Irrelevant Cheetah

I wandered slowly through the streets as I puzzled over the shard of mirror I had found. Slow sax music started playing in the background as it started to drizzle, just as I had fully expected. Who had killed Dumpty? Why would anybody want to? How did this stupid piece of mirror fit in? Why hadn’t I brought an umbrella when I left the office? And, perhaps most importantly, why couldn’t I get that lazy-eyed dame out of my head?

I cut the narration short that was running through my head and hunched my shoulders against the rain. Somebody had done murder. And somebody had to pay. It was my job to see that the two somebodies were one and the same bloke. It might have been raining, but Justice was going to be my umbrella tonight from the unjust rain. Or the unpunished unjust that had been caught in the rain of despair that was raining as I walked in it. Or something to that effect.

I silently vowed to never again mix the Chivas with Budweiser and headed for home. By home, I mean the office. I don’t go to the apartment much, not since Betty left, taking her dog and her sweaters and leaving a broken down vacuum and some dents in the rug where her vanity had sat. Those dents were never going to come out. She’d said I had no ambition. She’d said I drank too much, and I had to choose between the job and the drink, or her. I missed her sometimes. Especially every time I stepped in one of those god-damned dents in the rug and nearly twisted my ankle.

When I reached the office, the door was ajar. I had locked it when I left, so I immediately knew something was up. I pulled my trusty Thursday night special (I can’t afford a Saturday night special on $244 a day plus expenses) and peeked around the door jamb. Everything was quiet. The office was a mess – papers were littered everywhere, the coat rack was tipped over, and the couch cushions were on the floor. I breathed a sigh of relief. It was just as I had left it.

Upon closer inspection, however, something had indeed changed. My desk was clean, which did nothing to enhance its appearance other than to draw attention to the clean white sheet of paper lying directly in the middle. Scrawled on the paper was the following note:

Meet me at the bridge at 10:00 P.M. That means at night. Come alone, and don’t bring anybody with you. And don’t bring your gun. And bring some of that salt-water taffy they sell on 36th Ave and two mochas. Unless you want a cappuccino.

T.K.

I lay the gun on the desk and flopped in my chair, feeling the adrenaline drain out of my body like piss out of a wino. I checked the time: 7:13. I had time for a short nap before I met the mysterious T.K. I lay my head down, wondering if I’d be able to sleep.

To Be Continued

I have been to hell and back. I have survived the plague called Writer’s Block and come through the fire. Not unscathed, but whole.

But, of course, I now have a host of shiny new problems. Mainly, when do you find time to write? (I’m talking now to you, dear reader.) I have ideas coming out of my ears, almost literally. I have not only my current novel to finish, but an entire trilogy has now written itself in my brain. I have short stories, and articles, and…

But I also have a marriage, a mortgage and a six-year old. I can write a few paragraphs here and there at work, and a few pages in the evening, but I have ideas scrambling to beat down the door and pour out on the page and it’s all I can do to keep up with them when I have “Real Life” to also contend with. I sleep about six hours a night, so I suppose an hour less wouldn’t kill me, but I do so love the sleep I do get.

So when do you find the time to write?

I had hired a girl once to man the phone and watch the office. In retrospect, it had worked out well: sometimes she showed up, and sometimes I paid her. She was a looker, though: a tall brunette with gams that wouldn’t quit and a face you could drown in. It was even possible she could type, but I wasn’t sure. Truth be told, I hadn’t even asked.

Today, it seemed, was a no-show day, so I hung the sign on the door as I left the office. “Out Saving World,” it read. “Back at 3.” I had to get to the police station first so I could take a look at what was left of the body, and then I could visit the crime scene and see what a mess it actually was. If there was evidence, I wouldn’t put it past McCuddy to forget to tell me about it.

As I hopped the A-train to the police station, I thought about the case of the Knave. Bad news, that one had been, and hard to solve. The Queen of Hearts had made some tarts – on a summer’s day, as a matter of fact. But she had left the tray of baked goods cooling in her window, and not long afterwards the tray had gone missing. All the evidence had pointed to a Mrs. Jack Sprat, but finally I deduced that the Knave of Hearts had framed the poor lady. After the King subjected him to a public beating he was thrown in the clink, where he had sworn to pay me back when he got out. Now some dame’s boyfriend had bought the farm and the Knave was loose. Coincidence? I wasn’t sure. I needed to see the scene. I needed answers, I needed a strong drink, and I needed a new profession.

