All Chickens Must Die: A Benjamin Wade Mystery (11 page)

“A phone call?” Burman said, puzzled. “Who do you have to call?”

Aldridge had already started walking back toward the station. “I
have to call a friend in Austin about some chickens.”

Back in May 2013, I wrote
Wading
Into War
, Benjamin Wade’s first story. I went on to write a couple of book
featuring a completely different set of characters. Late that year, I wanted to
return to the world of 1940 and Benjamin Wade. Thus,
All Chickens Must Die
was born. At the time, I hadn’t written
The Phantom Automobiles
, Gordon
Gardner’s first novel. The ending of that book meant that I had to fix up a few
things here in
Chickens
. It proved to be a fun challenge.

The title of
All Chickens Must Die
proved elusive. For the
longest time—up to and including when I delivered the manuscript to my editor—I
had no title. I can’t even say for sure how the phrase “all chickens must die”
entered my head, but it did. And it stuck. With a title that would have been at
home on an old 1950s or 1960s pulp novel, I wanted a cover that matched. I love
the two intricate covers of
Wading Into War
and
The Phantom
Automobiles
but I wanted a different vibe for this novel. After examining
all the old novels I have here in my office, the concept of a solid color “main
field” and a secondary color/field at top gave me the old-school pulp fiction
look I wanted. For the longest time, I had a stock image of a silhouetted man,
kneeling, and aiming his gun off screen. I liked it. A lot. You’ll see it in
the future I assure you.

At my day job, David Hadley is our company’s graphic artist. We
have many similar interests—Star Wars being one—and we stuck up a good
friendship. Along the way, I’d ask him design questions as I tried to train
myself in the art of cover design. I showed him my first concept. He
appreciated the old-school look and feel and offered a few suggestions. Then,
one day, he asked if he could just work with an idea he had. No problem. I was
eager to see what he would do.

The cover was so much better than I had imagined. He used my
kneeling man figure and introduced the arcing bullet you see on the cover. But
I had a problem: there was no shootout at the farm. I’d either have to write
one, or come up with something else. I suggested showing a man fleeing and
viola. Front cover done. He suggested the idea of the front and back covers
showing one scene. He made it happen.

So, thanks to David for making
All Chickens Must Die
look
so much better than it did.

Regarding the words, I can write them, but I can’t make them
shine as well as they without the help of my editor, Anna Marie Flusche. As
with all my 1940s-era stories, she called me out on a few phrases that were too
modern, verified my historical accuracy in other cases, and generally tightened
up the prose. Every page had marks, of course, but I always look for the little
checkmarks near certain passages. It meant she enjoyed parts that I hope all
readers enjoy. As always, any issues with the novel now are all on me.

Thank you again, Anna Marie, for making this a better book.

Thank you, dear reader, for reading
All Chickens Must
Die.
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All Chickens Must Die
. Your
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WADING
INTO WAR: A Benjamin Wade Mystery

Benjamin Wade’s first case!

Houston, 1940

Benjamin Wade is a laid back private investigator whose jobs are
so mundane that he doesn’t even carry a gun. He thought his latest job was
going to be easy.

He thought wrong.

Hired by beguiling Lillian Saxton to find a missing reporter with
knowledge of her brother’s whereabouts in war-torn Europe, Wade follows a lead
and knocks on a door. He gets two answers: bullets and a corpse.

Now Wade must unravel the truth about the reporter’s death,
Lillian’s brother, and the whereabouts of a cache of documents that uncovers a
shocking story from Nazi-controlled Europe and an even more nefarious secret
here at home.

Chapter
One

Monday
, April 22, 1940

Even though I was new to this private eye gig, I knew something
wasn’t right when I walked up the sidewalk to the front door of 518 Oak Street.
It was definitely the house I wanted. The case had taken me that far.

What worried me was the silence.

It was the day after San Jacinto Day here in Houston. It was
funny celebrating the anniversary of the victory that won Texas its
independence while the Nazis were invading Norway. Everyone thought France
might be next.  We weren’t at war yet, jobs had returned to the city and lots
of guys were working. That included me after my stint with the police and my
subsequent enforced vacation.

