Double Crossed

[DRayVan]

CHAPTER 1 of 20

Wednesday, November 6, 1940
San Diego, California

Jack Stoner’s bank account was as empty as a castaway’s stomach, and he owed everybody something. The Stoner Detective Agency hadn’t had a case since Spring and was rapidly becoming the punchline of a worn-out joke. If things didn’t take a turn for the better soon, he’d have to get a job driving truck or sleep on a park bench.

He awoke early, and it was already warm and predicted to be another scorcher, one of those days when Stoner didn’t wanna get out of bed, let alone go to work. But somebody might get lost and stumble into his office, and he wanted to be there in case they needed directions.

After a light lunch, Stoner parked nearby and hiked to the intersection three doors from his office building. When he rounded the corner, two musclebound types that could’ve been escaped gorillas from the zoo paced by its entrance.

Stoner hid and watched them for a few minutes. He figured they were there to collect the wager he’d placed on a nag racing at Del Mar. The ponies weren’t his usual pastime, but the grapevine said the fix was in, so Stoner called a bookie, Sid Devar, and laid a C-note on Leading the Charge to win. But yesterday was one of the year’s hottest days, and as luck would have it, the horse and jockey stopped for a mint Julip on the far turn and came in dead last.

Stoner didn’t mind losing—losing came naturally to him, but he couldn’t cover his wager, and Sid never extended credit beyond twenty-four hours. So he left those apes baking in the hot sun, crossed the street, and ducked into a nearby alley.

Today’s luck was as bad as yesterday’s, and Stoner ran smack dab into Sid’s debt-collection goons. Theo and Leo were classic Neanderthals. Theo’s bloodshot eyes were deep-set, and his brow jutted far enough to shade his entire face. The bridge of his nose was as flat as a pancake, and his cauliflower ears were ready for harvest. His chiseled chin could chip granite, and you could use his one-o’clock shadow for sanding it smooth. Nature’s mistake was to make one of them, but then to make a carbon copy, his twin, Leo, was unbelievable!

Before Stoner could whimper a cry for help, Theo grabbed his lapels and slammed him against the building—his tiptoes floated inches above the pavement.

“Going somewhere, Stoner?”

Theo’s gruff voice would’ve scared Boris Karloff, and his breath reeked of cheap cigar and everything bagel—extra onion and garlic.

“Easy on the shirt, pal; it’s the only good one I’ve got,” Stoner said defiantly. “Besides, you got the wrong guy.”

“Says you, wiseguy,” Theo said, spraying spittle with every word.

He loosened his grip, and Stoner’s feet landed on solid ground.

“What’s this Stoner supposed ta look like, Leo?” he asked without taking his eyes off him. “This four-flusher says he ain’t the guy.”

Leo unfolded a crumpled slip of paper. “Medium, fifty-ish, graying hair, paunch, and—”

“Oh, yeah! Me and a thousand other guys, Jughead,” Stoner said with as much bravado as he could muster, “but that doesn’t make me the sadsack you’re looking for. So I’ll say it again, only slower this time. Maybe it’ll sink in: ‘You. Got. The. Wrong. Guy.’”

His plea fell on deaf ears.

“And a cross-shaped scar above his left eye,” Leo said, poking Stoner’s forehead with his hairy finger. “That’s him, all right.”

“The cross nailed it, chump,” Theo said. “Pay up, or we’ll pound every nickel out of yer hide.”

They usually went for the tender places where bruises didn’t show, and if you were lucky, they wouldn’t go for your face. But any way you cut it, a pounding didn’t sound good to Stoner.

“I ain’t got it,” Stoner said with a confident grin. But then, he felt his lower lip quiver.

“Says he ain’t got it,” Theo said, cocking his head toward Leo.

“The boss don’t like ta hear them words,” Leo said with a grin that grew until it stretched from ear to ear but quickly morphed into tight lips. His brow furrowed. “Lemme pop ‘im one.”

“Not this time, brother,” Theo said, wagging his head from side to side. “He’s all mine. Next time, he’s all yers.”

Theo made a fist the size of a football and let it fly. It came at Stoner like a runaway freight train. He couldn’t do anything but wait for the crash.

He didn’t have to wait long.

Theo landed a solid punch just below Stoner’s solar plexus that knocked the wind out of him. He saw stars when the pavement reached up and whacked his chin. Once he hit the ground, he curled up Roly-poly-wise, holding his gut.

“Looky ‘im, Theo,” Leo said laughingly. “All crumpled like a pile of dirty laundry. Hold ‘im up, so I can pop ‘im a good one, too.”

“Ya’ll get yer chance tomorrow.”

Leo smacked his palm with his fist, and a flock of birds roosting on the overhead phone lines took flight. Meanwhile, Stoner lay on the pavement, faking some, feeling most, and hoping this was over.

Theo bent close to Stoner’s left ear and showered him in onion and garlic-laced spittle. “Here’s the play, Stoner. Ya got a friendly reminder today. We’ll be back tomorrow, and Leo’ll give ya two more. The next day will be my turn fer three, and we keep coming back till ya pay up.”

Stoner lay still, not even blinking an eye.

“Get the picture, Stoner? Huh?”

Leo eyed him closely. “He’s too dumb ta figure it out.”

Stoner nodded to let those apes know he’d had enough.

“See, Leo, Stoner ain’t so dumb after all.”

But the big ape wasn’t buying Stoner’s act.

“Is too,” Leo said. “He’s fakin’.”

“He got the message, all right,” Theo said, wagging his head. “One look’d tell ya.”

“Don’t believe ‘im.” Leo stepped toward him. “Ya should’ve hit him harder. That’s all I’m sayin’.”

Theo signaled the gorillas by the office building. Stoner figured today’s beating was over, so he got to his hands and knees. But Leo’s walnut-sized brain must’ve decided he was faking and let Stoner have it with his size twelve, knocking him against the wall.

“Not in the face, Leo!” Theo said. “Aim for the gut... Like this.”

Theo’s size thirteen landed square in his mid-drift. There wasn’t any faking now: Stoner hurt from his head to his toes.

The gorillas arrived just in time to join the party.

“What we miss?” the first gorilla asked.

“Nuthin’ much,” Theo said. “Just showin’ Stoner how we collect our debts.”

After they had some yucky-yucks standing over him, Theo said, “Let’s blow befer we draw a crowd.”

“Yeah. Blow.” Leo bent close to his ear. “Be seeing ya tomorrow, Stoner.” He stood to leave. “And don’t have that C-note, if ya know what I mean,” he said, slamming his palm with a tight fist and cackling as he walked away.

The foursome hightailed it and left Stoner lying on the pavement.

Stoner clenched his jaw, gritted his teeth, and swore. But he was hopelessly outnumbered and out of his league. So he didn’t move and swallowed his pride, which was easy, considering he had no dignity left. He waited for the worst of his pain to subside. Then he dusted himself off and felt above his right eye. It was sticky.

He stumbled across the street to his office building and made a beeline for the washroom. After a few splashes to the face, Stoner felt better. But one glance in the mirror told the story: matching scars for sure.

End Chapter 1

[DRayVan]

Chapter 2 of 20

On each landing, Stoner stopped to catch his breath. When he finally reached the third floor, he staggered to his office’s door and leaned against the wall to let his heart rate calm down and the dizziness pass. After a few moments, he felt a little better.

He opened the door and stepped inside. The sauna Stoner called his office was hot enough to blister the paint off the walls. He opened the window, hoping for a breeze and some relief—no breeze and no relief. So he eased his sorry, aching behind onto the swivel chair, and stared at the stack of past-due bills on his desk.

One with large red block letters caught Stoner’s eye, so he opened it. It was a Dear John letter from the electric company, marked “Final Notice.” In it, they threatened to take their affections elsewhere unless he coughed up his delinquent balance, and he had until the end of the month to mend his ways—fat chance.

Notices from the phone and gas companies, landlord, and drycleaners joined the pack hounding him. Then when he thought it couldn’t get any worse, a letter marked “Urgent” told him to take his jackass to a different watering hole until his bar tab was paid in full—talk about whipping a guy when he’s down.

The bottle in his desk’s bottom drawer lifted his spirits or drowned his sorrows, whichever his mood was. Stoner had had so many setbacks of late that it was nearly empty, but he managed to squeeze out two fingers' worth before it ran dry. He tossed the empty bottle in the trashcan, rested his heels on the desk, and leaned back.

The smell of cheap Scotch wasn’t all that appealing, but he didn’t drink the stuff for its aroma. Stoner liked its warm feeling and effect on his brain cells: numbing and forgetting. After enough Scotch, he didn’t care anymore—for a while, at least.

Stoner took a swig, swished it around in his mouth, and swallowed. Before the burning had cleared his throat, the phone rang. It hadn’t rung in weeks—broken, he’d figured—and he owed the telephone too much to ask them to repair it.

“Stoner Detective Agency,” he said as calmly as he could muster, but his heart was racing, so Stoner took another slug of whiskey.

“To whom am I speaking?” the caller asked.

He wiped the dribble on his chin with the back of his hand. “Jack Stoner.”

“Well, Mr. Stoner. Just the person I want an appointment to meet.”

“Wait while I get his book and see what’s available.”

The caller laughed. “We both know you don’t have any clients, do you, Mr. Stoner? So when will the utilities disconnect your services? And when do you expect to pay your dry-cleaning bill and bar tab?”

“I’m between cases,” Stoner said confidently, “although things are looking up.”

The caller laughed again. “Come. Come, Jack. We both know you’re not telling the truth.”

Stoner sat ridged, trying to fake innocence, but he realized the caller couldn’t see him through the phone, so he relaxed and leaned back. He didn’t appreciate the caller knowing this much about him. His ex had split up with him because of what she knew, and he got a funny feeling about the way this conversation was going.

“How you know so much about my affairs?”

“I’m offering you a case, Jack,” the caller said, ignoring his question. “Interested?”

Clients usually couldn’t wait to tell him their stories, which allowed him time to size them up and decide if it was the kind of case he was willing to tackle. But this caller had gone right for the jugular without any explanation, but it was too soon and far too little info for him to say yes, sight unseen.

“Can you give him a clue?”

Stoner expected the caller to spill his story, but the line was dead silent. A wave of fear washed over him. Maybe he’d been too pushy, so he tested the waters—anyway, the silence was deafening.

“Uh... His crystal ball’s still at the cleaners,” Stoner said, adding a nervous chuckle at the end. “So I’ll need a little help guessing what kind of case you’re offering.”

“Hilarious, Jack,” the caller said with a booming laugh. “But I asked you a serious question. Are you desperate enough to take his case on faith or not?”

Stoner didn’t take cases without some explanation, except his bank account couldn’t afford to let this one get away. One thought of another encounter with Theo and Leo and the unpaid bills on his desk made the decision for him.

“I charge fifteen dollars a day, two bits a mile, and expenses. Still want to hire me?” The line was as quiet as a chorus of moths. Then it occurred to Stoner that maybe the phone company had picked this moment to get even for not paying his bill and had cut off his service.

After several long moments, the caller laughed. “You’re not as good as you think, Jack, so make it ten a day and ten cents a mile.”

“And an advance, expenses, and a hundred-dollar retainer,” Stoner said, tripping over the caller’s words.

“You drive a hard bargain, Jack.” He laughed again. “Okay, an advance, expenses, and retainer. Deal?”

Pepsodent could’ve used the smile stretched across Stoner’s face for an ad. But, of course, Mr. Theo and the gang would be pleased he could now make good on his wager.

“Where and when would you like to meet, Mr...? Sorry, didn’t catch your name.”

“Reginal Pinehurst, but everyone calls him Reggie.”

Who names their kid Reginal these days?

“Well, Reggie,” Stoner said, suppressing the urge to chuckle, which was easy, considering any movement of his abdomen caused him pain.

“When and where?”

“Tonight. Eight-thirty. 1498 Bresa De Loma Drive, Escondido.”

A half-chewed pencil and the back of the past-due phone bill were handy.

“Uh... 1498 Bresa De Lo... What part of town is that?”

“Foothills. East of town.”

“Okay. Eight-thirty sharp. I’m usually very punct—”

The line clicked, followed by a dial tone.

They hadn’t had their first date yet and were already on a first-name basis. That didn’t bother Stoner much; the long drive to Escondido did—beyond his usual territory. However, his empty bank account and the thought of meeting those apes again had just expanded his territory to the whole southwest. The drive and directions left time to slip home, shower, and change clothes.

Stoner stood and grabbed the edge of the desk for support. His head swirled, and he ached from head to toe. After a few moments, he recovered enough to leave. Every way he looked at it, this had been and would promise to be a very long day.

End of Chapter 2

[DRayVan]

CHAPTER 3 of 20

The hour trip to Escondido went as smoothly as silk, and Stoner had time for directions and a quick Coca-Cola before his appointment. By the time he reached Bresa De Loma Drive, his car’s engine had had enough of the long climb, and it coughed and sputtered to a stop. Its hood was hot enough to fry an egg.

Stoner didn’t feel any better than his car did. His head throbbed even after drinking the cola—probably from Leo’s kick, maybe from the heat, or both—and his gut still ached from Theo’s kick-the-can game. Then add misery on misery; sweat had glued his backside to his clothes.

At the end of this long, winding road—and well off the beaten path—a weathered-white, stucco-covered wall ending with pillars flanked an entrance to something expansive—who’d go to this much bother if it wasn’t expansive? Stoner drove on until the driveway forked. He stopped, deciding which way to proceed. To his left was a gate, and his car’s headlights illuminated a placard: Bresa Gun Club, Members Only. He steered right and drove no more than fifty feet when his car’s lights lit up another gate, so he stopped, killed the ignition, and got out.

A steady wind blew from the desert. It was hot and dry like an oven, but it smelled better than down in San Diego—nobody wanted to breathe the air once the city got a hold of it. It had a faint aroma of wild sage. Quite nice if you cared for wild sage—Stoner didn’t. Well... Considering his day, nothing would’ve smelled good to him.

The iron gate was tall, black-painted, and ornate—the kind with a high arch and iron curlicue thingies stuck here and there all over it—flanked by tall off-white, stucco-covered stone pillars and walls. Trees and shrubbery shrouded the walls as far as his car’s headlight went. Stoner shook the gate—rock solid and wouldn’t budge. He returned to his car and beeped the horn, but there was no response. He shone his flashlight through the bars. The winding driveway blended with the darkness.

He’d been on a wild-goose chase or two before, and this began to feel like another. So Stoner flashed his light at the right pillar and then on the left once more before leaving.

A recessed intercom panel in the gate’s left pillar reflected Stoner’s flashlight’s beam. Its button under a wire mesh cover was stiff. It hadn’t been used in a very long time and crunched when he depressed it—again, no response. He shrugged and walked toward his car.

Before getting very far, the intercom crackled and sputtered to life. “Yes... May I help you?” a harsh voice asked with a distinctive British accent.

Stoner ached all over. Perspiration had his clothes clinging to him as if he’d stepped out of a shower, and case or no case, his mood was as sour as milk two days in the scorching sun. He was ready to write this adventure off but pressed the intercom button just to be polite.

“Whoever you are, tell Reggie his date’s here, and while you’re at it, tell him his corsage is wilting.” As the words rang in his ears, Stoner regretted saying them. This guy could decide whether or not he gained entrance, and if he couldn’t get in, there’d be no chance for a case.

Before Stoner could grovel for sympathy, the voice said with a tone rivaling an over-starched collar for stiffness, “I beg your pardon, sir.” He undoubtedly looked down his nose at the receiver while he spoke.

“Mr. Jack Stoner to see Mr. Reginal Pinehurst for an eight-thirty appointment,” he said, sounding more professional the second time.

“Oh... Very well, sir. Drive to the portico,” the voice said, and the intercom crackled, buzzed, and went silent.

Promptly, the gate’s lock clicked, and its motors groaned as it swung open. Stoner returned to his car, and the ten-minute drive to what was best described as a mansion was hair-raising: a narrow road, tight curves, and drop-offs without guard railings.

The mansion sat on a bluff overlooking the city lights of Escondido to the northeast, San Marcos to the northwest, and to the south, nothingness. It was three stories high with a terra cotta tile roof and a white stone trim. The windows were tall: almost floor-to-ceiling, yet narrow—a bit disproportioned for his eye—and outlined in terra cotta-colored brickwork to match the roof. Flowering bushes and lofty columnar trees lined the front, and the lawn was expansive enough so two football teams could play without interfering.

The thought crossed Stoner’s mind about what their water bill must be. Then it occurred to him that he’d contributed by agreeing to ten cents per mile instead of twenty-five—every little bit helps.

An acre of manicured gravel surrounded the portico. Stoner picked a parking spot closest to the main entrance, and after a short hundred-yard hike, he reached the front door and pushed the doorbell button. Saint Michael’s Cathedral would’ve been envious of the chimes.

The door’s hinges creaked as the massive, solid oak barrier opened. A mature, lanky butler with a protuberant Adam’s apple and a wispy, white-haired dome greeted him. He ushered Stoner through a door wide enough so a truck could’ve driven through, delivered milk, and exited without spilling a drop.

“Mr. Pinehurst will see you in the drawing room, sir.”

His pursed upper lip was as tight as his black uniform, and he pointed his nose high enough to have its own weather system. He cocked his head and looked down across the bridge of his thin beak at his wrinkled suit and fedora. He brought his gloved hand to his puckered lips and stifled a cough.

“Ahem... May I take your hat, sir?”

Stoner’s mood hadn’t changed one iota, so he blurted before he could curb his disposition.

“Sure. If you promise to give it back.”

But as soon as the words left his lips, Stoner regretted saying them. The butler raised his right eyebrow and pursed his lips like he’d just noticed the household mutt had left its calling card on his pant leg.

“Pardon him, sir, but your attempted humor escapes him.”

Stoner shrugged, cracked a smile, and handed him his hat. The butler took it between his index finger and thumb, looked at it as if he needed to disinfect it, and put it in a nearby closet. Stoner expected to find it dripping with bleach when he left.

Then the butler ushered him down a long, wide, marble-tiled hallway with ceilings at least two stories high and antique-looking chairs scattered here and there against the walls. Old lamps and vases sat on pedestals and small tables, placed every so often. Larger-than-life portraits of grumpy old geezers and their miserable-looking families hung on the walls—with all this money, at least they could do was smile, albeit fake.

After a mile hike, we reached the drawing room.

Stoner imagined finding people sketching, doodling, and painting pictures. Instead, the double doors opened to an oversized living room with contemporary-style furnishings: sleek davenports, matching chairs, avant-garde tables and lamps, plush carpeting, and a gigantic fireplace.

The room disappointed him—not one sketch or doddle, and only two painted pictures of... Looking at them, Stoner couldn’t tell from any angle what they were supposed to be. They were probably copies of originals to boot.

The butler stepped inside and motioned for Stoner to follow but to stand behind him and remain silent—he hadn’t had this much instruction since kindergarten. One foot into the room, he was knee-deep in the carpeting.

End Chapter 3

[DRayVan]

CHAPTER 4 of 20

When they entered the drawing room, the butler announced Stoner with an accent only the upper crust of British society would appreciate. Reggie got up from his chair to greet him.

“Ah, Jack. So glad you came.” He checked his watch. “Almost on time, too.”

“It’s easier breaking out of the slammer than getting into here.”

When Reggie laughed again, Stoner wondered if he had a medical condition or something that caused him to laugh at everything he said. He didn’t mind his laughing, but he intended his retorts to be cynical rather than humorous.

“That’s a nasty-looking bruise above your eye. How did you hurt yourself, Jack?”

