Deader Than A Coffin Nail

Third Hackney McTrite Mystery

By Walker Jackson

Synopsis

Affluent Hackney McTrite moves his PI office to a fancy address uptown New Orleans and hires a youthful, attractive assistant, Deloris Pillsbury. She’s twenty-two, pleasingly plump and vivacious. They are compatible and become like father and daughter. He also purchases a moderate mansion in the Garden District, which seems impractical at first considering only the two of them, but a later event will deem it quite practical.

McTrite looks back at his actions relating to solving the Vieux Carré Pillow Strangler Copycat Murder and his adroitness in tracking down Cleo Potter’s, The Omelet Shack waitress, worthless husband who has abandoned her and the two kids. He discovers the husband is a polygamist. He has another wife and two children in Utah. The chase takes him to Biloxi and Las Vegas. And the husband has won the Irish Sweepstake. In the end two needy families want no more. The Copycat Murderer will come as a complete surprise.

The business builds slowly. Divorce lawyer Roger O’Boyle offers an interesting divorce case involving a respected judge and a much younger wife. Then a near death collision causes McTrite to discovers a Ball canning jar in Lake Pontchartrain with an introductory letter, will, two maps and a key. This discovery takes him to London and Paris and London again to prevent the murder of the benefactor of the will. The Wimbledon Tournament is on and he gets tickets for the last four days.

I’ve thrown in the Coca-Cola stock caper for good measure. This involves theft, embezzlement and an attempt on McTrite's life. It ends happy; however, that's opinionated. Anyway, McTrite will earn three bags full. And another hoi polloi become a millionaire.

Oh! Yes! He attends his Class reunion. It’s comical. Well, only if you have a macabre sense of humor.

While in London, he reads about a past Wimbledon titleholder’s murder. This becomes an upfront investigation in my fourth McTrite mystery. Of course, the trust administrator embezzler and his pretty secretary of the Ball jar caper becomes a multi-continent chase in the fourth PI McTrite Mystery.

The Mansion, in the end, becomes a home: another rainbow ending.

~ The Big Easy 1979 ~

"Brrring!"

Who in the Sam-hell can that be?

"Brrring!"

My front door sign isn’t dry yet and already they clamor for PI Hackney McTrite's investigative prowess. The Infantinos' divorce and Big Al’s conviction and subsequent death have put me on the map.

"Brrring!"

"Go away come again when the paint has dried." Self-consciously, I looked around and then scratched somewhere around my middle.

"Brrring!"

Sluggishly, I removed my feet from the highly polished mahogany desk and lifted the phone towards a thinner face that appeared fifteen years younger than the rest of me. Extensive and expensive facial surgery obtained in Paris created my youthful appearance and the toupee and dark glasses added sex appeal. I now understood why Dick Clark did it, but he abuses the privilege. He’s the only living senior citizen with a face of a teenager—without acne. "Hackney McTrite and Company, Confidential Investigative Services, McTrite speaking." This was the fancy title on the opaque glass window. I had one problem with it. It was one hell of a mouth full.

"Hello, Mister McTrite, Deloris Pillsbury here. I’m calling about your ad for an assistant."

Hers was a young, sweet sound slightly nasal, but I knew she was indigenous, a Creole Lily born in N’Awlins. I’d plum forgotten about the ad. She wants to be the Company part of the fancy title. I don’t know why but she sounds right for the part, like she’s one bright and cunning femme, although my first choice was for a man about twenty-five. If she’s pretty with firm curves, it’ll be a plus.

"Hello, Miss Pillsbury. How old are you?" I wondered if she’s related to the Pillsbury Doughboy.

"Twenty-two, sir." She thought the question was stupid for someone owning a reputation for astuteness. Or is he just a dirty old man wanting to know if I’m legal? She'd made a great surmise.

"Why do you want to become a PI, Miss Pillsbury? The work’s dangerous, demeaning, and financial insecurity is a certainty at times, feast or famine."

"Yes, I know. The yearning was instilled at birth and nurtured my entire life. Peter, my father, was a New Orleans Policeman for over twenty years ‘til his death last year." The name rang bells in my belfry. I had known Peter Pillsbury, her handsome father, but not well. I did know that some acidhead blew him away while serving in the line of duty.

"Miss Pillsbury I was thinking about a male assistant and someone a few years older. How skillful are you with guns and are you easily embarrassed?"

