Flash Fiction: FRANK JR. -or- Skyler Hobbs and the Thousand Regrets

(NOTE: This is in response to Patti Abbott's challenge to write a tale of a thousand words or less titled "Frank, Jr.," or in this case, "Frank Jr." - because all those before and after commas drove me crazy. You'll find links to more "Frank, Jr." stories HERE.)

The man on the phone said, “Frank Jr. has been kidnapped!”

“It’s for you,” I told Skyler Hobbs, and listened in while they talked.

All Hobbs could get out of our caller was an address and the promise of a thousand dollar fee. Still, that was enough. Hobbs may be nuts—he does, after all, insist he’s the reincarnation of Sherlock Holmes—but he knows the value of a dollar, especially when it has 999 friends.

Twenty minutes later, a woman with haunted eyes ushered us into a living room where a man sat hunched over, his face buried in his hands.

“Frank,” the woman said gently, “the detectives are here.”

“Detective,” I corrected her, pointing at Hobbs. I gave her one of my Computer Doctor cards. “I’m Jason Wilder, his faithful Indian companion.”

Frank regarded us through red-rimmed eyes. “Please. You have to bring Frank Jr. home safe.”

“Kidnapping,” Skyler Hobbs began, “is a job for—”

“Yeah,” Frank said, “I watch TV, but so does the kidnapper. He said no police. I want you to handle the exchange, with no attempt at heroics. Will you?”

A thin teenaged boy slouched into the room, smirked at Frank, and turned the smirk on us.

I said, “We’ll do whatever it takes to bring your son home safely.”

The teenager made an ugly sound that might have been a laugh.

The woman whimpered.

Frank said, “Uh . .  Frank Jr. is not exactly my son.”

#

I said, “This is the dumbest damn case you’ve ever dragged me into. Whoever heard of a kidnapped plant?”

We sat in my blue PT Cruiser, engine idling, behind a second-rate strip mall.

Hobbs sighed. “Frank Jr. is hardly just a plant. It is a previously unknown variety of the Titan Arum, one with blue rather than red foliage. It is certain to cause a sensation among horticulturists around the world.” He flourished the photo we’d been given. Frank Jr. looked like an erect penis growing out of a blue lettuce leaf.

“Spare me the sales pitch,” I said. “I want half that thousand buck fee.”

Following the kidnapper’s demands, we had left fifty thousand of Frank’s unmarked dollars in a gym bag behind a Dumpster at the far end of the mall. Contrary to Frank’s instructions, though, Hobbs was determined to catch the culprit. I’d set up a small wireless camera, and we now watched the scene on my laptop.

“Besides,” I said. “It was obviously the boy.”

“And how did you make that deduction?”

“Hell, you saw him laughing up his sleeve. He’s jealous of the old man’s obsession with that plant, and dreamed up this goofy stunt for revenge.”

Hobbs nodded. “You grow more observant, Doctor. But what of the $50,000? Do you assume the lad plans to spend it on rock and roll records and entertaining his friends at the malt shop, or wherever it is young hooligans congregate these days?”

Just then, a dark figure in a hoodie moved across the computer monitor.

“Hurry, Watson! The game is afoot!”

“Wilder,” I grumbled. I floored the Cruiser and we roared down the alley, catching the dark figure in the headlights.

Hobbs shouted, “Stop where you are! The doctor has a revolver, and will not fail to use it!”

That was a lie, on both counts, but it worked. Our quarry stood cringing as Hobbs and I approached.

Hobbs drew back the sweatshirt’s hood.

The words I told you so died on my lips.

The plantnapper was not Frank’s son. It was his wife.

#

“Why?” Hobbs said when we had both her and Frank Jr. in the Cruiser.

“You saw how Frank is. Nothing is too good for his goddamned plants, but Ronnie and I might as well be invisible. Ronnie’s about to graduate from high school, and Frank won’t even discuss sending him to college.”

Hobbs’ eyes bored into her. “So you devised a plan to secure his tuition.”

“And I’d have gotten away with it,” she said bitterly, “if not for you.”

#

Frank answered the door, hope and fear competing for control of his face. “Where’s Frank Jr.?”

Hobbs stood with one hand behind his back. His face was somber. “I am sorry to say that the plantnapper made off with the ransom money.”

“I don’t care about that. Did you get my plant?”

Hobbs nodded, a bit sadly. “I did, but regret that I must forego my fee. Frank Jr. was injured in the exchange, and is somewhat the worse for wear.”

Frank’s lip trembled. His face turned pasty white.

Hobbs brought the hand out from behind his back. It held a limp and bedraggled thing that might have once been a plant—a plant that had been run over by a truck, hacked with a machete and stomped by a marching band.

Teenaged Ronnie, peering over Frank’s shoulder, began to laugh.

Frank fell to his knees, great sobs pouring from his chest.

Mrs. Frank looked from the plant to her son, and her eyes welled with tears. She sniffed.

Frank glanced up, his face red, and stared at her. Pushing himself erect, he put an arm around her shoulder. “You miss him, too, don’t you?”

She sniffed louder.

Frank hugged her close. “I didn’t realize how much you cared. But we’ll get through this together.”

Mrs. Frank looked pointedly at Ronnie.

Frank followed her gaze. “Yeah,” he said. “You, me, and What’s-his-name too.”

#

Back at 221B SW Baker Street, Hobbs gave the real Frank Jr., still in prime condition, a place of honor on the mantel.

I said, “Why’d you have to keep that thing? It smells like a dead 'possum.”

“Since I could not accept the fee,” Hobbs said, “I felt I deserved something for my trouble.”

“What about my trouble?”

“I have given that due consideration and reached an equitable solution.”

That perked me up. “You’re giving me five hundred bucks?”

“Better,” Hobbs said. “I am rechristening the plant. Henceforth it shall be called Jason Jr.”

