Private Dick!; Chapter Fifteen

 

The following may be grammatically incorrect, to highlight the

main character's lack of smarts! 

Chapter Fifteen:

 

     I was trying to relax in my new rental house; it was 30 feet from a landfill, but why 

do you think I got it?  I found it was a little hard to sleep, though, for heavy garbage trucks 

came and went all night and day.  I guess I never thought about what wasteful gluttons we are.  

My garbage was set out on the curb, and was hauled off.  I picked up the empty can, and returned 

it, until it the next week.  But now that I was practically living in one, and constantly smelling it, I gave 

it some more thought.   

 

 

     “Hey, neighbor!” came the shout from the house right next to mine. 

 

     “Hello!” I cleverly answered back.  I was staring at a man wearing clothes that looked as 

if he’s scavenged them, before they could be buried, from the dump.  Maybe, from the looks of 

him, he should have been buried! 

 

     “Welcome to ‘Happy Acres,’ as we like to call it.”

 

     I looked out over the dump, with a fire burning off the excess methane, and thought, ‘Living 

Hell Acres’ would be a much more appropriate name!  “Well, that’s very kind of you, Mr...?”

 

     “Oh, Clem Baller.”

 

     “Nice to meet you, Clem.”

 

     “If you wouldn’t mind calling me Mr. Baller; we really don’t know each other.”

 

     Sure thing, Mr. Double Ballbagger!  I thought.  “Sure, Mr. Baller, and you can call me Custis Fairhaven.”

 

     It was a name I pulled out of thin air.  I didn’t want Mr. DoubleBallbagger there, to know anything

about me; I had no idea why.  “Nice to meet you, Mr. Fairhaven.  Well, I’d better head for work.”

 

     “Oh, what is it you do, Mr. Ballbagger--err--Baller--?”

 

     “Oh, I work for the sanitation department in Runoff City.  That’s a little town in the foothills of the Cascades.”

 

     “I don’t believe I’m familiar with that name.”

 

      “Oh, you should visit, especially the Shale Extraction Museum.”

 

     I’d just as soon have red-hot barbecue coals stuck down my pants!  “I’ll have to keep that in mind. 

‘The Coal-Burning Noxious Cloud Museum’, you say?”

 

     Ballbag just stared at me, shook his head, and walked to the covered wagon that served as 

his car, flipped me the finger, and disappeared in a cloud of what could have been coal exhaust from ‘The Coal-Burning Noxious Cloud Museum’.         

 

     After meeting Ballbag, I wasn’t eager to meet the rest of my neighbors, and decided to hit the 

office, even though it was Sunday.   I was listening to the quiet air in my office, when a man who 

looked like his elevator was stuck between floors, walked underneath the jingling bell hanging 

above the front door.

 

     “Welcome to Val Clarkson Investigations, I’m Val Clarkson; how may we help you?”  Once again, 

I always answered ‘we’ instead of ‘I’.  It sounded bigger and better.

 

     “Yes, I suspect one of my employees of embezzling from my company.”

 

     “Please, go on.”

 

     “Well, we should be doing great, selling celebrity door openers, but we are losing money.”

 

     “Paying celebrities to use their likeness on the box; that quite a specialized niche.”

 

     “No, I mean we manufacture garage door openers for celebrities.”

 

     “Oh, I see.”  I saw that this guy was fruit loops!

 

     “Anyway, Bentley used to drive a 4-door beater with dents on the side, but suddenly he’s pulling 

into the parking lot driving an imported luxury car.  I put 2 and 2 together, and figure he’s 

embezzling from the company; from me, and I’d like to hire you to look into it.”

 

    

    I took the case, against my better judgment, and now I was parked across the street from where 

Herk Bentley lived.  The tiny, rundown house had a for sale sign in the front yard, and a royal-

blue 1953 Lowenmobile was parked in the driveway.  It looked to me like the owner’s suspicions were

correct; Bentley was getting a lot of money from somewhere.  As I watched, a car came to a 

stop in front of Bentley’s place, and a suspicious-looking character got out, shooting nervous 

glances over his shoulder as he walked briskly up the sidewalk to Bentley’s house.  Was Bentley selling

dope?  That would explain his suddenly coming into a lot of money.  Something was going on 

in there, and I was determined to find out what.

 

     I waited for darkness; the suspicious-looking dude had left, and I’d watched as a steady stream of

shady characters came and went.  Under cover of darkness, I made my way up to his window, 

and peered in.  I saw Bentley, facing away from me, talking to a guy who looked like he’d just 

stepped out of central casting, where he had donned the apparel of a loser.  Loser-guy was 

standing off to the side of Bentley, and handed him a wad of cash.  That was enough for me.  

I ran to the front door and rapped loudly on it; pounded on it, really, and shouted,

 

     “Police!  Open up!”  I heard nothing for several seconds, and was just about to rap on the door again,

when I thought I heard a noise coming for the backyard.  I jumped off the porch and went charging

around the side of the house; suddenly, I collided with Loser-guy, coming full-speed the other way. 

We both went down, and he must have gotten the worst of it, because I soon shook it off, but Loser-

guy stayed on the ground like something permanent. 

 

 

     I stood over him, until gradually, he started coming around.

 

     “Wwwaatt happened?” he blurted, blinking rapidly, trying to make some sense out of his

predicament. 

 

     “I’ll tell you what happened; you paid Herk Bentley for dope, and where is it?”

 

     “Dope?  I was paying Bentley for providing me with clothing.”

 

     “Clothing; do you expect me to believe that?”   

 

    “Yeah, I do.  I’m a cross-dresser, and Bentley makes frilly dresses for me.”

 

     “Bull-dongs!”

 

     “No, it’s true,” came a voice behind me.  I turned to face Bentley. 

 

     “I found an untapped market in an alternative lifestyles magazine, one that I just happened to 

stumble upon, making dresses for men.” 

 

     I tried to ignore the image of Bentley wearing a summer dress and pumps, and said,

 

    “What’s to stop a dude from buying one in a store, and claiming he’s buying it for his girlfriend 

or wife?”

 

     Bentley and Loser-boy exchanged glances, as if the thought hadn’t occurred to either, and 

Bentley then replied,

 

     “Well, to be honest, nothing; but I’m paid  to be discreet, and I make a high-quality dress.”

 

     “Yes, besides being gorgeous, and flattering a guy’s figure; his dresses make me look 10 pounds lighter; he’s really an amazing seam man!”

 

     I banished what that sounded like from my thoughts, and thought they just might be telling 

the truth.  “Well, as ludicrous and unlikely as it sounds, I’ll buy that for a dollar!”

 

 

     “So, Mr. Mister (for that was his name, Jared Mister), as you can see, Bentley’s not embezzling 

from you, he’s making fashionable dresses for dudes.”

 

     “Then why am I losing money?”

    

     “I think I can guess, but I don’t want to offend you.”

 

     “No, if you have an idea, I’d like to hear it.”

 

      I knew I’d regret it, but I plowed ahead.  “Because your idea is about the stupidest one 

I’ve heard in a long time; door openers for celebrities?  Come on!”

 

     Mr. Mister’s face turned a darker shade of red than a hooker clown, and he sputtered, “Well, 

some kind of dick you are!  Blaming my brilliant idea; it’s because you lack the vision to see a great 

idea when it’s right in front o you!  If you think I’m going to pay you for telling me it’s my stupid 

idea, you’re dreaming!”

 

     “Fine, I guess I’ll see you in court!”

 

 

     I have won the court case, but what with lawyer’s fees, I’ve only just broke even.  The 

private eye business was sometimes a little like squeezing blood out of something non-pliable!