The Return of the Detective

It’s been nearly ten years since I had last opened for businesses. I swiveled in my chair to look out the office window. It felt so good to swivel, that I did it again, and then I spun several times, just as a reminder to what is was like being a kid.

I never liked being a kid, because I was dizzy half the time from spinning around in chairs, on merry-go-rounds, and in the yard.

Nauseous, I stopped spinning and stared outside at the heat shimming off the sidewalks. The heat shimmered because it was summertime.

I know that, because I’m an Outdoor Detective.

It isn’t a permanent job, but there are times when my skills are called for by those in the outdoor world.

A quick knock on my door, and Doc burst through.

“You’re gonna have to fix that,” I said, looking at my busted door.

“I will,” he answered. “But right now, I’m here to hire the Outdoor Detective.”

I leaned back in the chair and grasped the desk to make the world stop spinning. “I’d love to work for you. But I have one important question. Do you have a record?”

He shook his head, sadly. “No. But you know me, Rev. You know I don’t have a record.”

With a heavy sigh, I turned and pulled a record out of my stack of LPs. “This is a soundtrack for an inner cinema of the mind, depicting a plunge into those darker elements of Los Angeles night-life, a recurring theme of the film noir of the 1940s and 50s. It shows a brutal and corrupt society at odds with itself in all facets of life.”

“Huh?” Doc asked, obviously not following my train of thought.

The train almost derailed, but I pulled it back on track with a might mental tug.

Mellow saxophone music soon filled the office. “This is little changed from those days of Robert Mitchum, Robert Taylor or Humphrey Bogart.”

“I don’t want those guys. I just want to find my lost shotgun.”

Nodding, I opened the right bottom drawer of my desk, removed a bottle and thumped it beside two highball glasses. “You want some?” I asked.

“Nope. I don’t like Diet Coke.”

I returned the bottle with a smile. “Just testing you. I don’t like diet drinks either.”

We nodded pleasantly, each alone with out thoughts. I finally got too lonely and formulated a question. “Where did you see the shotgun last?” I adjusted the small fan on my desk so that it would give us some relief.

“You look silly waving at yourself with that Japanese fan,” he said. “The last time I saw my shotgun was when you were using it during quail season.”

“Hummm,” I said, leaning back and staring at the ceiling.

“It isn’t up there,” Doc said.  “Why are you humming?  Don’t you know the words?”

I ignored his question.  Of course I didn’t know the words, that’s why I was humming.  “Can you describe this shotgun?”

“It’s kind of long, with a metal barrel and a wooden stock,” he answered.

I thought about that description. Then I shifted tactics. “Just why do you need a shotgun this time of the year? There aren’t any hunting seasons open in July.”

“You’re right. I want to shoot skeet.”

Startled, I jerked upright. “Why. What did our friend Skeet do to you?”

Also startled, Doc jerked upright. “I don’t know. What did Skeet do to me? Maybe he has my shotgun.”

“Nope,” I said, relaxing. “I gave the shotgun back to you when I finished with it.”

“Do you have witnesses that say you did?” Doc asked.

“Do you have witnesses that say I didn’t?” I shot back.

Doc ducked, the shot just missing him. Then he straightened up. “Good point.”

“It was a good point, but I missed,” I said, blowing into the barrel of my finger and winking at Doc.

He winked back and it startled me. His phone rang and he answered it, bellowing into the receiver.

“Bellow!” he shouted. “Bellow!”

I stared hard at him until he hung up, because I hate cellphones. “Look, there’s one thing that is successful in this business,” I said.

“What’s that?”

“Someone who knows everything. Hey Snookums!” I shouted through the busted door.

Seconds later, a somewhat irritated War Department answered. “What!”

“Where’s Doc’s shotgun?”

“It’s in your gun case, right next to Wrong Willie’s rifle you borrowed last year.”

I waved a hand. “There’s you answer.”

Doc waved back, stood up and offered his hand.

“No thanks,” I said. “I have two of my own.”

