The Saga of Richard and Camille

Rick Poole P I

Chapter 2/6

Blackout!

Summary:

He's out, like a light.
Fatigue? Booze? Assault? Drugs?
Cammy's gone!
He needs help. It smells like a setup.
Maybe a frame?
Friends in low places? They're all he's got.

Notes:

No case is simple for Rick Poole. It's a world of coms, grifters, thugs with manicured nails and dolls who'd slit your throat with a smile. It's the world of the P I. Once you're in, you only go out on a slab.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Aooooohhhhh. Black. … Pain! … Oh, the pain. … Gotta open my eyes. … Aoooohhh. I don't want to see. It can't be good. I'm not even sure if my eyes are open or closed. … That big black pool, … I think I'll go for another swim there. At least it don't hurt there. Nighty-night! … Hellllloooo oblivion.

Later

OOOOooooooo. Is this better or just later? If this is death, I vote for life. If this is life, then give me death. Where's that black pool when I need it. It was nice there. Oh, there it is … Why is the pool ringing? Why do I care? Here I go … one more dive … It's sleepy time …

Much Later

Ooooooooooh. Well, … I guess it's time to move. I know this place pretty well, maybe I can get around without opening my eyes. Man, I've never had a hangover like this. … … …
Wait, … I've been blackjacked before. In the hands of a pro, a sap can put you in a long nap. Wielded by an amateur, you get the permanent Big Sleep. I'm thinkin' and talkin' to myself, like I do when I'm trying to solve a case. Okay, … okay, that's good. That probably means I'm alive. Yeah, yeah, … the breathin' talkin' but just can't see type alive. Alright Poole, be a damn detective. Open your peepers. Ahhhhhhhhh! Whoa. Wow. Geez, where did all the bright come from? Okay I'm awake and not blind. Okay that's all I know for sure. … What happened to me? Where's Cammy?

Logic, ... cold, hard, solve the case logic is what I need. Ah … that … that and a new head! … My head, … got to check the ole brain box. Let's see. No lumps, or bumps, no blood, no wounds that hurt if I touch'em. … So, all this pain is commin' from the inside. Oh hell, … somebody slipped me a 'mickey'. Who the hell would …? Geez there's that damn ringing. Good, it stopped. Now, where am I?

I'm on a bed, and I guess I'm all alone. I can reach out and feel both edges. "HEY! ANYBODY HERE?" Oh, that hurt. Both my throat and ears. And no body's home. I got to get upright and get some H2O. I can hear the surf, … I must be at the shack, … yeah, the shack, home ... home … good. Wait! "Cammy … CAMMMMMY!" … Where the hell's Cammy. "Where are you kid?"

The office. We left the office after I got back from the surveillance. We were gonna have some sandwiches and beer … and … and I had a belt of bourbon. Then … then… then I don't remember nothin'. Gotta get up, get my feet on the floor. … What the hell! This ain't my shack, … it's got a friggin tree growin' out of the floor …! It's Doofus' place. What am I doin' here? And where's Cammy?

First, I need water. Cryminy sakes I'm wearin' the same clothes I started out in. How long have I been out? And where are my shoes. And my hat. Wait, oh hell's bells, they took my rod and my backup and my wallet. I'm in deep doo doo now. I don't like this; one bit. It smells like a setup. They can make footprints with my size tens and leave my wallet as evidence. And they've got my piece and my razor backup. My backup, I don't think I like what they might use that for. Gotta get a hold of Big Selly. … I need about ten gallons of h2o right now.

Oh, geez Louise, that water came back up faster than it when down.

Man, this DI Charlie Hulme lives like a friggin pig. I'm not gonna win any Good Housekeeping Awards or House Beautiful photo spreads at my crib. But this guy lives in his own trash. This is enough to gag a maggot.
Okay, ... we start at the beginning. I need basic info, the old where, when, how, and why. Okay, I need that 'information please' gal. Where's the phone? Alright, I see a cord, follow the cord, and there it is under the pile of dirty laundry that smells worse than I do. Let me get the operator.

"Hello, operator? I think I've traveled through about ten time zones; would you be kind enough to tell me the correct time here on Saint Marie and what the day and date is? … Thank you very much." Progress, it's seven thirty-eight in the morning and I have been incommunicado for over thirty hours. It feels more like a couple of weeks.

Ah, just as I figured. The Citroën is gone too. I can't imagine why they'd want that wreck. Unless they took it to slow me down, … or they needed wheels to dispose of a body. Heh. In this racket, P I stands for paranoid instantly! Ha! Wait a sec. … Just wait a sec. There's only one set of tire tracks in the mud from last night's rain. Well, I'm about three miles from my shack and I can walk the beach all the way, so I don't need shoes. I'll wait to call Big Selly until I get home.

