Tall Tale TV. Sci Fi and Fantasy short story audiobooks. Hole Lotta Shakin’
A Tony Mandolin Short Story By Robert Beers
Chapter 1 “What the hell—?” The shaking woke me up as it also tossed me
right out of my bed. You have to understand the type of bed the
Victorians had in those days, and this one came with the house. The top of the mattress is almost four feet
off the floor. As it turns out, a very… hard… floor. The entire house was jumping around as if
being shaken by a giant. You have to know
what sort of life I live
to understand why I considered checking to see if that was the case. I could hear Frankie squealing from his room
on the third floor and Greystoke was barking to beat the band. It almost sounded as if he was syncopating
his yelps with the shakes. “Come on, boy. We’ve got to get out of here.” I grabbed him by the collar and steered him
towards the door, yelling for Frankie to head for the yard. The last place you want to be in a decent-sized
quake is in any of the floors
of a hundred years-plus old house. The shaking continued all the way to the stairs
and then it began to settle. By the time we reached the lawn the quake
was over. Being California born and bred, I knew better
than to trust that was the end of it. One thing about Mama Earth and her tantrums,
she could start up again at a moment’s notice, be quiet for several years, or whack you when
you were the least suspecting. “Tony,” Frankie hissed at me as I looked
up at my beautiful old Vickie, trying to
see if there was any sign of visible damage. I had quake insurance, but even at that the
insurance company would kick and scream over doing the right thing. I answered, “What?” As I continued checking. Did that gutter look loose? Frankie asked, “Aren’t you feeling cold?” I shook my head. “No,” I replied. “Why do you ask?” The big guy cleared his throat and said, “Because
you ran out of the house without dressing and you’re giving Mrs. Podowski quite an
eyeful.” I looked down and saw mister happy
flapping
in the breeze. Then, almost as if scripted by a comedy writer,
I looked to my right and saw Mrs. Podowski smiling at me. I think I set an all-time record for the bare-assed
sprint. Frankie’s wolf whistle didn’t help at
all. A small aftershock rattled the dishes a bit
as I rushed into my clothes. There was a case waiting for me across the
park so I took the time to collect my various helpers, legal and not-so-much legal. Then I headed downstairs. Frankie saw my get up and asked, “Aren’t
you going to wait for me?” I thought about it. The issue this client had included some guy
with a temper, so it wouldn’t hurt to have the big guy around. You have to know Frankie to understand. He’s slightly bigger than NFL lineman size
and a lot stronger. He’s also a part-time raging drag queen,
pop culture sponge, and the partner in my Investigation business. He’s not my partner if you catch the subtle
meaning there. Nodding, I said, “Yeah, go get dressed. I’ll get Greystoke fixed up.” By the
time Frankie came back down I had Greystoke,
my German shepherd set up in the backyard with food water, and a brief check in his
dog house to make sure he didn’t have any squatters in the way of coons or skunks. Yes, it happens in San Francisco too. Frankie finally asked the question when we
were on the bus headed towards Geary, “So… what’s this case about?” “Kind of an odd one,” I said, “Old school,
real old school if you think about it. Some guy is going around selling insurance
against him c
oming back and breaking things if the shop owner refuses to pay.” “Ooo,” Frankie said, “I remember a Brisco
County episode about that. It was the one where they introduced Viva,
the Elvis—“ I cut off the side trip into TV land. “Yeah,” I said, “Let’s focus, big
guy. What do you know about the Richmond District?” He pursed his lips in thought, “Hmm, pretty
ethnic neighborhood. A lot of Russian speakers, well Eastern European
really, various dialects… mostly Jewish folk whose families escaped
the
Iron Curtain…” He looked at me and said, “Not much, really.” As I said, if you didn’t know the big guy,
you’d have probably thought he was putting you on or even being egotistical, but you
would have been way off base. He didn’t consider his local citizen knowledge
to be all that much, figuring anyone would have to know the same thing about the neighborhood. What Frankie didn’t and probably never will
realize is that most of humanity, regardless of where they live is about as shallow as
an empty
gutter, and anything that does not directly affect them isn’t worth investigating. He was right, though, the Richmond was heavily
ethnic in makeup and a good portion of the small businesses there, cafes, shops and stores
were owned and run by folks who came across as if they’d just immigrated, even though
most were born right on the peninsula. The old fellow who’d contacted me for help
