Chapter 1: Storm a coming
It all started on the kind of night that you read about in a cheap dime store novel, a book so bad that has been in the bottom of the half-off bin since the day after it was published. A book that had pictures, black and white, and out-of-focus pictures.
The night was lousy with a drizzle that no matter how tight your collar a cold drop of rainwater always finds its way down your back. A drop of water that just slithered down a rusty gutter, and has the faint smell of rotten vegetables. The weatherman said a storm was brewing but what he didn’t say is that this storm was going to be a witch’s kind of brew.
I’d expect that at any moment it will start raining frogs or some maybe some other wretched denizen from hell. This was the kind of night that the dark sucked the light right off the street lamps so even the shadows were looking for places to hide.
However, the real storm hadn’t even settled in yet. As I am walking into Fred’s Bar I’m thinking, if the outside was ugly, in there it won’t look any better, however, I do have a thing for understatement, and Fred’s Bar is very understated.
There are bars that can be considered a dive and then there are bars that are so far underwater that you have to take a submarine to get in. Just call me Captain Nemo because I must be just the kind of lowlife that could find a bar like this. I keep coming back despite the graffiti on the wall that says don’t come back in big balloon letters.
Joe and Stew
I come here so often I can describe in great detail the tattoo, that no man should know about, that Sue the waitress has. I say waitress because that’s what Sue calls himself. The fact is his name really is Stew, and I don’t mean the beef kind. The story has it that one night he had too much to drink and lost his front teeth after a round of darts gone bad. Now he can’t pronounce the ‘T’ in his name and it sounds like Sue.
And then there is Joe. On any night of the week the barkeep, Joe, will be pouring the kind of whiskey that is barely good enough to serve in a clean glass, so I guess it’s a good thing the glasses are never clean. Joe only had one eye, but he makes the most of it and can make a martini that, if a frog could dance it would be on Broadway. I’ve seen some of the shows on Broadway, and a martini drinking, dancing frog, might be worth seeing.
Joe is good at what he does, at least for a one-eyed barkeep, he keeps the cheap liquor poured fast and the jar of pickled pigs knuckles always at least half full. Joe is an all-right guy as long as you pay your tab on time. That was one of the important lessons my dear ole dad taught me a long time ago, always pay your tab on time. That and wear clean underwear because you never know what they will be looking at when you are in the ER.
Yes dear, your right
It must be true what my ex-wife always said about me, I’m a glutton for punishment, and I guess, because I came down here tonight, that this is my way of saying ‘yes dear, your right’.
I had a pretty rough day, but being a cheap gumshoe/private eye all my days are rough and by rough, I mean rough like a piece of 80 grit sandpaper, one that is rubbing hard against your cheek, and I don’t mean the one on your face.
I take my usual seat at the back of the bar and try real hard to melt into the chair. I’m just starting to relax as the soft fog of cheap whiskey and flat beer begins to push back at my day. As I’m sitting there, I think, well at least nobody had taken a shot at me, yet, but the night is like me, ugly and not getting any younger.
Dick for hire, a cheap date
Being a gumshoe, or like Joe likes to say, ‘dick for hire’, wasn’t easy but neither am I. Cheap but not easy. I’d like to say that I’m good at what I do but that isn’t half of it. I am like a savant when it comes to being a private dick for hire. I took the test and passed with flying colors.
Even though my dad wanted me to be an eye doctor and mom said I should look into being a pro bowler. I’m pretty sure mom had a thing for the two-tone shirts the guys would wear. Or maybe it was watching the guys take those three or four little steps before letting their balls loose.
I have to give it to dad, he didn’t mind letting mom watch the guys because he would play the pinball machines for hours. Dad told me once, “Mom can do what she wants as long as she always goes home with me”.
They went to the bowling alley every Thursday, it was a Thursday when the tornado hit. Sometimes I miss my parents.
Chapter 2: Root of all evil
So I’m nursing a whiskey and beer and just starting to feel that buzz that takes the sharp edges off the corners of life when the door swings open like the starting gates at a horse race. A cold wind trailed in and I knew something was going down and it probably would be me.
