by Sean MacKendrick
Saturday morning, and the sun was shining brightly. There was hardly a cloud present to dampen the rays of light gushing from the robin-egg blue heavens down to the smooth tanned shoulders of the pedestrians making their way along the off-white Plasticrete walks twisting in gentle curves through the city. The sunlight glinted off the silvery multitude of spotless windows covering the skyscrapers along the streets where a few quiet, clean and efficient electric cars whispered along, coated with polish that further reflected the perfect sunlight until the whole city was awash with so much light you’d think God himself was beaming down on the happy populous.
There were birds chirping, of course, singing their tributes to the perfection surrounding them. Sparrows in the green trees and geese in the blue sky and ducks in the blue pond and on the green grass around the pond that sat like a mirror in the middle of the park on the opposite side of the building where I made my home and workplace, where lovers sat on soft blankets with their picnic baskets, feeding each other fresh strawberries purchased from the friendly street merchants and listened to the birds and to the laughter of children running barefoot in the park and to the old man playing his wooden flute at the pond’s edge. There was no sound from the streets, hadn’t been since the city traffic grid was fully computerized a couple years ago to synchronize the movement of vehicles and cutting out any need for shouting and gesturing and honking and making the walking public stay on their toes and try to avoid the sweeping scythe of the grim reaper for one more day. All that was gone, and you could hear the birds and laughter and music waft through the fresh quiet air that breezed softly through the city. Birds and children singing and lovers smiling and the fresh air soaking all the stress and care out of the world leaving only joy and peace and calm serene contentment. That’s the world outside my building. It’s like this every day.
All of which I mention to explain why I’ve had my windows blacked out and sound proofed for years. A private dick can’t have constant good weather and cheer running rampant through his atmosphere when he’s entertaining a client. A customer expects the works when they step into the Lone Eye detective agency and shovel out a few hundred greenbacks to yours truly, and the works is exactly what they get. You won’t see none of that phony “It’s my pleasure to help you and please enjoy this cool beverage while you bask in the glory of the day” garbage when you ask Trigger Steel, P.I., to find the guy that bumped off your Aunt Trudy. It’s a dark and gloomy office I work in, and that suits customer and crime fighter alike just fine, thank you.
Case in point: the dame I been working over verbally and visually all morning is looking at me right now with those big baby blues of hers, and she’s doing it through a curtain of tears. No way she’s looking for someone to flash a big white smile at her and tell her to relax, they’ll find the murderer. Nosir. I keep my pearly whites locked up out of sight behind my lips the whole time, so she knows I’m just as cheesed as she is at a society that would produce a member capable of murdering a friend of the stunning example of bosomy perfection sitting on the other side of my desk. And I sit her where she can see the 3-Deo screen on my wall and look all she wants at the night-rain effects pelting down on the images hustling across the dirty artificial streets with their hair all matted down in their faces. And look she does.
But I only bring this up to set the stage. This story should really start at the beginning, as all good stories do. So now let me begin in earnest the story I call (Note to self: Think of a good name for this case. Incorporate the word “Bloody” if at all possible.)
It was early. Too early. An hour when all the decent folk are asleep. I was celebrating yet another case closed with my long-time companion Jim Beam when the motion sensors registered movement in the hall and buzzed a warning. I grabbed my Plastisteel Saturday Night Special model and slipped it into the holster under my charcoal-grey raincoat. A guy can make quite a few enemies when he puts scum behind bars at a regular pace like myself, especially when he steps on a few toes in the process, and the waffle tread of my size 12 has been pressed into more than one set of toenail polish.
A figure stepped into view on the opposite side of the dirty frosted glass on my outside door. I tugged down my battered fedora and set my features in their best scowl. The door crept open slowly, with a distinct non-squeak, I noticed with dismay. Something to fix when the next meal ticket pays off. My landlord thinks he’s doing me a favor, always fixing my door. I needed to pick up a new batch of old rusty hinges.
I release the grip on my Saturday Night Special as two globes walked in, so round and perfect Magellan would have dropped to his knees and begged for permission to be the first to circumnavigate them, had he been sitting in my chair. Their owner stepped through the door a full second later.
She was tall, blonde and had enough curves in her possession to make a figure eight turn green with jealousy. She barely wore a black dress. The fabric seemed to be struggling for all its might to cover the beauty queen with its meager surface area. The hem sat a few inches below her belt while the top plunged down in a tasteful fashion to stop just shy of her belly button. The whole getup was so tight you could count her freckles through the silky fabric.