No, what bothered me was the quiet. This was a neighborhood of
bungalow houses. Families lived here, families with the husband off working and
the mothers staying home with the children. The Depression might have subdued
the job market, but it didn’t subdue the baby making market. I stood there, sun
blazing through my hat, and looked up and down the street. Nothing. No one was
out playing in the yard, walking the dog, or planting daffodils in the front
flower beds. That’s what  people did when they weren’t working. But that wasn’t
happening on Oak Street.

Strange. As I looked up at the house, a nice bungalow with tan
bricks and a small porch, something in my gut turned over. That kind of feeling
had served me well back when I wore a badge, so I listened to it. Still, the
leads I had uncovered pointed in this direction. It’s what Lillian Saxton had
hired me to do: find Wendell Rosenblatt. He was a journalist who had gone
missing a few days after he arrived here in Houston following a stint in Europe
covering the war.

This was the kind of job I did: find people. I did the same thing
when I wore the badge. I just found it easier with the power of the people
behind me. Flying solo as a gumshoe brought with it an uncertainty, one that
kept me on edge most of the time. It made me wary, more wary than when I wore
the blue uniform.

I stepped up on the porch and listened. Still that strange quiet.
Nothing, not even from inside the house. It needed a paint job. Houston’s heat
and humidity can do a number on exteriors. Mine needed more than just paint.

I rapped my knuckles on the door. Instead of hearing footsteps, I
heard something I didn’t really expect: gunfire. Bullets slammed the door with
dull thuds that splintered the wood. The thick door saved me. Had it been a
thin one, like the ones on my house, I would have been thrown back onto the
lawn with new holes letting the sun shine into my guts. As it happened, I had
time to duck and roll forward. I thought I had done alright, until the bullets
smashed the windows right above me and shards of glass rained down. Keeping my
head down, I scooted forward to the edge of the porch. Thankfully, the little
white railing that fronted the porch didn’t extend to the side or else I’d have
been trapped.

I slid off the porch and down the short cement steps, landing on
the broken driveway. I won’t kid you: I was scared to death. My heart was
pounding in my chest and I had to use the house as support while I tried to
catch my breath. There wasn’t a car under the carport and the side-sliding
garage doors were closed.

My ears still rang from the gunshots. It took me a moment to
realize the shooting had stopped. Glancing down the street, I still expected to
see people coming out of front doors or peering out from behind curtains. No
one emerged from any house, but I saw some blinds open. Good. There were
witnesses. Always good to have witnesses when the cops show up and start asking
the gumshoe pointed questions.

As a rule, I don’t pack my gun when I’m doing footwork. I  find
it best to talk first, let the fists fly second, and lastly, bring out the iron
if all else fails. My revolver was in the glove compartment of my car, but I
was damn sure not going to  run across the open lawn to try to get it. Doing so
would put me in the firing sights of the shooter. It might even let him get away.

There was a part of me that just wanted to hunker down where I
was, let the shooter retreat and leave me alone. I’d tell Miss Saxton “No, I
couldn’t find Mr. Rosenblatt at the address given to me by the snitch, thank
you very much.” I’d just been shot at, so I considered adding to the list of
expenses I’d provide her at the end of the case.

But the itch inside my head turned me around. I wasn’t yellow,
that was for damn sure. I preferred my fights to be as even as possible. I’d
lost my share to my cocky mouth, so I had learned to tone it down a bit. Best
practices and all. Getting shot at, however, did something to a man, showed his
true character. And, there I was, trembling like a little girl while the sounds
of footsteps in the house moved to the back.

From across the street, the blinds moved again and I caught a
glimpse of white skin against a green dress. I couldn’t see the face, but the
head was cocked in a way that told me the woman was on the phone. Damn. The
police would be coming, sooner than I wanted them to. But I was sure not going
to be the shrinking violet Mrs. Green Dress was most likely describing me as
right now.

Steeling myself, I got up on my haunches and scooted near the
back door. Without my gun, I resorted to clutching the only thing I could find
on short notice: the broom leaning against the side of the house. It was so
light I knew it’d be nearly useless. You never bring a knife to a gun fight and
you sure as hell don’t bring a broomstick. Unless you’re the Wicked Witch of
the West and, well, we know how that one turned out.

