The Walter Hobson Matter

Note to reader: This short workpiece is an aside from my other story, The Missing Daughter Caper. Both are stand-alone stories. The protagonist, Briggs, is a private detective for the Robert T. Simmons Detective Agency, and this is an account of one of his cases that occurred before the events of the Missing Daughter Caper. Briggs, with only one name like Cher or Madonna, is a former FBI agent who had to go deep undercover for his part in bringing down two Mexican drug cartel leaders and several of their lieutenants.

There is no gratuitous sex in this story.

This story is pure fiction, with certain literary liberties taken that may not sit well with legal eagles. Please ignore these shortcomings in the story and hold any negative comments of that nature. IT'S JUST A STORY!

All characters are over 18, and any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental. Copyright © 2023 All Rights Reserved. No portion of this material may be reproduced without the author's prior written permission. Everyone is over 18.

A reader accused me of plagiarism. NOT TRUE! I am the author of these stories. I abandoned my Literotica account for a few years and rejoined under this pseudonym.

I write for my edification. We aren't in an English composition class, so please excuse any grammatical errors or style misadventures. I try to improve with each submission. Enjoy, I hope.

The Walter Hobson Matter

Briggs investigates an insurance fraud.

Chapter 1: Background

As I seem to be doing quite a bit lately, I was sitting on a barstool in a hole-in-the-wall bar called The Blue Room. The bar is tucked away down on South Hill Street near Pershing Square. It's the kind of place where they serve only beer and whiskey. Men go there to get drunk as they sit on their barstools arguing about politics or sports until the alcohol makes the world go away in their drunken stupors.

The dank bar is the kind of shit hole that even the sewer rats stay away from for fear of catching a disease on the filthy, sawdust-sprinkled floor. The only thing that would even remotely be considered a decoration is a solitary 1940s-era Hamm's Blue Ribbon beer company electric sign hanging on the wall behind the bar. It's a picture of a fly fisherman standing in knee-deep water, bent at the waist with his sharply bent fly fishing pole held high in the air in his left hand and a net in the water in his right hand, trying to land a trout. In the background, there's an animated waterfall with the words below that read, "Born in the land of sky blue waters -- Hamm's Beer."

Jerry Trocelli, the Blue Room's owner and bartender, saw me enter the bar, and as I ambled toward my favorite barstool, Jerry met me at the end of the bar with a glass of beer and sat it down on the old-growth teak bartop. The physical bar is in the shape of a truncated letter "L," with the short leg being able to seat only three patrons. I always sit with my back to the wall at the very end of the bar so that I can watch the comings and goings of the local gentry. Plus, I need to know that my six is covered.

I had been staring at the Hamm's beer sign for several minutes. Well, it was more like zoning out and thinking about nothing. I get that way sometimes when the stress of my job starts to affect my judgment. Last week, I nearly killed an eight-year-old girl who surprised me from behind.

I was following a client's wife, of whom the husband had suspected her of cheating on him. Her erratic behavior and long-term lack of carnality had the client worried. When I followed the soccer mom, she had driven her minivan into a depressed neighborhood on the south side of Los Angeles. The area used to be called South Compton but had rebranded itself into Rancho Dominguez. As the old saying goes, you can put lipstick on a pig, but it's still a pig.

I had my gun drawn as I crouched behind a dumpster, watching a drug deal go down. The target, a willowy blonde, had dropped her two kids off at the small city park near the family home for soccer practice and then drove across town to an area near her Alma Mater, Cal State University Dominguez Hills. I followed the client's wife to the backdoor of a strip mall sandwich shop where she was meeting her crack dealer. As soon as she stopped the minivan, the backdoor to the sandwich shop opened, and two gorilla-size men approached the target. They stood side-by-side, next to the driver's door of the minivan, blocking my view of their drug transaction. I could see that one thug was armed with what appeared to be a sawed-off semi-automatic shotgun under a long coat while the other guy sold the drugs.

I had my trusty Smith and Wesson model 60.357 magnum revolver in my hand when an eight-year-old girl on a bicycle was taking a shortcut through the alley behind the strip mall where my target was engaging in an illegal drug deal. I heard the tires of her bicycle hit the water puddle a few yards behind me. Thinking I was made and about to be ambushed, I spun around and aimed the barrel of my hand-held cannon at the little girl. Luckily, she did not see me as she rode innocently by. My heart was pounding in my chest when I realized that I had nearly killed a child.

