Delighted you dropped by. Sit...the coffee's almost brewed. You'd prefer Early Times, soda, one cube? Certainly. That happens to be my favorite drink. Would you share several clichés with me? Now, have a sip, scroll down, and read chapters and reviews of "PI Harry Walker."

If you would like to buy PI Harry Walker or any of my other nine books as a ebook, it's available at Nospine a London based ebook store. Or, I will download a book for an email. Check that policy. I just finished writing a PI Harry Walker horror mystery "Blood Trust." It's chilling. After fair warning, several people dared to read  it. Two older folks  died suddenly about half way through it. One lady turned green: another went blind.  Another's skin flaked and pealed. Even I, who knew what lurked in the encroaching shadows, changed undies frequently.  Eat your heart out Stephen King. Click the title above to read excerpts.

Setting: New Orleans, Cincinnati and Paris

Genre: Mystery thriller soused with humor

Length: 95,001 words hilarious

Wrap these dispicable deeds with a web of intrigue and you have PI Harry Walker. Add the charm and uniqueness of New Orleans and Paris and you have enchantment. Sprinkle it with Letitia, a saucy Italian-American seeking a divorce from her Mob Boss husband, and you have cunning and deceit. Pepper it with Letitia’s blond-crazy husband, Alphonse ‘Big Al’ Infantino, and you have homicide, adultery and conspiracy. Top it with one lovable, over-weight Irishman from N’Awlins, who spews clichés prolificly, chews bubble gum and drinks Early Times, and you have humor.

Sleuths are an unique breed, but PI Walker takes uniqueness to a new plateau. He’s Rockford and Barnaby rolled into one. Instilled into his being are touches of the invincible and ingenious Sherlock Holmes. He’s more. Walker’s Estelle McHenry and Father Carl Sheehan. These disquises are contrived to fool the Mob, while he snoops on Mob Boss Big Al, hoping to get infidelity evidence. Lititia, has offered Walker the US Mint if he succeeds.  Lititia tries to dupe him, which provokes several interesting confrontations between them. And the Infantino's second divorce hearing is comical. How could Madame Pompadour, Walker's cat, be overlooked? This feline critter is good for mirth and tears. When you read the last sentence, you’ll have rainbow feelings all over.

Dedication

To all the erudite editors and agents who beat it into the ground that cliché doesn’t cut the mustard, you have inspired my cliché loving Private Investigator Harry Walker. Thanks a million.

Reviews of PI Harry Walker

o A very, very hearty congratulations to you on the paper publishing of your novel.  It is truly superb.  The jacket looks great!  I am genuinely pleased for you.

It is my pleasure to publish your works in our magazine.  I know our
readers enjoy your detective and especially your style.  Thank you for
allowing us to do such.

Sincerely Yours,
Norman Goodman
Editor-In-Chief
editor@seniorcitizensmagazine.com

o Author and agent William E. Merritt said, "I was taken by it."

o Joyce Lavene of Rhapsody Magazine said in her review, "Walker Joe Jackson is an inventive writer with a strong edge for story telling. His voice is dry and his observations are witty. PI Harry Walker, taking on the guise of Estelle to catch his man, was ingenious."

o You are quickly becoming one of my favorite authors. :) So far I have thoroughly enjoyed your books. I have had one book published so far, two are at the publishers awaiting publication and I am now working on the next ones. Thanks for being the writer you are. I hope to see more works by you in the near future. Keep in touch. Mickey Stroda, Author of Bailey’s Pond, Season To Season ~ A Poetry Potpourri, Blood Ties ~ The Beginning.

o Tennis aficionado Kjell Peterson ( http://ww.kjell2.com )  I just read the beginning of the New Orleans story (PI Harry Walker,) and I can't wait to read the continuation. You are a great storyteller!. Two days later he emailed and said, "First of all, I would like to tell you that I finished reading PI Harry Walker yesterday, and I really enjoyed it. The story is exciting and you describe the various locations and people very vividly. I also liked the language you use - is this your normal vocabulary, or do you do a lot of research? What about the cliches? Did you make them all up?"

o I found myself totally wrapped up in the crisis of Letitia, the Mafia man's wife and Walker. However distrust reigned as I wanted to cry out to PI Walker... "Don't do it...Don't take the money, is not your life worth more!" But then again that amount of cash before my own face would make me wince. Then I remembered, it's just a story. Had to remind myself of that as this skilled author captured me up in another world: one of which I might have seen on the Godfather. A world I would never dare venture into in reality, I would be happy to visit that existence any day by reading this suspenseful and exciting publication by Walker Joe. A 'Got to have book'  Susie Harrison, Author of 'INNOCENT INSIGHTS' and 'IT'S 10pm, WHERE IS YOUR GOVERNMENT

Reviewed first for Author
Title: . PI Harry Walker mystery thriller
Author: . Walker Jackson
Line/Publisher: . America House Book Publishers www.publishamerica.com
Release Date: . July 2002
ISBN: 1-58851-446-3

Highly Recommended

The Review:

Fifty-seven year old bubble gum chewing chain smoker PI Harry Milhous Walker is down on his luck together with close to his last nickel when Letitia Infantino telephones him with an offer that sounds almost too good to be true. Mrs. Infantino wants to get divorce proof that her mobster husband is philandering. She is willing to pay a fantastic fee in order to get that proof. Harry’s school teacher wife is delighted to know her husband will be bringing home a regular check at least for a while. Harry takes a portion of his retainer and trades in his rusty old Ford pick up for a newer, sporty convertible model Ford.

