“The minute you walked in the bar, I could tell you were there for me.” So much for my surveillance abilities...
I lit a cigarette and thought, “If there is a God... If he wanted to do us a favor he would have made raw carrots and bean sprouts as appealing as a fatty, fried sandwich and a Marlboro.”
On Fridays and Saturdays, I have a part-time gig working security at a nightclub on Broadway called Paradise Isle. Even though some radio disc jockey declared disco dead by burning a bunch of records at Comiskey Park about two years back, you wouldn’t know it at Paradise Isle. The DJ is Miss Minerva Jones, the only drag queen I ever met who didn’t have some sort of joke name. I like that about her. You can only meet Anita Mann so many times before it gets
old. When it comes to disco, Miss Minerva is a purist. She plays Thelma Houston, Sylvester, Chic, and Sister Sledge. Sure, she also plays The Bee Gees, The Village
People, and Gloria Gaynor’s “I Will Survive,” but only if you tip her. The club is forty percent dance floor
I tipped for "I Will Survive!!!" LOL
and always full. The dance floor is made of thick Plexiglas and lit from beneath. The rest of the place holds a couple dozen tables, some booths against the wall, and a bar that runs the length of the club. The theme is tropical, and there are a couple of neon palm trees attached to the walls. The bartenders start the night in Hawaiian print shirts, but have lost them by the time I show up at nine. When I first started, the owner, Davey Edwards, tried to get me to wear a paper lei. I put my foot down. From ten to two I stand at the door with a flashlight and check IDs. Wearing a paper lei, Davey takes the cover charge. I could do the whole thing myself, but I’d have a bit of trouble balancing the cash drawer if a fight broke out. And they do break out every so often. Fortunately, most queens have to warm up with a couple rounds of catty remarks, so I’m usually there before anyone throws a punch. That Friday was busy but uneventful. Davey stops charging a cover at one, so I’m alone for the last hour. Mostly people are leaving by then, so I spend my time saying “good night” and telling people, especially the drunk ones, to “be careful.” After my shift, I usually head over to the bar for a couple of free drinks. That night was no different. Ross weaved his way over and asked what I wanted. Even though it was below zero outside, his well-defined, bare chest was slick with sweat. Ross is a sexy mix of boy and man. He’s got freckles across the bridge of his nose and a cowlick on the left side of his forehead. He’s also got biceps hovering around sixteen inches... After he brought me a beer, Ross offered me a Camel Light. I turned him down. “Willpower,” he said. “I hate that in a man.”
~~~~
Nick Nowak came alive for me in Hammer's voice, hope some of you remember him! LOL
Yeah, it was an old TV PI program, but I was a fan of mystery and suspense even back then... So having three Nick Nowak mysteries in one, for free, from BookBub, was a gift of memories... Of course, this PI had something to offer that I may not have been interested in--but other readers might... So I'll tell you about the stories, O.K.?
Nick has his PI license so works as much as he can on that job, but also spends time at a local club as what you might realize to be a bouncer, even if he's at the door when you first get to the club... But, then again, readers won't get too far into the club, before it is burnt down and out of business for a while... Most damaged was that Miss Minerva, the D.J. who had originals in cartons lost all of her music! Bummer, right?! I was enjoying her oldies just as much as you would!
Unlike most guys, I should know better...
That particular day there wasn’t anything on the radio except reporters droning on about the inauguration. It seemed a little odd that none of them complained that our country was now going to be run by a guy who once co-starred with a chimp. Not that I had anything against the Gipper. I just wasn’t convinced I wanted his finger on the button. I turned the radio down and picked up the phone.
But Nick has received a telephone call to find a lost boy. Even from the very first Nick was not quite sure that this was really a case because he couldn't get very much information out of the caller. Nevertheless, he started the job for his new client--“What’s your name?” “Walt...Paddington. Walt Paddington.” Ok, I was suspicious as Nick was when he had to figure out a name to be used... Then he refused to come into the office... But Nick needed the money and what could happen? Well... His job was to find Brian Peerson... who had been gone for almost a year, but, now, it was urgent to find him...
