The Blackmailer, page 1
The Blackmailer
A Steve Jobz PI Thriller
Vincent Zandri
Published by Vincent Zandri, 2024.
This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.
THE BLACKMAILER
First edition. October 18, 2024.
Copyright © 2024 Vincent Zandri.
Written by Vincent Zandri.
Also by Vincent Zandri
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Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Also By Vincent Zandri
Begin your Moonlight journey today with a FREE copy of MOONLIGHT FALLS, the first novel in the Thriller and Shamus Award-winning series. | Or visit WWW.VINZANDRI.COM to nab all of Vin’s thrillers and mysteries. | PRAISE FOR VINCENT ZANDRI
“Look, you shoot off a guy’s head with his pants down, believe me, Texas is not the place you wanna get caught.” | —Thelma and Louise
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Also By Vincent Zandri
About the Author
Begin your Moonlight journey today with a FREE copy of MOONLIGHT FALLS, the first novel in the Thriller and Shamus Award-winning series.
Or visit WWW.VINZANDRI.COM to nab all of Vin’s thrillers and mysteries.
PRAISE FOR VINCENT ZANDRI
“SENSATIONAL . . . MASTERFUL . . . brilliant.”
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“(A) CHILLING TALE OF obsessive love from Thriller Award–winner Zandri (Moonlight Weeps) . . . Riveting.”
—Publishers Weekly
“. . . OH, WHAT A STORY it is . . . Riveting . . . A terrific old school thriller.”
—Booklist “Starred Review”
“ZANDRI DOES A FANTASTIC job with this story. Not only does he scare the reader, but the horror
Show he presents also scares the man who is the definition of the word “tough.”
—Suspense Magazine
“I VERY HIGHLY RECOMMEND this book . . . It’s a great crime drama that is full of action and intense suspense, along with some great twists . . . Vincent Zandri has become a huge name and just keeps pouring out one best seller after another.”
—Life in Review
“(THE INNOCENT) IS A thriller that has depth and substance, wickedness and compassion.”
—The Times-Union (Albany)
“THE ACTION NEVER WANES.”
—Fort Lauderdale Sun-Sentinel
“GRITTY, FAST-PACED, lyrical and haunting.”
—Harlan Coben, New York Times bestselling author of Six Years
“TOUGH, STYLISH, HEARTBREAKING.”
—Don Winslow, New York Times bestselling author of Savages and Cartel.
“A TIGHTLY CRAFTED, smart, disturbing, elegantly crafted complex thriller . . . I dare you to start it and not keep reading.”
—MJ Rose, New York Times bestselling author of Halo Effect and Closure
“A CLASSIC SLICE OF raw pulp noir...”
—William Landay, New York Times bestselling author of Defending Jacob
“ZANDRI (IS) A VETERAN wordsmith who executes quality and quantity at superlative levels.”
—Book Reporter
The Blackmailer
A Steve Jobz PI Thriller
Vincent Zandri
“Look, you shoot off a guy’s head with his pants down, believe me, Texas is not the place you wanna get caught.”
—Thelma and Louise
1
My eyes open wide and all I see is ceiling. A popcorned ceiling that belongs to a motel-no-tell to be precise. A popcorned ceiling that’s got stains on it from the many insects that have been crushed on it over the years. Makes you wonder about the bed you’ve been sleeping in, and how many bugs it houses, both visible and invisible.
I try to move my arms and legs, but they won’t budge. Am I paralyzed? Where the hell are my eyeglasses? Where the deuce are my clothes? My fucking head hurts. Hangover the size of the Titanic.
I gaze down at my exposed manhood. It’s not only been trimmed, but all the hair is gone. It makes me look like a ten-year-old boy. How did that happen? When did it happen? When I glance at my left arm, I see there’s a big bandage taped to it. Oh Jesus, did I get a tattoo last night?
Why can’t I remember anything? Did I blackout? Think, Jobzy, think.
Okay, pause the video...
I recall driving out to New Hampshire on a lark, just to get hell out of Albany and the muggy, searing heat wave we’ve been experiencing all summer. Sure, I live on a houseboat that’s docked on the river, which always gets a cool breeze. But this year, that breeze reeks of rotting fish and the flyfishing has been God awful. And God knows that like Saint Peter himself, I live to flyfish.
With no PI work on the docket for now anyway, I just got behind the wheel of my ’66 Mustang, put the top down, tossed in a Beach Boys cassette tape, gassed up at the nearest pump, and headed for the Vermont border.
Three hours later I arrived in the White Mountains of New Hampshire. You know, the state where you “live free or die.” I like that kind of thing. Suits my lifestyle just perfectly. You can also carry a firearm in this state, unconcealed. Try doing that shit in New York State where you can carry a gun so long as it’s not licensed. You can even shoot and kill an innocent man or woman and get out of jail on no bail since that’s the way Empire State’s Democratic Machine likes it. But if you carry a licensed piece and you shoot a home intruder dead, you’re going to jail, and the D.A. will gladly toss away the key. But I digress.