“Checkers is a rough game in his neighborhood,” Stoner said, lightly touching his forehead.

“Heard you were a clever fellow,” Reggie said. Of course, he laughed.

We waded through a half mile of carpeting so thick a giraffe could lose its way, met halfway, and shook hands. Reggie was medium height with broad shoulders, had dark, slicked-down hair, and his V-shaped frame reminded Stoner that his developing A-shaped frame needed more exercise. His charcoal-grey dinner Jacket fitted his form better than a glove. Its creases were sharp enough to slice bread and were in all the right places. The contrast made Stoner’s wrinkled suit coat look worse than a skid-row bum’s trashcan pickings.

“What are friends for?” Stoner said with a nervous chuckle.

Reggie’s face scrunched up, and a puzzled look swept over him.

“I don’t catch your meaning.”

“For starters, Reggie. You seem to know more about me than my ex, and I was sleeping with her. We ain’t sleeping together, are we?”

Reggie stepped back with a booming laugh, and a woman’s chuckle came from a chair facing the fireplace.

“Didn’t mean to reveal our most intimate secrets, Reggie,” Stoner said, turning toward her. “Who’s the dame?”

A tall, shapely, thirty-something woman stood and slowly rotated toward us, her blonde curls sweeping across her bare shoulders. She held a cigarette and a cocktail glass. Her backless pink evening gown flowed with her every move, and if her neckline had plunged any deeper, I could’ve picked lint out of her navel. The slitted skirt showed legs that went all the way to her chin, and she didn’t mind showing them off.

She put the cigarette to her plush red lips, took a drag, and blew gray smoke past her purple eyeshadow and dark eyeliner toward the ceiling. She raised her glass toward Stoner.

“Want a drink?” she asked with a sultry tone.

Stoner smiled and bobbed his head. “You have him at a disadvantage.”

“Disadvantage?” she asked with a puzzled look.

“Yeah. You know me, but I don’t know you.”

“What a poor host I am,” Reggie said, stepping toward him again with his hand extended. “Come, Jack, and meet Anne. Jack, this is Miss Anne Brewer. Anne, this is Mr. Jack Stoner.”

Anne gave Stoner a distant look and took another drag of her cigarette.

“Did you say something about a drink, Miss Brewer?” Stoner said, feeling the cold from more than the air conditioning on his neck.

Anne blew smoke toward the ceiling. “Reggie will mix a batch of martinis,” she said with a smile. “You’ll enjoy these, Mr. Stoner. The best Russian vodka money can buy.”

He’d heard about this new cocktail gaining popularity with the better establishments, not at the corner bars, especially the ones Stoner frequented. Vodka wasn’t his favorite libation—he preferred his potatoes baked with lots of butter, chives, and sour cream, not bottled. He fancied his old standbys: beer and whiskey, but to be polite and satisfy his curiosity, he said, “I’m game.”

“Remember, Reggie,” she said, glancing toward Reggie. “Make mine shaken, not stirred.”

“Everybody stirs except you,” Reggie said, pouring the concoction into a cocktail shaker. “Shaking will never catch on, his dear.” He vigorously shook the mixture several times.

“Please humor him, Reggie.” Anne held her glass. “And I’ll have another.”

“If you have a beer chaser, I’ll have one and make mine on the rocks.”

Both shot Stoner a glance as if he’d just farted during church. Anne’s mouth turned up at the corners, suppressing a grin. “I’m sure Reggie can find a beer, Mr. Stoner.”

“Jack, please. His dad was Mr. Stoner.”

“Okay, Jack...”

“What’s the case all about?” he asked, turning to Reggie.

“What do you care, Jack?”

They both got a quick glance from Stoner. He was desperate for a case but had a line he wouldn’t cross. After the playdate with the four horsemen of the apocalypse, he’d pushed his line back so far that he couldn’t see it from here; still, he had a line.

“As long as it’s above the law—well, pretty much above the law, I’ll tackle any case except divorce—too messy. This isn’t about divorce, is it?”

“No. No divorce involved.” Anne smirked and turned to face the fireplace. “Reggie will give you the details.”

Reggie filled three cocktail glasses on a serving tray with his beer, stopped by Anne, and swapped her empty glass for a full one. Then he swung by Stoner with his and a beer. He took the last for himself and set the tray on the nearby table.

After a quick sip, Reggie started his story.

“You see, Jack, the competition hired someone to take something precious from Anne, and we want you to help us return it to her.”

“Uh... The police are better equipped to handle thefts,” Stoner said and took a sip of his martini.

“No police,” Reggie said with a defiant shaking of his head. “I’ve encountered their ineptitude before, and this matter requires the utmost discretion and secrecy.” He leaned toward him, and our eyes met. “Are you discreet, Jack? Can you keep a secret? You won’t fold under pressure, will you, Jack?”

“Sure... I mean, no.”

Potential clients often had questions about Stoner’s ethics, but nobody grilled a hamburger this much. The cross-examination gave the pit of his gut a gnawing feeling. It told him to leave, but he chalked it up to a poor diet and stayed put—he needed this case, and he didn’t cherish his waltz with Leo tomorrow.

“Come. Sit,” Reggie said, gesturing toward the davenport on the right. “Sit with him, Anne.”

Anne got up from her chair, and together, they sat on the left davenport, facing Stoner.

“How was your martini?” Anne asked.

“Excellent beer.” Stoner put the cocktail glass on the table and kept the bottle. Martinis had to be a passing fad, and all the shaking and stirring couldn’t salvage them—he thought his tasted just awful.

Reggie slid to the edge of the davenport.

“Now, to business,” he said. “Anne’s father started a tool and die company and left it to her when he passed—Brewer Industries. Of course, you’ve heard of them.”

Stoner shook his head and shrugged. In his circles, tool and die shops were never a topic of conversation. Unphased, Reggie laid out the complete story.

“Unfortunately, major orders had dried up, and the company was teetering on the brink, about to fold. However, before he died, Anne’s father created an innovative design to improve torpedo guidance and detonation. These designs are the company’s lifeline.”

Stoner glanced at Anne to gauge her reaction while Reggie told her story. Madame Tussaud’s wax figures were more animated.

Reggie explained how valuable they were to Anne’s competitors, the looming war effort, and national security. Her company wouldn’t survive the scandal if word leaked that the competition had stolen them. They had no proof, but they suspected a Wicker Technologies operative, some guy named William Teller, had taken them or hired someone to take them.

Reggie stood. “Well, Jack. Will you help us get the plans back? There’ll be a thousand-dollar bonus if we succeed.”

The Stoner Detective Agency wasn’t your local lost-and-found. And he should’ve followed his gut and walked out, but desperation will drive a man to extremes. Recurring thoughts of who he owed versus the prospects of a thousand-dollar bonus clouded his judgment, and to top it all off, those magnificent legs—Stoner couldn’t get their image out of his mind.

Reggie opened his wallet; it had enough green to feed a herd of cows for a week. He plucked two Grants from the fold and held them toward Stoner.

“What’ll it be, Jack? You in? Or out?”

Stoner nodded and extended his hand for the money without hesitation. He felt the crispness of the new bills between his fingers as he slid them into his weatherbeaten old wallet. And for a few moments, it seemed as though luck was on his side, but reality hit him right between the eyes: now they’d have to hiJack Wicker Technologies. Tit-for-tat, maybe; illegal, probably, but he was in for a penny and about to be in for a pound. So before he left, they agreed to meet tomorrow over brunch at La Jolla’s La Valencia Hotel to hammer out the when, where, and how they would get back the blueprints.

End of Chapter 4

[DRayVan]

CHAPTER 5 of 20

Stoner felt like an over-chewed wad of gum on the drive home. The heat and his lingering pains suppressed any desire to stop for anything. Besides, his mind raced: top-secret plans, national security, that dame, and two Grants gracing his wallet. It had been so long since one had come his way that he’d forgotten whose picture was printed on them.

His car finally purred to a stop in the driveway of the house Stoner rented on Yacca Street in Mountain View, a suburb of Diego. Why it was called Mountain View was beyond him. The only view he ever got of a mountain was when he stood on the roof of his car, then he could see one about a two-day crow’s flight away—if the smog wasn’t too thick.

Who has time to look at the mountains anyway?

So Stoner shouldn’t complain: it was furnished, and the price was right—the lady who owned it left town to take care of her ailing parents and could return without much notice. Besides, the drive into the office was less than ten minutes—an ideal location.

The day’s events and the drive had wrung every ounce of energy Stoner had left, and all he wanted was a stiff drink and a soft bed. A wave of dizziness swept over him when he got out of the car. So he closed the door and leaned against it.

The moon was up, and stars dotted the inky, clear sky. And a cooler—relatively speaking—off-shore breeze made the heat tolerable. It wasn’t long before Stoner’s dizziness passed, and his attention returned to that stiff slug of Scotch.

On his shuffle to the front door, Stoner stopped to fish the evening edition from the landscaping—the delivery kid couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn. When he reached the top of the stoop, the door was ajar, which was strange—he always double-checked it when leaving. Then the familiar smell of an uninvited guest wafted through the crack in the door.

“Hello, Hannigan,” Stoner said, pushing the door open wide. “They arrest people for contributing to smog.”

In the darkness, Hannigan laughed. “Always with the wisecracks, Stoner... But Bob Hope, you ain’t.”

When the lights flipped on, Detective Bruce Hannigan’s rotund frame overflowed his two-sizes-too-small easy chair. A stogie the size of a fencepost hung from his puffy lips, and a wrinkled, sweat-stained fedora and frumpled oversized suit emphasized his unkempt style. Alongside him stood two tall, slim, fair-haired men with features so non-descript they wouldn’t stand out in a lineup of little old ladies.

Hannigan blew a puff of smoke Stoner’s way just to prove he could do whatever he wanted. When the cloud cleared enough to see him, he asked, “Don’t you ever have normal conversations?”

“When I talk to normal people,” Stoner said, closing the door behind him.

“Knock it off, Stoner. I don’t have time for your one-liners.”

“Why?” Stoner asked, hanging up his coat and hat and moving toward the center of the living room. “Don’t flatfoots have a sense of humor?”

“You’re hopeless, Stoner.” Hannigan flipped his hand toward him.

Stoner went to the kitchen, and all three watched his every step. He got a glass and turned on the water.

“Anyone want a drink... Of water?” Stoner asked, filling his glass.

Hannigan shook his head. The others just stood there, unmoving. Stoner took a gulp and put the glass on the counter.

“Tell me something, Hannigan.”

“Tell you what?” he asked, puffing on his cigar.

“How’d your chain reach all the way from downtown to my neighborhood?”

Stoner’s easy chair creaked and moaned as Hannigan squirmed to get out of it. His face flushed, but he calmed down and leaned back after chomping on his cigar butt several times.

“Uh... I’m on what ya’d call a special assignment,” he said, proudly gesturing with his saliva-soaked cigar butt and then stretching his fat lips into a Cheshire-cat grin. Hannigan grunted and groaned to get out of the chair. Finally, he stood and thumbed over his shoulder. “And these are my associates, FBI agents Webber and Webber.”

“Oh?” Stoner asked with a chuckle. “You working with the Bobbsey Twins nowadays, Hannigan? So which one’s Freddie, and which one’s Flossie?”

Locked step, the agents moved toward Stoner, but Hannigan put out his arms. They stopped dead on the same foot—a mirror’s reflection, creepy.

“I’d gladly turn them loose on you if we didn’t need your help,” Hannigan said.

Stoner couldn’t control his laughter when he said that. They’d been at odds for years, and Hannigan would jump at the chance to put him out of business—one way or the other, especially the other.

“In a pig’s eye, Hannigan... At every turn, you’ve tried to get my license revoked; now, you want my help. Yeah, right! You’re either joking or more desperate than you look.”

Hannigan took a drag on his cigar and blew a cloud of smoke so thick it would’ve closed a highway. His face drooped and looked somewhat sad, even pitiful, an expression Stoner had never seen on him before. Then it quickly changed: tightening jaw, furrowing brow, and squinting eyes.

“Damnit, Stoner. Let’s bury the hatchet on this one and just listen to me. Your case is a setup, and you’re the fall guy, the patsy. Your clients are Nazi spies, and they’re trying to steal top-secret military plans.”

Hannigan had Stoner’s attention, and his brain couldn’t think of one comeback, one wisecrack. That feeling he’d had in his gut at the mansion wasn’t hunger or indigestion; it was trying to tell him to get the hell out of there. But no, he’d ignored it, and now he was up to his neck in something too big to handle.

“After they do, they plan to get away Scot-free and make you out to be a traitor—the one holding the bag. But they don’t know we’re on to them. So we’re planning the old switcheroo, and you’re gonna help us. And if you play along, we’ll catch them red-handed.”

Stoner was in the middle of the ring, fighting for options, but his brain was on the ropes, waiting for the ten-count. All he could do at that moment was utter a lame retort. “Or?” As soon as the word left his lips, he’d left himself wide open for a one-two punch. It came lightning fast.

“There ain’t gonna be no or, Stoner! So make your choice.” Hannigan looked around at Stoner’s meager furnishings. “I’d hate to see you lose the luxury you’ve amassed here.”

He gurgled a laugh Stoner would’ve enjoyed shoving down his fat throat, but the odds were against him, so he held back for once.

Hannigan wouldn’t let up.

“I can think of places worse than this if you decide not to cooperate... Not many, though.”

His annoying laugh stood the hair on the back of Stoner’s neck on end. The two agents joined in, each adding their non-descript chuckle to the chorus.

They had struck Stoner as tagalongs when the lights first flipped on, and now, his opinion of them had dropped a peg or two. Hannigan was this pack’s alpha dog, no doubt about it, and they were nothing more than butt sniffers.

Stoner had witnessed Hannigan rough up a suspect or two, so he didn’t want to cross him and didn’t know what the other two would or wouldn’t do. The phrase that came to mind was ‘up the creek without a paddle,’ and he didn’t fancy being cornered. He figured, ‘What the hay.’ So he tried to find their buttons, give them a little push, and see what would happen.

“If these two are Flossie and Freddie Bobbsey, what part will you play, Hannigan? Danny, the school bully?”

He was amazed at how fast that fat man could move. Hannigan’s right fist missed his jaw by inches when Stoner juked right, but he remembered too late that the fat man was a lefty.

End of Chapter 5

[Danik 2016]

CHAPTER 1 of 20

Wednesday, November 6, 1940
San Diego, California

Jack Stoner’s bank account was as empty as a castaway’s stomach, and he owed everybody something. The Stoner Detective Agency hadn’t had a case since Spring and was rapidly becoming the punchline of a worn-out joke. If things didn’t take a turn for the better soon, he’d have to get a job driving truck or sleep on a park bench.

He awoke early, and it was already warm and predicted to be another scorcher, one of those days when Stoner didn’t wanna get out of bed, let alone go to work. But somebody might get lost and stumble into his office, and he wanted to be there in case they needed directions.

After a light lunch, Stoner parked nearby and hiked to the intersection three doors from his office building. When he rounded the corner, two musclebound types that could’ve been escaped gorillas from the zoo paced by its entrance.

Stoner hid and watched them for a few minutes. He figured they were there to collect the wager he’d placed on a nag racing at Del Mar. The ponies weren’t his usual pastime, but the grapevine said the fix was in, so Stoner called a bookie, Sid Devar, and laid a C-note on Leading the Charge to win. But yesterday was one of the year’s hottest days, and as luck would have it, the horse and jockey stopped for a mint Julip on the far turn and came in dead last.

Stoner didn’t mind losing—losing came naturally to him, but he couldn’t cover his wager, and Sid never extended credit beyond twenty-four hours. So he left those apes baking in the hot sun, crossed the street, and ducked into a nearby alley.

Today’s luck was as bad as yesterday’s, and Stoner ran smack dab into Sid’s debt-collection goons. Theo and Leo were classic Neanderthals. Theo’s bloodshot eyes were deep-set, and his brow jutted far enough to shade his entire face. The bridge of his nose was as flat as a pancake, and his cauliflower ears were ready for harvest. His chiseled chin could chip granite, and you could use his one-o’clock shadow for sanding it smooth. Nature’s mistake was to make one of them, but then to make a carbon copy, his twin, Leo, was unbelievable!

Before Stoner could whimper a cry for help, Theo grabbed his lapels and slammed him against the building—his tiptoes floated inches above the pavement.

“Going somewhere, Stoner?”

Theo’s gruff voice would’ve scared Boris Karloff, and his breath reeked of cheap cigar and everything bagel—extra onion and garlic.

“Easy on the shirt, pal; it’s the only good one I’ve got,” Stoner said defiantly. “Besides, you got the wrong guy.”

“Says you, wiseguy,” Theo said, spraying spittle with every word.

He loosened his grip, and Stoner’s feet landed on solid ground.

“What’s this Stoner supposed ta look like, Leo?” he asked without taking his eyes off him. “This four-flusher says he ain’t the guy.”

Leo unfolded a crumpled slip of paper. “Medium, fifty-ish, graying hair, paunch, and—”

“Oh, yeah! Me and a thousand other guys, Jughead,” Stoner said with as much bravado as he could muster, “but that doesn’t make me the sadsack you’re looking for. So I’ll say it again, only slower this time. Maybe it’ll sink in: ‘You. Got. The. Wrong. Guy.’”

His plea fell on deaf ears.

“And a cross-shaped scar above his left eye,” Leo said, poking Stoner’s forehead with his hairy finger. “That’s him, all right.”

“The cross nailed it, chump,” Theo said. “Pay up, or we’ll pound every nickel out of yer hide.”

They usually went for the tender places where bruises didn’t show, and if you were lucky, they wouldn’t go for your face. But any way you cut it, a pounding didn’t sound good to Stoner.

“I ain’t got it,” Stoner said with a confident grin. But then, he felt his lower lip quiver.

“Says he ain’t got it,” Theo said, cocking his head toward Leo.

“The boss don’t like ta hear them words,” Leo said with a grin that grew until it stretched from ear to ear but quickly morphed into tight lips. His brow furrowed. “Lemme pop ‘im one.”

“Not this time, brother,” Theo said, wagging his head from side to side. “He’s all mine. Next time, he’s all yers.”

Theo made a fist the size of a football and let it fly. It came at Stoner like a runaway freight train. He couldn’t do anything but wait for the crash.

He didn’t have to wait long.

Theo landed a solid punch just below Stoner’s solar plexus that knocked the wind out of him. He saw stars when the pavement reached up and whacked his chin. Once he hit the ground, he curled up Roly-poly-wise, holding his gut.

“Looky ‘im, Theo,” Leo said laughingly. “All crumpled like a pile of dirty laundry. Hold ‘im up, so I can pop ‘im a good one, too.”

“Ya’ll get yer chance tomorrow.”

Leo smacked his palm with his fist, and a flock of birds roosting on the overhead phone lines took flight. Meanwhile, Stoner lay on the pavement, faking some, feeling most, and hoping this was over.

Theo bent close to Stoner’s left ear and showered him in onion and garlic-laced spittle. “Here’s the play, Stoner. Ya got a friendly reminder today. We’ll be back tomorrow, and Leo’ll give ya two more. The next day will be my turn fer three, and we keep coming back till ya pay up.”

Stoner lay still, not even blinking an eye.

“Get the picture, Stoner? Huh?”

Leo eyed him closely. “He’s too dumb ta figure it out.”

Stoner nodded to let those apes know he’d had enough.

“See, Leo, Stoner ain’t so dumb after all.”

But the big ape wasn’t buying Stoner’s act.

“Is too,” Leo said. “He’s fakin’.”

