Small Wonder

By Stan James

San Francisco Private Detective Simon Pardue has a new client who wants our hero to find her husband's killer. As he and his friends - secretary Sally Fuller, new employee and former homicide detective, Joe Blow, a sheep dog and a ferret who have recently come into his life - tackle the problem he finds that a few rare coins are added to the mystery as well as a detective sergeant who thinks that Simon could very well be the murderer. Can Simon evade the cops looking for blood and track down the killer before he becomes one of the victims? Stay tuned.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Stan James
• Release date: Nov 10, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005939861

Stan James

Stan James is a Nevada resident, 80 years old as of 2020, and a Navy veteran. Having labored as a self-employed business owner and, for awhile, an employee and a manager in a Lake Tahoe casino, his working life has kept his literary endeavors to a minimum. He currently owns a business (Puzzle Junction.com) with his wife, Kathi, whereby they construct and supply crosswords and other word and number puzzles to clients all across the US and around the world in countries such as Canada, India, England, the Cayman Islands, and elsewhere. Their puzzles appear in some in-flight magazines as well as numerous student publications for colleges and universities.The Hot Client was originally written over 30 years ago under a different title and re-written last year for publication. As of this date (2020-2021) Stan has a sequel in the works for The Hot Client as well as six other projects that have been taking up space on his computer for some time. Hopefully, these will also make it to publication in the near future.

Book preview

Small Wonder

By

Stan James

Copyright ©2022 Stan James

All rights reserved.

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To Kathi

My Rock

With honorable mention to

Stretch & Sara

Our lovable little Doxies

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This is a work of fiction.

Any resemblance to folks living, dead or in the animal kingdom is entirely coincidental.

Chapter One

In Which Simon Pardue Tossed and Turned

And Sally Forgot To Knock

A dapper little seagull stood quietly at the water’s edge and blinked repeatedly at his good fortune. Not one to quibble over the source of his morning meal, this seagull recognized a bonanza when he saw one; and the sight of a half eaten bag of corn chips lying conveniently on the sand only a few feet away was too good to be true. It wasn’t every day that the gods provided sustenance without first insisting that a gull splash around in the water, diving first hither then thither before being rewarded with a tasty fish, a small crustacean or a tender insect. That was work. This, reflected the gull, was more like it.

Keeping a wary eye on his competition which consisted of a few dozen or so common gulls like himself, a couple of squawking kittiwakes, a seal who had decided to rest on the shore before going back into the friendly waters of the Pacific to join his relatives, and a medium sized dog who seemed to be waiting for the gulls to drop some food so that he could join in on the banquet, the seagull nonchalantly inched his way toward the target, hoping that the predators further down the beach were too preoccupied with fending off each other to notice the manna from heaven that swayed ever so slightly in the breeze. The gull knew that any sudden move would attract dozens of his hungry relatives that always kept their eyes open for anything out of the ordinary – especially a member of their own kind who had no interest in joining them for their morning ritual. Our gull had been in their shoes before, and he knew how they thought. Well, the hell with them. They could catch and eat fish all day for all he cared. The chips were his, and his alone.

Through the mist and fog that was beginning to disburse, he noticed that the bag of chips had come to rest against a puny, wizened and particularly unattractive log. He wondered what would happen if he suddenly took to the air, landed on the log, and pretended to preen his feathers. Would the suspicious gulls and kittiwakes at the other end of the beach suspect his motives? Or would they turn a blind eye on him, thinking that he was on a diet? Would they think that he was anti-social? Or just plain loony?

Anxiety was beginning to set in. The gull realized that the window of opportunity was closing, that it was only a matter of time before he was found out. The sooner he got the chips, the more he would get to eat before his brethren down the beach realized that he had found the mother lode and flew down to take his breakfast. He had to act now.

Flapping his wings, he took to the air and dropped effortlessly onto the log.

So far, so good.

The bag was directly below his right foot. It would now be a simple matter of bending forward to procure a chip. To the gulls foraging to the north, it would appear that he was simply dislodging a speck of sand from one of his gray feathers. This was too easy.

Or so it seemed.

Having forgotten to keep tabs on the sky above, the gull was abruptly reminded of his tactical error when, without warning, a newcomer soaring overhead spotted the goodies and let out a screech that sent a message to every other gull on the beach that food – the type that didn’t try to swim away – had been discovered in the vicinity, and that it was about to be eaten by a greedy, selfish, low-life member of the species who could care less about his fellow foragers and was probably part pelican, anyway.

