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Swapping Lies (my next book, a true story). FBI Bank Job. ***by Frank Hickey*** "You're the P.I.?" the Lawyer asks me. "Not just a paralegal?" "I'm the private eye," I brag, like a kid. "Frank Hickey." "You're here on a civil case, I know," he says. "But I've got a client. FBI cracked him forbank robbery. I believe he's an innocent man." The Lawyer sports a short beard, rosy cheeks and a Tommy-gun talk style. Sunlight from his storefront office lights his face. "I need a smart jury for this case," he muses. "Good luck with that," I wisecrack. "My last case, the jury was so wombat-dumb, they tried to convict the judge." "Speak good Spanish?" he asks me. "The best," I fib. Maybe I'm embroidering a bit. But I want this case. I never worked an FBI case before. He slaps the desk. I flinch. "Go!" he snaps. I go. "I didn't do any bank robbery," my new client Mitchell tells me that evening. We stand on his Inwood neighborhood front stoop. Black, bone-thin, soft speaking, he sportstony horn-rimmed glasses. Squinting through them, he sees me as a stocky 24, hippie brown hair and naive blue eyes, behind heavy glasses, weighing me down. My bad eyesight keeps the government from swearing me in as a detective. So, I swear myself in. I try to be the world's best detective. Many other children make the same vow, like Huck Finn taking a blood oath. "Cops pinch me for gambling before," he says."But never anything of violence. It just doesn't pay. Gambling, policy or numbers, that gains me sweet steady coin." He unwraps a Tootsie roll candy for his chubby little daughter, five years old. She giggles. "I had innocent clients before," I say. "Facing murder charges. I work just as hard for a guilty client as an innocent one." Sharp brown eyes gauge me. "Why is that?" he asks. Again, I feel all too white, like the preppy I am. "Because everyone deserves an aggressively legal defense," I parrot."When your lawyer hires me, I enjoy the same privilege of privacy that he has. "Totally confidential. Just like your doctor or religious figure. Nobody can order me to say what you tell me." "Yeah?" he asks. "You going to believe me over the FBI?" "Try me," I say, like the movies. "What if I told you that the FBI and the cops kicked in my door?" he asks. "Grabbed me up in front of my little girl here and the wife. Held me on my windowsill. Threatened to drop me down four flights if I didn't confess to the robbery. What would you say, mister private eye?". ***Frank Hickey. ***Somehow, Frank became a detective. He writes the Dancing Max Royster crime stories about the world's only ballroom dancing detective at frankhickey.net
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Sherlock's Snake (a true story from 'Swapping Lies,' my next book.). ***by Frank Hickey*** At age seven, my parents rip me out of my Flatbush, Brooklyn, street and deposit me into strange concrete Manhattan. I'm scared. "Franky, why can't you sleep?" my actress Mommy asks at night time. "Mommy, I saw a Sherlock Holmes TV show. The bad man used a snake to kill someone." "Franky, you don't have to worry. We're on the second floor.". "Mommy, that's no good! The snake comes through the bars to bite them! "Somebody will come under our window," I whine. "An old German man from Germantown on Third Avenue. The Germans are Nazis. He has the snake under his dirty raincoat. And he'll have his snake crawl up the wall, through the bars and kill me." "Look, Franky. I'm closing the window.All right?" "Maybe the snake's in the apartment already. Or he'll come back tomorrow!" "Just lie still," she enunciates. "You're just a big rag doll, lying all spread out." Us four kids are eight, seven, five and three. That's why Mommy isn't acting this year. Mommy says she's no spring chicken. But she's acting tonight. "Don't move," she says. "Your head feels big and heavy. You legs are all tired out. Sooo tired. Just try to sleep". ***Frank Hickey ***. Somehow Frank survives the snakes and becomes a detective. He writes the Dancing Max Royster crime novels about the world's only ballroom dancing detective at frankhickey.net
