There was no other thing for it, I�d have to leave for Rogerson Tract straight away. Rogerson Tract was twenty, thirty or so miles, depending on which way the wind was whistling, and, with as many bucks to my name as Olive Bertha had amorous admirers, I set about racking my brains until they would be beyond racking on how to get there�
Forty five minutes later, with my thumb smiling at pickups and dust-vans, the occasional lorry and a few snazzy Fords, I waited on the grass verge of ninety-two for the (unlikely) ride that would bring me into my next port of investigation.
�I�m so sorry,� apologised Julian. He�d been sharpening his pen knife and sounded about as sorry as kick in the teeth. Had I backed into it then I might have put it down as an accident.
�Do pardon Julian,� excused Dan and cast his friendlier-than-friendly friend an irate glance.
Making friends wasn�t an objective, so I carried on. �Ever heard of Joe Kerr?�
By the look on his pansy face I could tell that he had. �Oh but of course!� he sang. �Such a sweet man - big too.� By the look of his daughter earlier that day I knew we were teeing from the same green but wouldn�t be surprised if our proposed subjects of the term big differed. He went on. �When did we last see him?� he asked of Julian.
Julian just shrugged. I didn�t want to think about it but he seemed to have taken the hump believing his friend, his very close friend, was� flirting! With me! I shivered. Let him think that, I thought whilst I tried not to; the images were just too grotesque.
�Yesterday morning - said he was taking a look at some farmland -�
�Farmland? Where?�
�Patience Sammy dear. I was just coming to that. Rogerson Tract, that�s where he was going.�
�Rogerson Tract?� I considered out loud. Something didn�t feel right - no, not about the place but I quickly found out what it was that didn�t feel right: Dan�s foot rubbed against the inside of my leg. I jumped up so darn fast it wouldn�t have been a surprise if a hand-grenade had just gone off under my chair.
Dan smiled that sickly, poncy-boy smile (to be employed by members of Westlife and the Backstreet Boys in years to come) as if to say, What�s the matter sweety-pie?
�Thanks for the information,� I said and almost ran through the door.�I can help you some more if you want?� I heard him say, but knew him well enough to surmise that his help wouldn�t be the kind I was looking for, or wanted!
I stood outside suddenly remembering that I had a hangover and wishing I had a bad memory. My head felt like it had been borrowed by the Lakers, used in a practice session, had been slam-dunked over and over, before being returned to my shoulders. Any good - or even just over-competent - private eye should always know what to do next. If the truth be known, I didn�t.
�Can I help you Sir,� said a foxy, young chick with big eyes and a pair of lungs to match.
�Well, I didn�t know you got that kind of service in here now,� I said insolently, taking in her assets. She looked utterly disgusted but it could have been much worse; I could have said: �I bet those aren�t real� so she should have been counting her lucky stars. �Where�s the manager?� I then asked. Still wearing the look of revulsion, she pointed to an open door in the back.
What I heard coming from there made me cover my eyes. The unnerving thing was that both voices were male - only, so high-pitched it�d be a wonder if they hadn�t received a kick off a horse in the midriff during some course of their life.
�Ooo, that�s it, that�s it, that�s the way! You know I like it like that!�
Summoning all my courage, as I was afraid at what I might witness, and still with my hand over my eyes, I proceeded, with every ounce of caution I possessed, through the door.
�Just a bit more cream.�
�Is that enough?�
�No, come on, just a bit more.�
�That do?�
�You�re not very heavy handed are you?�
I looked up and let out a sigh of relief just as the other fellow I recognised as Julian Di Macho said, �That�s not what you said last night.��I hope I�m not interrupting anything.� Both men (if you could call them that) started. Julian Di Macho was making coffee.
There was a moment or twos perplexity upon Dan�s face before recognition struck home.
�Sammy!� he screeched. �Is that you? My you�ve lost weight!� He was right, I had, though not due to strenuous exercise, but down to simply not being able to afford three square meals a day.
We spent the next five minutes circling the desk in an effort to politely decline from being hugged, as he came after me, arms open. He was a bald man, but thankfully I hadn�t obtained the knowledge to say that he was all over.�So, how�s things?� I asked, when he eventually gave in the chase and sat down at his desk.
I took the chair across from him. I made sure I didn�t let Julian, who still remained standing, stray out of the corner of my eye. Let a guy like that out of your sight and you could well be caught with your pants down - literally!Business is business. How are you?