Category: Mystery/Suspense Publisher: New Pulp Press
ISBN-10: 0692499334
Type: Fiction
Pages: 269
Copyright: August 2015
ISBN-13: 9780692499337
In Made for Murder, charismatic con-man Samson Porter explodes into the lives of Helena Swann and her stepsister Angela Sharples, wealthy heir to a newspaper fortune.
Just picture this: the hunky casino dealer our heroine meets in Las Vegas turns around and marries her stepsister for money – but she goes ahead and has an affair with him anyway. And then she finds out a bible-quoting P.I. suspects him of two brutal murders.
What now? Should she help him bribe the detective? Turn him in to the cops? Or run like hell before he decides to cut her throat?
These are questions socialite Helena Swann will have to answer in Made for Murder. Tension mounts as our mercenary beauty from San Francisco finds herself caught between a rich fiancé and a murderous, but charming conman. Watch the reaction of the police, the press, and the public to Samson Porter’s furious odyssey through Las Vegas, San Francisco, Miami Beach and Newport.
Excerpt
PROLOGUE
My name is Bailey Viejo. I’m a detective on the Las Vegas police force, homicide squad. In twenty years on the force, I never worked a case with a higher profile than Shoo-fly. As you probably know, Shoo-fly was Sam Porter’s nickname – and it became media shorthand for the whole panoply of low crime and high society that made his story a tabloid sensation.
The case lingers long in the mind, partly because the personalities were so outrageous. From ex-con to grande dame, they stood out for the warped passions that drove them and for the ruthlessness in their hearts. Before it was over, six police departments had jurisdiction over the various charges of murder, felonious assault, embezzlement and mayhem that added up to Shoo-fly the scandal … Shoo-fly the media frenzy … Shoo-fly the criminal epic.
Christ, by the time we put it to bed I thought I was some kind of whizbang profiler adept at decoding the human condition. But that’s all bullshit, like some crappy cable TV show with “your host” pontificating about the motives of every murderous dickhead who snags a headline. You see, homicide detectives are like everybody else. Sometimes you think too damn much about your own little corner of the world. Which is when you begin to develop theories.
So why do I find myself chewing this one over in the silent recesses of the night? It’s not the big money players involved and not the glittery backstory of San Francisco and Newport society. It’s not even the appalling sight of those violated corpses. What tortures me is the memory of the few moments I spent questioning Shoo-fly, when I looked into those degenerate eyes telling me life had no value, that what I knew or didn’t know was of no concern to him. I need to understand how you figure people like him; I need to understand how they get that way.
1999
CHAPTER 1 – MOST MEN ARE GERBILS
HELENA SWANN
I didn’t have to go out there in the desert where Mrs. Buckley lived. We could have transacted our business over the phone. But I was curious. She was a local legend, a bawdy old woman Brad talked about when I was planning this little trip. Besides, I wanted off the Las Vegas Strip for a few hours, and a drive through the desert suburbs would be a welcome diversion.
It was Monday, and traffic had abated after the morning rush. Turning into her street, I saw the little sign out front: Buckley Real Estate. The house was pleasant enough, although it had that cut-rate “villa” look so prevalent in the valley. As I stood by the front entrance and pushed the bell, the late morning sun assaulted my arms and legs.
A young woman in halter-top and shorts opened the door, a little mutt yapping behind her. I may have looked surprised – this couldn’t be the old lady I was expecting.
She must have guessed what I was thinking.
“Mrs. Buckley is just inside,” she said, taking the dog’s collar and ushering me into the house.
In a moment, a large matronly woman with a florid face strode into the living room and introduced herself as Leda Buckley. She wore one of those telephone headpieces with attached microphone, and she gestured toward the young woman with the hand holding the cord.
“This here is a friend of mine, Lana Firewood,” she said. “And little Don Juan you’ve already met.”
I turned toward Lana and glanced at the dog. “How do you do … both of you,” I said. “Why did you name him Don Juan?”
“Don’t ask,” Mrs. Buckley cut in. “The little humper will probably show you.”
She cackled over her own joke, and Lana snorted in spite of herself. I laughed too, although I hadn’t expected a remark of that sort.
“Lana’s just visiting while I take calls for my agency, Mrs. Swann. Reason I have friends over during the workday is because I’m an old woman who hasn’t got a life worth tellin’ about anymore. I like to hear what goes on in town, especially from a firecracker like Lana.”
“C’mon Leda, what is this lady think going to think?”
“I suspect we all know what to think, darlin’,” she said, looking my way and raising a conspiratorial eyebrow. “So what can I do for you, Mrs. Swann?”
“I just dropped in to pay for the accommodations, Mrs. Buckley. The suite’s lovely, by the way.”
“Thanks,” she said. “It’s definitely better than your typical Las Vegas hotel room. Isn’t it, Lana?”
