Double Trouble

By Paul Sinor

Johnny Morocco is a Private Investigator whose office is in a pool room in Atlanta, GA in the early 1950’s. His clients range from deadbeat pool hustlers, and loan sharks to some of the wealthiest and most influential people in the city.

Once again, Johnny is working for a prominent Atlanta attorney when his path crosses with that of Atlanta Police Detective Sergeant Jack Brewer. The friendly adversaries must work together to solve not one but two high profile cases that could make or break them both.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BWL Publishing Inc.
• Release date: May 1, 2023
• ISBN: 9780228624806

Paul Sinor

Paul Sinor is a retired US Army Lieutenant Colonel. He had two combat command tours during the Viet Nam War. His other positions in his diverse career ranged from company commander to being on the staff of the Secretary of Defense. His final military assignment was the Army Liaison to the Television and Film Industry in Los Angeles. He is an award-winning screenwriter with eight feature films made from scripts he wrote. In addition, he has been the Technical Advisor for numerous feature films, including Transformers 1-3, GI Joe, The Messenger, I Am Legend, The Objective, and The Invasion.

Book preview

Chapter 1

One never knew there had been a kidnapping until the person went missing and you received a ransom note. Atlanta attorney Roy Slater’s daughter, Annette, hadn’t been seen since she left for school on Friday. She planned to spend the night with a friend and attend a party the next night. It was the last Saturday night of the month. Three days later, Roy got the ransom note.

Chapter 2

A standard statement among the men seated around the room at Big Town, the second-floor pool room where Johnny Morocco had his office, was wait till April. That’s when baseball season started, and the serious gamblers made, and just as frequently lost, as much money as they had, could borrow, or in some cases steal.

It was opening day, and the Yankees played the Washington Senators. Every one of the tall, chrome stools with brown leather seats and backs was filled. Men sat around the walls, listening to several radios placed on shelves. Enough bets were being placed on every action of the game to keep the noise at a defining level. Bets were placed on each batter. Would they strike out, walk, get on base, hit a fly ball, or for a few, bets were on home runs. Not content to wait until the player’s fate was decided, each pitch called for a separate bet.

All this action took place in Big Town. The pool room was where anyone climbing the stairs knew they could get a cold beer, a steamed hot dog with enough chili on it to cause a week’s worth of heartburn, and a game of pool with the stakes as high as they could afford.

That was Johnny Morocco’s world.

The World War Two veteran left his hometown of West Palm Beach, Florida looking for what almost all the other veterans of the war were seeking: a new start. When he first arrived in Atlanta, he went by his birth name, Johnny McDonald. Johnny started by changing his name and using his Military Police background to obtain the license to own a private investigator business. After simply working from one of the stools in Big Town, he made a deal with the owner, a man everyone knew as Hockey Doc, to rent a small storage room that became his office.

Since most of his business came from the attorneys and businessmen who frequented Big Town during their lunchtime, it was a natural choice. Today, he sat on a stool across from table number seven. Every time Johnny passed that table, he had a momentary flashback to the morning he arrived to find a body on it. Little did he know at the time the dead man was a courier for the Dixie Mafia and had been carrying an enormous sum of money from a casino in Havana. Johnny and Thomas, the young black man who worked as the combination janitor and rack boy at the time, automatically became the prime suspects for not only the Atlanta police department but, more importantly, for the Dixie Mafia. Thomas and his sister, Opal, escaped with most of the courier’s cash, which Johnny gave them after locating it. That nearly got him and Thomas killed several times, trying to break free from the Dixie Mafia.

The Atlanta police department had assigned Detective Sergeant Jack Brewer to the case, and as a result, he and Johnny had, reluctantly, become friendly advisories. Since then, they had worked together on several occasions, once getting both of them shot when a family of farmers came to Atlanta, looking to revenge the death of a member shot and killed by Johnny.

Johnny sat in his office with a radio playing in the background. He had a bet on the outcome of the game and not on the individual players. He had the Senators and two runs for three to five odds. His six-dollar bet would return him ten dollars if the Senators won by two or more runs. At the bottom of the ninth, the score was tied. The Senators scored two in the tenth and won by a score of five to three.

He barely heard the phone ring in the booth outside and across the room from his open door. The phone booth was one of the busiest in the city of Atlanta. The players, who didn’t have steady jobs, gave it as a work number to verify employment for the loans they received from any loan company who would believe their stories. Johnny used it as his office phone and had a deal with Billyhart, the rack boy who normally answered it, to call him to the phone. He paid the young man a few dollars a week to clean his office and answer his calls.

Most of Johnny’s calls came from Gina DeToro, the lady he met while working for her father. They had become friends at first, and now, it had become more than Johnny expected or even could describe. Were they lovers? Having an affair? In love? He had worked the possible definitions through his mind many nights when he couldn’t sleep, and yet, no answer satisfied him.

