Clint Slade: Math Dog

It was a rainy night, the kind of rain that beats on you like Niagara Falls, which means it slowly moves backwards…not that I’ve been to Niagara Falls, mind you, I’m just looking for a good metaphor.  The flashing neon sign of the Pancake House was faulty as usual.  Sometimes the ‘-ancake’ isn’t all really there.  But the ‘P’ House is unrelated to this, that’s the building across the street.  I myself run a detective agency, I’m Clint Slade…. PI.  And not the 3.14 kind of PI, I’m a Private Inspector.  I’ve inspected lots of things… cars, pools, bikinis.  I’ve even passed myself off as a health inspector until I closed down the dirtiest bar in town and its customers, which were the reason it was a ‘dirty bar,’ came knocking at my door.  But really, I must be honest, I’m not ‘smooth talking’ enough to really be a private investigator, and detectives work at the police department.  That means I don’t really run that much of a detective agency.  It’s run by me and four friends; friends being the loose term for a never-ending bottle of booze, a half used pack of cigarettes, my .35 shooter, and this typewriter where I write down my thoughts.  They all sit here on my desk although don’t assume I use the cigarettes.  I’ve never smoked in my life.  I just picked it up out of the gutter one day and use it for show.

         But my internal monologue was broken when a dame walked into my office.  And a woman followed her in.  The dame was in fact the woman’s Great Dane.  Sorry about that.  Sometimes in ‘n’ key on this typewriter gets a little jittery.

         The woman was wearing one of the black hats with the veils on them, and a dress straight out of a 40’s gangster movie.  I was almost going to tell her it was a cliché, but then I realized I myself was wearing a fedora and a trench coat, with a cheap tie and dirty shirt to match.  If you are wondering about my coat, I did in fact get it out of a trench.  There was this guy I was trailing, but he got shot and fell in a ditch.  I was cold and wet from the rain, and since he was already dead I took his coat right before I trailed his shooter.  But that woman in my office spoke up and pulled me out of my monologue again.

         “Are you really Clint Slade?” she asked.  “No, I’m just the guy holding down the desk.  The real Clint Slade is chasing down that kid who drew the private eye graffiti on his door.”  I propped my feet on the table.  Or at least tried to.  My left foot was stuck to the floor again.  “What can I do for you?”

         It was then she broke down as the wrecking ball of sadness hit her.  She sat down and grabbed a tissue.  I consider myself smarter than the average PI.  I keep a tissue box on the edge of my desk from experience.  People, especially gals, usually sniffle and cry when they walk into a PI’s office, whether it be from their own problems or from the smell of said PI if he hasn’t showered in a week.

         “My brother’s gone missing,” she cried, as I realized the reason gals that walk into PI offices have veils on their hats.  I think they get embarrassed when their mascara starts running.  “He hasn’t returned my calls, I haven’t seen him for six days, and when I just stopped by his apartment the whole place was ransacked!!”  She broke into fresh sobs, and I would have patted her shoulder if my left foot wasn’t stuck to the floor.  For now I could only pat the dog, and it wasn’t as satisfactory.  “And then on my here I felt like I was being followed!”

         “Ah, I am so sorry.  I take it that the Great Dane is for protection?”

         “No, Schnookums is actually my brother’s.  Poor thing was locked in the apartment, hoarse from all the barking he must have done.”

         “So, what exactly is your brother’s name?” I asked.

         “Nick Trevor.  My name is Nancy Trevor.”  She handed me Nick’s business card.  I wrote ‘Nancy’ on it and filed it.  By ‘filing’ I meant I threw it at the basket filled with the names of past clients.  The basket is located right next to my garbage can.  In fact, that may be why I’ve lost so many clients…

         “Have you told the police anything?”

         “No, I just couldn’t bear to call the police in case I was being followed.  My brother didn’t trust the police anyway.  Why would a Private Eye want to know that?”

         “The police have plenty of resources.  Besides if the police are on a case, they always get irritated when I snoop around, but it’s easy to mooch information off of them.  But don’t worry, Nancy.  With Clint Slade on the trail, your brother is practically found.”