“Leda, you can stop that right now,” protested Lana.
Mrs. Buckley was living up to Brad’s description. She was like some ribald battleaxe out of an Elmore Leonard novel. I dug into my handbag for my checkbook as she guided me to a writing desk in the corner of the living room.
Lana was primping in front of a gilt-framed mirror over the fireplace mantel. Without looking at Mrs. Buckley, she began to speak in a familiar tone that suggested she was resuming a conversation started earlier.
“Just wait’ll you see my new guy, Leda. Tall, well-built like you wouldn’t believe, and eyes that drill right through you. Wish I could say I was comfortable about him, but I guess that’s part of the thrill.”
“The thrill is he’s a bad boy?” she asked.
“Maybe. You think I get fixated on that type?”
“I know you, girl. There’s nothing like an out and out thug to make your heart go pitty-pat.”
“M-m-m. I suppose. All I know is I intend to get him in tow. Even if I need Randy to help do it.”
“What does Randy have to do with it? He’s just a nice kid.”
“That’s the point, you know? Randy’s nice and the new one … the new one gets jealous.”
She laughed. “You are evil, Lana. Sometimes you make me wish I was still in the game.”
“I suppose you know a little something about bad boys, Leda.”
“You know what I think. Most men are gerbils.”
“And the ones who aren’t gerbils? What are they?”
“Marlboro men or thugs, I guess.”
Lana and Mrs. Buckley looked at each other and cracked up.
“Some choice,” said Lana. “This one may be a little of both.”
“I’m getting rid of a gerbil,” I said, rising from the desk and handing my check to Mrs. Buckley. “I’m just now waiting for my final decree.”
Naturally, she couldn’t let that pass. “Maybe you’ll find yourself a Marlboro man to console you before your vacation’s over.”
“A girl can always hope,” I said. “Oh … there’s one more thing. I have the place through Thursday, but I might leave early. Should I come back here to drop the key off?”
“Well, you could,” she said, “but why inconvenience yourself? Just leave it on the foyer table when you leave. I’ll come around for it on Friday.”
At that, Leda Buckley walked me to the front door. Weeks later, I would recall my visit and the things Lana talked about.
***
What was I doing in Las Vegas? It was a kind of anxiety vacation, a respite from San Francisco. I couldn’t really afford it, but I had to have some time alone. Still, I didn’t want to be far from home if those divorce papers came through. Brad would want me back for sure to celebrate that particular good news.
Brad Styles was a constant in my life for as long as I could remember. Confidant, personal friend, executive director of my stepsister Angela’s vast holdings – I can’t remember when he wasn’t part of my life, part of our family almost. Incredibly, we became lovers shortly after I left Jeremy. Incredibly, because we were practically brother and sister after so many years of close acquaintance.
This was no grand passion on my part, and yet Brad was the reason I was anxious for those divorce papers. He wanted to marry me. In all sincerity, I could look him in the eye and tell him I loved him, because I did in my way. And knowing that his family fortune was the equal of Angela’s didn’t hurt in the least.
Did you catch why I’m not rich like Angela? It’s that dreadful word stepsister. Angela’s father was one of the richest men in San Francisco. When he died, she was his sole heir. Despite the consideration I knew as his adopted daughter, Sam Sharples left his entire fortune to blood. Angela was very generous, but now I lived on handouts at her pleasure. The feeling I was a poor relation fed my insecurities, stoked my little rebellions and led to my unfortunate marriage. But all that represented the past, and this vacation was a step toward putting it behind me.
When you’re in Las Vegas on a budget, you’re a people-watcher by default. On Tuesday night, a man at one of the craps tables caught my attention. People were swatting him on the back to urge him on. While he looked perfectly calm and self-assured, at the same time there was something unyielding, perhaps dangerous, about him. Tall and powerfully built, he would have stood out in any crowd. He wore a gray double-breasted suit, black wingtips, and a blazing white shirt, freshly starched. His tie looked hand-painted, the colors maroon and light blue. His only jewelry was a modest gold watch.
At a venture, I strolled the short distance from the bank of slot machines to his table. Immediately, he flashed a curious look my way. I glanced down to avoid eye contact, suddenly eager to place one last bet for the night. He was on a streak, so following his lead seemed the obvious choice. But I sensed he was due for a loss. And that was how I played it. Ten dollars against the man.
When I looked up, he was preparing to throw, but had seen my play and stared at me, his disbelieving eyes accompanied by an insolent grin. All this in the half-second it took him to toss the dice and make his point. The crowd cheered and I walked away, ten dollars poorer and feeling those wicked blue eyes burrow into my back.
