Private Eye, Reloaded

Of all the lousy offices on all the Skid Rows of all the crummy cities in this good-for-nothing world, she’s gotta walk into mine. My name is Sledge. Mick Sledge. I’m a private dick.

“What can I do ya for?” Said I.

“Well, aren’t you the clever dick.” Said she. “Do you just hang around all day creating witticisms, or do you occasionally do some detective work too? Because I got some something that needs finding.”

“What is it you want me to find for ya, sweetheart?” Said I.

She slid a Virginia Slim out of the engraved silver case she had just produced from her upper-east-side-style handbag. “You can start by finding a lighter, Sledge,” said she, tapping the cigarette on the case a couple of times. She then raised it delicately, with two fingers of her gloved left hand, to her ruby-red lips.

South paw, thought I. “Call me Mick, please. Miss – hmm – what did you say your name was?” A flame licked out of my ancient NYPD-embossed Zippo.

“It’s Missus, and I didn’t say.” A tiny ember appeared at the end of her cigarette and glowed fiercely as she inhaled. It then dimmed as she directed a stream of smoke from the corner of her lips, away from me. “But I may have misspoken. I don’t want you to find something – I want you to find somebody.” Then she added, with a smirk, “Mickey.”




*Credit where credit is due: this was originally Pen’s idea. And a fine idea it was, I might add. At any rate, the more the merrier, anybody feel free to jump in and have a little fun writing a pulpy detective story. C'mon, you know you want to. In keeping with Pen's idea, the only rule is, let's keep it in the first person.

"So this guy you want I should find, he got a name, maybe?"

She smirked again, a devilish twist of cherry lips that reminded me of a hungry tiger. "Yeah, he's called Jack Valentine by his friends. His enimies and their name is Legion," She breathed the next words like a shot of pheromones straight into my monkier. "For they are many, call him Jack the Ripper. He's got a sharp touch with a shiv, sweetheart."

Great. Fantastic. Whoopee. Valentine, the soulless enforcer for Scarface Al. Perhaps I should just jump out the window. We're forty floors up, but it would have almost the same effect with a damn sight less effort.

I opened the globe on my desk and slid out my nine and a half-empty bottle of tequila. The gat was loaded and with any luck the liquor would get me loaded. "Your kinda poison?" I proffered the bottle.

"Get real! A lady wouldn't touch that swill, especially since your grubby kips kissed the bottle. Ya want the case or not, Mic? I could go scare up Spade if you ain't got the stones for the job."

I took a swig large enough to drop Joe Louis, and wiped my mouth on my sleeve. She smirked and gagged at the same time and rolled her eyes like the freckled cubes out in Vegas.

"You sure you can afford me? I get three hundred a day plus expenses, payable to yours truly, or to my secretary Miss Marple if I cash in my chips on this case."

She dumped a roll of cabbage large enough to have its own area code on my desk. "If that ain't enough jack for the job. lemme know. Jack was last seen at the Brass Monkey over on Third and Maple. Here's my number." She tossed a card and flounced out, the founcing doing wonderful things with her curves.

I took another shot of bottled courage and checked and rechecked my nine. I grabbed my hat and coat, taking one for the road. As I entered the elevator, another mug crossed the hall and entered as well. I checked my timepiece and looked him over. Not much to see.

You capture this kind of writing in this kind of theme rather well. However, the theme is cliché, no?

But the actual writing is good.

A private detective story for someone with the nickname "sancho". Seems fitting.

I ain't seen his ugly mug since two years ago last Easter. He ain't changed much. Still wearing a trench coat looks like he slept in it. Still smoking ten-cent cigars. Still got one eye that'll look right ya while the other one'll look god knows where.

He was workin' a not-so-mysterious murder involving a big-time studio exec from out west and some local boys. Seems the movie man was doin' business up on Broadway, but got bored. Went lookin' for trouble and I'm here to tell ya he didn't have to look far. Got a little too lucky in a friendly little card game just across the Hudson. They found him early the next morning on the sidewalk, just oozin' life. Turns out one his poker buddies was in the employ of the mob - and he was a sore loser.

