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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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Is There Life After Louie? (A true story from the 75th Precinct, New York Police Department.). **by Frank Hickey*** Near my Coney Island Brooklyn neighborhood, Louie, a grandfather, lives with his kids and grandkids. "We're all close," he says. "Don't we gain strength from our families?" "Maybe some just use their families," his daughter Rachele mutters. "For free room and board." Louie works at being a good family man and grandfather. Except that, three or four times a year, he goes away, gambling, carousing and sucking down anisette until he gets tired. Then he slinks back home, broke, hungover and unshaved. His family walks soft near his room until he feels strong again. Last April, he goes off on the spring season. His family just hears gossip. Louie was here, he was there, andeverything else. But he doesn't slipback, as usual. Nobody knows where Louie is. The cops call the family. They find Louie on a bench at Coney Island, on the boardwalk, especially deceased from a heart attack. No wallet and no cash. The family mourns him, using a two-day wake with an open casket. Coney Island had been Louie's world. He never lived anywhere else. The priest says blessings over him.The whole family weeps. His daughter Rachele misses him. She wishes she had been nicer to him. They plant him in the family plot at Brooklyn's Holy Cross Cemetery. They try to re-adjust their lives without Louie. The next day, the family door opens. Louie sways inside, alive and exhausted. He says that he had gone into Brookdale Hospital for a minor infection. He didn't want to worry his family, so he kept quiet. Everyone asks, how could this happen? To be fair, Louie is an ordinary-looking type guy. A lot of characters look like other guys. Who is the dead stranger? the cops ask. They never find out. He has noidentification when they found hisbody. "We'll leave him in the family plot," Louie decides. "Why dig him up? He got no family claiming him. So, we take him as our own family. We all gain strength from our family.". **Frank Hickey***. Frank became a cop. Somehow. He writes the Dancing Max Royster crime novels about the world's only ballroom dancing detective at frankhickey.net

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Heroes Christopher Hoban and Michael Buczek. ***by Frank Hickey*** In 1988, New York City is unbelievably dangerous. Killers smash previous records, slaughtering 1842 victims. Chris Hoban, 26, is a cop working undercover at a Harlem drug buy. He doesn't speak Spanish. The Latino drug dealers tell him to sample their cocaine. The Department forbids cops taking drugs on a buy unless their life is in danger. Hoban refuses. The dealers search him, find his gun and kill him. My sister is a TV reporter. She hears the reports over the news radio. She knows that I live three minutes walk away from the murder scene. My Harlem neighborhood is only seven percent white. Everyone lives in fear, black, white and Latino. So, she believes that the victim is me, a District Attorney's Detective Investigator, with gun and badge. With her camera crew, she races to the crime scene. She wonders how she will tell our parents if I am dead. She turns sad at hearing about the murder but relieved that I am still alive. Her TV van drives her to Hoban's family, in a safer Irish Brooklyn neighborhood, 14 miles away. Less than three hours later, Michael Buczek, 26, a cop in uniform but not wearing a ballistic vest, stops two drug suspects uptown. They run. Buczek chases. One turns, firing a fatal shot into Buczek's chest. So, two cops die on the same day. My sister visits the grieving Hoban family. She still feels the adrenaline dump from being scared that I was dead. But she is a pro and is recovering. As she leaves, the dead cop's father shocks her. "Please say hello to your father for me," Mr. Hoban says. My sister stops dead. "You know my father?" she asks. "Yes," he answers. "For years. We both read scripture at Saint Patrick's Cathedral in Manhattan". ***Frank Hickey Frank became a cop. Somehow. He writes the Dancing Max Royster crime novels about the world's only ballroom dancing detective at frankhickey.net

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Years ago, Bobby was a Marine. As my cop partner, whenever he sees something or someone difficult, he mutters, "This look like a job for the old Devil Dog Marine." I am not a Devil Dog Marine, but an unknown writer, scared and fascinated by policing. Every night, I sit outdoors and try to write something fresh about working patrol for two years. "Slow down, Bobby," I tell him."'Make haste slowly,'" like the Roman soldiers said." Bobby is always getting into trouble, on and off-duty. Some days, he will not show up for work. He limps in the next day, bruised and just grunting to questions. Bobby always plays it quiet. "You're right, player," he says one day."This jazz DOES happen fast. Happened to me." "What are you telling me, Bobby?" "Me and this guy got into it inna club," he says. "Some kinda stupid stuff. Don't even remember what. I was pretty polluted on whiskey. So was he. "I forgot all about it, heading out to my car. Dude slams me in the head, starts shooting. I grab his arm. Shots go wild. More shots. Gets me down on the ground, gun to my head. Last thing I remember thinking was 'Hickey's right. Stuff happens fast." "That was your last thought?" I wisecrack. "I''m honored." "Drunk fool, forgot to count his shots," Billy says. "I hear the hammer go CLICK!Empty chamber on a two-inch gun. No bullet. I'm pumped. Get up and beat him bloody, old Marine Corps hand-to-hand. Just thought you'd like to know, about these marks on my face." ***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 Hickey became a cop. Somehow. He writes the Dancing Max Royster crime novels about the world's only ballroom dancing detective.

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Are You My Lawyer? or Beest Thou My Barrister?

Are You My Lawyer?        or Beest Thou Mine Barrister? .***by    Frank Hickey  ***       Aged ten, I was a writer fascinated by detectives. I hungered to be one.    At 22, I became a street corner kid private eye , with no training, car or gun. All I sported were thick eyeglasses, languages and a longing to learn. Murder defense cases thrilled me.                                                         For ten years, I worked those challenges. My main job skill was annoying normal adults. They told me so. The Manhattan District Attorney's Office offered me a chance as one of their investigators.                Sometimes, I worked undercover in torn and dirty clothes. Living in a drug-and-murder neighborhood, I needed to blend in.    ...
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