Desperately seizing a chip, the gull took to the sky before his feathered relations could exact retribution. In less time than it takes a sea otter to crack open a clam shell, the log and the bag of corn chips were inundated with seagulls. The noise was deafening. Chaos prevailed. There was seagull shit everywhere.

The seal at the other end of the beach peered at the gulls and shook his head. As far as he was concerned, all the excitement over a lousy bag of chips was – well, it was for the birds. The black and white dog, on the other hand, found the scent of chips appealing, even from fifty feet away, and he followed the gulls and the kittiwakes to the source of the odor.

And then the log suddenly moved. It trembled, heaved, shook and rolled over. Panic ensued. The gulls were not used to logs that trembled, heaved, shook and rolled over under their webbed feet. This extraordinary phenomenon sent them screeching and squawking into the early morning fog where more than a few of them found that two bodies could not occupy the same space at the same time, which caused a number of feathers to come floating down to the beach to land in the brackish water. The corn chips were all but forgotten by the birds but not by the hungry hound; he stopped long enough to relieve himself on the log and then made a grab for the chips.

What the hell! bellowed the log, throwing off the contaminated blanket that had concealed the existence of the man sleeping beneath it. What’s all over my …?

It didn’t take long to figure it out.

Oh, yuck! Yuck, yuck, yuck! I’m covered in bird shit!

Leaping to his feet, the man began to swat feverishly at his face and hair, all the while spitting out remnants of the white goo that had trickled into his mouth. To the casual observer, if there had been one, he appeared to be beating himself unmercifully, first slapping himself in the face, then trying unsuccessfully to tear the hair out of his head. Each time he spit, he would then slap himself in the mouth before jumping up and down from the pain he felt from the blow to his kisser. Finally he ceased his self-mutilation and took off running toward the water where he fell to his knees and lowered his head just as a crushing wave broke over him. The cold salt water engulfed his entire torso, stung his eyes, ran up his nose and sent him floundering into the pounding surf. He emerged cleaner, but with a mouthful of sand and an intense hatred of seagulls, which just goes to show that not everyone is as kind and gracious as was John James Audubon when it came to bird watching.

Meanwhile, having finished off the bag of chips, the dog sat down on the sand and scratched his ear. He couldn’t understand why the man was thrashing around in the water and beating himself over the head and spitting and swearing, so he got up and wandered over to the man and began licking the man’s face. Maybe a little kindness would cause this human to quit acting like a dumb cat.

Go away, said the man. Stop doing that.

Oh, the man wasn’t crazy after all. He could talk. I’ll try again.

And try again he did. The dog placed his paws on the man’s shoulders and licked like he had never licked before. His tongue found the man’s neck, his ears, his eyes, his nose, and his mouth. And before the man could push him away, he jumped onto the man’s stomach and flattened him in the rolling surf.

What is wrong with you, dog? the man cried, freeing himself from the affectionate hound. Are you crazy?

The dog backed off. He sat and waited for his new friend to get up.

Simon Pardue, dripping wet and not in the best of moods, got to his feet, looked down at his tormentor, and stumbled back to the blanket under which he had spent the night.

***

The janitor leaned against the wall in the basement of the run-down apartment house and took a last drag off his cigarette before chucking it into the bucket of water by the furnace. Then he walked over to his desk, which was actually an old interior door placed on two short file cabinets, one at either end, and sat down and opened the morning paper which he had stolen from outside the door of the tenant in 3A. A single naked bulb hung over the desk and cast ominous shadows behind the boiler and the cleaning supplies stacked up at the other end of the basement. There wasn’t much money in being the janitor of a dilapidated apartment building in a less than upstanding district of San Francisco, but since he wasn’t qualified to be a brain surgeon or an ophthalmologist, he had to be content with the job that he had.

After thumbing through the want ads and the comics, he folded the newspaper and tossed it into the wastepaper basket next to his makeshift desk. Then he drained the rest of the coffee from his thermos and stood up.

Guess I should get to work, he said aloud, placing his dilapidated cap on his bald head.

Moving slowly over to the furnace, which hadn’t been used since the last cold day of spring, the janitor had decided that today was the day when he would clean it out and get it ready for fall. To this end he gathered his tools, his commercial vacuum, and his rags and placed them at the front of the old gas furnace. He removed the grill that housed the filters and placed it upright against the wall.

Filthy, he said out loud.