This dame comes walking in and she looks like a million-dollar loan, with an interest rate to match, she had legs that went all the way up from the floor to heaven. From behind she had a walk that looked like two puppy’s wrestling under a blanket. She may have been a vision but she was blind to the world because she walked straight up to me and said “Dick I need your help”.
Nick Strange, private eye
The hairs on my 15-inch neck stood straight up. The beer and cheap whiskey that was doing a good job numbing what little sense I had left, took the A train and also left. Maybe it was because my resistance was about as low as my rates that I said “Lady, the names Nick, Nick Strange, private eye” As soon as I said it I realized there was something weird about my introduction, and I don’t mean my name. I knew I had just stepped into something really bad. It was going to come back like bad sushi for lunch.
She said “Whatever, Jim, I need you and I’ll make it worth your while”, I thought to myself, it’s Nick and I bet she can. Her name was Savannah Root, but her friends just called her Stevie. She told me to call her Honey, it’s no wonder this babe is confused because just looking at her confused the heck out of me. Was her charm, her obvious attributes, or the cheap whiskey working on me. Something about her made me ignore all those little voices in my head that were screaming at me to get away, run for my life, flee.
Instead of making a run for it, I said “Okay, Honey let’s talk rates” and if we can come to an understanding you can tell me your story. In the dark corner of the bar, someone stirred, Honey saw it before I did and she was on the move. The last thing I remember was seeing a hint of cleavage, then the bright light of a muzzle flash.
I once heard it said about mistakes, that one should learn from mistakes, they are like sharpening a knife, each stroke on the stone makes it sharper, so I guess once again I proved that I am not the sharpest knife in the drawer.
I came to with a head that felt like all the church bells in Rome were going off at the same time. The noise they were making was anything but holy, however, since the first thing I said when I came to was “Holy crap” maybe I was wrong.
Joe was always saying that I had rocks in my head and I guess the way that slug went bouncing off my skull just went to prove it; although, the steel plate filling in for a piece of the skull I lost because a blond with a jealous ex-husband helped, that’s another story. I asked Joe for another shot, but one that comes out of a bottle this time. As I was picking up the pieces of pride that were scattered all over the floor I scanned the place for Honey and the shooter both of which were not in the house anymore. The shooter must have been named Elvis and she had left the room.
I was mad now, not only because I was wearing my favorite fedora and I hated to see holes in it but Honey was in trouble and I was set up to take the fall. The headlines would have read ‘Big Time Socialite catches lead for Small Time Dick’ read all about it. It was a good thing Honey’s eyes were as quick as her hands.
I was thinking about that when I went back to my office to try and get a grip on myself. I was also thinking that I wished Honey was here with those quick hands.
They say you get what you pay for, and in this town, for a Franklin and a half, you get a two-room flat in a skid row tenement with one 60 watt light. You need to bring your own desk, the one with a bottle of bourbon in the bottom drawer. I had that and a cat that I just call Damit. My office is on the second floor at the end of the hall, when I got there the door was ajar; I pushed open the door real quiet because I wanted to get the drop for a change instead of getting dropped like small change.
I could see the thin line of smoke from someone’s herbal cigarette floating into the air, whoever was here was sitting in my chair looking out the window I had the drop and was ready as I’ll ever be. This dick was cocked and ready, but then something stopped me short.
“Hello Nick, how’s your head, is the bourbon still in the bottom drawer”? That voice, I was starting to feel real dizzy and needed to sit down before I fell down.
Chapter 3: Norma Jean the Bean
Norma Jean is what you would call a double threat, one look at her and you understand why. She has brains, beauty, and a build. Back in the day Norma Jean, ‘The Bean’ was also my partner. Back when the skies were blue, roads were smooth, and politicians were rough. Here she is again, back like a cheap burrito, like a two-day hangover after a five-day binge, back like bad summer reruns on TV.
Working together she got the nickname, Bean because she always used her bean. If there was anybody out there that could put starch in your underwear and make you stand straight it is the Bean. Her brain was always a better choice than my brawn. To tell the truth, my brawn was never much to brag about and has been sorely lacking for some time now.
Before I could say “What the hey” the Bean says “I hear you met my sister”. It is about now that I am picking myself up off the floor. I should have sat down earlier when I was just dizzy.
I’m not sure if it is this bombshell she just dropped, or the cheap whisky, in either case, falling left a mark.