###

© 2012 by Evan Lewis

The following Flash adventures of Skyler Hobbs are still online (each title links to the story):
Skyler Hobbs and the Man Who Couldn't Fly
Skyler Hobbs and the Man Who Smiled at Death
Skyler Hobbs and the Sweetest of Dreams
Skyler Hobbs and the Fate Worse than Scars
Skyler Hobbs and the Yuletide Terror

The following mostly-longer tales have appeared elsewhere:
Skyler Hobbs and the Rabbit Man - EQMM February 2010 (out of print)
Skyler Hobbs and the Cottingley Fairies - BEAT to a PULP: Round 2 (available HERE)
Skyler Hobbs and the Garden Gnome Bandit - EQMM Sept/Oct 2012 (available HERE)
Skyler Hobbs and the Rollback Bandit - Discount Noir (available HERE)
Skyler Hobbs and the Magic Solution - Grimm Tales (available HERE)

And for those of you who'd rather read the stories in Japanese, a couple of these have been translated by Toshiji Kawagoe:
Skyler Hobbs and the Rollback Bandit (Japanese version HERE)
Skyler Hobbs and the Man Who Couldn't Fly (Japanese version HERE)

More to come!

Skyler Hobbs and the Yuletide Terror

“This, my dear Watson, is a tale for which the world is not yet prepared. I fear it must be relegated to that battered tin dispatch-box of yours.”

“Wilder,” I said, looking up from my laptop, “not Watson. And I wouldn’t know a dispatch-box from a box of Honey-Nut Cheerios. Go smoke your pipe and let me concentrate.”

Grumbling, my friend Skyler Hobbs took up his calabash pipe, filled it from the Persian slipper that held his tobacco, and settled into his favorite chair. The room was soon engulfed in a pungent blue haze.

It’s not easy, you see, being the roommate of a guy who thinks he’s the second coming of Sherlock Holmes.

Hobbs was probably right about the story. It was sure to cause panic in the media and get us both thrown in the slammer, but something deep within compelled me to write it down. So I did.

I had never thought of Skyler Hobbs as a big fan of Christmas, but this year he’d insisted on going downtown to Pioneer Courthouse Square for the annual lighting of Portland’s official Christmas tree. I tagged along to keep him out of trouble. Or so I hoped.

Hobbs gazed up at the monster tree. “This 75-foot Douglas fir,” he informed me, “has been strung with 15,000 lights of the LED variety, meaning they are extremely energy-efficient.”

“Don’t tell me you’ve gone green.”

“Just because I am an old soul, Doctor, does not mean I cannot be socially responsible.”

The square was packed shoulder-to-shoulder with people clutching Starbucks cups and delicacies from the Honkin’ Huge Burrritos cart. Their attention was focused on the stage occupying the northeast corner of the square, where members of the Oregon Symphony, the Pacific Youth Choir and the wildly popular band Pink Martini had assembled to lead us all in Christmas carols. Individually, any one of those groups would have been great, but together they were a mess. No wonder so few people were singing along.

As usual, Hobbs seemed able to read my thoughts.

“I had not taken you, Doctor, for such a scrooge.”

“Just because I make a living as Jason Wilder - Computer Doctor,” I said, “does make me a doctor. As for being a scrooge . . . ”  I gave it up, because he was no longer listening.

He was focused instead on a large, dark-clad woman worming her way toward us with an old-fashioned baby carriage. Her head was wrapped in a shawl, and most of her face was lost in shadow. The carriage stopped several feet away, where two other ladies turned, cooing, and bent for a look inside the hood.

The dark-clad woman shooed them off. “Sleeping!” she yelped. Her voice was high-pitched, and her accent odd.

Hobb’s brow furrowed.

“What?”

“Quite recently,”  he said, “that woman had a heavy beard and mustache. In short, she is not a woman at all.”

Before I could stop him, he sidled forward and said, “A Merry Christmas to you, madam.”  All politeness, he doffed his deerstalker hat, but it slipped from his fingers and fell to the brick plaza.

Instantly, Hobbs swooped down to retrieve it, practically burying his face in the bed of the carriage.

The “mother” shoved him away. “Sleeping!” This time the odd voice was tinged with anger.

As Hobbs rose, the guy turned the carriage and pushed it away from us, forcing the crowd to clear a path.

Hobbs stiffened. “Quick, Doctor. There is evil afoot. I must stop that man.”

I grabbed his coat sleeve as he moved away. “Why?”

“He has abandoned the carriage!” he said. “It is imperative that you retrieve it.”

Then he was off.

I followed, cursing under my breath. Hobbs was nuts, no doubt about it, but I’d learned to trust his instincts, even if it mean risking a kidnapping charge. Grabbing the carriage, I shouted, “Baby coming through! Wet diapers!” and the crowd, full of good cheer, parted before me.

Reaching the sidewalk, I found the surrounding streets bare except for police cars and a good number of stern-faced patrolmen. The hooded man was now half a block away, with Hobbs in hot pursuit. I hurried after them.

At the next corner our quarry yanked a cell phone from his pocket, and held it up to dial. When he glanced back, his eyes skipped over Hobbs, fixed on me and went wide as goose eggs.

The big man spun away, and seemed about to dart across the street. But a big Tri-Met bus came roaring past, forcing him to wait. This delay was all Hobbs needed. He sprang onto the guy’s back, trying to drag him down.

I parked the carriage and dashed forward to help, but the hooded guy had already flung Hobbs aside and charged blindly into the street, straight into the path of another bus.

Man and bus met with a meaty crunch, and the guy flopped to the blacktop. I grimaced as the big wheels thumped over him, crushing his skull like an eggshell.

“Come, Doctor! Quickly!” Hobbs took the carriage in one hand, grabbed my arm, and hustled me away from the pulpy mess.

A full block later he turned a corner and stopped the carriage, peering back around at the scene of the accident.

“The police have arrived,” he said, “but we are not pursued. We must return to your automobile and depart at once.”

