Introduction

Just a collection of Dexter Bullet stories that I have knocked together. Don't take them seriously as works of great literature. In fact, don't even try to understand them. Maybe it's best that you don't even read them...

Oh, they're are best read in the deep gravelly voice of an American private investigator of the 1930s.

Licensed to ask Personal Questions

The night was dark. Lit only by the savage lightning flashes that tore across the sky reminding me of happier times. I looked down at the corpse of Johnny McFee, the numbers man. Specialised in bingo and lotteries. The charities will miss ya, Johnny.

I stepped over the body and moved closer to the docks. I could hear talking. I fumbled in my raincoat (dirty and brown like a reporter for the Sunny newspaper) and pulled out a long hard glistening tube. I fixed my sight on my gun then my sights on the gunmen. The Mauser InfraScope (TM) lit up the darkness like a torch. Then I realised it was a torch and ducked just before the two slugs spattered against the wall behind me. I looked back and sighed at the senseless waste of two perfectly good molluscs. That was the final straw. Stepping out into the light I let the goons have it.

Later in my office I reflected that I was down to the last bale, I had better be more careful about giving the stuff away - Fred the horse was starting to look at me like I was the last doughnut and he was the only cop. I oiled the gun and started oiling myself with true double malt whiskey. Every private eyes best friend. The world looked fresher through the bottom of the bottle. Better than it did through my windows anyway.

A tap on the door signalled either a new case, or the bailiffs had finally deciphered the scrawl that I used for my address on the last loan application. I walked to the door since the window was nailed shut. It opened and a beautiful broad walked into my office. I could tell she had class since she didn't sit down. She looked at me in the same way as Fred, and that made me nervous.

"You don't work for Fat Louise, do you?" I sounded kinda squeaky. Chicks have that effect on me occasionally.

"No. Fat Louise is just a friend. I'm here to see you, Dexter, about a job that might interest you." Her voice was music in a room where only elevator jingles lived before. I resolved to develop a better ear, maybe even take up the cello.

"A job? Do I get to..."

"No. " She interrupted harshly, "I'll be asking the questions. You just have to stand beside me looking tough." She moved in real close, "Which won't be too hard for you."

Damn, I was starting like this dame. Parts of me that had been asleep were starting to wake up. I sat down behind the desk in a hurry. "Tell me more, sweet lips." I put on my best leer. And as she told me her tale the leer faded.

Two weeks later, and I'm standing outside a bar in San Francisco. I've got two suitcases bedecked in tartan and smelling of perfume. I like to travel light. Sweet lips is long gone and I've been left feeling like the sap who pulled a knife on Yosemate Sam.

Babes: never trust 'em. They'll only let you down. Show them a good time on the Champs Elysee, followed by an expensive meal in view of the Eiffel Tower. Charming and sensitive conversation about relationships and how mankind can resolve itself into one loving and caring motherhood and they'll drop you for the first caveman to walk on by. Damn. I loved that classy dame. And she knew it.

I walked into the bar and the music stopped. I knew the drill. I walked up to the barman and asked for a beer.

"You expect me to serve you a beer, you pathetic excuse for a bead of sweat on the back of a rutting sow?" The waiter was polite, if a little inaccurate. I punched him out cold and turned to face the rest of the crowd in the establishment.

"I want a beer."

I got a fight.

Afterwards, I helped Jake and Sam (my new drinking buddies) clean up the debris and generally straighten out the joint. Then we rolled one and mellowed out. Beauchamp (pronounced Beechum or he gets snotty) the barman came over and thanked me for giving him a night off. We got to talking and it was then I started to find out how I ended up in San Francisco, when my office is just outside Rotterdam.

It seems that Sweet Lips - yeah she had parents from the sixties - was in charge of an international gang of mutton smugglers. They disguised it as lamb and then used the cartels to move the joints around the place. It appeared that Sweet Lips was the honey in charge of the Eastern Seaboard operation and she was looking to find some action down south. I knew I had come to the right place.

Beauchamp offered me a room for the night, at a price. I looked at him and smiled. He looked at me and smiled. I decided to sleep under a hedge. He offered to keep me warm. I asked him not to. He insisted. So did I. I left the bar in a hurry, Beauchamp left in a sponge. Damn shame, I was starting to like him.

Morning announced itself with delicate aplomb in the form of a carefully rising sun that cast golden shafts of light around the parkland. The once grey sky had turned a deep azure and was fast closing on cornflower blue. The clouds hung in the sky like cotton buds and the birds twittered gaily in the trees above my head. I felt it was time to make some noise. I only wish that I still had the Mauser. Bird soup is frightfully delicious on a Sunday morn.

I had to get out of this town. And fast.

