Harry B. Sanderford
Chester Hanks awoke with a Schlitz induced headache that while not uncustomary was never the less annoying. Eyes closed, he sleep-walked to the bathroom to relieve himself. Eyes still closed, he flushed, shuffled the 14 steps to the refrigerator, popped the top on a cold can of good morning and drained its contents entirely before squinting out at the day. The replenishing effects were immediate but short lived as the events of the preceding night crept home. He heard soft snoring coming from his bedroom followed by an awfully official sounding knock at his door.
FUCK, is what he thought. “Hold your horses, I ain’t dressed,” is what he yelled at the front door before hurrying to close the bedroom door; hoping like hell the bulk under the blankets was Ruby. He buttoned his fly and finger combed his hair before opening the door. “How can I hep ya?”
“Good morning, Mr. Hanks. Sorry to wake you.” It was 11:15 and the boozy, bodily, funk of debauchery issuing forth from the unsealed capsule caused Detective Stine to take a shallow breath and a step back.
“I was already up Sergeant Smartypants. What brings you around?” Chester asked. He’d opened the door only partially so it would not be confused with an invitation inside. Stine saw his invitation over Chester’s shoulder should he decide to use it, in the form of the bong standing General over an army of dead soldiers lined up on the coffee table. “I need to ask you a couple questions about your replacement at the Bijou, Sparky Denton.”
“I ain’t sure I can hep ya there chief. I didn’t rightly know the boy. So if that’s all then…” Chester figured it was worth a try but he wasn’t exactly surprised to see Dan Stine’s brogan step in before he could get the door closed. “Something else officer?”
“I know it’s early.” Crack of noon, Stine thought and rotated his head side to side working out a kink. “So let’s try again. It looks like you had a little party here last night. Maybe if you can’t think of anything pertinent to my investigation into the murder of your replacement, one Sparky Denton, you’d prefer to tell me about the bong I saw on your coffee table.”
“Well the short answer there officer, is that it’s not mine.” This was true but Chester knew it made no difference to the detective. Chester had a hard and fast rule about cooperating with revenuers. He didn’t. He was going to have to give this one something though. Because for the life of him, he could not recall where the owner of that bong, one Eugene Gabardine, had gotten to and he did not want Sergeant Stine helping him figure it out. “You know, now that I’ve had a moment to study on it, I do remember that Sparky feller was referred to me by another feller workin’ off his debt to society in Alice.”
“Do tell,” Stine said pushing the door open a little wider and stepping back from the threshold.
“Dudley, Malcom Dudley is his name. Ever’one just calls him Malc-Dud. Get it?” Chester smiled his I’m on your side here partner smile, hoping that would be enough.
“Go on.” Stine prodded.
“I don’t know if it’s true, but word is Malc-Dud walked from a murder two rap with time served and 120 hours of commie service.”
“So what’s his connection with Sparky Denton and why did he want him working at the Bijou?” Stine circled Malcom Dudley, Malc-Dud on his note pad.
Chester now knew Malc-Dud had been setting him up all along. Apparently Sparky had accidentally taken his fall. He intended to settle that score himself but he didn’t mind if the cavalry helped a little bit. “Boss Gabardine provided Malc-Dud’s defense,” he answered.
"Open a window Hook," Stine said flipping his pad closed indicating they were done.
This is a small bit I wrote for a collaboration with A*K that we started last year and will resume sometime soon. In the meantime, you can play catchup beginning here: http://bit.ly/h1olNC if you are so inclined. H
