Sam H. Bound-The Shit-Poo Epos, episode 2

The Shit-Poo Epos

Episode 2

He sticks the key in the ignition and sends up a little prayer. The hupmobile is beautiful, a rare gem on the road. It’s cream interior was once white, perhaps, and the paint had once been unscratched, but he feels the car has what it needs, a lot of oomph. If it starts. This time it does without a problem and he taps the dash with a loving hand. She is a beauty. 

It takes him twenty minutes to get to Dame Gnaufert’s house. Or rather, mansion. He whistles appreciatively when he rolls up to the drive, lined by old oaks. He leans over the steering wheel to see the whole place. A mansion for sure. It could have been transported from Britain, picture-perfect. Any moment he expects a fox hunting party to dash out in front of his bumper. But nothing like that happens. That would be weird. 

The round drive way is full of large limousines being washed by a servant in livery. The cars gleam in the sunlight, polished to a shine Sam’s shoes have never seen. Again he whistles. He stops next to the servant, ‘where can I park her?’ The servant slowly turns from his job and looks at the car, a mocking drawing of the mouth, then at Sam, the look does not disappear. ‘Drive around the back to the servants entrance. This car should not be in front of the Dame’s house. Remember that too for the next time.’ ‘Are you being smart sonny?’ The servant snorts, ‘I am not being paid to be smart sir, but to keep the Dame’s house look presentable.’ After a curt bow he turns and returns to the car he was waxing.’ ‘Polish this bozo,’ Sam mumbles and tears away and around the house, leaving the servant  and his wax-job in a cloud of dust. 

He is about to knock on the door but it opens before he can. William’s face looks impassive as Sam is waved inside. Sam looks at the manservant. Sam himself is a big guy, tall, his hands are good. He loves his hands. Real pugilist hands. He shadow boxes in his office. He always wins. An arena full of screaming people. And he fucks before matches, but it doesn’t change anything. He is chock-full of power, nothing can drain it. And believe him, they try. He smirks. He is not sure if he could take William in an honest fight. Passing the manservant he is held back, a hand on his chest, for a moment Sam thinks it is go-time but all William says is ‘your hat please.’ Again Sam grins and hands the butler the hat. There is a deep smell of wealth in the mansion. A smell of mahogany, expensive paintings, silver-polish. Sam nearly wants to pluck his eyes out after the cutest little thing in a chamber-maid outfit scampers past. He is not sure he can live knowing he will never have her. But he leaves his eyes alone. Confidence, he thinks, is key and he is full of it. ‘It might happen,’ he thinks as the girl leaves his sight going up the stairs. He is led into the lounge where the Dame is sitting on an emerald velvet sofa, golden trimming at the edges, the feet are big cat’s claws. ‘Please take a seat Mr Bound and let me explain all of this in more detail to you.’ He smiles at her willingly and with a small bow says, ‘if ma’am doesn’t mind I would like to use your bathroom first.’ ‘Of course Mr Bound, William will show you the way.’ She does looks bemused. 

The toilet is the size of Sam’s office, he almost expects a golden bowl, but is disappointed with simple white porcelain. He takes a loud piss, shakes and puts it away. Washing his hands he looks at himself in the mirror. He should have shaved. The stubble does not become him. Or, it does, but not in this line of work. He looks like he might be playing for the bad guys. Oh, well, blend in. He winks at himself. Before he leaves the bathroom he looks on the little shelf of toiletries, but does not see any toilet freshener. Little bags of potpourri are hanging above the door and in several spots around the bathroom. No vulgar toilet freshener for rich shit. 

Back in the lounge the Dame has not moved but her face is worried. She is holding another envelope. ‘Another letter came while you were in the bathroom Mr Bound. It came with today’s mail.’ Sam takes it from her hand, ‘don’t open it. Let me have a look at it first.’ The envelope is the same as the previous one, slightly yellowed in the sunlight. The same red pen, but the name has been spelled correctly this time, ‘DAME GNAUFERT’. The postal stamp is from this city, no surprise there. ‘What does it say?’ The Dame looks worried, her lower lip quivers with worry. ‘Let’s see.’ Sam opens the envelope. The kidnappers are going up in the world, the letter is written on actual paper. ‘BRING THE MONEY TO THE PIG AND WHISTLE AT 9:00PM FRIDAY. ONE MAN AND ONE MAN ONLY. NO POLICE OR THE DOG GETS IT.’ ‘The pig and whistle? What is that?’ ‘It’s a pub ma’am, actually in my neighborhood. These idiots are pulling a stunt in my neck of the woods. They’ll be surprised when they see me.’ William who has been witnessing the exchange interrupts, ‘but if only one man will go, then I will go and no-one else.’ Sam sizes him up. ‘Why are you so keen to get into harms way?’ He gets up from his seat and looks the butler in the eye, ‘or perhaps you don’t have to worry about that? Maybe you know the kidnappers and you know you will be safe to split the money?’ Stars, then a searing white pain behind his eyes. All of a sudden he is laying on the floor, William standing over him. ‘Apologies Dame Gnaufert,’ William says as he offers Sam his hand, ‘but I could not let that go over my side.’ ‘Don’t worry about it William.’ And to Sam she says, ‘get up Mr Bound and please note that William has my utmost trust. He is my confidant and foremost protector. Sam takes Williams’ hand and lets himself be lifted. The man is strong. ‘Apologies ma’am,’ he winks at William, ‘and sorry Will, no offense.’ 