His next step was to find the new filters that he had purchased. Scratching his head, he remembered that they were in the cabinet near the boiler. He shuffled over to the cabinet and opened the door. To his utter astonishment, a man stood in the cabinet looking back out at him with the dullest gray eyes he had ever seen.

Hey! You can’t be in there, he gurgled, peering into the cabinet through the dim light of the basement. Whacha think yer doing?

There was no reply.

Here, said the janitor, taking hold of the man’s sleeve. Come on out of there.

Still no response.

C’mon, now, the maintenance man ordered, tugging on the sleeve.

This time the man in the cabinet budged. In fact, he more than budged. He came out of the cabinet like a statue being tipped over, and he landed on his face on the grime-encrusted basement floor.

What’s yer problem? asked the janitor.

And then he saw it. The knife. It was firmly embedded in the man’s back and it left no doubt in the janitor’s mind that the man in the cabinet was as cold as yesterday’s news.

***

The office of the Last Great Private Detective Detective Agency was located on a side street just a few doors down from Geary in an upscale section of San Francisco, California. It was on the second floor above the Gay Caballero Bar and Grill & Foosball Emporium, a popular gay bar for midgets below. The rent was high, but Simon Pardue had no complaints as his last case had provided much needed capital. It had allowed him to hire an assistant who had once patrolled the streets of San Francisco as a police officer and who was now retired; and it had also given him the wherewithal to buy an engagement ring for Sally Fuller, his secretary and long suffering girl friend. He was on top of the world. Until this morning, that is.

You look like shit, Sally said, glancing up from her desk and noticing his wrinkled wet suit, his disheveled hair, his bloodshot eyes and the shoes he carried in his hands. I told you not to follow that guy to the beach. What happened?

I fell asleep while he and that hooker were bouncing around under their blanket, he said dejectedly. When I woke up they were gone.

You didn’t get a picture?

Oh, I got a picture alright. A bunch, actually.

Well, that’s good.

Not really, he groaned. I lost them.

The pictures?

Yes, when I lost my phone.

Sally frowned. Her face, framed by honey blonde curls and accentuated by sparkling light brown eyes, wore an expression of disbelief. How’d you lose your phone? she asked.

Well …

Come on.

It fell in the ocean.

How’d that happen?

I jumped in with it in my hand. I tried to clean up after I got shit on, he admitted, by a hundred crazy seagulls. They crapped on my head, on my blanket, on my shoes, on my face …

Sally stared at her fiancée. Her lips quivered. Her bewildered expression disappeared. Her face lit up like a Chinese lantern. She could hold it no longer. Resting her head on her desk, she began to tremble as sounds of unbridled hilarity escaped from beneath her face and filled the room with a cacophony of sound that caused Simon to drop his shoes and place his hands over his ears.

I’m glad you think it’s funny, he growled, peeling off his waterlogged jacket.

Sally sat up, but the smirk on her face remained. Then she looked to her left and the smirk was replaced by a look of consternation. What is that? she asked, pointing.

Something resembling a dog had quietly entered the office. It was black with white highlights and with what looked to be seaweed hanging off one ear. It was about 2 feet tall at the shoulder and appeared to weigh about 35 pounds. Its eyes were dark and its tail was medium-long. There was a white stripe from the top of its head to its nose, and it had white around its neck and chest. And it sat and peered lovingly at the girl sitting at the desk.

It’s a dog, Simon said. What does it look like?

It looks like something the cat dragged in, Sally informed him. Get rid of it.

Simon frowned. He wasn’t a dog person, but he wasn’t going to send the little bugger back to the beach to look for food. I can’t, he said.

Why not?

He’s homeless. He was following the seagulls hoping to find food.

Oh. Sally softened. Well, she said, smiling, I guess it wouldn’t hurt to fatten him up a bit before we find him a home.

Exactly. We’ll find him a nice home with some nice people with some nice kids. Having won that round, Simon asked, Where’s Joe?

He’s in your office, waiting for you. Sally reached into her desk and found a box of peanut butter crackers that she kept there for snacks. She took one out of the box, bent down and offered it to the dog. Here, buddy, she called, Want a cookie?

Simon mumbled something under his breath that, if uttered out loud, would have gotten him kicked in the shins. He picked up his shoes, turned and hastened into his office.

Joe Blow was sitting at his desk, a huge, unlit cigar clamped tightly between his teeth and a dilapidated fedora perched casually on the back of his shiny cranium. The hat concealed most of his bald spot but it could not conceal the tufts of red hair that poked out from above and behind his ears.

