On to Chapter 3

Mr. Bond, you persist in defying my efforts to provide an amusing death for you.

Hugo Drax - Moonraker

Mulling the conundrum Hargrove numbly accepted his boarding pass from the smiling clerk. With leaden steps he plodded slowly toward the unsmiling security guards. Fortunately his razor-sharp mind was keenly honed through innumerable brushes with unfriendly ship engineers, quasi-robotic spaceship pilots and treacherous femme fatales. The possibilities began to lurch ungainly to his conscious mind: fake a seizure and demand immediate passage to a Hollywood neurosurgeon, pass the Webley off as a fiendishly clever travel iron, make a break for the tarmac while yelling ‘Jihad’ …

“Babe!” a syrupy voice called.

Hargrove turned and instantly recoiled with a whispered “Great Marx’s ghost …”

Moving quickly toward him was one of THEM. A short, slim man with a slight paunch was dodging through the milling crowds. He sported a shiny peacock blue silk suit, a yellow shirt open to the navel and several heavy gold chains that seemed to pull his head, and his entire body forward through the throng, his gleaming smile leading the way. This was not just one of the mindless consumerist drones sucking back their raspberry ice tea without a second's thought spared for the brave field labourers harvesting tea leaves eking out a subsistence on starvation wages; the hobnail boot of the landowner on their necks, but their heads held high. No, this was one of the enemy, belching out capitalist dogma to a heroic but gullible populace, defining corporist needs, desires and values, everything about him identified him as a MOVIE PRODUCER. He floated forward, arms wide, a ferocious blindingly white grin on his exfoliated face. Hargrove shuddered.

"Babe!" he exclaimed again. Hargrove winced. The shiny silk suit bounced sunlight into his red, gritty eyes. He grabbed Hargrove’s hand with his bejewelled fingers and pumped vigorously with his best 'Trust Me' handshake. "You and I are going places Babe. Dewie Stickem says you're going to dig Hollywood and Dewie Stickem never lies," he finished. Hargrove snatched his hand free and wiped his palm against his jacket. He inadvertently brushed the Webley securely holstered under his left arm. His mind began to return to the problem of getting past the guards with a loaded revolver.

In a single glance Hargrove took in the gold chains, the wavy coif, and expensively manicured fingernails. His incomparable deductive powers lurched painfully into hyperdrive. “I deduce that you are Dewie Stickem from Hollywood …”

“Fantastic Babe! You are the sensei of supererogation and the doctor of dispatch.” Dewie smoothly neglected to mention that he had supplied the information.

"I've neither the time nor the inclination to mouth pleasantries to capitalist provocateurs, flaunting their blood money with no shame or remorse,” declared Hargrove. “You swine sicken me with your wanton disregard for the noble worker, the belaboured heart of your bloated corporatist system, the backbone of society without whom you would be forced to hoard collectivist property under cover of darkness rather than this disgusting display," he declared gesturing at the heavy jewel-encrusted Rolex on Stickem's wrist. “If you will relieve me of the indignity of your presence, I'll be on my way," he announced waving his boarding pass at Stickem.

Dewie snatched the pass from Hargrove's hand and quickly tore it to bits, tossing them to the errant breezes wafting through the airy departure lounge. Hargrove stood dumbstruck for a moment, his hands balling into tight fists. Stickem's smile broadened.

“You take that plane Babe, and you’ll never find the girl.”

Hargrove froze. “How …”

“Absolutely Babe. A certain Miss Appel sent you to find her sister Ida.”

Then …

“Right again Babe! You are good. Something happened with Wapkaplet and Ida. My studio Ultimate Pictures is competing with Wapkaplet. If we can get some dirt on him he’ll be through and so will be BFG Studios. I’m here to see that you get to Hollywood in one piece. Wapkaplet will stop at nothing to hide the truth.”

The final boarding call for Hargrove’s flight came over the intercom. Hargrove’s shoulders slumped. Rather than cramped cheek to jowl with the rest of the hard working proletariat, he had no alternative but to go with Stickem. “OK,” he conceded. “How are we getting there?”