I hired a boat and went on a tour of the harbour. I jumped ship and headed into the dockland. With my trenchcoat pulled in close around me and pulling my tartan suitcases behind me I sneaked around the back of the warehouses. I spied with my little eye something beginning with International Mutton Smugglers. It looked as if there were fifteen goons herding three serious business men around three or four hundred sheep. Then again, it could have been the joint I had last night. It looked real enough to me, though, so I moved in for a closer look. Crouching low behind some crates I overhead the conversation.

"Dearest Bruno, so what are we partaking for dinner this fine evening?" Tall guy with slick backed hair. Looked mean and had a marvellous Home Counties accent.
"How de hell shoulda I know, Peregrine?" Short chap with a moustache, sounded like he had a bad case of accent.
"Well, old chap, you did promise to prepare a few oysters for all my trouble in coming over here from Rotterdam to look after these sheep before we move them on tomorrow night at 9:34 from Pier 52 on the White Fleece."
"We gonna sheep de sheep at night?"
The tall man groaned. I helped.
"Yes, Bruno, we 'sheep de sheep' tomorrow. Now are you all set for the changeover?"

The voices faded out. Fortunately I had what I needed to take these criminals down. I had the time and the place and most importantly, I had the motive. These guys were gonna be spending the best years of their lives doing baritone for "Tie My Kangaroo Down, Sport" in Sing Sing. One problem, though - I didn't have a pen. If I was quick I could make the 14th Precinct before my short term memory gave out to last weeks Lottery numbers.

I ran the fourteen blocks to the precinct and approached Patrick O'Reilly at the front desk. I knew this was his name because it said so on his badge.
"Hey, Paddy, there's a mutton deal goin' down on the docks and I'll be needin' your help to take the perps to The Clink." Hey, could I speak "cop" or what?
"Speak English, boy!" Patrick was obviously not amused.
"Erm... there are some low down criminal types that appear to be plotting some kind of anti-social act that is expected to occur on the morrow... sir." I could kiss butt with the best of them.
"You've got about two seconds left before I have you for breakfast."
"Och, so ye caught me there, Paddy. I was just mentioning that I overheard some double dealing goin' on down at the docks, sure, and I was a-wanderin' if I should report it to your good self, sir." Multi-lingual me, mate.
"Why didn't you say so you half-cretinous imbecile," Patrick rose to his feet, "and what in heaven's name are ye doin' with that luggage?"

The freighter stood in the dock like Mr.Biggg about to be sent down for twenty. Huge and hulking it towered over the forces of justice as if they were but nothing. I stood back while the cops moved in. The goons put up a good fight but they were no match for the San Francisco police department. Soon it was all over. The goons lay face down in the dirt and photographers were flashing from all corners. It wasn't a pretty sight so I turned to leave.

Something caught my eye. It looked as if the show was not over yet. Sweet Lips was still on board the freighter. I quickly boarded the White Fleece and made my way to the bridge. Sweet Lips was waiting for me.
"What are you gonna do, Dexter?" Her full bosom heaved as she stood tall. The moonlight shone across her face. Her lips were full and wanting. A dozen thoughts crossed my mind. Only five of them were legal, and even then only in California.
"I'm going to turn you in, dame. You're bad to the bone. But before I hand you over to Paddy and the rest of the 14th Precinct, there's just one thing I want to know."
"Yes, Dexter...."
"What colour underwear are you wearing?"
"Isn't that kind of a...?"
"Yeah, baby, but don't worry. I'm Dexter Bullet - licensed to ask personal questions."

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Dexter Bullet in the Case of the Missing Aardvark

Life was being good. She had given me a bottle of whiskey, two dozen Cuban cigars and a fine housekeeper. An hour later and life was back to normal. The booze was heading south to the river, the housekeeper was heading north to paid employment and the cigars were with the housekeeper.

I needed a new case badly. The old one was looking a bit torn around the edges, and in places the stitching was completely ruined. I was just reaching for the sewing kit when there was a knock at the door. I looked up and saw the outline of a huge man against the window of the door. He looked like one of Jimmy “Spleen Ripper” McFurson’s men - heavies who didn’t bother with the questions. This made me uneasy since I was in debt to Jimmy “The Spade” McFurson to the tune of fifty thousand smackers.

I strode over to the door, punched through the glass and watched as the big man staggered back from the jab to the jaw. He went down and I walked over to him. With a knee on his chest I asked, “Who sent ya? Was it Jimmy “Fluffy Wuffy” McFurson?”

“Er, no”, said the big man, “actually, I was hoping you could help me find my aardvark, Algernon.”

“No-one but Sweet Lips calls me Algernon, and never in public.”

