 sj |
||
|
||
Bette Monroe, Private Eye
|
|
|
Subject: Bette Monroe, Private Eye From: GUEST,Peter T. Date: 05 Jul 00 - 10:26 AM It was one of those hot days in summer when the newspapers are filled with pictures of some kid who has fried some other kid's eyeballs on the sizzling sidewalk, at least in my town. I had finished off a difficult case, and was considering whether to return the empties, when the phone rang. This was a shock, since I hadn't paid the bill, but I guess it was my lucky day -- though looking back on it, I wish they had cut the service off. "Hello, Bette Monroe, Private Eye." "Is this Bette Monroe?" I counted to three, which was obviously more than the dope on the other end of the line could manage. "Yes, sir, can I help you?" "I need some help." It was going to be a long day. "Yes, sir. What kind of help?" "You might know me. Name's Johnny Thorn." I sat up. I knew those buns anywhere. The Coppers first baseman. Many a night I had fantasized about being the first female first base coach in the American League. Slow-mo: nice stretch, Johnny, way to get the runner, friendly bum pat, freeze frame, melt frame. "Hello?" said the voice at the other end. "Um, Sorry, Johnny, bad connection. What's the problem?" "I can't talk about it over the phone. Can you meet me in an hour at the Split Fastball?" "No problem. I'll be the one in the detective costume." He hung up. Great phrase, must remember that: he hung up. Could come in handy. I looked around the office. It had brightened up considerably in the last five minutes. Even the Georgia O'Keefe flower paintings perked up their little, well, anyway. The phone rang. "Hello, Bette Monroe, Private Eye." "Hi, Bette. Guess who?" "I'm sorry, Your Holiness, but we talked this over the last time. Celibacy means celibacy. Hi, Blake." "Bette, this is a friendly warning." "Why, Blake Madison, are you threatening me? Competition getting a little tough for you?" "Bette, you couldn't find your way out of Nancy Drew's roadster. This is a warning I got on the q.t. You're going to get a call from one of the infielders of the Coppers. I was told that you should watch out." "Why, Blake Madison, are you worried about little old me? How flattering, considering I'll never have a 14 inch waist again." "Look Bette, I want you to stop muscling in on my turf, but I don't want you dead. Not until you see things my way, anyway." "I gave you 10 bucks for the sex change operation, oh it must be 6 months ago. Did it take?" An expletive undeleted filled the receiver. "Anyway, Blake, nice to chitchat, girl to girl, but I gotta move." "Bette, there's police in this. That's all I know." "Well, Blake, you know the Monroe Doctrine - 'If you're on top, you better be a cop'. See you around." I put down the phone with a tender crash. Blake Madison. I would have to think about that some day, like the day I sit down and learn about mutual funds. I went out onto the Boulevard of Broken Condoms. |
|
Subject: RE: Bette Monroe, Private Eye From: bob jr Date: 05 Jul 00 - 06:42 PM wha?? |
|
Subject: RE: Bette Monroe, Private Eye From: JenEllen Date: 05 Jul 00 - 07:07 PM Glory was patient. She'd been working behind the bar of the Split Fastball since it opened, and she wasn't going anywhere now. She leaned on the bar with a cigarette hanging from her parted lips and thought about the day Ed asked her to partner up with him and open this place. She should've ran like hell. She looked over towards the grimy kitchen, and Ed's rattled coughing, one of these days. She'd been a good girl, shacked up with a man old enough to be her grandfather, and saved her money. One of these days Ed just wouldn't wake up. She had enough money now to pay the place off, and turn it into one of those coffeehouses she'd read like they have in Chicago. Some nice curtains and folks playing music, instead of.. "Jaysus Glory, you guys get a rat stuck in the tap or what? This shit can barely be called beer..." Johnny Thorn. Nice ass, but not much between the ears. That had been her first impression, and the longer she knew Johnny, the more she began to trust first impressions. He was in early too, it wasn't even three yet. Glory reached down and patted the Louisville 'Peacemaker' she kept behind the bar. If Johnny wanted trouble, he'd get it. Glory might have been just a worn out bar-girl, but she had her PhD in Pro-active Phrenology, and was always up to giving a lesson. |
|
Subject: RE: Bette Monroe, Private Eye From: Dave Swan Date: 05 Jul 00 - 09:59 PM Blake Madison had gone soft. Like lox and cream cheese left in the back seat of '64 Fairlane in August, he'd gone all runny and something smelled fishy. It was a skirt, a dame, a set of gams, a betty. Named Bette. Madison rang my phone. "Reed, you busy?" Always a joker. I hadn't had a gig since Noah was a carpenter, and my last stint as a private eye ended before it began. I found the missing star of a flea circus trapped between his owner's pearly whites. End of story. But that's another story. "Yeah, Madison, I'm busy. Business is great. Like a guy giving away gloves at a proctologist's convention. What can I do for you?" "It's Monroe, I think she's headed for trouble." "She is trouble, pal. Didn't your old man ever tell you that if it's got tits or tires it's trouble? Besides which, what do you care? One less private di.. uh, detective, in this burg leaves more fleeces for us." Madison is slick as cashmere toilet paper, he never copped. He went on about an American League first baseman, Bette Monroe, and their upcoming meeting at a dive we called the Fast Spitball. I knew he was thinking well past first base, and he wanted the grand slam before Johnny Thorn got in the on-deck circle. He was nervous as a whore in church. I had him where I wanted him. "Blake ol' pal, let me get this right. You want me to investigate this Thorn character, keep his first baseman's mitt off Monroe's home plate, and make it look like I'm not up to anything at all? It's going to cost you. I want two days use of your car for every day I'm on this nasty little caper of yours." Madison let out the same sound my basset hound did when I took him to the vet's office to be put in neutral. "Alright Rick. Look, I've got a cover for you. I know the manager at the Spitball, his weeknight musician is out of town for the week and he'll take you. Just take the car, take the gig, and do what you can." I tooled up in 37 Dodge, sweating like a whore on dollar night all over the mohair interior, pulled out my gig bag and walked into the Spitball. Never take a gig as a shawm player in a joint where they serve Bud in the long neck bottle..... |
|
Subject: RE: Bette Monroe, Private Eye From: JenEllen Date: 06 Jul 00 - 03:52 AM Ed hung up the phone and grumbled as he made his way back to the kitchen. Vinnie watched him walking and scratching his ass in that way that made his skin crawl. He looked over at Glory resting behind the bar and gave an imperceptible nod. How she managed to stay with that man was beyond him, he shrugged to himself as he emptied the ashtrays, it would change soon enough. Vinnie had smiled when the phone rang. There would be no Pleasuretonz tonight. The busboy had called in his favours, and lo and behold, the piano player thought it more profitable to stay home. One less witness. The stained leather booths and barstools began to fill with the happy hour crowd, and Glory had her hands full tending bar. Sweet Sal began her nightly 'business' in the room she rented from Glory upstairs, and the barmaid made a mental note to buy bleach. Johnny Thorn sat on his stool like a man condemned, tight little buns gripping leather and his elbows resting on the bar. Sure, he complained about the beer, but it didn't stop the parade of filthy glasses from growing on the bar in front of him. It was only when he switched to whiskey that Glory paid him any attention, and when SHE walked in, Johhny spun from his stool and headed straight for the corner booth. Vinnie saw her walk in too. A peach like that, a fella's have to be blind to miss. One of those broads who had all her bases covered. She was no hooker, that slit in her skirt left just enough to the imagination without advertising. The cloud she left when she blew by Vinnie waddn't no dime store special neither. What was a dame like that doing in a dive like this? The tall man slipped in unnoticed behind Monroe. He surveyed the room from under the lowered brim of his hat, and made a bee-line for the bar. Vinnie watched as Glory talked to the guy, sizing him up and pointing towards the small stage in the corner by the stairs. Vinnie took his washtub back into the kitchen. It was going to be a long night. |
|
Subject: RE: Bette Monroe, Private Eye From: Peter T. Date: 06 Jul 00 - 03:07 PM So I come into the Split Fastball, and there's Johnny Thorn, and he looks me over like I'm David Cone one pitch before the last popup, and I think, Well, he's in it bad, he didn't even notice the Armani tennis shoes. "Hello, Johnny, I'm Bette. " "You don't look much like a detective," he said. "Well, on TV you look like you have testicles. I'm told that it's something to do with the camera lens." He grunted, like the Renaissance man he was, and we moved to the back. I wondered whether the organ grinder had gone out for a quick smoke. Glory came over. I winked. "Hi, Glory, I'll have a Bloody Mary and dump the vegetable." I should have pointed at her husband, not to mention Vinnie, who was still working his way up into the animal kingdom and had recently passed Upper Scum with an honourable mention. Johnny said plaintively: "Miss Monroe." "Bette, please" -- I bit my tongue just before I said, "You dumb lug". "I need your help real bad. It's a woman thing. " "You want her followed, laid, tarred, feathered, marked with an A, what?" He looked very sheepish, which was not an improvement on lug -- whatever a lug is. "You know Agnetta Trosch?" he said in a whisper. "You mean the winner of the French Open? Agnetta von Trosch." "Yeah, that's her. Well, she and I, we sort of had a thing going, and then -- well, things ain't been going so good." Agnetta von Trosch, though as blonde and beautiful as a refugee from the Hitler Youth, was also what we in the trade refer to as "the ballgirls ballgirl". This was available news to anyone who subscribed to Lesbian Geographic, but it was obviously just lining Johnny's birdcage for the first time. "Go on," I said, putting on my professional demeanour. "That dame has, you know, like, I'm as open-minded as the next guy --" I looked over at the next guy, who confirmed my suspicion -- "like I'm totally in love with her, and we are aces in bed, no problem in that department -- " I checked the ceiling for passing aircraft -- "and now I hear she's hitting on some -- woman, some dame." I decided to pass on the doubletake and put my fingers together in one of those little moves they teach you in Psychiatry 101, the one just before you do the steeple, and you open the door and there's the people. "And?" "And I want to find out if its true, and if it's true, I'm going to kill her." "I didn't hear the last part, Johnny, but I can certainly check it out for you." This was going to be the easiest money since Regis Philbin asked what his name was on the Millionaire show. Not that Johnny could have answered that one either. If he wanted to kill her, we would work on that after. Hey, I am a private detective: this is what I do for a living: follow people, lie to banks about their customers, dig out your VISA bill for the porno videos. Whatever. He looked at me, and said: "What is it with women, anyway?" I smiled, and said: "Johnny, ever heard of Tiresias?" Johnny looked puzzled. "Dominican? Played for the Pirates?" "No, Johnny. Tiresias. Ancient detective. The king of the Gods, Zeus by name, hired him to find out if women had more fun in sex than men. Well, he didn't exactly hire him: he turned him into a woman for a couple of years until he reported back on what he found out. Tiresias came back and said, King, women have much more fun. Zeus pulled out his eyes. " Johnny shook his head. You could hear the maracas inside. "Work on it Johnny. I'll work on her. I'll phone you if I find out anything." He got up, peeled off some of my favourite large bills with obscure presidents on them in my direction, and walked slowly out. He looked like he had been in sliding practice that morning, and forgot to wear his cup. I didn't know whether to take him down to the slaughter house and pull out the stun gun myself, or take him home to bed. And then pull out the stun gun.
