The Final Days Of Jiggs Polenski

The Final Days Of
Jiggs Polenski
Paul Dormand

Introduction

Nothing is ever what it seems. Remember that throughout your life, and especially throughout this tale: Nothing is ever what it seems. This isn’t strictly true of course - a coffee table, for example, will almost always be what it seems. That is unless you have very poor eyesight and mistake it for some kind of emaciated, stiffened woodland creature that has taken residence in your dining room. This is a moot point however as, if you are that person, you wouldn’t be able to read this story. So, everyday objects aside, and taking full advantage of artistic license and inaccurate philosophical interpretations, nothing is what it seems. The best way of fully realising this point is to know something about a man named Jiggs Polenski. The best way of knowing something about Jiggs Polenski is to tell the tale of the last days of his life. Yes, I am aware that I have now, ultimately, ruined any sense of apprehension surrounding the ultimate fate of the story’s hero, but what you should know about this narrative, and about life in general, is that it’s all very, very silly. In this story, as in your life, my life, even the life of a badger, it is not the conclusion of the journey that matters, but the unpredictability of the course and how we steer it. I realise, in hindsight, that the course of a badger’s life probably isn’t that unpredictable and consists mainly of nibbling and going to the toilet, which requires very little metaphorical steering. I’m straying slightly from the point and for that I apologise.
The point is that if you examine the final days of Jiggs Polenski very closely then you may experience what is known as an epiphany. Don’t worry, it’s not nearly as medical as it sounds and it doesn’t mean you have to take all your Christmas decorations down. No, the epiphany that you may experience is a life changing realisation; a kick in the metaphorical balls by my metaphorical legs. You may reach the last sentence of this rambling piece of prose, leap to your feet and with a bowel emptying cry in a proud, bellowing gurgle shout  “Yes! I see it now. It’s true! Nothing is what it seems! This literary tour de force has completely changed the way I look at my own existence.  I must make the most of my life and [insert long term goal here]. Thank you Paul for this didactic masterpiece.” And I honestly don’t mind if you do that, it will give me a warm glow inside and I may even shed a (small) tear. And if you are for some reason unable to express your admiration and gratitude in words due to muteness or sheer overwhelming emotion then hey, just write it down on a piece of paper and run about the house waving it about.
This may not always be the case however. You may not experience this aforementioned epiphany and may be asking yourself “What is this nonsense? I haven’t read this much piffle in my entire life. Who does this babble merchant think he is and why won’t he just go away?”
I will not lower myself to sniping remarks towards this unenlightened few. I instead urge them to listen to the words of the great philosopher, Kenneth Krissmasstime: “Follow not the path of the crippled pigeon, follow the bin man of fate deep into the forest of cress. There, and only there, will you find true happiness.”
Got that? Good. Everyone’s happy then.
So put your feet up, pop open the Jaffa Cakes, put on any appropriate eyewear, settle down and for God’s sake put some clothes on. I’m going to tell you a story.
Ready?
Go.