What else? Oh yeah, I recall seeing a vacancy sign outside a nice little roadside motel. It was one of those old motels you might find on an old postcard in your grandmother’s attic. Just one long extended building that houses maybe two dozen rooms, with tin, round-backed Griffith chairs set on the cracked sidewalk outside, and attached to it, an old white, cottage home that was renovated into a check-in/check-out office many decades ago. The place even had a built-in swimming pool which was a bonus in my book.
I recall checking in, and the Asian Indian owner being pleasant and charging my credit card for a two-night stay. I also recall heading out to buy a twelve pack of beer and quart of Irish whiskey which naturally, I started in on right away since it had to be five o’clock somewhere in the world.
Wait, hold the phone, because now I’m beginning to remember the woman. She was staying in the room beside mine. She had a British accent, was a little portly around the waist like she very much enjoyed her Guinness, and she kept her dark hair in a bun. She was also wearing a black swimsuit with a pair of major league boobs that were about to bust out of it.
I met her at the pool, and we got to talking. Her kids were grown and out of the house. One of her daughters was six months pregnant with what would be her first grandchild. Her first husband had passed on in “ought nine” she said, and now she was passing the time by driving all around the states.
Her name...what the hell was her name? Julia. That’s it. Julia McKenny. She was a nurse in a former life before moving to the U.S. in the early 2000s. We started in on my twelve pack and when that was gone we went out for another. We also drank most of the whiskey. We also walked to the bar across the street where we drank some more.
Then we came back here and decided to enjoy a nightcap together in my room. It’s all coming back to me now. I remember how she went to her room for a minute and came back in to mine. This time she was carrying a video camera and a tripod.
“Tell me something, Mr. Jobz,” she said, in her polite Mary Poppins voice. “Do you enjoy pornography?”
...all right, resume video...
I hear the door being unlocked. The chain hasn’t been attached, so whoever is trying to get in is going to have no trouble. The door opens and a smiling, almost pleasant round face appears.
“Well good morning, sleepy head,” Julia “Mary Poppins” McKenny says. She steps into the room. “And how’s your bum this fine morning, Jobzy?”
“My bum?” I say, my voice cracking because my mouth is so dry. “You mean like, my ass?”
She closes the door behind her. She’s got her black bathing suit on again, and her tits look like they’ve grown even bigger overnight. They get any larger she’s going to burst out of that thing. It’ll be like the Attack of the Killer Tits.
“That’s exactly what I mean, Mr. Jobzy,” she says.
I haven’t really thought about the pain in my ass, because these days, when I wake up, every part of my body hurts from the top of my skull to my lower back to the aching, arthritic toes.
“I guess it’s sort of sore,” I say. “Why?”
“Because you and me last night...” She allows the thought to fade out with a simple, almost carefree wave of her hand.
“Why am I tied up like this?” I ask. “I gotta pee real bad, so can you untie me?”
“Well, I’m sorry about that,” she said. “But we needed props for our movie. I guess I was too tired and frankly, pissed—that is in the English sense of the word—to untie you. Give a lady a sec.”
She heads out the open door and presumably goes to her room. When she comes back in, she’s holding what looks to me like a switchblade. It’s got a red handle. She thumbs the blade open like a pro and cuts the ropes that bind my ankles to the bed. She then frees my wrists. That’s when I jump out of bed and head to the bathroom.
Shutting the door, I stand over the toilet and release a long stream of liquid relief. There’s traces of pee in the blood. Pee in the blood is an alarming sight.
“What in the world happened last night?” I ask myself.
But I’m not sure I want to know. One thing is for certain, however, my elderly mother, if she finds out about it, is not going to like it one bit.
2
When I’m done peeing, I give my body the once over. I’m all bruised up. There are small bruises on my legs, belly, chest, and arms. How could I have not noticed them until now? When I inhale deeply, it hurts my ribs, like they too are badly bruised. I’m almost afraid to look in the mirror.
But I do it anyway. It’s then I see how swelled my face is. I open my mouth and take a good look at my teeth. They all seem to be present and accounted for. I stick my finger in my mouth just to see if any of them are loose. So far so good.
Opening the door, I walk back into the motel room. I see that the phone is off the hook. It must have been off the hook all night. It’s all I can do to slip back into my boxer shorts and khaki shorts over those. I also see that there must be about three dozen empty beer cans scattered about, plus three empty whiskey bottles and the mirror that had been hanging on the wall is now sitting on the table, with a credit card set on it and some white powder scattered all over the glass. The credit card that occupies the glass belongs to me. I snatch it off the mirror.
