GEORGE COOPER
Hardboiled noir with a sharp wit – for fans of Chandler, Hammett, and modern thrillers.
About the Author
George Cooper is a Hungarian author whose noir-inspired fiction blends hardboiled mystery with ironic humor. His debut novel, Private Business: Legacy, introduces a flawed but sharp-tongued private investigator caught between betrayal, survival, and a hunt for answers. Cooper’s style draws on the pulp tradition while adding a modern, witty edge.
About the Book
Private Business: Legacy
(first book in the Private Business series)
What starts as a search for a missing heir spirals into a deadly game of deception, double-crosses, and dangerous women. With more bullets than lucky breaks, our reluctant PI must rely on his wits, his cynicism, and his questionable allies to stay alive. A witty, hardboiled mystery in the classic pulp tradition – perfect for fans of Chandler, Hammett, and modern noir thrillers.
Chapter 1
…the beginning of a beautiful friendship…
„Cheers, young man!”
„But sir, that’s my beer!”
„All the better,” said the drunk, hiccupping, and he downed it in one go. „If you’re offering, I won’t say no.”
The young man stared in stunned silence, clearly struggling to process this pure, almost childlike level of audacity.
„But I hadn’t even had a sip!” he protested.
„I know,” the drunk nodded, examining his new host with the empathy of a seasoned social worker. „Wouldn’t have accepted it if you’d already drunk from it.”
For a brief moment, the bewildered half of this absurd little exchange gazed at his now-empty glass as though it were a cheating lover, then sighed and gave in to the inevitable.
„Well, I suppose I’ll just have to order another one,” he muttered, summing up the relationship so far.
„Great idea!” the older man beamed. „But make it two—you look like you could use one too. I’m Bill, by the way.” He grabbed the young man’s hand with both of his and began shaking it like it was a sacred ritual.
„Tom,” the younger replied curtly, jerking helplessly in Bill’s grip and bouncing on the worn-out barstool like a startled rider in a haunted house attraction.
I always liked old Bill. His friends called him „Leech”—a nickname he earned honestly. He could sniff out a fresh mark faster than a cheetah on the hunt, latch on with impressive determination, and drain them with a flair all his own. I couldn’t hold it against him. Sometimes, I even bought him a drink myself. Today, though, he’d clearly found a generous new sponsor.
I sat back in the armchair by the window and watched the impromptu theater unfold. The kid might have started sensing he’d walked into a trap, but he clearly hadn’t realized just how deep he was in. Leech’s greatest trick was how harmless he could make himself seem.
„What are you drinking, young man?” Bill asked generously, slapping Tom on the back so hard his glasses slipped off his nose and clattered onto the bar. One lens popped out, took a quick roll, and vanished into the sticky shadows on the filthy floor.
Tom looked to the ceiling as if for divine intervention, took a deep breath, and dove—gracefully, like a seasoned pearl diver.
It was a bold move. Around here, cleanliness was not a local custom. The grimy floor was likely home to generations of insects and spiders who had never known a broom. But lo and behold, after a brief expedition, Tom resurfaced—breathless but triumphant—lens in hand, and drew appreciative grunts from the crowd as he pulled a pristine handkerchief from his pocket and began wiping it clean.
Bill admired the kid’s finesse for a moment, then turned to the bartender and bellowed:
„Hey, spawn of Satan! Two beers!”
„I’ll just have a spritzer,” Tom added meekly, still polishing the lens.
„Fine, a spritzer too, with the beers!” Bill roared. „Make it fast, I’m parched!”
„Shut it,” grunted the bartender and—without missing a beat—spit neatly between his front teeth, landing it right on the freshly wiped lens. Tom sighed and started again.
Beer foamed into mugs. The barman slammed them on the bar and a crack sounded. Tom froze mid-polish. Bill fished out the broken glasses from beneath one of the pints, flicked away the shards, straightened the bent frame, and perched it proudly on his nose.
„Perfect! Crystal clear!” he announced, grinning.
There are moments when a person thinks things can’t possibly get worse. Of course, they usually can. I imagine Tom thought he’d already hit bottom. And sure, it’s easier to be wise from the outside—and less painful, as the folk saying goes about whipping nettles.
Tom sighed—the kind that’s only healthy in fresh air—pressed the half-lens to his eye like a stubborn monocle, held it in place with a determined grimace, and reached for his untouched spritzer.
Now that I could get a better look at him, it was obvious he was overdressed for this dingy, loyal-to-its-locals kind of joint. Dusty black dress shoes, dark socks with a red geometric splash just above the ankle, navy suit, white shirt, and a neatly knotted tie. The suit was off-the-rack, so probably not expensive, but he looked clean, well-groomed—like someone with a decent job. And clearly someone who’d never ventured this far into the suburbs.
Bill finished both beers and let out one of his signature, window-rattling belches. He then picked up a still-smoldering cigarette butt from the floor and tucked it into the corner of his mouth with the elegance of a man lighting a fine cigar.
„So what brings you here, son?” he asked, going for another backslap.
Tom ducked just in time to save his remaining optics. Bill, off-balance, slid off the stool, flailed wildly, and cleared the bar in one grand sweep. The bartender cuffed him back into place with one practiced blow. Bill swallowed the butt.
„I’m looking for someone,” Tom said, waiting to confirm that the floor routine was over.
„To kill him?” Bill hiccupped, still trying to coax the cigarette into his stomach.
„What? No!”
„Hey, I’m not judging. I’m just asking.”
„I work for an insurance company. I’ve been hired to track down an heir.”
„Ahh,” Bill nodded. „How lucky! Someone croaked and left him money? What’s his name? Where does he live?”
„All I have is the name—Leslie Morton. No address.”
„Well then, long live Leslie Morton!” Bill cried, raising the glass and draining a spritzer.
That was when Romero—the otherwise pleasant robber-murderer and the original owner of spritzer—punched him so hard the battered glasses finally gave up the ghost.
„I don’t know much more,” Tom went on, unfazed, helping Bill back to his feet. „He was a lawyer. Used to work in a big firm downtown. Then one day he just… quit. Moved out here.”
The name and that short bio stirred something in me. Up until now, this had just been fun to watch. Suddenly, I was paying attention.
„What happened to him after that?” Bill asked, readjusting his mangled specs.
„That’s just it. I’ve got his old address, but he left a few months later. That was two years ago. It’s like he vanished.”
„Nah, not the earth. They don’t bury the dead around here,” Bill said wisely, squinting hard. „They throw ’em into the sea. But don’t give up, kid—there are plenty of ghosts wandering this neighborhood. I can help. I know someone who knows everyone.”
„A cop?”
„A cop? Bleh!” Bill spat, then immediately vanished behind the tables, courtesy of another well-placed punch—presumably from Romero again. Limping to his feet, he moaned,
„Let’s get out of here. Everyone’s so touchy today.”
„I agree,” said Tom. He tossed some bills on the table and helped Bill stagger out, careful to keep a buffer zone between them.
I followed. Quietly. As usual.
***
Future Projects
Private Business: Enemy from the Past
coming soon