I held my ground. “Not until you tell me what’s going on. Do you know the penalty for kidnapping a baby?”

In answer, Hobbs flung the carriage blanket aside, revealing a small, pink form in baby clothes. But was not a baby at all. It was a doll. And beneath the doll, under another blanket, sat brick after brick of a substance resembling mozzarella cheese.

“What the hell?”

Hobbs tapped his nose. “When I buried my nose in the carriage, I found none of the telltale scents of an infant. Instead, I detected the odor of the explosive commonly known as C4.” He took hold of the carriage again and pushed on up the street.

“C4? You sent me bouncing down a sidewalk with a cartload of C4?”

“I assure you, Doctor, you were in no danger. The explosives were set to be ignited by a call from our late friend’s cell phone.”

“My God, Hobbs. That guy was going to kill thousands of people. We have to tell somebody!

Reaching the next corner, we had a view of the square, two blocks away. Voices chanted, “Three, two, one …” and the huge tree came alive with all of it’s 15,000 energy-saving lights, and a great cheer went up.  The crowd began singing, I’m Dreaming of a White Christmas.

“Would you tell those good souls of the horror they nearly faced? Now, when they are gathered in the spirit of peace and goodwill?”

I didn’t know what to say.

##

Back at 221B SW Baker St, Hobbs said, “We bear a heavy responsibility. I must consider it carefully.” And with that he curled up with his pipe, immune to conversation.

I planted myself in front of the TV, trying to ignore the carriage full of explosives parked just inside the door.

I must have dozed, because suddenly Hobbs was there beside me, and the eleven news was on.

“Tonight,” the news lady said in frantic tones, “the FBI foiled a plot intended to kill thousands at Pioneer Courthouse Square. After a year-long undercover operation, nineteen-year-old Somalian immigrant Mohamed Mohamud is now in custody. Authorities say that when Mohamud tried to ignite a truckload of phony explosives with his cell phone, federal agents swooped in. An FBI spokesman assured us they were in complete control of the situation, and the crowd was never in real danger.”

I discovered my mouth was hanging open. I turned to Hobbs. His was too.

“A decoy,” he said. “The FBI was taken in by a decoy, while the true bomber escaped their notice entirely.”

I reached for the phone. “We have to tell them,” I said. “And the media. You’ll be a hero.”

Hobbs yanked the phone from my hand.

“No. The public can never know. The citizens of our fair city would be afraid to leave their homes, and the spirit of Christmas would be irretrievably tarnished.”

That night, Hobbs strapped the C4 to concrete blocks, wheeled the carriage halfway across the Ross Island Bridge and dumped the package over the side into the cold waters of the Willamette River.

Hobbs was right, of course. Going public with the story would cause panic and probably get us thrown in the slammer, but I couldn’t help myself. I grabbed my laptop and started typing.

Hobbs let out a laugh.

I looked up at him. “What?”

“I am quite aware, old friend, that you plan to submit a narrative of this case to Davy Crockett‘s Almanack of Mystery, Adventure and the Wild West.”

“And you’re okay with that?”

Hobbs got his pipe going and let out a cloud of smoke. “I have made inquiries. That publication caters to aficionados of the most lurid sort of popular fiction. If the editor chooses to publish so wild a tale, who would ever believe it?”

###

© 2010, 2012 by Evan Lewis

A shorter version of this tale originally appeared on Do Some Damage, as part of their 2010 Christmas Noir celebration.

Scarry Night: Skyler Hobbs and the Fate Worse than Scars

“The police won’t help me, Mr. Hobbs,” Carole Levinson said. “You are my last hope.”

My friend Skyler Hobbs studied the reactions of the three men grouped behind Carole’s chair like courtiers. Her father, a stocky man gripping a shotgun, scowled and gritted his teeth. Brother Dougie, a pre-teen version of his father, wore an insolent smirk. Boyfriend Kevin, a gangly guy with a wispy mustache, kept his adoring eyes on Carole.

Carol herself hooked a fake red fingernail in the corner of mouth and looked forlorn. The effect was quite fetching, but entirely lost on Hobbs.

I said, “Have any of you gents seen this scar-faced guy, or does he only appear to Carole?”

Boyfriend Kevin bristled. “Are you implying she’s making this up?”

“I am quite sure,” Hobbs said, “that my friend the doctor meant no such thing.”

Brother Dougie snorted. “This dude’s a doctor?”

“Jason Wilder,” I said, “Computer Doctor,” and handed everyone present a business card. “Twenty percent off your first repair job.”

“Wait! Hobbs and Wilder?” Dougie began to cackle. “I read about these bozos in Discount Noir. The guy with the pointy nose thinks he’s the second coming of Sherlock Holmes.”

Hobbs pretended not to hear this, but the tips of his ears turned red. He said, “Miss Levinson, you say this scar-faced fellow normally peers into your living room window. Has he also appeared at others?”

“I saw him once from the dining room,” Carole said, “and once from the kitchen.”

“Just so,” Hobbs said. “If you gentlemen will be seated, I have a few questions. Then I ask that you return to you own homes while the doctor and I attempt to catch the culprit in the act.”

#

Two hours later Hobbs and I crouched in the bushes next to Carole’s apartment building.

We’d learned several things of dubious value. Carole’s father, for instance, had been opposed to her taking this apartment, and continually nagged her to return home. One reason she refused was that brother Dougie loved to torment her with practical jokes. The only hint of a suspect came from boyfriend Kevin, who said a registered sex offender lived nearby.
   
“So,” I whispered, “you really think it’ll be this easy? We just wait for Peeping Scarface to show up and grab him?”

Hobbs turned to face me, and the moonlight outlined a smile I knew all too well—a smile  that said, You’re a fine fellow, Watson, but thick as a brick.

“Wilder,” I said, as if he’d spoken aloud. I would have said more, but The Outer Limits theme burst from my cell phone, meaning I had an unknown caller.