"My dad was a tough cop. He pounded pavement his entire career and he told me about street thugs and their foul jargon. Sir, Miss Milquetoast I’m not. And I took ROTC at Tulane my first two years there. They called me deadeye. I qualified expert with both rifle and pistol." Maaan! She’s a regular Annie Oakley. "I can hit a dime at one hundred paces with a scoped rifle. I’m less proficient with a pistol, but I can hit the ring around a cat’s fanny at twenty paces." I hated the analogy. I love cats, but I understood. She’d made her point.

"Did you graduate Miss Pillsbury?" This was a vain question for someone who’d never been to college.

"No sir! When dad was gunned down, I had to quit. The money dried up."

"What was your major?" I had a facetious surmise, fraternities.

"Criminology." Now I heard a muffled sob.

"Miss Pillsbury can you meet me at The Napoleon House for lunch? Say around twelve-thirty?"

"Yessir."

"Good. I’ll see you then. Goodbye."

"Click!"

I returned the receiver and found cards in the middle drawer. I’d kicked nicotine and bubble-gum addiction, but I was still hooked on Solitaire and clichés. I’d go to my grave mumbling mortician clichés like Deader Than A Coffin Nail. After ten plays, Sol brought me to my knees, and sheepishly, I returned the cards to the middle drawer feeling inferior as usual. I’d die owing Sol millions. But I was no longer a phantom gambler. I just played for the hell of it, but I’d never cheated once. Sure, I’d made a few mistakes. The former says something about my ethics. The latter proves that no man’s perfect, not even Hackney McTrite. I put my feet in the precise position as before and leaned back in the cushioned throne like chair. If you're hard over to know, the two scuffs marked the spot.

Proudly, I surveyed my opulent suite located on the second floor of the Canal Place Office Building. I gloated. Compared to my former office, the roach-box of yore, it’s the White House Oval Office. I had finally, after thirty-five years, hauled my PI practice uptown and dignified the title. Reality struck. Place it in a palace and call it what you like but it’s still a sleazy keyhole slime and peeping Tom business with the same lecherous characters: thieves, philanderers, adulterers, rapists, spies, killers and these are the more respectable characters.

Reflections of my previous year in Paris, hiding from the Mob, spawned a pleasing mental image of Mademoiselle Gabrielle Rénu, only the third woman in my life with whom I’d shared intimacies. Frank Sinatra would call me a fledging or tenderloin. The thought didn’t bother me since he couldn’t keep ‘em after he got ‘em. Gabrielle had been a weathered orchid I plucked on the Left Bank, but she wilted the moment she heard that Sarah, my wife, had not been killed by the New Orleans’ Mob, as we’d thought. Actually, she was devastated. We were more than lovers, inseparable friends. Halfheartedly, I'd hoped her broken heart had mended, but vainly I hoped she still remembered me. I could never forget her. We'd always be friends. We’d vowed as much our last glorious day together in Paris.

And Georgia another woman whom I met during the Second World War in London. Discovering she’d married my army buddy, Phil Klapp, when I'd fled to Cincinnati escaping the Mob, came as a pleasant surprise. Of course, that leaves just Sarah my dear wife. I don’t know why I’m making this true confession, it doesn’t advance the story line, but I understand a segment of the reading public thrive on this brand of soap.

Learning of Mob Boss Big Al Infantino’s demise, upon returning from Paris, my alpha rhythm halved. And the look I saw in Sarah’s eyes when she noticed her born-gain, trim-handsome husband brought a natural yearning for the bed. It was prime-time bedroom time for the next two days. What is it they say? Absence causes the heart to grow fonder—and increases the testosterone levels. Naturally, however, at fifty-eight, you catch up quickly. Actually, at any age. But, of course, revelations of the previous two paragraphs have never rattled Sarah’s eardrums.

A week later when I announced I wanted her to look at a four-bedroom, three-bath home on Church Street, in the rich part of the Garden District, her gratitude surfaced again in the bedroom. Our fortunes had flip-flopped in six months. Life was never better. I considered the home an investment. Eventually, it would turnout to be quite practical.

You’d think we were on a perpetual honeymoon. This entire scenario was strange for a man fifty-eight and a woman three years younger. But we’d been apart slightly longer than one year. It did, however, pique memories of our eight-day honeymoon in Las Vegas without the merriment, all you can eat buffets, legs and tits shows, and cacophonous casinos. And we were making a dent in the proverbial pill-jar that few couples empty after filling it during their first year of marriage.