was a dead ringer for Edward G. Robinson in the movie Soylent Green. It was so close I was a bit worried about
Frankie’s reaction and told him so. “Don’t you worry, Tony,” He said, patting
my knee, “I’ll be the soul of discretion.” That’s when I got really worried. The Richmond runs mostly along the north side
of Golden Gate Park, except for that small section that runs along the southern border
of the Panhandle. But, since that section of the park is only
about as wide as your average street, not much is said about it. The area we were headed to is called “Little
Russia”, and it occupies about a five o
r six block section of Geary running from approximately
20th to 25th streets, with a bit of bleed-over going either way. The entire neighborhood, according to my would-be
client was being threatened, but since he was the only one coming forward, it was his
shop we were headed to, a curio and tea shop near 23rd and Geary. The bus dropped us off a half block from the
shop meaning we needed to walk down to the light and cross the street and then hoof it
back the way we came to get to the store. Tha
t was just fine with me. I wanted to use the time to think about what
to say and to also watch for any possible surveillance from whoever our bad guy or guys
were. From what I was told, I was thinking it had
to be some recent additions to the Russian population. Someone who was looking to make some noise
and get noticed by their better organized and far more powerful fellows down on The
Point. I said to Frankie, keeping my head straight
and my stride consistent, “Keep an eye out for anyone a bit
too interested in us and
where we go, okay?” He murmured, “Gotcha.” Frankie was becoming an experienced operative,
well… for the most part. Unlike downtown, most of the Richmond is wide
open, tree-lined streets with single-story shops whose fronts sit beneath brightly colored
awnings. Most of the taller buildings are churches,
like the Russian Orthodox on the corner of 26th and Geary. Foot traffic was light, but that could have
been because of the trembler. The shop address, according to the ca
rd was
right next to a greengrocer on the north-facing side of the street, in sight of the dome of
the Orthodox Church. “Ooo,” Frankie said veering off to look
more closely at the produce, “Look at those strawberries!” “Not now,” I said, “We’ve got a case,
remember?” I did notice one thing, this area did not
look at all shaken. The quake must have been centered further
to the south, or it just may have been the way my house was built. “But…” He pointed. “Look at them, and it’s the height of
the
season.” “They’ll still be there when we’re done
Frankie,” I said, “Come on. We’re on the clock here.” He came along, but his face sure said he’d
rather be shopping. A bell dinged as we pushed through the door,
and there we were, almost as if we’d gone back in time and onto another continent. The shop had that feel I’d seen in so many
others like it was part of a movie set more so than a place to buy collectibles and knick-knacks. It didn’t look dusty, but it felt that way. Nearly every surface
was filled with shelves,
cases, and stands and nearly every shelf, case and stand were filled to overflowing. “I’m coming. I’m coming,” the aged voice came from
the back of the shop, and the feeling of déjà vu washed over me. I’d gone through this whole scene before. But it was probably just old memories pasting
together to create one that really didn’t exist. Regardless, there it was. Frankie’s gasp told me I had to be quick
on shutting down any fanboy nonsense if I wanted to get anywhere on th
is case. As I said, the shop owner did look very much
like Edward G in his later years, complete with the beard, the hat, and the shuffling
walk. He had his head down as he came forward and
then he looked up. “Ah,” he said, “Mister… Mandolin?” Frankie squee’d, “He sounds just like
him.” “Easy, big guy,” I murmured. The shop owner looked at me as he pointed
a thumb at Frankie, “Is he okay?” I nodded, “Yeah. So tell me, Mister… uh, you never did give
me your name.” “I didn’t?” The old man smiled u
p at me, then he winked,
“Mannie, Mannie Goldenberg at your service.” He held out a hand. I heard Frankie’s muffled gasp behind me. Mannie peered past me and asked, “You need
some water?” “No, no,” Frankie waved away the offer,
“I’m okay.” I looked at them both and then shook my head. “All right, Mister Goldenberg,” I asked,
“what’s going on? You said you were being strong-armed by a
protection racket?” “Mannie, please,” He said, and then he
turned to the side and beckoned us to the rear of the
shop, “Come back here. Let’s talk.” He led us to a very cozy sitting room that
looked to be more a part of a home than a shop. The furniture was antique, and very well cared
