10 December 2011
479
R. Linda:
Picture it, black and white gangster oxfords, black silk socks, black pinstripe trousers with matching waistcoat, white shirt rolled up above the elbows, open at the throat, and fedora hat and the piece de resistance -- a black and red frilly garter around his upper arm. Who do you have? Weasil of course all outfitted in his nightclubbing clobber. Yup, we do. Came to me abode to get me out -- a guys' night out (which I sort of needed). With him, in fatter 1930s gangster style, one Robbie (Rabby) Kincaid and lastly Mrs. Weasil, looking very Jean Harlow, decked out in beige pinstripe slacks, matching waistcoat, white blouse (her oxfords were white and tan with beige socks), and her fedora was beige to match. Oh, stunning! Right. Boys night out, huh? Mrs. W was one of the boys now? And then there was me, decked out for an evening of kicking back at home, wearing me scuffed trainers with the hole in the right sole, me comfy kecks, topped off with an old ratty jumper. Obviously, I did not know I was expecting company and going out. But unbeknownst to meself me visitors had other ideas. It would have been wonderful if they rang ahead and warned me, but no, no, we are talking Weasil and company and the idea of shock and SURPRISE be the modus operandi. AND the fun and games didn't end there, no it did not. They were all talking gangster, like this:
Weasil: "We thought we'd stop by, see -- and take a sap like you fer a ride, see. Maybe outfit ya fer a pair of cement shoes, see."
Oi! Oi! Oi!
Robbie: "You ain't exactly dressed fer puttin' on the ritz, see. Ya look like a piker, see. Go git yerself spiffy, an we'll take you to a speakeasy, see."
And Mrs. Weasil (not to be outdone): "Get ya a little spifficated, see. But I don't wanna beat my gums, see. So get yourself lookin' like the bee's knees and we'll blow this joint."
YIKES!
"Honey . . . " I said uneasily to Tonya who was watching all this from the sofa.
"Oh that's ok Gabe, you kids go, have a good time."
A lot of help she was, but then she wanted to get rid of me and I had to half suspect she KNEW these gangsters, I mean people, were in the neighbourhood. I didn't really want to go, but the wife and I had a 'disagreement' about her mother earlier and I thought it best I go out even if it was with these . . . uh . . . whatever they were.
So I ran upstairs, threw on a pair of business trousers that were charcoal colour with a thin stripe in them. I put on me wingtips (yes, I own a pair), a waistcoat and a white shirt with thin blue stripes. I had no fedora but I had me Irish cap and well, it was the best I could do on such short notice. I rolled up me sleeves as I came down the stairs and was greeted by Weasil giving me a wolf whistle. This did not please me at all. Me wife looked me over like I had a nerve. I don't know if she didn't like how I was dressed, or she thought I was the one who gave the whistle at her! I dunno, but I didn't stay to find out.
"Well, ye look like an Irish newsboy, see. But I guess you'll do." Robbie said looking me over. I mean really!
Off we went and what was parked outside? The shiny red speeding ticket machine that the minions of the law are always pulling over. I sighed. Let me say this about Ford Mustangs. THEY WERE NOT BUILT FOR TALL PEOPLE TO SIT IN THE BACKSEAT. I stood there sighing and shaking me head. No way.
"Look here Rabby me man, you can sit in the back with me main squeeze, see. The Gabe man here is too tall for the backseat, see. And they'll be no bear hugging me baby, see."
Ugh!
Rabby be a big boy but by no means a tall boy. So with a shrug and a nod, he opened the front passenger side and moved the front seat forward so Mrs. Weasil could glide her skinny self inside. Then he went to the driver's side (where Weasil had moved the driver's seat as far forward as he could and it took about ten minutes (with the help of the Weasil) to shove Rabby into the backseat. Once he was in, Weasil whispered over the roof of the motor at me, "Not gonna be easy to get his arse out." And with that, we both moved our front seats back (Weasil to the sounds of moaning and groaning from Robbie that he was being crushed) and we jumped in.
Off we sped down me fake dirt driveway onto the old neighbour's paved driveway and out onto the back roads.
"Sooo gangstahs where we going, see?" I said, in me 1930s voice which be done in a tough guy tone, a Bogart trait, you know how it sounds all the lip gymnastics of talking out of the side of your mouth with a nasal tone towards the back of the throat, and to make it all real, you leer, you wince, you wink, you give a fiendish grin and that pretty much does it.
"We're off to Bluenose Drakes in Portsmouth, yeah that's the ticket, see," Weasil said in his tough guy voice.
"It's da berries, see." Mrs. W chimed in hers which was kinda interesting she could deepen her voice better than us guys. I had to turn around to be sure it was her talking.
"Yee-aah been dere before, see. Big Six was dere and Bootleg Harry. Yee-ah sees we was dere lookin' fer a little action, see, an I don't wanna beef but . . . dis bimbo comes up to me, see, and tells me I look like da Big Cheese from Phillie. I wasn't buying what he was sellin' see, I knew he was settin' me up, see. Sos I told him he looked like a bull, see. And if he was and I found out bout it, he'd be dead meat, see."
Oi!
This went on all the way to the outskirts of Portsmouth. At first, it was innovative and fun, but after a while, the three of them were trying to outdo each other and it was getting stupid.
We pulled up to this . . . uh place (looked like a shack) but the lot was full of sporty cars. We walked up to the door which had a grate that opened and two eyes peeped out. I was like, REALLY?
