sam H. Bound-The Shit-Poo Epos, episode 4

The Shit-Poo Epos

Episode 4

If this is your first time here, please start with the beginning of this story by clicking here. A new episode of ‘The Cases of Sam H. Bound’ is published here every Friday.

Sam wakes thinking that huge bats are swarming on him, black hooded things with faces like rabid Doberman's. He hits the air with balled fists, punching off the demons until he realises the demons are just in his head, a faulty wire buzzing some deep dormant part of his brain. He sits up. He is in his walk-in closet laying on the bare reeking mattress he’d dumped there on the floor. He lays back again and tries to piece together events of last night.

             He remembers William disappearing. He remembers calling the Dame. He remembers these things but what concerns him is what happened after that. He has no idea. Slowly he peels himself off the mattress again until he sits up. His temples throb. He tries to massage some blood into his brain, but to no avail. Groaning he gets up and staggers to his hand-basin. He looks at himself a moment in the mirror. The mirror gives him vertigo and he vomits brown chunks into the basin with enough force to have some of it cascade over the edge of the basin onto the ground. A deep coat of non-descript ex-food covering the stained porcelain. He looks at this a moment then belches loudly. He fills a glass with water and drinks it. Then another. And another. With the tap running he tries to push the chunks of puke down the drain with his fingers, but no luck. He gives up and staggers backward until he hits the desk. He sits on it and then lays back until he can feel his body calming down and his breathing returning to normal.

             

He wakes a few hours later. The sun is shining into the window. It must be afternoon. The phone rings and he looks at it a moment, watching it vibrate with every ring. The vibrations reverberate in his skull skin-plastered against the desk’s surface. That’ll be the Dame.

              He lets the phone ring out and just lies there, stares at the ceiling. Yellow rings caused by leaks in each of the four corners. He rubs his face with his hands, upsetting a layer of boozehound-grime. After the rub he rubs his fingers together until a small black ball of dead skin-cells, barroom smoke and whore-spittle is formed. Looking at it he works himself into a sitting position. Balancing the little ball on his thumb he flicks it across the room with his middle-finger.

              The room smells of vomit. He gets up, standing unsteadily he opens the bottom drawer of the filing cabinet to the left of his desk. That is where he keeps his clothes. There are no clean clothes there. Damn. He reaches into his pocket. The roll of twenties William gave him is no longer a roll. A fold of two twenties and a handful of change.

              Bending over to grab the blanket off his bed he groans. He spreads the blanket on his desk and piles his dirty clothes in it. Then he bundles it up by pulling all four corners together and holds it under his right-arm. He puts on his hat and pushes his feet into his shoes without tying the laces, then he is out the door.

             

He is sitting in the laundromat wrapped in his blanket watching his clothes roll and tumble in the washing machine. He is drinking orange juice from a liter carton he bought at the corner store. He looks at his sorry belongings roll over and over in the soapy water. Where did William go?

              'Yes,' he thinks and sits up, his mind at attention, 'where did William go? The gardener had been my hunch at first. Then the postman. But not William. The Dame trusted him too much.’ A loud beeping breaks him from his thoughts. He opens the washing machine and heaps the damp clothes in a dryer, inserts the coins and turns it on. Another twenty minutes. He steps outside the laundromat and lights up a cigarette.

              He stumbles back to his apartment in just an undershirt and some warm pants. Back inside he takes his clothes back off and washes himself with water from a bucket, ignoring the drying vomit in the basin for now. He dries himself, gets dressed and brushes his teeth. He puts the plug in the sink and fills it so hopefully the crust of puke will come off more easily when he returns.

             

He turns the key in the ignition and she roars. The car is alive. Thank God. He pulls out onto the road and points the Hupmobile into the direction of the Dame. Time to face the music. A car coming his way flashes his lights and Sam turns his on. The light of the day is already fading. His first case and he has already failed. Not only did he lose the money, but he also managed to drink himself stupid instead of getting onto damage control. William’s trail by now would have gone cold.

              A flash of his dear late mother glimmers into his head as he pulls into the drive of the house. ‘You will always fail at everything.’ A curse she laid on him. Exactly what the Dame will now tell him. He clears his throat, a deep rattle of phlegm as it collects in his mouth. He parks the car behind the house and opening the door spits the oyster into the dust, where it rolls further, a tiny green-brown ball of himself. The view is obliquely satisfying. 

