Yadda is My Business

Yadda is My Business  
-  Yo Noir Tale by Sam Spade  -  
(A 2 Bit P.I. in a 2D World)

I knew I had a real case when I had a real body. Well, as real as anything gets in this 2 bit, 2D world the uppity ups call Yoville. And what a body. So many curves that if it’d been as large as her ego Zynga would have sprinkled her with “Dangerous Curve” signs.

“But, I’m getting ahead of myself.” I stopped and looked at the police stenographer. You getting all this down, Son? I’m not going too fast am I?” “I’m getting it all,” he said. “Good, cuz I don’t feel like repeating it. I feel like getting a double bourbon w a bourbon chaser.”

“...with a bourbon chaser... Yes sir.” I couldn’t tell if the stenographer was being funny. “Go on, Sam,” the lieutenant said. Cops always like to seem kind & encouraging when you are doing their work for them. That’s OK. I like most cops, & the ones I don’t shouldn’t be cops.

The Lieutenant smiled, reached into his desk, pulled out a bottle of Kentucky’s 2nd rate, and poured me a glass. Like I said, cops like to seem kind, except for the few who should be bouncers, or pretending to be baboons in cut-rate zoos. I drank, he poured. I began again.

“So, let’s start at the beginning, if you’ve got the time.” “We’ve got all the time in the world,” Lieutenant Gregg Column said. I knew he meant that if he didn’t like the way I told the story I might be counting the years with little marks on a wall. That didn’t bother me.

It started dull, the way Y Town is when you haven’t any dough. No Yo Cash, no coins, nothing, just my ‘08 Itsaboy cigar & selling stuff on Yo Bay to keep up. Living off special delivery boxes, punching in at the Widget Factory, and hoping a client comes along.

I contemplated my line of work and my name reversed in the office window. I contemplated the 3/4 empty bottle of bourbon in my lower right desk drawer & Zynga’s lack of imagination. The bell on  the outer door rang as did the phone. I picked up the phone. “Spade.”

A sultry voice that could melt steel purred. “Good afternoon, Mr. Spade. A good friend referred you, a friend who said you knew how to be discrete.” I realized I still had a pulse. “Sure, I can be discrete, comes with being a P.I. Is there a job in this somewhere?”

“Perhaps. I’d like to discuss a matter, but not at your office. Do you suppose we could meet at Z’s Casino? Say 7? I can pay you for your time.” “Sure, I’ll be there. But you needn’t pay until I accept the case.” “Tonight then...” She hung up. The clock resumed ticking.

I straightened my tie, ran my hand over my hair, & opened the door to my “lobby”. A suit was standing in the center of the room, disdaining the tweed couch, wooden chairs, and empty secretary desk. He smiled pleasantly with straight teeth under a straight nose.

His forehead was so high I expected snow. Instead, waves of dark hair marched smartly across, imitating Hollywood leads. He was thin the way some men can be w/out exercise & vices. His tailored grey suit showed him to be one of those pet lawyers millionaires keep.

“Are you Mr. Spade?” “I’m what’s left of him. How can I be of service?” “I have a delicate matter to discuss.” “Seems to be a run on those today. Come on in. Let’s discuss.” I held the door, he entered trailing a whiff of expensive cologne. I’ll stick with Old Spice.

He handed me a gilded business card: Horace Smelwelo, Le Bar O Cue Escape, DiGringo Way, Big Dog Valley. (555) 314-1592. “How might I be of service?” “I have a client...” He paused. “Swell. Are you willing to share?” “Perhaps. Might I trust you to be discrete?” 

“As long as I’m not called upon to testify, I have nothing to gain and everything to lose in being indiscrete. A detective who can’t keep his mouth shut is either out of business or he meets folks willing to shut it for him. He glanced at the cigar box. “Mind if I smoke?” “Not at all.”

Mr. Smelwelo looked around, apparently determining if my nauga-hyde chairs, weathered desk, and art deco reject lamps rose to the quality he expected in those he hired. He sighed, indicating I would have to do despite reservations. He took a wooden chair, sat.

Horace drew a thin gold art deco cigarette case, produced a matching lighter & lit an imported Le Nil cigarette. He exhaled a thin stream of smoke and sighed. “Ah. That is better. It has been a trying day and my doctor prescribes tobacco for my nerves.” 

“I’ve my own nerve tonic I find efficacious.” I opened the lower right drawer of my desk, reached past the front bottle and drew out the 20 year old stuff. A glint twinkled from Horace’s eyes.  I took two crystal glasses for particular clients out of the cupboard behind me, poured.

From his dress I figured Mr. Swelwelo to be a bit snooty, but I liked the way he put away bourbon. He poured three fingers gently down his throat in one smooth long sip, like he was watering a bonsai. “Thank you, Mr. Spade.” He set the glass down without a sound.

I refilled his glass. He took a small sip, cupped the crystal in his hands. He cleared his throat gently. “Mr. Spade, I, well, my employer, have a unique problem. An item is missing & the person who may have taken it is dead. We are interested in learning the details.”

“What is missing?” “A figurine, just under five inches, made of jade. It depicts the Aztec god Xolotl, & is about 900 years old.” “Valuable?” “Quite.  There is a reproduction, quite good, in the British Museum which everyone believes to be the original. This is the real one.”

“I would like to see where it was kept, perhaps chat with some of the folks who had access to it.” “Of course.” “Well, I charge 100 Yo cash a day, plus expenses.” “I understand. That will be splendid.” “You said someone died?” “Correct. A young anthropologist from Mexico.”

“Why do you think he wanted to steal the statuette?” “He said so.” I have a way of asking folks to explain... I raised an eyebrow. “He said it belonged to the people of Mexico and that if we wouldn’t give it back he would.” Mr. Smelwelo smoothly drained his bourbon.

“Who is your employer?” “Terry Thistle.” I whistled. A Thistle whistle. Thistle Corp. makes top grade stained glass, training the best in the business. One student, a guy named Tiffany, made a name for himself out of their products. Old Man Thistle STARTED art deco.

“When might you be able to visit?” Just because a client has money doesn’t mean he gets better service.  It does mean he gets service. “I have time this afternoon.” “Splendid! Have you an idea when?” “How does 3:00 sound?” “Excellent. Can I give you a retainer now?”

“I haven’t accepted the case yet. Let’s wait until this afternoon to discuss that. One more thing, What was the name of that young man, and how did he die?” “He was Juan Chico-Inteligente & he drowned. They found him in a gully. A flash flood washed him there.”

“Well, thank you, Mr. Swelwelo. I will be out this afternoon.” The tall thin man stood, looking exceedingly 2 dimensional, and smoothed invisible wrinkles from his trousers. He straightened his straight tie, shook hands with precisely the correct amount of pressure, & left.

