See "An Introduction to Detective Monica" for Full Disclaimers.

Author's Note:  Thanks again to all my friends letting me use their online personas -- now with the addition of Myrnaware, the Lady of the Fishes, who cordially keeps us all in line during HL chats with her various fishes to whap people.  And who is very, very friendly with Draxen.  May you always be whapped with the Flatfish of Fellow-feeling and the Haddock of Hilarity!  (Yeah, well, we're weird here on AOL . . .)

This is the third story in my Det.  Monica Series.  If you haven't read the first two, please do go back and read them, in order, or you won't understand what's going on at all.  Trust me on this one; you'll have no idea who half the people are, for one thing, or why fuzzy slippers are Important.  The prior stories  (The Garbage Report, and  Travel is So Broadening) are archived on Sheshat's Library too.  As always, thanks to Grace for adding my stories to her page!  (As I've said before, my page has been pining away for attention, 'cause I've been too busy to do anything to it.  So bless Grace.)

Any favorable reactions, chocolate, tall, dark-haired Scottish Immortals or twinkly-eyed ancient ones with a Nose and Toes (or, alternatively, gorgeous Mounties who own deaf wolves, and/or original volatile Chicago cops) can be sent to [email protected].  Also, remember, writers like a little ego-boo -- that's part of the fun, hearing what readers thought about our stuff.  What made you giggle, and what made you fall outta your chair.  It makes us write more.  (major hint there)  Any flames will be edited, checked for spelling, grammar and originality, and returned redlined for corrections needed before acceptance for the round file.

Rating:  PG-14.  Some violence, no worse than in the show, and a little implied m/f and m/f/m headboard-rattling.

(Additional Note: Any resemblance in the following story to actual speech patterns of real persons living or dead is purely coincidental . . . I hope . . . with luck.  You know who you are . . . or you will, anyway, once you read the story.  [veg] Remember, Grace is the one that suggested it!!!  I'm innocent, I tell you, innocent!  And she's watched  The Princess Bride one too many times . . . )

"No. 1 With A Bullet"
(or:  "Don't Rain On My Hit Parade")

-- The Third Adventure of Det. Monica --

© 1999 Monica A. Schafer

Part One

Okay, I'll admit it.  I was wrong.  I shouldn't have yelled at her.  But, geeze Louise, you'd think I'd robbed the old broad or something!  When if she'd been watching where she was going, there wouldn't have been  any problem whatsoever.  I mean, Jeremy was kinda hard to miss; it's not every day that you see a miniature black horse being exercised on a longe-line in a park in Paris.  And we were out of the way of the normal traffic, Jeremy obediently trotting in a good-sized circle around me while I held onto his lead.  It's not as if we were charging hell bent for election down the walk or something like that!

But no, this elderly Parisienne comes toddling along, looking at the ground and muttering, not watching where she's going at all.  Well, I suppose if you were being charitable, you could say that she was keeping an eye on her footing.  Humph.  If she's got that much of a problem with walking over smooth grass, with a cane yet, then she should've been staying on the nice paved walkway.  That's what  I say.

Instead, when Jeremy goes tittupping past her in his nice little circle, this dame lifts a startled head, shrieks (thus scaring the hell out of poor Jeremy), flails vainly with her cane (narrowly missing the poor little beast; he'd shied and nearly spooked when she yelled), then she promptly proceeds to fall flat on her tuchis.

Well, hell.  He didn't even come within two feet of her at the beginning of this whole encounter.  I don't know  how she managed to fall down in the little pile of road apples he'd left in the general vicinity earlier.  (Hey, I was going to scoop 'em up when we left, of course, but who knew this dizzy old broad would be trying to walk right in front of Jeremy?)  Then, of course, being scared out of his wits -- he's not used to people yelling at him -- poor Jeremy of course reacted like any other horse who's preparing to run for its life.  He . . . uh . . . lightened the load, so to speak.  Unfortunately, he happened to be in the perfect position to leave his deposit right on the old crone's dress . . .

I  told her she was lucky he didn't let fly and kick her into the middle of next week, but she didn't understand English.  And I haven't learned that much French yet, although I'm learning as fast as I can.  We've only been here a month and a half or so; you need some time to learn another language, y'know?  So, okay, maybe I did start out screaming at her; but how the heck she could tell I was being crude without knowing English, I'll never know.  Anyway, I did managed to swallow my ire and stop swearing long enough to sound as apologetic as I could, while trying to calm Jeremy as he was snorting and stomping and bouncing around, his ears flicking nervously every which way.  But she wasn't helping, yelling at the top of her lungs like that.  And I couldn't get close enough to help her up 'cause she was slashing the air with that blasted cane while screeching, using it sort of like punctuation.  No way was I going to get in the path of that cane, a person could be crippled for life!