Nick learned enough to be able to begin the search and soon he found the retainer and some photos waiting for him. Now that would allow "expenses" to begin... He had been seen at another club, "The Closet." A Waiter there... But then Nowak went back to who had hired him--and who had recommended him to the guy. Decided that was just as important... So the search expanded...
It didn't take long to find Brian, but it got a little complicated when somebody else also was out to kill him... Even offered Nowak $10,000 to just walk away... Yeah, that wasn't gonna happen...
Little Boy Burned...
“Private investigator? You mean like Magnum, PI?” She asked. Her voice was crisp and sharp. “I’m not sure what that is, ma’am.” “You’re not sure? Why, it’s a TV show. It’s on Thursday nights at eight o’clock. Don’t you watch TV?” Her tone suggested she considered television viewing as necessary as breathing. “I don’t have a television,” I explained. It had moved out with Daniel, and I’d never bothered to replace it. “What on earth do you do without a TV?” “I do a lot of things. Can you tell me if you happened to see or hear anything unusual last night? Between five and five-thirty?” “Why don’t you come in,” she invited me, and then hobbled away from the front door. It was a studio apartment. In one corner sat a nicely made double bed, in another a recliner with a television balanced on a small table a few feet in front of it. I followed the woman over to a small dining table in front of the window. She sat and looked out. She had an excellent view of Paradise Isle. “Hawaii,” she said abruptly. My stomach sank. I worried she might be half crazy. “What about Hawaii, ma’am?” “That’s where Magnum, PI lives. It looks pretty on TV, but I could never leave Chicago. I’ve been here seventy-four years.” “Did you happen to see anything this morning?” She nodded. “I have the insomnia.” “So you’re up at night a lot of the time.” “Oh, it’s terrible. If I get two good hours of sleep, well, I consider myself lucky. Very lucky.” I took a seat across from her. “And this morning you were sitting right here looking out the window.” “Yes, I was.” “What did you see?” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “You know that’s where the fancy boys go, don’t you?” “Yes, ma’am.” I knew she’d tell me eventually; I just wasn’t sure I had the patience to wait. “He ran out of there around five-thirty.” “Who did?” She shrugged. “I don’t know. I don’t know any fancy boys.” “Tell me what he looked like.” “He wasn’t fat. And he wasn’t short.” Ruthie would exasperate the police when they showed up. The thought made me want to giggle. “Was he white? Or black?” She thought about it. “White. I’m pretty sure. He was wearing a hat. And one of those balloon coats.” “A down coat,” I suggested. “A what?” “A coat full of feathers. Like a pillow.” “It sure looked like a pillow.” “Was he young or old?” She thought about it. “Couldn’t have been old. He was running. I haven’t run like that in forty years.” “Did you see where he went?” She nodded solemnly. I waited. “He came into The Shore.” I looked out the window. It faced Broadway. The entrance to The Shore was on Surf. There wasn’t any way she could have seen him enter the building. I decided not to contradict her. The rest of the information seemed good, what there was of it.
~~~~
This is the story where Paradise Isle is set on fire... Nick is called to hurry over and help deal with the crisis, and soon gets involved with tracking down who set the fire... All I'm going to say about this one is that Nick should have paid more attention to the lady he first talked to... And finally got around to solving the case... LOL
Little Boy Fallen
I found I didn’t much like being a secretary; it was hours of boredom punctuated by brief periods of humiliation.
A second later I lay on the strip, the wheels of the train still moving inches from my face.
“You think he’s gay?” he asked me. “Guys like that, I think it’s more about manipulation than sex.”