I finally arrived at the station and was taken to see the body without too many problems. Sure enough, his remains were scrambled. Aside from the obvious damage caused from a fall, there was no sign of fowl play. I gritted my teeth – I was going to have to see the scene of the crime.

Chief McCuddy gave me directions and a heaping serving of aggravation leaving me desperate for a drink. Luckily there were some local watering holes on the way to the scene, so when I arrived I was calm, relaxed, and a long way from thinking about the Chief, the Knave, or the nameless blonde-wigged dame.

For once the Chief was right. The only thing left at the base of the wall was hoof prints. I wandered around in circles for a while until the giggling fit stopped, then had a brilliant idea and walked around to the other side of the wall.

At first I saw nothing but blackness. Finally I convinced myself to open my eyes and the blackness disappeared. There was nothing but bare ground and some odd-shaped bushes. I was already planning the sympathetic speech I was going to have to give the lazy-eyed blonde when something glinted in the sun. Leaning closer, I picked it up and examined it.

It was a shard of broken glass, reflective on one side as if from a broken mirror, about the size of my thumb. Feeling somewhat like a Neanderthal trying to puzzle out a fuel injector, I turned the shard over and over in my hand as possible explanations for its existence rolled through my alcohol-fuzzed brain. Some of the ideas took a look around at the inside of my skull, settled down and stopped to chat. Was it an archaeological artifact from a lost, very vain culture? Had the original plan for the wall included full-length mirrors, but the mirrors had since been removed due to vandalism? Was it a piece of evidence left inadvertently by the killer, if there was indeed one?

That last suggestion appealed to me the most, so I introduced myself and began the interrogation.

To Be Continued

Update: I can no longer post to my blog from work. I can’t even get on WU. My company’s internet filter refers to the site as “Pay to Surf.” Ridiculous. And while I am capable of getting around said filter, it’s kind of a lot of work just to post to my blog, so I’ll just wait until I get home in the evening to do all of this goofing off. Looks like I’ll have to find new, inventive ways of goofing off at work. Just when I had it all figured out, too. Damn!

Note to self: Perhaps I need to decide if it would be less work to figure out how not to work, or just to work. Must investigate further.

So I went to a high school basketball game last night. I have never been to a high school game of any sort in my life. Ever. In case you haven’t figured it out by now, I am and have always been a geek, so sports were not high on my list of things to do in high school.

My stepson, however, is 17 and plays for the West Eagles. Last night we went to see his team play the Service Cougars. I wasn’t sure what to expect, so let me tell you what did not happen:

There was no “duel-to-the-death” mentality between the two teams. Indeed, there didn’t seem to be a feud going on at all. Boooooooring.

There was a noticeable lack of inspirational music going on when the really-good players had the ball (as opposed to the no-so-good players.)

There were no squads of cheerleaders cheering for the teams and having a “Bring It On!” contest of increasingly difficult stunts.

No half-time show. Madonna, Prince, Janet Jackson and Journey all showed a definite predilection toward being somewhere else.

I didn’t see a single player becoming a werewolf in the middle of the court.

And finally, there was no incredible shot from halfway down the court at the final buzzer that won the game for the good guys and had the responsible player carried off the court as the crowd in the bleachers went wild. And again, no soundtrack.

I did notice, however, that our team was wearing black, and the other team was wearing white. Very interesting good vs. evil paradigm going on. And, oddly enough, the white guys won. Yes, our team lost, despite the best efforts of my wife to attempt to win the game using sheer volume as a playing tactic.

All in all, however, a good game and an interesting experience.

I waited until I heard the door click shut before opening my eyes. I peered through my fingers at the door until I was sure it was safe to emerge from my finger-cocoon. Feeling very avant-garde, I wandered over to the window and peered outside at the city streets below as I pondered my next move.

I was going to have to call the Chief. He and I got along, I supposed, now that all of the restraining orders had expired. I steeled my nerves and picked up the receiver. I noticed as I dialed that I was, in fact, right-eared. Who knew?

“This is Chief McCuddy.” I could almost smell the jelly donuts through the phone.

“Chief? It’s Sam. Sam Ladle.”

“Sam? Haven’t heard from you in a while. Guess the good times can’t last forever.”