“He got the message, all right,” Theo said, wagging his head. “One look’d tell ya.”

“Don’t believe ‘im.” Leo stepped toward him. “Ya should’ve hit him harder. That’s all I’m sayin’.”

Theo signaled the gorillas by the office building. Stoner figured today’s beating was over, so he got to his hands and knees. But Leo’s walnut-sized brain must’ve decided he was faking and let Stoner have it with his size twelve, knocking him against the wall.

“Not in the face, Leo!” Theo said. “Aim for the gut... Like this.”

Theo’s size thirteen landed square in his mid-drift. There wasn’t any faking now: Stoner hurt from his head to his toes.

The gorillas arrived just in time to join the party.

“What we miss?” the first gorilla asked.

“Nuthin’ much,” Theo said. “Just showin’ Stoner how we collect our debts.”

After they had some yucky-yucks standing over him, Theo said, “Let’s blow befer we draw a crowd.”

“Yeah. Blow.” Leo bent close to his ear. “Be seeing ya tomorrow, Stoner.” He stood to leave. “And don’t have that C-note, if ya know what I mean,” he said, slamming his palm with a tight fist and cackling as he walked away.

The foursome hightailed it and left Stoner lying on the pavement.

Stoner clenched his jaw, gritted his teeth, and swore. But he was hopelessly outnumbered and out of his league. So he didn’t move and swallowed his pride, which was easy, considering he had no dignity left. He waited for the worst of his pain to subside. Then he dusted himself off and felt above his right eye. It was sticky.

He stumbled across the street to his office building and made a beeline for the washroom. After a few splashes to the face, Stoner felt better. But one glance in the mirror told the story: matching scars for sure.

End Chapter 1
I read the first chapter of your story. I think it very well written, very fluid.

[DRayVan]

CHAPTER 6 of 20

The kitchen’s overhead light hurt Stoner’s eyes, and they wouldn’t focus. He squinted and realized his body was spread on the floor like peanut butter and jam on toast. His tongue moved, but his fat lip and aching jaw rendered him mute as a mime. When his eyes finally focused, Hannigan’s bulbous frame lorded over him. The agents stood nearby, watching, and he didn’t care one bit for the gleam in their eyes. They seemed to be enjoying this too much and probably would have gotten in a lick or two if alpha-dog, Hannigan, hadn’t kept a tight grip on their chains.

“I told you, Stoner, but you don’t hear too good.”

Hannigan took a drag on his cigar, bent over, and blew a three-alarm fire’s worth of smoke in Stoner’s face.

“You sing off-tune, Hannigan,” Stoner said, talking the best he could out of the left side of his mouth.

“Half the time, I need a dictionary to understand what you’re saying.”

“Four-letter words too big for you, Hannigan?”

“All right, Stoner, I’ve had enough. Let the chips fall where they fall.” To the FBI Agents, he said, “We’re outta here. Let this chump get what’s coming to him. We’ll work this deal alone.”

Hannigan turned to leave.

“Wait... Just wait a minute,” Stoner said, getting to his feet. “You got me all wrong, Hannigan. You bring out the worst in me, and once you get me started, I can’t stop... Okay, okay... I’ll zip it. So give it to me straight.”

“See, boys,” Hannigan said, taking another drag on his cigar and blowing the smoke toward him. “Stoner ain’t such a dumb puck after all.”

“Don’t get me started again, Hannigan. I’m offering you a peace branch here, so don’t step on my olives.”

“Okay, Stoner. Truce?” Hannigan asked, extending his hand.

Stoner nodded.

“What? No shake?” Hannigan took his cigar and used it as an accusing finger toward Stoner’s face. “All right then, have it your way, Stoner. We work together on this case, and afterward... Who knows.”

“I can live with that,” Stoner said, rubbing his jaw.

“You got anything to drink besides tap water in this rathole of yours?”

Stoner nodded.

The thought of becoming drinking buddies with Hannigan was enough to make Stoner take the cure. Still, the idea of becoming a patsy was even worse, so he retrieved a bottle and glasses from the liquor cabinet. He put three tumblers on the coffee table, kept one, and poured himself a double.

“Help yourselves,” Stoner said, setting the bottle next to the tumblers.

For a big man, Hannigan glided to the bottle with the nimbleness of a ballerina and poured a triple. Then, he offered the bottle to the agents. They declined and faded into the room’s decor.

Stoner never figured out why Hannigan always went for the chair too small for him, but he plopped in the easy chair with a wheeze and a grunt, all mixed into one guttural sound. Yet he never spilled a drop. Whatever could be said for Hannigan, he could hold his liquor.

“Now, Stoner,” Hannigan said. “Let’s start from the beginning. How’d you meet your clients?”

Stoner sat on the davenport and sipped his Scotch.

“Got a call earlier today offering me a job—a case.”

“And?” Hannigan asked, scrunching his shoulders.

“And... I agreed to meet at their place at eight-thirty. So I drove out Escondido way to 1498 Bresa De Loma Drive.”

Hannigan smiled and cocked his toward the agents.

“Now, we’re getting somewhere, eh, boys?” He swung his head from one side to the other. “Where’d they go?”

“Over here,” the first agent said, stepping into view.

“Stop doing that. It gives me the creeps.” He turned to Stoner. “What names they use?”

“The guy’s name was Reginal or Reggie Pinehurst, and the dame’s name was Anne Brewer.”

Hannigan cocked his head toward the agents. “Either of you heard of them?”

The agents nodded in unison. “They are SS Major Klaus Günsche and Anna Müller, both from Berlin,” the first agent said. “What did they tell you?”

“Anne’s father owned a machine shop or something, and some guy—a William Teller—from their main competitor, Wicker Technologies, stole some top-secret blueprints for a military thing her father designed, and... And they needed my help getting them back.”

“It’s partly true,” the second agent said. “Anne Brewer is the daughter of George Brewer, owner of Brewer Industries—east, near El Cajon. She married Frederick Müller about ten years ago, and they moved to Germany four years ago.”

Stoner took a long slug from his glass.

“Wicker Technologies,” the second agent continued, “developed a hush-hush gadget for the military.”

“What was it?” Stoner asked, sliding to the edge of his seat.

“Don’t know, don’t care,” Hannigan said, waving his hand and cigar. “All I’ve been told—the boys know more than they’re letting on—is that it’s something we don’t want Germany to get their hands on.”

Stoner shook his head and took another slug of Scotch.

“Did they have plans to recover the stolen blueprints?”

Stoner leaned back on the davenport, still reeling from what the agents said.

“Yeah,” he said, feeling a cold wave of goosebumps crawl up his spine and neck. “They got a plan, all right, and I’m up to my neck in it.”

“We ain’t got time for your soul-searching, Stoner. Let’s have it.”

“Well...” Stoner slugged down the last of his Scotch and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Reggie said their chief engineer, a guy named Samuel Culver, takes a copy of the latest blueprints from their design office to the plant every Saturday so the shop can work on any changes first thing Monday morning. He leaves the office at nine sharp, stops for dinner at a greasy spoon at nine-thirty, and arrives at the plant by eleven—like clockwork.”

“We already know that much, Stoner.” Hannigan squirmed to the edge of the easy chair. “Tell us something we don’t know.”

“You’re as impatient as pigs at a trough, Hannigan. It’s coming. It’s coming.”

“Don’t start up with him, Stoner. Too much is riding on this.”

“Okay, okay...” Stoner leaned forward and hesitated. “When Culver stops for dinner, Reggie invites him to the back room, he gets some time in the cooler, and I highjack his car. Then a mile or two down the road, I leave his driver alongside the highway and take the plans to a warehouse at Fifth and West Sunview. For my part, I get a cool grand.”

“I’m amazed you’ve survived all these years,” Hannigan said, shaking his head. “At this rate, you’ll be six feet under before week’s end.”

Stoner didn’t say anything; his face said it all. He had “sucker” written across his forehead.

“How were they going to escape?” Hannigan asked.

The room felt uncomfortably warm. Stoner replayed the events of the phone call, the meeting, and the scheme to retrieve the blueprints. But he blew past every red flag his body and soul raised without giving them a second thought. His brain swirled, going nowhere—a car stuck in neutral—so he stared into empty space.

“Snap out of it, Stoner,” Hannigan said. “We need to know how they’re going to escape.”

Hannigan’s words were a wet towel across Stoner’s face, and his thoughts regained focus.

“Uh... I don’t know,” Stoner said. His words tumbled from his lips in slow-motion. “Reggie never said.”

Althewhile, the cogwheels of Stoner’s brain were caught in a spiderweb of confusion. Some parts of this drama fit, while others didn’t. He was putting a puzzle together with pieces from two different scenes. For one, he didn’t trust Hannigan—FBI Agents or no FBI Agents backing him. For another, a lot was not being said; there was something below the surface that he couldn't put his finger on, but it was there just the same. He couldn’t afford to ignore another red flag; any way you sliced it, Hannigan was a walking red flag.

Hannigan turned to the agents. “If we nab them at the warehouse, their escape plans won’t matter.”

They nodded in unison without comment.

Those two gave Stoner the creeps—the Corsica Brothers were never that conjoined.

“Okay, Stoner, here’s our plan,” Hannigan said, pointing his stogie in his face. “We’ll be waiting there for you, Reggie, and the dame. Once you hand over the plans, we’ll burst in and catch them with the goods.”

“Could you until I get my payoff?”

Hannigan turned to the agents. “What part of this don’t he get?”

They smiled together as if they’d rehearsed ahead of time.

Hannigan jabbed toward Stoner’s nose with his stogie as he spoke. “Listen, good, Stoner. There ain’t gonna be no payoff. If you don’t play along, there might be a slug or two in your chest, or maybe, Reggie will do us all a favor and put a couple in that wisecracking mouth of yours.”

A chill flashed from Stoner’s toes to the top of his head, but he shrugged it off and lobbed a defensive zinger.

“You ain’t no Bob Hope, neither, Hannigan. So don’t even try with the jokes; they don’t wear well on you.”

“No joke, Stoner,” said the first agent. “What we know about Major Günsche puts you in real danger, so I’d advise you to play along with us.”

“Then what’ll it be, Stoner?” Hannigan asked. “Smart guy, or dumbass?”

Stoner glanced at the two agents and back at Hannigan. He was in a tight spot, and they knew it, and the walls kept closing in from all sides.

“All right. Have it your way, Hannigan. Unfortunately, I don’t see many options from where I sit.”

Hannigan turned to the agents with a wide grin. “You see? I told you Stoner was a good egg once you cracked his shell.”

“Like I said, Hannigan, don’t give up your day job for the stage anytime soon.”

“Can’t blame a guy for tryin’, can you? Police work don’t last forever.”

End Chapter 6

[DRayVan]

CHAPTER 7 of 20

Thursday, November 7, 1940

The day started out better: a new weather pattern promised a break from this week's high temperatures, starting tomorrow, and the smog level should be on the low side for a change. And when Stoner got out of bed and stretched, he didn’t hurt as much. Two fifties graced his wallet, and the prospect of seeing Anne again cheered him up for the day. So, after a quick breakfast of two eggs over easy on rye toast and three cups of joe, he showered and shaved. He wore his best white shirt, his only clean suit, and a snazzy tie.

Stoner glanced once more in the mirror to make sure his hair parted straight and grabbed his keys on the way out. He intended to dodge Sid’s Collection Thugs, Inc. until he’d earned a couple more sawbucks, but Leo’s knuckles were poised to rap when he opened his front door.

“Going somewhere, Stoner?” Leo asked with a sneer that would’ve scared Atilla the Hun.

“Yeah, bozo,” Stoner said, backing away from him. “A guy’s gotta earn a living, so stand aside.”

“Don’t even think ‘bout leavin’.” Leo shoved the door wide open and muscled his way in.

Theo followed right behind. “Ya ain’t goin’ nowhere, Stoner, until ya fork it over.”

“Theo,” Stoner said, backing farther into the room. He didn’t relish the looks of this one bit, so he tried a little bravado. He didn’t expect it would work, but it was worth the effort.

“Long time no see, guys. Stopped by for coffee, did you?” As the words spilled from his lips, he knew his attempt was as lame as they come.

“We ain’t got no time for yer wisecrackin’,” Leo said, advancing toward him. “Tell me ya ain’t got the dough.” He pounded his palm with a fist as big as a basketball. “I’ve been savin’ up all night for this, and I got a deposit for ya, Stoner. Two big ones and ya can bank on that.”

Without a moment’s hesitation, Stoner reached for his wallet, pulled out a fifty, and waved it in front of them. He held back a fifty for spending money, but maybe that wasn’t such a good idea.

“I got half of it, Theo, and... And by tomorrow, I’ll have the other half.”

Theo snatched the bill from his fingers and held it to the light. He flipped it over several times, examining it from all angles.

“So what you looking for, Theo?” Stoner asked. “You wouldn’t know a real one from a fake.”

“Says you, wiseass.” Theo folded the fifty and slid it into his coat pocket. “Welchers can’t never be trusted. And you’s worse than them.”

“Play nice, Theo,” Stoner said, cracking a nervous smile.

“This is his nice side,” Theo said, frowning. If looks could kill, his scrunched-up face stood a better-than-even chance of putting you six feet under.

“Got what you came for, so if you don’t mind, fellas, I got places to go and clients to see... So step aside,” Stoner said confidently, hoping to bluster past them while their sluggish minds caught up to his words.

Theo was faster on the draw than Stoner figured and backed into the door frame, his shoulders blocking the door. Leo came toward him, closing his right hand into a fist the size of an anvil.

“Wait a minute, bonehead. What if I had the other fifty?”

“Holdin’ out on us, are ya?” Theo asked.

“No...” Stoner said; His bravado was waning with each passing moment. His lower lip quivered, but he got control of it. “I was just askin’.”

“Don’t matter none to him, Stoner,” Leo said. “Yer gettin’ a taste of this, one way or the other.

‘Hope blooms eternal,’ they say, but one look at Leo’s eyes told Stoner any hope he had of getting off easy was wishful thinking. He’d experienced Theo’s punches, and he didn’t have to wait long for Leo’s.

Leo wound up and let him have it square in the gut. His punch doubled Stoner over, emptying his breakfast on the floor. He collapsed and writhed in his puke for a few moments, then Leo grabbed his shoulder in a vise-tight grip and pulled him upright.

Stoner dangled from Leo’s hand. His legs barely held him upright. His knees wanted to buckle, but he wobbled, waiting for another.

Instead, Theo said, “Wait, Leo. He paid half, so he gets half a break.”

“Jeez,” Leo said, cocking his head toward his brother. “Always stoppin’ me when I’m just startin’ ta have some fun.”

“Sorry, kiddo. Boss’ rules, not mine.”

Leo let go, and Stoner collapsed. The smell almost caused him to retch again, but his gut hurt so bad he gulped some air and swallowed, hoping the urge to puke would pass. Meanwhile, the wrecking crew yucked it up.

Theo turned to leave but glanced over his shoulder. “Better clean yerself up, Stoner,” he said with a chuckle. “Ya look awful, and ya don’t smell no too good, not too good at all.”

“Yeah. Awful, chump.” Leo was laughing when he walked toward the door. He stopped and glanced at him lying on the floor. “See ya tomorrow, pal. Ya won’t know where or when, but we’ll see ya—take that to the bank and cash it.”

Leo nearly slammed the door off its hinges when he left. A couple minutes later, Theo started the car, gunned the accelerator, and squealed the tires as they drove off.

As bad as his vomit smelled, his pain was worse, so Stoner lay quietly for a while. He showered and dressed again when he had the strength to stagger to the bathroom. Unfortunately, the only suit he had was the one he wore yesterday, which wasn’t the sweetest smelling and had some substantial wrinkles.

Stoner checked his watch—just enough time to make brunch if he broke a few speed laws. His mess would have to wait for the cleaning lady—if he had one. He couldn’t chance it being late and sinking this case before it made it out of the harbor. He shuffled to the door, closed it as he left, and staggered to his car.

Once inside, Stoner sat for a few seconds to catch his breath, started the engine, and slowly drove down his street. When he reached the main highway, he gunned it, dodging everything on four wheels and cursing anything on two. The lights seemed to be against him, but a quick glance at his watch told him he could make the fifty-minute trip in forty if some flat-foot didn’t nab him for speeding.

The drive-up East Harbor Drive was hairy, zipping in and out of traffic without a speeding ticket, but Stoner made better time on North Harbor Drive until he drove into the back-up on Pacific Highway. Fortunately, his exit was only two miles away. Once on Mission Bay Drive, Mission Boulevard, and La Jolla Boulevard, it was clear sailing to Prospect Street and the hotel.

End Chapter 7

[DRayVan]

CHAPTER 8 of 20

Stoner’s car screeched to a stop with little time to spare. He valet-parked and hurried into the main concourse. The Spanish Colonial Revival-style La Valencia Hotel was built overlooking the Pacific Ocean with reddish stucco walls, terracotta-tiled roofs, and a tower with a golden dome. The hotel’s distinctive appearance earned its moniker: Pink Lady.

After getting directions, he made a beeline to the terrace, where Reggie and Anne were already seated. Before Reggie could stand and greet him, Stoner slid into the chair closest to Anne.

“Glad you could make it, Jack,” Reggie said. “I was beginning to wonder.”

Stoner drew back his lips in a fake smile to be polite, but his thoughts and interests were on Anne. An automatic part of his brain engaged, and a wisecrack tumbled off his tongue and landed feet-first on the table.

“My garden club had an impromptu meeting this morning, and I was the guest of honor.”

“You’re a real jokester, Jack,” Reggie said with another laugh. “Don’t you think so, Anne?”

Anne rolled her eyes at him and then sighed.

“While you two ham it up,” she said, “I’ll powder my nose.”

When she walked away, Stoner couldn’t help but notice how formfitting her navy-blue trousers were and how she glided along the floor like an angel. Her silk Greta Blouse, bowing and tails at the waist, topped off the whole caboodle. It would've fallen off his shoulders if he’d cranked his head around any farther.

“Close your mouth, Jack, and put your eyes back in their sockets.”

Stoner jerked his head around and felt the warmth of blood blushing into his cheeks.

“Sorry, but I couldn’t help myself. It’s just that... That she’s all woman.”

“Yes, she is, and don’t even think about it now, Jack. Just concentrate on getting the blueprints back.”

Stoner leaned back against his chair and took a deep breath. The warmth of his cheeks waned, and his insides calmed a bit.

A waiter approached and handed him a menu.

“While you peruse the menu, sir, would you care for a coffee, tea, mimosa, or something else?” the waiter asked.

“What’s mimosa?”

“Champagne and orange juice, similar to a Buck’s Fizz.”

“Oh... I’ll have coffee, black.”

The waiter left and returned with a cravat filled with coffee. He topped off Stoner’s cup and gestured toward Reggie. He nodded, and the waiter warmed his.

“Would the gentlemen care to order?”

Reggie waved him off. “Later.”

The waiter scowled and walked away.

“Now, Jack. Let’s get down to business.” Reggie poured cream into his coffee and stirred it.

“Before you do, there’s a delicate topic I want to—”

“Need an advance, Jack?”

Reggie smiled and reached for his wallet. Stoner felt the blood rushing to his cheeks again. Begging wasn’t in his nature, but lately, nature had turned a blind eye toward him, and holding out his hand wasn’t as repulsive as it once had been.

“Well, you know how expensive things have gotten these days.”

Reggie fished through the sea of green in his wallet for a couple of sawbucks and snagged them.

“Would twenty tide you over?”

“Nicely,” Stoner said, extending his hand for the crisp bills without an ounce of pride left.