for and the walls held photos of what had to be family and scenes of the old country. Mannie chose an overstuffed chair with a lamp
and a reading table next to it. An ornate Russian teapot sat on the table
with a matching cup. The cup held what looked like used tea leaves. Waving us to the other two chairs in the room,
he sa
id, “It started about a week ago. A new group of east European immigrants moved
into the neighborhood. At first, we were glad to see them, new blood
and all, but then they began paying visits to the businesses and making statements about
how much a shame it would be for such nice things to be damaged, or to burn down.” “Did they offer to ensure that did not happen…
for a price?” I asked. Mannie shook his head slowly, “No… not
at first. First, there were… the accidents.” “Accidents?” Frankie aske
d. I nodded to Mannie to continue. He sighed and said, “My neighbor, the greengrocer? He lost an entire delivery of oranges because
some gasoline got spilled on them. Who stores oranges under gasoline? And then, across Geary, Sophia Schumwalt,
her café gets invaded by cockroaches. Interestingly, the exterminator was there
the day before for regular maintenance.” Mannie shrugged, “Accidents? Eh, more like vandalism if you ask me.” He gave the statement a dismissive wave. I nodded, “Probably. By t
he way, are there any photos or descriptions
of these people?” He got up from the chair, “As a matter of
fact… wait right there.” And then he shuffled out of the room. Frankie turned to me and said, in a breathless
rush, “Tony, Manuel Goldenberg is Edward G. Robinson’s real name! And his family came from—“
I stopped him right there. The big guy, geeking out in fanboy ecstasy
was not going to get this case solved, or us paid. “Just ease off, okay Frankie? It’s remarkable, I know, but you’ll proba
bly
irritate him and not flatter him. I’m sure he’s had to endure enough already.” Mannie came back into the room carrying a
small black binder. He held it out to me, saying, “Sometimes
it pays to keep up with technology now and then. Go ahead, open it.” I did, and found myself looking at a couple
of high-resolution screen captures from an obvious security camera. The two fellows I was looking down at could
have stepped right out of the casting call for unnamed Russian henchman, large with heavy
shoulders and jowls, they had the buzz cut hairdos and the black leatherette jackets. I was pretty sure they also spoke with the
heavy broken English accent, even though they probably had a better command of the language
than half the folks in East Oakland. I asked, “How often do they come around?” He shrugged, “A couple times a week, usually
right around closing time.” “Do you know where they live?” He nodded, “Last I heard they were staying
in one of those hostels for foreign students down of
f Market Street.” He snorted, “Hostel, right. More like headquarters.” Right then we got a small aftershock, just
enough to shake loose some dust and rattle a few of the curios in the shop. “Oy vey!” Mannie cried, “This I don’t need.” “It’s all right, Mannie,” I called out,
“It’s over. It’s over.” Things settled rapidly. It had been a short small tremor, but I could
see Mannie was more shaken than his shop. Frankie and I took our leave and headed back
to the bus stop. There were a couple of ways
to go with the
information Mannie gave us. One, we could head downtown and check around,
using the photos he gave me to find the would-be racketeers and teach them the error of their
ways. However, if they had friends, as most of those
type do, we might get our heads handed to us, so the better avenue was option two, see
about having their own do a bit of house cleaning. When I told Frankie, he was less than enthusiastic. “China Basin? Ivankov? Tony, I’d like to live past tomorrow.” “Don’t worr
y,” I said. “Ivankov will consider this a favor, not
interference.” “Yeah,” Frankie shot back, “Right after
he takes his pound of flesh for all of that rare scotch we burnt up.” “Water under the bridge, big guy,” I said,
mostly to convince myself, “Remember, Luccesi said it was taken care of.” In one of my last cases, we’d been involved
with what I was later told was Surtr, a fire elemental. As a result, a few bayside warehouses went
up in flames along with a few billion dollars of rare scotch a
nd drugs. Pat Monahan, police Captain and just about
the only friend I had on the force had a hard time not laughing as I explained to him what
had happened. Antonio Luccesi was a leader on the other
side of the tale. He was not laughing. He headed the most powerful crime syndicate
in Norther California, powerful enough to make the Russians, the Cartels, and the Triads
accept my story. Luccesi seemed to think he owed me, big time. So the other baddies weren’t real happy
about it, but they did ac
cept it. He grumped as he got onto the bus to take