|
|
Subject: RE: Bette Monroe, Private Eye From: katlaughing Date: 06 Jul 00 - 06:35 PM *Aside* Jaysus, Jen! Talk about the Sound of One Hand Typing!!! What kind of painkillers are you taking for that smashed-by-a-bull-being-stitched-up-by-you hand of yours? Must be pretty good shite 'cause that was a BRILL posting!!**BG** |
|
Subject: RE: Bette Monroe, Private Eye From: wysiwyg Date: 06 Jul 00 - 06:58 PM Her name was Miss Vendetta Threats, and there was a reason why. She had a past so long it stretched into the future and half of what happened hadn't even, yet. Women like her don't come along often, but when they do they come on strong. She hailed from River City and was going to be trouble, this was certain. She and her all-trombone brassballs brass band traveled with a cymbal-clapping monkey on Ritalin, and they played the circuit like worn 78's. And now she had brought her bus to town, maybe to stay awhile, she said. She'd come looking for Johnny Thorn. Had some bidness with his sorry seff, she said to the monkey. "Mmm hmm, honey.... You got a Thorn in yo side, mus' needs pluck that suckah out." Thought she'd polish up the black leather jumpsuit (the patent leather lightweight for summerwear), and look Johnny on up.... her almond eyes narrowed as she flicked a long silvertipped finger at the edge of her neatly marcelled do.... A half-smile, tinged with hints of horrors to come, turned the corners of her mouth up until the angled planes of her cafe-au-lait face just caught the neon glowing outside the bus window....
|
|
Subject: RE: Bette Monroe, Private Eye From: catspaw49 Date: 06 Jul 00 - 07:40 PM Tony the Wop sat at the back table which he always had. No one ever even tried to suggest that he sit elsewhere. And no one ever sat at that table aside from Tony. Six foot tall and two foot wide, he looked solid in that strange way that fat men often are, a mixture of linguini and genetics. The word most often used to describe him was lethal. What was known of him wasn't good. What was suspected and rumored was worse. This was his place. It existed because he allowed it to exist; the only business in blocks that didn't pay Tony for services rendered. He had it for Glory, he tolerated Ed. A time would come when he'd take her for good, but the family business was too lucrative right now and he smelled new money for him to tap as the dick and the bimbo conversed at the bar. He lifted a hand and a snap of the stubby fingers brought Vinnie to his table. "Call Sammy now. I need him here within an hour." Vinnie hesitated as if he was unsure of something. Tony flicked a hard glance toward him. "NOW you fockin' pissant before I cut off your Neopolitan nuts." Tony sat back and lit a Lucky, spitting the small pieces of tobacco from between his lips. He inhaled deeply, reached for his wine glass, and what passed for smile crossed his lips........but his eyes were cold. Spaw |
|
Subject: RE: Bette Monroe, Private Eye From: JenEllen Date: 06 Jul 00 - 09:13 PM *aside too: kat, they're t3's with codeine. not only do they play hell with the sleep cycles they make me nauseated as well. some ta think of it, kinda like spaw...so you know what i'm talking about. the writing helps take the brain off anna francesca, ya know? besides, i'm patient and flexible, and there's an amazing amount of things you can accomplish with a pencil clenched in your teeth.*bg* ~Elle |
|
Subject: RE: Bette Monroe, Private Eye From: catspaw49 Date: 06 Jul 00 - 10:04 PM I don't mind nauseating you JE, just don't treat me like a kestrel. Spaw |
|
Subject: RE: Bette Monroe, Private Eye From: katlaughing Date: 06 Jul 00 - 11:43 PM Oh, boy, this was going to be a toughie, she thought as she stepped through the door. Squinting her eyes, Ms. Two-Loo Goodie, glanced around the dive, packets of handouts clutched in her hands. Knowing she'd better just get on wiht it, she marched up to the bar, looking the bartender in teh eyes right away...Establish a direct link as soon as you enter the establishmentshe heard her class instructor saying in her memory. Hi, I'm Ms. Goodie, from the BuyYou Infectious Diseases Outreach Unit - Branch 13. I'd like to pas out soe literature to your, ummm, clientele, if you don't mind? We will be having Condomology classes every Thursday night, along with others, plus we have a hotline number where people can call for information...do you mind, Ma'am? See? It's all right here in this brochure.. How about you sir? she said as she walked towards the big guy hunched over a table all by himself in the back of the room. Do you ever visit the lady upstairs? |
|
Subject: RE: Bette Monroe, Private Eye From: JenEllen Date: 06 Jul 00 - 11:53 PM *wouldn't think of it darlin'Spaw! you're too precious for that!* Ed struggled with his sizable girth in a vain effort to reach the bottom of the garbage can. No onlooker would ever remember the former star catcher for the Coppers. Ed Mitchell couldn't squat now to save his life. He cursed Vinnie as he reached into the can and retrieved a handful of cold french fries. If it were up to him, that gawddamn busboy would be on the avenue instead of in his bar. Ed gathered the fries, placed them in a rusty pie tin, and set them outside the back door of the 'Fastball. He stepped into the alley himself and took a lungful of the night air. This action set off a chain of rattling coughs that left Ed leaning against the building and his handkerchief tainted with blood. He only had to wait a minute for the spasms to subside, and for his visitor to arrive. The thin grey cat appeared from behind the dumpster, wary of Ed, but hunger was fast winning out. Ed cooed to the cat, but she wasn't having any of it tonight either. Snorting, Ed peered back through the window to see Glory slip from behind the bar. She wasn't that far from the cat. Both of them all spit and claws the minute Ed showed up, they both got what they could and ran. Ed couldn't make either one of them purr. God knows he'd tried, but Glory was true to life. You could take the broad outta the streets, but you couldn't take the streets outta the broad. She'd made him a deal, plain and simple. She got the bedroom, he got the couch. He got any 'manly' urges he was to go see Sweet Sal, just like in the deal. She'd run the bar, and make him money, in exchange he left her the hell alone. When he saw her come out from behind the bar, he knew Tony was here. Glory wouldn't piss on Ed if he was on fire, but she'd stop a train for Tony. Ed sighed and wiped his greasy hands on his apron. He picked up the empty pie tin and returned to the kitchen. Glory took the looker her 'Mary, and chatted up the ballplayer and his new flame. She'd have sworn Johnny was tied in with some tennis skirt, but Johnny changed women more often than he changed his shorts. This one was kinda pretty though, and Glory secretly wished her luck.
As she made her way back to the bar, Sammy waved her over to Tony's table. The two had been deep in conversation, and Sammy looked like he was taking the worst of it. When she got to the table Sammy gave it to her with both barrels. Runt of the litter, that was Sammy, and when he couldn't run with the big dogs, he always tended to get a bit snappy. With a swift jerk, Glory brought her knee up to within a hair's breadth of Sammy's happy sacks. Sammy paled and gulped audibly. With her knee still raised, in one fluid movement Glory took a match off her tray, and ran it across the pocket of her jeans. Sparks popped on the rivets, as Glory stared at Sammy. She lowered her hand but not her gaze, and lit the Lucky that was parked between Tony's lips. Tony took a draw, and Glory sent the remainder of the match as a flaming missle straight into Sammy's beer. |
|
Subject: RE: Bette Monroe, Private Eye From: catspaw49 Date: 07 Jul 00 - 12:34 AM Sammy could barely hold his temper. He knew that Tony was watching him and although he'd been Tony's man for a long time, there were areas where he knew he couldn't go. Sammy Scarlini had a life full of those things. He was tall, good looking, a good dresser, and yet he knew that his only power was tied to Anthony Pirilla. Tony had no real friends, but Sammy was as close as it got. From the first day that Tony had been made, Sammy had been by his side. He knew he would never attain that stature, but he was happy to do Tony's bidding and no one ever crossed him. To do so would be to incur the wrath of one of the last hard men in the last hard family. Tony the Wop was a potent guy. As the Underboss of his family, it was only a matter of time.
"So Tone, I'll stay close and get a couple guys on it with me." Sammy headed across the bar with a glance toward Glory. She sneered at him and walked toward Tony. What a bitch. Spaw |
|
Subject: RE: Bette Monroe, Private Eye From: Lonesome EJ Date: 07 Jul 00 - 01:08 AM Blake Madison sat in the borrowed KIA half a block down from the Fast Spitball, intermittantly checking the comings and goings of the riff-raff that frequented Glory's joint while sucking at a road bottle of Four Roses. He was mulling over the possibility of lighting a roach he had found in the ash tray while looking for a long butt, when Sammy the Snapper exited the joint, looked down the street in both directions, smoothed back his thinning comb-over, and took off down the street in the direction of Cleveland Avenue at a brisk clip. Something was brewing, and it smelled more like murder than java. The Spitball was packing in more tough characters and lost souls than a Cohen Brothers flick. He had already seen Tony Carbone park his rose Cadillac in the Tow Away Zone and lumber in. Johnny Thorn had shown up a little later, followed by Bette. Then that lethal skirt Vendetta Threats had exited a City Bus, paused to freshen her make-up, slipped on a pair of high-heels from her purse, and clacked in. Blake was glad he was on the outside of this one."I'm just the waterboy," he mumbled aloud," the real game's not over here." He needed a break from the interior of the KIA, which reeked of stale beer and cat piss. Looking up the street away from the Spitball, he saw the neon sign for the Fugawi Inn. He lit a Pall Mall and sauntered in that direction. Peering through the keyhole-shaped window in the door, he saw the bartender, a guy he remembered as Pete, watching the Angels lose on a static-blasted TV. He walked in and took a seat at the bar.He was disappointed to note that the place smelled more like stale beer and cat piss than the KIA. Pete, all the while keeping his eyes glued to the screen, poured a tumbler of Four Roses and said one word- "rocks?" Blake nodded, and Pete dropped three cubes in the glass. The guy had great peripheral vision, you had to say that for him. He deposited Madison's whiskey on the bar, walked slowly toward the television, then struck it a massive blow with his fist. The picture snapped into focus long enough to watch Mullens get tagged out on a steal attempt."Fuckin' loser," said Pete. "You a fan?" said Madison. A copy of Baseball News lay on the end of the bar. Bartender had on a Dodgers tee shirt. This is why I get the big money, Blake thought to himself. "yeah. Played some minor league ball in Arkansas. Real quad-A, you know. Cow shit and two-row bleacher stuff. I could steal second better'n Mullens though, that flat-footed peckerhead." Blake smiled."Johnny Thorn played minor-league ball in Arkansas, didn't he?" The bartender slapped a wet towel that smelled like it had been last used to sponge down a bulldog on the bar." No, Oklahoma. Fuckin' prima donna," Pete spat." Pretty boy. Pretty dirty too." He mopped the bar, a dead scowl on his puss."Dirty?" said Madison. "How so?" Pete, for the first time, smiled."For five hundy he'd do what he could to make sure his team lost. But he's changed. It's 50 grand now." He suddenly pivoted and slapped the TV with the bar towel, this time failing to disrupt the static."Goddam Magnavox piece of shit," he said, burying his face in the Baseball News. |
|
Subject: RE: Bette Monroe, Private Eye From: catspaw49 Date: 07 Jul 00 - 01:38 AM Tony stepped out of the backroom with Glory and she headed for the kitchen. He lit up, staring through the flame of the Zippo at the familiar form at the bar. He snapped the lighter shut with a metallic click and as Blake Madison turned, Tony grabbed him by the neck.
