The Boots Are Red
The Boots Are Red is the first book in the Cigars and Legs series.
Description
Ron Cavanaugh flew a fighter over Korea, at one point taking shrapnel, and then spent time recovering in England. He thought coming home, a home he left in anger before joining the Air Force, would be a break from the violence. Until he found out that his mentor, a grizzled, cynical old gumshoe named Kate Nass, had been murdered. There were no answers forthcoming from the residents of the small town, or their police. Ron began looking for answers on his own.
What he discovered was more than he expected. A criminal conspiracy, running deep and with deeper pockets. Drugs, weapons, and sex -- all for sale, all under the table, and all at the expense of the innocent citizens of Escagoula Point. And all protected from on high.
Audrey Carmen, his leggy love interest, served as an interesting distraction... or did she?
The first book in the Cigars and Legs series, The Boots Are Red introduces Ron, his companions, his city, and his enemies. Set in the 1950s, Ron has to deal with the limitations of technology as he persues anwers, and he has to deal with a police force governed by a man distrustful of him and with no interest in solving the Kate Nass Murder.
Ron also has to deal with himself: his feelings for Audrey, and his frustration at the progress and process involved in bringing the conspiracy down and the conspirators to justice.
Sample Chapter
(Note: This is unedited; an edited version appears in the Kindle version. Notably, with grammatical errors fixed.)
Stepping off the boat and onto the land of the free was a feeling like none other. I hadn't been home in almost six years. It wasn't that I didn't love my country or that it didn't love me -- it just happened that way. But that spring morning in January of 1954 was one of the happiest moments in my life. I leaned on the cane, more than I probably had to, as I watched men unload the crates from the ship. One of them was mine, and it held my belongings, and my pride and joy. A Norton Big Four, the two wheeled companion I'd driven up and down England for the last three months. Everything else I owned had to fit on that bike, which meant it had to fit on my back. The remainder of my belongings I sold, gave away, or mailed home.
While the dock hands worked their way toward my crate, I leaned against a wall and had a smoke. It was kind of chilly for this time of year, and the warmth of my cigarette was comforting. If the port of New Orleans had been busy when I was a kid I was without words for what was going on today. I'd be glad to get home, a little town an hour away in Mississippi that wanted to be the next New Orleans. See my parents, my brother, my friends. I'd show Kate my battle scars and my Norton, though he'd probably have to go one better than any stories I had.
I know what you're thinking -- Kate's not a man's name. Turns out Kate's mother was just the first in a long line of women to dislike him, so she saddled him with the name Kate. His name fit, though, because Kate Nass was one of a kind. He was an old cuss while still in diapers, probably the single meanest man to serve in the first War to End All Wars. Kate joked that Hitler shot himself because he was heading to Europe. People who knew Kate weren't so sure it wasn't true. Between serving his country -- and he had to do some serious string-pulling to get his fat, old ass headed to Europe the second time -- he'd been a private detective. In that career he made just as many enemies of his clients as the people he was hired to go after.
I often asked him why he did it. Not just the job, but the unnecessary stuff on the side. "Dames and smokes," was his answer. Men in that job often get asked why they do it. Is it for the peeping? Do they hate people, or just men, or just women? The last question depends on who they're working for (and against) at the time. Kate's bread and butter were suspicious husbands and wives. He did it because he enjoyed the peeping. He was a scumbag like that, but he was good at his job. You've got to picture Kate to get the full picture. Slightly short, portly guy with a walrus mustache. Horseshoe baldness, hair unkempt most of the time. His hair started falling out in his teens, and he figured God must be a woman too, and hate him.
People said he had a funny limp -- guess I've got one now -- and a funnier face, cragged with pits. He always had a stogie, either hanging from his mouth or in his hands. If he wasn't on the job, he had a glass of cheap whiskey, and if he was on it, he had a glass of expensive whiskey. He wandered around, seeing everything with his nearly black eyes. Dishevelled, drunk a lot, wearing a steel-blue suit with a red and black tie and sweat-stained undershirts. He'd wander around in circles in his office, talking to himself, waggling his cigar at an invisible suspect. Often in the background he had a record playing, hissing and spitting, the only thing in the office he took care of. The office was as messy as Kate. Papers stacked, most of the stacks topped with page covered in coffee stains. He had rats because he wasn't a good enough shot to kill them with a handgun.
One thing about Kate, though, was that he hated everyone the same. I never once heard him call someone a racial slur -- no niggers or spics, darkies or gooks. They were all the same to Kate -- "assholes." He even referred to his clients as assholes when they weren't in earshot, unless they hadn't paid. The only exception to the rule of assholes were women, who were always "dames." That is, unless she'd recently slapped Kate or turned down his obscene offers or suggestions, then she was a "bitch." Most women eventually became bitches to Kate because eventually, most women decided to slap Kate. He wasn't all bad, not the way it sounds, he was just neck deep in the worst of people for most of his life. The only people he spoke glowingly of were his war buddies and my father and grandfather. Pretty much everyone else he knew had at some point been either a client or a victim.