Walker takes Letitia’s suggestion that he try undercover in drag and becomes Mrs. Estelle McHenry. After purchasing his new outfits at a local dress shop Harry returns to his office where he stashes his new undies in the file cabinet under S for sexy. He does get the pictures he was after, his wife Sarah dies and Walker finds himself in a heap of trouble and dressed as a priest before the matter is settled. Letitia is a pain in the neck. In addition to everything else Walker’s cat Madame Pompadour has kittens.

Writer Walker Joe Jackson is a tongue in cheek author who has managed to put together nearly every cliché ever heard in a fine romp of a well written highly readable work. In his ‘first in a series’ PI Harry Walker author Jackson introduces his cliché loving PI with a flare. Writer Jackson has wrought an admirable fiction filled with illicit love affair, scheming and complicity. About the time the reader thinks they may have a situation all figured out, they discover there is more to learn.

Walker Joe’s personalities are full-bodied and often hilarious in addition to being highly entertaining. Dialogue between characters is fun at times as well as hard hitting at others. PI Harry Walker takes place in New Orleans against a backdrop filled with in-depth descriptions of the sights, sounds, people, scents and activities that can only be found in Naw’lins. Writer Jackson’s knowledge of the area comes through in a most acceptable manner. New Orleans comes alive in the word tapestry Jackson has crafted. The reader is carried along from the opening lines on a most engaging journey filled with sufficient drama to keep the reader engaged and enough humor to cause more than a few chuckles.

Enjoyable read. Reviewed by:  Molly Martin 

Molly had this to say in a radio interview. She was asked:

Are there any other writers or authors that you would like to mention?

Christine Spindler the German writer I mentioned of course. Her work is very good. I particularly enjoy reviewing for William Manchee, Rolland Love and Walker Joe Jackson because they are writers in the Mark Twain/Ellery Queen vein….. excellent story tellers who do not rely on graphic language or sex to cover up a weak story line.

http://12.108.175.91/ebookweb/discuss/msgReader$1315?mode=day

Harry who?   

CHAPTER 1

Then I thought what a fatuous anus I am. If the Mob is here, I'm already up the proverbial creek without a gun or REEBOKS. This premonition didn't alter my precaution. If anything I became more concerned. Sister Kate was straight across now. I raised up high enough to see through the rear and front windows of a Chevrolet I stood behind. I watched and waited, and I watched and waited even longer thinking. My Lord, why did I get myself entangled with the Mob?

PI Harry M. Walker's intriguing encounter with the New Orleans Mob had a peaceful beginning, but the quiet was short lived. He slouched at a small pine desk playing Solitaire in the glow of a twenty-five-watt light bulb, while puffing fiendishly on his last cigarette and chewing a wad of bubble-gum the size of a golf ball. The smoking cigarette never left his thin lips. He never even bothered to shake off the ashes, which dribbled everywhere randomly while he moved around. He didn't own one thing that hadn't been burned by the trickle of sparks.

Harry stopped playing Solitaire abruptly. His eyes surveyed his repugnant surroundings. The desk he sat at had nine drawers. Only the middle and one file drawer opened. The other seven had swelled shut from years of exposure to humidity prevalent in New Orleans, during long, hot, sweltering summers. The cooling system was a four-paddle fan with three paddles. The missing paddle caused the fan to wobble dangerously above, but that was seldom a problem because Walker hardly ever turned it on. Electricity cost money.

As his eyes continued searching, the claustrophobia he always sensed intensified. The room was close and dusty. To tell the truth, he thought sardonically, the dust-box is filthy. He leaned back and crossed his feet on the desk. A whimsical smile spread his fat cheeks. So, I sit in my office playing Solitaire and praying for the phone call that brings me that one case that sets me back on my feet again. His eyes became riveted on the phone. He yelled hysterically, "Ring, damn you, ring." He laughed at the silence and thought, born losers like me never have such luck. He murmured sadly, "I’ve been here thirty-five years. I’ll miss this roach infested dusty box." He was being evicted in seven days.

A ray of noonday sunlight shone through a hole in one of the curtains lighting up the dingy wall opposite. It was the only bright spot in the otherwise depressing office. It also, almost comically, provided a spotlight for the cockroach that appeared to be performing the Mexican Hat Dance. At least someone is having a good time, Harry reflected.

Fortunately, Harry's initial contact came by phone. Once contacted, he’d arrange to meet potential clients in fancy jazz dives and eateries in the French Quarter, called Vieux Carré by the French. Denying clients views of his shabby office hid his desperation. His glib tongue hooked the contacts. Further enticement, he advertised on the amusement page of the Times-Picayune: Private Dick at your service, telephone 643-3269. The phone number was the number of the public phone in the hallway just outside his office. He called his office the roach-box with a loathing that was justified.