"Blake....ya' fockin' Mick. Whaddaya doin' hangin' out in a joint like this?" Madison watched Pirilla go out the door and thought of days long past. Something was in the works alright. There had always been something in the way Tony walked, even as a kid, that told him a game was afoot. Spaw |
|
Subject: RE: Bette Monroe, Private Eye From: JenEllen Date: 07 Jul 00 - 03:43 AM The nightly ritual at the 'Fastball was quickly coming to an end. Ed had closed the kitchen and gone upstairs. "Hey Vinnie, cover the bar, I'm going out for a smoke." Glory untied her apron and headed towards the back with Tony Pirilla close on her tail. When she emerged, she DID have a cigarette. She paused at the bar to look in the mirror and run a stray hand through her hair and check the buttons on her blouse. Vinnie was working on a block of ice and glared over his shoulder at her before he resumed with the ice pick. "Ballsy sonofabitch." though Glory, as she passed through the swinging doors into the kitchen. Here she collected the mail and the plate of veal scallopinni that Ed had left for her before she headed out the back into the alley.
She pulled a crate up against the wall, set the plate on the ground and lit her cigarette. The cat had polished off the veal and was disposing of the sauce when a sharp click from down the alley sent it scurrying behind the dumpster. The glow of the lighter gave an eerie cast to the face of Sammy the Snapper. A car pulled around the corner, and before Sammy climbed in, he pointed his pistol at Glory and made a soft 'POP'. Bastard. Why did Tony keep that piece of shit around anyways? Not that she didn't trust Tony's judgement, but c'mon, even Vinnie was more reliable. She wasn't gonna rock the boat, Tony took care of things. She got up and crushed the cigarette out on the sole of her shoe before flicking the butt down the alley. She took a perfumed pink envelope out of the mail, folded it and tucked it in her bra. Dear old Aunt Millie. Once, Tony's thugs came to the 'Fastball and demanded money for 'insurance', Ed dutifully agreed and paid it the first of every month. Auntie's letters came like clockwork too, on the fifth, with a check in them made out to Glory for that same amount. Tony never mentioned this to Glory, and she never told him that she didn't have and Aunt Millie. |
|
Subject: RE: Bette Monroe, Private Eye From: MMario Date: 07 Jul 00 - 10:06 AM in an unmarked van, parked in an alley two doors down from the FastBall J. Harold "Hairy" Foxe IV pulled the surveillance earphones off his head and stretched, muscles creaking and joints popping. It had taken him weeks to plant the microphones in the FastBall, and now, the first time he actually got a clear signal the whole evening was a dud! Instead of illegal renditions of copyrighted music tonite there was some wierdo shawm player and every single tune he was playing was either public domain or totally unknown to Foxe. And Foxe could recognize a contracted tune in his sleep. "Granpa would be spinning in his grave", he muttered to himself. "If we hadn't stuffed him and put him on display, that is" Wearily he pulled the earphones back on, vowing he would catch the FastBall in a violation, of he wasn't desrving of the name "Foxe" |
|
Subject: RE: Bette Monroe, Private Eye From: wysiwyg Date: 07 Jul 00 - 12:02 PM Vendetta sidled over to Blake and, coming up behind him with a last decisive clack, sinuously smoothed down his stained and rumpled collar. He sputtered as the last drop-- and he needed it now!-- spewed across the bar to the wall behind. Blake shivered, as she chuckled in his ear, "Blake honey, now you know you ain't s'posed tuh be talkin' no Arkansas shit.... what happened there with me an' Thorn, ain't nobody's bidness but mine... 'less you fittin' tuh buy in?" He was struck dumb. Nowhere to hide, and a black hole he never wanted to fall into again, opening up right before him. Vendetta curled her slender self around the back of the barstool beside him and continued. "An' whose share was you thinkin' you'd slice for a cut? Yuh know Ah nevah split, but Ah reckon Thorn might could share..." she laughed that laugh again, as cold as the fires of hell and as hot as an Arctic grave. "He do have a tendency to share evah-thang else is sweet. Time was he thought he might share me!" She laughed, and the cold sweat running down the back of Blake's shirt slipped into his spinal cord, and ran on up and over his ears. "Vendetta, you know I can't take a brain freeze anymore... I don't ask for mercy," he said, knowing her too well, "but have a care for Chrissake, I'm tryin' to lay low here." "See, Blake, you might could buy in... but split? Ah don't think so, babyman.... You got to know how!" Her eyes found him mockworthy and mock she did, as her left nostril flared a tad and her right eyebrow slipped up another sardonic notch. He cringed almost impercerptibly-- he'd learned once, the hard way, what happens when Miss Threats smells fear. She tilted her head, now, rumninatin'..... "Might be Ah could use him after all," she thought to herself, seeing a whole new angle. |
|
Subject: RE: Bette Monroe, Private Eye From: Lonesome EJ Date: 07 Jul 00 - 02:05 PM As Vendetta gave a small laugh and lay two red nailed fingers on his wrist,Madison stared into the depths of his bourbon and conjured a fleeting image of himself from a parallel universe that had split off from this one long ago. In the vision he sat on a boulder hard against the Jefferson River in Western Montana, strumming his guitar. The boy that cast a fly into the slack water behind the boulder was his son, the woman who sang to herself as she lay out a picnic lunch in the lush grass was his wife. A breeze sighed through the early fall day,setting the aspen leaves to tremor. Golden light sparkled around him. Vendetta's toe massaging his shin brought him back to the Fastball. This was his life, with these sharps and drunks and losers in these dives where a veneer of camaraderie veiled the dangerous lies beneath. And Madison asked himself the old question...what was it about this maelstrom of threats, easy money and broken dreams that made him uncontent to watch it safely from the shore, drew him in with a seductive suction? If anything made sense about it, it was the snap of adrenaline, the quickened pulse in this life lived at this level of danger and immediacy. Maybe I'm addicted to fear, Madison thoght, that's why my mouth is always so damned dry. Blake cast a glance over Vendetta's shoulder at the booth where Johnny Thorn and Bette were sitting a little too close together for a business meeting. Blake had it bad alright, like a High School crush. Funny, he'd never felt this way about a woman as cooly efficient as Bette was. She was a Lamborghini, and he'd been driving Chevrolets for way too long. But somehow all he could see ahead on the track was a sharp curve and a stone wall. Someone shoved another Roses under his snout."I thought you wanted me to handle this one," said a familiar voice. He looked up to see Reed smiling that sardonic smile of his."Yeah," said Blake," guess I make a lousy audience. Just gotta climb up on the stage." He sipped the whiskey."But don't worry. It's just a bit part." |
|
Subject: RE: Bette Monroe, Private Eye From: katlaughing Date: 07 Jul 00 - 02:07 PM Shaking like a leaf on a quaking aspen, Ms. Goodie breathed a huge sigh of relief when she hit the sidewalk, stepping quickly away from the doors of that odious place! With purposeful strides, she crossd over to the Foxe van, threw open the door and tossed her papers inside, yelling, "Get another patsy tune-cline for yer bullshit games, mister! I am outta here! You couldn't pay me enough to walk into that nest of vipers, again!!" Slamming the door, she whistled lustily at a speeding cab, jumped in as it slowed down and sped on her way. When she was sure the cabby's eyes weren't climbing down her blouse, she pulled out a tiny a mini-cd recorder and tucked it safely inside her backpack. "We'll see what the feds think of this information," Ms. Bellesdaughter thought to herself...."No more Ms. Goodie! that simpering silly twit!" |
|
Subject: RE: Bette Monroe, Private Eye From: wysiwyg Date: 07 Jul 00 - 02:28 PM The Threats woman, enlivened by the adrenaline she could smell coursing through Blake's system, grew more colorful, a peach tint suffusing the coffee-light suppleness of her molded cheekbones. She drew strength from Blake's racing pulse as he viewed the vignette beyond, and withdrew to watch what he would do next. She chuckled again as she noticed poor Thorn had not yet seen her in the shadows. But she knew Glory had seen her, and Glory was no fool. She slipped off her red and silver stiletto come-see-me pumps and tucked them into her purse, in case quick flight was called for. Then she relaxed, idly honing her one silver-tipped nail on the tightly-stretched hipseam of her leather jumpsuit. "Wal," she thought to herself, "this sure do beat stayin' on that rattletrap tour bus Ah lef' parked 'cross town. Wonder what the band is up to though.... and the Monkey oughtta be showin' up soon if Ah knows him. Then we see us some action, hoo-eee!" |
|
Subject: RE: Bette Monroe, Private Eye From: catspaw49 Date: 07 Jul 00 - 02:47 PM Tony awoke late in the morning and immediately reached for a Lucky. As the smoke seeped from his lips he realized he was still tired. It had been a night from hell. On the one hand there was Glory, but on the other......... That was the problem wasn't it? There were far too many other hands. He had a good shakedown set up and all of a sudden things were getting too complicated. The wacky bitch with the rubbers had somehow unnerved him and it wasn't a feeling he knew well. Leaving the 'ball last night he'd checked the Caddy as he always did and the marks of Foxe were all over it. And Sammy. For the first time in many years he was questioning his loyalty. Then there was Blake. They'd run an odd parallel existence since childhood and Tony knew that Blake wasn't there last night by accident. Then there was the main target, Thorn. But what was with the bimbo PI? His wife had breakfast waiting and Tony called the office as he ate. ABC Enterprises......Trucking, Cartage, Concrete, a TV station and a recording studio...all legit and thriving businesses under the ABC banner. His wife flittered around as always and told him of her plans and the card club that was due over and the other boring ass things that occupied her days. She was a front like ABC and a needed one. If she knew how Tony really felt about her or what he actually did, she never let on. The kids were being raised right and they would always have the best. His boy would inherit the business and be a respected man. He wouldn't need the other part of Tony's life and thank God for that. Sammy should have called by now. Tony's worries about him came back again. Those damn kids he used........Were they working for Sammy or was he being duped into their world of drugs? He gulped down a last swallow of coffee and went upstairs to shower and head for the office. Spaw |
|
Subject: RE: Bette Monroe, Private Eye From: JenEllen Date: 07 Jul 00 - 05:45 PM Glory woke with her arm draped across the pillow beside her. She yawned, stretched, and eventually climbed out of bed. Ed was snoring away on the couch with a pile of bloody kleenex beside him. Glory grabbed the wadded mess and threw it in the trash before pulling on her jeans and going down to the bar. Downstairs she put the market list and truck keys at the end of the bar for Vinnie. The kid was a sharp as a spoon, but he did what he was told, and at least by sending him to the store it got him out of Ed's sight for a while. Glory checked the clock, Vinnie was late. Probably out late with his girl last night, did Vinnie even HAVE a girl? She shrugged and began polishing glasses. At the other end of the bar sat a brandy snifter full of condoms. Some bastard's idea of a sick joke. If Sal ever caught wind of it she'd come unglued like the time Vinnie offered to grow penicillin in the 'fridge for her. Besides, that Goodie broad didn't fool Glory for one minute. As far as Glory knew, there wasn't a Federal branch of Planned Parenthood, and this dame had fed scrawled all over her and her sensible shoes. She just hoped Tony still had his keen nose for the rodents. Glory opened the windows to air the place out, and noticed the van was still parked in fron of the Fugawi. Pete had visitors? She played out the night before in her mind while she continued to polish the glasses. The good lookin' dame with Johnny was out of her element in a dive like this. And for some reason, Blake Madison knew it and was watching her like a hawk. It had to have been important, because Blake was having enough trouble of his own with Vendetta Threats. Vendetta Threats, there's a name she thought she'd never hear again. Johnny Thorn was no angel- sure, he'd dumped a few games to the highest bidder- but he was CalFockin' Ripken compared to Threats. If Blake Madison had any last wishes he'd best get on with it, that woman was most guys' last stop before joining the choir invisible. Glory swept around the stage and made a mental note to keep that musician fella around too. The Pleasuretonz had driven her nuts, and when she wasn't happy, ain't nobody happy. But this guy Reed was pretty good, bonus was the fact that Sammy Scarlini hated him. So Fockin'A he's a keeper. The door to the Split Fastball opened and Vinnie walked in shaking like a leaf. No sleep, and it hadn't been because of the skirts. He made a little extra money helping Sammy after the bar closed. Glory hated that. She ran her hand along the kid's cheek, hell, he wasn't that much younger than herself, and poured them both steaming mugs of coffee. She'd send Ed into town this morning, the less she had to hear him breathe the better. Glory and Vinnie sat and the bar and divided up the morning paper. Glory only really read the horoscopes of everyone she knew, the Dear Scabby advice things, and the funny pages. Flipping past the sport section she caught a glimpse of Agnetta von Trosch, and Glory tore the article out to give to Johnny later. Ed lumbered down the stairs in a pair of boxers, scratching his ass and sending Vinnie into fits. Glory informed him if he planned on cooking today he'd best get his ass to town and get the orders. Ed grunted, and wondered why she never had coffee with him in the mornings, and grabbed the keys off the bar.