"What's da pas werd?" The peepers had a voice! Who knew?
Weasil looked around to make sure no one could hear him and he leaned toward the eyes and said, "Applesauce," and the door swung open to reveal a crowd of people all dressed like the 1920s and 30s. I was stunned. I didn't expect this, and they were all talking like Bogie, even the women.
Somehow we made it to the bar in between people stopping the Weas and chatting with him. They all seemed to know him and this mystified me even more. Here I thought he was in the wilds of Colorado, trying to kill himself jumping off mountains on a snowboard, racing avalanches at breakneck speeds, but NO, he must have been here long enough to become a regular.
"Sos guys what can I getcha?" The big burly barkeep asked.
"Gimme sum hooch on da rocks, Leftie," Weas said, "an none a dat moonshine fer me Sugar here, she'll have a beeah, an dese two, dis one," he pulled Robbie forward, "hooch wit sodah, and dis one," he pulled me next, "hooch straight up. An dat'll do it."
"Ab-so-lutely," Lefty said and went to pour the hooch and beer. I noticed he was missing his left arm. Gees only the Weasil would refer to a left-armless man as Lefty. Oi!
I stood there thinking this was going to be another one of THOSE Weasil nights, where he and his cohorts in criminality will have a great time and I will remember nothing the next morning. Yup. A typical night out with Weasil and company.
After me third glass of hooch (which grew so much hair on me chest, I no longer need me a jumper (sweater to you)), I wandered away from the three crazies to try to be by meself long enough to sober up before a drinking contest broke out and I'd have consumed so much hooch I'd not know my name before the night was done. Not to mention the extraordinary amount of hair I'd be growing on me chest.
In shuffling off through the conversations that all ended in "see" I got to a dark corner where I bumped into a flapper-style young woman who looked Clara Bow-ish, but there was something 'Tonya' about her too. I apologised for me clumsiness and she batted her darkened eyelashes at me. I had to look closely because, in that dark corner, she looked like she was sporting raccoon eyes and the smallest dark red bow-shaped lips I had ever seen. I was captivated. She looked authentic.
"If ya like what yer lookin' at ya can buy a ticket," she sneered, "or a drink."
"No, sorry, I was . . . uh . . . thinkin' how much like Clara Bow you look, see." I stammered ordering her another of whatever she was imbibing thinking there was a bit of Tonya in her peepers as well as Ms. Bow.
"Yee-ah dey all tell me dat." She said snapping her chewing gum and the image of Tonya went out the window. Me Ton would never snap her gum, unless . . .
I nodded and moved away a little, but she stopped me.
"Hey you, what's yer name, how come I ain't never seen ya heah befor."
"Uh . . . I . . . uh . . . " and I shook me head thinking what to say, "Because this is me first time, see."
"Whadda ya do sell newspapahs?" She looked me up and down.
"Uh . . . no. Well, yes I do actually."
"Really? Yer handin' me baloney right?"
"Uh, no. I really do work for a newspaper." I smiled or I should say I leered at her. Okay, I thought I'll play along.
"So what newspapah? I'm shaw I never heard of it right?"
"I wouldn't beat me gums if I wasn't tellin' ya the truth, sister, see?" I said and she smiled. Yup, she was buying me Bogie.
"Sos ya are a newsman huh? Well, what ya sellin'?
"A story on a caper that's political in nature, see?"
"Ohhh," she said nodding like a conspirator. "Sos what's the scoop?"
"Well, doll face," I leaned in close to her ear, "some guy left his cheaters and a wad of clams on the nightstand of a prominent pol's dame. Seems the husband came home earlier than expected and the bozo had no time to scoop up the change and the dead soldier he left behind. There was a confrontation and BOOM the pol was dead. Or, it was meant to look that way, see."
"OOOH what happened next Scoopsie," she whispered intrigued and I realised I had a new name.
"Well Doll, a dick was called in (I know what you're thinking get out of the gutter and think DETECTIVE) and he questioned the dame about who she was entertainin' while the man of the house was out doin' his job, see?"
She nodded her eyes big. Through the smokey haze or maybe it was an alcoholic haze, I looked into those big brown peepers and told me story. I could see it playing out as if it was reflected in those big orbs of brown. I could hear meself talking as I drifted inward, me story coming easy . . . me voice seemed distant . . . me becoming the gumshoe . . .
The gumshoe noticed she was all dolled up but she had no shoes on her dogs, her toenails were a bit smudged. Hum. That made him suspicious, see. So at first, he thinks he's dealin' with a dumb Dora. But she's an egg she is, see. And he doesn't know that right off, so he thinks he's got her, only she's way ahead of him, see. She gets a wiggle on and off to the living room she goes. She crosses her silken gams and sits there with her ciggy and waits. The gumshoe follows not sure what her game is.
She blew a cloud of ciggy smoke and muttered to herself. "Better away from the flatfoots." And her look was one of sizing him up as he followed her into the other room.
The house was crawling with coppers. She looked up at the detective. "Poor old Jasper has sang his last song, taken his last steps, drank his last drink . . . " She sighed and then broke down into boohoos. The detective stood watching her not sure how to react. She seemed cool as a cucumber just a moment ago, but now . . .
"So . . . Mrs. McClarey who else was here when your husband came home?"
She looked up, her Jean Harlow-like face stained with tears. "I'm sure I don't know," her voice was little girlish and breathy. "I'm all balled up it's been a horrible evening."
