Tag: The Endangered Granny

FP248 – Mulligan Smith and The Endangered Granny, Part 3 of 3

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode two hundred and forty-eight.

Flash PulpTonight we present, Mulligan Smith and The Endangered Granny, Part 3 of 3.
(Part 1Part 2Part 3)
[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp248.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

 

This week’s episodes are brought to you by The Roundtable Podcast.

 

Flash Pulp is an experiment in broadcasting fresh pulp stories in the modern age – three to ten minutes of fiction brought to you Monday, Wednesday and Friday evenings.

Tonight, Mulligan Smith must make clear some unpleasant truths regarding an aging lover.

 

Mulligan Smith and The Endangered Granny, Part 3 of 3

Written by J.R.D. Skinner
Art and Narration by Opopanax
and Audio produced by Jessica May

 

Mulligan SmithMulligan leaned forward on the bloated white leather chair, and set a manilla envelope on the row of slightly dusty Popular Mechanics issues that covered the center of the glass coffee table.

On the opposite side of the small living room, the trio on the matching ivory couch raised their brows.

Horton Cobb, dressed in a sleek-lined, charcoal gray, three-piece suit, and positioned on the center cushion, was the first to speak.

“You’re a courier of some sort?”

“Well,” replied Smith, “today I’m playing the Shakespearean messenger with bad news, but you’d normally find me in the phone book under private investigation and general loitering.”

“I knew it,” said Granny Cobb, from the left side of the sofa. “I met this skirt chaser down at the Lutheran and he was doing his best to wrap his fingers in my girdle – but he’s really come from Sasha Burnett.”

“Who?” asked the round-faced woman on the right, something of a stranger to Mulligan. From a quick phone conversation, he’d gathered that Carrie Salgado was forty-three, and had spent the majority of her adult life in the cab of her long haul transport truck. She owned the condo at which the group was gathered, though the Cobbs had moved in just the previous Saturday.

“Sasha’s simply a dentist I used to date,” answered Horton. His voice was calm, but his hands fussed at loosening his tie.

Mulligan tilted, then shook, his head. “I’d intended on having this conversation with you privately, Hort, but things have gotten rather complicated. You’re – Mrs. Cobb was quite eager to give me her number, and it was easy enough to discover it was Ms. Salgado’s credit card covering the bill. Things got worse from there, but – well, that can wait a moment. I should make clear that I’m actually here on behalf of Donna Houser. ”

“OK, then who’s Donna?” asked Carrie. She was equally interested in an explanation from either Smith or the Cobbs.

“Another of HoHo’s former paramours,” said Jacqueline, laying a palm on Hort’s knee, “but it makes no difference which is reaching for our wallet, we have nothing to give.”

Her voice had grown harsh, and her comments were delivered directly to Smith.

The PI scanned the room before responding. The walls were eggshell white, and barren; the ceilings were high and echoing. The room’s focus seemed to be upon the massive television, which sat gaping like a window opened onto the blackness of space.

Mulligan blew a raspberry.

He had not been looking forward to the conversation.

“To start, I’m not here about the money,” he said. “but, yeah, my client is going to hear about it – eventually. As it is, I don’t need you two trying to hustle me out with a flipped table and a bunch of indignation, so shut up and listen until I’m done. You’ll have plenty of time to run before I call the cops.”

Jacqueline Cobb’s mouth wore a frown of scorn, but Horton had turned his attention to tugging at his jacket cuffs.

“Ms. Salgado,” continued the detective, “I know this is going to be a lot to hear, but it’s important that you sit through the whole uncomfortable roller coaster ride.”

Smith tried on a sad grin, but irritation crept into his voice as he addressed Hort. “You’re a couple of grifters living off of the guilty kindness of comfortably emotionally-distant, but well off, women. Easy enough, I suppose, given your penchant for older ladies.

“You know, Doc Burnett was under the impression you were beating the poor woman? Not to be crude, but I hope you at least had the decency to maintain your level of vigour while with the rest of your lovers.”

“What?” asked Carrie Salgado, but Smith pushed on.

As I mentioned,” he said, “I was hired by Donna Houser. When we first met, Hort, she told me a very touching story about the two of you at a local park.

“There was a cloud burst, but you were snug beneath a broad sycamore. It was dark, and she had a clear view of the street as she straddled you at the edge of an empty public beach – a rare display of free-spiritedness, on your part, she thought – but, then, they all seem impressed with your sudden moves of daring. Frankly, it’s amazing what you’ll find beneath a buttoned-sweater.