I'll rinse out a couple of these empty booze bottles and refill with water. Maybe if I sip instead of gulp, I can keep some down. I'm a little lightheaded, so I'm probably dehydrated. Gotta get home, get clean and try to figure this mess out.

All things considered, not bad. I made it home in a little over an hour. I only fell down four times and barfed three. … Well, it ain't the Hilton, but at least I don't have to wade through garbage. Ahhhh, this chair feels so good, and the pitcher of ice water from the fridge is real heaven. "Whoa! Geez Fred, ya almost scared the crap out of me. But it's good to see a friendly face, even if the face is green and the eyes are all bugged out. How ya doin' little buddy. I'll get you some grub as soon as I catch a shower and have a pit me up."

Well, let's see, what the closet has to offer. I'll settle for tan slacks and a native flowered shirt. I think I'll go with these white tennis sneakers. I got the feelin' I may be doin' some serious runnin' in the near future. Now, ... big Selly.

Well, that was an interesting bit of jawboning. "Hey Fred, you around? I got some vittles for ya and I need to talk to somebody, I know won't spill the beans. Come-on Freddy, soups on. We're dining al fresco out here on the veranda. There you go pal, bugs and overripe fruit. Hey what you starin' at? You never seen anybody pour beer on cornflakes before? Eh?"

"Big Selly says that while I was napping' everything went to hell. D I Charlie Doofus Hulme went and got himself wasted last night. He went to some fancy party and got shot in some kind of security room. Kind of like a vault. Now nobody knows how it happened. No weapon and nobody else in the room. They got some sort of whiz kid coming from London, a D I Humphrey Goodman. The big guy says that I should lay low. Cause since somebody has my rod, my razor, my shoes and my wallet. But Freddy lad you know I'm not going on any holiday. I need to find Cammy and get to the bottom of this mess. Oh, and to make things more interesting, buddy. My stolen rod is the same caliber as the one that blew Charlie away."

"Alright, Fred, it looks like somebody went through my joint, but real careful like so maybe I wouldn't notice, and be suspicious? Let's see how good they were. Ha! The dumbo's forgot the roof, and the chimney hang bag. Good! They didn't find my stash cash, passport, and ankle gun. And they were too lazy to check close under the shack for my disguise kit and credential printing press. They were cop thorough, but not criminal thorough."

Now I got to get some wheels. Perse, he'll know. I'll call the taxi service and ask for him specifically. He's used to me needing a ride when the Citroën breaks down.

"Hey Perse, buddy, thanks for getting back to me. Does that deadbeat brother-in-law of yours still rent out that Army surplus jeep of his for a dime a day plus gas? Good. Get it set up and then pick me up at the shack. There's an extra sawbuck in it for you, if you get me rollin' within the hour. Okay? Good man. Seeya."
Okay! … Wheels, check! … Snub-nosed 32 strapped to my ankle, check! … Cash in pocket and shoe, check! … Razor in money belt, check! … Fake I D, check! … Planter's hat, check! … Aviator sunglasses, check! … And the final touch, pencil-thin mustache, check! … Full, tourist look, CHECK! … First stop? … Dame Diamant, that's "Lady Diamond" in French, Freddy. But everybody calls her DeDe! ... And then the office!

Once around the block in the Jeep and once around the other way on foot. Nobody's got eyes on the place. But I'm not taking any chances. I'll use the fire escape in the back. Hell, most of "Lady Luck's Escort Service's" clientele come and go this way. With a quick rap on their back door, DeDe, mama bear and proprietress of "Lucky Lady's" let's me in. She claims she was once the toast of France, one of the top models in Paris. At six' two" without heels and with flawless skin that was so black that it appeared gun metal blue. Her eyes and face are still a camera magnet. The svelte sleek model of thirty years earlier, was now in the Sumo class and she probably could snap most men like a twig. She ran two separate stables of girls. Those for show and those for go. The 'show girls' were not just lookers, but they had to be educated, sophisticated and worldly. They were more than arm candy. They had to be able to pass for wives, mothers, sisters, work colleagues or party decor. If they found a sympatico soul and cut a little physical side action, that was their personal business. The' go' girls range from back-alley bimbos to executive stress relievers. DeDe covered all bases except pain. None of her girls got hurt! It was a small island. Hurt one of her girls, and there was no place to hide. I made a few bucks tracking down a rowdy young buck or a jerk of a tourist. I never had to inflict the punishment; DeDe took care of that end of the score keeping.

There are a couple of DeDe's "show" ladies that I am kinda fond of. Lizzie, and Izzabella. Lizzie is tall 5'9", (I always standup very straight when she's around.) 40-45, ashy black hair, a bit taciturn. But she has that wonderful way of presenting herself with either an angular insouciance, or with a steel spined regal bearing that can be most intimidating. She can be a mature bluestocking or a lady of the manor with equal grace. She is very protective of Izzabella and has been known to toss over-exuberant clients out to the curb.
Izzabella on the other hand is younger, 35 to 40, shorter, 5'2" or so. Brunette with a few grey hairs that speak to experience and wisdom, rather than age. Though petite, she has a personality that fills the room and commands attention. She has a reputation for being a bit bossy, but hard-working, and good-hearted. Though the flashing eyes and the Hispanic temper do occasionally surface.