The gumshoe had all he could to keep from going on his knees and handing her his handkerchief.
"Mrs. McClarey, from the setup on your nightstand it looks like there was someone else in the house." The gumshoe persisted.
"I'm sure I don't know what you mean. I was the only one home with Jas . . . until I heard the shot," she whispered.
"Did you see who shot your husband?"
"Why no, I was getting undressed at the time," her cool baby blues engaged his. "I'd left him in the bedroom . . . then I heard a shot, and when I ran out into the hall . . . there was Jasper . . . dead."
He loosened his tie and gulped. He tried not to look at her beautiful tear-stained face.
"Well, from all indications there was another person in this house besides you and Mr. McClarey. There are shoe prints on the white carpet upstairs that are a man's shoe size and they don't fit your husband."
Mrs. M took another drag of her ciggy and sized the gumshoe up through the smoke. She remained silent staring at him, and that made him nervous. She had turned the tables on him he thought, she should be the nervous one, not him.
"So?" He croaked.
"So? So what detective. Like I say I was getting undressed . . . "
"There are a pair of specs and a wad of moola on the table, your husband didn't wear glasses, and the money clip has a 'W' on it, any idea whose they are?"
She shrugged and took another drag as if she wasn't interested.
"There was also a nearly empty magnum of champagne and two glasses." He reminded her.
"Those were from my husband and I -- we celebrated his recent political victory. There was a little bubbly left, I meant to have it, but . . . I'm a terrible housekeeper."
"I heard your husband was a drug store cowboy but he wasn't a drinker." He let the insinuation out of the bag and let it linger. Her eyes widened but she quickly got herself under control.
"You're all wet detective. I'll have you know my husband was a darb and no matter what you insinuate that's how it was!"
"You didn't double-cross him with another guy did ya Mrs. McClarey?"
"Dry up!"
The gumshoe could see she was a hard egg to crack. But she was getting defencive and that was a good thing.
"You're prone to putting on an edge are you not? Love that booze when you're in the dumps do ya?"
She stared daggers at him.
"Like young fish do ya? That's the scuttlebutt Missus. The word is you care for these young college types and are never seen with a fire extinguisher!"
"What do you think I am detective? And how old do you think I am I'd need a chaperone anyway. I WAS a happily married woman! I don't know what you are implying!" She spat up at him. She was forceful in her speech. She flicked the ciggy ash violently in the ashtray.
"Certainly not a flat tyre that's for sure." He said with a bit of admiration. "But you had a thing for younger men, bad boyz."
She smirked to herself.
"Like Jock W. "the Weasel" Malone." The gumshoe dropped the other shoe.
She glared at him through her ciggy smoke.
"Let me tell you what happened Mrs. McClarey and you tell me if I'm wrong. Your boy Governor McClarey was having some snatch with his secretary and you walked in on them. You considered yourself the It girl and to find he was cheating on you with a mousy bit of Jane, well you decided two could play that game. But it got out of hand. You met up with that good-looking young bootlegger, Jock the Weasel who knew you was rolling in jack. You figured a few bobbles and babbles, enough to make your old man jealous and then it would be sayonara Jane, but he never noticed those bobbles and babbles WHICH you bought for yourself. But Jock fell for you and you well, the only thing standing in both your ways and keeping you from the millions McClarey was worth was . . . McClarey! So YOU sweet-talked and sugar-coated an idea that appealed to a smitten Jock and that was, off the husband, collect the doll and the cash, and be set for life. How I'm doing so far?"
She looked angry but said nothing, but her hand shook as she took another puff.
"You had planned on leaving Jock holding the bag while you absconded with the cash right, doll? Yeah, you had it all figured out. He thought he'd be walking down the middle aisle with you, but that's not how you saw it. Only two nights ago you did Jock in. You brought him here for a little r and r and got him drunk on champagne. It's his fingerprints we'll find on that bottle and glass ain't it Mrs. M?"
She narrowed her eyes and looked at him her face angry.
"You figured with Jock out of the way, you could frame him for the murder of McClarey and you'd be free and clear to inherit your husband's house, his moola, his antique and costly classic jalopies, the whole nine yards. You knew the Mister had dealings with Jock and they weren't good. Seems Jock sold your old man a bill of goods that when they arrived were not what he thought he'd be gettin'. So when Jock asked for payment, McClarey refused. We'd naturally think Jock came to collect and shot McClarey down in a dispute over monies owned. We'd think Jock was on the lam and you on the up and up. But your neighbour heard the shot and called the police. You had no time to clean up your mess, so all the goods on the nightstand that you put out to lure the husband into the hallway, where you waited for him with Jock's shoes on and his gun pointed at his heart, remained where they were while you placed the gun and ditched the dog covers. So doll face, level with me."
"You think you're on the trolley don't you?" She hissed.
"I know your type, you're an orchid, and a palooka like Jock wasn't your cup of tea now was he? You didn't need a torpedo when you had Jock. You're a swanky tomato, you know a swell when you see one, and Jock wasn't it! He was an easy mark and a pushover. All that on the nightstand was planted . . . by you, to get the husband in a rage and out into the hallway where he last saw you! Jock was an excuse to have the law think someone else murdered your husband. But unfortunately for you, Jock washed up on a riverbank this morning and without his cheaters and all his jack, AND his gun was missing. Yes, the same gun found on the floor next to your dead husband. You wanted McClarey to come home and think you were with Jock, and in a fit of anger he came out into the hallway to threaten you both, but it wasn't Jock he found, it was you holding Jock's gun on him, and you shot your irate hubby, wasn't that the idea, doll? You stood over the body gloating, until you heard the police sirens, and you panicked and tried to pass the things on the nightstand off as your husband's."