I helped the man to his feet and he introduced himself as Harwin Foxtrot, manager of a menagerie. Rubbing his jaw, he accompanied me into the office where he hit me with the details.

Seems as though Harwin had been getting himself into trouble with the menagerie. Not so many people wanted to see the animals he had on show there. In a desperate bid to raise dough he’d gone to see Jimmy “The Baker” McFurson, and had ended up with Jimmy’s sticky fingers in his pie.

To Harwin, there was no way out until Algernon the Aardvark came into his possession. Algernon could sing, dance and perform many of the lead parts from Shakespeare. He was an immediate hit with the crowds. Business was booming and Harwin was about to pay off Jimmy “Aardvark Thief” McFurson, when Jimmy stole the aardvark. Now all that was left of Harwin’s business was a tortoise that could play the piano, and an infinite number of monkeys who used to supply much of Algernon’s stage material.

“It’s the cost of feeding the monkeys, you see. There’s an infinite number of them, and only one of me. The money just doesn’t cover the cost of keeping them.”

My maths was always bad, but even I could see his point. I was glad I lived on the other side of town from the menagerie. I leaned back in my private eye special leather chair and looked out of the window. Outside the city was going through its morning ritual of noise and pollution. I needed a break, and this could be just the job I needed to get me out of this city.

“Where do I start?” I asked.

“Here are your plane tickets to Switzerland.”

Two days later and I’m standing in a town just west of Zurich called Aarau. I looked around the hedgerows for a while trying to find some trace of Algernon, then I decided to think big. I went over to the local theatre and asked if Algernon was in. They showed me to his changing room.

“Algernon, I’m taking you back. Harwin needs you and the monkeys are getting out of hand.” I rehearsed my speech as I walked down the corridor to Algernon’s door. It had two gold stars on the front along with the name “Algernon “The Aardvark” von Montague-Smith” emblazoned in gold lettering around the top in a semicircular motif. I knocked. He answered.

I looked down at the aardvark. He looked kinda cute in his smoking jacket and slippers. He bade me welcome and I stepped over him into the room. Inside there were the usual things that actors need: lipstick, rouge, mascara - it looked kinda like my bedroom. Algernon poured me a whiskey. I shot the shooter and asked for a chaser. He handed me the bottle. I liked this aardvark.

“I can’t go back, Mr. Bullet, sir.” Algernon looked worried. I looked at my empty bottle - I drink faster when I’m in good company.

“Ya gotta go back, Algae, Harwin needs ya.”
“I know, but Jimmy “Nice Guy” McFurson has set me up here in Aarau four nights a week with my own hit show. Things are looking great, and he says that I can get my family over from Oz anytime now.”

“Hmmmm,” I could see Algernon’s point. Why would he want to go back to a third rate stage show in a menagerie run by a fourth rate manager. Even it did have a tortoise that could play the piano. Here Algernon had a future, he meant something, and Jimmy “Reformed Character” McFurson was looking after him to make sure that he made it to the top of his profession.

However, no aardvark, no cheque.

I tapped the aardvark on the head with the bottle and placed his unconscious body in the suitcase.

Fifteen hours on a plane with an unconscious aardvark in your hand luggage is not my idea of fun. Fifteen hours with a Las Vegas showgirl called Sweet Lips anxious to return all your winnings to the casino below, now that’s a whole different bucket of love.

Apart from the occasional muffled moans from the overhead compartment, my journey back to the Windy City was eventful. The stewardess was friendly, a little too friendly to get my refusal, and the subscription fee for the Mile High Club became just another entry on my expense account. Sometimes it’s good to be a private detective. I think the chicks dig my trenchcoat; either that or it’s my deep, gravelled voice.

I lit up another smoke, inhaled deep and felt the surge of nicotine rush through me. Unfortunately a rush of water to the head followed it. The woman two rows down had emptied her entire supply of Evian in my direction. I figured that she had nothing left to give, so I lit up another. She rummaged, found some DVT socks and approached me with the same look that my Turkish masseur gave me the time I forget my wallet. Reliving those hours in that cubicle with Abdul dropped that weed right out of my mouth.

I called for a drink. The steward wiggled over. I asked for a stiff whisky. He looked at me knowingly and winked. I asked him if he knew Beauchamp. Turned out Beauchamp was his brother. Turned out that he was looking for me. Turned out that he knew kung fu.

The plane touched down on I35, they chucked me out the back and took off. I was stuck out in the middle of Utah, with an aardvark in a carpetbag and as much humour as the British Army when the teabags are missing. I needed a car badly. Fortunately, Sammy’s Car Dealership was just across the highway, through the traffic jam, across the small wood, over the river, under the bridge and on the far side of the mulberry bush.