That's where yours truly got involved. My friend here has a gold shield from the LAPD, but he needed somebody that could get inside. Somebody that could blend, if you know what I mean. Yeah, you guessed it - some two-bit police detective from California wanted to hire me to infiltrate the Cosa Nostra, and he wasn't even paying chump change. Well, I ain't no Einstein, but I ain't no lug nut either. I respectfully declined his offer, but I did do a little poking around for him, so we're still on speakin' terms. And come to think of it, we ain't seen Mack the Knife since.

I said to him, "You slummin' again Lieutenant?"

He squinted at me with his good eye, "Mick! Just the man I'm looking for."

"Mack ain't turned up yet, Lieutenant."

"Forget him, Mick. I'm looking for man makes Mackie look like a choir boy. Ever hear of Jackie Valentine?"

"Yeah, I heard of him."

"By the way, Mick, who was that woman? Sheesh. She had more curves than a race track."

"Watch the clichés, Lieutenant."



*Wolf! Help us out, man. How about a couple of your signature WolfLarsen paragraphs for our little ole detective story?

We stepped out of the building and into a pouring rain. Fortunately the Lieutenant had the old bus he referred to as a car waiting. We pulled out with the engine screeching, and wailing, and sometimes screaming like a mook headed to the chair.

"Youse never answered my question, Mick? Who's the dame? What is her connection to Valentine?"

"Client privilege, Lieutenant. Besides she ain't so forthcoming with info. But she could flash that roll of centuries and I'd try finding hell and capturing Old Nick himself."

"If youse withhold evidence, Mick--"

"Just cheese it, will ya? You always hog the credit for my work anyway, dontcha? Geeze, I know how Sherlock Holmes must have felt with Inspector Lestrade. If and when I have anything, you'll get your dope. Now lemme out here."

"The Brass Monkey? Youse got a death wish, Mick? People go in there and they don't ever come out. Besides, what would Valentine be hanging at this clip joint? It belongs to Fat Tony, and he and Scarface ain't exactly bosom buddies, but they ain't on the outs either. Plenty of gin joints and nightclubs more friendly to Scarface where Jack the Ripper could hang and pay no cover charge." He thought a moment. "Say, does that gal with the hot gams happen to work here?"

I smirked, in a way the Chinks refer to as "making teeth." It ain't pretty, but it makes a statement. It suggests you know more than you do, and it never hurts to keep 'em guessing. The Lieutenant shot away in the rain, shaking his head and probably damning me under his breath. The goon a the door looked me over with the same expression you'd have if you found a dead rat in your bean juice. He looked like he had no neck, and his tux was definitely not "off the rack." His shoulders were wider than the entrance-way.

"Don't know you, bub. Better motivate."

"I got an invitation, pal." Funny how a Franklin opens doors. I entered a haze of smoke, the smell of cheap gin, and cheaper women. Somewhere outside I heard a dog howl. Always a bad omen...

The moment the door banged shut behind me, all the booze hounds at the bar turned to look at me, and then just as quickly, they all turned back to what they'd been doing, which basically was getting wasted. A dozen or so shady characters were sitting around tables in twos and threes, doing "business". And the variety of female patron circulating around the establishment was such that if you were to fly a quail through the room, every single one of them would have pointed at it. Any good P.I. knows certain things about everybody in the room almost the moment he sets foot in it, even if he's never been in the place before in his life. For instance, as soon as I stepped into The Brass Monkey, I knew that nobody there had ever owned a Social Security Card. I had the place pegged - nothing but thieves, whores, and alcoholics; or in the case of the woman making her way across the room directly towards me - all of the above.

"Mickey, baby, long time no see. How you been?" She lurched as she walked and slurred as she spoke.

"Sweet Sally Sonderstorm. My, my, you're looking lovely as ever." I can be pretty smooth at times without actually telling an untruth.

"You're not lookin' so bad yourself, hansom. You come here to see me, or you on business, or both?"

"Sweetness, you know you're too good for me. But now that you mention it, I am sort of looking for somebody."

"Yeah?"

I thought I saw a shadow disappointment cross her pockmarked face.

"Yeah. Ya ever hear of a fella name of Valentine, Jack Valentine?"

