People say don't shit where you eat; I shit anywhere I damn-well please. Wanna piece of advice? Don't fuck with me when I'm tryin' to get through the door at Charlie's Bar. I'll twist your head off like a bottle cap. I'm Bart Heminway--private eye.
People ask: Any relation to the great author? I answer: No, except that he was one tough son-of-a-bitch, and so am I. Besides, his name was spelt with a "g" ... mine's not.
After four months without a case, I received a visitor at my office: a tall, slender brunette. "Mr. Heminway, I'd like to interview you, as I'm considering the possibility of hiring your services for a week or two." Interview? Considering me?--Bart Heminway. I called her bluff.
"Well, Missy, I gotta warn ya. I'm presently engaged in another case."
"Another case? Well, can you take mine, also?"
"Listen, sugar, cases are not like women--you can't do two at once."
I let go a healthy laugh. The brunette stood up.
"What an asshole," she said excitedly, "what a complete asshole. This is 1988, you can't treat people like that!"
And she was out the door. What the hell is wrong with women these days?
I decided on a drink. On my way over to Charlie's Bar I was cut off by a group of kids running down the sidewalk like a pack of wild Indians. I stuck my foot out just a little bit and sent one of them flying into a collection of garbage cans.
I felt a little better after that.
I walked into Charlie's and ordered a Seagram's and a Stewart sandwich from Norma, the young blonde behind the bar.
"I admire a man that can get one of these things down," she said waiving the plastic-covered sandwich in the air, "we keep these things here just for you, Bart."
They treated me like a king at Charlie's.
After a couple of hours of the "royal treatment," I made for home. Once inside, I started doing what I like to do most.
... write poetry:
Wear brave men tread
Thats wear I go
Lucky four me
I got the branes
Too no what I no
I've never told anyone about this. At my old high school, we'd kick your ass for playin' tennis. Imagine what we would've done to a poet?
I cracked open the news the following day at my desk. The headlines read:
Unconscious Boy Found In Pile Of Trash Cans Sues City For A Cool
Million
I looked down at his picture; you could almost see the birds flying around his little head. I read the racing forms, sports, comics, stumbled upon the editorials and thought: who reads this shit? Threw the rag in the waste-basket, cradled my head in my hands and fell fast asleep.
I dreamt the brunette had returned.
"Mr. Heminway, I'm terribly sorry for my behavior. I don't know what women want from guys like you these days ..."
"World's gone mad, sugar."
"Oh, Mr. Heminway, I notice that your shoelace is open. Can I bend down and tie it for you? Mr. Heminway ..."
"... Mr. Heminway ..."
"... Mr. Heminway ..."
I awoke to find her staring down at me.
"Busy at work, solving your case, Mr. Heminway?"
"Huh...what? Missy! What brings you back here?"
"I've been to every other `dick' in town."
"Oh, yeah?"
"Yes, they're all busy on other cases, too. Except they're solving them with their eyes open. They recommended you--said you've been out of work for four months."
"Is that so? What else they say?"
"They said you need the case and `good luck,' they're behind you all the way."
"Yeah, I know. I've been feelin' `em pokin' me back there for some time now."
"Anyway, I'm prepared to contract you for one week's assignment ..."
"You wanna tell me your name, Missy?" "Janet ... Janet Gould."
"And what can I do for you Miss Gould."
"I'm going out of town. I need you to watch my apartment for a week."
"Watch your apartment?"
"And Sugar Cookie ..."
"Sugar Cookie? What the hellz that?"
"Sugar Cookie is my dog--a Lhasa Apso. I want you to make certain that no harm comes to him while I'm gone, Mr. Heminway.
"My first case in months and what'do I get? A week uptown with a fag dog.
I dragged my sorry ass to Janet Gould's apartment on East 73rd at 8 a.m. the following morning.
"Mr. Heminway!"
"Call me Bart, honey."
"You're a half-hour late. I could've missed my plane."
"Missy, Bart Heminway Enterprises is a very relaxed organization ..."
"Please, Mr. Heminway, I don't have time for this. Can't you see how late I am?"
"Well, now that you mentioned it."
"Didn't you notice my car service waiting downstairs?"
"What'd you think I am? Dick Tracy?"
"Mr. Heminway, your mind is to psychology what the Berlin Wall is to architecture."
"Thank you," I said, honestly surprised by the compliment.
Janet Gould scurried around her swanky little apartment. She grabbed a suitcase and tossed her hair in the mirror. Soon she was out the door, turning as she left:
"Will you be all right with Sugar Cookie while I'm gone?"
"Won't be the first dog I spent a week with--you should see some of my girlfriends."
With that, she was gone. Gould had a well-stocked liquor cabinet. The tube was hooked up and comin' in clear as a bell. I watched the fights, ball games, Mike Hammer and slowly cleaned out the bar.
She didn't stock Seagram's. The only whiskey I could find was a half-empty bottle of Chivas Regal. I finished it on my first night.
There were a couple of bottles of vodka and gin. By the middle of the week they, too, were gone. On the fourth day of my assignment, I was dowsing myself with syrupy liqueurs.
I slumped on Janet Gould's couch, a bottle of some shit called Grand Marnier cradled in my arms and thought:
I wonder what this broad does for a living?
I stumbled about the apartment, not realizing how drunk I was until I tripped on the coffee table causing the bottle to slip from my hands. Luckily Sugar Cookie was there to lick it up.