Part I
    It was a dark night. It was always dark. So dark that even the evil in this god forsaken city seemed too scared to show its damn ugly face. And even if it did nobody would see it; because it was so dark; so there wouldn’t have been any point. I was back in the City after eleven years. Eleven years since I’d just upped and left with a vague hope of finding something better. I found something alright, but it wasn’t better, just different. It’s all a bit hazy now to be honest and in the end I felt an indescribable urge to return. Like a magnetic homing pigeon flying over a nail factory, there was no escape.
I stalked the streets alone. Or at least I was probably alone, I couldn’t really tell what with the darkness, but I felt alone. Then again didn’t everyone in this city? Everyone had their own shady tale to tell, and as a Private Investigator I was too often a piece in their shady jigsaw. And they were tough jigsaws to crack, like that one of all the baked beans where every piece looks the same. And when you’re doing a jigsaw in the dark it’s difficult to know how many pieces are missing, or what the final picture’s going to be, or even if it’s a jigsaw. It was my job to turn on the light and complete people’s jigsaws; to see all the beans. And when you can see all the beans, you can spot the bad apple. It was this that I was trying to explain to Nancy, the cute little broad who dished out the shots of death in Blind Geoff’s Whiskey House. It was a real hole; the walls were various shades of Splenetic Brown, either from years of smoke, dried blood, spat whisky or a mixture of both of the three. Deadbeats and low lives came here to drink, mope, or play the occasional game of stab a guy to death (I prefer drafts). Then again I would also prefer to wake up every day with a beautiful woman in a town with more prospects and fewer murders. But what could I do? Just sit here in this hell hole drinking myself deeper and deeper into dreams and debt. It was cheap here though, that must be why I kept turning up every night. It sure as hell wasn’t for the conversation.
“So explain it again Jiggsy, are you the beans or the light bulb?”
Nancy dragged me out from my dreaming into something resembling reality. I began to realise I was drunk. I knocked back another shot of fire which burned like hell.
“Don’t worry sweetie it’s a very complicated metaphor.”
She had it everywhere that counted except up top. I shut my eyes and knocked back another piercing hit. This stuff was hot tonight.
“Honey you know you’re drinking wax out of the candle?”
I fell off my stool and banged my face on the rough wooden boards. Nancy had a point. But when fate hands you a candle in the dark you don’t just hit the floor, you gotta get up and -
“Christ is he OK? There’s stuff comin’ outta his nose.”
“Don’t worry Billy, it’s just Jiggsy - roll him on his back and he’ll be OK.”
I staggered to my feet. The world blurred slightly around me, making a pretty dance of lights out of the ugly bums that frequented the House.
“Hit me again, Nancy”
“Jiggs, that’s a hat stand. I’m over here sweetie.”
She was right again. She had all the answers, except one: why I hadn’t had a client for 4 months, and why every night I staggered home from this flea infested pit to an empty apartment with bills to match. Maybe that was two answers. But then when you know the questions you-
“Jiggsy!”
I had fallen onto the pool table. My feet were lodged in the corner pockets. I took it from the looks on the players’ faces that they weren’t the sort to trifle with. I tried to dislodge the 8 ball from my mouth and speak, but when you’re talking through a mouth of chalk dust and wax you’re only speaking a fool’s language. And it ain’t English.
“Mmuhmfffggh,” I said, but I could tell they wouldn’t understand. Nobody ever does. Their faces contorted into a symphony of anger, one I’d heard before. The slow movement is out of tune and there’s no applause save for the clapping of one hand against face.
“Hey, come on guys, Jiggsy didn’t mean nothin’ by it. Come on, let me get you guys a beer.”
  Nancy meant well, but her words had about as much effect as a good night’s rest on a dead insomniac. The towering hulk that was the man nearest to me approached with both arms present and armed. He wielded a pool cue like it was a thing for sport, fire burning in his eyes and face.
“Flgggghmmmmm!!” I threatened. He ignored me as if he didn’t even understand, and just as he was about to poke me into my own early graveyard, She walked into my life and my bar. 

“Can I get a whisky?”

The words streamed out of Her mouth like honey from an angel’s teapot. The dame had it all: 5ft 10, slim, curves in all the right places; and that was just her hair. The thug that was holding me by the ankles dropped me to the floor. The 8 ball shot from my mouth and rolled along the ground, coming to a stop by Her sky-high heels. I got to my feet as smooth as a fish, dusted myself down and walked up to Her.

She raised an eyebrow and handed me the ball. The glance shot through me like a .45 and I knew She had made her first move. I knew the game well; it felt like chess, so I rolled the dice and went in for the kill. I took the ball with one hand and slipped a dollar bill into one of Her hands with the other one of mine.
“Have one on me.”
Check.
“Maybe I’ll just do that,” She slipped the dollar bill down the front of Her dress, clicked Her fingers and pointed to the beer mat in front of Her, all the while holding my gaze.
Blackjack.
She’d played this before, I could tell, and I could sense she could tell that I could tell that. But could she tell? I began to get confused. I held her gaze as tightly as my eyes could grip and reached for another shot, slinging it back quickly; I realised I had grabbed another candle. My eyes began to glaze over and something began to seep out of my nose. I didn’t let on though, I’d been through worse and not shown the merest flicker to betray the cool, calm exterior.
“Umm, are you ok? You seem to be shaking violently, and you’re crying. Did you mean to drink all that hot wax?”
I gave her a wry smile through my squinting, blurred eyes. I winked and fell sideways off my stool. Not a happy landing.