“Never mind that. I need to know about an accident victim you had a few days ago. A fall, I think.”

“A fall? A fall, you say. Hmmmm…”

I had learned long ago that getting a straight answer out of the Chief was like getting an alligator to dance Swan Lake. I rubbed my forehead. “Chief, I’m going to go out on a limb here, take a stab in the dark… I’m guessing the accident victim was an H. Dumpty.”

Silence. I could hear the hamsters in his head running around in circles. “Oh, yeah – the fall guy!” I resisted the urge to groan, instead reaching for the bottle of Chivas, which seemed much lighter than it had this morning. “Yeah, we got ‘im. Whaddya wanna know?”

“What can you tell me? Was it an accident?”

“Well, it’s really hard to tell. First of all, the body’s mangled like you wouldn’t believe.”

“Oh, I’d believe it,” I answered smoothly. “I was actually expecting it.”

“And secondly, the evidence at the scene was badly compromised. Do you have any idea what all of the King’s horses did to the crime scene?”

“I can only imagine, Chief.”

“So all we know is that he fell. Why’d you want to know, anyway?”

“No reason. Got a new client, that’s all.” Even as I spoke, that blonde wig was dancing in front of me, getting in the way of the shot glass. “She asked me to take a look around, see what I could find.”

“Now look, Ladle. This is an active investigation, and I don’t need you poking your nose around, getting in the way.”

“Relax, Chief,” I purred. “You won’t even know I’m around.” I didn’t think McCuddy would know how to handle an ‘active investigation’ if it came up and bit him, but I had to butter him up.

Call me Parkay. “I’m just going to stop by the scene, look around. I won’t touch nothing. Then I’m gone. All right?”

“I’m watching you, Ladle,” he answered peevishly. Then his tone changed abruptly. “Oh, yeah! I just remembered what I was going to tell you! Your buddy’s out of the clink!”

“My buddy?” I had a lot of ‘buddies’ that had made trips to the joint thanks to me. “Care to elaborate? I’m actually quite popular on the inside.”

“Oh, I’ll bet. I’m talking about the Knave. Remember him?”

I shook my head very fast, a distinct sense of panic – and dizziness – beginning to creep over me. “What the hell is he doing out already?”

“Well, it’s not like tart-stealing is a capital offense, you know.”

“It is if it’s stealing from the Queen!” Despite my self-control, I could hear the pitch of my voice spiraling toward the glass-breaking end of the spectrum. “I thought she said he was going to rot in there!”

The chuckles coming from the receiver sounded evil. “Look, Ladle. Maybe he’s forgiven you. Maybe he’s planning to send you a card. Maybe –”

“Thanks, Chief. Gotta go. I’ll keep in touch.” I slammed the phone down and reached for the Chivas. As I poured myself a drink, I realized the worst part of the situation so far: I hadn’t even gotten her name.

To Be Continued

OK, I’ve gone and done it. I created an actual photostream on Flickr so you curious folks could see some pics of the Great Frozen North.

Here’s my whole photostream.

So let me know what you think. I’ve got more if anybody’s interested.

The day dawned hot and muggy. Hot like an egg frying on the dashboard of a ’76 Camaro that had been left in the LA sun for three and a half hours. Muggy like a back alley in New Orleans, stinking of sweat and fear and the three twenties you keep in your shoe for emergencies.

I was sitting in my office, contemplating whether 8 AM was too early to crack open the bottle of Chivas sitting in the bottom left drawer of my desk, when in walked trouble.

She was tall, with legs that started at the floor and went all the way up to her hips. I knew she was going to be trouble the moment I laid eyes on the blonde wig and the lipstick that reminded me of a sign – a stop sign.

“I’m looking for Sam,” she purred.

“That’s what the sign on the door says, princess. I’m Sam. Sam Ladle.” I decided it wasn’t too early for the Chivas after all and laid two shot glasses on my desk.

“Ladle?” She looked confused.

“Spade was taken.” I poured two shots, looked her over once again, and downed them both. “So what can I do for you?”

She sidled up to my desk like a cat on waxed linoleum. “My boyfriend’s been murdered,” she said, her eyes lingering a little on the shot glasses. “I need you to find out who did it.”

I snorted loudly, making the delicate whiskey come back up my nose. “You don’t need me, Toots,” I replied, my eyes watering. “You need the police. Why don’t you go eyeball their shot glasses and leave me in peace?”