She said nothing. She was looking away towards the sunroom as if he wasn't there and hadn't accused her of murdering Jock Malone and Jasper McClarey. But she turned slowly towards him.
"PROVE IT!"
"Oh doll, I can prove it. Wish I didn't have to, but oh yeah I can prove you did them BOTH! You thought you were very clever making sure Jock's prints were all over his gun. You had him show you how to shoot it and then when he had his back turned, you shot Jock. You wiped your prints from the gun and then gloved your hands and placed the revolver in his so his prints were the only ones on the gun. You took his cheaters, his money clip and something else, I'll mention in a minute. Then you dumped him in the river. Took some doing but you did it. Then you drove back here, planted Jock's cash, cheaters and the champagne glass he toasted you with the night before out where your husband would see them on the nightstand. When McClarey came home you were waiting in the hallway as he examined Jock's belongings and as he came out in a fit, you walked out wearing Jock's muddy shoes and you shot him in the heart."
She laughed, "That's ridiculous. Jock's shoes? Oh please."
"Jock was shoeless when he washed up Doll. His shoes are the shoes you were wearing." He looked at her painted red toenails. "That same shade of red is on the inside of Jock's shoes. Yeah doll, we found the shoes in the bushes under the window where you tossed them, along with the gloves you used to cover your own prints. Your toenails were still wet when McClarey arrived home 15 minutes earlier than you expected. You had no time to waste, so you shoved your dogs in Jock's big shoes and BAM! Got ya." He pointed his fingers like a gun at her.
She covered her face and sobbed. Yes, Detective O'Sullivan had got his man . . . woman, well, you know.
I looked down at my drink, then glanced at Clara Bow.
"Fascinating," she remarked. "Are ya really a newspaper guy or are ya really a gumshoe?"
"Newspaper," I said. "In another life maybe a gumshoe." I smiled sadly.
But I had no time to reflect because all hell broke loose and there was shouting and the sound of glass shattering. Clara was gone like a breath of wind. Someone shouted, "FIGHT!" The women and a few men were out the door and I could hear cars starting up. I looked around for Weasil and wife but did not see them until Robbie caught hold of me and dragged me INTO the fray. I struggled to get out of his grip but the more I struggled the more I was pushed forward by the battling men around me. This was not good. Somehow Robbie lost his grip on me, probably when he got punched randomly in the face and went down. I looked straight ahead of me and there on the bar top was Mrs. Weasil kicking the crap out of some little man. I was stupefied. I stood there like a fool completely shocked out of my mind.
THIS be an English blue-blood who had the strange notion to marry Weasil, a Scottish misfit of a blue-blood, who somehow got it all wrong that it was perfectly fine to get up on top of a bar and take on someone who insulted her very capable of defending himself husband. She was walloping the daylights out of the little man as her husband, sat on a bar stool wearing a fiendish grin. I was like WTF? Everyone else thought that -- that everyone else -- had somehow insulted each other and they were all throwing meaty fists around like no tomorrow. I ducked as someone took a swing at me. I managed to get to the bar and yelled at Weasil to "make her stop" but he calmly took a swig of his hooch and did nothing. I climbed on the bar, got hold of the little man and moved him behind me and well, he fell off the bar because I let go not realising he needed assistance to stand up. Oh well. I meanwhile, was getting punched in the gut by a blinded with rage Amanda Weasil who had lost sight of who she was trouncing until she finally realised I had her by the head and her punches were meeting air. She looked at me saying nothing, just breathing hard.
"You know what?" She said to me with the same look as McClarey's panicked widow looked at the gumshoe and I took my hand away and put me dukes up, since I didn't trust her. "WE should get the hell out of here. I hear sirens."
With that, we got down and wended our way through the fisticuffs, Weas and I dragging Robbie behind us. We threw Robbie in the trunk -- there was no time to shove his ample self into the back seat and I sure as hell wasn't having him on me lap crushing me. Mrs. W got in the backseat, we two in the front and Weasil roared out of there like a bat out of Mustang hell. We were gone before the police arrived. I did wonder what happened to Clara Bow, but we weren't going back to find out. We ended up in Portsmouth proper down by the waterfront. We figured we were safe from the coppers so Weasil and I went and got Robbie out of the boot (trunk). He was pissed because the ride was a bumpy, speedy one, and he was "pretzelised" since the boot be small, but he was all right, especially after he called each of us a Numpty and threatened us with buying each one a t-shirt with the insult on it.
I got in around 3 a.m. I knew better than to go upstairs to me room, so I slept on the couch. This morning me wife is hardly talking to me. I tell ya, you'd think I would have learned by now that me and a night out with Weasil DO NOT GO WELL TOGETHER. Sigh.
(Sent to me AFTER THE FACT a picture of Mr. W's Oxford Shoe, one of them which he took the picture at me house when first purchased to show them off. But he does have two feet in case you were wondering where the other one was!)
