Hey there. The name’s Bookman. Sam Bookman.
I’m one of those guys who’s been around – you know, a stint in the army, a little hush-hush intelligence work, undercover cop – a little of everything. You know, Jack of all trades, master of most. Trouble is, with most lines of work, you have to put up with assholes of some description bossing you around. You know, mental midget know-nothings who think they know it all, or their daddy says they know it all, so they’re in charge. Well, I got real tired of that bullshit, so a while back I hung up my own shingle; Bookman Investigations. That’s right, I’m a P I. The money’s not real good, but I keep my own hours and some cases are pretty interesting. And best of all, I answer to nobody but myself.
The reason I’m relating this latest case of mine is because I’ve been working for some mob types lately and I need to have something set aside in writing – just in case I don’t show up for breakfast some morning. You know, a little insurance. Some of these organized crime types can be real unsociable.
Take, for instance, the way I was introduced to my recent employer. I was at my favourite watering hole, enjoying a couple of Guinness, when I remembered I was supposed to meet a babe for drinks a few blocks away. This woman really liked to fuck and I figured I better not blow her off, or I wouldn’t be getting blown anytime soon. Anyway, it was about 9:30 p.m. when I wandered out of O’Toole’s pub.
I turned the corner onto Main St. and was hit by a Mack truck. At least, it felt like a Mack truck. A big ham fist caught me square in the chest, then another quickly caught me on the side of the head. I went down like a sack of hammers. I looked up from the sidewalk, dazed, at three very large men standing over me. The biggest of them said, “Lou wants to see ya. Now.” With that, his partners picked me up and chucked me in the back of a limo idling at the curb.
As I wiped some blood off the side of my face, the big man had opened me up with a large ring, I knew things were going to get interesting. Lou, “Large Lou” Monetti, was a well-known crime lord in the city and a man used to getting his own way. What he wanted with me, I had no idea, but, surrounded by his drones, there was no way to avoid the meeting. After a half-hour of silence, we pulled up at what I took to be Lou’s estate. We all got out of the car, with two goons directing me to the front door.
After wandering down a corridor that would do a castle proud, we all entered a library. Books covered the walls, a fire was roaring and a large, leather-covered desk was graced by a bottle of port and a couple of glasses. “Here he is, Lou,” the big man obviously pointed out.
“I can see that, Frankie. Leave him here and leave us alone.” As the goons walked out, Large Lou, who looked about six foot six and three hundred pounds, walked around the desk and poured me a glass of port. He looked at the blood on the side of my face and handed my the glass. “Frankie sometimes gets a little enthusiastic in his work. No hard feelings?”
Well, what could I say? That I was going to press charges? That would have gone over like a lead balloon. I decided silence was the best bet.
Large Lou wasted no time with formalities. “Here’s the deal Bookman. I’ve heard you do good work and keep your mouth shut. You’re going to do some work for me, I’ll pay you well for it, and you won’t say a word to anyone. The problem is, I’ve heard some of my guys have an idea they can take over from me. These are assholes who work for me, right under my nose, and they have big ideas. I can’t have that.”