         She stared at me for several moments.  “Well… aren’t you going to get up and do something about it?”

         “Funny you should mention that.  If you could just lift my left leg there.”

         Nancy gave me a funny look but complied.  I have known plenty of women that don’t want to lift a man’s leg.  She was rather strong for a gal, and pulled my foot right out of my shoe.

         “Don’t worry, this actually makes things easier,” I said.  I bent down and tugged on my shoe, pulling it up and stretching some pink and gray substances before they snapped back into place.

         “You have gum on the soles of your shoes?” Nancy asked.

         “Yeah, gumshoes, I replied.  “Sometimes I could really sue Target for putting shoes by the candy aisle.”

         And so, once again, I walked the nightly vigil through the streets in the down-pouring rain.  I’ve always said one has to be tough to be a PI.  One has to be willing to trek through rain, fog, and wind.  And heavy lifting is also required.  Sure, it’s easy to carry one’s gun, cigarette pack, and never-ending bottle of booze, but have you ever imagined how hard it is to lug around a typewriter?  I approached the safe circle of lamplight at a street corner.  Given the rain, an idea formed in my head, but I quickly dispelled it.  One, I had a horrible singing voice, and Two, swinging on a lamppost holding an umbrella is one thing.  I need two fully unoccupied hands to carry this typewriter.

         The address of Nick Trevor’s apartment was one I could get to quite easily.  He lived in a bachelor hotel down the block from a bar I frequented.  However, just because I frequent it doesn’t men that I drink.  Sure, I carry around a never-ending bottle of booze, but I mainly use it to get info out of people.  Offer someone a drink and soon they will tell you whatever you want and even more than you wanted to hear.  Having not drunk from the bottle myself, I am unsure as to whatever kind of booze it contains.  I’ve had people tell me it is gin, vodka, tequila, sherry, whisky, or scotch.  So either the booze changes for the drinker, or everyone is too drunk to give me a truthful answer.  And I’m serious about the never-ending bit.  Once, I poured it on a bum’s head for a full five minutes in order to get him awake for an interview.

         The reason I stopped by the bar first was because my friend Sam would be playing there.  It seems every musician I know is named Sam.  There’s Sam the pianist, Sam the clarinetist, Sam the trombonist, Sam the bass player, Sam, Sammy, Samson and Samuel who play alto, tenor, baritone and soprano saxophone, respectively, and Sam “D” the drums man.  When all the Sams are together they are quite the jazz band.  They keep insinuating that I need theme music.

         Sam the piano player was on the gig tonight.  I must admit, Sam does know how to look good in a red lounge suit.  He was just finishing tickling the ivories when I learned against the piano.  Light applause came from the bar patrons.

         “Play it again, Sam,” I said.  “Just play it again and again until you get it right.”

         “Come on, Clint!  I’m just a black guy trying to make a living!”

         “Actually I’m looking for someone.  Have you seen a guy with a twisted lip, slight bald spot, a scar on his elbow and walks around with a Great Dane?”

         “Come on, Clint!  That’s the same description you always give when you are out looking for someone…”  He returned to his keyboard and lounge music murmured through the background again.

         “The Great Dane is a new part, though,” Sam said as he looked down at the keys.  “Who are you really looking for, Clint?”

         “I’m looking for a guy called Nick Trevor.  He lives at the bachelor hotel down the street.  He owns a Great Dane.  His sister hired me because she thinks he has disappeared.”

         “Trevor, Trevor…” Sam mumbled to himself.  “Yeah, I remember him.  I was playing here last week and he came in briefly while he was walking his dog.”

         “That makes sense.  His sister said Trevor disappeared about six days ago.  You didn’t see anything suspicious when he walked through?”

         “Not at all.  Just came in quick and left.  Looked like he was searching for someone that wasn’t here.  I didn’t see him come back this way after he left.  Could that have been when he disappeared?”

         “Possibly,” I replied.  “How are you doing on gigs, Sam?”