He turned to leave, and then stopped and turned. “I just need to know one thing, kid. Are you just acting like an Outdoor Detective?”

I turned my back to look out the window once again. “No, acting is reciting words someone else wrote and then you pretend they’re you own. This is just make-believe.”

“I should have known,” Doc said and slipped downstairs to get his shotgun, and I soon found out, mine.

“I should have known he’d do that, too,” I said quietly to myself. “Because I’m an Outdoor Detective.

A Text

In this world of weirdness, texts simply amp things up a notch. Yesterday, I received what I thought was some strange Haiku in progress as my wife left her office. It read:

I left my post
it seems like
there was one more thing.
On the island.

As I pondered those words, a second text arrived, to seemingly finish the thought.

Fruit remembered.

Wow, words with power! I read it again in its entirety, loving the flow. I considered her thoughts. Did she mean she’d quit her job and we were headed to an island for rest and relaxation? Did she recall the wonderful fruit we ate in Hawaii nearly two years ago that was juicy, ripe and delicious.

I read it again in its entirety and wept at the beauty.
I left my post
it seems like
there was one more thing.
On the island.
Fruit remembered.

I couldn’t wait for her to get home.

She came in an hour later with two grocery bags and thumped them on the counter. “I left my Post-It note on the island in the kitchen this morning and couldn’t remember the last thing on my grocery list. It was bananas.”

She gave me a long look. “Why are you wearing a Hawaiian shirt in February?”

She’s right. Life is bananas. I just love that gal!

The Big Rack

                It was a warm, windy morning.  My window was open and the breeze had cooled things off somewhat.  The door to my office slammed open.

            A man stood there.  I was glad, because the last time it was a monkey holding a football and I still hadn’t gotten all the bananas out of the carpet.

            “I’m looking for a big rack for next deer season,” the man said and casually leaned against the frame. 

“Don’t you know better than to lean against frames?” I asked.  “Straighten it up and sit down over there.”  I walked to the closet without taking my eyes off him, opened the door and selected a wooden coat rack.  I handed it to him.  He examined it.  “Now that’s a nice rack.”

            “Thanks,” I said, smiling slightly and gratefully wove my way around and between his feet.  I’m an Outdoor Detective.  We perfected slight smiles.

            “But what I had in mind was a nice set of antlers,” he clarified.  “I want something for my wall.”

             “For your wall,” I repeated, thinking.

            “Yes.”

            “How about a diploma?”

            “That would be nice.”

            “But you’re really looking for a trophy.”

            “Now you understand.”

            “How about this one!” I shouted suddenly and slid a gold trophy across my desk.

            “Bowling,” he read off the engraved plaque.  “Highest Attendance In A Season.”

            “Whadda ya think of that?”

            “I’ve seen better.”

             “Oh, a hardcase, huh?”

            He looked down beside him.  “No, this one is Cordura.”

            We eyed each other across the desk.  Mine dried out first and I had to blink.  I blinked the right one first.  Then the left.

            He winked, slowly.  I was worried, wondering just what kind of man I had in my office.

            “You want me to find you a rack,” I repeated, clarifying my position.

            “At least ten points.”

            “What kind of spread?”

“Twenty-four.”

“You could get better odds on the next Aggie game from that bookie down the street.”

“I know.  But I heard you produced the best racks in town.”

“You want a deer under that?”

            “Of course.”

            “Oh, attitude huh?  You think you’re a tough nut to crack?”

            “Don’t try to hammer me, you stinkin’ gumshoe.”

            I opened the lower right hand drawer of my desk with my left hand, then moved the rocket launcher out of the way.  I keep it there for emergencies.  I tried to find a hammer but it was still in the way.  Reluctantly, I took the weapon out and placed it on the desk.

            “Bazooka?”

            “Sure,” I handed him a piece of gum.

            “No, I mean the weapon.  Is that a bazooka?”

            I examined it.  It looked vaguely familiar.  “Yes.”

            “Why do you have it in your drawer?”

