Bearstone Blackie, Detective

Bearstone Blackie, Detective

by Ray Pace


Publisher CreateSpace Independent Publishing Platform

Published in Children & Teens (Young Adult), Literature & Fiction, Children's Books

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Book Description

Bearstone Blackie, the world's first Black Bear detective, investigates fairy tale characters, comic strip heroes and tv comedy personalities and finds that what you always thought was true isn't so. Laughs come quick and often as send-ups to classic detectives like Spenser and Sam Spade frequently appear. Young adults and older adults will get it. Younger kids, probably not.

Sample Chapter

It was a quiet morning at the Bear With Us Detective Agency. Wolfie and I were enjoying lemon cannoli from the Hungry Bear Donut Factory. We had root beers from the Thirsty Dragon Root Beer Factory and were reading the latest stories from two of our favorite sources, the National Inquisitor, and the El Bruno Gazette.

“Here’s one from the El Bruno fish wrapper,” Wolfie said. “Pervert Seized While Terrorizing Town.”

“Shocking,” I said. “Read on.”

“Wee Willie Winkie ran through the town, upstairs and downstairs in his nightgown, rapping at the windows, crying through the lock and asking if kids were in bed because it was eight o’clock.”

“You sure it’s Winkie and not Wilkin? The cop story in the Inquisitor says that Willy Wilkin kissed the maids a milking and with his merry daffing he set them all a laughing.”

“What’s that mean?” Wolfie asked. “He’s got a merry daffing? What’s it do, tell jokes? Who writes this garbage?”

“Wow, look at this.” I turned the front page of the Inquisitor toward Wolfie. The headline screamed, “International Serial Killer Suspects at Large, Hundreds of Victims.”

“Read that one to me,” Wolfie said.

I read it:

Surete Internationale Director Jacques Clouseau announced a world-wide manhunt for three suspects. Clouseau alleges the three were behind hundreds of murders in Europe and the United States. Authorities are searching for Jessica Fletcher of Cabot Cove, Maine, Jane Marple of St. Mary Mead, England, and Hercule Poirot of Belgium.

“These are people who wrote the book on murders and then went and pulled them off,” Clouseau said. “They were clever as minkies in every case, pretending to solve each case, while skillfully blaming innocent people for their dastardly crimes. Fletcher alone is responsible for over 260 deaths. Some of her victims received a bimp on the head by a blunt object. Her series ‘Murder, She Wrote’ should be retitled ‘Murder, She Wrought.’ Marple and Poirot are cut out of the same ugly cloth, posing as innocents while doing their dastardly deeds.”

“Wow,” Wolfie said.

“Could be something to that,” I said. “Think about it. Every time one of them showed up somewhere, some poor bugger died.”

Wolfie nodded.

We sipped our root beers and crunched another cannoli.

“Here’s one about that local gang of toughs, the Simple Simons,” Wolfie said. “Seems they met a pie man heading to the fair. One of the toughs says to the guy, ‘we want to taste your ware.’ The pie man ain’t no fool. He says, ‘show me the money.’ The toughs say, ‘we ain’t got any.’ They’re about to grab the goods when Mr. Pie Man introduces the boys to Mr. Smith and Mr. Wesson. Couple Simple Simons won’t be tasting pie unless they’re serving it in the after-life. El Bruno’s finest showed up after the gunplay and got the pie man for carrying without a permit.”

I was about to read another story when Beartina walked in from our outer office.

“You wouldn’t believe the two foul balls that want to see you two,” she said. “Couple old dudes who still think they got it. Can’t find their young wives. A blowhard and a dummy.”

“Just our types,” Wolfie said. “Send them in.”

They came in. I motioned for them to sit down in the chairs in front of my desk.

“I’m Bearstone Blackie and that’s my partner Wolfram T. Wolf over on our designer Naugahyde sofa.”

“Call me Ralph,” the fat guy said. He wore a jacket that said Gotham Bus Company in lettering above the front pocket.

The thin guy wore an open vest, a white tee shirt and a pork pie hat.

“Norton,” the thin guy said. “Or call me Ed. Just don’t call me late to dinner.”

He laughed and slapped Ralph on the arm. Ralph frowned at Norton.

“We’re out here from New York on our honeymoon,” Ralph said.

“Congratulations,” I said. “You two look like you’re made for each other.”

“No, not us,” Ralph said. “I mean it’s us, but not to each other, couple of good looking women. We came here to see some of your sights, like the ketchup factory and the Hungry Bear Donut Factory.”

“Worth the trip in itself,” I said.

“I should give you a retainer,” Ralph said. “Would three thousand be about right?”

I nodded, biting my lip to keep from smiling.

He counted out 30 Ben Franklins and slid them toward me.

“We, uh, got a little problem,” Ralph said. “We’re married to a couple of real lookers and, well, we gave the girls enough dough to choke a couple horses so they could go shopping. Well, they haven’t been back.”

