"Jim Wolf is a P.I. who lives aboard a boat moored at Oakland's Jack London Square marina. He was adopted at an early age, and it made him kind of a loner. No wonder he became--yes, you guessed it, a "lone wolf" private eye. Jim's caseload is as varied as it is fascinating, including being hired to find 30 members of a religious cult that sometimes disappear--and prevent them from disappearing for good. The short stories featuring Wolf all have a similar compelling start to them that draws you into the story."--Dale Stoyer, Thrilling Detective
The creases around her eyes made her look like a pug. Her dyed blond hair failed to hide gray roots. I pegged her at fifty-five and ready for a major overhaul. I noticed a large paper bag beside her. Had she brought lunch?
"You Jim Wolf, the private investigator?"
"None other. How can I help you?"
We sat in my favorite booth at Big Emma's bar on Oakland's Jack London Square. A majestic painting of the joint's voluptuous namesake, a Victorian madam, hung over us. With undulating mounds of flesh, and breasts like watermelons, naked Big Emma lay proudly on an elegant red settee with gold flaked legs.
It was 3 PM and the place was almost empty. Four regulars, playing liar's dice, dominated the end of the bar. The bang of a dice cup as it smacked the bar top echoed through the room. The exuberant shout of the winner bounced off the scarlet cloth-covered walls. The amber glow of candle-shaped incandescent bulbs dimly lit the place.
My close friend Lori, whose family owns the bar, came over to take our drink order. Lori's natural blond hair, tied up in a ponytail with a velvet black ribbon, and svelte shape contrasted with the seated lady's general state of decay. She wore a tight white silk blouse and black ski pants. It wasn't winter and Lori never skied. I said nothing because I knew her reply would be that I knew absolutely nothing about women's fashions. And she'd be right.
"I'll have an Oban single malt neat," I said.
"Make mine an Absolut Martini," she said, "olive but no juice," Then she turned back to me. "I need you to watch something for me. Just for a few hours."
"Your name is?"
"I'll make it well worth your while."
"What am I watching?"
"Be right back. Gotta use the powder room."
)
She left Jim Wolf holding the bag. Inside the bag was Edward, a scraggly, cross-eyed, flea-infest tomcat with a bad attitude and the key to a killer.