To say Harry was down on his luck would be understated to the nth power. Conditions were so bad he seriously thought about donning a sign stating, "I'll work for booze," and placing himself on the corner of Bourbon and Canal Street. One of his fellow investigators had admitted that customers trickled in at a turtle's pace. He'd added despondently, "All the prostitutes have become nuns. The panderers have entered seminaries. The married philanderers have become born again Christians. White-collar crime has dwindled amidst prosperity. Murder and mayhem has been replaced by a fondness and tolerance for neighbors."

Mister Walker was fifty-seven and looked seventy. He was a graduate of the school of hard knocks. He had that one-foot in the grave and the other on a banana peel appearance. Several people looked for an opportunity to give him a hard shove. And he was fifty pounds overweight, in spite of the fact he wasn't getting three square meals each day. He smoked heavily, drank moderately, although daily, if he could find clients willing to treat. And he chewed bubble-gum constantly when he wasn't eating. He knew his looks had been fair to middling before he'd aged and let himself go.

Now, the top of Walker's head was bald as a billiard ball and reached 69 inches above the banquette. The few remaining tufts of hair on the sides and neck were white as a sheet. Harry's bulbous, red nose made everyone think of W.C. Fields. His blue-gray eyes were cloudy and bloodshot. Pretty they weren't, but his vision was still 20/20, one of his few remaining sources of pride. Limited exposure to the sun could have been a factor. Harry hated outside activities. At least I'll never have to worry about skin cancer. Lung cancer maybe, he admitted, taking another deep drag of his Camel, but not skin cancer.

All this strife in his life was what was really getting him down. He wouldn't have minded if he were some ordinary slob. Harry had an IQ of 170 and total recall. His memory was so immense he could write the names of every state and its capital in four minutes. But what the hell uses was any of it? All this may sound farfetched, but after one looks at Einstein, one would have no difficulty believing Harry was a genius. Harry's last redeeming quality was that he had a benevolent spirit and understood how the downtrodden felt. He'd give a poor stranger the shirt off his back.

The phone in the hall rang just as Harry turned three cards. Naturally, the top card wasn't a play. He felt a mild surge of excitement as he rose and strolled the 30 feet to the public phone in the hallway. "Investigator Walker speaking."

"Hi Dick Tracy. It's Sarah."

His spirits plummeted. The lady was his wife.

"Are you coming home for dinner?" she asked sweetly.

"Well, possibly," he said, sounding nasally N'Awlins. "A gentleman called earlier. He needed to check on several matters then get back and let me know when we could meet." It had been a bald-faced lie.

"Call me, dear," she said affectionately, "if your plans don't pan out."

"Okay, pumpkin, will do."

"Bye, bye." Hanging up the phone, Sarah was amazed that for once they’d had a short conversation without one cliché surfacing. Harry knew every cliché in the book.

Harry placed the phone back in the catch and lethargically returned to his desk. The cigarette had rolled out of the ashtray and was burning the pine desktop. Its charred track crossed another charred track and Harry thought some omen was implied. Certainly, his thought was ridiculous since many burn tracks had defaced the desk. The implication of an omen would have been more feasible had the cigarette found an unburned spot.

Walker, showing little concern for the desk, carelessly flicked the fire off the cigarette and put the stub in his shirt pocket. He'd finish it later. When the phone rang again, he was shuffling cards, which wasn't easy considering they were worn paper-thin and sticky. The cards were so worn occasionally he mistook a queen for a king. Not even the slightest emotion stirred his being. He figured it was Sarah again. She'd been asleep at the switch and had forgotten to ask about something. He reached the phone on the sixth ring. "Harry Walker, Private Investigator."

"Mister Walker, I'm very glad I reached you. For a moment, I thought you might be out," she said, with a hint of urgency.

Harry thought he'd heard the voice of a middle-aged Italian American.

"I'm Mrs. Letitia Infantino."

I'm half-right he thought.

"I wish to engage you in regards to a very sensitive and personal matter. Is there somewhere we can meet in total privacy? Your office perhaps?"

"Unfortunately, Mrs. Infantino, my office is being redecorated at the moment." He told every potential client this yarn.

For a long moment dead silence reigned. Harry had a sinking feeling. "Well then, could we meet in the reconciliation room of the Saint Louis Cathedral at three this afternoon?"

"You wish to meet me in a confessional, Mrs. Infantino?" he asked somewhat astonished. He would have been more excited if she’d suggested a classy eatery that served booze.

"Can you think of a more private place for two people to meet? Besides, confessions aren't being heard at that time today. Sinners come on Saturday afternoon and during mission periods. Furthermore, this is the last place I'd expect to run into people I'm most anxious to keep in the dark."

"Mrs. Infantino, I have absolutely no heartburn with the arrangements. Should I pretend to be a priest?" He chuckled.

"Do as you please, Mister Walker, but be there at three sharp," she said, asperity apparent in her voice.

She wasn't amused he could tell, as he heard the phone change to a dial tone. He thought, she has a heart of stone and the sense of humor of a fence post. He, unknowingly, had made a great guess.

