Category:  Mystery/Suspense Publisher: Deadly Niche Press ISBN-10:  1594142599 Type: Fiction Pages: 177 Copyright: Dec 2004 ISBN-13: 9780937660607 A tale of misplaced trust, betrayal, and greed, in which a dedicated family man tries to balance his home life with his increasingly dangerous career. Carll Jacobs, a Private Investigator, agrees to meet an informant, Jimmy  "The Blue" Jay - a man Carl Grew up with. Jimmy has been a guest in Carl's house, and is considered almost a member of the family by Carl's wife, Sherry, and their two young daughters. But apparently Jimmy has other friends.   As soon as Carl arrives, Jimmy starts shooting at him from a dark alley. Carl is wounded but returns fire, and Jimmy is killed. Now Carl has to find out why Jimmy tried to murder him. The solution to this puzzle becomes even more urgent when subsequent attempts are made on Carl's life. The answer he seeks lies somewhere withing the maze of a multi-million-dollar insurance fraud scheme perpetrated by an attorney and a chiropractor, and a lot of very greedy 'accident victims.' Some people prove ruthless when millions of dollars are at stake. And some men can be even more ruthless when their families are threatened. Excerpt I stood over him, my fingers clamped around the butt of the .45, shaking so badly I knew if I tried to holster the damn thing I'd drop it. The rain had almost stopped, but the runoff flowed over my shoes as it wased Jimmy's blood into a nearby sewer drain. I kept thinking of useless things, like CPR and dialing 911, all the time looking down at a hole in his forehead I could shove my thumb into. Jimmy was no gunman. As far as I knew he had never owned a gun in his life—maybe never fired one before tonight. If I had been able to see well enough in the dark to recognize who was shooting at me I might never have kkilled him. I walked to the mouth of the alley, wondering if anyone had called the cops. My ears were still ringing from the noise. It wouldn’t be the first time shots had gone unreported in the area. I was playing with the idea of just walking away, but it had been a justifiable shooting and I am licensed to carry the automatic. Besides, my arm was starting to hurt like hell. I was going to need a doctor. My cell phone, the little one that fits in your pocket so you’ll always have it with you, was still in my van. I started walking back down the street just as a squad car turned the corner, flashing red and blue lights mirrored in the wet pavement. Right there I could have become the late Carl Jacobs, because the Colt was still in my hand, and Tulsa cops answering a ‘shots fired’ call on a rainy Saturday night are in no mood to take chances. My luck held. Between them these two probably had thirty years experience. They didn’t jump out of the patrol car and shoot me. The driver stepped out slowly, crouched behind the door, and took command. “Drop the weapon. Now!” I thumbed on the safety, held my right foot out slightly,and dropped the automatic so that it hit my shoe before crashing into the concrete. His voice was calm and steady as he called out instructions to me. “Hands on top of your head, lace your fingers. Turn around, face away from me. Now back toward my voice, slowly. Stop there. Drop to your knees.” He didn’t threaten or explain what would happen if I didn’t do exactly what he said. The implication was in his voice. He was thorough and professional, and I had no doubt his partner was in a position to drop me if I made a wrong move. It was a little difficult for me to get down on my knees without using my hands. I managed, and found myself kneeling in a pool of cold rainwater which soaked through my slacks, sending goose bumps up my back. Of course, a few of those bumps, and the chill I was feeling, may have been the result of shock because of my wound. More than likely, it was just delayed fear. Until tonight I hadn’t been shot at in quite a long time. The driver was quiet as he approached me. I never knew he was there till I felt him grip my linked fingers firmly in his left hand. He holstered his pistol and slipped the cuffs first on my right wrist, which he forced down to the small of my back. When he twisted my left arm around to bring my wrists together, the pain in my shoulder grew more insistent. Before they allowed me to stand, he went through a search routine, squeezing pockets, waistband, ankles and wrists. Not patting, the way Joe Friday used to do it. Patting would have found my automatic if it had been stored away in the Milt Sparks waistband holster. Patting would not have found the slim little Italian switchblade knife I carry inside my shirt suspended from a string around my neck. It rides in the chest hollow below my tie. I’ve practiced using two fingers,reaching in between shirt buttons to pull it free. He managed without any practice, and his expression made clear his opinion of people who carried knives. At least he didn’t hit me. “Officer, my name is Carl Jacobs. I’m a licensed Private Investigator. I have a permit for the pistol. My identification and license are in the