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Janus: Private Eyes von Blair, J. D. (eBook)

  • Erscheinungsdatum: 07.09.2016
  • Verlag: BookBaby
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Janus: Private Eyes

This is a collection of stories about a bent and disgraced San Francisco narcotics detective who was wrongly drummed off the force by fellow detectives Janus fingered for taking mob payoffs. Janus ends up on the streets of San Francisco, becomes homeless and addicted to drugs and alcohol. He has a run in with some toughs that brings him close to death and begins a turn around in his life. With the help of a former mentor Janus ultimately starts his own detective agency and takes on mob bosses and befriends a powerful political figure that more or less keeps Janus on a retainer. He becomes embroiled in cases of art theft, the murder of the son of a powerful San Francisco family and is nearly killed chasing a notorious Mexican drug lord. Janus is an old school detective fighting modern day crime. He is brash, witty and cunning. Is he dumb enough to enter the dark side? Of course he is.


    Format: ePUB
    Kopierschutz: none
    Seitenzahl: 200
    Erscheinungsdatum: 07.09.2016
    Sprache: Englisch
    ISBN: 9781483580517
    Verlag: BookBaby
    Größe: 261 kBytes
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Janus: Private Eyes

Janus: Private Eyes CHAPTER ONE During the night, between trains, the station was silent except for echoes of coins hitting cold tiling and wine bottles clattering in the far corners of the empty station. My alcove was lined with my sleeping bag recycled from the black bitch Dewana. The bag smelled of her cheap perfume handed down by a doorman at the Emporium, payment for sexual favors given out in the alley. For a sample of "Midnight Embrace" she would do anything he asked. Last New Year's Eve Dewana was killed when a train picked her off the platform, that's what the police report says anyway. Some say she was pushed. Home is San Francisco and for a time I staked out my little niche in the station near the ATM machines where the light rail system spits out commuters every ten minutes and heat rises up from the tracks in stinking thermals. I belonged to the breed of unwashed homeless scratching out an existence around the city. My name is Janus Payette...J-A-N-U-S. My parents had a thing for Roman mythology; Janus was the god of gates, doors, doorways, beginnings and endings and that pretty much spells out my life. In a previous incarnation I was a detective working narcotics, which is about half a notch above being homeless. As a Narc you don't have many friends and enemies are behind every door and my connection to the God of doors gave me no special license. Making a long sordid story short, some of my enemies wore badges like mine and when I blew the whistle on a partner taking payoff money from a mob boss the brass sided with my partner and I was shoved into the gutter. Since then I've been a drunk, a drifter and the guy on Powell Street holding the sign, "Will Work For Food." It's a pretty good fit. On a chilly July morning with sea breezes smelling of kelp being sucked into the tubes, I was lulled to sleep by the rhythmic pulse of the station when I was jerked awake. There was a knife at my throat and a hand that smelled like anchovies over my mouth. My head was covered with a pillowcase, someone grabbed me by my ankles and I was swinging upside down like a throttled Christmas turkey. At one in the morning it's possible to hear trains arriving from a long distance, the squeal of the wheels is propelled through the tubes on a hot rush of air that precedes the cars as they enter. I heard a train approaching figuring it was about four minutes out. The pillowcase was ripped from my head and I was being dangled over the edge of the platform by a guy the size of a silverback gorilla with a sneer that could chill a tumbler of neat bourbon. He laughed as I squirmed. A blast of warm air struck me; there was the screech of wheels on track and lights from the arriving train reflected off the tunnel walls. The rancid smell of rubber and high voltage filled my nostrils and I knew in my battered lost soul that I would die that night. The ape dropped me and I glanced off the side of the platform and bounced onto the tracks. I squeezed myself into a crevice carved out of the track wall for electrical fittings and as the train sped past me the nose of the lead car brushed my pant leg. Ten cars raced by just inches from my face blew dust into my eyes and I licked fine grains of rubber and dirt from my lips. No thanks to the simian mugger who threw me over, the train to Daly City would be on time. After the last car passed I picked up a stopper from a perfume bottle lying next to the tracks and savored a whiff of Dewana and "Midnight Embrace". I scrambled off the tracks and returned to my alcove. Everything was gone, the sleeping bag, my shoes, the cardboard box that held my collection of Grateful Dead posters, and a stack of Playboy magazines. I held the stopper to my nose and breathed in the aroma once more then headed off to explore my options on Market Street at 2:30 in the morning. You never know which of life's smack-downs will

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