Dixie Deveraux – Private Investigator


At last, I felt myself relaxing, smoothing out to the mellow tones of the Five Satins harmonizing. ‘… In the still… of the night…’ I gazed at it for a long time, indulging myself with the exquisite torture of self-denial. Stroking my fingertips gently up and down the full length of its nine inches, I teased myself with simple anticipation, the sheer deliciousness of postponed promise. From its base up to its wet shiny opening, it beckoned with its seductive, allure. I gently stroked the sides and… I gave in to a primal desire. I surrendered. I clasped my right hand around its familiar hard roundness and feeling its comfortable contours against my palm I lowered my head and pulled it toward me. My tongue extended, eagerly darting out in advance of my lips to explore the wet tip before I close my mouth around the… “Hey, Dixie, someone here asking about you!” Well, shit in a bucket! It was ninety-four degrees outside and by the time it bounced off the sidewalks it felt like a hundred and twenty. I had been promising myself that ice-cold bottle of Heineken ever since I set foot in my office earlier that morning. I forced myself to place the bottle back on the bar and turned my head toward the voice. Tony the bartender nodded at me, and then flicked his head sideways toward the man standing in front of him. I nodded an acknowledgment to Tony and he looked back at the man and then jerked his head towards me. That counted as a formal introduction from Tony. I was sitting in the bar of Tony’s Place, which is a quiet neighborhood watering hole located at the top of Flatbush Avenue, just around the corner from where my office is located above the bakery. This is my mental haven, my therapeutic unwind place to go when I am tired, feeling shitty and sick of the sight of the peeling wallpaper on my office walls. One of the main attractions in Tony’s is a genuine Wurlitzer jukebox that does not require money to play and more importantly, it does not have any music on it that was recorded after 1970. A little Motown and Doo-wop softly playing in the background please the regular patrons of Tony’s Place just fine. I work in a solitary business and have few friends, so I tend to drink alone. That seems to signify instant availability to most alfa males, and so I have to deal with the occasional skirt-sniffer and obnoxious asshole. Somewhere during my patronage, Tony appointed himself as my guardian and runs interference whenever I am drinking in his place. Tony is a man of few words. He does not need them. He looks the spitting image of Luca Brasi from the movie, The Godfather. I seldom have problems. ~ ~ ~  The gentleman who approached me looked to be in his late fifties, about five nine, overweight, well fed and dressed in a grey lightweight suit that still looked too hot for Brooklyn in September. He looked vaguely familiar. He pulled a large white handkerchief from his pants pocket, dabbed at the perspiration popping out all over his fat face and stuck out his right hand. “Miss Deveraux?” “Guilty as charged,” I replied and shook his hand. It felt like a soft wet rag. “I didn’t want to be seen going up to your office.” Hey now. Was that an insult as to my charming headquarters above the German Bakery? I swallowed a nasty-assed retort and politely inquired. “You can’t walk up to my office but going into a bar is okay?” He gave me a condescending smile. “My dear, most of my constituents are to be found in a bar at one time or another.” Well, I was not his, or anybody else’s, ‘dear’, but I let it pass in the spirit of good social manners and customer relations. It isn’t considered good form to get in the face of potential clients the moment they introduce themselves. Then I placed him. Not to know him, but know of him. I had seen his face on the idiot box. He was some kind of county politician and a bit of a comer if his head doesn’t get too big for his toupee. Rumors of a possible run at being Mayor, well one of these days he might find out that it is only eighteen inches between a pat on the back and a kick in the ass. Well, Sir, what brings you into this den of depravity on a hot summer afternoon? Did the air conditioning in the County Offices break down?” He dabbed his sweating face. “Could we at least move to a booth?” he whispered. Okay. So much for my attempt at light repartee. The gentleman desired a private consultation. I gathered my beer from off the bar and ushered him across to a booth on the back wall. I took a quick pull on the Heineken and then asked the obvious question. “Well, sir. How can I be of service?” “It’s my sister’s daughter… my niece… she’s been kidnapped.”  ~ ~ ~  Perhaps I need to back up a little. My professional handle is Dixie Devereux and I am a Private Investigator, a Private Eye. I am what they colorfully used to call, a Private Dick, but that hardly fits my gender and Private Pussy does not look so good on a business card. The name Dixie came from a Styrofoam cup and Devereux was from a box of French chocolates. Let’s face it; Deveraux sounds a hell of a lot classier than Tittsfield. Family history has it that when my grandparents, Johan and Helga, arrived from the Old Country, they stepped ashore onto the Forty-Seventh Street Pier, Manhattan. There, apparently overcome with emotion at their safe arrival into the New World, my grandfather turned to my grandmother and formally announced, “Ve iz in America, now ve sprechen der Englisch,” and at the first opportunity, he legally anglicized his German surname. Well, whoop de do for me. Because of that, I was christened Angelina Tittsfield, instead of Angelina Tittenfelder. Ain’t that a kick in the head! Yep, you got it, or more to the point, I got it. Boy, did I get it. My dad called me Angel from the day I was born. It sounds sweet doesn’t it, that is until Side escort bayan you hit your school years. I made my way through high school years being called Angel Tits. I was called Angel Tits long before I even had any… and I wasn’t much of an angel either. Somewhere during my teens, I picked up a reputation as being a bit of a hard-bitten bitch. Gee… I wonder why? My high school grades were good, but not good enough for a paid scholarship. My dad drove a bus for New York Transit Authority working steadily to keep his family, myself, my mom a sister and brother with a roof over our heads and food in our bellies. Dad had enough on his plate without trying to scratch up the coins needed to send me to university. The Girl Scouts may not have wanted me, but I knew who would. The ‘Crossroads of the World’ is the place where Broadway and Forty-Second Street collide in the middle of Manhattan. That particular intersection is more popularly known as, Times Square. Albeit surrounded by the bright lights, the glitz and glamor of the theater district, fancy eateries and tourist rip-off shops, there also happens to be an Armed Forces Recruiting Station located smack dab in the middle of it. Having no desire to work as a sales clerk at Macy’s, I decided to kick-start myself into a new life with at least the reasonable expectation of being issued clothing and three squares a day. I enlisted in the United States Marine Corps. Yeah, don’t laugh; they take women in the Corps. I always had a thing for law enforcement although I wasn’t sure why. Perhaps it was because I grew up expecting to be on the other side of it. I wanted to go for the F.B.I. but they wouldn’t touch anyone without at least a four-year degree. They were only after squeaky-clean candidates with pre-law or J.D’s from Ivy League New England colleges. The ‘paahk the caahr in the Haavahd Yaahd’ crowd. You’ve seen them, those who are educated to the point of imbecility and without the street smarts, that God gave pigeons. What a fucking joke, J. Edgar must be revolving in his dress. Oh, and I don’t wish to malign pigeons. New York City pigeons are pretty damn smart. Growing up on the streets of Brooklyn knocked some of the corners off me, but also taught me to handle all manner of shit. The Drill Instructors at Paris Island Recruit Training Depot dished out their own brand of marine-green excretion, but for some reason, I thrived on it. I could run five miles with full gear, shoot expert with an M-16 and Colt 45 Automatic, crawl through mud, pig entrails and barbed wire, then scrape the muck off my face, laugh and still snap my skirt on the parade deck. I graduated from boot camp at Paris Island, South Carolina, and followed that with infantry training at Camp Lejeune, North Carolina. I was then assigned to Military Police Training at Fort Leonard Wood, Missouri where I graduated first in my class, was given a meritorious promotion and strongly encouraged to take an advanced course in Criminal Investigations. I worked damn hard in the Military Police. I served overseas for part of the time and with a few special under-cover assignments thrown in. I may have grown up with a street attitude, but it took the Marine Corp to stand me up tall and put all the echoes of Angel Tits behind me. They at least addressed me as Sergeant fuckin’ Tittsfield! The Corps wanted me to stay, but I missed the city of cities. So here I am. Dixie Deveraux, Duly Licensed Private Investigator, Brooklyn, New York City. I stand five feet ten without heels, slim body, short blonde hair, blue eyes