Gabe
Copyright © 2011 All rights reserved
R. Linda:
Picture it, black and white gangster oxfords, black silk socks, black pinstripe trousers with matching waistcoat, white shirt rolled up above the elbows, open at the throat, and fedora hat and the piece de resistance -- a black and red frilly garter around his upper arm. Who do you have? Weasil of course all outfitted in his nightclubbing clobber. Yup, we do. Came to me abode to get me out -- a guys' night out (which I sort of needed). With him, in fatter 1930s gangster style, one Robbie (Rabby) Kincaid and lastly Mrs. Weasil, looking very Jean Harlow, decked out in beige pinstripe slacks, matching waistcoat, white blouse (her oxfords were white and tan with beige socks), and her fedora was beige to match. Oh, stunning! Right. Boys night out, huh? Mrs. W was one of the boys now? And then there was me, decked out for an evening of kicking back at home, wearing me scuffed trainers with the hole in the right sole, me comfy kecks, topped off with an old ratty jumper. Obviously, I did not know I was expecting company and going out. But unbeknownst to meself me visitors had other ideas. It would have been wonderful if they rang ahead and warned me, but no, no, we are talking Weasil and company and the idea of shock and SURPRISE be the modus operandi. AND the fun and games didn't end there, no it did not. They were all talking gangster, like this:
Weasil: "We thought we'd stop by, see -- and take a sap like you fer a ride, see. Maybe outfit ya fer a pair of cement shoes, see."
Oi! Oi! Oi!
Robbie: "You ain't exactly dressed fer puttin' on the ritz, see. Ya look like a piker, see. Go git yerself spiffy, an we'll take you to a speakeasy, see."
And Mrs. Weasil (not to be outdone): "Get ya a little spifficated, see. But I don't wanna beat my gums, see. So get yourself lookin' like the bee's knees and we'll blow this joint."
YIKES!
"Honey . . . " I said uneasily to Tonya who was watching all this from the sofa.
"Oh that's ok Gabe, you kids go, have a good time."
A lot of help she was, but then she wanted to get rid of me and I had to half suspect she KNEW these gangsters, I mean people, were in the neighbourhood. I didn't really want to go, but the wife and I had a 'disagreement' about her mother earlier and I thought it best I go out even if it was with these . . . uh . . . whatever they were.
So I ran upstairs, threw on a pair of business trousers that were charcoal colour with a thin stripe in them. I put on me wingtips (yes, I own a pair), a waistcoat and a white shirt with thin blue stripes. I had no fedora but I had me Irish cap and well, it was the best I could do on such short notice. I rolled up me sleeves as I came down the stairs and was greeted by Weasil giving me a wolf whistle. This did not please me at all. Me wife looked me over like I had a nerve. I don't know if she didn't like how I was dressed, or she thought I was the one who gave the whistle at her! I dunno, but I didn't stay to find out.
"Well, ye look like an Irish newsboy, see. But I guess you'll do." Robbie said looking me over. I mean really!
Off we went and what was parked outside? The shiny red speeding ticket machine that the minions of the law are always pulling over. I sighed. Let me say this about Ford Mustangs. THEY WERE NOT BUILT FOR TALL PEOPLE TO SIT IN THE BACKSEAT. I stood there sighing and shaking me head. No way.
"Look here Rabby me man, you can sit in the back with me main squeeze, see. The Gabe man here is too tall for the backseat, see. And they'll be no bear hugging me baby, see."
Ugh!
Rabby be a big boy but by no means a tall boy. So with a shrug and a nod, he opened the front passenger side and moved the front seat forward so Mrs. Weasil could glide her skinny self inside. Then he went to the driver's side (where Weasil had moved the driver's seat as far forward as he could and it took about ten minutes (with the help of the Weasil) to shove Rabby into the backseat. Once he was in, Weasil whispered over the roof of the motor at me, "Not gonna be easy to get his arse out." And with that, we both moved our front seats back (Weasil to the sounds of moaning and groaning from Robbie that he was being crushed) and we jumped in.
Off we sped down me fake dirt driveway onto the old neighbour's paved driveway and out onto the back roads.
"Sooo gangstahs where we going, see?" I said, in me 1930s voice which be done in a tough guy tone, a Bogart trait, you know how it sounds all the lip gymnastics of talking out of the side of your mouth with a nasal tone towards the back of the throat, and to make it all real, you leer, you wince, you wink, you give a fiendish grin and that pretty much does it.
"We're off to Bluenose Drakes in Portsmouth, yeah that's the ticket, see," Weasil said in his tough guy voice.
"It's da berries, see." Mrs. W chimed in hers which was kinda interesting she could deepen her voice better than us guys. I had to turn around to be sure it was her talking.
"Yee-aah been dere before, see. Big Six was dere and Bootleg Harry. Yee-ah sees we was dere lookin' fer a little action, see, an I don't wanna beef but . . . dis bimbo comes up to me, see, and tells me I look like da Big Cheese from Phillie. I wasn't buying what he was sellin' see, I knew he was settin' me up, see. Sos I told him he looked like a bull, see. And if he was and I found out bout it, he'd be dead meat, see."
Oi!
This went on all the way to the outskirts of Portsmouth. At first, it was innovative and fun, but after a while, the three of them were trying to outdo each other and it was getting stupid.
We pulled up to this . . . uh place (looked like a shack) but the lot was full of sporty cars. We walked up to the door which had a grate that opened and two eyes peeped out. I was like, REALLY?
"What's da pas werd?" The peepers had a voice! Who knew?
