The Reggis Arms Caper Read online

  The Reggis Arms Caper

  A Chance Purdue Novel

  Ross H. Spencer

  Copyright

  Diversion Books

  A Division of Diversion Publishing Corp.

  443 Park Avenue South, Suite 1008

  New York, NY 10016

  www.DiversionBooks.com

  Copyright © 1979 by Ross H. Spencer

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  For more information, email [email protected]

  First Diversion Books edition March 2015

  ISBN: 978-1-62681-651-0

  Also by Ross H. Spencer

  Kirby’s Last Circus

  Death Wore Gloves

  The Chance Purdue Series

  The Dada Caper

  The Abu Wahab Caper

  The Stranger City Caper

  The Radish River Caper

  The Lacey Lockington Series

  The Fifth Script

  The Devereaux File

  The Fedorovich File

  This book is dedicated to a tower of strength and patience—my wife—Shirley R. Spencer.

  Nonsense is an idiot…

  Wisdom is his brother…

  It’s goddam near impossible

  To tell one from the other…

  Monroe D. Underwood

  1

  …I met a rascal on a sunny day

  And felt I had no reason to complain…

  It could of been much worse the other way…

  I might of met the bastard in the rain…

  Monroe D. Underwood

  I parked the Olds on Adams Street.

  Directly across from the Braddock Building.

  My old office had been in the Braddock Building.

  On the fifth floor next to the washroom where big Betty Lewandowski got stuck on the john.

  When I heard her screaming I busted the door down and got two janitors to help pull her off.

  She slugged all three of us.

  Something about invasion of privacy.

  That had been right after I blew the Williams case.

  Which put it just before I blew the DADA case.

  I stepped from the car into a cold December rain.

  And a deep puddle.

  Somebody hollered hey.

  Pat Edderson the cop.

  He trotted across the street.

  His yellow slicker glistened in the rain.

  He grabbed my hand.

  He was a burly ruddy-faced bright-eyed man and very outgoing.

  So outgoing I could hardly stand the sonofabitch.

  Pat said hey where you been?

  I shrugged.

  I said no place important.

  Pat said hey I ain’t seen you since back last summer.

  He said hey you still a gumshoe?

  I wondered if Pat said hey amen in church.

  I shook my head.

  I said I got a tavern now.

  Pat said hey what ever become of that little blonde hooker that used to take you to lunch?

  I said call girl Pat.

  I said you should always say call girl.

  Pat said hey goddam.

  He kicked a fireplug for emphasis.

  He said hey what a beautiful whore.

  I said call girl.

  Pat said hey I forget her name.

  I said Betsy.

  Pat stepped back and looked me over.

  He said hey you gained some weight.

  He said hey you must of got married.

  I shrugged.

  I said I married Betsy.

  Pat winced.

  He said hey man I’m sorry.

  I said I kind of doubt that.

  Pat said hey man I didn’t know.

  I said you probably did.

  Pat spread his hands.

  Innocence personified.

  He said hey what can I say?

  I said well you could practice on call girl.

  2

  …legends is usually a bunch of lies told by a bunch of liars about a bunch of liars…

  Monroe D. Underwood

  It was three very wet blocks to the Ammson Detective Agency.

  Water went squish in my left shoe.

  Then it went squash.

  Three blocks of that didn’t improve my frame of mind.

  I squished from the elevator.

  I squashed into the Ammson suite.

  A buxom redheaded woman glanced up from one of those horny confessions magazines.

  She said yes.

  I said honey I ain’t asked you yet.

  She compressed her lips.

  Very tightly.

  She said might I be of some help?

  I shrugged.

  I said you might but Betsy would murder you.

  The redhead sighed.

  She said spare me the sidesplitting comedy.

  She said it’s raining and my corn is driving me crazy and my TV’s busted and my husband’s madly in love with my cousin.

  I said don’t let it bother you.

  I said he’ll get over her.

  I said they always do.

  The redhead said I’m afraid you don’t understand.

  She said my cousin’s name is Harold.

  I shrugged.

  I said I’m Chance Purdue.

  I said I’m here to see Ammson.

  I said it’s Ammson’s idea.

  The redhead pulled back.

  Her eyes were wide.

  She said oh my gosh.

  She said Chance Purdue.

  She said you’re a legend here.

  I shrugged.

  I squished into Ammson’s office.

  3

  …everybody applauds the honest man but what can the poor bastard do for a encore?…

  Monroe D. Underwood

  Kellis J. Ammson was a big man with protruding gray eyes and a royal blue necktie and diamond rings on both hands.

  He leaned back and looked at me.

  I sat down and looked at him.