“That’s settled,” Reggie said, putting his wallet away. “I have it on good authority that Culver will arrive at the diner around eight-thirty.”

“What happened to his clockwork routine?” Stoner asked, frowning. “Wasn’t it always nine-thirty sharp?”

Reggie seemed at a loss for words and wasn’t the I-got-it-together man Stoner had met last evening.

“Uh... There must’ve been a change-up in his plans. Anyway, a car with two bodyguards will follow close behind. His driver will remain in the town car while Culver eats his meal. That’ll be our chance to nab the prints.”

Poker players would recognize what Stoner noticed: a tell, a subconscious reaction such as a twitch, a flick, or some uncontrollable movement. Reggie’s tell was a twitch of his left eyelid. But what did it mean? He was drawn between what Hannigan said and what Reggie said—who was lying, and who wasn’t?

Thoughts were bombarding Stoner’s mind non-stop: if Reggie and Anne were spies, just as Hannigan said, how could Stoner believe anything Reggie told him. On the other hand, he’d known Hannigan for years and had to double-check if he said the sun was shining—Stoner couldn’t trust him any farther than he could throw that fat man, and he couldn’t pick up that ton of lard without a crane. And Reggie’s story kept changing: different times and more characters. So far, there were Culver, his driver, and now his bodyguards.

“How many invitations did you mail out for this party?” Stoner asked.

“Always with a joke,” Reggie said, chuckling.

“There’s only the two of us. How we gonna handle them all?”

“Don’t forget, Anne.”

“Anne?”

“Anne will drive the sedan delivery to the diner. You’ll handle Culver and his driver, and I’ll eliminate the bodyguards.”

“Eliminate?”

“Poor choice of words, Jack. Disable is what I meant to say.”

Stoner doubted Reggie’s slip of the tongue wasn’t what he truly meant. He leaned back and took a sip of coffee.

“So, what day are we going for it?”

“This Saturday,” Reggie said.

“Saturday!” Stoner said, leaning so far over the table that he moved it. “Don’t we need a dry run, more planning, or something?”

“Are you getting cold feet, Jack?”

“No... It’s...” Stoner sat back and relaxed a bit. “I don’t want Anne to get hurt. If it was just you and me, I’d be ready tonight, but I—"

“Don’t let those blonde curls fool you. She’ll hold up her end.”

Anne returned and sat. It must have been the expression on his face—Stoner was never any good at poker—that caused her to ask.

“Have I been the topic of discussion?”

“Jack and I have been going over the plans for tomorrow, and he was concerned that it might be too dangerous for you.”

Anne put her hand on Stoner’s and squeezed it. Electricity shot up his arm and exploded in his brain. For a crazy moment, he felt on top of the world—spy or no spy.

“How sweet, Jack, but put your mind at rest,” Anne said with a smile. “You have no idea what I’m capable of.”

She took her hand away, and he understood what a lamp experiences when you switch off the power. Stoner fell to earth with a thud and couldn’t think of one wisecrack.

“Something wrong, Jack?” Anne asked.

“No... No. I was mulling the plan over in his mind once more. Explain how you fit in.”

“Reggie and I will meet you at your office—I’ll be driving—and we’ll go to the diner. Then, once Reggie disables the bodyguards, he rides with me to the warehouse. You disable the driver after you switch with Culver and drive to the warehouse with the blueprints.”

“Seems pretty risky to me.”

“Trust me, Jack,” Anne said, touching Stoner’s hand again. “It won’t be.”

“Hey. What about Culver? Who takes care of him?”

“Reggie does. So you see, Jack, all the bases are covered.”

“Why don’t you show Jack their lovely beach here?” Reggie said, pointing toward the ocean.

“In these shoes?”

“There’s a walkway, an overlook,” Stoner said. “No sand, a perfect view of the ocean.”

“Oh... So you’ve been here before.”

“No. Saw it on a placard when I walked through the corridor.”

“If you’re game.”

Stoner stood and offered his hand. “Your deal.”

“I’ll play these cards,” Anne said with a chuckle.

“Get out of here, you two, before your metaphor folds.”

“Ha. Ha,” Anne said sarcastically.

When she took his hand and stood, that electric shock exploded in his brain again, and Stoner lit up like a Christmas tree. He led her to the back steps that descended to Coast Boulevard. After traffic had passed, they crossed and followed the sidewalk to the Shell Beach pathway.

They stopped and leaned on the railing, enjoying the view and cooler breeze of the water. Stoner turned to face her.

“Uh,” he sputtered with a mouth full of cotton and a tongue as dry as the Mojave Desert.

“You say something, Jack,” Anne said, looking at him.

His heart palpitated, and Stoner tried to swallow but couldn’t. Instead, he reached into his pocket and retrieved a crumpled pack of cigarettes.

“Wanna smoke?” he asked, offering her a cigarette and taking one for myself.

Anne took one from the pack, straightened it, and put it between her lips. “Got a light?”

“Sure, sure,” he said, flipping his Zippo lighter open.

Anne leaned in close while Stoner shielded the flame from the off-shore breeze and lit his. They both puffed, blew smoke to the wind, and laughed that they’d done it together as if something they’d rehearsed.

Stoner leaned on the railing, his back to the ocean, and said, “Anne...”

Anne turned to face him.

“Anne... I...”

“What are you trying to say, Jack?”

“Uh... Nothing... Nothing important,” he said, flipping around toward the ocean.

Anne ditched her smoke and put her hand on his shoulder. “Tell me. What’s bothering you?”

Stoner pivoted, pitched his cigarette on the ground, and crushed it with his shoe. “I don’t think I can go through with this... This caper. Job. Oh, whatever it’s called.”

“Why, Jack?” Anne asked, holding his hands in hers.

He looked into her eyes.

“I couldn’t forgive myself if anything happened to you.”

“But nothing’s gonna happen, Jack. So don’t worry.”

Stoner slowly shook his head from side to side but speeded up after a few moments.

“You don’t know the half of it, Anne. Not even a quarter.”

“You can be cryptic at times, Jack. Reggie’s got all angles covered.”

“Then why do I have this funny feeling in my gut?”

“Something you ate, maybe?” Anne said with a chuckle.

“Gracie Allen, you ain’t.”

“Don’t be cruel, Jack... Just tell me what’s bothering you.”

“It’s you... And Cole Porter said it best: ‘I’ve got you under my skin.’”

Anne took his hand, pulled him close, and kissed him.

End of Chapter 8

[DRayVan]

CHAPTER 9 of 20

As Stoner drove home, the sky seemed bluer, and the clouds were a lot puffier than usual. The scent of sage drifted in from the canyons, and it smelled better than he’d remembered—it actually smelled good. He parked in his driveway, got out, and strolled to his front door, floating a few inches above the walkway.

"What’s wrong with me?" Stoner thought. "Am I falling for that dame, a Nazi?"

Stoner tried to shake off the feeling, but it hung on him like an oversized topcoat. Then, he remembered the vomit, and his feet hit solid earth with a jolt. He turned the doorknob, expecting the worst, but when the door opened, he was surprised by the smell of Pine-Sol cleaner and cheap cigar smoke.

Hannigan had found his undersized easy chair to his liking again and had strained it to its breaking point. He puffed on a cigar long enough to cause a logjam on the Mississippi, and the agents blended with his floor lamp.

“What’s with the Pine-Sol, Hannigan?” Stoner asked, stepping inside and closing the door behind him. “Taking up maid service as a sideline?”

“Yer housekeeping skills ain’t nothing to write home about, Stoner. This place stunk like the drunk tank down at the precinct. The boys pitched in and did ya a favor, seeing we’re now all working together.”

“Since we’re speaking of the boys, don’t have them stand too close to my floor lamp.” Stoner swept his arm toward them. “They blend so well that I might think I have three.”

“Always with the wisecracks,” Hannigan said. “How about ya give it straight—details of the grab.”

Stoner kept one eye on the agents so he’d not lose track of them and the other on Hannigan in case he blew a wall of smoke his way. He wanted time to find a window and fresh air if he needed some.

Hannigan looked around the room like a walrus at feeding time at the zoo.

“Where ya keep the hooch?” he said, licking his lips.

“With or without ice?”

“Don’t ruin it.”

“Gemme a minute.”

Stoner stopped by the liquor cabinet for some Scotch and the kitchen for glasses. He poured a double for himself, put the glasses and bottle on a tray, brought the whole shebang into the living room, and set the tray on the coffee table.

“Help yourselves,” Stoner said, taking his drink and sitting on the davenport.

Hannigan poured a triple and offered the bottle to the boys, but they refused. Stoner took a sip, but Hannigan gulped a mouthful and winced. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Jeez, Stoner. Where’d ya get this paint thinner?”

“Special blend for my friends.”

“What ya serve yer enemies?”

It was a rhetorical question, and Stoner didn’t think he expected an answer, so he stood looking at him, wishing he’d disappear or just go away, but he didn’t.

Hannigan put his glass on the table. “Okay, Stoner. Now that we’ve dispensed with the niceties, let’s have it. What’s the plan?”

“Saturday evening, we make the snatch.”

Stoner took another sip of the Scotch nonchalantly, but Hannigan didn’t care for his answer and started to squirm in the chair.

“That’s it?” He poked his stogie at him as his voice jumped an octave. “Come on, Stoner. We need more details! Ya got more! So give!”

For a split second, Stoner didn’t give a damn about national security or torpedo guidance systems. All that mattered was Anne. He took a big slug of his drink and sat on the davenport, facing Hannigan.

Hannigan sat there, puffing on his cigar and blowing enough smoke to hide a battleship. He frowned, making the creases in his forehead so deep an infantry platoon could camp in them. When he nearly crushed the arms of his easy chair in his clenched hands, Stoner figured it was time to say something or buy a new chair.

“All right, Hannigan. There’s a change-up in plans. This Culver guy is stopping for dinner at eight.”

“Eight?” Hannigan said. “I thought nine-thirty.”

“So did I, but something moved the schedule up. Doesn’t matter, one way or the other—eight or nine-thirty. This three-act play goes on stage as planned, same plot but with some character changes.”

“Why do ya have to talk in riddles, Stoner? Just speak plain and give me the highlights.”

Stoner filled Hannigan in with the revised plans, but he wasn’t happy.

“Why do I get this funny feeling in my gut that you’re holding something back, Stoner?”

“Maybe it’s feeding time at the zoo,” Stoner said, glancing at his watch.

Hannigan took a drag on his stogie and let the smoke trickle out his nose as he eyed him. Then he used it as a pointer toward Stoner’s face.

“It’s the dame, isn’t it?” Hannigan asked. He cocked his head toward the agents. “Where’d they go?”

“That’s them,” Stoner said, pointing to the right side of the room. “The ones without the lampshades.”

“Oh, yeah,” Hannigan said, still cocking his head. “Seems Stoner’s gone soft on the dame, boys.”

In unison, the agents said, “Soft as unrefrigerated butter.”

“Don’t give up your day jobs just yet,” Stoner said sarcastically. “You ain’t got the knack for it.”

They stepped toward him with clenched fists, but Hannigan stopped them cold with a yank on their chains.

“We’re all one happy family on this one, so act nice, but when it’s over, he’s all yers.”

With that declaration, they resumed their floor lamp posture.

“So what’s the deal with the dame, Stoner?” Hannigan asked with the corners of his mouth curled up in a devilish grin.

“I’ll play along if she goes Scot-free; otherwise, find another sucker.”

Hannigan sat motionless, expressionless, smoke rising from the end of his cigar. His piercing eyes met Stoner’s, but Stoner didn’t back down.

“Well, Hannigan? You can nab Reggie, Klaus, or whatever he’s calling himself these days, but let Anne escape—clear out of the country, or I’m cashing in his chips.”

Hannigan yanked the cigar butt from the corner of his mouth and pointed it at Stoner.

“Listen here, chump. Ya ain’t in no position to make a deal for the dame.”

“Just watch your investigation tank when I spill the beans,” Stoner said, standing and turning for the door.

Hannigan was so furious that he capsized the easy chair, trying to get to his feet. The agents were laughing so hard they couldn’t help him. But once the chair hit the floor, it popped him like a champagne cork, and he rolled to his knees, drawing his revolver.

“Hold it right there, Stoner. Ya ain’t goin’ nowhere, and ya ain’t gonna be spillin’ no beans, neither!”

Stoner didn’t know if Hannigan would pull the trigger or not, but he’d seen him this angry before, and the suspect ended up in the hospital—it wasn’t pretty. So he did a slow turn and put his hands up.

“That’s better, Stoner. I always thought ya had a level head when the chips were down.”

“And when a thirty-eight Special stares you in the face,” Stoner said nervously.

“That, too.”

“Put that iron away, and I’ll give his arms a rest. Then, maybe we can come to some kind of agreement, and maybe not.”

“Okay, Stoner. Talk.”

“You want the major; he’s the ringleader. Anne’s just a secondary player and not worth your time. She wouldn’t even be an honorable mention in your commendation. I can see the headlines now. Detective Hannigan Breaks Nazi Spy Ring. You fancy the sound of that, don’t you, Hannigan? All you have to do is let the dame go, slip through your fingers as freely as smoke escapes your nose. What do you say, Hannigan? A hero if I ever saw one.”

Stoner had to bite his lip on that last one to keep from laughing, but he needed an extra push over the finish line. He glanced at the agents; they were suppressing a snicker—in unison. Those guys were just plain creepy by any description in his book.

Hannigan holstered his gun and rubbed his chin. Then a broad smile stretched to the breaking point across his fat lips.

“Okay, Stoner. We don’t want the dame, do we, boys?” Hannigan asked, looking toward the agents.

Stoner became suspicious when his smile morphed into a grin and then a smirk. But any deal that let Anne off the hook was all right by him.

End of Chapter 9

[DRayVan]

CHAPTER 10 of 20

After Hannigan and the FBI Agents left, Stoner felt pretty much on top of the world: Reggie had advanced him a couple of days’ pay, he had the dough to cover his debt, and best of all, Anne had a stay-out-of-jail pass. At last, he could afford a decent dinner for the first time in a blue moon, so he cleaned up and stepped outside.

The sky cleared, and a cooler off-shore breeze chased the high temperatures of the past few days back to the desert where they belonged. All things considered, it should still make for a pleasant meal with drinks overlooking the ocean while watching the sun go down. Stoner locked the door and started down his sidewalk. He was in such a good mood that he whistled a jaunty little tune—whistling was saved for the occasional pretty dame or to hail a cab, but he made an exception tonight.

Before Stoner could get in his car, a sedan roared down his street and screeched to a stop, blocking his driveway. It was a sparkling new Oldsmobile Special Club, streamlined with a two-tone body so nifty that it made his car look like salvage-yard pickings.

As big as the Olds was, its front seat was jam-packed with shoulder-to-shoulder muscle. Stoner didn’t have to strain to recognize the occupants. Theo and Leo were the only two baboons who could cram the front seat of that big car and make it look small.

Any thoughts of a pleasant evening of drinks at some ocean-side dive just flew out the window. Then it struck him: what the hell do they want?

Theo got out of the driver’s side, and the car rocked to the right. Then, Leo got out, and the car righted itself. They shuffled up his driveway, partly hunched over, arms dangling. Stoner half expected their knuckles would scrape the pavement at any moment.

The last two run-ins with these gorillas ended with some serious pain, and Stoner had no reason to believe this would end any differently. But they’d already paid him a visit earlier this morning, so his thoughts ran all over the place, wondering why they were here.

So Stoner did the only thing he could think of on short notice: he grinned from ear to ear, and when they got within talking distance, he said, “I’m fresh out of bananas, guys. What else can I get you?”

As soon as the words registered in his brain, Stoner regretted saying them. This wasn’t a good time to be wisecracking; they weren’t your average Joes, and anything that’d set them off wouldn’t end in his favor. He waited for the punchline, metaphorically speaking.

Theo stopped a yard or two in front of his car, and Leo lumbered up next to him. Theo was his usual grumpy self, perpetual scowl and all—you’d think his facial muscles’d get tired, but they never seemed to.

“Knock off the funny stuff, Stoner.”

His tone made the hairs on Stoner’s neck stand at attention. He figured he was in for it now. Then, as usual, Leo echoed what Theo said.

“Yeah. Knock it off, or I’ll knock you off.”

“Hey. Watch what yer sayin’, kiddo,” Theo said to Leo. “Ya know the boss.”

“What I say?” Leo asked, punching Theo’s shoulder. “Huh? What I say?”

“We’re legitimate businessmen now, Leo. So we don’t knock off people no more. How many times I gotta tell ya?”

Leo punched Theo’s shoulder again.

“Who died and left ya in charge?”

Theo gave Leo a shove.

“Don’t start with me, Leo, or I’ll wallop ya and knock ya down a peg or two.”

They faced each other with eyebrows raised, jaws tight.

“Oh, yeah, and who’s helpin’ ya?”

Leo tightened his hands into beachball-sized fists.

Theo responded in turn, curling his hands into basketball-sized fists. Stoner expected them to come to blows at any moment, so he took this opportunity to duck out, or at least slip away, unscathed.

“Pardon him, boys. If you don’t mind, I’ll be on my way since you don’t seem to need me for anything,” he said, opening his car door. “Could you move your car?”

Theo and Leo immediately dropped their tiff and refocused on him.

“Ya ain’t goin’ nowhere, Stoner,” Theo said. “Yer comin’ with us.”

“Yeah,” Leo said with his hideous chuckle. “With us.”

“The way you apes are all dressed up, are we double-dating at the zoo?” Stoner asked, closing the car door. “I could slip into something more appropriate—maybe a classy rayon ensemble.”

“If fer one minute ya was serious—" Theo left that thought hanging in mid-air. “Get in the car. Sid wants to see ya.”

“Why? I got his fifty,” Stoner said, waving the Grant he took out of his wallet in their faces.

Leo’s eyes widened, but Theo ignored it. Instead, he fixed his stare on Stoner’s eyes, unflinching.

“When Sid says do, I don’t ask; I just do. So get in the car, and don’t ask me why again.”

“Yeah,” Leo cackled. “Get in.”

Stoner put the fifty back in his wallet and got into the backseat. He ran his hand across the seat’s fabric. It felt better than his davenport, and he had to admit it was mighty comfortable, too, not lumpy like his. He’d wager the trunk was just as plush—if he ever needed that mode of transportation.

Theo started the car, put it in drive, and the Hydra-Matic smoothly shifted gears when he gave it the gas. Soon, they were zooming on National Ave, cruising to Harbor Drive, then dog-legging through Roseville to Ocean Beach. Stoner was floating on a cloud compared to the jerky ride of his old rattletrap.

Under normal circumstances, a meeting with Sidney Devavar would be an honor—few had that honor. However, Stoner had placed wagers with Sid for years and had never met him in person—even when he had fallen behind in his payments. He employed an army of goons to handle that end of his business, but now, he wanted to see him. ‘Why?’ kept bouncing around in his pea brain, and he couldn’t come up with an answer.

Stoner leaned forward and asked, “Sure you guys don’t know why Sid wants to see me?”

Theo cocked his head toward him, and in a tone that sent a chill to his gut, he said, “Get yer ears checked, Stoner. Ask again, and ya’ll be needin’ a doctor—real soon.”

“Yeah,” Leo chuckled. “Real soon.”

Stoner leaned back, shut his mouth, and tried to enjoy the ride. But waves of anxiety swept from his head to his toes and settled in his gut. It didn’t take long before it started rumbling, and he experienced some reeking flatulent releases.

“What’s that I smell?” Leo asked.

“Just the new-car smell,” Stoner said, biting his lip to keep from laughing.

