Wading Into War: A Benjamin Wade Mystery (7 page)

I
didn’t want to go home. I wouldn’t sleep
anyway. Sleep would come eventually, but not now. I ended up back at the
Post
building. I went up to Gardner’s floor and looked for him at his usual desk. He
wasn’t there, and some of his knick knacks were missing.

“Over here.”

I looked up and saw Gardner by the window. I went over, spreading my
hands out in a question.

“I decided to leverage my vow of silence and get myself a window desk,”
Gardner said.

 “You blackmailed your own boss?”

“The word is ‘leverage,’ Wade. Learn it. Might do you some good.”

“Whose desk was it?”

“Terry’s, but he’s close to retirement anyway. Johnny Flynn and I were
angling for this spot. I just had the clout to make it mine.”

“By blackmailing your boss,” I joked. His typewriter was empty of paper.
Beside him were two or three drafts of the story. “You done writing?”

“Yes.” He rubbed his eyes.

I sat in the chair next to him and plopped my hat on the next desk. I put
my head in my hands. “I hate knowing that guys like Dietrich are out there in
our city doing the things they’re doing. It’s going to make me question every
murder in this town from now on. Who’s to say it isn’t just another cover-up?”

“You think you got it bad. At least you didn’t read what Rosenblatt
discovered.” He slipped a cigarette between his lips and put fire to it. He
leaned back in his chair and put his feet on his desk. It was the posture he
used when he was about to pontificate. I didn’t want to hear it, but I owed it
to him to listen.

The phone on his desk rang. “It’s probably the copy room with the draft.”
He picked up the receiver and spoke. He listened, and then the cigarette fell
from his lips. It flipped over and over in the air, landing partly on his leg
and then on the floor. He stamped it out with the heel of his shoe. Looking at
me with a blank expression, he held the phone out to me. “It’s for you.”

With shaking hands, I picked up the receiver. “Hello?”

“You need to make sure Mr. Gardner doesn’t talk about what he learned,” a
woman’s voice said. Lillian Saxton’s voice.

“How did you know he was...?”

“I can read people. His body language indicated he was about to tell a
story. The only story worth telling is what happened tonight.”

I looked around the room. It was large, with a few offices on the
perimeter. No one sat at the desks. That left only one other way she knew this.
I gazed out the window, peering into the night. There were a few buildings near
us, but one in particular caught my attention.

The building that met my gaze had four rooms still lit by lights at this
time of night. But only one had a shadow at the window. “You’re still in the
Rice Hotel. But in a different room.” I sighed. “Why’d you leave?”

“I told you. I have a new assignment.”

“So,” I said, looking at Gordon, “you really are a spy.”

“I am.”

“And that story about your brother?”

“Real.” She grew silent. “Did you or your reporter friend actually find
out the truth about Samuel?”

I nodded, then remembered she might not be able to see it. “Yes.”

“Tell me.”

I did. When she started softly sobbing, I wanted to hold her, comfort
her. I had counted the floors and pinpointed her room, but it was clear she
didn’t want me there.

“Thank you,” she said, sniffling a little. “At least I know now.”

“What are you going to do next?”

“I can’t tell you,” she said, some frivolity returning to her voice.
“It’s top secret.” She paused. “But we might meet again. You did good, Wade.
You found what others couldn’t. It’s just too bad you can’t use it. You never
know: when we go to war, we might use someone with your talents.”

I sighed. “Not you, too. Everyone seems to think we’ll eventually get
into this war. What if we don’t?”

“Mr. Wade, I’m much more worried about that scenario than the one in
which we do get into it. At least if we’re in it, we can shape the world once
we win.”

“You sound pretty confident about winning a war we’re not even in yet.”

“I have to be because the alternative is something too dire to think
about. Good night, Mr. Wade. Get some rest. You look horrible.” She hung up.

I gave the phone back to Gardner.

“Where is she?” he said.

I pointed at the Rice Hotel. “Seventeenth floor.”

Gardner whistled softly. “She’s good.”

“Yep, she is that.”

A door banged open and a copy boy ran to us. He slapped down the morning
edition. We all read it. Splashed across the top was the lead headline, “Local
Police Foil Bank Robbery.”

