"A Story"

By Holly

     Sunset in the City of Angels. A time that poets wax nostalgic about. A time that lovers call "romantic." For me, I just call it a reminder. Times left in the past, best forgotten. Left alone, to die. This time of day reminded me of my own "angel" I had met in the City of Angels. Kind of convenient she found the city for her kind, I thought.
     The fading sunlight danced over the palm tree outside my window like a busy night in Las Vegas. I snorted at the comparison. Las Vegas. That's where my "angel" and I were to meet up. But she left me there alone, and all by myself.
     But such was the life of Dick Van Cauch, Private Eye. With barely a friend in the world, a loner, a man on his own. In case you didn't realize, I'm talking about myself. I was this Dick Van Cauch.
     I turned on the lamp in my office. I often did that when it got dark. Don't know why, but it often helped me to see better. As I sat down in my chair, getting ready to pour myself some Apple Pucker Schnapps (it took a real man to not make that sour face when you shot it down), the phone rang. I searched for it for what seemed an eternity. Then, I stopped and sighed. I had forgotten that the football on my desk wasn't a real one, but one of those novelty phones that you get as a gift from Sports Illustrated when you gave them a friend's name. It was a pretty good deal, I thought.
     The answering machine got to the call before I did. Cheeky thing. That always happened. And it gloated, too. It knew it was quicker than me, and that blinking light never failed to remind me. Well, I'd soon show it who the boss was.
     A stressed-out voice came from the speaker. Everyone sounded like that when they came to me. Stressed, lost, nowhere to turn. But I always gave them satisfaction guaranteed, or a coupon for half off the next case. Thankfully, it never came to that.
     "Um... Hello, is this the P.I.-uh- Dick Van...Cauch? I hope that's right. Well, um, you were recommend to me. I have a case for you. Lots of money.."
     I grabbed the phone. Money always quickened my senses like that. Call it greed, call it money-hungry, I called it paying the bills. By the time I was done with the call, I had a new client. And a crap-load of money coming home to daddy.
     Missing persons. These cases were always the hardest. Either they didn't want to be found or they were dead. They often disappeared into the cracks of humanity that somebody forgot to spackle. Never to be seen again. But, these three people would be found. My dream of finally opening my own Italian ice shop depended on it.
     Apparently, three men, celebrities nonetheless, had gone missing. And the producers of their show wanted this kept low-key. That's me. I'm the lowest of the low. Well, you know what I mean. They always wanted it kept low-key. What did they think the "private" in "Private Eye" meant, anyway?
     These famous guys, Ryan Stiles, Wayne Brady, and Colin something-or-other were all at a party of some sort, and then they left together. That was three days ago, and no one had seen them since. My palms started sweating, like they always did when I got excited.
     I had told the man on the phone, a British guy by the name of Dan Patterson, that I would need to do some research, get the background on these guys. He agreed to send tapes of their show, "Whose Line is it Anyway?" What I wanted to know was...whose line *was*it? Not mine. I had read this story beforehand and someone was missing their cue.
     Belatedly, there was a knock at the door. A messenger stood in the hallway, arms outstretched and holding a large manila envelope with quite a bulge. The envelope, not the messenger. Not that I was looking or anything.
     "That's some package you got there, " I said. The guy raised his eyebrow, but ignored my Freudian slip. Thank God. It could have been awkward. "From Mr. Patterson, " he said and handed me the envelope and left. I thought it was odd how quickly it arrived, but for the sake of the story, I let it slide.
     For the next four hours, I watched this show. And laughed my buttcheeks off. Metaphorically speaking, of course. I checked to make sure they were intact after I fell off my chair.
     Why someone would want to do these men harm, I hadn't a clue. Unless jealousy was a motive. If that was the case, these men might only have a short time left. If they weren't already dead, I thought to myself. I looked around expectantly. That was what I hated about written stories. No ominous music for effect. Just pretend that you did hear some, okay?
     Anyway, back to the story. I decided to get a little shut-eye. To visit Mr. Sandman. Catch forty winks and investigate in the morning. I always did think clearer with some sleep under my belt. I worked even better with a big gun under my belt, but that is another story altogether.
     And so I locked up for the night and went back to my cold, lonely apartment. As empty of warmth as Martha Stewart's heart.

