Green-Eyed Mobster

Sex, violence, greed, corruption, murder: and that's BEFORE lunch

"Andy Maslen has written a sharp, witty take on the hardboiled crime novels of the 1930s, set in a gritty, neon-lit, modern-day Chicago. Expect sex, betrayal, deceit, violence, corruption ... and a tricky relationship with a hatstand."

Welcome to P.I. Art Zeffer's Chicago. A town where the rats have concealed-carry licences. The mobsters act legit. And dirty cops are out for everything they can get. He's having a so-so day when an emerald-eyed redhead strolls into his office and sets his world on fire.

'My husband's cheating on me, Mr Zeffer."

When he discovers the identity of the cheating spouse, Art sees his chance to right an old wrong. But before long he's up to his battered brown fedora in trouble. He wakes up in his apartment with a murder weapon in his hand and a bunch of flatfoots led by a Detective Bundy looming over him, pistols drawn.

But trouble loves company and before long Art has more than a cooked-up murder rap to worry about. His teenaged daughter, Tess, is in grave danger. Time's running out before Art gets sent down to Terre Haute penitentiary for a sumptuous meal and a short appointment in the needle suite.

Art has one week to solve the murder, rescue his daughter and put off his meeting with his maker.

FROM CHAPTER ONE

My name is Art Zeffer and I live in a part of the Windy City where even the rats have concealed carry licences.

One thing you’d better know about me from the get-go: I’m a disgraced ex-cop. I say ‘disgraced’ and that’s true. But before you get any ideas, let me say this. I wasn’t dirty, just unfortunate. I’ll explain later.

When Chicago PD decided they could do better catching bad guys without my help, I needed to find a new source of income, what with not being blessed with one of those nice, gold-plated names like Vanderbilt, Rockefeller or Carnegie. So, what’s an ex-cop supposed to do to keep the wolf from the door? You got it. I hung out my shingle as a private eye.

On the morning this story starts, I’m scrolling through my ex-wife’s Instagram, feeling the bile chewing at my guts, when the door to my office bangs wide and my world gets a whole lot more interesting.

It’s her hair I notice first. The shade and style that always gets me flustered. Fire-red and piled up on the top of her head with a few stray strands curling down around a long, elegant neck like a swan’s.

Next, a pair of emeralds staring down at me from across my cluttered and suddenly embarrassing desk. Did I say emeralds? Well, they’re dazzling enough to be gemstones but they’re just— Whoa! Wait a minute? Just? Just? Who am I kidding? There’s nothing ‘just’ about those peepers. They sparkle, flecks of gold dancing in those luminous irises, and right now they’re fixed on me like after-market laser sights on a Glock 17.

She shrugs off a long black fur coat and turns to hang it beside my battered brown fedora on the coat rack. The shantung silk dress is modest; a high, scooped neck and a hem that skims her knees but what it doesn’t reveal, it accentuates, and I’m thinking maybe somewhere there’s an hourglass missing its casing.

She sashays across the six feet of linoleum between the door and my desk, hips swaying from side to side like a metronome set to rumba-time, pulls out the spavined visitor chair, which I now wish I’d replaced last month when a client finally paid their bill, and sits.

She crosses her legs, and I hear the whisper of nylon. I force myself not to imagine her thighs brushing over each other and keep my eyes locked onto those emeralds. No way am I letting my gaze drop by so much as a thou. of an inch.

I open my mouth to speak. My lips click as they part and I swallow, trying to moisten my throat. She beats me to it.

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