Leo fanned his nose with his hand.

“Jeez... I don’t like it one bit.”

Theo glanced at Leo and shook his head.

“I don’t smell nuthin’.”

“Almost can taste it.”

“Then roll down the window and shut your face,” Theo said.

Leo rolled down his window and leaned out for fresh air. After a couple of breaths, he pounced on Theo.

“Surprised ya can even breathe through that nose of yers.”

“Don’t start with me, Leo. Or I’ll give ya one, too.”

“And whose army?”

Theo ragged Leo, and Leo returned tit-for-tat. Theo jerked his head from front to Leo and back as he spoke, and every time he did, he turned the steering wheel in the same direction. Soon they were weaving in and out of their lane.

“Guys. Hey, guys... Can you watch the road? Sid doesn’t care for damaged goods. Besides, you don’t want to scratch this brand-new car, do you?”

Theo and Leo snorted at each other like Brahma bulls facing off for a showdown but finally took deep breaths, knocked off their tiff, and the car drifted back into its lane. Stoner figured he could reason with Theo, but someday Leo would get a supersized straight jacket and a padded room in a land far, far away.

End of Chapter 10

[DRayVan]

CHAPTER 11 of 20

Forty-five minutes later, they coasted to a stop in front of a Chinese restaurant in Ocean Beach, just northeast of San Diego. Leo got out and tipped the passenger seat forward for Stoner. Leo closed the door behind him.

“Wait here, chump,” he said.

Theo joined them on the sidewalk.

“Lead the way, Leo.”

Leo went in, Stoner followed, and Theo trailed them. Once inside, Leo said something to the maître d’, and they were ushered to a private dining room, where Sid sat at a table that had to be six feet in diameter, if it was an inch, covered with more food than one person could eat in a week, and surrounded by three young Asian beauties in traditional clothing.

The women bowed when the men entered, and Theo and Leo bowed in return. Stoner gave the bunch a polite nod.

Sid was shorter than Stoner had expected unless the table was higher than usual—a booster for his chair would’ve helped. Nobody knew for sure, but Sid was supposed to be in his early fifties, yet his hands were covered with liver spots large enough to pass for a map of the Caribbean Islands. The Chinese robe he wore had a high collar that hid most of his neck, but it didn’t cover the loose flap of skin dangling from his chin and connecting to his Adam’s apple—a Tom turkey would’ve been envious.

Stoner had heard stories about Sid’s toupees—he had a dozen of them—but today, he was a fuzzball from forehead to nape, ear to ear. Sid was the perfect example of the old saying about Chinese food: eat until you burst and be hungry again in an hour. How else could Sid eat all this food and still be as skinny as a rail?

While they waited, Sid scarfed down a helping of egg foo young—he must’ve been afraid someone else might eat it before he did. After Sid had sipped some tea, Theo interrupted his feeding frenzy.

“We brung ‘im like ya said ta, Boss,” Theo said, bowing.

“I ain’t blind,” Sid said with a gruff voice that I didn’t think possible from a boney little man. “Now scram.”

“But, Boss—”

“Do it, and take that dimwit with you.”

“But we just brung him,” Leo said, shoving Stoner closer to Sid’s table.

“Come on, Leo. He don’t mean Stoner.”

Leo looked puzzled, unable to grasp Sid’s meaning. Theo understood and dragged Leo toward the exit. He bowed to Sid as he closed the door.

Sid dismissed the women, and Stoner stood facing him alone. He seemed mighty big to him at that moment for such a small guy. Stoner shifted his weight from one foot to the other while patiently waiting for him to finish a spring roll—time slowed to a crawl.

Sid took a sip of tea. “You should know I don’t see many people these days.” He sucked a piece of food from his tooth. “Especially slubs like you, Stoner.”

“I can cover the fifty if this is about the wager.”

“We’ll get around to the principle and interest you owe him in due time, but I want some information you have that’s much more valuable.”

“Interest?”

“I loaned you money, Stoner, and I expect something for the investment. You know... My risk factor.”

“So, how much should I figure your risk’s worth?”

“What you owe plus another fifty a day until it’s paid off.”

“Jeez, Sid,” Stoner said, wringing his clenched fists in opposite directions. “Why don’t you try squeezing blood from a stone?”

“But...”

“But, what, Sid?” Stoner asked, cocking his head and looking quite naively at him.

“But if your information is sound, I’ll consider your debt paid in full.”

“What information?”

“As much as I like to haggle, Stoner, I’m not in the mood, so listen. The word on the street says you’re in a caper involving Nazi spies, top-secret plans, and the FBI.”

Stoner was dumbfounded.

“Well, Jack. Is it true or not?”

"How’d he find out?" Stoner thought.

Stoner’s mind raced, searching for answers to questions he hadn’t even thought of yet. He was backed into a corner without any means of escape; at least, he couldn’t see one.

“May I sit down? My knees are a little weak at the moment.”

“Of course, Jack. And have some tea. It’ll strengthen your resolve.”

Stoner pulled out a chair and sat. Sid poured a cup of tea and handed it to him.

“Something to eat, perhaps?”

“Tea’s fine.”

Stoner took a slug, and as soon as the liquid touched his tongue and mouth, they burned like a five-alarm fire. He coughed and grabbed a glass of water. Two gulps later, he felt better, but his mouth still tingled.

All the while, Sid convulsed with laughter.

“What the hell was that?”

“Special Chinese herbs and—"

“That’d enliven an Egyptian mummy,” Stoner said, still sputtering.

“Enough about the tea, Jack. What’s your caper all about? And you’d better tell me straight!”

Stoner looked into Sid’s sunken eyes.

They say the eyes are the window to your soul, but Sid’s eyes were blank, curtains drawn, blinds closed—soulless. He never blinked while the seconds passed, waiting for an answer. Instead, he steadily drummed with his right fingers, keeping time with the wall clock.

“All right, Sid. Here’s the scoop.” Stoner took another drink of water. “Nazi spies want my help snatching blueprints for some military thing or another.”

“And the FBI?”

“They want my help nabbing them red-handed.”

“You?” Sid scrunched his face. “A double agent?” He reached for his teacup. “Well, well, Stoner,” he said, smiling. “You’ve come a long way, haven’t you?” He took a sip. “Considering.”

“Considering what?”

“Come, come, Jack. We both know you’re a two-bit gumshoe, barely able to keep your head above water. So why would spies want you... You, of all people?”

“Seems I’m the chief engineer’s doppelganger,” Stoner said with confidence and pride. “And he’s in charge of the blueprints.”

“Such a big word for such an insignificant, little player.”

“No need slinging mud, Sid,” Stoner said, leaning forward. “You ain’t got the equipment to win a beauty contest anytime soon, either.”

“But, Jack, I’m here surrounded with everything I could hope for, and you’re sitting there with nothing—less than nothing actually—willing to do whatever it takes for him to call off Theo and Leo.” Sid tented his fingers and smirked. “Am I right, Jack?”

Stoner’s zinger had rolled off Sid like water off a duck’s back, and Sid was one cool customer who knew how to stick a dagger between your ribs and give it a painful twist. He had stabbed the heart of the issue. So Stoner put his tail between his legs and waited for the next wave of insults. He didn’t have to wait long.

“Here’s how it’s gonna work, little man. Once you lay hold of the blueprints, bring them to me.” Sid’s face tensed up, and he slammed the table with his fist. “Understand, schmo?”

Stoner understood all right, but everyone needed to take a number for a piece of his backside: Reggie, Hannigan, and now Sid. He’d have to rent a banquet hall if this party got any bigger.

He just nodded.

“I knew you were smarter than you look, Jack. So, as soon as you hand over the plans, I’ll cancel your debt; meanwhile, the interest keeps accumulating.”

“I have a Grant in his wallet.”

“Theo handles all his transactions; find him.” Sid reached for the teapot, and while he filled his cup, he said, “Nice meeting you in person, Jack, but we’re through here.” He sipped some tea. “You know the way out.”

Sid had declared hearts as trump, but Stoner had only clubs in his hand, and he couldn’t fold—not allowed in this game. So he stood and suppressed the urge to bow while leaving.

End Chapter 11

[DRayVan]

CHAPTER 12 of 20

Theo and Leo packed the hallway to the main dining room so tightly that The Thin Man couldn’t have squeezed through. Theo put out his arm and blocked Stoner’s way. “Where ya goin’? Don’t ya owe Sid some moola?”

“If you apes would swing down from your trees, I’ll square my debt.”

“Hey, wiseass,” Theo said, stepping toward Stoner.

“Yeah, wiseass,” Leo said, pushing forward. “Lemme at ‘im. Just one good pop.”

“Not if he’s got the dough,” Theo said, holding Leo back. “Boss's orders.”

“Tell me ya ain’t got it, Stoner,” Leo said, smacking his palm with his fist.

“I got it, you primates,” Stoner said, waving the fifty in front of them again.

Leo grabbed it and stuffed the bill in his pocket.

“Then, we’re square,” Stoner said with a grin. “Right, Theo?”

Theo’s brow furrowed. The cogwheels in his brain must’ve been jammed with cobwebs. But then, somewhere in the darkest depths of his mind, a light went on, and he protested.

“Hey. Sumthin’ don’t add up.”

“What you mean?” Stoner said, trying to bluster them. “I owed a hundred and paid you fifty yesterday. Leo took another fifty from me just now, so we’re even-Steven.”

“Today was yer interest payment, Stoner, so we ain’t even. We’ll be payin’ ya a visit tomorrow.”

“Yeah. Tomorrow,” Leo clucked.

“All right, have it your way. Meanwhile, how about a ride home?”

“Take a cab,” Theo snarled.

“Yeah. A cab,” Leo cackled.

Theo punched Leo’s arm. “Ya don’t hav’ta repeat everythin’ I say.”

“Hey... Hey, guys. You don’t tell a new employee to take a cab,” Stoner said with bravado. “The boss won’t like it.”

“Working for Sid? You? Ain’t gonna happen in a million years, Stoner,” Theo said, wagging his head. Then he thumbed over his shoulder. “So hit the road, Mack.”

“Yeah. Hit the—" Leo abruptly shut his mouth and rubbed his arm.

“Ask him, yourself.” Stoner stepped aside and pointed the way.

“The boss?”

Theo was stymied—a genuine deer-in-the-headlight reaction. One meeting with Sid was enough for him. So Stoner couldn’t imagine having to approach that little man, questioning a decision of his, but the evil part of him delighted in sending Theo into the lion’s den.

“Who else, you ape?”

Theo’s eyes bulged, his jaw clenched, and his fists swelled to the size of spare tires, but he restrained himself and went in to see Sid. Moments later, a crashing thud hit the door, and Theo zipped out, wiping his face.

“Sid didn’t care for the tea?” Stoner asked, grinning from ear to ear.

“Shut it, wiseass,” Theo said through clenched teeth. “Get the car, Leo.”

#

The Neanderthal twins bickered all the way home. Stoner wanted to get out and walk more than once, but Theo stopped at his driveway in about forty minutes, and Leo let him out.

“Don’t forget, Stoner,” Theo said, leaning toward him. “Next interest payment’s due tomorrow.”

“Yeah. Don’t forget,” Leo echoed.

“Shut up, Leo, and get in,” Theo said.

Leo plopped into the passenger seat, rocking the car, and slammed the door. Theo jammed the peddle, and they zoomed off.

Stoner walked up his driveway, thinking of a stiff drink—a double, maybe a triple. Then he noticed the evening edition was missing. The paperboy was always dependable, never missing a delivery, so he cautiously approached his front door and turned the knob. It was unlocked, and the door opened. When he stepped in, the stench of a similar cigar hit him like a bad case of the flu. He coughed.

“Where ya been, Stoner?” Hannigan asked.

“When’d you start caring about my love life?” Stoner asked, flipping on the lights.

“Cut the crap, Stoner,” Hannigan said from the easy chair. “We know ya went to see Sid Devar. Nobody sees Sid face-to-face unless it’s important, and ya ain’t that kind of important. So what gives?”

Stoner stepped into the room and closed the door. Someone must’ve tailed or ratted on him, and knowing Hannigan, he probably had both bases covered. So Stoner tried to be cagy.

“I owe him on a nag that died somewhere on the back turn. He wants him to pay up with interest.”

“Come on, Stoner. We both know Sid sends Theo and Leo to collect his debts. He keeps that end of his business at arm’s length, untouchable if it goes south, and he’s got a dozen Theos and Leos lined up to work for him. So I’m not buying your little tap dance, but ya’ll save us a lot of time and yerself a great deal of aggravation—and pain—if ya spill it.”

Stoner laughed.

“You can’t even get out of my easy chair before I close the door on your ugly face.”

“Okay, Stoner. Ya got me on that one, but I never told ya about the boys’ special skillsets, did I?”

Before Stoner realized what had happened, each agent had grabbed his wrists, flipped him like a ragdoll, and landed him flat on his back. Then they bent his fingers backward, toward his forearm. Pain shot up his arm and exploded in his brain.

“How many do ya want dislocated? One? Two?”

Stoner whimpered. “You win.”

“Speak up, Stoner. Cat got yer tongue?”

“Call off your hounds.”

“Not so fast, Stoner. Tell me what I want, and the boys will ease off, but until then, they’ll keep the pressure on as a friendly reminder.”

“Okay. Okay, flatfoot,” Stoner said, nodding as fast as a Jackhammer. “Sid wants in on the action.”

“Action?” Hannigan scratched the stubble on his chin. “Sid don’t do nothing unless there’s a nickel in it, and ya ain’t robbing a bank.”

“Hannigan... You couldn’t win a shootout with a little old grandma. You’re too slow on the draw.”

“Hey,” Hannigan said, stomping toward him.

Stoner closed his eyes and braced for the impact of his size-eleven shoe, but Hannigan stopped short and looked squarely at him.

“Yer in no position for wisecrackin’, Stoner.”

Stoner opened one eye and squinted with the other.

“Don’t you get it, Hannigan?”

Hannigan looked puzzled, unable to understand Stoner’s drift. Stoner opened his other eye and smiled.

“Consider this scenario, Hannigan: Sid gets hold of the blueprints. He offers them for sale to the highest bidder. He sells them for heaven knows what price. Then He’ll be counting nickels from now to eternity.”

Hannigan stepped backward.

“Didn’t think of that angle.”

Stoner glanced at the two agents to gauge their reactions—both could’ve been models for Michelangelo: statuesque and stone-faced. So he appealed to Hannigan.

“I might wanna hold a whiskey in what’s left of my hands.”

Hannigan nodded and gestured with a wave of his hand.

“Okay, boys. Let ‘im up.”

Then he turned, headed for the easy chair, and plopped in it.

“I got some thinking to do.”

Stoner got to his knees and pushed himself to his feet. The boys didn’t offer assistance; instead, they stood statue—as if he was some cheap entertainment.

“Don’t strain yourself, Hannigan. You might get a hernia.”

Hannigan squirmed in the chair, visibly irritated. He yanked his cigar out of his mouth and used it as a pointer, jabbing it at Stoner.

“Shut it, Stoner. This new angle complicates things a bit.” He glanced toward the kitchen. “Gemme some of that paint thinner ya call Scotch. I need something to clear my thoughts. And be generous,” he growled.

Stoner shuffled to the kitchen and reached for a glass; it slipped from his grip and bounced on the floor. Next attempt, he used two hands and managed one for Hannigan and another for himself. The feeling was returning to his fingers, so he juggled both and set them on the table by Hannigan.

The Scotch was a two-handed carry and pour—a double for himself and a triple for Hannigan. He put the bottle next to the glasses and sat on the davenport opposite Hannigan.

Hannigan had already guzzled half of his before Stoner took his first sip. Then Hannigan picked up the cigar that had rolled off the ashtray and charred the tabletop. He stuffed it in his mouth. While Hannigan puffed away, Stoner slid to the edge of his seat.

“How do we deal with another player at the table, Hannigan?”

“Depends,” Hannigan said with a shrug. He took another slug of Scotch. “What’s he want ya to do?”

“Once I have the blueprints, I’m supposed to take them directly to him.”

“And what ya getting for yer part?”

Stoner just watched Hannigan without answering. Then Hannigan’s eyes gave away his thoughts—they suddenly popped wide as if an idea had wandered into his mind.

“Didn’t that Reggie character promise you a grand?”

“Yeah...” Stoner said cautiously.

Hannigan was animated: squiggling in the chair, rocking back and forth, and jabbing his stogie at Stoner.

“Then Sid must’ve offered ya more than that. Two thousand? More? So how much was it?”

“Nothing...”

His brow jumped two inches, and his jaw dropped three.

“What ya mean, nothin’?”

“No money... Just my canceled debt and a longer lifespan.”

“I get it. Yer into Sid for a tidy sum, and Theo and Leo have paid ya a visit or two. That right, Stoner?”

“Yeah. That’s about the size of it.”

“Then try this one on for size: the boys are gonna follow ya from the diner to the warehouse in case ya get lost along the way.”

The winepress was squeezing Stoner’s grapes from all sides. He didn’t care much for the original plan, and he didn’t care for this one any better. Reggie, Hannigan, and now Sid—how much bigger could this get?

“But, Hannigan...”

“No buts about it, Stoner. Yer on a short leash; get used to it.”

End of Chapter 12

[DRayVan]

CHAPTER 13 of 20

Friday, November 8, 1940

Stoner had hoped for a better start today, but he had barely finished his second smoke and poured his morning coffee when the phone rang. Nobody called him at home; he had an unlisted number and never gave it out.

He picked up the receiver and blandly said, “Wrong number.”

Before he could hang up, a familiar voice said, “Jack. Reggie here.”

“Reggie? How’d you get my number?”

“No time for that now. A slight change in plans for tomorrow night.”

“Oh?” Stoner said nonchalantly. “I’m listening.”

“You don’t seem surprised.”

He glanced at his wristwatch.

“I don’t get surprised before nine in the morning and then, only after I’ve had a smoke and a cup of joe.”

“Always the kidder. That’s what I admire about you, Jack. No matter what, you always come across with a joke.”

“All right, Reggie. That’s enough butter for three slices of toast, so what’s the change?”

“Word is that your bookie has you over a barrel and is trying to muscle in.”

“How’d you know that?”

“What’s he want you to do, Jack?”

Stoner hesitated. He didn’t know how much Reggie knew or suspected, but if he’d found out about Sid and gotten this unlisted number, there was no telling how far his connections went.

“There’s too much at stake, Jack. I have to know what he’s up to.”

“All right...” Stoner said, giving Reggie the bare minimum info. “He wants me to boost the documents and deliver them to him personally.”

“How come that doesn’t surprise me?” There was a long pause before Reggie said anything more. “I can’t let him muck this up, so here’s the change, Jack: you’ll be followed to the warehouse.”

“What? No trust?”

“Not a matter of trust, Jack, just divided loyalties. Just remember that Anne’ll be waiting there with me. So don’t disappoint her.”

He hung up, and Stoner returned to the kitchen and sat at the table, staring at his smoldering cigarette and lukewarm coffee. He wondered what Reggie meant by ‘Don’t disappoint her?’

Stoner didn’t have long to ponder. His front door shook in its frame—only a gorilla’s knuckles could make that much noise knocking. He hurried to open it before the peephole became a fist-sized hole.

“Theo. Leo. What a surprise. Out for your daily jog?”

Theo nearly pushed the door off its hinges and marched inside, followed by Leo.

“I ain’t got the payment yet, but I will.” Stoner backed into the living room.

“We ain’t here about the dough, Stoner,” Theo said, wagging his head. “Message for ya from the boss.”

