And Then She Said
I was depressed. I'd spent 24 days on this murder case and if I didn't solve it in the next five days I'd soon be pounding a beat and pushing parking tickets.
I got home late. After work I'd stopped off at Rover's Rump where I'd reintroduced myself to my friends Mr Blue Ribbon and Mr Jack Daniels. They couldn't seem to remember my name so I'd had to make several attempts at introductions.
As I fumbled with my key in the apartment's front lock I could hear high-pitched laughter coming from the other side of the door. What the hell's going on here, I thought.
I swung open the door and there was my sweetie-pie Dylan along with another woman, a brunette-bobbed beauty with deep diaphanous eyes, languid lanky legs that wouldn't quit and big bouncy boobs any man could get lost in. She was wearing a sleek, slinky, strapless, backless, sequinned red number. And it's number I was guessing was 38-24-36. They were playing Trivial Pursuit - Baby Boomer Edition - at the coffee table, a couple of bottles of white wine, one empty, one half full, sat next to the playing board.
"Jack" squealed Dylan "I want you to meet my friend Nicky Eff. Nicky, this is Jack"
"How the eff are you Jack? Dylan tells me you're an effin' cop. What the eff is that like? Do you like my effin' dress? I effin' got it at effin' Holt Renfrew in downtown effin' Montreal."
I was getting a sense of why people called her Nickey Eff.
"Nicky's an old and dear friend, Jack. We went to separate schools together."
"Ah, I see. Nice to meet you Nicky.
"Nice to effin' meet you too Jack" she giggled. "Like my effin' shoes?" And then she said, "How's tricks?."
And that's when it hit me. Like a slapshot from Sid Crosby in the Gold medal Olympic hockey victory. Of course. I'd been tricked. All the way through my investigation I'd been tricked. Someone had been intentionally misdirecting me.
And then she said "What's the matter, Jack? Cat got your tongue?"
Yeah, Jack," chimed in Dylan "You silver tongued-devil."
Silver. That was it. Or was it? Was it Silver? Drug king Joe Blow had told me at the Chinese restaurant that he thought it was a cop who had killed Ned Amigo and had prevented my snitch, Bird, from singing. But my own captain? And how could I prove it. The guy that liked to move his office furniture around? Silver; the lone arranger? I had to tread carefully. This could be Tonto-mount to insubordination.
Tune in tomorrow for the next thrilling instalment of Inspector Jack Gouda. Until then you'll have to make do with visiting We Work For Cheese and see what else she said today.