“Anyhow, to cut to the chase, she recalled the only mar on the day being the broken condom.

“Donna’s choice in cardigans lead me to believe that she might not find such romance terribly common, so I believe her when she says she was pretty anxious that something more might come of the situation. I’m sure you were both very relieved when her next period came.

“It was months later, when her routine doctor’s visit turned up some unusual results, that she realized the truth of the matter.

“Well before any of that, though, on the morning following your beach party, you escorted Mrs. Cobb during two supposed weeks of out-of-state hip-replacement surgery. I don’t know what kind of surgeon operates in a Vegas Hard Rock Hotel and Casino.

“Without realizing what was actually going on, my client covered the expense of the entire – uh – operation. I know you ended the relationship soon after, but you should be more careful about not leaving your banking receipts at your next ex-girlfriend’s place – our mutual dentist friend certainly didn’t want them.”

“Not the kissing sycamore at Nuttiteq Beach?” asked the wronged trucker, as she surfaced briefly from her stunned reverie.

Not willing to lose his momentum, Mulligan didn’t allow time for an answer.

“Donna Houser doesn’t realize you conned her – she just wants you to know she tested HIV positive not long ago. It was a pain tracking you through your chain of broken hearts, but, so far, Donna is the only sick one. Worse than an empty bank account, you’ve given her a life threatening illness.”

“- but that’s impossible,” sputtered Horton, “I always – I’m always extremely careful; well, except for that one accident.”

“Yeah, so I’ve heard,” replied Smith. “I’m really hoping, for Ms. Salgado’s sake, that your streak of luck has continued.

“If I had to guess, though, you’re not so worried while with your wife, given her, uh, maturity, and the unlikelihood of any unwanted results. I have to say, I came across a lot of surprises while doing my homework on you, Hort, but finding your marriage certificate to Jackie was probably the biggest one. You were smart to break it off before any of your marks hustled you up the aisle, bigamy cases can get ugly.

“I do see your point, however, regarding your reputation for consistently wearing protection – perhaps, Mrs. Cobb, there are some gents at the local bingo halls that you should give a call?”

The woman’s false teeth shut with a clack.

 

(Part 1Part 2Part 3)

 

Flash Pulp is presented by http://skinner.fm, and is released under the Canadian Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 2.5 License.

Freesound.org credits:

Text and audio commentaries can be sent to skinner@skinner.fm, or the voicemail line at (206) 338-2792 – but be aware that it may appear in the FlashCast.

– and thanks to you, for reading. If you enjoyed the story, tell your friends.

FP247 – Mulligan Smith and The Endangered Granny, Part 2 of 3

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode two hundred and forty-seven.

Flash PulpTonight we present, Mulligan Smith and The Endangered Granny, Part 2 of 3.
(Part 1Part 2Part 3)
[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp247.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

 

This week’s episodes are brought to you by The Roundtable Podcast.

 

Flash Pulp is an experiment in broadcasting fresh pulp stories in the modern age – three to ten minutes of fiction brought to you Monday, Wednesday and Friday evenings.

Tonight, Mulligan Smith is forced to fend for himself in the bowels of a gambling establishment.

 

Mulligan Smith and The Endangered Granny, Part 2 of 3

Written by J.R.D. Skinner
Art and Narration by Opopanax
and Audio produced by Jessica May

 

Mulligan SmithNestled behind a strip mall offering overpriced coffee, cheap clothes, and a questionably-licensed chain store barbershop, Capital City’s Faith Evangelical Lutheran Church required some foreknowledge to find. As he threaded his way through the parking lot, however, Mulligan Smith considered that it looked as if a fervent revival were under way.

In truth, he knew that it wasn’t a holy summons that had brought them, but, instead, the whoop of the bingo caller.

Inside, the broad basement was tight with long wooden tables, and every available surface seemed covered in an array of speckled sheets and discarded paper cups.

At the end of the hall most distant from the stairs, a steel-haired man in a buttoned-down shirt plucked balls from a noisy hopper, then thundered the letter and number combinations into his ancient microphone.

His recent visit to the dentist’s having provided little usable information, Smith had decided to search out Granny Cobb. She’d been recognized, if not present, at the previous pair of bingo events he’d canvased.

Scanning the sea of gray hair, and thick-lensed prescription optometry, Mulligan hoped that, if she was there, she’d be accompanied by her problematic grandson.

