Jonathan Posner's Blog, page 4

Granny Vera

Granny Vera lived in a little cottage by the sea.

“I do so love the sea,” she was fond of saying. “It makes me feel so young again,” and she would sit happily on her veranda and watch the sea for hours.

Granny Vera was in fact rather old. To prove it she had three children, six grandchildren and ten great-grandchildren. She also had a cat called Lloyd-George, who was rather old as well. She and Lloyd-George enjoyed the times when her family came to visit, although they both thought it rather fortunate that they didn’t all come at once.

There were photos of all the family kept in a very special place where she could always see them; under a piece of glass that covered the top of her dressing table. In fact she never put any bottles on her table, in case one of the pictures got covered up. “It’s wonderful to have such a large family,” she would say, and Lloyd-George would nod his head in agreement, for he loved playing with all the great-grandchildren whenever they visited.

In the afternoons, Granny Vera liked to walk slowly into the village to do some shopping. She always bought some bread, milk, eggs and some bacon for her tea. And for Lloyd-George, she would always buy a tub of the shop’s finest cat food.

After her shopping, she would walk slowly into the park and watch the children playing. She enjoyed watching them running and jumping, kicking their footballs and riding their bicycles. Their shouts and their laughs reminded her of when she was a little girl, such a long time ago. “I remember when I used to run round the park, laughing and shouting. What fun I had. What fun!” she would say.

It was the afternoon of the first of January 2000. It was crisp and bright, with little specks of frost sparkling like diamonds in the clear air. Granny Vera was walking through the park, warm and snug in her woollen coat, knitted hat and cosy scarf. “I hope the children aren’t too tired after last night’s celebrations to be out playing,” she thought.

She’d had a quiet Millenium Eve with Lloyd-George. They’d agreed she could have a small glass of sherry while they watched the TV. “After all,” she confided in him, “it isn’t every day you see in a new century, let alone a millennium. Although I’m not sure this one is really where I belong. It’s the young people – it’s their time now.” Sipping her sherry, she found her mind drifting back over the last century, with pictures and events tumbling unbidden in a happy jumble. There she was, running to meet her father back from the war in France, flinging her arms around his neck and him saying how she’d turned into a proper young lady. Archie going off to fight in ’39 – and the picnic she held on the Downs to celebrate his return. The trips to the seaside with the kids… looking after the grand children when they were young…

Granny Vera tickled Lloyd-George behind the ear. “Happy millennium!” she said, as the TV announced the stroke of 12 from Big Ben, and a roar could just be heard from the village square. “Happy Millennium!”

She gasped as there was a sudden loud explosion, and a burst of colour lit up the night sky. “Oh, it’s fireworks,” she told Lloyd-George. “They’re setting them off in the Square.” They settled at the window to watch, ‘ooohing’ and ‘aahing’ together as the bright balls of sparks burst over the next row of houses, lighting them in glorious greens, reds and whites. “It certainly seems that the young people are glad it’s 2000,” she said. “Although I’m sure I never expected to see it. It doesn’t seem right really; not being in the ‘19’s’ anymore.”

The next afternoon the children in the park were all playing as she stood and watched. “Hello, Granny Vera!” they cried. “Hello!” she answered. “Happy millennium!”

They ran around the park, playing games and laughing. “They remind me of my three children when they were young, and my six grandchildren, and my ten great-grandchildren,” she thought. “And of me, when I was a little girl. How lucky I am, to have had such a good life, and such a big family.”

One of the children kicked a football and it landed at Granny Vera’s feet. Slowly, she stooped and picked it up. She looked for the child who had kicked it. He was standing a little way off – a small boy with blond hair and big blue-grey eyes.

She smiled at him and tried to throw back the ball. Much to her surprise, she found that instead of flying back to the boy as she had intended, it simply dropped at her feet.

“Oh dear,” she exclaimed. “I wonder what happened?” The little boy ran forward and picked up the ball. “Don’t worry, Granny Vera,” he said. “I expect it is because you are old.” He ran back to play with the other children. “I expect it is,” she said to herself, as she started to walk back. “I expect it is.”

When she arrived home, she unpacked her shopping and made herself some tea. “It’s a funny thing,” she said to Lloyd-George, “but I really forgot for a moment that I was too old to play with a football. I just picked it up and meant to throw it back!”

Lloyd-George ate his food in silence. He was remembering when he used to play with a ball of wool and make it fly around the room like a fluffy comet with a tail. Those were happy times for him, happy times indeed. Oh, to be a kitten again, with a brand-new ball of wool to play with!

Granny Vera finished her tea and got ready for bed. “I just thought I could throw it back,” she said, as she snuggled down for the night. Lloyd-George lifted himself slowly onto the bed and curled up next to her. “And I bet there’s a little kitten inside you, too, Lloyd-George!” she chuckled, as she switched off the light.

The night grew still and dark. The children had all left the park and gone home to bed. It was quiet in the village and quiet in Granny Vera’s cottage as she lay asleep.

Granny Vera was dreaming. She dreamt that she was in the park in the sunshine and the children were playing football or riding their bicycles. Some were just running around, shouting, laughing and playing.

She was smiling as she watched them. Then she saw the little blond boy. He was running towards her, his big blue-grey eyes bright and shining, kicking his football. He kicked it towards her and she bent to pick it up. As she did so, she felt her chest go very, very tight. It started to hurt so much that she could hardly breathe. “Oh, oh!” she gasped. “What’s happening to me?”

The little blond boy ran up to her. “Don’t worry Granny Vera,” he said. “I expect it is because you are old.”

Then suddenly she found the pain had quite gone. She felt so much better, better than she had done for many years.

“Oh no!” she said, as she bent to pick up the ball. “Not at all!” and she threw the ball. It soared high in the air and flew far across the park. The boy ran after it.

“Wait for me!” she cried happily and scampered off after him. “Wait for me!”

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The Thursday Book Club – Mar 24

The latest edition of The Thursday Book Club was broadcast on 21st March 2024 at 2pm on Phonic FM. Joining host Jonathan Posner was Angie Wooldridge and Richard Handy. Click the names to find out more about them, and use the audio bar below to listen to the full show.

https://jonathanposnerauthor.com/wp-content/uploads/2024/03/TBC-Show-7-21-03-24.mp3

 

There was also an impromptu discussion between Richard and Angie on Richard’s writing, while a technical hitch was being sorted. This has been edited out of the ‘listen again’ version above, but if you would like to listen to this interesting discussion again, use the audio bar below.

https://jonathanposnerauthor.com/wp-content/uploads/2024/03/TBC-Show-7-21-03-24-outtake.mp3

 

The book we reviewed was:

 

Jonathan interviewed publisher Oliver Tooley of Blue Poppy Publishing.

There was also a discussion on:
Is there a ‘right’ way to introduce a new character in a book?

In the News section, we announced 16 new books by local authors:

The Ship Sailed On by Valerie Lawson. When the ship sails on, death follows in its wake. Launch day is 5th April, with a launch event and signing 6pm 5th April, Port Royal on the Quay.T he Day The Earth Turned (Book 4) by Chantelle Atkins – final book in a YA post-apocalyptic series on 22nd March. The adults are all dead. Society has collapsed. As Mother Nature pursues her latest cull, the children of Heron Village are hanging on by a thread.Coombesford Calendar 3 by Elizabeth Ducie comes out towards the end of April. A year of stories from an English village… Return to Xanthos – this is a debut novel by John McKenna. A romance, with a twist, set on an idyllic Greek Island. Launches on 4th April. Sammy the Seal , writen by Naomi Cavender and illustrated by Pat Fricker comes out any day now. Available to order from Waterstones and independent bookshops but will not be available on Amazon. It’s a children’s picture book, the third one from this author and illustrator. It features a nervous seal who is afraid of the sea but is inspired to be brave by watching the RNLI lifeboat crews rescuing a canoeist. The Fair Folk by Su Bristow. Already out. A fascinating coming-of-age novel about magic and the choices that define future generations. Loose Ends – a debut novel by Ninete Hartley, available in print or paperback. A WW2 drama/romance. Murder at the Island Hotel by Helena Dixon. Launched earlier this month. A gorgeous island off the English coast, a beautiful hotel perched on the cliffs, a group of glamourous friends… and a suspicious death? Kity Underhay’s invitation didn’t mention murder! Book signing at First Draft in Bovey Tracey Tuesday March 26th, 11 to 12.Can I speak to Josephine please? by Sheila Brill was launched on Thursday 14th March. She’s a Bristol based author and this is her memoir and the story of her daughter’s life. Her daughter was born in May 1993 and, due to avoidable birth trauma, was profoundly disabled. She passed away in 2017. It’s an honest account which touches on the role of professionals and the dynamics of family. The foreword is writen by Miriam Margolyes.Liz Shakespeare’s seventh book The Ordeal of Miss Lucy Jones (set in Devon) is being launched at the Plough Arts Centre in Torrington on April 25th.Caroline Palmer’s The Time of the Cuckoo is a historical novel based mainly in East Devon and Dorset in AD367. A number of native tribes atempt to bring down what remains of the Roman Empire in Britain. Available from the St. Agnes Museum shop.There’s a launch event for Final Approach: My Father and Other Turbulence by Mark Blackburn at the Ilminster Emporium on March 28th. The book charts the turbulent flightpath between a jetsetting father and a planespotting son.Also coming out in April is Down the Combe and Into the Meadow: Reflections on Nature and Learning by David Selby. Although centred on Weston Combe on the Jurassic Coast, the book’s scope encompasses urgent nature issues at the national and global level. It will be available as hardcover and paperback. Bouncer’s Battle by Tony Rea is published by Sapere books. It is on pre-release now and is due out on 5 April. It’s a brand new fighter pilot adventure series starting in 1939, when a young recruit is thrown into the deep end. A Time to Live is a sweeping, heartrending historical fiction novel set in the 1st world war and after it in Devon, by Vanessa den Haan. This, her second book, launched in February. The Midnight Mechanic by Andy Brown launched earlier this month. It is set in a Dickensian underworld of Victorian London. It’s on Amazon, plus there’s a launch event at the Queen’s Building, University of Exeter on March 27th – 4pm to 5:30.