She paused in the doorway to look at me briefly with her big blue eyes and tried to stop the tremble in her ruby red lips, which had apparently been stung by some damned lucky bee in the recent past. Then she stepped forward and tripped the light beam I have set up for just such an occasion, and a lonely trumpet sighed out some muted notes from my stereo speakers in response. She paused once again to look for the source of the music, then set forward again with so much sway in her walk I heard a fizzle and smelled smoke as a motion sensor blew a fuse trying to track all the movement in the room. I was vaguely surprised that there was no thumping drum accompaniment. That kind of walk usually carries one.
“I hear you’re the kind of guy that solves problems, Mr. Steel,” she said when the trek from door to desk ended, much too soon for my taste.
I pulled the brim of my Fedora down another notch to make sure my eyes were properly shaded from the dirty light bulb I keep swinging slowly from my ceiling, and leaned back in my chair. After an appropriate pause I leaned forward again and nodded. “You might say that, doll face,” I said, letting the artificial Plastipaper cigarette surgically implanted on the surface of my lower lip bob as I spoke. “You just might say that. When you spend as much time chasing trouble as I do, you can’t help but learn a thing or two about problem-solving.”
I flicked the brim of my hat with my thumb to lift it up, so she could see me narrow my eyes thoughtfully before I continued. “Seems to me that anyone asking a question like that probably has a reason for asking. Could it be that you have the kind of problem that needs special attention like maybe I could provide?”
The leggy hourglass of a prospective client bit her luscious ruby lip with perfect teeth so white I could see the swinging light bulb above slump in shame at the amount of light they reflected while her pendulous walk carried her over to my 3-Deo screen. She stared at the buzzing neon hologram flickering on the side of the fake building next door, reading “MOTEL, va ancy”. I rumpled my raincoat a little more while her back was turned, and turned up the control under my desk to give the room a touch more haze. A puff of smoke floated from the ashtray-shaped smoke puffer on my desk while Dollface sighed at the false window. She turned just enough to say, “There’s been a murder.”
I suppose she thought that would shock me, to hear that someone could get bumped off their mortal coil in this day and age of happy citizenry and high-tech safety, but I solve a murder case a week, and that’s during the slow times. She could have told me the world was round for all the shock I felt. I said, “It’ll cost ya two hundred a day, plus expenses. If I feel like taking the case.”
That got her to turn around entirely. She looked at me in surprise with her bedroom eyes roofed by the kind of eyebrows Michelangelo neglected to paint on the Mona Lisa. “But you haven’t even heard the story yet, Mr. Steel,” she breathed. It was a good thing she had so much room for her lungs; her voice was so breathy she was probably losing a liter of air for every word she spoke.
I smirked and took a long pretend drag on my artificial cigarette. “I just wanted you to know what you were in for before you got started. If you want cheap, don’t even waste your time forming those plump puckerers into another syllable, because my price tag is as firm as those headlights of yours. If you want good then sit right down and spill the cat out of its bag of beans. You want cheap you’re in the wrong place, sister. So go ahead and pick which item in this room has more appeal to you, the door or the chair.” She didn’t hesitate one second before gliding across my hardwood floor and planted herself into the green Plastivinyl chair opposite my little desk. She seemed to have a little trouble sitting still, probably because her legs were too smooth to offer any sort of friction with the chair to keep her in one place.
“Well, let’s get started then,” she sighed. Her batting eyelashes were long enough to knock a few papers of my desk with the resultant breeze. She swallowed heavily once before continuing. “It’s my grandfather. He’s been murdered.” I took out my battered notepad and scribbled Grandfather = dead on it. It’s a move that a client usually finds reassuring. Shows I’m paying attention.
“He was visiting us for a week, just a friendly visit while he was on the East Coast.” A tear dropped from her cheek and ran down her cleavage. “He lives in Kansas, Mr. Steel, and doesn’t get much of a chance to see the family, what with his business and—”
“Just hold it right there,” I interrupted gruffly. “Let’s take this one step and a time. First of all, my mother calls me Mr. Steel. You can call me Trigger. And second, I need a name to call you by, too.”
“Bambi Smith,” Bambi said, smiling for the first time. She ran her velvety tongue over her lips, which somehow pouted even as they smiled, and said, “You can call me Bambi.”
“That’ll work just fine, Bambi. Now let’s get back to the case at hand. You said ‘visiting us’. Just who is it exactly that the old guy was paying a visit to?”
“Well, let’s see.” Bambi gazed at the perforated tiles in my ceiling and tapped the desk with one rounded red nail. “There’s my sister Candy, her husband Englebert and their son Peter, and myself.”
I wrote the names down in my notebook. “All of you live in the same house?”
“It’s a big house, Mr. Steel.”
“I’ve asked you to call me Trigger. If this house is so big, you must have some kind of help to keep the place up.”