You look like shit, Joe said pleasantly, leaning back in Simon’s chair. Is it raining out?

Do you and Sally rehearse before I get here? Simon asked petulantly, ignoring Joe’s question as he tossed his shoes into a corner and sat down in one of the chairs usually reserved for clients.

Joe frowned. Rehearse? I don’t get it.

Never mind. Anything new on the Birkenhoff case?

Yep.

Oh, well. I guess we’ll just have to – what did you say?

Yep, Joe reiterated.

There’s something new on the Birkenhoff case?

That’s what I said.

Simon was surprised. He knew that Joe was following Cyrus Birkenhoff, since the man’s wife had hired them to get the goods on her philandering husband, but he hadn’t expected anything to come of it since the man was one sneaky bastard who obviously knew that his wife was suspicious. Well? he prodded.

I followed the old goat last night, Joe said, moving the cigar from one side of his mouth to the other. Guess where he went.

I don’t want to guess, Simon said, frowning. Tell me.

Joe relented. He knew that Simon’s lousy moods usually coincided with multiple parking tickets, fights with Sally, or the fact that his boss was less than thrilled that he, Joe, had a habit of using Simon’s desk instead of sitting at his own desk in the outer office.

He went to a run-down apartment house over on Stillwell, Joe confided. It’s only a block away from that cheap hotel, the Cozy Sheet & Bedboard, where Moses Gaffney was murdered a few years back. I remember that case – it was right before I retired …"

What about Birkenhoff? Simon interrupted, hoping that Joe would get back on track and not go on and on about his career as a homicide detective.

Oh, yeah. He went into the apartment house and spent the night – probably with a hooker. I guess his wife was right, huh?

Did he?

What?

Spend the night, Simon urged.

I suppose.

Don’t you know?

I was out in the car, Joe said defensively. I watched him go in and I didn’t see him come back out.

You fell asleep, didn’t you? Simon felt guilty asking him that since he, himself, had suffered the same fate on the beach; but he didn’t feel it necessary to share that tidbit with Joe. Didn't you? he repeated.

It was late, Joe countered. I gotta get some rest if you expect me to work all night.

Yeah. Simon pursed his lips. He knew Joe had been a good cop and he realized that Joe was getting older, so he softened his approach. So Birkenhoff went to a sleazy apartment building and probably spent the night with someone not his spouse. But since we have no proof of that, what do we tell his wife?

Joe shrugged. This is tougher than working homicide, he lamented.

Simon lit a cigarette. Then he remembered that Joe hated smoke, which was why he never lit his cigar, so he crushed the cigarette in the ash tray on the desk. I guess we’re right back were we started, he grumbled.

"How’d you do following that guy who likes to go to the beach with his floozies?" Joe asked, changing the subject.

Simon cringed. Okay, he lied through his teeth.

The door opened and Sally strolled into the office without knocking. She immediately noticed the gloom that hung over the room like an inversion over the bay. What’s the matter? she asked, looking at the two detectives. You guys run out of bullets again?

Don’t you ever knock? Simon complained.

Once in awhile, Sally replied, hands on her hips, but only at home or in the car. She grinned, knowing that she was getting under Simon’s skin. I do remember knocking once about three years ago when we were stuck in that elevator on the twenty-third floor of the Biltmore, but other than that …

Enough!

Joe cackled. He was enjoying this.

Simon got up, reclaimed his shoes, and was about to tell Joe that his private office was off limits when the phone rang. Sally answered it. It’s Mrs. Birkenhoff, she said, handing the phone to Simon.

Simon grabbed the phone. Pardue here, he said into the receiver. What can we do for you today?

The crackling of the woman’s voice could be heard across the room but although Sally and Joe could not make out what was being said they were able to recognize the excitement in the woman’s voice. Simon held the receiver a few inches from his left ear and said yes and sure and really a half-dozen times, and then said Good-bye once and hung up.

Are we fired? Joe asked.

Simon didn’t answer. Instead he plopped down into the chair he had been occupying and stared at the ceiling, the slightest trace of a smile on his lips.

Well? Sally probed. What was that all about?

That was Mrs. Birkenhoff, Simon said.

We know that! Sally resumed her stance with her hands on her hips. Unless you want to sleep in the car tonight, you will get to the point.

Simon ignored her. He turned to Joe. What time did you see Birkenhoff go into that apartment house last night? he queried.

About nine.

And he went in alone?

Yeah. I told you that.

And you didn’t see him leave?