Blue Poppy Publishing have generously donated 10 books to be given away in a prize draw! To win this amazing prize, all you have to do is  answer the question below, and email your entry using this address.

QUESTION: In this month’s show, we reviewed Scandal in Babylon by Barbara Hambly. We named a number of real stars of 1924 Hollywood. Which is the only one of the three below that was named in our discussion?

Charlie ChaplinRudolph ValentinoBuster Keaton

Simply send your answer, with your name and location (town/city), to this email address.

The prize books are:

The Cream of Devon – an anthology of short stories The Sibling Sense by Donna Goold A Breath of Moonscent by Alan Boxall Wren’s Nest and Other Stories by Alan Boxall Mystery, Magic and Mayhem And a Sprig of Mistletoe , edited by P. Kaye Palmer Exmoor Tales – Spring by Ellie Keepers Exmoor Tales – Summer by Ellie Keepers Exmoor Tales – Autumn by Ellie Keepers Exmoor Tales – Winter by Ellie Keepers Mrs. Slocombe’s Bull at a Gate Cookbook The draw will be made from all correct entries received by midnight on 7th April 2024.The prize is as stated – no cash equivalent.Sorry – but if you are a volunteer at Phonic FM, or a guest on The Thursday Book Club, or close family of one of those – you can’t enter.The name of the winner will be announced on the next show.

Good luck!

The next show will be on 18th April at 2pm UK time.

The post The Thursday Book Club – Mar 24 appeared first on Jonathan Posner.

Melting the ICE – a Short Story

 

Melting the Ice

The little VW Polo sat on the driveway, his smart blue paintwork glowing in the Sunday afternoon winter sun. Helen looked back at him with an indulgent smile, as always, before unlocking the front door.

“You look lovely,” she whispered. “Nice and clean. Those Soap and Glory boys always do such a good job on you.” She lifted her bags of groceries and headed into the house.

Her phone pinged as she finished putting her shopping away. She glanced at the screen – a text from her boss. It could wait.

A few minutes later she was curled up on the sofa with her shoes off and her feet under her. She put down her mug of tea and picked up the phone.

Can you come in for 7:30 tomorrow, please? There’s an early meeting with the Brisbane office.

With a sigh, she replied OK, will do.

She glanced out of the window at the little VW. “Looks like we’ve got an early one in the morning, Polonius,” she whispered. “You’d better not be an old crosspatch and refuse to start if it’s frosty.”

“No problem,” he seemed to say.

Thankfully the next morning, despite having to have his windscreen scraped, he was as good as his word. He came alive at the first turn of the key.

“I knew you would, old boy,” Helen said, patting him on the dashboard.

They set off together for the twenty minute drive across the suburbs to the business park where Helen worked. She turned on the radio and started singing along to an 80s favourite. The song came to an end. “They don’t write them like that anymore,” she observed to Polonius, as he pulled up at some lights. “All this modern stuff sounds the same to me.” She tapped his wheel in time to the music, then glanced down at his mileage. “Service soon,” she remarked, as the lights changed and they pulled away. “Some nice clean oil. You’ll like that.”

A few minutes later a new song came on and she picked up the melody, giving it her all even though she wasn’t totally sure of the lyric.

Suddenly she realised she was singing alone, her voice sounding particularly flat in the cabin. She stopped singing and glanced down at the now silent radio. None of the lights were on.

“Polonius?” she asked. “What’s the matter?” She pushed the on/off button and twiddled all the knobs, but he steadfastly refused to put the sound back on.

“Come on, old boy,” she muttered. “Don’t do this to me.” But Polonius seemed to have decided that he was not going to oblige. She glanced down again, pushing the main button on and off rapidly.

There was a loud beeping from the road and she had to swerve back onto her lane as a van swept past, only inches from Polonius’s side.

With her heart in her mouth, she drove carefully – and silently – on towards the office.

By the time they turned into the business park she had her breath back, and once she’d found a parking space and stopped, she fiddled with the knobs a bit more. But Polonius still refused to make the radio work.

“I’m disappointed,” she scolded him, then with a sigh she locked him up and went inside the office.

That evening she tried once more. “Maybe you just needed to be switched off and on again,” she said as she started Polonius up. But he still refused to make a sound, and Helen had an unnaturally quiet journey back home.

He did the same for the rest of the week, so on Saturday she drove him to a car parts store on the edge of town.

“My radio’s stopped working,” she said to the portly man in the grimy sweatshirt at the desk. “Can you take a look for me?”

The man came out and ambled across the car park to where Polonius sat.

“It’s an old car, luv,” he said, looking at the number plate. “Pushing thirty years. You should get something newer.”

“Oh no, I’d never change him… er… it,” she said, trying not to wince as the man dropped his bulk into the driver’s seat, causing Polonius to lean over with a protesting creak of his springs. The man turned the key and pushed the knobs on the radio just as she had done earlier.

Helen hovered uncertainly beside him. She was in two minds. Would Polonius now make it work, like a toothache that miraculously cures itself when you go to the dentist, or would he continue to stay silent, so she’d have to do something to fix it?

He stayed silent.

The man opened the bonnet and had a root around. After a moment he emerged holding a small piece of bright green plastic. “Fuse is OK, luv,” he said. “And the wiring too.”

After he’d slammed the bonnet shut, with such force that it must have shaken Polonius to his core, the man said, “It’s an old radio. It’s come to the end of its life, so you need a new one. Come inside and I’ll show you what we’ve got.”

Helen found the array of flashing lights and the descriptions of all the radios most confusing on the In Car Entertainment display. Did she want Bluetooth, USB and dynamic sound? No – she just wanted a radio that worked.

“What about this one?” she asked, pointing at the model that had the fewest knobs and lights.

“Yeah, that one’s got SRC.” She raised an eyebrow. “Speech recognition control,” he said. “You talk to it to turn it on and tune it, so you don’t need to take your eyes off the road.”

After the incident with the van on Monday, that sounded ideal. “I’ll take it,” she said.

Once it had been fitted, the man showed her how to make it work. “Say, ‘radio on’,” he instructed, holding a button down. She did so, and the radio came on. “Now ‘radio off’. A few more instructions, and Helen felt she understood. “It knows your voice now,” the man said, before easing himself out of the passenger seat and looking back in. “Drive carefully, and enjoy your new radio, luv,” he said, then slammed the door shut with such force that Helen had to apologise to Polonius. She started the engine and drove slowly out onto the road home.

“Radio on,” she said, once they were safely established in the slow lane of the dual carriageway. The radio came on. “Well done, Polonius,” she cooed, and patted his dashboard. “You clever boy.”

The radio faded down to a low volume. “It’s not exactly difficult,” said a loud voice over the background music. “You say, ‘radio on’ and I turn it on. Durr.”

For a moment Helen was too stunned to speak. Was that the radio? Had it re-tuned to a play or something? “I beg your pardon?” she asked cautiously.

“You’ve always treated me like a soft idiot,” said the voice. “I mean, Polonius – what kind of a name is that? Not mine, for sure.”

“Err… err…” Helen stuttered. “What?”

“No, I see myself more as a Seigfried. German born and bred. So I need a name that’s not some old fart from Shakespeare, but something with a bit more grandeur. Wagnerian, even.” He paused. “Siegfried.”

“But you’re Polonius. The Polo. It’s cute.”

“Yeah, and that’s another thing. All this stroking my dashboard and silly talking. It’s not cute; it’s condescending.” He paused. “Like when you said I was getting a service and some ‘nice clean oil.” I mean, seriously?”

“I… I thought you’d like it,” said Helen in a small voice.