After a moment to calm myself, I returned to my surveillance job and saw the two thugs open the side door of the minivan and climb in behind the driver. My immediate thought was that this was going to be a kidnapping or worse. I continued to watch for about two minutes when I noticed puffs of smoke drifting out from the inside of the van. Then, I heard them. The two thugs were having sex with the soccer mom. She was screaming her appreciation for their efforts as the soccer mom defiled herself and her family. I was able to sneak up to the van and get video footage of their little orgy. I even had video footage of slut soccer mom smoking the crackpipe as the two thugs were undressing her.

"Briggs?" Jerry asked. Assessing my current condition, he said, "You look like you could use a vacation."

Jerry Trocelli had been talking much lately about his cousin, Rene, and the amount of fun his cousin had in La Jolla at the El Coronado Resort. I had met Rene and his wife, Allison, at the Blue Room a couple of times. Rene had told me about their vacation last year. He said their room was on the beach, literally no more than 15 yards from the water. Allison quipped about the hotel being so close to the beach that if you are not careful, the seagulls will enter your open patio door and steal food from the dinette table inside the room. Rene and Allison had ordered room service breakfast and were napping afterward when Allison screamed bloody hell. She heard a noise at the dinette table and awoke to see a huge gull stealing a piece of uneaten toast from the tabletop before flying away.

"Maybe you're right, Jerry," I said.

"It's the off-season, and I bet you could get a deal on a room down there," Jerry said. "Do you want me to have Allison make the arrangements for you?"

"No, thanks, Jerry," I said. "I'll have Connie take care of it for me. She needs to coordinate my schedule for me."

*****

Connie Morgan, the receptionist and girl Friday at my employer, didn't look up from her fingernail filing when I opened the door. I swear, Connie's jaw muscles must have the same pressure force as a Doberman from all the gum chewing she does. The ceiling fan overhead hummed with a rom, rom, rom sound as I bent over and kissed Connie's cheek. She's my married little sister, so I can get away with kissing her cheek.

"What kind of mood is he in?" I asked Connie.

"He's salivating at the possibility of a large payday," Connie said.

I walked into the inner office of Robert T. Simmons, owner of the detective agency where I work. Simmons is a slimy, rotund piece of work. Skinflint doesn't begin to describe how little Simmons spends. I'd be willing to bet Simmons still has the first two nickles he ever earned framed on his bedroom wall. Simmons is so tight he has to pump oxygen into his wallet so George Washington can breathe.

I spoke to Simmons and filled him in on the Arnson case.

"I followed Mrs. Arnson and discovered not only is she cheating, but she's also a crackwhore. I have video evidence of her buying crack, smoking crack, and having sex with her dealer in the minivan she uses to take her boys to soccer practice."

"Excellent work, Briggs," Simmons said. "Now then, for your next assignment..."

I cut Simmons off and said, "Hold your jets there, turbo. I need a vacation and haven't had one since coming to work here two years ago."

"Briggs, you can't take a vacation now," Simmons said. "I've got a few cases brewing, and if any of them come to the surface, we'll be set for a few years."

"You mean, YOU will be set," I said. "I'm just a private dick who makes diddly squat for wages, so don't tell me WE will be set. You have NEVER given me a bonus like you said you would after I started working here, so fuck off thinking I'm going to stay and HOPE there will be work. I'm taking a vacation, and there's nothing you can do about it."

Simmons sat in his wooden lawyer's chair and huffed at my outburst. I was tired, ornery, and ready to blow after what happened in Rancho Dominguez with the little girl on the bicycle. Simmons thought about it and realized I was right. He relented and told me to have a good time.

I left Simmons and spoke with Connie. "Sis, please book me a room at the El Coronado resort in La Jolla for today thru next Sunday. Tell Simmons that I'll be out of touch for ten glorious days of nothing but sand, Sun, and beautiful women. I'll keep my phone off while I'm gone, but will turn it back on each night to speak with you. Charge my vacation expenses to Simmons. He owes me for all the unpaid overtime I've been working lately."

