| The PEI and The Pesky Coyote | |
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| Tweet Topic Started: Mar 28 2010, 02:44 AM (89 Views) | |
| Russ | Mar 28 2010, 02:44 AM Post #1 |
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Harley Rusbridge, P.E.I
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Outskirts Of Las Vegas, Nevada A long stretch of desert highway just outside of Las Vegas, Nevada never worked into my immediate plans upon coming to 'Sin City'. Yet, here I am, with a digging apparatus and several coolers of off-brand Cokes. A pack of Candy Cigarettes nestled in my front pocket. Sure, it's a bit childish, but I kicked the real drags a year ago in the Orient. Any way, upon exiting the steel bird at the airport and dodging a sloo of charity-hyped drones, I raided the local 'Lost and Found' bulletins scouring for some P.E.I work. As luck would have it, they had your typical Missing Persons and Domestic Animal Runaways, of which this particular Investigator does not dabble into. However, a yellow slip of memo on the far left corner grabbed my fancy like a bear claw on a stuffed duck. I have always been partial to Games Of Skill, and the proof is in the dashboard of my business vehicle.-- Or will be, when I scrabble enough cash to make a decent dent into a local clunker with extra trunk space and an AM/FM Whistle box. So, with a basic case in the palm of my hand, I grabbed a set of quarters and found a relic of a phone booth in the Gentlemen's Room. CASE FILE NO. FGP-87-T 'The Desert Of Nevada' Approximately three days ago, the client in question was partaking of drink and sharing a few liplocks with a local dancer named Blossom. Rifling through a black CD case, Blossom had grabbed a demo tape of a band on the rise in the Southwest states. I believe the younger generation call it 'Rock', I'm still hip to the old classics like Kat Stevens and Humperdink. Notwithstanding, a tractor trailor and clouded judgment later, and Blossom's set of chesticles are bee-bop a'looping in the wind and she's no longer his baby. Because in that split second of explicit nudity, the demo CD in her hand flew into the wind. Now, ordinarily, a smart person would turn himself around and retrieve the dropped item of importance, but cocaine and shots of bourbon in a speeding porsche tend to bobble your reactionary skillset. With a small description of where he believed the Demo CD might have rested, I bought my overnight trinkets and found what I believed to be the shiny disc five hundred feet ahead of me. Well, to see an object get grabbed up that would net you at least a three set number reward, -- not fun. A coyote, of all things, swipes the shiny CD and straight-shoots into the sand like the furry mongrel it is. I park my moped rental with orange flag antenna off route, and chase the wilddog throughout a series of cactus. I soak myself to the absolute bone, and eventually lose sight of him across a break of rocks. Redoubling my efforts, I retrieved my motor bicycle with the thought in the back of my mind that this item may be a cold case. However, not to toot my own horn.-- Meep. Honk. Take your pick. I found the erratic trail of the coyote and within a hour in a half, interrupted his dinner of rabbit with a raucous bike engine and a whoop of justice from a Music Lover. When dealing with the more stubborn of criminal element, you certainly cannot slap-wrist, so when the opportunity presented itself I leapt on the dog's back and wrestled him into a state of exhaustion. It certainly pays to watch early-morning Animal Planet, as I applied a sleeperhold to the major artery of his whimpering neck. As Fido fell into a slumber, I checked his teeth for clues and was fortunate to find a fingernail size broken piece of CD caught in his upper lip. Pocketing the disheartened evidence, I slapped Fido on the backside and dejectedly rode off into the desert night with no hope for reward. However, upon my makeshift home in a few rock cliffs, I shined a penlight on the evidence and discovered the unmistakeable paper label of Lady Gaga's forehead. Now, I had covered the possible variables and invariables, but this case was starting to smell the way of sewage. ________________________ Next Day Las Vegas, NV Unquestionably, I did a background character check on my client. Called a few radio personalities and checked the Department Of Motor Vehicles as I had questions about wind draft and porsche. They were little help, as usual. So, I stumbled into a racetrack and schmoozed a NASCAR Lite-type driver to test a theory. We saddled up into a porsche loaner, which had a bit of an engine knock but I'm not Jerry R. Mechanic, and my suspicions on my theory were spot-on. My theory sucked. However, I had that one particular piece of CD, so I dusted it for prints and believed it was an opportune time to meet Blossom. With no leads to search for this witness, I touched base with my client who seemed evasive when I started to prod him for Blossom's location. I took note, and left his office with the curiousity that maybe my client had fabricated this story. But why? Why? Why oh why oh why? With that same question spearing my brain, I took a hiatus to the parking center across the street. Found a porsche, and to my surprise, unlocked. Of course, I am trained to persuade certain car doors to magically come ajar. Trade secrets, of course. To my astonishment, there seemed to be a squeaky-clean environment to the vehicle where the crime took place. Reaching into my pants pocket, I fetched my all-purpose ignition key that was especially made for this type of car. I come prepared, indeed. I also came away with several photos and many debunked theory. __________________________ Next Day Client's Office "Det. Rusbridge," my client fumbled from behind his desk. He stood, grabbing a suitcase. I, in turn, insisted he stick around. "What is this about, Detective?!" I set it up beautifully. How my client was days away from closing a lucrative contract with a Music Mongrel Company. How this young band who signed a contract with this particular Music Company refused to switch allegiances. "-- You concocted that mediocre dancer story, pal. The porshe you own has defective power-locks. Blossom could not possibly expose herself to a passing trucker while holding the CD in question." He snickered. I grabbed a butterscotch candy from his desk, and contemplated. His fingers turning twelve shades of red as his knuckles tightened on the suitcase handle. I zeroed in on the suitcase with relative suspicion. Moments later, with the help from the Head Honcho and a few Security Ruffians, I found the unmarked CD hidden in the false bottom. "You were crafty, kid. -- You almost got away. When I found Exihibit TRN-78-L in the desert, I almost accepted it as a piece of the Demo CD in question. Then, I realised, it was labeled. So, I swiped for fingerprints, and they were yours." Harley wags his finger. "You figured that nobody would question your bad luck if you posted a 'Lost And Found' and pretended to pussyfoot a concern. Jig is up, Mister Sneakypants. You ditched Gaga, and planned to sell this undiscovered talent's demo under false pretense. " Harley snatches the Demo CD, as the Security team tighten their grip on the thieving Music Manager. "-- For shame, son." _____________________________ Next Day 'In Contemplation' Greed and Bad luck will hamper anybody's ambition to defraud. I was thankful that my resolve to wrestle that coyote netted me a finder's fee of $121, minus the chunk of cash I had to pay the real owner of the porsche I broke into at the parking center. Sure, I misdiagnosed certain things but I came away with a bit of satisfaction. Resolve solved this pesky case and resolve will see me through the unpredictability of Roulette Night in my sanctioned Violence organization debut. Resolve, grit and the use of a sleeper. I gained a measure of justice. And I have a new place to squat, complete with new friend. I am keeping the coyote. He grew on me. Sometimes, you have to tame the wild to earn your way to the truth. Las Vegas is not my cup of tea yet, but then again, I have never been gung-ho for sissy drinks. I'm out of cokes, and sVo, you are on the clock. 'Such a good booyyyy, Sherlock.' Home, sweet home. |
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12:55 AM Jul 11