The Naked Detective
Read The Naked Detective Online
Authors: Laurence Shames
| The Naked Detective |
| Key West [8] |
| Laurence Shames |
| SKLA (2011) |
One of the new centurys most entertaining mysteries
(The Cleveland Plain Dealer), The Naked Detective
introduces us to Pete Amsterdama detective so reluctant, hes never accepted a case
until the inevitable blond shows up. But this is Key West, where nothing is quite what is seems. Is the blonde really a woman? Are the death threats to be believed? Whos more dangerousthe gangsters or the yoga teacher?
And does Amsterdamwho learned detective work from reading books, just like Don Quixote learned chivalryhave a snowballs chance in hell of solving this thing before it kills him?
Pete Amsterdam struck it rich through no fault of his own, and he's put his novelistic ambitions aside with his business suits and retired to Key West to live in relative luxury, surrounded by his wine collection and music library. He never considered his PI license as anything but a tax dodge suggested by his accountant. So when a man who's supposedly been dead for two years turns up by the side of Pete's hot tub and asks him to help retrieve the money pouches he buried on a nearby island just before he disappeared, Pete is completely uninterested. But when the man turns up dead again, a beautiful blond yoga teacher who was his best friend convinces Pete to finger the killer and find the treasure--which is how a mild-mannered guy with a taste for the good life gets tangled up with a local mob boss, a gangster who runs a gambling ship, and his dangerous nymphomaniac daughter, ending up in a very funny caper novel that's Laurence Shames's best yet. The pacing ambles a bit, allowing lively digressions on the disparate characters, who end up at the end of the continent and reinvent themselves as regularly as the turning of the tides. This is a welcome addition to the growing shelf of Florida mysteries, and a fuller description of the hero's inner life than Shames has provided in earlier books.
--Jane Adams
Shames's eighth Key West novel (after Welcome to Paradise) has its moments of charm and interest, especially when narrator Pete Amsterdam, debuting here, describes the particular pleasures of the setting: "Key West is a place to withdraw to, a retreat without apology or shame. And you learn things from the place you live. One of the things Key West teaches is that disappointment and contentment can go together more easily than you would probably imagine." Pete has learned this lesson well, as a man both disappointed (by his lack of success, especially with women) and contented (with his cozy house and the freedom to indulge his three main interests--wine, music and tennis--without actually working). Unfortunately, his accountant has talked Pete into getting a PI's license for tax reasons, and that's where the trouble begins--for Pete as well as for the novel. Shames does provide a few original touches--for example, the well-built blonde who arrives early on to hire Peter (and catches him naked in the hot tub) and who turns out to be a cross-dressing man. But the plot quickly bogs down into a routine search for two missing mail pouches buried on a spit of sand, sought after by not only Pete and his soon-to-be-late client but also by the usual assortment of local thugs and corrupt cops. Too bad. Amsterdam and his main squeeze, a lithe yoga instructor named Maggie, deserve better next time out. Author tour. (June)
Copyright 2000 Reed Business Information, Inc.
Praise for Laurence Shames and The Naked Detective
"Shames is at once literate and accessible, often hilarious, and always on the mark."
—
The Washington Times
"Like Charles Willeford, Elmore Leonard, and Carl Hiaasen, Laurence Shames is a specialist in tales of low and high jinks in humid places."
—
San Francisco Chronicle
"With his trademark humor, Shames adds another quirky, fast-paced mystery to his Key West collection."
—
New York Daily News
“Shames has a gift for taking ordinary people, placing them in extraordinary situations, and creating hilarious and meaningful outcomes."
—
Library Journal
"If you're a Shames fan, you already know what a thrill his Key West jaunts are. . . . The Naked Detective offers a full-monty mystery, slow-brewed romance and quirky characters that could only spring from the mind (and hot tub) of Larry Shames."
—
The Clarion-Ledger
(Jackson, Mississippi)
To learn more, please visit
http://www.LaurenceShames.com
The Naked Detective
By
Laurence Shames
Smashwords Edition
Copyright © 2000 Laurence Shames
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
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For Marilyn, with more love than I knew I had
Who doth ambition shun,
And loves to live in the sun
—S
hakespeare, As You
Like It
Originally published by Villard Books, a division of Random House, Inc.
Copyright © 2000 by Laurence Shames
1
I never meant to be a private eye.
The whole thing, in fact, was my accountant's idea. A tax dodge. Half a joke. A few years ago I made some money. Made it the modern American way: by sheer dumb luck, doing work I hated, on a silly product that only made life more trivial and more annoying. I took the dough—not a lot of dough, but enough to live on for the rest of my life if I wasn't an asshole about it—and moved full-time to Key West.
I'd had a funky little house there for years. Wood frame, shady porch, tiny pool that took up most of a backyard choked with thatch and bougainvillea. Vacation house. Daydreaming about that place, the time I'd eventually spend there, got me through a lot of crappy afternoons in my stupid office up in Jersey. Now I wanted to really make it home.
So I told my accountant to free up some cash. "I'm renovating. Building an addition."
"You're putting in an office," he informed me.
"Office? Benny, I'm retired."
"Bullshit you're retired. What are you, forty-four?"
"Forty-five."
"Forty-five you don't retire. Forty-five you have a crisis and change careers."
"There's no crisis, Benny. I'm putting in wine storage, a music room, and a hot tub."
