The Misplaced Detective ~1

Short Story ~800 words ...

The Case of the Cheeky Parakeet

Copyright © 2021 by John D. Major

It was black as a bad-luck cat outside and lashing rain when I trailed the blonde into Big Gus's Tavern and plunked my soggy fedora on the bar.

“What can I get you, stranger?” a burly barkeep asked.

“Bourbon, rocks,” I said, and glanced sideways.

 

She had perched herself on the end barstool, having taken off her ivory pleated trench coat and folded it on the bar, and tucked her partially unzipped alligator handbag on top of it. Her umbrella, she'd left in a stand by the jukebox. 

“Some dish, huh?” Gus muttered under his breath.

I nodded in agreement and treated myself to another gander.

She cut a sleek figure in a V-necked, silvery satiny number, hiked above the knee to oblige her crossed legs; legs reaching all the way to her alligator pumps, a match for the bag. Sultry eyes, exquisite features, shimmering hair falling below her lovely shoulders. We were the only patrons in Big Gus's, apart from an oldtimer sleeping it off in a corner

 

“You new to the neighborhood?” asked the barkeep. 

“Just visiting, Gus--is it Gus? I’m working a case for a friend, Syd Greenstreet. he owns VintageChic down the block.”

“That clothing shop’s a fixture hereabouts. Yeah, that’s me. Old Syd and his parakeet never come in here o’course, him being a teetotaler. You some kinda detective?”

“Some kind, yeah. I find things that folks misplace … wallets, files, girlfriends. This is my first bird.”

“Syd’s lost his parakeet? Damn shame. I hear tell Polly can talk, not just mimic folks, actually speaks her mind. 

“Speaks her mind alright. Little sweetheart was hoppin' round Syd's shop, teasing and entertaining the customers one minute, and gone the next. Gotta find her, we're pals.”

“Just like Philip Marlowe trackin’ the Maltese Falcon, huh? ...By the way, I didn’t get your name, Mac?”

“Spade tracked the Falcon. McQuinn, two N’s.”

 

“How ‘bout buying a thirsty girl a drink, handsome?”

I sliced the blonde a smile. She was working a lipstick dispenser, touching up her plump lips in a little mirror. She reflected me a wink.

“What’re you drinkin’, good-lookin’?” I asked. 

She cast me her baby-blues over the mirror, masking my glimpse of her ruby-reds. “White Pelicans, easy on the  vermouth, Ritz Cracker on the side.” 

“You heard the lady, Gus, set her up.”

Gus mixed a Pelican, Ritzed it and served it up to the blonde.

Returning, he whispered, “That’s some dish, except for her crackers taste in drinks and that squeaky voice on her. Looks just like that forties screen star ...you know, Lana something.”

“Veronica Lake. Tiny, alluring, could make a man or break him with a flutter of her lashes.” I drank some bourbon.

 

Nodding, Gus leaned in. “So, ya got any clues, McQuinn?  Did Polly just wander off? Was she taken? Kidnapped?”

“I've got a suspect in mind, just need proof.”

“So, she’s been napped, huh? How you gonna prove who did it?”

 

“Watch me.” I glued my pupils to the blonde's alligator bag and asked in a raised voice, “What say I take you home now, sweetheart?”

“It’s about damn time you got around to that, handsome,” the bag squawked back, suddenly whirling like a dervish. “Come gimme me a peck.”

 

“Jesus Mary and Joseph! What the ...?!” Gus blurted, crossing himself. 

“The old timer in the corner snorted and mumbled, “Next one's on me,” and was out again.

 

“You got me, McQuinn,” Blondie said, spinning her stool to face me as I approached.

 

Polly flapped out of the bag, soared a circle and perched on my shoulder. “What're you gonna do with Roni here, handsome, kiss her quick and call the cops, like Sam Spade?”

                                                                                                          

“Yeah, McQuinn,” Roni said, standing full up to her tiny height, sidling over, aiming those peepers at me, batting those lashes. “What’re you gonna do with me?"

I pulled her close and planted one on her. It was nice.

“Now what?” she asked. “You gonna ring the cops?” 

“Depends,” I said, breathing in her perfume, or maybe she wasn’t wearing perfume, maybe it was just her. “Why’d you do it, slick? Why’d you take Polly? You had to know Syd would suspect you, what with Polly vanishing right after you paid for these swell rags you’re wearing.”

“Roni took me so you’d track her, and catch her! Jeez, handsome, sometimes you’re such a dope.”

“Is it true, Roni?” I asked, daring another dive into her baby-blues.

She nodded.

“Screw Spade,” I said, and took her in my arms.

“Don’t forget the dame on your shoulder, handsome.”

I gave Polly a peck. "By the way, sweetheart, how come you didn't make yourself known sooner?”

“I got Stockkeet Syndrome.”

“Stockholm. ...You really like Roni, huh? Liked her so much you played along with her.”

“What's not to like, handsome. Roni's petite and pretty, just the way you like your birds. It's about time you got over Miss Coney Island Runner-up, dumpin' you for Boss Gallo's kid brother. Cryin' shame for us I'm a tad too petite.”

We laughed, Gus too, and the three of us headed for the door, hand in hand, claws on shoulder. The downpour had subsided.

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Check out The Misplaced Detective ~2: The Case of the Runaway Runner-up

Coming Soon

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Reviews

[Beccy]

Having read and really enjoyed Telemarketing, I just had to dip into your well of creativity again; and I'm so glad I did.

Found this hilarious from start to finish, and as for, 'I got Stockkeet Syndrome.' that was a tears of laughter to my eyes moment.

Thanks for brightening up a dull and rainy UK day.

Beccy.

[JD Major]

Thank you for brightening up my rainy Vancouver
day, Beccy!!!
Funny, I almost chucked Stockkeet, thinking it was too corny :) haha
Cheerio!
JD :)

[Einstein Noodle]

i wondered what they would do about the rain .. happy ending all around .. i'm a sucker for Sam Spade genre ... i think you did a good job sir. .. a dang bird who thinks for himself .. who da thought! :)
E.

[JD Major]

Wow! You dug deep for that one E! Thanks!
(Nowadays I do 12-liners)

[Delmar Cooper]

It was hilarious and if you missed a detective motif it was only something from a Clouseau farce.

[Samuel Dickens]

Starting with a great opening sentence, then never letting up, the scene presented itself in brilliant shades of silver. I thought Bogey or Peter Gunn would pop up at any time, but oh, heck--your private dick is as cool as any of those. The introduction of the parrot was a bit Mel Brookes, but I loved it. Everybody except maybe the barkeep has an attitude. Very good writing, highly enjoyable. I think you're missing a word here--“What’re gonna do with me?"