Sally's look of disappoint instantly turned to one of raw fear. But before I had a chance to investigate her emotions, I was abducted, physically lifted off of my feet. I had a goon the size of a Frigidaire to my left and a freakishly built circus geek to my right. Each had a hand wrapped entirely around my upper arm, each with his thumb jammed firmly against a radial nerve. I couldn't move. Silently and quickly they moved me through the bar and into the back office where they, not so gently, planted me on a metal folding chair. The only other person in the room was facing me, a sharp-dressed man in a wingback chair. He sat there motionless for a what seemed like an eternity, legs crossed, eyes shaded by his wide-brimmed fedora, a hand on each chair arm, torpedo-style cigar smoldering between two fingers, fat pinky ring.

Finally he spoke, "Thanks Rocco. Thanks Ole. Now leave me alone with Mr. Sledge."

I've gotta tell you, I wasn't so sorry to see the two human mastodons leave the room.

"So, you've been looking for me, Mr. Sledge." Since it wasn't a question, I remained mum.

I tried to glue my eyes to the sorry paint job on the wall behind the slasher. "Show 'em no fear. They can smell fear." my old dad used to say, and he wasn't talking about dogs, at least not the four-legged type. Lying would just have added fuel to the icy fire in Jackie Valentine's eyes, so I came across with the truth, half way anyhow.

"Well, it wasn't because I enjoy your company, Jack, some ditzy dame wanted me to find you, that's all. Looks like I done that. So if you'll pardon me, I'll be going now."

Jack the Ripper snickered. "You tink I believe that? You ain't going nowhere except mebbe to see Saint Peter if you're lucky. You don't look so lucky, Mick, and I know you ain't no yellow-belly, so cough up the dope or you want I should call Rocco and Ole back in. Or turn you over to Doc. He could make the Cardiff Giant squeal. Now talk, damn you! This dame got a name or what?"

"She didn't say. Gimme a phone number but it's a booth at Grand Central. I already called. Some stooge answered to tell me to stay off the line, his customers would be calling. Dead end."

Jackie laughed, mirthlessly, like the hangman just before he pulls the lever and send you on your final fall with a sudden stop. "Booth at Grand Central. That'll be China Charlie, he supplies nose candy for Lower East Side. If he's doing this using some whore as a mouthpiece, I'll send him a message he won't forget. Now, you, maybe I just let you go dis time."

A slick haired torpedo blew into the room and Jackie started to jaw in Eye-talion. He didn't know it, but I savvy Eye-ti. My pores soaked me like a cold November rain. I had a full moving picture show playing in my head, and I wasn't liking the flick. Questions flooded me: What the hell had I been suckered into? I had a feeling I'd be sorry I asked. The cinema in my head came to a crescendo as I excused myself from the room. I hastily grabbed the first cab waiting outside the Brass Monkey. Later, I would rue the decision at my leisure...

The goon in the backseat introduced himself with a pair of brass knuckles. A Chinese fireworks display exploded in my head, and my last thought kindly flipped of the light as it exited. Dreamland was a maze of whirling stars and burning pain.

A bucket of H2O brought me gasping back into the light. I didn't care for the view. I was hogtied to a chair in a musty warehouse that stank of urine and rats. I could see nothing beyond the spotlight in my eyes, but the voice told me its owner.

"Messing in my mud again, flatfoot? Told you the last time it ain't healthy." Damn. Mac the Knife.

"Didn't even know you were back in the apple, Mac. I got nothing on you. I'm after Jackie Valentine. more or less."

Mac snorted: "Yeah? Then why'd you slide out of the Monkey in such a hurry? I was expecting music. Gunshots do pun'chate a conversation so well. Besides I spotted you jawing with Lieutenant O'Hare. Who else would he be after but yours truly?"

My head was still swimming upstream against the current. "As far as we knew, you were dead. Now the Ripper, he's very much alive."

The bright sun in my glims faded away. Mac the Knife was looking at me sourly. "Just so you know, Scarface has a contract out on Valentine for ten grand. Nice chunk o' change. I aim to get it. Can't have you gumming up the works, Mick. Nothin' personal."

The .45's barrel looked like a fast ticket to hell. Well, at least I wouldn't give him the satisfaction of seeing me beg...