Two weeks later we bought the opulent home and moved in. I had remarked, "We’ll make one of the bedrooms a nursery." A preposterous thought, however Sarah’s face blossomed like a Magnolia bloom. And then she replied, "Maybe we can adopt several under-privileged children." She was serious. I had listened. We were disappointed that she was unable to bear children.

I yawned loudly and scratched softly. My prostate problem had ameliorated somewhat, but my scrotum—that’s the sack that holds the family jewels—still itched perpetually: and at the most inopportune time and place. Sarah had to sit on the front row at Mass—well, I’ll let you imagine where I was taking that thought. I’d tried three different highly recommended ointments that increased the tingling. The always-present side effect was that it acted like a depilatory. My balls were as bald and scaly as any six-month-old Vidalia Onion gets. I’d recommended it to several of Sarah’s lady friends to rub on their legs. They were grateful, but I never told them my use for the ointment.

My lifestyle changes, tennis and exercise, was one reason for my glowing health. Kicking nicotine serfdom was the other. Certainly, exercise was the reason I’d shed sixty pounds of ugly lard. I hadn't altered my diet appreciably. I was reminded that I was playing tennis in the afternoon with Attorney Roger O’Boyle’s older son, Phil, and two of his young friends. I’d tried to find some older chaps to play, but it seemed they were playing golf. Looking at their girths, I knew why. Rather vain thoughts for a man who, fourteen months earlier, resembled a sideshow freak.

Before the subject vanished into oblivion, visions of the delightful Mademoiselle Théresè Roussel, the cream de la crem of tennis instructors formed vividly in my passionate awareness. Oh! La! La! Paris can be delicious. She had been the inspiration that kept me focused and coming back. Actually, it was more like innocent seduction than inspiration and focus better described as voyeurism—short, short skirts and all that stuff. Mademoiselle was one gorgeous and shapely femme fatale with impeccable morality, unfortunately. And her tennis skills were magnifique, but does anyone really care.

"Brrring! Brrring!"

I could have caught it after the first ring had I not been grossed out with lusty thoughts of Théresè. "McTrite and Company—"

"Hi, hun. It’s Sarah, your loving wife."

"That’s a relief. For a moment I thought you were Dorothy Lamour." She chuckled softly. I knew she would.

"How’d you know I stood here draped only in a bath towel?"

Hummm! Not exactly a sarong! "I have phone line x-ray vision. What’d you call about?"

"I was lonely. Madame is out. Really, I just wanted to know how things were going." Her mention of my pussy, Madame, pulled hard at my heartstrings. She now preferred staying home with Sarah. It was fortunate in a way. The fancy lease strictly prohibited pets, and I hoped they felt the same way about rodents and cockroaches. I’d seen enough of those pests at my Esplanade office to last forever. And I wasn’t surprised fire had destroyed it during my stay in Paris. I’d lost twelve incomplete files in that old rusty cabinet. I was even less surprised hearing the police suspected arson.

"You fall asleep, hun?"

"No! You asked how are things going? The furniture for the outer office has not arrived yet. Other than that, everything’s peachy keen. I’d ask you to go out for lunch, but I have a meeting with an applicant. Remember, I’m hiring an assistant."

"Well, yes. Okay. I’ll see you tonight. Goodbye, Sherlock."

"Goodbye Sarah. I love you. Say hello to Madame for me. Tell her to keep her tail down. Kittens we don’t need."

"Okay. I love you too."

"Click!"

Hanging up, I felt a trifle sorry for Sarah. She’d retired from the school system after serving thirty years of servitude, but she’d really loved teaching wiggle-worm first graders. She liked kids. And we were looking forward to her retirement check although I’d made a killing the previous year—no pun intended. However, after paying Uncle Sugar his share, I felt less royal. Far more important, her health insurance, which included me, continued in force. One serious illness could put us back into the peanut gallery. The health insurance made all those disastrous early mornings seem inconsequential.

I checked my watch. I shook it. I looked again. The second hand moved. I had to find someway to amuse myself for two hours. Sol wasn’t a viable alternative. I’d had it up to my hip boots with that merciless bastard. I didn’t have a book to read. I didn’t have any toy boats I could go float in the half-bath toilet. I could go stare out of the window and watch the traffic on Canal Street. Then, I remembered I needed to purchase a car. Since purchase of a brand new car was against my pragmatic nature, Jake’s Clean Used Cars flashed in my head. I reached the phone and dialed.

"Brring! Brring!"

"Hmmm! They're not very hungry."

"Jake’s."

"I’d like to speak to Mrs. Susan Somers, please."

"Mrs. Somers speaking." She sounded just as bubbly as ever.