Chapter 2: Hotel El Coronado, LaJolla, California

Allison was right; the hotel is a fantastic place to relax. I arrived late Friday night, checked in, and went to my beachfront room. The hotel's lights were illuminating the beach. Since the property is private, the only people I saw were fellow guests. The sound of the waves lapping at the shoreline was mesmerizing. I can't remember the last time I slept the entire night without waking.

In the hotel restaurant the next morning, I saw a vision of loveliness. It had been two years since I discovered my slut wife's infidelity, drug addiction, and death from a bullet to her brain, and I needed to get over her betrayal. My bruised ego and remnant broken heart from my wife's betrayal did not give me the self-confidence I needed. The Army taught me to adapt, improvise, and overcome adversity in the field when things turned into a shitshow. This scenario was not entirely different.

I tried to be inconspicuous while glancing at the beautiful redhead as I moved through the breakfast buffet tables. At one table, a middle-aged Mexican woman was making hand-formed corn tortillas. I watched the expertise the woman showed as she patted the maze balls into flattened tiny pizza shapes. The tortilla maker watched me, checking out the redhead.

"Señor, she's looking at you," the tortilla maker said.

"Wait, what?" I said.

"La pelirroja," she said. "The how you say? Redhead, she's looking at you."

"Is she still looking?" I asked.

"Si, Señor," the woman said. "Sus ojos no te han abandonado. "Her eyes have not left you, Señor."

"Gracias," I replied. I've learned enough Spanish over the years to order food and get my face slapped.

Walking away from the food with my arms full of plates with delicious food, I nodded to the redhead and sat a few tables away. The one thing I did learn while dating was never to act too eager. The true test of a woman's interest is if she smiles when she makes eye contact with you. In this case, the redhead's eyes were the most vivid green I had ever seen, and they were like WWII searchlights aimed straight at me. I smiled in return and sat down with my food. I could see the redhead deflate a bit as I ignored her silent invitation. A few minutes later, I wanted more of those fresh tortillas the buffet offered, so I left my table and stood in line, waiting my turn for more tortillas. I noticed in the mirrored wall that the redhead was walking my way and eventually stood in line behind me. The line moved a few feet and stopped again. I turned to my right, toward the beginning of the line, and pretended I needed another paper napkin. When I turned, I accidentally came too close to the redhead, and our eyes met.

"Oh," I said. "I didn't see you standing behind me. Pardon me, but I need another napkin. Would you mind reaching a couple for me?"

"Certainly," the redhead said.

"Thanks," I said and turned back toward the tortilla maker.

The Mexican woman who was making the tortillas chuckled to herself as she watched my interaction with the redhead. A moment before it was my turn to grab tortillas from the hotbox, I casually turned toward the beauty beside me.

"These are so addicting," I casually said. "Once you've had fresh tortillas from the griddle, all the rest pale in comparison."

"Yes, they are," she replied. "Mamasita makes the best, don't you, mi tía?"

The two women giggled and began a conversation in Spanish.

Mamasita: "Sobrina, es muy guapo, ¿no?" Niece, he's very handsome, no?

Redhead: "Tía, me avergüenzas. Por supuesto que es guapo." Aunt, of course he's handsome.

The two women giggled more, and even though I'm nowhere fluent in Spanish, I caught the Hija and Tia terms, letting me know the two women were related. What puzzled me was the answer to the question of how a fair-skinned natural redhead could speak perfect Castillian Spanish.

As I left the buffet line, the redhead tapped me on the shoulder and spoke.

"I'm sorry," she said. "My Aunt and I were rude to speak Spanish about you. I could see that when you walked away, you had caught a few words and were curious about us. Please accept my invitation to sit with me so that I may properly apologize."

I gathered my few plates of food and sat with the redheaded beauty.

The redhead introduced herself and said, "I'm Marcia (pronounced mar-see-ah), but my friends called me Marsha."

"Briggs," I said as we shook hands across the table.

"Well, then, Mr. Briggs, what brings you to LaJolla?" Marsha asked.

"There is no Mr. Briggs," I said. "It's just Briggs, like Cher or Madonna. I'm here on vacation."