Seemed a good time for the library. Xolotl was the Aztec dog god. Apparently he was good at carrying bones across rivers and such, mostly afterlife stuff. I hoped that wouldn’t be needed. The Aztecs weren’t around, but they had relations, and some were still cranky.

I checked to see if there was a Mayan dog god, but apparently they never got around to it. But if I’ve learned one thing from the Mayans, it’s that if they didn’t finish something, it isn’t the end of the world. So... One dog god, or god dog, Aztec, and he fetched bones.

I got a sandwich at a 2 bit place that hoarded Chinese food & hotdogs when they were Zynga freebies. I found a table wedged between piles of old toasters & record players. At least I wasn’t by those treasure chests that open & close. They creep me out.

I had an hour before I met Mr. Terry Thistle. I went to the nightclub on an old server running Yoville version 1.2 so I could get a little fuzzy downing a bourbon. The decor was old, & the screen narrow, but that’s fine; I live in a black & white version of Y Town anyway.

I drove north, passing the Widget Factory & the rusting hulks of old ovens, piles of burnt cakes, & barrel costumes, debris from Zynga’s experiment in forced labor. North of Zynga Bay is Big Dog Cove. The fog drifted below the cliffs, pierced by enormous trees. Winding through the redwoods I found the exclusive Agnez Estates.

The guard at the gate looked at my car suspiciously. “Can I help you, Sir?”  “Sam Spade to see Mr. Thistle.” He picked up the phone, asked to see my ID, handed me a map with an “X” where I was supposed to go, address clearly labeled. “Drive carefully, Sir.”

The drive wound aimlessly through hills hidden behind trimmed hedges, clean walls, and trees as neatly trimmed as if drawn by Dr. Seuss. Each estate took up a city block’s worth of pavement and megabytes of data. Animated birds, waterfall, trees, the works.

The security guy at the Thistle Estate tipped his hat. Though he was out of uniform, I recognized him, the Cracker Jack guy.  “Hey, why’d you stop giving out those compasses and cool stuff and replaced them with temp tattoos and little books?  They stink.” “Pardon me?”

“Never mind. I know, business ain’t what it used to be. Where to Pal?”  “Follow the drive to the top of the hill and when the road splits, stick to the right. Don’t go anywhere else. Folks in this neighborhood like their privacy.” “Right-ee-o! What happened to Bingo, your dog?”

“I don’t know what you are talking about, Bub. I ain’t never had a dog.”  He looked a little irritated so I let up on the brake and glided away. The hill was fairly steep, winding through manicured lawns and topiary designed by Salvador Dali. At the top of the hill I kept right.

The road crowded the bluff over Big Dog Cove, where the rich and famous flaunt; the Pacific Ocean glittered in the distance. The main house, a Classic Hollywood with waterfalls and a circular drive, leaned over the cliff like a buxom waitress angling for a big tip.

 A Rolls was parked in the drive with a half dozen other upper crust rigs, a kid polished its fender, the sort of kid who thought he was somebody, mostly because he was young and had recently found himself free of acne. He paused to look me over, size me up.

“Can I help you?” the kid asked in his best I’m important and you should talk to me if you want to get anywhere voice. “Sure,” I drawled. “Be a good lad and polish my car up nice and I might give you a tip.” He blushed, swelled his chest, took a half step toward me.

“What’s your business?” I like his kind, blurting out too much when they’re unaware, & they’re always unaware. “I’m here to see Mr. Thistle. You?” He sagged at the name of the lord of the manor. “Me? Gregg. Knock on the door, they’ll take you to Mr. Thistle.”  

The door would have been at home in a major cathedral. It had a large brass ring suspended from a brass lion’s mouth. He didn’t look happy. I let the ring drop. It was loud enough to make any brass lion unhappy. A moment later a thin man in butler’s livery opened up.

“Good afternoon, Sir. May I help you?” He was my height, 6’,&though he had a full head of hair, it was snow white. Roman nose, a face that looked like it could smile but never would. He looked like he thought it might be a good afternoon and hoped he might be able to help me.

“I’m here for Mr. Thistle. Mr. Smelwelo sent me. The name’s Spade.” “Very good, Sir. Would you step this way?” He walked very prim, proper. I sauntered. I wasn’t about to let anyone tell me how to walk.  “Please wait here a moment while I let Mr. Thistle know you are here.

The  large room had large windows with stained glass frames, a huge fireplace with a Boston fern, and paintings. One caught my eye. A fellow with a top hat and a monocle looked seriously at me; well, as serious as a fellow with a monocle can. Made me want peanuts.

The center window had a stain glass Thistle Coat of Arms. Below that was another emblem of a Thistle set between two bulldogs. Heavy burgundy curtains were parted letting the light float over a parquet floor, wingback chairs and medieval armor with a mean shishkabob.

A blonde came in. She looked me over. I looked her over. Some blondes are dizzy, built for laughs. Some blondes are tough, built for Swedish massage. Some blondes are all curves, some blondes are made for libraries and others for calendars. She wasn’t any of those.

Her hairstyle, popular during the 20s, her face, had a nice bilateral symmetry, and she was wearing white. Suddenly I couldn’t recall if it was before or after Labor Day. She wasn’t curvy, but what curves she had slid beneath her dress like a penguin diving for fish.

“Good afternoon.” “Yes ma’am, it is.” “I take it you have business with my father?” “If your father is Mr. Thistle I do.” Her eyes closed slowly and she fell over. She would have cracked her head if I hadn’t caught her. Her eyes opened slowly. “Aren’t you going to kiss me?”

“I’ll see if I can schedule you in,” I said. The door opened. The butler said: “Mr. Thistle will see you now.”  I straightened, lifting the blonde to her feet. She released my lapels (they would never be the same) and stood on her own. “Thanks, Jeeves.” “The name is Winston, sir.”

“Mr. Thistle is in the greenhouse Sir. This way, please.” Winston stepped through a teleporter. We entered an elegant victorian greenhouse, 9 domes crowded with tropical plants, ponds, and soaring green copper arches supporting a distant glass roof.

The climate was thick, ancient, a piece of the Jurassic in a bottle. The butler didn’t seem to notice.“May I take your hat and coat?” “You might, but you’ll have to wrestle me for it.” “Perhaps another time Sir. This way then.” My perfectly dressed sherpa led on.

He led me past banana trees, waterfalls, artificial salt water waves pushing California sea crabs past sea anemones. A 20‘ waterfall stirred a pool which drained into a cave. A towering 150‘ sequoia stretched across one hall.  Finally we found Mr. Thistle.

Mr. Thistle, thin, probably older than the Sphinx’s uncle, wore a dinner jacket he could have been borrowed from Hef. He clutched an oxygen mask. One might say he looked frail, but I wouldn’t.  His eyes were as hard wurtzite boron nitride. (Trust me.)