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Am I My Buff's Keeper?***by Frank Hickey*** "I'm a Housing cop working in PSA Four," Junior, a stranger, blows at me on my front stoop. "Been just three years, making lotsa collars, overtime." Wide and spongy in the gut, Junior looks and noises like those inflatable childrens' statues blowing in the wind at street fairs. Bright colors pull squealing kids to them. Junior squeals himself. "Got your shield on you?" I ask, all polite. "Naw!" he snorts. "I never carry my piece or my tin off-duty!" Oatmeal-colored hair spills onto a pale forehead. He sweats, smelling like a baby who needs to be burped. The mouth keeps going. "Cop inna seven-five precinct gets held up inna church," Junior spurts. "Find his shield, no gun, they execute him right away!" "I take one mutt out of his car!" he blurts. "Mutt swings at me. I rap him with my cocobolo stick, hardest wood known to man, he goes down. I tell the desk sergeant 'I'll process him myself!' and mutt tries to kick me in the holding area! "Captain passing through," he continues. "Sees me hammer him into the floor and cuff him, shakes my hand, says, 'Good collar, officer.' Puts me in for an EPD and gives me a day off as a reward." His talk hurts my ears. •. *. *. "He's not a cop," Benny says. "Security guard. Part-time. UBATTS, ya really wanna know." The word 'UBATTS' is Sicilian slang for'crazy.' "Junior just moved into my building," I say. "Right away, he starts telling me about his golden adventures as a cop. He's just a guard, a toy cop?" "You betcha," Benny, my private eye partner, grunts. He scans his V.O. and water cocktail. "I know his uncle, a good guy. This kid's driving him crazy, embarrassing him. Don't tell him ya know the truth." "Us cops call these guys 'buffs,'" Benny says. "Buffs come up to ya on patrol and chatter. They pick up our cop slang, maybe a fake shield or some leather. Dangerous, because some carry guns." "You mean, like this?" I ask, digging into my pocket. He rears back. "No gun?" he asks. "Shield," I say. My hand shows him a three-inch gold shield from my guard job at Penn Protective. Blue enamel decorates the center against the scales of justice. "Nice," he says. "Company issue that?" "Naw," I brag. "Went to Times Square and had it made." "How much?" "Twenty-two bucks," I say. "And your guard salary was fifty a week?" he asks. "You pay half for a fake shield. Yup, you're another buff". As usual, Benny scans the bar, looking for beautiful women with his spaniel eyes. "There's more fake cops in a world than real cops," he says. "Does Junior bother ya?" "Yeah, Junior bothers me," I say. "Cause I wanna be a cop, too. Maybe more than he does. Not just a dumb rookie private eye like I am." "So?" Benny asks. "So I could wind up like Junior myself,"I say. "Telling tall tales like a little kid, at age 22. Maybe starting to believe it myself. Fantasy world. I gotta do something, Benny. I gotta make a move". ***Frank Hickey *** Somehow, Frank became a detective. He writes the Dancing Max Royster crime novels about the world's only ballroom dancing detective at frankhickey.net
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When My Dad Didn't Die ***by Frank Hickey*** I'm a rookie private eye when a nightmare splits my sleep, saying that my Dad died. It is only a dream, I tell myself. But it feels as real as the paint chips on my bedroom wall. So real, so real, this echoes through my mind's caverns. Details swing past, cawing like buzzards. They give my nightmare depth and reality. Gray dawn hits. I wake up, shaking. MY DAD DIED, keeps repeating like my own blood pulse. "No, he didn't!" I repeat aloud in the real world at last. Stumbling through my apartment, I shiver naked, trying to calm myself. At 22, I'm living on a silly man-child shoestring. No bank account, credit card, gun or driver's license. Writing unpaid and unknown COPERAS. These stories mix cop work with opera themes of love, loss and song. But the detective work holds me. After a rocky teenage relationship with my Dad, I can always talk with him. He's too