         “Come on, Clint!  You know what happened the last time you asked me for information!  I was playing at that black tie dinner club on 3rd and you almost got both of us thrown out.  You know that you were well below the dress code!”

         “Yeah, Sam, trench coats don’t really belong up with the tuxes but I do have some class.  You will never see me wear black socks with brown shoes.”

         “Lift up your pants,” Sam commanded.

         “What?”

         “Lift up your pants!” he repeated.

         Grudgingly, I obeyed.  Sam peered around the piano at my ankles.  “Come on, Clint!  You’re wearing black shoes with brown socks.  Where did you even get brown socks?”

         “Hey, when you’re on a case and in desperate need of socks, you’ll take any color!”

         “Whatever, Clint, I guess I’ll see you later.  And would you get your damn typewriter of the piano?  It’s making the “D” key go flat!”

         “Thanks for your time, Sam.  I’ll be sure to give you a tip.”  I walked back to the entrance of the bar and put a coin on my first.  With a flick of the thumb I flipped the coin up into the air.  It spun over the heads of the other bar patrons and landed with a ‘tink’ in Sam’s tip jar.  Once you’ve become an expert coin flipper like me, it helps to make things more interesting.

         “Come on, Clint!” Sam yelled at me.  “You’re supposed to flip the coin into the jar when you’re standing by the piano like all the other schmucks!”

         I walked back out into the rainy night, a night only lit by neon signs and windows.  I passed an alleyway as I headed for Nick Trevor’s apartment, carefully sidestepping a malt in an overturned cup.  It was then my friend pain said hello as something hard struck me in the back of the head.  I collapsed on the ground, stars dancing in front of my eyes.  However, I was perfectly fine.  A veteran PI is going to have several scraps with being hit on the back of the head.  Just last year I received about an average of 3.7 smacks a week to the noggin.  Poles, crowbars, baseball bats, you name it.  I rolled onto my back to get a look at the guy who slammed me.  He was obviously surprised that I was still conscious.

         “What is up with that?” I asked.  “Do you just like waiting in back streets for guys to walk buy so you can whack them in the back of the head?”  I squinted at the blunt object in his hand.  “What is that, a falcon statuette?  Who knocks people out with a bronze falcon?”

         My assailant was rather nervous.  “Hey, shut-up!  That stuff in Nick Trevor’s apartment has nothing to do with us, you got that?!”

         “Nick Trevor?  What makes you think I’m interested in Nick Trevor?”

         “You’re a flipping PI, aren’t you?  Just ignore everything you saw in Nick’s apartment!”

         “What are you worried about?  I’ve never been to Nick Trevor’s apartment.”  Not yet, anyway.

         “Really?  What color is his front door?”

         “I don’t know…blue?”

         “Oh, I’m really sorry, man!”  The mobster gave a hand so I could get back up.  “I thought you were someone else.  If you were truly the guy I’m supposed to smack, you would have known that his door was red.  I’m so sorry.  Hey, can I buy you a cup of coffee?”

         He fell like a sack of oranges, which I suppose means a few things in him squished.  Unlike me, he would be staying down for quite a while.  You may laugh at me for lugging it around, but a typewriter is a much more effect blunt object.  A quick search of his pockets turned up only one thing of interest.  He had a scribbled note that simply said ‘Stoat, deal with the PI.’  The name Stoat didn’t tell me anything.  Half the scumbags in this city are named after vermin:  Ratso, Bats, Emu, Squirrelly, Mouse, Badger, Weasel, Foxy…although ‘Foxy’ is usually reserved for the ladies.

         Nick Trevor lived in a bachelor hotel and this four storied building in front of me fit the criteria nicely:  run down and smoky.  A bachelor hotel was a spot that didn’t like guys with loose women.  Or was it loose guys with women?  Perhaps it was just this hotel knew what most of the women in this neighborhood looked like and didn’t want their presence to scare away potential customers.  I entered a cigar smoke filled lobby that trained firefighters would have trouble with.  It was deserted except for one lone figure playing solitaire.  He glanced in my direction.

