Mick the Dick Ch. 01

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Adventures of a Private Detective.
2.8k words
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47.8k
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Part 1 of the 39 part series

Updated 11/01/2022
Created 01/31/2005
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©2005 All Rights Reserved

This is my first attempt at a multi-part story, so be patient. As with all of my stories, they are "based", loosely or otherwise, on true stories. They are not necessarily based on my life, so base your criticism accordingly.

I will be bringing you a new chapter every couple weeks, just to keep you "hanging". I've put some time into this, and will continue to do so until finished. I hope you enjoy it.

Chapter One

It's a dangerous but fulfilling job, most of the time. Oh, let me introduce myself. My name is Pheury, that's pronounced Fury, Mick Pheury, Private Detective. I was a "big city" cop for almost ten years, but couldn't stand working for bigger assholes than the ones I was locking up. So I decided to go to work for an even bigger asshole, me.

Detective work really isn't as hard as Hollywood makes it seem. I'd be lying to you if I didn't say it can be dangerous; husbands whose wives are paying you to find their spouse cheating, embezzlers who don't want the chairman of the board to find out where all of his money is going, missing people who don't want to be found, and even the cops who don't want you to find out that they goofed up one of their investigations. I've been shot at more times as a private dick than I ever was as a cop. But I'd also be lying if I told you I didn't like my job. No! Let me rephrase that; I love my job.

The big difference in being a cop versus a private detective is that the private detective can't just call for help over the radio. If you get yourself into a jackpot, you better be able to get yourself out. Being a private detective is like being an artist, it takes talent. Of course, I've seen some pretty bad art that made the artist a lot of money. And just like an artist, the money isn't all bad. That is when it's coming in. You've heard the old adage, "starving artist"? Well there's a lot of starving P.I.s too.

Luckily, I do alright. I mean, there's no "esquire" at the end of my name, but I get the bills paid on time. If you work hard, there is a lot of money out there to be made. As a cop, there were days I'd be bored out of my mind and then there were those I thought would never end. You depend on the assholes, both in and out of the police department to tell you what to do and when. As a private detective, I get to pick and choose what cases I take.

No, I don't drive around in a red Ferrari. I have a plain old red sport utility. What make, you ask? Hah! That's privileged information. You never know when I might be watching you. Why red, you ask? Because if I used a black, blue, or white one everybody would know it was a cop. Scientifically, red is neutral to the human eye. Ever wonder why "infra-red" light is invisible? If you believe some studies, that's why red cars are involved in more accidents than other colored cars. Yeah, it has the dark tinted windows, not to look bad, but just so that people can't see that I'm watching them. Supposedly, it takes your brain a few more microseconds to distinguish a red car from others. It's those microseconds that may help prevent me from getting hurt.

For a while, I didn't want to mess with the domestic related crap. I had enough of that when I was a cop. Husbands and wives beating up on each other and then beating up on you when you got there wasn't my idea of a good time. When a husband or wife, or as more often the case their attorney, would want to hire me to follow the other half around, I would professionally tell them to find someone else. But then, when I started to get a little hungry I started taking on more and more of these cases. That was when I realized how much fun they could be. Where else can you actually get paid to be a peeping Tom? And I've done a pretty good job over the last 15 years I've been doing this.

I know what you're thinking, in actuality very few cases end up having a husband or wife cheating on their spouse. Most of the time, the spouse, usually the husband, neglects their other half (Notice I didn't say "better" half.) to the point that the spouse goes out and finds something, anything to do, not necessarily cheating. It amazes me… (Come to think of it, no it doesn't.) the number of husbands and wives that fake having affairs just to piss-off one another. And, although these are fun to find out about, the real cheaters are the cases that are much more challenging.

I used to think drug dealers were sneaky. The sneakiest people in the world are those who cheat on their spouses. Think about this for a minute. You're a wife who feels neglected by your husband. You need to feel wanted, desired. You want to get your brains fucked out. But you also know your husband will kill you if you get caught. Husbands are just as afraid of being caught but for a different reason… money! If the old lady catches them, they file for divorce, get the cars, the house, custody of the kids, child support, alimony, half your pension, all in all a fate worse than death. With all of that in mind, wouldn't you be sneaky too? You're damned right you would!