shrewd to nag me about anything. He holds more guts than I do. In World War II, he volunteered for fighter pilot training and flew better than his instructors. He wanted combat. Gambling on his skill, he demolished planes while training. The Navy washed him out of flight school for 'suicidal tendencies.' Later, as a sailor in the war, he dove overboard one night and saved a drowning officer The officer outweighed him by 80 pounds. Dad never told us about it. The officer did. In New York's construction landmine, he earned respect from criminals by staying honest. He confronted Jimmy Hoffa, America's most powerful and murderous union thug. "Hey, everyone's afraid of me except this guy, Larry Hickey," Hoffa told his gangster pals. Psychology, I try to remember, tells us that our dreams are psychotic. Is that accurate? I'm not sure. What I do recall is that the prefrontalcortex checks reality while awake. Once we sleep, this cortex works less. So we run wild in our dreams. Waking today overjoys me. My father is not dead, I keep repeating to myself. This good feeling of escape carries me through my subway ride. It follows me into Mr. Wade's private eye office in the World Trade Center. We juggle cases of lost dogs, murder defense, car accidents, slippery sidewalks and everything else. As always, he reigns Buddha-like and richly dressed. He views the wide window overlooking the river. Sunlight catches his black skin against gold cufflinks. "Hickey," he breathes through his mouth. "Ya gotta go to Brooklyn, find a lil Spanish gal and tell her that her father just died". Frank Hickey. Somehow, Frank became a detective. He writes the Dancing Max Royster crime novels about the world's only ballroom dancing detective at frankhickey.net
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Swapping Lies(the next book). ***by Frank Hickey*** (This is a true story.). "Mr. Wade," I tell my private eye boss."I need a gun." "Oooh, baby!" he wails. "I'm a ole man. My heart is weak. Don't do me like that, Whiteboy Hickey!" Attempting a business negotiation style, I try again. "I'm working under your private eye license-" I say. "-And I certainly hope that you're happy here," he finishes for me. "As a rookie kid private eye, I'm sporting heavy eyeglasses," I say. "And a clipboard and cheap Woolworth ballpoint pens. No gun, no car, no trenchcoat or gold shield. What can I show to prove that I'm a private eye?" Then Mr. Wade floats an obscene suggestion. "Mr. Wade, I'm walking home the other day," I begin. "Feeling good because I have a first date with a lovely Ukrainian woman. 22, just like me. Working, Making you hundreds of bucks while I make twenty all day-" Mr. Wade pantomimes playing a sad violin. His wide black face shows joy. "As I'm passing First Avenue and East Third Street," I say, "I hear two guys arguing about a car accident. Both cars are blocking traffic. "They shove each other. Then, they fight. One guy kicks high. The other character catches his leg and they're both hopping back and forth, looking silly. I figure, nothing to look at here. I keep walking." "What else you gone do?" Mr. Wade asks. "Play Superman?" "Moving away, I hear BAP! Turn, see the Kicker on the ground. He ain't moving. The other guy, the Grabber, he's real cool, walks west on Third Street. Doesn't look back. "Did you hear a shot?" Mr. Wade asks. "Not a big bang. Just a sharp noise. Maybe a small caliber gun." "You my firearms expert?" Mr. Wade says. "Right on, baby!". "Grabber's walking up Third Street, downtown side," I say. "I don't know if he noticed me. Didn't wanna ask." "Good idea," Mr. Wade says. "So I start figuring. Maybe he noticed me. Maybe not. I start walking west on East Third Street, tailing him. I'm on the uptown side, maybe thirty feet from him. I'm worried that he's a Hell's Angel. Because their national headquarters lies on that block. I know it. But he doesn't. He walks past the headquarters. "If he shoots at me, he probably won't get me with his first shot-" "Wonderful word, 'probably,'" Mr. Wade rumbles. "Handguns don't work like rifles or shotguns," I maintain. "He can't be