Outside, the night air was cool, and the Strip was ablaze in a gaudy tumult of streaming neon. The boulevard stretched north and south, the whole of it lit up large, blotting out all starlight with its corona of manmade tinsel. This was Las Vegas in all its cheap glory. As for me, I loved the look and the feel of the place; I wouldn’t have been there otherwise.
I crossed the Strip on foot at the Monte Carlo and walked through the commercial plaza in front of my apartment building. The security guard looked up from his console and waved as I entered. In the elevator, I listened to the ding, ding that registered each successive floor. Rising alone in that quiet space, I thought about the attractive man with the insolent leer playing craps and looking good in his gray double-breasted suit.
Inside the apartment, I tossed my bag on the foyer table and went directly to the big windows in the living room. While gazing out at the traffic on the Strip, I flipped open my cell phone and checked for messages.
The voice was Angela’s.
“Hi, Helena. Call me if you get a chance. Brad’s back from Denver. And guess what? A package came today from your divorce lawyer.”
Well there it was, the big news and my signal to begin the celebration. So where was the thrill? After all, this meant marriage to Brad and a newer, cleaner lifestyle all my own. No matter – even though I couldn’t charge into it with enthusiasm, I was still determined to have it.
CHAPTER 2 – RAPID ATTITUDE CHANGE
MICKEY CULLION
I didn’t like Las Vegas much, and I didn’t like the way my life was going. But I was the type to do anything a friend wanted. As if Shoo-fly was anybody’s friend. Oh yeah, I liked him, can’t say I didn’t. So did a lot of folks, mostly the gals in town. He had a quick tongue and a bad boy charm, and he could be a lot of fun when things were going his way.
We shared a room in a rundown courtyard motel at the north end of the Strip where it turns kinda sleazy. Off and on, I had been living with Shoo-fly Porter for about three years, and I had known him before that in stir.
The bed was near the window overlooking the cars in the courtyard, and I was lying there in my skivvies reading a magazine when I saw him out of the corner of my eye. He was snaking through the rows of parked cars, taking a diagonal route toward the stairs to the second floor balcony that the rooms gave out on. He had the easy long stride of an athlete, really a pleasure to watch. In a minute he pushed open the door to the room.
Right away, I could tell he was agitated. He walked in real quiet, tossed his hat on the desk, took off his jacket and draped it over the chair. Then he turned, walked to the right side of the bed and sat on it. After loosening his tie, he shook out a cigarette from a pack on the bedside table and fired it with a kitchen match.
I figured what the hell, get it out into the open. “Well now, big guy, what’s up?”
“Nothing.”
“Can’t be nothing, Shoo-fly. You’re pissed off. Anybody can tell.”
“Can it, Mickey. It’s that little bitch, Lana. She didn’t show up tonight.”
“She, uh, told you she would?”
“No, but she always does on Tuesday. She’s stepping out with that kid Randy she talks about.”
“Hell, that’s just to make you jealous is all. She’s crazy about you.”
“I don’t like anybody cutting in on me. I can’t take it and I won’t.”
He got up, still smoking, and started pacing the floor. I watched him for a minute, then I said: “Just let it go, man. Show her you don’t fall for that routine.”
“You know I won’t put up with it, Mick.”
“That’s right, big guy, you don’t have to. Just ignore her. She’ll come calling.”
“Shit!”
I said he was agitated before, but he’s at the boiling point now. His upper lip pulls up from his teeth, his nostrils flare. He stubs his cigarette out, stops pacing and undresses completely to the waist. Then he sits on the bed, his back to me.
From long experience, I knew I’d best shut up and wait. So I tossed the magazine on the floor and shifted down in bed, lying there with my head propped up, keeping an eye on him. When I was sure the storm had passed, I turned to switch off the bedside lamp. I was quiet; he was quiet.
The room wasn’t totally dark because of light from the courtyard filtering through the window curtains. I could feel him make a quick turn onto the bed facing my back, not touching, but close enough so I could hear his breathing. Suddenly I felt his left hand warm on my thigh, and I knew he was ready to pack all that tension into what passed for sex between us. I won’t say I didn’t like it, because I never tried to stop him. But I can tell you he didn’t give a damn. Maybe it was release for him and maybe it was just to show he could take what he wanted whenever he wanted.
***
Next morning, I was out in the motel courtyard leaning against our old junk box, reading the paper and waiting for Porkpie to come down. He always took longer than me to get ready. I would shave and shower, just like him, but he always put a lot extra into it. He was especially fussy about the way he dressed. Neither one of us had a lot of clothes, but he sure knew how to vary his look and keep his duds looking fresh.
Soon I saw him step out to the landing from the room and look up to the clear, bright sky. Then he headed down the outside stairs to the parking area. He was dressed in a dark sport jacket, tan slacks, and an open collar shirt. That quick stride of his brought him over to me at the car in no time. I pushed myself off the side of the car and folded my newspaper.