“Well, I don’t. I’m a respectable German car of a certain age. Not some new little Fiat in baby blue.” There was a silence, broken only by the distant sound of the background music. “And your singing. Do you know how many years I’ve had to listen to your tuneless squawking without being able to say anything? How long I’ve had to suffer in silence as you murder your way through the entire 80s catalogue?”

“Radio off,” gasped Helen, “Radio off, radio off, radio off.”

The music stopped, and she breathed a sigh of relief.

“Oh no you don’t,” snapped Polonius suddenly. “You don’t get rid of me that easily. I’ve had to suffer you in silence for all these years. Now you’ve given me a voice, I’m going to use it. I’ve a lot of catching up.”

Which is what he proceeded to do all the way home, listing every slight, real or imagined, from the time Helen first got him, up to the man slamming the door earlier. Helen tried once or twice to answer back, but in the end she gave up and just tried to ignore him.

“And another thing…” he was saying, as they pulled up at the house. Helen put her hand to the key to switch off. “Oh no you don’t,” Polonius snapped, “I haven’t finished…”

“Well I have,” she said, and turned the key.

She got out, slammed the door shut, and strode to the house without looking back.

The next day she put a ‘for sale’ ad in the Old Banger section of Autotrader.

The post Melting the ICE – a Short Story appeared first on Jonathan Posner.

The Thursday Book Club No. 6

 

The fifth edition of The Thursday Book Club was broadcast on 18th January 2024 at 2pm on Phonic FM. Joining host Jonathan Posner was Jason Mann. Click the names to find out more about their works, and use the audio bar below to listen to the full show.

https://jonathanposnerauthor.com/wp-content/uploads/2024/02/TBC-Show-6-15-02-24.mp3

The books we reviewed were:

 

 

There was also a discussion on: AI – How much of a threat is it to writers?

Here are the book launches we highlighted in the News section:

One Sinha Lifetime: A Bengali Boy’s Search for the Meaning of Life is a funny and moving coming of age story from The Chase star and stand-up comic Paul Sinha. 29 Feb, Ebury.A Very Private School is a poignant memoir from Princess Diana’s brother, Charles Spencer, who recalls the trauma of being sent to boarding school at the age of 8. 14 March, Gallery Books.Colm Tóibín’s Long Island is the sequel to the prize-winning, bestselling novel Brooklyn. When an Irish stranger knocks on Eilis’s door in Long Island, it upends her comfortable life and she finds herself turning towards her native Ireland. 23 May, Picador.Elif Shafak returns with a new book, There Are Rivers in the Sky , following on from her popular novel The Island of Missing Trees. 8 August. You Are Here is the new novel by David Nicholls, the number 1 bestselling author of One Day, now a major Netflix series. This is a novel of first encounters, second chances and finding the way home. 23 April, Sceptre.Eruption has a joint byline for none other than James Paterson and Michael Crichton. The novel is based on a partially finished manuscript by Jurassic Park’s Crichton, who died in 2008. Paterson has now completed it. When an Hawaiian volcano erupts, it threatens to ignite a secret stash of chemical weapons which could destroy the world. 6 June, Century.Set in the 1960s is The Women by Kristin Hannah. From the author behind Firefly Lane (adapted for a Netflix series), this is the story of Frankie, a young woman from California who impulsively joins the Army Nurses Corps and goes to Vietnam. 15 February, Pan MacMillan. The Warm Hands of Ghosts by Katherine Arden is set in World War One, and uses magic realism to weave a gripping tale of loss, mystery, ghosts and queer romance. 7 March, Century.

Thanks to bbc.co.uk for the above infomation.

The next show will be on 15th February at 2pm UK time.

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Private Eyes – a Short Story Part 3

Use this link for Private Eyes – Part 1

And this one for Part 2

Private Eyes Part 3

New York City, 1935

It was later that afternoon and I was sitting in my chair trying to see a way through this case.

Trouble was, I couldn’t see any way of gettin’ rid of this Clinton, shorta wastin’ him too, and I didn’t want to start throwin’ stiffs around; the cops would be onto me quicker than booze into a wino’s throat.

No. I needed to fool him. What I needed was some sucker, a patsy I could frame for the shooting. But who? And what would happen if he got shot? Aw, shucks, worry about that when the time comes. Jesus, though, those two brothers were so trigger happy, they made the Earps look tame.

All I needed was some jerk who’d satisfy Clinton. But where would I find such a guy?

Just then the door opened and Aileen came in, followed by a small man with a cheesy smile and too much hair oil, twisting his hat in his hands.

“Mr Temp?” He had a sing-song kinda voice, like he was trying to break into a song while talking.

“Roscoe Kemp – yes?”

“My name is Reverend Josiah Flagg.” He paused, as if waiting for me to recognise the name. I stared at him, expressionless.

“Hmm. I represent the Church of the Bountiful Cornucopia.” Again he paused, but I was giving nothing away. Which wasn’t too difficult as I had never heard of it.

“I was just passin’ by, and I wondered if you, good sir, would care to make a small donation to our dear little church? It doesn’t have to be big, it doesn’t have to be small. But any donation will do.”

An idea was forming in my mind.

“Hmm,” I said. “Tell me a bit more about your church.”

He wasn’t expecting that. “Hey?” he said.

“Tell me more – you know – your church.”

He beamed at me with a grin that was cheesier than one of Luigi’s four-cheese pizzas with extra topping.

“We-ell,” he began, putting his hands together like he was already at prayer. “I must say – I am deeply gratified to hear such enthusiasm for our little cause. Yessir,  deeply gratified.” If anything, his grin got even bigger. “You sir, will be well rewarded for your generosity.”

“But I ain’t given yet,” I pointed out.

“No sir, that you haven’t. But I feel most sure that when I have informed you of what worthy happenings take place at our little establishment, you will be most keen, yessir, most keen, to give us all your surplus money.”

He paused, as if waiting for a reaction.

“Do carry on,” said Aileen.

“We-ell Ma’am…” he beamed. “Every week we hold a deeply moving service, during which I point out to our dear devoted congregation the error of their ways. I tell them how materialism is the root of all evil, a machination of the very Devil himself; and those that lust, yessir lust, after the pleasures of materialism – they, these poor backsliders, will suffer the torment of everlasting fire and brimstone in the very depths of hell, where there is, so I’m told, much wailing and gnashing of teeth.” He was looking more serious now. “And they cry unto me ‘save us, save us!’ and indeed, I feel I must do my utmost to save them, so I tell them to render unto me all of their surplus money, which I take from them and destroy…” he paused and cleared his throat, “…before it can do any further evil upon those worthy American souls.”

“How much d’ya want?” I asked.

“Whatever you can spare, good sir, whatever you can spare. A few bucks…” he thought a moment, “or maybe many bucks – if it can help save you from the evils of materialism!”

“Look, I ain’t got no money on me at the moment…”

Out of the corner of my eye I noticed Aileen quickly slide Hershenheimsbecker’s $100 bill off the desk and into her pocket.

“Could ya let me know where I can find ya,” I asked, “and I’ll send round a good twenty, maybe thirty bucks?”

“Twenty, maybe thirty bucks?”

“Sure pal.”

“You’ll send it round?

“Yep.”

Flagg beamed. “Oh, sir, your generosity will grant you eternal freedom and endless playing of harps. I feel Heaven must have sent me to you.”

“You may have a point there,” I muttered.

“I shall await your visit!” said Flagg, handing me his card. “Thank-you, kind sir.” He nodded at Aileen. “Ma’am.” He put on his hat and left.

Aileen waited until the sound of his feet on the stairs had faded completely, then she said “Gee, boss. Are we gonna set him up as the patsy for the cowboy?”

“Sure, Aileen – sometime ya just gotta do what ya gotta do.”

“Guess so, boss.” She put her hand on my arm. “You’re the boss, boss.” Suddenly there was a loud gurgling noise from her middle, like water rushing down the drain. “Gee, boss, I’m hungry,” she said. She grabbed her coat and opened the door. “I’ll get us a bagel each.”

I sat down in my chair, put my feet on the desk and pushed my hat forward, thinking the case through.

Well, it looked as like I got the problem of old Clinton solved, with Flagg as the patsy.

There was just one problem more I’da given my back teeth to fathom out; where that dame Monique, or Lorna, or Kate, or whoever she was, fitted in – and who was that guy I met at the hotel? I suspected he was the yellow-faced guy old man Hershenheimsbecker disliked so much, but I couldn’t prove it. I wondered how I was gonna find him again.

A few minutes later, Aileen came back with the bagels. While we were getting outside these, she handed me a card.

“This musta fallen outa your pocket, Mr Kemp,” she said, between mouthfuls. “I found it on the floor.”

I looked at the card, and read Henry J. Ziegler, Private Detective. “Oh, Aileen, you’re a wonder!” I shouted, spraying her with bits of bagel. “I could kiss ya!”

She put her hands together and said “Oh Mr Kemp! Roscoe…”

I was busy dialling the number on the card. There was a click as I got connected.

“Hello?” said a voice.

“Hello,” I said. “Can I have Henry J. Ziegler please?

