110119b

Jack Sprat was found clutching an empty tub of lard. His death was ruled a suicide.

122718

In the Alley, With a Candlestick

The woman in the low-cut red dress looked at me like a hungry cat staring into a pet-store window. I later realized that she hadn’t turned up the heat just for me, her furnace ran wide open all the time, even at her husband’s funeral. I know. I was there. My name is Deadbolt, Hasp Deadbolt. I’m a P.I. Anyway, when she slunk into my office that first time, I thought she was out to pry something loose from my smoldering naked corpse. I was about ready to let her give it a shot, too.

I mopped my brow with a blue handkerchief a client had given me and got to my feet. That was probably a mistake, since heat rises.

“What can I do for you, Miss…?”

“Nimble, Mr. Deadbolt. Natalia Nimble. I need your help.” She sat demurely enough in the client chair, but then she leaned forward earnestly and looked me in the eye. I started pacing in a futile attempt to pump some blood back towards my brain. It would have hurt to sit down just then anyway.

“It’s my husband,” she went on, “He’s been murdered.” I could not entirely suppress an eager twinge.

Ms. Nimble’s husband John had left work at the automobile factory when the whistle blew, but he’d never made it home. His charred and smoking corpse had been found the next morning in an alley behind The Plate and Spoon, a tavern that catered to food-service workers. Across the alley was a warehouse belonging to Sprat and Son Cannery. I figured Nimble for a regular at the old Dish and Cutlery, so that was my first stop after I ushered his widow out of my office. The fresh air helped to clear my head, and by the time I got to the Saucer and Utensil I had some questions in mind. The place wasn’t very hygienic despite its culinary appellation; I wouldn’t have eaten anything there. The D&C had apparently taken over a moribund taxidermy shop, and there were still some scrofulous examples of the art in the bar’s front window. A pair of moth-eaten woodchucks was portrayed playing cards at a dusty table next to a battered moose head that had seen better centuries. I pushed open the cracked gray door and stepped into a haze of tobacco smoke. Breathing shallowly, I made my way up to the bar. The place was crowded with wobbly little tables like the one in the window, but customers were few. The bartender, a fat man wearing a pair of gray muttonchop sideburns and a filthy apron that might once have been white, waddled over from where he had been smearing dirt around inside glasses. I dropped a coin on the counter, but held up my hand.

“There’s the price of a beer,” I said, “but I don’t want a beer. I’m looking for information.”

The bartender spat. “Beer’s on sale this week, but answers come high. Show me that fellow’s brother and I might have time to see if I remember anything.” He wiped his hands on his apron and folded them across his chest.

I dug in my pocket for some more change. “I’m looking for a guy who probably came in here Friday night. Dark hair, medium height, thin moustache, name of John. He works at the auto plant.”

“Steamy wife?”

“That’s the one.”

“Yeah! Regular in here. Almost every night. Didn’t see ‘im Friday though.”

“Are you sure?” I asked, “this place might get a little crowded on Friday.”

“Oh yeah, real crowded. But I know I didn’t miss ‘im.”

“How can you be so sure?” I asked again.

“Because I wasn’t here on Friday.”

I made a comment about the decrepit taxidermy in the window and headed for the door.

“Same to you, buddy,” one of the woodchucks snapped, and laid down its cards.

I decided to check out the alley and the cannery warehouse before visiting the bartender who’d been working Friday.

The warehouse was locked. No one was around, so I jimmied the back door. The place was empty. When I say empty, I don’t mean there wasn’t much stuff in there. There weren’t even interior walls. The building was completely bare. I scouted around a bit, but didn’t find any clues. I left the way I came in and went around to the front. There I found a sign on the door: “for lease.” It didn’t look like Sprat was using the warehouse or even planning to.

Finally I took a stroll down the alley in which John Nimble had been found. A blackened spot on the filthy pavement retained the odor of burnt flesh. I also found some pearly translucent residue stuck to the ground near the burnt area. I scraped some up and put it in a plastic bag. It might be a clue.

I sent the sample off to a lab for analysis, and nosed around town, looking for people who knew John Nimble. I kept hearing the same thing:

“Oh yeah, I know ‘im. Have you seen his wife?! Whew!! He is one lucky guy.”

Eventually I caught up with the Friday-night bartender. His name was Gus and he lived in a shoe.

“What happened to the old lady?”

“She died. Her kids needed more space, so they sold me the whole shebang. I like the place well enough, but it has no sole.”

I asked him if Nimble had been in the bar. Gus allowed as how he’d seen Nimble tossing back a few beers.

“Drinking a lot?” I asked.

“No. He just had a few. He does that most Fridays. Stressful job, I guess.”

“His wife with him?”