Except Chester "Chet" Mason. He and Kate got in a bar fight in the thirties and Kate run Chet's bell with a beer bottle. Chet was never right after that, it made him slow and simple. Kate regretted it, as he and Chet were friends before that. He always saw to it that Chet was all right, despite Chet not really needing it. He was still good at fixing things, and despite how he was operated a decently successful mechanic shop. It was almost like the blow to the head focused his ability in that way.
Two dock hands came over to see if I owned one of the crates they'd unloaded. I indicated the one with "CAVENAUGH" stenciled across it and offered them some change to get it open. One of them noticed my jacket.
"You a pilot?" He asked.
"Not anymore," I said, throwing my cigarette to the ground and twisting my foot on it.
"Open the man's crate," the questioner asked.
When it was ready, I was on my bike and away. Once I cleared New Orleans, the drive back was mostly trees, and more trees. But the day was clear and sunny, so it was remarkably pleasant. Back in town, not much had changed. There was more to town as the businessmen fought hard to bring the town up, to make it the Mississippi version of New Orleans. They couldn't get a foothold over the border so they wanted their own little metropolis to play power games in.
I stopped at the Quickstop to top off my tank. I recognized a friend getting into his car as the boy out front put gas in his ridiculously nice car, so when I got off my bike I stepped up to the passenger side and let myself it. Murphy looked at me like he was about to pound my face in until he recognized me. Then he laughed, surprisingly relieved.
"What, Murph, you owe money to the wrong guys -- again?" I asked.
"Ron, you fink, when did you get back in town?"
"Just now," I said. "What kind of car is this boat?"
"Wow, Ron, when did you get back in the country? This is a Chevrolet Bel Air. It's only the --"
I interrupted him by holding a hand up. "I don't want to hear about how great your car is, Stretch. If I let you start that you'll be talking about it until the Second Coming. I remember how long you talked about your bicycle in third grade."
He laughed again, and I noticed a suspicious band of gold on his finger. "When'd Stretch Dwyer get hitched?" I asked.
He looked remarkably guilty. "Aw, Ron, I wanted you to be my best man, but you were gone and we just..."
"She wouldn't put out without a ring, huh? So who is the unlucky lady?"
He focused on my bike. "That's a nice ride, Ron."
"Who is it?" I pressed.
"Ron, you were gone for six years. We barely heard from you, you weren't... Don't punch me in the face. Lynn and I got married."
I almost punched him in the face. How could he marry *my* girl? I sighed and shook my head. No, she wasn't mine anymore, and hadn't been since before I left. At least I knew she ended up with a decent guy instead of the losers most of her friends fawned over.
"No, Murphy, it's all right. She and I split it off before college, I didn't really expect her to wait for me to straighten my head out."
"Things have changed, Ron. The town is growing, bit by bit. Even slow Chet now runs a trucking service. While you were off trying to conquer the world..."
"Hey mister, is this your bike?" The boy asked.
"Yeah," I said. "Fill 'er up?"
"Sure thing!"
"So while I was out shooting at commies, the town grew and you moved in on my girl," I said. "Relax, Murph, I'm kidding."
"Did you see a lot of action?"
"Not while I was wearing my uniform!" I waited, and waited, and finally Murphy got the joke. And he called Chet slow. "Not until the end, not really. My last flight, I took some shrapnel to the knee. Plane barely landed in one piece. It was like courting a girl for months just to get five minutes of second base."
"What'd you fly? You never told us."
"The Shooting Star, F-80C. I was with the 49th Fighter Wing, but like I said, I didn't do a lot of flying in combat zones. Don't get me wrong, I'd like to come back here and pretend I did all the flying and saved the world. I shot some guys down and blew up some ground targets, but Sunon was the most action I saw, and it was over pretty fast for me."
"How's the knee?"
"It'll heal more, they said. I spent about six months at a Royal Air Force station called Molesworth watching paint dry. Do you know how hard it is to go from flying a jet to piloting a wheelchair around a hospital full of Brits?"
"Why didn't they bring you back home?"
"There was some talk about some joint training mess with England, but by the time I was out of the hospital my service was up, and my knee wasn't in good enough shape for me to fly."
I paid and tipped the kid and got out of Murphy's car. "See you around, Murph. Tell Lynn I said hi, maybe we can get together some time."