“Yeah. A message,” Leo echoed.

“I can’t read your pea-sized minds, so give.”

“He says we’re gonna follow ya from the diner ta the Chinese joint,” Theo said. “But where’s this here diner he’s talking about, and when ya gonna be there?”

Stoner had to think fast. He was being pulled six ways to Saturday and didn’t have that many arms.

“Uh... Lemme talk to Sid.”

“What about?”

“Business, bonehead,” Stoner said, picking up the receiver, “just between me and Sid.”

“I dunno,” Theo said, frowning.

“You gonna interfere with Sid’s business? A brave but stupid move, Theo.”

Theo wagged his head from side to side. “Give ‘im the phone number, Leo.”

Leo handed Stoner a dog-eared business card with Sid’s private number, and he dialed it and waited. It rang and rang.

“You sure he’s there?” Stoner asked.

“Give it time, chump,” Leo said, nodding. “Sid takes his sweet time answerin’ sometimes.”

“This better be important, whoever you are,” Sid said in a tone that would’ve startled Genghis Khan.

“Jack Stoner, here, Sid. Theo just told me about your two aces in the hole. Well, it won’t win the hand.”

“What you mean?”

“I’ll grab the blueprints Saturday and—”

“This Saturday?” Sid said.

“Yeah. After the grab, the Nazis will escort me to the warehouse. Theo and Leo are welcome to follow along, but they can’t stop us—too many of them, not enough of you.”

“My boys can take them, so stick to the plan, Jack.”

“Not so fast, Sid,” Stoner said, thinking quickly. “Listen up, I heard they’ll have a squad of goons armed to the hilt, and I don’t think Roosevelt wants you to declare war on Germany single-handedly.”

Stoner didn’t want Sid’s goons endangering Anne, so he’d lied through his teeth. While he waited for an answer, the line was dead silent. Then came a hacking sound—maybe a cat was coughing up a hairball on the extension. Then Sid spat and cleared his throat.

“No... Uh... Not what I had in mind either, but here’s what we’ll do. Me and my boys will take them down at the warehouse, and once I have the goods, I’ll make them an offer they can’t refuse. Fast money. Easy, peasy.”

“They won’t give up that easily.”

“That’s my worry. You worry about getting me the blueprints. And you’ll be off the hook... If you deliver.”

“Sid...”

“What you want now?” Sid asked with a tone that dripped with impatience.

“Call off Theo and Leo... I don’t have your dough yet.”

The line was quiet, except for a few crackles of line static.

“Sid?” Stoner said. “You still there?”

“All right, Stoner. But if this deal falls through, you’ll owe me double. Got that, chump?”

“Sure, Sid. Sure, I’ll—” Before Stoner could finish, the line clicked, and a sixty-cycle hum buzzed in his handset.

His mind went every which way at once. Reggie and Anne, Hannigan and the FBI Agents, and now Theo, Leo, Sid, and the gang were all converging on the warehouse with Stoner at ground zero.

“A pretty kettle of fish I’ve gotten myself into,” Stoner thought as he cradled the handset on the phone’s base.

“What gives, Stoner?” Theo asked.

“Write this down, Leo: Café La Mesa, La Mesa Boulevard, Saturday, eight-thirty sharp. Got that?”

“Ya got a pencil and paper, Theo?”

The two started arguing about whose turn it was to bring something. Stoner didn’t want it to escalate, so he found a pencil and paper and repeated the instructions.

“And Sid said to lay off the rough stuff since I’m an employee.”

“What’s that mean?” Leo asked.

“Do I have’ta explain everything to ya?” Theo asked. “We can’t touch Stoner, that’s what.”

“Just when I was ‘bout to enjoy thumpin’ ‘im again.”

“Shut up, kiddo. Let’s blow,” Theo said, shuffling toward the door with Leo—knuckles dragging on the carpet—following close behind.

Stoner shut what was left of his front door and returned to the kitchen for another smoke and coffee—and maybe a real warmer-upper. He wasn’t Irish, but the way they took their coffee was enough for him to seek citizenship.

He’d barely settled back to enjoy his breakfast’s first course when the phone rang again.

“Someone must’ve scratched my number on the bathroom stall at the bus station,” Stoner thought. “I need an answering service.”

Stoner was going to let it ring, but his curiosity got the better of him, so he picked up the receiver.

“Won Hung Lao Chinese Laundry,” Stoner said with the worst imitation accent he’d ever heard. But he got the sweetest voice on the other end of the line.

“No time to be funny, Jack,” Anne said.

“Anne... Where’d you get my number?”

“Later, Jack. I called because... Because I’m worried about tomorrow tonight.”

“Don’t be. We got all the bases covered.”

“No, you don’t. I shouldn’t be telling you this, but I wanted to—” Before Anne could finish, Reggie’s muffled voice sounded in the background. She made a flimsy excuse about checking on her laundry and hung up.

Stoner couldn’t imagine what Anne was trying to tell him, but after their walk near the beach, he hoped she’d fallen for him as badly as he’d fallen for her.

End of Chapter 13

[DRayVan]

CHAPTER 14 of 20

Saturday, November 9, 1940

Before the sun peeked over the mountain, Stoner was up and perched on the throne with the most irritated bowl he’d had in years—too much rich food yesterday and stress, he figured. He made pilgrimages to the porcelain shrine between cups of coffee and smokes. By the time the coffeepot was empty, so was he, and he was as weak-kneed as he’d ever felt.

Stoner crawled back into bed and fell asleep.

The phone’s ringing awakened him.

“Who the hell...?”

He rolled over, stumbled out of bed, and grabbed the receiver before whoever was calling gave up.

“John Doe, speaking. You got the wrong number,” Stoner said, half awake and thoroughly irritated. Booming laughter kept him from hanging up. “Reggie?”

“Always the card,” Reggie said, still laughing. “Did I wake you?”

“No. Just in from a five-mile jog before breakfast,” Stoner said, suppressing a yawn. “You should try it.”

“In your dreams, maybe,” Reggie said, still chuckling. “Seriously, Jack, I wanted to review the plans for this evening one more time so that everyone understands their roles.”

“Are we doing a three-act play or a heist?”

“Can’t you be serious for once?”

Stoner glanced at the clock.

“I’m never serious before nine in the morning, some coffee, and a smoke.”

Reggie didn’t laugh, not even a chuckle.

“Don’t make me regret—”

He didn’t finish, but Stoner knew what he was saying just the same. So he reached for a cigarette and lit it.

“I’m having a smoke, Reggie, and I’ve put on my serious hat. Coffee later.”

“That’s better, Jack. There’s more at stake than you realize, so we can’t have any slip-ups.”

“I’m listening.”

“Anne and I will pick you up at eight in front of your office. She’ll be driving a black, unmarked delivery sedan. You’ll get in the front with Anne and me. She’ll drive us to the diner, and we should arrive by eight-twenty.”

“Isn’t that cutting it kinda close? What if Culver’s early?”

“He won’t be,” Reggie said confidently. “Then you’ll take his car—”

“Why are you so sure?”

“Sure of what, Jack?”

“The timing... I don’t shave that close.”

“All right, Jack. We’ll pick you up at seven forty-five. Satisfied?”

“Then I’ll take Culver’s place, hijack his car, ditch his driver, and drive to the warehouse with the blueprints. That about right?”

“I’m not sure your heart is in this a hundred percent, Jack. What’s eating you?”

“Just have my bonus ready—in leafy-green bills—when I deliver the plans.”

The line was silent for a long while, then Reggie said, “In small, unmarked bills as they say, eh, Jack.”

“As long as it spends.”

“Until then...” Reggie hung up, and the dial tone came on the line.

Stoner put the receiver back in its cradle and took a long draw on his cigarette, which had already burned halfway. He blew a cloud of grayish smoke toward the ceiling while he pondered this whole case.

“Something’s wrong,” Stoner thought.

So far, it was merely a gut-level feeling, and Stoner couldn’t put his finger on it. But these feelings always had a way of coming to light if he kept mulling them over in his mind. For now, he needed some coffee—with something stronger—so he put on a pot.

The coffee was halfway through its percolating cycle when someone knocked. Stoner put on his robe and went to the door.

Theo stood there, smiling. “Good morning, Stoner,” he said in a normal and somewhat pleasant voice.

“Been in the catnip?” Stoner asked, not quite grasping the change in Theo’s demeanor.

“That’s funny, Stoner.” Theo cocked his head toward Leo, standing behind him. “Ain’t that funny, Leo?”

“Yeah. Funny,” Leo said cynically, and his twisted lips and rolled eyes showed he didn’t think it was.

“Stop by for coffee on your morning jog from the zoo? Fresh pot’s brewing.”

“I take mine black,” Theo said.

“And you, Leo?”

“Got any honey?”

“I’ll shake the hive and see what’s buzzing.”

Leo smiled at that one as the two shuffled into his living room.

“Have a seat while I get it.”

Stoner went into the kitchen and grabbed three mugs. The pot was done percolating, and he filled them to the brim. Luckily he found some old honey that had crystalized but managed to dig a spoonful for Leo. A cookie tray was handy, so he served them in style—at least more than they probably were used to.

His davenport creaked and moaned when they shifted their weight, reaching for the mugs.

“To what do I owe this pleasure? An early morning coffee clutch?” Stoner asked, then sipping his first.

Theo took a taste. “Good coffee, Stoner.”

“Yeah. Good,” Leo said. “And just sweet enough.”

“Your friendly demeanor is unnerving me. It ain’t natural.”

“What’s this duh-me-near?”

“Shut up, Leo,” Theo said, “and listen.”

“Give it to me straight,” Stoner said defiantly.

“Sid sent me and Leo, so’s there ain’t gonna be no screw-ups tonight, see?”

“And...?” Stoner looked at one and then at the other, but they just sat there like bullfrogs on a pond log. “We gonna sit here sipping joe till this evening or what?”

“Uh... Sid says to tell ya we’re gonna be waitin’ at the diner and tail ya from there.”

“Yeah. Waitin’,” Leo echoed.

“I already knew that.”

“But me and Leo,” Theo said sheepishly. “Uh... We don’t know what car ya’ll be driving, Stoner, so how we gonna follow ya? Sid’s gonna be real mad if we screw this up.”

Stoner never thought he’d see the day when Theo and Leo were genuinely frightened of anyone or anything, but Sid had put the fear in them and turned them to mush. So, he plopped into his easy chair—careful not to spill his coffee—and savored this moment. They looked at him, patiently waiting for an answer, but he wasn’t in any hurry.

He drank the last of his joe and set the mug aside. While he spoke, Stoner wrung his hands.

“The problem is, my friends, I don’t know.”

Theo pushed against Leo, getting to his feet. “Ya holdin’ out on us, Stoner?” he asked, tightening his brow, lips, and fists. His friendly demeanor had vanished, and Theo’s true nature burst through.

Stoner swallowed hard.

“Wait a minute, lughead. I wasn’t told anything about the car, so calm yourself.”

“How we gonna know?”

“Yeah. Know,” Leo echoed.

“I’ll be wearing a suit and my fedora when I leave the diner, and I’ll stop and light a smoke, take a drag, and pitch it. Then watch which car I get into. Can you do that?”

“Come on, Leo. We got this.”

“We do?” Leo asked, getting to his feet.

Theo led Leo to the door and shoved him outside. Before closing the door, he turned to Stoner.

“Don’t be late, Stoner. I don’t wait too good.”

His grammar might be off, but Stoner understood every word of Theo’s not-so-subtle warning. His gut rumbled again.

End of Chapter 14

[DRayVan]

CHAPTER 15 of 20

After a light lunch of processed ham, Swiss cheese on rye, and a bottle of beer, Stoner had planned to spend the afternoon resting up for tonight’s adventure—no telling when he’d get home. But he’d barely had time to swallow the last of his brew when the doorbell rang.

“If this keeps up, I’ll have to replace the door with a turnstile,” he thought.

Stoner stashed the plate and glass in the sink and the empty bottle in the trashcan. “Hold your horses,” he yelled.

He didn’t have to open the door to know Hannigan was on the other side: the stench of his cigar had already seeped through the cracks. When Stoner yanked it open, the trio waltzed in as if they lived there.

Hannigan headed straight for the easy chair and plopped his rotund backside with a groan. The agents drifted to the kitchen area and blended with the wallpaper—the thought jumped into Stoner’s mind, “I didn’t know chameleons were people.”

“What you want, Hannigan?”

“What’s with you, Stoner? Just when I was getting used to the idea of working together like pals, you have to go and spoil it. Maybe you should get larger-sized underwear.”

“Funny, you ain’t, Hannigan. I’m hounded from all sides, and I don’t have enough meat on these bones for everyone to take a bite, so get to the point. I need my afternoon beauty nap.”

“All right, Stoner. Have it the hard way.”

Hannigan shifted his weight in the chair, trying to stuff five pounds, of you know what, into a four-pound bucket.

“So that we’re all on the same page, this is how it’s gonna play: the boys are gonna follow you to the warehouse. I’ll be there, waiting. Then we’ll crash the party as you’re handing them Nazis the blueprints.”

“Why’d you bust in here to tell me something I already knew, Hannigan. There’s more to it, so give.”

Hannigan looked at the floor and then slowly raised his head until our eyes met.

“Hate to break it to you, pal, but the dame ain’t getting off Scot-free.”

“But you said,” Stoner shouted, moving toward him.

The agents came at Stoner, but Hannigan waved them off, and they blended with the wallpaper again.

“That’s how the cookie crumbles, Stoner,” Hannigan said, slowly shaking his head. “Sorry, but I made a promise I couldn’t keep.”

“You bastard!”

“She goes down with the rest of them,” he said with a cold, steely look in his eyes.

“Them? Who’s them?” Stoner waved his arms about and looked one way and then the other frantically.

“Sometimes, I wonder about you, Stoner,” Hannigan said with a puzzled look. “Didn’t you ever question whose mansion that was? Who were the butler and house staff? Nobody can escape the country without help. Who’s helping them? It’s like a spider’s web of Nazis, or at the least, Nazi sympathizers involved, and we want to catch them all. So the dame’s gotta go down with the whole bunch.”

“Then I won’t have any part of it,” Stoner said, holding his hands up defiantly.

Hannigan cocked his head. “Trouble is, Stoner, you’re on that short list of Nazi conspirators. And the question is, will you be a hero or a goat? Every way you cut it, you’re up to your neck in this...” Hannigan pointed his cigar at him. “So you’re gonna havta choose: work with us or against us. Go free or go to jail, and we ain’t playing Monopoly here.”

Stoner had always used the phrase, between a rock and a hard place, without giving it much thought. For the first time, he understood what it meant. Hannigan was right: he didn’t have a choice. He had to go along, but maybe there was still a chance he could help Anne in the chaos that was bound to happen. So he took a deep breath and slowly exhaled.

“All right, Hannigan. You got me where it hurts; just don’t squeeze.”

“See, boys...” Hannigan said, cocking his head toward the kitchen. “Where’d they go?”

“Over here,” the first agent said, stepping from the shadow—except there weren’t any shadows Stoner could see.

“See, boys, I said Stoner would come around.”

“Don’t rub it in, Hannigan. You got me by a thread but only by a thin thread.”

“Okay, Stoner, here’s the deal: when the blueprints are in that bastard Nazi’s hands, me and the boys will rush in and nab them with the goods—case closed!”

“What’s your backup?”

Hannigan raised his eyebrows and glanced toward the agents.

“Don’t need no backup. We got this one, flat.”

“And Sid?”

Hannigan gestured with the nonchalant wave of his hand.

“Sid doesn’t figure in, a non-player, a non-entity.”

“Then you don’t know Sid.”

Stoner couldn’t imagine Hannigan brushing off Sid as if he didn’t exist—that hadn’t been his experience with Theo and Leo. But Hannigan was a big boy, and Sid was his problem; Stoner had enough problems of his own.

“Well, it’s enough to know that he ain’t gonna give us no trouble,” Hannigan said confidently.

Hannigan’s overconfidence unnerved Stoner. He always believed in the old saying: once pride got hold of you, your downfall was just around the corner.

“And how you gonna do that?” Stoner asked.

Hannigan chomped on his stogie, then huffed and puffed—Little Red Ridinghood would’ve trembled in her shoes.

“You see about the blueprints,” he growled, pointing his cigar at Stoner’s face, “and we’ll see about Sid.”

Stoner shrugged. “Arrogance can spell disaster.”

“Since when you become Sigmund Freud?”

“Ever read Proverbs? They’d do you some good, Hannigan.”

Hannigan waged his head and snorted. “Got a beer?”

“Sure... Got a buck?”

“That’s highway robbery!” Hannigan said, sliding to the edge of the chair.

“Gotta pay the rent somehow. Take it or leave it.”

“Come on, boys. Stoner’s beer’s probably the cheap stuff, anyway.”

Hannigan wiggled loose and grunted, getting to his feet.

“Be nice, Hannigan,” Stoner said. “It’s imported...”

“Imported?” he said; his face lit up like a Christmas tree. “From where?”

“Milwaukee.”

“Stoner, you’re hopeless,” Hannigan said, frowning. He started toward the door and stopped. “Tonight, and don’t be late.”

Stoner closed the door, hoping that was the last of his afternoon interruptions. The room needed airing out, so he opened the windows to catch a crosswind. The breeze felt so good that he lay on the davenport for a few minutes. Before he realized it, he was fast asleep.

Someone knocking on his door awakened Stoner from a good snooze. He glanced at his watch: quarter past three. He sat on the edge of the davenport and shook the cobwebs from his brain. Whoever it was, they were persistent: the knocking was non-stop.

“Don’t break the door down,” Stoner yelled. “Give me a minute.”

The knocking stopped.

Stoner opened the door and found a small man, not more than four foot ten, skinny with thin, slicked-down, jet-black hair. He had an Asiatic look to him. His eyes were slits, and he smiled a row of teeth too big for his mouth.

The man bowed and said with better diction than Stoner, “So sorry to bother you, Mr. Stoner, but I saw some trying to break into your car.”

Stoner looked past him at his car in the driveway. It was still there, so he turned his attention to his Good Samaritan.

“What did you see, exactly?”

“A man checking each door—one after the other.”

“And you happened to be passing by, Mr... Sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”

“Toshio... Toshio Okada, Mr. Stoner,” the man said, grinning from ear to ear and bowing.”

A couple thousand Japanese lived in San Diego County, but none were in Stoner’s or the surrounding neighborhoods, so he was immediately suspicious of Mr. Okada—if that was his real name. What were the chances that Okada had happened to come by just at the right moment? And with all that was going on, he’d reached the point of trusting no one.

“Thank you, Mr. Okada, but I’ll check his car later.”

“I wouldn’t want any tragedy to befall you, Mr. Stoner,” Okada said, grinning.

“What the hell you mean by that?”

“We’ll be watching to keep you safe.”

Stoner leaned over him and looked both ways but saw no one.

“Who’s we?” he asked.

Okada smiled, bowed, and zipped around the corner, leaving Stoner totally dumbfounded. The rumbling feeling in his gut returned, and he headed for the throne.

End of Chapter 15

[DRayVan]

CHAPTER 16 of 20

Stoner arrived at his office early and plopped in his chair. When he opened the bottom desk drawer, and the whiskey bottle wasn’t there, he remembered he’d drained it the day before yesterday. Just as well. He needed a level, unclouded head on his shoulders for tonight. So he leaned back, put his feet on the desk, and stared at the ceiling.

His mind raced, trying to figure out how all the pieces would come together: Hannigan, the FBI, Sid, Theo, Leo, Reggie, Anne, and whoever that Okada guy was. All he needed was a marching band, and he’d have a respectable parade.