If Harry had had one ounce of intuition or common sense, instead of such an immensity of general knowledge, he might have smelled a rat. Such clandestine precautions should have suggested much risk was inevitable. And what kind of people could she be talking about who never visited their parish? Here's where he should have put two and one together and gotten danger. Mrs. Infantino was of Italian descent. Her people were Italians. Italians who didn't go to Mass were most likely evil and mean Italians from Sicily.

Harry was the tenth private investigator Letitia had called this beautiful, peaceful Monday in May 1978. The moment the others heard the name, Letitia Infantino, they thanked her and told her they were busier than beavers. No one wanted to touch her case with a ten-foot gondola pole. She was married to Alphonse 'Big Al' Infantino, the new Mob boss of New Orleans, and the word on the street was that she wanted infidelity evidence to use as grounds for divorce. Poor Harry hadn't been circulating or reading the newspaper lately. Letitia's social connection hadn't come to his attention.

Harry hung up the receiver. He checked the time. Two hours remained before he must leave for the Saint Louis Cathedral. The Saint Louis Cathedral was only a mile away. Close enough to walk for some, but much too far for Harry. Parking near the Cathedral presented a big pain in the buttocks. He decided to hire a mule and buggy instead of driving to the Cathedral in his faded, red, nine-year-old Ford pickup truck. Four-wheel buggies, pulled by mules, were often found along Esplanade, because several historical sites located there attracted tourist. They seemed to find riding in a buggy a unique pleasure. He had thoughts. I’ll doze for an hour, then trot downstairs to look for a buggy. Then, I’ll engage it for the ride to Café du Monde, where I’ll have the specialty of the house, café au lait and beignets.

The Café was only a block away from the Cathedral. If he was fortunate enough to find a seat near the Decatur Street banquette, he might get a glimpse of this woman he was scheduled to meet. He'd like to get a leg up and make some initial assessments that might be concluded from her mode of transportation and how nervous she appeared. If she looked petrified, he'd think twice about taking an assignment. And her mode of transportation might suggest the amount the traffic would bear. Harry flopped his feet on the desk and leaned back in the swivel chair. In seconds he was dead to the world.

CHAPTER 2

A pesky mosquito humming around Harry's head woke him. He subconsciously took a swipe at it. "Missed the cotton pickin' SOB," he snarled. Quickly, Walker checked his pocket-watch. He had slept an hour as planned, leaving an hour to get to the Cathedral. He needed to get his rear in high gear posthaste. If he weren’t lucky enough to engage a buggy quickly, he’d arrive at the Café du Monde too late to enjoy that cup of café au lait and beignets his belly growled for. And he needed to stop someplace for cigarettes and bubble-gum.

Harry removed his feet from the desk, yawned, scratched a few places, wondering if the roach-box had become infested with fleas. Reaching into his shirt pocket, he retrieved the cigarette stub, lit it, sucked a deep drag, inhaled, blew the smoke at the window, and scratched several more places. Three drags later he was spreading a paper clip and sticking it into the cigarette so he could have two more drags without burning his fat, stubby fingers.

He reached his left hand into his back trouser pocket, found the last two pieces of bubble-gum, pealed the wrapping, and popped them into his mouth. He was about to leave when Madame Pompadour, an old black and white pussycat, that was a distant relative of an alley cat he'd befriended years ago, came running into the office. She ran over to him and started rubbing against his leg and purring. He thought, Madame might be the source of the fleas.

"Yah come for your din din did you," he drawled affectionately. Walker rose and went to the file cabinet, pulled open the top file drawer and reached in. When his hand came out, it held a bag of cat food and bowl. He poured sparingly and placed the bowl on the floor. Madame Pompadour charged the bowl like the hungry animal she was. He wanted her to always be a little hungry.

Harry fed Madame to entice her to come at night and kill the rats. He despised rats even more than ants and pigeons. This caring and mutual relationship with Madame had been ongoing for over ten years. One window was always cracked so she could come and go as she pleased. In fact, the front door was usually left ajar. There wasn't much around worth stealing.

The basket outfitted with a blanket, in the corner by the window, was Madame's. At least twice a year, she whelped a small litter of kitten in the basket. In Harry's efforts to place the kittens in good homes, he'd acquired the nickname, Cat Man. He had often groaned, "Why didn't I keep the male offspring or have the females spayed?" The answer came back quickly. He'd fallen in love with every litter through the years.

You're thinking Madame Pompadour is a weird name to give a cat. Certainly, it's out of the ordinary, but not for Harry. He named the cat for the mistress of King Louis XV of France. Perhaps he found French history an interesting subject. But Harry knew the name was appropriate, since it was obvious she was the mistress of every Tomcat in the neighborhood. He'd originally named her Angel IV, for her great-great grandmother, but changed it after her third litter, during her first year with him.

"Got to get ready, Madame. I'm meeting a potential client shortly."

Walker went straight to the half-bath, removed his white—well, nearly white—tank top, washed his face, neck and under arms. He brushed his teeth, combed his side hairs, and sprayed on some deodorant. After finding a white shirt and blue tie, with a floral pattern, he donned them. He checked his preparations in the mirror and a flash of acceptance animated his face.