His chair was a leather wing back w a red velvet foot & head rests, brass trim, O2 tank with IV pole. It had a crystal knob in the armrest to control its movement; a steampunk speedometer was designed to register 90 mph and looked a bit like Jules Verne designed it.

“May I offer you a drink, Mr. Spade?” “Sure. Drinking is a sideline of mine.” “Winston, bring Mr. Spade a Scottish Thistle.” I like my drinks hard & unadulterated (unlike my cases), but this was good. It was a very cold mead made of thistle honey and a few ounces of scotch.

The old coot watched me closely as I downed the drink. Winston made a second.  He smiled . “Thank you, Mr. Thistle...” “One moment more, Mr. Spade; indulge me. Do you smoke?” “I’ve been seen with a cigar now & then.” He nodded at the table at my elbow. 

A humidor held a pair of very nice cigars. “Rolled on the plump thighs of Cuban beauties,” he sighed. “I’ve connections to an illicit Zynga server on the island.” I produced a match, puffed & let the moment marinate, it seemed to please him. I cleared my throat.

“Yes, yes, Mr. Spade. To business. Thank you for indulging an old man. Most of life’s pleasures are prohibited to me. The best I can do is enjoy them vicariously. So, to business. Something of mine is missing. I want it back. I suspect you might be able to do that.”

“Maybe I can, maybe not. If I take a job, I do my best.” “Excellent. I believe my attorney gave you the basic facts. If you have further questions...” “I do. He said a Juan Chico-Inteligente took it. How is it that he was involved at all?” Thistle took an O2 snort.

“I got my money the old fashioned way; I paid other people to earn it,” the geezer wheezed. “I”m good at investing. I started with a little glass factory, and now I dabble in everything, including antiquities. I bought a little statue, Senior Intelligente authenticated it.”

“Can you describe the statue?” “I can do better.” Mr. Thistle pressed a button, the right armrest opened. He drew out a folder. There was a photo of a green stone statue, a weird dog, tongue hanging out, grimacing, beside a ruler, and I don’t mean Queen Victoria.

I studied the photo. I don’t know much about art, but I know what I like. Maybe. This pup was ugly, yet familiar.  I suppose if you’ve seen one pre-columbian Aztec statue of a dog god... you’ve seen one pre-columbian Aztec statue of a dog god. He looked hungry.

Also in the file folder was a description of the statue, down to the grams in weight & volume, a description of how it was carved, a map of where it was found, its age, significance & the whole report signed by Professor Mateo Marcos Lucas Juan Chico-Intelligente.

“Why did he say it belonged to Mexico?” Suddenly Old Man Thistle looked like he could beat me up. Then he sagged back. “That’s fair. I bought it from a well known Mexico antiquities dealer. He felt it shouldn’t have been for sale.”  He had a defiant gleam in his eye. 

“I will look into it.” “Excellent. Winston will give you your retainer.” “Thank you, Mr. Thistle. Nice place you got here.” “Huh. I hate it. It’s hot, & sticky, & these orchids stink. Smells like a cheap date in New Orleans.” He had a point. I’d rather smoke wearing a fishbowl.

“It’s for my health, the moist air. Gotta be better ways to die than stuck in a bottle with orchids. My attorney suggested I raise rare flowers so I can write off the whole thing. So, I’ve a Peruvian botanist raising endangered flowers. Save the planet!” he coughed.

“I appreciate your coming here, Mr. Marlowe. I like your style. Let me know about any developments & I’ll buy you cigar. I’m not permitted them, but I enjoy their smell better than flowers. Is there anything else you need? Gribbet, snort, gaheeez, ” he wheezed.

“Yes, I’d like to see where you kept the MacGuffin.” “Pardon me?” The dingus. You know, the doohicky, the wachamacallum, the doodad... The statue.” “Oh of course. Winston will show you. Let me know when you have something.” “Sure. Thanks for the drink.” 

Suddenly Winston appeared, pulling aside a branch of a banana tree, showing the way out. Mr. Thistle looked deep in thought, or asleep. The 74 degree afternoon felt cold. “I’d like to see where he kept the dingus.” “Certainly Sir. This way to the dingus room.”

A step into a teleporter & we were in a Steampunk Suite. He led me to a cozy dark room with wing back chairs, book shelves, glass cases, and dozens of Yoville rares, many accidental releases. An ugly animated Halloween knight with a battle ax stood guard.

“The statue rested here,” Winston said dryly. The heavy wooden case with thick glass displayed a rough woven mat, a wood pedestal and name plate:“Xotol, God Dog of the Aztecs. Circa 1000 A.D.” “I hate a dog that won’t stay,” I said. “Of course, Sir.”

“Winston, who has access to this room?” “All of the house staff, Sir. The family, of course. Guests on occasion.”  “What, no circus performers?” “No Sir.” “Who else was interested in the statue?” “It was an interesting item Sir. Nearly everyone was intrigued.”

A foppish man in his 30s walked into the “dingus room”. He was thin, wore a yellow ascot, and had reddish hair.“Oh, excuse me,” he said as if it were a favor. “May I ask, who you are?” “You may. The name’s Sam Spade. I’m a private investigator hired by Mr. Thistle.”

“Fascinating,” he said, as if he were trying to figure out how to pick up a turd by it’s clean end. “Are you one of those tough guy types, or do you snoop in windows taking naughty pictures of naughty wives?” “No divorce stuff. I’m like a shin, I find stuff in the dark.”

“Is that all, Sir?” “Yes Winston, I’m good. Nice to meet you, Mr. Thistle Jr., I assume?” Thin placed a smoke in cigarette holder. “Call me Justin. Justin T. Thistle.” “Sure. What’s the T stand for?” “Thyme.” “Is the blonde running around here your sister?” 

“I suppose detectives have to be nosey. Yes, Crystal is my sister.  She also has an amusing middle name, after a famous redhead, Ball.” “I bet you guys are a hoot at parties.” “Your father has a botanist working here?” “Yes, a Peruvian fellow, Maloliente Orquidea.”

“Mr. Spade, this has been nearly entertaining, but I’ve important things to do, such as rubbing elbows with riffraff at Alton Towers or watching countdowns on Yo Bay.” Mr. Justin Thyme Thistle strolled out trailing a thin line of smoke from his cigarette holder.

The butler held the door. “Thanks Winston. Do you have a catchy story behind your name too? Named after a British politician or a pack of smokes?” “No sir. The name simply means ‘Joyful Stone.’” “Figures.I can’t think of a happier rock.” “Thank you Sir.”

Gregg “Bob” Hope was flexing biceps, polishing a car, a pack of smokes rolled into a T shirt sleeve. “Find who you were looking for Pal?” “Yeah, thanks. They treat you good here?” “Sure. They don’t even object if I take a set of wheels for a spin now & then. I’m cool.”

