'1St' Time

‘1st’

Time

Andrew F. Rickis

iUniverse LLC

Bloomington

1ST TIME

Copyright © 2013 Andrew F. Rickis.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

All of the characters in this book are fictitious, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental

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ISBN: 978-1-4917-1718-9 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4917-1719-6 (e)

iUniverse rev. date:     12/11/2013

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

This book is dedicated to Lucille

My friend—my love—my wife—my life!

&

Carl and Nora

&

Everyone who supports my endeavors!

And, to my dear friends John and Shirley for their contribution!

Chapter One

The time is ten fifteen in the morning. The date, October 22. A forty-two year old man is ensconced in a queen-sized bed, curled up in the fetal position with a multi-colored cotton bed sheet covering his head, trying to shield the sun’s morning rays coming in through the patio doorway from fully wakening him. He’s waiting for the effects of the one-hundred proof bourbon he consumed the night before to leave his system, and hopefully bring some relief to his aching head and churning stomach.

The man’s name is Matthew Wilson Kelly, MWK. Matthew is a gumshoe, a shamus, a private detective. He’s been licensed as a bona fide private investigator for the past fourteen years. And, he’s authorized to carry!

Growing up in the Florida Keys, he was known as Hewie to his boyhood friends. To his barroom buddies, he’s Matt Kelly, one hard drinking tough SOB; but nevertheless, not an unreasonable man. As the saying goes, he knew when to hold them, when to fold them, when to kick butt, and when to let go!

His mother, Ruth Ann, who has long departed this world, named her only son after Saint Matthew, one of the original apostles, and traditionally considered to be the author of the first gospel. Matt’s mother was an extremely religious woman. She picked the names for all her children from names in the bible. Matt has two sisters, Mary and Martha, both older than he is. Ruth Ann gave her children their middle name Wilson, to preserve the heritage of her family, who came to America from England back in the early twentieth century.

Unfortunately for his mother, but not so for his father, Matt grew up anything but a saint. In high school, he broke all the school’s records in football as a star halfback. Drafted by the University of Miami, he also broke all that school’s football records for a halfback and led the Hurricanes to a national title in the Rose Bowl in Pasadena, California, which is often considered as the granddaddy of all the bowl games.

After graduating college in four years as an average student, Matt joined the United States Marine Corps. During his four year stint, Matt served as an embassy guard in Asia and several western Europeans countries. During the time he served with the Marines, combined with his prowess as an athlete, he developed into one tough cookie. He took no nonsense from anyone.

The previous evening, with a few of his friends, Matt managed to tie on a ‘good one’. Without realizing it at the time, by himself, he emptied a whole fifth of the sauce.

Although the private eye has been bending the elbow more than usual lately, he is officially not an alcoholic, as some have come to suspect.

Eleven days ago, Matt experienced the most traumatic day of his life. He shot another human being! The first time. He shot a young man in the chest with his Glock Seventeen handgun. It was the only time in his life Matt had shot someone. There had been several other incidents when the gun was drawn, but the trigger was never pulled.

*

Nineteen days ago, Marylou Kramer had a violent argument with her twenty-three year old son, Edward Kramer. In a huff, the lad left home. For the next four days, Marylou did not hear from him or have the least idea what he was doing or where he was. In his state of mind, when he left, she became frantic something terrible might have happened to him. They had numerous arguments before, mostly about his drinking and drug use, but he had never disappeared for days before.

On the fifth day he was gone, he called her on his cellphone from Key West, Florida, and told her he was in deep trouble, but said nothing more.

Marylou didn’t know what to do. At this point, she was frantic, hysterical, practically out of her mind. A call to the local police department was of no help. The only thing they did was to tell her to file a missing person’s report. Three more desperate calls to them begging for help had the same results. The desk sergeant, finally fed up with her whining, informed her, in no uncertain terms, the police do not get involved in domestic squabbles. When she refused to stop pestering him, he recommended she hire a private detective.

Thumbing through the yellow pages, she spotted a four inch square ad about Matt Kelly under private detectives. Surprisingly, she discovered his office was only a short distance down the street from her home. With her heart pounding in her chest, she dialed the number.

Matt answered on the third ring.

Hello. While reaching for the phone, he glanced at the watch on his left wrist and wondered who was calling at this unruly early hour. He was enjoying his second cup of morning java and reading the sports section in the morning newspaper. It was seven fifteen.

Is this Mr. Kelly, the private detective?

Yes it is. What can I do for you? The moment he heard the tone of the woman’s voice, his gut told him this call could be big trouble.

Marylou identified herself and told him the reason she was calling. After she finished telling the private eye about her predicament, Matt politely refused to help her. He told her this was not the type of case he handles.

Please, Mr. Kelly, I beg you. My son is in some kind of trouble. The police won’t help me, please, you’re my last resort.

I’m sorry, Mrs. Kramer, I truly sympathize with your problem, but as I said before, this is not the type of case I handle.

The woman began to cry uncontrollably. He sincerely felt sorry for her, but he had no intention of spending days searching for some runaway. And, he was fairly certain in all probability, she couldn’t afford his exorbitant fee and expenses.

Please, Mr. Kelly. I’m begging you. My husband is dead. I’m fifty-two years old and not in the best of health. Edward is my only reason for living. I have no one else to turn to.