The Yankee’s catcher, Yogi Berra, was at bat when Billyhart came to the open door of his office and waited until Johnny looked up at him. You got a call, Mister Johnny, and it ain’t Miss Gina this time.

Thanks, Billyhart. Did they say who it was? Johnny rose from his desk, picked up his pack of Lucky Strikes, and tucked it in his shirt pocket. He made certain his lighter was also in his shirt pocket as he walked across the room.

Ain’t said nothin’, but they wanted to speak to Mister Morocco. Didn’t call you by your first name, so must be somebody what wants to hire you.

Let’s hope you’re right. Most people who called him knew his office was in Big Town, so the sounds associated with a busy pool room weren’t distracting. He entered the booth and closed the door to dampen some of the noise of the pool room.

Morocco here. What can I do for you? With the door closed, the only air came from a small fan with rotating rubber blades situated above the call box. The fan, a light that automatically came on when the door closed, a phone book in a hard black cover hanging from a chain beneath the small shelf under the phone, and a normal-sized person more than filled the space.

Mister Morocco, please hold for Mister Cooper, a female voice instructed Johnny before he could say anything else. With no other choice, he waited for Mister Cooper, whoever he was.

Outside the phone booth, business continued as usual for the men who frequented Big Town. , The Yankees were coming to bat at the top of the ninth inning. The Yankee stars had shown all day. Yogi Berra behind the plate, White Ford pitching, with Mantle and Bauer in the outfield, they had given the fans everything they came to see. All that was lacking was two runs. One would tie the score, and another would put them ahead, assuming they could hold the Senators in the bottom of the ninth. Even with the door to the phone booth closed, Johnny heard the men as half of them pulled for the Yankees, and the other half had bets on the other side.

He was half-listening when he heard a voice on the phone. Mister Morocco? My name is Alex Cooper. Johnny’s first impression, the man was older than him and had more education. The way he pronounced his name hinted at either a trace of an accent or a very good education.

What can I do for you, Mister Cooper?

I…uh, I have a little situation that you may be able to assist with.

Not, I got a problem and I need your help, or, Somebody said I should call you, like most of the calls Johnny received from people he didn’t know. He immediately pictured an actor from one of the many movies he went to in the middle of the day when he had nothing better to do. The actors all seemed to have a very polished accent of upper-class British, at least, that’s how he thought it sounded.

And just what might that situation be…Mister Cooper? Johnny pulled out his pack of Lucky Strikes, tapped one out, fished into the pocket on the left side of his white shirt, and pulled out a Zippo lighter. While he waited for Mister Cooper to explain the situation, he flipped open the lighter’s cover, spun the wheel until the spark lit the wick, and leaned toward the flame to light his cigarette.

First, I must ask if you know a Mister Louiegi DeToro?

Johnny pulled a lungful of smoke from the Lucky and considered that he had never known the first name of Gina DeToro’s father. He first met her father when he’d hired Johnny to watch over a prize bull displayed at the annual Southeastern Fair the previous fall. A group of men had been castrating prize-breeding bulls and stallions for a man who wanted to be the number one breeder in the state. When they came to cut DeToro’s bull, Johnny confronted them, had a shoot-out, and killed one of the three brothers involved in the scheme. The two survivors and their father came to Atlanta, looking for revenge. Instead, the father and one brother wound up killed. Johnny and Detective Jack Brewer had gotten wounded and, as a result, had formed a somewhat loose working relationship.

Or I should say, Mister DeToro’s daughter Gina. I’m certain you know her better than her father.

Look, Mister Cooper, I don’t know who you are or what you want, but if it involves Gina…or her father in any way that could get them hurt, you will be in a world of shit!

He heard a slight chuckle from Cooper. Louiegi said you were a person not to trifle with, so I best get to the point of this conversation.

That’s the smartest thing you’ve said since I answered the phone. I don’t know about you, but I have other things that require my attention. As soon as he said that, a cheer erupted as the Yankees scored a run and tied the game.

Yes, I can hear some of those important matters in the background, Mister Morocco, but I digress. I explained my situation to Louiegi, and he immediately suggested I contact you, and I must say, for what it’s worth, he thinks very highly of you, Mister Morocco.

I appreciate the vote of confidence, but you still haven’t told me about this situation, as you call it. Another player came up to the phone booth and stood outside the door, waiting for Johnny to finish his call. When Johnny noticed him, he raised his arm, pointed to his watch, and held up two fingers, indicating he would finish in two minutes.

After speaking with Louiegi, I did some checking on my own, and I must admit, Mister Morocco, you have a very good…uh…shall we say, bad reputation. You are known as a no-nonsense person who is loyal to his employer and gets the necessary results.

I’m not a hitman if that’s what you’re looking for, but I’ll bet I could find one for you.