Bambi shook her head, working loose a strand of woven gold that made up her hair. “Not really. Just the autoservants.”
“Mm-hm.” I scribbled a little more in my notepad, a doodle of a bunny in a top hat, just moving the pencil to maintain Bambi’s interest. “Cleaner, cook, the usual package?”
“Yes. We’ve got a Maid XLc and a Butler 3200. And a dog, named Spot.” Bambi grimaced. “It seemed like a clever name at the time.”
I wrote the three new names down in my notebook and pondered the suspect list as I had it so far. Two years ago I had surgery to stop my facial hair at three days length so I could scratch my whiskers thoughtfully at times such as this. I slowly did so as I spun the mental wheels. After a while I scratched off the dog’s name as a possible suspect. “How old is this boy Peter?”
I scratched off Peter’s name as well.
“This granddaddy of yours,” I muttered. “Rich?” Of course he was. There are certain rules a good mystery case must abide by. But a little confirmation always looks good.
Bambi nodded. “Yes, he is. He was, I mean.” Her lips trembled, and she sighed heavily. Her lips stopped trembling, her chest stopped a half minute later. “The whole family is rich. Except for Englebert, maybe.”
I glared at my notepad, pondering. The bunny stared back, mockingly. I normally aim for one small page worth of names and doodles as my meter. Too much info and I run the risk of solving the case before I’m properly dragged into it by the proper intrigue and noir. Two possible lines left to fill in, but that seemed like enough. At any rate, I was running low on metaphors. Gathering up the baggie of cigarette butts I keep ready for traveling with me to crime scenes, I muttered, “Let’s take a walk, sister.”
Bambi looked up at me with those baby blues, questioning. “Nothing left to do but visit the sight itself,” I growled. Bambi sighed, and I had to lean back to give her room to inflate.
The sun greeted us with its normal infuriating brand of cheery goodness as we stepped free of the building, darkening my mood another notch. I pulled Bambi quickly to the safety of my car, where the severely tinted windows keep the fiendish solar glow at bay. Once in I opened up the ashtray to expose the old cigarette butts, which Bambi was kind enough to notice. I started the motor, wincing at the quiet hum the car gave off as it idled. One more thing to look into, when the clams come in from the successful and stylish completion of my passenger’s mystery. Fortunately I always have a backup. I started the misfiring sound effects, and pumped in some burning oil fumes from the spare canister of smells for good measure.
Back in the day, a man in my position could afford to waste a little more time on the set up. A case like this, maybe I could have sent her away twice before allowing Ms. Smith to lure me into her bosomy embrace, at which point I could play the proper reluctant hero and begrudgingly accept the challenge. Nowadays, with everything so backwards, the Feds barge their way in immediately. Wait a good hour, and you’ll probably miss out on your chance.
Pulling up to the house, I saw it was a mansion, of course, resplendent with a dark wrought iron gate to keep riffraff like me out. Bambi pushed it open and sauntered to the door. Being at least two-thirds leg, she made it in a few steps. I hurried to catch up. Bambi pushed the door open when I reached her. I dug out a cigarette butt and threw it on the step, grinding it under my heel before entering. We paused in the lobby to give me time to pull out my notebook and scribble something official in it. To let Bambi know she was getting her money’s worth, I took several minutes to scowl at various objects and scratch my whiskers. I even went so far as to chew on my pencil while glaring suspiciously at an umbrella stand, a move I reserve for select clientele.
“Any clues here?” Bambi asked with a quaver when I turned from the canister. I smirked and slapped the notepad shut.
“There may be, Dollface. There just may be. Where did this dastardly deed take place?”
Bambi nodded towards the stairs. “In the guest bedroom.”
She led the way, struggling against the fabric of her dress, which afforded little room to move. As she grabbed the banister, the varnish oozed underneath her warm grip. A few stitches burst as she sashayed, sending shrapnels of thread in every direction. I tipped down my battered fedora to protect my eyes, steadying myself against the wind generated by her swaying posterior.
We were already too late. The bedroom was crawling with Feds. I recognized one snake in particular and snuck up behind him. As he turned I grabbed him by the shirt and slammed him against a wall. “What’s the deal, Kirker? Not enough satisfaction failing at your own cases, now you gotta butt into my gig?”
Kirker gasped in fear, thinking he was dealing with the devil himself. He wasn’t, quite. I’m not as easy going. “Christ, Percy, what are you doing here? I thought they took your license away.”
I twisted the end of my fake cigarette, which spat out smoke dutifully, billowing into Kirker’s face. “Don’t need a license to find the truth, Kirker. Why not stand back and let a pro show you how it’s done?” I let him go to dig out another cigarette butt and grind it into the floor. “By the way, the name’s Trigger, pal, not Percy. You’ve got me mixed with some other sap.”