              The back door is opened by Albert whose face is set to thunder and amusement at the same time. Sam looks at him a moment then sighs and steps past his tormentor into the house.

              He finds the Dame in the kitchen, red-eyed, her hand held by the chambermaid he stuck it to two nights ago. He has forgotten her name. Both women would’ve shot him on sight if they’d been packing heat. He can feel the death radiating from their eyes.

              ‘You have a lot of guts showing your face here again.’ Sam looks at his shoes. He swallows. ‘I thought I owed you at least that much ma’am.’ He feels like he is about five years old. ‘I’d never thought it’d be him ma’am. Not after what he meant to you.’ The Dame looks at him, then the mask of her face breaks and she starts crying again. The maid puts her hand on the Dame’s shoulder, trying to comfort her. ‘I am really sorry Dame Gnaufert,’ Sam tries again, but she holds up her hand to shut him up. ‘Leave,’ she sobs, ‘and don’t come back here again.’

The outside air has got a chill to it, even though it is the beginning of autumn. He shivers and hugs his arms close to him. The sun is under now. Darkness behind the house. He looks toward the servant’s quarters. He hears the Doberman’s bark. Then a light starts to shine in the deep crevices of his brain.

The dogs in the kennel are going crazy. There are two of them, their paws against the mesh of their cage. But they ignore Sam. They are barking for their boss. He opens the door of the cage and steps inside, closing the cage behind him. The dogs still ignore him, scrambling for the momentarily open door, but he manages to close it in time. With a deft movement he hooks a leash onto one, then the other. He takes a deep breath, then opens the cage-door.

He has not ran this hard for a long time. Actually, he has never ran this hard. Or far. But he is not letting go of these dogs. They first led him back to the ‘Pig and Whistle’, now they are leading him further into his neighborhood. Would William be stupid enough to be hiding under his nose?

              He runs past the post-office, past ‘Heave-Ho’s’, past the little park with its hypodermic needles and its ladies of the night. He tears through his stomping grounds and out until the dogs stop, panting at the water of the bay around which the city has been built. They howl with frustration at the tiny lights hovering like fireflies in the darkness of the water beyond. William has taken to the waters. Would he still be out there on one of those ships? Or is he gone already? And does he have the shit-poo with him?

The next morning he is on the pier showing William’s picture to fishermen there. He went back to the Dame last night. Albert was about to sic the dogs on him, as the Dame had ordered, but when Sam said they were in his car they fell silent. He explained what he had done. That the trail was not yet cold and that William was yet within their grasp. What he needed now was a picture of William and a few more dollars to cover his expenses. He would find the dog, if it was the last thing he did.

              He shows the picture to fisherman after fisherman. None has seen William. He stares over the water. He is still out there. As if he can smell William on the wind. He has left from here to wherever, Sam knows so. Sam knows too that these boats can be hired at night. For whatever purpose. William would’ve come here, even if it was to have someone take him to a bigger ship. 

            A whisper from behind, ‘hey mister.’ He turns. An old man with a striped yellow and black bandana, three whole teeth in his mouth and big bushy eyebrows stuck on his face like leeching caterpillars, breathes in Sam’s general direction. Rum. Cheap Rum. ‘Hey mister, I hear you are looking for someone?’ Sam sizes him up. The man is tiny, reaches to Sam’s chest, no higher. ‘Yes,’ Sam says, ‘sure am. Do you have any information for me?’ The old-timer coughs and turns his pocket inside out. Sam smiles and draws a twenty from his pocket. The man smiles back and points down the pier. ‘You’ll want to talk to Bart there.’ ‘Which one is he,’ Sam asks. ‘The big one.’

             

Bart is big. Very big. Not fat. Just big. Tall. Huge. He pretends not to hear Sam when he clears his throat and says : ‘Excuse me?’ Sam clears his throat again. ‘Excuse me, Bart, is it?’ The behemoth glances at Sam sideways, then goes back to staring at the sea. ‘Beat it,’ Bart responds. Sam’s face sags. How very rude. He turns and walks back up the pier a few steps. Then he turns again, he takes a breath as if he is about to say something, but he thinks the better of it. Instead he kicks Bart in the back of the knee as hard as he can. The giant nearly falls face-first into the water, but he manages to stay on the pier by throwing himself back, landing on his ass. Sam immediately kicks Bart in the kidney, once, twice, then punches him in his ear. The fisherman doesn’t even know what has happened to him. Dazed he sees Sam hover into view. ‘Now,’ says Sam, holding an open switchblade delicately against Bart’s throat, ‘can we talk?’