He turned on his heels and headed sprightly through the office. He stopped at the door looking back at Madame. "You keep your tail down, you hear, Madame."

"Purrrr!"

Passing through the doorframe, he stopped outside the door and looked back again. He mused, scratching his brow; damn I believe her belly is full of kittens. Then, he continued without bothering to shut the door.

Reaching the street he looked southward toward the Old U.S. Mint. No money had been printed there since the Civil War. It was strictly a tourist haunt. Harry had often wondered why tourists found old obsolete monies interesting. Fortunately, as he'd surmised, three buggies stood by. He moved the block at an uninspired pace to the first buggy in line. He was pleased to see the buggy had a sunroof, since the sun shined from the heavens radiantly. Clouds were nowhere to be seen.

"This rig for hire," he shouted. The old Creole of color, with salt and pepper hair and bad teeth, appeared to be sleeping.

"Sho' is mister," he said cool as a cucumber. Harry had never seen anything, not even a zombie this relaxed.

Actually, he hadn't been asleep, just day dreaming with his eyes closed. Perhaps he dreamed about younger years. Or simply wondered where he was when the years galloped by.

Harry struggled aboard, sitting in the seat closest to the driver. The driver looked back. Seeing Harry settled, he said, "Whar' we going, mister?" His grin caused the numerous lines in his face to wrinkle, reminding one of a street map of the many, multi-directional boulevards of gay Paris.

"Café du Monde."

"Ah! Excellent choice, sur." He clucked his mouth several times and shouted, getti-up. The old gray mare strained, and they started moving slowly along Esplanade in the direction of the Mississippi River. Solitude prevailed for the first block, then Harry said, "Are you Creole or mulatto?"

"Mister, I'm Creole, I think. My father was a French sailor and Momma was part Spanish and part Black. He sailed into town sixty-seven years ago, planted me, and sailed away at high tide. Ain't see'd hide or hair of him since," he said unabashed.

"You Creoles had it pretty good until the Jim Crow era came after the Civil War."

"Some had the best of both worlds, but I was Black for all practical purposes," he answered, wondering where this discussion might lead. And thinking Harry might be a little flaky and have bats in his belfry. "Why you ask?"

"No particular reason. Just wondered."

"What nationality is you, sur?"

"My father's people were Irish. I'm not sure 'bout Momma's—maybe German. Momma enjoyed hard work."

"You're a little commingled yourself."

"Yeah, reckon so."

Silence reigned supreme for another block. Turning on Decatur Street, Harry said, "How 'bout detouring by the French Market. I want to get a pack of smokes."

"Sho' nuff, mister."

"You smoke?"

"Naw, sur. That's one bad habit that missed me, but I likes my pint of Jack Johnson occasionally." He chuckled, and added, "like every day. And, I have a few other hang-ups—like women. You know what we say? The blacker the berry the sweeter the juice. Whoa! Nelly."

Harry had never heard the saying, but he was grinning when he alighted and hurried—well—strolled across Decatur Street to the French Market. In a few minutes, he was back his right hip pocket bulging with bubble gum and a cigarette smoking lethally between his lips. "Get-ti up, Nell."

Nell, buggy, driver and Harry moved another block amidst an enthusiastic lull and silence. Certainly, the conversation had been less than inspiring or profound, but the two peroxide blondes, with admirable endowments and shady reputations, walking on the banquette, perked up the scene. Cars, occupied by men, slowed to savor every wiggle and jiggle. One fool even blew his horn. Another stopped and made a pitch. But from the looks of his beat-up old car, Harry figured he didn’t have the price of the sin. He was right. The conversation was brief. "Sho' would like to have one of those swings in my backyard," said the driver chuckling.

"Doubt if you could afford it," Harry said, a grin twitching the sides of his mouth.

"Yeah, and I doubt if I'd remember what to do. No harm in lusting."

Sure, the conversation had been mundane and plebeian, but Harry had found serenity while sharing twenty minutes of his life with this simple, honest, and unpretentious man, who found no shame from the fact he was a bastard. And why should he be shameful? He hadn't contributed to the evil that had brought him about. God had willed that the male seed find his Momma's egg, unite, and gestate. It had been preordained.

"Whoa! Nelly." She only had to be told once.

"How much do I owe you?"

"Let's see. Two dollars ought to cover it."

Harry found two dollars, four bits, three lumps of sugar he'd purchased at the French Market, and stepped down to the banquette. Harry stood for a second shrouded in that mist of hoary antiquity that envelops Jackson Square. He walked to the front of the buggy and handed the money to the driver.

"Thanks, mister."

"Sure, don't mention it. I've got three lumps of sugar for old Nell. Is it all right if I give it to her?"

"Sho' kin. She likes sugar. She'll be your friend for life. Unfortunately, she's blind as a bat, but ain't nothing wrong with her nose. Put the sugar in the palm of your hand, and then put it under her nose. When she smells it, she'll lip the sugar out of your hand so fast it'll make your head swim."

Harry followed the driver’s instructions as offered. Nell was chewing sugar as Harry walked across Decatur Street blowing bubbles and feeling lucky he still had his left hand. The buggy moved a short distance up Decatur to where several other buggies were parked.