I peered around the back of the house. As with the front porch,
there were three cement steps leading up to the back door. There were two large
windows presumably from a breakfast room facing the back. I couldn’t risk
moving under them for fear the shooter would spot me and have a clear shot.
Above me was a small window, probably the one above the kitchen sink, judging
by the sponge resting on the window sill. That left me in a quandary: where
would the shooter exit the house? Out the front door risking the eyes of
witnesses or out the back? A chain link fence enclosed the entire yard and the
detached garage. In the driveway of the backdoor neighbor’s house I saw a black
sedan. It faced the street, ready to drive away fast. My intuitive gut told me
this was the shooter’s car.

I needed to end the stand-off. Picking up a few pebbles from the
ground, I threw them at the front porch. They rattled around, sounding like
boulders in the tense quiet.

The footsteps in the house moved quickly toward my position. The
back door flew open and the shooter emerged. With the broomstick, I did the
only thing possible: I stuck it out and tripped him.

He flew through the air, arms flailing. Truth be told, he looked
pretty funny. He landed face first on the gravel. The impact knocked his hat
askew but, surprisingly, he kept a grip on the gun. I sobered up when sunlight
glinted off the polished metal of his gun, the barrel aimed directly at my
heart.

Available at
Amazon
.

THE
PHANTOM AUTOMOBILES: A Gordon Gardner Investigation

You met him as a co-star in
Wading Into War
and
All
Chickens Must Die
. Now, Gordon Gardner stars in his first feature story.

Gordon Gardner, Ace Reporter!

There’s not a story he can’t crack. He’s got his finger on the
pulse of his town. His dogged tenacity means no politician is safe. Even the U.
S. Army keeps tabs on him to ensure he safely harbors national secrets. And he
looks smashing in a tux.

His latest assignment is a basic police blotter piece: a
pedestrian struck dead by a car. As a reporter who is second to none, Gardner’s
disappointed. How could a simple accident be worthy of his considerable talents
when there are so many other more interesting stories to cover? Even his
pairing with a beautiful photographer doesn’t lighten his mood.

His editor wants the piece yesterday. The police already closed
the case. But then Gardner asks a simple question: why would a seemingly normal
person willingly dive in front of a speeding car? Witnesses said the man went
crazy just moments before he leapt to his death. What he alleged made no sense:
he said the cars on the street didn’t exist and there was only one way to prove
it.

He was wrong. Dead wrong.

Now, Gordon Gardner, in defiance of his editor and the police,
resolves to investigate the mysterious circumstances behind the dead man’s life
and uncover the real truth behind the phantom automobiles.

Excerpt:

Chapter One

“I’ve got two dead bodies," Elijah Levitz, the editor of the
Houston Post-Dispatch
, said, flipping two pieces of paper between the
fingers of each hand, “and I’m gonna let one of my two junior ace reporters
pick first.”

Gordon Gardner inwardly bristled at the word junior but knew that
he'd one day be the senior ace reporter. He stood in the main newsroom with the
other reporters and hoped he got first pick. Having successfully flirted with
the editor's secretary long enough to get the gists of both stories, Gordon
knew which one of the stories would have the privilege of bearing his personal
“Gordon Gardner” stamp.

 But which one would he get?

When the editor called a meeting, the news hounds had gathered
liked sheep to a shepherd around Levitz. The portly man constantly had his
necktie loosened, his open collar dirty around the inside ring, and a cigarette
hanging from dried lips. The unlit stick bobbed up and down as he spoke and
handed out assignments. Each assignment was on a slip of paper torn from a
stack held together by an iron rod and a cast iron nut. Levitz claimed it was a
piece of the Hindenburg but few believed him although no reporter, copy boy, or
secretary ever said so to his face.

When Levitz called out a story and assigned a reporter, that
man—they were all men—would plow through the throng and snatch a piece of paper
Levitz handed out. Barbara Essary, the editor’s secretary, sat at a nearby desk
and jotted notes. Sometimes the boys in the newsroom swapped stories. As a
rule, Levitz didn’t mind the switching except in those times when he reminded
his reporters that he was the editor and he assigned the stories as he saw fit.

This was one of those times.

“I think we all know which ones I'm talking about," Levitz
continued. “There’s the crazy guy who jumped in front of a moving car and lost,
and the mugging death of William Silber, local artist. The latter's more of a
fancy obit, the former's just a basic crime blotter filler piece.”