“Who?”

“Henry J. Ziegler?

“No. This the Hai Fu Yong Chinese Laundry. Corner of Broome Street and Bowery. You want cleaning?”

“No I don’t!” I yelled and slammed down the phone.

“Hmmm, Aileen,” I said, once I had got my breath back. “I think I’d better go check this place out. You never know, this laundry may be a lead.”

“Oh, Roscoe! Do be careful! I worry about ya, Roscoe.”

“I’ll be fine, kid. Take any calls.”

 

—0—

 

I made my way real cautious to the laundry – ya never can tell what’s gonna happen at these places. I found it at the back of some old brownstones. It was a shabby lookin’ joint and smelt of bleach – I gotta hunch it wasn’t only the sheets that got scrubbed. The neighbourhood looked worse, the kinda place where even the rats travel in pairs.

I eased the door open and sneaked inside, my gun held out ready. It was pitch black and very quiet; quieter than a church on Monday – or have I said that before?

Anyway, I crept on in, real slow – till a voice made me jump.

“OK Kemp. This time you’ve had it!” I recognised Ziegler’s voice. “Drop ya gun. Hands high!” I raised my hands, and let the gun fall.

The lights flicked on, and I could see Ziegler’s evil yellow face behind a gun, pointed directly at my chest.

“Boy,” he said, with a triumphant sneer in his voice, “you took your time to show up – had me waiting for a real long while. D’ya know, I even thought at one point ya wouldn’t be so dumb as to fall for it, but ya have, haven’t ya? We had you dancing like a puppet, didn’t we?”

“I’ve done nothing for you, Mac,” I said, trying to keep my voice flat; unthreatening.

“Don’t you believe it, detective,” he sniggered. “We had you jumpin’ to our tune all the way. We wanted you to kill ol’ man Hershenheimsbecker, an’ you did! Good goin’, pal, real hot!”

“Why me?” I asked. Mainly to keep him talking while I figured a way outta this.

“Cos you’re the most trigger happy bum around, and the biggest jerk! What kinda fool would want to talk to old Hersh when all the world knows how he loves to shoot people. We were countin’ on you to turn the tables. Well done, soldier. You done us proud there.”

Now it all made sense. “So, there’s no jewels, no Monique, no Lorna – just you and Kate, using me to kill the old man to get his money. You set this whole thing up between ya. Swell.”

“Boy, you’re real bright. Say, you oughta be a detective. Only you ain’t gonna be anything soon, you are gonna be on trial for the ol’ man’s murder, then ya goin’ to be fryin’ like a prime piece of bacon in the chair in Boston.”

“Oh yeah? How’s that gonna happen?”

“You dumb ass – you think we ain’t planned it out?” He sniggered again, so pleased with himself. “That gun ya carryin’ – the one that’s on the floor here.” He waved the barrel of his own gun in its direction. “That’s the piece ya shot Hershenheimsbecker with?”

Despite myself, I nodded very slightly. “Thought so!” he crowed. “That’s good!”

“Why?”

“Cos, it’ll be in your pocket with your prints on it when ya found, and they’ll test it and confirm it was the murder weapon.”

“No kiddin’?” I gave a hollow laugh. “When I’m found?”

“Yeah. Didn’t I mention that bit? When ya’s found in Boston.”

“But I’m not in Boston.”

“No, but ya soon will be…”

I felt a sudden explosion of pain in the back of my head and the floor started coming up fast to meet me, then the whole world went black and I knew nothing more.

 

—0—

 

The lights came back on, slowly and painfully.

I found I was sitting up against the wall with my hands behind my back. I tried to move them and winced as something dug hard into my wrists. I tried again, more slowly, but my hands couldn’t move. I decided they musta been tied up behind my back.

The effort made the room spin like a ferris wheel, so I dropped my head and shut my eyes.

There was a shuffling sound and I opened them again.

A pair of men’s legs had appeared in front of me, soon joined by a woman’s legs in high heels. I looked slowly up from the legs to the faces.

Ziegler and Kate Hershenheimsbecker.

“Get up,” Kate ordered.

“I can’t,” I said. “My hands are tied.”

She took out a gun and held it to my head. “Get up, punk,” she snarled.

“Gee, ma’am,” I muttered. “Don’t hurt to say ‘please’.” With some difficulty, I brought my heels up under my butt, rocked forward and slowly pushed myself up till I was standing. All the while her gun kept a steady bead on my head.

“Good,” she said. “Now you’re gonna walk to the car for the trip up to Boston.” She waved her gun towards the door.

“Say I don’t wanna go along with your little plan?” I asked, staying put.

“You don’t get a say in this,” she snarled. “Now walk.”

I shrugged – not easy with your hands tied behind your back, and said, “What if I just don’t?”

“Then you’re dead whatever happens,” said Ziegler, waving his gun at me. “It’s here and now, or it’s the chair in Boston. Your call.”

“Well now,” I said, “since you put it so nicely…”

“Sure,” said Kate. “We put it nicely. Now walk.”

I was about to move, when suddenly there was the sound of a gunshot from the other side of the room.

Ziegler and I turned to take a look, but as we did, Kate gave a small mewing sound, and I snapped back to look at her.

Her eyes were wide in surprise, as a red stain spread slowly out across the middle of her white blouse. She stared into my eyes as her hand with the gun dropped away, and she sank slowly down to the floor, to lie still at my feet.

Ziegler looked at Kate spread out on the floor, then back at me. He sure knew it couldn’t have been me that had shot Kate, but that didn’t seem to matter. With eyes blazing, he brought his gun up to my head, and I knew he was about to fire. I was about to say something – anything – to stop him killin’ me on the spot…

There was another shot, and Ziegler’s gun disappeared from outta his hand. I heard it clatter away into the far corner of the room.

With a yell, he turned towards the direction of the shot. I looked round as well, to see a small girl with a brown pony-tail and bushy eyebrows come in, her gun held out in front of her, a small wisp of smoke rising lazily from the muzzle.

“Gee, Aileen,” I said. “That sure was some shootin’!”

“Thanks, boss,” she said with a small smile. “Hope I did the right thing.”

“Sure did.”

Ziegler had been following this conversation, looking from me to Aileen, but now he leapt away from us, heading across the room to get his gun.

“Freeze!” yelled Aileen.

Ziegler musta known how she was a great shot, and he froze on the spot.

“Hands high!” she snapped. He raised his hands. She walked over to him, then held the gun under his chin while she undid his necktie.

Then she waved at the large iron radiator by the wall, “Sit down!” He sat. “Hands behind ya back!” He put his hands behind, and she used the necktie to secure them to the radiator. When he was firmly tied, she came over and untied me. We then used my rope as well, to make sure Ziegler was extra tightly tied up.

“Thanks, Aileen,” I said when we were done, “but how the heck did ya find me?”

“I tailed ya, boss.” She put the gun back in her bag, as I collected Ziegler’s. “I was concerned. It sounded like a set-up.”

“It was,” muttered Ziegler.

“You can cool it, Mac.” I snapped.

“Hey, boss,” said Aileen, “what are we gonna do with him?”

I had an idea about that.

“Leave this with me, Aileen.” I went over to Ziegler, and reached into his coat pocket for his wallet. He had a couple of $50s and a $20. I took them and put them in my own pocket.

“Hey!” he protested.

“No sweat, Mac,” I answered. “Come on, Aileen. We gotta coupla calls to make…”

 

—0—

 

We got back to the office in short time by cab.

I found Clinton J. Hershenheimsbecker’s card, and dialled the number.

“Mr. Hershenheimsbecker?” I said when he answered.

“Yep!”

“This is Roscoe Kemp. The private detective.”

“Sure, boy!” he answered, nearly blowing my eardrum, “you gotta a name for me?”

“I do, Mr. Hershenheimsbecker. I do.”

“The low-down varmint!” he yelled. “Where is this coyote? What’s his name?”

“His name is Ziegler, and you can find him at the Hai Fu Yong Chinese Laundry at Broome Street and Bowery. But Mr. Hershenheimsbecker,” I added quickly, “you need to be prepared for a real shock.”

“What’s that, boy?”

“See, little Kate Hershenheimsbecker was there when Ziegler arrived, and he shot her, too.”

There was a silence, then a very quiet voice came back, “he shot lil’ Kate?”

“Yes,” I answered. “I’m sorry.”

“And he shot my brother Frank?”

“Yes.”

There was another silence. I thought it was like the quiet moment before a storm hits.

I wasn’t wrong. The explosion, when it came, was thunderous. “THE LOW-DOWN VARMINT!! I AM GONNA SHOOT HIM LIKE A DOG!! LIKE A SNEAKING COYOTE!!” Then the phone was slammed down. I turned to Aileen.

“Looks like we didn’t need that patsy preacher after all, boss,” she observed.

“No – turned out we didn’t.” I smiled at her. “Aileen,” I said, “I feel bad that we were going to set that guy up. But I think we can sort that.”

I found Flagg’s card and dialled the number.