“Say... Are you the same Gregg Hope who made motorcycles out of toasters and stuff like that?” His eyes shot up. “Yeah, I did that gig, but Zynga started scarfing green with crazy themes & custom bikes hit the skids. Now I work for my bread.”

“You ran with Badd Bart?” “Yeah, but he’s cooling in YoYo State now. He’s peeking at parole in 3.” BB had messed with a friend of mine, Rocky Malloy. It didn’t turn out well for the 70% legit businessman. “Did you know Senior Chico-Intelligente?”

“The Mexican chrome dome or el draggo from Chile?” he smirked. “The professor from Mexico.” I didn’t say Maloliente Orquidea was from Peru. Some ignorance is too great a challenge. “Well, I knew the square to see him, but it’s not like we went cruising.”

Gregg pulled his smokes from his sleeve, tossed a cigarette and caught it in his mouth. A match appeared, a thumbnail scratched, it lit. “What’s with the grilling? Writing a book?” “I’m just trying to get my facts straight.” “You spreading any green for your research?”

I grinned. “Sorry, the best I can do is buy you a drink.” “Shazzam! Thanks Pal. It’s a deal.” “So what gives around here?” “Rich folks. The geezer is all right, but the daughter is dangerous and the son’s a spaz. As for the help, well they hired me didn’t they? It’s jake.”

A guy in my business speaks everything from English to Spanish, Spanglish to Ebonics, Beatnik to Valley Girl. 50s tough? Piece of baklava. “Eyeball for me & lay on the horn when you wanna make the scene with the drink & sing.” I gave the cat my card.

I got in the car to head back to Y Town. Crystal Ball Thistle danced out carrying a bucket of soapy water wearing white short shorts and a blue plaid top tied at her midriff. I gunned it. This story has been at the Thistle Estate long enough and the plot is starting to slow.

I couldn’t see Big Dog Cove coming up the hill, but headed back, it was obvious why they named it that. Aside from being the aquatic front porch for lifestyles of the rich and snobbish, the cove was shaped like a bull dog wearing the ocean for a hat. 

I parked above a bluff. I took my stakeout bottle out of the glove box, leaned against the front of the car. A wealthy philanthropist, or phildelphinist, had sprinkled the cove with Legends dolphins. I need to see the coroner. I need to see a bartender more. 

I took a pull from the bottle & lit a cigar; kept the two apart. Yachts glided amid the sparkles of a Zynga day. Giant redwoods mimicked roman-greco temples, a liberal sprinkling graveyard mists made a nice effect. Not my usual setting but nice, even in black & white.

3 creeks fed thru rolling hills, plunging down bluffs forming Big Dog Cove’s legs. If Sr. Chico-Intelligente stole the Aztec statue then where is it? And why would he be killed? Who stood to gain? Who wrote the book of love? When’s the last train to Clarksville?

I drove past the music store, turned right on John D. Johnson Blvd. to Alan Scott Avenue, The Bull Dog Building, City Hall. Folks don’t bother with downtown. They stick to the stores & homes. I like the old buildings, no noobs, and everything’s in black & white.

Yoville P.D. is on the ground floor. They call it that because of how cops make coffee. A cop is as far from a barista as Pee Wee Herman is from Mr. Universe. As far as Snowville is from a popular theme. As far as I am from making a decent living. 

I buttoned my jacket to hide my shoulder holster. Cops don’t like the public much, they like private detectives less, just about like root canals. They put up with me as I have a license to investigate, but that doesn’t mean they get goose bumps when they see my mug.

The pebbled glass windows of the doors were painted with “Yoville Police Department.” The desk sergeant dropped his smile the way Wile E. Coyote drops an anvil. (Meep meep.)  “Can I help you?” He wanted to help as much as he wanted to loan me his toothbrush.

I showed the desk sarge a photocopy of my license. “So?” he grunted. “I’m looking into the death of Profesor Mateo Marcos Lucas Juan Chico-Intelligente on behalf of his employer Mr. Terry Thistle.” “Huh. OK. See Detective Isaac Clark Yu, 2nd floor.”

The sergeant watched me go up the stairs, obviously wishing they didn’t include the civil in civil service. I trudged up the stairs and entered the “lobby”, a ratty plaid couch and a torn naughahyde chair, walls painted pale green during the Hoover administration.

Across a corner was a scarred desk with a soiled blotter, a dusty lamp, 3 half full cups of cold coffee, and an ashtray that did its best to contain 2/3 of the cigar ashes and sunflower seeds of a pile on a corner. The source of the detritus had his feet on the desk. 

A tilted name plate read: “Detective I. C. Yu” He was built like Jabba the hut, just not as handsome. I sat down. “Yeah?” Detective Yu?” “Yeah, me detective. You?” Funny. “Yeah, me too, Yu.” I laid a card down. He picked it up, picked his teeth with it. “Waddaya want?”

Det. Yu looked slightly asian, like the Chinese food at Vinny’s. Eight strands of hair tried, & failed, to hide the upper half of his head. He was red faced, and managed to swagger reclined in his chair. His partner, at a desk across the other corner was imitating him.

“I’m looking into the death of Profesor Mateo Marcos Lucas Juan Chico-Intelligente.” “So are we. We don’t need any help.” “Yeah, we don’t need any help,” whined the other detective, a little guy with a cheap fedora and a name plate that read:  Detective Philip Durt.

“Yeah, I get it. Still, I could use a little. I’m looking for an item he might have had.” “Yeah, the statue. Mayan Fido.” Aztec.” “Right... OK... We looked around for it, through the guy’s stuff, his friends, his car. No dice, not even fuzzy ones on the rearview mirror.”

Det. I. C. Yu thought he was clever. I let him think that. He opened another pack of sunflower seeds.  “How’d he die?”I asked. “He tried to breathe water.  A little flash flood in Perrier Creek, which flows behind the Thistle estate and down the hind leg of Big Dog Cove.”

Det. Philip Durt grinned around a toothpick. “Cracks me up, flash flood down the hind leg of Big Dog Cove!” “You’re easily amused, Phil,” Det. I.C. Yu muttered, his prehensile lips pulling a sunflower seed past his cigar. He deftly extracted the kernel, spit the shell.

Detective Yu heaved his body up, exactly as a walrus on a National Geographic special, brushing crumbs from a stale donut off his chest. “His body was found floating in an inlet in the cove. He got swept up by the rising creek and drowned, floated into the cove.”

“Do you know if anyone had a beef with Mr. Inteligente?” “Listen Bub, let me put it to you this way, we got sailors in this town. Lately they ain’t fond of folks from south of the border with their lowriders and zoot suits. Folks get hurt. Sometimes even private detectives.”

I’d read about racial tensions rising. Servicemen, mostly sailors, were going thru bars & encouraging latinos to go elsewhere.  Only this didn’t make sense with the professor. He wasn’t a young man, not likely to frequent bars, drive a lowrider, or mix it up with sailors.