So I'm apologizing, in a tone growing more and more angry, also getting louder and louder; this elderly person of the female persuasion is sitting on the ground waving a cane and yelling, loudly; and Jeremy's still doing his best to bolt away from this unpleasant, nasty scene . . . because it's loud and he's  scared, poor baby.  You can see this wasn't one of my more pleasant experiences of Life in Paris.  Especially when the gendarme showed up.  Then another.  Then--

Well, it got pretty interesting there for a while.  Frankly, with what was going on when he finally got there, I'm surprised Duncan didn't just give us a horrified look and briskly make his way back to the barge as fast as possible.  However, brave man that he is, he didn't.  One minute there were three people yelling at me and several interested spectators watching my plight, then the next this deep voice was speaking elegant French and smoothing everything over.

Don't ask  me how he does it!  First he got the old bat quieted down -- well, of course, his looks and manners helped there.  She took one look at those dark eyes and that face, as well as the bod, and practically melted into a small puddle.  Then he started talking to her, and she  blushed!  After a minute of so of this, he had her cooing over Jeremy and prattling away to him happily, while I glowered.

Then he turned to the two gendarmes, one of whom was holding me rather tightly, and pretty soon there was a whole three-way conversation going on, with Duncan smoothly spouting out this flow of French and the gendarmes looking more and more mollified, if a bit bewildered, every sentence.  Then he had all  three of 'em talking together, and pretty soon he forked over some francs (presumably for damage to the dress), hats were tipped all around, the gendarmes were escorting the old lady away, and Duncan was turning back to me with a rather grim look in his eye.

Yeah, I know; but one of the first lessons you learn about guys is when to use subtlety.  So I opened my mouth first and said, ever so contritely, "I'm  sorry, Duncan!  It was all my fault!"

Naturally, that turned the grim look to a somewhat taken aback look.  Give him credit, Duncan is pretty much up to every feminine trick and wile in the book, and sometimes I'll swear he was the one the tricks were first tried  out on, he knows 'em so well!  But still.  When your girlfriend apologizes prettily for something you've had to straighten out,  especially before you get a chance to yell at her about it -- in public, yet -- what can you do?  If you're a decent sort of guy, that is.

The answer to that is pretty much . . . nothing.  Which Duncan knew.  He snapped his mouth shut and gave me a resigned look that said, I Know What You're Doing, But--

I didn't push it.  I gave him Apologetic Look #12, the one with Gee, I Don't Know  How It Happened thrown in, and after another little stare, he just sighed.  Then grabbed Jeremy's lead from me and said  I could clean up the road apples.

As if this was punishment.  I was planning on doing it anyway and being all ready and waiting for Duncan when he got there, so we could get going.  Oh well, best laid plans and all that.  At least he went slowly enough that I caught up with him and Jeremy at a jogtrot, instead of a flat-out run.

I suppose you're wondering where the heck Jeremy came from, huh?  Well, I mean, you  know how I ended up owning a miniature horse.  It's just that you knew him as Friend, my hastily-picked-up fellow jailbreaker who helped me get away from Mahoud, that Persian antique dealer.  (And God-knows-what-else Mahoud was.)

Well, you know, Friend didn't seem much of a name.  I tried it in French for a couple of days, but  Ami kept making me feel like I was a Southern debutante talking about the Wowah and the Confed'racy.  I'd end up drawling it instead of saying it the right way, and I kept having nightmares about all my Southern ancestors coming to me and lecturing me about being a big ol' fake.  Then I experimented with  Cher Ami, which was equally disappointing; especially when trying to say it fast and stern, such as during the time he was showing me what a good escape artist he still was.  (It's amazing what a horse can do with one nose.  If they'd had ten of 'em per horse, and humans only one finger, guess who'd be running things now?)

Finally my thick brain managed to notice what  Cher Ami sounded like -- sorta -- in English.  So I switched to Jeremy.  He seems to like it, and even answers to it occasionally.  Especially when I'm bringing him a little treat, or just sitting with him and talking.  Horses are just as good as dogs to talk to, you know; and a miniature horse, naturally, is a lot easier to use for that purpose than a full-sized one.  I sit outside on nice days, keeping Jeremy company, and occasionally he gives a little rumble in his chest; an almost-whinny, like horses do when they like you.  Or he whickers softly at me and tries to eat my hair.  (He's a little flirt, you know, almost as bad as Duncan; that whickering business is love-talk, and it's all cupboard love, I tell him.  I  know.  I've heard plenty of guys with the very same tone of voice when they were trying to wheedle me into inviting them to stay for the night.  Jeremy just wants another carrot.)

