in Lit, Uncategorized, Blog, Serial Fiction 6:47 am Sunday, August 26th, 2007

 “Death On The Breeze”
A Danny Stark Mystery
by James Walling 

Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5

Angie practiced for an upcoming exam with Danny in his office later the following afternoon when Loudon Bean pulled up in front of the garage and hopped out of a hitched ride. She stopped talking mid-sentence, pushed her study guide into her handbag and watched Bean approach through an open door. He had a green canvas duffle over one shoulder and sported a natty sweater straight out of La Bohème.

Bean stopped inside the doorway and returned her gaze, allowing his to run the gamut from head to toe: short wool skirt, knee-high leather boots, flannel shirt and shoulder-length brown hair framing a very pretty face. She looked half sorority slut and half good ol’ country gal, which is just exactly what she was. He wanted to eat her alive.

Danny was sunk in a big desk chair in the corner helping himself to a serving of Talisker single malt. “I can hear the drool pooling on the floor,” he said finally, breaking the silence. “Bean,” he said, motioning magnanimously to Angie, “meet Angelina Elmer. I know her daddy,” he added, “so mind your manners.” He turned to Angie and added, “I asked him to come.”

Angie winked at Bean and smiled. “I hear you’re a painter,” she chirped.

Bean made a beeline for the scotch, but Danny waved him off.

“I try to be,” Bean said. “It’s a tough racket.”

“Whatta you know about rackets?” Danny kidded him. “You’re nineteen.”

Bean paused, reappraising the young lady who was casually swinging a three-inch heel from the edge of Danny’s desk and eyeing him lasciviously. “I know a thing or two,” he said cryptically. “The question is how much does she know?”

Danny smiled wolfishly. “She’s too damn smart to have lived in this town her whole life and not have figured out the likes of me,” he said. “I trust she’s already got you pretty well pegged.”

“I know you only lasted a year at art school,” Angie teased, indelicately. “And I know you’re a car thief.”

Bean grimaced.

“He’s not a car thief,” Danny chided. “He’s a go-between.”

“Sounds illegal,” she added flippantly.

“It is,” Danny stated matter-of-factly. Then he addressed Bean, “You bring the stuff?”

Bean dug into the duffle and produced a rumpled grey suit, a chintzy pair of black shoes desperately in need of polish, a small leather satchel, and an old-fashioned trilby hat. “I’ll need an iron to get the wrinkles out,” he said.

“How’d he do?” Danny asked Angie, nodding toward the boy. “I told him to bring a respectable suit of clothes.”

Angie slid off the desk and kneeled to inspect Bean’s purchases. “You’re gonna need more than an iron,” she said with a sigh. “What’d you do, raid a dumpster behind a Goodwill?”

Bean shrugged, “It fits,” he said. “Cost me $9.99.”

“You mean it cost me $9.99,” Danny interjected.

Bean ignored the remark and made another futile attempt to snatch the scotch. Danny batted the boy’s hand away and shoved the bottle into a desk drawer.

Angie held the suit jacket up for closer inspection. “I’ll take a needle and thread to the missing buttons,” she said. “But I’m not pressing this hoodlum’s pants.”

“Nobody asked you to,” Bean retorted, somewhat hurt.

Danny stood and ambled toward the front door as the youngsters sorted through the clothing. He reached the handle, pulled it shut, and locked the deadbolt. Then he pulled the blinds and twisted them shut. He couldn’t see out anyway, and he figured he’d just as soon be certain that nobody could see in.

Angie switched on the desk lamp and settled into Danny’s chair. She watched him listen intently to the night sounds and thought for the thousandth time how much he resembled a middle-aged Paul Newman. Danny was trying to guess how long it would take her to ask the obvious question when she wondered aloud, “What’s the suit for anyway? Herb’s funeral won’t be for a week yet.”

Danny smiled and started for the hallway leading past the garage to his apartment. “Naturally, we have an excellent plan,” he said. “Why don’t you lay it all out for her, Bean? I’ll get something going for dinner. We can plot and scheme over mashed potatoes.”

Bean brightened at the notion and took Danny’s chair behind the desk.

“I’ll holler when it’s ready,” Danny said. He took a few steps before pausing at the barely perceptible sound of his desk drawer opening slowly. “And, Bean?” he added.

“Yeah?”

“Keep your underage mitts off my scotch.”

[Editor’s Note: Tune in next Sunday for Chapter 6!]