"How you doing, Susie Q, McTrite here."

"I’m not sure. Are you in the market for a clean used car, Hackney? I hear Wiggin’s Car Heaven is loaded with specials." She wasn’t serious or was she? She’d taken a royal screwing on the convertible I’d bought from her months earlier.

"As a matter of fact, I am. Got any good deals over there? Like a low-mileage two-year-old Chevy for around six-k?"

"What happened to the convertible you practically stole from us?"

"I sold it in Cincinnati. The Mob was onto it."

"How much did you get for it?"

"You don’t want to know."

"Tell me, Hackney!"

"Four hundred more than I paid you."

"That’s outrageous. It’s also cruel. If Harry my manager knew that he’d go through the ceiling. He told me he never wanted to see your Voodoo spirit ever again when the police finally returned the Buick you leased. Mind you they held it for five months after the shootout on I-10. When they finally returned it, the windshield and driver’s window was shot out, and seven bullet holes were spread around the body. It cost over eleven hundred dollars to repair it. Oh! I forgot about the two flat tires, one front light, and the hole in the gas tank."

"What can I say, after I say I’m sorry? That’s the way the cookie crumbles."

"Sureee, it is! Also it’s the way my ball has been bouncing lately. The Buick’s condition steamed Harry’s—balls—Stop laughing and listen. I was really glad to hear that your wife wasn’t killed."

"Thank you, Susan. Even McTrite has lucky days. Back to the reason I called. I’m serious about buying a car, but we won’t haggle. You pick the best of the litter and make me an honest offer. Call me back with the details. I’m kinda in a hurry. I want the deal done by tomorrow. I want to take my Sarah to Sib’s Seafood Palace on Sunday. Tell Harry a fib if necessary." I could trust her. I’d helped her straighten out her affairs with her shiftless ex-husband. Why am I having second thoughts? After all, she’s a used car salesperson and her boss has to approve the deal.

"Give me an hour. Goodbye, Hackney."

"Whoa! I’ve got a new number. Two-four-three-twenty-five hundred."

"Click!"

Hell, I’ve got absolutely nothing constructive to do. This is the perfect time for forty winks.

"Brrring! Brrring!"

"Hello—eh—McTrite speaking."

"Caught you napping didn’t I?"

"Dead to the world. I dreamed of South Sea Islands. Native girls dressed in grass skirts danced around me. I don’t remember what they wore up top. What-cha got, Susan?"

"A nineteen seventy-seven black Chevy Caprice loaded. It’s only got twenty-thousand mile recorded and it’s clean as a whistle—a cream puff." I muffled a chortle.

"I believed you ‘til you said that. What’s the bottom line?"

"You can drive it off the lot with a cashiers check for sixty-one hundred and a few signatures."

"Susan I have a strange request—"

"Mister McTrite, you know I’m a nice girl."

I think I heard her chuckle. "No! Nothing of the sort. Bring it and the paperwork to my office at 11 a.m. tomorrow and we’ll close the deal. Then, I’m taking you to lunch at your favorite restaurant for the works."

"I like it. I like it. Where do you hang your hat these days?"

"Canal Place Office Building. Park in the garage. My suite is Two-thirteen."

"Pretty fancy territory, Mister McTrite."

"Well, fitting. Two long shots came in for me last year. I’m sure you’ve read about it."

"Yes! Sir! It couldn’t happen to a nicer person."

"You’re sweet to say so. I’ve also experienced the agony of defeat. Most of my horses have died in the starting gate. One got as far as the stretch and dropped dead. He led by five lengths at the top of the stretch."

I waited for the laughter to subside. "Another time I wagered ten dollar on a highly favored mare named Heartbreaker. How the hell could I know she was in heat and positioned next to a horny stud? You can’t get this info off a Tout Sheet. Well, the starting gates flung open. The other horses dashed away, and Heartbreaker and King’s Ransom waltzed out and started horsing around." She held her side laughing.

"Yes, I can readily relate. I mean I have the same luck with horses, but I think you exaggerate."

"Well, yes. Life’s kinda dull if you don’t stretch the truth occasionally. See you tomorrow, Susan. Ciao!"

"Click!"

After a peek at my watch, I donned my toupee and dark shades. I strolled to the half-bath for a vanity check. Satisfied I’d break hearts this day I headed for the elevator, realizing I was going to be thirty minutes early for my meeting with Deloris. Going down, I remembered someone had written a song titled Deloris...,

BUY THIS BOOK