So that's how Friend came to be Jeremy.  As to why I was trotting to catch up with the both of them, well, naturally Jeremy needed a little more exercise than he could get on the fenced-off stern deck of the barge.  Duncan was still bemoaning the look it gave the barge, but he'd finally dropped off on griping about that lately.  Although that was just because he had something  new to gripe about; I was housetraining Jeremy now.

Well, gee, we couldn't leave the little thing outside on the deck all the time, even with the small lean-to affair we'd set up.  And Jeremy had only made two mistakes; he's an awful fast learner, smart as a whip, and got the idea really quick.  Now he was learning to go to the door and signal that he wanted to go outside.  The only problem was getting him to rap instead of paw the floor, which naturally was marking it all up.  You should have seen Duncan lunging at Jeremy the first time he did that; the man actually picked Jeremy up!!  I practically had hysterics, seeing this little black horse about the size of a Great Dane or so, being carried outside by this big guy with a harassed expression.

Of course Duncan gave me  such a look when he got back in, especially as I hadn't stopped laughing yet.  I tried to stop, truly I did; but then I said something about how Jeremy seemed to have a training agenda of his own -- for Duncan -- and I really cracked up.  Duncan pouted the rest of the day.  (He has the most beautiful mouth I've ever seen, but  man can he pout!) So naturally I had to jolly him out of it, which meant that we never did get out to dinner.  Instead we called Maurice and paid an outrageous sum to have one of his waiters cycle over with a meal.  Take-out hasn't really quite made its way across the Atlantic to France yet.

Anyway, back to the park -- I finally caught up with Duncan and Jeremy, both of whom were looking a little peeved with the other.  Jeremy kept pulling at the lead, and Duncan, while an expert with horses, seemed to forget it around Jeremy; he'd do the stupid thing and jerk back when Jeremy yanked, like he was walking a dog on a chokechain, instead of keeping a steady pull.  I heaved a sigh and managed to get between the two of 'em and started chattering brightly about nothing much in particular.  Oh, I thanked Duncan as sweet as I could for coming to the rescue, again; and I pulled Jeremy close and started scratching under his halter.  Jeremy started behaving 'cause he thought I had the lead, and now I was paying attention to him.  And Duncan relaxed and stopped frowning because Jeremy was finally obeying him -- he thought -- and now I was paying attention to  him.  Men!  I  swear those two are jealous of each other!  Over me!!  Talk about totally ridiculous.

Oh well, you know males.  Still, I'd hate to be without 'em.  Men are the single most fascinating thing I've run into yet, and they sure don't leave you bored.  Especially ones like Duncan.  I  still haven't found out all that much about his life.  Not that I'm prying or anything, oh no.  Really.  I mostly keep my mouth shut and my ears open; or I natter on about unimportant things, and listen to the comments he puts in occasionally.  You can find out a lot that way.  Still haven't found out how in the heck -- or why -- he carries his sword around all the time.  Unless he's really into the Society for Creative Anachronism, but he doesn't quite seem the type.  And he's never dragged me along to any kind of meeting.  But I've confirmed one thing at least.  He  does always have it with him.  Always.  And the man is an expert at using it.

He started teaching the sword to me after the little run-in with Mahoud.  I'm still amazed down inside that he's actually let me touch his.  Sword, I mean.  He's got this almost mystical thing going on with it, I swear.  It never seems to leave his side.  Well, hardly ever.  He does leave it on a stand beside the bed at night.  It's still within easy reach, though!  Just as much as I am.  In bed, that is.  You know.

Anyway, I have  no idea how the heck this is supposed to  help me, but it sure is interesting.  I somehow don't see me lugging a sword around everywhere -- supposing I could manage it without tripping over the durned thing; yeah, right, the stupid sword is almost as tall as I am!  Well, his is, anyway.  (Yeah, I've got my own now -- which scares the hell outta me, 'cause I know it's a couple centuries older than I am, and is not only sharp, but an antique!  How the heck are you supposed to relax and get used to swinging something like that, huh???  When it costs $$$$$?  I ask you!) And what on earth do you do in summer, while you're wearing a tank top, for instance?  Plus who fights with swords nowadays  anyway??  Get real!  Yeah, like I'm gonna get mugged and pull out a sword!!  Oh, sure; then I could escape by running like hell while the mugger was laughing his head off.  *sigh*

I mean, yeah, sure, I did ask if I could learn the sword -- but I didn't expect Duncan to positively  leap at the chance!  You know how it is -- you get a new boyfriend, you learn something about whatever it is that makes his eyes glow and his conversations turn purely boring from loving repetition of infinitesimal points of difference.  Such as exactly what the difference is in the finish two waxes made of almost identical ingredients can produce on skis.  This from a guy who doesn't remember what day of the week it is, much less that he's been seeing you for five weeks and hasn't told you his last name yet.