“Reverend Flagg?” I asked when I got the connection.

“Ye-es?”

“This is Roscoe Kemp.”

“Ye-es?”

“The private detective.”

“I do recall. What can I do for you, Mr. Kemp?”

“Well, see, the thing is, Flagg,” I said, “I liked your style. So you know what? I’ve got one hundred and twenty bucks of surplus money right now, and I would like to donate it to your church. I’m gonna put it in an envelope and send it to you today.”

“Oh, Mr. Kemp! Thank you!” I could virtually hear him beaming. “Your reward will be in Heaven,” he said, “where you will have eternal freedom, and endless playing of harps!”

I put the phone down. “There, Aileen,” I said. “I think the case is all tied up.”

“Oh, Roscoe!” she said, as she threw herself into my arms and hugged my chest. “You solved the case!”

She looked up at me, her eyes shining.

“You’re just so clever, boss!”

The post Private Eyes – a Short Story Part 3 appeared first on Jonathan Posner.

The Thursday Book Club is news!

Here’s an article that appeared in the Western Morning News on January 30th.

The post The Thursday Book Club is news! appeared first on Jonathan Posner.

Private Eyes – a Short Story Part 2

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Use this link for Private Eyes – Part 1

Private Eyes Part 2

New York City, 1935

I went down to Bernie’s and hired a car. I’d decided to travel up to Boston in style, and if I needed to make a quick getaway, then I could. The car was a great looking job, but then it was a Chevy. I’ve always said that the Chevrolet is the greatest car ever built.

I stopped for the night at a motel, a real dingy, run-down sorta joint; a big dark house up on a hill off the main road, all dark and quiet. The guy in charge of the place looked real weird; the kinda guy I don’t trust in broad daylight on my own ground, let alone at night on his. I thought I heard a movement in my room when I took a shower, but it musta been the rats. Truth is, I was real glad to get outa the place in the morning, and head on up to Boston.

I got to Boston and stopped in a diner to find out how the ground lay.

The diner was a real crummy sorta joint, with a real crummy sorta broad behind the counter. I thought at first there was no one else in there, but then I saw two guys at one of the booth tables who looked like low-rent hoods. I reckoned I might be able to get some local information from them. But first I went up to the counter.

“Hi,” I said to the crummy broad. “Can ya do me a coffee?”

She put down the cup she was drying and fixed me with a hard stare. “If ya can do me a coupla cents,” she said.

I like a broad with a sense of humour.

I took the coffee and made my way to the two hoods in the booth.

“Mind if I sit down?” I asked, keeping my voice real polite.

“If ya must,” said one. He was wearing a blue necktie.

I sat down. “That’s real kinda ya.”

“Think nothing of it.” This was the other, who had a brown necktie.

“You from round these parts?” I asked, still keeping it polite.

Blue Necktie looked me up and down, then said, “sure Mac. Don’t think we made a special trip here, do ya?”

Brown Necktie sniggered at this. “You ain’t from round here though, are ya?” he asked.

“No I’m from New York.”

“That’s a hellava long way to come,” said Brown Necktie. “What ya here for?”

“Change of air,” I suggested.

“Sure, and I’m the President,” said Blue Necktie. He paused. “Are you a private dick?”

“What makes ya think that?

“Look about ya.”

“Maybe I am,” I said. “What’s it to you?”

“Maybe we got information for ya.”

“And maybe you ain’t.”

“We don’t do something for nothing.”

“No-one does.”

“But we don’t know what ya got.”

“No more do I know what you got, Mac.”

The broad at the counter put down her cup. “Jeez,” she muttered. “Ain’t none of you ever gonna come to the point?”

Blue Necktie put his fists on the table and stood up. “Keep it shut, sweetheart,” he growled at her, “and you won’t get hurt.”

This clearly didn’t worry the broad. “Cool it, Brutus,” she said, and started drying another mug.

“I’m looking for an old General named Franklin P. Hershenheimsbecker,” I said when Blue Necktie had sat down. “Know of him?”

“Sure, everyone around here does,” said Brown Necktie “What do you want with him?”

“Talk.”

“You’ll have a whole lotta trouble, Mac. He don’t give interviews.”

“Might if I ask nice.”

Blue Necktie was back on his feet. “Ha!” he snapped. “Do you know who you’re talking about? This guy is a retired four star general. And you wanna talk to him? Are you nuts?”

“Sure he’s an old soldier,” I said levelly. “That don’t mean he won’t talk.”

“Fella, this one’s a recluse.” Blue Necktie sat down again. “He lives up at his big locked house with a dog and a gun, and he keeps to himself. He don’t even talk to his daughter.”

“Does he ever give parties?” I asked – although I reckoned I knew what the answer would be. The two hoods just stared at eachother and shook their heads.

“Someone’s duped ya, Mac,” said Blue.

“Perhaps.” I stood up. “I gotta see him.”

“And get your ass blown away? You’re kidding,” said Brown.

“If I wanna see a guy, I see him.”

“Like I said, and I’m the President,” snarled Blue.

“You go up there, and you go alone, buster,” added Brown.

“Ain’t there no way I could get in?”

“Perhaps…” said Blue.

I could see where this was going. I took out a $5 bill and put it on the table, but kept my hand on it.

Blue looked at it like a starving man looks at a hot dog. “Put another there, Mac” he said, “and perhaps…”

I took out another $5.

The two hoods looked at eachother and nodded. Blue reached for the notes, but I pulled them back. Then I put one note down on the table. Brown snatched it.

“We once cased that joint,” he said. “Every guy in town has. It’s all locked and barred. You can’t get in. But we did once see one window, second floor, which is usually left open. It’s by a tree. If ya lucky, ya might just make it to the window on one of the branches. Ya welcome to try, but if ya get a gut fulla lead, don’t come crawling to us. He’s one trigger-happy son-of-a-gun.”

“Thanks,” I said, handing over the other note. “You’ve been a lotta help.”

“Think nothing of it,” said Blue. “It’s your funeral.”

 

—0—

 

Later that night I found the Hershenheimsbecker mansion.

It sure looked impressive; I hadn’t seen a building as impressive as that since the time I went to Washington on the Senator Hadleigh case.

I took a quiet look-see. Two top floor rooms were lit up at either side of the front of the house. I felt uneasy – it seemed like these were eyes staring at me. I shook my head to clear the thought, then crept round to the side.

I could see the tree and the window to an unlit room – and the window was open, like the two hoods in the diner had said. The only trouble was, there was a thick wall all around the house. They hadn’t said anything about that. I reckoned I’d have to jump it. I stood well back, and ran at it.

Lucky I was the high jump champ for my senior year at high school.

I scrambled over the wall. On the other side, I ran for the tree and started to climb. Lucky I was climbing champ that year as well.

I scrambled along the branch to the window and crawled in, landing with a forward roll and springing lightly to my feet. Lucky I’d been the school tumbling champ, too.

It had been one hellava year at high school.

I was just standing up and trying to get a fix on my position in the room, when suddenly the light blazed on, and I was blinking furiously as a greybeard in a bath robe came through the door. In his hands was a full-bore shotgun, and it was pointing directly at the waistband of my pants.

“Hold it right there,” he growled, staring at me with eyes narrowed. “Who do you think you are, and what the hell are you doing in my house?”

“General Hershenheimsbecker?” I asked. He continued to stare at me, like I hadn’t said a word. I took his lack of denial as confirmation that I was right. “It’s OK,” I said with an attempt at a reassuring smile. “I just wanna talk.”

There was no reaction, except the muzzle of the gun started travelling upwards, until it was drawing a bead on my chest.

“Hey, General – I just want to talk!”

“Like hell!” he barked. “You’re after my money. They all are. They all try to come and get my money. All of them. And you. You want my money. Well, you’re not having it. No-one is. I worked for it, and I’m keeping it. It’s mine, do you hear? All mine!” A string of spittle appeared at the side of his mouth. “Do you want to say anything before I shoot you?”

“Look – I just…”

“…want my money. I know. Well, like I said, you’re not having it. You’re in my house, and you’ve broken in, so I’m going to shoot you. How do you like that, eh? Didn’t think you’d get shot when you tried to get my money, did you?”

I opened my mouth to say ‘no’, but it was like trying to hold back the tide.

“Well, you are,” he carried on. “Tough, isn’t it? I shot lots of people during the war; it comes easy, you know. Fact is, shooting you will be even easier. You know why?”

I shook my head.

“Because they were patriotic Krauts, fighting for their Kaiser, so at least I could respect them. But you, you’re just a dirty deadbeat, after my money.”

He pulled back the hammer.

“I just want to talk!” I yelled, loud enough to have most of Boston out of bed.

“The hell you do!”

Desperately I yelled even louder, “I… do…not… want… your… money!”

I think this finally got through to him. “Huh?” he said, looking puzzled.

I repeated it, quieter this time. “I do not want your money!”