wallet.” “Yeah? You got a permit for the switchblade?” “It’s an antique, a collector’s item.” Lame, but it was the only excuse I could think of. “Used to be your mama’s, I guess. You flinched when I cuffed you, and you got blood on your overcoat. You hurt, or have you left a victim lying around somewhere?” “Both. I’ve got a bullet in my left arm, and there’s a DOA in the alley with four of my slugs in him.” He didn’t even look in that direction. He held my unopened wallet in his hands, waiting, keeping his eyes on me as the other officer picked up my automatic on his way to the alley. After a moment his partner called out, “It’s like the man says, Coop, there’s a stiff in here with a hole in his forehead and a .38 Special in his right hand.” “Call it in Doug. Get a crew down here. Mr. Jacobs, you are under arrest." He recited the Miranda without referring to the little card he no doubt had in a pocket somewhere, and after I admitted I understood my rights, he asked “Do you wish to give up these rights and answer my questions?” “Sure. I’ll pass on the attorney for now, but I could use a doctor.” He yelled at Doug to request an ambulance, then turned back to me, a little puzzled. “You’re the coolest bastard I’ve run into for a long time.” “I’m clean on this. It was an ambush. That’s Jimmy Jay in there. You know him?” “The Blue Jay? Sure. He’s a snitch, used to be on payroll to half the cops in the damn city. Lately his information is worth a little less than nothing. Nobody’s trusted him in months.” His tone implied I must have known about Jimmy’s declining reputation. “Nobody but me. Jimmy called me earlier this evening Said he had a name and address for me, a name I need in a case I’m working. I was supposed to pick him up on the corner. He was asking fifty bucks, enough to make me think he had something worthwhile. I arrived on time but he wasn’t anywhere in sight. Someone called to me from the aalley and I crossed over. He started shooting before I ever saw him, and I caught one in the shoulder.” “Why believe him? He’s been living on food stamps cause his sources dried up long ago.” “Jimmy and I grew up together. He’s … he was two years younger than me. I’ve been big all my life, he was always little and skinny. I had to pull his ass out of the fire about once a week when we were kids. He was grateful, and I could count on him to come through for me, at least till tonight.” “So, he was a friend. Why would he try to pop you?” he asked, with much skepticism. “I didn’t say he was a friend. As a kid he was helpless, it was like taking care of a pet. As a man he was a pain in the ass. He used people the way people use paper towels. I never knew him to even carry a gun, let alone use one. He had nothing against me personally, as far as I know, but if he was as bad off as you say, he would have sold me pretty cheap. He probably would have felt bad about it for a whole day or two.” “What went down here?” he said, aiming a thumb toward the dark alley. “I hate to admit it, but when I walked over here my overcoat was buttoned. He got off five rounds before I could get my automatic free. I fired four times; the last one caught him in the forehead. It’s a .45 caliber Colt, loaded with semijacketed hollow-points. The medical examiner should testify that after Jimmy took the first round or two in the chest he couldn’t blink an eyelid, let alone fire a revolver. That’ll show he fired first. They’ll bitch about overkill, me pulling off four rounds when one or two would have been enough, but what-the-hell, I was scared.” His partner called out from the squad car as sirens sounded in the distance. “He checks out, Coop. Valid ticket, good reputation downtown. He’s cooperated with the department on a couple of occasions, and the word is to give him the benefit of the doubt, as long as it looks like he’s being straight with us. But he’s not considered untouchable.” “Okay. Tape off the area before those clowns get here. Jacobs, the cuffs stay on till we take your statementdowntown and see how it reads. First we’ll get your arm treated, but you can plan on being in custody for the rest of the night. Understand?” “You got it,” I agreed, readily. He paused, staring intently at my face, then asked “What was your father’s name?” It was so unexpected it took a minute for me to respond. “His name was Carl Jacobs, too. Why?” “So, you’re Carl Junior?” “No. His middle name was William. Mine is Brandon. He always said he didn’t want me to grow up as a Junior. Did you know him?” “Yeah. I knew him. I remember hearing him mention you a few times. And two daughters, right?” I nodded. “I hear he died peacefully, in bed. That so?” “Yes. He died too young.” “The good ones always do.” He looked at his feet for a moment, then said “I won’t report the switchblade, but you don’t get it back. I’ve been stabbed twice. I hate knives, and I don’t like guys who carry them.” Three more squad cars arrived before the ambulance. By the time they finally transported me, still in police custody, my arm had gone from minor pain to major agony. At Riverside Hospital emergency room