  The atmosphere was very unbrimming-over with affection.

  Ammson said all right Chance give it to me straight from the shoulder.

  He said what’s this flaming pressure about?

  I shrugged.

  I said what pressure?

  Ammson exhaled.

  Like air brakes releasing.

  He hauled out a blue silk handkerchief half the size of an infield tarpaulin.

  He mopped his forehead.

  He said don’t play Little Bo-Peep with me Chance.

  He said you’re out to destroy me and you’ve nearly completed the flaming job.

  I shrugged.

  Ammson hunched forward with his elbows on his desk and his face in his palms.

  He twitched.

  Like an atheist at a southern Baptist camp meeting.

  He stared at me.

  The way you stare at a king cobra.

  He said Chance you’ve been the flaming bane of my flaming existence.

  He said I’m teetering on the flaming brink of a flaming nervous breakdown.

  He said my days are filled with memories of your flaming stupidity.

  He said then I get all these flaming nightmares.

  He said I keep dreaming that you’re working here again.

  Ammson rolled his bulging gray eyes toward the ceiling.

  He said oh flaming mother of Christ.

  I shrugge
d.

  I said look Ammson I haven’t laid eyes on you since good weather.

  I said if I never see you again it’ll be six months too soon.

  I said I’m running a tavern and I’m not bothering anybody.

  Ammson pulled a sheet of paper from a desk drawer.

  He dropped it.

  He picked it up with trembling fingers.

  He skidded it across the desk to me.

  He said recognize that?

  I looked at it and pushed it back.

  I said it’s our sales agreement.

  Ammson said that agreement states that you will stay the hell out of the flaming investigatory field.

  He said isn’t that right?

  I shrugged.

  I said the only thing I’m investigating is why Old Dad Underwood isn’t paying his tab.

  Ammson threw up his arms.

  Like after a touchdown.

  He laughed.

  A bit hysterically I thought.

  He said oh come on Chance.

  He said yesterday some great big hairy flaming ape was in here just raising hell on your behalf.

  I said who?

  Ammson said how the hell should I know who?

  He said all I know is he told me to tear up that sales agreement or he’d see to it that I went up the flaming river for income tax evasion.

  Tears rolled from Ammson’s jutting gray eyes.

  He said Chance I’ve never done a flaming dishonest thing in my entire flaming life.

  He said I’m as straight as a flaming string.

  He said I’m a flaming pillar of society.

  He said my God man I’ve been in flaming Kiwanis for sixteen flaming years.

  He said I just won’t be kicked around in this flaming fashion.

  He walloped his desk with his fist.

  He said goddammit I absolutely refuse to submit to flaming blackmail.

  He tore up the sales agreement.

  He raised a warning finger.

  He said Purdue you better be careful.

  He said I fully intend to get a flaming explanation of this flaming matter.

  I shrugged.

  I said get two while you’re at it.

  I said one for me.

  I removed my left shoe.

  I dumped the water into Ammson’s giant white ceramic ashtray.

  I said it was going squish squash.

  I said a couple of times it went squoosh.

  I went out.

  The redhead smiled.

  She said have a nice day Mr. Purdue.

  The rain was heavier and it had developed a nasty bite.

  There was a ticket on my windshield.

  Parking in front of a fireplug.

  Signed by Officer Patrick G. Edderson.

  4

  …if they’d bottle all the hot air in Texas they could heat the whole world till Christ gets back…

  Monroe D. Underwood

  That evening I watched rain rip the blue neon glow at the tavern entrance.

  Betsy was upstairs doing whatever it was Betsy did upstairs.

  The beer cooler had developed a clanking sound.

  I stood behind the bar listening to Old Dad Underwood and Shorty Connors discuss the Battle of Armageddon.

  Shorty Connors said the Battle of Armageddon will no doubt be held in Texas.

  He said ABC will probably get the television rights on account of ABC don’t never get the Super Bowl.

  Old Dad Underwood said well just about any dang fool could figger that out.

  He said that ain’t really important anyway.

  He said what’s important is the point spread.

  He said what’s the point spread?

  Shorty Connors said Nick the Greek ain’t even so much as mentioned it.

  5

  …I was about to leave my old profession when it come to mind I never had one…

  Monroe D. Underwood

  You don’t know me from a haunch of venison.

  Unless you read the first book.

  If you read the first book you wouldn’t be reading this one.

  I think they call that logic.

  Whatever they call it I’d better introduce myself.

  Chance Purdue.

  No middle name.

  I don’t know why I didn’t get a middle name but there was a reason for my first name.

  My mother was forty-two when I showed up.

  My father was pushing fifty.