A voice asked for Hobbs. I handed him the phone.

After a moment he said, “I understand, Detective. We shall be there directly.”

“What?” I said.

Hobbs stepped out of the shadows. “The police need my assistance on another case,” he said, not bothering to whisper. “I fear Miss Levinson’s prowler will have to wait.”

I balked. “You go. I’ll stay on watch.”

“No,” Hobbs said firmly. “I cannot do without my Watson.”

“Wilder,” I said with a sigh. But I went.

#

Five minutes later, I was more at sea than ever. We’d sped off in my PT Cruiser, covering only two blocks before  Hobbs directed me to turn and circle back to Carole’s building.

“What about the cops?”

“A necessary subterfuge,” he said, but would say no more.

Parking nearby, we were soon back on station, now at the opposite end of the yard.

Almost at once, a dark form detached itself from the shadows and glided to Carole’s living room window. After a moment it moved on to the dining room, and finally the kitchen.

The light from the kitchen window illuminated the side of the prowler’s face, and even at twenty feet I recoiled at the livid, angry scars.

“Now,” Hobbs whispered, and spurted silently toward our quarry. I scrambled after.

Warned by some sound, the man spun away. But Hobbs’ headlong dive caught him by the knees, and I dipped my shoulder, smashing into him like a linebacker. The guy flopped over backwards, squealing like a stuck pig.

Almost instantly, Carole was there. “You got him! Who is he?”

While I sat on the guy’s chest, pinning him, Hobbs rose and dusted himself off.

“Can you not guess?”

I studied the scarred face. The eyes rolled wildly about, but the rest of the features were still.

“It's a Halloween mask,” I said. “But who’s wearing it?”

“The only one of our suspects tall enough to peer into the kitchen window,” Hobbs said. He bent and ripped the mask free.

“Oh, my god!” Carole dropped to her knees next to the prowler. “Why?”

“You’re not safe here alone,” boyfriend Kevin said with a sob. “I wanted you to move in with me.”

Carole’s face softened. She stroked his cheek. “You did that for me? You love me that much?”

Hobbs wrinkled his nose. I didn’t blame him. I rolled off Kevin’s chest.

“I’m truly touched,” Carole told Kevin, “but you are one sick son of a bitch!” And her claws came out, raking him first across one cheek, then back across the other, while his pitiful howls pierced the night.

#

When we visited the hospital, Kevin’s face was swathed in bandages. Except for the scars, which he would bear for the rest of his days, he was expected to make a full recovery. Both he and Carole had decided not to press charges.

Still, the guy was down in the dumps.

“Look on the bright side,” I said. “Next time you want to scare somebody, you won’t need a mask.”

Kevin almost smiled. “I really don’t mind the scars. They’re nothing compared to a broken heart.”

Hobbs was aghast. “Despite this experience, you still profess love for that woman?”

“We do not choose who to love, Mr. Hobbs. Love chooses us, and we are mere slaves to its power.”

Hobbs' lips tightened. His skin paled. He turned and strode briskly from the room. I ran to catch up.

“Doctor,” he said, “do have your trusty revolver handy?”

“You know damn well,” I said, “that I do not own a gun.”

“Then you had best acquire one. If I ever fall prey to this disease called love, I demand that you shoot me at once!”

###

© 2011 by Evan Lewis


"Skyler Hobbs and the Fate Worse than Scars" is my answer to Patti Abbott's Scarry Night Flash Fiction Challenge, in which we were to write a story containing the line I really don't mind the scars.

For links to the other stories, proceed to pattinase!

Fairy Tale Flash: Skyler Hobbs and the Magic Solution

(NOTE: John Kenyon, over at Things I'd Rather Be Doing, issued a challenge for Crime Fiction stories based on fairy tales. Details HERE.) Here's mine:

Skyler Hobbs peered down his long nose at the little man seated next to me on the sofa.

“I must advise you, Mr. Schumacher, that my good friend here does not wish me to take your case.”

Arnie Schumacher, owner-operator of Arnie’s Electronics, turned to goggle at me, his eyes huge and watery through thick spectacles. “But why? I have not even told you my problem.”

I shrugged. I’d voiced no objection, but Hobbs had ferreted it out just the same. That’s the trouble with befriending a man who thinks he’s the reincarnation of Sherlock Holmes.

“The doctor,” Hobbs said, nodding at me, “feels you have siphoned customers from his computer repair business by undercutting his prices. Do you deny the charge?”

Arnie looked bewildered.

I handed him one of my business cards: Jason Wilder - Computer Doctor.

“Don’t mind Hobbs,” I said. “It’s his idea of a parlor trick. Probably spotted kilobytes under your fingernails. Still, he’s right. How can you afford to work so cheap?”

Arnie looked from me to Hobbs and wrung his hands. “Because, gentlemen, I am not really working. The items repair themselves—as if by magic!”

I stood, ready to usher him out. Dealing with Hobbs was all the insanity I could handle.

But Hobbs had that gleam in his eye. The one that said, Aha! The game is afoot.  He took his pipe and tobacco from their place on the mantel and settled into his rocker. “You have my full attention, sir. Pray continue.”

The story was quickly told. Arnie had opened shop in the 60s, fixing toasters and blenders, and graduated to TV and stereo equipment. He’d done all right until the past few years, when everything became computerized. Now most of the work was in computer repair. But his eyesight was failing, technology was passing him by, and he’d found himself up to his neck in unrepaired equipment and unpaid bills.

“Though it shamed me greatly,” he said, “I was about to declare bankruptcy, when the magic started. One morning I came downstairs—my wife and I share a small apartment above the shop—and went down to the basement, where I have my workshop. Everything in the place had been fixed!”

Hobbs’ eyes shone. “And you attribute this to magic.”

