The Arrangement

Book 1: The Plainclothes Tootsie Mysteries

by M. Ravenel

Genres: African American Mystery & Detective; Mystery; Historical Mysteries; Private Investigators; Female Sleuths; Crime & Mystery; Standalone

Synopsis

“A gritty, hard-boiled mystery featuring a tough, snarky, female private eye from 1970s New York City.”

Another case has fallen onto the desk of Tootsie Carter; a female detective armed with a snub-nosed Colt .38, unmatchable wit, and a pocketful of Tootsie Rolls.

New York City, 1975

A missing wife. The seedy underbelly of the boxing world. Lace your gloves and ring the bell, PI Tootsie Carter is on the case.

When a desperate man stumbles into her office, pleading for help locating his wife, Tootsie launches into the investigation.

Following the clues, she uncovers a boxing racketeer with a deadly agenda.

Can Tootsie deliver the one-two punch that brings the woman home safe? Or will more bodies fall to the mats?

Release date: March 9, 2021

Publisher: Chikara Press

Print pages: 143

Sample

(c) 2021 M. Ravenel. All Rights Reserved

 

Chapter 1

 

Bronx, New York, 1975

 

I peered through the slats of the blinds covering the glass on my office door and watched the dark, brooding man in the hallway. Sporting a neatly trimmed horseshoe mustache and wearing a burgundy polyester leisure suit, the man appeared to be in his late twenties. He stood every bit of six-foot-three under the fluorescent lights, which hummed and flickered, casting a hazy glow over the glistening beads of sweat on his brow. The man scrutinized me with an unsteady gaze. He shifted his thin frame from one foot to the other, repeatedly clasping and unclasping his perfectly manicured hands. His fidgeting reminded me of a paranoid junkie on the run from the law or a frazzled tourist who’d just encountered one of New York City’s infamous giant rodents.

Once I’d watched him squirm long enough, I said, “Yes?”

“Ah, hello, Miss. I’m looking for Detective Carter,” he replied in a low, muffled voice.

I discreetly slid one of the dead bolt latches aside. “What business do you have with Detective Carter?”

The man blinked. “I, uh… want to hire him. This is his office, right?” His gaze lowered to the inscription on the door. “T. Carter, Private Detective?”

I slid aside another latch. “It is.”

“You his secretary or something?”

I snorted. The good-looking fool had jokes. Not like I could blame him for the mistake. New York City had become a cesspool of crime and punishment with no end in sight. And it was certainly no place for a proper lady to be getting her hands all dirty doing gritty, unsavory detective work.

I unhooked a chain latch, the third and final lock, and opened the door. The man’s thick eyebrows rose slightly.

“Detective Carter does not have a secretary, but she’s willing to listen to your case.” I stepped aside and gestured him in.

His mouth opened slowly then closed.

“Look, either come in or beat it. I’m closing this door in three seconds. This building’s had three attempted robberies this week already.”

After another round of hesitation, he clenched his jaw then finally entered.

“Have a seat.” I shut the door and swiveled its window blinds closed.

The man remained where he stood. His head moved from left to right as he scanned my two-room office, which was dimly lit by the green banker’s lamp sitting on my paper-strewn wooden desk. A few filing cabinets lined the walls beside the desk, and a wooden bookshelf was tucked into one corner. The double-hung window behind the desk overlooked Leland Avenue from the fourth floor’s fire escape. For a moment, the man’s attention settled on the view of the city’s nighttime lights.

The building, which had been used for residential housing back in the ’20s and ’30s, had since been converted into offices for small businesses. I was one of the lucky few to be on good, friendly terms with Sam Contreras, the landlord, who essentially allowed me to live where I worked. It was the best of both worlds, especially when there was no way I was able to afford rent for both an apartment and office space. Not only was I a good tenant, but Sam was less stressed having a former cop around. For added pressure, he used my residence as an excuse for not hiring a doorman for the building. That would-be money knocked twenty-five dollars off my rent for every time I thwarted a robbery in the building. So far, at the rate things were going, I was on my way to earning a free month. But despite the money and how good it felt to stop criminals in their tracks, I was only one person. I wished Sam would stop being such a cheapskate.

