Flint Restrikes Again

It was a dark and stormy night. Which was half good, because nights should be dark, unless you're in Alaska at the height of summer when you've got that “Land of the Midnight Sun” stuff going on because of the angle of tilt of the Earth on its axis, which I could go on and on about but hopefully you paid attention to your fourth grade science teacher between her smoke breaks when she taught you about that so I don't have to. But it's only half good because storms are usually nasty and wet and noisy and the sump pump in the basement will stop working and the dogs freak out and hide under the bed like the cat does whenever the doorbell rings. So dark good, stormy bad. It was both a good and bad night because of the dark and stormy bits.

So glad we cleared that up. Which neither the dark nor the stormy did.

Anyhow, I was home alone on the farm that night. Me and the skirt had sold my private detective agency after the affair of Ina Pool and Hercule de Faiblement (alias Juan Hun Lo) left their blood splattered all over my ironing – a broadcloth dress shirt with button-down collar and French cuffs in a pale blue – and besmirched my reputation in River City. Because no matter how much they may protest, there is always trouble in River City when it comes to the Pools.

So I bought a farm – not THE farm, because this is not that metaphysical or metaphorical a story, and I'm still breathing – married my former secretary with the overbite, five o'clock shadow and killer aim, and took up beekeeping, because no other famous private detective had ever retired to take up beekeeping that to my knowledge.

Between the chamomile lotion and learning how to not step in cow pats, it was a life.

My former secretary/current wife was visiting her sister the night trouble drove up on that dark and stormy night. I still had a nose for trouble. I could smell it over the ever-present cow dung, hear it over the buzz of the bees as they swarmed around me, feel it even as the ungrounded sump pump sent unnecessary voltage through my brain. I was born for trouble, even when I wasn't in River City.

So it was a complete surprise when the dogs started barking from under the bed when there was a knock on the door.

I put down my trusty iron, shushed the hounds, went to the door and opened it.

Silhouetted by a flash of lightning, a dripping figure in a wet fedora and even wetter trench coat stood on my porch. It took me a minute to place the visitor's puss through the wind and rain.

“Why, Lieutenant Dandy,” I whistled. “What brings River City's hotshot copper all the way out here on a dark and stormy night like this?”

“You gonna let me in, or are you gonna let me drown on your porch?” snarled the Lieutenant.

Minutes later, we were seated by the warm fire. The Lieutenant's trench coat dripped over a nearby chair, steaming slightly. He had refused to remove his wet hat.

“You're going to get a cold keeping that thing on,” I pointed out, both metaphorically and physically, with my finger. Though the finger was only physically, because it wasn't a metaphor.

The Lieutenant shrugged, like an elevator going up and down, making me homesick for the elevators of the big city. Out here, the only elevators to be found had the words “silage” or “grain” attached to them.

“Hate to interrupt your laundry day,” the Lieutenant said, pointing to my iron. “I see you no longer use a Sunbeam.”

“Nah, the wife upgraded me to a Shark for Christmas,” I said.

“You like it?” asked Dandy.

“It doesn't bite,” I said.

“Speaking of the missus, where is she?” he asked with a questioning voice.

“She went to the city to get some culture,” I responded.

“The symphony or the ballet?” Dandy asked with the same questioning voice.

“Neither,” I answered with a responding way. “Yogurt. She likes the fancy stuff. Can't find Greek out here.”

“Look, Flint, I didn't come all the way out here on a dark and stormy night to talk small appliances and dairy products,” the Lieutenant said. “We've got trouble back in River City, and we need you.”

I sat back and shook my head side to side in a “no” way. “The only trouble is River City starts with 't' which rhymes with 'p' and stands for Pool,” I said, “and I've had my full of Pools. A Pool's blood ruined my favorite shirt.”

“You mean the broadcloth dress shirt with button-down collar and French cuffs in a pale blue?” the Lieutenant asked.

“One and the same,” I sighed.

“Funny, I don't remember that one,” said the Lieutenant.

“I thought we had exhausted that gag in the first story,” I snarled.

“Look, it's not those Pools we have a problem with,” said Dandy. “Those Pools kind of dried up after Ina's involvement with Juan Hun Lo. It just drained them. They aren't the trouble they used to be. A new bunch moved into town about six months ago. English, they said. Poole, with an 'e' on the end.”

“On the end of what?” I asked.

“Huh?” asked Dandy.

