The Daisy Ducks

The Daisy Ducks
A
Doc Adams Suspense Novel

Rick Boyer
1986

This book is for two important women;
Charlotte Wade, a special friend, and
Betty Hattan Boyer, magna cum laude,
Phi beta Kappa, and the best mom ever,
who saved time to instill in her children
a love of reading.
 
 

There's a race of men that don't lit in,
A race that can't stay still;
So
they break the hearts of kith and kin,
And
they roam the world at will.
        —
Robert
W. Service,
                 
"The Men Who Don't Fit In"

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

The author would like to thank john Boyer, Bill
Tapply, and Larry Kessenich for their comments and suggestions in
preparing the manuscript.

THE
 
DAISY
DUCKS
 

SIU LOK'S LOOT

LIATIS ROANTIS is a pit bulldog in human shape.

The stocky Lithuanian fought the Nazis as a teenager.
He served with the French Foreign Legion in Indochina at the
ill-fated siege of Dien Bien Phu and afterward in the Sudan, French
West Africa, and Algeria. In the early sixties he was out of work and
joined the U.S. Army. The Cold War had heated up and they needed men
with his talents. He took to this line of work naturally.

He returned to Indochina, now called Vietnam, and
served three tours. He quit because of America's unwillingness to
mount a full-scale military commitment to win the war. He retired and
settled in New England to make his living as a martial arts
instructor at the Boston YMCU. It was in a beginners' karate course
there that I first met him. He is still very good at what he does. He
can open your jugular vein with his teeth.

While he was in Southeast Asia, he led a long-range
recon team behind enemy lines into Cambodia. They loaded themselves
up with supplies and walked far, far into enemy territory. They
spied, and reported what they saw by radio. In the dead of night they
blew up roads and bridges and supply depots, then vanished, walking
softly under that dense canopy in the tropical night.

So much for all that. Except Roantis came to me
afterward with an offer: if I could help him find an old army buddy,
he'd make me rich.

It'll be a piece of cake, he said.

Right.
 
 

1

HOLIDAY TIME! Big party going on at our place.

I was just stopping by the sideboard, pouring myself
a big jolt of the Destroyer, when Janice DeGroot oiled past me,
cooing. Now there's a pretty lady. All over, I mean.

She looked just terrific, strolling past me in the
dark hall. I wanted to grab her and plant one on her. But I had a
hunch that that kind of thing would be frowned upon in Concord.
Especially by Mary, no slouch herself in the form department. That
being the case, you might well ask: why even look at another woman?
Because, like the mountain, she's there.

It was almost one, and the gala was in full cry.
Guests were swaying on their feet, howling with laughter and good
cheer. And, as if a sign from above,Janice stopped right smack
underneath the mistletoe. How about that? I snapped a mitt around her
waist and drew her over for a chat. She tucked her mouth down into my
lower neck. Wet.

"Cut that out," I said.

"Mmmmmm," she sighed. "Kissy-kissy?"

She gave me a quick hard kiss with a lot of suction
to it. Very wet. l slid my hand down so it was caressing her flank.
She moved her near leg around behind me and inserted her foot in
between my shoes, then pressed the inside of her thigh against the
inside of mine. It was a brazen and tawdry act. Despicable. It felt
like a million bucks.

I sipped my new drink—just what I needed—and eyed
the guests. They continued laughing and shouting in small groups.
Glancing behind me, I could see the intense gathering that invariably
forms in the kitchen. They were discussing the Important Issues like
nuclear war, crime, and the Soviet Union. They were deciding what
needed to be done about these things that nobody can do anything
about. Some of them had even switched to coffee. Saps. Well, it was
too late to kick them out.

Nobody noticed the two of us. It was a sign,
definitely a sign. I slid my hand down farther until it was resting
on the upper portions of her rump. It felt delicious. I walked my
fingers down, down, like a tarantula creeping along a branch, until
they cupped the shapely ham. Then I felt a bug at my waist. I looked
down to see Janice's index finger inside my belt, right near my
pelvis. She was wigwagging it. It kind of tickled. She planted
another wet one on my neck and let it linger awhile.

"What are you doing after the party?" she
purred.

"Stop talking dirty," I said. "You
know how I hate it."

"Ohhhh Charlie," she said in a sleepy
kitten voice, "you know we've always been close." The
finger waggle got more intense. She moved her head and I could smell
her hair. Janice seemed to be pulling at me, leading me somewhere.
Where indeed? Then I spied the phone closet right underneath the main
stair- way. Four feet from where we were standing. Dead ahead. She
had it all planned out. I, of course, was merely a bystander. But
getting fresh with Janice DeGroot in the phone closet seemed like a
splendid and sensible idea at the time. Booze will do that. But then
a voice from within cried out. It was the voice of Reason. Of Virtue,
and Common Sense. It said: "Watch it, Doc! The game's going too
far too fast. Don't be a jerk!"

The voice was heaven-sent, and just in time.

I ignored it.

I disengaged my hand and cranked open the doorknob to
the phone booth. All around us was the chuckle and chatter of
merrymakers. The house was dim, especially the central hallway where
we were standing. Nobody was even glancing in our direction. Janice
was busy with my neck again, and I didn't want to keep her waiting.

Inside the phone closet it was dark. I planted a big
one on her face. Dee-lish. This was gonna be my night. No question. .
. . gonna be my night . . .

