Song and Dance (eBook)

Michael Glennon (Autor)

eBook Download: EPUB

2025 | 1. Auflage
192 Seiten
Bookbaby (Verlag)
979-8-3509-8568-9 (ISBN)

Infos

In 'Song and Dance', fledgling PI Frank Rotten tracks a runaway middle-aged teacher through smoky clubs and casinos, uncovering betrayals, generational tensions, and personal reinvention.

Michael Glennon was born and raised in Upper Darby PA and currently resides along the Jersey Shore. He attended Antioch College and has worked a variety of day jobs (kindergarten teacher, desk clerk, insurance adjustor) since graduating. His stories have appeared in The Red Herring Mystery Magazine, Horror Sleaze Trash, and Short-Story.me. He recently launched Hardboiled Books to build a home for Frank Rotten. Song and Dance is the inaugural entry in the Frank Rotten series.

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"e;Song and Dance"e; introduces private investigator Frank Rotten, a rookie navigating the morally gray world of mid-90s private investigating. When suburban elementary teacher William "e;Billy"e; Gardner vanishes into Atlantic City's casinos and strip clubs, his wife Liz hires Frank to bring him home. But with Liz's meddling mother, a scheming lover, and Frank's own conflicts of interest, the case spirals into a high-stakes showdown across generational divides. Set at the dawn of the digital age, Frank's analog methods clash with an evolving world as he solves cases the hard way up close and personal. With echoes of classic hard-boiled fiction, the fast-paced narrative captures the smoky allure of casinos, interspersed with pop music and sharp wit. Frank's journey through Pittsburgh and beyond is one of adventure, ambition, and survival, making Song and Dance a gritty, layered exploration of dreams lost and the price paid.

Textauszug

THREE

Takin’ Care of Business

I didn’t get much respect, and I guess it wasn’t hard to see why. I’d been in business almost a year and was still operating on a shoestring. I didn’t have a real office—just a desk in the corner of the living room where I set up my answering machine and sorted my mail. “The city is my office,” I used to tell people—friends—though I never admitted as much to clients. I’d tell them I’d be happy to come to their office or home, or, if they wanted to keep a low profile, I’d suggest a clandestine meeting in the lobby of a big hotel downtown.

I spent a lot of time on the road, so I kept a lot of stuff in my car, an old Toyota wagon, and maintained a mental list of climate-controlled retreats with rest room facilities. I knew all the Mickey D’s and diners around town, even though they were always crowded around lunch time. Bus terminals and municipal buildings had their uses, but their clientele was questionable. Libraries were good, as long as you steered clear of the children’s section. People assume you’re a pervert if you read picture books and don’t have kids. College libraries were especially good. Anyone with a driver’s license can get a card at any one of the state university libraries, and most of those have reciprocal agreements with private schools. Wherever I go, I act like I know what I’m doing, and I always wear a tie. You can do almost anything you want in this town if you wear a tie while you’re doing it.

Scene investigations are my bread and butter. Which car was where at the point of impact and who had the stop sign. That sort of stuff. (“There, ya see that spot where the bark is off the tree? That’s where the asshole went into the woods.”) I’d do eight or ten a week for sleazeball contingency attorneys at fifty bucks a pop. That was usually enough to pay the bills and feed my face. Gigs like this missing person case were gravy, and it was gravy I needed to get ahead. To really establish myself, I’d have to have a video camera, a smoked-glass surveillance van, and sophisticated software so I could generate my own credit reports and DMV checks. Maybe I’d even hire an assistant to do some of the leg work. In the meantime, I couldn’t afford to be without Trudy’s help, so I crossed the river and swung down to the library at Pitt where I hoped to develop a plan of attack. The main drawback with working at college libraries is you can waste entirely too much time scoping co-eds. Twenty minutes after sitting down in the periodicals room, I was still staring at a blank sheet of notebook paper. Total babes all around, tossing their hair, chewing their pencils, chatting with friends. Even baggy clothes didn’t help. I’m too good at mental undressing. I was ready to re-enroll until I had a vision of myself trying to explain to Trudy what I’d done with my afternoon. I gave myself a mental smack to the head and wondered what I was trying to accomplish. In life, with this case, whatever.

Obviously, I was trying to find Billy Gardner, but I was also trying to make a living without working too hard. Like everybody else, right? I figured the advance would cover three six-hour days plus expenses if I stayed around Pittsburgh. And if I wrapped this thing up by Saturday, I wouldn’t have to hammer my client for additional funds, and I could still make it to Rodolfo’s party. If Miz Liz insisted that I travel to America’s Playground, then I’d revise my plan. The way I saw it, either something nasty had happened to this guy, or he just flaked out. Random acts of violence are not as common as Americans make them out to be, and bodies don’t just disappear, except for Jimmy Hoffa’s, so I had to assume Billy Boy was off somewhere on his own. He could be having marital problems, maybe a mid-life crisis, or he could be driven by some compulsive behavior, like gambling. I could easily understand how relations might be strained with a frozen fish like Miz Liz, but the idea of a hippy-dippy gambling guy didn’t add up, unless there was something subversive about placing bets that I was missing. Nathan Detroit had his charm, but I could never fathom the pull some people feel for laying a wager. I like the idea of easy money as much as the next guy, but life is risky enough without escalating the elements of chance. Besides, what more could Wayward William want? He had the wife, the job, the house, and a nice assortment of expensive toys—what was he missing?

