Poetry

Here is a short story which I submitted in a competion and won second place.  The theme required was "Detective". I gave me the opportunity to show diversity in my writing. I hope you enjoy it.

Harry

Jack Robbins searched frantically among the mass of documents and papers and photographs scattered across his cheap, teak-laminate desk. “It’s gotta be here somewhere” he muttered, rubbing the graying stubble that had amassed on his lower-face. He hated the ritual of shaving each morning, yet, at the same time, he detested beards.

            He compromised, and allowed three days growth to remain before having the local barber attend him.

            He had to find an important piece of paper. It was a slip of paper which he knew would decide his future.  He was certain he’d placed it under the clay horse that his daughter had made at school many years ago, which now served as a paperweight, and now, mysteriously, the piece of paper had disappeared.

            Jack had been in the business of private investigation for a little over twelve months. Before that, he was a detective with the force, and then one day he upped and resigned. He decided to become his own boss. The limits placed on him and his fellow-cops, when it came to getting information from suspects, frustrated him, especially when the crimes were of a more serious nature, such as rape, and offences committed against kids.  By being a freelance agent he could use rather more persuasive methods than those recommended by the Establishment to achieve results.

            The Superintendent scanned Jack’s letter of resignation which explained his reason for quitting the force.

            “Oh, I see you want to be a Private Eye, Jack” he said skeptically, tossing the letter and his glasses on his desk. “We’re going to lose a good man.  Are you sure this is what you want”?

             Jack nodded, placing his gun, his ID, and his badge on his boss’ desk.  He had made up his mind.

            Jack hated the expression “Private Eye’’ – it reminded him of his arch enemy, Poncy Lamont, one of the wiliest characters he’d ever come across.  He had just one good eye; the other was glass.  He, Poncy, that is, had a selection of them – glass eyes, that is - each with a different motif.

            The one that annoyed Jack the most was the one with the words, “Piss Off” in red letters on it, and Poncy always stood right up close so you couldn’t avoid reading it.     It made Jack uncomfortable just standing in front of him, staring at it. It wasn’t because of the words, Jack had often used plenty of such expletives himself to stress a point.   It was because the eye looked so bloody real and he felt the words on it couldn’t give a clearer message.   

            Jack once said he often thought of giving one of his own eyes, just so he could have a false one put in its place.  He’d have “U2”written on it. The reference would have nothing to do with the multimillion dollar Irish rock band. It would be a direct response to the message on Poncy’s eye. 

            Poncy’s curriculum vitae covered everything from pick-pocketing as a lad of ten, to cat burglary and robbery - sometimes with violence, though he said he hated violence… reckoned it hurt his knuckles. He was expert in shoplifting, fraud, and the rebirthing of cars – that’s meddling with the rego; and VIN of a stolen car.   For those who don’t know, VIN stands for ‘vehicle identification number.’ This, among other tricks of his trade was to make the car appear what it was not.

             He also dabbled in blackmail, usually of unsuspecting and unfaithful wives and even more unfaithful and even more unsuspecting husbands.  He had a good friend who was also an excellent photographer. He, Poncy and the photographer, often went on a joint mission to capture a picture that would, without question, condemn a wayward spouse   I’ll say no more on that, other than he should have been behind bars long ago.

            Poncy was a hard case, but damned good-looking, except for that hideous eye. The opposite sex couldn’t take their eyes, or their hands for that matter, off him.

            Many an ersatz blonde, flaming red-head or sultry brunette had taken a shine to him, despite his glass eye. Mind you, when he went on a date he made sure to replace it with the one with the words, “Love Ya” on it.  That turned the women on!  Well, that and the money he spent on them.

            Poncy Lamont was streetwise; he’d worm himself out of the dirtiest hole, leaving his mess for someone else.  He knew some other silly bugger would take the rap, and he was always one step ahead of the law, which was usually Jack.

            Anyway, that’s not what I wanted to tell you.  Jack preferred the title of ‘Investigative Consultant’, and that’s what the gold-painted words stated on his door.  His business was improving now after twelve months of struggling, but he had a long way to go to fulfill his dream of becoming famous. He found it surprising that some people were reluctant to engage an ex-cop to solve, in particular, their domestic problems.  I guess they thought an ex-cop would find stuff that was suspect and that had nothing to do with anything else, and then pass the information on to the regular authorities

            He figured you wouldn’t rest easy taking on an ex-cop to keep your wayward spouse under observation if, say, you were dealing in illegal substances. But slowly, clients had learned to trust Jack. He had a reputation among ordinary folk as being a straightforward, honest guy.  He was a diamond in the rough, 

            There was a knock on the half-opened door.