(That was Willy, my tenth from last boyfriend.  Well, I was young then, I wouldn't be that stupid  now.  'Sides, everyone called him Willy Wonka on the slopes, and I never saw the stupid movie, what did I know?  I still haven't seen more than snatches of it.  So I haven't the faintest if everyone called him Willy Wonka 'cause he liked the movie, liked chocolate, or because of some other in joke.  Hey, at least it wasn't something from the Rocky Horror Show, 'cause I haven't seen  that one all the way through  either.  Musicals, even weird ones with rock music, pretty much bore the bejeezly out of me, no matter how much rice and toast you throw at the screen.)

And back to learning about your boyfriend's hobbies -- why, you ask?  Well, 'cause if you don't, you're gonna spend a lot of time getting bored around him.  If the relationship is worth making it last, then you'd durned well better get interested in at least one of his hobbies.  Anything, it doesn't matter; just whatever turns you off the least.  And I figured, well, weapons, y'know . . . they could always come in handy for detecting.  I dunno about the martial arts, somehow the thought of being slammed into a floor repeatedly didn't quite appeal.  Even ending up with Duncan on top of me.  Plus it looked like swords were going to become part of an intimate, personal relationship with  me, too, judging by that Mahoud creep.

So, while it's great that he's teaching me the real stuff, from scratch, so to speak, I didn't  quite mean that I wanted the whole megillah clear back to the first time Oog the caveman thought of putting a handle on that sharp rock he'd been using.  Y'know, so he wouldn't cut up his hand so much when he stabbed the meat on the hoof.

Oh well, you know boyfriends; you've just gotta go with the flow sometimes, as my second-from-last boyfriend, Rudy, kept saying.  Of course, he went with the flow so much that when they eventually found him, he'd actually managed to move 500 feet downriver from where the police figured he was dumped -- amazing, with all that concrete -- but still, as he used to boast, he was  real good at going with the flow.  I've gotta admit, he was telling the truth there.  Of course, if he hadn't gone with the flow and switched sides so easily, maybe he wouldn't have ended up at the bottom of the river.  I hear Mr. Guidarelli doesn't  like to be reminded of those two really hot weeks winter before last, and Rudy sure did keep yackin' about 'em a lot.

I told him to shut up about the amount of lead he personally contributed to what was flying around and heating up things during all the drive-by's, but did he listen?  No!  I really can't blame Mr. Guidarelli for inviting him over for a serious talk.  I blame Rudy for not listening when I told him he should say he had urgent out-of-town business and had already left.  But noooooo . . . he hadda go meet the Boss, all tricked out in his nicest suit -- which meant, of course, they couldn't use it for the burial.  Not after several weeks at the bottom of the river.

But then I  did make a lot more friends on the force after Rudy disappeared, during the investigation and all, and that's bound to come in handy when I'm detecting back home.  I  never would've stayed in jail as long as I did here in Paris, for instance, after the bar fight with Jean-Pierre's guys and Mahoud!  The guys at the precinct would've had me out of the holding cell and drinking coffee with the rest of 'em in the break room about ten minutes after booking me.  And that nice bail bondsman, Scott, would have been right down after they called him for me.

Anyway -- I could go on and on about all the sword-related stuff I've learned in the last couple of weeks, but relax, I won't.  Yeah, don't thank me.  I'm sure I'll break down some time and start babbling about tachi versus katana and when the samurai switched over from one to the other, and what the heck a wakizashi is, and- wups.  See?  Sorry 'bout that.

From the above you may have figured out that it's Japanese blades Duncan's concentrating on.  Well, yes.  I still don't know if it's because  he uses a katana, or if there's a particular reason a katana would be good for a shorty like me.  I'm sure I'll find out eventually.  I hope.  No, actually, I'm positive.  Duncan has an  enormous fund of information about swords, and he seems set on imparting every single little detail to me.  Whee.  Not that I don't like swords, it's just that he's apparently bound and determined that I'm going to learn it all ASAP, for some damnfool reason.  And last time I got frustrated and asked him what the big hurry was, he just muttered something about how my luck couldn't hold out forever, he was surprised it had lasted this long.  Which left me going, "Huh???"

No, I don't have  any idea what he means by that!!  And doing the silent waiting bit didn't produce anything, either.  Guess I'm just gonna have to wait myself and see.  But boy, it's driving me nuts!!!

Oh, geezily, I've gotta go.  This is getting awful long anyway, and there's a  lot more to tell you; something really strange happened when we got back to the barge.  Anyhoo, I'll get this sent and write another email tomorrow; I'm sure you'll be interested!

Laters!

Continued

(Want to see the previous stories again before going further?
Here are the first and second stories in the series.)

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