What was I missing? Background, maybe? Since I was in the periodicals room, I scanned the index for articles on gambling and was amazed at the amount of recent activity. You could legally lose your shirt at racetracks, on river boats, on barges, in churches, and on Indian reservations. For law-breaking traditionalists, there were the numbers runners and betting pools of organized crime. Every neighborhood had its share of parlor poker and back-room craps games, and almost every state had a lottery. All offered the same thing—money for nothing, a little buzz, an unearned life of leisure; the opportunity to flip the world the bird, with impunity. Money was a great insulator, and gambling wasn’t a vice anymore; it was an industry. The Twin Cities of Sleaze, Las Vegas, and Atlantic City—the Sodom and Gomorrah of American gaming—were now being promoted as “family resort destinations.” What a country!

I pulled an article on gambling’s broken promises in Atlantic City and learned that the unemployment rate was basically the same as when the first casino opened. Evidence of real urban renewal was hard to find while greed and corruption flourished. All of which motivated me to find a local lead so I wouldn’t have to see for myself. Just in case, I checked out the Fodor’s and Mobil travel guides, and I cross-referenced a film index and put together a short list of titles on gambling and Atlantic City that I hoped to find at my local video store. At least I would sound like I knew what I was talking about. I was ready to roll.

First on my short list of local contacts was Ann Deaver, the missing man’s teaching colleague. I called the Fox Hollow Elementary School and asked to speak with her. I knew she’d still be in class, but I only wanted to know when she left for the day, which was three-thirty. I had just enough time to recross the river and catch her on her way home.

Fox Hollow Elementary was housed in one of those early sixties Boomer buildings like the one I’d attended in Houserville near State College. I think they had about one set of suburban plans for the entire country—single-story, blond brick, with dual banks of institutional, awning-style windows; two wings running at right angles; playground out back, parking lot in front. The landscaping consisted of one towering flagpole, two stunted shrubs, and an oft-trampled flower bed. I didn’t need to go inside to see the gray, vinyl-tiled floors, and pale green cinderblock walls. They were etched in my memory along with the smell of chalk dust and the sound of the dismissal bell. School days. My client told me that Ann Deaver drove an old Ford Escort. I circled the lot and found two and then settled in to wait by a battered blue baby with a PRO CHOICE bumper sticker. I sat facing the main entrance listening to some radio tunes and didn’t notice the township police cruiser till it stopped beside me. The older cop in the passenger seat motioned me to roll down my window which I did.

“What can we help you with today?” the officer asked with a scowl.

“I’m waiting for my son’s teacher,” I said, sticking with the story I’d told the school secretary over the phone. The cop seemed unimpressed, so I added, “My son’s been sick so I have to pick up his homework.” Now at twenty-seven, I was old enough to have a kid in the first or second grade, but the cop wasn’t buying it.

“Step out of the car, please,” he said. “Let’s see some ID.”

I stepped slowly from the car and handed over my driver’s license.

“What’s this about, officer?” I asked trying to sound innocent.

The cop ignored my question and eyed me up and down like I was something left behind by an irresponsible dog walker. “Now what are you really doing here, Mr. Rotten?” he said as he handed my license to his partner.

All I could think of was how impressed my new client would be when she got wind of this little incident. I was about to retell my homework tale when a short-haired, sensibly dressed woman in her late thirties emerged from the school building and strode purposefully toward us. I took a chance and said to the cop, “Here she comes now,” and then called out hopefully, “Miz Deaver.”

The woman continued to her car, the blue Escort, and set down her soft, stuffed briefcase before turning to address me. “I have no idea where the weasel is these days, and I don’t care what kind of trouble he’s in.”

“What weasel?”

“My ex-husband.”

“No, no,” I said, and I could tell this wasn’t going over well with the cops. “I’m not looking for your ex. I’m here to see you.”

“You some sort of process server?” she said. “What’s with the escort?” she added, nodding toward the police cruiser.

“They’re not with me,” I said, trying to find a graceful way out. “Just a little miscommunication. I’m here about...

Produkt-Details

• Erscheint lt. Verlag: 27.3.2025
• Sprache: englisch
• Themenwelt: Literatur ► Krimi / Thriller / Horror
• ISBN-13: 979-8-3509-8568-9 / 9798350985689