So I gritted my teeth, and I ain't ashamed to say it, I clenched my butt cheeks together and waited for the Thompson .45 to bark. I figured it was curtains for Mick Sledge. But I reckon I wouldn't be telling you this story if Mac had'a greased me right there in the warehouse. The submachine-gun did bark though, but not on account of Mackie pulling the trigger. The gun went off when Mac dropped it on concrete floor of the warehouse; at which point it cooked off a few rounds and stitched 14 ventilation holes into the ceiling of the joint. Mac wasn't clumsy, but rather he'd dropped the Tommy Gun on account of he had a Chinese throwing star wedged vertically between his eyebrows. A very short time later Mac hit the ground like a sack of high-grade horse manure. And he moved no more.

From behind me, a small-statured man stepped forward and moved lightly and silently towards the dead man on the floor. The newcomer was dressed in black. He had on a pair of light-weight cotton trousers and a loose collarless shirt to match. His head was shaved except for a small disc at the top of his skull, from which grew a shiny black ponytail, which had been braided and hung to his waist. He kicked the gun away with a slipper-clad foot and then bent over to inspect the corpse. Once he was satisfied that Mac was dead, I suppose, he reached down and jerked the steel throwing star out of Mac's forehead. He then wiped it clean on Mac's lapel and slid it into a compartment inside of his shirt. Then he turned to look at me. His face was emotionless and I could now see that he was sporting a Fu Man Chu that was almost as long as his ponytail.

It was yours truly who finally broke the ice. "So, I'm guessing you're China Charlie."

The Chink looked at me as if he was seeing dog poo on his boots. He said nothing, just grunted and began a search of some rusty cargo boxes skulking in the gloom. He gave a grunt of satisfaction as he extracted a black suitcase. Clutching the bag of blow, he turned to leave.

"Hey!" I yelped. "You gonna leave me here for the rats to eat?"

A double-edged blade sang through the air like a bird, and parted my restraints. I didn't look this gift horse in the mouth, I scrammed. There was a line of flame in my brain that burned its way out through my eyes. I was pissed, and somebody had to pay the piper. I had been threatened by Jackie Valentine, had brass music played on my skull by an unknown gorilla, captured by Mac the Knife and slated for a ventilation, and ran afoul of China Charlie. And whose fault was all this bushwa? Some dame in a tight dress who gave no name. If I didn't have a load of her mamusa, I'd think myself visiting the Sandman.

Somebody had to be hip to her secret and I was guessing The Brass Monkey was a good place to start. I'd have to swing by the office and retrieve my spare gat, and more of the big ones from my safe. Can't go into the Monkey with this mug, so I'd need my disguise kit. I ignored all the waiting cabs and flagged one for myself.

My office ain't on easy street, I got a forty floor corner in a building held together by the rats holding hands with the cockroaches. Still, my work pays the bills. Which reminds me I own Will the Whacko four grand over the last horse race. I opened the disguise kit, trying to decide who I was gonna be this time...

I don't like to toot my own horn too much, but one thing I'm really good at is humility, probably the best I've seen. And in this story I'm unfolding, it's important to know that I'm a master of disguise. I could fool my own mother. Anyhow, I needed a disguise that could get me close to people without threatening them. Something that would make people want to take me into their confidence, to spill the beans and not even know they're spilling 'em. I considered my Father O'Clanahan get up, but I figured the barflies at The Monkey were more likely to hit up a Catholic priest for freebie absolution than to rat out one of their compadres to him. I passed on my sailor-on-shore-leave outfit as well because not even a drunken sailor would be dumb enough to stumble into that joint. I ruled out my tough-guy Teamster togs on account of one of the goons there would just want to fight me. I could go as stinking drunk, but then I'd be going as myself and they've already seen me once tonight. Then it hit me: I'd go as a book worm.