us downtown, “Well… I’d rather be on the water than under it.” We took the bus all the way down Van Ness
to Market. The plan was to start with the hostel closest
to the Market/Van Ness intersection and then work west through the South of Market district
to where a whole cluster of the things sat. There was a heck of a lot more foot traffic
on Market and an awful lot of the conversations I overheard as we walked down 11th toward
Mission were on t
he subject of the earthquake. Frankie called out, “Hey, Tony, look! It’s Billy. Want a dog? I know I could eat.” The big guy was talking about the city’s
favorite hot dog cart vendor, Billy Bunty, standing a whole 5 foot seven inches and wearing
a belt about as long as he was tall. Billy loved eating his sausages in a bun about
as much as he loved selling them. The guy just liked people and could always
find something good in everyone, including politicians. He looked up from preparing one for a
customer
and smiled big when he recognized us. “Tony! Frankie! Hey, guys. How about a dog or two. I got some new ones in, polish, Cajun and
a few Cumberland, but those are going fast.” Frankie was getting his mouth all ready to
order one of each. He had an ever bigger appetite than Billy. Then I saw one of the fellows from Mannie’s
photo. “Thanks, Billy,” I said, “but we’ve
got an appointment to keep. We’ll check back later.” I grabbed Frankie’s sleeve and pointed. He was about to protest when
he noticed the
subject of my point, “But— hey, that’s one of the guys.” Billy waved and we kept on walking. Our target turned west onto Mission, which
was about as busy as Market. I hoped keeping about five or so pedestrians
between him and us would prevent his noticing the tail. About halfway down the block, he turned left
into the alley between the parking garage and the government building. That’s when we ran into a bit of a problem,
no more crowds. My making a rookie mistake and not paying
a
ttention to where my feet where because I was focused on the guy didn’t help either. Our target turned at the sound of me kicking
the soda can and then his eyes widened in recognition. “Damn,” I thought, “He’s going to
run.” No, he didn’t run. Instead, he pulled out some sort of tube and
pointed it at us. I shoved Frankie to the side as I yelled out,
“Gun!” and ducked. Some sort of crackling and spitting ball of
blue gunk went sailing past us and then the big one hit. The ground heaved under the
force of the quake
and I could hear car alarms going off in the parking garage above me. There was this deep, deep basso rumbling from
below and then things got worse with a bang. Yes, literally, a bang. It was like a cannon went off right next to
my ears and the concrete below me became a hole. As I fell, one of those spitting globs zipped
past me and hit the rock. Then everything went white. Hole Lotta Shakin' is a short story by Robert
Lee Beers, author of The Tony Mandolin Mysteries, the be
st unknown supernatural mystery series
on the planet. The Tony Mandolin Mysteries take place in
and around today's San Francisco, and in style are a mash-up of Nero Wolf, Harry Dresden
and the Vimes novels of the immortal Sir Terry Pratchett. There are seven finished novels in the series,
an 8th in the works and several short stories offered for free on Kindle Unlimited. If you go to http://asmbeers.wixsite.com/robertleebeers
everything is there and more. Wow, so this is part one of a seven part
series. Robert actually contacted me long before I
got this channel fully functional, and I fell in love with his characters. Unfortunately a company got hold of the copyrights
to his book excerpt before I could get a chance to read it on the channel. But when he mentioned he still maintained
rights to Hole Lotta Shakin, I jumped at the chance to share it with you guys! I plan on releasing a chapter every Monday
for the next six weeks. To make this even cooler, I'm going head to
head with the g
uys over at Graphic Audio, who just picked up rights to Robert's book
series. They use full cast narrations with music,
sound effects and audio engineers. So I think I've got a bit of a handicap in
this race, but I'm damn sure going to try and give them a run for their money! If you liked this chapter, make sure to subscribe
so you can catch the rest. I'm Chris Herron and that's it for today's
Tall Tale TV.
Comments
Gets better every time i listen to you and this story
I'm liking this "funny audiobook" playlist of yours
Lo ❤ve beers stuff
Robert beers excellent work he is really beautiful writer the flow brill but love the voises of the charters in the story just brings it to life bravo guys love it
Love all the Tony mandlan stories plus if any other narrator done it would be ok but you're performance has nailed it love all your work when I can't settle at night put you on and drift of to slumber land thanking you
M