             “How’s it hangin’, Jack?”  The gruff voice asked.  The question came from his best mate, Arnie, his huge frame filling the doorway as he pushed his way in. 

            Arnie had made the right decision.  He completed his full term with the police force and retired after forty years on what he claimed was a pittance of a pension. He’d not moved up the ladder beyond Constable First-Class.  He wasn’t a social climber, and he reckoned ‘brass’ wasn’t his favourite metal. Nevertheless, he’d been a damned good cop.           He was one of the most patient blokes you’d wish to meet; great with the young folk, and they trusted him.  He always said if you find a bad apple and take the time to peel it, there are usually some good bits inside.  That sorta made sense.

            Jack didn’t answer Arnie’s question. He wasn’t of a mind to announcing the angle at which his genitalia hung.  He just continued searching through the pile of paperwork and stuff.

            Arnie dropped his tattered deerstalker hat on Jack’s filing cabinet.   He made himself as comfortable as his large frame would allow, in one of two orange plastic and chrome-legged chairs at the front of Jack’s desk.  Arnie had once suggested to Jack it’d be better if he had some decent chairs for his clients to sit on, instead of the 1940’s trash.             People would stay longer if they were comfortable, Arnie reckoned. “You could charge more”, he said.

            “It’s hard enough to get ‘em to pay now.” Jack had said, in disgust.

            “Lost something?” Arnie asked casually, watching his friend’s frantic actions.

            “Nothing important.” Jack lied. There was certain stuff you didn’t tell even your best mates, and he and Arnie had been best mates for over twelve years.

            Arnie knew Jack wouldn’t explain what it was he was looking for. Jack always played his cards close to his chest.  Instead, he sat and studied his fingernails.

            He changed the subject. “Time you got a bigger office.” He said, sizing up the four walls, the door and the window, and for the want of something else to say.

             He got up from his chair and stepped towards the window. It had begun raining and he traced the rivulets of water as they ran down the pane. He wondered how many drops would collect before they were large enough to fall onto the sill. Arnie had an analytical mind.

            Beyond the pane and the rain the dismal view extended to the barren red-brick wall of a nearby building.

            “Great view,” he said.

            “Piss off.” Jack spat. He’d stopped his paper-shuffling and leaned back in his black, powder-coated, vinyl covered chair.  He studied the single, yellowing, shade-less, fly-pocked globe that hung from the centre of the ceiling.  His thoughts were still on the whereabouts of the missing document. He wasn’t in the mood for conversation.

            “Seriously, Jack, you’re business is doing all right.  You should think about getting an office somewhere more select.  Attract the upper class and all that.” Arnie said helpfully.

            “Dammit, that takes money, and that’s something I don’t have.” Jack said fiercely. “Perhaps you have some suggestions how I pay for an increased rent.”

            Arnie coughed continually as he lit a cigarette. It was a hacking cough that came right up from his fat belly.

            “Don’t spread your f***ing germs around.” Jack said, grabbing a can of air-freshener from somewhere under his desk.  He sprayed a cloud of the contents in Arnie’s direction. “You’re gonna die of cancer of the lungs.” He added, cruelly.

            “Christ, that stuff would kill anyone.” Arnie said, waving the spray away with a chubby hand.

            “You can see I’m busy, Arnie.” Jack said impatiently.  “Come back later.”

            “You sure I can’t help you find whatever it is you’re looking for?” Arnie asked, helpfully, and in the hope Jack would reveal his secret.

            “Forget it!” Jack was becoming impatient. “It’ll turn up.”

            Arnie groaned as he got up from the chair. “Have a good one.” He said as he left.

            Jack looked down from the window.  He wanted to make sure Arnie was gone. Satisfied that he had, Jack returned to his pile of papers

            “Gotta organize this lot,” he whispered, picking up an armful of documents.        “Now, I’ll put all the papers together.  I don’t need the photos, so they can go over there,” he said, placing the glossy cards in a separate pile.

            He picked up one that had fallen from his hands.  “Great looking woman,” he grinned at the picture of a young woman, sprawled across the lap of a suave looking gent. Wonder if they ever married, he mused, tossing the picture back onto the pile. The two young people that he referred to planned to marry, and the woman had reason to suspect her fiancé was having an affair.  She wanted him to check on her fiancé. She thought he was cheating on her.  He wasn’t.

             It was a successful mission for all concerned.  The young man had offered Jack a large bonus. He reckoned it was worth every cent to prove that he was faithful.  Jack refused the offer…he wasn’t greedy like some of his colleagues.  He had been reasonably happy with his life until he saw what was on the elusive slip of paper, and then he foresaw what the future held for him. It would be the turning point in his life.