When I came to, I was sitting in a dark corner of the House. She was sitting opposite me, blowing smoke rings from those cute red lips, the sweet smelling smoke enveloping her face. She held a cigar nonchalantly in her right hand. That explained the smoke, now to explain why she was still here. She opened a cigar box and pointed it my way.
“Would you like a smoke, Wiggles? Or shall I get you a light bulb to chew on?” All the signs pointed to humour; all the humour pointed to me and laughed. I was known for my lack of a sense of humour; I was funny that way. I rubbed my head and waved the box away. “I got my own thanks, and the name’s Jiggs.”
I felt around in my coat pocket for it, lit it and inhaled deeply, savouring as much as I could. I closed my eyes and savoured the first puff of the day. It was always a more enjoyable smoke when you’ve quit. That’s why I quit every day.
“You realise that’s a sausage don’t you?”
My eyes widened and focussed on the Cubanesque pork cylinder between my lips. I coughed quietly to myself (who else would listen?) and slowly stubbed it out in the tray. I locked her gaze and nodded slowly.
“Yes”, I said leisurely and with whimsy - not an easy thing to do - “but that’s not the real question here lady,” I leant forward on my elbows, “the real question is what are you doing in a place like this at a time like this with legs like those? Nobody comes to the House unless they got serious problems. And it’s a crueller world than I thought if you got the kinda problems that the sorry schmucks that frequent this place got.”
“Well I got serious problems.”
It was a crueller world than I thought.
The other question, of course, was, if I had a sausage in my pocket, what had I just fried and eaten for supper?
She uncrossed Her legs and crossed them again the opposite way. Slowly. The bar fell silent until the process was completed, the only sound being the faint hiss of the sausage smouldering slowly to itself in the ashtray. Something didn’t smell right.
“Well I never met a guy who didn’t, but then again Miss, you’re no guy. I can see that, I gotta nose for these things. What’s important is that for you to be in here I’m guessing your problem is of a unique nature. And to come to a guy like me it must be a pretty serious and grizzly nature. The kind of nature that’s full of dangerous animals, like bears and tigers. Is that it Miss? Do you come to me full of bears?”
“What?”
I think the wax was having unexpected side effects; either that or the pork and apple smoke I’d just absorbed. Either way, we were getting nowhere and I could see she was getting rattled now. She leant in closer to me.
“Listen, I have a job for you Mr.Polenski - yes I’ve heard of you. But not here, we must go to your office. Is it far?”
Her eyes darted around the bar and she laid her hands on top of mine. It brought back memories - memories I thought I’d locked away. But the touch of her hands brought them all flooding back, either that or the smell of burning beef. Ah, the old days. I pulled my hands towards me hard, winding myself in the process. I stood up, pulled my hat down firmly and shot her wink.
“Not far enough sweet cakes.”
I turned and walked briskly into a pillar. I pulled my hat up off my eyes and tried again. I threw Nancy 5 bucks and a dime on my way out. The dime hit her in the eye but she didn’t seem to mind. She was a tough girl, and besides, I hit the glass one, so she didn’t feel it.
“You watch yourself Jiggs Polenski. Dames just bring trouble and broken hearts.”
The girl didn’t know how right she was, but I didn’t need another mother right now. Two was enough. I took Her by the arm and escorted her out. Ten minutes’ walk later I realised I’d forgotten my coat. Twenty minutes later we were at my office. I had a real bad feeling about this. At least I was feeling something. I absent mindedly picked a piece of fatty apple wax out of my teeth and stared up at the sign just above the window of my office. It was hard to make out, as the building contained about thirty different offices, all trying out do one another on eye catching signs.
JIGGS POLENSKI
PRIVATE INVESTIGAT
“What’s an Investigat?” She asked.
“A P.I. who can’t afford to pay by the letter for his office signs.”
“Why didn’t you just get JIGGS POLENSKI P.I. then?”
“Full stops were extra.”
“Shame.”
“You should’ve seen their rates for a semi colon.”
“I bet. Shall we?” She pointed to the door.
“And if you want anything hyphenated you can forget it. Pirates.”
“MR POLENSKI!”
I jumped and realised she meant business so I quickly led her inside. What an enigma She was. An enigma wrapped in a mysterious quandary dilemma. She was going to be trouble, I could tell. I couldn’t have been happier.