Dewie gestured toward another gate. "The studio jet's ready we just need you Babe. No checks, no stops till LA. Hargrove slowly relaxed. If this tool of the bourgeoisie was offering a way to get him AND the Webley to Hollywood, he was in no position to argue. He must make this sacrifice for the good of the Appels and for the good of the revolution

The needs of the many outweigh the need of the few even for the few fighting the glorious fight. He looked past the smile in front of him, his chin held high. Another adversity to overcome, another skirmish in the great conflict to endure. Another case to solve. Another chance to test his uncanny skills of deduction against the nefarious oppressors…

"Babe? You OK?" Hargrove snapped out of his reverie and focussed reluctantly on Stickem. "You were kind of glazing over there."  Hargrove sighed. The lingering elation slowly dissipated. Dewie began to lead him through the terminal.

"Babe," he said, "you're an IP. You travel in style."

“Look here,” snapped Hargrove, “stop calling me … What’s an “IP?”

“Important Person, Babe! If you want to fit in in Hollywood, you’ve got to get into the lingo Babe!” explained Dewie.

The unlikely pair passed out of the departure lounge and through an unmarked gate. Immediately outside the sleek Gulfstream 200 executive jet waited. Emblazoned along its length was the Ultimate Pictures logo. At the foot of the small staircase stood a tall shapely blond. She turned a blinding smile in Hargrove’s direction as he approached the aircraft. Hargrove admired the way she filled out the blue uniform including non-regulation fishnet stockings and mini-skirt. “Greetings,” he said. “I am Hargrove, Marxist detective en route to Hollywood, the cesspit of capitalist excess. I deduce that you are the captain of this fine craft. ‘Salt of the earth,’ he thought to himself. ‘A woman defying the constraints of male dominated careers and striking an iconic pose that other young women might admire and strive to emulate. Shaking the foundation of the patriarchal consumerist monolith.’

The pilot shifted a shapely leg, batted her lashes and with an enormous snort, hawked up a mouthful of phlegm, which she then sent splattering on the tarmac. Hargrove retreated a step and re-evaluated his admiration. ‘Lap dog toady of the hedonistic bourgeoisie,’ he sulked bitterly. She scratched briskly under her arm and extended the hand in his direction. “Mr. Hargrove,” she purred. “Your reputation precedes you. We’re honoured to have you as our passenger and guest.” Hargrove automatically shook and regretted it immediately. He quickly disengaged from the contact and again soiled his linen jacket with the miasmic efflux of anti-collectivist drones. “I’m your pilot, Captain Shirley Will,” she continued. “Please board and we can be airborne in a few minutes.”

She turned smoothly and ascended the stairs. Hargrove caught what should have been an alluring glimpse of firm tanned thighs beneath the skirt. ‘I may have to travel with these corporate lackeys but I will not be polluted by their wasteful decadence. My soul is pure,’ he thought in indignation. Unprepared, he was assailed by memories of that lost weekend in Hanoi … and the misplaced fortnight in Capri … the irretrievable summer in the Aegean… ‘Well,’ he amended, ‘my ideals are free of acquisitive taint.’ Thus self-reassured, he followed the pilot aboard.

He glared with unveiled contempt at the deep carpet, large screen TV and fully stocked bar. He moved to one of the plush leather seats. Buckling in, he was determined to detest every minute he had to endure the luxurious opulence. “Decadent,” he grumbled as he tilted the seat back to a slightly more comfortable angle. He repressed a contented sigh.

“Something else isn’t she Babe?” asked Dewie as he flopped indolently into a seat across the aisle. “We call her the Ultimate Ride.”

“The plane or the pilot?” asked Hargrove bitterly. His losing battle with the comfortable surroundings was putting him in a foul mood. Dewie broke into a staccato giggle.