“Are you kidding?! John wouldn’t be able to get to the bar to order a beer if he brought her along. Everyone in the whole place would be buzzing around their table trying to get a sip of her nectar. Poor guy.”

“That’s funny, most people say he was lucky to have her.”

Gus just snorted derisively and laced up his door.

My next stop was the Nimble manse. I didn't really need to talk to the voluptuous widow; I wanted a look at the house. It was nothing more than a fishing expedition, but sometimes you catch a pretty good fish that way. Okay, maybe I did want another look at Ms. Nimble. Anyway, I looked around the house, a small ranch out in an old suburb that was completely undistinguished. Nothing jumped out at me, and I left before I forgot to breathe.

When I got back to my office I put my feet up to think things through. Putting up my feet forces more blood to my brain; I always think better that way. Had John Nimble been a happy guy or a sad one? Lucky or unlucky? Murdered (and why?) or suicide? The pieces of the puzzle were just starting to whir around in my head when the phone rang. It was the lab.

“Hey Pam, what’s the good word?”

“Alma’s got a ring through your nose and you don’t dare harass me for a date any more.”

“Besides that,” I said.

“Oh, about that stuff you sent me? The gunk you found near where the guy was burned? Paraffin. No help there I guess.”

“On the contrary, I think things are starting to fall together,” I told her, and hung up. Harass indeed!

It was about 4 p.m. when I got off the phone with Pam, and I headed back to the Plate and Spoon. On the way, I paid a visit to Nimble’s Doctor. He had knocked off for the day, which suited my purposes, because I wanted a look at Nimble’s medical files. I had a hunch the good doctor wouldn’t have let me peek at them if he’d been the office. Next I stopped by to talk to the Coroner. She owed me a favor. I had pulled her bacon out of the fire in the affair of the Big Bad Wolf.

“Hey curly tail, what’s happening?”

“Nothing that a few stiff drinks won’t cure. Wazzup?”

I asked her a few questions and she told me what I wanted to know.

“Thanks a bunch,” I said, “Toss back a few for me.” Of course, I was on my way to a bar, but I didn’t intend to do any drinking.

I picked out a table in a dark corner. Actually, all the corners were dark. I arrived shortly before 5, and barely 15 minutes later my quarry walked in the door. I waited in till he’d about half finished his second beer and then I strolled over to his table.

“Mind if I sit here?” I asked, pulling out a chair without waiting for a reply.

“Guess not,” he mumbled, and made to go. I put my hand on his arm.

“Pretty dumb move, John, staying in town. You couldn’t hide forever even if I wasn’t on the case.”

He jerked his arm away and slouched down in the seat. “How’d you find me?”

“Hello!! This is your favorite bar. This is your regular time. And that beat-up fedora and dime-store mustache aren’t fooling anyone. Why?”

“But how’d you figure it out? For all everyone was supposed to know, I was dead.”

“John, I hope your fingers are nimble cos your brain sure isn’t. You stole the body of a pyrophobe from the morgue. You think people aren’t going to notice that? Besides you’re no pyrophobe. You don’t smoke, but several of your friends told me stories about you lighting campfires, toasting marshmallows, etc. Your house has a fireplace that obviously gets regular use. Why did you want to disappear?”

He put his head down, shoulders convulsing. His muffled voice came haltingly.

“You don’t know what it’s like. That woman is insatiable. I never get any sleep! We can’t go anywhere without being mobbed by a crowd of lust-crazed fools. And the air-conditioning bill is out of sight! It’s not Nat’s fault, but I just can’t take it anymore.”

“That’s pathetic, Jack. Go home before I smack you.”

He did.

I’d like to say they lived happily ever after, but they didn’t. Jack B. Nimble was divorced inside of a year, and maybe he was happier after that. As for Natalia, she cut a swath through the young men of this city that will be remembered for generations. I hear she ended up joining a commune way out in the forest. Bunch of diminutive miners who’d lived alone their whole lives, except for a brief escapade with a princess a few years back. Must be a story to tell there!

END

https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/42875

060818

this one-room house
might've been made for giants
fe-fi-fo-fum!

060917

Jack in the Land of Giants

He climbed up. You know the story: turns out you can walk on clouds. Who knew? But the story you've heard gets the next part wrong. He saw the giants' sheep from a long way off. Up close he realized one of their hooves was big enough to put him through the cloud. No matter, didn't want to steal sheep anyway.

Slid right under the door (must be a pain to heat, and drafty). Found himself in a one-room cabin more primitive than his mother's house. The shepherdess was home, looking not a day over 17. Her size ZZZ breasts were something to behold, and from Jack's perspective it was clear she didn't own any underwear. She was fine, but when he thought about kissing that mouth, that red cleft that could suck him in like a grape, his blood started flowing back into his brain where it belonged.