It was the perfect disguise. Nobody fears a bookworm. They'd just figure I was lost and that'd catch 'em off guard. So I dug around in the kit and found my thick glasses, the ones that had the nose bridge repaired with medical tape. (Back in the army we used to call those things birth-control glasses, because it'd be impossible for anybody wearing them to get close enough to a woman to talk to her much less to impregnate her.) Then I found my high-water pants, white socks, and black safety shoes. I completed my ensemble with a checkered shirt that looked like it belonged on a table at a barbecue shack. Then I smeared on a handful of Mrs. Marple's pancake makeup to give me a pasty-white library tan. And finally a grabbed a big ole fat-bastard book that I'd hollowed out for my .38 Special. The spine of the book said, Finnegans Wake, by James Joyce - whoever the hell that is.

My watch said, quarter to midnight - still early. It was time to get to back to The Brass Monkey and do some diggin'.

You fellas have this stuff down.
"China Charlie " had me thinking of Charlie Chan. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6bIyMBSx5Qo
Your on a roll carry on....

Haha.
Good clip, Gill. And thanks. I was actually just thinking about how much better Pen is at staying in voice than I am. I'll start out as Mick Sledge, but the I keep slipping into El Sancho. Ah well, it's fun, and it's been a good exercise.

The mook that dropped me off at The Brass Monkey shook his head. "No offense, pal, but this ain't no library. You could come outa there in a pine box just for looking like a pansy. You sure you wanna do this?"

I used the high-pitched whine that was this character's voice. "Nobody minds me. A quiet corner and a sarsaparilla, that's all I ask. I am not searching for trouble, so nobody will bother me."

"Your funeral, pal. That'll be a fin." I tossed him a double sawbuck. "Keep the change, sir. And thank you."

That's what I hated about this disguise. Norbert the Nerd was such a pansy! The doorman looked me over a second and shrugged. "Boys inside probably ain't had no fun for a while. Go on in, milksop."

To my surprise I had no trouble getting a table and my wimpy drink. Everyone was watching the floor show. Some dame was doing the dance of the seventy veils, and she was running out fast, if you catch my drift. I slid that .38 special into my hand. I usually keep my weapons close to my heart, under my left arm, to be exact. I slid the thick glasses off. They were just plain glass, but I wanted to take no chances. Yeah, I recognized the dancer, alright. Same tart that got me mixed up in this crock in the first place. I signaled a waiter and used one of her centuries to order a bottle of tequila. I needed it.

The usual suspects sat here and there in the joint. "Fingers" Finley, safecracker; "Fat Tony", mob boss; Tommy and Lonnie Spatz, The Homicide Twins; Ruby Rubinov, Madame of the Manhattan Whore Houses; Shiv, Spotter, Cliff Marsland, "Hawkeye", "Croaker", torpedoes for "Killer" Durgan, and of course Jackie Valentine and his moll Mary Morstan. I didn't have enough beans in my shooter for that bunch, so I sent up a little prayer to the Man. This wasn't gonna end well...


Footnote: Cliff Marsland and Hawkeye are agents of the Shadow, taken from the old pulp magazine. Shiv, Spotter, and Croaker are gang members from the same source. Mary Morstan was the name of Doctor Watson's first wife.

I admit I may have been hasty in the disguise-selection department. Even though it got me through the door and into this of this den of thieves with nothing more than a few snickers, it got me here a little short of firepower. What I wouldn't have given for my Nine and couple of clips right about then. I had nothing but my old police special and pocket full of loose rounds, oh yeah, and China Charlie's toad sticker taped to my calf, Magnum PI-style. I counted thirteen goons that could use immediate ventilation just for breathing my air, just for using my gravity, and thirteen meant I'd need to reload at least twice. I didn't see Rocco or Ole, but I knew they were in The Monkey somewhere, and six rounds from my pea shooter would probably just tick them off.

Speaking of reloading, my edge had definitely worn off while looking down the barrel of Mac's .45 and so this private eye was in serious need of reloading. I motioned to a bargirl for another one. When she arrived at my table I realized she was none other that Sally Sonderstorm. And Sally was just a little further along now that she'd been earlier in the evening.

She said, "Ya need another Shoily Temple, professor?"

"That would be lovely, my dear."

Sally was eating up my polite, book-worm routine. Probably nobody'd ever called her 'my dear' in her whole sorry life. She smiled and batted her eyes at me, and then hustled back to the bar, where after a short search she came up with a passably clean glass. I'm not sure what, other than seltzer water, she put in it, but after she set it in front of me I managed to top it off with two fingers of cheap Irish Whiskey when she wasn't looking. I'd switched out my globe-tequila flask for my globe-whiskey flask back at the office.