Once again Glory and Vinnie were left to open the 'Fastball. |
|
Subject: RE: Bette Monroe, Private Eye From: SINSULL Date: 07 Jul 00 - 08:42 PM refresh |
|
Subject: RE: Bette Monroe, Private Eye From: Peter T. Date: 08 Jul 00 - 03:38 PM I came out into the hot afternoon heading for the Haunt, where I had a hunch that someone who didn't dress on the left would know what was up with Agnetta. I breathed in the air, trying to separate out the pollution from the oxygen: I didn't have the knack yet, but was working on it, like Tibetan split voicing in reverse. I already had the knack of listening to men talking about their hobbies and being able to do the crossword at the same time down, but I had had help from Seventeen magazine on that one. I thought briefly about the cast of lowlifes swirling around Johnny Thorn, the moment he walked into the Split Fastball, like a shiny planet surrounded by burnt out satellites and space debris. But then that is what it is like in most of these spotlight worlds: a couple of dazzlers, and the rest sloping off into envy or bloodsucking. Me cynical? Does Mother Teresa chase ambulances? I wondered offhand who was doing the slow chase behind me. Probably one of Tony's stooges: Sammy, who played the horse's ass in Godfather IV. I knew I was being followed -- hell, I have been followed since the Pink Bomb exploded when I was twelve -- so you get the instinct. But Johnny did have one bright idea when he hired me -- I was going somewhere the usual dopes weren't likely to follow. I wonder where he got the idea from -- retail? Wholesale? I looked into a passing window, and caught a reflection of a car I knew well. Oh fine, it was like a Shriner's parade -- Blake Madison, master of diguise, who might have been wearing a red Fez. He was probably about as subtle in the sack -- you'd have to buy him one of those new Global Positioning whatsits before he found anything worth finding. Outside the Haunt, they were already lining up for frisking. I waved at Sarah, whose second greatest claim to fame was the day she did the butterchurn manoeuvre on The Avenger and got the World Wrestling Federation off the air in 12 states. Her first claim to fame was the butterchurn maneouvre in the privacy of her own home. She smiled and let me pass. Inside the tops were already lined up along the left side of the blue bar, sizing up the bottoms on the right. At the pink bar the femmes and the tomboy/butches were also minuetting. It was early yet. In the middle the trans and the bi's just danced around to the music. I swam against the tide of sound towards Kiki, the owner. She and I had had a couple of rounds together some years back -- nothing you'd buy a ringside seat for, however. She was way too SM for me: I said, honey, life is already seriously SM for me on a daily basis. But she had a hoover like no one else. "Hey, Kiki," I shouted. She came over and gave me a soppy kiss. She was already totalled on ecstasy. "Hey, dickster!!" she shouted back. I waved towards the powder room, which was no euphemism. But at least it was quiet. The silence, apart from the snorting and the vomiting, was almost pleasant, if you could cope with the smell. "Zow, Bette, how is reality?" She enunciated every word extra clearly, as if she was casting a magic spell. "Kiki, I'm looking for Connie Mack, is she around?" Kiki hitchhiked over her shoulder. Slumped in the corner, dead to the world, was Connie Mack, ex-Wimbledon qualifier, sometime supermodel, current poster girl for the abyss. ******* "Whass?" she said after I got the Colombian coffee in her, which countered somewhat the immediate effects of the Colombian drugs in her. We were in Kiki's office, right in the back. "Hi Connie, it's Bette. 1 comes before 2, and i before e, except after intravenous." "Oh, hi, hi, Bette." Connie was coming back into radio range. "Connie. Connie, I need some information. About Agnetta." She proceeded to speak in an unladylike fashion for about 30 seconds, without originality. If you are looking for elegant Anglo-Saxonisms, try Beowulf. She and Agnetta had been long-term lovers, then Agnetta had dumped her for another woman, and then came back for a refill, and then rubbed it in by taking up with Johnny Thorn, and now? "How would I know what Eva von C**t is doing?" she finally said, forming a real sentence. "Connie - Bette; Bette- Connie. We have met before, Connie. You have a deeper connection with her than the fact that you hate her guts: you and she have the same doper. She gives you money when you whine enough for old time's sake, and because she likes watching you die." "She's cut me off. I've got nothing. She has to be clean, so she says." "Why Connie?" "Cause of her new sweetie." "Who?" Some brain cell deep in the reptile part of her brain flicked on. "What is it worth to you?" she said slowly. I shrugged my shoulders. Since Johnny Thorn had just signed a new 5 year deal with the Coppers that was rumoured to involve 75 million dollars and the state of Idaho, I figured he was good for some small change. I considered a number, and then doubled it. As I did, there was a small sound, like a hummingbird hitting a wall, and an equally small hole appeared in Connie's forehead, then widened. I whipped around, and saw a silencer withdrawing from a tiny high window in the wall. I headed for the door, and wrenched it open. I turned around for a second, and saw Connie back in the position I had found her in earlier that day. But it would take a lot more coffee than they had in Colombia to bring her round this time.
|
|
Subject: RE: Bette Monroe, Private Eye From: Sorcha Date: 08 Jul 00 - 06:45 PM [aside: you guys are absolutely wonderful; this is great stuff and I can't do it. Should be bound and printed as dime novels.] |
|
Subject: RE: Bette Monroe, Private Eye From: wysiwyg Date: 09 Jul 00 - 05:36 PM The Monkey slipped in, disguised as the ugliest ball boy ever to suit up for a game, hauling a sack bulging with balls. Outside, 76 trombones lit into TAKE ME IN TO THE BALLGAME. The Monkey set himself up a pitching mound made of used condoms, kleenex, cocktail napkins, and swizzle sticks. Vendetta slipped out of the bathroom where she had been catnapping on the sleazy pink vinyl settee. She jumped up onto a table to umpire what was sure to follow. ("And they thought River City had trubble!" she crooned to herself with an unvoiced cackle.) Blake moved like an automaton to pick up the worn catcher's mask the Monkey tossed his way. Somehow, Threats had done it to him again, and he was in too deep now to forfeit. Now everyone would find out just how big a bat Thorn really had. And whether switch hitters like von Trosch had anything on the ball. The beer was growing stale, and it promised to be an ugly inning, with no Marmite to make the dogs go down easy. The rest of the team began to take the field.... |
|
Subject: RE: Bette Monroe, Private Eye From: Peter T. Date: 10 Jul 00 - 12:53 PM It is probably redundant to say I had a bad feeling about the back alley. Life as a private eye starts with back alleys and goes down from there. It is like human beings in general: they are always showing you the shiny bits, and meanwhile the crap is piling up behind them. They won't vote for new sewers, they think pollution comes from outer space, they won't take out the garbage, and then they wake up one morning and wonder why they have rats on their face. Wonder why the Mob owns all the waste management in the country? Because they feed on everything no one talks about, but everyone does. All this green think came to me because (a) I had a dead body to cope with in the room behind me; and (b) I was about to be stuffed in a green plastic bag and left on a sidewalk myself if I wasn't careful. If I was going to be compressed and recycled, I wanted to do it on my own time. I hit the outer door hard, and flipped out into the parking lot, just like they do in the movies, except that I got a concrete burn on my arm, which was O.K. because the shot that went by me and punched into the door frame had my name, address, and e-mail account number all over it. I dived past an overhang, got out my little pissant travelling gun, and played Lichtenstein versus NATO for about 30 seconds. A big mother shot, like a bazooka on steroids whipped past me in the direction of NATO. What the hell? I hadn't even asked for the cavalry, and Rin-Tin-Tin turns up. Will wonders never cease. And then I saw something really strange, but expected. The cavalry was Tony. I had never seen him move at all, let alone fire a gun -- I thought he had guys flushing his toilet for him -- but he had obviously been saving himself for an occasion. This looked like it. "He's killed her, Tony!!!" I yelled at him. Tony gave out a cry of anger, and started pumping shots hard, fast. There was a answering fusillade from the clutch of walls stacked back of the Haunt, and then there were footsteps running. Tony ran down the line of cans, fired a shot in that direction, heaved himself over a retaining wall, I heard another exchange, then I saw him come back, breathing hard, red faced, tears running down his face. "O.K. Doll, get out here now" Tony held his gun on me. "I got no time for nothing. I got to be back at the Split Fastball in about 2 minutes. And you are either dead or not." "I don't think so, Tony. " He yelled. "Are you crazy? You are in the meat section with the foam plate underneath and the plastic wrap over you and the ridiculous price stamped on it. You are in the cart along with the f****** who did this." "Oh, is this it? You get the funny stuff while the clock is ticking on both our alibis? You know I had nothing to do with it. " He looked grim. "Hey, Doll, give me a break." "She's dead, Tony. That guy picked her off from the back. I got out here too late to even see him. And they are coming to me for the story, and me dead is one too many to handle. They would come for you, fast. They will come for you anyway, you know that. And she's dead, Tony, mourn for her for Christ's sake." He lowered the gun. "Jesus, jesus." "Tony?" "You spend your whole time trying to look after someone, and they just go. They just go. What was with her? One screwup after another screwup. And does she come to me? No, she goes to that fuzzball tennis dyke Nazi." "Tony, the clock is ticking." He raised his gun again, mad, concentrating. "You are working for me now. Here is what you know. A fed woman with a wire on comes into the Split Fastball five minutes ago. She gives me a message saying Connie is about to be blown away out of the back of the Haunt, and was I interested. And I come out of there clean, nobody with me, nobody following me. And I get here in time to watch your tumble act. That is it. Zip. " "Thanks for the retainer, Tony. It's something to do with Agnetta -- with her new girlfriend. That's why they killed her. So no one would connect her with Connie, or something like that. I'll get her. I promise. I'll find out. But what the hell are the Feds doing in this? " He looked at me." A lot of people are going to stop being a lot of people. Trust me. Government or no government." He turned and started to run down the alley. "Oh Tony," I shouted. He stopped and looked back. "She was a beautiful bride. I remember the day." He looked like I had slashed him with a whip, and then ran off. Yes, it had been a beautiful day. Connie wore white, with a train that ended somewhere on the streets of heaven, with an ashes of roses bouquet, and Tony was like some god. And, as they came down the aisle and out of the church, the Davis Cup team all in white raised their rackets over the young couple's head. It was on the evening news everywhere. I wondered if her death would make it there too. I guessed that it just might, and somebody might dig up the old footage from what was it, ten years ago, and run it again, the way it was running now in Tony's head, and might run there forever.