  She sat cross-legged on the ragged leather chair in the corner of my office and lit up a cigarette. I tried to follow her stare, but got lost, and my eyes began to hurt. Instead, I made myself comfortable at my desk and poured a glass of Clapcoch Private Reserve from the filthy decanter in front of me. Was everything in this place filthy? My eyes and thoughts were suddenly drawn to the ragged leather chair and its new occupant. God I hoped so.
“Mr Polenski, are you ok? You’re staring,” she clicked her fingers in front of me. I corrected my posture and face.
“Hmmmmmm? Oh yeah, fine. So what’s this little problem you have that you go looking for a PI at midnight in a seedy whisky bar?” It must have been more than a little problem, I corrected myself, more like a serious dilemma.
“It’s more than a little problem Mr Polenski, it’s a dilemma.”
“A serious dilemma?”
“Well, yes.”
“I thought so.”
She was getting rattled, I thought I better let her spill the beans.
“You see it’s my lover.”
“A serious lover?”
“Are you going to keep doing this?”
“………..No.”
I leant back and prepared to listen.
“You see I was...well...having an affair with him. His name is Gregory Mellontz. We met a few times in a motel out of town; he said he was going to take me away from everything. We were going to start a new life, building a home for bewildered penguins and geese. But when I went to meet him last week-oh,” she swooned, I think, I wasn’t really sure but it didn’t look good. I stood up, sat down, stood up and  slapped her.
“Get a hold of yourself dammit!”
She snapped out of her swoon with surprising rapidity and a glare developed that could have melted a small car. She smashed the decanter over my head.
“As I was saying-sit up Mr.Polenski please I’m not finished- when I went to our last meeting he was gone. I felt extremely upset about the whole business –please stop bleeding Jiggs you’re not impressing anyone- so I hired a PI to look into it. With me being a respected business woman I needed someone who would act with tact. A P.I with a reputation for finding people.”
“Murrrrrhhhhh,” her mood was swinging like a monkey on fire so I thought I best keep my responses to a minimum. I didn’t have much of a choice anyway my brain was being sick. Something tweaked my synapses though, “arrrrghhhh-you mean me?”
“Yes Mr. Polenski. You see I think there maybe more to this than I first thought. I found this anonymous envelope in my office yesterday. I don’t understand it, maybe you can get some sense out of it.” She handed me a yellow envelope. I scattered the contents on my desk, which turned out to be photos. I couldn’t make out much at first glance, I was quite drunk after all and couldn’t really see the desk, but they appeared to be photos of Mellontz and several bad apples.
“Muuurrhhhggg-is it puuohhhssible that he just broke it off and nuuuheglected to tell you?” Oh god I really wasn’t thinking. She brought a nearby copy of War and Peace firmly across my face. There was an irony in there somewhere, I don’t know, I haven’t read it.
“Anyway, despite the possible uncomfortable outcomes I want you to find him Mr.Polenski, be it to uncover his unbridled, non-chivalrous puppetry of my soul or any other reason for his sudden absence from my life,” her tone was increasingly business like, “I want you to find him and I want you to ring me and tell me where he is. But Jiggsy don’t tell him I sent you, if it was me that made him run away, he’ll do it again. These photos might be a message. Maybe he’s in trouble. Oh I don’t know.” Again with the sobbing, then back to the business face. The dame was a Freudian yo-yo. 
She came over and knelt down next to me.
“Take this locket and show it to him when you find him. He gave it to me when we met. It’s a symbol of our love, maybe it will help him make up his mind. Please Jiggs, don’t forget.”
              And with that she walked out of my office with the elevated dignity and mood that a distraught lover shouldn’t have. I eventually found my feet and collapsed into the leather chair. I held the card up to the light. It contained simply a contact number and a name: Phillipa Deebles. So now I could put a name to the legs. What an odd business card, I thought. Simply a name and a number in small type on plain, white card. No address, no job title. Odd. With all that fine jewellery and imported cigarettes you’d think that maybe - but no, I was starting too small. I reached for the photos of Mellontz and the bad apples. Nothing grabbed my notice straight away, just snaps of Gregory meeting people, exchanging brown envelopes and- wait a minute. This guy I did know. In the last photo the bad apples were joined by a familiar big cheese: Mickey the Maestro. So Gregory was meeting with the mob. I didn’t have the heart to tell Phillipa yet, besides she’d only just walked out of the office, I doubt she’d appreciate me running (well, limping) after her to point out her lover’s dealing with the mob. Too many questions. And the biggest one just hit me: Was I getting paid? I really was getting rusty.
So tomorrow I would go over to Mickey’s club and the spiral back to the Old Days would begin again. The Old Days I had spent eleven years trying to escape from before crawling back to the city. Great. The guns, the concrete shoes, the Italians, the Russians, the sleeping with the fishes, the Martinis (maybe it wasn’t all bad). I opened the emergency whisky as the decanter had met an early demise. I drank for the next hour or so, trying to erase the memories and the increasing doubts in my mind. But nothing went away, I just saw the Old Days through a whisky haze as the room spun. The concrete guns, the Russian Martinis. I slumped further into my chair as the whisky level slumped to its inevitable and depressing conclusion. I looked at the scar on the back of my hand, a souvenir from the Old Days; funnily enough  a souvenir from Mickey the Maestro. I wondered if he would remember - shit I hoped he wouldn’t remember! Jiggs Polenski: Private Investigator and Underworld Lapdog. The words flashed in brightest neon in my spirit addled mind, surrounded by dancing full stops and hyphens. The financial implications of my hallucination made me groan out loud.
“Nobody understands! I used to be a different person.”
The room’s spinning shifted up a gear. Oh god it starts again tomorrow. The concrete Italian Martini guns!  The Russian fish shoes! The bastards! I swung my fist out and fell forwards out of my chair.       
I passed out, thank god.