Nope.

Well, Simon said, relishing the fact that he had the complete attention of his two tormentors, he didn’t come out. In fact, he’s still there.

How do you know that? Sally asked.

I know that, Simon replied, standing and rubbing his hands together, because Mrs. Birkenhoff has just informed me that her chubby little husband – the inimitable Cyrus D. Birkenhoff – has been found murdered. His body was discovered this morning by the janitor of the same apartment building that Joe followed him to last night. And, he added, smiling like the Cheshire cat on a day when all the mice under its roof strolled out of their little cubbyholes and stood before him asking to be eaten, she wants us to investigate. We’ve got ourselves a nifty murder case, my friends and colleagues, and a nice big, fat, juicy retainer.

Chapter Two

In Which Mr. Czhoric Told a Story

And Sally Introduced Herself to Mr. Birkenhoff

The apartment house where Cyrus Birkenhoff had allegedly met his death was a ramshackle building held together by a few pieces of chewing gum and an abundance of sheer luck. Known as the Benchley Arms from its inception during the time of the California gold rush, the ancient building was now a relic of bygone days, wallowing in its own unpleasant antiquity. There had been cries over the past two decades to tear it down and replace it with a new apartment building that would offer modern conveniences for those with bank accounts large enough to afford such luxury, but an elderly woman who was related to a federal judge and who regarded it as a national treasure petitioned the Secretary of the Interior to have it labeled as an historical landmark. And when it was so designated over eighteen years ago, the building became a permanent fixture and a deteriorating eyesore, unable to be torn down.

Nice place, Sally said as she followed Simon into the building. Hope it doesn’t fall down while we’re in there.

Simon shook his head. Joe should be doing this, he said, tossing his cigarette into the gutter. It’s his case.

You know how he hates to look at dead bodies, Sally reminded him. He has a weak stomach.

He was a homicide cop for thirty-five freaking years, for God’s sake! He should be used to looking at dead bodies by now.

He told me that looking at them for so long finally caught up to him. He said that he even feels nauseous when he sees them on TV in one of those fake crime shows.

"Fake?’

Well, Sally informed him, they look fake to him. I mean, how can a cop solve the crime in less than sixty minutes? And with commercials, and all. Joe says it’s all fake.

Simon suddenly stopped walking and turned around. He walked back to the entrance and peered up and down the street.

What are you doing? Sally asked, coming up behind him. Aren’t we going in?

Is it just my imagination, he said, ignoring her questions, or is something wrong with this picture?

What picture?

There are no police cars out here. There’s no ambulance or coroner’s vehicle.

Oh.

There’s nothing.

Do you think we arrived too late?

Simon shrugged. Let’s go inside, he said. Maybe we can find the janitor who discovered the body.

They went back inside and found the stairs leading down to the basement. There was only one dim bulb in the stairwell, so they carefully negotiated the steps until they reached the bottom where they were met by a man in dirty coveralls and an even dirtier baseball cap that had long ago lost the logo of the team it represented.

Wow, the man said through a mustache and beard that helped to hide the yellow teeth that lived behind them. That was fast. I just called two minutes ago.

You called?

Yeah. You guys. The cops, said the janitor.

You mean you hadn’t called the police until just now?

Whatta ya think? I just now found the body.

Two minutes ago?

Ain’t that what I said? He looked to Sally for confirmation. Ain’t it?

Sally nodded. That’s what you said, Mr., er …

Czhoric, said Mr. Czhoric with justifiable pride. Filbert Czhoric.

Like the nut? Simon asked.

Hey, watch yer mouth, Sonny.

Sorry.

Yer should be.

Sally stepped between Simon and Filbert before punches could be thrown and asked, Where is the body, Mr., er, Shizzaroc?she mumbled.

Call me Fil, said Filbert. It’s over here. He led them to the cadaver on the cement floor. Found him in the closet, he informed them.

Simon bent down and examined the body without touching it. The knife planted in the man’s back was of the hunting variety, with a thick blade and a handle wrapped in leather. Do you know who this is? he asked Filbert.

Never saw him before, replied the janitor, although I don’t spend a lot of time upstairs during the day unless someone needs somethin', so I don’t meet the tenants much.

You think he was a tenant?

Filbert shrugged.

As Simon was about to stand up, he was suddenly startled to hear a booming voice calling his name. It was a voice that he recognized.

Pardue! the voice bellowed. Hold on there!

Simon stood. He turned around. A tall, thin man in a wrinkled suit and a