All the rest of this week and next Ill be posting episodes from my latest hit novel. And now, without further ado: RIDE THE RAGING WIND (a Mel Bork Novel) CHAPTER 1. Check the Metro phone book. Theres over three hundred private dicks in this town. Thats a lot, even for a place like Duckberg, where youve got more swinging wives and two timing husbands than you can shake a Nikon at. And thats how those seventy-five a day boys operate. A quick trip to the Flamingo Motel, pick the lock on room 3B, three or four snapshots of John Doe and his bleach blond playmate - then its all over except for who gets custody of the kids. Sounds easy, doesnt it? It would be for me too if it wasnt for one little problem: Borks Law. According to Borks Law, every time some bonehead comes up with a case wackier than wombats, and with 300 private eyes to throw a dart at, they always seem to pick one guy in particular. Me. Mel Bork. Somehow I wonder how I ever got into this racket. After the 3 year stretch in Nam I figured it was time to take it easy. I came back to the states looking for a rewarding career in fast food. But somewhere along the line things went a little haywire. Oh, the money was OK. And Mr. Zitbottom was a decent enough boss. But somehow those pineapple pop tarts were something of a letdown after the all night fire fights on the Mekong Delta. Mr. Zitbottom could sense it too. Say Mel, he said one afternoon. Yes Sir! I barked. You know how I hate to criticize, but I think you need to give some thought to our customer relations policy here at Omelet City. Sir? Like the time you pulled out the M16 and held that busload of nuns hostage for 6 hours. Thats the kind of thing that could have serious repercussions on sales. Mr. Zitbottom was like that. Little things, but it bothered him. I guess the last straw was when I blew up the dumpster with a land mine. Zitbottom was courteous but firm, and I had to turn in my egg shaped skull cap and spatula. That was a low point in my life. I guess I just wasnt cut out to compete in the plain, ordinary civilian rat race. Somehow I just couldnt picture myself coming home night after night to a three bedroom ranch out in Windcrest and a wife who got her kicks pricing fake minks at the monthly bridge party. Thats when I turned to the Duckberg PD. Five years later I was streetwise and tough. My job in household maintenance at the 5th precinct had taught me more than I wanted to know about the boys in blue. Bust a small time pimp and its promotion city. Bust some syndicate big shot and youre pounding a beat in the lower east side sewers. Sometime ago I finally got fed up, turned in my mop and decided to hang out my own shingle. Since then its been a race with the grim reaper to see who gets to Hell first. So far Ive stayed ahead. But just barely. I hang my shoulder holster up in a crumby two room efficiency off Pine Boulevard up on Wino Hill. Its a tough neighborhood. Most of the kids there could steal a mans socks without untying his shoes. But I like it. To me its, well, home... My landlady is one of those mouthy redheads who may have been a bombshell at the Pink Monkey fifteen years ago, but now gets by on hi-fi and highballs. Every now and then she wiggles up to my flat to collect more than the rent. Thats OK with me because usually Im six months behind anyway. And even though I cant give her the dough she still gets what she wants. How Ive managed to stay alive so long in this deadly game is a mystery. One reason is guts. But the Quack River is full of guys who had guts. As far as Im concerned, if you havent got brains too youre in clay pigeon city, waiting for some mug with a .38 special to air condition your suit with you in it. Take the case of the Patsy Who Passed Gas. Any other private dick who took the case would now be filling a vacancy out in the Duckberg cemetery. I remember the morning clearly. The rain was coming down like the L.A. Dodgers pissing on home plate. I had a weird feeling in my bones. Sort of like the feeling you get when your elevator cable snaps on the 38th floor. Something was going to happen, and it wouldnt be pleasant. Rita was at her usual post in the reception room. Someone here to see you Melvin. She announced. Mel, I corrected. Who? Didnt give he name, dickweed. She came back, snippily. Then what did she look like, shit for brains? I snapped off. I looked up in time to see an eight pound ashtray miss my left ear lobe by a quarter inch and sail through the plate glass window. I grinned sheepishly. These little insults had become a ritual. Five ten, blond, built like a brick shithouse. Rita intoned. Let a fart in the reception room. My eyebrows lifted. Where is she now? Ritas head jerked towards my office. Susan Lovely was everything Rita had said she was, and more. Long, swank wads of blond hair piled in a big beehive. Tits the size of medicine balls. Kissable lips smothered in glossy pink lipstick. This broad was built for action. But as her pitiful story tumbled out, punctuated here and there by heartbreaking sobs, I began to realize there was more to this dish than a two fifty a night body. Susan Lovely had been born with the proverbial silver soup ladle in her chops. Here dad was Hiram Lovely. Thats right, THE Hiram Lovely: power mad millionaire owner of Lovelymobile, Inc. With dad in the boardroom sixteen hours a day and stepmother Bubbles jetting about Europe, poor Susan didnt get much of a family life, except of course for the stable of ponies, the Maserati, the olympic size swimming pool, the 3 million dollar wardrobe, fresh lobster flown in daily, and personal staff of Nobel Prize winning tutors. Then came the worst blow: Hiram and Bubbles gorged to death at a chocolate covered ant eating contest in Barcelona. Susan was left alone, and terribly vulnerable. I had to stop her during one of her sob breaks. Susan, I riveted, everything youve said so far is ancient history. It was in the papers years ago. Why come to me now? She suddenly stopped crying and fixed me with a piercing stare. I... I dont know if youll believe me Mr. Bork. She said. I considered. For fifty bucks a day Id believe your mother was a talking baboon. I riposted. This seemed to sober her. Spit it out. I spat. OK, OK... She finally submitted after an awkward silence. Ill tell you, but you wont believe it. Just as she started to say something else, the room was rocked by a long, loud honking noise, followed in rapid succession by three sharp thunderclaps and finally the sound of a wailing tuba. My eyeballs strayed from their sockets as I stared at Miss Lovely in terrified disbelief. She had just cut loose with a series of farts a sumo wrestler would have been proud of. The silence lasted for several seconds. What were you about to say, Miss Lovely ? I managed, as the deadly gas stung my eyes. ...to be continued...
Posted on: Thu, 17 Oct 2013 20:53:22 +0000
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