This was starting to look like a quick smash and grab (without the smash, since even a needle here was almost as big as Jack). He found a penny on the floor but it weighed about 20 pounds. What does a poor shepherd, of any size, have for a young boy to steal?

He ate well, once he figured out how to get to the table top (the curtains came in handy). A meal of cheese, black bread, and mutton really satisfied. Jack and his mother had been living on onions for so long, this fare made the shepherd's hut seem like Heaven. Jack started thinking he ought to move in. After all, they didn't own a cat. However, as the sun started to set and the giants went to bed, the mice came out.

If Jack hadn't found that needle, well, they might have made an end of him. They quickly learned to beware the needle's point, but Jack got no sleep at all. He snuck out, ignominiously, about dawn, taking only the needle, a chunk of cheese the size of his head, and wistful memories of a 60 foot woman.

The end

Prev. Publ. In The Simian Transcript (book), 2010.

060717

It's that or starve

"Feed store has these new GM seeds on sale. An introductory offer, like. Know you & your Ma ain't got a lot of money. You might want to check it out." The grizzled old man nodded, climbed into his F150, and slammed the door.

The younger man strolled down to the Co-op and pushed the door open.

"What can I do you for, Jack?" Don looked up from the centerfold of "American Tractor." Jack waved, then wandered up and down the aisles like he was looking for something. He ended up at the display of seeds and looked at the "50% off" sign.

"I sure could use a few seeds, John," he said. "These any good?"

"Them? I hear they grow real well." Jack picked up a packet and came over to the counter. "Here's the thing," he began, but Don held up his hand.

"No money, no seeds. Put 'em back Jack."

"Look, it's only a dollar. You know I'm good for it. Besides, Bessie gives real good milk. I can bring you a gallon tomorrow. That's worth a dollar and then some."

*

The sun was setting when he got home, so he just hoed a short row at the edge of the garden, sprinkled the 20 or so seeds in, and scuffed the dirt over them with his foot. Then he went in to supper.

His mother was ladling vegetable soup into bowls and setting them on the table. Jack put spoons and napkins out and sat down to eat.

"Have a good day Jack?"

He nodded his head, still shoveling in the soup. It was his first meal of the day.

"Find a job?" He shook his head.

She sighed. "Jack, did you even look?"

"Something better. I got some of those new genetically whatsit seeds. Traded to Don over at the co-op for 'em. Already planted 'em. We'll have some good beans in a month or so."

"Jack, you need to get off your ass and get a job. A couple of handfuls of beans just doesn't cut it. We won't get through the winter unless something changes."

Jack got up and came around the table. He hugged his mother and laid his head on top of hers. "Things will change, Ma. You'll see. I'm lucky, remember?"

"Like with that frying pan scheme? No sooner did you get free of that then you ended up in a fire. You couldn't sit down for six weeks."

"I'm fine now, there's not even a scar. I'm going to bed, and tomorrow I'll weed and water the garden."

*

Jack wasn't sure at first what woke him. He had heard something out of the ordinary. He rubbed his eyes and sat up. It was dark, so it must be early, but then he realized the light was green. Something was blocking the window. That's what had awakened him! The window had actually shattered. He pulled his boots on and went to the front door. He pulled it open, to be confronted with an impenetrable mass of greenery. Slammed that door shut, grabbed his axe off the wall, and opened the back door. This one was clear, so he ran outside and around the corner of the house.

"Mary, Joseph, and all the saints!" A tree had grown up beside the house and it was already taller than he could see. Elongate objects dangled from the tree here and there, but they were so small, or so high, that he couldn't really see what they were. He ran around to the front of the house, where one of the branches of the tree crossed directly in front of the door. He heaved up his axe and started chopping. After a few stout blows he heard a faint sound from above and looked up. One of the objects was falling. It crashed to the ground and spurted green juice everywhere. It was a bean pod 20 feet long.

"Jack, chop off a few pieces of that. We'll have bean soup for supper."

"Ma..." then he stopped and shook his head.

*

The beanstalk didn't get any wider after the first night, and most subsequent growth occurred higher than the roof of the house. Jack sold a few beans, and traded some to neighbors, but for the most part his mother canned them. He traded canned beans five to 1 for empty cans at the co-op.

By late June he was already sick and tired of eating beans. This was going to be a long winter!

publ. The Simian Transcript, 2010

092913

Beans

Jack slipped on a bean and fell
that last bit,
hurt his back,
it was left to Jill to outwit the giant;
fortunately,
that was not difficult:
he sucked at probability,
and darts!
hands way too big--
she cleaned him out.
"Don't go away mad," she called
after he kicked the barn in,
but it would be alright;
an 8-foot penny
is worth its weight in copper.