Really? A hitman?

I’m kidding. Cut to the chase. What do you want?

I would like to discuss this further at a location of your choice. Perhaps tonight or tomorrow for dinner.

I’d like a little more information. I don’t like to go into things blind.

May I suggest a dinner tomorrow at Louiegi’s restaurant on Boulevard? I would be honored if you invited Miss DeToro as your companion. Shall we say at eight?

Okay. I’ll be there, but I can’t speak for Gina. I’ll ask, but I can’t guarantee. Before he got a response, the man outside the phone booth tapped on the glass and motioned with his thumb for Johnny to exit.

Excellent. I shall see you there, and hopefully, it will be with Miss DeToro. Good day, Mister Morocco. Without waiting for a response, the line went dead.

Johnny replaced the handset and pulled the door open. When he stepped out, it brought him almost nose-to-nose with the man outside. You ever tap on the glass when I’m using the phone again, you better be able to work with only four fingers ’cause I’m gonna rip that one off your hand. He stepped around the man and went back to his office.

The game was in extra innings by the time he got back behind his desk.. The Senators scored two runs, winning by a score of five to three. Johnny won his bet.

Chapter 3

Roy Slater had a sterling reputation among at least half of the people of Atlanta. As a criminal defense attorney, he was revered by the criminal element and generally frowned upon, if not outright hated, by the police and prosecutors who faced him in court. He was known to come up with unique and sometimes outrageous strategies to get his clients a not-guilty verdict. If he lost a case, which was unusual, he would go back over everything and find where to make a better argument or steer a witness in a different direction to get the verdict he wanted and was paid well to get it.

He had previously handled kidnapping cases, but this time it became personal. His daughter got taken, and not only did he want her back, but he would change tactics and do everything possible so the person who kidnapped her took his last breath in the electric chair.

The first note came in the mail to his office. Like all incoming mail, it had been opened by Savannah Logan, his secretary. He was with a client when she burst into his office without knocking. Her voice was catching between sobs as she handed him the sheet. This…this just came. I opened it, like I do everything and…and oh, my God, Mister Slater. She stopped talking and looked at the man seated across from her boss. She gathered herself together and said, I’ll have to reschedule you. Mister Slater is taking the remainder of the day off for personal business. She stood and waited until the client got the message and left the office.

Slater held the note and read it several times, as if each made it a little more believable. His daughter. His only child. Kidnapped.

Like all kidnap notes, the one he received gave minimal instructions other than a warning not to contact any form of law enforcement and that further instructions would be forthcoming. The note was hand-made on a sheet of plain white typing paper. Each word was clipped from a magazine and glued, looking almost childish but for the importance of the message.

He felt his heart beating in his chest, and his breath came in labored spurts. For a second, a dark black film passed in front of his eyes, and he thought he was either passing out or having a heart attack. It passed as he began breathing in a rhythm close to normal. He had to do something, but for the first time in as long as he could remember, he had no idea what that something was.

With a shaky hand, he called his wife. She was as worried as he, knowing Annette hadn’t made contact for three days . Their daughter was a senior in high school, and their calls to all her friends had proved fruitless. She didn’t have a steady boyfriend. She had what she referred to as a friend boy. He hadn’t attended the party where she was supposed to go. He was being scouted by three colleges for a football scholarship and was at the University of Alabama with his football coach and missed the party.

Their maid answered the phone, and he could hardly speak when he told her to get his wife to the phone. Hello, Roy. What is it? A call from him in the middle of the day wasn’t something that happened regularly.

I…I got a note. A kidnap note about Annette, he spoke through a parched mouth.

Oh, God. Is she okay? What did it say? What do they want? She fired questions at him faster than he could answer. Since he had no information other than what was on the paper he held, he just listened and did not attempt to answer her.

I’m leaving the office and coming home so we can talk about what to do.

What do you mean, ‘what to do?’ We call the police. The FBI. Somebody. That’s our child you’re talking about. I’m not going to just stand around and…

He cut her off and said, We’re not going to stand around and do nothing, but we’ve got to be very careful with what actions we take. He stood, holding the phone handpiece tight to his ear. I’ll be home in thirty minutes. We’ll decide what to do when I get there.

Roy Slater had been in practice in Atlanta for over twenty years. He graduated from the University of Georgia, spent four years in uniform as a Judge Advocate General Lawyer in the Army, and was a member of the Nuremberg War Crime Commission as a legal research assistant. Upon returning to post-war Atlanta, he joined a law firm and became a junior partner. His specialty was known as white-collar crimes. He initially represented clients accused of tax evasion, cooking books for clients, stock fraud, and the occasional bank embezzlement. He soon tired of that and wanted more exciting clients, so he had a senior partner mentor him in the finer arts of defending mostly guilty clients who were accused of crimes up to and including murder. Guilt or innocence was not a factor. All that mattered to Roy was the ability of the client to afford the fee and that the defense of the client was a challenge.