“My wife, she thinks it must be angels. Me, I just don’t know. But my business was saved. The faster work came in, the faster it repaired itself. I felt guilty taking money for nothing, so I lowered prices, and customers came in droves.”

“Assuming we believe any of this,” I said, feeling snarky, “why come to Hobbs? Sounds to me like you’ve got it made.”

“I do,” Arnie said. “I do. But it is not right. A man should work, and receive fair compensation for his labors. I come to you, Mr. Hobbs, to discover the truth of the matter. Will you help?”

Hobbs made an O of his mouth and blew out a large smoke ring. Pursing his lips, he sent several smoke bullets through the target.

“Mr. Schumacher, I find this matter to be of the greatest interest. The doctor and I will be only too happy to assist you.”

Happy. That was me. Too happy for words.
 

#

That night, Hobbs and I hid behind stacks of boxes in Schumacher’s basement. Hobbs had insisted we needed bait, so despite my objections we’d hauled a dozen unfixed computers from my own shop and stacked them on the long workbench.

As we waited in the darkness, I whispered, “All right, Hobbs, you’ve put me off long enough. I want to know what’s going on.”

“You observed, of course, that this establishment is located next to a Wells Fargo Bank.”

“Sure,” I lied. All I’d noticed was the MacDonald’s across the street. I could almost smell Big Macs.

“Is it not possible,” he said, “that our client’s late night visitors are attempting to tunnel into the bank and break into its vault?”

“Maybe. But if that were so, we’d have seen evidence of digging.”

“Not if the thieves are exceedingly clever.  In any case…”

As Hobbs paused, I heard slight sounds from the floor above. The click of a key in a lock, and the creak of footsteps.

“In any case,” he said again, “we shall soon know. I am quite certain our quarry has arrived. Now, Watson, would be the time to produce your trusty revolver.”

“Wilder,” I whispered. “And you know damn well I don’t own a gun.”

But I began to wish I did. The creaking had moved to the stairs, and a moment later the basement door opened. Florescent ceiling lights blinked on, and we crouched lower behind the boxes.

“Damn!” said a hushed voice. “The geezer’s got a lot of new shit.”

“Cool,” came the reply. “We’ll make a haul on this.”

As the voices moved to the center of the room, I shifted to a crack between the boxes.

Two teenage boys in ratty T-shirts and low-slung jeans stood at the workbench, examining the repair tags.

“Dibs on this HP,” one boy said. “All it needs is a network interface.”

“I’ll start with this laptop,” the other said.

Both selected tools from the table and set to work. These didn’t look like bank robbers to me.

I turned to Hobbs and raised an eyebrow. He merely nodded at me. If this performance surprised him he did a great job of hiding it.
   
We watched a while longer, seeing nothing but quick and competent repair work.

Finally Hobbs stood, pushing the boxes aside, and aimed a bony finger at the two astonished boys.

“Stop!” he said in a commanding voice. “Dr. Watson here is armed, and if you attempt to flee he will surely shoot you.”

I shook my head. “Wilder,” I said, “and I’m not shooting anybody. But I would like to know what the hell’s going on.”

#

Next morning, we sat in a plush private office above the flagship store of the worldwide mega-chain, Schumacher’s Shoes. Facing us across an enormous desk was a beetle-browed man bearing a distinct resemblance to our client. The brass nameplate on his desk read Marvin Schumacher, President and CEO.

Though Marvin looked younger than Arnie, his hair was thinning, and he’d tried to cover it with the silliest comb-over this side of Donald Trump. His whole office, in fact, seemed modeled after the board room on The Apprentice. He fixed us a Trump-like scowl.

“So you know,” he said. “You telling Arnie?”

“I know,” Hobbs said, “that you hired those lads to help your brother. And I believe I know why. But before determining a course of action, I wish to hear the tale from your own lips.”

“You‘ve met Arnie,” Marvin said, “so maybe you understand. He’s always been too proud for his own good. Won’t accept charity, even from his own flesh and blood. I called my old high school, got the names of those computer geeks, and gave them a key. You know the rest.”

“You chose well,” Hobbs said. “My friend here has inspected their work, and judged it to be excellent.”

Marvin nodded. “Arnie had a sweet deal going, until you stepped in. Any chance you’d accept a . . . retainer, to let the magic continue?”

Hobbs leaned forward, rubbing his hands together. “The question I must ask, Mr. Schumacher, is this: Precisely how much is your brother’s happiness worth?”

#

The apartment above Arnie’s Electronics was shabby but clean, a description that also served for Arnie’s wife. We sat at their kitchen table pretending to drink weak, tepid coffee from cracked mugs.

“I still can’t believe they were bank robbers,” Arnie said. “I saw you leading those guys away, and they looked like kids. I mean, who but kids would wear their jeans belted down around their knees?”

“All part of their disguise,” Hobbs said, “and no small factor in their ability to elude the authorities. Those desperados are wanted in seven states, and you have performed a great service in bringing about their capture. And it will please you to know they have already received new suits of clothing—bright orange prison uniforms.”

Hobbs hefted a large suitcase onto the table and popped it open. Inside were bound stacks of crisp hundred dollar bills.

“The reward offered by the FBI,” he said, “totaled one million dollars. It is yours, with the compliments of your government.”

Arnie stared, his mouth working but emitting no sound. His wife began to cry.

I felt my own eyes welling up, and steadied myself with a swallow of bad coffee.

Arnie found his voice. “A million dollars. You may call it justice, Mr. Hobbs, but I still call it magic. This time, however, I will not complain. But you and your friend did all the work. You must take half.”

I choked on my coffee. By the time I could breathe, Hobbs was already shaking his head.

“Your generosity is overwhelming,” he said, “but we must decline. The by-laws of the Consulting Detectives Union are quite strict in cases of this sort. The most we are allowed to accept is one percent.”

#

Two weeks later, we got a postcard from Hawaii, first stop on the Schumachers’ round-the-world cruise. Arnie was officially retired, and shedding the skin of his old life.