         “You get me my cheese whiz, boy?”

         “Sorry sir, you must have me confused with someone else.”

         I learned against the front desk, where an old man sat behind a grille, fist on cheek as he sat listening to a baseball game on the radio.  Before I could speak up he spat out “You got rent?”

         “No sir, I’m Clint Slade, PI.  I was just wondering—”

         “Shad-up!  I’m missing my game!”

         “But sir, I’m looking for a guy called Nick Trevor, have you—?”

         “Trevor!  Always making me miss my game!  Damn Nick hasn’t paid the rent yet and it was due six days ago!  Kid just holes up in room 304 like he owns the place!”

         “Thank you sir.”  I left the landlord to his pitiful game between the Cubs and Red Sox, climbing the nearby creaky flight of stairs.

         Sam had the right idea when he thought Nick could have been ‘jostled’ while he was walking his dog.  Unfortunately, Sam didn’t have all of the relevant information.  Nick would have to return home before he vanished if Schnookums, his Great Dane, was to be found stuck in the apartment when Nancy searched it.  As I approached Nick’s door, I saw that my buddy Stoat was half-correct.  Technically, the door was maroon but I wouldn’t have trusted that guy with paint chips anyways.  He would probably try to eat them.

         And now, I had to disagree with Stoat on another thing.  Although he tried to steer me the other way, I found Nick’s apartment to be very interesting.  Six bullet holes in the couch and dozens more in the back wall usually tip a fella’ off.  Just like Nancy had said, the whole apartment was ransacked.  Clothes were thrown on every possible surface as if the laundry lady was having her revenge.  It was a good thing Nancy had only noticed the strewn about clothes.  If she had seen the bullet holes, I doubt that she even would have made it to my office.

         There was no blood nearby any of the bullet holes, so at least I wasn’t working on a murder case.  Someone had shot over sixteen times in order to scare Nick up real bad.  Had this caused him to go into hiding?  Or had he been abducted?  The mess spoke to me of burglary, at least in its broadest sense.  Most likely Nick had been hiding something and the thugs couldn’t get the location out of him.  I sat down on his bed in the next room, pondering things over.  The thugs must have known that gunfire would go unheard in this hotel.  Furthermore, Schnookums had barked until he was hoarse and no one, supposedly, had come in to see the apartment ransacked.  I began to think of the oldies downstairs, off in their own little worlds of card games and baseball radio.  If the landlord was that unaware of people, two or three thugs could have walked in easy, make Nick wet his pants, and flee with him knocked-out.

         There were several overturned books in Nick’s bedroom.  I knew I was dealing with a few intelligent thugs.  ‘Intelligent’ meaning that they knew how to read and from that I could deduce that what they were looking for could be hidden in a book.  The books themselves gave a hint to what the MacGuffin could be.  Nick Trevor was to math textbooks as I was to Dick Tracy comics.  Every book had either ‘probability’ or ‘statistics’ in the title.  The unique trait some had was the inclusion of a race track ticket as a bookmark.  Nice guy like Nick, good at stats, the mob gets him to do a little bookkeeping, he finds something they won’t like, he tries to hide it, mob knocks him off, ba-da-bing, ba-da-bang, you know what I’m saying?...Sorry about that.  I was starting to slip into Al Capone slang.

         To get back to my point, where there’s organized crime, there’s gambling rackets as well as men wearing pinstripes and zoot suits.  Nick Trevor could have discovered plenty of things the mob bookies wouldn’t like.  Maybe Lucky Day was born on Friday the 13th, or Achilles had a lame leg, or El Torro thought he was a bull, or Paul Revere was running the wrong way.  Or maybe something a bit more mathematical.  However, while I now had a vague idea as to what had caused Nick to disappear, I still had no idea where he was.  It was also night time and thus the racetrack would be closed, preventing me from investigating.  So, out of leads, I went to the only place I could go:  the docks.

