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Acey Deucy

by Robert P. Robertson

370 pages; quality trade paperback (softcover); catalogue #02-0284; ISBN 1-55369-471-6; US$21.75, C$33.45, EUR21.80, £15.10

Detective-comedy novel dealing with the homosexual serial-murders which happened in February 1970 in New Orleans and a devasting fire that killed 29 gays and lesbians in June 1973.

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about the book      about the author      sample excerpt      catalogue info

About the Book ACEY DEUCY is about the fictionalized story of a series of terrible crimes that happened in the summer of 1973, crimes which turned the gay-community in New Orleans topsy-turvy! There was no public outcry about the crimes, and even the police department took a light treatment in its investigations of the murders. All of the victims were gay men... In desperation, the Queen Mother of the Vieux Carre agrees to hire private-detective J. Coltrane Colhoun to investigate the crimes and perhaps to apprehend the mad-killer... So, let your hair hang down and let the little girl dance! It's time for another roller-coaster ride through The Big Easy!

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About the Author

Robert P. Robertson is the author of the hilaious J. Coltrane Calhoun detective-mysteries, The Keys to The Car and That Hoo-Doo You Do!. Who Shot the La-La, Roberton's historical mystery novel, is also available through Trafford Publishing.

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Sample Excerpt

... Frank Sinatra was crooning "My Way" from the office's sound- system at E.O. BLUE AND ASSOCIATES DETECTIVE AGENCY, The Investigations Experts! Calhoun stared at the display of transistorized listeneing devices, electronic eavesdropping equipment, and the tiny cameras with obvious disdain. Blue was the caliber of private-detective who relied on the latest gadgetry to make his investigations easy. Granted, they did help, but Calhoun felt that nothing could replace good-old mother-wit and elbow-grease when it boiled down to tracking hardened criminals. Most criminals themselves kept up with the latest techniques and technology to avoid detection and capture. If an investigator was unwilling to get down-and-dirty with them in their element, bells and whistles were rendered useless.

"Okay, Sarge," Blue returned into the office. "I think this is for you?"

Calhoun took the green-tinted check and perused the reddish-black printing. Though he showed no emotion, his heart was doing tumble-sets at the large denomination. Without sayging anything, he folded it and slipped it into the inside pocket of his light-blue suit coat.

"It's not a mistake, Sarge," Blue spoke up, aware that Calhoun was thinking he had made an error in calculation. "The amount is larger because I added the reward issued by Wells-Fargo."

"Who said you did," Calhoun capped, turning his head away in mild dejection.

Anyway, that was a beautiful job you did in the Theopold case. When I read about it in the Picayune, I knew it was you. Nobody works like you do. Bravo!" Blue patted his hands together in soft applause, moving behind his desk. He eased himself into the big, black, Corinthian-leather desk-chair. "They treat you good on that one?"

"Oh, yeah," Calhoun nodded, ready to leave now that he was paid.

"I got a call from Chief Morris," Blue mentioned, propping his elbow on the desk-top, cupping his baseball-mitt sized hands together and craddling his massive chin on his thumbs. "There's a social-aberrent or deviant on the prowl, systematically murdering our city's homosexuals and or Sodomites. He's murdered a police-officer who attempted to question and or apprehend him. The kid was an eager young turk. Been on the force for only two years. He's left a wife and baby girl behind."

Calhoun looked at Blue, wondering whether his old war-buddy knew of the slain officer's homosexuality.

"Mayor Landrieu has expressed some concern to the Chief, and he's asked us to help and or aid in the investigation and or hunt for the miscreant or miscreants involved. They're trying to avoid getting the suites at the FBI involved. he's asked that we keep our eyes and or ears open and vigilant for any leads in the case. If you hear and or see anything, or get any information on the murderer or murderers, let me know at anytime, day, night, and or weekends, okay?"

"You plannin' on doin' somthin' with the case, Elton?" Calhoun stood and brushed the wrinkles from his pants.

"There's not been a formal request or offer made as yet. But, I'd be anxious to bring justice to that young kid's family for his untimely death and or demise."

"Yeah," Calhoun eased his way to the door. "That was a bitter-blow to the department. If I y'ear and or see anything, I'll le' you know and or tell ya about it, Elton."

Calhoun took his black, felt hat from the carved hat-rack at the side of the door.

Sarge, if anything on it comes my way, would you like to have it?"

"Blue, you must be insane outta yo' head! I can hardly stomick you, so you know about a candy-ass fa-ta-la! If you git it, you can have it. No tellin', you might find yo' true callin', boy."

"Well, if anything else develops and or transpires, I'll give you a buzz, Sarge."

"True Blue," Calhoun saluted, leaving the office.

The secretary looked up from the telephone she was holding to her ear. Her green eyes complimented the fluffed, red hair on her head.

"Red, everytime I see you, I y'ear them love sounds," Calhoun said, cocking his ear with the side of his thumb. "I can y'ear 'em singin' --- Woo-woo-woo-woo, wah-wah, woo-woo-woo-woo-woo-woo-woo-woo-woo! That means I love ya, baby! ... Cah-cah-cah-cah, gwee, gah-gah, gwee, gwee-he! That means I want ya, baby! ... Cah, coo, cah-cah, gwee, gah, gwee, cah-cah, gwee-ghee! ... And that means I'm gon git ya, lady! ..."

The secretary rolled her eyes to the top of her head, pursed her bright-red, glossed lips, and waved Calhoun away.

With a Bank of New Orleans in the pere Marquette Building, Calhoun was anxious to deposit the check to see the amount in his checking account. He waited at the elevator, looking up at the lace-worked, brass-arm moving at the arching, brass Roman-numerals above the cabinet-styled, wooden doors. A gentle ting sounded, and the elevator doors slid open with a soft rumble. A thin, bald-headed, caramel-complexioned man stepped out.

"Goin' down," the man called, his green uniform shining in its heavily starched pressing. "W'cha say, Coolie? ... Goin' down! Last call!" ....

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Catalogue Information

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