Private Eye, Reloaded

They say your whole life flashes before your eyes when you die. The film had began rolling, and I wasn't even dying. I frantically gestured for Sally to close her piehole. "How'd you see through this disguise?"

"Mick," Sally explained slowly, "You never remember to take off that malachite ring on your middle finger. Dead giveaway."

I didn't like her metaphor. "Sally, who's nearly nude dancer over there?"

"Her? Gave the name Irene Adler when Fat Tony hired her. Bet you a fin that's not her handle."

"You always want a sure thing, don't you? Why would you suppose she'd pay me an obscene pile of dough to find Jackie Valentine when she works here at this joint and he's sucking tonsils with Bloody Mary in the corner?"

Sally looked me in the face with an intelligence I'd never figured she had. "She wants one of you dead, Mick. She was hoping you two would unload your smoke wagons on each other. I think you've overstayed your welcome, Norbert. I'll send you dope on where to catch up with me. We might have to compare notes. Now, am-scray!"

On the way out the door I ran into Scarface Al and about ten gorillas with typewriters. Ten Tommy guns is overkill, I always say. Still staying here was likely to be hazardous to my health. As I hailed a cab it suddenly occurred to me that today was February 14th. Valentine's Day...

Footnote: Typewriter is 20's through 40's gang slang for a Thompson Machine Gun. Al Capone's gang killed a group of Bugs Moran's gang February 14, 1929 in what has come to be known as The St. Valentine's Day Massacre.

Mary, Joseph, and little baby Jesus! I figured it'd be a miracle if I got past all those goons and their hardware with my skin. But one look at me and they all nearly busted a gut. I'm here to tell you it was a sight to see: a sidewalk full of hardened criminals grinning and cracking themselves up. One of the dirty mugs doffed his hat and bowed deeply to me. Another said, "Christian Readin' Room's right that way, Ma'am." Another attempted a curtsy, but failed miserably, in my opinion. Then when I was almost to the curb, the last one simply looked at me and crossed himself.

It was he who said to his compadres, "Alright, ladies, enough wit da frivolity. We got business in dis joint."

Something was about to go down and everybody knew it - there wasn't a cab in sight nor was there a single soul out and about. I was down in the sleazy section of Manhattan, which is usually crawling with scumbags, but tonight it could've been a ghost town. It would not've surprised me to see a tumbleweed tumbling down the street right about then.

I circled around the block and finally found a cab on the backstreet, behind The Brass Monkey. I was trying to make sense of the situation as I made for the taxi, but for some reason, Valentine's day kept popping up in my head. Oh crap, I'd forgotten all about it. Now I ain't got no wife and kiddies, but my secretary, Mrs. Marple, likes flowers on Happy-Heart Day. All I'd done for her all day long was dig through her cosmetic tackle box so's I could affect this rotten disguise. I slid in the backseat of the cab thinking, what a rube am I, a Valentine's Day Rube...Valentine's Day Rouge...Saint Valentine's Day Mascara.

The cabbie broke my trance, "Where to, Bub?"

"Uptown" said I, "and step on it."

"Any place in particular up there you want I should go, or you just want I should just drive up and down Park Avenue?"

Five thousand cabbies in Borough of Manhattan and I gotta find the one with an inquisitive mind. "Just move it. I wanna see the Streets gettin' bigger and the Avenues gettin' smaller. Head for the East River, when ya see 2nd Avenue hang a left and keep goin'. Don't stop for nothin' nor nobody. Don't stop 'til ya see Spanish Harlem, capisce?"

"Yeah, I comprede."

I needed time to think. I needed to clear my head and calm my nerves. I reached for my flask of Jameson's, but I re-corked it without taking a swig. I needed to stay sharp and figure this mess out. Sally knew something and I wanted to find out what it was. I wanted answers and I wanted them fast. And it looked like I was going to get some real quick because before this crumb-bum cabbie put it in gear, the doors to the cab swung open and the human refrigerator and the circus geek squeezed into the backseat with me, one on each side, forcing me onto the hump. Sally herself slid into the front seat with the driver, looked over her shoulder, and smiled."

The darker one was to my left and he piped up first. A man of few words, he was: "This hack go?"