and don’t require yuppie spandex jogging outfits to keep me in in good shape. For accessories, I wear a wristwatch, a gold Claddagh necklace, a set of steel handcuffs and carry a Smith and Wesson Ladysmith. That little baby is a thirty-eight caliber, snub-nose, hammerless revolver. No, I don’t carry it in my purse under the lipstick, Kleenex, cell phone, tampons, bunches of keys and stray coins; it lives all by itself in a small black leather clip-on holster that fits inside the waistband of a skirt or pants. It is always next to me where I can feel it and reach it in a hurry. Now Quackser Fortune may have had a cousin in the Bronx, but I lucked out one better. I had an Uncle Jorge who owned a German bakery in Brooklyn Heights. That’s the snobby area of Brooklyn, with its expensive three-story townhouses and killer views of Manhattan from the Promenade. So apart from the fact that Uncle Jorge made cheese blintzes to die for; he also had a loft above the bakery that had remained unused for anything but mouse droppings since the Civil War. hat loft, dear friends, became the office for Deveraux Private Investigations. Well hell, you didn’t expect me to hang out a shingle saying, Tittsfield, Private Dick, did you? With that piece of personal trivia out of the way, I’ll go back to where I had been telling you about the sweat-drenched politico sitting opposite me in a booth in the back of Tony’s Bar.  ~ ~ ~  “It’s my sister’s daughter… my niece… she’s been kidnapped.” I took another pull on my beer. “What makes you think she has been kidnaped?” He took an envelope from his jacket pocket, opened it, and pushed three photographs across the table towards me. Now I am a street-savvy gal and am seldom shaken up, but the photographs showed a young woman apparently gagged and chained to a chair. She was wearing a parochial high school uniform with the skirt high up on her thighs, her legs wide open with her ankles chained and bent backward under the sides of the chair. I sucked in a deep breath. The gravity of the images was not exactly what I had been prepared for. I had been expecting a more run of the mill ho-hum case dealing with the more normal miscreants, you know, cheating husbands, Escort manavgat cheating wives, rent dodgers, and lost kitty-cats. From the look of the three photographs in front of me, this was certainly more indicative of some heavier caliber shit. I decided to pass. “Look, sir,” I told him. “A couple more blocks down the street at 301 Gold Street, you will find a three-story brownstone building containing men and women of the 84th Precinct, New York City Police Department. They are sworn to protect and serve.” “No, no,” he stammered. “I can’t use the police.” Seems like a perfectly sound suggestion to me, so why the fuck not, I’m thinking. “With all due respect, sir, this appears to be a case of criminal abduction with possibly more serious overtones.” “You must understand, Miss Deveraux. A man in my position, well, I can’t risk a scandal.” Oh, I got it. His niece had been abducted for unknown reasons by unidentified creeps but he couldn’t afford a scandal. Wow, this guy was beginning to make catshit smell pretty. He went on, “Look, Miss Deveraux. I specifically came to you because, well, you are a woman and you would understand. If those pictures ever became public, they alone could haunt my niece and ruin her life for years to come.” He had a point. I don’t give much of a damn for politician’s reputations because if they had any morals or scruples at all, they wouldn’t be politicians. However, when it came to this girl, his niece, and the irresponsibility of some of the dirtbag tabloid reporters I have the displeasure of knowing… well, he had a point. I’m no pushover. I had handled some tough customers while serving in the Armed Forces. I worked some counter-terrorism and weapon smuggling cases, I busted folks in drug dens in Korea and broke up knife-fights in Japanese titty bars, but… but with a young girl’s life possibly being on the line… I made my pitch again. “Look, sir. Time is of the essence and the NYPD have far greater resources. I would strongly suggest you go and have a word with the detectives at the Eighty-fourth.” He begged he pleaded, and his dress shirt and tie were shrinking from the amount of sweat he was leaking. “Please Miss Deveraux, please can you find and rescue my niece.” For my sins, and because it is rumored that I possess a minuscule soft spot somewhere within me, I listened as he told me the tale. At least, as much of the tale that he appeared to know, or was willing to share. His story was short and simple. It was summer break from school and his niece, JoAnne was