Wednesday, November 10, 2004

perfect poison

Today is the 29th anniversary of the wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald, according to what they said on the weather channel this morning. It is also the first blog I have ever posted, so it has to be special. So, I'm not going to say anything bad about the Bush administration. I'm going to be upbeat.

I downloaded the lyrics to Gordon Lightfoot's song, The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald and I sang it while playing guitar. It was a beautiful thing. I am only sorry that you couldn't hear it, because I don't know how to post my singing on this site. But since I couldn't entertain you with my singing, I am going to entertain you with a murder mystery I wrote. It is a gritty piece of pulp fiction. If it were a movie, it would be called film noir. But you can read it in the time you could listen to a song. See if you can find out who dunnit. It is called Perfect Poison, and it goes like this:


Perfect Poison

“I could never kill a woman as well put together as she was, “ said private investigator Sanford Jones, “Unless I had a perfect reason.”
The police detective standing on the other side of the body nudged the corpse with the toe of his shoe, as if to confirm she was well put together. Seemingly satisfied he looked questioningly at Jones.
“Well, Sandy,” he asked, “Did you have a good reason?”
“Yeah, Copper. I had a good reason.”
“So, did you do it?”
Jones paused and gave a present tense glance at the past tense woman on the pavement.
“No.”
“You expect me to believe you? You practically admitted you did it. You said you had a good reason.”
“I said I had a good reason, but I said I couldn’t kill her without a perfect reason. The key word is perfect. Can you say perfect. I thought you could.”
“You know what the penalty is in this state for being a smart ass?”
“No. Tell me.”
“I’ll do better than that. I’ll show you next time you get smart with me.”
“So, Detective Davis, what killed her?”
“Looks like poison. We don’t know what kind, yet, but the lab’ll let us know.”
There was a moment of silence that drifted between Sanford Jones and the officer like the fog that infiltrated the cool night air before Davis again spoke.
“Say. They tell me you know this lady pretty well. They say you two used to see each other kinda regular-- a pair, you two were. Tell me, do you have any idea who would do something like this?”
“No.”
“I also hear she dumped you. Threw you over for some other guy.”
“Maybe.”
“I also know you’ve told people you’re still kinda sweet on her.”
About that time Davis’ partner, Rahim, walked into the conversation.
“Good lovin’ done gone bad,” said Rahim, pinching the knot on his necktie with the thumb and forefinger of his right hand and tightening the knot by pulling on the narrow end of the tie with his left hand.
“I don’t know who you’ve been talking to, Detective, but you’ve got it all wrong.”
“Listen,” said Davis. “I know your type. You’re gonna go out there and try to find out who did this, and you’re gonna take matters into your own hands. I just want you to know this is a police matter, and I want you to stay out of it. We’ll find whoever it was and they’ll get a needle for it.”
“The hypodermic to hell,” said Rahim. “The final screamin’ breakman.”
“Sure, gentlemen, don’t worry about me. I’ll stay out of it.”
“See that you do.”
“But the only way you two are gonna find out who did this is if you run into them on the way to the Donut Hut. Fat chance of that.”
“I’ll let that last remark pass, due to your grief, and all, said Rahim. “We’ll fine ‘em. And they’ll confess everything.”
“Nobody is going to tell you anything.”
Rahim opened his jacket with this left hand and exposed the Glock he carried in a leather holster under his left arm. He stroked the handle of the Glock in an almost autoerotic fashion.
“They’ll change their mine when they see dis.”
Sanford Jones turned and walked away from the officers and the body.
“Remember what I told you,” Davis called behind him.
“Yeah, yeah. See ya’ detective. Rahim.”
“Later.”
Jones walked a couple of blocks into the cold night air. He lit a cigarette as he paused in the light coming through the door of an all-night restaurant. Then he proceeded to a bridge that crossed the river and stood for a moment before taking one last drag on his Camel, dropping it onto the pavement and crushing it with his foot. He watched a barge as it slowly moved across the black water. He removed a small bottle from his pocket, held it in the palm of his hand for a moment, then threw the bottle into the water.
“Perfect,” he said.



Well, did you solve the mystery. Until next time.

This is jimbo's world and, well, I'm jimbo.

Bye.

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