Not without pride, Gardner pointed to his by-line. “First time on the
front page.”

I clapped him on the back. “Good job, Gordon, good job.” I scanned the
rest of the page. There was a recap of the latest events in Europe. The
Germans, it seemed, were on the verge of something and the French were getting
ready for it. Over in the Pacific, the Japanese were already in China. Heaven
help us all if they decided to team up.

War, I thought. On both sides of us, and we’re in the middle. In my
mind’s eye, I pictured a world map, putting all the warring countries in red
and the United States in blue. There was so much red throughout the world, and
so little blue.

Maybe Lillian Saxton and Donnelly were right. Maybe war was coming. Hell,
a part of it had already dropped here in Houston. Did that mean we had already
waded into war?

A part of me thought so.

“Come on, Mr. Front Page Man,” I said to Gardner, “let’s get some
breakfast. I got paid today. It’s my treat.”

This
is a very big occasion for me, your
humble author. What you hold in your hands is my debut book, my first-born if
you will. I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing.

The writing of this book has a long gestation period. Way back in 2005, a
friend of mine asked me if I would read chapters from the book he was writing.
Without fully thinking, I replied with something along the lines of “Sure, if
you read mine.” The problem was that I didn’t have a book but I started writing
one. Nearly a year later, I wrote The End on that book. I did all the things
you were supposed to do in the pre-ebook era: I queried multiple agents, found
one, but, ultimately, that novel went nowhere.

Not coincidentally, my writing went nowhere as well. I started and
stopped other books multiple times but to no avail. This non-writing went on
for six years. In that span, I began blogging regularly and met lots of great
people online. The enjoyment of blogging intoxicated me and it filled the
need-to-write void quite well, but there was no next completed novel.

Ideas always came to me. Some of them stayed with me, some vanished into
the ether of my imagination. One that insinuated itself pretty firmly was the
image of a man, dressed in a suit, knocking on a door and then bullets being
fired at him through the door. I liked that image and started to wonder who the
man was and why would someone shoot at him.

Wading Into War is the answer. Back in May 2013, I decided that I was
going to write a story about that unnamed man and just get a longer story
completed. Soon thereafter, I had written The End for the second time. In many
ways, the Second The End was the hardest.

Now, I had a finished manuscript. What next? Well, here’s where all the
thank-yous start.

In my time blogging, I have connected with dozens of fellow writers, each
one sharing the same passion for writing and reading that I do. One of the more
inspirational and prolific authors is James Reasoner. I can’t recall exactly
how he first came to my attention but my gut tells me it was probably when I
started reviewing books for Patti Abbott’s Forgotten Books blog series.
Nonetheless, James and I connected and, through comments on blogs and direct
emails, have come to understand that we enjoyed many of the same types of
books. I sent him the story to get his take. He did something that directly led
to the book you now hold in your hands. First, he enjoyed the story, a huge
relief to me. Second, he said I ought to publish the then-unnamed story myself
and, if I didn’t want to do that, he would be happy to publish the tale under
Rough Edges Press, the imprint he runs with his wife, Livia. Little did he know
then that the seed of independent publishing and the creation of Quadrant
Fiction Studio had been sowed with those words. So, a hearty and heartfelt
thank you to James for agreeing to read a story that, to be honest, was seven
years in the making and liking it enough to encourage a bourgeoning writer to
continue.

Once the decision to publish was made, the next step was editing. While I
knew some editors, I wanted to ensure that Wading Into War received editing
from someone I didn’t know. I wanted the cold, hard, and honest truth. A fellow
writer friend of mine, Dawn Greenfield Ireland, highly recommended the editor
she uses. I contacted Anna Marie Flusche via email and telephone and she agreed
to read the story. We didn’t meet until she returned her verdict. She made the
story much better and caught errors I had overlooked, but any issues with the
final draft are all mine. So, thank you Dawn for the recommendation and thank
you Anna Marie for doing such a splendid editing job.

