an untitled detective story set in a strange little town

A parody of film noir. I don't want to give a description. It spoils the reveal. It's a detective story. And the butler didn't do it.

I didn't know what to think when they called me in. Some jerk was getting five finger discounts all over town, and the boss wasn't happy. It was strange, sitting there in the Mayor's office. The mayor looked scared the whole time he was explaining the situation. He wasn't scared of me. I think it was the boss in the corner. Not a politician, just a restaurant manager. He'd had a career in the entertainment industry years ago, but that was billions and billions of dollars ago. Now he ran this town. Hell, the town was even named after him. Everyone knew that he pulled the strings in the background. Even the mayor was on the take. It was a crooked town. But they were willing to pay me a salary, so I didn't care. For the cost of some cheap whiskey, I'd look the other way. But they were actually paying me enough to buy a few cases of the good stuff. So, let 'em be crooked as long as I get my check.

 

So I sat in the Mayor's office. He gave me a cheesy grin and explained what he wanted me to do. I needed to find this guy. He'd been stealing from the boss, so that means it's not just the boss' problem, it's the town's problem. Course to be fair, this guy had been at it for quite a while. That's why they called me in. I'd find the guy. I'd turn him over. Whatever they did to him after I got paid.....well let's just say the less I know the better.

 

The entire town had seen him around. Hell, sometimes he stole in broad daylight. But, curious as his style was, no one seemed to recognize him. He also never spoke. Well, he did, but he generally only said one word, which everyone just assumed was something from his native land...and no one knew where that was.

 

One thing I did know was.....in a town like this. A small town. There was no way that no one knew nothing. So I set out to do a little digging. Someone would squeal--or at least squeak a little.

 

So I started out on the wrong side of the tracks, which by coincidence was across the train tracks, but was unfairly named since it was on the right side direction-wise.

 

Anyways, I met up with a little gang of street thugs. They always wore red. They really weren't tough. The mostly just got together because they had similar last names. One was Frye, the other was Fryman..I think the last one was Friar. You get the idea. They got put in the same homeroom at some point and decided to start a gang. But since they seemed to fancy themselves a little gang, I figured they at least kept up with news of real gangs and crime. I tried to ask if they'd heard of this burglar. They had. And they began to regale me with tales of this guy. Tales a bit too tall. I don't think he had the power to disappear or fly. So I excused myself. These Fry-whatever guys weren't any help.

 

Next I found a local junkie. He had so many track marks, his skin looked purple. He was a rather large fellow. An odd voice too. I asked him about this guy. He admitted he'd seen him. He said that the guy had once paid him to distract the restaurant so that he could rob the place. He did it. And he was paid. Unfortunately, he was paid in hamburgers. It was a choice he'd never make again.

 

See, that was the strange part. This guy never stole money. He just stole the restaurant's inventory. It was the strangest thing. No one understood it. Why didn't he take money? Hell, even the cash register is worth more than the damn food.

 

My last ditch effort was this alcoholic bird. She used to be a pilot....and a damn good one. Sadly though, the liquor got to her, and she was grounded. I needed information. So I brought the best gin I could find (I was getting reimbursed for expenses too) and helped her jog her memory.

 

Yeah, she'd known him. And he was always hungry. She didn't know why. She guessed it was either a fast metabolism or one hell of an amphetamine habit. Either way, the man liked to eat. And he was most fond of hamburgers. And since he didn't have a job (at least that she knew of), he stole 'em. But that was all she was saying. She seemed to know more, but she wasn't telling. And anyways, as soon as she finished talking, she passed out. That was okay, I had found out what I needed. I made sure she was laying on her stomach, finished the rest of the gin, and got out of there.

 

She'd also told me that he seemed to get a kick out of thieving when the boss was nearby. And since one of the restaurants was celebrating a big anniversary, I figured he'd strike. This really seemed fairly simple. Nothing that the local cops couldn't handle. Then I realized why. They didn't want the cops involved. An outsider would be paid, then go away. This way, the cops didn't have to get their hands dirty. They at least wanted the town to look a bit respectable, like it wasn't totally on the take.

 

So I put on a uniform and worked the counter that day. I was quite the heavily armed fast food employee. It was about time for the presentation, the plaque, all that other celebratory stuff. Then the news came in. Not the local boys, the nationals. They were filming a live interview. And the people in this town knew one thing: if there's a commercial or a news interview about the restaurant, that thief, or Hamburglar, if you will, is gonna be there.

 

I waited and watched for him. The interview began. The reported asked stupid asinine questions that old Ron has been answering for decades. Yet not one question ever dared to ask why, after all this time, did the guy still wear his clown make-up. You'd think someone would broach that subject, but no. Always, so what do you think of the restaurant, what kind of food can we expect you to introduce. Not, hey, why DO you still wear big squeaky shoes?

 

Anyways, it was around that time I saw him out of the corner of my eye. He's not easy to miss. What with the striped outfit and the Zorro mask. I mean, hell anyone would just ASSUME he's a criminal. I sprung into action (waiting of course until he had grabbed a few burgers--might as well make sure he's caught in the act, otherwise he could just say he was just some freak customer.

 

I tackled him to the ground. All he kept saying over and over was "rubble, rubble" or something to that effect. I had no clue what that meant, nor did I care. What I did care about was figuring out who this guy was and what was his story.

 

Turns out it wasn't even a man. It was some red-haired chick named Wendy. She didn't even have a good explanation why. Only thing we can come up with is that she, like her friend Birdie, had had one too many Frosty ones.

 

I'm not sure what happened after that. All I know is that Mayor McCheese presented me with the key to the city. Like I said, I got paid. I'm done. Besides, I just got a call. I gotta haul it out to Kentucky. Some ex-military guy just reported a missing recipe.

 

THE END

 

Reviews

[Di Roach]

This was brilliant! I started reading it and couldn't stop, even when I figured out all the clues. Thank you for the good laugh and good writing!

[Shawn Drake]

Top shelf, Ms. Leach. Starts off gritty but between the title and the "one word" burglar, it lets the audience in just far enough to get the references. Wow. It's like my childhood was shot in black and white and billed as noir.
Kudos.