With that, the cabbie finally motivated himself to step on it and we sped off, the rear end bottoming out as we went. I was sure I heard the muffled rat-a-tat-tat of submachine-gun fire behind us.

The light-skinned one was a Chatty-Cathy compared to the darker one and he had a surprisingly high-pitched voice for such a big man. "Hi, Mick. I'm Ole Olufsen and my partner there is Rocco Rococo, and you already know Sally Sonderstrom. I know, I know, it's kinda weird for a Swede, a Sicilian, and a Slut to Bogart a cab ride with you. And it's weirder still that we each had parents with an infatuation for alliteration, but there you go. Anyway, I go by Masher and he goes by Slasher and Sally's the Flasher. Those were code-names we earned working as assassins for the Dutch Resistance in Arnhem. The Dutch Underground had a knack for assonance, you see. This is how we'd operate: Sally'd flash the Nazi bastards just to get their attention, then Rocco'd slash 'em with a razor, and then I'd mash 'em." Rocco demonstrated by drawing a finger across his throat while Ole pounded his fist into his palm. "Not to worry though, we aren't violent people anymore - although I'd make an exception for that arrogant bastard, Monty, if I ever see him again. At any rate, we've been dabbling in pacifism since V.E. Day. Isn't that right, Rocco?"

The darker one nodded and said, "More or less."

The Swede continued, "Anyway, after after the war, me and slasher couldn't find enough to eat in Holland and Sally needed a change of scenery, so we was looking for a way to get to The Land of Plenty. Well, Jackie Valentine set us up with tickets on a slow boat to America and some fake papers, which technically speaking means Rocco ain't no WOP. It was only after we arrived that we realized we'd been Shanghaied. Jackie turned us into his main persuaders - he had us breaking knuckles and kneecaps, but our hearts weren't really in it, you know, like with the Nazis. Anyhow, that, in a nutshell, is why we had to act that way towards you. So, sorry about that, and thanks for diverting everybody's attention with that crazy get-up of yours; it was just the break we needed to make a run for it. Anyway, the only reason I'm mentioning all of this is because we were hoping you could explain to us what the heck was about to go down back there at the Brass Monkey. We're clueless. We just knew we wanted out."

He shook his huge head in puzzlement and then ran his hand across his bald pate and down the back of his neck where the pink flesh bulged in rows, like a package of Oscar Mayer Wieners.

Rocco piped up again. "I'm hungry. You hungry, Ole?"

I leaned forward and said to driver, "Stop the cab. These fellas want out."

The cab elevated a good foot and a half as Ole and Rocco exited and the last I saw of them, they were happily wandering down 42nd Street, presumably looking for a Ray's Pizzeria. Sally repositioned herself into the backseat, close to me.

I looked Sally over critically. In fact I was so critical that she slapped my cheek and snarled "My face is up here, pervert!"

"That tale those two ham hocks spilled really what happened?"

"More or less. Mick, something is going down back there and I need to know what. Come on now, give a girl a break!"

I shook my head. "You know what happened February 14, 1929 at 2122 North Clark Street, up in Shy Town? Scarface probably intends to do it again, only he's in a much more populated place. Ten typewriters stitching the place up is gonna have a lot of collateral damage. If I know Valentine, and I do, he'll be ready for Scarface with firepower of his own and probably some metal eggs. It will be fortunate if anyone gets out alive."

Sally's face drained color like water through a sieve. "We gotta go back, Mick. We gotta go back right now!" She practically screamed instructions to the cabby, who pulled a Barney Oldfield after a tight doughnut pointed us in the other direction.

"We can't go back, all I have is this .38 special and enough loose shells for about two reloads. They have enough bullets to take out half the State. Why the sudden desire to take a second chance with the Grim Reaper, Sally? It's suicide!"

Sally turned to me with the glare of a wild animal. She produced two .45 automatics, though I'm not at all sure where she concealed them in that tight dress. "Take these damn you, Mick. Give me the .38. Don't you understand? Irene is my sister, she has been Jack the Ripper's hold over me, why I worked for him. Now she will die as an innocent bystander in a turf war? Not on my watch!"

Ah, well. Once more into the breech. I guess I'd find out if this bullet proof vest was really bullet proof. A line I'd read somewhere came to mind and I growled it out while checking my new brace of guns: "Cry havoc and let slip the dogs of war!"