“So, you think this professor was roughed up?” Detective Yu sat up, flicked ash from his cigar which nearly fell onto the pile. “Don’t you listen, Bub? He drowned. Fell in a bottle and then fell in a creek. Period. The end.”  “Yeah, fell in the creek,” Det. Phil Durt repeated. 

“Where did he fall in?” “Ah, gimme a break. It rained that night. He got drunk on the old man’s booze, went for a walk, fell in.” That was it. The detectives were finished with the case; I was finished with them. “Thanks detectives. I suppose you’re right, not much to it.” 

“No problem, Bub,” Det. I.C. Yu muttered in a fatherly tone. “You seem like a good kid. Just leave the real police work to the real police.” “Yes sir. Thank you.” I went downstairs, dropping the little kid act. The desk sergeant grunted, I guess he’s warming up to me.

I hustled. When I’m on a case I tear around Y Town like a man with his pant leg caught on a rocket. The morgue is behind City Hall, in a creepy castle. The coroner’s lab was littered w 2011 Halloween blood, 2010 evil genius gear, and graveyard mists. Cozy.

The coroner, a little guy w a big head, huge eyes behind thick glasses & gussied up in a evil genius outfit with odd stains on his tunic, was eating a sloppy burger which he set down on a table & straightened his bow tie. He looked like he resented I was warm. 

“Can I helpth you?” ”Hope so, Doc. Name’s Marlowe. You’ve stiff here, a Mateo Marcos Lucas Juan Chico-Intelligente.” “Perhapth. Are you a relative?” he asked sibilantly. One eye was larger than the other, a facial tick, and a Romanian accent. For him it worked.

I knew his type (Yoville has ALL types). He was wearing Ode de Spilled Rye. “One moment,” I said, pulling my flask from my inside jacket pocket. His eyes glittered. “Would you care for a pull?” “I do hath a thore throat,” he giggled. He went to it like a baby to a bottle.

He watched me with his smaller eye as he sucked on the flask and reluctantly handed it back half drained. “Thank you.” “No problem, Dr...” “Dye. Dr. Upton Dye. You thay you theek thomeone?” His twitch became more pronounced. “Yeah, well information anyway.”

“A Mishter Intelligente?” “Right. Archaeology prof from Mexico.” “Oh yeth. Interething cathe.” “How’s that?” Doc Upton wet his lips, I handed him the flask again. He reduced its contents to 1/4. “Well... He drowned.” “So I understand.” “But, it doethn’t maketh thenthe...”

Doc Upton Dye bobbed his head like he was listening to music, his smaller eye twitching to the beat. He wiped his glasses and picked up his burger. “You thee, he dwowned in thalt water.” “Sure, in Big Dog Cove.” “Nope, before he wath wathed there by Perrier Creek.”

Now THAT’S interesting. “Could he have just struggled down the creek and drowned in the cove?” “Nope! No freth water in hith lungs at all. And the thalt water there ith very clean water, not like water in the cove.” He licked his lips, I gave him the flask, he drained it.

“Anything else?” “Yeth. He wath hit on the back of the head. Thomething round, about 2 intheth acroth.” “Hard enough to knock him out?” “Thertainly. And one other thing...” “What’s that Doc?” “Both hith feet hath thixth toethth.” He smiled as if he’d found gold.

“Thanks Doc. I appreciate it.” “And, his intenthtineth were only 18 

feet long.” “Interesting. Well, thanks.” “Hith brain weighed almotht 4 poundth.” “Fascinating. Thanks Doc. I might drop in again...” “Hith thpleen wath only 103 gramth, thath thmall!” “Thanks, Doc!” I ran.

I got my car, headed back to Y Town. A dark sedan two blocks back also pulled out, kept its distance. I stopped at the Hotel Belvedere. They have a cozy cigar counter which stocks detective supplies. I bought 3 Itsaboy cigars and a bottle. The sedan drove slowly by.

I refilled the flask w stakeout quality booze, took a swallow for my health. The prof drowned in salt water, Perrier Creek washed him into the cove. The Aztec dog god Xotol: missing. Sailor Cracker Jack works gate security, denies knowledge of peanuts & popcorn.

I’m not metaphysical, but is there a God, or gods, & are they dogs, hogs or lizards? Why is Big Dog Cove shaped that way? How can everyone live in Alton Towers? Why does it feel like someone’s watching? Is there a 3rd dimension? Why is there an S in lisp?

I took a pull off the bottle, stashed it in the glove box. I drove out to the point above Zynga Bay. The beach had the usual noobs, a couple fished from the pier, jet skis jumped waves, and out in the bay was the cargo ship turned gambling hall, the S.S. Indigent.

Did Intelligente’s body float from the Thistle Estate to the cove, or was it planted? Did he take the Aztec statue? Time for leg work. I jumped in the car, headed toward the Thistle Estate. Zynga Bay on my right. A dark sedan pulled out from a nearby vista point. 

I rarely refresh my browser so I knew the crowd in front of Alton Towers would be thick. I cut thru the traffic circle in front of the  apartments, flipped a U in front of Vinny’s and went through the crowd a again passing the sedan was going the other way.

The figure in the sedan wore an Invisible Man costume. A faceless head watched as I went by. I slipped thru the crowd, behind the Sky Nightclub, right the Coffee Shop, right at the Salon, left at the Furniture Store and ducked behind the Widget Factory. 

Behind the Widget Factory is pungent Yoville City Dump. It began as a huge pile of ovens and tables from The Sweets Factory riots, (Zynga’s attempt at forced labor. Good times.). Escaped mutant Halloween rats rule the dump, feasting on burnt cakes & hotdogs. 

Three bridges leap over three creeks feeding Big Dog Cove: Boring Theme Torrent (white water under a Snowville bridge), Farmville Runoff (brown sludge below a Doc Seussian bridge), and Perrier Creek (laconic bubbles beneath a snooty Frenchy type bridge). 

A gravel road near Farmville Runoff led to an overlook. I backed under a tree. The brown flow below widened to form Big Dog Cove’s right front leg like a steamy nitrate version of Willy Wonka’s chocolate river creating an algae bloom of green Oompa Loompas. 

Big Dog Cove’s back leg, where they found the professor’s body, was hidden by trees & an escarpment borrowed from Wile Coyote. A dark sedan roared cross the bridge heading north. I smiled, rewarded myself with a pull from the bottle, lit another Itsaboy cigar.

If the sedan figured I was headed to Thistle Estate, now would be a good time to take a look at that inlet to Big Dog Cove’s back leg.  The slow bubbles farting up from the milk chocolatesque sludge of Farmville Runoff made me glad to move on to cleaner water.