I watched my friend drive off into the distance. It was weird being home, seeing people. He was right about me not writing or really being reachable. I didn't want to be. I was a punk kid, mad at the town and the world, then I was a hot shot pilot flying so fast I felt like nothing could catch me, nothing could touch me. Until it did. The cool breeze made my knee ache. Now I couldn't run, and they wouldn't let me fly. I slipped the kickstand into the upright position and took off down the road with the wind in my hair. I may not be able to fly but I could certainly drive.
Despite my misplaced anger at an entire town, I had to admit, it was nice being home and hearing familiar accents. My parents were happy to see me, ecstatic even. We had a good dinner, and I brought them up to speed on the better parts of my time away. After dinner, dad and I went into his study to have a smoke. He handed me a fine, hand-made cigar. I rolled it in my hands as he held the lighter up, puffing just enough to get the tip lit. We sat, and he poured some scotch.
"In the morning I'm going to go see Kate," I said.
He froze, his hand reaching for one of the scotch glasses. "Son, I... didn't you read my letter? Kate was killed three months ago."
This time it was my turn to freeze. An ill feeling washed over me, and I felt simultaneously sick and angry. The word "killed" echoed in my mind. It wasn't the most surprising way for my old friend to have died, but I still hadn't expected it. I downed the offered scotch and puffed at my cigar. Dread and an enormous weight on my shoulders were fighting with the anger and the alcohol.
"Who did it? Why?" I asked.
"We don't know."
I blew a single smoke ring and watched it dissipate. Now I had to hurt some people. For Kate to be murdered, and no one to find the person or persons responsible? That couldn't stand. There were things I'd have to figure out in the mean time. Where to start? Kate had enough enemies to take me a life time to sort through. But someone actually going so far as to kill him? I leaned back in the chair. It wouldn't be some jilted woman, angry because of the truth of the photographs presented to her by Kate, or even an angry husband. But what about the people in the photographs? Was being exposed enough?
He'd certainly broken enough marriages up with his camera in the triangle between Houston, Jackson, and Mobile. But most of those people wouldn't have known which private detective did the picture taking. Kate didn't run the only scummy office in the Deep South, and unless there'd been a string of dead men like Kate... Where would I start?
"What happened to his office?" I asked.
"That was in the letter, too. He owned that building, and he left it to you and me. I haven't been in his office or apartment, except to watch and be sure the cops didn't mess anything up when they were searching for clues. I don't have any use for it, I figured I'd wait to hear what you wanted to do."
I nodded. "I think tomorrow I'll start going through it, looking to see what Kate was up to."
"Son..."
"Are you going to pay me to fly?" I asked.
"What?"
"I can fly, I can shoot, or I can be an engineer, dad. There's not an airport here, I'm not going to be a cop, and what can I engineer in town? For now, until I decide what to do next, I think I'm going to try and figure out what Kate was up to. Maybe some people owed him money, and weren't keen on paying..."
"There's an airstrip now," dad said.
"What?"
"You said there wasn't an airport. There's an air strip now."
I just nodded. Somehow flying a crop duster didn't appeal to me just now. No, now I pictured myself in a steel blue suit with a red and black tie, figuring out who murdered my friend and offering them some lead-coated attitude adjustment. I shook my head and leaned back, puffing on the cigar some more. It was certainly a fine smoke.
"So, Lynn and Murphy," I said. "Who knew?"
Dad laughed and filled my glass again. We spent the better part of the evening catching up, including a more detailed explanation of the damage to my right knee. The unpleasantness I kept from dinner was allowed to seep out. Dad understood; he'd been shot in Europe by a German sniper and barely made it. At the end of the night I set the nub of my cigar in his ashtray and requested that he leave me the key to Kate's office and apartment. He agreed, and I made my way to my old room.
It was surprisingly the same as it had been. Somehow Mom had resisted taking down the scantily clad pin up girl that I'd tacked up as a teen. My old radio sat right next to the window, the place where it got the best reception from the tower. My bed had been made recently -- probably while I was in the study. I tore my shoes off and collapsed on the bed, but it took a while to sleep. The thought of Kate being murdered kept me up for a good long while, and in my mind I mentally played over scenarios for how I could help bring his murderer to justice.
When I came back to town I wasn't really sure what I would do, but now I knew with certainty what I had to do.
Characters Appearing in the Story
Oh boy.
Well, on the likeable side:
Ron Cavanaugh, Audrey Carmen, Wilson Fuller, Stretch Dwyer, Lynn Dwyer, Winston Cavanaugh, Haley, Robert Donnelly, Chet Mason... and so on and so forth.
On the at least somewhat unlikable side:
The Dunno Brothers, Boyd Boatman, Chris Martin, most of the police, including: Officer Walker, and notably Phil Brousard. (Although personally, Brousard is one of my favorite assholes to write.) Also various flunkeys, most of whom don't survive.
Kate Nass was unavailable for filming.