His income allowed him to purchase a very large house on the north side of Atlanta. His home had a black wrought iron fence around the three acres of surrounding lawn and grounds. The household required a full-time maid, a gardener who came to work three days a week, and an on-call maintenance man. His wife, a former university student he met while in school, hadn’t needed to work after he joined the firm. Her days were occupied with civic clubs, garden clubs, golf, and martinis starting at lunch.

When Roy pulled up in the red-brick inlaid circle driveway, the car barely stopped before he cut the engine, opened the driver’s side door, and sprinted to the house entrance. He paid no attention to his gardener, who was trimming a pair of giant camellia bushes flanking the front door.

When he entered, his wife Rhonda stood just inside the door, martini in hand. Have you heard anything else? What did the note say? What are we going to do? Her rapid-fire questions stopped only long enough for her to drain the remainder of the martini and prepare for another.

Their two-story home was opulent by any current standards. The foyer opened to a large room where they often hosted parties of fifty or more guests. Leading off from that room were a formal dining room, a library, and a sunroom where Rhonda spent most of her days at home.

The kitchen was in the rear of the house, and a butler’s pantry and breakfast area flanked it on either side. Beyond the kitchen, toward the way out of the house, was the maid’s quarters. It included a bathroom, as the black maid wasn’t allowed to use one on either floor of the house.

Roy headed for the library, where he had one of two well-stocked bars on the first floor of the house. I need a drink, he said as he pulled down a bottle of scotch and poured three fingers into a crystal glass.

Fix me another. Rhonda stood beside him. Better yet, fix a pitcher. I may need them before this is over. She watched as Roy downed half his drink before pulling a bottle of vodka from the bar’s freezer and preparing a pitcher for Rhonda. He poured one for her and refilled his glass.

Let’s sit. We need to talk about this. He pointed to the dark leather sofa facing the open window that overlooked his manicured lawn.

Bullshit. We don’t need to talk. We need to get her back and…and…I don’t know, maybe kill the person who kidnapped her. Tears slid down her cheeks as she continued, Who can we call? You must know somebody in the police department who can get her back.

Roy pulled the envelope from his jacket pocket and extracted the note.

Too many people have already handled it, so getting fingerprints is not an issue, he said as he unfolded the note and placed it on the sofa between them. It clearly said not to contact the police, so…

So, we sit and wait until they’re ready to tell us what they want? Is that your plan?

No, it’s not. He downed a healthy slug from his drink. But I don’t have a better plan right now. He put his head in his hands and joined his wife as he, too, began to cry.

Chapter 4

Johnny left Big Town and walked across the street to the parking lot where he left his 1948 Ford sedan on the days when he did not take the bus from the boarding house where he lived. He drove to the stop at Five Points. Any directions given in Atlanta started at Five Points and usually ended with some mention of Peachtree Street or a multitude of name variations with streets, boulevards, circles, drives, and other ways to describe an address and still get some form of Peachtree on it.

He had driven because he and Gina DeToro had previously made dinner plans. A usual dinner for them was to meet at the Emerald, a restaurant not far from Johnny’s boarding house on Ponce de Leon Avenue. Gina would drive in from her house and meet him at the Emerald. On nights when Gina’s father did not have an out-of-town client staying in the room he kept at an upscale Atlanta hotel, they would go there and spend the evening making love. On rare occasions, when her father was out of town or she came up with an excuse to use the room, they spent the entire night. Going to her home or the boarding house where Johnny lived was out of the question.

Johnny arrived at the Emerald and parked on the street a half-block from the entrance. He stood beside the car, cigarette in hand, watching for Gina to arrive. He saw her turn the corner and pull into a space several cars behind his. Gina owned a 1951 Ford convertible and usually drove with the top down unless she feared the wind would muss her hair. The top was up. That was the case when she met Johnny.

He walked to her side of the car, opened her door, extended his hand, and helped her slide from the seat to stand beside him. She immediately tilted her head back so Johnny could plant a kiss on her lips. With him much taller than she, it was always one head down and one up when they kissed while standing.

Hello, Darlin’, he said, giving her a second kiss.

And a very good evening to you, Mister Morocco, she teased.

He took her hand and held it as they walked toward the entrance to the Emerald. When they arrived at the front door, Gina stopped and looked at Johnny. Does it ever bother you to come back here after what happened?

While she waited for an answer, a fire truck, lights, and siren in full emergency mode passed them, thus giving Johnny a moment to consider his response. The ‘what happened’ she referred to was a shoot-out with two Georgia Bureau of Investigation agents, Sergeant Jack Brewer, and Johnny, between two members of a family seeking revenge for a brother that Johnny had shot and killed