Weasil looked around to make sure no one could hear him and he leaned toward the eyes and said, "Applesauce," and the door swung open to reveal a crowd of people all dressed like the 1920s and 30s. I was stunned. I didn't expect this, and they were all talking like Bogie, even the women.
Somehow we made it to the bar in between people stopping the Weas and chatting with him. They all seemed to know him and this mystified me even more. Here I thought he was in the wilds of Colorado, trying to kill himself jumping off mountains on a snowboard, racing avalanches at breakneck speeds, but NO, he must have been here long enough to become a regular.
"Sos guys what can I getcha?" The big burly barkeep asked.
"Gimme sum hooch on da rocks, Leftie," Weas said, "an none a dat moonshine fer me Sugar here, she'll have a beeah, an dese two, dis one," he pulled Robbie forward, "hooch wit sodah, and dis one," he pulled me next, "hooch straight up. An dat'll do it."
"Ab-so-lutely," Lefty said and went to pour the hooch and beer. I noticed he was missing his left arm. Gees only the Weasil would refer to a left-armless man as Lefty. Oi!
I stood there thinking this was going to be another one of THOSE Weasil nights, where he and his cohorts in criminality will have a great time and I will remember nothing the next morning. Yup. A typical night out with Weasil and company.
After me third glass of hooch (which grew so much hair on me chest, I no longer need me a jumper (sweater to you)), I wandered away from the three crazies to try to be by meself long enough to sober up before a drinking contest broke out and I'd have consumed so much hooch I'd not know my name before the night was done. Not to mention the extraordinary amount of hair I'd be growing on me chest.
In shuffling off through the conversations that all ended in "see" I got to a dark corner where I bumped into a flapper-style young woman who looked Clara Bow-ish, but there was something 'Tonya' about her too. I apologised for me clumsiness and she batted her darkened eyelashes at me. I had to look closely because, in that dark corner, she looked like she was sporting raccoon eyes and the smallest dark red bow-shaped lips I had ever seen. I was captivated. She looked authentic.
"If ya like what yer lookin' at ya can buy a ticket," she sneered, "or a drink."
"No, sorry, I was . . . uh . . . thinkin' how much like Clara Bow you look, see." I stammered ordering her another of whatever she was imbibing thinking there was a bit of Tonya in her peepers as well as Ms. Bow.
"Yee-ah dey all tell me dat." She said snapping her chewing gum and the image of Tonya went out the window. Me Ton would never snap her gum, unless . . .
I nodded and moved away a little, but she stopped me.
"Hey you, what's yer name, how come I ain't never seen ya heah befor."
"Uh . . . I . . . uh . . . " and I shook me head thinking what to say, "Because this is me first time, see."
"Whadda ya do sell newspapahs?" She looked me up and down.
"Uh . . . no. Well, yes I do actually."
"Really? Yer handin' me baloney right?"
"Uh, no. I really do work for a newspaper." I smiled or I should say I leered at her. Okay, I thought I'll play along.
"So what newspapah? I'm shaw I never heard of it right?"
"I wouldn't beat me gums if I wasn't tellin' ya the truth, sister, see?" I said and she smiled. Yup, she was buying me Bogie.
"Sos ya are a newsman huh? Well, what ya sellin'?
"A story on a caper that's political in nature, see?"
"Ohhh," she said nodding like a conspirator. "Sos what's the scoop?"
"Well, doll face," I leaned in close to her ear, "some guy left his cheaters and a wad of clams on the nightstand of a prominent pol's dame. Seems the husband came home earlier than expected and the bozo had no time to scoop up the change and the dead soldier he left behind. There was a confrontation and BOOM the pol was dead. Or, it was meant to look that way, see."
"OOOH what happened next Scoopsie," she whispered intrigued and I realised I had a new name.
"Well Doll, a dick was called in (I know what you're thinking get out of the gutter and think DETECTIVE) and he questioned the dame about who she was entertainin' while the man of the house was out doin' his job, see?"
She nodded her eyes big. Through the smokey haze or maybe it was an alcoholic haze, I looked into those big brown peepers and told me story. I could see it playing out as if it was reflected in those big orbs of brown. I could hear meself talking as I drifted inward, me story coming easy . . . me voice seemed distant . . . me becoming the gumshoe . . .
The gumshoe noticed she was all dolled up but she had no shoes on her dogs, her toenails were a bit smudged. Hum. That made him suspicious, see. So at first, he thinks he's dealin' with a dumb Dora. But she's an egg she is, see. And he doesn't know that right off, so he thinks he's got her, only she's way ahead of him, see. She gets a wiggle on and off to the living room she goes. She crosses her silken gams and sits there with her ciggy and waits. The gumshoe follows not sure what her game is.
She blew a cloud of ciggy smoke and muttered to herself. "Better away from the flatfoots." And her look was one of sizing him up as he followed her into the other room.
The house was crawling with coppers. She looked up at the detective. "Poor old Jasper has sang his last song, taken his last steps, drank his last drink . . . " She sighed and then broke down into boohoos. The detective stood watching her not sure how to react. She seemed cool as a cucumber just a moment ago, but now . . .
"So . . . Mrs. McClarey who else was here when your husband came home?"
She looked up, her Jean Harlow-like face stained with tears. "I'm sure I don't know," her voice was little girlish and breathy. "I'm all balled up it's been a horrible evening."
The gumshoe had all he could to keep from going on his knees and handing her his handkerchief.