The .38 Colt Banker’s Special in the office safe was coming with him tonight—just in case. Stoner didn’t usually carry, but knowing some iron was in his pocket would help offset any lingering insecurity about the heist and the odd cast of characters.

Stoner glanced at his wristwatch: the hands ticked in slow-motion. His eye twitched, and his foot tapped to a musical beat of its own. He couldn’t stand the suspense any longer, so he got to his feet and paced until seven, then he closed up shop and went down to the sidewalk for a smoke or two.

Anne and Reggie arrived in a black 1940 Ford Sedan Delivery at seven-forty-five on the button and pulled to a stop alongside the curb. They both wore snug-fitting all-black outfits with matching watch caps.

Reggie slid to the middle, next to Anne, and Stoner opened the door. Even without makeup and hair stuffed in her cap Anne looked as beautiful as ever when the dome light came on.

“Close your mouth, Jack, and hop in,” Reggie said with a smile.

Anne kept her eyes looking forward. Stoner joined them and closed the door. The latched had barely engaged when Anne floored the gas pedal, and they zoomed down the street and zipped around the corner at Twenty-Eighth and again onto Main. Reggie slammed against him at each turn, and he against the door.

“Little heavy with the foot, are we, Anne?” Reggie asked.

Anne ignored him and burned rubber taking off from the Twenty-Ninth Street stop light. Thirty minutes later, they drove into the lot of Café La Mesa and parked in the shadows.

“Another change up, Jack,” Reggie said.

“What now?”

“Culver’s will be staying for dinner.”

“Not the usual carry-out, then.”

“No, but you’ll order pie and coffee to go and leave as soon as your order is ready.”

“What about Culver?” Stoner asked. “And his driver?”

“I’ll handle Culver as planned, and his driver won’t think anything’s unusual.”

“I dunno,” Stoner said, shaking his head.

“You’ll be fine, Jack, just fine.”

Stoner’s confidence wasn’t on the same par as Reggie’s, and his anxieties were causing rumblings in his gut again.

“Bring a gun?” Reggie asked.

“Uh... Sure, I got one,” Stoner said nervously. “Shouldn’t need it, though.”

“Don’t bet on it,” Anne said. “Just be careful, Jack, and don’t use it unless you have to.”

“Finally, Anne,” Reggie said. “Thought you might go the whole evening without so much as one word.”

“Don’t rag on me, Reggie. I’m not in the mood. Let’s get this job done and move on.”

“Job? Move on?” Stoner asked. “What’s she talking about, Reggie?”

“Nothing. Nothing at all, Jack,” Reggie said to him, then he turned to Anne. “Isn’t that right? Well... Isn’t it, Anne?”

Anne leaned her head on the top of the steering wheel and gripped its sides with both hands. After a few tense moments, she said, “Yes... But...”

She slowly lifted her head a looked at Stoner, and when their eyes met, he knew much had been left unsaid that needed to be said. Reggie glanced at her and then at him.

“I’m getting into position, and while I’m gone, would you two settle whatever’s going on between you? There’s too much riding tonight for you not to have your heads in the game.”

Stoner opened the door and got out so that Reggie could. He started to walk away but stopped and looked back.

“Don’t screw this up,” Reggie said, fading into the darkness.

Before Stoner responded, Anne said, “Get in, Jack. We have to talk.”

It was a familiar phrase he’d heard often from his ex, which usually led to a battle of words, so Stoner reluctantly got back in the sedan and closed the door.

“Don’t sugarcoat it, Anne. Just give it to me straight.”

“I haven’t the foggiest what you’re talking about. All I wanted to do was explain what I said about this being a job and about me moving on.”

Stoner sat there, looking at her with a sheepish expression on his face and without uttering a word—experience with his ex had taught him this was the best posture.

“I have responsibilities: my father’s business and national security. And when this job is done, I’ll move on and return to keeping his dreams alive. So whatever transpired between us, whatever spark was there, must be viewed through a lens of reality: I’m an heiress, you’re a private dick, and never the twain shall meet.”

Her words stabbed him right where it hurt the worst, but she was right. They were from two different worlds, and Stoner was dreaming if he thought the gulf between them could ever be crossed.

“How will I know when Culver arrives?” Stoner asked as nonchalantly as he could fake.

“Uh... His car will have Wicker Technologies pained on the doors.”

Stoner got a pack of cigarettes out of his coat pocket and leaned back against the door, her words still stinging as much as ever.

“Wanna smoke?”

She held her two fingers in a V-shape, so he lit her one, pressed it to her lips, and then lit one for himself. They rolled down the windows and smoked in silence.

Stoner checked his wristwatch: eight-thirty-five.

“He’s late,” he said.

“Worrywart.”

“What if he doesn’t show?”

“He will, Jack. Trust me, he will.”

“How can you so all fire sure?”

Before she answered, a late-model, four-door sedan with Wicker Technologies printed on the front doors parked in a secluded spot opposite them. Another late-model, unmarked sedan pulled in behind it and stopped. A few moments later, a man got out of the back of the first sedan, said something to the driver, and closed the door. He walked over to the second sedan, spoke to its driver, and headed to the diner’s entrance.

“What’d I tell ya?” Anne said, smiling.

“He’s wearing a short-sleeved shirt, no coat, and no hat,” Stoner said anxiously.

“And?”

“Mine’s long-sleeved.”

“If his driver’s a typical man,” Anne said, chuckling, “he won’t have the foggiest idea what Culver’s wearing, so roll yours up.”

Stoner slipped off his coat, rolled up his sleeves, and put his coat back on. Then, got out of the vehicle, closed the door, and stopped by Anne’s open window.

“Anne, I—”

“Your hat.”

“Oh... Right.” Stoner handed her his fedora. “Treat it gently; it’s the only one I’ve got.”

Anne took it and put it on the seat beside her. Then she grabbed Stoner’s necktie, pulled him close, and kissed him on his lips before he could react.

“Ditch the tie and be careful, Jack.”

Anne’s kiss surprised him, and Stoner stumbled backward. He hesitated for a few moments, handed her his tie, and started for the diner, coat slung over his arm.

“Wear the coat,” Anne said, “and leave it in the diner.”

Stoner stopped and looked back, still surprised by her kiss. Anne smiled. A warm feeling and a sense of calmness came over him when he saw her. Once he’d put his coat on, Stoner walked to the diner, floating a few inches above the ground, and went inside.

End of Chapter 16

[DRayVan]

CHAPTER 17 of 20

The diner was moderately busy: several booths were taken, and the counter had only three vacant stools. Waitresses scurried between customers and the kitchen window, taking orders and delivering food. A surly-looking, gray-haired woman worked the register.

“What’ll it be, mister?” the cashier asked with a gravelly voice that would’ve startled Bela Lugosi.

“Uh... Piece of pie and a cup of joe to go.”

“What kind? We got apple, peach, pumpkin, custard, and—”

“Apple. Small coffee, black.”

“That’ll be fifteen cents.”

Stoner fished through his pockets and found two dimes.

“Keep the change,” he said nervously.

“Diamond Jim Brady in the flesh,” the cashier said, taking the dimes and dropping them in the till. “Give us ten, fifteen.”

Stoner nodded, stepped out of the way, and stood near the entrance. He glanced to see if anyone was watching and casually hung his coat on the rack.

His gun clunked against the rack’s metal frame.

He froze.

“Damn,” Stoner said under his breath. “How could I forget about his gun?”

But Stoner did, and he was in a real pickle. A blast of adrenaline had his heart pounding like a jackhammer while beads of sweat trickled down his temples. He licked his dry lips with a tongue as coarse as sandpaper. After several deep breaths, his heart rate eased a bit, and he casually transferred the gun to his pants pocket, keeping his movements hidden under his coat.

Once Stoner felt the gun’s weight in his pocket, he glanced around the diner and spied Culver sitting in the last booth—at least it was a man who fit Culver’s description, wearing a short-sleeve shirt. A waitress was taking his order. Someone with his back to him sat opposite him, wearing a black shirt and a watch cap.

Stoner thought, “That couldn’t be, could it?”

“Your takeout’s ready, Diamond Jim.”

Stoner nodded and approached the cashier, but a customer stepped between them to pay his bill. Stoner’s right leg started quivering, and a wave of goosebumps shot up his back and shoulders. He shifted his weight, hoping his leg would settle, but the longer it took for the customer to pay his bill, the more it quivered.

They finally finished their transaction, and Stoner’s goosebumps dwindled. The cashier grabbed a paper sack off the counter and handed it to him.

“Apple. Coffee. Black,” she growled.

“Right... Uh... Thanks.”

Stoner took the sack and glanced in Culver’s direction again, and he and the other man were leaving by the backdoor exit. Anne was coming in when Stoner turned to exit, and they approached without recognition, but he stopped by his coat and discreetly thumbed toward it. She blinked, and Stoner left the diner. Moments later, she followed, his coat draped over her arm.

He stopped a few feet from the entrance, lit a smoke, took a puff, and gave it a pitch. Then Stoner trudged toward Culver’s sedan, hoping Theo and Leo would recognize him without his coat and fedora. With each step, his feet felt heavier and heavier, like he wore lead-lined shoes.

When Stoner reached the car, the driver hopped out and opened the door for him.

“Ready to go, Dr. Culver?”

His heart skipped a beat, and Stoner hesitated.

The driver whispered, “For heaven’s sake, Stoner, get in the car!”

Stoner was astonished that the driver had called him by name but slid into the back seat. The driver closed the door, got behind the steering wheel, and closed his door.

“What’s going on?” Stoner asked. “How’d you know my name?”

“Later, we gotta move.”

The driver started the engine, and we drove onto La Mesa Boulevard.

“Tell me quick,” Stoner said. “I’m packing.”

“You won’t need that.”

While they rode along, the driver introduced himself as FBI Field Agent Tom Walker from the LA Office. He told Stoner his assignment was to drive him straight to the warehouse.

“Won’t work,” Stoner said, shaking his head. “Too many eyes on us.”

“Who?”

“For one, a local, small-time crook has two of his musclemen tailing me, a Nazi or two following them, and then you guys right behind them—a regular caravan.”

“Wasn’t told about the muscle. Any ideas?”

“Yeah. Up ahead is a secluded stretch of road. Pull over, get out, and we’ll playact for our audience.”

“I can’t let you out of my sight—orders.”

“I’ll escort you to the passenger side and fake conking you. Drop to the ground and crawl into the back seat when I transfer the blueprints to the front. Then I’ll drive to the warehouse.”

“Just make sure you fake it,” Walker said with a chuckle.

A few minutes later, they were nearing the spot.

“Just around the next curve,” Stoner said.

They glided to a stop alongside the road and got out. Once on the passenger side, they faked the mugging for their audience. As planned, Walker crawled into the backseat when Stoner transferred the blueprints. Once behind the wheel, he eased onto the highway and glanced in the rearview mirror. Headlights at the curve were keeping pace with them.

“We got company,” Stoner said.

“Who?” asked Walker.

“Dunno. Probably Theo and Leo.”

“Your bookie’s men?”

“The Goliath Twins, shoulder to shoulder muscle, but hollow between the ears.”

Walker chuckled. “You keep strange company.”

“If you only knew... What you know about this caper?”

“Only that I’m to watch your six.”

“Good ole Hannigan.”

“Who’s Hannigan?”

“So you never heard of him?”

“No, but not unusual. Field agents are sometimes no better informed than frontline doughboys.”

“Who’s your general?”

“Special Agent Reginald Houser of the LA Office.”

“Reginald?”

“Yeah, but he hates it,” Walker said. “Goes by Reg or Reggie, but never call him Reginald.”

“I know a Reginald Pinehurst,” Stoner said. “Ever heard of him?”

“No, but two Reginalds... What are the odds?”

“We’re almost there,” Stoner said. “What’s the plan?”

“Park in the shadows, and I’ll slip out while you get the blueprints.”

“And then?”

“Don’t worry. We’ll be watching your every move.”

Stoner glanced in the rearview mirror, and two sets of headlights followed them. Occasionally, a third set flashed into view. True to his word, Sid had Theo and Leo in one, Anne must be in another, and the agents must be in the third. Stoner could clearly spot his tails, and it amazed him that the first two didn’t realize they were being followed as well and did nothing about it—a four-year-old would’ve, but Theo and Leo weren’t the sharpest tacks on the bulletin board.

They reached the warehouse, and Stoner found a parking place in a secluded spot away from the streetlamp. So Walker could exit unnoticed, Stoner got out, went to the passenger side, and gathered the blueprints. Walker carefully opened his door, crawled out, and they closed their doors together. Then Walker disappeared into the shadows.

End of Chapter 17

[DRayVan]

CHAPTER 18 of 20

Stoner tucked the blueprints under his arm and headed for the side door. In the distance, the sound of car doors closing was unmistakable. He listened for a few moments more and stepped inside.

The building was open, at least two stories high, dark and musty smelling. Boxes were stacked in rows with aisles wide enough for a front lift. The high-hanging night lighting was barely adequate, and the shadows were dark enough to hide an army between the rows. The scuffing of his shoes on the smooth cement floor was the only sound.

Ten yards in, the rows took a sharp turn right and opened into a staging area in front of story-and-a-half-high roll-up doors. An overhead light fixture lit the space. In the middle, a man sat at a table, and Reggie and Anne stood on either side of him.

“I knew you could pull this off, Jack,” Reggie said. “Well done.”

“Is this Culver?” Stoner asked.

“Uh... Yes, it is, as a matter of fact.”

“So we’re into kidnapping, too?”

He’d been dragged deeper into this quagmire. Reggie had upped the ante with a kidnapping charge, and if Hannigan wouldn’t square his part in this melodrama, Stoner could spend his days making little rocks out of big ones—if he was lucky.

“The blueprints have to be authenticated,” Anne said. “Only he can do it.”

“Put them here,” Reggie said, pointing to the table. “We don’t have much time to spare.”

“Where you going in such an all-fired hurry?” Stoner asked, moving toward the shadows. The hatred of helping the Nazis welled up inside him with each step.

“To hell with the money!” Stoner thought. “Hannigan said there’d be no payoff anyway. “

Stoner turned to leave.

“I wouldn’t do that, Jack,” Reggie said.

Stoner kept walking. The worst Reggie could do was shoot him in the back, but at least he’d die with some self-respect; heaven knew he had precious little left.

“If you value Anne’s life,” Reggie added.

Stoner stopped dead in his tracks and spun around. Reggie was pointing a gun at Anne. Reggie had him by the cullions, and he knew it.

“Easy with that, Reggie,” Stoner said, shuffling toward him. “You can have them; just let her go.” He plopped the blueprints on the table. “And good riddance.”

“He wasn’t going to hurt me,” Anne said with a chuckle, “and you fell for it.”

His gut rumbled, and Stoner imagined ‘SUCKER’ in big block letters stamped on his forehead.

“Sensible thing to do, Jack. No need for any unnecessary violence.”

Hannigan stepped from the shadows, chewing on a stogie and waving his gun. “Couldn’t’ve said it better, myself. Now, drop your gun, Reggie, or whatever your real name is.”

Reggie lowered his gun and laid it on the table.

“Now back away,” Hannigan said, lumbering closer. “You, too, Culver.”

Culver got up and joined them.

“‘Bout time you got here, Hannigan,” Stoner said. “I’d given up hope you’d find the place.”

“Me and the boys knew about this place all along.”

“Where are they anyway?” Stoner asked, looking around. “Don’t we need more help?”

“Don’t worry, Stoner. They’re here.”

Hannigan yelled, “Hans. Fritz. Come out where we can see ya.”

As always, they appeared out of nowhere—the Invisible Man could take lessons from them.

“Hans? Fritz?” Stoner asked, stepping forward.

“Stay put, Stoner.”

“Wasn’t the plan to—”

“Plans have changed, Stoner.” Hannigan waved his gun toward Anne. “Bring me the prints, little lady.”

“What gives, Hannigan?” Stoner asked.

“Never ya mind, Stoner,” Hannigan said, chomping on his stogie. “I said to bring ‘em here, girly, and be quick about it.”

Anne gathered up the blueprints. “Trader!” she said, handing them over.

“I love it when women talk dirty,” Hannigan said, taking the prints.

“What the hell’s going on?” Stoner shouted.

“Tell him, Hannigan,” Reggie said, “or I will.”

“Okay, wiseguy,” Hannigan said. “Ya seemed to have all the answers, so go ahead and tell him.”

Reggie pointed to Hans and Fritz.

“They’re the von Weber brothers, SS officers in Germany’s Schutzstaffel,” Reggie said. Then he waved his hand toward Hannigan. “And your friend is a modern-day Benedict Arnold and quite willing to stab his country in the back. And for what? For ideology—hell, no... He couldn’t care less about that—am I right, Hannigan?”

Hannigan snorted.

“For thirty pieces of silver,” Reggie continued. “For cold cash... That’s why he’s doing it.”

“That was Judas,” Hannigan said, chewing his cigar, “And there's a lot more than thirty pieces in my share—a lot more.”

“You’re a son of a *****, Hannigan,” Stoner said. “You played me.”

“That’s all, Stoner? Where’s the wisecrack, the comeback yer so good at?” Hannigan asked with a chuckle. “Cat got yer tongue? Brain stuck in reverse?”

He turned to Hans and Fritz.

“Take the blueprints... And the girl for insurance. Now move it!” Hannigan barked. “We got a plane to catch.”

Fritz grabbed Anne’s arm and dragged her toward the shadows.

“Anne,” Stoner yelled and started after them, but Stoner passed too close to Hannigan, and he clipped him alongside the head with his gun barrel. Stoner saw stars when the floor jumped up and slammed his chin.

Hans rolled up the blueprints and followed after Fritz. Before they’d gotten far, Theo and Leo joined the party, weapons at the ready, with Sid standing between them.

“Not so fast,” Theo growled. He motioned to Hans and Fritz. “Get back over here.”

“Yeah. Over here,” Leo echoed, his gun pointed at Hannigan.

Hans and Fritz stopped dead and turned to face them.

“Bring them papers to me,” Sid said, extending his hand.

Before anyone moved, Agent Walker yelled from a row of boxes. “FBI. Drop your weapons. We got you covered.”

Hannigan spun around and fired toward Walker’s voice. Hans crouched, drew his weapon, and shot out the overhead light, plunging the area into semi-darkness. Fritz backed Anne against a row of crates and held a gun on her.

Stoner dove for cover.

Theo and Leo stood back-to-back, indiscriminately shooting while Sid crouched near a row of boxes.

“Theo. Get the prints,” Sid yelled.

Reggie grabbed his gun off the table and fired at Hannigan’s and Theo’s silhouettes but missed. Hannigan aimed in Reggie’s direction and sent a round whizzing toward him. It hit Culver in the shoulder instead, and he went down. Stoner shot at Hans’ contour, missing but splintering the crate above his head. Hans shot back; fortunately, his aim was no better than Stoner’s.

Walker fired at Hannigan, hitting him in his hand, and his gun flew across the floor, skidding to a stop in front of Stoner. He grabbed and pocketed it. In the dimness, more gunshots rang out. Whizzing bullets flew above Stoner’s head and struck the wooden crates behind him.

Then as quickly as the fireworks erupted, they ended, and Hannigan, Hans, Fritz, and Anne were gone. Blending in the background was an art form for Hans and Fritz, but how that fat man managed it was beyond Stoner.

When the smoke cleared, Theo and Leo were kneeling next to Sid’s body, sobbing like babies—Sid had caught one square in the chest. Stoner stared at them for a few moments; he couldn’t get over that those two apes would show anything resembling genuine human emotions.

