[untitled]

Goofy Detective type story

It was a night not quite unlike any other night. It wasn't particularly dark or stormy, it was just...night. Even so, Nick dreaded it. The ensuing nightfall only brought him darkness and painful memories. The darkness he could deal with. He'd been accustomed to nighttime bringing darkness for 30 years now, coincidently, his age. The memories, less so. He was plagued by the constant memories ever since that dreadful night 10 years ago...

Nick sighed, and shifted his weight in his high back, leather executive chair on sale for $39.99 at Office Depot, regular price $79.99. He felt he got a great deal on it, even if there was that stain he couldn't quite name but tasted strangely like cheese jello. He'd never actually tasted cheese jello, but, he nodded to himself, that's certainly what he imagined it to taste like. He looked around in the darkness of his office, the thin trickle of sunlight slowly being chased away by the darkness of night.

A desk riddled with papers, a coat rack with a tattered coat and an equally tattered hat. A small wooden chair, dusty from lack of use, was situated in front of his desk. Empty liquor bottles were strewn across the floor. He sighed again. He was a living cliche. The broken down detective with a sordid past. He tossed a liquor bottle against the wall. The wall crumbled away from the impact, leaving the bottle intact.

Weeks on end this ritual continued. He waited until the whee hours of the morning for a phonecall, for a case. Something to give meaning to his life. For weeks he had been waiting, with no calls. Last week, he noticed that his phone didn't, technically, have a dial tone, and he remembered that he forgot to pay the bill last month. He sent the bill off immediately. He sighed. "Not like anyone would call anyways." He spoke half heartedly to the empty bottle of scotch. He stared at it, waiting for a reply, then became disgusted at its rude silence and threw it at the wall. He would really have to start patching up these holes in his walls eventually. Or stop drinking. How much was drywall anyways?

His thoughts on office-repair were shattered by a sound he was NOT accustomed to. A small, tingly sound, repeated at half second intervals. A small, bell like so...THE PHONE! He leaped from his chair, sending it spinning wildly, like a leather bound executive $39.99 merry-go-round. He found the phone buried under an old Taco Bell wrapper.

Picking off bits of lettuce, he answered, trying to muster up a bit of authority in his voice.

"Ahem, yes, hello?"
The voice on the other end was garbled.
"What? Oh, wait, hold on. There's a tomato in my ear. Ok, got it, what was that?"
"I said, I think I have a case for you, Ni....wait, a tomato in your ear?"
"That's really not important right now. Give me the details on this case."

***

Upon arriving at his destination, Nick was greeted by a flustered Police Chief.
"Welcome to Stantly Manor, Nick. We have quite a case here. Come have a look at this."
He lead Nick into the house, passing the gardens and tennis courts on the way. Nick had never seen such a magnificent abode, and it made his own squalor seem that much more squalor-ish. He suppressed a sigh.

Inside, Nick was greeted by a brilliant, architectural masturbatory fantasy. Flying buttresses, a high ceiling, pillars, oh my! The chief pointed at the bottom of the main staircase, which wrapped around itself and joined the second floor at opposite ends.

There, lay a man in a tux, a small silver tray and an upturned cup of tea resting nearby. He looked to be in his mid-fifties, and was obviously hired help of some sort, most likely a butler. A long, serrated blade was sticking from his back. Nick bent down, inspecting the body carefully.

"Well. There goes my first suspect."

The chief raised an eyebrow. "What?"

Nick turned and grinned. "The butler definitely didn't do it."

The chief shook his head, rubbing his temples. "Look, are you going to take the case or not?"

"Oh, yeah, sure, sure, I'll get right on it." Nick stood up, and looked around the immediate vicinity for any clues.

He walked up the stairs, and back down again, counting steps along the way, then he looked up at the ceiling, frowned, and recounted. He then stopped, pulled a pickle from his shirt pocket, and walked over to the chief.

"Hm, did you notice the sign on the ceiling?" He asked, munching softly.

The chief looked at him incredulously, like he had pulled a pickle from his shirt pocket. Which, indeed, he had.

"Why did you have a pickle in your shirt pocket?" A puzzled expression wracked his face.

Nick replied, in between bites. "You never know when a pickle can come in handy. Like, say, for a quick snack, or any number of unrelated activities. Now, more important, did you see the sign?"

The chief was still fumbling with the nonsense about the pickle, and he looked at Nick sternly, raising an eyebrow. "You've been drinking again, haven't you."

Nick ignored him, and pointed. "Will you just look? We can talk more about the pickle later."

The chief finally gave in, shrugged his shoulders and followed Nick's extended index finger to a point overlooking the stairs.

Hanging from a long beam was a poster board, with a message scrawled on it.

"Hello, and welcome to Stantly Manor! Feel free to have some tea." An arrow was drawn under this, pointing down. The chief followed the arrow, his eyes finally resting on the slain butler, and, more importantly, the cup of tea next to him.

For the third time that day, the chief was at a lost for words. First, he couldn't find his pants this morning, then the nonsense about the pickle with Nick, now this. He checked to make sure he was still wearing pants. He was, and he nodded to himself. At least something was making sense.