         It’s a well known fact that 5/4 (and I kid you not on this fraction) of all mob related activity takes place at or around the docks.  That makes sense when you think about it.  Boats come in carrying stuff to pilfer or smuggled items.  The docks are also out of the way and abandon warehouses can hide a whole gang when it’s laying low.  And like most docks, there’s plenty of left over cement so enemies can take a trip to ‘see what it’s like on the bottom, glug! glug!’

         Creaking planks trailed my every step as I walked along such a dock.  I stopped in the circle of light cast by a lamppost hanging off a warehouse.  It’s relaxing really, leaning against a warehouse, listening to the sounds; the sound of waves lapping the dock, the sound of fish jumping in the water, the sound of seagulls screeching at said fish, the sound of buoys bobbing and ringing their bells, and the sound of a glock being loaded and aimed at my head.

         Mind you, I half expected that something like this was going to happen.  I also knew that guys who turned their head when a gun was pointed at it are usually shot dead, so I looked at the guy out of the corner of my eye.  The guy, in comparison to my mental list of rodent vermin, seemed more like a ‘ferret’ type person.  He was slightly thicker, dirtier, and fuzzier than Stoat anyway. 

         “Always having to put your dang nose in our dang business, eh?” Ferret said.  I recognized his type.  One of those mama’s boys or granny’s boys that had promised to have a clean mouth, and even had to replace ‘damn’ with ‘dang’.  “You dang PI!”

         “What makes you think I’m a PI?” I asked.

         “Come on buddy, I’ve had plenty of dang experience spotting you dang PI’s out!  You just stand out here at the dang docks, leaning on a dang street light, pretending to read a dang newspaper.  I mean, come on, you dang PI’s stick out more than the dang Easter Bunny in a dang Christmas display.  By standing in dang lamplight you’re announcing your dang appearance, and who the dang comes to the dang dock in the middle of the dang night just to read a dang newspaper?”

         “But I don’t have a newspaper!”

         “Are you playing some dang games with me?!” Ferret yelled. 

         “No, games are when you play as that rookie defense lawyer who teams up with a psychic, or when you play as that dog and that bunny that consider themselves freelance police agents.”

         “Huh?”

         “What, you never played those games of pretend when you were a kid?”

         “No!”

         “Did you ever play Cops and Robbers?”

         “Yeah,” Ferret said, “I was dang good at that game too.  I remember this one time when…  Now just wait a dang minute! Stop trying to dang hide yourself, you’re a dang PI!  Where’s your dang newspaper?”

         “What newspaper?”

         “Now don’t give me dang” Ferret screeched. “There’s a dang newspaper lying not a dang ten feet away over there!”

         “That’s not mine,” I replied. “That newspaper’s been there for at least a week.  It has barnacles on it.”

         Ferret looked.  “Dang it!!”

         “Don’t feel bad,” I consoled.  “Given what I’ve seen tonight, I would suspect that a PI would be here any minute.”

         “Why?” Ferret asked.  “You’ve dang seen something?”

         “Well, I saw the PI that knocked out Stoat,” I answered.  This was true; I saw him every time I brushed my teeth.  “He’s probably looking at Nick Trevor’s apartment right now.  I would give him probably ten minutes before he figures out the bookkeeping stuff Trevor was doing for you.”

         “Dang, man! How did you dang know about this?”

         “Stoat said you guys needed someone who could do records and bookkeeping ever since the trouble with Trevor. I noticed everything else on my way here.  Nice trick on scaring Nick with the gun while covering the gunshots.” Ferret gave me an exasperated look.  “I got my typewriter ready for business. Are you going to show me in?”

         Ferret was forced to show me the hideout, and I heard him mutter ‘dang’ under his breath several times as he led me around the warehouse.  Inside it was dark and smelled like a combination of Italian and seafood.  A single light bulb was lit, and as it swung back and forth I saw a rough space was made between crates.  A man was sitting in an armchair with his hands folded.

         “Eh boss, this dang guy said he knows all about our dang operation and can help us with our dang bookkeeping.”

         “You sure dis guy ain’t some PI?”  Boss picked up a Tommy gun and had it aimed at me on his lap.