Luck was on Harry's side for once. He parked his carcass at a table directly on the banquette as he'd hoped. He checked the time and looked toward the Cathedral. Jackson Square was inundated with tourist and you might think a parade was about to commence. In N'Awlins, they'll parade at a drop of a hat.

Around the perimeter, artists busily peddled their canvasses. Groups of musicians, high on life or just high, performed for alms. Psychics, professing to be gifted with powers to read or sense the future, were occupied reading fortunes of tourists foolish enough to believe the psychics had a special connection to the Maker. Tourists sat on the grass resting, eating ice cream cones, and drinking cold drinks. One young mother, sitting on a blanket near Jackson's statue, nursed her little one unabashedly. The sun had painted the pink on her face. Everyone tried to enjoy a spectacular May afternoon, while fanning gnats, defying the heat and humidity as best they could, and shooing away the pesky pigeons.

The arrival of an attractive waitress coincided with the appearance of the same two blondes Harry had seen down Decatur Street. They sashayed by, their body language saying; it's for sale. The waitress offered an engaging smile. "Good afternoon, sir. What are you having?" she asked nasally, drawing Harry's attention away from the blondes.

"Are they on the menu?" Harry pointed and grinned.

"I'm afraid not, sir." Her scowl told Harry she wasn't amused. A quick glance later the scowl had turned to a pious expression indicative of strong religious beliefs.

Harry felt ashamed. "I jest. The specialty of the house, please."

She scribbled the order on her pad and scatted away.

Harry's attention turned to the yellow-skinned saxophone player on the banquette. He was laying down a solid up-tempo rendition of 'Back Home Again in Indiana'. The mellow sound escaping the man's horn didn't impress him, but he became fascinated with the strange scene he viewed. Harry wasn't musically inclined or compatible.

The man, probably a mulatto, looked fifty. His left leg had a wood peg from the knee down, and he had a patch over his left eye. The multicolored parrot, sitting on his left shoulder, seemed to be humming the melody. He was definitely patting his right claw. Suddenly, a lady at a table near by raised a quarter and the parrot quickly flew to her table, said thank you, grabbed the quarter in its beak, and returned it to the musician's straw hat resting on the banquette. Harry thought, isn’t this a site for sore eyes?

The waitress returned, served the house specialty, the check. Turning to leave, she said, "Please pay the cashier." Yet, another rather banal experience spent.

Harry took the bubble-gum out of his mouth. After a sly look around, he stuck it under the table. He’d observed the place was only half full. Tourists, because of the sweltering atmosphere, enjoyed cool drinks in one of the many air-conditioned bars plentiful around the French Quarter. He took a bite of the beignet and sipped café au lait. When he set the beignet back on the plate, powdered sugar covered his mouth before he licked it off with his tongue.

Harry was eating the second beignet when a taxi pulled to the curb adjacent to the Café. An elegantly attired lady, in her late thirties, exited the taxi and entered the Café. She took a seat at a table only a short distance away. She wore the latest Paris designer fashions and diamonds from Cartier. Her regal appearance suggested she’d be attending the opera house for a matinee performance. "Maaan," he drawled softly, "she's a knock-out."

His comment had been grossly understated. She was ravishing, all five-feet-six-inches, which started with raven colored curls and ended with a size five pump. Her frame in between was sculptured magnificently and red-blooded, normal males in the place gawked uncontrollably with their mouths open. You'd never imagine she'd birthed three children. When his eyes finally found her face, he became spellbound by its perfectly symmetrical features: hazel eyes the size of quarters, a cute pointed nose, a small mouth with moderate cupid lips and Roman cheeks. She was in a class all by herself.

Harry finished the beignet and gulped down the last swig of café. Taking his gold, pocket-watch out of his front pocket, he checked the time: twenty-five minutes remained. The waitress, who had served him, delivered a cup of café to the Roman goddess. As she turned to leave, Harry caught her attention by raising his empty cup.

She nodded.

Now, Harry noticed the elegant Italian checking her wristwatch, a diamond-studded dazzler with Swiss movement, which might serve as an apt metaphor to describe Madame. Harry's fascination returned to the pirate. He closely scrutinized him, wondering if he was for real. The sultry treatment of ‘Body and Soul’ he played was lulling patrons to sleep.

The Roman goddess, sipping café now, starred pensively at the musician while patting her exposed knees. Her dreamy countenance suggested she was hypnotized by the sounds. She found a dollar in her purse and held it up. The parrot didn't budge from the musician left shoulder. The music stopped. Harry barely heard, "Stupid, get your ass over there quick and get it."

The parrot apparently had never been offered a bill before, but it understood his master's sharp tongue, and the parrot fluttered her way. After landing, the parrot pecked at the dollar ineptly until she lifted the dollar. Then, the parrot repeated the previous routine. When the parrot returned to the musician's shoulder, it placed its beak close to the musician’s ear and said loud enough for people four tables away to hear, "Stupid, get your ass over there quick and get it."