The car salesman had more patter than the Chinese army in flip-flops. He was six foot four and full of muscle. I needed a car. He needed a sale. I underwent open wallet surgery, and everyone was happy - except my client’s accountant. I was now the proud owner of a pink Cadillac, complete with fake fur and leather interior. It matched my luggage. I reached in and retrieved Algernon and placed him on the passenger seat. The road trip from Hell had begun.

Two days in and I’m feeling lower than a rattlesnake in a wagon rut. Two more days and that rattlesnake is so far above me that I can’t even see it. All I want is to die, and it’s only a misplaced loyalty to my client that prevents me from strangling Algernon. A single run through of “One Hundred Green Bottles” involving a musical aardvark with nothing but a kazoo is enough to test the patience of any man. Four days of nothing else is grounds for justifiable homicide. I couldn’t take it anymore. I had been pushed to the brink. I reached for my pet Magnum and was just about to pop a few caps into Algernon’s musical ass, when the Windy City came into view. I put the gun and the hammer down.

It turned out that one of Algernon’s other skills was map reading which meant that we pulled up outside of the menagerie in time to meet Harwin before he started on the daily feeding run. He ushered us into his office, took my coat, hat and nearly my gun before I could stop him, and bade us sit down. I reclined gracefully on my upturned beer crate, and Algernon leaned against the desk cutting quite a dash with his new found smoking jacket, cigarillo and copy of Q, by Luther Blissett.

“Glad to see you back, Algernon. You gave us all quite a scare with your sudden disappearance, are you ready for your evening performance?”

Algernon opened his mouth to say something when suddenly the door burst open and in stepped Jimmy “Dear God, No” McFurson with two of his favourite heavies dressed like characters from The Dominatrix – the sadomasochistic bar on 13th Street and Main.

“Hello, ladies. It looks like you weren’t expecting me. Cuff ‘em, boys.”

Now, I’m not usually one for submitting to a pair of heavies, dressed in leather bondage gear wielding handcuffs. But when those heavies are working for Jimmy “You’re in real trouble now” McFurson, then you just have to go along with things until Fate can get off her elegant posterior and conjure up some form of deus ex machina. Unfortunately, it appeared that Fate was taking a much needed holiday with Faith, Hope and Charity in Greece leaving her boyfriend Loki in charge. I may not be good at mixing my mythologies, but even I could see that this was going to be bad news all round.

Five minutes of what can only be described as a demonstration of a dedicated passion to one’s chosen profession later, and I was strung upside down over a pool of water looking down at a pair of circling sharks and wondering how my loose change had managed to stay in my pockets.

The rope binding my feet was fed over a pulley and tied off with a neat constrictor knot against a convenient post. Personally, I would have chosen a bowline, or perhaps a shank, but now was not a time to know knots. And, frankly, I was more concerned about the burning candle placed just below the rope that was starting to cause a nasty fray.

“Jimmy, old friend, pal and more than moderate acquaintance. How can you do this to your ex-partner?”

“Dexter, you’ve had this coming to you for a long time. You’ve owed me fifty thousand smackers for weeks now and I’m here to collect it from your sorry white ass.”

“Harwin’s got the money! My fee for getting Algernon back will more than cover the debt.”

“Small problem, Dexter, old mate, buddy et cetera. Harwin doesn’t have the money. He was about to go out of business, remember? Also, Algernon works for me now, so in addition to owing me the cash you have also attempted to steal my aardvark. The way I see it, you’re better off as shark food, old chum.”

Even I had to wince at that delicately built reposte. And then the candle burned through the rope and I fell head first into the shark pool.

I’m not sure who was more surprised: me or the sharks. You see, those sharks belonged to Harwin’s menagerie and had been quietly circling in that small pool for years. Yes, they looked menacing and the crowds would “ooh” and “aah” whenever they flipped their tails or munched on some bits of food dropped in during a show, but the truth was that they were cowards. When I dropped in on them from a short height they froze for a moment and then dived in panic to the bottom of the pool. Never being one to miss an opportunity to escape I swam to the side, climbed out and ran like hell.

The goons were professionals, but even they hadn’t expected this so I had a good ten seconds head start before they gave chase. When they did it was a chase like no other ever described in the history of storytelling. Full of fistfights; death defying leaps to safety; frantic grabs at passing trams; elegant pole vaults over rocks; cunning cliff dives into small glasses of water; unique demonstrations of acrobatic light aircraft flights in the canyons of Tibet with it all ending in a crashing finale that terminated in an ending to end all endings. So I won’t bore you with the details here.

The goons had shuffled off their mortal coils, Jimmy “What the hell happened?” McFurson was nursing a large lump to the back of his head back in the Windy City, and I was sitting with Algernon, my new partner, in a bar in Tangiers. Once again, life was being good.

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