”

  I snapped the file shut. “He didn’t.”

  “Did too!”

  I handed a copy of Walter’s newest contract to Art. “Show me where he sold the character. Or the town where the character lives. Or any pertinent detail of the character or the book.”

  “Underpants!” he screamed. “He sold the underpants!”

  As his voice crescendoed, the pigeons flapped away in terror, leaving behind a badly soiled sill.

  “The character doesn’t wear underpants,” I pointed out.

  “That’s right! That’s the whole shtick! And the cookies are shaped like little Y-fronts!”

  “You can’t copyright a shape in literature. You ought to know that,” I scolded.

  “But everyone will associate the cookies with the character.”

  “Prove it. The character’s name isn’t on the cookies or the box. The book title won’t be on anything. There’s nothing to associate the cookies with the book. And even though my daughter and other children love the idea, Walter can’t control what the kids might think.”

  “His endorsement is on it! The box, the cookies, the promotional literature! Slathered all over! And you put him up to it! I’m suing you, Wally, the Union, the cookie maker, the box manufacturer, the lawyer who drafted this contract—”

  “I’ve told you for the last time.” Art’s mouth snapped shut at my tone. “He doesn’t like to be called Wally. And I’m telling you for the first and last time. You didn’t get food rights. Your contract language and your releases are specific and detailed. But you neglected to include food rights.”

  “It was contemplated by all parties that the rights—”

  “Contemplation, shmontemplation.” Boy, that was hard to say, but I managed without overtly spitting all over Art. “A judge will take one look at the four corners and rule that if you covered everything which you did cover, you also should have put in comestibles.”

  “We’ll eat up that hundred thousand he banked and every penny he hopes to earn from that crummy contract. I’ll tie him up in court till the day he dies.”

  “That’s the way the cookie crumbles, Art. But I suggest you take a deep breath before running to the courthouse.” I pointed to the ceiling.

  Art stared up blindly, then noticed the tiny red light. He looked at me.

  I nodded. “From your first step into this office up to this moment, a camera is recording every word, every threat.” He looked around wildly.

  “No, the camera isn’t here, Art. It’s at a security office.” I crossed my fingers under my desk and hoped Art wasn’t smart enough to figure out I couldn’t afford a security firm.

  “And it also has you,” I continued, “on tape trying to bribe a Union official. Did you know that’s a federal offense?”

  His expression grew ugly. “You coerced Walter into holding out for more money. A grievance officer isn’t supposed to do that. You pushed him into signing a cookie contract you knew was shaky at best. The Union will kick you out and the notorious publicity will keep every reputable publisher from touching you.”

  I spread out my hands. “I had Walter’s full and informed consent for every step I took. Our contracts guy and the cookie lawyer cleared Wally’s deal. Also, reputable publishers aren’t really in your purview, Art. And like I said before, any publicity…”

  He chewed his lip a while, then picked up his briefcase and slammed out.

  The pigeons returned, twisting their heads back and forth before deciding the nasty loud man was gone, then started cooing again. I accessed my novel and scrolled down to where the village gossip had just had her neck wrung by an as-yet unknown, even to me, miscreant. Ah, bliss, thy name is writing.

  Look for the Silver Lining

  David Stuart Davies

  A Johnny One Eye story

  As a private investigator in wartime London, I can’t be too choosy when it comes to the character of my clients. Times are hard enough without developing too many sensibilities about the riff-raff that cross my threshold. I need my spam and dried eggs to hold body and soul together just as much as the next man. So when I received an urgent summons from Harry Blackledge, I didn’t think twice about slipping on my hat and coat and high-tailing it round to his office near White City. As far as I knew Blackledge was not a crook, but he was as shady as the biggest apple tree. He had more operations going on at the same time than a Harley Street surgeon, but I knew that his main interest was the dogs—greyhound racing. And indeed it was about the dogs that he’d requested my help. Or one dog in particular.

  I was shown into his untidy office by a sharp-suited, sharp-faced minion who could have swapped features with a ferret any day and no one would have been the wiser.

  Blackledge was on the telephone. He was a large man in his early forties with a ruddy damp complexion and bulging blue eyes, a candidate for a heart attack if ever I saw one. His pudgy fingers grasped the receiver tightly as he bellowed at the caller on the other end. “I don’t care if your grandmother is ill. I don’t care if she’s got bubonic plague, get the matter sorted… or I’ll sort you!”

  He slammed the receiver down, his face ablaze with anger. For a moment, he didn’t register my presence. When he did, his expression did not change.

 
; “Who the hell are you?” he glowered.

  “John Hawke, private detective. You wanted to see me.”

  “So I did.” He took a run at a smile, but aimed short. His mouth turned into a weird grimace. “I’ve got a problem, Hawke. Silver Lining has gone missing.”

  “Silver Lining?”

  “My champion greyhound. She’s due to race on Saturday in the Frampton Cup at White City, and the damn animal’s disappeared.”

  “She’s gone walkies?”

  “If I wanted a bloody comedian, I could have hired Max Miller. Look, some bastard has pinched the dog to stop her racing. They’re out to ruin me. I have a packet on Silver. If she doesn’t run, I will be seriously damaged. I want you to find her.”

  “What does she look like?” I found myself asking, as though I could tell one greyhound from the next.

  Blackledge pulled a framed print from his desk drawer and handed it to me. It was easy to see why the dog had been named Silver Lining: it had a black coat with a distinctive gray streak running down its back.

  “You’ve not contacted the police, I suppose,” I said, handing the picture back.

  Blackledge sneered. “You suppose right. I don’t want the coppers crawling over my property. They might discover something to my disadvantage. Now, do you want the job or not?”

  “You’d better tell me all about it,” I said, extracting a Craven A from a very crushed packet.

  “Not much to tell. The dog is kenneled with the rest of my hounds.”

  “Where is that?”

  Blackledge narrowed his gobstopper eyes. It was obvious that he was not predisposed to reveal the whereabouts of his doggy domain, but realized with chagrin that he would have to if I was to investigate the matter. “I have a place on Warwick Road, Battersea,” he said at length. When Charlie, my trainer, came to give the hounds their morning exercise today, Silver was missing. Her kennel was empty.”

  “Had it been broken into?”

  “No. That was the strange thing about it. It was still locked.”

  “Looks like an inside job?”