Private Dick!; Chapter Twenty One

 

The following may be grammatically incorrect, to highlight the

main character's lack of smarts! 

Chapter Twenty One:

 

     I pulled my gourmet dinner of canned chili off the glowing-orange burner, opened a Lucky Lager beer, grabbed another for later, and slumped down in my tattered recliner to watch The Jackie Gleason Show.  Man, was that guy ever funny!  I never missed him.  I know that I wasn’t exactly eating healthy, but tough s**t!  I didn’t have the old ball and chain around to nag me about eating better, which I suppose is one advantage.  On the flip side, my bed resembled an iceberg, without the mountain of ice, but still freezing.  The way I saw it, as I watched the canned chili congeal as it cooled, was, “I’m free to eat whatever crap I want!”  I used a napkin to wipe my face, and guzzled the rest of my beer.  I finished eating, opened another beer, and sat back to enjoy the last half of Jackie. 

 

 

     I turned off the television, now that Jackie was over, and started leafing through my notes on my latest case.  I’d been hired by Dal Breaker, to find out who had stolen his prized painting, by someone I’d never heard of; some clown named Van-something.  As I looked at a picture of the painting, I thought, someone should hire me to find that dudes’ missing ear!    According to Breaker, the only person he’d told about the painting was a friend, Dave Rampart, so I figured I’d begin my investigation there.

 

 

     The address Breaker had given me for Rampart was located in a section of the city where you wish you’d brought a bar of soap with you, so you could shower in a fire hydrant; it was so bad.  I got the feeling that by just walking through it, the depression and hopelessness that oozed from all the run-down houses like maple syrup would rub off on me.  I didn’t want to touch the front door, but I knocked, withdrawing my hand like something bad was stuck to it.  I heard footsteps, and then the door was opened 4 inches by a 10 inch face, the one eye that was visible blinking suspicion, and a voice said,

 

     “Yes?”

 

     “Yes, I’d like to speak to Dave Rampart.  Is he in?”

 

     I heard uttered oaths, and then, “Ah, no, he’s not in.”

 

     “Ah, can you tell me when he’ll return?”

 

     “Eh, no, no, I have no idea; he’s in and out, and comes and goes at all hours.  Basically, whenever he feels like it.”

 

     I resisted the urge to say, “That’s what she said,” and replied, “Oh, is that right?  And who am I speaking to?”  More muttered oaths, then,

 

     “Just a minute, he just came in; I’ll get him for you.”  Then the 1/4-face disappeared and the door was shut.  A few seconds went by, and then the front door was opened all the way and a man answering Dal Breaker’s description of Dave Rampart said,

 

     “I’m Dave Rampart; my twin brother, who sounds and looks just like me, says you wish to speak to me; what can I do for you?”

 

     Immediately, my dick radar went off, pinging like crazy, although it doesn’t actually make a sound, and I looked accusingly at Mr. Rampart, and said, “Your twin brother, huh?  I’d like to talk to both of you.”

 

     “Ah, Roger went out by the back door.  He said to say hi, and he’s sorry to leave without meeting you, but he’s running late for a meeting.”

 

     Sure; “What’s the meeting for?”

 

     I watched as Rampart’s pupils played gin rummy in his face.  “Eh, The Fraternal Order of, ah, Brotherhood.”

 

     Ping, Ping!  “Fraternal?  I thought you said you were Paternal twins?”

 

     “Eh, one of those two kinds.”

 

     Ping, Ping!  “You’re not even sure which kind of twins you guys are?”

 

     “Eh, our parents were kind of vague about that.”

 

     “Well, are you identical, or aren’t you?”

 

     “Well, I guess not really; his face is a little different than mine.”

 

     I certainly hope so, for his sake! I thought, gazing upon his crooked one.  “I’d like to ask you if you know anything of the whereabouts of your friend Dal’s painting of a dude who has hacked off his own ear?”

 

     “Ah, no..’ and he tried to slam the door in my face; but I was like something too quick, and jammed my foot in against the door jam, which I immediately regretted because when the door hit my foot, it felt none-too-good.  But it was effective, as the door flew open, and I saw the back of Rampart as he fled to the living room window, and did a lovely swan dive through it.   I immediately thought, he knows something!  It was at this very moment that I notice an earless fellow staring out from the wall. I looked at it, and thought, that is one messed-up dude!

 

 

     I called up Dal Breaker, and informed him I’d recovered his stolen dude with the missing ear painting.  But when he answered, it was like being sprayed with a high-pressure fire hose, getting it’s water from an ice-covered lake. 

 

     “It really doesn’t matter; turns out the real Van Goh is kept in the Metropolitan Museum.  Turns out I’ve been conned.  I don’t suppose I could hire you to investigate the guy I bought this copy, passed off as the original, from?”

 

     “Well yes, but what about my payment for what I’ve found so far?”

 

     All I heard was a click, and then silence.  He’d hung up.   

 

    

     Turns out that Dal Breaker didn’t exist.  The address he’d given me was fake,  and his phone has been disconnected.  I called up the phone company to learn the information given, and was told that the guy had moved out, without paying his phone bill,  I did learn his true address, but a quick drive by revealed an empty house.  Looks like I wasn’t the only one who’d been conned; such is the life of a dick!

The End