‘Where was the dog taken from?’ ‘She was last seen in the gardens.’ ‘Then I will need to inspect the gardens,’ he says. She turns to William, ‘take him to Bobby, he can show Mr Bound the grounds.’ She turns abruptly and disappears down the hallway as William glares at him.

Bobby is a slight guy with red hair wearing blue coveralls and thick gumboots. In his hand is a rake and from his pocket stick some pruning shears. ‘I think she was taken from here. She runs around these gardens nearly all day. A dog’s life can’t be that bad. She digs up my rose-bushes though. I spoke to the Dame about it, but she said that if the dog wants to dig up the last rosebush in the world I’ll have to stand there and encourage it. She loves that dog. She thinks it’s people.’ At this Sam raises and eyebrow. ‘Seriously, I have seen her speak to that dog like it was human. More human than anyone else it seems.’ Bobby pauses and looks behind him. ‘She certainly never spoke to me as if I was human.’ Sam winks at him. ‘The grounds are surrounded by a high fence and at night William has his own dogs who keep watch.’ ‘His own dogs?’ ‘Two of the most ferocious Doberman’s you ever saw. They are kept behind the servant’s quarters in a steel-mesh cage. They’ll listen to no-one but William. No-one who lives here dares to leave the servant’s quarters at night unless they are with William. Those beasts will tear you apart.’ ‘You think the dog might have gotten in with the Doberman’s?’ Bobby snorts, ‘I don’t think so. We would have heard it. Those motherhumpers are loud. They would’ve danced on that little corpse. There are no squirrels left in those whole place. Rabbits neither. Why the Dame lets it happen I don’t know. We have never had a problem with intruders. Well,’ he smiles sheepishly, ‘until now.’ Sam looks at the man, how old was he? Perhaps in his forties? ‘How long have you been here Bobby?’ ‘Born and raised mister,’ he points at the dirt. ‘Come I’ll show you where they got the dog, I think.’ They are now approaching the fence. ‘I think they came over here. It must’ve been broad daylight, that’s why those Doberman’s didn’t tear them apart.’ They are amongst old pines that block the daylight. Under a large tree they can see the sign of a struggle, leaves moved, a darker patch where the ground has been disturbed. Sam kneels next to it. It would make sense. But how would a kidnapper know the dog would come here? ‘Did the dog come here often?’ ‘It was one of her hideouts yes.’ He laughs, remembering something: ‘One time she ate a mushroom. She was puking bile when I found her near here, kicking the dirt like she was dying. The vet came immediately, pumped her stomach. I never knew they could do that with dogs. The Dame cried. That is when we realized how much that dog meant to her.’

Kneeling next to the patch Sam can see footsteps leading from the fence to where the struggle supposedly took place. ‘What is on the other side of that fence?’ ‘Parklands. They used to be part of the estate, but the Dame donated them to the community. Now anyone can go there. Who would’ve know that it would be a problem? Who would want to harm the Dame?’ Sam frowns and stands up. He towers over the slight groundskeeper, ‘yes, who would want to harm the Dame?’ Bobby looks up at him confused, ‘I don’t know.’ Sam smiles, ‘just checking. Let’s have a look at the other side of the fence.’ 

They walk along the tracks leading from the fence. The tracks are visible, but unfortunately no clear footprints can be discerned. The leaves prevented it. On the other side of the fence they can see tyre-tracks. There is not even a footpath here. Cars should not have been here. Maybe someone saw the car. ‘Is anyone in charge of this park?’ ‘The Park-authority, but they are not always here.’ Sam reaches into his jacket and draws from it a pencil and a hip-flask of bourbon. He takes a drink from it then offers it to Bobby who takes it without a word. With the pencil he measures the tyre-tracks. The wheels have left a deep ridge in the soft ground here and he can clearly see where the car was parked and where it drove off to. The tracks lead right away from the fence then veer off to the right. ‘What direction is that?’ ‘The exit of the park, north-side, toward the city.’ Scratching his stubble he stares at the tracks. Bobby is standing right next to him. He doesn’t seem to see it as he hops from one foot onto the other. ‘Need the toilet Bobby?’ ‘Huh?’ ‘You seem in need.’ Sam points at his feet. ‘Plenty of trees around.’ ‘Ah yes, well, I won’t do that. But I might return to the servant’s quarters if you don’t mind. Nature calls. You will find you way back I’m sure?’ ‘Yes Bobby, I’ll be ok. Thank you. I’ll catch up soon.’ The gardener walks away. Sam listens for him leaving with his back to the man. He is staring at the tyre-tracks.  Something is not right here. He kneels next to the tread and with his pencil draws the profile of the wheels on his pad. He’ll have to visit his friend Tim. But now that he has lost Bobby he might have another look around, perhaps the servant’s quarters. With a bit of luck the chambermaid is off duty. 

To Be Continued Next Friday...

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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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OLD POETRY BOOKLET: The Monkey Shits In Its Hand

NEW POETRY BOOKLET: The Wheels Have Been Set In Motion And The Heart Thunders On

The Guns Jumped

The guns jumped

And he nearly fell

But he kept a-foot

By will

And a lapse in gravity

His family cried

And swore

All the males

Of their name

Would bear his

His heart burst

In his chest

And finally

The lightness of heart

He had missed since boy-hood

Returned

His remains

Were turned to ashes

Later that same day

By his family

And eaten

As black bread


Copyright 2010 Joran C.A. Monteiro 

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Joran C.A. Monteiro 2010