the bandaging was relegated to a bored, skinny intern with bad breath. There was one good-looking nurse on duty, but she was busy trying to chew gum without spilling her coffee. The intern insisted I take the shot of pain killer in the butt instead of my arm, which seemed a little silly to me, but by then I was light headed and I could have been wrong. I had been wrong about the bullet; it went all the way through. The exit wound wasn’t as bad as it might have been, but a lot of foreign matter from my coat had been driven into the wound. The intern warned me to watch for infection. He wanted to keep me overnight, but I talked him out of it. I think the nurse smiled at me as I was leaving, but she might have been looking at the cop leading me out. At the station house downtown they asked the same questions over and over again, then left me alone in an interrogation room with a cup of coffee, at which point they forgot all about me. The painkiller kicked in and I was asleep before the coffee was cold. A Homicide Detective I had met a year ago during the Hoskins nvestigation woke me up about an hour later. He said they were willing to call it self-defense unless further evidence indicated otherwise. I was free to leave. I flagged a taxi out front and gave the driver my home address on east 83rd Street. That meant I would be leaving my van at the scene of the shooting, but the painkiller still had me drowsy, and I was in no shape to drive. The house was dark and quiet as I let myself in. I stopped in the kitchen for a long swallow of cold milk to soothe my ulcer, then went upstairs to the bedroom. I put the empty holster away in a dresser drawer and undressed slowly, leaving my clothes where they dropped. As I slipped under the covers Sherry stirred, rolled toward me, and without opening her eyes reached out and pulled me to her. “So, shamus, where have you been all night?” The sleepy warmth in her voice, and seeing her face framed by the soft tangle of dark hair suddenly made me think about dying, and never being able to hold her again. “I’ve been out wooing dragons and slaying maidens.” “You’re falling down on the job, Mister. You’ve got a maiden right here at home that needs slaying on a regular basis.” She pressed closer and rested her head on my shoulder. Her cheek brushed against the bandage. Suddenly the sleep was gone from her voice. “What the hell is that?” “It’s just a little bandage. I got nicked tonight. It’s nothing, really.” “Nicked how, with what?” “Someone took a shot at me.” I could feel her stiffen and pull away. “He almost missed entirely. I hardly felt it. Nothing more than a scratch.” Her voice was low and intense, as she glared at me in the dim light. “You’ve been home maybe ten hours out of the last three days. The girls and I have to study your picture to be sure we don’t let a stranger into the house by mistake. So when you get yourself shot you don’t bother to call and let me know, you go off to some emergency ward, get bandaged up, and drop by the next time you’re in the neighborhood? Is that about right?” “Sherry, I promise you, it’s not serious. It happened late last night. I knew you and the girls would be asleep. I expected to be home in a couple of hours. It took longer to give my statement to the cops than I expected. They finished with me an hour ago and I came straight home.” She rolled onto her side and curled up tight. She didn’t want me to see, but I knew she was crying. Her voice was muffled by her arms. “Try to get some sleep. We’re supposed to go watch Pam ride this afternoon. Will you be okay?” “Sure. Wake me up about eleven.” After a short silence, she asked, “Who shot you?” “It was Jimmy.” “Jimmy Jay? But you and Jimmy… Why?” “I don’t know yet.” “Did you ask him? Didn’t he give you a reason, for God’s sake?” “No. He didn’t say anything. I shot back. He was dead before I knew who he was.” She looked back over her shoulder at me, a sadness in her face. She didn’t speak again as she stretched an arm across my chest and cried quietly against my shoulder while I fell asleep. I didn’t even have time to wonder what the hell I was going to do next.

Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine
"The image of the hard-boiled detective has undergone many transformations since the days of Hammett and Chandler. Still, the idea of a married man with a couple of young daughters working the mean streets of Tulsa, Oklahoma, seems hardly noir. But in Dale Whisman's debut, Friends, And Other Perishables, PI Carl Jacobs is a bona fide member of the fraternity. Whisman spins a good story and has created a likeable, credible hero and a supporting cast with good depth and a promise of staying power that bodes well for future appearances."

Tone And Groove Music And Entertainment Ezine
"In good, solid prose Whisman guides you effortlessly through the consistently suspenseful story with a great sense of humor, and of what it means to be really tough. You will not be able to put this book down, and you can't say that about too many mysteries these days. So treasure this one for all it's worth."