on a little trip upstate. He had not heard from her for a while and then he received the three photographs in the mail. Then he called by my office, only to have my Uncle Jorge in the bakery point him towards Tony’s Place. The details seemed sparse and incomplete. I could grant him some slack taking into account his distress, but even so, his story seemed ridiculously short of facts. No ransom demands, no political angles, no constituent enemies or threatening phone calls. There was nothing to go on and no possible reasons presented as to why anyone would abduct and harm his niece. Then it was random. Now where in the hell do you begin with that? This case sat hard on my soul. Dammit, he should have gone directly to the NYPD with it. I spent the remainder of that evening and most of the following day checking into the usual sources, especially the police blotters in various precincts regarding suspicious activities. The average population of New York City was about 8.5 million so most of what I found was useless, endless and confusing. It was of no use at all when you had no solid logical starting point. The Councilman had left the envelope containing the photographs with me, and as disturbing as they were, I scanned them into my computer and began exploring the images inch by inch. His niece JoAnne appeared to be confined to a bedroom. Nothing remarkable about the room. Plain walls, no pictures, a double bed against one wall of the room and a plain chest of drawers on the other. The chair was centered in the middle of the room. No distinctive carpet, the room was just a plain room. The pictures were taken during daytime with light coming in from an outside window, but not in view. The room could not have looked plainer, a bed on one wall, a dresser against the opposite wall, and a girl chained to a chair in the middle. Hell, I couldn’t make much out of it, but I looked. I looked until my eyes started to glaze over. There was a bed, a chair, and a dressing table. A dressing table… A dressing table with a large mirror on top… A mirror that held a partial reflection of the unseen window and showing a portion of what was outside of the house. Part of a bush, a tree branch, a small area of grass lawn and… Two red dots. I ratcheted up the magnification by a few hundred pixels. Two red dots. Two round pieces of something resembling glass or plastic attached to what appeared to be metal, with possibly a… chrome strip. Well, bless my musically retro brain cells. I must have tapped into the hot wax vibes so beautifully preserved and treasured on Tony’s Wurlitzer. My subconscious was channeling some primal imagery from a past era. Hot damn! I knew what I was seeing. I knew what the two red dots were. It was unmistakable! I was looking at a tail fin on a 1959 rocket-back Cadillac Coupe De Ville. I grabbed the envelope containing the photographs sent to the Councilman. The top right corner held a smudged and barely legible postmark. It was a magnifying glass moment. I looked at a smudged postmark and the tip of a fin I could identify a postmark saying Passaic, New Jersey and the tail light on a 1959 Caddy. Following that, it did not take me very long to research. I ran computer inquiries for car alanya escort clubs and classic car sales anywhere near Passaic, New Jersey and quickly discovered an owner of a 1959 Cadillac Coupe De Ville, with an address in the town of Saddlebrook. I knew Saddlebrook to be a small town in Bergan County, New Jersey, three miles northeast of Passaic, and twelve miles north of Newark. I could probably drive there in about forty minutes.  ~ ~ ~  My vehicle isn’t what you might call, practical for northern climes. It’s a 1966 Pontiac GTO ragtop and I love the hell out of it. After throwing some tools of the trade into the back seat, I took the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge across into New Jersey and from there it wasn’t long before I reached Saddlebrook Township. While driving, I had some time to think. I had no idea of what I might be confronting. It could be some kind of an organized gang working some extortion gig, a bunch of local hicks just getting their jollies or a lone nutcase. All that I was certain of was that JoAnne was being held a hostage by someone. However, there might well be other victims involved. I needed to scope out the ground and depending upon the opposition, go in slick and smart with the proviso that if things looked too heavy, I would have no choice but to back off and enlist the help of the local police department. It was dark when I located the address and I took a slow cruise around the block to get an overall feel of the neighborhood. It was