Harry was half finished with his second cup of café when the gorgeous brunette rose and headed toward the cashier. He suddenly had a premonition she might be the lady who'd called earlier. She looked Italian now that he thought of it. He took a final gulp of his café, and, as the lady was leaving, he ambled over to the cashier and paid. He stepped aside and fidgeted with his wallet long enough for her to get a forty-yard lead.

He followed her across Decatur Street to the adjacent banquette. She turned left and walked to the Jackson Square entrance. She turned right and walked toward the Cathedral, passing the stately stature of General Jackson riding a spirited horse. Harry quickened his steps and nearly stumbled over a pigeon. "The stupid things are becoming domesticated," he mumbled under his breath. When she reached the steps of the Cathedral, he was twenty yards back. She entered, stopped at the poor box, and inserted a bill. She moved to the holy water, dipped two fingers, and crossed herself.

Harry avoided the poor box, but helped himself to the holy water, while watching her strolling in the direction of the confessional. Yes, he thought, this is definitely my potential client. He dawdled at the holy water until she entered the confessional, then quickly followed.

Awaiting his arrival, she contemplated how honest she'd be with him. If her husband discovered Walker snooping around for infidelity information, he'd dress him in a cement swimming suit, tie an anchor around his neck, and toss him into the Mississippi. This thought would intimidate the lionhearted. Walker was her last chance, and she was desperate. Emotionally she was torn between selfishness and compassion. The latter barely prevailed and she decided to level with him. If he got cold feet, she'd entice him with a cash offer he couldn't refuse.

Harry felt guilt opening the confessional door. He hadn't been in a confessional in months. His rotten luck of late had eroded his faith. He expected to see her standing inside waiting. Instead, she'd taken the position of the priest. He sat, opened the little door through which a sinner speaks to the priest, and said, "Forgive me Father, for I have sinned."

"Mister Walker, you're a barrel of laughs. I know you've sinned. Plenty, I'm sure, but if you think for one moment I have the grace to forgive them you'll surely burn in hell."

Apprehensively he thought. How'd she know I’m Harry Walker? How do I know she's Lititia Infantino?

"Mrs. Infantino, I'm sure you're an angel," he said, almost certain she was the lady who'd called earlier. Now he recognized her voice.

She chuckled shyly. "Mister Walker, an extra chair sits on this side. Please come around and join me. I have no reason to remain anonymous."

A warm feeling came over Harry as he sat beside this lovely creature, sitting with her legs crossed and her short dress hiked inches above her knees. Harry extended his hand. "Mrs. Infantino, it's a pleasure to meet you," he said, accepting and shaking her dainty hand that was warm as toast.

Mrs. Infantino's guileful, placid countenance slowly turned to a curious look of despair and doubt. She thought she might be scraping the bottom of the barrel. "Mister Walker, how long have you been in the private investigation business?"

"Thirty-five years, Mrs. Infantino."

"What is your claim to fame, sir?"

"I was trained by Army Air Force Intelligence during World War Two. I was responsible for breaking several secret German codes. Also, I worked in covert operations one year, but I'm not at liberty to discuss the details. I rose rapidly in rank from private to second lieutenant in a little over a year."

"And since, sir?"

"I contributed significantly to identifying the Vieux Carré Pillow Strangler, a serial killer who eluded the police for several years. But more pertinent, I have a good track record in cases involving close surveillance, which your case might require."

Letitia wondered why she'd asked. Even if Walker was thirty bricks short of a full load she was going to engage him. Where else could she turn? Letitia's sixth sense had probed deeper than the veneer, and intuition told her Harry had a smart head on his shoulders, and the courage to see the assignment through. She saw the alertness in his eyes. His calm, calculating demeanor suggested he'd be cool under pressure. Surely, some of that would emerge. And she was certain he was honest and responsible.

"Mister Walker, I'll not beat around the bush. My husband is Alphonse Infantino. He's the Mob's 'big cheese' here in New Orleans. We have been married for ten years. During the entire time" — she hesitated — "except our two-week honeymoon, he's been chasing around with every blue-eyed blonde he can get his lusty hands on. I'm fed up with his infidelity up to here!" Her right hand rested a foot above her beautifully styled hair. "And I want out—Now!"

Harry no longer needed a picture. Now he remembered who and what her husband was, and he had some bone-chilling remembrances of Big Al's reputation for swift and violent retaliation. Now, Harry's stomach churned. Beads of sweat appeared on his brow. "How can I be of service?" Harry asked, with the naivete of a teenager. He knew where the conversation was headed.

"I need grounds for divorce. Of course, he neglects me, but I'd get nowhere with neglect as a reason. Infidelity, on the other hand, is usually a sure-fire justification. Since Al's philandering is bold and prolific, getting evidence should be relatively easy. This is where you come in Mister Walker."

Sweat ran down his cheeks now. The air-conditioning was not turned on in the Cathedral, but if it had been, it wouldn't cool the fire of fear burning inside Harry. "Mrs. Infantino, you say getting evidence will be relatively easy. Do you realize to make an allegation of infidelity stick one needs a photograph of one's husband with his pants down and in the saddle?"

"Yes, that's dawned on me." She uncrossed her legs and crossed them the opposite way. Harry modestly glanced away.