I inspected the two pistols Sally handed me. Both were army officer issue Colt 1911s, well oiled, well worn, sights filed down. Who needs a sight on a weapon that's only accurate to about 50 feet? They were made for close-in work. Just point it like you're pointing a finger and - BLAM - a big fat slow bullet knocks down a goon.

"Nice." Said I, turning one of the weapons over in my hand.

"I know." Said Sally.

"How many clips you got?"

"Ten plus two boxes of fifty in my purse."

"Nice." Said I.

"I know." Said Sally.

The cabbie reached into his glove box and retrieved another box of .45 acp and handed it to me over the seat.

"Nice." Said I.

"I know." Said the cabbie.

I pulled the slide back on one of the pistols, cocking the hammer and chambering a round. I clicked the safety in place by pushing up with my thumb and then I reached down with my thumb and mashed the button on the handle, ejecting the clip into my free hand. I replaced the round I'd just chambered with one of the cabbie's bullets and slid the clip back into the weapon. Then I tapped the butt of the gun against my palm a couple of times and handed it back to Sally, grip first. Carrying one in the chamber, locked and cocked, ain't for the light-hearted.

"Eight's better than seven." Said I.

She smiled and said, "I know."

I repeated the procedure with the other handgun and then Sal' and I commenced stashing the guns and ammo in concealed but easily accessible locations on our persons.

"We need more firepower." Said I.

"Probably." Said Sal'.

A solution to our problem occurred to me as we passed Houston Street. "Turn right, driver. Head for the Hudson." Said I.

"Where we going? The Brass Monkey's straight ahead." Said Sal'.

"Gonna solve our firepower problem. I know a P.I. in Soho owes me a favor."

"Who is it?"

"He's got a strange handle. Goes by - Dual Overhead Camshaft."

"A guy like that, is he trustworthy?"

"Incorruptible. And he's always willing to risk his neck for a brother gumshoe."

"He gonna cop out when there's danger all about?"

"No way! They say this cat Camshaft is bad mother--"

"Shut your mouth!"

Camshaft was as glad to see me as usual, by which I mean not. He began a round of cursing that was blinding in its intensity and worked in every swear word back to the Garden of Eden. Seeing Sally with me only increased the number of vulgar expressions Camshaft could use. The very air seemed to burn with blue fire.

"You finally finished?"

He looked as if he had found an eyeball in his java. "Who's trying to kill you now? And who's the broad?"

"Long story. There's hell going down at the Brass Monkey. You still have that burp gun, right?"

"You want I should turn loose inside the Monkey? Could knock off everybody there."

"Listen, Scarface just went in there with ten Tommies. Jackie Valentine is there with a gang of the usual suspects. Fat Tony owns the joint and he has his own gorillas."

"So, let 'em kill each other and God will sort them out later.

Sally spoke up. "My sister is there. Neither of you are really aware of just who we are, but I can guarantee you each half a mil to help us."

Camshaft reached into a parked car and came out with several illegal and highly deadly weapons. "For 250 large I'd take on Fu Manchu. Let's get cracking."

The silence when we pulled up at the Monkey was deafening. The doorman was a smear of red on the sidewalk. They say blood is thicker than water. I only know that it flows much more slowly along the gutter and into the sewer...



Footnote: A burp gun is a Korean War era 7.62mm Soviet PPSh 41 Submachine Gun. They were called burp guns due to the amount of bullets per second. They "burp" and empty a whole drum.

Nothing moved.

"Oh god! We're too late." Said Sally.

At that point I expected her to break down and sob like most broads would in that situation, but Sally had fire in her eyes. She set her jaw and headed for the entryway, with haste. I gotta tell ya, that little chickadee had brass. Camshaft got his arm around her waist and lifted from the ground before she could get to the door.

"Whoa there, Lil' Missy," he said, "lemme check it out first."

But I got there first, stepping over the dearly-departed doorman, nudging the door open with my foot, and moving forward real easy-like. Camshaft and Sal' weren't far behind. Nothing moved inside. A row of mobsters was laid out on the floor like cord wood. They'd gone to their just rewards. Blue smoke hung thick in the room.

Camshaft commented, "I love the smell of cordite after midnight."