            “Because a tank wouldn’t fit.”

            He chewed thoughtfully, looking at the ceiling. “It’s been such a nice day,” he said.

            “Yep, there’s been twelve inches of snow in the last couple of hours.  So how can I help you?”

            “Shovel my front walk, or find me a lease.”

            I slid one across the desk.  It came to rest beside the bowling trophy.  “Sign that lease and you can drive the car for three years, or for three thousand miles, whichever comes first.”

            “You can’t trick me,” he sneered.  “No one keeps a car for three years these days.”

            “All right.  Here, I have a lease for you in west Texas.  Big racks that can hold up to a 52 Tall.”

            “Now we’re talking,” he said.

            “We’ve been talking all along,” I argued.

            “Right.”

            He paid me with a wad of cash big enough to choke a horse, I know because I woke up the next morning and a horse was lying in bed beside me, dead as a mackerel.  I resisted the urge to beat him, because there was no use.  Everyone says you can’t beat a dead horse.

            I went back to the office to start another day as an Outdoor Detective.

           

 

The Case of the Invisible Case

I’d been puttering around my office all afternoon.  After a while I put the putter away and kicked all the golfballs into a corner.  I leaned back in my chair with my feet on my desk, listening to the soothing sounds of the city.

“Shut up, Harry!” screamed the soothing voice from next door.  “You’re not taking my sister for a walk anymore, and get that stupid dog out of here!!!”

“It isn’t a dog!  It’s your mother!”  Sirens punctuated her sentences, and noxious fumes rolled in from the traffic above.

I had just returned from a weekend of pheasant hunting in the plains.  We flushed birds for two days.  Then I called the plumber and he cleared the drain.

“Don’t flush anymore pheasants,” he ordered.

I joined him and ordered also, hamburger and fries.

“Try flushing quail, they’re smaller,” he said, then left.

Someone knocked timidly at my office door.  “Come in!”  I turned on the background saxophone music to set the mood.

The man who entered looked like he wanted to run.  It was his running shoes, headband, and shorts that gave him away.  He was sweating.  “You don’t have to yell.”

“I’m sorry.  What can I do for you?”

“I want to hire the Outdoor Detective.”

“That’s me,” I answered proudly.

“I expected more.”

“They always do.  What can I do for you?”

“I want to hire you to find my missing hunting guide.  I’ll pay you well.”

I licked his hand gratefully.

“You need to keep your eyes peeled for him.”

“I’d rather not,” I said.  “They always dry out when I peel them, and those dried peelings all over the floor crackle under your feet.”

“Is that your dog?” his gaze wandered as I talked, ignoring my comments.  He pointed to the corner.

“Yes.”

“What’s his name?”

“Neil.”

“Play dead, Neil,” he said.  “Good dog.”

“He is dead.”

“Oh.  Well, anyway, I’d look for the guide myself but I don’t know how.  Maybe you could show me the ropes?”

I produced several ropes of various lengths.

“It looks too complicated,” he decided.  “Maybe you’d better do it for me.  How much will it cost?”

“That depends.  Are you rich?” I asked.

“No, I’m Ken.

“You don’t look like kin.  You must be from dad’s side of the family.”

“Will it cost a lot?”

“What’s a lot to you?”

“A big piece of land to scrape clean and cover with concrete buildings.”

I smiled in understanding.  “Never mind. What happened to your hunting guide?”

“I’m not sure.  We were hunting out near Abilene and communicating by walkie-talkies…”

I took notes as he talked.  Mostly B flats.

“…and I was in a deer stand.  He was in the coffee shop when a huge buck stepped into my view.  I described it; a large animal with legs and antlers.  I heard him order

coffee and then he said shoot.  I was almost ready to pull the trigger, I just had to load the rifle and attach the scope, when guns began firing all around me.  Then machine guns started chattering and pretty soon I heard artillery thumping in the distance.  Soon the mortars kicked in for support.  It was awful.”

“The shooting?” I asked, sympathetically.