             

The Final Episode Next Friday...

If you liked this story share it with your friends.

To Stay up to date

'follow' this blog, subscribe to it in a reader, via email,

or 'like' it on facebook:

'Blues Fiction - Joran C.A. Monteiro's Writing'

© Joran C.A. Monteiro 2010

Sam H. Bound-The Shit-Poo Epos, episode 3

The Shit-Poo Epos

Episode 3

Walking into ‘Heave-Ho’s’ Sam briefly drags the middle -and index-finger of his left hand under his nose and takes a deep whiff. He can still smell her. So sweet. What a night he just had. Things are going his way.

He finds Tim sitting in a booth in the back of the dingy aptly named bar. He is flanked by two women. Tim and Sam never agreed on what constitutes an attractive woman, but tonight he has outdone himself. Why anyone needs two whores is beyond him, but why he needs a toothless one and a bald one he can’t fathom. 

As soon as Tim sees him he yells ‘Sam!’ and motions him over. ‘Hi Tim,’ Sam grins, ‘I hope I’m not ruining your company…’ ‘You couldn’t Sam. Pick the one you like the most.’ ‘I couldn’t Tim,’ he says and winks, ‘I just ate. You keep ‘m all to yourself.’ The bald one softly mutters, ‘hey fuck you, asshole,’ but Sam turns to her as if he hasn’t heard to comment and throws the lady a $5-bill and says: ‘Would you ladies be so kind as to buy us a couple of double bourbons? Get yourself something too.’ They swipe the bill and go up to the bar. ‘Don’t forget our bourbons,’ he yells after them. he hasn’t had a drink since this morning and his liver is thirsty. 

‘Sooooo,’ says Tim in a weird elongated fashion, ‘what brings you here?’ Tim hasn’t changed much since he saw him last. He is still the rodent he was 2 years ago when they shared a cell up north for a week on a count of vagrancy each. They got thrown in the shitty little jail of a nowhere-town, just because neither of them could pay for a bus-ticket out of there and the sheriff wouldn’t just dump them at the town-limits. Hard country out there. They’d spent the week talking. There was not much else to do. Leaning back in his chair Sam gives Tim a once-over. His belly is a bit bigger. Pasty white it hangs over his belt, almost but not completely hidden by the table. Interesting. He is so thin all over, but then that belly. If he’d been a woman Sam’d thought he’d been about four months into a pregnancy. Since he is not, he figures he drinks too much beer. Sam likes a beer every now and then, but his main staple is hard liquor, which doesn’t bloat so much. Next to Tim he feels like he is fit. It is a nice feeling for a change. Next to the rest of humanity he knows he is a degenerate.

‘Earth to Sam,’ Tim says as he waves his hand in front of his face. ‘I’m back,’ Sam says as he looks around our table to see if the girls have brought back that drink yet. It looks like they’ve scrammed and took the $5 for themselves. ‘Where are your girls with my drink Tim? I need my drink.’ ‘Don’t worry Sam, they’ll be back. Now, again, what brings you here?’ ‘You remember you told me you used to be a mechanic?’ ‘I still am brother.’ ‘Can you tell tyres apart, I mean the tread of different tyres?’ ‘Let me have a look.’ Sam fishes his little note-pad from his coat pocket. ‘Any idea what kind of tyres these are?’ Tim looks at the drawing a minute, his brow scrunched in thought. He passes it back to Sam, ‘no idea.’ He smiles conspiratory: ‘But I know someone who does.’ The two ‘ladies of the night’ finally arrive with the doubles. Sam immediately necks his. ‘Let’s go then.’ Tim drinks his in two sloppy gulps. He retches, but manages to re-compose himself. Promising the ladies that he’ll be back, they need not worry, who is their daddy, he walks backwards outside into the bright morning sunlight where Sam has just lit up a Lucky. 