The door flew open and the light went on. I blinked
in the sudden brightness, like a kid awakened in the dead of night. I
turned around and looked at the face staring at me, and my blood went
cold. A swarthy Latin face glared in at us. The eyes were intense,
and black as obsidian. The general look was piercing and full of
death, reminiscent I'm sure of all the hit men who've ever jumped out
of shiny black limousines toting violin cases. In southern Italy it's
called
il malécchio
.
The Evil Eye. It's how the Godfather looks at you when he kisses your
cheek, and you know it's only a matter of days before those big
forty-five-caliber slugs will come sailing through your insides. That
look can put a crack in the Great Pyramid.

"Hi Mary!" I trilled. "Hiya hon!"

"Ohhhh! Hi Mare!" cooed Janice, wiping her
face with her sleeve. "Great party!"

We smiled and gaped at Mary. Janice even managed a
little wave: a tiny circular motion with her palm, as if she were
polishing a bit of glass. It was cute. We wore the hysterical faces
of the condemned. Janice's hand was now placed demurely across my
abdomen. Seeing the swift Calabrian eyes dart downward, she removed
her hand and placed it on a hip. Mine. Oops.

Mary filled the tiny doorway like the Colossus of
Rhodes. She fixed her steely gaze on me.

"I want to talk to you," she said.

"Sure. What about?"

"I think you can guess."

The door slammed and she was gone. Janice stood
staring blankly at the door for a few seconds and sighed. Then she
squared her shoulders, took a deep breath, and marched out. It was
like the final scene from
A Tale of Two
Cities
.

I was alone in the closet and didn't want to leave,
knowing what awaited me on the other side of the door. I needed help.
I glanced down at the phone and considered calling the police. But
Concord's police chief`, Brian Hannon, was at my party, not twenty
feet away at that very moment. Also, another law officer was likewise
present: Lieutenant Joseph Brindelli of the Boston State Police.
Mary's baby brother. I had a feeling I wouldn't get much help from
either quarter. I wanted to stay in the closet, and was contemplating
possible barricades and various sleeping positions when the door flew
open again. Attila was back.

"Hiya honey. I guess —"

"Don't hiya me!" she hissed. "I saw
that vertical foreplay with Janice. And let me tell you —"

"Ah, a momentary lapse, my dear. I assure you
that —"

"Shut up! " She looked like Ivan the
Terrible on one of his bad days. "You're in trouble, Charlie.
Serious trouble. I don't know what's been bugging you lately, but
you've been behaving like an adolescent for two months now. I've
about had it. I just had a nice talk with Jim and his adorable wife
with the nice tail section. You're both going to get it. Jim is
looking for you right now—hunting your head. It's doubtful you'll
last the night in one piece. Also, your commando friend, Liatis
Roantis, just cold-cocked Phil Newcombe in the sunporch."

"He what? "

"You heard me. They got into an argument and
Phil took a big swing at Liatis."

"That's not a smart thing to do."

"Come on," she said, taking me by the coat
sleeve, "and don't think this lets you off the hook."

"About that. Listen, I —"

"Shut up. You'll hear from me later."

Of this, I had no doubt.

Mary marched me around to the sunporch, where Philip
T. Newcombe lay stretched out on his back. He twitched a little and
moaned. Well, he was alive at least. You can't say that for some
people who've tangled with Liatis Roantis. The crowd around the
fallen man murmured and stared at Roantis, who was nonchalantly
leaning against the doorjamb. He held a glass of ice cubes in his
left hand and a newly opened bottle of Dewar's in his right. He
filled the glass carefully and set the bottle down on the record
cabinet behind him. He looked absently at the fallen man, who was now
getting to his knees.

"Hi Doc," he said.

"What the hell happened?"

"I'll tell you what happened!" cried a
shrill voice. It belonged to Marge Newcombe. She advanced toward
Roantis, pointing her finger. "This animal attacked my husband
and tried to kill him."

"Uh-uh! Not true!" said Jim DeGroot. "Your
husband called him a Nazi pig and hit him in the stomach first. Are
you forgetting that?"

Marge Newcombe was unimpressed by this tidbit. She
went up to Roantis and slapped him hard across the face. It sounded
like a rifle shot. Everyone said ohhhhhhhhh! He didn't even blink.
Undaunted, she grabbed the Dewar's bottle. I grabbed her arm and
replaced the bottle on the cabinet.

"Hold it, Marge. That's good booze. Uh . . .
maybe the party better end here. I don't know what's happened, but
everyone's a little crazy tonight. Must be a full moon or something.
Where's Brian?"

"Here," said a gruff voice to my immediate
right. Brian Hannon, Concord's finest (mostly according to him),
stood next to me. "Possible assault," he said to me under
his breath.

"But the other guy hit him first," I said.

"We'll see. Considering your friend's background
and training, I'd call it possible aggravated assault. You know, with
a deadly weapon."

Nobody heard us talking because the party was
breaking up now, people heading upstairs to get their coats. Marge
Newcombe helped her husband to his feet. Newcombe was a florid,
heavyset man with strong opinions and a loud manner. Nobody in the
neighborhood liked him, and Mary and I had invited them only because
we'd invited everyone else on Old Stone Mill Road. Newcombe had made
it big as a tire distributor, and two drinks were all it took to get
him going on what a hot ticket he was. Two more drinks and his
prowess and talent increased in proportion to everyone else's
weaknesses and failings. Not a nice guy. It gave me secret pleasure
to see him stagger to his feet, his eyes still glazed. He'd had it
coming a long, long time.