I was about to rummage through Gould's drawers when the doorbell rang. A young girl, wide-eyed, leather skirt, bottle of wine, appeared at the entrance.
"Ms. Gould here?"
I looked at the wine, half-gallon, good stuff--Almaden Mountain Rhine.
"Should be back any second," I responded, "C'mon in."
The girl looked about in wide wonder.
"Wow, neat apartment."
"Let me get a coupla glasses," I offered.
"I think Janet Gould's one of the greatest Post-Modernist painters," she said, taking a seat.
So that's where Missy gets all the cash, I thought, cracking the cap off the Almaden.
"I think she's the best in the country, for sure," she continued, "don't you?"
"Second best ... What's your name?"
"Patrice ... Who's best?"
"Me."
"You're an artist?"
"Yup."
"Who are you?" I gave a sly smirk from the corner of my mouth in lieu of an answer.
"Are you really an artist? You look like Dedre Goefere."
"I am Dedre Goefere," I answered, drinking the first of the wine.
"Really!" she exclaimed.
"Yup."
Patrice broke into a big speech about Futuristic art, some broad named Ezra Pound, and some shit called Avant Guerre.
"What do you think of the oils of Robert Delaunay?" she asked.
"Great, great, yeah I really like his shit. Listen, Patrice, wanna check out Gould's bedroom. She's got some art hangin' on the walls that you'd probably like to see and ..."
I was cut off mid-sentence with the crash of glass to the ground. Sugar Cookie had managed to knock some wine from the table. He greedily lapped it off the floor.
"Your dog's an alcoholic Mr. Goefere."
"Gould's dog," I corrected, "let's go inside."
I asked Patrice how she managed to find the "famous" Miss Gould's apartment.
"I have a knack for getting in and out of places," she answered.
Patrice was in the flesh in no time. I gave her a private lesson in Bart Heminway's special horizontal calisthenics. Gould's bed took quite a beating as I plowed into my little art groupie like a Mack truck headin' home for Christmas.
"Wow, what energy," she said, "you screw like a man that hasn't been laid in ages."
I didn't touch that one.
"Where'd you learn to pump like that, anyway?" she asked.
"I have a knack for gettin' in and out of places," I answered.
Later that evening I awoke to Patrice's frantic voice.
"Dedre, wake up. Wake up!"
"Dedre? Who? What?"
"There's a noise coming from the living room."
I grabbed my .22 and slid into the next room--clad only in my soiled pair of BVD's. I tripped over the jug of Almaden. Sugar Cookie stood in a puddle of wine, deliriously chasing after his own tail.
I laughed and pointed this out to Patrice. "It's only the dog, baby."
"Where'd you get that gun, Dedre?"
"This thing?" I stared at the weapon, "old present from Pablo Picasso."
A pigeon appeared outside the window, walking along the ledge. Sugar Cookie suddenly jumped up and ran toward the bird, completing his mad dash by diving through the glass.
The dog's hind leg caught the sill, preventing the 49- story plunge. I ran over. Just as I got there Sugar Cookie slipped. Down he went.
It was quite a long drop. It seemed to take almost 2 or 3 minutes. Old Sugar Cook's body bounced a few times against the brick wall on its way to the concrete.
I could see a small red dot form on the sidewalk. I high-tailed it for the elevator. On the way out, I grabbed a dust-pan and a Hefty kitchen liner for the body.
I gave Sugar Cookie a burial-at-sea down Janet Gould's incinerator. When I got back upstairs Patrice was gone.
No note. Gone from sight.
Gould's apartment seemed to suddenly grow smaller. No more Patrice. No booze. No Sugar Cookie.
I grabbed hold of the Super. I threw him a few bucks to fix the window and watch the apartment for the next day-and- a-half. I made for home. Gould called me two days later.
At the sound of her voice, I took a quick shot of V.O. and readied myself for some prime abuse.
"Mr. Heminway, I don't know how to thank you."
"Thank me?"
"I didn't know you had it in you. Why, when I read the newspaper at the airport--I
just couldn't believe it." I grabbed the morning paper from my desk.
Famous Artist's Decoy Traps Alleged Kidnapers
An attempted kidnaping of Janet Gould took place today at her East
Side Apartment. Patrice Heimslau, who the kidnapers mistook for Ms. Gould, slipped away
from her assailants at 9:15 on Sunday morning alerting police of her alleged abduction.
When asked how she got away, Ms. Heimslau responded, "I have a knack for getting in
and out of places."
"It says here that Sugar Cookie died in the struggle," said Gould. "Is that true, Mr. Heminway?"
"Sounds good to me, Missy."
"So the paper has got all the facts straight."
"It's amazing how they put two and two together."
"You've got a handsome bonus coming to you, Mr. Heminway."
I hung up and took a shot of V.O. I gazed down at Patrice's picture in the paper. She wasn't a bad looker.
She didn't run out on me after all.
Bart Heminway, you ole dog. You should know better than that. Women can't get enough of you.
I leaned my head back against my hands and kicked my feet up on my desk. I fell into a
deep sleep. Just another lazy Monday morning for Bart Heminway--Private Eye.
Stu Newman lives in New York City. He likes to unwind after a long day of writing by ``ironing pillow cases and complaining about the weather.'' His stories have been published in Inside Joke, Gas Magazine and Chips Off The Writer's Block. He's also, a correspondent for The Associated Newspapers and a freelance contributor for ``various tabloids distributed in better grocery stores and shoe repair shops in the major metropolitan area.''
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