The alley is filthy, heaps of garbage high against the walls. On each side tenement buildings rise seven, eight storeys high, to their walls cling fire-escapes, metal stairs rusting uselessly. Sam looks at them to not have to look at the shit he is stepping in. ‘Where are we going Tim? Is this some sorta short-cut or something, because I am ruining my rotten shoes. Something is squishing between my toes.’ ‘Don’t worry buddy,’ Tim slurs, ‘we are almost there.’ They pass a stack of rotting boxes, in them something that could have been tomatoes once, or animal organs. The smell of severe putrefaction hovers immovable in the air like a blanket of green goo. The bourbon starts to burn in Sam’s stomach. His stomach is touchy at best and this alley definitely does not help his general wellness. He is about to clip Tim in the back of the head out of sheer frustration when Tim turns around and points next to an overflowing container. ‘Here we are.’ Sam steps around the container to see what Tim is pointing at. It turns out to be a whom. 

A tiny man is sitting on a discarded car-tyre, his feet folded under his legs tailor-style. Like Tim, a small belly protrudes forward on his very slight figure, the belly unimpeded by the halter-top the littl’un is wearing. Army surplus pants low-slung on his ass. A careful plaster of grey hair tops the exposed skull, liver spots dotting his bald patch. The man could be old. Or young. Sam has no idea. ‘Sam, this is the Tyremaster. - Tyremaster, meet Sam,’ Tim makes a slight bow, ‘he comes to you with a question.’ Sam looks at Tim, then back at the Tyremaster who is staring at Sam with deep-set untrusting eyes, his lower lip drawn high over the upper lip, teeth not present anymore. He squints once, slowly, pressing his bushy eyebrows down almost touching the cheekbones. ‘He wants to see the picture Sam.’ Sam fumbles in his pocket, finds the picture, gives it to the Tyremaster, slightly bows and mumbles ‘here you go.’ A grimy claw takes the drawing, stares at it for a moment, glances at Sam, then back at the picture. ‘What type of car-tyre is that?’ Sam asks. The Tyremaster laughs, snorts, hocks up a fierce loogie and spits it at Sam’s feet where it bubbles uselessly. He stares amused at Sam. Then at Tim. He gives the picture back to Sam, then brings his hand to his mouth and blows a raspberry on the back of his hand. Sam lifts an eyebrow and looks at Tim. ‘And,’ Sam asks. ‘Well,’ Tim explains, ‘you are on the wrong track he says. These are motorcycle tyres. Of the postal worker kind.’ ‘Postal worker?’ ‘Yep.’ ‘How did you understand that is what he just said?’ ‘You didn’t?’ Sam rubs his neck vigourously, trying to wake, trying to see if he is dreaming. Devil-bourbon. He stares at the gnomish hobo on the filthy ground. After a while he lifts a hand in greeting, ‘thanks, uhm... Tyremaster.’ A toothless grin is shot his way. On his heels Sam turns and walks away, out of the alley as fast as he can. Tim looks at him a smile on his lips. ‘Is he even human?’ Baffled Sam looks at Tim. ‘The Tyremaster? No idea.’ Sam reaches in his pocket and pulls out the small wad of twenties he had pressed in his hands by William late last night, for expenses. He peels one off and hands it to Tim and mutters: ‘Tyremaster? Really?’ He turns and walks off. ‘Always nice to see you mate,’ Tim yells at his back. Sam waves without looking back. Weirdness. 

‘Ok, so this is how we’ll do it.’ Sam is standing in the lounge, William and the Dame are listening to him. ‘William here will be holding the cash in ‘the Pig and Whistle’.  I will sit at the bar keeping an eye on him. He will tell them no money without the dog. They will take you there and I will follow you to their hideout and save you and the dog and the money.’ He smiles at William and the Dame. ‘What if they just take the money from me?’ William  doesn’t look too happy. ‘They would have trouble hurting you William. A big fella like you?’ ‘I won’t have William endangered Mr Bound.’ ‘He’ll be fine Dame Gnaufert. What could hurt a big man like that?’ ‘What if they shoot him?’ ‘They won’t ma’am, trust me.’ Silence. After a while she stammers an OK and Sam claps his hands, wrings them, ‘all-right, let’s get going then.’ He makes to walk out of the lounge, ‘Oh, one more question Dame, are there a couple of motorcycles we could borrow for the night?’ She ponders the question, ‘my father had some motorcycles in his collection I think, you’ll have to talk to Albert, he takes care of the vehicles.’ 