  They told me they’d have named me Catastrophe if they’d known how to spell it.

  I was a private detective with the Ammson Detective Agency until the Williams case came along.

  When Ammson canned me I opened my own agency.

  Then I married Betsy.

  We bought Wallace’s Tavern and we left our old professions.

  We won’t talk about Betsy’s old profession any more than we have to.

  I wanted to call the tavern the Strike Out Inn.

  Betsy wanted to call it Betsy’s Last Chance.

  We had the barstools and booths reupholstered.

  I wanted them done in red.

  Betsy said blue.

  She said blue was her very favorite color.

  We had the floors tiled.

  I wanted white tile.

  Betsy said beige.

  She said beige was also her very favorite color.

  We bought a new backbar mirror and we put Alte Kameraden on the jukebox and the Old Washensachs brewery hung a big five-sided thing over the bar.

  It was brightly lighted and it turned very slowly.

  One side was a clock and the other four were pictures of a Percheron horse pulling an Old Washensachs beer wagon.

  Betsy’s Last Chance attracted two types of customers.

  The kind you hope you never see again and the kind you wish to Christ you hadn’t seen the first time.

  Old Dad Underwood made it big in both categories.

  He said how come you done the joint in blue and whatever that there other color is?

  I said beige.

  I said because blue is Betsy’s very favorite color.

  I said so is beige.

  Old Dad Underwood said oncet I knowed a feller what invented a brand-new color.

  He said most beautifulest color these here old eyes ever seen.

  He said onliest reason it never got popular was on account of he never thunk of no name for it.

  I said what did it look like?

  Old Dad Underwood scowled perplexedly.

  He said well it’s kind of hard to describe since it was a brand-new color you see.

  I said I see.

  6

  …there is two towns which I got absolutely no idea how to get to…Tampa and Heaven…

  Monroe D. Underwood

  The phone rang at seven o’clock.

  It was Wallace.

  I hadn’t heard from Wallace since he sold us the tavern.

  Wallace told me he was in Tampa.

  He said nicest thing about being in Tampa is I am in Tampa and Old Dad Underwood ain’t.

  I said I can readily appreciate your appreciation of being in Tampa.

  I said I had no idea you were going to Tampa.

  Wallace said well that’s probably true on account of neither did I.

  He said I just went out to O’Hare Field and got myself a ticket on the first plane out.

  I said and the damn thing was bound for Tampa.

  Wallace said no the damn thing was bound for Bolivia.

  He said we had to land in Tampa.

  He said it wasn’t working too good.

  He said I think it was on fire or something.

  I said what are you doing with your time?

  Wallace said I bought a tavern.

  He said I call it Wallace’s Tavern.

  I shrugged.

  I said that’s about as good a name as any.

  Wallace said that’s what everybody tells me.

  He said
please don’t tell Old Dad Underwood I’m in Tampa.

  I said it wouldn’t matter.

  I said Old Dad Underwood doesn’t know where the hell Tampa is.

  I said where the hell is Tampa?

  7

  …ev’ry horse has got a ass of course but ev’ry horse’s ass don’t got a horse…

  Monroe D. Underwood

  The rain drummed the night along.

  Old Dad Underwood and Shorty Connors were my only customers.

  I splashed some Sunnybrook into a water glass and nipped at it.

  Carefully.

  I had eased up on the firewater since Armistice Day.

  I tried not to think about Armistice Day.

  I started to read a story in Eagles magazine.

  “Skull Squadron Flies Again” by Arch Blockhouse.

  Shorty Connors went by on his way to the washroom.

  He waved.

  Like he was going overseas.

  I waved back.

  I wished he was.

  Old Dad Underwood said throw a couple beers on my tab.

  He said my tab ought to be somewheres near ten dollars by now.

  I said your tab is thirty-six dollars and seventy-five cents.

  Old Dad Underwood said well holler when she hits forty.

  I said I’ve been hollering since she hit twenty.

  I said what happens when she hits forty?

  Old Dad Underwood blew beer foam from his moustache and considered the question.

  He said well of course a whole lot depends on just when she hits forty.

  He said if she hits forty on a Saturday night Bud Baxter will lose a couple fights and Brightside Nelson will fall off a barstool and Angelica Sears will get sick on the floor.

  He said Angelica can’t handle them Harvey Wall-bastards.

  I said that isn’t exactly what I meant.

  I said what about the tab?

  Old Dad Underwood was staring at the Old Washensachs brewery clock.

  He said where did you ever get that dang fool contraption?

  I said from a brewery.

  I said it’s a clock.

  Old Dad Underwood snorted.

  He said well I sure ain’t seen no clock.