He wiped sweat off his brow.

“How long they been gone?” Wolfie asked.

“Uh, it’s the third day,” Norton said. “Sheesh, they must be having a great time, eh Ralphie Boy?”

Ralphie Boy rolled his eyes.

“How much money did you give them?” I asked.

“Fifty thousand each,” Norton said. “They needed it to buy some clothes. They’re new to this country and we’re loaded, so why not?”

“That’s right,” Ralphie Boy said. “We made big money later in life and now we want to enjoy it. My first wife, Alice. What a turkey. She said I’d never get anywhere driving a bus.”

“Hey you got to Manhattan and Brooklyn,” Norton said. You even got to Rikers after you popped her one.”

Norton laughed.

“Yeah, I kept warning her,” Ralph said. “Finally did it. Pow, right in the kisser.”

“And she hit him right back, broke his nose.” Norton laughed and slapped the desk.

“Never mind that,” Ralph said. “Your marriage to Trixie was no picnic.”

“He’s right,” Norton said. “Trixie, my first old lady. Same thing. She kept harping, ‘You know a lot about the sewers and water treatment plants, but what good will that do you, Ed?’ Hah, that’s exactly how Ralph and I struck it rich. I’m glad she divorced me.”

Wolfie covered a laugh and shook his head at the two characters.

“So you struck it rich driving a bus and knowing about sewers and underground water pipes in New York?” I asked.

Ralph looked over at Norton and winked.

“Should we tell him, Pal o’ mine?”

“Why not? We’re rollin’ in it, Ralph. We don’t need to work another day in our lives.”

“Okay,” Ralph leaned forward and leaned on the desk.

“We ran into a guy who needed help educating engineering students about how a complicated city like New York works with all its electric, sewers, water and gas lines. Well, we knew a lot of that. Norton had the info and I had the bus. So we’d take these students on a tour of all the facilities that keep New York working.”

“Yeah,” Norton said. “This guy who ran the program had a big grant and he said he’d give us each a couple million to take these minority college kids from Middle-Eastern States on our tours. You know a lot of people from Delaware and Maryland don’t know New York. Hell, these kids could barely understand English. So, that’s what we did. That’s how we can afford our new Russian wives.”

“Russian wives?” I asked.

“We just came back from Moscow a week ago,” Ralph said. “They got hundreds of women over there dying to meet rich American men.”

“The Kalashnikov sisters,” Norton said. “Va va va voom. I told Ralph, hey, I’ll take the redhead or the blonde. Either way.”

“Yeah,” Ralph said. “That’s what he said, but I’m the brains between the two of us. I knew that he knew that I knew that he wanted the redhead. So, I said to him, go ahead and take her. If it don’t work out, we’ll get you one that does.”

He and Norton started laughing. Ralph broke into a coughing fit.

“Too many Havanas,” Ralph said.

Wolfie stared at me and shook his head.

“So, Ralph,” I said. “You been to the cops with this problem of yours?”

“No, we haven’t.” He looked down at the floor and then up at me. “You start telling the cops about handing out fifty thousand dollars to your Russian wives and they think you’re peddling drugs or weapons. All we did was run a tour bus for engineering students.”

“Yeah, all we got left to do is deliver their luggage to the airport in our bus,” Norton said. “Don’t even have to unload it. Just leave the bus in the departure drop-off lane and grab a cab. Hit a call button on a cell phone to tell them where we left it. Pretty snazzy deal, eh?”

I told them to wait out in the front office while Wolfie and I talked over their case. Wolfie grabbed one of the chairs and slid it close to me.

“I hope you got Homeland Security on speed dial,” he said.

The FBI agents who arrived minutes after our call were happy to be involved in a slam-dunk case that could lead to busting up a terrorist cell.

“I’ve been going nuts looking at emails,” Agent Magda Prickly said. “This case is great. I don’t think these guys even know what email is.”

Out in the front office, I could hear Prickly’s partner, Agent Andover Stickly interviewing Ralphie Boy and Norton. The three sat around a table that held a recorder.

“What do you think you were involved in?” Stickly asked.

“Just helping engineering students and their teacher,” Norton said. “Mr. Kiter. Think his first name was Al? Right Ralph? We were working for Al Kiter. Right Ralph?”

Ralph’s eyes bulged out as he tried to stand and catch his breath.

All he could manage before fainting was, “Homina, homina, homina.”


Excerpted from "Bearstone Blackie, Detective" by Ray Pace. Copyright © 2017 by Ray Pace. Excerpted by permission. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher. Excerpts are provided solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
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Author Profile

Ray Pace

Ray Pace

Veteran print and broadcast writer Ray Pace is President of the Hawaii Writers Guild. He lives in Waikoloa Village on the Big Island of Hawaii. His books are Hemingway in Hawaii, Bearstone Blackie, Detective, and Hemingway, Memories of Les.

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