He’d learned a lesson in his earlier excursions, though, and, instead of immediately approaching the nearest players and beginning the questioning process, he simply waited.

To Smith’s right, a concession had been setup to sell game cards, and he couldn’t help but overhear the awkward landing of a joke told by its cardigan-ed operator.

“- so I said to the novelist, “I knew you were an atheist from your suspenders of disbelief.””

Mulligan worked hard to hide his wince, but the frail-limbed woman who had been the victim of the delivery chuckled politely before making her escape by beelining towards the detective.

“Can I help you?” she asked.

“I bet you can,” replied Smith, retrieving a picture from his pocket. “Do you know Mrs. Cobb? Or, perhaps, Horton Cobb?”

The photo, taken on a bright Spring day, had the appearance of a funerary keepsake due to the formal apparel both wore. Mulligan had been assured, repeatedly, that it was their usual manner of dress.

“I do know Mrs. Cobb, though I’ve never met this Horton. You can probably find her in her usual spot, by the caller.”

Experience told the PI that the gossips in a group were always the most eager to size up strangers, so, rather than heap further rumour onto Granny Cobb’s reputation, he curtailed his questions and went in search of his subject.

Fortunately, it was easy enough to find her, as she was the lone female occupant at an expansive table of hairy-eared men.

Smith was surprised to find the chairs on either side of the woman unoccupied, given the crowded nature of the hall. He surmised it was likely due to the exceptionally large number of scorecards she seemed to be overseeing.

“Hi,” he said, “name’s Mulligan.”

“Well, hello, Mulligan,” she replied. Despite her high-collar and long sleeves, a smile seemed to come easily to her lips. “Care to have a seat?”

He did.

“Ma’am,” he continued, “I’m here about your son, Horton.”

“Hort?”

“Yes, Mrs. Cobb. Sasha Burnett mentioned that I might find you here.”

A particularly common call of N-33 sent her into a fury of jabbing.

“Oh, enough of that Mrs. Cobb, business,” she said, as she patrolled for any missed entries, “my name’s Jacqueline. Anyhow, that dentist was nice enough, but she wasn’t for my Hort. He looks for strong character in a gal.”

A disappointing follow-up of O-73 allowed her an opportunity to turn towards the investigator. Her eyes widened, and her smile deepened.

“Why? Do you know Sasha well?” she asked. Her dauber-free hand moved to the lace collar of her dress, and she began to tug at the fringe-work with thumb and forefinger.

“Only in passing,” replied Mulligan. He pointed out a square she’d missed marking, leaving the card in question on the cusp of victory.

At the discovery, Cobb licked her lips in anticipation, but then her brow briefly tightened. “Are you here regarding financial matters between Sasha and Hort? I wasn’t privy to any-”

“No, Ma’am. Look, you’re pretty occupied, and I hate to intrude on your evening. The matter with your son is a personal one: I’m not a debt collector of any kind, but I do need to have a quick chat with him.”

The woman reached his hand with her own. “Anything you need to say to Hort, you can say to me. We’re very close.”

“Well, Jacqueline, there are some things a fella simply doesn’t want his grandmother to hear, at least from a stranger.”

“Jackie,” she replied. Her voice had grown thick. “Why do we need to be strangers?”

Her fingers began rubbing at his own.

Before Smith could react, the missing digits – I-25 – echoed through the room.

The triumphant sheet was amongst those most distant from Mulligan’s elbow, and he instinctively leaned in to indicate the finishing daub. As he did so, however, Jackie threw her arms around his shoulders, and his nostrils filled with the soft scent of artificial flowers. For the briefest of moments, he could feel her nails running through his hair, and brushing the back of his neck.

Then she pulled away.

“Oh my, I’m sorry. I rarely win, so, when I do, I tend to get rather – excited,” apologized Mrs. Cobb, with a giggle. She righted herself, and brushed aside a smoky strand from her bangs.

As a smocked church-volunteer arrived to check her numbers and count out her prize money, Mulligan’s phone rang.

Looking at the number, he smiled, and said “I’ve got to go.”

As he rose, the results were accepted, and the basement became saturated with the sound of paper being crumpled.

He hesitated, and stalled by zipping his hoodie.

Finally, as the din quieted, Smith grinned lopsidedly and asked, “could I call you sometime?”

 

(Part 1Part 2Part 3)

 

Flash Pulp is presented by http://skinner.fm, and is released under the Canadian Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 2.5 License.

Freesound.org credits:

Text and audio commentaries can be sent to skinner@skinner.fm, or the voicemail line at (206) 338-2792 – but be aware that it may appear in the FlashCast.