At Perrier Creek a pink tinted concrete road wound thru trees and down to the inlet. The rich, the famous, & the snooty had their yacht clubs here. A stucco guard house, surrounded by birds of paradise, ferns and topiary of storks, housed an exceedingly pleasant guard. 

I pulled up to the barricade, rolled down the window as the guard slid his open. “Good morning Sir!” “Is it still morning?” “It’s ALWAYS MORNING IN YOVILLE!” “Woah! Buddy! Take it down a notch. That kind of cheerfulness is liable to give me cavities.”  “Sure thing!”

“So, what can I do you for?” said the guy in the rent-a-cop uniform & toothy grin. “I’m investigating a death. Just want to peek at the scene.” “Oh yeah! The Mexican professor! So, you must be with the po-leez.” I didn’t correct him. “Anything unusual that morning?”

“Hmmm... aside from a guy floating in the inlet? Naw, just the usual folks going in and out.” “Who are the usual folks, Mr...?” “Lee! Smye  Lee at your service. Most folks call me Smiles. The usual would be those who go out early, and those who are coming back very late.

Smiles grinned. “Yeah, Thurston Howell III was here, hired a guy for a 3 hour tour.  Winn E. Poop took out his boat, Ship Happens. Kreemo Cheekun was working on Campbell Sloop, and Justin T. Thistle was coming in from the SS Indigent on The Thistle’s Thorn.”

I was impressed. Smiles knew his, & everyone else’s business. “So tell me, could that body float into the inlet from Perrier Creek?” “No way. Folks don’t want no riff raff, & no flotsom or even jetsom. A cyclone fence filters the trash out of the water.” “You don’t say...”

“I do say!” Smiles exclaimed. “Even when that creek floods nothing floats into Hind Leg Inlet.” “So how’d the body get there?” I think Eddie brought it in.” “An eddy? Like a tide?” “No, Eddie Munster, our local seasick sea serpent, a Zynga underwater theme reject.”

“You’ve a sea serpent here?” “Yeah, Eddie Munster. He’s always fetching things, Thinks he’s a cat. He drags stuff in from Zynga Bay and leaves them on our doorstep so to speak. Last summer he brought in a whale that had choked on a wooden puppet.”

“Thanks, Smiles. Mind if I take a peek at where the body was found?” “Naw, go ahead. You’re the po-leez. He leaned back into the guard house and the gate went up. “They found him on dock C, slip 31, between Sea Nile and Never II Nauti, just past Sea Cup.

I let the clutch out gentle, glided down to the parking lot of “Your Inn, a Hind Leg Yacht Club.” There was a tacky statue of a little boy peeing in the garden, the sort of thing folks thought clever 30 years ago. They had colored the fountain’s water yellow. Some themes...

I waved off the valet, parked at the back under a row of eucalyptus. The air had that mix of sea salt & late Autumn, odd since it’s March. I straightened my tie, dusted off my hat, strolled into the club. I smiled at the hostess like I knew my way, hung a right into the bar.

The bar was dark, though it was only noon. Heavy red curtains covered not only windows, but most of the walls. The furniture was a mix of Italian and Monaco w a dash of enchanted vines, like it was decorated by a noob w 500k and access to YoBay. 

I found a stool at the dark end of the bar. A balding barkeep with a belly descending over his apron was polishing glasses. He wore the minimal smile required of his profession on a face that obviously used other expressions during off hours. “Yeah?” he growled.

“I’ll have a 20 year old scotch.” I laid down 10 YoCash. He grunted, brought me stuff no older than last Tuesday. “I said 20 year old.” He grunted, returned. 5 year old booze. “Give me what I ordered, or give me my $.” He huffed, returned, smooth 20 year old. “Aaaah.”

A drunk, apparently impressed, staggered over. “Buddy, that was amazing! I couldn’t tell how old any of this stuff is if it was labeled. Try this!” He gave me a glass, I tasted, and spit it out. “That tastes like pi$$!”     “Yeah, but how old am I?!!!!” he cackled.

I motioned to my glass. The grinning barkeep poured, I gargled scotch. I motioned again, he repoured, I tossed it down. Paid $20. The drunk giggled & wobbled out the door. I ordered a pastrami on rye, retreated to a table in the corner, lit another Itsaboy cigar.

I had just finished my sandwich when she came in. She had curves. Dangerous curves. If she were a road they’d close her & throw in a couple of bridges. I raced those curves faster than I should, but I didn’t slide off. I’m a professional.

She sauntered thru, her hips rotating and meshing like an 8 YoCash steampunk planetarium under a pair of black jodhpurs. She held a black, very long, cigarette holder, smoke trailing her like a contrail in a night sky. She wore a white silk shirt with a scarlet scarf.

She glided to the red velvet curtains. A moment later the penguin-like maitre de rushed over, drew them open for her. Hind Leg Inlet was shimmering, a sailboat gliding out to Big Dog Cove. The sparkling water outlined her, revealing gold highlights in red hair.

She turned right so her profile, from the waist up, was framed in the window. She slowly raised her cigarette holder, inhaled deeply, exhaled slowly. She brushed imaginary hair from her face. I know when a dame is playing for an audience. Sometimes I don’t mind.

I could tell she was the kind of gal who climbed the ladder of success wrong by wrong. I must have been staring. Suddenly I noticed she was watching me with a Moaning Lisa smile. I tossed her a grin, took my hat off, nodded to an empty seat.

She sauntered over, light from the window outlining ample curves.  She looked like she was demonstrating zero gravity physics as she moved, a mixture of liquid globes floating in a hidden air currents toward an important rendezvous. (I love it when I think in French.)

She leaned over the table, & whispered: “I like two kinds of men... domestic & foreign. Which are you?” “Definitely domestic; that’s not to say domesticated. This mug, these clothes, my name, all of it, conjured up right here in in this digital Colorform we call Yoville.”

She was leaning over the table the way some women do when they want you to be sure they’re female. “I haven’t seen you in here before, Handsome. Will you be sticking around?” I kept my eyes north of her chin. “It’s just a lunch break; the future is uncertain.” 

“Lunch break? Aside from being suave, what’s your biz?” “I’m a private investigator, a P.I. is like a shin, I find stuff in the dark.  I’m a gum shoe, a shamus. Yadda is my business. Drinking & dames are hobbies.” “Perhaps I can help with those last two,” she purred.

“My name’s Spade.” “Like the Ace of Spades?” “I wish. Naw, like the shovel. I dig up stuff. Sam Spade, P.I.” “Well Sam, I am Xaviere Benedict, folks like to call me X.” “Ex Benedict. Got it. Maybe you can help me. They found a guy imitating shark bait here last week.”

“Oh yes. Very sad.” “Yeah?” “Well, the cops blocked off the dock to my boat...” “Your boat?” “Yes, I own the Sea Cup.” I smiled. “I expected more.” She giggled. “I like understatements. I have a 1940s yacht there, a Thunderbird. Perhaps you’d like to see it?