I guess you could say I'm a converted bachelor. My ex-wife convinced me to be a bachelor back when I was on the police department. Come to think of it, that bitch was pretty sneaky too. She was fucking around on me for almost a year before I picked up on it. "You're never home." "You're always at work." "You're always out with the boys." "That shift work." "I can't take the danger of your job anymore." You name it, she used it. Or at least tried to. Funny thing was she was fucking a fireman; a married fireman. And she said I lived dangerously. Phew! Since when don't firemen have dangerous jobs and shift work? The one person sneakier than her was that fireman. After I divorced her and his wife divorced him it came out he was gay. Hee hee hee!!! What's the old adage about he who laughs last…? Luckily, we never had kids. I guess I was never home long enough to have any, at least according to her.

Tuesday, two weeks ago, I was sitting in my plush high rise office reading the morning paper, enjoying my bagel and cup of coffee. Okay, so it's not so plush. It's not even a high rise. To be honest, I enjoy the classic private detective offices in the movies of the 40's and 50's; a two room "suite" on the second floor of a three story storefront in what used to be considered a shopping district. The front door has a frosted window with the private detective's name emblazoned across it in gold leaf.

The truth of the matter is that this is the only dump I can afford, but being I don't want to spoil it for you crime story buffs out there, let's stick with the "film noire" atmosphere. From a more practical standpoint, why spend more on rent for an office I spend so little time in? I have all of the various diplomas, citations, awards, and newspaper articles about me framed and hanging on the walls. It actually looks more like a cheap lawyer's office than a private detective's with the bookcases of all of the law books and junk on them. Believe it or not, I'm actually pretty good at what I do. I've read a whole lot about the law. I'd probably go back to law school and become a lawyer if I wanted to lower my standards and morals to become one. Besides, I probably wouldn't make a real good lawyer because I know who my father was.

My secretary, Carla, is this cute, auburn haired, 23 year old. At least this week her hair's auburn. She is really good at taking messages and typing. She's pretty good at other things too, but we'll get into that later. She's worked for me since she was 19, working her way through college at the local university. She was so good I decided to keep her on full time after she graduated 2 years ago. She actually has developed quite a talent as an investigator.

Carla paged me on my high-tech, interoffice paging system, in other words she yelled to me that a Mrs. Armacost was on line one. I only have one line, but it does have call waiting.

"Mick Pheury, can I help you?", I asked in my most professional tone of voice.

"Mr. Pheury, this is Teresa Armacost." She paused as if waiting for a response.

"Yes Mrs. Armacost, what can I do for you?"

"I'm sure you know the name.", she said in an obnoxious manner.

"Theeee Mrs. Armacost? Wife of Benjamin Armacost, the attorney?"

"Yes, Mr. Pheury. That's the one. I'd like to hire your services. Can we meet somewhere?"

"Of course, Mrs. Armacost. How about here at my office?"

"No, Mr. Pheury. Someplace more public. I'd rather not be seen going in or out of your office."

Bitch, there's nothing wrong with my office. "Where and when?"

"Would your schedule permit us to meet at noon today? I know this is a little short notice, but I assure you it is of the utmost importance."

Utmost importance she said. "Well, Mrs. Armacost, let me check my schedule. I know I have a couple of appointments."

"Mr. Pheury, I guarantee, I will make it well worth your while to cancel whatever you have pending to meet with me."

Well worth my while? That usually means more money. "Okay, Mrs. Armacost. Hold on one minute."

I pressed the hold button on my phone. "Carla! Am I free this afternoon?

"Yes, Mick. Your entire afternoon is free.", Carla replied.

"Mrs. Armacost? I can reschedule my eleven o'clock appointment but I do have an important appointment at one. Can we make it around eleven?"

"Of course. Of course. I hate asking you to cancel an appointment for me, but it is very important."

"Anything for you Mrs. Armacost. Where would you like to meet, your home?"

"Oh no! Not my home!", she was most insistent. "Can we make it at that little pub down by the waterfront?"

"Murphy's?", I asked for confirmation.

"Yes. I believe that's the place."

"Murphy's at eleven. I'll see you then."

"Until then. Oh! And Mr. Pheury? I would appreciate total confidentiality."

"But of course, Mrs. Jones, I'll see you then."

"Mrs. Jones??? Oh, yes. I got it. I'll see you at eleven."

I hung up the phone. What could Teresa Armacost want with me? I know I'm good. I know I have a good reputation. But Teresa Armacost could buy and sell me several times over. She made it sound so important. I finished the last little piece of my bagel. I stood up from my desk, brushed the crumbs off the front of my shirt, (Hey, mice need to eat too.) and walked over to the doorway separating my office from the outer office. "What do you know about the Armacosts?", I asked as Carla turned towards me in her chair.