– and thanks to you, for reading. If you enjoyed the story, tell your friends.

FP246 – Mulligan Smith and The Endangered Granny, Part 1 of 3

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode two hundred and forty-six.

Flash PulpTonight we present, Mulligan Smith and The Endangered Granny, Part 1 of 3.
(Part 1Part 2Part 3)
[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp246.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

 

This week’s episodes are brought to you by The Roundtable Podcast.

 

Flash Pulp is an experiment in broadcasting fresh pulp stories in the modern age – three to ten minutes of fiction brought to you Monday, Wednesday and Friday evenings.

Tonight, private investigator Mulligan Smith unexpectedly returns to a client’s home to complete some paperwork.

 

Mulligan Smith and The Endangered Granny, Part 1 of 3

Written by J.R.D. Skinner
Art and Narration by Opopanax
and Audio produced by Jessica May

 

Mulligan SmithOn a quiet Wednesday morning, Mulligan was warming a chair in a strip-mall dentist office’s waiting area. He’d arrived fifteen minutes earlier, and had been immediately assaulted by the channel flipping habits of the nine-year-old who’d been left in control of the communal remote. As the boy punched between a MASH episode, a Mexican soap opera, and a show about animal attack survivors, his father sat beside him, rubbing at his phone’s screen.

Just as the Price is Right’s showcase value could be revealed, the red-dressed model beside the boat was replaced by a sallow-faced TV cop.

“This is no accident,” said the officer, “put it together – the penguin, the machete, the clown makeup: It’s obvious that-”

The screen was filled with a hushed golf green.

Behind the reception desk, the bespectacled woman tasked with making appointments and glad-handing patients gritted her teeth and made a third attempt at intervention.

“Richard,” she said, “perhaps if you left it on one of the shows a while, you’d enjoy it more – and are you sure you turned that down? It still sounds pretty loud.”

“Yeah, Ricky,” nodded the boy’s father, without ceasing his rubbing.

“Sure,” replied the boy, also without slowing his thumb’s momentum.

Smith sighed and went back to attempting to locate Laughter is the Best Medicine in the Reader’s Digest he’d plucked from the table.

Backed by the sounds of anxiety inducing equipment, Sasha Burnett, DDS, stepped to the head of the short hallway which lead deeper into the practice. Mulligan thought she seemed prematurely gray. Her smile appeared stout, but genuine.

“Mr. Smith?” she asked, as she adjusted the sleeve of her long white coat.

“Hi,” replied Mulligan.

As he stood, the television touched on a local news broadcast about a convenience store fire, then jumped to a backwater channel filling its afternoon programming with a showing of Gone with the Wind.

“Oh, hey, was that the Eats N’ Treats on fifth? Can I see that a sec?” asked Smith, as he paused in front of the lad and motioned for the black slab of electronics.

The child eyed the waiting woman, then handed it over with a “fine.”
Mulligan flipped back to the Mexican soap, then pulled open the battery compartment and dumped the cylindrical occupants.

Finally, he replaced the Duracells, reassembled the device, and dropped it back in the boy’s lap.

He wondered if the father might raise his head at the intervention, but he paid no notice. With a shrug, Mulligan pushed past his knees, and followed the summoning dentist down the hallway. Passing an assemblage of painted landscapes that the detective guessed was purchased at Sears, they walked beyond the half-dozen occupied reclining chairs, and into a supply closet. The space, which was packed with gloves, masks, floss, and various nibs that Smith couldn’t identify, was large enough to stand comfortably apart, but little more.

“What was that all about back there?” asked the woman, as she extended a hand. Smith found her shake papery, but warm.

“You probably lost your flat-screen’s original remote in some patient’s purse,” said Mulligan, “those universal jobs always need to be reprogrammed once the batteries die, or whatever. Likely the sort of thing the lady at the front desk keeps track of. Kid had it coming.”

“I’m not too surprised. He’s kind of a squirmer. Anyhow, I’m sorry you had to wait, it’s like there’s a candy convention in town since last Friday. Not that I’m complaining.”

“I understand,” replied the private investigator. “This shouldn’t take too long, hopefully – you were saying, in your email, that you were dating Horton Cobb for a few months?”