|
|
Subject: RE: Bette Monroe, Private Eye From: JenEllen Date: 10 Jul 00 - 02:14 PM Mouseshit rolls all right. Too bad the Split Fastball had to be at the bottom of the hill. The sun was burning through the smog and I thought today might be a decent day, ya'know? Ed would be stuck in traffic, god willing, and business had been good so far. Johnny Thorn came into the 'Fastball under a black cloud the size of Arkansas. I was sure he'd had a run in with Threats, and so's I drew his first beer on the house. He sat there, elbows on the bar, staring into the foam. PollyAnna Fockin' Sunshine that I am, I remembered the newspaper clipping and got it out of the register to give ta him. In one toss he'd drained the pounder and grunted for another one. When I gave him the clipping, his eyes went all sad and weepy, and he read it real slow like. Poor bastard, that woman had him by the balls. Agnetta was an Aries...they could do that to a guy.
So when Vinnie flipped on the radio, it was pretty nice. When it gets quiet like that it's just too spooky, y'know? So there we are, Vinnie tired as hell, Johnny with his tear-in-his-beer thing going on, and me wishing I had my nice day back. God, I hadn't heard that song in ages. Back before I shacked up with Ed, I'd been a dancer at the Pink Flamingo. Rotten years, high on whatever would make me forget what I was doing for a living. 'Fever' had been my song. The manager at the Flamingo used to tell guys I had extra vertebrae, that's the only way a gal could move like that. Whatevah. So there I am, got a groove on, dusting the bar and havin' a good time shaking my lil' money maker. Almost got a smile outta Johnny too, but then I hears this "clap......clap.....clap.....clap...". Fuckin'Sammy the Snapper and his toads. I never even seen 'em come in either. "If that's any indication of the show that Tony gets, he's a lucky man...." says Sammy, and he walks up and tucks a dollar bill down my shirt. Fock all, I hauls off and slaps him straight in the chops. Left a bright red handprint on his face too, but Sammy never flinched. He just tells me "I came in to talk to the kid...I'll deal with you later."
So I'm watching 'em talk to Vinnie. Can't hear a damn thing they're saying neither. But it's getting pretty hot. Sammy's pissed about whatevah, and he's got that nasty coiled up look like a fuckin' cobra or somethin', he ain't messing around. I got my hand on my Louisville, just in case, and lucky thing too, cuz Sammy starts to haul off and smack Vinnie around some. Now, I know I don't run the fockin'Ritz or nothin, but shit like that don't go on in my bar, I don't care if you're the gawddamn Pope. I grabbed the bat and made short work of two of the toads that was flankin' Vinnie. Sammy made a grab for me and I shoved that bat up high under his chin.
I heard this noise in the back room, so's I grabbed the bat and looked it there, but it was only Tony. He'd come in the back door, and was sitting in the stockroom with his collar undone, sweatin' like a dog. He was smokin' and his hand was shaking so bad he couldn't light a cigarette, so I goes over to light it for him. Well, at this point I wasn't worried about Sammy so much as I was Tony. Somethin' shook him up bad and he wasn't talkin'. That was strange because Tony don't never get upset so's you can see, and even if he was gonna, he always talked to me. I wasn't no help, fuck, I'm a ex-stripper and a bartender, not some gawdamn rocket scientist, but I think just getting a chance to say stuff out loud where no one would repeat it, helped him. So I left Tony to sit and smoke, and went back out to the bar. Vinnie was sweeping up the glass I'd busted and gave me this sheepish look. That kid was up to somethin'. I looked up and noticed Johnny Thorn was gone. There was five bucks on the bar along with the newspaper clipping I gave 'em. It was rolled up into a ball, so's I unroll it only to see that he'd taken one of the swizzle-sticks and totally poked out her face. Did a real neat job of it too, then stuck the stick through where her heart would be if that tennis racket hadn'ta been there. "What was the deal?" That's what I'm thinking, "Was every gawddamn man on the planet losing his balls or somethin'?" When she walks in. Johnny's looker, although she looked like she'd been run over by the 109 bus right now. She took a table in the corner and I walks over to see her.
"You're Johnny's dame, right? Ya just missed him." I says
"Here ya go love.." I says and gives her the vodka, as well as a wet bar-towel to get the gravel out of her arm. She looked appreciative. I took a shot at it.
|
|
Subject: RE: Bette Monroe, Private Eye From: Peter T. Date: 11 Jul 00 - 11:11 AM I got back to the office, and decided that if I was going country club I had better get into something more sportif, maybe the cream number, and was half undressed when the phone rang. "Bette Monroe --" "Bette, its Kiki. They're on their way to you. I did what I could." "Kiki, you know I owe you big time." "They're going to close me down, Bette." She sounded like she was about to cry. "What, Kiki, for good?" "No, probably six months, they've been trying to get something on the club for a long time. But six months will finish me. I got nothing but my savings, Bette." "Look, Kiki, when this dies down a bit, go to Tony. He'll give you the money." "Tony?" "He may be scum, but he still carried a torch for her, god knows why, Kiki." "I can't go to him, Bette, you know how hard I've worked to keep clean." "Kiki, you go to him and you tell him to give you the money, no strings, or I tell Homicide where he was about 1:03 this afternoon. " There was a sigh of relief at the other end. "Thanks, Bette, really." "No bouquets yet, Kiki, we are not out of this." At that moment, there was a hammering at the outside door. Oh good. "Gotta go, Kiki. Girls together. Thanks for everything." I put the phone back down, and yelled: "Hang on a second, I'm dressing." A familiar voice behind the door ordered: "Homicide, open up." I picked up the crumpled dress and took a look at me in my slip in the mirror. Well, God gave me these weapons for use in an emergency, and this was an emergency. I arranged the coverage for maximum exposure and headed for the door. I opened it a crack, modestly. "Why, Lieutenant Michaels, what an honour." "Come on, Bette, let me in." "Can you wait a few seconds while I get my dress on?" and then I shrugged, and casually opened the door wide. "What the hell, I guess you have seen pictures of women before. I hear they are putting them in cereal boxes now." And I walked in leisurely fashion into the other room, wondering if Gypsy Rose Lee was watching from heaven. Lieutenant Michaels, not bad looking in a cop sort of way, came in, his face beetred, his eyes taking it all in. "Er." he said deftly. I slowly put the rest of my dress on. "O.K. Bette," He said, when a line became available from his brain to his lungs again, and he breathed. "O.K., what were you doing in the Haunt about one this afternoon?" "Looking for someone. Someone who didn't show up. I cruise there, you know." "Was that someone Connie Mack?" I had a thin line to walk. "Yes. An old girlfriend of mine -- Platonic, rather than Aristotelian, if you get my drift." "She turned up dead about an hour ago in a car parked about a mile away from the Haunt up the Canyon." "Oh God, "I said, I hoped convincingly. I turned my head aside so that he could get a good look at the neckline of a woman in shock and grief. "Cut the theatre, Bette. We got reports of shots fired in the alley behind the Haunt just about the time you were there. We got a couple of witnesses that said you talked to the owner and went into the back. We even got a witness that said that Connie Mack had gone to the toilet, and never came back. " I stared at him. The only hope I had was that the couple of druggies in the powder room were too stoned to notice anything. Or that Kiki had fixed them somehow. "All true."I replied. "I was there, I was looking for her, I asked Kiki where she was, and we went back looking for her, and she had taken a powder -- I mean out. She had gone. I never saw her." Lieutenant Michaels hardened his expression. "You know that if we find that she was still there, and you saw her, you are looking at 5-10 years for everything, obstruction, leaving the scene of a crime, maybe accessory." I smiled as best I could. He went on. "O.K. What about this client?" "Can't tell you, Lieutenant, part of the rules." "Suppose I take you down to talk to the Captain?" It was no use, I was going to have to give him that. "Suppose you lay off. O.K., the client is Johnny Thorn." I said reluctantly. His eyebrows went up. "What would Johnny Thorn want with a broken-down druggie?" "He doesn't, Lieutenant. He's hot for Agnetta von Trosch, the tennis star, and he thinks she is cheating on him. Connie is an old pal of hers. I wanted to find out if she knew anything." I decided to keep it as straight as I could. He would probably find out anyway. "I still don't get it. What would she know?" "I figure it like this, Lieutenant." I sat down on the edge of my desk, honing the legs in his general direction. You never can tell. "Connie is -- was -- hooked big time, and Agnetta used to peel off a few bills for old times sake. I never found out who the pipeline was, but I would bet that she had a fight with him over something, or who knows what, and she got killed. Who knows when you are crawling around down there." Michaels wasn't buying it, but he was eying the merchandise. Always Be Closing, as they say in the trade. "Yeah", he said, "but what about Tony?" "You got me there, Lieutenant. That's what makes me think it had to be something cheesy. Can you imagine anyone taking on Tony -- offing his ex-wife? You would have to be nuts." I got to him with that one. "You are right there, Bette. Doesn't figure, does it?" He looked at me officially, but longer than was necessary. "Don't go anywhere, Bette. You are in deep trouble." I looked back at him, a smidgen longer than was necessary. "Sure, Lieutenant. But I would hate to be whoever did this. He is in much bigger trouble than I am. Tony really loved her, still. Romantic in a murderous sort of way." He nodded, and went to leave. At the door, he turned and said: "Nice dress, going somewhere?" "Policeman's ball," I said. He laughed. He had a nice laugh, when it was on your side. "Actually, Lieutenant, I am going to play some tennis." He frowned and said: "You find anything, anything, and you don't tell me first ---" And he went out. I exhaled. Thank you, genetic code. I now had three men with first call on what I found, and at this point all I knew was zero. Or as they say in tennis, love-love. Love was a big double zero in this back alley, that was for sure. I picked up my purse, reached into a drawer, and got the Smith & Wesson .38 out, stuffed it in, and headed for the car. Oh, I was just bristling with weapons today.