He raised his hands to fend off the information. "You never told me that," he said. "It's an office and it'll save you thousands. Tens of thousands. Plus your car becomes deductible."
I made the mistake of keeping silent for a moment. Call me cheap. I shouldn't have even thought about it, but the idea of saving tens of thousands made me pause.
"Become a Realtor," Benny suggested. "Everyone down there becomes a Realtor, right?"
I'd dealt with Realtors in my life. "I'd rather shoot myself," I said.
"Shoot yourself," he muttered, then started free-associating. "Tough guy. Humphrey Bogart. Hey, call yourself a private eye."
"Don't be ridiculous."
He quickly fell in love with his idea. "Ya know," he said, "there's a lot of advantages. Private corporation. One employee: you. You get a gun—"
"Benny, cut it out."
"—get a license—"
"How you get a license?"
"Florida?" he said. "Probably swear you haven't murdered anybody in the last sixty, ninety days."
"Benny, I don't wanna be a private eye."
He paused, blinked, and looked somewhat surprised. "Schmuck! Did I say you have to be a private eye? I said we're calling you a private eye. You'll get some business cards, put a listing in the phone book—"
"Commit fraud—"
"What fraud? You're committing failure. Look, the government allows three years' worth of losses. By then we've depreciated the work on the house, the car lease has expired—"
Well, the whole thing was preposterous—and I guess I kind of like preposterous. Having an amusing thing to say at parties, occasionally in bars. Something incongruous and intriguing. So on my tax returns, at least, I became a private eye. Pete Amsterdam, sole proprietor, doing business as Southernmost Detection, Inc.
That was two and a half years ago. I have a license somewhere in a drawer, and a gun I've never fired rusting in a wall safe. Until very recently, thank God, I hadn't had a single client. Three, four times a year someone calls me up, usually on some sordid and depressing matrimonial thing. I lie and say I'm too busy; for some reason the potential client apologizes and quickly gets off the phone, like I'll charge him for my precious time. My only worry has been that the IRS might come snooping around to see if I was legit. This has been a sporadic but uncomfortable concern, since, for me, feeling legit has never come that easy anyway.
But in the meantime the house improvements came out beautiful, suited me to a T. I'm divorced. I live alone. I guess I'm a little eccentric. Mainly it's that I don't pretend to care about the things that most people pretend to care about. The news. What's on television. The outside world. I have a small, tight core of things that still can hold my interest; I arrange my life as simply and neatly as I can around those things, and the rest just sort of passes me right by. I like wine. I like music. I like tennis. After that the list grows pretty short.
Must sound meager to people who live in places where everyone is busy and engaged and avidly discusses what's in the theaters or the paper. But Key West isn't like that. Key West is a place to withdraw to, a retreat without apology or shame. And you learn things from the place where you live. One of the things Key West teaches is that disappointment and contentment can go together more easily than you would probably imagine.
So I've been more or less content down here. Tan, reasonably fit, generally unbothered. I do what I want and, better still, I don't do what I don't want. Which includes being a private eye. In fact, two and a half years into this fraud of a vocation, I'd practically forgotten I was listed in the phone book.
Or I had until a few weeks ago, when the client I'd been dimly dreading came marching into my unlocked house, stormed past the wine room and through the music room, out the back door and around the little pool, to catch me naked in the hot tub and to turn my whole life upside down.
My hot tub is under a poinciana tree—except for the occasional falling pod, a perfect tree to have one's hot tub under. Its branches are bare in the winter, when you want the sun. In late spring it sprouts an astonishing flat-topped canopy of bright red flowers, and in the summer it is mercifully covered with tiny leaves that cast an exquisite dappled shade. Now it was April and the milky buds were just starting to swell and ripen. I looked up at them and thought about my backhand. I'd played tennis that morning and had missed a couple of cross-court passing shots. Probably hadn't dropped my shoulder low enough. I closed my eyes and visualized the perfect motion.
The jets were on, pummeling my lower back. The pump made a sound somewhere between a hiss and a roar. The dreaded client was standing right next to me by the time I heard her say my name.
"Mr. Amsterdam?
Mr. Amsterdam?
I opened my eyes. Tiny chlorinated droplets got in them and made me blink. Through the blinking I saw her. A blonde, of course; it's always a blonde, right? Tall. Green-eyed, with a little too much makeup for the daytime. Coral-colored lipstick that was a shade too orange for my taste. The top of a frilly white bra beneath a loosely buttoned lime-green blouse.
Apologetically, the blonde pointed toward the front door of my house. "I rang the bell," she yelled. "I knocked. The door just opened. I really need to talk to someone."
By reflex, I began to say what I always said to the rare misguided souls who tried to hire me. But it was a little hard, while sitting naked in the hot tub in the middle of what, for most people, was a working day, to claim I was too busy. So I said nothing.
"Please," the blonde implored. "A few minutes of your time."
I looked at her. She had a face that held attention. Not delicate but candid and determined, unflinching even in her obvious distress. I felt bad that the noise of the jets was making her yell. On the other hand, the bubbles were the closest thing I had to clothing. I hesitated then figured what the hell and switched the pump off. It was a very Key West way to hold a meeting.
"You're a private detective?" said the blonde. Her voice hadn't quite adjusted to the quiet, and it sounded very loud.