Sam H. Bound-The Shit-Poo Epos, episode 1

The Shit-Poo Epos

Episode 1

The current situation made Sam H. Bound question his judgement. He’d sat here in his brown leather desk-chair for more than four days. He managed to stay awake and alert, ready to pounce on any opportunity that would swing his way. But the reality was that no opportunity had come, which brings us back to Sam’s self-doubt. He looks around his office. The decor is right, it has the certain ‘je ne sais quoi’ a place like his needs. A desk, too large in fact for the small room, of dark wood, mug stains ringing the surface. His thick fingers even now are entangled with the ear of a mug, in it bad coffee, the cheapest kind, granulated, because the hot-plate he has can never heat up enough for his little percolator to work. The only thing making the coffee drinkable are the tablespoon of sugar and the big measure of bourbon he  dropped into it. Sipping from it he keeps his mind’s eye on the decor. His chair, as discussed before, is right were it should be. He is staring at a door with frosted glass no more than three-and-a-half meters away from him. On it in reverse he can read his own name: ‘Sam H. Bound’, and below it in slightly smaller letters ‘private investigator’. Two eyes brood over the rim of his mug, peering at those last two words. They were there and had been for a while now. His eyes moving left, he sees a tiny window with a moth-eaten green curtain in front of it. Then his eyes go right, he sees his sink, a broken mirror above it and next to it, from the same green cloth, hangs a curtain that functions as a door to what in the brochure had been called a walk-in closet. It is now Sam’s bedroom, a bare mattress on the floor, on it a pillow with yellow rings of dried drool and a blue blanket that he’d found in front of a salvation army store, left there for the poor. And he is. Poor. Poor of mind and poor of pocket. 

     How long he’d stayed afloat like this he can hardly remember. Too long. This is his last shot, his final money blown on getting a license, an asthmatic car, this rotten office, a second-hand gun, and the crumpled suit he is wearing now. He feels the fabric between his fingers. He appreciates a good suit. He wishes he wouldn’t pass out in it so much, but unfortunately, he does. 
He’d won one big race, a long-shot paying 70-to-1, which in real terms is an impossibility, but the horse had his mother’s name and that was enough for him to put all he had, which wasn’t that much, but enough, on it and when the horse ran over that line, beating the favorite by a hair on its lip, his heart had nigh exploded in his chest and he was seven thousand dollars richer. He tried to stay casual as he walked to the window. When he handed over the stub he couldn’t hold it in and nearly tore the man off his chair in sheer wild joy. Fortunately he didn’t, this scene playing in his mind and he managed to just hand over the winning ticket enjoying the surprise in the man’s eyes. Then the counting began. A thick wad of cash. His was close to hyperventilating now. He saw the hand of the clerk move toward him, the money in it, but the moment seemed to last forever. The world grinding to a halt until finally time had been stopped and he looked around. Everybody was frozen in time. He could hear sounds in their instant, a cacophony that merged in a sound resembling all air being sucked off the planet. He took a deep breath, slowed down his breathing and his heart-rate quieted down. Then time returned and with a slightly trembling hand he took the money and in a fluid motion he placed it firmly in his breast-pocket. The draw of the seventh and last race was strong but he resisted somehow and left the equestrian centre and took the bus back to the boarding house he had been staying for a month now. 

Three weeks later he woke up and saw, in shaving cream, written on his mirror the drooping letters P.I. and then he knew. Apart from the cardboard suitcase he owned several copies of pulp detective novels and he knew that he knew. He knew that he knew all there was to know about being a P.I. and he knew that the letters on his mirror meant that he should spend his left-over three grand on getting a license, a fast car, a shiny gun and an office. He remembered his grandfather who always said: ‘Give a man a fish and he’ll eat for a day. Teach a man how to fish and he’ll eat for a life-time.’ He couldn’t fish worth a damn, but he had read a thousand of these pulp novels and he knew all he needed to know. 

  So he’d done the work. All looked right. And now he was waiting and he’d been waiting a while. He was waiting for a knock on the door. A dame would knock on the door. She would be gorgeous and in trouble and he would fix her problem and he would fix her and then she’d pay him thick hot cash all over and he’d have fun with that and then it’d be back to where he was now, waiting for the next beautiful woman knocking on his door, hopefully fainting in his arms from despair. It would be glorious. 