Cam' had two burp guns riding low, one on each hip, both secured with his Camshaft-modified combat sling. He and I were working our way down the line of cadavers, kicking guns away and checking for life. Sally, meanwhile, was frantically looking for Irene. The cabbie, who apparently had thrown in with us, was keeping watch at the door, his Colt .45 ready for business.

Camshaft called out the names as he recognized them, or generalized when he didn't: "Fat Tony. Scarface. Killer Durgan. Italian-American. Italian-American. Italian-American."

He added cause-of-death commentary when he felt like it: "Headshot. Three to the chest. One through the eyeball. Gut-shot. Hey this guy had lasagna for his last meal."

I was bent over a corpse, trying to figure out if was the goon who'd curtsied to me earlier in evening, when Camshaft said, from across the room, "Hey, Mick. This one's still moving."

Sally got there before I did and she was already down on her knees, slapping the man and shouting at him when I looked to see who he was.

"Jackie! Wake up." She yelled. "Where's Irene?"

Jack 'The Ripper' Valentine opened his eyes and seemed to be trying mightily to focus them. Then a flash of recognition crossed his face and he managed a slight smile. He grabbed one of Sally's wrists and croaked, "Sweet Sally."

"Jack." She said, "Tell me where they've taken Irene." She leaned closer to him and spoke just above a whisper, "I know what you want, Jack, and you'll get it. Just tell me where they've taken her."

Jack's lips began to move but no sound was coming out. Sally turned her head to the side and put one of her ears less than an inch from Jack's mouth. When she finally rocked back on her haunches, Jack's eyes had rolled back in his head.

She looked at me and then at Camshaft. "We're going to Coney Island, boys."

Coney Island is a spot where grown-ups don't have to hide that underneath a thin veneer of respectability, they are still immature. Somewhere along the stretch of vomit-inducing carnival rides, Irene Adler was being held captive. Problem was, I hadn't exactly figured the game out, and somehow I knew I'd been dealt a bad hand.

Sally wasn't so forthcoming with the skinny on whatever the hell was going on. We could be facing an entire gang or one or two desperate palokas, and I had a bad feeling about this. Camshaft growled and began to poke about under the seaside amusement park's scrambler ride. Sally waved a hand in a manner that struck me as odd. "This isn't the place we're looking for."

Camshaft was glassy eyed. "This isn't the place we're looking for." He informed me in a slow drawl.

"Irene was never here." Sally continued.

"Irene was never here." Camshaft parroted

"Move along." Sally intoned.

Camshaft waved at me "Move along"

In the state of Denmark, I sensed the order of decomposing flesh. For no other reason than it just popped into my head I muttered. "The force, Luke. Use the force!"

Sally headed straight for a fun house that had been built like an old pirate ship. It had a name carved on the bow: Millennium Falcon.

Camshaft looked a question at me. I shrugged. "I got no idea."

Sally whirled on us. Somewhere along the way she had picked up a lovely white fancy dress, and had her hair done in into two bagels, one on each side of her face. "Let's go, flyboys! Irene is in there and Jabba won't let her live much longer."

Jabba? Who the hell was Jabba?

A sickeningly familiar voice played the fandango on my eardrums.

"Ah, Mick, so nice of you to come! And you as well, Camshaft! And Sally, lovely as ever. Let's loose the hardware, gentlemen, and lady. You have only one chance to get Irene and get out of here, and I'm not feeling very generous." It was Lieutenant Fancy-pants himself. He grinned like a bloody Cheshire Cat. "Miss me?"

"Camshaft"
"burp gun"
"A row of mobsters was laid out on the floor like cord wood"
"...played the fandango on my eardrums..."

This is great stuff. There's a gem in nearly every line.
Carry on...

Hey-hey! Pen, looks like we've got one reader of our story other than ourselves.

Thanks, Gill. The "cord wood" simile is a bit of a cliche - like the rest of the story - but I couldn't think of a better one as I tried to recall the famous picture of the St. Valentine's Day Massacre in Chicago. (Or as Mick Sledge was channeling, St. Valentine's Day Mascara)

Found it on Wiki:

http://i971.photobucket.com/albums/a...ps4db1857e.jpg

As the big red ball rose over the Atlantic, an evil cloud hung over the boardwalk at Coney Island. It was as though somebody in South Brooklyn was cooking up a vile witch's brew that was spewing noxious fumes and driving good people insane from here to Rockaway, myself included. Then again, maybe it was just bad batch of biker meth.