The gun dropped again, but still no lower than the waistband of my pants, which was making me real uneasy. I looked down at it. “Really,” I said. “I don’t.”

“You’re just saying that.” His eyes narrowed, making him look almost disappointed.

“No, I’m not. Honest.” I cleared my throat. “Look, it’s about your daughter Kate.”

His eyes opened wide. “What about her? You don’t want to marry her, do you? I’ve already sent one young man packing.”

“No, of course not.”

“Good. The first was bad enough, but a crook…”

“I’m not a crook, I’m a Private Eye.”

“Same thing.” He raised the gun up to my chest again. “Are you sure you don’t want to marry her?”

“Sure. Can we talk?”

“I suppose so,” he said, “but not for too long. I want to go back to bed and I’ve got to shoot you first.” He stared at me a moment in silence. “What do you want to know?”

“Do you have a picture of Kate?” I asked.

His eyes slid over to a picture on a table. “There’s one over there.”

I looked over at the picture. It was a close-up of a blonde – definitely Monique.

So Jack was right – Monique had been Kate all along.

I took a breath. “See, she came to me a coupla days ago, and said she was being followed. She asked me to find out why, and by who. She pretended she was French. Can ya tell me why she did that?”

“Nope, she always was a bit paranoid.”

No prizes for guessing where she got that from.

“Well,” I continued, “then I was told she had some gems stolen, gems you’d bought her.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Well, I was confused.” I tried a smile, but it bounced off him like a ball off Babe Ruth’s bat. “So I thought I’d ask you.”

“I don’t know, and I don’t care, what she does. I’ve disowned her.”

“Why?” I asked.

“Because she wouldn’t do as I said. She left me and went away to New York. I wanted her to stay in Boston and marry someone suitable, but she ran off with some yellow-faced young weasel and left me.” He made a noise like a horse snorting, which I took to be a laugh. “Looks like she strung you along too, boy. Sold you a right pack of lies.” He yawned. “Well, I must be going back to bed now,” he said. “It’s been nice talking to you and I’m glad you’re not after my money, but I’m still going to have to shoot you. I do so love shooting people, you see.” He pointed the gun barrel towards the corner of the room. “Right, turn round and walk slowly towards the corner…”

I realised I had to take some sort of action before this old fool peppered my ass with buckshot – or worse. I started to turn round, but instead of turning my back on him, I carried on turning till I was facing him again – but this time I had my own gun in my hand. Two quick shots was all it took to make the greybeard spin round and hit the floor face down.

I knelt down and put a finger to his neck to check for a pulse.

Nothing.

I stood up, took a quick look round the room, then climbed back up the windowsill, crawled along the tree and jumped down over the wall. Then I sprinted for the Chevy, thanking my stars I’d also been senior hundred-yard dash champ at high school in my senior year.

I got to the car and climbed in, then sat a while thinking back over the past few minutes.

So Hershenheimsbecker was a frosty old miser, whose daughter had left him – no surprises there. And a ‘yellow-faced weasel’ had wanted to marry her – could that be Ziegler? But if Ziegler was her boyfriend, why was he following her? And why was she pretending to be Monique?

With a sigh I started the engine and headed back to New York.

 

—0—

 

I got back to the city about mid-day; I’d driven kinda fast to get back as soon as I could – it would be good to be seen about town as soon as possible after the shooting; I don’t believe in taking chances.

Aileen met me when I arrived back at the office.

“Hi boss,” she said, as I hung my coat on the stand. “Did ya have a good time?”

“Sure kid,” I answered. Best not to worry her with the details. “Any messages?”

“Na.” She sat at her desk. “Did ya get any answers?”

“One or two, kid,” I said. “One or two.”

“Gee!” she squeaked, like an excited little mouse. “D’ya think ya can solve the mystery, Mr Kemp?”

“Reckon so…” I began, when the door was thrown open, and an old cowboy strode in. He had white hair and a long white beard, and a moustache that was bigger than a Harley’s handlebar. He was wearing leather chaps, leather vest, boots with spurs and a ten-gallon hat that looked like it coulda held at least a hundred.

He stuck his thumbs in his belt, leaned back and yelled “Hello thar!”

Then he gathered breath, as Aileen and I stared at him in amazement. “The name’s Clinton J. Hershenheimsbecker!” he yelled, loud enough to be heard up-state. “Are you Hemp?”

“Roscoe Kemp – yeah…”

“Private Dee-tective?”

“Yeah… Hang on, Mac,” I said, as a sudden thought struck. “Did you say ‘Hershenheimsbecker’?”

“Clinton P. Yep.”

“Oh.” Aileen and I looked at eachother in amazement. “Er… what can I do for ya?” I stuttered.

“Well!” he shouted, “I’m not from these parts, but I was passin’ through town today, when I got a wire tellin’ me that my poor dear brother, General Franklin P. Hershenheimsbecker of ol’ Boston Town, has been shot dead! ‘Well!’ I said. ‘Darn!’ I said.”

“Darn?” I repeated.

“Yep. ‘Darn!’ He fixed me with a watery eye. “Ol’ Frank, he was like a brother to me…” He paused, studying his silver toe-caps a moment. “Fact is, he was a brother to me, and a finer brother you could never hope to meet. So, like you’ll guess, I was mighty upset to hear how he’d been shot. Yessir, mighty upset!”

“But what can I do?” I asked.

“Speak up, sir!” he yelled.

“What can I do?” I repeated, louder.

“Well, what with you bein’ a private dee-tective, and me passin’ right by your door, I thought I might ask you to help me find the heinous, sneaky, low-down hound that did this dreadful thing. I’ll pay mighty handsomely, I’ll tell ya. Don’t no-one ever say Clinton J. Hershenheimsbecker don’t pay handsomely!”

“You want me to find out who shot your brother, Franklin P. Hershenheims…” I began very slowly.

“…becker,” he finished off. “Yep, sure do. So get to it, boy!”

“Why not a Boston ‘tec?” I asked. “I mean, I don’t know the scene there. I could put you onto a real good guy – Jack Morelli’s his name…”

“Na, boy!” he shouted, his moustache waggling like the tail of a rodeo horse. “I just came up here on an impulse, and I like your features. So you’ll do it boy, OK?”

“What then?” I asked.

Hershenheimsbecker scowled, and pulled out the largest six-shooter I’d ever seen.

“Well,” he said, “when you’ve found out who it was who shot my poor lil’ brother, I’ll shoot him, see! It’s what he deserves! Yessir, I’ll shoot him like a coyote!” He cocked the gun and I thought he was gonna blow a hole in our ceiling. “Like the varmint he is, goin’ in and killing my brother like that!” Thankfully, he put the gun back in it’s holster. “Musta been after his money, I guess. Most people are – see, he had lots of it.” His voice dropped to a regular shout. “Course, I s’pose I’ll get some of it now, and his daughter Kate, she’ll get most of it. A right purty lil’ kid is Kate; you’d like her.” He took out the gun again. “But, that won’t stop me from killin’ the evil guy who did this, let me tell ya, sir. Like a dog! Yessiree, I’ll shoot him dead!”

“You will?” I glanced at Aileen. She was white as a sheet.

“Sure will, boy! Sure will.” He holstered his gun again, then took out his card and dropped it on the desk. “I’ll wait for your call, and I’ll expect ya to have a name for me.” He put a $100 bill on the desk next to the card. “Here’s something on account – keep ya goin’. Bye sir. I’m relyin’ on you to produce results!” He tipped his hat to Aileen. “Good day to you too, ma’am.”

After the door had closed behind Clinton Hershenheimsbecker there was a long silence, broken only by the faint but unmistakable sound of his voice drifting up from the street below. “Like a coyote, yessiree, like a low-down, stinking coyote, that’s how I’ll shoot the varmint…”

Aileen’s brows came together into one – a sure sign she was working this through in her mind.

“Boss?” she said. “Was that the Franklin P. Hershenheimsbecker you went to see yesterday?”

I nodded “Uhuh.”

“Was it you who…?”

I nodded again. “Uhuh.”

“And the cowboy,” she pointed at the street, “he wants… you… to find out it was… you?”

I nodded again.

“So he can…” she made a pistol of her finger and thumb and pointed it at me.

“Yep.”

“Gee…boss, that is not good.”

“No it ain’t,” I muttered. “No it sure ain’t.”

…to be completed…

The post Private Eyes – a Short Story Part 2 appeared first on Jonathan Posner.

The Thursday Book Club No. 5

 

The fifth edition of The Thursday Book Club was broadcast on 18th January 2024 at 2pm on Phonic FM. Joining host Jonathan Posner were Keith Rossiter and Jason Mann. Click the names to find out more about their works, and use the audio bar below to listen to the full show.

https://jonathanposnerauthor.com/wp-content/uploads/2024/01/TBC-Show-5-18-01-24.mp3

 

The books we reviewed were:

 

 

There was also a discussion on: AI – How much of a threat is it to writers?