"Getting said photographs strikes me as anything but a piece of cake."

"Yes, I quite agree. But with patience, the right opportunity might arise. I'm prepared to give you three months to get the photographs."

"Mrs. Infantino, have you deduced from something I've said that I've shown an inclination to take your case?"

"Well. No. But I'm hopeful." She smiled sweetly.

"Mrs. Infantino—"

"You may call me Letitia." It was a privilege seldom granted Harry surmised from the regal tone of her voice.

"You may call me, Harry, if it pleases you. As I was saying, Letitia, your husband has a reputation for swift and violent retaliation. I hear the landfill the Mob manages is stuffed with a few of your husband’s adversaries."

"I don't know about that, Harry. Besides, what does that have to do with it?"

"Elementary, Letitia, I am but flesh and blood. And I desire with my whole heart to keep it that way. I cringe at the thought of becoming garbage, or lying in a gutter, watching my life oozing out of me. Looking out for number one is why I've enjoyed the breath of life so long."

"If you approach the problem with stealth and cunning, you should be able to pull this caper off without being recognized. You might employ a clever disguise. You might dress in drag."

The thought sounded repulsive and farfetched on the surface, but deeper scrutiny revealed an idea rooted in great genius.

"Letitia, you can talk until you're blue in the face, but I don't think you'll convince me to take the assignment."

"Mister Walker, let's talk turkey. Alphonse is reputed to be worth over five million dollars. Me, the world, and especially the IRS know that. There’s no telling how much he hides in Swiss banks. If you get the photograph that supports my suit for divorce, I should receive at least half of his assets. That's two and a half million dollars. I'm prepared to offer you fifteen percent of everything I get. Or, I’ll guarantee a minimum of two-hundred-and-fifty-thousand-dollars upon receiving clear, authentic photographs and negatives of my husband in bed with another woman. You’ll get one hundred grand upon delivery. The rest after the divorce is final."

Harry had listened taciturnly, highly amused, and half-flabbergasted. He was speechless.

"Furthermore, I will give you a cash retainer of ten-thousand-dollars and six-thousand-dollars each month for expenses. If, after three months, you haven't succeeded, it's curtains, and you keep the ten grand. I'll require no accounting of the eighteen-thousand-dollar expense money."

Letitia opened her large purse, brought out a stack of hundred-dollar bills, and waved it in his face. Harry's eyes grew bigger than silver dollars, as his eyes feasted on the wad of green. God, he was tempted. He had never seen so much money closer than an arm length away waiting for the taking, but he thought he might be getting in over his head. The people he'd be matching wits with lived on Mean Street. They broke arms and legs for entertainment.

He rationalized, for crying out loud man you're fifty-seven years old. You could die tomorrow. Thus far, your miserable life has been little more than that of a quarry slave. Poverty makes a guy feel lower than whale dung. This woman has offered me an opportunity to become financially secure. A chance to live the life of Riley, but the flip side's clear as the nose on my face. I might be signing my own death warrant.

All the time his mind went through the agony of deciding what to do, his left hand inched closer to the wad of hundreds. Suddenly, his hand connected and Letitia released her hold. "Then we have a deal, Harry. In accepting the money, I trust you are prepared to make a full-time commitment to my cause. We'll always meet here once a month, unless something important comes up. Should that happen, we'll inform each other by running a personal in the Times-Picayune, 'PP I love you TH3'. This will mean Thursday at 3 p.m. If you harbor any doubts concerning this assignment, or if you have plans to hightail it with the down payment and expense money, be advised that I have a few friends who will, with one word from me, castrate you with a knife so dull it won't cut hot butter. Then, they'll break every bone in your anatomy, one at a time. Do you read me?"

Harry flinched. "Clear as a bell, Mrs. Infantino."

"Another thing! Never try to contact me by any method other than the paper—I repeat—never. And use a phony name when you register the ad. I'll act accordingly. This is for our safety. The walls have ears and eyes are everywhere. In the future I will come fifteen minutes early. It's very important that no one connects our comings and goings. I will leave now. You wait fifteen minutes before you leave."

Beautiful Letitia sprang to her feet. Looking back before closing the door, she said with sincerity and purpose, "Happy hunting, Mister Walker."

Harry's last thought. Maaan! She's in a class by herself.

Harry sat in a mixed state of shock, joy, and disbelief. He started counting the money, using his lap as a table: One hundred, two hundred—fifteen thousand and nine hundred, sixteen thousand. Smiling greedily, he folded the money and stuffed it deep into his left-front pants pocket. He checked the time. His bank, the Citizens Bank, would be open for several more hours. Realizing big cash deposits made bear tracks, he decided to keep the money in a safe deposit box. If he hurried, he could make it in time to make the arrangements.

He exited the confessional and briskly walked to the front of the Cathedral. He stopped at the holy water, dipped a finger in, and crossed himself with conviction. He knew Father had been good to him. Then, he searched for two quarters, found a dollar, and reluctantly slipped it into the poor box. He felt more like the rich, rather than the poor he'd been, when he entered the Cathedral. He left by a side entrance.

Read interview with a professional reviewer.  Molly Martin/Walker Joe

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