"Mrs. McClarey, from the setup on your nightstand it looks like there was someone else in the house." The gumshoe persisted.
"I'm sure I don't know what you mean. I was the only one home with Jas . . . until I heard the shot," she whispered.
"Did you see who shot your husband?"
"Why no, I was getting undressed at the time," her cool baby blues engaged his. "I'd left him in the bedroom . . . then I heard a shot, and when I ran out into the hall . . . there was Jasper . . . dead."
He loosened his tie and gulped. He tried not to look at her beautiful tear-stained face.
"Well, from all indications there was another person in this house besides you and Mr. McClarey. There are shoe prints on the white carpet upstairs that are a man's shoe size and they don't fit your husband."
Mrs. M took another drag of her ciggy and sized the gumshoe up through the smoke. She remained silent staring at him, and that made him nervous. She had turned the tables on him he thought, she should be the nervous one, not him.
"So?" He croaked.
"So? So what detective. Like I say I was getting undressed . . . "
"There are a pair of specs and a wad of moola on the table, your husband didn't wear glasses, and the money clip has a 'W' on it, any idea whose they are?"
She shrugged and took another drag as if she wasn't interested.
"There was also a nearly empty magnum of champagne and two glasses." He reminded her.
"Those were from my husband and I -- we celebrated his recent political victory. There was a little bubbly left, I meant to have it, but . . . I'm a terrible housekeeper."
"I heard your husband was a drug store cowboy but he wasn't a drinker." He let the insinuation out of the bag and let it linger. Her eyes widened but she quickly got herself under control.
"You're all wet detective. I'll have you know my husband was a darb and no matter what you insinuate that's how it was!"
"You didn't double-cross him with another guy did ya Mrs. McClarey?"
"Dry up!"
The gumshoe could see she was a hard egg to crack. But she was getting defencive and that was a good thing.
"You're prone to putting on an edge are you not? Love that booze when you're in the dumps do ya?"
She stared daggers at him.
"Like young fish do ya? That's the scuttlebutt Missus. The word is you care for these young college types and are never seen with a fire extinguisher!"
"What do you think I am detective? And how old do you think I am I'd need a chaperone anyway. I WAS a happily married woman! I don't know what you are implying!" She spat up at him. She was forceful in her speech. She flicked the ciggy ash violently in the ashtray.
"Certainly not a flat tyre that's for sure." He said with a bit of admiration. "But you had a thing for younger men, bad boyz."
She smirked to herself.
"Like Jock W. "the Weasel" Malone." The gumshoe dropped the other shoe.
She glared at him through her ciggy smoke.
"Let me tell you what happened Mrs. McClarey and you tell me if I'm wrong. Your boy Governor McClarey was having some snatch with his secretary and you walked in on them. You considered yourself the It girl and to find he was cheating on you with a mousy bit of Jane, well you decided two could play that game. But it got out of hand. You met up with that good-looking young bootlegger, Jock the Weasel who knew you was rolling in jack. You figured a few bobbles and babbles, enough to make your old man jealous and then it would be sayonara Jane, but he never noticed those bobbles and babbles WHICH you bought for yourself. But Jock fell for you and you well, the only thing standing in both your ways and keeping you from the millions McClarey was worth was . . . McClarey! So YOU sweet-talked and sugar-coated an idea that appealed to a smitten Jock and that was, off the husband, collect the doll and the cash, and be set for life. How I'm doing so far?"
She looked angry but said nothing, but her hand shook as she took another puff.
"You had planned on leaving Jock holding the bag while you absconded with the cash right, doll? Yeah, you had it all figured out. He thought he'd be walking down the middle aisle with you, but that's not how you saw it. Only two nights ago you did Jock in. You brought him here for a little r and r and got him drunk on champagne. It's his fingerprints we'll find on that bottle and glass ain't it Mrs. M?"
She narrowed her eyes and looked at him her face angry.
"You figured with Jock out of the way, you could frame him for the murder of McClarey and you'd be free and clear to inherit your husband's house, his moola, his antique and costly classic jalopies, the whole nine yards. You knew the Mister had dealings with Jock and they weren't good. Seems Jock sold your old man a bill of goods that when they arrived were not what he thought he'd be gettin'. So when Jock asked for payment, McClarey refused. We'd naturally think Jock came to collect and shot McClarey down in a dispute over monies owned. We'd think Jock was on the lam and you on the up and up. But your neighbour heard the shot and called the police. You had no time to clean up your mess, so all the goods on the nightstand that you put out to lure the husband into the hallway, where you waited for him with Jock's shoes on and his gun pointed at his heart, remained where they were while you placed the gun and ditched the dog covers. So doll face, level with me."
"You think you're on the trolley don't you?" She hissed.
"I know your type, you're an orchid, and a palooka like Jock wasn't your cup of tea now was he? You didn't need a torpedo when you had Jock. You're a swanky tomato, you know a swell when you see one, and Jock wasn't it! He was an easy mark and a pushover. All that on the nightstand was planted . . . by you, to get the husband in a rage and out into the hallway where he last saw you! Jock was an excuse to have the law think someone else murdered your husband. But unfortunately for you, Jock washed up on a riverbank this morning and without his cheaters and all his jack, AND his gun was missing. Yes, the same gun found on the floor next to your dead husband. You wanted McClarey to come home and think you were with Jock, and in a fit of anger he came out into the hallway to threaten you both, but it wasn't Jock he found, it was you holding Jock's gun on him, and you shot your irate hubby, wasn't that the idea, doll? You stood over the body gloating, until you heard the police sirens, and you panicked and tried to pass the things on the nightstand off as your husband's."