Here are the book launches we highlighted in the News section:

One Sinha Lifetime: A Bengali Boy’s Search for the Meaning of Life is a funny and moving coming of age story from The Chase star and stand-up comic Paul Sinha. 29 Feb, Ebury.A Very Private School is a poignant memoir from Princess Diana’s brother, Charles Spencer, who recalls the trauma of being sent to boarding school at the age of 8. 14 March, Gallery Books.Colm Tóibín’s Long Island is the sequel to the prize-winning, bestselling novel Brooklyn. When an Irish stranger knocks on Eilis’s door in Long Island, it upends her comfortable life and she finds herself turning towards her native Ireland. 23 May, Picador.Elif Shafak returns with a new book, There Are Rivers in the Sky , following on from her popular novel The Island of Missing Trees. 8 August. You Are Here is the new novel by David Nicholls, the number 1 bestselling author of One Day, now a major Netflix series. This is a novel of first encounters, second chances and finding the way home. 23 April, Sceptre.Eruption has a joint byline for none other than James Paterson and Michael Crichton. The novel is based on a partially finished manuscript by Jurassic Park’s Crichton, who died in 2008. Paterson has now completed it. When an Hawaiian volcano erupts, it threatens to ignite a secret stash of chemical weapons which could destroy the world. 6 June, Century.Set in the 1960s is The Women by Kristin Hannah. From the author behind Firefly Lane (adapted for a Netflix series), this is the story of Frankie, a young woman from California who impulsively joins the Army Nurses Corps and goes to Vietnam. 15 February, Pan MacMillan. The Warm Hands of Ghosts by Katherine Arden is set in World War One, and uses magic realism to weave a gripping tale of loss, mystery, ghosts and queer romance. 7 March, Century.

Thanks to bbc.co.uk for the above infomation.

The next show will be on 15th February at 2pm UK time.

The post The Thursday Book Club No. 5 appeared first on Jonathan Posner.

Private Eyes – a Short Story

New York City, 1935

My name is Roscoe Kemp, and I’m a private detective.

I drifted into it a couple of years back when I was cleaning swimming pools up-state; this rich old dame who’s pool I was cleaning asked me to find her lost cat. I was lucky I guess; a day or two later a cat answering the description strolled up to my door and demanded food, so I fed it a bit, then took it round to the old dame. She was so goddam pleased she insisted I take the kinda cash that woulda made Rockefeller blush, so I decided to put a down-payment on a small office on the top floor of a block in New York City and call myself a private detective.

The old dame went round singing my praises to all her rich friends, and soon I was tailing their love-rat husbands, serving papers and running in more of their lost cats. There were even some cases that had a kick to them of sorts, like the Hadleigh murder case, and the Zarevski diamond case. It was good work and it paid the rent – and even let me hire Aileen, my assistant – but the truth is, the cases weren’t giving me the kinda kick I was looking for. What I needed was a case that gets the blood pumping and makes you feel like you’ve made it – really made it – as a private eye.

Like the Hershenheimsbecker case for instance.

Now that was a case that had a kick to it – the kinda kick that Luigi’s home brew bourbon gives the first time you try it; hard and possibly lethal.

It all started one afternoon in January. I was lying back in my chair feeling kinda bored, wondering if I should go grab a pastrami at Luigi’s Bar and Diner, when the door opened and I saw the most sensational broad ever.

She was dressed to kill, with a low-cut white blouse, a tight red skirt and black stiletto heels. Her hair was long, blonde and had the kinda waves in it that would make the Niagara Falls jealous. All in, she was better built than the Empire State – only this one had curves in all the right places.

I said “Hi!”

She walked slowly over to me, her hips working independently of each other in a way that told the laws of physics to go take a hike. She looked me up and down.

“What can I do for ya, honey?” I asked.

“Are you Hemp, the detective?” She had an accent I couldn’t place. But it sure was cute.

“It’s Kemp,” I answered. “And yes I am.”

“You must help me.”

“Tell me what I can do,” I answered immediately.

“It is terrible. There is this man following me all day, I cannot get rid of him. I don’t know what to do. I saw your sign on the street, so I came up.”

“Sure.” I took my feet off the desk and pushed my hat to the back of my head. “Where ya from?”

“Paris.”

“Paris, Idaho?”

“Non.”

“Paris, Kentucky?”

“Non.”

“Paris, Tennessee?”

“Non.”

“Texas?”

“Non, non, Paris, France.”

Now I recognised the accent.

“I don’t come cheap, kid,” I pointed out.

She walked slowly to the dusty grey window and stood a moment, staring at the street below. Then she turned back.

“I ‘ave money.”

“Fifty bucks a day, plus expenses.” No harm in highballing and seeing where it took me.

She looked out of the window again. “Is no problem.”

Shucks. Shoulda highballed even higher.

She came over to the desk and leaned across it. Her face was inches from mine and her perfume was more intoxicating than a glass of Luigi’s bourbon.

She put her hand under my chin and forced my gaze up to her eyes. They were like large pools of clear blue spring water. “Please find out why I am followed,” she said.

She let go and stood back.

“Sure.” I reached down and rummaged a while in my desk drawer. “Gotta contract here, if you’ll just sign…”

I put the contract on the desk and looked up, then let out a shocked yelp. She had disappeared – with nothing but a $50 bill left on the desk…

Aileen, my young assistant, rushed in.

“You all right, boss?” she asked. “I heard you shout out.” She frowned, making her heavy eyebrows meet in the middle and become one.

“Sure,” I answered. “But the dame that was here just now – she left without giving a name.”

“I saw her, boss.” Aileen shook her head, making her plain mousy-brown pony-tail flick round her ears. “And by the look of her, I’d guess any name she gave you would be false.”

“Aileen, honey,” I said gently, “mighty good of you to suggest – but better leave the detecting to me.”

Suddenly Aileen bent down and picked up something off the floor. It was a small white object. “Gee, boss, she musta dropped this.” She turned it over in her hand, then gave it to me.

It was a book of matches. Could it be a clue as to who my mysterious guest was? On the front it said Maddison Hotel, Eighty Third Street, with a picture of the entrance of a hotel.

I flicked it open. There was something written on the inside. “Mademoiselle Monique Desjardins,” I read. “So now we know who she is, huh!” I flicked it shut and put it in my pocket. “Stay here and watch the place while I go over and take a look-see.”

 

—0—

 

So there I was, fifty bucks richer and none the wiser as to what this was all about. I had a mysterious dame who left cash lying around and a possible clue as to who she was. Perhaps it was a setup – a trap? I had no idea. Still, the only way to find out was to go to this hotel and see if anything happened. Some little voice told me that there were more fifty bucks where that one came from; I wasn’t about to let my chance of dough like that slip by if I could help it.

I caught a cab and told him to take me to Maddison Hotel on 83rd. It was a seedy looking joint, quieter than a church on Monday. I went inside and asked for Miss Desjardins.

The guy at the desk sent me up to room 12. I decided to go carefully; blundering about like a drunk at a party might get me no further than a gut fulla lead. The door was unlocked; I eased it open and went in, real cautious; my gun out and ready to fire at the first sign of trouble.

Didn’t have long to wait, neither. I was standing on the far side of the bed, having just looked in the drawer and found nothing more than a bible, when I saw the door handle start to turn.

I watched as the door opened slowly and a gun appeared, followed by a young, yellow-looking guy in a sharp suit and a badly-fitting hat.

“Freeze,” I barked. He froze. “Hands up,” I ordered. Slowly he raised his hands.

“Drop ya gun and kick it under the bed.” He bent down slowly, all the while looking at me like a snake looks at a bird, then he dropped the gun and kicked it. It skittered under the bed to where I was standing. I bent down and picked it up.

“Who are ya, and what are ya doin’ here?” I demanded.

“I could ask you the same question, pal.”

The guy was a smart-ass.

He had a gravelly voice that sounded way older than he looked – like he’d already smoked too many Luckies and probably got outside a heap too many bourbons as well.

“Ya could,” I countered, “but you is on the receiving end of this piece and I’m on the butt end – so talk.”

He stared at me some more. “I’m Henry J. Ziegler – Private Detective,” he said eventually. He took a card from his vest pocket and dropped it on the bed. I left it there.

“Sure, Mac – and what ya doin’, like I said?”

“I’m looking for a chick by the name of Lorna Martin. D’ya know her?”

“Should I?”

“Sure ya should.” He frowned. “You’re in her hotel room.”

“Like hell I am.” I took a bead on the guy’s head and held my gun rock steady. “This is a French broad’s room, by the name of Monique Desjardins.”

Like I suspected – a sharp character.

“Ya got it wrong, pal.” His eyes moved down to fix on my gun. “This room belongs to Lorna. She may be usin’ a false name. Is your Miss Desjardins tall, slim and blonde? Eyes like blue lagoons and curves to die for?”

“That’s her.”

“Then its also Lorna.” He shook his head, as if in grudging admiration. “Clever chick, huh? Disguising herself as a French broad.”

“Ya mean to say she’s been hoodwinking me?” I lowered the gun a little.