Sally, as usual, was in a chatty mood. "Hey, what'cha readin', professor?"

It's details like this that can get a PI plugged. Luckily I have mind like a steel bear trap. I put my hand on top of the hollowed-out book and said, "It's a wonderful book, Miss. It's called Gilligan's Wake."

"Ooo, neat. What's it about?"

I had to wing it, but I was pretty sure Sally hadn't read the book any more than I had. "Well, it's set down in the islands..."

"Which islands? The Hawaiian Islands? I wanna go to Hawaii some day, you know."

"It doesn't really say which islands. Anyway, these vacationers hire a tour boat named The Gilligan to take them on a three-hour sightseeing cruise. They're all real nice people. There's some rich palooka, ahem, I mean there's a wealthy gentleman and his wife; and there's a beautiful movie star; and there's a wholesome country girl who's really kind of hot, er, um, yes well, there's somebody else, but I can't think of who he is right now. Anyway, as luck would have it, there's a stowaway on the boat and he turns out to be a mobster. When nobody's looking he starts tossing the others, one by one, overboard into the boat's wake."

"That sounds like a real good book, professor. Who wrote it? Anybody I know?"

"Some broad named Joyce Jameson." Whoops. It turned out Sally wasn't all that drunk after all. When she heard me slip back into my own self again, she pulled up a chair and sat down.

"Mick! What'cha doin' in that get up? And what'cha doin' back here tonight? Trying to get yerself killed?"

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.

I never dream. I always sleep like a baby. That's something yous should know about me. I don't dream that I can fly, or that I'm being chased by a pack of wolves, or that I can talk to monkeys. I've never dreamed that I found myself walking around naked in public - unless you count the time last Christmas when I dreamt I was bare-buck and up on stage with a troupe of Rockettes at the Radio City Music Hall. That one doesn't count, though, because it may not have been a dream. I'm not sure. Camshaft and I had been boozing it up all day and Cam' bet me I couldn't drink a beer in every Irish pub in Midtown. Well one thing led to another and the next thing you knew... Well, I'm just not sure, and it's not what I was getting at anyway. The point is, I almost never dream.

So when Will the Whacko turned into a space-goober, I knew something strange was afoot. Stranger still was Camshaft's sudden acquisition of a massive amount of body hair, and Sally's transformation from a south-side hooker to a high-class upper east-side dame to a bona fide princess. And Jackie Valentine was worse than a booger on the finger. I could not shake him. No matter how many bullets he took or how many times I hauled him out of the trunk and tossed him into Jamaica Bay, he kept turning up.

When my head began to clear and I found myself in a white room, under industrial-strength fluorescent lighting, lying on my side. My face was against the floor in a puddle of drool. I tried to push myself up with my hands, but my arms were tightly strapped into a straight jacket. I rolled over on my back and scooted across the floor to the edge of the room where I could lean against the padded wall. The crotch strap of the jacket pinched into a place where it shouldn't have and sent a sharp pain through me. I looked up through the only window in the room, which was on the ceiling, and spotted the smoke stacks. I was afraid of this. They'd gotten me into the Loony Bin. I was on Roosevelt Island, for Christ's sake.

I scooted across the room on my backside several times. There was only one thing on my mind: boy do my balls itch.

I lay in that crazyhouse overcoat for a long time in a padded room, which I thought was overkill. I heard a confab outside my room and pulled myself painfully over to where I could hear.

"He's gone totally bonkers. When we caught up with him, he was firing blanks at old man Valentine, yelling something about Jack the Ripper, and calling the barmaid Irene Adler. He put Will Wheaton, whom he kept calling Whacko, in a coma when Will tried to stop him. He totally blew Officer Camshaft's cover, ruining the undercover sting we had going on Scarface Jackson and his moll, Sally. We think he was sprayed with a fast-acting dose of the Blue Paradise dope Jackson and Sally deal. He could be brain damaged. hopeless case."

I screamed "I can hear you, damn it! I'm fine! I really am fine! Lemme outa here!" They didn't appear to hear me...

