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

Part Two

Well,  that was fun . . . not!  You ever had to pump out a bilge?  Bleahhhhhhh.  I could have gladly gone all my life without learning that little skill.  I'll take a body search any day.  I stayed in the shower for a couple of hours yesterday and I swear, I can  still smell myself.  Ugh.  It's worse than my slide down the hill back home -- and boy do I wish I'd kept the SUT, it would've been perfect for this little job.  Then I could have tossed it in good conscience, rather than a perfectly good (up until then) pair of jeans and a chambray shirt.  Not to mention the tennies . . . good thing I don't go in for buying running shoes when all I want is a comfy little tennie-runner type of shoe.  I would've been throwing away $80 instead of only $15 or so!!

First of all, it was as dark as the inside of a whale down there -- and smelled a helluva lot worse.  It made me sympathize with Jonah; you know, the guy from the bible?  Yeah, that one.  And if inside the whale was as slippery as the gawdawful stuff that was coating everything, then the poor guy must have spent most of his time flat on his rear, sliding every which way with any change of direction the whale made.  I do  not envy him any.

As this was a barge, though, we at least didn't have to worry about that.  Which wasn't as much of a relief as you might think. Although it would have been a lot  worse if the barge was moving during this 'small chore,' as Duncan called it.

Boy, have you ever noticed how guys can lie by omission?

You see, he did  not mention that the pumps were antiquated. I mean, like really, really antiquated.  As in operated by hand.  Our hands.  Needless to say, I hadn't worn gloves.  Well, none of the ones he had lying around would fit me -- small hands, remember?  Yeah.  Oh joy.  I'll  never get that stuff from underneath my fingernails!!  And this is  after I trimmed them practically back to the quick!

Not to mention that this 'small chore' consisted of pumping out the  entire hold of the barge.  Not just part of it!!  Oh, no, it was the entire length of the bloody boat that had to be pumped -- we couldn't just clear out a small portion, no, we had to get rid of as much as we could of this sludge that's been collecting since last year.  God only knows how many cubic feet of wa- no, liquid -- was in there.  (I can't call that stuff water.  It wasn't water.  It was liquid, sorta -- but it definitely wasn't water. Trust me on this one.  I am, unfortunately, somewhat of an authority now.)

And blast Duncan -- well, I realize guys have a weird sense of humor, but slipping and falling flat in that gunk was  not my idea of funny!!  This little mood-setter, by the way, occurs as soon as I get down the ladder to the actual bilge; i.e., the lowest part of the barge.  Down in the hold.  Whatever, I don't have much of a nautical turn of mind.  Anyway, I step off the ladder slap into about a foot of this . . . this . . . stuff, which is oily and slimy and black and about the consistency of fish guts blended with a tasteful portion of sewer water and algae sludge. In other words, like one of those rivers out West; too thick to drink, too thin to plow.

Well, of course I went "Yeek!!" and was totally grossed out -- and I guess I musta recoiled or something -- well, what would you do??  I mean first of all, I was taken up with the truly monumental stench that permeated everything; you could cut the atmosphere with a knife.  That was the first distraction; then to step off into that whatever-it-is . . . well, no wonder I reacted as if confronted with a pissed-off rattlesnake!!!  One foot slipped, my hand let go of the ladder, and the next thing I knew, wham!!  There I was . . . face down in this utterly appalling glop!!!

I'm sure I'll come down with all kinds of horribles.  I mean, it's all been sitting there for 6-7 months or so, percolating and fermenting and molding and burping and sloshing gently around, with no doubt the addition of the occasional dead rat or even worse . . . So what does my wonderful boyfriend do, when I levitate upright -- dripping -- with the loudest scream I can give through my nose?  (What, I'm supposed to open my mouth and get that gunk  in it???!)  He practically falls down himself, laughing!!!  And when I point out I'll probably die from catching something awful -- and deadly -- he laughs even  harder and says he doubts it!!

Well, there was only one thing to do.  I mean, anyone would agree with me.  After all, if he found it so funny . . . and it wasn't as if I  pushed him or anything.  All I did was slosh over and grab him around the neck, plaster myself against him and give him a big ol' kiss.  A looooong one.  With tongue.

I don't think he's going to be wearing that sweater again.  Or the pants.  Even though they were kind of work clothes before, still -- that stuff really is  black, and the aroma just sort of stays with you, like a permanent reminder of the experience . . . Not to mention that I think he actually managed to swallow some of that gunk, out of sheer surprise.  At least I hope so.