Things were going well for me too. With my share of the ten grand, I’d hired the two computer geeks to work part-time at my shop. Business was booming.

“Quite satisfactory,” Hobbs said. “Everyone appears to be living happily ever after.”

“Just like a fairy tale,” I said. “It’s almost enough to make me believe in magic.”

Hobbs snorted and turned to find his pipe.

I just smiled. Hobbs’ head was swelled enough already, so I had to be careful with compliments, but I was pretty sure Arnie was right. There had been magic at work.

The magic of Skyler Hobbs.

###

© 2011 by Evan Lewis

More adventures of Skyler Hobbs and Doctor Wilder, in case you missed 'em, are linked at the upper left.

Flash Fiction Challenge: Skyler Hobbs and the Sweetest of Dreams

“That’s her,” our client said

I stared, trying not to leer.

Red-orange tresses danced about the girl’s head like flames, singeing the air as she swept into the bar. A sleeveless dress, translucent as a tropical sea, coalesced about her hips and breasts. Music throbbed from hidden speakers as if announcing her arrival: Sweet dreams are made of this. She moved with a swaying stride that sucked eyes from the sockets of every guy in the place.

Every guy, I noticed, including Mr. Skyler Hobbs.

I grinned, because until now Hobbs' interest in women had been confined to the criminal use of feminine wiles. Skyler Hobbs, you see, entertains the delusion that he is the honest-to-god reincarnation of the great detective Sherlock Holmes.

Our client, a stuffy accountant named Peter Peterson, was likewise affected, but his lustful expression was tinged with horror.

“You see?” he said. “Dressed like a skank, and frequenting a dive like this!”

The dive was a Portland, Oregon institution known as the Queen of Hearts, and while it was hardly a hangout for the upper crust, it was no worse than a hundred other neighborhood bars.

Hobbs set aside the copy of Mississippi Vivian he'd been reading. “Does she always look so . . . provocative?”

“The Grace I know,” Peterson said, “has never exhibited so much as a bare shoulder in my presence.”

I said, “And you’ve been engaged how long?”

Peterson’s cheeks colored, looking incongruous with his tough guy appearance. Feeling their normal attire would invite undue attention, Hobbs had outfitted Peterson and himself accordingly. Hobbs wore black jeans with rusty studs, a too-small Metallica T-shirt and a necklace made from a Budweiser caps. Spiked hair and a nose ring completed the look. Peterson looked equally ridiculous. I wore my everyday Jason Wilder—Computer Doctor clothes: chinos and a sweatshirt bearing a discreet Rogue Fish Tale Ale logo.

The mystery was this: After a six-month engagement to a demure brunette with a city government job, Peterson had discovered that by night she became this flame-haired clockstopper. Baffled, he’d followed her several times to this bar, but had been afraid to enter.

The lady in question eased into a booth with three burly bikers and squirmed from lap to lap. Within minutes she had one of them in hand, leading him out the back door to the alley.
   
I pushed my chair back, assuming we’d follow, but Hobbs stopped me. “Not yet, Doctor. Let us await further developments.”
   
We did. Ten minutes later she breezed back in, this time joining a group of guys who persisted, long after the style was dead, in wearing their baseball caps backwards. In short order she’d cut one from the herd and led him outside.
   
Hobbs’ eyebrows went up. He seemed perplexed. Peterson wrinkled his nose, looking more miserable than ever.
   
I leaned close and said a few words into Hobbs’ ear. His eyes went wide. “No! Not her. I refuse to believe it. I have another theory, but it must be tested.”
   
Upon her next return, Hobbs and I were waiting near the back door. Blocking her path, Hobbs executed a short bow.
   
“Pardon me,” he said. “Would you care to accompany me outside?” He extended an arm like a boy scout ready to escort a lady across the street.  
   
The girl took a step back, surveyed his costume and laughed. “What did you have in mind?”
   
Hobbs smiled and winked. “Merely a stroll in the moonlight, I assure you.”
   
“No thanks.”
   
Hobbs turned to me. “Would you care to try?”
   
I stepped up and whispered in her ear, steeling myself for a slap. Instead, she grabbed my hand and dragged me toward the door.
   
Once outside she said, “Turn around, lover. I have a surprise for you.”
   
I turned, tingling with anticipation, and next thing I knew she’d snapped handcuffs on me and thrust me into the back of a panel van. 
   
“Hello, scumbag,” said a grinning police officer. “You have the right to remain silent.”
   
I said something unprintable.
   
“A sting operation,” said a familiar voice. “You have confirmed my suspicions, Watson!” 
   
“Wilder,” I said under my breath, and twisted to see Hobbs and Peterson standing behind the redhead.
   
The girl’s mouth fell slack as she stared at our client. “Peter?”
   
“Hello, Grace.  I’m relieved to learn the truth about your… activities. But the engagement is off.  I cannot envision life with an undercover policewoman.” 
   
There was more talk, and a tear or two was shed, but in the end Peterson was gone and I was released.
   
“I knew it was a bad match,” the redhead said, “but in my line of work, I don’t meet many nice men.” She stretched up to kiss Hobbs lightly on the cheek. “Like you.”
   
Hobbs blushed furiously, and though he tried hard not to smile, his lips betrayed him.
   
“But what I really need,” the girl said, “is a guy who’s only half nice.” She pulled my face to hers, uncorking a kiss so soulful it curled my socks. I was still woozy when she pressed a business card into my hand. “Call me,” she said. “Sweet dreams.”
   
I licked my lips as the van pulled away, her last words throbbing in my brain. Sweet dreams.
   
“You will note, Doctor, that I was correct." Hobbs' voice was oddly constrained. "That girl could never perform the disgusting acts you suggested.” 
   
I was about to say, Not to strangers, anyway, but caught myself. Hobbs’ eyes were fixed on the card in my hand, and one of those eyes seemed to glisten.
   