"The Armacosts? Benjamin Armacost? He is one of the biggest name attorneys in the state. He's run for Mayor a couple of times, unsuccessfully. He owns a couple of office buildings and apartments. What else do you want to know?" Carla began typing on her computer.

"What about Mrs. Armacost?"

"Teresa Armacost… Oh! Is that who that was? She's loaded. Her father, Bernie Stone, was a lawyer, a big, big lawyer. He left her a fortune when he died a few years ago. She married Armacost around 25 years ago. They have two kids, a son and a daughter, I believe. Both of them are in college."

"Are they happily married?"

Carla thought for a minute. "I'm not sure boss. I'll check around a little for you."

"Okay shweetheart," I said with a Bogart shtick, "but keep it inconspicuous."

"Always!", Carla replied in a most serious tone as she placed her index finger to her lips."

I walked back into my office and sat behind my desk. It was 9:30. I called Murphy's. Little did Mrs. Armacost know, but Murphy's was one of my favorite hangouts. I reserved my favorite booth; in the back, in the corner, in the dark, and asked if my favorite waitress, Sylvia, could wait on me. Being I spend a lot of money in the joint, "Murph", the owner, was more than willing to oblige.

I finished reading the paper as I drank my third cup of coffee of the morning. I was having a hard time concentrating on the various stories of the day, still wondering what Mrs. Armacost wanted with me.

Around ten, I walked down to the corner barber shop to get a trim. The shop was empty except for Phil. The door chimes greeted me with a "jingle jingle" as I entered.

"Mick! How the hell are you? Where you been? How the Private Eye business?"

I slipped my brown sport coat off and hung it on the rack just inside the door. My trusty .45 that I never go anywhere without was tucked away in its holster on my right side. Phil knew I carried it, as well as just about everybody else who knew me, so it wasn't an issue with having it exposed while in his shop.

"I'm okay. I've been around. Just been a little busy. Just trim it up a bit, Phil."

"You got it." Phil wrapped the bib around my neck and sprayed my hair with water. "Any exciting cases lately, Mr. Private Dick?"

"Well, you know something Phil, it's just another day in paradise." Then it dawned on me, everybody talks to their barber. "Phil, can I confide in you?"

"Why of course you can, Mick."

"What do you know about Benjamin and Teresa Armacost?"

"Whoa! That's a hot topic. What? You got a case involving them?"

Now let me tell you about Phil. I've known him for at least 10 years. If you tell him to keep his trap shut, he keeps it shut. "Well, I don't know yet. The Mrs. called me this morning and wants to get together for a little meeting."

"Bernie Stone's little girl? Wow, Mick. That is one hot piece of ass. Have you ever seen her?"

"Only at a distance and on TV."

"Yes sir-reee! She is one hell of a looker… for her age, naturally. Not like that secretary of yours, but very nice in her own respect."

"Anything in the wind about why she might want to hire the best P.I. around for something?"

Phil chuckled, "The best? I don't know about the best, but I don't know why she'd hire you either."

"Fuck you!", I said with a laugh, "You little prick!"

"You know. You shouldn't say that to the guy cutting your hair. Besides, how would you know how big my dick is?"

"Your wife told me the last time I was with her."

"Oh, so that's who's shoes were under the bed. Thanks, they fit great."

I slid my pants leg up a little and pointed at my cowboy boots. "Sorry Phil, must have been another one of her lovers' shoes, I wear these. And I know your dogs would be too small for these." We both laughed even harder. "Bitch! I knew somebody must have been getting it. She's always too tired for me."

"Speaking of the topic in hand. Seriously, have you heard anything?"

"Nope. Not really. I haven't read anything in the paper. Why? You suspicious?"

"Yeah, you know me Phil. I'm suspicious about everything."

"Look, find out what she wants first, then get suspicious."

"That's a good point. It might not be anything. But she made it sound so important."

"That's the way rich bitches are. She might have broken a fingernail and want you to find a nice replacement."

"But, then again…"

"Yeah. She probably lost something."

Phil finished trimming my hair and I paid him. I slipped my sport coat back on and left. The same "jingle jingle" on the door chimes said goodbye as I closed the door. Maybe Phil was right. This might just be a find the missing diamond caper. No, I don't believe that either.

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