It was pretty quiet during the rest of the endless job.  Except when Duncan sort of gave a stifled snicker somewhere in the middle of it when he got a really good look at me -- as in after four hours or so, you should be so lucky as to have my back muscles, oy!  (Not to mention my poor hands after pumping.) I was using a mop at the time, so I just waited patiently.  Then when he turned his back, I kinda had to spin the mop to get the excess slop out of it.  Well, hey, I wasn't really  aiming at his head or anything!

I've been sulking since yesterday, but can you blame me??  He didn't have to laugh that hard!  I've a good mind to . . . well, never mind. He's out now, tracking something-or-other down.  I don't know, I didn't ask, I just glared.  And all  he did was grin, the rat.  Serve him right if I go out and spend a couple of hundred at a salon.  And chop all my hair off!  I'm really tempted. Especially since I'm not sure I got all of that sludge out of my hair.

Well, anyway -- so, backing up, it was two days ago we went out shopping, which  was great fun . . . and of course the clothes over here are fantabulous.  I got a bunch of great little outfits, plus scads of basic kinds of things.  You know -- underwear, jeans, T-shirts -- blah blah blah, I'll show you all the really good stuff when I get home, you'll love 'em!  And Duncan did enjoy his own little fashion show -- especially the lingerie!

So we come back after a day of shopping, and wouldn't you know?  There down by the barge is parked this sleek black car and Mr. Amber Eyes is lolling around against it, looking bored in a fashionable sort of way.

Duncan, of course, stiffens up immediately.  He tells me to stay in the car, hops out, and goes striding over to confront Mr. Eyes. Man, talk about a picture!  Two utterly gorgeous guys facing each other off -- I nearly- *ahem*.  Uh, okay.  Anyway, he didn't wait for Mr. Whosis to start in first this time -- he was talking before he'd gotten up to the guy.  Of course, I couldn't hear him; besides, they were speaking that language again.  Which, as it turned out, was one I'd heard before, but didn't  speak.

Well, they go back and forth a couple of times, getting louder and louder -- despite the cold, I'd rolled the window down and was straining my ears; fat lot of good that did me with not understanding the language.  I couldn't see Duncan's face, but I knew he was getting angry; he was starting to wave his hands around almost as much as the other guy, and his spine was stiffening up more and more.  Plus Mr. Amber Eyes was beginning to look like a thundercloud.  Finally he (Eyes) snaps out one nasty-sounding phrase and dives back into his car and takes off in a pissed-off way -- just barely missing Duncan with the car, that is.  He even gave  me a look as he passed; brrrr!!!  And Duncan was so mad he yelled something after the guy's car.

Duncan glared after the car for a minute, then came back to himself and stalked back over to help me with the packages.  I didn't say anything then, just concentrated on balancing umpteen bags and boxes and so forth without spilling anything onto the pavement.

When we got inside, Duncan headed for the liquor cabinet again, so I got myself a beer.  I figured I'd need a little something, especially as he didn't sit down and brood this time, he started pacing.  My, can that man pace!  I'd had enough of it after watching him about 15 minutes, so I calmly asked him what sort of problems could an Persian antique dealer be giving him?

He did the goggle-eyed thing again, and finally hauled his jaw up off the floor to ask me how the hell had I known the guy was Persian?  Well, you know; we had a lot of exchange students at the Community College, and a lot of them were from the Middle East, of  course I ran into a bunch!  Mostly guys, naturally. Talk about fast movers, they seemed to think a coed dorm was the equivalent of a harem; although fortunately that unarmed combat Dad taught me when I was a kid had stuck.  And once you reasoned with 'em, most turned out to be really nice guys, although you might have to get an ice bag for them after reasoning.  As for the others, you just had to learn certain phrases in their particular language to tell 'em to bug off.  It usually flabbergasted them so much to hear an American using a couple of words in their language that you always had time to get away from their general vicinity before they could react.

As it so happens, I didn't burden Duncan with all that; a girl has to keep  some secrets.  Like what he'd yelled after Mr. Eyes -- it happened to be one of the few Persian phrases I'd picked up to use.  (Actually, it's Farsi, I guess -- but I'm not really sure -- and since the guys I learned it from were really Iranian, but called themselves Persians so people wouldn't automatically think, "religious fanatic terrorist!" . . . well, I suppose it doesn't really matter  what the actual name of the language was.)

Anyway I smiled demurely and said I happened to recognize the insult he'd yelled (well, it was one -- calling a guy a sonuva- *ahem*, yes, well . . . it's an insult even over here, and  more so to anyone who might be Muslim!  They don't think too highly of dogs.) So I went on and asked him what, did the guy stiff him on a rug or something?  I mean, if this was an old feud, why stop by just for an exchange of insults?  (A little weird, no?)  Hell, he coulda sent a letter for that.  Or -- and here I got real sneaky -- maybe it was something about swords, like Duncan had managed to get in the winning bid at an auction or something?  (Yeah, I was  still curious about all those swords with notes in those catalogs from his trash -- remember?)