“I’ve gotta be at the bar by nine for my shift.”
“Okay,” he said. “Me, I’m gonna take the day off. Want to go to breakfast?”
“Yeah, well I do, but I’m nearly broke. I was figuring on maybe a coffee and donut.”
“Hell no, dude, I’m flush! Tell you what, I’ll spring for the whole megillah.”
I pointed to the car. “Lead the way, my man!” I said. “What are you going to tell your boss?”
“Haven’t decided. But I picked up three grand shooting dice last night and I’m not going to be dealing cards for a couple of days.”
“Christ, Shoo-fly, you almost never gamble.”
“Never for long, anyway. The percentages are lousy. Hey, do me a favor and cut the ‘Shoo-fly’ moniker. You’re the only one who calls me that anymore. It’s just Sam from now on.”
“Whatever you say … Sam.”
He got behind the wheel, backed out of the parking space, and drove to a diner type restaurant he liked just beyond Fremont Street. We were eating breakfast in a booth by the front window when guess who walks in but Lana Firewood with a slim, young, dark-haired guy grinning from ear to ear.
Lana came through the door first. I saw her glance around first before turning to speak to Smiley. I figured she must have spotted us and kinda held my breath for what would happen next. Sam hadn’t seen a thing yet.
She walked straight toward us, high heels clattering across the tiles, her boyfriend trailing behind like a happy puppy. Man, how a broad like Lana can make her presence known in twenty different ways. Well, I looked up as her and Smiley came close, and she gave me a little wave while she still had Sam’s back to her. Finally, she made a point of stopping and turning around when she passed us by.
“Oh hi, Sam!” she said, acting all surprised. “I didn’t recognize you from behind.”
Sam looked from one to the other, still chewing on a piece of toast. He nodded real quick and grunted. This may have been rude, but I was glad he didn’t speak, because it sure as hell would have been ruder. Lana looked annoyed, sort of squaring her shoulders and biting her lower lip.
“Good to see you, Mickey,” she said, turning and walking past with Smiley to an empty booth further along the aisle.
Sam put down his knife and fork, took the napkin out of his lap and tossed it on the table. His face was flushed.
“Come on,” I said, “don’t let her get to you. You know what she’s doing.”
“When I was a bouncer,” he said, “I occasionally took a certain amount of pleasure in leaning on somebody who insisted on getting out of line. Pain is a terrific agent for rapid attitude change.”
“She’s trying to make you jealous. So forget it. Screw her!”
“Screwing her is apparently one of the easiest and cheapest things to do in Las Vegas. Like being comped for a buffet lunch. I think both of them need a rapid attitude change.”
“C’mon, man, take it easy,” I said. I was getting nervous and he knew it.
He took a deep breath and seemed to calm down. “Listen, no rush Mick,” he said, “but as soon as you’re done here, I’ll drop you off at work. I’m gonna take a long ride.”
When I asked him where to, he didn’t answer. His face was set tight, and he stared straight ahead with a kind of dark expression I can’t even begin to describe.
CHAPTER 3 – LINGERING KISSES
LIEUTENANT VIEJO
Not even the reporters who crawled all over this case for months know that Sam Porter kept a kind of journal. It’s nothing formal – certainly not your leather covered diary with lock and key. What we have are two notebooks and some loose papers in Shoo-fly's handwriting that, taken together, fill in some pieces of the puzzle. Especially about that day in Las Vegas at Leda Buckley’s house.
It seems that Randy and Lana pulled up to Mrs. Buckley’s home in the suburbs sometime around ten o’clock and parked in front. They had no idea Shoo-fly followed them. Lana was in the passenger seat. She pulled herself up close to Randy at the wheel and gave him a long, wet kiss. Shoo-fly was ready to do them right there and then, whoever might see it be damned. There were red spots in his vision, and his breath was coming fast, but he shook it off. So he could do it right, he says in the journal.
He knew what was going on and that Lana had arranged it. It was Wednesday, and she always filled in for Mrs. Buckley by answering the agency phone line while Leda took care of business in town. Shoo-fly knew because Lana had brought him there just a week before. She had given him the same kind of wet, lingering kiss that she favored Randy with today. He even remembered their conversation in front of the house.
“You know, Leda’s not home right now and I could sure use some company,” she had said.
“Then use me, baby. I’m your boy!”
“O-o-o-o, it’s a boy!” she squealed, moving her hand into his crotch.
Both of them were laughing. They rushed out of the car, met at the curb, and ran to the front door holding hands.
The Reed’s faith, a mystery to some, will be tested like never before. Will it hold? Mark’s love for his wife and their intimate romance is shattered by Brandy, a barmaid.
During the Christmas Season, servants Jane Meyers and Alfie Dawkins search for missing persons from opposite sides of the social spectrum: a homeless man and the Duke's son.