The plane began to move. Captain Shirley Will’s sultry voice came over the intercom. “Feel free to move about the cabin and disregard the no smoking sign. We are taxiing to the runway. We will be cruising at an altitude of whatever seems comfortable at the time and we should be arriving just in time for the first sitting at Spago.” She signed off with a loud, wet belch. Hargrove felt the urge to wipe his face.

“Is she serious?” asked Hargrove as he snugged up his seat belt.

“Relax Babe. This isn’t your regular airline. We don’t serve peanuts and you don’t have to return your tray to the upright position.” Dewie giggled again and stretched his legs.

Hargrove slumped in the seat as the jet accelerated smoothly down the runway and began a steep ascent. Presently, the craft levelled off and headed west. He tried desperately to fall asleep and ignore the comfortable seats, the steady hum of the engines and the gentle hiss of the air conditioner. He lulled himself with memories of his childhood. The summer survivalist adventures shivering under sodden threadbare blankets and the rocky ground, portaging across snake-infested bogs, choking down lichens and bugs and all the while grateful for the Nietzschean experience. Those were truly the halcyon days. On the verge of nostalgic slumber, Hargrove was jolted to alertness by Dewie’s unappreciated voice.

“Babe,” said Dewie, “this is our steward Link Offant,” said gesturing to a young man emerging from the rear of the cabin. He was very tall and had to stoop sharply to avoid colliding with the ceiling. “It’s a great honour sir,” said Link. “May I get you something from the bar?” he asked with a glowing smile. Hargrove felt a moment of bittersweet nostalgia for the grey metal dentistry lovingly dispensed to the adoring proletariat by Mother Russia. Recalling his recent brush with vodka and guava daquris, he replied “Something light. I’ll have a double mescal.” It pained him to drink the liquor of the oppressor, but he realized he needed the fortification to combat the subversive legions fomenting capitalist greed. He promised himself that he would taste the blood and sweat of the aloe harvesters and distillers with every swallow.

Link moved to the bar and made drinks. He handed a glass of clear liquid to Dewie who drained it one long pull, shivered and slumped unconscious in his seat.

Hargrove accepted his drink. “Thank-you Link.”

“Actually, the name is “Wapkaplet, BFG Jr. Wapkaplet,” responded the steward. His hand disappeared into his jacket and emerged with a .50 Desert Eagle which he trained at Hargrove’s head.

Hargrove scoffed at the ostentations pistol. “You do realize that shooting me with that thing will punch a hole in the fuselage, decompress the cabin and send us spiralling into the ground?”

Link looked hurt by the slight to his chosen firearm. But then grinned. Among the many improvements made by Ultimate to the standard Gulfstream 200 was full interior bulletproofing. “Goodbye detective,” he said. BFG Jr. fired. In that instant, Hargrove leaned sideways and threw his glass at the duplicitous fight attendant. The bullet passed through Hargrove’s shoulder leaving a softball-sized exit wound. It kept going through several seats before spending it’s remaining energy against the rear bulkhead.

Hargrove was thrown back in his seat by the impact. Shakily he drew his trusty Webley.  Link was desperately trying to clear his eyes for another shot. Hargrove fired first. The heavy round caught BFG Jr. in the forehead, launching him over the bar.

Captain Will burst into the cabin, her ample chest heaving in excitement. She reviewed the carnage. The man she knew as Link Offant lay nearly decapitated behind the bar. Hargrove writhed in his seat and desperately tried to stop the blood flow from the shoulder wound with an Ultimate Pictures pillow. Dewie Stickem slept on.

She rushed over to the stricken detective. “Oh Mr. Hargrove, you’ve been shot.” She leaned over him to examine the damage. Hargrove, dizzy from shock and blood loss slumped against the looming expanse of cleavage. He momentarily forgot the waves of pain rolling through him. Finally though, he could not suppress a moan. “You’ve got to hold on Mr. Hargrove,” exclaimed the pilot. I’m making an emergency landing at LAX. She whirled and loudly expelled an astonishing volume of flatus as she raced back to the cockpit. Hargrove’s vision faded. The smells of cordite and chilli were his last conscious sensations. 

Back to Main Page     On to Chapter 3