Joseph's Kidnapping

It was three a.m. and I nestled in the arms of Terri Hart, the beautiful woman I fell in love with during my case in Cisco, the one I called Jake's Burn. We lay exhausted from a night of lovemaking, with the emphasis on love. I smelled her perfume and the sexiness of her body. She was the missing link in my life, and my heart reminded me daily. Her head rested on my chest, and I stroked her red hair. “I love you.”
“What's that noise?”
I wanted to answer, but the sound repeated. I knew it was a phone, not the kind I grew up with, but a modern one that makes an irritating electronic racket. I struggled to shut it out, caressing Terri's head and rubbing my fingers over her whiskers.
Whiskers? My eyes fluttered open, and my brain registered the situation. It was a dream, and it was my cat Striker on my chest, not Terri. That explained the whiskers. Before I could grab the telephone, it rang again and the answering machine kicked in.
Hello, you've got Ace Edwards, Private Investigator, solver of the Cisco arson and murder case. No case too big or too small—
Although I knew the cuteness of the recording would place it in the Top 10, I mumbled into the handset, “Hello, this is Ace. I'm live, not a recording.”
“Arty, Chip here. Hope I didn't wake you.”
“Chip who?” I asked, indignation flashing. I looked at the clock radio. “It's three in the morning. Of course, you woke me.”
That's another thing I never understood. What do people think you're doing in the middle of the night, other than sleeping? I must lead a boring life.
“I'm sorry, Arty, but Jake said this is the best time to call. Said you're home and wide awake, working on your cases.”
Jake, my poor little rich buddy. He considered it great sport to wake me in the middle of the night. I assumed it was because he already owned everything in sight and used me as non-monetary entertainment. He must have cut this guy in on the joke. I wanted to hang up, but if I didn't get a case soon, I'd be flipping burgers in a fast food joint—and I don't care for burgers.
“If this is a bad time, Arty—”
“Hold it right there, Chip or Skip or whoever the hell you are. The name's Ace, not Arty. The only person who calls me Arty is Jake Adams who probably put you up to this prank. And he pays dearly every time I take a case for him.”
That was true up to a point. I've only done two cases for Jake, but he did pay well.
“Uh, sorry, Ace. Jake said I should call you Arty. When we were in college, he always called you Arty.”
Striker and his brother Sweeper, my two cats, sat on the bed, washing the sleepy from their eyes, appearing to listen to the conversation. The looks on their faces said I should conduct my business in an office, not their bedroom.
“Okay, what do you want?” I asked. “You must have some reason for calling, and who are you? You said college. The only Chip I knew is Chip Jamison. I haven't seen him in years.”
“That's right, Arty, uh, Ace. It's Chip Jamison. Jake said you never forget anything. He said you'd remember me.”
I remembered him all right. He was a lineman on the football team, big as a tree and mean as a snake. The Chip Jamison I knew went to the pros, but got hurt during training camp—twenty years ago. That was the last I'd heard of him.
“Fine, Chip, I remember. What can I do for you?” I resigned myself to listening. I had to—my financial status, remember?
“I need your help,” Chip said. “Jake says you're the best. He told me you found the guy who torched his house, and you took him out. That's the kind of help I need, somebody who'll strike like a cobra and not worry about the results.”
I should have told him Jake exaggerates. I solved the case in Cisco, but didn't kill anyone. In fact, I've never killed anybody, even during my ten years on the Dallas police force, except one time when I had no choice. I decided to withhold that information until Chip told me what he wanted, and how much he'd pay.
I heard Striker grumble deep in his throat as he gave me a look saying he disagreed with my lack of candor. Beside him, Sweeper cleaned his right front paw, showing no interest whatsoever. That meant he didn't share Striker's concern about my reticence. Integrity has never been Sweeper's strong suit.
“What's your problem, and what can I do for you? Give me some details.”
“Find Joseph. He's been kidnapped, and I want him back.”
“Have you called the police?”
“No, I'm afraid to. You know how kidnappers always say if you call the cops, something awful will happen. I want you to find him.” Chip's voice seemed to waver with concern. “I'll pay whatever they ask. I don't care about the money, but we gotta save Joseph.”
I pondered what he'd said, measuring my need for a paying case against my conscience. My conscience won. “The best advice I can give is call the authorities. After that, if you still want help, I'll do what I can.” I waited, hoping he'd appreciate my lack of greed and say he wanted to hire me.
“No, Arty, I won't call the sheriff. I can't take a chance those kidnapping bastards kill Joseph. This is a small community. Everybody knows everybody's business so the word will get around fast. Jake said you can get Joseph back without the cops. He says you're the best.”
I made a mental note to send Jake a thank-you card. He apparently did great public relations work. However, it did bother me a bit he didn't follow the truth-in-advertising law. Striker grumbled again.
“Have you heard from the kidnappers?” I figured I'd better concentrate on getting myself hired. I could tolerate a few Artys.
“No, not yet. But I'm sure they'll contact me soon. Joseph disappeared last night.” Chip hesitated, then said with a hopeful tone in his voice. “Can you come today so you'll be here when they call?”
“Slow down, Chip. I don't know where you are and Texas is a big state—if you're still in Texas. Besides, you don't know my fees.”
“Yes, I do. Jake said you get a thou a day plus expenses for a minimum of two weeks. That's fourteen thousand plus expenses. That'll be a bargain if you get Joseph back.”
Right brain kicked in and reminded me to speak with Jake about my fees. He'd paid fifteen hundred a day for Cisco. Guess he wanted to stay top dog. Since my usual fee for chasing errant husbands and wives is one to two hundred a day, I figured I could swallow my pride and accept a lousy thousand from Chip. My financial condition, remember? That didn't mean I had to play easy to get, though. I had pride. An old saying, allegedly Biblical, popped into my mind. Pride goeth before the fall. I pushed it away and continued my game.
“I don't know about today, Chip, but I can try. Are you going to tell me where you are, or do you expect me to call information in every town in Texas?”
“Oh, sorry. I'm so torn up about Joseph. You don't know how much he means to me. I live outside Canton. Ask anybody in town. They'll direct you to my spread. Can you come in the morning?”
Come in the morning—hell, my urge was to start right then, but I decided I'd better not appear too eager. “I'll check to see if I can clear some time. Then I'll find someone to take over my lesser cases. Give me your number, and I'll call about mid-morning.” I had my fingers crossed.
“Great, Arty, great. Jake said you'd play hard to get, but I could depend on you.”
I let out a quiet sigh of relief while cursing Jake. He knew me too well and shared the information too often.
Chip gave me his phone number and directions to Canton, and I replaced the handset in its cradle. Sweeper came over and licked me with his sandpaper tongue, his motor running full speed. Striker acted less happy, but curled in my lap.
I lay down and stroked the cats along their backs, their silky fur rippling under my fingers. Life was good. I had a well-paying case, two loving cats, and memories of Terri.
I drifted to sleep and my luck held. My dream picked up where it had been interrupted. When I told Terri how much I loved her, she said, “Who's Joseph?”