Gordon looked down a re-read the slip of paper listing the job he
already had. A puff piece on the local nightclub owner, Bruno Clavell, who had
recently built his first club in Houston after a successful string of similar
nightclubs in Dallas, Ft. Worth, San Antonio, and Austin. It didn’t amount to
much, but he’d certainly get to dust off his tux.

In the stuffy room, not every reporter wore a jacket. Gordon
ditched his long ago to the back of his chair next to his brand-new desk near
the window. Next to him, Jack Hanson, an older man with three kids and a wife,
needed more deodorant. His body odor wafted around him like a fog. Gordon eased
away under a false pretense, all the while wondering how Hanson had three kids.

“I’m gonna get that top story,” Johnny Flynn said to Gordon.
Shorter than Gordon by at least four inches, Johnny nonetheless had an
effortless aplomb that surrounded him. His charm and good looks opened a lot of
doors and he nearly always had his tie cinched tight. “And I’ll get the next
promotion by, you know, actually writing something that’s true.”

Johnny, a rival reporter, still hadn’t accepted the fact that
Gordon received a promotion for fabricating a news story. To him, you wrote and
then you accepted the accolades. What made matters even worse for Gordon was
that he couldn't say anything about the nature of the story. For all Johnny
knew, Gordon’s story was about a bank robbery foiled by the police. The real
story involved Nazis in Houston. As a result, he had to suffer Johnny’s tirades
and oneupmanship.

Gordon hated it. But he loved his desk next to the window so when
Johnny got a little too full of himself, Gordon would just saunter over to his
desk and stretch out while Johnny had to content himself with a small hovel in
the middle of the newsroom.

“Don’t talk about stuff you don’t know a damn thing about,”
Gordon whispered. He nodded to their boss.

“Y’all done?” Levitz asked. His cocked eyebrow spoke volumes.

Both junior reporters nodded.

Levitz sniggered. “There’ll be no switching. You get what you get
and you won't throw a fit.”

What was this, kindergarten?

“Harry,” Levitz said, “got a dime.”

Harry Vinson plunged his hand into his pocket and produced the
coin.

“Now, since Johnny here wrote the last big piece for us, I’m
gonna let him call it. What’s it gonna be, Johnny?”

“Heads,” Johnny called out.

Harry flipped the dime in the air, catching it between his open
palms. He uncovered and called out, “Tails.”

The grin on Gordon’s face could’ve lit up the marquee at the
Metropolitan movie house. “I’ll take…”

“Not so fast, Gordie,” Levitz said, using the nickname Gordon
didn’t particularly like. “You only get the right to choose the slip of paper.
Left hand or right hand.”

Again, Gordon thought, is this kindergarten? He wanted the story
of the dead artist. Marie Gardner, his mother, taught art in school and was
part of the committee that helped found and open Houston’s Museum of Fine Art.
Gordon knew he could make William Silber’s obit shine.

Being right handed, Gordon’s natural tendency was to pick right.
But he had been under Levitz’s black cloud for a few weeks. Sure, Gordon had
successfully bartered his silence for the new desk and promotion, something
Levitz had agreed to under pressure. But the editor didn’t like his hand being
forced and had rewarded Gordon with lesser stories. The last high-profile story
Gordon got still only landed on page two. To date, the only page-one story
Gordon had was the fake story he had written.

“Left,” Gordon said.

“Good choice,” Levitz said. “You get the crazy man.”

Gordon’s pained sigh brought chuckles from the guys around him.

“Johnny, you get Silber,” Levitz said. “Alright, boys, let’s make
some ink.”

As the throng started to disperse, Gordon moved against the
stream toward Levitz. “Wait, boss,” Gordon said, “I’m better for the artist
profile. I know more than Johnny does.”

Johnny, who remained in place as the reporters and photographers
moved past him, just watched.

“Don’t care,” Levitz said, turning to Barbara and motioning her
to follow him. He threw the two pieces of paper in the trash can and
sequestered himself in his office.

She gave Gordon a sympathetic look. “Sorry, sweetie.” She
straightened her skirt and joined Levitz, closing his door.

Gordon shook his head, catching a glimpse of Johnny’s grin. Now
his was the marque bright one. He turned and sauntered away.

Looking down, Gordon caught a glimpse of the pieces of paper
Levitz had just thrown away. Frowning, he fished them both out of the trash. He
looked at each of them.

Both pieces of paper were blank.

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