Nick sat down on the steps, staring at the upturned cup of tea. He sat motionless for a few seconds, his brow furrowed, deep in thought, then something caught his eye. He reached for the cup.

The chief stepped forward, his arm reaching for Nick. "Ok, whoa, I don't think you're actually supposed to dr.."

He stopped, suddenly, when he saw what Nick was reaching for. Inside the cup was a ring.

"Chief, there's an inscription: Stantly eighty-three. ring finger. mmm tea."

***

Nick stared out the window of the Chief's car. His face was wracked with some sort of hidden trauma, and deep lines cut into his face. The chief glanced at him out of the corner of his eye. He was worried. Nick had been....well, Nick had always been a strange one, but recently, he seemed like he was finally fraying at the seams. He could bust at any moment. The Chief sighed, knowing it would take days to get the smell out of the car.

Silence had permeated the trip up to that point, but the sigh had caught Nick's attention.
"Hmm? What is it?" he queried, his gaze never leaving the small drops of rain trailing down the window.

"Nick, you look pretty bad. Like you haven't slept in about a year. Or something. And you haven't said a word this whole trip up until now, like you have a lot on your mind. What's going on?"

Nick finally turned, a thin smirk on his face. His eyes relayed a strange mixed message; one seemed to twinkle, while the other remained cold, grey; dreary. It sent a chill down the chief's spine.

"Well, now that you mention it, something has been bothering me."

The chief nodded, urging his friend on.

"See the rain dripping down your window? I've been playing a sort of game with myself up to this point about whether or not it would wash this leaf off the window," he pointed over his shoulder at a brown leaf stuck to the window, which had been obstructed from the Chief's view by Nick's head, "So far, I owe myself $300." He grinned, and turned back to his musings without another word.

The Chief stared at the back of Nick's head for a few seconds, then shook his head and sighed, yet again.

***
They arrived at Frankington's Jewelry without further incident. Established in 1924 by Edward Dean Frankington, the Frankington Jewelry was now the premier jewelry shop in the city. They also made some fine crullers.

Nick and the Chief entered the shop, and were greeted by a cool blast of air and a small, thin man with a thin mustache in a suit. "Yes, may I help you two fine gentlemen? Anything I could do for you? Perhaps a pastry?" The little man rubbed his hands together.

The Chief took off his hat. "No, that's quite al.."

Nick pushed him aside. "Nonsense! We'll take two."

The man bowed slightly, and walked into the back room. He returned a few seconds later. "Hello gentlemen! How may I help you? Maybe a cruller?"

Nick and the chief turned toward each other, brows furrowed. Nick turned back toward the man. "Um, didnt you just ask that?"

The man, turned flush. "Why..um...why no? Oh dear. Have we met? I don't think we've met. But maybe we have? Oh dear." The man pulled a chair up, and sat down, wringing his hands.

The chief stepped forward. "Uh...are you ok? Look, we have some questions for yo.."

"Two crullers? Excellent choice." The man jumped up, pivoted on one foot, and scurried off to the back yet again.

The chief stood still for a few seconds, his mouth opening and closing.

"What a strange little man." Nick said, resting himself in a nearby chair.

The chief nodded, keeping a watchful eye on the door to the backroom. He didn't have to wait long, as the man reappeared carrying a tray of pastries, as well as a fine gold watch.

"Here you go, your pastries, and the watch. Anything else I can get you?"

The chief took the tray, "Uh...yeah...look, is there anyone else we can talk to?"

Nick bit into a cruller, and picked up the watch. "Why did you bring this?"

The man turned pale again, and sat down. "Oh, dear. YOU didn't ask for the watch. Oh, dear. Oh dear oh dear." The man started to mumble to himself incoherently, then buried his face into his hands. Almost immediately, he looked back up, a broad smile across his face. "Oh, hello gentlemen, may I help you?"

The chief rubbed his face, and then threw his hands in the air, and turned to walk out in disgust, when he was stopped short by another voice from the back.

"George, that will be all, thanks." Nick stood up, and the chief turned around.

George snuck past Mr. Frankington, a sharply dressed man in a suit. He had broad shoulders, and an air of dignity. He looked as if he could carry himself well, and as if he a good head on his shoulders. He also had a bit of cruller stuck in his beard.

"Sorry about that, gentlemen, George is a little..well...it's been a tough year. Is there anything I can do for you two?"

The chief breathed a sigh of relief. Nick took the initiative, and held up the ring. "Do you recognize this ring?"

Frankington stroked the cruller in his beard. "Ahem. Why, yes, that was the ring I made for Mr. Stantly a few months ago. Nice chap, paid in cash. Bought a few crullers too."

The chief continued Nick's questioning, trying to keep his eyes off the large man's beard. "Um. Yes, can you tell us anything about this inscription?" He pointed to the inside curvature of the ring, holding it up to the light.

Frankington leaned closer, pulling a monocle to his eye. "Ah, yes, I thought it a little strange too, but he said it had a purpose, and he said that two men would be asking about it in a few months time. He told me to give you this."

He produced a manilla envelope from a pocket in his coat, and handed it to the chief. He stroked his cruller. "Now, that should be all, unless there is anything else I can do for you? Perhaps a cruller?"

