Spoiler: show
Monday, February 12, 9:55 am, Office
Of all the offices in all the towns in all the Plains States, she had to walk into mine. She’d made her appointment the night before, and she’d sounded like a polite broad.
I’d asked her why she was coming to me, and she’d said, “Because you’re the only game in town.” That’d be me. The name’s Don Dingen, and I’m the only dick in this town, the sole soul-stained gumshoe willing to kick back at the scum infesting society’s rotten underbelly.
I’d asked her what it was she wanted, and she’d said, “It’s not something I want to talk about over the phone.” Sounded like the kind of broad who knew what she wanted. I’d told her to be at my office at 10 and then given her directions.
Something in my gut told me she’d be there in about 5 minutes. I checked myself in the mirror, and it showed me what I looked like. That’s what mirrors do, except for those crazy ones in fun-houses. Just like I’d expected, there was a knock at the door just after 10:00. My gut’s never wrong, except when it is.
I opened the door, as is the custom when somebody knocks, and she walked in on a pair of stems that went all the way up to her hips. It only took a glance to see that this dame had it all: hair, skin, teeth, fingers, bilateralism, homeostasis… everything. I didn’t know just what to say, words not being what you’d call my forte, so I just grunted and sat down behind my desk.
“I need your help,” she said, and her voice was as smooth as butter melting on a short stack of buttermilk pancakes. I grunted. “It’s about my husband,” she said, and her voice was as silky as cream. I grunted. “He’s been coming home late once a week the last two months, and I don’t know where he goes,” she said, and her voice was as slick as yolk spilling out of a pair of sunny side up eggs after you stick a fork in them.
“What do you need me to do about it?” I asked, voice bitter as black coffee before you add the sugar and cream.
“I want you to follow him,” she told me, “and then tell me where he’s going Monday nights,” and her voice was as tempting as good streaky bacon cooked up just right, where you get the parts that are crispy as well as the parts that are still soft and chewy right next to each other.
“Where do I find him?” I asked, like I was hungry.
“I’ve made up a file with his work address, his car info, some photos of him, stuff like that,” she said, and her voice was as crisp and businesslike as hot hash-browns on a warm plate. “I thought you could follow him after work, because it’s Mondays when he disappears.” She fished a manila envelope out of her purse and placed it on the desk.
I picked up the file without a word and leafed through it silently. I’m a man of action, after all, not some debutante socializing with prospective beaus at a coming-out ball way back when, when young women still wore those puffy things under their dresses to make their backsides look as though they were trying to smuggle watermelons through a customs check-point. If I had a middle name that suited me better, instead of this “Scott” nonsense my parents saddled me with, it’d be “Taciturn.” Don Taciturn Dingen, that’s me in a different reality, one where everyone does names like the American Indians do, where you think about your personal qualities and character quirks, maybe find a spirit guide, then say you ought to be called something like “Gets-Right-to-the-Point McGee” or whatever.
“I’ll get on this right away,” I told her, voice sweet as syrup.
“OK,” she said, “Thank you…um…Bye?” she said as she walked out of the door. Her voice was as split-up, yet still continuous, as nicely browned sausage links.
I had a case now. The ball was in my court, and it was time to play. There wasn’t any point in postponing the inevitable, because it was time to get right down to brass tacks, time to put up or shut up, time to hold them or to fold them, time to poop or get off the pot. Without hesitation, I grabbed my hat, my jacket and my trusty pea-shooter, double-checked that I’d turned off my space-heater last month, looked for and found my keys, and got right down to business.
Of all the offices in all the towns in all the Plains States, she had to walk into mine. She’d made her appointment the night before, and she’d sounded like a polite broad.
I’d asked her why she was coming to me, and she’d said, “Because you’re the only game in town.” That’d be me. The name’s Don Dingen, and I’m the only dick in this town, the sole soul-stained gumshoe willing to kick back at the scum infesting society’s rotten underbelly.
I’d asked her what it was she wanted, and she’d said, “It’s not something I want to talk about over the phone.” Sounded like the kind of broad who knew what she wanted. I’d told her to be at my office at 10 and then given her directions.
Something in my gut told me she’d be there in about 5 minutes. I checked myself in the mirror, and it showed me what I looked like. That’s what mirrors do, except for those crazy ones in fun-houses. Just like I’d expected, there was a knock at the door just after 10:00. My gut’s never wrong, except when it is.
I opened the door, as is the custom when somebody knocks, and she walked in on a pair of stems that went all the way up to her hips. It only took a glance to see that this dame had it all: hair, skin, teeth, fingers, bilateralism, homeostasis… everything. I didn’t know just what to say, words not being what you’d call my forte, so I just grunted and sat down behind my desk.
“I need your help,” she said, and her voice was as smooth as butter melting on a short stack of buttermilk pancakes. I grunted. “It’s about my husband,” she said, and her voice was as silky as cream. I grunted. “He’s been coming home late once a week the last two months, and I don’t know where he goes,” she said, and her voice was as slick as yolk spilling out of a pair of sunny side up eggs after you stick a fork in them.
“What do you need me to do about it?” I asked, voice bitter as black coffee before you add the sugar and cream.
“I want you to follow him,” she told me, “and then tell me where he’s going Monday nights,” and her voice was as tempting as good streaky bacon cooked up just right, where you get the parts that are crispy as well as the parts that are still soft and chewy right next to each other.
“Where do I find him?” I asked, like I was hungry.
“I’ve made up a file with his work address, his car info, some photos of him, stuff like that,” she said, and her voice was as crisp and businesslike as hot hash-browns on a warm plate. “I thought you could follow him after work, because it’s Mondays when he disappears.” She fished a manila envelope out of her purse and placed it on the desk.
I picked up the file without a word and leafed through it silently. I’m a man of action, after all, not some debutante socializing with prospective beaus at a coming-out ball way back when, when young women still wore those puffy things under their dresses to make their backsides look as though they were trying to smuggle watermelons through a customs check-point. If I had a middle name that suited me better, instead of this “Scott” nonsense my parents saddled me with, it’d be “Taciturn.” Don Taciturn Dingen, that’s me in a different reality, one where everyone does names like the American Indians do, where you think about your personal qualities and character quirks, maybe find a spirit guide, then say you ought to be called something like “Gets-Right-to-the-Point McGee” or whatever.
“I’ll get on this right away,” I told her, voice sweet as syrup.
“OK,” she said, “Thank you…um…Bye?” she said as she walked out of the door. Her voice was as split-up, yet still continuous, as nicely browned sausage links.
I had a case now. The ball was in my court, and it was time to play. There wasn’t any point in postponing the inevitable, because it was time to get right down to brass tacks, time to put up or shut up, time to hold them or to fold them, time to poop or get off the pot. Without hesitation, I grabbed my hat, my jacket and my trusty pea-shooter, double-checked that I’d turned off my space-heater last month, looked for and found my keys, and got right down to business.
If people like, I can get around to typing up more.