My God, the poor guy nearly choked!!   And he sprayed a whole mouthful of expensive Scotch all over the place -- I just hope it doesn't stain the floor, it's hardwood, and that doesn't take well to liquids, it leaves horrible spots you have to sand out. Of course I immediately hopped up and started thumping him on the back, just in case.  I mean, I  know the Heimlich, but on a guy that much taller than I am?  Yeah, right!

Well, Duncan finally stopped coughing and whooped for a bit, getting his breath back -- then staggered to sit on the couch while I mopped him (and the floor) off, and rather faintly asked me how in the hell I knew he collected swords.

I gave him a good stare for that.  Well, really -- come on now. Not only does the guy have several of 'em hanging around in the dojo back home -- and is constantly practicing by himself, or with Richie (only he uses a broadsword) or Adam, of all people -- but he's also got this incredible specimen of a katana that he hardly ever lets out of his sight.  I'd swear he carries it everywhere he goes, although I haven't quite confirmed that yet.  I have my suspicions.  Though I can't for the life of me figure out how he hides it if he does -- much less sit down in the car with it!  But, I mean, he even has it right next to the bed when he  sleeps!!  Talk about fanatical.

But then, we all have our odd little quirks.  My fifth from the last boyfriend, for instance; he refused to sleep in a bedroom unless it had a window he could jump out of.  He wouldn't ever tell me why, but boy, the  glass I had to replace every time he woke up in a state of nerves, or simply when someone knocked on the door!  It finally got on  my nerves, which is why I broke up with him -- that and the expense.  Besides, I got tired of driving him to the emergency room for stitches.  Although at least I met that nice glazier from the glass place who kept replacing the window.

Anyhoo, I ignored Duncan's silly question -- if the man couldn't figure it out, I wasn't going to do his thinking for him, I have enough of my own to do -- and just raised a brow at him.  Waiting-like, you know.  When he didn't say anything, I folded my arms.  That always makes guys nervous, and when they get nervous, they tend to babble.

And Duncan, while a superlative specimen of man -- really, quite unusual -- was no exception.  He hastily came out with some gobbledygook about an upcoming auction that included a really magnificent specimen of a sword, and Mr. Eyes (who turned out to be named Mahoud, which didn't really sound all that Persian) -- anyway, Mahoud was dead set on getting this one sword, and wanted Duncan to keep his Paddy fingers out of the holy water, so to speak.  Which Duncan wasn't inclined to do.  Of course.

This still sounded rather fishy to me, and old fish at that, but I pretended to believe it and poured him another drink.  Then we got to looking at all my new clothes, and of course I had to model some of them again, and well, one thing led to another.  We had a very late dinner that night.

Then yesterday was Honey, Let's Pump the Bilge Day.

After  that unpleasant little chore was over, I was in no mood for sweet talk -- I actually got some sleep last night.  And now Duncan's hared off to go do something he didn't want to tell me about.  Now that I've written you, there's really nothing much to do -- I need some new books, and besides, I really haven't explored much of the neighborhood by myself yet -- so I'm going to go learn a little more about Paris.  With my guidebook and phrase book, of course!!  Besides, as long as I ask for help from a man, it'll be okay.  Big eyes and a helpless look are understood in any language!

****

Oh my, can you get in trouble on casual little strolls through a foreign city!  Although, fortunately, the gendarmes  did listen quite politely to- Wups, let me back up a bit.

Okay, I was going out for a walk right after I wrote last time. Which started out just fine and dandy.  It was a brisk, sunny-but-cold day, I found a bookstore not very far away at all, and I'd also managed to find quite an eclectic selection of titles.  In English, yet.  (The one on forensic medicine was a real surprise, but I snapped it up; detectives should know  something about this sort of thing, and you know me, the oddest little things stick in my head.)

And me and books -- okay, so I lose all sense of time in a bookstore, so sue me!  Then when I got outside, I was poking along with my head in this really fascinating new novel . . . and after getting bumped umpteen times, I decided I'd better find a little cafe or something and sit down with a cup of coffee to gloat over my purchases.  Maybe get some food, too.  Naturally, once I decided this, there wasn't a cafe in sight.  Or bar, tavern, cantina, buffet, fast-food restaurant, market, charcuterie, bakery, roach coach . . . you get the idea.  Plus somehow I'd gotten all turned around and was on some street I've never  heard of, or seen, before.  In other words, I was lost.

