The Saga of Richard and Camille
Rick Poole P I
Chapter 1/6
I Own the Night
Summary:
A down and out, burned out, world weary private investigator tries to regain his mojo and deal with his fiery, faithful secretary, whose only talent seems to be, ... walking.
Notes:
Special thanks to Sweepeaspatch for vital technical assistance on weapon handling, oiling, and polishing! Rick's piece will never be the same.
Rick Poole P I
An OldProf Production
In affiliation with: "Tropical Heat" Productions
A subsidiary of: "Sea Urchin films" Productions
In conjunction with: "The Sands Too Hot Artists" Production
A Pair of hills Production
We Take Our Cut First Production
An affiliate of Nineteenth Century Lox (We're a century behind and a little fishy)
and
A Production Production Production
Starring:
Richard Poole as: Rick 'Tin Man' Poole P I
Camille Bordey as: Cammy
Co-Starring:
H Goodman as: Humphrey 'The Camel' Goodman
Megan Talbot as: Meg 'The Rose' Talbot
Catherine Bordey as: 'Kit' Bordey
Selwyn Patterson as: 'Big Selly'
Fidel Best as: 'Baby Face'
Dwayne Myers as: 'Killer Smile'
Featuring:
Lily Thomson as: Lily
Marlon Collins as: ?
? as: Blondie
and
Harry as Fred
In memoriam:
Charlie Hulme as: Doofus
(He gave his all for his art,)
Special Effects:
Provided by: Sweepeaspatch (Specialists in weapon handling, oiling and polishing.) No chamois were injured in the making of this story!
The streets shimmer from the light rain. No traffic, not a soul, just a few streaks of white wavy lines cross the damp pavement cast from lonely, isolated lights. In the distance a dog barks and a mournful saxophone wails a plaintive accompaniment to the night.
Welcome to the mean streets. … it's my time. … I own the night. … I'm Rick Poole … P I.
My job? I take out the trash! … Simple really. I dig through the trash of the trashy. The other guy's trash in order to hide … your … trash. That's me, I'm a regular garbageman. Doing all those nasty little jobs that you don't want to do. Nasty, that oughta be on my business card. Heh!
They call me 'Tinman', cuz I got no heart. You don't last long in this racket if you're a pushover. Havin' a heart can kill you. Granite in your chest and cold blue steel in your pocket. ... They're the basic tools of the trade.
Yeah, I'm not one of those fancy boy P Is. ... Well, there was a time back in London, when I was a top-notch investigator. … Workin' only for the best outfit in the business, "Holmes and Watson Consulting Detectives". Savile Row suits, alligator shoes, Homburg and brollie. A real toff. I had slugs who did the dirty work. I was the puzzle man. I put all the pieces together. Never got my hands dirty. Messes up the manicure. But that all cane to an end … ah, well. … that's another story. … Now, it's a sweat stained, rumpled white linen tropical suit. A creased, sained Panama hat and a pair of white bucks that are on their way to grey. I think I've been in this getup for three days. My shirt has gone yellow and is glued to my body. And my tie? A billboard for what I've had to eat since this case began. And my face? Even though I carry a straight edge razor as backup, it ain't seen my jaw these hast seventy-two hours. I'm beat. What I need now is four fingers of Bourbon and somethin' soft to lay on.
Blondie and Doofus checked into the local no tell motel half an hour ago. Like most of their ilk, they were in high heat and in too big a hurry to be discrete. They were all over each other in the five-by-five dink of a lobby and half out of their clothes by the time they got down the hallway. When I got around to the rear facing room, I was ready to click. They pulled the drapes closed, but not quite enough. I Didn't need a fancy camera for this scene. It was just the usual two naked people flippin', floppin' and flappin' like a couple of beached mackerels.
I was feelin' a bit naked myself tonight. I left my rod back at the office. Not that this caper needed any firepower. But I do like the heft of a forty-five-caliber protector tucked under my arm. Even though Doofus was a Copper, he never carried heat.
I got what I came for. Time to head back to the sweat shop. Trailing them from one gin joint to another, ended up draggin' my sorry carcass nearly two miles from my jalopy. Spendin' six hours in doorways stayin' low and tryin' to keep dry is a lousy way to make fifty bucks, plus, expenses. And it cost me a pint of hooch for the night manager, to make sure my marks were sent to a rear facing room. No outside lights let me slip up nice and close and get good sharp negatives. Also, I went through a pack and a half of coffin nails. They go on the tab too. I'll have to be sly with the bill, cuz Big Selly is so cheap that he's tighter than his belt after the, all you can eat, buffet at La Kaz. Damn, it's going to be two am by the time I get back to the dump. Oh well, it won't be the first or last time I sleep in my office. That means another breakfast of bourbon on cornflakes. Huh! Breakfast of failures.
