Maybe Murder picks up where the first John D “Jack” Hudson mystery novel, Lowdown. Dirty. Shame., left off.
This one is also set in Cassavora County, but this time Jack is not accused of murder, he’s being blackmailed to force him to commit murder! Meanwhile, former girlfriends and other women are running rampant over Jack’s quiet social life with plans and dire difficulties of their own. Twists and turns confront even the most stouthearted, and Jack is never sure he’s up to the task. The hours and days are ticking away, along with his chances of survival.
Killers are tracking him, the police are suspicious and his life is unraveling. He’s a writer for god’s sake. Can’t he plot his way out?
An excerpt from Maybe Murder…
Leo has a way with words, which is to say he can lie to your face and make you swallow it faster than an icy beer in July. I hesitate to call him, for the simple reason that I can’t let this business of dispatching the Chief Deputy get out and about. For reasons of self-preservation, I want to take care of everything myself. As the saying goes, the only way for three men to keep a secret is to kill two of them.
As a lawyer, Leo Sporata was in and out of dusty courtrooms for almost twenty years. The last one saw him in the dock for contempt and impeding a federal investigation. He managed to scamper away only because he was the man who knew too much. Deal cut. No jail, but disbarment. Now he pedals information to whomever has the right amount of cash and can do him the most good. That includes customers across the spectrum, such as companies, prosecutors, defense attorneys, anyone whose work takes them into the legal shadows. Excellent business model. He prospers to the tune of two shiny cars and an architect’s dream home on the 7th fairway of a primo golf course, right outside this state’s major city. Tell me crime doesn’t pay.
Leo meets me now and again, just to down a few and pass the time. We’re friends and that’s a mystery to both of us. He’s a weasel with a cast iron heart, while I wear my thumper on my sleeve so everyone can watch me bleed.
I swallow my reservations and call Leo. We meet at Norway’s Wayside, a tavern owned and run by Jimmy Norway. Quiet place in the afternoon. Classy. Long mahogany bar that’s well stocked, dimmed lighting, and bar food that’s more than acceptable. Another thing that makes Leo and me both favor this place is the lack of screechy music, with King Kong pounding the drums. Right now, coming out of hidden speakers, there’s a subdued sax and the tinkle of the ivories, backed by the light brushes of a careful drummer.
Leo is in a relaxed slouch, in a booth and already sipping some microbrewery concoction I know he’s going to tell me about. “You see Jack, there’s a lot more to beer than just hops, malt, and water. Take this Red River Pilsner,” he says, holding up his glass and peering at it like it’s the last will and testament of Jesus of Nazareth, “It’s full bodied, yet has hints of ripe plums, with a leathery finish. You can’t find beer like this very often.”
“I’d say the word beer pretty much sums it up.”
“That’s because your taste buds are shot and your education is lacking.” He grins, showing teeth big enough to make a thoroughbred envious. “But I know a fine brew is lost on you, so I ordered you…” he stops as a white shirted waiter approaches with a silver tray. Resting on top is my liquor on the rocks, in a crystal whisky tumbler, plus a redolent pile of crisp and salty chips and beside them, a small silver bowl of oil cured olives.
I take a sip. “Kentucky’s finest, with hints of horseshit and a finish of blue grass.”
Leo shakes his head sadly. “When it comes to culture, you’re a lost cause.”
“I was just teasing. There’s not even a hint of horseshit in this Jim Beam. It’s the regular kind, not the funny label kind, with hints of this and that. It’s to drink, not to chat about.”
“Well, you do know your whiskey.”
We banter on for a while. Recent trips. Women, of which neither of us have a soupçon of understanding. Leo’s been married twice, with a matching number of divorces and I am girlfriendless.
Leo breaks the ice. “So Jack, what the hell kind of trouble are you in now?” He holds up a hand and slowly shakes his head. “Don’t tell me,” he says in a tired voice. “Let me guess. It has something to do with those we used to call ‘the mob,’ but now refer to as crime without borders.” He shakes his head again. “Didn’t you learn anything from my bad example?”
I’m going to have to explain all of it, but I follow Leo’s lead and leave out the specifics, at least at first. Leo is one of those guys who can empty your bag of marbles with just one pull of a thread. That’s why he thrives in the information business. I heave a sigh, while Leo downs a full swallow of ripe plums with a leathery finish. My drawstring pouch of scurrilous information begs to overflow, but I do my best to keep the cord cinched. The oracle of unsavory knowledge is sitting right in front of me. He’s been time tested through the pain of disbarment and knows to keep his mouth shut, if you pay him well. There’s the rub. Leo and I have exchanged a lot of things, but money isn’t one of them.
“What do you know about Harry Simpson?”
The mug is halfway to his mouth and he sees it’s empty. He raises two fingers to signal for another before he answers. “Who’s Harry Simpson?” His look tells me this is an honest question, possibly the only honesty I’ll find this afternoon.
Enjoy the excerpt? Find the book on Amazon: Maybe Murder
And enjoy my other two novels, including the first adventures of Jack Hudson: Lowdown. Dirty. Shame.
And: Cassavora County
All three are on Amazon, in both Kindle and Paperback editions.
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