It’s a fact: people judge a book by its cover. This was going to be my
first book published so I needed a cover of which I could be proud. I contacted
a former co-worker, Ike Eichenlaub, to see if he would be interested in
creating a book cover. Above all else, I wanted a cover that featured art, just
like the old-school novels I enjoy so much. Ike matched my vision. He took
cobbled together pencil drawings and emails filled with “I’d like for it to
look like all of these attached images” and created this wonderful cover. I
often identify authors with the first book of theirs I read. Thinking that
might apply to me, I wanted an awesome cover. I got it. Thanks, Ike, for making
the image I saw in my head a reality.

All of this, up to now, covers the nuts and bolts aspect of getting this
book written. Here’s the emotional part. I can never fully thank my parents
enough for the love, devotion, and encouragement they have always given me.
Even as a child, they let me know that I could do anything I put my mind to.
Well, I finally put my mind to publishing a book. It wasn’t the shortest or
easiest path, but it was a path cleared by my parents. Mom and Dad, I hope you
understand how important y’all are to me.

Finally, my wife and son. They are the ones who have to live with me
every day when I’m getting up before dawn to write or when I have to sequester
myself in my office to complete something. I try my best to keep the home life
and writing life equal, but there are times when the writing part edges into
the home part. Thank y’all both for your love and understanding. I couldn’t do
it without y’all and, ultimately, it’s for y’all I’m doing this.

ALL
CHICKENS MUST DIE: A Benjamin Wade Mystery

Benjamin Wade Returns!

May 1940, the last days of the Great
Depression, and private investigator Benjamin Wade isn’t exactly rolling in the
dough. He doesn’t even have a secretary. So he’s in the unenviable position of
taking any client that walks in his office.

Elmer Smith, a local farmer, has a problem: all
of his chickens are scheduled for slaughter. He’s desperate to save his
livelihood. He got a court injunction to slow the process, but time is running
out.

Instead of laughing Smith out the door, Wade suppresses
his pride to take the case. It seems like a simple, straight-forward paycheck.
He zeroes in on a central question: What really happened the night police
chased someone through Smith’s farm? Wade isn’t the only one asking that
question, but he could be the only one who might die for it.

Excerpt:

CHAPTER ONE

Do you know how embarrassing it is to be a
private eye without a secretary? It means that every potential client sees you
sitting in the outer office, typing your own reports and notes, and not in your
main office with your feet on the desk, whiling away a hot summer’s day looking
at the Houston skyline. It would also have meant that clients such as Elmer
Smith and his chicken problems would have been turned away and I never would
have learned that a secret society existed here in Houston that had, as its one
rule, the obligation to avenge any wrong done to any member, real or imagined.

Why I didn’t just type my reports in my own
office, I’ll never know. I think, honestly, I wanted to convey the impression
that I did, indeed, have a secretary. I didn’t have one—yet—but I was actively
looking for one. I had placed a classified ad in all the local papers and I had
been interviewing many of the candidates over a few weeks. I found the decision
to be extraordinarily difficult. I wanted the perfect combination of beauty and
ability. To date, that type of woman hadn’t walked in my door.

That didn’t stop other types of women from
waltzing in and looking for a job. This was May 1940 and the effects of the
Depression still permeated the economy. It made me feel a little bad when I had
to turn away a few applicants because they were not quite the type I was
looking for. If you had put a gun to my head, I’d have admitted that the way a
woman looked was pretty important. I’m running a small business and the first
thing clients see is the secretary. She needs to be a knockout.

Martha Weber was sitting in the interview chair
when Mr. Smith rang the front bell. I’d faced men with guns, but for some
reason, that day I didn’t want to face a potential client without a secretary.

“You want to make five bucks?” I said.

Martha looked at me with wariness. “What do I
have to do?”

“Pretend to be my secretary.”

She frowned. “So, I have the job?”

“No, but I’d like you to pretend to be my
secretary for that potential client out there.”

“Why don’t I have the job?”

I winced. That was an argument best discussed
among other men. Only they could understand the importance of an attractive
secretary for private-eye business. Martha had the typing skills in spades. But
her looks were on the homely side. She looked like she belonged in a school or
public library, not at the receptionist/typist for a private investigator firm.