These two work as a specialized team and earn very good money for it. So good in fact that they are almost ready to get out of the biz and go legit. They are more like sisters than partners. I've dated both and they are great fun and almost scary smart.

Now the whole idea of them going legit is, I suppose, all relative. They share a small villa in the foothills on the west side of the island. The rumor is that they are on a small hidden cove, where they keep a mahogany speed boat capable of carrying 50 cases of rum out and 50 cases of empty bottles back. One of the fastest boats in the Caribbean. They say she can hit 40 mph with a full load. With that kinda speed they can reach any one of the islands from Puerto Rico to Trinidad in a night. Their companionship skills may have gotten them a villa and a boat, but the boat, will buy them retirement.

I need them to help me find Cammy and sort out what's goin' on. DeDe says she'll have them check with me later.

I slip across the hall. The door to my office is locked, but there are fresh marks on the keyhole. Somebody has paid an unauthorized visit. I edge in. So far, so good. No gunshots, no knives, no thumps on the head and no bombs goin' off! The landlord would be really PO'd if there had been a bomb. well, unless it took down the whole building. Great insurance claim then.

Yeah, same action as at the shack, careful search but not very good one. Cash stash ok. My backup, backup, a good old 45 hidden behind the baseboard, ok. Special files, under the floorboards, even Cammy didn't know about, ok. Even the fresh bottle of Bourbon in my raincoat pocket, ok. I wonder what they were looking for. Or did they even know. Well, I'm just as safe here as anywhere and this will make it easier for my contacts to find me. Now I feel better, 45 under my arm, 32 on my ankle, the razor in my belt. A blazer to cover the hardware. I don't know who they are. But if they want me, I'm not going to make it easy for them.

Next, I need to track down Jonesy. Now there is a real character. Jonesy is a meek and lowly stool pigeon, creeping in and out at the weirdest times to sell any info she may have found for whatever I've got in my pocket. She seems to know what's goin' on everywhere, but nobody knows anything about her. I'll have to call half a dozen bars all around the island and leave messages. She'll call or show up on her own schedule. The gab is that she can nurse a single drink for two hours, and she's got the ears of a bat. She hears everything. I'm sure she's heard something about my two-day vanishing act, and what the rumble might be about Cammy. I like her and she seems to trust me. I always try to be on the square with my informants. I'd be happy to put her on a small retainer, but she just wants to do it her way, no obligations, no strings. I kinda understand that. That's part of why I'm a P I. I call my own shots.

After six, and the Honore police station is closed. I'll get the 'hi-low' from my inside guys. Killer Smile and Babyface. I've helped them enough over the last couple of years solving the cases the Hulme and his predecessor couldn't start, much less finish. Officer Fidel 'Babyface' Best is a bit of a straight arrow, but he wants to solve the crime because of his personal sense of honor and duty. On the other hand, Officer Dwayne 'Killer Smile' Myers, just likes the easiest path to closing the case. Neither one will accept a cash gratuity. They're definitely not on the take. They see me as I see them, ... a resource, and we only exchange information. Most of the time we share info quietly, casually at La Kaz, over a couple of beers. Cammy's, even more French mother, Catherine 'Kit" Bordey is the bars owner. She too can be a good source of info. But in this case, I'm afraid that she'd make Mt. Esmee seem like a pot of boiling water. So, I got to keep her in the dark for as long as possible. What with Cammy going all broody and Kit rehearsing the 'grand-mere' role, I got a bag of cats and I'm the catnip.

The toughest part of this job is, unlike the movie P I's and all the nonstop action they have, the real job is sitting and waiting. Waiting for people to show up. Waiting for the phone to ring. Waiting for something to happen. And the longer you wait the darker your thoughts get.

Maybe a couple of hits on the fresh bottle of Bourbon will settle the nerves...
Damn. that's the only thing missing from the office. The bottle I had the four fingers out of the night I took the deep dive.

And down here on these voodoo islands they got more knockout drops than you can shake a stick at.
And only one set of tire tracks at Doofus' shack. And the almost bald tire track was on the right side, so only my car had been there.

What's up? … Is Cammy part of this or … a victim?

Holy mackerel! there's somethin' fishy here. when it comes to women, you never know. … You just never know.

To be continued.

Notes:

Who can you trust? He lives in a world of lies. Where is the truth? Is there any truth?
Special thanks to:
Lizzie: Sweepeaaspatch
Izzabella: Isanparadise
Jonesy: farfromhome
Rick's vital irregulars.
He loves ya, gals!