The chief swallowed deeply, desperately trying to avert his gaze from the pastry trapped in the vine-like snare of Frankington's beard. Nick grinned "No, no, that is quite alright. But we'll let you know if we need anything else."

Frankington shook their hands, and turned to leave. "Alright gentlemen, I wish you a good day. And drive carefully, it's really starting to pour."

The chief and Nick exited the store, and walked back to the car, envelope in hand.

"If nothing else, this case is proving to be a good opportunity to meet people." Nick mused.

"Yes, indeed. Very strange people." The chief replied, turning the envelope around in his hands.

He opened the car door, but stopped short when he heard footsteps, as of someone running in their direction. Nick glanced at their pursuer and grinned, nodding his head.

"Why, hello gentlemen! huffhuff Can I help you with something? huffhuff"


***

  It took some work to convince George that they had met before, and that, no, they wouldn't be needing any more crullers for the drive back to Nick's office.  Nick cleared a spot on his desk with a quick swipe of his hand, and emptied the contents of the envelope.

Nick and the chief stared at the desk.  Then back at each other.  The Chief spoke aloud what they were both thinking.

"This is starting to get ridiculous."

The folder contained a seemingly random collection of junk and a letter signed and dated by none other than Herbert Stantly himself.  Shoving the other objects aside for the time being, Nick grabed the letter and read it aloud:

"I hope you found your visit to Frankington's pleasurable, gentlemen.  This envelope contains some important information and clues regarding the murder of my beloved butler Gerald.  For reasons which I cannot disclose at this moment, I cannot yet talk to either of you in person, so you'll have to go by the clues I can leave you, and I hope that you two can figure them out together.  Sincerely, Herbert Stantly"

"Well, he sounds like a nice fellow, I hope we get to meet him." Nick smiled and set the paper carefully onto the desk.  The chief was already rolling one of the objects around in his hands, trying to figure out its meaning in the grander scheme of things.

"What do you make of this, Nick?"

Nick glanced at the object, then back at the Chief, then again at the object.  "It's a baseball, Chief."

The Chief rubbed his temples.  "I know it's a baseball.  I mean how does it link up with the rest of this crap?"  He gestured with an outstretched hand to the desk.

Nick grabbed the baseball, and tossed it between his hands, and studied the objects on the desk.

"Hmmm."

Nick stooped down to study one of the objects, a finely carved smoking pipe, recently used.

"I see."  He picked up another object, a purple rabbit's foot.  He set it inside the pipe.
"ok, hmmm."  Nick picked up the last object, a roll of double-sided tape.  He ripped off a few pieces, and taped the baseball onto the end of the pipe.

"Got it!" He jumped up, smiling broadly.

The Chief stared at him, flabbergasted.  "Wha..?  What did you just do?"

Nick stopped his celebrating momentarily to  explain.  "Well, I stuck the rabbit's foot into the pipe and taped the pipe to the baseball."

This did not appease the chief, who looked even more confused. "Ok, I see that but what exactly did that accomplish?"

"Well, now it's much easier to keep everything together.  We don't even need the envelope anymore!"  Nick smiled triumphantly.

"For God's sake.." The Chief sighed heavily and dropped the full weight of his body into a nearby chair.  A cloud of dust enveloped him.

"I suppose we could smoke the rabbit's foot for good luck.  Is that how it works?"  Nick looked around his office for a lighter or a match.

The chief stared at the floor. After a few seconds, he shot out of the chair and grabbed Nick by the shoulders.
"You positively insane, beautiful b*****d!" The chief was overjoyed.  Nick shook him off and resumed his search for a means to set his good luck charm on fire.  "I'm glad you realize that we need all the luck we can get."

Indeed we do, and that was what Stantly was trying to tell us!  Think about it.  You wrap the tape around the baseball.  Taped baseball, right?  Ok, then you stick the rabbit's foot into the pipe.."

Nick's face changed.  A feeling he hadn't felt in a long while overcame him. A feeling he missed.  The feeling of clarity that only comes from solving a puzzle. Nick and the Chief spoke in unison,

"Taped baseball to smoke the purple good luck!"
"Purple Rabbit tape to baseball smoke!"

They stared at each other, both smiling.  Finally the realization of what the other had said hit them, and they both frowned.

Nick and the Chief turned away, both lost in thought.  After a few seconds, they turned back to each other.

"Taped baseball. Good luck in The Pipe."

Nick smiled. "He taped the game, and left it for us in The Pipe."

The chief nodded, and they both left the office in haste.

***

Anyone who has ever set foot in Colver City is well aware of The Pipe.  The largest club in three counties, it showcased sold out shows and wild parties that lasted well intothe early hours of the morning.  It was notoriously tough to get into, with reservations sometimes being taken years in advance.  As the only club that catered to the wealthiest and most cultured of the state's citizens, the Club owner, Mario Ginchetti, felt that the Pipe was an important and necessary part of the community.

It is said that the primary reason for this is that all other clubs were put out of business by Ginchetti's "business associates."

***

Author's Note

Unfinished, obviously. Looking for thoughts on the humor.