"Camshaft!" I yelled. "Stay with me, man. Stay with me."

Cam was still under the sway of the vile-witch's-brew-or-evil-biker-meth cloud,

"Irene's not here." He said.

"You're a bad mother--, Camshaft. You're a bad mother!"

"Irene's not here!"

"You're a bad mother--, Cam'. You're a bad mother--. Stay with me, man!"

"Hey, wait a minute. I am a bad mother--. Whooooaaa. Trippy...uhh...that you, Mick?"

"Yeah. Good, you're back. You grab Princess Leia over there and I'll get Lieutenant Columbo. We gotta get out of this evil place."

"You mean Brooklyn?"

"Exactly."

"Where we goin', Mick?"

"Aqueduct. Gotta go see Will the Whacko, my bookie. He knows about everything that goes down between here and Idlewild Airport."

"Can we stop at Nathan's Famous? I'm hungry."

"No."

Ever feel like you've been snatched out of reality as you know it and plunked down somewhere else? It ain't a good feeling. I needed some answers and I needed them fast. I also needed a drink. That I knew where to get, so we swung by Nathan's Famous after all. Camshaft was still on his pipe dream and parroted every syllable Sally/Princess Leia fired off. Lieutenant Columbo now claimed he was a Godfather called Jabba the Hut and I swear that every time I looked his way there was a blurred flashbulb in the eyes after effect that looked like a giant slug with arms. It was almost enough to make me swear off drinking. Like I said, almost.

We reached the Aqueduct to find it missing, and a new nightclub in its place. Mos Eisley Spaceport Nightlife Casino. I had my eyes peeled for China Charlie, as hashish was the only thing I could think was causing the hallucinations I was having. I'd swear on my sainted mother's grave that the band had pink bulbous heads and the singer was a pair of lips on a pseudopod. And where in the devil did I get that term, "pseudopod"? I was certain I'd be sorry I asked.

There was a green dude arguing with a tough looking guy in a white shirt and black vest. Black vest had a hand under the table. I smirked. "Hasta la vista, baby!" I said as black vest ventilated the green guy and tossed the bouncer some dough for cleaning expenses. My kinda place.

Sally/Leia grabbed my arm. "Look!" Now I knew I was stoned, and I wish it had been a more pleasurable ride. I dropped heavily into a chair, snatching my gat from its snug home under my arm. There was Jackie Valentine leading Irene into the joint. I snarled at Camshaft and Columbo.

"You two mugs can't even tell if a torpedo is hell bound! You told me these two had pulled their last trigger unless there are guns in hell.I know you ain't exactly medical men, but by God you've seen enough stiffs to recognize one. Have your eyes sewed shut or what?"

Sally/Leia jabbed a manicured nail at me. "Oh, shut up! Those two are Sith. They have this habit of not staying dead. Now burn them down and collect Irene. We're getting outa her."

Out of the corner of my peepers I saw Will the Whacko at a secluded table. Ignoring everything and everybody, I made a beeline through the smoke. Will had to savvy this situation. Question was, could I get this canary to warble the right tune. Behind me smoke wagons spoke death fluently, shivs sang arias in the air, and corpses danced to the music. Will glanced up as two pills ricocheted off his table and shattered bottles behind the bar. I dodged a passing Malay Kris and took the seat opposite the Whacko.

"Make with the chin music, Will. What the hell is going on here?"

Will stayed mum, his face like a stone. A hush fell over the club. Not the kind of a hush where everybody's waiting for something to happen, but rather the kind of a hush where the band takes a break and everybody shuts their yaps for a few moments while they try to think of new stuff to say to each other.

Times like those I think I have superman hearing: Will's fat fingers drummed loudly on the table. Camshaft's jaw clicked as he chewed the last of his Coney-Island foot long. The lieutenant's pencil scraped across his notepad. Sally's dangly earrings swayed and tinkled like a wind chime. And metal rasped against metal as I unscrewed the cap on my whiskey flask.

And then, just like that, Will the Whacko broke into a huge grin. He said, "Why all the negativity, baby? You're in Queens now. Nuttin' bad ever happens here. Queens is for lovers." Then he turned towards the stage, clapped his hands and said, "Maestro, strike up the band."