When the knock finally comes he nearly spills his coffee down the front of his shirt. He looks up, to heaven, and thanks whomever, probably his mother and father smiling at his fortune. He gets off the chair and with a flourish opens the door, a pearly smile wide shooting his happiness at the world. Then he sees her. He hopes he manages to control the sag in his face when he sees what he sees: An old woman with a face like a crumpled potato, parchment, a red slash in the middle of it where lipstick had been smeared to hide the fact that she had pencil-thin lips, and white and black strands of hair whisping from underneath her no doubt haute couture hat, a black number with a white feather in it. She wears a mink stole and a coat that costs more than this building. Little white satin gloves on her hands finish the picture. She looks at him, big pale-brown eyes completing her visage. ‘A toad’ shot through his mind. Then she speaks: ‘Are you the private detective?’ He shoots his mind back into working mode, pulling the brake on his almost out of control surprise and manages to push out a ‘yes’ from terse lips. ‘Oh, well dear man, than you can help me, I hope.’ Again a stumbling ‘yes’. She smiles at him, a look of amused pity, ‘will you let me in?’ That finally brings him back, ‘of course,’ he says stepping back and letting her in the door, ‘please take a seat.’ She shuffles inside and keeping her coat on she sits down. He can see she tries to ignore the state the office is in, still the same look of amused pity in her eyes. ‘What can I do for you ma’am?’ Sadness now runs across her eyes and with a soft voice she lightly lays it on him: ‘Get my shit-poo back.’

It takes minutes for him to stop coughing. He must’ve gulped half the mug of bourbon into his lungs. The bourbon burns as he coughs. ‘Please sit down,’ the lady says, trying to get him to calm down, get his bearings. Finally, a deep breath, and he sits back down in his chair. Hot tears are streaming down his cheek. Composed his hand drifts to the pack of Lucky Strikes he has laying on his desk and lights one up with a broken match. He inhales deeply and as he exhales he looks at the woman and says: ‘Please, continue.’ She slides forward a little in her chair. ‘It is my dog, a shitzu poodle cross. She was taken from my house yesterday. Today I received a letter demanding a ransom. Those men want five-hundred-thousand dollars. They must be crazy.’ ‘Can you pay it?’ She looks at him, surprise kneading her clown-like make-up into a ferocious grimace, ‘of course I can pay it, I am Dame Gnaufert, heiress to the rubber-sheeting fortune.’ Sam feels something inside him drop, a small alarm bell tinkles in the distance. He knows of Dame Gnaufert. Her daddy died years ago, killed himself after allegedly disappearing his wife, Dame Gnaufert’s mother. The Dame was left with a fortune at the age of eight. Quick math not being Sam’s strong-point he takes a moment to figure she must be close to seventy now. She could pay his bills for eternity and beyond. ‘Of course you can. Of course, I just wanted to know whether the perpetrators had any idea of who you were. I guess they do. I guess they do.’ He rubs his stubble. He pries at his vast knowledge of read stories: what is the next step? ‘Do you have the letter with you?’ She rummages briefly in her handbag. She draws a white envelope, A5 from it. On it is written, in red pen, ‘Dame Ganufert’. ‘They can’t spell,’ she says and hands him the envelope. Sam looks at it, holds it next to his ear and shakes it. No sounds come from the envelope. He lays it on his desk and looks at the envelope while sipping on his coffee. ‘Aren’t you going to look inside it,’ she asks, but he holds up his hand in admonition, ‘just a moment,’ he mumbles. The envelope is off-white, yellowed. It is cheap and looks like it has lain in the sun for a long time. He looks out his window, through the curtain, the sky is grey, as it almost always was here, especially in the last few months. A dreary winter. Finally he picks up the envelope again and draws from it the letter. This too was written with red pen on nothing less than toilet-paper. These people are thinking about their overheads. Holding it gingerly between thumb and index he brings it to his nose and sniffs it. Toilet freshener. Finally he reads the note: ‘WE HAVE YOUR DOG. WE WANT $500.000. INSTRUCTIONS WILL FOLLOW. NO POLICE OR WE EAT THE DOG.’ ‘Eat the dog? Who is punishing who,’ he says smiling to the Dame, but her eyes are icicles and the smile freezes on his lips. A great start to his first case. She leans further forward in her chair and looks him in the eye: ‘Do you know what you are doing?’ He leans back in his chair trying to get as far away from her as possible, ‘of course ma’am, I’m your man.’ She stares at him a minute then she sighes, ‘good, I will see you at my house in half an hour then.’ ‘Yes ma’am, I’ll be there.’ ‘You will find my dog?’ ‘No doubt in my mind,’ he says. He believes it. ‘Good.’ The door to his office opens and Sam is on his feet instantly. ‘It’s only William, my manservant. No need to be alarmed.’ ‘The car is ready Dame Gnaufert,’ the manservant rumbles. He is clothed in a better suit than Sam’s, black, and is close to seven feet tall. His jet-black hair contrasts with the terse white smile he throws Sam. The Dame shuffles out the door and the manservant closes the door behind her. They are gone. Sam draws open the middle drawer on his desk and takes a bottle of bourbon and a glass from it. He pours himself a proper measure and gulps it. Then he takes the telephone-book from the bottom drawer. He forgot to ask where the Dame lived.

To Be Continued Next Friday...

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