So, no big problem.  Get a cab, go home -- I know how to tell a cabby to go to the moorage.  Right?  Wrong.  No bloody cabs!  This area of town seemed totally deserted, of cabs  or people. (Which makes me wonder what the heck happened to everyone bumping into me.) I got out my map, and got even more puzzled.  The only thing I could figure out was that I was well and truly lost, but good.  Okay, this still isn't a gigantic problem.  It's daylight, I can ask for directions.  I've got a map people can show me on if they talk too fast to understand resulting directions.  I have money, I know where I live -- what can go wrong?

Remind me not to ask that question again.  Believe me, it has an answer.  Several answers.

First of all, I had to walk like a couple of miles to find anyplace with real, live  people to ask directions of.  Well, I suppose I could have gone up to doors and knocked -- but you know, that was a bit much.  And somehow I'd gotten into a neighborhood that was a mix of industrial/apartment houses, odd though that was.  Sort of like they were going the gentrification route, y'know?  I'd go by a falling-down old warehouse, and a couple blocks further on a flossy row-house type of affair.  Anyway, every place that showed signs of life seemed to be busier than ants preparing for winter, and when I  did try to get someone's attention, I got no joy.  Then when I finally find someone, it's a toothless old gent who was awfully deaf, at a newspaper stand -- and he couldn't seem to get it through his head that I was a foreigner and didn't understand the torrent of helpful French that he cheerfully drowned me in.  I nodded and smiled a lot, and finally left, clutching a handful of magazines and a couple of papers, with the firm conviction that I'd just paid three times their worth, and a vague idea of what direction the Seine was in, at least.

Onwards . . . and two hours later I'm still no closer to home than I was when I started.  By which time I'm not only getting pissed, my feet are killing me!  And have I seen a public phone in all this time?  Don't ask that question, either.

Well, the upshot is that I finally found -- ta-daaaaa! -- a real, live cafe!  Or something; actually, it was a bar, but by this point I didn't care.  I dived down the little flight of steps and burst into the place, letting in a brief glare of light before the door thumped closed behind me.  And I swear, it was so like home I nearly cried!

With the door closed, it was gloomier than hell, and the cigarette smoke was so thick I had to wave my hand in front of my eyes for a few seconds to see anything.  There was loud -- really loud -- heavy-metal music playing on the jukebox, and the two waitresses giving me the eye from the bar were punked out to the max.  The rest of the place was full of mostly guys; well, there were a few with a girl draped over 'em, but those were back in the darker corners of the room.  And even those few were staring at me with a look like a shark sizing up the swimmers at the local beach. Everyone was wearing lots of black leather and chains and engineer's boots and so forth, and there were a lot of tattoos, beards, and dark glasses in evidence.  To clinch it, there was a beautifully polished, fire-engine red and black 1940's Harley Davidson hog suspended from the ceiling right above the bar.

So, naturally, I heaved a big sigh of relief.  At last, something  normal!  I was so happy to see something familiar that I beamed a big smile at the entire place and said, "Hallelujah, a biker bar!  Boy, am I glad to see  you guys!!"

Imagine my surprise when someone answered in lovely, comprehensible English!  With an offer of help, yet; well, you know, bikers are really underrated in the politeness and helpfulness department.  You've just gotta know how to talk to them, like I keep telling my friend Jim back home, although he keeps giving me this skeptical look.  I think it's due to that regrettable incident the one Memorial Day he got caught on the freeway during the Angels' annual run; but like I told him, it wasn't really such a hot idea to insist on turning off the freeway when there were several large choppers surrounding his car, especially when they hadn't moved aside to let him take the exit.  And besides, it's not like he didn't have insurance, he got the car fixed!  He was lucky, too; they let him keep his clothes, and it was only five miles out of town, he got a ride soon enough.  Such a crybaby.

Anyway, there was a little silence after I spoke, then this deep rumble came from one of the tables, saying quite politely,  "Mam'selle, I believe you are in the wrong location."

See?  I told you bikers are helpful.  I couldn't have agreed with the guy more.  And that's basically what I said.  With another big smile.  Then I added, "I've been lost for hours, I'm dead beat, and I'd kill for something to eat and a drink!"  Which brought a little chuckle from all around the house, so to speak, then this hulking guy stood up and handed me this opened bottle of something or other, with some comment that I couldn't understand -- obviously, as he'd spoken in French.

Of course I smiled politely at him -- taking care to wipe the mouth of the bottle as I did -- and took a deep breath while I dropped all those blasted books I'd been lugging around.  I wasn't sure what the heck was in the bottle I'd been handed, but it was around the right size for a beer; back home it would have been, anyway.  Although it could have been a small bottle of white lightning, for all I knew.  Or cared.  At that moment I was so tired and thirsty, I would've drunk kerosene!  In other words I wasn't worrying; so I brought it up to my mouth, tipped my head back and started swallowing.

Continued

(Read this one already?
Go on to the third story in the series.)

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