a typical suburban, seventies style single-story housing tract and very quiet. After circling for a while, I parked my car approximately one hundred yards away from the target house, and in the dark spot between the streetlights. I killed all the interior lights in my vehicle, popped open the car door and exited. I did a last minute equipment check. The thirty-eight was snug in the small of my back, and at the last moment, I decided to pack some additional firepower. A Ruger Judge revolver, capable of chambering both 45 caliber bullets and 410 shotgun shells. I loaded the chambers alternately with one 45, and then one 410, one 45, and then one 410. Basic survival, if you can’t take them out clean with a bullet, blast the living shit out of the place with shotgun pellets. I strapped the holster carrying the Judge around my right ankle underneath my loose-legged jeans and made my way quietly along the side fencing towards the house. The house appeared quiet and I saw no ‘Beware of the doggy’ signs. I avoided the front path and driveway, keeping my distance from the building and performing a wide circle around the yard. There were no other vehicles on the property, aside from the grim satisfaction I felt at seeing the ass end of a fifty-nine Caddy sticking out of the carport. There was no front porch light and only one lighted window showing in the back. I crouched underneath it with my nose firmly pressed against the frame and carefully peered through the bottom corner of the window. It was an unnerving sight. I had no difficulty recognizing JoAnne or the bedroom. It was the same room as was shown in the three photographs, the only difference being, there was no chair in the center of the room. JoAnne appeared to be dressed as a schoolgirl in a pleated red tartan skirt, a white button-down shirt opened all the way to display her bare breasts and her mouth was stuffed with a gag. She lay flat on her back on a bed with her hands handcuffed together above her head and secured to the iron headboard behind her. Her legs were spread and her skirt was bunched up around her waist. The rest of her was obscured by the naked legs, shoulders and back of the guy bouncing up and down on top of her. The only thing he had on covering his skin was a black leather facemask and the hair on his ass. I moved away from the window and towards the rear door of the house. I was fumbling in the dark for my lockpicks when I got lucky. The back door of the house was unsecured. I crouched quietly there for a minute to assess the possible opposition. I did not see or hear anything that would indicate the presence of any other person in or around the house. Quietly entering the house through a kitchen area, I turned in the direction of the bedroom light, and the sound of squeaking bedsprings. The bedroom door was ajar. I would be entering the bedroom from behind the man laboring away atop JoAnne. It was crucial that he not see me. I could not risk him using her as a shield. I had to get closer. With my thirty-eight in my right hand, I quietly eased the door open enough for me to slide through and then silently crossed the room until I stood at the foot of the bed. That was when JoAnne looked up over the man’s shoulder and saw me approaching. Her eyes grew wide and she looked terrified. Before she could give away my presence, I pressed the end of the barrel of my thirty-eight hard against the back of the man’s head. I seriously considered sticking it up his bare ass but who wants to soil a good revolver. He froze in mid-thrust. “Place both of your hands behind your back. If you do not comply, I will kill you. Now DO IT!” The guy’s full weight landed on JoAnne as his hands quickly came back onto the small of his back. I unclipped my handcuffs from my belt and secured both rings tight around his wrists. “OK, FUCKHEAD. Do I have your attention? You will roll onto your side and lay flat on your back. If you do not comply, I will kill you. Now, DO IT!” He rolled off JoAnne and onto his back. I was expecting him to start kicking so I kept the barrel of my revolver hard up under his chin against his throat. He looked terrified and lay perfectly still. With him immobilized, I turned my attention toward JoAnne. She was breathing hard and understandably frightened. Her eyes were wild and she was choking on the gag, frantically trying to spit it out. I quickly reassured her. “You are okay… you are ok,” I told her. “He can’t harm you anymore.” She was struggling and choking on the gag. I reached over and pulled the gag away from her mouth. The gag turned out to be a pair of pink bikini style panties.

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