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    Lee Hacklyn 1970s Private Investigator in Noah's Architecture: Lee Hacklyn, #1
    Lee Hacklyn 1970s Private Investigator in Noah's Architecture: Lee Hacklyn, #1
    Lee Hacklyn 1970s Private Investigator in Noah's Architecture: Lee Hacklyn, #1
    Ebook100 pages1 hourLee Hacklyn

    Lee Hacklyn 1970s Private Investigator in Noah's Architecture: Lee Hacklyn, #1

    By John Leister

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    About this ebook

    New York City. 1978.

     

    Lee is hired by sixteen-year old New York University graduate Mike Galt,

    to investigate the murder of his father, architect Noah Galt.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherJohn Leister
    Release dateDec 28, 2022
    ISBN9798215469033
    Lee Hacklyn 1970s Private Investigator in Noah's Architecture: Lee Hacklyn, #1

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      Book preview

      Lee Hacklyn 1970s Private Investigator in Noah's Architecture - John Leister

      QUEENS. NEW YORK CITY. 1978.

      CHAPTER ONE

      5:59 am.  Sunday.

      I turned off my alarm before it went off.  Back to sleep?  An enticing idea, but I wanted to work-out before church.

      Yeah, I go sometimes.

      I’m always bored as, um, hell, and sitting for two hours on that uncomfortable pew—why does a church seat have the same name as the onomatopoeia for the sound of flatulence?

      Enquiring minds want to know!

      As for Father Blah-Blah, he was a lovely man, but listening to him drone on about stuff that I’d learned from comic books, starting at five, and endless hours of Leave It To Beaver, was for me, an endurance test.

      Then there was the whole hugging thing.

      You have to hug the person next to you and he or she, I’m not using they, what 21st century idiocy, has to be a stranger.  Not the least bit awkward.  

      Probably get you a prison sentence in 2022.

      It’s a wonder that the woke snowflakes of the present-day world don’t burn all of the churches down; those inspiringly creative and productive go-getters.

      It was like the halftime show at the Super Bowl, like I would know.  That’s hockey, right?

      My soul, if such a thing exists, came to my corporal body without that aspect.

      All my high school gym teachers hated my guts.

      I heard a lot of this, from my Freshman year; to my senior year:  Hacklyn, you could be a star athlete.  All-American, even.

      What does being American have to do with liking or not liking sports?

      Everything, Smart-ass.  Ten laps around the track, double-time.

      Or variations thereof.

      My not-so-dearly departed dad had a few nuggets of homespun wisdom he liked to impart to me and my sister and this was one of them:

      You’ll never get into trouble if you keep your mouth shut.

      CHAPTER TWO

      Ann, my sister, who was two years older than me; I was still a baby-face at twenty-nine—those crow’s feet around my eyes were just happy lines, had recently become a born-again Christian.

      We talked about this dramatic change in her life on the phone the other day:

      Christ is our Savior!

      Savory?  Like chicken curry?  Mmmm...so good.

      You’re a glib, disrespectful prick, Lee Hacklyn!

      And she slammed the phone down in my ear, which triggered my tinnitus, the same way gunfire did.

      So much for turning the other cheek.

      Speaking of gunshots, I’d recently received—it really is better to give than receive—four of them, from a team of security guards who were under orders to kill me.

      So much for observe and report.

      I was supposed to meet Ann, and her husband, Geoff, and their nine-year old daughter, Gretchen, at the Open Door All-Faith Accepting Happy House in Forest Hills.

      Hosted by Tony Orlando and Dawn.

      Actually, it was Father...oh, I can never remember his name.

      Geoff and Ann were corporate lawyers and they were successful in every way imaginable.

      Gretchen regarded me the same way I might regard my fellow private eye, Clint Courage, whenever he, and he does this a lot, checks all of his pockets to make sure that he has all of his stuff.

      Ten years of working security would probably do that to anybody.

      It was embarrassing to walk with him after hours.

      He liked to check the doors of closed businesses.

      I threatened to shoot him one time and said, I can’t help myself.  It’s a compulsion.

      What would you do if you actually found an unlocked door?

      I have my pen and notebook.  Somewhere.  I think.  Shoot, did I leave them at home?  Here they are.  Well, I’d leave a note, then I’d call NYPD’s non-emergency line.  I usually get a busy signal.  At least I tried.

      Clint was forty-five and he lived with his mom in a Queens one-bedroom apartment.

      Good deal!

      She was a hundred-plus, grouchy and violent.

      Clint often lamented to me that she was going to outlive him.  Well, if she really murder him, yeah.

      He really was a man-child at times, but when the shit hit the fan, he had it where it counted.

      He, and another fellow private eye, Sid Phelps, the baby of this trio of do-gooders, at twenty-five.

      The two of them had saved me life more often that I’d saved theirs, but I didn’t like to think about that, it depressed me.

      Still, it’s nice to know that there’s at least one person you can rely on. 

      Never mind fair weather friends.  Circumstances reveal their true natures, given time.

      Sid and Clint and I had each other’s backs.

      I sat up, stretched and lit a Blue Buzzard.

      I’d already received a written warning from the building manager, Mrs. Blocker.  No relation to Dan, I’d already asked, as did everyone she’d ever met for the first time, or so she’d angrily told me.

      My neighbors were complaining about second hand smoke.  Geez Louise!  Can’t a full-time superhero enjoy his vices in peace?  I once saw Tony Stark smoking in Iron Man comic book.  I thought he looked so cool.

      Inhale, exhale.  Bliss.  Yeah, I know.  It’s a stupid risk to take, considering the potentially horrible consequences.

      But it’s a legal product, it gives me pleasure and I’m not breaking into people’s cars and/or houses to support my admittedly filthy habit.

      As Stan Lee might say, ‘Nuff said!

      CHAPTER THREE

      I’m famished.

      While recovering at St. Michael’s, I met a porn-star hot nurse who’d introduced me to some rather unorthodox healing practices;  some of which, actually extended my recovery time.  They certainly extended something.

      Her name was Ellen, she was also a nutritionist, whatever that is; and the only strike against her was her stinky garlic breath.

      When I wrinkled my nose after our first kiss, she asked me, Did I slobber?

      Thinking on my feet, one of which was elevated and in cast, lied, No, that was very nice, but I feel a sneeze coming on.

      "Oh, you’re hilarious.  Hang on, I’ve got some breath mints in my back pocket.  I eat garlic, every day.  It’s

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