Private Dick, Chapter 23

More Oren Trough!

The following may be grammatically incorrect, to highlight the

main character's lack of smarts!  Also, what do I look like, an editor?

     The sun was shining, the birds were singing, there was a song in my heart; today is going to blow is all I know, I thought, and I wish the fricking birds would shut their pie-beaks, and the sunny weather, really?  Why was the sun shining, did it think it was funny?  What the hell did I have to be happy about?  Several months had passed since my cowardly dick impression, otherwise known as the ill-fated flying fiasco, and it was like business slammed into the wall at The Private Dick 500.  My car needed repairs, my business was going tits up, and the word tits only reminded me I didn't have a girl.  So I say again, what the hell was all this positive s**t?  Clarkson Investigations was not doing so hot.  I, on the other hand, was super hot, but that didn't translate into clients.  I'd always believed 120% in the P. I. game, but unless I got some paying clients soon, and I'm talking today, Clarkson Investigations would pull the old disappearing dick trick.

 

 

     The bell over the door chimed 'We're in the Money!', or rather it chimed just like a regular door chime, but in my mind it chimed 'We're in the Money!'.  I looked up, and there stood a dame, about 5-4, and gorgeous.

 

     I decided to turn on all the charm that a dick could, "Hello!" I somehow managed to expel from my mouth hole.  After that brilliant opening, I turned up the dick-charm full blast, "Can I do you---err---what can I do for you?"

 

     She wiggled her way over to a chair, sat, almost killing me by crossing one smooth, tanned locomotion deal over the other smooth, tanned locomotion deal. 

 

     After she sat, I stopped staring at her gams and came to my senses.  "Ah, please sit down."  She gave me a incredulous look like 'whatever, there, dicko!', and started speaking.  Good lord, her voice sounded like a cross between a fog horn stuck on 78 rpm's, and a dog whistle for dicks,

 

    
     "Oh, Mr. Val,",

 

     "Please, let's be informal, it's just plain Mr., and would it be all right if I called you customer?"

 

     She gave me a look usually reserved for people who euthanize cherished pets, and said, "Fine!  MISTER, I'd like you to find my husband."

 

     I quickly decided two things, maybe being called Val would be better than Mister, and wherever this husband was, it had  to be more a more peaceful place than living with this screechy dame.  "Oh, why don't you call me Val, Okay?  And, tell me a little about your husband."

 

     "Well, Mr. Val, he left and I can't find him."

 

     No s**t!  "No, what I meant is background on him; personal habits; that sort of thing."

 

      "Oh, I see, well, he chews with his mouth open at dinner, which grosses me out, he watches cop shows on T.V. in his underwear, which I can't

stan---"

 

     "Let me stop you right there; as much as I'd love to hear what a gluttonous rutting pig your husband is, and you've given me a picture that I'll be lucky to get out of my mind, what I meant is a less personal view of him.  I meant tell me was what places he hangs out at and what people he's friends with, that sort of thing."

 

     "Oh, of course; well, let me see, he doesn't have any close friends, but he spends a lot of time at The Blind Funnel II Tavern, but he hasn't been there since he disappeared, I've checked."

 

     Well, at least it was a place to start my investigation.  "I'll check it out; I can't promise you I'll have any luck, but lady, you've got yourself a dick!"

 

 

******

 

     It was raining buckets, as I pulled into the dreary parking lot of The Blind Funnel II.  The blinking bright neon sign of a bucket with a blindfold was reflected in the puddles as I hopped my way as best I could around them.  I missed on a few, and dearly wished I had my rubbers.  My useless hopping eventually took me to the front door, and as I shed water like a snake, where I pulled open the door like I knew what I was doing, and meant business.  Several pairs of bloodshot eyes wearily looked up from the tankards of demon-grog on the table before them, and scrutinized me; then, once they were done scrutinizing, their eyes once again turned depressed, and returned to grog-watching.  I dripped my way to the bar, which was manned by a rough-looking guy with a dented chin, who took one look at me, and knew I was a dick.  I'm not sure how he knew, but he knew. 

 

     "Evening; some kind of weather we're having, huh?" I cleverly said, figuring I'd ease my way into asking more important questions.

 

     "Cut the s**t; what do you want, dick?"

 

     Well, no messing around with this guy, just cut to the chase!  "I'm looking for this man," and I laid the photo of Spender Hire that I'd gotten from the dame who hired me on the bar with no further fanfare.  "I understand he's in here quite a bit."

 

     Mr. Dent Chin looked at it about as long as not much, and replied, "He hasn't been around since last week."

 

     My dick radar went off; this man wasn't being truthful.  "Are you sure?"

 

     "Look Mac, I told you the answer, and if you'll excuse me?  I have other customers who just want a beer, not to nose around looking for trouble where there isn't any!"

 

     "Hey, first of all, my name is Val, second of all, thanks for your time, and third of all, how about a beer before you leave?"

 

     He scowled at me like somebody not very happy and turned to the glasses stacked like cord wood on the bar, poured me a draft, slammed it down on the bar in front of me, and said,

 

     "25 cents."

 

     I didn't like paying such a high price, and figured I was being scammed because of his dick-phobia, but I slammed my hand into my pocket, pulled out a quarter, and just because I didn't like the guy, tossed it on the bar and replied, "Keep the change."

 

     He gave me a withering look that could have melted butter, and stomped away.  I turned my attention to eye-scour the other people in the place.  Since my quarry wasn't here, according to Mr. Dent Chin., I figured I'd guzzle the beer and leave to start from a new square one.  As I was bringing the beer up to mouth-level, I stopped mid-bring.  A man wearing shades to hide his eyes and a lop-sided mustache was giving me the guilty-eye.  There was something about him that looked not right.  I headed in his direction.  He bolted, but was sent sprawling by a chair thrown by yours truly, and looked up at me with a mixture of surprise and pissed.

 

    I said "What's your hurry?"

 

     He replied, his eyes blazing with hatred, or maybe guilt, "What did you do that for?"

 

      The plummet to the tavern floor had dislodged his shades, I noticed that his mustache was dangling down his face like a vertical mouth, and suddenly I was looking into the leering eyes of Spenser Hire.  "Why you're Hire!" 

 

     The blazing anger turned sheepy right before my eyes and he replied, like a man whose mother had caught him sneaking a chocolate cookie before dinner, "Okay, I don't want my sea hag wife to find me; she is impossible to live with, always telling me what to do; please, if I give you, say, $50, could you say you had no luck?"

 

      $50 bucks?  I was insulted; I couldn't blame him for wanting to get away from his wife, what a piece of work, but $50?  "Frankly, I'm rather insulted.  What kind of dick do you think I am?  I couldn't possibly look the other way; I was hired by your wife to do a job, and professionalism demands that I tell her what I've found out."

 

     His face fell about ten stories, and he replied, "Okay, I'll make it $100."

 

     "Okay."

 

 

******

     

      I walked away from The Blind Funnel II with 100 silver dollars jingling in my pocket; okay, they really five paper twenty's, but honestly, which sounds more dramatic?  Besides, I think 100 silver dollars would make a man walk mighty funnily.  I wasn't looking forward to telling Brunhilda that my exhaustive investigation had turned up nothing, but hot damn, $100!

 

 

 

 

Reviews

[Marie]

For $100 He made the right decision. I love your description of the wife...the gorgeous body and the terrible voice.

[Michael Stevens]

Thanks much Marie!