“You’re right,” I said. “She’s a nice girl. Too nice for me.” And though it took every ounce of will, I tore the card into tiny pieces. “What is it they say about the sweetest of dreams, Hobbs?”
   
“They are those always just beyond our grasp.”
   
“Yeah,” I said, watching the bits of paper flutter to the ground. “Ain’t it the truth.”

###

© copyright 2010 by Evan Lewis
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For links to more stories in today's Sweet Dreams Flash Fiction Challenge, visit Patti Abbott's pattinase or Gerald So's If You Want to Know About My Life.

Please pay special attention to tales by two of my fellow critique groupers:

Looking for Something by R.L. Kelstrom

Beadie and the Blesser by Kassandra Kelly

More adventures of Skyler Hobbs and Doctor Wilder:

Skyler Hobbs and the Rabbit Man

Skyler Hobbs and the Rollback Bandit

Skyler Hobbs and the Man Who Couldn't Fly

Skyler Hobbs and the Man Who Smiled at Death
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FLASH FICTION CHALLENGE: Skyler Hobbs and the Man Who Smiled at Death

c

“The widow spoke the truth,” Skyler Hobbs said. “That fellow looks positively gleeful.”

The subject of Hobbs’ remark sat to our right and one pew ahead, beaming like he’d won the Megabucks lottery. His eyes glowed a brilliant blue behind his thick spectacles, and gold-capped teeth glinted through his bristling white beard. The other funeral goers had cleared a wide space around him, focusing their attention in other directions.

“He looks happier than SpongeBob SquarePants,” I said. “Maybe he’s just nuts.”

“A distinct possibility, Watson, but I sense deeper waters here.”

“Wilder,” I said. “Jason Wilder, Computer Doctor.” But I knew it was pointless to correct him. Skyler Hobbs, you see, thinks he’s the second coming of Sherlock Holmes, and that I’m his Dr. Watson.

Organ music swelled, and from a room behind the choir came Hobbs’ client, Mrs. Charles Winkleman, dressed in a slinky black shift. Though her face was drawn, she was remarkably good-looking for a woman on the plus side of sixty.

She’d come to us two days before, and Hobbs was instantly intrigued. Her husband had perished in a grease fire while working his burger wagon on the downtown bus mall. The police had found no sign of foul play, and the widow had just begun to grieve when the smiling man appeared. She saw him outside the funeral parlor, in the meat department at Zupan’s Market, and in Mt. Scott Park while walking her wiener dog. She even saw him standing outside her house, just watching and smiling like the devil. And each time she’d tried to approach him, the fellow simply scurried away.

There was something oddly familiar about him, Mrs. Winkleman declared, but could not put her finger on it. And she had come to fear for her safety.

Watching the old coot’s reaction to the eulogies, I couldn’t blame her. When the preacher declared the Lord had His own reasons for taking the deceased into His bosom, the guy beamed as if he’d just been named King of the World, and when Winkleman’s sister broke into tears over a poignant tale, the guy actually licked his lips and chortled.

When it was finally over, we followed Mr. Happy up the aisle and down the hall to the reception, where a somber crowd munched stale cookies and conversed in low tones.

Hobbs paid special attention to an easel displaying photos of the deceased. He’d been a smooth-faced fellow with close-cropped hair, and in the shots where he wasn’t wearing sunglasses, he displayed remarkably blue eyes.

Hobbs turned from the easel looking enormously pleased with himself.

“So,” I said, “you’ve got it figured. What’s the poop?”

As was his habit, Hobbs wasted no time with explanations. Crooking a finger, he weaved a path through the mourners and planted himself before the smiling man. “So,” he said, “I perceive you have been quite enjoying yourself today.”

The fellow nodded with enthusiasm. “Quite.”

“Liked the eulogies, did you? Reveled in the grief expressed by Winkleman’s friends and relatives.”

“I did.”

The widow, I saw, had now entered the room, and stopped to watch the confrontation.

“And I suppose you think I find that odd,” Hobbs said.

The fellow beamed. “Don’t you?”

“Not at all,” Hobbs said, “for I have discovered your secret. You, sir, are Mr. Charles Winkleman in disguise!” And with that, he grabbed the guy’s whiskers in both hands and yanked.

The man stopped smiling. His mouth formed a huge O as he let loose a scream.

Hobbs looked astonished to see the beard still attached to the guy’s face. Then he gave a howl of his own, as the man kicked him in the shins and began pummeling him about the head.

Releasing the whiskers, Hobbs thrust his right leg backwards and cocked an arm in a peculiar manner.

I jumped on Hobbs' back, pinning his arms. I’d recognized the stance of the exotic martial art he called baritsu, and was afraid the bearded man would be seriously injured. As Hobbs struggled, the old guy continued to rain blows upon him until the widow’s sharp cry blistered our ears.

“Enough!”

Hobbs stopped struggling, and the old man seemed to deflate. He folded up on himself, trying to avert his face.

“What’s the meaning of this?” Mrs. Winkleman snapped. “This man is not my husband!”

Hobbs seemed incapable of speech.

After a moment, the old man mumbled, “No Mabel, I’m not. But I’d like to be.”

She stared at him, a riot of emotions flitting across her face. At last she reached out, removed his thick spectacles, and brushed the scraggly hair aside. A small gasp escaped her lips.

“Harold?  Is that you?”

“Who else,” he said, “has waited forty years to claim your hand?”

“Just as I suspected!” Hobbs declared. “Madam, you may expect my bill in the post.”

And though Hobbs was eager to go, I refused to budge until I got the whole story. The two had been high school sweethearts and were parted when Harold was sent to Viet Nam. He’d returned to find Mabel married to Charles Winkleman, and pined for her ever since. On hearing she’d been widowed he could not contain his joy, but had feared to approach her directly.

He needn’t have. Mabel was clearly pleased to see him, and I had a feeling this same church would soon be ringing wedding bells.