|
|
Subject: RE: Bette Monroe, Private Eye From: Lonesome EJ Date: 11 Jul 00 - 04:20 PM Sammy the Snapper had rarely felt more alive as he strutted down the street to Obrien's Newstand. Carmen, the little Puerto Rican slice of jelly roll who worked the counter at the Pet Shop, was sweeping the sidewalk in front of the door with her back to him. In passing, he gripped her taut left buttocks, laughing as she swung at the air behind her with a broom."You're feisty, Baby. I like 'em like that!" he called to her. She responded "merda! Cabrone!", and Sammy laughed again. Just as they had said, Obrien was gone and the black kid was selling papers. Sam looked him in the eye for several seconds, the kid unconsciously easing away from him."I'm Sammy...y'understand?" The kid nodded. "Then give me the Racing Form." The kid fumbled behind the counter, then handed Sammy the Form, rolled and rubber-banded. Sammy put the paper under his arm and slipped the kid a ten. He walked to the alcove of a boarded-up brownstone, unrolled the Form and flipped to page 13. The key was taped on the photo of the split-second finish at Ruidoso Downs. He grinned, pocketed the key, and stuffed the Racing Form in a nearby mail box. Lighting a Marlboro Menthol, he crossed the street and entered the Greyhound Terminal at the corner of Weber, finding his way to locker 13. He slipped the key out of his pocket and unlocked the door. Inside was a leather briefcase. He cracked it open and nearly laughed out loud with glee. He snapped it shut, closed the locker, exiting the terminal on the opposite end. Blake Madison dumped the rest of the coffee into the overflow trap on the vending machine, and watched Sammy the Snapper leave the Greyhound Station. He walked out onto the sidewalk and watched Sammy loping, almost trotting, toward the Lakewood Hotel and his apartment there. Couldn't wait to count the cash. Blake unfolded the note he had found in the trash can next to Sammy's bedside phone and re-read it . Pick up ready as we discussed. Call me afterwards. D. Who "D" was, Blake didn't know, but the bug he had put on Sammy's phone would soon tell. Whatever Sammy the Snapper was up to, Blake felt sure he was hiding it from Tony. Sammy was the kind of snake who would turn and bite his keeper, and Madison was determined that he wouldn't let that happen to Tony, whose friendship had bailed him out of jails, bad alimony settlements, and a rehab clinic in Seymour Indiana. |
|
Subject: RE: Bette Monroe, Private Eye From: Peter T. Date: 12 Jul 00 - 11:51 AM Baywoods Country Club was old money, which essentially means money that was piled up in the days when there were even fewer child labor laws than there are today, but there is nothing prettier on a hot summer afternoon than an elegant mock-Georgian mansion nestled in the trees, along a bayside, resting on the firm basis of human misery and coupon clipping. I drove up to the security shack, where they took one look at my Honda Civic, and decided that they had a problem. I scribbled something on a sheet of paper, and smiled back at the Gauleiter who was only following orders. "Here, you send this in to Agnetta von Trosch, and I will happily wait here. I haven't got through the latest issue of Burke's Peerage yet, and I keep wondering how it will turn out." It was all over the help's head. About three minutes later, I was waved in. They took my car away from me, presumably to have it fumigated, and I strolled into the main lounge. It was the sort of place that was so WASP you instantly wanted to put on a yarmulka and start selling Israel Bonds in the lobby. Or I do anyway: just a girlish quirk of mine. A butler out of Central Casting escorted me through the hushed and decorous hallways out to the back where the tennis courts were laid out beneath high old trees, and surrounded by the kind of rustic greenwood stadium Helen Wills Moody would have been comfortable in. The stands were marginally occupied with some casual visitors watching the two women in white tracking back and forth across the red clay. It was breathtakingly beautiful. Along the edge of the court, a very fit looking man sat at a round table under an umbrella, with a metronome clicking away. He caught sight of me, and imperiously waved me down. The thuck-thuck-thuck of balls against rackets echoed off the walls. "Please sit down, Miss -- Monroe, it is, I think?" He was Daddy, Helmut von Trosch, the fiercest tennis father bastard on the earth, and he looked it. Classic head, blonde hair tightly combed back -- all he lacked was the monocle and the sabre scar. He gave me the once over, decided he liked what he saw. "We are in mid-practice, as you can see. Would you care for some refreshment?" An attendent shimmered into existence. I opted for gin and tonic, with a little lemon. I knew that I wasn't going to get one of those cute little miniature umbrellas, but I braced myself for the inevitable disappointment. He said, "Excuse me", turned away for a second, and clapped rhythmically -- "Liebschen, no, no, you are out of synchronization!!!" She was working on cross volleys, over and over again. Bang, move, racket up, slice, bang, move, racket up, slice. It was a living, I guess. She nodded, wiped a hand across her forehead, and looked at me briefly and smiled and went back to work. Oh. So that was what Johnny and Connie and Bonnie and Ronnie and all were about. I had never seen her up close, or at all really, except on TV. The thing about TV is that it makes everyone look like they are on TV. It doesn't catch the real power of a person who smiles and makes everything else around her look like the batteries just went dead. She had that. Can't bottle it, can't predict it, but there it was. Daddy said to me: "I have not told her yet, I am waiting until the end of the practice, it will be something of a shock to her." "You knew her, Connie?" I said. His mouth tightened. "She was a terrible influence on Agnetta. Terrible. And such a talent she had too, in the early days. No discipline." "You wouldn't happen to know who was feeding her drugs recently, would you?" He looked at me in horror. Mock or real? "She was banned, banned from our presence a long while ago. There was no connection, none. This murder is nowhere near us." He smoothly turned away: "Rallies, now, rallies." He turned off the metronome. "Look, Mr. von Trosch --" "Baron." "Sorry, Baron. Always get that wrong. You are protective of your daughter, which is great, fine, but let me be blunt. Someone killed Connie because of her connection to Agnetta, and the person that killed her wanted her dead so badly that he was prepared to take on Tony the Wop, which is like cutting off Mike Tyson in traffic. This means that your daughter is in the big leagues, and I am not talking about strawberries and cream at Wimbledon here." He stiffened. "Do the police know about this?" "The police know that Connie and Agnetta were close at one time. They also know about Johnny Thorn. That may be about it for the moment. " "Damn that woman. Do you know that she was the one who seduced Agnetta first? There was nothing before that, nothing, tennis, tennis, and then this lesbian comes along and ruins her. I am glad she is dead: I only wish it had happened earlier." I looked at him, trying to decide if I was going to throw my drink, ice and all at him, but thought better of it. "She always spoke highly of you too, Baron." Out on the court, Agnetta and her partner opposite were moving in fluid motion through a range of forehands and backhands. I turned my attention to them. Well, to her. She was a real beauty, not stocky or spindly, with a kind of balancing and counterbalancing in her movement that meant that she never looked awkward, even when she lunged or missed a shot. She was like Evonne Goolagong in her prime -- effortless grace on legs, the prime outcome of 5 billion years of evolution. After a few more minutes, they stopped, to a scattering of applause from the locals, she talked to her partner for a moment, nodded, and then strolled over to where we were. I got up. I introduced myself, and we shook hands. She was incredibly beautiful. She had a translucent skin covered in sweat, slightly tanned to a honey gold, set off against a small jade necklace, and a little nothing white tennis dress with string straps that you could run up on your Singer sewing machine if your Singer sewing machine happened to be in Paris or Milan. She smiled again, and wiped her face on a towel. I had never really wanted to be a towel before, but didn't have time to work through that. Daddy was saying nothing, so I guess it was Messenger to Agammemnon time. "Ms. von Trosch, I'm sorry to have to be the one to tell you this. But a mutual friend of ours, Connie Mack, was found dead a few hours ago. " She didn't say anything, she just looked hurt and kind of disappointed. In Connie? She sat down, and her eyes got red. "What happened to her?" "We aren't sure. She was found in a car up a canyon road, near the Haunt. It looks to me as if she had had some problem with her pipeline, or something." I decided to see how that played. Nothing. I give her credit. She started crying, into that towel I wanted to be more than anything at that moment. Fluffy, white, wet with her tears and sweat. Her father patted her hand, and said nothing. After a few moments, she raised her head, and touched my arm. "Ms Monroe, Bette, can I call you Bette?" -- Sure, why not, I have a car and a life you can have too -- "Connie spoke of you many times, of how good you were to her as a friend. Can you find out who did this?" This was my day: I am sure if I stood on a street corner, little old ladies would start lining up and asking me to help them across the street just to get my Girl Scout civics badge. "Well, Agnetta --" A shadow passed over her father's face --"I need some help from you. I need some information, a name or two." "I cannot be of much help." She looked over at her father. "I was out of connection with her for the last while, except when she needed some money." Her father exploded in incoherent sound. "Yah, papa, I still gave her money, please, don't." She looked imploringly at him. He calmed down. "When did you last see her?" "Three, maybe four weeks ago. I told her to stop asking me for money, that I wasn't going to help her any more." "Why?" I said, for the hell of it. I knew she wasn't really going to answer this one. "I had just gotten tired of it. She was not getting any better. I thought that if I gave her a lot of money to go away and go into rehabilitation or something, she might change. I couldn't see her like she was, getting worse. You know?" I nodded as if I knew. As if I agreed. "So I gave her a few thousand dollars, ten -- yes, papa, ten -- and arranged with a clinic I know, and she never came. It was all gone, she phoned me up a week ago, and said it was all gone, and we fought, and that was the last time --" and she dissolved in tears again. She surfaced after a while, and shook her head, and wouldn't say any more. She went off to get changed. I thought about following her into the changing room, but decided to act decently for some lunatic reason. Her father escorted me back through the main house. At the door, as I directed the car day care superintendent, he took my arm for a moment, and whispered tightly: "Please keep her out of this, I will make it worth your efforts in that direction." I looked at him and said: " Keep your money, Baron. Save it for when your daughter has to go into the clinic." He turned on his heel and left. At least he didn't get a look at my car. I got in, stepped on the gas, and was heading for the security chalet, when a white blur came out from behind a stand of trees. She waved me down. Agnetta thrust a piece of paper in my hand. "My father mustn't know." And she bounded off, in that silky way of hers. God, she moved well. I opened the piece of paper, and saw a name I knew only too well on it. Back to the world of back alleys. I waved at the security guard as I crossed the Berlin Wall back into the land of the mortals. I needed a real drink. With a cute umbrella in it.