“No, the coffee.  He said it was chicory.  Ya gotta help me!” he shouted.

“You’ve gotta stop saying words like ya gotta!” I shouted back.  “I don’t know what he looks like.  Do you have a picture?”

He produced an oil portrait of Picasso.

I didn’t say a word.  He has mean eyes, I thought, both on the same side of his head.

“What do you think?” he asked.

I dummied up.  His eyes narrowed.  “I can see the dummy’s mouth move when you talk,” he said.

“It’s supposed to be the other way around,” I answered.

“Good luck.”

“Luck has nothing to do with it.”  We shook hands and he left.

I practiced my yodeling and for a while, turned off the music and smiled at Neil.  “Good dog,” I said.

I hate it when dogs jump up on people.

The Case of the Invisible Case

            I’d been puttering around my office all afternoon.  After a while I put the putter away, kicked all the golfballs into a corner.  I leaned back in my chair with my feet on my desk, listening to the soothing sounds of the city.

            “Shut up, Harry!” screamed the soothing voice from next door.  “You’re not taking my sister for a walk anymore, and get that stupid dog out of here!!!”

            “It isn’t a dog!  It’s your mother!”  Sirens punctuated her sentences, and noxious fumes rolled in from the traffic above. 

            I had just returned from a weekend of pheasant hunting in the plains.  We flushed birds for two days.  Then I called the plumber and he cleared the drain.

            “Don’t flush anymore pheasants,” he ordered.

            I joined him and ordered also, hamburger and fries. 

“Try flushing quail, they’re smaller,” he said, then left. 

            Someone knocked timidly at my office door.  “Come in!”  I turned on the background saxophone music to set the mood.

            The man who entered looked like he wanted to run.  It was his running shoes, headband, and shorts that gave him away.  He was sweating.  “You don’t have to yell.”

            “I’m sorry.  What can I do for you?”

            “I want to hire the Outdoor Detective.”

            “That’s me,” I answered proudly.

            “I expected more.”

            “They always do.  What can I do for you?”

            “I want to hire you to find my missing hunting guide.  I’ll pay you well.”

            I licked his hand gratefully.

            “You need to keep your eyes peeled for him.”

            “I’d rather not,” I said.  “They always dry out when I peel them, and those dried peelings all over the floor crackle under your feet.”

            “Is that your dog?” his gaze wandered as I talked, ignoring my comments.  He pointed to the corner.

            “Yes.”

            “What’s his name?”

            “Neil.”

            “Play dead, Neil,” he said.  “Good dog.”

            “He is dead.”

            “Oh.  Well, anyway, I’d look for the guide myself but I don’t know how.  Maybe you could show me the ropes?”

            I produced several ropes of various lengths.

            “It looks too complicated,” he decided.  “Maybe you’d better do it for me.  How much will it cost?”

            “That depends.  Are you rich?” I asked.

            “No, I’m Ken.

            “You don’t look like kin.  You must be from dad’s side of the family.”

            “Will it cost a lot?”

            “What’s a lot to you?”

            “A big piece of land to scrape clean and cover with concrete buildings.”

            I smiled in understanding.  “Never mind. What happened to your hunting guide?”

            “I’m not sure.  We were hunting out near Abilene and communicating by walkie-talkies…”

            I took notes as he talked.  Mostly B flats.

            “…and I was in a deer stand.  He was in the coffee shop when a huge buck stepped into my view.  I described it; a large animal with legs and antlers.  I heard him order

coffee and then he said shoot.  I was almost ready to pull the trigger, I just had to load the rifle and attach the scope, when guns began firing all around me.  Then machine guns started chattering and pretty soon I heard artillery thumping in the distance.  Soon the mortars kicked in for support.  It was awful.”

            “The shooting?” I asked, sympathetically.

            “No, the coffee.  He said it was chicory.  Ya gotta help me!” he shouted.

            “You’ve gotta stop saying words like ya gotta!” I shouted back.  “I don’t know what he looks like.  Do you have a picture?”