I plopped down in my creaky desk chair and leaned back. “If you’re done casing the joint, how about we talk a little business?”

“Ah…” He rubbed the back of his head, his face full of confusion.

I glanced at the clock above the front door. 7:40. Sweet Saint Mary, this was going to be a long night. “Yeah, that’s right. I’ve got the wrong equipment in my pants. But them’s the breaks. So if I ain’t what you’re looking for, then you can just step on out that door.”

He perked up at that. “Whoa. Hey, now, I’m cool with—”

“It’s written all over your face.”

He cleared his throat. “I apologize.”

“Right. So now that we got that out of the way, how about you tell me who you are and why you’re here.” I gestured to the empty chair in front of my desk. It was one of those hard wooden school chairs that made a person’s rear feel like a numb flapjack after only five minutes of sitting. I’d picked up the chair at a secondhand shop for a buck. It kept prospective clients from getting too long-winded.

He looked at the chair a moment, like there might be a bear trap in the seat. Then he edged closer and rested his hands on the back of it, drumming those nervous fingers on the wood, but he still didn’t sit.

Geez Louise. This guy was jumpier than a liar on a witness stand. That meant he probably had an interesting case. The jumpy ones usually did. In my eight years of solving cases, I’d developed a soft spot for the nervous Nellies.

“My name is Gregory Miles. My wife, Luanda”—the finger-drumming ramped up to machine-gun speed—“has gone missing…”

I opened my desk drawer and pulled a pocket-sized notepad out from under one of my stashed Dick Tracy comic books. I plucked a freshly sharpened pencil from the coffee can sitting on my desk and jotted some notes. “Have you gone to the police?”

“Actually, yeah. The chief at the Fifty-Fourth Precinct told me to come to you.”

I raised my eyebrows. “He did, did he?”

“Yeah. And…” He fished through the breast pocket of his blazer and pulled out a Tootsie Roll Midgee. “He told me to give you this. Said you would know what it meant.”

I cracked a smile, taking the small piece of candy. It was swell of Chief Lewis to always look out for me like that. I’d known Rob since I was a kid, when he’d just started out on the force as a beat cop. These days, with the police being in high demand because of all the crime and protests, there were few resources available for small-time cases like Mr. Miles’s.

I put the piece of candy with the others that filled a medium-sized glass jar on my desk. Call it a strange infatuation, or perhaps childhood nostalgia, but Tootsie Rolls were my sweet addiction. I was like a chain-smoker that went through five packs a day. Indulging in a Tootsie Roll or two was the perfect way to brighten up a stressful day, and, boy, did this job come with plenty of them.

“Yes, I know exactly what it means, and you came to the right place.” I lightly tapped the tip of my pencil against the notepad. “Now, back to your missing wife.”

“Yes.” His face went pale again, and he white-knuckled the back of the chair. “Luanda is such a wonderful woman. She’s tall and beautiful, and she would give a movie star like Pam Grier a run for her money.”

“Pretty bold statement, Mr. Miles,” I said flatly.

He shrugged. “I may be a little biased.”

“When was the last time you saw your wife?”

“Two days ago. Monday morning, around four, before I went to work. I’m a mail sorter at the post office. Luanda works three days a week part-time at Marlene’s Diner over on Webster Avenue. If she works the first shift, I usually see her when I come home in the afternoon. If it’s the second shift, I’ll see her when she gets home around ten o’clock that night. It’s our usual weekly routine.”

“You two sound like the typical happily married couple,” I said. Maybe a little too happy.

“We sure are. Our five-year wedding anniversary is coming up in two weeks. We’re going to take a cruise to Bermuda.”

“Bermuda, eh? Fancy.”

He snorted. “Yeah, and expensive. But only the best for my Luanda.”