“So,” I said later to Hobbs, “you had that figured, did you?”

“Indubitably, Doctor. But since there was no way to prove it, I had to trick him into a confession.”

“A pat answer,” I said. “But I was watching your face when that beard stayed put, and you were the most surprised man on earth.” 

It was Hobbs’ turn to smile. “You flatter me, Watson. But you are correct. The stage lost a fine actor when I turned to a career in crime detection.”

###

© copyright 2010 by Evan Lewis

For more adventures of Skyler Hobbs and "Doctor" Wilder, click HERE.

Visit Dan O'Shea's Going Ballistic for links to more stories in today's "Mystery In Church" Flash Fiction Challenge.

Airport Flash Fiction Challenge: Skyler Hobbs and the Man Who Couldn't Fly

.

“Watson, look!” Skyler Hobbs pointed over my shoulder, his eyes distended. “That woman is a man!”

“The name’s Wilder,” I reminded him. “Jason Wilder.” Careful not to look, I turned him around and aimed him toward the airport security checkpoint. “This is Portland, Hobbs. We take pride in our diversity.”

“But, Doctor—”

“Computer Doctor. Now put your shoes in that plastic tub. You’re next.”

With a deep sigh, he complied. I sighed too. It would be a miracle if I got him past security, let alone onto an airplane. My friend Skyler Hobbs, you see, has never flown. You could hardly expect less from a man convinced he’s the reincarnation of Sherlock Holmes.

His shoes removed, Hobbs stood facing a fat man in Transportation Security Officer’s uniform.

The TSO looked at Hobbs’ feet. “Where’s your other sock?”

“Pinned to my fireplace, of course. Holding my shag tobacco."

The officer wrinkled his nose. “You’ll have to remove that leprechaun hat. And the horse blanket. Both go in the tubs.”

I steeled myself for trouble. Hobbs was quite proud of his deerstalker cap and Inverness cape.

“This is not mere raiment,” Hobbs said, “but part of my persona.”

“In the tubs,” the fat man said, “or you don’t fly.”

Hobbs glared back at me, his meaning clear. This was my fault. I was the one who’d sold the story of our first adventure to Ellery Queen, and no sooner had it appeared than a wacked-out dowager in Omaha had wired us first-class tickets, insisting we fly out to find her lost Chihuahua. Hobbs had balked, of course, but I’d reminded him that both our bank accounts were on death’s door.

Hobbs was unbuttoning his cape when he went stiff as a pointer, aimed a finger and said, “Look!”

As the security officer turned, Hobbs darted through the metal detector and slipped past him. The fat man scrambled after, shouting for assistance.

In an instant, three other TSOs joined the chase. But Hobbs stopped short, thrust his hand into the pocket of a traveler tying his shoes, and plucked out a plastic flask. “Inflammable liquid!” he crowed. “You’ve been derelict in your duty.”

The officers all scowled. One snatched the flask and sniffed it. "Bourbon." 

As the offender was hauled off for a cavity search, the fat TSO jabbed a finger at Hobbs. “One more stunt, and you’re on the No-Fly list.”

Hobbs stared back at him, refusing to be cowed. In the time I had known him, he had never betrayed a hint of fear.

“Back to the metal detector.” The man grabbed Hobbs by the arm. “We’re trying this again.”

Hobbs took one step. Then his head swiveled toward a busty blonde in a tight red sweater. “Wait!” Before the officer could react, Hobbs broke free and galloped toward the woman, arms outstretched.

And time seemed to stop. TSOs and travelers alike froze in astonishment as Hobbs’ hands closed upon the blonde’s ample bosom.

The woman shrieked, and time kicked into high speed. Security officers pounced on Hobbs from all directions, but he clung tenaciously to the woman’s breasts, and the whole crowd went down in a squirming heap.

A TSO yanked a Taser from his belt. I found my wits and dashed forward, yelling, “Stop!”

This got everyone’s attention just long enough for Hobbs to shout, “Look, Watson! She’s a man!”

“Wilder,” I said. But so she was. The blond wig had popped loose in the struggle, exposing a buzz cut. One breast perched on a shoulder, while the other dangled from an armpit.

The officers all stared, bewildered.

“Hobbs,” I said, “I told you this is Portland, and we—”

“Your diversity is all well and good,” Hobbs said. “But this fellow’s brassiere is stuffed with high grade cocaine.”

#

The guards who’d escorted us to the parking lot waited with hands on their holsters.

I fired up the PT Cruiser. “How did you know?”

“She had an Adam’s apple.”

“Not that. About the coke.”

“His nostrils.” Hobbs tapped his nose. “Caked with white crystals.”

“But you couldn’t have seen that until you’d grabbed him.”

“Let’s be underway, shall we?” Hobbs was smiling now, looking contented for the first time since we’d received the tickets. “I am quite famished after all that exercise.”

I stared at him. “You—you didn’t know…” I might have said more, but he was gazing out the car window, ignoring me.

And it suddenly came together. He hadn’t known about the coke. He’d thrown that wingding on purpose, because he wanted to be put on the No-Fly list. He was not quite as fearless as he seemed. Skyler Hobbs was afraid to fly!

I got the car moving. “What do we tell your client in Omaha?”

“Tell her she reads too many detective stories. And to look for her lost Chihuahua at the nearest Taco Bell.” He extracted the unused boarding pass from his pocket and waved it under my nose. “Tell me, Doctor. Are these tickets redeemable for cash?”

###

© 2009 by Evan Lewis

Note: The tale that so inspired the Omaha dowager appears in the Feb. 2010 issue of EQMM. Hobbs and Wilder's second adventure, Skyler Hobbs and the Rollback Bandit, appeared right here on the Almanack.

For links to other stories in the Steve Weddle Memorial Airport Flash Fiction Challenge, visit Dan O'Shea's Going Ballistic.