            He produced an oil portrait of Picasso.

            I didn’t say a word.  He has mean eyes, I thought, both on the same side of his head.

            “What do you think?” he asked.

            I dummied up.  His eyes narrowed.  “I can see the dummy’s mouth move when you talk,” he said.

            “It’s supposed to be the other way around,” I answered.

            “Good luck.”

            “Luck has nothing to do with it.”  We shook hands and he left.

                I practiced my yodeling and for a while, turned off the music and smiled at Neil.  “Good dog,” I said.

            I hate it when dogs jump up on people.

The Case of the Nervous Stomach

I was looking under the desk for that strange noir saxophone music when the door to my office burst open.  Each time I heard the music someone always came to the door.  It was annoying.  Thunder rumbled and lightning flashed.  It was a beautiful day.

A harried looking man was standing in the doorway.  “I need help,” he said.

“That’s what I’m here for,” I answered.  “I’m an Outdoor Detective.”

“I know.  That’s why I’m here.”

“Of course.”

Us Outdoor Detectives always talk in short sentences.  You don’t have to think so hard about where to put the commas.

He nervously paced the room, then slumped into one of two chairs and fumbled a cigarette of the package.

“Fumble!” I shouted and dove for the cigarette.  We wrestled for a moment, then he came up with the toonie and did a victory dance.  He returned to his chair, breathing hard.

“You can’t smoke in here,” I said.

He sighed, put the pack away and pulled out a bottle of bubbles. He blew through the little wand.  Bubbles floated in the air.  “That’s better,” he said.  “It helps settle my nerves, but it’s so danged habit forming.  I think it’s the additives they put in here.”

“Of course, even though I’m usually concerned about second-hand bubbles.  How can I help you?”

He looked around the room.  “This place could be bugged.”

“The exterminators were here last week.”

“Good.  Turn on the radio to cover our voices.”

It was a strange request, but I turned to the radio and gave it a try.  “You’re a cute little radio.  How about a drink?”

“That’s not what I meant.  Never mind. I need your help. Are you any good?”

I smiled and settled a cheek on my worn desk.  I’d worn it so much it was wrinkled.  It needed ironing.  “I’m very good.”

“I can’t understand you with your cheek against the desk.  Sit up and talk to me.”

I straightened up.  “I said I’m very good.  I’ve won an Academy Award, a Tony Award, the Nobel Peace Prize, the Pulitzer, I was homecoming queen and took first place in my second grade spelling bee.”

He frowned, relieved.  “All right.  You need to help me beat a habit.”

“Hang it on a clothesline and whop it a few times with a tennis racket.”

“Is that all?”

“Remove the nun first.”

We both nodded at the brilliance of that statement.

“I have a serious habit of buying more guns than I need.”

I was appalled.  “No one can have too many guns.”

“I have three hundred and fifty six, plus a slingshot.”

“I see your point.  Sell the slingshot.”

“You gonna answer that phone?” he asked.

“I didn’t hear it ask a question.”  Then I heard the ring.  It was my cellphone.  I wanted to answer it, but I couldn’t find the keys to the cell.

My new client wept, softly.  “I can’t buy any more guns.  My wife said she’d leave me if I bought another one, and I’ll sure miss her.”

He wiped his nose on a sleeve.  I keep sleeves in the desk for just such an emergency.

“You have to help me go straight!” he clutched my collar.

I grabbed his collar.  Turn about is fair play.  “Stay away from corners!”

“Of course,” he said, enlightened.

I smiled.

“I feel better,” he said and rose to leave.

“Give me a ring if things get bad again,” I said.

“How about a bracelet?” he asked.

“That should have been my line,” I answered, annoyed.

He beat a hasty retreat and was gone.  I didn’t mind.  I didn’t like that particular Hasty anyway.  It deserved to be beaten.  Then I realized I hadn’t gotten his name.  I had nowhere to send the bill.

“Sorry Bill,” I said.  “I have nowhere to send you.”