“Love to see it. Aside from the cops between you and your boat, is there anything else you know about that guy?” “Not really. I never met him, never saw him, don’t know his name.” “He was Profesor Chico-Inteligente.” “Really! A professor of what?” “Old dead things.”

“I’m interested in old nearly dead things; a girl has to eat. What kind of dead things?” “He was into Aztec culture, architecture, art. He loved walking on the beach, volleyball & playing Aztec mahjong.” “Didn’t the Aztecs say the world was ending?,” she asked coyly. 

“No. That was Mayans. Sort of. They didn’t make a new calendar & folks got excited. Except they DID make one, but a human sacrifice swimsuit edition didn’t sell. If the Mayans don’t finish something, it ain’t the end of the world. Anyway, Aztecs invented peanut butter.”

“You don’t say!” “I do say. Everyone says it was GW Carver, but he didn’t. In 1884 Marcellus Edson invented the process for modern peanut butter.” “You know a lot about peanut butter.” “Lady, if it weren’t for cigars, booze, & peanut butter I couldn’t do a stake out.”

“I have a jar of peanut butter next to my bed,” she whispered. The dame knew how to get a fella’s attention. “Uh... That night, did you notice anything? Who was going in, out? Anyone hanging around?” “I spent most of the evening at EGO. It’s a nightclub on the point.”

“I’m going to take a look at where they found Inteligente, care to tag along?” “Sam, I’d love to,” she purred. We left the Hind Leg Yacht Club bar. The doorman tipped his hat, I tipped mine. He looked like he wanted a tip, so I said: “Plant your corn early this year.”

Hind Leg Marina was across the parking lot. Ex’s outfit was better suited for nightclub than balmy Yoville afternoon. Still... An air horn sounded. Ex Benedict waved at a sleek, very large yacht gliding in, The Thistle’s Thorne. “Friend of yours?” “Sometimes,” she said.

The marina’s ramps were scrubbed terra cotta with brass rails. They did a good job keeping the riff raff out. Every yacht would sell on Yo Bay for over 100 Yo cash. Folks wore the latest. I’m still in my 08 suit. I straightened my tie & hat, lit a fresh Itsaboy cigar.

The first yacht was huge, not as large as the Queen Mary but big enough to host a convention of Yoville Anonymous. A man in a dapperYankee Sailor outfit sipped from a coconut: “Good day!” he sounded like Mr. Magoo. That’s “Thurston Howell III,” Ex said.

We turned at slip 31. “Here she is! The Sea Cup!” Ex said.  The Sea Cup was a real beauty, varnish so deep it might have been done by Descartes & Locke over teak & mahogany, accented by polished aluminum trim and an art deco bird of prey on the prow.

Ex Benedict turned to me. “Slip 31... Perhaps I could slip into something more comfortable?” “I doubt you are a 31,” I said. “Was that a freudian slip?” “Naw. That was another case; I had to locate Freud’s first slip... A frilly silk thing with cigar burns in the hem.”

“Would you like to look inside?” “Maybe in a bit. I want to check out where they found the body.” The next berth had a sleek white fiber-glass yacht, at least 40’. Blue lettering claimed she was “Never II Nauti.” Beyond, another 1940s piece of elegance: The Sea Nile.

The “Sea Nile” was black above the water line, red below. A thin green line ran between. The cabin was oiled teak or gloss black; all the fittings were highly polished brass. “He was there,” Ex said, pointing between the boats. I let that slide. “Who owns these?”

“The Sea Nile is owned by a retired optometrist, Dr. Aye, we call him Pop. He shared a business called ‘Eye Q’ with Dr. Kent C. Strate. Now Pop is just a sailor man.  The ‘Never II Nauti’ is owned by a Hussy.” “Oh?” “Never mind her, Sam. Let’s go to my boat.”

“Who owns the ‘Never II Nauti’?” “I told you, a Hussy.” “Yeah, I got that part. You seem to avoid actually saying her name.” ‘I’ve no problem with her name: Ima Hussy, daughter of Gus Hussy, the guy who owns Pane in the Glass Windows.” “Oh. Got it.’

Gus Hussy, “Gussy” to his friends, the ONLY manufacturer of Yoville windows & the wealthiest avatar in Y Town. He not only owns at least 2 of every house, but has several unreleased houses. The auction house was his idea & he gets 1% off each sale.

I whistled. “Are you friends with Ima?” “We’ve shared a drink now and then, partied a little at her father’s casino, but we’re not close.” “Casino?” “Yeah. The S. S. Indingent in Zynga Bay is Gus Hussy’s. one more way he shakes loose change out of Yovillian pockets.

I pulled out my opera glasses and peered at where Perrier Creek entered the cove. Sure enough, a very classy stone and concrete barrier, topped with a recently cleaned cyclone fencing, would prevent anything beside water from flowing into the inlet.

I had a hunch. No, not like the bell ringer in a tower. A hunch there was more to this case than a drunken mexican professor with a penchant for volleyball and statues of doggie gods. This case had more loose ends than cheap pasta at a church pot luck.

“Ex is a good name for you... My guess is you are a lot of folks’ ex.” “How so, Handsome?” “You’re the type a lot of guys go for, but can’t maintain in either time or money. I don’t have much of either. Care for a margarita to talk it over?” “Tequila isn’t my liquor, but, sure...”

“Show me your boat, Doll. It’s not every day a classy dame shows me around.” “Now you’re talking, gumshoe!  Step this way to the Sea Cup!” “If I could step that way I’d make a living as a dancer,” I muttered, following the hips swaying to their own African drummer.

Saying Sea Cup is beautiful is like saying breathing is nice. Double planked mahogany, lines that sing a song of speed & elegance, she was endowed with a stainless steel cabin & fittings that might have been ripped from Flash Gordon’s spaceship. I whistled low & slow.

Ex managed to wiggle more than usual as she climbed aboard. “Why thank you, Sam!” “Quite a canoe you’ve got here, Angel.” “This ol’ thing?” She tried, and failed, to keep her smile from becoming a grin. “I just manage my money well.” “I bet.”

“Life is math. One and one is two. And two and two is four. And five will get you ten if you know how to work it. Add one man to one woman, that’s addition, and if she works it right, his $100 becomes $2, that’s subtraction. It’s math like that that got me this boat.”

And what a boat. The outside was stunning, the interior, more so. Picture Classic Hollywood meets steampunk, and their offspring marries an art deco child of a Flash Gordon fling, all with the clever compactness and utilitarianism of a master ship builder.

“This way to the living quarters,” Ex giggled, descending the teak & stainless steel ladder. Plush red velvet and brass gave the place a warmth that demanded booze. “Help yourself to a drink, Sam!” she twittered vanishing into the recesses of the boat. “You got it, Doll.”