“Six. He was a nice guy. Old fashioned. I know there’s an obvious age gap between me and Hort, but he’s what my hippy aunt would call an “old soul,” I guess, and I couldn’t help but be charmed. We met at a downtown bar – he was wearing a suit, and he stood out like a sore thumb amongst the college freshmen. I was only there because it was a friend’s birthday – I guess we both must have stood out, actually. He said he had an ailing grandmother at home, who he spent most of his hours caring for, and that he was enjoying a rare chance to getaway.

“He seemed so – like he was trying so hard.

“We exchanged phone numbers before I left. For a while we played cleverly-worded phone tag, then we got coffee. I found his company irresistible, but it was like attempting to find a sexy opening with a Victorian gentleman. It wasn’t that he was constantly formal, or even reserved – he was just always almost overwhelmingly polite and attentive. On a rainy morning, a couple of weeks later, he came in with some hot Pho to share with me. He’d noticed that I often forget to bring something in for lunch, and we’d had to call off plans to go to a soup shop the weekend before.

“We ate it in one of the examination rooms. He sat on the edge of the agony chair, and I hovered on my rolling stool. We kissed when I was done, and it tasted like cinnamon and ginger. I felt fourteen again, but, dammit, he had my heart.”

Mulligan busied himself reading the notes on the side of a box of dental dams, as Burnett wiped at a rogue tear.

After she’d cleared her throat, and apologized, she continued. Her voice was steady.

“It’s funny, for such an incredibly reserved guy, things moved so fast. A month later we were daydreaming about sharing a place. It was like a sign when Granny Cobb’s medical bills spiked and Hort had no choice but to admit that they were headed for the street. He’d made it clear that she would be gone shortly – that she simply wished to die in her own bed. He cried. I figured I could support him – support them – a while, then, when she passed, I’d be there to shelter him from the storm. Besides, I have a three room bungalow, and most of the space is used to store hobbies I never have a chance to partake in.

“She appeared pretty spry once she actually moved in, however. I mean, she didn’t do much, but she couldn’t resist her bingo nights, and was off with her dauber every Sunday. It was really the only time I had alone with Hort. I couldn’t ask him when his Gran might drop dead, but, I have to admit, dealing with her was tiring.

“Still – even if Granny was more mobile than I thought, she didn’t deserve – well: There were a few nights, when I would get back late. I wasn’t joking about being busy, I’m here twelve hours a day, most days. Sometimes, I’d crack the front door and encounter, well, shouting. It was the loudest I ever heard him. He’d certainly never raised his voice to me. There were also, uh, thuds. I never saw any visible bruises on Mrs. Cobb, but she was always overdressed, even when it was warm.

“Listen, I understand that it must be frustrating to be twenty-five and taking care of your grandmother, but – well, I looked at myself, and I looked at him. There was already a fifteen year gap. What if we did have a future together? What would happen to me when I was sixty? Sixty doesn’t feel nearly as impossibly distant as it did when I was his age.

“Whenever I raised the topic, he became flustered and pouty. We’d talk around how difficult she could be, but he’d never admit to anything, and, in the end, we’d wander away from the subject.

“Well, until three weeks ago, when I got the flu and realized at noon that I was breathing germs down my patients’ throats. I arrived home to crawl into bed, but it wasn’t a bit of suspicious banging anymore – it sounded like he was throwing things.

“I waited until he came upstairs, then confronted him in the kitchen.

“At that point he actually owed me a decent bit of money, and, really, I probably kept it going past when I should have out of guilt that I was likely the only reason Granny continued to be able to see a doctor. I just – I couldn’t it shake off anymore.

“There was a screaming match. I accused him of beating her, and he stormed from the house. Twenty minutes later, the old lady came up stairs as well, carrying a pair of well-packed suitcases. I asked her to stay, offered her the room free of rent for as long as she needed.

“I’d have regretted it, probably, but I was feeling so bad for her in that moment. She turned me down, anyhow, and followed him through the door. I gave her my number. Maybe I shouldn’t have let her leave.”

The dentist was now dry-eyed, but her thumb and forefinger continued to fret the hem of her ivory smock.

“There’s something you need to know,” said Mulligan, with his hands deep in his hoodie’s pockets.

Ten feet away, on the far side of the wall, Ricky opened wide for the drill.

 

(Part 1Part 2Part 3)

 

Flash Pulp is presented by http://skinner.fm, and is released under the Canadian Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 2.5 License.

Freesound.org credits:

Text and audio commentaries can be sent to skinner@skinner.fm, or the voicemail line at (206) 338-2792 – but be aware that it may appear in the FlashCast.

– and thanks to you, for reading. If you enjoyed the story, tell your friends.