“An 'e' on the end of what?” I repeated.

“On the end of 'Poole',” snapped Dandy.

“Which end?” I said.

“The back.”

“Makes sense,” I shrugged, making my shoulders go up and down like my beloved elevators. I really missed elevators.

“The Pooles, late of London and New York, run a string of tea houses that front a money laundering racket for some ice-dancing drug runners from Russia and England,” he started.

“You mean, the famous duo of Pizoff and Di?” I asked.

“You've heard of them,” Dandy said.

“So not to belabor the aforementioned gag, yes, I have,” I smirked.

“Anyways, the Pooles are in deep with Pizoff and Di. We can't even begin to see the bottom of this,” Dandy wiped his wet brow. “If you would come back, you could do a swimmingly great job on this. My department, we're in over our heads on this one.”

“First of all, I'm retired,” I said. “And, secondly, you wouldn't need to mop that expanse of skin between your hair and eyebrows if you would just take off your hat.”

“You like elevators, I like wet hats,” he grinned.

“I don't know,” I sighed, letting out a big breath. “I'm a farmer now. My and the missus have the cows, potatoes, and especially the bees to take care of. Nobody shoots at us, nobody comes running into my office with stories of cheating boyfriends or missing teeth. It may not be a fast life, but it's a nice, quiet one.”

“Then where did you get that shiner?” Dandy asked, pointing to my black eye.

“Word of advice: never try to milk a steer,” I said.

“And those stitches?” he pointed again.

“I didn't listen to the first piece of advice,” I said.

Dandy stood up. “Look, Flint, if you want to stay and play apiarist out here in the wilds of rural America, go for it,” he snapped. “But you were not meant for this. Think of all the lives you could save by helping us catch Pizoff and Di in the act.”

“First of all, quit with all the apiarist stuff,” I snapped. “Nobody's monkeys were harmed, and nobody can prove anything. And why would I want to catch those two in the act? I hate ice dancing!”

“One word for you, Flint,” Dandy said as he picked up his coat.

“And that is?” I pouted.

“Elevators,” he said as he made his shoulders go up and down.

I started to say something, then stopped. Then started again, and stopped again. Like an elevator going from floor to floor.

Dandy grinned. “They all live in penthouses,” he added.

“Elevators,” I finally said.

“Lots of 'em,” he said. “And none have the words 'silage' or 'grain' attached to them.”

I stood up. “Listen, Dandy, I can't just leave. The wife, she likes it here. And she's a good shot. Plus, if she knew I was getting anywhere near a Poole in River City...” my voice trailed off because it could.

“Listen, Flint, I know your wife and can't believe she really digs the mud and muck out here. She'd threaten to kill anyone who got a coffee ring on that banged up table you had in the outer office. Plus, she could have all the Greek yogurt she ever wanted.”

“It's a dangerous job,” I said.

“So milking a steer, according to your face,” Dandy countered as he headed for the door.

The fire was dying the way fires do if you don't put any more wood on them when the missus came home hours later. The stormy bit had also died down, but it was still dark.

“You've got that look in your eyes, Flint,” she said after I kissed her hello.

“What look is that, dollface?” I asked as innocently as I could.

She furrowed that cute brow of hers and started jabbing my chest with a pointy finger. “Look, mister. Don't 'dollface' me. I worked for a lot of private eyes in my time, so I know how to spot a liar at fifty paces. Plus, you forgot to wipe up the wet spot on the back of that chair where Dandy sat and let his hat leak all over.”

“I didn't promise him nothing,” I said.

“What have I told you about double negatives?” she rolled her eyes.

“Two wrongs don't make a right?” I queried.

“Something like that,” she said, rubbing her forehead. “Look, Flint, I love you to death, and I know you love those bees, but you're dying out here. And there are new Pooles in River City. Only you can get to the bottom of the Pooles.”

“Dandy said about the same thing,” I sighed. “But, toots, I couldn't say yes to him without talking to you first. This is the life we both dreamed of.”

“You think I like mud?” she said. “And I'm allergic to your bees. Get me back to my high heels and typewriter. Plus, we can always come back after this case.”

“You know what, dollface?” I said as I took my beloved into my arms.

“You're going to say something clichéd about how you married a brilliant woman,” she said.

“Probably,” I said, kissing her overbite.

“As long as I get to shoot some Pooles, it will be good,” she laughed.

Word count: 1785. And my apologies for every last one of them.