|
|
Subject: RE: Bette Monroe, Private Eye From: katlaughing Date: 12 Jul 00 - 12:59 PM Looking out the meshed window, grasping the bars, her nails bitten to the quick, Mare Bellsdaughter blew out a long, slow breath. Gawddamit! How the hell did I get myself into this one? "Go to the feds", I said. "Fuck you", I said. Well now look whose gettin' fucked, chickie! Freakin' Foxe man must've gone right to his fear-filled, sorry sack of shit boss and sang like a flock a'canaries. Guess I must've pissed him off royal. Gingerly reaching up, she felt a split stitched closed on the back of her head and her hair had been shaved off. Oh great, now I look the part, at least! Wonder if little Angnetta, "daddy's girl beautiful", will turn her head to look at me now?! Glancing around the small room, she saw a narrow metal bed, with restraints strapped to its rails; an open commode with no lid, next to a utilitarian washstand. No mirrors, no reading material for those restful moments of peristalsis; nothing to lay hands on, as well as nothing to tell her where she was. Last she could remember, she'd been in the cab on her way to the feds...with the tape, uh-oh...the tape
|
|
Subject: RE: Bette Monroe, Private Eye From: JenEllen Date: 12 Jul 00 - 04:50 PM Ed Mitchell had given an icy chuckle when he'd seen Mare Bellesdaughter through the mirrored glass. They'd have to take her to a cell soon, she was starting to wake up. He left the room and nooded to the two men guarding the door. "Get her outta there an inta one of the holding cells." Neither of the two men paused before carrying out his wishes. Fuck Glory, and all the other dipshits at the 'Fastball, here he was a GOD. It all started simple enough for him, that was when they first came to him in the Coppers locker room in '45. "Do a little work for us, Ed." "We smell a rat, Ed." "Dispose of a body for us, Ed." And Edwin Mitchell, being of sound mind and slowly deteriorating body, accepted each time. He'd kept in close enough to know all the comings and goings in the organization, but not close enough to be suspected when the shit went down. That was his plan, until Bellesdaughter showed up in his club. The little bitch had the nerve to bring a recorder into his club, never again. As he left the building, Ed patted the breastpocket of his jacket to feel the tape's slight bulk. No one had seen him take it, and he wanted a good listen before plotting his next move. Blackmail would be too easy, he wanted to see Tony Pirilla swing. Reaching the 'Fastball, Ed took the tape in with him, but left his jacket in a bundle behind the seat. He slipped unnoticed through the back door into the kitchen and placed the tape in a can by the grease hood. Safe as fuckin' Fort Knox. He looked out of the kitchen to survey the bar. A lot of folks for an early afternoon, but most just appeared to be in outta the heat. Johnny's dame was back. Ed had a tough time believing she was here for the drinks, or the company for that matter. Something was up. He choked back another coughing spasm, and retreated to the kitchen briefly. When he emerged, Glory was on her way to the dame's table. Drinks with fuckin' umbrellas. Jesus Christ, he'd never understand women. He took a moment to watch Glory work. In the year she'd lived here, her hard edges had softened, and she had a way of moving so that every guy in the place would kill to have her sit on their lap. Ed realized then that he should have left her scrawny ass hanging from the pole at the 'Flamingo.
******************************* She fixed the dame her drink...one umbrella, hell, give her two. The umbrellas leaned like two pointy breasts and it made Glory laugh out loud. She sang all the way to Bette's table...
Sister Shake, why dont'cha come soothe me |
|
Subject: RE: Bette Monroe, Private Eye From: Peter T. Date: 13 Jul 00 - 12:41 PM I was sitting looking at the two little pointy umbrellas staring up at me like a starlet at Jack Warner, and was gathering my strength. To tell you the truth I was sick of people, and not too thrilled about death either, and there seemed to be a lot of both of them about today. There was also this buzzing noise in my ears, and eventually I twigged to the fact that it was a shawm player, which was certainly new for the Split Fastball, whose taste was usually of the headbanging variety. I checked him out, and figured him for some kind of agent -- maybe from the Royal Ulster Constabulary. It was already a pretty surreal day, and sunset was only just getting its act together. Blake Madison, with that hangdog expression on his face, slipped into the booth. Just what I needed. "Hi, Bette, how's it going?" "Blake, will you stop following me, hiring bad shawm players" -- I had caught a flicker from him to Mr. Buzz as he settled in --" and generally acting like my mother. I hated my mother, and I am working on hating you. Capisch?" He looked like Old Yeller just before they took his papers away. "Sorry, Bette. I just thought that maybe you might need some reinforcements. " "You just thought that you would be Saint Blake and I would reward you by dropping my drawers for you. Well, I have a telegram for you, Blakey boy, I am not wearing any drawers at all, hot day, and all, so there is a fatal flaw in your plan." He looked like Old Yeller as they were taking his papers away, except no one was putting him out of his misery. Time to get what I really wanted, after having done the Nutcracker Suite on him. "Back when this day was in its infancy, and finer for it, Blake, you said something about the Feds being in on this. In fact, you said a whole pile of interesting stuff. Where did you get all this dope?" He looked around quickly, and went into his Humphrey Bogart face. Strictly from hunger. "I got a call early from the Tarantula, who said that the Feds had been asking about Johnny and did I know anything. " The Tarantula was an ex-wrestler turned money man for Tony Pirilla's competition in the south part of the city. "I'm impressed, Blake, maybe you aren't such a pill after all. How do you know the Tarantula?" Blake smiled -- God, men were so transparent -- and said: "We went to school together, the Tarantula, Tony, and me. That was where we learned our street smarts." "What, did they leave you the sidewalk to work on?" He ignored me, which was one to him. "And after that, I called out a guy I know works in the Coppers locker room, who overhead Johnny talking about checking you out. After that, the trail goes cold." "Actually, the trail goes cold and dead. Connie Mack with a bullet like a Hindu jewel in her forehead. That is it. All I know." "Did you get anything out of Agnetta?" "You know, Blake, I underestimate you. Probably connected to the foam padding in your jockey shorts. No, nothing. " I didn't have to tell him everything. "What about the father?" "Oh, Baron von Richtoffen is a monster. But a killer? Who knows. He probably doesn't want anyone to sleep with his daughter unless it is him." He looked shocked. "Hey, Blakey, just kidding. Maybe. " I got up, threw down some money, looked over at Glory, gave her a wave of commiseration, and said to Blake: "Come on, Blake, walk with me a bit." He stood up, stammering. Jesus. We went out onto the street, and started walking. "You know, Bette --" he started. "Oh, cut it, Blake, I wanted us out of there so that the Feds wouldn't hear everything. The place has more wires than a dowager's underbra." He walked along beside me. He had a nice walk, didn't dawdle, didn't race ahead, kept time with me. A girl appreciates that sort of thing. "I need a favour, Blake -- not to be taken advantage of --" He got serious. He was a gentleman under it all, which made him pretty rare in these parts. "Sure, Bette, no kidding around. " "I need you to telephone me tomorrow, at 2:15, at this number, and you have to be Tony Pirilla. " I wrote the number down and gave it to him. He looked at it: "What's out there?" "Did you see Nebula Warriors?" "Everyone in the world saw Nebula Warriors, I through V, Bette. " "I'm going to see Steve Lutzman at the Magic LanternWorks. " He shrugged his shoulder. "Well, take your laserspear." "Thanks, Blake. I appreciate it. Gotta go." I bid him farewell, and smiling, which is all you can ask for these days, and headed off down to the Haunt. It was going to be shut, but I knew that a lot of the clientele would have nowhere else to go. I needed to bone up on that old Jack Warner feeling -- why, I couldn't tell you.
|
|
Subject: RE: Bette Monroe, Private Eye From: Peter T. Date: 15 Jul 00 - 05:11 PM After I took my anti-suburbia pills and gassed up the car, I headed out. MagicLantern Works was about 100 miles out of town, in the mountain foothills. Steve had bought it as a retreat twenty years ago, after the first money came in, and he had been continuously buying up the land in all directions until it was now virtually all "Nebula Valley" -- studios, digital warehouses, living quarters for his racing team, you name it. He once said to me that he never expected that a kid who sent in coupons from Famous Monsters of Filmland Magazine for Bela Lugosi masks would ever rule the world, but he was working on it. He had begun with plasticine dinosaurs and a stop motion 8mm, and was now the subject of conferences on "Jung and the Lutzman Universe". Mile after mile of mile after mile dragged on -- Pinewood Estates gave way to Buena Vista Village and Orchard View, and they were all identically treeless and lifeless . It was easy to see why kids growing up here would take to AK-47s -- what was surprising was that it didn't happen every day, that the Shopping Malls didn't run red with machete wielding youth, which showed that human beings, like lab rats, will submit to almost any humilation. Steve had parlayed his high school yearnings into imagining the mowing down of aliens as opposed to cheerleaders, which was a big difference, and certainly paid the big money. I first met Steve 7 years earlier on a bad day: they had been shooting Nebula Warrior II in a water tank, and something went wrong and two extras died -- the kind of guys you see getting killed on Star Trek all the time, the ones who are walking about 3 feet behind or in front of William Shatner, but it turned out that these two guys had wives, and children. It also turned out that there had been what looked like sabotage of one of the tanks, and there were questions raised by the Coroner, and I was on the spot because I had been hired earlier by Lutzman Enterprises to do some undercover work on some psycho threats to him, that never went anywhere. Neither the threats nor my investigation. It all just petered out. Nebula Warrior II, as everyone knows, was an even bigger smash than Nebula Warrior I, and the rest was marketing. Anyway, the day before the Coroner's Inquest, I got to meet the great man, who was just an ordinary nerd, but he seemed to take the whole thing seriously -- though I could never quite figure out if it was because he was such a control freak that anything going wrong was upsetting, or that he was genuinely concerned about his actors. If they were more than just plasticine in spandex. I told him what I had found, which was not enough to validate the amount they were paying me, and what my testimony was going to be, but his response was to offer me a bit part in his next film, Professor Challenger and the Return of the Lost World. He wasn't out to lay me: he was just always thinking about his movies. I turned him down: why I don't know, I just didn't like the whole operation. Bad at control freaks, I guess. The movie was his only big flop, anyway. I turned off the main road, and passed the nebular sign pointing down into the valley. I still had a distance to go, but from the curve on the narrowing road I could see the Towers of Trobizam that were the home of the Nerd People in Nebula IV, or whatever. The fact that I had failed the last time I had been here bugged me, since it was one of the first big cases I had ever landed. I was already in a bad mood, and I didn't need little miss ancient guilt playing her games today. It was coming up to one o'clock. Steve had agreed to see me at two. I parked the car next to what had originally been a rustic cabin, and was now extended in all directions, with a couple of ecologically friendly multi-story buildings built into the hillside, loaded up with solar panels. There were huge trucks everywhere, which somewhat undermined the ethos. I checked my purse to see if my laser spear was there, and headed for the door. The lobby was a strange mixture of those offices you go to when you rent a cabin on a fishing trip, and IBM. A woman, casually dressed in plaid, but with the eyes of a hawk -- needed to work on her hair colouring though -- looked up from her desk, and said: "Yes?" "Bette Monroe. Private detective to see Steve Lutzman." She looked at me, and then looked down at her docket. She looked up again, a bit surprised. "What's cooking?" I said for conversation. She smiled, and replied: "You have X clearance, which doesn't happen usually to people who just walk in. We are shooting today, you know." X clearance meant that I could go on the set, and it was assumed that I would not talk about what I had seen to anyone. My mood improved -- at least his memory was a good one. "Follow me," she said, and pressed a button, which opened the wall, just like the scene in NWIII where the dumb clucks get vaporised by Prince Radziwill and the Duchess of Trobizam. We got on an escalator that zipped us along, down long empty halls into the middle of the mountainside, as near as I could figure. After a couple of minutes of this, we came to two massive doors that opened with a clang, and we walked onto what looked like the main deck of a wrecked spacecraft. There were people everywhere, with belt walkie talkies and cellphones and antennae yelling at each other, and crashes of exotic sound, and in the centre of the mayhem, sitting on a dolly with his cameraman, Steve was pointing out the next couple of shots. The lady with the bad hair colouring sat me down on a chair, and got me a cup of coffee. In the next chair sat a big beefy woman, who I recognised as Carla Dales, the stuntwoman. "Hey Carla, its Bette Monroe." She looked over: "Bette, well, what are you doing here? Haven't seen you since --" and her face clouded over," well, you know." Carla had nearly died trying to pry open the sabotaged pocket submarine. "Oh, just here to find out if Trobizam will finally defeat the Enemies of Time." She laughed, "What, and lose the McDonald's tie-in? I don't think so. Anyway, you picked a good day, we are shooting pink today." "What?" I said. "No, its not what you think. They picked up the term from the porno industry -- it means that there are flesh actors talking to flesh actors today, not just a lot of blue screening. So, as you can see -- "she pointed over towards a mangled quarterdeck -- "even Julie Caraway is here." There she was, talking to a man in a robot suit. She was in her full Duchess regalia, and, in typical movie absurdity, was wearing a baseball cap. Now if there was anyone above Agnetta von Trosch's level, it was Julie Caraway. She did nothing for me, not my type, but that meant that my type was ABNegative, because the rest of the world was gaga for her. Had been, ever since that moment in Nebula Warrior I when she cradled her dying father, the Duke Imperial, in her arms, and uttered those immortal words: "We will overcome even this, People of Trobizam. To your laser spears!!" She had stuck with the franchise and Steve through the whole series, but also taking time off to do Cleopatra with the Royal Shakespeare Company, and other spread her wings enterprises: but this was the bread and butter. And the jam. I scanned the rest of the company, and then a wave from Steve caught my eye, and I waved back. A few seconds later, there was the first call for quiet, and then the call for action. And the scene began.