She said nothing. She was looking away towards the sunroom as if he wasn't there and hadn't accused her of murdering Jock Malone and Jasper McClarey. But she turned slowly towards him.
"PROVE IT!"
"Oh doll, I can prove it. Wish I didn't have to, but oh yeah I can prove you did them BOTH! You thought you were very clever making sure Jock's prints were all over his gun. You had him show you how to shoot it and then when he had his back turned, you shot Jock. You wiped your prints from the gun and then gloved your hands and placed the revolver in his so his prints were the only ones on the gun. You took his cheaters, his money clip and something else, I'll mention in a minute. Then you dumped him in the river. Took some doing but you did it. Then you drove back here, planted Jock's cash, cheaters and the champagne glass he toasted you with the night before out where your husband would see them on the nightstand. When McClarey came home you were waiting in the hallway as he examined Jock's belongings and as he came out in a fit, you walked out wearing Jock's muddy shoes and you shot him in the heart."
She laughed, "That's ridiculous. Jock's shoes? Oh please."
"Jock was shoeless when he washed up Doll. His shoes are the shoes you were wearing." He looked at her painted red toenails. "That same shade of red is on the inside of Jock's shoes. Yeah doll, we found the shoes in the bushes under the window where you tossed them, along with the gloves you used to cover your own prints. Your toenails were still wet when McClarey arrived home 15 minutes earlier than you expected. You had no time to waste, so you shoved your dogs in Jock's big shoes and BAM! Got ya." He pointed his fingers like a gun at her.
She covered her face and sobbed. Yes, Detective O'Sullivan had got his man . . . woman, well, you know.
I looked down at my drink, then glanced at Clara Bow.
"Fascinating," she remarked. "Are ya really a newspaper guy or are ya really a gumshoe?"
"Newspaper," I said. "In another life maybe a gumshoe." I smiled sadly.
But I had no time to reflect because all hell broke loose and there was shouting and the sound of glass shattering. Clara was gone like a breath of wind. Someone shouted, "FIGHT!" The women and a few men were out the door and I could hear cars starting up. I looked around for Weasil and wife but did not see them until Robbie caught hold of me and dragged me INTO the fray. I struggled to get out of his grip but the more I struggled the more I was pushed forward by the battling men around me. This was not good. Somehow Robbie lost his grip on me, probably when he got punched randomly in the face and went down. I looked straight ahead of me and there on the bar top was Mrs. Weasil kicking the crap out of some little man. I was stupefied. I stood there like a fool completely shocked out of my mind.
THIS be an English blue-blood who had the strange notion to marry Weasil, a Scottish misfit of a blue-blood, who somehow got it all wrong that it was perfectly fine to get up on top of a bar and take on someone who insulted her very capable of defending himself husband. She was walloping the daylights out of the little man as her husband, sat on a bar stool wearing a fiendish grin. I was like WTF? Everyone else thought that -- that everyone else -- had somehow insulted each other and they were all throwing meaty fists around like no tomorrow. I ducked as someone took a swing at me. I managed to get to the bar and yelled at Weasil to "make her stop" but he calmly took a swig of his hooch and did nothing. I climbed on the bar, got hold of the little man and moved him behind me and well, he fell off the bar because I let go not realising he needed assistance to stand up. Oh well. I meanwhile, was getting punched in the gut by a blinded with rage Amanda Weasil who had lost sight of who she was trouncing until she finally realised I had her by the head and her punches were meeting air. She looked at me saying nothing, just breathing hard.
"You know what?" She said to me with the same look as McClarey's panicked widow looked at the gumshoe and I took my hand away and put me dukes up, since I didn't trust her. "WE should get the hell out of here. I hear sirens."
With that, we got down and wended our way through the fisticuffs, Weas and I dragging Robbie behind us. We threw Robbie in the trunk -- there was no time to shove his ample self into the back seat and I sure as hell wasn't having him on me lap crushing me. Mrs. W got in the backseat, we two in the front and Weasil roared out of there like a bat out of Mustang hell. We were gone before the police arrived. I did wonder what happened to Clara Bow, but we weren't going back to find out. We ended up in Portsmouth proper down by the waterfront. We figured we were safe from the coppers so Weasil and I went and got Robbie out of the boot (trunk). He was pissed because the ride was a bumpy, speedy one, and he was "pretzelised" since the boot be small, but he was all right, especially after he called each of us a Numpty and threatened us with buying each one a t-shirt with the insult on it.
I got in around 3 a.m. I knew better than to go upstairs to me room, so I slept on the couch. This morning me wife is hardly talking to me. I tell ya, you'd think I would have learned by now that me and a night out with Weasil DO NOT GO WELL TOGETHER. Sigh.
(Sent to me AFTER THE FACT a picture of Mr. W's Oxford Shoe, one of them which he took the picture at me house when first purchased to show them off. But he does have two feet in case you were wondering where the other one was!)
Gabe
Copyright © 2011 All rights reserved
3 comments:
If I wasn't a pirate this would be rad to dress like John Dillinger or even Donnie Brasco. Wait minute, I think I did that.
sounds like a cool place!
LOL Never a dull moment when the Weasil is involved.
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