While Reggie reloaded, Walker and four other men emerged from the shadows.

“How’d they escape!” Reggie said. “We had them surrounded.”

“Didn’t figure in these bozos, Chief,” Walker said, pointing to Theo, Leo, and Sid.

“I screwed the pooch on this one, Tom,” Reggie said, “but it’ll be all our heads if they get away.”

“And they took Anne,” Stoner said.

“Don’t remind me, Jack,” Reggie said. “It’ll be difficult enough keeping a clear head without constantly thinking about Anne.”

“Airport,” Walker said. “They’re catching a plane, but which airport?”

“Gotta be a small, out-of-the-way airport,” Reggie said. “Get a map!”

“Nichol’s Field,” Stoner said. “Heck of a place for an airport, damn smack between two mountains. Very secluded, ten minutes from the nearest settlement, and that’s only a four-way-stop town. Maybe thirty minutes from here, but I could make it less.”

“That’s our best bet,” Reggie said.

“What if he’s wrong, Chief?” Walker asked.

“Then we’ll be lucky to get jobs—anywhere.”

Reggie pointed at two agents. “Clean up this mess. The rest of us, let’s move it, or they’ll be airborne before we leave the city limits.”

They piled into two sedans: Walker and two agents in one and Reggie and Stoner in the other, leading the way to Otay Lake Road south of Jamul. Stoner stomped the accelerator to the floorboard and kept it there whenever possible to make up for lost time. Fifteen minutes later and less than ten minutes from the airfield, they careened along the twisty lakeside road, kicking up gravel at each curve.

End of Chapter 18

[DRayVan]

CHAPTER 19 of 20

The moon had passed its full phase, but it was still shining bright enough to read a newspaper, and when they approached the last bend in the road, the airport was clearly visible to their right: a one-story building, a few sundry shed-like structures, two hangars, and a tower. A single-engine high-winged monoplane was parked on the tarmac near the first hangar.

Stoner killed the headlights and slowed the vehicle to a crawl. Walker followed close behind.

“Pull over there,” Reggie said, pointing to a brush-covered mound between the airport and them.

Stoner eased the car to a stop, and Walker parked behind. They got out and crawled through the underbrush until they had an unobstructed view. Straight ahead were the tarmac and the plane. The hangars were aligned on their left, while the other buildings and the tower were on their right.

A crewman was topping off the fuel tanks while Hannigan’s unmistakable silhouette paced nearby, wildly waving his arms and spewing a litany of vintage-Hannigan cusswords, which occasionally drifted Stoner’s way. One Nazi, probably Hans, was stashing the blueprints behind the pilot's seat, and the other guarded Anne near the tower’s base.

The direct approach had no significant vegetation for concealment. Low-growing bushes dotted the otherwise open ground to the left, and on the right, a few small trees were scattered haphazardly to the driveway. Beyond that was an empty parking lot to the buildings.

“What’s the plan, Chief?” Walker asked.

“As much as I want those SOBs, Anne’s safety comes first. What firepower we got?”

“Handguns and scatterguns,” Walker said.

“Rifles?”

“Sorry, Chief.”

“Damn,” Reggie said. Then he pointed. “Take your men, Tom, work your way to the hangars, come up behind the plane, and take those three. Stoner and I will go in from the tower side and get the other one.”

“But what about Anne?” Stoner asked, grabbing Reggie’s arm.

“Once the shooting starts, she’ll know what to do.”

“Want a scattergun, Chief?”

“No. Can’t risk hitting Anne. Use them on that plane. Do whatever you have to do to keep it on the ground!”

“Right, Chief.”

Walker motioned to his men, and they circled left, crawling from bush to bush, closing in on the hangars. Meanwhile, Reggie and Stoner scurried from tree to tree, advancing toward the driveway.

They reached the last growth of trees before the open parking lot when someone atop the tower yelled, “Hans! Wir haben Gesellschaft!” An automatic rifle’s distinctive rat-ta-ta rained bullets on Waker and his men, pinning them down.

The gunman hadn’t seen them, so Reggie and Stoner dashed across the parking lot to the main building. They quickly approached the tower where Fritz and Anne were. Once the shooter was in range, Reggie aimed and fired two quick rounds.

The man slumped on the railing. His rifle slipped from his grip and tumbled to the ground, smashing on the tarmac’s hard surface.

“Damn,” Reggie said.

Fritz turned and fired but missed wide. Hans shouted to him and slid into the pilot’s seat. Fritz grabbed Anne’s arm and started toward the craft with her in tow. Reggie trained his weapon on Fritz, but Anne blocked a clear shot. After a few strides, she dropped to the tarmac and wrenched herself free.

Fritz spun around and aimed his weapon at Anne. Before he could squeeze the trigger, Reggie fired his gun, hitting Fritz in the shoulder. The impact knocked Fritz off his feet. In the confusion, Anne ran to the tower and hunkered down.

Reggie fired until his gun was empty but missed. Fritz scrambled to his feet and scurried to the plane. Fritz was out of Stoner’s range but fired a few shots anyway, hoping he’d get lucky. Again, luck turned a blind eye toward him.

Hans revved the plane’s engine, getting ready to taxi. Hannigan tried but couldn’t climb the ladder: its first step was too high, and he was too obese to pull himself up. Fritz reached the plane, pushed Hannigan aside, and climbed aboard.

The plane’s engine roared. The craft slowly taxied down the tarmac toward the runway.

Hannigan ran alongside, banging on the fuselage. He grabbed hold of the ladder and kept pace for a while. He tripped, and the plane dragged him along.

Fritz opened the door and yelled, “Let go, you stupid man! Let go!”

But Hannigan held on for dear life. Fritz pulled his weapon and pumped three quick rounds into him. He fell and rolled face-down on the tarmac.

The plane moved on, gaining speed.

Reggie emptied his reloaded weapon at the plane without any apparent effect. Walker and his men arrived and fired their scatterguns at the craft, but it was out of range.

Then Stoner remembered Hannigan’s .45 he’d stuffed in his pocket and started running flat-out toward the runway. By the time he was halfway there, the plane had taxied to the runway’s end, turned, and started coming toward him. His heart felt like it would explode, but he kept running.

The craft was gaining speed, starting to lift off, and getting closer and closer. So Stoner stopped, knelt to steady his arm, and took aim. And while it zoomed toward and in front of him, he fired at its engine and kept it up until he’d emptied Hannigan’s weapon. The plane thumbed its nose at him as it roared by and steadily climbed into the moonlit sky.

Stoner staggered back to the hangar as the plane’s roar faded in the distance. When he reached the hangar, he couldn’t hear it anymore above the ringing in his ears. When Anne saw him, she hurried to his side.

“You okay, Jack?”

“I’d feel better if I’d stopped them.”

“At least you’re safe.”

“I thought I’d die when Fritz kidnapped you.”

“Really?”

“Really... And—”

Before Stoner could say anything more, Anne put her arms around his neck and kissed him—He kissed her right back.

“What about all you said in the delivery sedan?”

“I was lying... I’m not an heiress. I’m a—”

“Shut up, and kiss me again.”

They strolled, arm-in-arm, to the others.

The two agents had the crewman in custody nearby. Hannigan lay on the tarmac less than twenty yards from where the plane had been parked. Reggie knelt beside him while Walker looked on.

“Is he?” Stoner asked, already knowing the answer.

“Gasping for air now and then,” Reggie said. “But it’s just a matter of time.”

“Always hassled him, but I hate to see him end this way.”

“He sold his country out, Stoner,” Reggie said, “so I won’t be shedding any tears over him.”

“Still...”

“Isn’t that a plane?” one of the agents yelled.

“Where?” Walker asked.

“Toward the ocean.”

Reggie stood, and they all looked westward.

“I don’t hear anything,” Stoner said, cupping his hand on his best ear—still ringing.

“Its engine is sputtering,” Walker said.

“And it has a yellowish glow,” Anne said, pointing.

Soon, it was close enough that Stoner heard the straining engine and saw the flaming light coming from its front. Before long, they could see that it was in serious trouble: on fire and losing altitude fast.

It descended sharply, trying to land, but before reaching the runway, it plowed into the ground and exploded in an enormous fireball.

They stood there, mouths gaping, not moving a muscle. The shock of the crash and explosion must have stunned them, for they spoke ramblingly nonsense for a minute or two.

Then Walker asked, “Think that was Hans and Fritz?”

His question seemed to snap them out of their stupor, and they swapped “wows,” “did-you-see-that’s,” and “holy-craps” until they regained their senses.

Reggie slapped Stoner on his back. “Ole Jack must’ve hit their engine when they flew by.” He turned to the agents holding the crewman. “Escort him to the car and radio in for backup. We’ll need help cleaning up this mess.”

Before the agents reached the cars, the wail of sirens could be heard coming toward the airport. The local firefighters were Johnny-on-the-spot, and the newspaper reporters smelled a story before the first whiff of burning aviation fuel made it out of the valley.

“You need us, Reggie?” Stoner asked, not wanting any part of the circus about to descend upon the site.

Reggie glanced at them, holding hands, and smiled. “No... I guess not. Go by the cars, and you can take her home as soon as backup arrives.”

End of Chapter 19

[DRayVan]

CHAPTER 20 of 20 - EPILOGUE

December 7, 1941, 6:45 am
Honolulu, Hawaii

The sunrise from the honeymoon suite’s patio overlooking Māmala Bay was not as spectacular as last night’s sunset, but Stoner would take it any day of the week. Anne was still sound asleep, but he needed a smoke and a cup of joe. So he pulled up a deckchair and plopped in it to enjoy the tranquility of the calm waters, the wakes of seabound fishing boats lapping on the shore, the seagulls’ squawking—yeah, even the seagulls—and the patter of the occasional jogger on the beach.

This past year had been a whirlwind, and he’d changed a lot. He’d tried toning down his wisecracking—Anne disapproved—and keeping them more humorous than cynical. He’d made some progress thanks to Anne, but it’d been a struggle.

Last year’s events and players were so convoluted that Stoner needed a scorecard to keep them straight. There were those two apes, Theo and Leo, and of course, Sid—how could he overlook Sid?

Theo was spending time in a federal pen somewhere, crushing rocks into fine-grained sand with his bare hands. Five minutes after the prison docs interviewed Leo, he got a nice padded cell in a land far, far away. And Sid... Well, you could’ve held his funeral in a phone booth for the paltry number of mourners that attended and still had room for his casket. Sid’s operation fell apart when he died. Seems he kept all his business dealings in that scrawny, little head of his, and when he was blotted out, so were everyone’s debts, including Stoner’s.

Special FBI Agent Reginald Houser, Reggie, was promoted to heaven knows what the last Stoner heard, mainly for eliminating the nest of Nazi spies—he deserved it. He apologized for keeping Stoner in the dark throughout the operation. Reggie thought he carried too much “baggage” with the likes of Sid and Hannigan to tell him much. Stoner’s still waiting for the thousand-dollar bonus Reggie promised, but you know how government red tape works—maybe his grandkids will see it.

Speaking of Hannigan—at times, Stoner hated his guts for the way he pleasured in tormenting him and how he double-crossed him, but you can get used to anything. Stoner, instead, would've chosen prison for him over his cold-blooded killing. Once the word got out that he had betrayed his country, you could’ve fired a cannon at his funeral and not hit anyone. Hans and Fritz, or what was left of them, were shipped back to Germany in a shoebox marked “Return to Sender.”

Anne Müller, now Anne Stoner, had a fledgling detective agency in LA. She was tapped for the operation because J. Edger had systematically eliminated females from the FBI, and they needed a young, beautiful woman to pose as the heiress of the Brewer fortune. And, brother, did she fit the bill!

Once the news story broke and mentioned their names and agencies, their phones rang off the hook. Anne and Stoner hired extra staff to handle the incoming casework. He paid all his outstanding bills in short order and was back in the good graces of his favorite watering hole.

Althewhile, Stoner kept seeing Anne as often as he could, and after a few months, he popped the question, and she said, “Why not?” Some suggested theirs was a May-December matchup. He pointed out it was closer to June-September, and if they didn’t like it, they could lump it.

They figured it was a matter of time before Roosevelt asked Congress to declare war on Germany, and they weren’t getting any younger, so they tied the second knot for each of them two days ago and hopped a flight to Hawaii for some much-needed rest... Oh, yes... And a honeymoon.

The only person on his scorecard that nobody seemed to know anything about was that strange little visitor Stoner had, Toshio Okada, telling him of an attempted burglary of his car—He checked it out later and found nothing suspicious. Reggie had never heard of him, and neither had Anne.

Stoner didn’t know if he was part of Sid’s organization, but he doubted it. Sid loved Chinese food, but he had no love for the Chinese people and wouldn’t hire one. Anyway, he’d bet that Okada guy was Japanese, but the word was they all looked the same to Sid. And Stoner wasn’t about to pay Theo or Leo a visit anytime soon to ask them, so that was a dead end. Maybe Hannigan knew him... And he wasn’t talking. Bottom line: Toshio Okada was and will be the mystery man of the hour.

Stoner had finished his trip down memory lane when Anne opened the patio door. She wore her bathing suit and had a towel draped over her arm.

“Wanna quick swim before breakfast?”

He glanced at the temperature gauge on the side of their unit. It read seventy.

“What time’s breakfast?” Stoner asked.

“We can swim till seven-thirty and catch a bite by eight.”

Stoner glanced at his wristwatch: seven-ten.

“I’ll catch up,” he said and headed to the door. When they met mid-patio, they stopped and kissed.

“Uh... Do you really want that swim?” he asked, holding her tight.

“Not anymore.”

Stoner took Anne’s hand, and they returned to the privacy of their suite.

#

Afterward, they lay in bed, staring at the ceiling fan’s rotating blades.

“You’re too good to me,” Stoner said.

Anne turned and propped her head with her hand.

“What you mean, Jack?”

“I don’t deserve you.”

“Jack...”

“One look at us, side by side in the mirror, and... Well... I’m trying to say that I’m the luckiest guy in the world.”

“You’re too sweet.”

“No... I mean it, Anne. What guy pushing fifty could ever hope for—”

“Shut up, Jack, and kiss me.”

He shut his mouth and puckered his lips. Then one thing led to another, and they were on the verge of missing breakfast when a distant buzzing sound, like a cloud of angry wasps, disrupted their interlude. It was coming closer with each passing moment.

They hopped out of bed, threw on their robes, and ran outside in time to see several low-flying aircraft shriek in front of them and then climb over the Pearl Harbor area. They stood in horror when the flashes from bombs lit up the morning sky, and the ground shook under them. Seconds later, the sickening sound of exploding ships and detonating munitions reached them.

From their vantage point, they witnessed wave after wave of planes descending on the harbor and airfield, attacking anything afloat or with wings. The ships fired back, trying to knock the attackers from the sky, but it was worse than swatting a swarm of hornets with a stick—a losing battle. Shells from the Navy ships exploded overhead, damaging an aircraft here and there, but the vast majority escaped unscathed.

Without warning, the high-pitch whistling sound Stoner remembered from WWI meant a round was coming right at them. He grabbed Anne’s hand, and they dove for cover as the shell exploded nearby.

“Who are they?” Anne screamed.

“Japs!”

“What we ever do to them?”

“Breathe the same air.”

Shells exploded, and planes zoomed above them. As horrific as that was, it was nothing compared to the terror of rounds falling from the sky and detonating at ground level. The devastation was all around them: fires, debris, and collapsed buildings—probably injuries and deaths, too.

A submarine surfaced in the bay but was promptly sunk by a Naval vessel. Soon, the planes left as quickly as they arrived, and the sky above them was tranquil once again. However, plumbs of ugly, black smoke billowed from the carnage and secondary explosions in the harbor.

They sighed in relief, thinking the worst was over.

“What can we do to help, Jack?”

Stoner didn’t know, but he knew they couldn’t help anyone wearing nothing but robes.

“Get dressed, then we’ll figure something out.”

While they were changing, another wave of planes approached, just like the last bunch. Fortunately, they were dressed enough to dash out and seek better shelter. They found a dug-out area large enough for them to hunker down, and it wasn’t a minute too soon: a shell exploded near their patio and, in all likelihood, would have killed them both.

Zooming planes, exploding shells—in the air and on the ground—and shaking earth continued for what seemed an eternity, but by ten o’clock, the Japs left again. They slowly got to their feet.

“Is it over, Jack?”

“Dunno. They could come again, or they’ve done what they came to do. Either way, we’re in deep sh*t.”

“Why’s that?”

“Our whole Pacific fleet was anchored here and ripe for the picking. And from the amount of smoke over the harbor, I imagine the Japs just harvested us but good.”

“What’s that mean for us, Jack?”

“For one thing, we were caught with our pants down, and for another, we’ll be fighting the Jap’s big guns with pea-shooters.”

“They had help?”

“Who?”

“The Japs. Think about it, Jack. An operation this big doesn’t happen because one day, you wake up and decide to attack a major naval base like Pearl Harbor. It takes information and planning, lots of information. Somebody had to collect it and pass it on.”

“Sure, but—”

“But what do we do best, Jack?”

Before Stoner could answer, a nearby unexploded naval shell detonated, sending shrapnel zinging in all directions. He instinctively crouched when he heard the boom, but Anne didn’t. She had a surprised look: eyes wide, mouth agape. Then her eyes closed, and she crumpled to the ground. Stoner knew without checking: Anne was gone.

Stoner held her until help arrived, but help was too late for her. His anger was too great for any help for himself. He vowed to find every bastard responsible for feeding info to the Japs.

#

A month after he’d buried Anne, Stoner was on the third round of drinks at a local dive, hoping to drown his grief—it wasn’t working. The horrible images of that day kept resurfacing, no matter how much or what he drank. His world had ended when Anne died. His heart had been ripped from his chest, and he cared little for anyone or anything but the booze. Stoner nodded to the bartender for another round.

“Look, Mack,” he said, “why don’t you find another place to drown your sorrows. You’re chasing off the customers.”

“My money’s good, ain’t it?”

“This is your last one, buster... Then leave, or I’ll call the—”

“All right. All right. Hurry up with that beer, will ya.”

While the bartender drew another cool one, a small man, not quite five feet tall, sat on the stool next to Stoner. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the man was skinny with thinning, slicked-down, jet-black hair. His eyes were slits like an Asian's. It struck Stoner odd that Asians were still walking around free, considering the Japanese had attacked Pearl Harbor. This one wore a military uniform with creases pressed sharp enough to slice bread. It reminded Stoner that he hadn’t shaved, changed clothes, or even bathed in quite a while.

The bartender plopped the mug of beer in front of him. Stoner paid and took a sip.

“That won’t bring her back, Mr. Stoner,” the little man said.

Stoner slowly put the mug on the bar and slid around to face him. A little man or not, he was about to get a knuckle sandwich for that remark. He cocked his arm, but the man sat there, smiling from ear to ear, bearing a row of teeth too big for his mouth. Stoner recognized that smile.

“Mr. Okada?” Stoner asked, flabbergasted.

“Major Toshio Okada, at your service, Mr. Stoner,” he said, nodding. “So sorry for your loss.”

“What the hell...?”

“We’re tracking down everyone who helped the Japanese with their attack, and we could use your help. Interested in a case, Jack? Maybe two or three cases?”

For the first time in a month, Stoner smiled.

The End

[DRayVan]

Glad you liked it.
It was a fun write.

[Steven Hunley]

For the first time in a month, Stoner smiled.

This was sooo satisfying. The language, the characters, the setting, were exceptionally well done. I live in San Diego so I aught to know. First-class job.