Her name was Olive Bertha. I could well believe it. She had the build of a sumo wrestler who looked liked they�d given up on the diet. Her hair was the colour of engine grease and smelled far worse.
�I�m in trouble,� she said. I could well believe that too; if I had a figure like that and was crammed into such a dress then I wouldn�t be in the best of positions either, nor could it be comfortable sitting in that chair. But before I could suggest a pair of sharp scissors to loosen the obvious squeeze forced upon her by that dress, or recommend her sitting on the sofa instead, she went on. �My Father (I remember forcing myself not to say, �Who, King Kong?�) is missing.� If his daughter was anything to go by then he shouldn�t be too hard to find. �He owes a lot of money. I need you to find him,� she got straight to the point. Her misty, blue, whale eyes pleaded with me to take on this case. She mustn�t have heard of me before. How could I refuse? Besides, my future looked as bright as an Artic tour operator�s and I had as much dough to my name as my solved-cases list! So what, I got paid whether I cracked the case or not, though it meant a lot of name changes and even more new addresses as a result of my no refunds policy.Okay sister, you�re in luck,� I told her lighting what I thought was a cigar. �As it just happens -� I began to cough violently as the plastic from my fountain pen began to melt. With the coughing fit over I continued through the plumes of black mist. �- I�ve just finished a case (the reason for my most recent move to this grotty establishment) so yeah, sure, you got yourself a fully qualified P.I. who won�t rest until your brother -� she corrected me. �- okay, Father, is found. Finding him is the most important thing in m
My story begins back in good old thirty-nine. One of those days that sticks in your brain like a piece of turd to the sole of your new pair of rhythm n' blues; no matter how many scrapes against the curb you give it some of it�ll never shift. It started with one of those mornings were you couldn�t tell whether you had a hang over, or had just ran headlong into an oncoming train. Seeing as the only tracks were under my eyes I suspected it to be the former; I�ve always been the deductive type. My mom always told me, �Son -� she�d always refer to me and my seven brothers as that; saved time remembering all the names. �Son,� she�d say. �You gotta helluva future ahead of you if only you just use what's between your ears. Don�t be like your pa, I don�t wanna lose you too.� No, my old man wasn�t dead. Dolly Bust had been her name as well as her description and she�d had the biggest pair of� feet I�d ever seen. My old man�s attentions had evidently been fixed upon a couple of more significant points and he was out the door quicker than a wallet from an unsuspecting pocket.Reminiscing about doors, there came a knock on mine. Whoever it was who was knocking was either very hopeful, or was a few nuts short of a tool box; the glass had been removed (not at my request - by a dissatisfied costumer, who hadn�t totally agreed with my �no refunds� policy and presented me with a windowless door) and clearly showed an empty office. I was sprawled out on the floor behind my desk with a bottle of scotch in one hand and my head in the other. Business wasn�t good but neither was my condition.The banging continued. Inside my head it sounded like the fourth of July celebrations.It stopped. Evidently the term �no one�s home� wasn�t a term this person was familiar with as the handle began to turn. I fumbled for my piece but found only a suspender belt and a pair of handcuffs in the holster. It wasn�t so much the losing of my gun that annoyed me, but more the not being able to remember how the exchange of items had come about.The door creaked open (I must get that fixed, I promised). I was in the hollow of my desk and didn�t envisage any acts of valour, as even the act of urination was still something I wasn�t looking forward to attempting.
�Mr Valentine?� It was a dame�s voice - I knew because I had an ear for these things. Again, she said, �Mr Valentine?� Five times she said that and after the fifth I gave in, if not, then my bladder certainly would have.
I pulled myself from out of my cove, the bottle of scotch splashing around in my right hand. Even with the world tumbling around me it still only took me a mere couple of minutes to achieve this feat. It was a broad alright. She had a slender, fine figure by any elephant's standards; as a woman she was huge. I marveled at her and the size of my doorway and was mystified why I hadn�t heard the struggle. She had the build of a dame that, if she wore high-heels, she�d strike oil. Her piggy eyes watched me with a mixture of impatience and mild revulsion. She literally had room to talk, I remember thinking.
With the desk providing vertical support via my left hand, the bottle of gold-orange liquid providing moral support in my right and my grossly unshaven chin providing me with a wonder of where I could borrow a lawnmower from, she spoke.�Mr Valentine?�
�Honey, can I suggest changing the record?� as I hadn�t heard her say anything else in our brief time together. �But first of all, how did you get in?�
She returned my question as if I�d just asked her would she like a pork chop. The kind of look that�s says, Surely you can�t be serious? And she looked over her shoulder and nodded at the door.
�But I always keep that locked,� I accused her, my brow creasing, or so it felt like it.
She threw her head back to the door and, even in my fragile state, it took only a further five minutes to work out what she was getting at. The key to the door was just below the gaping gap and quite accessible. Gee, cut me some slack! Wasn�t getting to my feet unassisted good enough on a morning like this? My brain couldn�t be expected to manage more than remembering where the bathroom was, let alone some puzzling mystery as to how she got in.