NOIR IN MY CAR

The Capitol Caper

NOIR IN MY CAR

A mystery series by Zoltan James

FORWARD

by Marco X. Pollo

Dear Reader,

Thank you for reading My story.

The story you are about to read, The Capitol Caper, is the creation of author Zoltan James. Any reseMblance between Z.J. and Me is purely coincidental. For the record, I’M a private eye and forMer detective for the Denver Police DepartMent. I’M suave and debonair and drive a 1953 Nash Healey (a real babe Magnet) and he’s…well…Z.J.’s a boozy writer and drives a 1969 faded green Honda with a Missing hubcap. By the way, you May have noticed that the letter “M’ sticks on his keyboard…

…Stand by, one second: Hey, Z.J. spray some canola oil, or something on your keyboard, will ya. All right. I think we got that fixed. What a putz. So, let’s continue…

However, I must admit that without him there wouldn’t be me, of course, and without me, well, you and I would never have met. As a brief intro, I’m Marco X. Pollo, the “X” stands for Xavier. I guess my grandmother was a big Xavier Cugat fan and she got a say in choosing my middle name. I think Cugat was a famous Latin bandleader in his day and from the stories I heard, grandma loved to mambo.

Anyway, my close friends call me “X.” In a previous life, I played detective for the Denver Police Department, that is until I was unceremoniously “let go,” for hazing a rookie officer. We used to call this “practical joking,” and everybody thought it was great fun. But the new bigwigs down at Central frowned when I completely covered a rookie’s police car in Saran Wrap. She, the rookie, was not amused and filed a complaint. I do not let her refer to me as “X.” Ergo, I (thanks to Z.J.’s efforts) re-created my investigative skills and hung out my shingle as a private eye. You got cash? I’m your man.

While this is a story of fiction, everything you are about to read happened—to me, anyway. Whether true or not, I’ll let you be the judge.

As a word of caution, this is not your grandfather’s novel. Thank God it’s not a doorstopper like War and Peace. More like one of those miniature books you can carry in your pocket to read on the bus, or at a bar when the barfly next to you drones on and on and on about his prostate surgery.

Ambrose Bierce, an American writer, journalist, poet, and Civil War veteran, once wrote satirically, “The covers of this book are too far apart.” Fear not, my friends. Not with this book. This is a shorty. It’s the mini-dress of novels, it’s a four-day work week, it’s a shot of espresso. In short, this is a short work of art designed for you to enjoy over a cup of hot coffee. How you drink it is up to you. Personally, I like it noir, or black.

Nevertheless, I think you might like this. The prose is insolent, provocative, slick, fast and fun. Z.J. makes me sound sharp and witty and at times even I wondered if I might survive the ordeals he put me through.

Follow along, here at zjames.substack.com every Tuesday and Thursday for new episodes. It’s gonna be a ride. And buckle up. It’s the law.

And on behalf of the cast of characters in NOIR IN MY CAR, our author, and all the good folks who played a role in this story, we hope you get a good laugh, here and there. It’s okay to also shed a tear, cringe, yelp, or whatever turns your clock. But whatever you do, be sure to let everyone sitting around you on the bus know how much you enjoyed this piece of fine art.

Your pal,

Marco X. Pollo

Private Eye

Denver, Colorado

USA

Authors Note: Why I gave Marco the microphone here I’m not sure and will have to rethink that decision in the future. Anyway, he forgot to mention that the NOIR IN MY CAR series contains the following books, all starring Marco X. Pollo:

PART 1: The Capitol Caper

PART 2: The Lady in the Boathouse

PART 3: Murder at Mile High

PART 4: The Ghost of Broadway

And, as a bonus, readers will receive occasional “Behind the Scenes” stories about the locales and other thingamajigs mentioned in these stories—quirky things you probably never knew, like what is a Nash Healey? Things you can drone on and on and on about the next time you’re at a bar.

PART 1: The Capitol Caper

by Zoltan James

This is the first in the Noir in My Car series where private eye Marco X. Pollo drives the mean streets of Denver in his custom Nash Healey seeking justice and clients who pay in cash.

Chapter 1

THE REDHEAD

Damn if it doesn’t always start with a dame.

I was in neutral, idling at the intersection of Lincoln and Ticklemore, near downtown Denver, waiting for the light to turn red when this redhead hops into my car. She smelled mysterious and bubblegum sweet.

I said, “I’m not Uber, doll.” But then caught myself after I got a good look at her. She smiled seductively and crossed long tanned legs that went all the way up to there. With one glance at her glorious gams, I lost track of time. The sun sank, the moon rose. The oceans swelled. The Jag behind me honked.

“The light’s green, honey,” she said. “Go, Marco.”

“Hey,” I said, “How’d you know my...”

The Jag honked again.

“…name?”

Just yesterday morning I picked up my 1953 Nash Healey from the shop. She’s a sweet machine, 3-seat Le Mans coupe, obsidian black with white sidewalls. She’s usually rugged as a mountain goat. But today she ran skittish, like a horse afraid of jumping a ditch.

“Seatbelt,” I reminded her. The redhead quivered in all the right places as she clicked in. The Jag honked furiously and sped around me as if the driver were late for a dental appointment.

After my embarrassing and irregular idle at the stop light, I rolled cautiously on up the street and under the speed limit. We were heading north—the redhead and me—on Lincoln toward downtown. I took my sweet time. Didn’t want this ride to end too soon.

The October sun beamed a mad orange flair through the windshield. The temperature rose inside. Maybe I was perspiring due to the solar heat, or maybe my perspiration was precipitated by how the redhead dangled her come-hither heels from her brightly red-painted toes.

I pushed gently on the gas and with all the cool I could muster, I said, “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure.”

“Jade. Jasmine,” she purred. The words rolled off her lips like hot butter but sounding exotic like “Bond. James Bond,” only sexier. I couldn’t decide which came first. Was she Jade or was she Jasmine? The more I thought about it I decided it didn’t matter.

I pulled up to another stop light and couldn’t help it. Something about her, actually everything, about her sent my left leg jackhammering against the floorboard. And my eyes kept darting from the red stop light to her curvaceous…red lips.

“Watch out!” she yelled.