“Whatever. Anyway, we’re done. There was no foul play, of course,” he sighed at me. “The old guy’s heart failed.”
I turned to Bambi, who was misty eyed with awe watching a real man like myself in action. “Maybe that’s what someone wants you to think, Kirker. Ms. Smith here thinks different.”
Bambi nodded and sighed, knocking down a few of the Feds in the room during inhalation.
“Nope,” Kirker said, looking through a sheaf of plastipapers. “Full enzymatic profile, biochemical analysis, genetic sweep… no intruders or suspicious physiological condition. Heart attack.”
“You trust your fancy schmancy technology, Kirker,” I growled as I glared at each of the Feds in turn. “I’ve got a different kind of tool. It’s called instinct, Kirker. A man in my profession learns to trust his gut.”
“Whatever you say, Percy.”
“Trigger, Kirker. The name is Trigger Steel. I think someone in the family fixed Pops an arsenic omelet for breakfast. And I think it was Candy.”
Kirker looked through his report. “Who’s Candy? There’s no Candy in my records. Will you please back off and let us finish up here?”
I smirked. “Probably because she wanted it that way. Candy doesn’t want to be noticed. And why would that be?”
“Because she doesn’t exist? Go away, please?”
“Because she killed Pops, that’s why.” I nodded to Bambi. “Something Ms. Smith told me earlier gave me the clue I needed. Seems her husband Englebert is less then successful in financial respects. Set herself up as a recipient to Granddaddy’s fortune, then slipped him a terminal Mickey. Nice and neat.”
“Who’s Englebert?” Kirker sighed, fearing my inevitable solvation of the case.
“That’s right,” Bambi said from the doorway. Her chin dropped to rest on the platform of cleavage just underneath it. “Candy was in the will…”
“We did a full genetic sweep of the house, Percy. No DNA but the victim and the lady right here. Heart attack.”
I scowled. Everything fell into place in my mind like the pieces of a well-oiled jigsaw puzzle. “No, Kirker, that’s just what someone wanted you to think. Someone in this room.”
“He was 106 years old, Percy!” Kirker shouted in desperation, trying to stave off my crime-solving geniusness. “His heart was way overdue to give out!”
“How did you know Candy was on Granddaddy’s will, Bambi?” I asked quietly. “Unless, perhaps, you saw the will yourself. Maybe while checking to see what your cut was, just before you bought him a one-way ticket to Never Ever Land.”
Bambi broke under the relentless pressure of my gritty questioning. “It’s true!” she wailed, shaking with sobs. Everyone in the room grabbed for something to support them while the air shook with her tremors. “I killed him, and tried to pin it on Candy! I wanted to hire a detective to make sure I had a convincing story to tell.”
“You made just one mistake, Dollface,” I said gruffly. “You hired Trigger Steel to solve the case. And Trigger Steel always does just that.” I checked my watch. Solved the case in a less than thirty minutes, and still had time for a brief bout of intrigue. Not bad, Trigger.
“City monitors put you at lunch in a deli four miles from here when the heart attack occurred, Ms. Smith,” Kirker said. “I think you’re innocent.”
“No one’s innocent in this life, Kirker,” I said while fixing Bambi with a withering glare. “No one.”
“He’s right, Mr. Kirker,” Bambi sobbed. “He’s right.”
Kirker looked back and forth between us, gumshoe and goddess. “You’re as delusional as he is, aren’t you, Ms. Smith? You actually enjoy all this detective pulp nonsense?”
“Just take her away, boys,” I said. “She’s got a date with a judge and an electric chair.”
Bambi kissed me suddenly, mashing herself against me. “I’m sorry, Trigger,” she sobbed.
“You call me Mr. Steel.”
“Or call him Percy Slechthauser, since that’s his name,” Kirker muttered, ever the sore loser. “I’ll take her away, but only so she can get some help. God knows we don’t need more of your type.” He escorted Bambi to her destiny.
As for me, I left the Federal boys to clean things up. Let them get the kudos. I had a promise to keep to an old friend who was waiting patiently in a flask back at the office.
Behind my desk once more, Jim and I got intimate while I marked a folder “Bambi” and stuck it in the Case Solved file cabinet. I no sooner sat back down at my desk than a pair of stiletto heels walked into my office, carrying a set of legs genetically engineered for those heels. The owner of the gams stopped just short of my desk, and two dark pools of chocolate milk posing as eyes stared at me from under a long wavy curtain of raven hair. “I hear you solve problems, Mr. Steel,” the slightly pouted lips breathed.
“You might say that, Angel,” I said between pulls on my flask. “You just might say exactly that.”