We chatted and learned much about one another. Marsha said she was an only child from Northern California and was here visiting her Aunt. I was puzzled by Marsha's superb Castillian Spanish and her flaming red hair. The two characteristics don't usually go together. Marsha said her mother was Mexican and had fallen in love with a strong, redheaded Irishman, and she was the result. Marsha's voice quivered when she told me that her mother had unexpectedly died from a massive heart attack when she was in her freshman year of college at San Diego State University. Marsha lived with her Aunt while attending SDSU. During her senior year, Marsha's father was promoted and accepted a regional manager position with his company. Marsha joined her father's company immediately following graduation from SDSU with her business degree. A few years later, Marsha's father decided to start his business venture, and she helped him oversee the administrative side of the business. The two of them were well on their way to financial independence. Marsha was in LaJolla on vacation, too, and expected her father to join her shortly.

When Marsha asked about me and my work, I was somewhat secretive and explained that I was a salesman for an import-export company in Los Angeles. Marsha asked about my past, and I successfully dodged her inquiries. When we finished breakfast, Marsha asked what my plans were for the rest of the day.

"What are your plans for your stay here, Briggs?" Marsha asked.

"Oh, I hadn't planned on anything special," I said. "I was thinking about maybe doing the sea cave kayaks or perhaps the walking tour of LaJolla."

"Would you like some company?" Marsha asked.

We left for the walking tour of LaJolla. The streets were spotlessly clean, the storefronts were warm and inviting, and the afternoon California Sun was warm enough to keep the cool Pacific breeze from chilling our bodies. Marsha and I walked until we were hungry. We stopped at a storefront Mexican restaurant and ate lunch on their sidewalk patio. The cute teenage girl who served us was the daughter of the owner. Naomi, our server, told us of how her parents had immigrated from Mexico during the 1970s as teens with the help of a Coyote, an American who transported people across the border. Naomi's parents eventually became citizens and are enjoying the good life in LaJolla.

Marsha and I walked back to the hotel, where we went to our separate rooms. Later that evening, I was sitting at the hotel bar having a beer and watching the news feed on my phone when I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned to see who it was.

"Hi, sailor, new in town?" Marsha asked.

I was stunned. Marsha had on a floral print sundress with open-toe heeled sandals. Her skin, what little of it that I could see, was flawless. God, that woman was gorgeous.

"Yes, ma'am, I jumped ship and am hiding out from the Shore Patrol," I quipped.

Marsha laughed and sat beside me on a barstool. She ordered an apple martini and began to tell me she liked me and hoped that we could become close friends. I cringed at the idea of getting close to this woman but thought, what the hell? I could have a little fun and not fall for this redheaded vixen. My brain was saying no, and my little brain was saying an enthusiastic YES!

The hotel had an attached nightclub that offered live music and dancing. Marsha and I finished our drinks and headed to the nightclub. Once inside, Marsha dragged me to the dance floor, where we gyrated to 80s cover songs. When the band slowed down the tempo and played a romantic love song, Marsha held me tight as we swayed to the music. I tried to keep my excitement away from Marsha, but she insisted on grinding into me. It was then that I lost all hope of remaining virtuous. Marsha looked up into my eyes with a wanton stare. I could see the wheels churning in her mind. She was on the prowl for a victim and had me in her sights. My brain started to fog, and when the song ended, I escorted us to a table just off the dance floor. I had to slow things down because I could have easily fallen in love with this charming beauty.

Marsha and I sat for a while to cool off. The night air was inviting, and we decided to go outside. I hadn't had a cigarette for several hours and was surprised when Marsha reached into her clutch and grabbed a pack of smokes. Relieved that she smoked too, I lit her cigarette and then mine. We quietly smoked while enjoying one another's silent company. I was looking off into the distance of the vast Pacific when Marsha spoke.

"Briggs," Marsha said, "I could get used to this quite easily."

I sighed and acknowledged Marsha's comment with a nod of my head.

"Yeah," I said, "living near the beach has always been one of my bucket list items. It's too bad that I will never be able to afford a luxury such as this."

Of course, I could easily live near the beach. I had several million dollars in offshore accounts from my clandestine activities in the Army and FBI. Marsha did not need to know that information. When she spoke, the hair on the back of my head and forearms stood up. I could tell she was fishing and using her seductive glances to lure me into her trawling net.

Marsha stuck her cigarette butt into the ashtray sand and wrapped her arms around me. She had a look in her eyes that said, take me now. It took all of my resolve not to succumb to her wanton display of lust. I gently pushed Marsha away from me but kept my hands on her shoulders.