* * * * *
     The next morning found me at the Whose Line studio. Not much help. The people there knew as much about the disappearances as Garth Brooks knew about baseball. Nada. Nothing. Zilch.
     I headed back to my office, unsure of what to do next. I needed a clue, only to find it waiting in the office, sitting in my chair, behind my desk. It was...my "angel." The one who had left me feeling like a wild zebra in Holland. Don't ask me to explain, it fits.
     Although she caught me off-guard, I played it cool as a cat with all nine lives. "Hello, Ms. Rieta. " I felt just like a choking scuba diver just seeing her again.
     "Dickie, you used to call me 'Margie,'" her New York accent was as sweet as a mango on a hot summer day. Which was strange, since she was from Saskatchewan.
     "So," I said loudly, strolling around the desk in what I hoped was a casual manner. "You finally came crawling back to me.."
     "Dickie..."
     "You come to beg me to take you back after four years..."
     "Dickie..."
     "You come crawling back, after abandoning me, broke and alone, with only an Elvis impersonator to talk to at a bus stop.."
     "Dickie!!!! Shut up and listen to me!"
     There went the upper hand that I had so very briefly. Her command took the dance right out of my step. It felt like Michael Flatley stepping on a banana peel and taking a dive off the stage. I felt deflated. Like a Macy Parade balloon hitting a light pole. My ego left me so quickly, I felt like an hourglass running out of sand.
     "Dickie, Dan Patterson is using you. He has those guys in a secluded recording studio in San Francisco. He has some wacky plan to have them record a Village People cover album. The tall guy looks really good in chaps."
     "Wait a minute. Patterson said it was 'low-key.' How do you know anything about this?"
     "Oh, Danny always has to be so melodramatic. I, uh, fluff his pillows. "
     "His mistress? I can't believe it! How could you sink so low? This is how you plan to make it to the top? I bet you already are on top! You always did like it better there..."
     "Dickie! I'm his maid. I really do fluff his pillows."
     "Oh." Somehow, I managed to make myself even lower than before. I was scum.
     "I was on my way to meet you in Vegas when a horde of middle-aged woman came charging down the Strip after Wayne Newton. I was knocked unconscious and developed amnesia. Mr. Patterson found me and took me in. He's been like a father. My memory came back after I saw Short Circuit on TV. " Her voice got husky, "Do you remember how you used to run around the bedroom, shouting, 'Number Five is alive?'"
     All of a sudden, I became very uncomfortable. I moved to the other side of the desk. "How do you know about all of his 'wicked schemes?' Surely, he didn't take you into his confidence?"
     "No, I saw his plans on his desk. Here's the framed photograph of them. It looks like they're tied to each other. Dickie, can you stop him? I'm afraid what he'll do to them. "
     The way she looked at me from beneath her eyelashes made me wish I was standing in the spray of a fire hydrant. Just like a dog. Just like a randy dog that had been a bad, bad boy. Just like....I shook my head. I had to stop doing that to myself. It was torment. Like waving a red tablecloth in front of a raging bull. I was going to flatten myself some day. Well, now that she had all but solved the case for me, I didn't have any plans for the rest of the day...
* * * * *
     You may be wondering what happened. Well, we saved the guys from a fate worse than death. Cover band status. Nothing could kill a career quicker. Well, except for marrying Melanie Griffith.
     Margie's amnesia returned after we saw Wayne Newton do a guest spot on Third Rock. I guess the shock was just too much. The doctor's say that it may be irreversible. Oh well. It was good while it lasted.
     Now, I'm alone again. Like the lonesome cowboy out on the range. Like the computer nerd on a Saturday night. Like Conan O'Brien without Andy Richter. Like...well, you get the point. I think I need something stronger than schnapps. Maybe it's time to move up to Kahlua.
     Maybe some other day...

Word List
1) sunset6) snorted11) palm tree16) mango
2) tablecloth7) lamp12) dance17) sand
3) Holland8) Saskatchewan13) speaker
4) answering machine9) choking14) angel
5) fire hydrant10) football15) photograph

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