Finally the door to the padded room opened. Finally I'd be able make the case for my own sanity with a certified mental-health professional. But a lab-coated physician did not enter the room, instead four jump-suited Puerto Ricans did. One of them busied himself setting up a gurney and other three amused themselves by subduing me. Several kicks to the ribs and about fifty rabbit punches to the kidneys were administered before they were ready to load me on the gurney.

The good thing was: they got me out of the straightjacket. The bad thing was: they then strapped me to the gurney. Next I was whisked down a hallway to a destination unknown. The whole place had a lovely aroma of what could only have been a combination of ammonia, bleach, piss, and sh*t.

One of the orderlies was close enough that I could read the name embroidered on his jumpsuit - P. Sanchez. He leaned over and whispered in my ear, "Esta en mi casa ahora, Señor."

I said to him, "Hey man, scratch my balls."

That bought me a sharp back-fist to the brain. P. Sanchez evidently understood some English.

We came into a waiting room and that's where I saw a familiar face. The old Sally was back. But she had a far-away look in her eyes and she was wearing a threadbare bathrobe with NYCPH stenciled on the pocket.

I called to her, "Sweet Sally. How you been?"

She may have been spaced-out, but recognition crossed her face and she managed a smile, "Mick?" She said.

"The one and only, sweetheart."

"Mick, where they taking you?"

"I've demanded to see the head shrink in this joint, the big kahuna, El Jefe ." I glanced at the orderly. "So that's where they're taking me. Ain't that right, Sanchez?"

The Puerto Rican said, "No, señor."

Down at the end of the room was a door and on the door was an officious-looking sign that said, Authorized Personnel Only, Electroshock Therapy In Progress, New York City Psychiatric Hospital. And that was where the Puerto Ricans seemed to be aiming the gurney.

As I write these words I am looking out the window of my locked room in this institution. The sun is bleeding through the thin fabric of the sky. I run my hand over where my hair used to reside, feeling the small dents left by the electrodes. There's a whole swarm of bees buzzing in my brain, or what isn't cooked by the EST. Faces blur, memories stalk like specters, voices echo, and I'm trying hard to remember something, I don't know what.

I have been informed that my name is Mickey Lee Sledge, but that I am not a private eye. I was the DA for Manhattan District court. I was supposed to finish my case on an Dorothy Irene Adams, accused of seven murders of young men. Apparently I was in and had survived an Amtrak crash, but was in a coma for a while. Now I have memory loss and Dissociative identity disorder, whatever the hell that is. I am told that the various protagonists in my little tale are either products of my wounded mind or patients here in bedlam, such as Sweet Sally Sonderstorm. Seems I was a reader of noir detective novels and did crime consultation for a famous author of what they call Pulp Fiction. I dunno, I dunno.

I got to run, Jacky Valentine is in my mirror, Scarface is sitting on my bed, and Camshaft is leaning against the wall. Why will they say that I am mad? True very nervous I was and still am, but my senses are sharp. Will the Whacko just walked in pushing a cartload of beer. Should be a lively conservation tonight!

And so ends the tale of the loaded P.I. /District Attorney.

Or does it?

Out next week, Mick strikes up a friendship with a huge Native American chap and the two of them plan to break out of the Looney Bin. Check your local news stand. Available Monday wherever high-class, hoity-toity literature is sold. Just ten cents, one thin dime, a tenth of a dollar is all it'll cost to find out what happens to our hero. (hint, Mick finally gets to scratch his itch)




**Story note: I wasn't sure where Mick Sledge would wind up, but the way he was going, I was pretty sure it would be on one of two notorious islands in the greater NYC area - Roosevelt Island or Rikers Island.

.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IxAKFlpdcfc

@ Gilliatt Gurgle

Thank you! Thank you very much! (Bows) Allow me to present my co-conspirator, er, that is, co-author, Sancho! (Sancho bows!)(We bow together!) Encore soon to come, I hope!

@ Sancho

Will take your lead on the next one. As I seem to wind them to an end, perhaps you should end the next one. Any direction nods as to where we might be headed can be PMed to me behind the scenes. Love working with you on these crossed-up, whacky stories!

God Bless

Pen