He looked sheepish and left quietly.

I turned and stared outside at the snow falling in the bright sunshine as the saxophone played on.

Gumshoe

 

            I was in my office as the first leaves of autumn skittered across the parking lot down below.  The second and third were right behind them. 

 

            Some say I was loafing, but I was working on a case.  The empty cans from that case were scattered all over the floor and I was halfway through. 

 

            It was lite, but I still had that full feeling.

 

            That’s sometimes part of my job.       

 

            I’m an Outdoor Detective.

 

            In addition, I also had a head cold.

 

            For once I felt I was off duty.  The chair was leaned back and my shoes were propped on the desk.  I, on the other hand, was standing in my socks beside the closet door.  My ear was against the wall, listening.  I’d been working all day, trying to find out where that Mellow Saxophone Music For Detectives was coming from. 

 

            It was so bad I had a case of the screaming meemies.  The entire case, all twenty-four of them, were over in the corner and an occasional scream erupted from a frustrated meemie throat.

 

            I was having less luck than Bonnie and Clyde.

 

            I was looking under my desk, when the door opened.  It was Wrong Willie.  He didn’t knock.

 

            “Don’t stand on ceremony,” I said.  “Just feel free to barge right in.”

 

            “I’m standing on the floor,” he argued.

 

            He was right.  Ceremony was sniffing the meemies in the corner.  Then he made a puddle and lay down for a nap.

 

            I sneezed. 

 

            “Have a cold?” he asked.

 

            “No thanks,” I responded, irritated that he’d offer.  “I already have one.”  I sneezed again.

 

            “Gesundheit,” he said.

 

            “No, Wortham, Outdoor Detective.”

 

            “We’re in luck.  I found a new lease.  It’s a steal,” Wrong Willie said.

 

            “It’s a crime to steal.” I like saying Detective things like that.

 

            “It’s a figure of speech.”

 

            “Nice figure,” I offered in my best Mike Hammer voice.

 

            “Thanks,” he said, shyly.

 

            We smiled.

 

            “I can’t say I’m not surprised that you finally found a lease,” I said.  “Well, I guess I could say I’m surprised…I’m surprised. Yep, I said it. See?”

 

             “Surely I don’t have to put up with this all the time,” Wrong Willie complained.

 

            “Don’t call me Shirley,” I said.  “I need more information about this theft.  I’m always looking for answers.  For example, if Doreen’s Cafe is open 24 hours a day, why does the door have locks?”

 

            “Chill out.  I mean we have a cheap lease.”

 

            “I’m cool as a cucumber,” I said, coolly.  Gads, we Detectives get to say neat stuff.  “Why would we want a cheap lease?  Probably says made in Japan.”

 

            “You don’t have to worry about that anymore,” Wrong Willie said.  “Japan owns the whole world now, including Yellowstone Park.  They’re trying to miniaturize it so they can take it back on a tour bus.”

 

            “I’ve had cheap broads and cheap booze, but never a cheap lease,”  I mused and tried to adjust the shoulder holster under my coat.  It wasn’t there.  I don’t own one, and I didn’t have on a coat.

 

            Events sometimes conspire against me. 

 

            I looked over in the corner at the Event brothers.  “Quit conspiring against me,” I ordered.  They glared and slunk out the door like whipped curs.  “Let’s hear it. Step up to the plate and tell me about it.”

 

            Wrong Willie did.  The plate cracked.  I was annoyed.  It broke up the set.

 

            “The lease is out near… oh what’s that town…it’s on the tip of my tongue.”

 

            I examined his tongue. 

 

            He was lying. 

 

            The only thing there was a chive.  I don’t like liars, but decided not to harp on it.  I preferred the accordion.  He pointed to the town on a map.  It wasn’t a map, but a stained napkin.  I agreed.  We shook hands and he left.

 

            I again looked around for the source of the saxophone music, but couldn’t find it. 

 

            I finally unpacked my accordion and joined in.

 

            Such is the life of an Outdoor Detective.