“So what changed in your usual weekly routine?” I steered the conversation back on track.

“Well…” He moistened his lips. “Luanda is a doll, putting in extra hours at work so she could help pitch in with the trip’s expenses. I kept telling her she didn’t have to do that, but she insisted. So I let her do her thing. As a result, she’d often come home late from her second shift, many times well after midnight. Some nights, I was asleep by the time she returned, so I never got a chance to see her.”

“Did she ever call and let you know she was going to be home late?” I asked.

“Sometimes she did. But there were times when the diner got slammed, and she was so busy that she forgot to call.”

“Fair enough. Go on.”

“Monday, when I came home, she wasn’t there. Her purse was gone, too, so I figured she went into work early. I called the diner, but no one there had seen her all day. Later that night, I went down to the diner in person but saw no sign of her. I stayed up later than I should, waiting for her at home, but she never came back. Tuesday, I asked around at the diner again, but no one had still seen her. I called around town to places she might’ve gone, but no dice. I gave her one more sleepless night to come back, and when she didn’t, I went straight to the police. And here I am.”

“Yeah. Here you are.” My pencil moved steadily as I took careful notes. “Why didn’t you call the police sooner?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. I thought maybe she worked herself so much she might’ve been too tired to come home, so she stayed over with one of her girlfriends instead.”

“She would’ve called you if that were the case, right?”

“Yeah, I suppose. Depending on how late she would’ve gotten in from work.”

I lifted an eyebrow. “You don’t sound very sure of yourself.”

His face hardened. “Hey, I love her with all my heart. I trust her and give her all the freedom she wants. I’m not some jealous husband who goes checking on his wife every five minutes, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“All right, all right, I dig it. I just need to cover all possibilities.” I flipped to a new page of my notebook. “Were there any signs of a break-in? Anything missing or out of place?”

“None. The only thing missing was her purse.”

“You sure she doesn’t have any other men in her life?” I asked, thinking about the unfathomable number of infidelity cases I’d dealt with in the past.

His eyes widened. “Hell no! I spoil her like a queen. I do everything I can to be a perfect husband to her. She’s got no reason to go looking elsewhere.”

I stopped scribbling and looked up from the pad, remembering some of my earlier cases. Spoiling a highly attractive woman was usually a recipe for disaster. “You mentioned she had girlfriends.”

“Yeah, some women friends from the diner.”

“And none of them had seen her?”

He shook his head and sighed.

I tapped the eraser end of my pencil against my lips as I scanned my notes. “And she’s never been gone this long before?”

“Yeah. Crazy, ain’t it? I just don’t get it. I’m worried as hell about her. She means everything to me.”

“I’m sure she does, Mr. Miles,” I said in a calm, cool tone. “Hypothetically speaking, she could very well have been kidnapped, especially if she allegedly rivals Pam Grier in the looks department.” I raised my eyebrows at him dubiously.

His eyes grew wider than saucers. “No!”

“Relax. I was being facetious. I’ll take the case. My rate is a hundred seventy-five dollars a day, plus expenses.”

Slowly, he pulled his hands back from the chair. Stepping closer to the desk, he fished out two one-hundred-dollar bills from his brown leather wallet. He plunked the money on the desk and slid it toward me. “Can you start tonight?”

I eyed the crisp bills, which still carried a whiff of their newly minted smell. “Totally.”

“I just want her back safe and sound. If you find out anything, please let me know.” He spat out his telephone number.

I jotted it down on my pad, but I had no intentions of contacting him unless absolutely necessary. Otherwise, it would wait until this case was closed. The last thing I needed was to give a client a false sense of hope. “I’ll take care of it. In the meantime, you go home and try to relax.”

He looked at me with eyes full of hesitation. His Adam’s apple bobbed.

“Something else you need to tell me, Mr. Miles?”

“Are you… Are you sure you can do this?”

I raised my eyebrows. “You’re wondering if I’m qualified?”