“I have a few other applicants, and I need to
give them a chance, you know?”

“I’m a great typist. I can even do some field
work, if you need it. Did I tell you I’m pretty good with a gun?” She said the
last with a bit more emphasis than was necessary.

The doorbell rang again. Work wasn’t flowing as
I would have liked. I was in a dire position of having to take almost
everything that came through the door. I desperately didn’t want any potential
clients to leave.

I gave her a double take. “Double my offer. Ten
dollars.”

Martha looked at me sidelong. “You really got it?”

Sure, I just won’t get any gas for a week.
“I’ll get the client to make a down payment.”

“You’d better.” She rose from her chair. “I’ll
be right back, Mr. Wade.” She winked at me and sashayed out of my office.
Seeing her from behind, I had second thoughts about doing this. What if she
blew it?

Through the closed door, I heard soft murmuring
then Martha’s shape through the frosted glass door. Didn’t every private eye
have doors with frosted glass?

The door cracked and Martha stuck her head in.
“Mr. Wade, there are two gentlemen here to see you.”

Two gentlemen? I rarely got pairs of potential
clients. “Please send them in…” I paused and my eyes raced across my desk until
I found her file. “Miss Weber.”

She narrowed her eyes. I shrugged. I cinched up
my tie and sat up straighter in my chair.

The first man who walked in I didn’t recognize.
He wore, of all things, denim overalls. The hat he held in his hands looked
nicer than his entire wardrobe, his pressed shirt notwithstanding. I pegged him
for a farmer and quickly dreaded needing to take any job to pay the rent. I
wasn’t up for some sort of cow theft.

The second man, on the other hand, I knew. Burt
Haldeman was a lawyer, a shyster if you ask me. He was the kind of man who used
his size and bulk to get his way when his words failed him. Half the time,
that’s what happened. His tie only reached halfway down his gut. Not
flattering, but his looks were enough to land a semi-slob like me in Life
magazine.

I stood and came around my desk, extending my
hand to the lawyer. “Burt, how you doing? What brings you in my door?”

“Good to see you again, Wade,” Haldeman said.
“I see you landed on your feet after that little incident.”

I cleared my throat. “Sure did.” I pivoted and
introduced myself to the farmer.

He took my hand, his leathery, hard skin felt
like some sort of moving beef jerky. “Elmer Smith.” He was looking around,
clearly out of his element.

“Please, gentlemen, have a seat.” I indicated
the two chairs opposite my desk. To Martha, I said, “Thank you, Miss Weber.
That will be all.” She rubbed her thumb and index finger together in the
universal sign of money.

With their backs to her, Haldeman and Smith
were unable to see Martha. I smiled and nodded once, then gestured her out.

I sat and leaned my elbows on the desk. “What
brings you into my office?”

“Chickens,” Smith said.

I looked to Haldeman for confirmation. He
nodded in assent.

“Chickens,” I said. “I can’t say I’ve ever had
a case involving chickens.”

“Judging from how long you’ve been doing this
little job,” Haldeman said, “I’d have to agree with you. But, nonetheless, we
are here on account of chickens.” He reached into his suit and pulled out a
pack of cigarettes. He shook one out, put it between his lips, and lit up.
“Tell him, Elmer.”

The farmer cleared his throat. I got the
impression he wasn’t used to speaking in public. “Well, you see, Mr. Wade, the
agriculture man, the health inspector man, wants to condemn all my chickens and
kill’em all.”

I waited for additional details. Smith, his
mouth a thin line with almost no upper lip, sat there as if he had just spoken
a fact, like the color of the sky or the humidity level in town that day.
Turning to Haldeman, I raised my eyebrows. “Burt?”

Haldeman smiled. “It’s true. Mr. Smith’s entire
brood of chickens has been declared unsanitary by the health inspector. They’re
scheduled to be slaughtered in the next few days. I got Judge Briscoe to put a
temporary injunction on the slaughter, but we’re running outta time.”

“I’m still not seeing where I come in.”

Smith frowned. “Ain’t it obvious? I need you to
investigate that bastard inspector and figure out why he’s trying to kill my
livelihood.”

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