         “I’m not a PI,” I lied.  “If I was, I would be working for some famous defense attorney.  And then the attorney would be either old and silly or be fat with a lame leg.  Do you have someone you want to make sure gets guilty?”

         “Nothing like dat,” Boss said.  “Just how much do you know?

         “Plenty. I like your Tommy gun, by the way.  You seem like the type to chomp down on cigars and wear scarves so the scarf will flap cinematically when you shoot down something.” Boss put an unlit cigar in his mouth and watched me closely.  “A Tommy gun is also the quickest way to get over sixteen bullet holes in Nick Trevor’s apartment. But you didn’t kill Trevor, because there would have been blood somewhere.  Then there’s the old manager of Trevor’s apartment.  He’s so engrossed in his baseball game he wouldn’t even notice Vivian Leigh if she walked by unless she was the back-up pitcher for the Sox.  Given how loud he plays his radio anyways, as well as how far up Trevor’s apartment is, you could shoot a gun until you have to use cartoon bullets and nobody would be around to hear.  Not many people live there anyway, except for cheese whiz man and he doesn’t pay attention either, and if there was traffic outside it masks the gunfire even more. Could you bend over for a minute? I just have to type this down.”

         Ferret’s eyes bulged out, but Boss mentioned him to bend over. I placed my typewriter on his back and finished typing my deductions.

         “Dealing with is dog is easy.” I continued.  “What dog could resist a piece of meat? Sauté it something like ether and the dog will be out for days.  Even if he later barked himself hoarse, you guys will be gone days before his barking attracts attention.  As for dragging Nick Trevor out unnoticed, that’s even easier. Any public housing several stories tall has a fire escape, and the alleyway the escape is also the perfect place to park the car. A man of your status would probably drive a black ’41 Pontiac, am I right?” Boss snickered at this statement.  “I checked out Trevor’s apartment after I saw the PI knock out Stoat, and it was simple to me to figure out.  It would probably take that PI a long while to make sense of it.”

         Boss gave me a trusting look.  Even if I hadn’t figured out everything 100%, I knew that I was right on at least 98%.  He pointed with the cigar.  “What’s with da typewriter?” he asked. “Only little old ladies dat write mystery novels carry typewriters everywhere.”

         “I’m a man who is skilled at keeping things hidden.  Stoat’s a buddy of mine and he told me about your problems with the bookkeeping.  I can catalogue that faster than you could say ‘Albuquerque’.  And while I’m at it, I could create a paper trail in six hours so thick one safari guide, two trailblazers, and five IRS agents wouldn’t be able to get anywhere with it.”

         Boss smiled at me. “And how soon could you do dis’?”

         “Right now, if your want.  I’ve just got a quick question.  It’s for a poll I’m taking.”

         “What’s da question?”

         “Do you guys prefer the term ‘mob’ or ‘mafia’?  I know plenty of gang families like the traditional term but a few modernists say ‘the mob’ sounds more menacing.”

         “I hate those dumb punks.  We mafia members got a set creed we follow, unlike those lawless braggarts.”

         “Interesting…” I thought out loud.  “Well, I guess I’ll get started.”

         “Welcome aboard, bub.  Ferret, lead dis man to da guest room, and make sure he gets a plate of spaghetti.  And give him some of dose meatballs, da one’s like my momma used to make.”  Ferret led me around crates and to a short hallway.  Someone had transformed it into a kitchen.  One thug was stirring a pot of pasta and Ferret grudgingly handed me a plate.  He opened a door for me.

         Although I had been expecting it, to my surprise Nick Trevor was kept in a corner of the room.  It was as easy as 1+1=2 to realize it was Trevor: 1) I was looking for a missing person, and 1) this man was bound and gagged tighter than a turkey at a butcher’s shop, thus leading me to believe he was missing from somewhere.  2, ladies and gentlemen!  I sat down on a spare chair and put my typewriter and plate of spaghetti on a stack of paper.  Ferret locked us in, so we couldn’t escape.  However, one could escape easily.  This room held the actual loading dock, so Nick was tied up securely so he couldn’t swim away.