            Suddenly he had a thought.  The piece of paper could have slipped down one of the compartments of his old brown, leather brief case. He rapidly grabbed the case from beside his desk. He removed several manila folders and one or two affidavits. He upturned the case and shook it vigorously.  All that came out were some flakes of pastry from yesterday’s meat-pie.

            Sadly, there was nothing more in the briefcase.  Jack threw it across the room in frustration.  He sat for a moment, before rising and going into a small adjoining room that served as a kitchen.  He bent and opened the bar-fridge that stood in a far corner, and helped himself to a cold beer.  He’d given up.  He resigned himself to the fact the paper he was searching for was gone.

            Jack finished his beer and donned his duffle coat.  It was a cold evening and the rain persisted.  He had a twenty minute walk through the city streets to the bus station.  He preferred public transport to travel to and from his office.  He reckoned he was able to view human nature at its worst and occasionally at its best.

            He had temporarily forgotten his search, back at the office, as he sat on the rear, middle seat of the bus.

             From his vantage point he studied the faces and the body language of fellow-commuters. He could pick the various individuals and their place in society as they paid their fares and selected their seats.

            There were the shifty characters. Jack guessed they had something illegal to hide.  They always took a stealthy look over the shoulder as they mounted the steps of the bus. They wore their coat-collars high above their ears, regardless of the weather, and looked at no one direct. They almost always chose a seat at the rear and near the window.  They didn’t want their features noticed, and they hoped no one had followed them.  They were the ones that interested Jack the most.

            A mother, with snotty-nosed kids hanging onto her, struggled to get up the steps of the bus.  Jack made excuses for them. The kids couldn’t help the snot.  The air was cold.

            Jack reckoned it would be bloody difficult for any poor woman who had a kid’s trolley, shopping, and two or three youngsters, all losing bodily fluids, trying to mount the steps of a bus.  At the same time the driver was giving her black looks.

            Jack paid little attention to the old codger and his wife who got on at the next bus-stop. The poor buggers were constantly looking up from the depths of their seats, fearing someone would mug them.

            ‘What a f***ing world we live in.” Jack muttered.

            The old gent in the seat in front in front of him jerked around and cupped his ear.           ‘Eh?” He said.

            “Nothing, my friend.” Jack smiled, patting the man on the shoulder.  He suddenly hated the thought of growing old.

            Finally, the bus reached its destination and Jack got off.  His apartment was nearby.  He climbed the stairs to his flat, brushing past a couple of long-haired teenagers on the landing, locked together, and sharing a tongue sandwich.  He wondered which one was the young woman; they both looked alike to Jack.

            He fumbled in his pocket for his keys.  He selected the one which would open his mail-box and collected the day’s mail   He entered his apartment and dropped the packages on the table before cracking open a beer.  He sat at the kitchen table, removed a pocketknife from his coat and, one by one, split open the bunch of letters.

            “More bloody bills,” he groaned tossing the first five or six into a flat, cardboard box marked ‘Bills’.  The next on the pile was a simple, slim envelope with his name and address scrawled across it in almost illegible handwriting.

            “Hi Jack, you left this clipped to the receipt for your bill.

            Good luck!

            Frank.”

            Jack reopened the envelope and there, inside, was a lottery ticket!  He knew his numbers had come up; he kept them in his diary, and he feared he’d never spend what he knew he’d won.

            Jack’s eyes boggled.  “Jeeze! He said, kissing the piece of paper. “You beauty, Frank, I owe you one.” He said, gleefully.  “In fact, I owe you more than one.”

             He declared he would well reward his ex-client, Frank.  The poor bugger had worked hard all his life, and some druggy beat him up one night for his wages as he left work from his night-shift.

             Jack witnesed Frank's case in court and saw the b*****d get six months He could’ve kept the lottery ticket himself. “There are too many greedy buggers in the world, these days”, he muttered.

             Now, with three-quarters of a million in his bank account he could get that new office that Arnie had talked about.

            Oh yeah, he reckoned he’d buy a new car, and take his ex-missus out for dinner.

He reckoned you never know, she might take me back…

I'm sure you did not have to have the threat of losing a job to show you are wanted, Lyn...of course you are "wanted"!  Congratulations!

Harry

I believe it was Joyce Kilmer who wrote trees, Lorraine.  For excellent reading try Dorothy Parker, a controversial 20th.c. poet, and one of my favourites.  Here is a brief poem she wrote in the year I was born - 1931.

Drink and dance and laugh and lie,

Love, the reeling midnight through

For tomorrow we shall die!

(But, alas, we never do.)

Harry