“Helen Borlock.” I sat down at my desk and lit a cigarette while she talked. “He told me to come. He said you’d help. You can help, can’t you?” “I don’t know if I can help,” I said honestly. “I don’t know why you’re here.” She gave me a confused look, as though I should know why she was there. “Bobby told me to come. He said you’d help.” “Bobby who?” “Bobby Martin.” I was pretty sure I didn’t know a Bobby Martin and said so. “Bobby was my son’s roommate. One of them, I mean. There were four of them living there. Sweet boys, always laughing. The apartment is on Clark and Fullerton. They did it up nice. Every room a different color.” I still hadn’t a clue who she was talking about. Abruptly, she held out the photo album. “This is my Lenny.” To be polite, I took the album. “I never wanted to name him Leonard. My husband insisted. He’d had a friend, in the Marines. Wanted to name his son Leonard, after his friend. The friend died, you see.” I flipped the album open. There was Helen with an infant. I was right. In her day, Helen had been a looker. I flipped a few pages and Lenny began to grow up. Looked like he was on his way to being a looker, too. “What is it Bobby thought I could help you with?” She glanced out the window like she suddenly needed to check the weather. It was overcast and threatening to rain or, worse, throw in one last snowstorm for the winter. After a little sigh, she said, “Three weeks ago, my son was murdered.” “Mrs. Borlock, I’m a private investigator. I don’t investigate murders. The police do that.” “They don’t care. Lenny is just another pervert to them.” I waited a few moments, considering. I was telling her the truth. It wasn’t the kind of thing I did. Or at least tried not to do. Mainly I did background checks, skip traces, once in a while a little surveillance. That was it. Murder was different. Yes, I used to be a policeman, but I’d only worked a beat. I’d never been a detective. In the nearly six years I spent on the job, when it came to murder I’d never done much more than secure a crime scene and make sure witnesses stayed put. “Can you afford a private investigator?” “Yes. I always put a little aside for Lenny. Ever since he was a little boy.” She stared at her hands, which seemed particularly empty now that I was flipping through the photo album. “I used to think I’d give him the money on his wedding. He was sixteen when I figured out that was never going to happen, so for a while I thought I’d give him the money to go to college. But he was never book smart. Last couple of years, I’ve been waiting to see, did he maybe want to start a business or get a nice beau and buy a house.” Her voice turned bitter. “I should have given it to him. Should have let him spend on whatever he wanted.” She looked like she might break down, but fortunately she didn’t. I took the final drag off my cigarette and stubbed it out. Against my better judgment, I said, “Tell me what happened to Lenny.” “Someone pushed him off the seventh floor of the atrium at Water Tower.” That seemed pretty cut and dried. “Were there witnesses?” “It was a little after ten in the morning.” “No one saw him being pushed?” She shook her head. “So, how do you know he was pushed?” Mrs. Borlock pursed her lips. Tears popped into her eyes and threatened to spill over onto her cheeks. “You’re going to tell me my boy killed himself, just like the police.” “Right now, I’m not telling you anything. Right now, I’m asking questions. How do you know he was pushed?” “I just know,” she spat. “I know Lenny. And he wouldn’t kill himself.” “Why wouldn’t Lenny kill himself?” I was expecting a lame answer, like she’d raised him as a good Catholic, and, since it was against God’s law, he wouldn’t do it. But she didn’t say that. She said something completely different. “Lenny was the happiest person I ever met.”
~~~~
As you might have guessed, Nowak took the case... We all know that it was a dumb thing to do... Somebody was murdered--it meant that the guilty person would be that individual who killed somebody! I think it was the fact that his mother saw her son as the happiest person she ever met... What can you say to that? So he took it, and nearly found himself, also killed! And it all started when Nick found a deposit in Lenny's account!
Halfway down the page, there was a circled deposit for three thousand, five hundred, and sixty-four dollars.
The four roommates had been temp's for a company and were given various assignments. Nick soon realized that the only way to track the money was to go undercover... And being a secretary wasn't something he would ever choose to be! Yet, here he was... Because of course, everybody knows that the secretaries are the ones who get "hit on" by the bosses... right?
I thoroughly enjoyed the light mysteries and know you will too! Covering multiple books within one review is not easy to do, but I've tried to give you a sense of the various storylines... The book is for fun reading. Nick Nowak is a macho man living in Chicago in the early 80s who easily and quickly sets out to solve the problems he has agreed to handle. The fact that he gets sidetracked often will also possibly be of interest to those who read this series...
GABixlerReviews
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