Well, at last, my executive suite. Ha! Now there's a joke. I'm sittin' in this beast of a Citroën. At least the brakes worked this time! I'm Just starin' at the excuse for a building that is my place of business. This damn French car and my damn French excuse for a secretary. I got no control over either. Can't trust anything French. If it's French, it's temperamental. Ya never know what they're going to do next. The one on the street never wants to go, and the one in the office wants to go all the time!
The building? It looks like I feel, it just wants to fall down. Facing it like I am, there is, on the left, an enclosed stairwell gonin' up to the second floor. A wood framed glass door that always sticks. It opens to a tiny foyer. Six mailboxes built into the wall with no keys that work. So, the mailman comes up and leaves the mail on the floor outside the door if nobodies around. We got no privacy. Of course, that postmistress has probably read everything anyway. The stairs creak, so there's no sneaking in or out of the joint.
Next to the stairway door are two shops that have been combined into one by taking out the wall separating them. That's probably why my office floor sags. The resulting emporium is probably the healthiest business on the island. Paradise Loan and Pawn. Half of the personal possessions on this sandbox in the middle of the Caribbean Sea are in that bloodsucking viper's nest. My watch and camera take turns resting in one of the display cases. Next to the poor man's banker is a shop that is all boarded up. But, if ya go around back, there's a member only, card game, craps, and dominos room goin' day and night. And next to boarded up store front is another door leading up to the offices.
The second floor used to be six apartments, but now it's the bastion of the personal services industry. The back offices are, first, Lady Luck's Escort Service. No luck necessary, just foldin' green. Them Madame Wisdom, Tarot, Chrystal ball and Voodoo priestess spells! Place gives me the heebie-jeebies. The last is Maurice Lemond's Island Tours. Guaranteed to take you, where no other tour busses go! Facing the street, are the three quality tenants. Aloysius Peabody Esq. Solicitor. He'd lost his license somewhere and had come to this 'court of last resort' some twenty years earlier. His last resort is single malt. The last office shelters one Marcus Lee Gerard, CPA. He too is a refugee from scandal. But he had a real talent for making books do whatever you needed. He favored Gin. And there in the middle is Richard A. Poole, Private Investigator, Discretion Assured. Cammy had added the tag line cuz she thought it sounded kinda classy. My preference? Bourbon and a secretary who can't type. A light glows in my office, highlighting the peeling gold leaf of my streetside window. It also means SHE is there too.
I opened the Citroën's door and prepared to make a run through the now heavy wind and rain to the sanctuary behind that sticky door. I was startled by a loud clap of thunder. I should have known better, after all: … ... It was a dark and stormy night. A shot rang out. There was a scream. … I vaulted the puddles, pushed the door aside, took the stairs two at a time, dashed down the hall and skidded to a halt at the open door to my office. There she was, eyes wide, a look of surprise frozen on her face.
"Cammy, how many times do I have to tell you! Don't clean my gun atcher desk!"
"Oh, but Reeck, it's my job to polish your piece until it shines!"
"Yeah Cammy, but we don't want to plug any paying clients. Okay?"
I looked at the wall. She gave me a shrug.
"Well, we can always play connect the bullet holes and tell people it's a map of … of … well, Saint Marie. Hey baby, we got anything ta chew on? I'm starvin'" I wonder why I keep this broad around.
"Oui, mon cher. I had Maman send over some sandwiches before she closed for the night."
Cammy saunters over to the wall of file cabinets. She bends down and opens two lower drawers. One contains a box of sandwiches, the other a pan holding a bed of ice and four beers. He now remembers why he keeps her around. Sandwiches, cold beer, and she sure knew how to walk and boy oh boy she had all the right parts in all the right places. Hot damn!
"Hey babe, any messages?"
"Oui. Reeky, Beeg Selly , le commissaire, he called at nine. He would like a report first thing in the day."
"Cammy, when you gonna start writing my messages down?"
"When you learn to read them Reeky!" Her eyes flashed that 'watch what you say next big boy' look.' My old lady didn't raise no fool. I did the clam up! I gotta find a way to teach her how to write English, or at least her version of English. Or I gotta learn French. I think my learning French will be easier. what I need is some shuteye. But judging by the look in her eye, and like the song says, 'the wiggle in her walk and the giggle in her talk', I'm in for a long hard night. I better have another sandwich and a four-finger belt of Bourbon. I think she's got plans! Oh well, I can always sleep after I make my report to Big Selly in the morning. I guess Cammy and I are headed for the shack, a shower, shave and Cammy ala mode!
End Chapter 1/6
To be Continued.