Blind Overlook

The two people stood at the edge of the water looking across the bay from Port Clyde, Maine, toward the Atlantic Ocean and Africa. The cloudless sky was moonless, the wind calm, the night quiet. It was near midnight and stars sparkled like tiny diamonds. A fish rolled violently fifty feet from shore, its prey now sustenance for life.

The man felt the barrel of the gun against the back of his head a fraction of a second before his world ceased to exist. His limp body fell into the cold, salty water at the end of the pier. The shooter turned and calmly walked back up the hill to the parking lot where the other man waited in the front seat of the rental car.

'Well, did you two come to a decision, or are we going to spend the whole night in this godforsaken place?' It was his last words. The .9 millimeter slug exploded through his skull and scrambled his brain.

The shooter exited the rental car, leaving the limp, lifeless body as it lay, slumped across the front seat, and entered a dark-colored van parked nearby. The van, loaded with a half-million dollars worth of oil paintings, and the lone driver, pulled out of the parking lot and headed toward the Rockland, Maine, airport, where a chartered jet waited. Quickly loading the forty-eight bulky canvases aboard the airplane, the shooter, breathing rapidly, sat down in a passenger seat and stared intently at the paintings. They had just been stolen from one of the most powerful Mafia figures in the Unites Sates.

A few minutes later the sleek, German-made airplane climbed swiftly into the clear night sky like some evil, dark angel. The lone passenger unscrewed the silencer from the barrel of the small automatic pistol, examined it with a satisfied grin, put both pieces into the black leather case, zipped it up, and settled back into the plush seat of the jet. It would be a long flight back to Houston.

* * *

I hate Saturdays. They always bring something I don't want to deal with. It's usually a hangover. Or someone walks into my office unannounced while I'm trying to catch up on paperwork I've neglected all week. This Saturday proved to be no exception. A friend to whom I couldn't say no asked me to try to talk some sense into his teenage son, who was making the wrong decision to live a short life of extremes rather than a long one of moderation.

The kid was late, and I had a hangover. I made coffee. I can always tell the degree of the hangover by the way that the coffee smells while it's brewing. This morning it smelled like my old bird dog, wet and lathered from a hard workout with the quail on a hot day.

Going into the small bathroom, I washed my face in cold water. The weathered reflection in the mirror stared back at me. Not too bad, Leicester, I said aloud, studying the image. A few more wrinkles, a gray hair here and there, but passable. The wrinkles help hide the scars. Scars acquired over the last ten years learning a business where I'd made every mistake that could be made. But I'd survived, was smarter, more careful, and much wiser. At six feet two and two hundred forty pounds I always thought my size could carry the day. It didn't take long to learn that in the private investigation business size doesn't matter. Sneaking a last glance in the mirror, I said, No, not too bad. At least my old bird dog still thinks I'm handsome.

Dabbling at some paperwork, I didn't want to get too involved before the kid showed. Tires squealed in the parking lot. It sounded like a teenager. Getting up, I walked to the outer door. Jeff, Jr. was climbing out of a red '57 Chevy convertible daddy gave him for getting through high school. If I were his daddy, I'd start by taking away the car.

He was a big kid with long blond hair, sharp, high cheekbones, and sculptured nose. He had deep bottomless blue eyes, and perfect pearl-white teeth, which accented a mischievous grin on a clean-shaven face. He was as tall as I am, with wide shoulders, and powerful arms. He had slim wrists, big hands, and long delicate fingers. Hands a surgeon or concert pianist would envy. He headed for my office with the vulgar swagger of youth.

Sitting back down at the desk, I waited for him to enter. He did, without knocking.

'Mr. Jay. How you doing?' He said, with a grin that had melted many a young girl's heart. 'Boy, the coffee smells good. Can I have some? Late night.' Another telling grin. 'I didn't get up in time to have any at home.'

Pointing to the coffeepot, I watched his lithe, athletic movements with jealousy.

'What's cooking?' He asked, pouring the coffee. 'Dad said you wanted to see me. Need some help solving a case? Boy, I'd like that.'

Pouring myself a cup, I slopped in a big dollop of Tupelo honey. Jeff, Jr. made a face at the honey.

'Yeah, Jeff," I said, stirring the coffee. 'I've got a case needs some help. You see, I've received this report of a red Chevy convertible riding around passing out marijuana and cocaine to young girls, one who ended up at the emergency room when her parents couldn't wake her from a drug induced sleep. The parents asked me to look into it. If I can get enough on this guy in the Chevy I'll turn the information over to the Mississippi State Narcotics agents. They can push for ten to twenty-five on Parchman farm. If he's selling, they may get a longer sentence. Want to help me with this case, Jeff?'

Carefully watching his expressions and body movements, I saw the ears turn red first, then the neck and cheeks. He shifted position three times in ten seconds, played a drumbeat on the coffee cup with enough force to cause whitecaps on the steaming liquid. One didn't need a polygraph machine to tell this kid was guilty. Jeff, Jr. wasn't selling dope, but I knew he was messing around with it. Someone needed to get his attention.

'Ah, Mr. Jay. I never sold any dope. Listen I...'

'No! You listen, Jeff. Being a football hero with a red convertible doesn't mean shirking responsibility. You can pick just as much cotton from a hot, scorched Parchman penitentiary field as any other dope dealer, robber, or murderer.'

'You're getting on me pretty strong, Mr. Jay," he said, with a bit of youthful defiance.