A hansom young man with deep blue eyes grabbed the mic and began, "Fly me to the moon, let me play among the stars, show me what the spring is like on Jupiter and Mars, in other words..." http://youtu.be/mQR0bXO_yI8

The tables emptied and dance floor filled. The patrons of Mos Eisley's Spaceport Nightlife Casino at Aqueduct Racetrack moved well together. Music can save your mortal soul. Only two tables in the joint were still full: ours and one way back in the corner, where it appeared that Rocco and Ole were working on a wagon-wheel sized pepperoni pizza from Ray's - each. Those cats don't dance.

The song was winding down and Rocco yelled, "You know what song we want to hear, gargoyle."

Another good-looking olive-skinned gent stepped up the mic and crooned, "When the moon hits your eye like a big pizza pie, that's amore..." http://youtu.be/OnFlx2Lnr9Q

The dancers moved closer, caressing each other to the rhythm of the old Italian love song, but Sally wasn't buying it.

She queried Will the Whacko directly, "Where's Irene, baldy?"

Will just smiled and nodded towards the dance floor, where moments earlier Irene and Jackie had been moving to the music, but now where Irene moved alone.

When the world seems to shine, like you've had too much wine, that's amore...

Seeing Irene, as if for the first time, Sally launched herself like an Atlas Rocket Booster towards the dance floor. The two embraced and then danced with each other, orbiting the other lovers on the floor.

Hearts will play tippy-tippy-tay, tippy-tippy-tay, like a gay tarantella...

Camshaft leaned over to me and whispered, "Hey, uhh, you sure those two are sisters?"

Sancho, I was ahead of you on the Valentine's Day massacre picture, it was the first image that came to mind.
It's among those lasting images, along with the fuzzy B&W photos of WOK pot UFO's, we would eagerly peruse in grade school.

The Rat Pack isn't complete without Sammy http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Qr9gAIAH-gk

as you were...

Some images just stick, eh Gill? It was certainly the first thing that popped into my head when Pen brought up the incident. Others:

Spanish Civil War: Militiaman shot, falling backwards, arms outstretched, dropping rifle

Vietnam: Young girl running, crying, her skin pealing off after a napalm attack

Vietnam: Buddhist monk in the process of self-immolation

Great Depression: Mother with three children, one suckling, living in a Hooverville

The Seventies: Farah Fawcett, red bikini, Mexican serape (yes, I am a shallow man)

"I don't know what the truth is anymore, Camshaft. I don't know if this is real or if I actually took some lead back there and went into the long sleep. I know this isn't heaven, I see too many people I know. If it's Hell, Old Scratch certainly did some redecorating. Maybe China Charlie put something in my whiskey."

Will the Whacko seemed to shirk into a little green guy with a pointy set of ears and a bad hairdo. "Suspicious you are. See you do not. So do. Or do not. There is no try."

"You believe this guy?' Camshaft jerked a thumb at the Whacko, but now he looked over seven feet tall and with enough body hair to stuff a mattress.

I staggered back from the table shaking like one of those weird Quakers. Everything was changing back and forth so swiftly I couldn't take it all in. There was a strange noise and three guys appeared out of no where, shimmering into existence. I could hear heavy breathing as a massive goon in shiny black armor approached the bar, where an old guy in a grey hat and robe sat smoking a long pipe and singing to himself: "Roads go ever, ever on, to the land across the sea, on a white ship I will sail..."

I needed air, so I turned to make my retreat. Just then three human-sized pigs came in carrying violin cases, pursued by a werewolf on steroids. I had lost sight of every mug I knew, and I almost fell out the door. Outside was dessert and three moons were in the sky. I think I started screaming then, and I rushed back inside. Everyone was normal again, but Camshaft, Whacko, Sally/Leia, Irene Adler, and Jackie Valentine were talking to some croaker and they turned and indicated me. I don't like to be pointed at, especially not with smoke wagons.

Two overgrown palokas grabbed me and forced me into a Bedlam Nightshirt. The croaker had this long syringe in my arm and then the lights went out and I was falling into darkness. I only hoped I'd wake up before I hit the ground...


Footnote: A croaker is slang for a disgraced doctor who works with criminals. A Bedlam Nightshirt is a straight jacket.