         His white worried eyes stared at me for a while. I pretended to ignore him as I checked my options.  Finally I walked over with the spaghetti and undid his arms and gag.  When I put the spaghetti in front of him, he swallowed without chewing.  The thugs had been starving the poor chap.

         “Nancy and Schnookums say hello,” I said as I returned to my typing. He looked at me wide-eyed with a mouthful of spaghetti and nearly choked on one of mamma’s meatballs.

         “Y-you know about my sister?” he gasped.

         “Of course I do, she hired me to find you, I’m Clint Slade… Private Eye…”


         … According to my college literacy professor, that would be the perfect spot for a cliffhanger.  A bit to showy for my taste, but I get his point.

         I opened my never-ending bottle of booze and began to drench the floor boards with its contents.  “How did you get roped up with these thugs anyways?!”

         “Not too sure myself.  I think one of them was shadowing the classroom where I tutor advanced statistics at the University.  They threatened to harm my sister if I didn’t help them or if I told the police.” He untied his legs as he talked. “What are you doing?”

         “Escaping.  We can easily swim away now, but I want to make sure this gang doesn’t follow us.  It’s their fault for hiding out in a paper warehouse.” I capped my bottle, which was full as usual and pulled out my gun.  I had never shot at anyone with it, but it still comes in handy at times.  One shot caused a spark which ignited the alcohol, spreading fire which engulfed a stack of papers.  The floorboards had really soaked up the booze and the flames slowly moved towards a corner.

         “I saw a gas can under a fuse box,” I explained.  “When the fire gets to it, it will really burn the place down.”

         “Well, let’s get out of here!” Nick exclaimed.

         “There may be a problem with that...”

         “What?”

         “My foot’s stuck.”

         My college literary professor came to mind again.  He would describe this as a perfect example for suspense, the tension rising all the way up until the climax.  Here were Nick and I, three steps to freedom but stuck in a trap we had set ourselves.  The plank bobbed up and down but the gum stubbornly kept my foot in place.  Just as we managed to snap the plank off, with my foot still attached, the gas can exploded.

         I remembered how Hollywood was trying to fit in a good water skiing scene into their recent movies at the time.  My resume would probably allow me to be a stuntman if I wanted.  The force of the explosion had launched Nick and me out of the warehouse and now we were skimming to shore.  I could probably be a great stunt man too; who else could balance on one ski supporting a man on his shoulders while holding a typewriter? Just as we were about to sink we reached a dock.  After we hauled ourselves up Nick and I stared at the flaming building for a minute.  I asked him for a quarter and approached a nearby payphone.

         “Hello, operator.  Call the fire department, there’s a big fire down at the docks.  And tell them the police really would want to see it too!”

         Morning came, and with it the stereotypical good ending.  Nick and Nancy had been reunited, and had been hugging in my office for the last twenty minutes.  Even their Great Dane was wagging his tail.  I gave him a stale bone from a fossilized fried chicken dinner I had in my desk.  I was perusing the newspaper with a headlined that screamed MOB CAUGHT WHEN SPAGHETTI DINNER BURNS DOWN HIDEOUT.

         Nancy thanked me again. 

         “Are you sure that plank will come off?” Nick asked.

         “Yeah,” I replied.  “Once the gum gets to room temperature it will loosen up.” The plank in question was making it difficult to prop my leg on my desk.  “I’ll go down to hang out with a musician friend at a bar once it falls off.  Here’s looking at you kids.”

         They waved as they walked out of my office.  Sure, that was a cheesy rendition of a famous line, but I’m a man of simple pleasures.  There’s nothing like the feeling of a case solved and you’re free to relax.  True, that case was solved mostly by sheer dumb luck, but that’s the way I work.  I stared out my window at the bustle of the city I walk day and night.  A light drizzle fell, but it was nothing to damper my spirits. Chalk up another case solved for Clint Slade… Private Inspector!