“Sure looks that way, pal. What did she say to ya?”

“Hey!” I raised the gun again. “I’m not so sure I’ll tell you that, buster.”

“Did she say someone was following her?” He smiled; a slimy, yellow smile. “Bet she did, hey pal? And she’s right, ‘cos it’s me that’s following her!”

“I’m paid to find out why.”

“How much?”

“You sure do ask questions don’t ya?” I answered. “Like I said, it’s me with the gun here.”

“Cut me in on half, and I’ll tell ya.”

The guy was clearly rolling the dice here. I decided to test him out. I lowered the gun an inch, and said: “OK, but no more than 20 percent.”

I saw him think about it, cocking his head left and right like he had a guardian angel on one shoulder and a devil on the other, both trying to direct him. I figured that if he was genuine, he’d push for more dough, but if he was a fraud, he’d take a low amount because he was only spinning me a line.

“Say 30 percent and you’re on,” he muttered. So maybe he was for real.

I thought I would test him some more. “OK,” I said. “But how do I know ya gonna tell it straight?”

“You got the gun, pal.”

I lowered it an inch more. “Let’s hear it, then.”

He thought a moment, staring down at the floor, then he cleared his throat and began.

“Well, like I said, she’s called Lorna Martin.” He looked up and fixed my eyes. “And fact is, she’s a crook.”

“Don’t say.”

“Yeah. See, I’ve been hired by retired General Franklin P. Hershenheimsbecker of Boston. Just recently he had some valuable gems stolen. See, he gave this massive party for his daughter’s birthday – you know; orchestra, cocktails, waiters; that sorta kaboodle. Musta cost a real load, but Mr Hershenheimsbecker, he didn’t bother none – he’s as rich as they come.” Ziegler cleared his throat again. “So anyway, he splashes out all this dough on a big party, but he also coughs up three grand on a set of geegaws for his little girl. Sorta diamonds and things. She was real pleased with them – for that kinda bread she damn well oughta be, if ya ask me – and she went around showing them off to everyone at this jamboree like a kid with a new doll. Lorna Martin was there, see, and she was a friend of little Kate Hershenheimsbecker, and the two of them went into the garden to talk. Then Kate came running in without the gems, crying that Lorna had grabbed them and made off. There was uproar, and the old man called out how he’d break Lorna’s neck if he ever found her.”

“Why didn’t he call the cops?” I asked.

“He didn’t want the publicity. He woulda looked kinda foolish for losing that sorta sparkle so easily. So he hired me to find her, and here I am. It’s taken me some time, but I reckon I’ve finally got her.”

“What are ya gonna do now?”

“Wait till she comes back,” he said, with a slimy smile.

The guy had it too off-pat. “Then what?” I demanded.

“Get her and the jewels back to the old man, like I was hired to do.”

I stared at him a moment, choosing my words. “D’ya know, Mac, I don’t think she ain’t never comin’ back here again.”

“Yeah?” He sniggered – a sound like a slow train crossing the railroad points.

“How long have ya been following her?” I asked.

“Coupla weeks. Why?”

I laughed. “Don’t seem ta be having no success, do ya?”

He shot me a look of pure disgust. “Like hell!” he snapped. “I’m here, ain’t I?”

“Sure Mac.” I paused for effect. “But is she?”

“Soon will be.” He looked so full of himself – I needed to take him back to reality.

“Sure enough,” I answered. “But where’s her baggage?”

He looked at the top of the closet, then under the bed. “Dammit!”

“Yeah – she’s checked out,” I said. “My suggestion to you, pal, is to give me a number where I can reach ya, and when she comes to me again, maybe I’ll let you know.”

Like hell I would…

“Yeah, OK,” he muttered. “My card’s on the bed.”

He turned to go.

“Hey!” I called, as he put his hand to the door. “You forgot this.” I opened his gun and let the slugs fall out onto the bed, then I tossed the empty piece over to him. He caught it, slipped it into his pocket, nodded in farewell and walked out.

 

—0—

 

I made my way back to the office, chewing over what Ziegler had told me. If Lorna was on the run with some hot gemstones, she would have known why she was being followed. So why hire me to find out? There seemed to be too many loose ends in this case. Still, I wasn’t a private detective for nothing; I oughta be able to figure something outa this.

I got back to the office. Aileen was behind her desk, working her nails with a sanding board.

“Any calls for me?” I asked.

“Only one; a Mrs…” she checked a slip of paper on her desk “…Glickman rang; she wants you to find her lost cat. She’s willing to pay.”

“How much?”

“20 bucks; half up front, half on completion.”

“I’ll get back to her.” I paused. “Say, Aileen, can ya get me Jack Marelli from Boston’s number? I wanna have a word with him.”

“Sure boss.”

“And you’d better get some more cat food. We’re out.”

“Sure boss.”

I went into my office and dropped into my chair. Aileen came in and put a card on my desk. “Jack Morelli, boss.”

Jack was an old friend of mine from a while back – we’d worked together on the Zarevski diamond case. I reckoned if anyone knew about the Boston scene and missing geegaws, it would be him.

I dialled the number and got through.

“Hi Jack, how are ya?”

“Hey, is that old Roscoe Kemp? How ya doin’, ol’ buddy?”

“Fine thanks, Jack. Good to hear your voice again.”

“And yours, Kemp. And how’s that little Aileen? Still making big eyes at ya?”

“Aileen? Yeah, she’s all right, I guess. How’s business in Boston, Jack?” I asked. “Going good?”

“OK, OK,” he shot back. “But still running in too many lost cats, I guess.”

“Yeah, you’re right there, buddy – these cats go and walk out without any thought for the poor suckers who’ve gotta find them…” I cleared my throat. “Look, Jack, I need some information.”

“Sure Kemp, fire away.”

“Can you tell me anything about Franklin P. Hershenheimsbecker, his daughter Kate, and some missing sparkle worth three grand?”

“Hershenheimsbecker?”

“The very same” I confirmed. “General Franklin P.”

“Missing sparkle?”

“Sure. Lifted by a dame by the name of Lorna Martin.”

“Listen, Kemp, I don’t know what you’re talking about. Old man Hershenheimsbecker hasn’t lost three Gs of sparkle, and there’s no such dame as Lorna Martin that I’ve heard of.”

“You sure, Jack?”

“Sure I’m sure. I would know if a sparrow farts here in Boston, and I ain’t never heard any part of this tale you’re telling me.” He paused. “I’m sorry, Kemp, but it looks like someone’s spinning you a real line.”

“But the dame I saw was real, Jack. Said she was French.”

“Tall, curvy and classy?” he asked. “Blonde hair like a film starlet?”

“That’s the one.”

“Sounds like the broad you met is Kate Hershenheimsbecker herself, Kemp.”

“OK, Jack,” I said thoughtfully. “Sure appreciate the information.”

“No problems, buddy. You take care.”

I put the phone down slowly, then called Aileen. She trotted in with her notebook.

“Yes, boss?”

“Listen, Aileen,” I said, “you know the dame who came in this morning?”

She scowled. “You mean the stick-thin streak with the cheap scent and the hooker hair-do?”

“If ya say so, although I thought she looked kinda classy…?”

“Sure boss. I think that was the idea.”

“Yeah, well, anyway, it seems she’s the daughter of a rich ol’ soldier from Boston by the name of Franklin P. Hershenheimsbecker.”

“She’s called Franklin?”

“No, she’s called Kate. Franklin P. Hershenheimsbecker is her ol’ man.” I paused while she nodded. “Only it seems she’s running under the name ‘Lorna Martin’.

“And the book of matches said ‘Monique Desjardins’,” said Aileen. “Gee, boss. It’s getting mighty complicated.”

“Sure.” I tapped my finger on the table a while to help me think. Seemed like the only person with all the answers would be Hershenheimsbecker himself. I decided to head on over to Boston, to see if I could get a word with him.

“I’m heading on over to Boston, Aileen,” I said. “I think I need to speak to this General Hershenheimsbecker myself.”

…to be continued…

The post Private Eyes – a Short Story appeared first on Jonathan Posner.

The Thursday Book Club No. 4

The fourth edition of The Thursday Book Club was on 21st December 2023 at 2pm on Phonic FM. The panel were Su Bristow, Jason Mann and Jonathan Posner. Click the names to find out more about their works, and use the audio bar below to listen to the full show.

https://jonathanposnerauthor.com/wp-content/uploads/2023/12/TBC-Show-4-21-12-23.mp3

 

The books we reviewed were:

We also had an interview with Helen Chaloner of Literature Works, the literary charity based in the South West. The 7th February 2024 event we discussed was called: Quay Words presents Fiona Williams in conversation with Davina Quinlivan: The House of Broken Bricks. You can find out more here.

Helen’s favourite books / recommendations were:

There was also a discussion on: Pen Names – a good or bad thing?

The next show will be on 21st December at 2pm UK time.

The post The Thursday Book Club No. 4 appeared first on Jonathan Posner.