Private Dick!; Chapter Thirteen

I've tried, several times, to fix the screwed up look of the writing, but alas, I cannot. So let me apologize for the mess. I'm sorry, but you'll just have to read it like this!

The following may be grammatically incorrect, to highlight the

main character's lack of smarts! 

Chapter 13:   

 

                          

                      I stood and stared at the image of a dick staring back at me from the bathroom mirror; a                       weather-beaten face, pinkish-red in color; needing a shave badly, framed by short brown        hair         the color of an old burlap sack; with all the crushing weight of a crooked world etched upon its              face.  Not a particularly-handsome face, but not hideous-gargoyle ugly either.  A scar                               made by an angry knife blade started just below the left eye, and scoured a canal out of the                   skin, down almost to the perpetually-scowling mouth.  Being a dick, a private dick, is a                           rough game.  If you don’t want to get carved up like a Christmas turkey; shot at like a target                   in a carnival of the damned; or blown up like a one of those punching bag blow-up clowns                     that pop back up when you punch them (only people don’t automatically pop back up!), this                   aint the biz for you!  Maybe get a job in an oxygen tent, if you want quiet.  I quickly got tired                     of looking at the blank expression and turned and walked out of the bathroom, and headed                     back to my, much like my face, weather-beaten desk.  Just before arrival, my phone rang.  I                   sank down into it, and picked up the receiver. 

 

                       “Val Clarkson Investigations.”

 

                       Val Clarkson was my latest name.  I’d recently moved here, to Seattle, because my other                   efforts to disappear hadn’t worked very well, like a lousy magician who can’t make dick   b                     disappear and the audience wants their money back. 

 

                       “Yes, I need a dick,” breathed a woman’s voice seductively into the receiver.  Now, she                       may have said ‘private dick’, but I preferred to think not. 

 

                       “Well, you’re talking to one;  I’m Val Clarkson; what can I do for you?”   

 

                       “Well Valerie; I hope I can call you that?  I’ve always preferred to use a person’s formal                        name.”

 

                       So do I, and right now I was talking to Bitchy Bitcherson.  “You can if you’d prefer, but                         Valerie’s not such a good name for a guy.”

 

                       “Oh, I’m terribly sorry; I heard your high-pitched voice, and heard the name Val, and just                   assumed you where a woman.”

 

                       High-pitched voice?  I’ll show you a high pitched voice; and I grabbed my crotch and                         squeezed, hard, and screamed a shrill cry into the receiver.  Yeah, I know it was a childish,                     petty thing to do, but I was pissed!  Suddenly, I heard nothing but the dial tone; she’d hung                     up. 

 

 

                       Later that day, my phone rang again; and I answered it, “Val Clarkson Investigations; Val                   Clarkson speaking.”

                             

                       “Yes, I called earlier, and something went wrong with our phone call, because I said                           something, and then high-pitched feedback was all I heard.”

 

                       I smirked to myself and answered, “Yeah, that was weird; remind me to complain to the                     phone company soon; now, how can I help you?”

 

                       “Well, Val, I put my used car up for sale, and the person who took it for a test drive, never                   came back.”

 

                       “So, you want me to find out who took it?”

 

                       “Yes, that AND hurt the S.O.B. who took it.  You don’t screw with Daphne Cornwallis and                   get off scot-free!”

 

                       “What would you have me do?”

 

                       “Oh, I’m not sure; I’ll leave that up to you, Val.”

 

                       I decided then and there to take her case; it wasn’t everyday that someone was going to                     pay you to raise hell.  “Well, Daphne, I’ll just need a few more details and I’ll look into it.”

 

 

                       I started my search by sitting by the hi-way and hoping the guy would drive by in a 1948                   blue roadster.  I know it wasn’t the best plan, but I couldn’t think of another.  Besides,                               Daphne Cornwallis was paying me handsomely.

 

  

                       I was starting to get uncomfortable, had finished my stakeout meal of a roast beef                               sandwich, some potato chips, and 4 beers (well, to be honest, I had bought a 6-pack for                         later, but it was so boring!), and my bladder was screaming, “Piss already!”  Maybe having                     those beers wasn’t the smartest thing, but...  oh, oh, here came a cop.  He pulled up behind                   me, and swaggered up to my window. 

 

                       I rolled it down, and said, “Evening, officer; what can I do for you?”

 

                       “I need to see some identification”

 

                       That was a problem, the only drivers’ license I had said my name was Oren Trough.                           “What did I do?”

 

                       “Would you mind stepping out of the car, sir?”

 

                       “Oh, sure officer, I’m always glad to help the law,” I replied, and swung my door open.                         When I did, a beer bottle crashed to the pavement and shattered.

 

                       “Have you been drinking, sir?”

 

                       “Ah, no!”

 

 

                       24 hours later, they finally released me.  I had a stress headache and an August 24th                         date with the judge.  S**t!  I decided to return to the hi-way, sans beer this time, although I                     sure could have used a few, but I figured that wouldn’t be too smart. 

 

          

                       Seven hours later, after starting my car every once in a while to keep the battery charged                   up so I could listen to the radio (The Bingster was keeping me company!), I was just about                     to admit to myself that this was a stupid plan, when along it came, a blue 1948 Roadster. I                     pulled out behind, and followed it to a run-down dump of a house, it’s yard overgrown and                     choked with weeds, and saw a swarthy-looking man get out and start up the sidewalk,                             which meandered like a drunken snake up to the  door.  I jumped out and yelled,

 

                       “Hold up there!”

 

                       The man turned, saying, “Yes?”

 

                       “Nice car!”

 

                       “Thanks; did you stop me just to say that?”

 

                       “You know perfectly well what I mean; you stole this car!”

 

                       “What?  this is my car, and has been for several years!”

 

                       Suddenly, it occurred to me that maybe I ought to have checked the license plate                               number.  “Can you prove that?” I cleverly asked. 

 

                       “Certainly; just let me go inside and grab the registration.”

                       

                       That should have set off a warning bell in my head, but my head remained perfectly clear.         clear.  Shouldn't the registration already be in the car? 

 

                       “Fine, you do that, and meanwhile I’ll wait out here.”

 

                      This drew a blank stare from the guy, like he didn’t understand, or something.  I’ll be right                   back.”

 

 

                       Twenty minutes later, the guy still hadn’t returned.  I thought, “There’s something very                       queer going on; either the dude’s lost in his own house, highly unlikely, or he slipped out                       the back door.”  I went up to the front door, and tried the knob; it swung open to reveal a                         fully furnished living room, decorated in modern telephone company.  Old wire spools made                   up his dining table.  The rest of the house was vacant.  He was gone.

 

   

                       It turned out the house was a rental, and the name the guy had given the landlord, John                     Smith, was an alias.  John Smith; who would have ever guessed it was a phony name?                           Daphne Cornwallis has her car back, at least.  John Smith, or whoever was this dude’s real                   name, hasn’t been heard from; imagine my shock!  Well it wasn’t the result I was hoping for,                   but I’ll take what I can get!