Her eyes darkened. “What? You got clients coming out your ears? I got money – I can pay you.”

“Now that’s a different story,” I said. “I get $244 a day, plus expenses.”

She frowned, her eyes still dark. “That’s an odd number.”

“I know. I quit smoking when cigs hit $6 a pack, so I don’t charge for that particular expense any more.” I filled the shot glasses again and put the bottle away. When I’m working a case, I don’t get three sheets to the wind before 10. This time I handed her one of the shots. “Why don’t you tell me what happened?”

She downed the stuff like a pro and slammed the glass down. “My boyfriend never hurt nobody. He liked to sit and just watch the world go by, ya know? He was rich, too. He invested in all kinds of stuff. He was smart.” She wiped a tear, which smeared her mascara and made her resemble a raccoon.

If there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s a crying dame in my office. “There, there, and all that stuff. How did he kick the buck- I mean, how did he die?”

“He fell off a wall. But I think he was pushed.”

“Why? Did he have enemies?”

“That’s just it – everybody loved him. I mean, all the king’s horses and all the king’s men tried to help when he fell. I didn’t know anybody that didn’t like him.”

I didn’t like where this was going. “So what makes you think he was pushed?”

“Because he was careful. He never fell. Never. He was fragile, and he was scared of breaking, so he was careful like you wouldn’t believe.” She looked like she was going to cry again and was wistfully eyeing the shot glass.

“So if he was so fragile, what the hell was he doing sitting on a wall?” Against my better judgment, I reached for the whiskey again and poured two more shots. It’s easier to be an alcoholic private eye if you’ve got company.

“He liked the view, I dunno.” She slammed the drink and looked me square in the eye. “Are you taking the case?” I noticed that she had a lazy eye – somewhat distracting, but strangely attractive at the same time.

I reminded myself that although she was obviously back on the market, she was still grieving. “Fine. I’ll see what I can do.” I put my head down on my desk, nursing a future hangover and the feeling that I was going to regret taking this particular case.

I heard her get up and walk toward the door. “Give me a buzz when you find something,” she called from the entryway. “You do know how to call, don’t you?” I winced. “Just pick up the phone, put it to your ear – your right ear if you’re right-eared, your left ear if you’re left-eared – then push the buttons in the right order and wait for me to answer. I’ll be waiting.”

To Be Continued

I know you’re busy. I know that when you advertise an open position, whether you’re advertising in the local paper or on a big website like Monster, you’re going to get responses. I know that at least half of those responses are from complete losers who probably couldn’t navigate their way out of a paper bag, much less navigate the endless intricacies of a computer network.

So I understand that when you get a real resume from somebody who might actually know what they’re doing, it might take you a few days to respond. After all, if you weren’t busy, you wouldn’t be advertising the opening, right?

But how long am I supposed to wait before you deign to pick up the phone and call, even if it’s just to tell me to get lost? If you found somebody else who has more experience, great. Good for you. You do want to get the most qualified person you can.

So be a man (or a woman.) Be a professional. Pick up the fucking phone and call the losers (me included) who you didn’t choose and let them know that they probably should fill out that McDonald’s application sitting on their desk.

Is that too much to ask?

This tempting delicacy is served with a light dipping sauce – a perfect appetizer before the big game, or to start off your evening at the opera.

Today’s Drink Special: The Butterknife. Like a screwdriver, but not as effective.

Always On the Menu:

Hamburger sans bun – great for those Atkins dieters
Served with milkshake sans cup. Bring your own napkin, please: this combination, while highly popular, can be a bit messy.

Ricin a la mode – another one for our weight-conscious clientele. Death is normally instantaneous, after which substantial weight loss begins immediately.

Dissolved-Twinkie-in-Red-Bull – great for those “power lunches” or those on the go. Gives twice the RDA of caffeine, sugar and preservatives. Keeps ya young!

Deep Fried Tribble – Yes, it’s how the Enterprise really got rid of all of the pesky critters. Served with tartar sauce.

Sauteed Nauga – this is what’s left after they skin the Nauga to make hide for furniture. We sautee it in a garlic butter sauce that is truly unforgettable.

And to finish your meal:
Key Lime Pie – we leave the key in, but we won’t tell you which piece.

Thanks for dining with us!