Could be fear that I can't keep up that level of funny. Could be fear that I'm the only one who thinks any of this is humorous. :shrug:
:drumroll: Here's the beginning of Cut & Dried: A Jordan Almond Mystery. (Because yeah, I have a whole series of these planned - if I can ever finish this one and find someone to buy it.)
Jordan Almond: Cut and
Dried
I’ve heard it said
there are a million stories in the naked city.
I don’t know about the naked cities, but here in Flint, nothing is as obvious as that. Of course, if things were laid out for anyone
to see, I’d be out of a job.
You see, I’m a
private detective.
I know what you’re
thinking, but trust me, I’m not living the dream. I mean, it pays the bills, and I could be
doing a lot worse things with my life, but to paraphrase an old country song I
hate, ‘Mama, don’t let your babies grow up to be P.I.s’. It’s harder work than it sounds, and
sometimes you piss people off enough to want kill you.
Seems to happen to
me a lot more than I’d like, but that’s the way life goes sometimes.
Don’t get me
wrong. I’m not in this for the money;
I’m not in it for the prestige either. This
business isn’t as rich and glamorous as Hollywood
would have you think, which is too damn bad.
There’s a silver lining here somewhere.
I haven’t found it yet, but a gal can hope, can’t she?
Who am I? The name is Jordon Almond. Yeah, yeah.
I’ve heard all the jokes, so don’t bother. My parents thought it was funny. I don’t.
From what I was
told, the name was actually Allman up until the ‘60s when my father took a bad
trip and ended up changing it to something more in tune with Mother Earth. After he woke up a few years later, he kept
it Almond because he thought it was a good joke. Now I’m stuck with it. I would’ve changed the name years ago if my
father hadn’t made me promise to keep it.
He knew I never broke a promise.
I wish I’d remembered my father’s sense of humor before I agreed. He up and died before I could wiggle out of
it.
He also roped me
into the family business, but he did that after he was gone. His last will and testament said that as soon
as I finished college, the whole kit and caboodle was mine. So I stepped off the platform—degree in
hand—and right into the gaping hole of my future as a private detective.
Now you see why I
never bothered to change the name on my office door. Even after my father died, I left it like it
was: Eddie Almond Investigations. Hell, even in the crappy neighborhood where
Eddie bought this office, I don’t want to take a chance on someone stopping in
to buy candy. I don’t do candy. Hell, I barely even eat the stuff.
Not that taking
over the family business was the worst day of my life. Oh no.
I’ve had plenty of worst days in my thirty-five year existence, and most
of them had nothing whatsoever to do with dear ol’ Dad. In fact, one of the crappier days I couldn’t
really blame on Eddie at all. If I had
to blame it on anything, I’d blame it on my own desperation.
You see, it was
like this...
About three years
ago, if I remember correctly, I was sitting at home minding my own business. It was probably about three a.m. and I was playing a bit of no limit
hold-‘em before I got started on my day.
Just as I flopped a straight, and was drawing to an inside
straight-flush, the lights flickered once and my damn computer rebooted. As luck would have it, I was sitting in one
of those rooms that just folds your hand when you lose your connection, so not
only did I not make my straight flush, I lost the couple hundred dollars I’d
already bet.
So there I was
watching a week’s worth of groceries disappeared into cyberspace, and cursing a
blue streak, when the phone rang. Of
course, I didn’t answer it; that’s what they make machines for. (No, I don’t have voice mail. One of these days I’ll drag myself into the
21st century, but don’t look for it to be any time soon.)
After I finished
rebooting and looked at my account balance on the poker site, I wasn’t quite
feeling like playing any more. A few
more sessions like that, and I was going to have to find a new way to
supplement my income. Maybe they needed
a new dog washer at the Pampered Pooch. Problem
is: I like dogs the same way I like kids—as long as they aren’t mine they’re
wonderful. It’s not like the P.I.
business is all that lucrative, but like I said, a promise is a promise.
With nothing else
to do, and my brain still whirring like a kids’ toy, I decided to listen to the
phone call I didn’t want to pick up. Bad
mistake. I should’ve just erased the
damn thing and went to bed.
“Jordan?” said a
familiar voice I couldn’t place. “I need
you.” If only... At the moment, I wasn’t seeing anyone, didn’t
know anyone I’d want to need me, and I certainly didn’t think the image popping
into my mind was what the caller had in mind.
I searched my brain to figure out where I’d heard that somewhat
effeminate male voice. I knew it wasn’t
a work-related voice. This business eats
up the effeminate and shits them out.
Hell, I’m a woman and I can’t get away with femininity.
Then the little
light bulb went off over my head. My
hairdresser! Of course. By the time I figured it out, the rest of the
message had played, but I was pretty pleased with myself for naming that voice
in under five words. Enough patting
myself on the back, though. Since Gerry
didn’t swing on my side of the street, he obviously needed help, and since he
was the only one in the tri-city area who could do anything with my hair, I
figured I’d better help him. If only to
keep myself from looking like something the cat coughed up.
Reaching for a pen
and paper, I pressed the replay button.
“Jordan? I need you.
I’m at the police station. They…
They think I killed someone. Can you
help me? Please?”
Now Gerry
Fitzpatrick could be a bit bitchy sometimes, but the thought of him as a
murderer was beyond stupid. He cried
when he had to clean the traps at his less-than-upscale salon. I once saw him have a funeral for a
particularly unlucky field mouse who must’ve been in town visiting his more
urbane relatives and ended up in the wrong place at the wrong time. Gerry couldn’t kill anything.
So why were the
cops thinking he had?
Looking at the
clock, which wasn’t much help since the power burp had set it to the flashing 12:00 again, I decided I didn’t
really need to sleep that night anyway.
I grabbed a jacket to throw on over my sweats, and headed out the door.
Oh, the things I
do for a good haircut.
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