The garage can hardly be called a garage. It looks more like a museum. Rows of cars in a showroom-like setup. The smell of gasoline, oil, and wax. It smells pleasant. There are roadsters and limousines. Albert turns out to be the same guy who sent Sam around the back. Recognising his ‘old friend’ Albert grimaces. He curtly shows William and Sam to the corner. There two motorcycles stand lonely. A red one and a black one. The red one is sleek, polished. The black one is rustier, monster-like, it looks like an angry black blowfly. ‘They both drive, although this one is in better condition obviously,’ he points at the red one. ‘You can take that one William. This gentleman can take the other one.’ He grins at Sam, payback for a lost wax-job. Sam grins back. He walks around the machine, strokes its tank. It is an old Waratah. ‘There aren’t many of these around.’ ‘Don’t fuck it,’ Albert bites and shoves a cracked helmet in Sam’s hands. Sam’s grin does not fade as he rolls the machine out of the garage onto the gravel of the driveway. 

Sam is slowly sipping a rye on the rocks on a stool at the bar. His face is still cool from the bike-ride. He could get used to that machine. Maybe if he swings this right he could have the bike included in his payment. But he first will have to solve the case. Concentrate. William is sitting just a few metres away from him at a table. He is drinking a raspberry cordial. The bag with money sits between his feet, clamped in place by nervous ankles. The air in the bar is thick with smoke even this early in the night. In the corner a couple of bikies are playing a game of pool. The floor is covered with sawdust, the bar with spilled beer. Sam can see both the entrance and the fire-escape. He is looking at all this but not looking. No-one could link him to William. He softly squeezes his glass. He feels confident. He got laid and soon he will get paid. ‘I,’ he thinks while holding his right hand over his glass, ‘have got the upper hand.’ He smiles and tips his hat back. A rogue of gentleman, that is what he is.

He looks at his watch. A quarter past nine. They are late. He sighs. What happened to punctuality? He manages to not have people notice that he notices William getting up and walking to the bathroom clutching the bag of money. Inconspicuously he too gets up and follows the butler to the toilet. 

Toilet is too nice a word. Latrine, that is what it is. A stench is exuded by the caked yellow piss-crust in the urinal. It hovers thickly in the air. In comparison the Tyremaster’s alley had bucket-loads of ambience. He releases a heavy stream of high-yellow piss into the urinal as he yell-whispers over his shoulder, ‘hey William, what gives?’ ‘I am nervous. My bowels are churning something bad.’ Sam shakes, shakes, zips. ‘Okay, but don’t be long.’ He escapes from the latrine and sits back down at the bar. 

Nine twenty. Nine twenty-five. Nine thirty. Where is William? When he steps back into the latrine he already knows the answer. William is gone. A tiny window open above the toilet. 

The Waratah’s tyres are slashed. With drooping shoulders Sam walks back into the bar. He drinks another rye, and another. Then he gets up and throws a quarter in the pay-phone and calls the Dame. 

What Will Happen Next Friday? Stay tuned...

If you liked this story share it with your friends.

'Follow' this blog (top-left corner) and receive every

installment to your inbox, 

subscribe to the feed (also in the top left)

or 'like' it on facebook:

'Blues Fiction - Joran C.A. Monteiro's Writing':

links posted on wall or find the stories in the 'notes' tab

© Joran C.A. Monteiro 2010

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...

If you liked this story share it with you friends

and maybe leave a comment.

'Follow' this blog (top-left corner) and receive every

installment to your inbox,

or 'like' it on facebook:

'Blues Fiction - Joran C.A. Monteiro's Writing'

Find it in links and in the 'notes' tab.

© Joran C.A. Monteiro 2010

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...

If you liked this story share it with you friends.

'Follow' this blog (top-left corner) and receive every

installment to your inbox,

or 'like' it on facebook:

'Blues Fiction - Joran C.A. Monteiro's Writing'

in the 'notes' tab.

© Joran C.A. Monteiro 2010

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