“Ah, well—”

“Save your breath.” I gestured to the framed law enforcement and professional investigator certificates hanging prominently by the front door, alongside my business licenses.

His brow furrowed as he scrutinized them one by one. “Rita Carter?”

I grunted. “Call me Tootsie.”

“Right on. Those are some impressive achievements. I ain’t gonna argue with you—that’s for sure. I like your no-nonsense attitude. Just be careful out there, will you? These streets are crazy.”

“Your concern is flattering but unnecessary. I wouldn’t have been working this gig for the past eight years if I didn’t know the rules of the streets. If I were you, I’d worry less about me and more about getting yourself safely home, you dig?” I rose from my desk, pressing my palms flat on the top.

He opened his mouth to reply, closed it, then gave me an absent nod. “Yeah… I’ll leave you to it, then. Goodnight, Ms. Carter—or should I say, Detective.”

“Whatever floats your boat.” I opened the door and let him out. He stepped into the hallway, timidly rubbing his hands together again and looking over his shoulder at me with trepidation. I closed the door and reset the locks. If he knew what was good for him, he would jet out of there faster than a rocket-powered Mustang. Night was coming, and that was when the crazies would come out and play. A clean-cut, well-dressed cat like him would be easy pickings for a gang of lowlife suckers.

In any event, it was time to get started on his case. I left my office and went through a door that led to the tenement’s one and only bedroom. Its minuscule size made a dollhouse feel like a mansion. But I’d somehow managed to make it work out with having a place to sleep and a place for my clothes, and I’d even fit in a makeshift kitchenette, complete with a mini fridge and hotplate for cooking.

I squeezed past my daybed and opened the armoire. I retrieved my favorite pair of tiny gold hoop earrings from the jewelry box, and then switched out my casual shoes for my black steel-toe boots. Not only were these babies good for walking, they were also great for dealing with fools who tried to get fresh.

After a quick check in the hanging wall mirror, I returned to my office and gathered my essentials: my wallet, my snub-nosed Colt .38, my pocket-sized notebook, a couple of Tootsie Rolls, a set of handcuffs, a pair of black leather gloves, and lastly, my old police badge. I’d only been on the force for three years, straight out of high school, before resigning. I’d found out the hard way that the cop life was a far cry from what my childhood hero Dick Tracy did. Instead of cool car chases, shootouts, and drug busts, I was stuck behind a switchboard, typewriter, or coffee maker all day. Promotion wasn’t even an option for me, I had later learned. Added to that was the fact that female officers were treated poorly by their male peers—even though a few others and I could run circles around some of those dirtbags. It wasn’t quite the life for me. Chief Lewis didn’t have any hard feelings about my resignation, and he’d even suggested I become a private detective instead. The rest was history, and I’d never looked back.

Even now, that shiny silver badge still came in handy, especially when I needed to trip up a suspect. But having it around could get me in big trouble. Chief Lewis pulled the strings to make sure that didn’t happen. As a private dick, I solved smaller cases and did the dirty work so the rookie cops could swoop in like vultures and take all the credit. But I didn’t mind. I was getting paid, and Chief Lewis had a good eye on me and knew that I was a-okay. In a way, I still had one foot in the force, having a great contact like him only a phone call away.

I turned off the radiator under the window and went to the coatrack by the front door. I shrugged on my brown leather trench coat over my black turtleneck and denim bell-bottoms. After putting on my gloves and placing the rest of the items in their respective pockets, I plucked my dark-green fedora from the rack and slipped it on. My thick, curly hair spilled out from it like a lion’s mane.

Leaving the office, I jiggled my key into a set of three locks that secured the door from the outside. It wouldn’t take much for a determined robber to break them, but the locks were enough to add a bit of annoyance, at least. Not like they would find anything they would consider valuable in my office, anyway, unless they had a particular penchant for Dick Tracy comics. But I pitied the fool who laid their grubby hands on my coveted reading material, because no god would save them from the wrath of an angry Tootsie Carter.