sure of hitting me in a vital spot. And I can hide behind parked cars and dodge bullets-" "Hickey, Hickey, " Mr. Wade rumbles. He never calls me by my first name of 'Frank.' "What if this Mammy Jammer gunman runs towards you, across the street? And finds you hiding behind one of your wonderful parked cars? He'll put six shots right into your fat pink face." "I didn't think of that," I confess. "So flipping smart, Hickey," he mutters. It is his mantra. "So flipping smart." "So, I stay behind him, walking on the other side of the street. If I hadda gun, ya know what I could do?" "Sure," he throats. "Get yourself killed." "No, Mr. Wade," I say. "I could make a citizen's arrest. For homicide!" "Yeah," he says. "Your own. Be your first and last arrest." "I don't know what to do," I confess. "He walks up to Second Avenue and turns to walk downtown. I follow him. A brown car stops at the corner. See two police uniforms inside. Jump in front of the car and shout 'That guy just shot someone.' "Passenger cop says 'Get inna back.'I obey. They drive down Second Avenue and stop. The passenger cop yanks out his .38 and shouts 'Hold it right there, buddy!' They're thirty feet from the Grabber. I wonder what happens if the Grabber shoots both. Then takes their car with me in the back seat. I thought that their tactics were sloppy." "Glad that you didn't stop and give them a lecture," Mr. Wade says. "Benefit of your vast experience and all." "They frisk the Grabber on a wire fence and take a pistol off him," I say. "I finally notice that the passenger cop wears a captain's gold shield. A separate car brings me to the precinct. "They tell me that the Kicker was D.O.A. at Bellevue," I say. "Take my name, phone and address. I never heard a word about it." "Probably plea-bargained it down," Mr. Wade judges. "From Manslaughter 2 to Criminally Negligent Homicide. That's maybe probation to four years prison time. "Probation?" I ask. "For killing someone?" "What can I tell ya?" he asks. "I'm shook up, Mr. Wade," I say. "I'm lace-curtain prep-school Irish. Never saw anyone killed before. "Had the first date with that woman and made a mess of it. Couldn't stop reacting and talking about the murder. She refused to see me again. Ever." ***Frank Hickey ***. Somehow, Frank became a cop. He writes the Dancing Max Royster crime novels about the world's only ballroom dancing detective at frankhickey.net
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Swapping Lies (my next book) Chapter 12, Kid Canvass, Private Eye *** by Frank Hickey***. "Ya gotta do a canvass," my private eye boss grunts. "That's when you come up on New Yorkers, out of nowhere," he says. "And you say, 'POLLY VOO? didja see this happen? Did ya hear this happen? What's the word on the street? "Do they HAVE to answer you?" I ask. "No," he says. "That's where your charm comes in. "Where you make them WANT to tell you," he says. "It's a skill. Ask any salesman. Politician. Or fancy-man Sweet Daddy Mack pimp. Can't be taught. Go do it.". "I'm just 22, thick glasses, no gun or car, working under your private eye license," I protest. "Not if you can't canvass," he grunts."I'll fire you and hire someone who can." This seems clear. So, I sally forth and try to canvass. "Excuse me, sir," I say to a busy pedestrian. "I'm checking on a little fender-bender, happened near here." "When?" he asks. "Three years ago, in April," I say. His face changes. "Are you crazy?" he asks. My boss offers no help. "Everybody's crazy, Hickey," he rumbles. One night, in a thunderstorm, I canvass a decrepit building. A woman, wild-eyed, with frizzy white hair, rips the door open. "All day, every day!" she hollers. "They run, upstairs, downstairs, make noise, come home, drinka da whiskey, fall down dead!". ***Frank Hickey. If today looks a bit grim and you need to laugh, why not view frankhickeystories.blogspot.com? (The question mark is optional.). ***Frank was a kid private eye. He became a cop. Somehow. He writes the Dancing Max Royster crime novels about the world's only ballroom dancing detective.
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