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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