Matt listened to the woman rant on, begging and pleading, but he adamantly had no intention of changing his mind… until, she told him her son is retarded. That fact, reached his heart. He immediately thought of mom, who died five years ago, seven months after her husband divorced her.

Okay, Mrs. Kramer, I’ll go down to Key West and look around, but no promises. I’ll need a picture of him. Where do you live?

When she gave him her address, he was surprised to discover she was only two miles up the road. He told her he would be there in a couple of hours.

*

Matt lives on Plantation Key, in the Florida Keys—mile marker eighty-eight. His combined home and office occupy the one story single family home, located less than a hundred feet from the Atlantic Ocean. The CBS structure of concrete and steel, has been his residence and place of work since the first day he hung up his shingle. Matt was born in the Keys, in Key Largo. His father is a Navy man, a commander. He’s married to his career. Matt’s mother worked at various occupations in the upper Keys while raising her three children. She also did a considerable amount of charity work for her church. Matt often wondered how she managed. He eventually figured she kept so busy she didn’t have time to dwell on her misfortunes.

None of the family saw very much of the man who had sired the siblings.

Matt more or less grew up without a dad. He had no one to discuss personal problems with; no one to teach him about the birds and bees, no one to play catch with or toss the pigskin around. He often wondered why his mother and father married, but he never asked her, because he didn’t want to hurt her feelings by opening old wounds. One fact Matt did have to admit, his father did help considerably with the finances. Like clockwork, a check arrived on the same day every month.

It wasn’t common knowledge that mom was slightly retarded and not very educated. She had only gone through six grades in school. Nevertheless, with all her shortcomings, everyone she came in contact with loved her dearly.

Every couple of years, without notice, dad would show up, stay a day or two, and be off again, to who knows where. While he was away, he never ever wrote.

Before the tragedy in Key West, the saddest day in Matt’s life was the day the lid was closed on Mom’s coffin.

He remembers the day like it was yesterday. After his sisters left the funeral parlor room and left him alone, he retreated to a corner of the room, and, for the first time in his adult life, the tears poured down both cheeks.

Dad never made it to the funeral, sent flowers or showed any remorse. Some years later, he apologized to his three children for not being there, asserting he was on a top government assignment in Indonesia at the time. The two girls handled all the funeral arrangements. After dad’s last visit, Matt never saw his father again.

With his father gone most of the time, fortunately, the boy never wavered from the good side, maybe, because football and baseball became his passions and occupied most of his spare time.

There’s not much entertainment for the youth growing up in the Keys. Rather than horse around and get into trouble or create some sort of mischievous problem, as some of the kids did, Matt’s interest turned to sports at a rather young age. He spent a great deal of his free time hanging out at the police athletic center, playing basketball and ping pong. Occasionally, some of the wise guys got into minor scrapes, but most of the time the police looked the other way.

Over the years, Matt’s interest finally centered on the game of baseball and football. Before he entered his teen years, it was t-ball, pee wee, little league, and finally varsity high school baseball. When he graduated from high school, Matt stood six foot one, and weighed one hundred and eighty pounds. He managed, by constantly working out, to maintain that weight into his later years. Matt was a pitcher, and a darned good one. He was in great physical condition. He literally spent hours in the gym working on the weight machines. His fellow teammates referred to him as a lean, mean, fighting machine.

It was the ninth inning of the opening home game for the Coral Shores Hurricanes high school baseball team. Matt was on the mound. There were two outs. The visiting team’s scoreboard showed nothing but goose eggs. They were from Key Largo, Florida, ten miles up the road.

The right-handed batter was in the hole with two strikes. He dug his spikes into the dirt. Matt stood on the mound glaring at him, debating what pitch to throw. He knew he could spot his ninety mile fastball wherever he wanted it to go. Or, should he drop his sharp breaking curve on the outside of the plate. His teammates were screaming at him.

Come on Hewie, you can do it.

One more baby—one more time!

You got his number, another teammate yelled.

The batter, a young lad from Key Largo was determined not to make the final out. If he did, he knew the significance. He began to sweat profusely.

As the freshmen went into his windup, a hush swept over the ball players on the field and the spectators in the stands. It became so quiet, a pin dropped could have been heard. The mood was eerie, as if time was standing still.

Matt threw the high hard one. The ball came in chest high, at ninety-two miles per hour. Trying his best, the high school sophomore swung and missed.

Strike three, the home plate umpire hollered, raising his right fist in the air.

Discouraged, the batter threw his bat, and with his head down, walked back to the dugout.

The ball field and the stands erupted. For the first time in the school’s history, the team had a no-hitter. The pitcher’s teammates swarmed the mound. Picking up the right-hander, they carried him around the field on their shoulders. During the celebration, his hat flew off. Several players massaged his blond hair, messing it up.

That day, Hewie was the hero! He had two additional no-hitters that year, but none were as sweet to him as that first one. The following three years in high school, he pitched six more.

*

The day in Key West, he was the loser. His conscience constantly reminds him; he can’t shake the image of the young lad lying prone on the table—shot—blood oozing from his chest—no matter how determined he tried to erase the image, it will not leave his subconscious mind.

*

With Matt’s strong right arm leading the way, the Hurricanes