A small bar separated the parlor from the kitchenette. I moved aside the nearly empty bottle of tequila to get to the 20 year old scotch, found 2 glasses with gold rims and poured. Ex squeezed by, pressing close to remind me why we are called mammals.

She sipped, I slowed my intake, downing mine in 4 swallows. “Fix yourself another, Sam. Maybe you can start a little investigating,” she cooed. She put on music, a song about wood from Norway. The crooner wanted to know if it was good. Hippy music.

“Sure... Sounds good.” I poured one. “You never met Professor...” “That’s right. But Sam, perhaps you might investigate something else...” “And you don’t like tequila.” “Huh? What?” “You told me you don’t drink tequila, but the bottle here is nearly empty.”

She stood up, crowding me. I didn’t mind. “I don’t know what you are talking about, Sammy... Would you like to look for clues in the bedroom?” “You said you never saw him or the body, but you pointed to where the body was floating.” “Perhaps you should go.”

“What’s the matter Angel?” She was as mad as a Sweets Factory protester. “If you had taken your hat off like a gentleman, I’d hand it to you now.” “Well Ma’am (I figured we were back to ‘ma’am’), I can offer you the tip of said hat and take my leave.” She fumed.

She couldn’t walk off in a huff (it was her place) so I walked off & left her to huff in private. I stopped & looked over the scene. I took a screen shot for my records, lit a cigar. At the harbor entrance water ripple against, like everything in this tale, the tide; Eddie I assumed.

A glance back showed the lovely Ex Benedict standing on her poop deck, hands on hips. If I was a dame she’d be wagging her finger and doing that sideways head move & saying: “Oh no you didn’t” but I’m just an irritating gumshoe, so she smoldered.

To the right Perrier Creek flowed thru its filter toward large, nestled boats (Monaco theme). Across, rectangular boulder cliffs rose, topped with Camp Yo grass, gum trees, jungle ivy. At the harbor entry, Eddie the sea sick sea serpent’s head bobbed comically.

I had leads, a security guard denies being Cracker Jack, a dame who drinks no tequila (with an empty bottle), millionaires, a mystery sedan, debutants, floozies, drunks, polluted streams, a bizarre coroner... this tale needs a flow chart or an editor, & more cigars.

“Watcha up to, Bub?” A man with a silly sailor hat & enormous forearms swaggered up. He squinted against the glare of the setting sun. “You must be Doc Aye.” “Youz can call me dat, or youz can calls me Pop.” “Just what I need, another character,” I muttered

“Lookin’ fer someone?” “I was. I found her, or rather she found me and dragged me home like a cat with a mouse. But I smelled cheese she didn’t want to share so she gave me the boot. Dames...” “Try dating a goil named after a fruit,” he muttered. 

Pop squinted from one eye past my shoulder, a weather eye on the stormy Ex benedict; I surveyed Pop. A corncob pipe jutted above an enormous chin, tattoos peeked beneath a dark blue shirt.  “What’s your biznez?” “I’m a private eye.” The optometrist grinned.

“I like dat. Seen a lot of eyes, but never seen a private one.” He squinted from 1 eye. “You spotted me pretty quick.” “I yam sailin’ nowadays, & a good sailor keeps one eye open. You got business here, aside from the goil?” “I’ve a case.” “Well blow me down.”

I was annoyed at my writer. I didn’t need another character in this mystery. The penchant for puns and silly names doesn’t make for good story telling, and a squinting, quasi-Bronx accented, sailor with a chin bigger than Leno’s doesn’t help a gumshoe in the least.

“You own the Sea Nile?,” I asked. “Yeah, she’s mine. Me goil’s mama named it. Said a geezer like me should call me boat dat and she laughed like crazy. What the heck? Dames.” “Were you here when they found the guy in the drink?” “Shore! I found ‘im foist.”

I sized him up. Pop, or “Doc,” Aye would make a good suspect. No one makes a better killer than a doctor, even if he specializes in eyeballs. Also, this guy knows everything about boats and he has forearms like a toddler’s T-Ball bat. But, motive?

“Did you know the Professor?” “None of your business.” “Where?” “Look fella, who you date is your business, but that goil, Ex, she’s like the town bicycle, everyone gets a ride.” “Did you know the Professor?” “Foist I seen him he was imitating a buoy.”

“And did you take the town bike for a ride?” “No siree, I didink! Not evenk when she had trainin’ wheels! I gots a goil,” he said raising fists. I noticed tattoos on his knuckles spelled “SAIL HARD” and somehow the steamship on his right bicep belched smoke.

“Easy, Pop! I’m just doin’ my job.” “Well maybees yousk can do it elsewheresk afore I feeds ya spinachsk whilst its still in da can!” “I prefer my spinach fresh.” His open eye bulged, his pipe twirled. I lit a cigar. “If I wasn’t a gentlemink...” “Did Prof Intelligente know Ex?”

Pop flushed. “Yeah, I mean no. I said I never saw him afore. I didink...” “You never told me who your gal is.” “What’s Olive to youse?” “I’m not interested in your gal, Pistachio, or Garlic, or whatever...” “Her name’s Olive. Olive Oyl.” “Slick!”

“What?” HONK HONK!! An enormous orange monster truck rolled up. A ladder descended, a twiggy gal with her hair in a bun slid out, giggling. “Thanks for the lift, Bluto!” The stick went into the bar while the sailor with the animated tattoos turned various colors.

“Hi Sweety!” the stick called. It’s bad enuf being a 2 bit P.I. in a 2D world, but finding an increasing list of suspects being escapees from the golden age of TV is enuf to make any guy turn to drink. I don’t need a GPS for that turn. I went back to the Your Inn Bar.

“Line ‘em up.” “What, that fancy 20 year old stuff you like?” I glared at the barkeep. “I don’t need wise cracks, just do your job.” I laid a 20 Yo cash note on the counter. “Line up a half dozen of your house swill and you’ll get another of these.” He poured. I paid & drank.

When I was a new avatar, before we could sit in Y Town, we could tie one on at the Sky View Lounge. Lots of pretty swirly colors. Zynga turned prudish, so  I hired a fella to pull digital strings so I kept the knack. Money well spent. I paid another 40. “Again.”

The Your Inn Bar was fuzzy & swimming, smeared colors gently erasing the bizarre interviews I’ve had. A cup of coffee and a sandwich slid across my table. I rolled my peepers upward. “Eat, drink, & be sober for tomorrow you testify,” said Horace Smelwelo.

“Go away.” “Mr. Spade... Your services are needed.” I groaned, caught the eye of the barkeep, thought better of it, reached for the coffee. The svelte mouthpiece for the rich and famous sat. I concentrated on the sandwich, taking one careful bite after another.

The screen sharpened, colors unsmeared.