|
|
Subject: RE: Bette Monroe, Private Eye From: katlaughing Date: 15 Jul 00 - 05:51 PM Aside Jaysus, Peter! Talk about online publishing! Fantastic stuff...keep 'em coming....Dickens would've killed for this kind of serialisation!*bg* |
|
Subject: RE: Bette Monroe, Private Eye From: Peter T. Date: 16 Jul 00 - 12:32 PM As close as I could figure it, the evil people, who were invertebrates with a bad attitude -- at least if their quivering antennae were any indication -- had captured someone who was a twin brother of the junior space cadet in whose hands the future of the universe was entrusted, which was probably a mistake, since his big interests in life seemed to be racing cars and killing quasi-humans. For the previous V chapters in this saga, everyone had been in search of a toy called the Quantum Maleficer, which boiled the perfect 3-minute egg, or solved human suffering, or whatever. In NWIV the Duchess of Trobizam had lost her left eye in a really terrific flying rhino fight, and had this snazzy eyepatch (which immediately hit the streets of the world, 14 year old girls everywhere sticking on eyepatches, and rollerblading into streetlamps). In this scene, she and junior space cadet were marooned on some planet that was alive (I was told this later), and so there had to be occasional minor earthquakes (I guess as the planet farted or belched or outgassed). It was all real tender. DUCHESS: "Much have I learned, Foster, since that day. What I lost with my real vision, I have gained in insight." JUNIOR SPACE CADET: "But will Dorfan the Dark kill my brother?" DUCHESS: "My vision is split, into today and into tomorrow. " I was about to suggest that she needed to invest in a pair of bifocals, when there was a call for "Cut". This stuff went on like this, cameras rolling , seventy people standing around gazing at this tripe. Amazing what a billion dollars in grosses will do. And a child shall lead them, I guess. Carla looked at me, shrugged her big shoulders, and smiled. She whispered to me: "Now comes the daring part: the part no one knows about outside. The Duchess and Foster are about to get the hots for each other -- older woman, younger guy!" I smiled: "I knew I was watching science fiction. Couldn't happen in real life. I can see the headlines now." Carla whispered again: "It was in Julie's contract. Had to happen or she was cutting out." "Who's the younger guy -- Barbra Streisand?" Carla was rendered hysterical for a few moments. I patted her on the back, and we quieted down. Cameras rolled. DUCHESS: "We have trained you well, Foster, but there is much about life you have yet to learn. " (Moves closer to him. Cameras follow). JUNIOR SPACE CADET: "More tactical manoeuvres?" DUCHESS: "In a way, yes. But I am speaking more of strategies of the heart." (Long pause. Junior Space Cadet fingers trigger of laser spear, tugs at uniform, considers blasting her away, decides to kiss her instead, their heads approach each other -- ) CUT!!!! Everyone relaxes, Carla gets up -- "Gotta go to work, bye Bette, see you later!" -- and the main cast heads out. A reset. I gather the big kiss is interrupted prior to osculation by an attack of Killer Herpes or something. The wiring guys come on, and boxes of explosives appear. We have done with shooting pink for the moment. Surrounded by his band of human robots, Steve ambles towards me, and gestures me to follow along. The big doors clang open again, and we all get on the escalator and head for the main offices in a big scrum of gofers and stayfers. Finally, the herd disappears, and Steve, in his usual jeans and hiking boots, waves me to a couple of big comfy chairs looking out through a picture window onto the Nebula Valley. We sit. He was, in his own way, straightforward. "What is this about, Bette? You know that I wouldn't usually have given you the time of day -- we are in the toughest part of the midshoot -- if you hadn't mentioned DeAngelis." "Here it is then, Steve. An old friend of mine named Connie Mack was spiked yesterday while I was trying to pump her for some information about a recent girlfriend -- Agnetta von Trosch, the tennis champion" -- He knew nothing from tennis -- "and lo and behold, when I get to this Trosch chick, I discover that her pipeline and Connie's is DeAngelis. " Steve looked very unhappy. "He was deported. He was shut up. He is long gone. What the hell?" "It looks as if he is back, and on the same game. Maybe from a distance, who knows." Steve looked out at Nebula Valley. Seven years earlier, we sat around a table in this room (the picture window was smaller then), and we did the deal with the FBI, and the CIA, Ed Mitchell, the local -- now prop. of the Split Fastball -- and Uncle Tom Cobley and all. DeAngelis was the premier Colombian guy in the movie business, but he had overstepped his bounds when the killing started, and it got into the papers, and the one rule in the movie business is do not get the big drugs into the papers. The little misdemeanours, O.K., but the plane flights onto studio lots in the desert and the bagmen and the rest, no, no, baby. His modus operandi was to hook the up and comers virtually for free, so that when they made it big, they could demand almost anything. He spread a lot around, but he only had to catch a few. Lutzman Enterprises was a good place for this: one of those 90 hour week places: to survive you had to either be wired all the time or a nerdgeek squared. DeAngelis was the electrician for the wired set. They had been making "Professor Challenger and the Return of the Lost World" on the island off Venezuela when the plane crashed a couple of thousand miles away near the Mexican border, taking the original Junior Space Cadet, Terry Spence, heartthrob of millions, and a ton of drugs, down with it into the ocean in what was supposed to be an accident, but was a botched payback for favours done, and was only hushed up by a consortium of studios and the Feds on the understanding that DeAngelis was threatened with life imprisonment if he didn't cease and desist and get the hell out of the country forever. "I don't get it," he said. "Why would he want back in after all this?" "Who knows, Steve. The bright city lights?" "Well, O.K." He shook his head. "I will put out the news. But answer me one question." I nodded. "Why are you telling me this? Good Samaritan week? What is in it for you?" I looked out at the woods. "Two reasons, Steve. First, I am still bugged that we weren't able to get to the bottom of the submarine thing -- he must have been involved in it somehow. Second --" The phone rang. It was Blake as Tony, right on time. Steve reached down for his cellphone, which had been switched off, and then got up and went towards the desk. As he did, he switched the cellphone on, and it rang. He automatically put it to his ear. He stopped. "What? What?? When? Oh, shit. On my way." He kept the phone to his ear. "Bette, there's been an accident on the set. Bad." The desk phone kept ringing. He ignored it. He ran to the door, flung it open and raced down the hall. I made as if to follow him, and then picked up the desk phone. "A Mr. Pirilla for Ms. Monroe, sir," said the desk operator. "Put him through," I said, "Hurry." "Who -- putting him through." Blake Madison, doing a not bad Italian accent, said: "Hello, Bette." I interrupted: "Blake, change of plan. There's been an accident here. Gotta go, thanks a million for all the Dean Martin records." I heard his voice asking questions I could not answer, as I slammed down the phone, and raced after Steve Lutzman back down into the studio.
|
|
Subject: RE: Bette Monroe, Private Eye From: Lonesome EJ Date: 16 Jul 00 - 05:57 PM Blake Madison stood for several seconds listening to the dial tone buzz through the handset of the pay phone,feeling that whatever Bette had herself into now she would have to manage on her own- and he figured she was qualified to do it. As he hung up the phone, he saw Sammy the Snapper come through the door of the Lakeside Hotel, glance both directions, smooth back his hair, and walk off in the general direction of The Spitball. He'd be checking in with Tony, thought Madison, smiling and smarming at the Big Guy and hiding his dirty little secret. Blake crossed the street, entered the hotel's foyer, then mounted the three flights of garish gilt-and-red staircase to Sammy's room. Blake had to walk past the room, because a maid's cart sat in front of the partially open door. He found a leather wing-back chair at the end of the hall and feigned interest in a copy of National Geographic he found on a little glass-topped table. Finally the maid emerged, closed the door, and pushed her cart around the corner where she rapped and called "maid service" at another door. Blake slid the corner of his Safeway Club Card into the lock, which clicked as he turned the knob. He reclosed the door and entered the parlor portion of Sammy's pad. Nothing had changed since his visit that morning, except Sammy had been into the Dewar's, a bottle of which sat on the kitchen counter next to a glass which still held melting ice cubes. In the bedroom, Blake found the briefcase empty on the bed. He glanced in the bathroom, seeing a puddle of water around the toilet. He went in and lifted the tank lid, and there was the cash in a water-tight freezer bag, wedged under the float. Blake went back into the bedroom, produced a Dictomite mini-recorder from his pocket, and jacked it into the digital pickup on Sammy's phone. He pressed the play button, heard the touch-tone dialing beeps, then a voice and a name that sent his pulse rate speeding- "DeAngelis here". Sammy's voice said "yeah, Mr DeAngelis. I got the package smooth as silk. Thank you, sir." DeAngelis' voice cut in "and Tony the Wop?" Sammy coughed."None the wiser, Mr D. But, yeah, it was close. He shows up with his heat right after the kid popped Connie, but the kid's no dummie. He ran and Tony never made him." DeAngelis' responded "that's good. Tony doesn't need to know anything about this business, it doesn't concern him. I've got another little job, Sammy. Double the money. Interested?" Blake heard Sammy suck in a breath, then respond "sure Mr D. What's the deal?" DeAngelis said "Be at this number at 8 tonight." Sammy said "yes Sir, no problem. Gotta check in with the Wop for a while, but I'll be here." Madison popped the recorder out of the bug and pocketed it. Christ, he thought, if DeAngelis was playing in this game anything could happen. For a moment he considered telling Tony what he knew, but there was more to learn from Sammy, and if Tony caught a whiff of betrayal, Sammy would be wormfood. Blake padded toward the front door, and as he reached for the knob, he saw it turn slowly as the lock tumbler clicked. There were some floor length curtains by the patio doors leading to the veranda, and Madison slipped behind them as the door creaked open. |
| Share Thread: |
