Category: Mulligan Smith

FP306 – Mulligan Smith in Customs and Customers, Part 1 of 1

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode three hundred and six.

Flash PulpTonight we present Mulligan Smith in Customs and Customers, Part 1 of 1

[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp306.mp3]Download MP3
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This week’s episodes are brought to you by the The Hollywood Outsider.

 

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, PI, discusses an odd series of incidents in a local Walmart.

 

Mulligan Smith in Customs and Customers

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

 

Walmart Mike was saying, “oh yeah, I knew a matchbook pro, back in the day. Burned down an entire fried chicken chain in the early ‘60s. Truth is, without the Internet, people talked to each other less back then, especially insurance companies. Sorry, what? Oh, yeah, I guess we got those, you’d have to check with electronics. Have a nice day.”

Mulligan knew it had been a long day for Mike. The news had run through the old man network that loitered on mall benches and in McDonald’s booths, and eventually reached the PI’s father, who’d then passed it on to his son.

Even now, hours after the incident, the ex-con’s face was unusually drawn. He perked up, however, at the sight of Smith lingering in the parking lot.

MulliganPeeling off his smock – an action Mulligan knew he referred to as “going undercover” – Mike threw a hand-sign to his manager that obviously meant “I’m taking a minute,” then strolled past the line of tchotchke-ball-dispensing change collectors and through the automatic doors.

“You wouldn’t believe what a dog crap and Huckleberry hash this morning turned out to be,” he said as a hello.

Smith shot him a questioning look, as if he hadn’t already heard the tale.

The ability to sincerely raise an eyebrow was, Mulligan felt, an essential tool of the business.

“Look, I’m as much of a feminist as the next guy, but this morning was a test of my well-heeled social inclinations, you know what I’m fuckin’ sayin’?”

Unwilling to interrupt, Smith simply shrugged.

The aging greeter continued his tale.

“Bunch of goddamn college freshman came in here, well, three of ‘em, and they’re recording video on their phones, like it’s the fucking zoo. Assholes were all dressed like they’d found their clothes at a Sally Ann, but they all think they’re Jeff Goldblum wandering into Jurassic Park.

“Things were busy though – every Saturday is a rocket full of chickens, really – and I didn’t have time to go yakkin’ to the higher-ups over something like tourists. That is, at least, till an elderly couple with maybe ten teeth between ‘em went trotting by. He was wound up about some remark that had been made regarding his shoes, which I found kinda funny considering his dental situation – but we can’t have hassling the customers, and it didn’t take much listening to figure the problem was the trio of donkey fondlers.

“I wander away from my post for a while, figuring I’ll go have a look and see what kind of words you need to use to scare the shit out of a trust-fund kid, and I find them, still recording, in the infant section.

“Now, there’s this lady, she’s got five runts, no ring on her finger, and she looked like she was making it work on less than I do alone. Not that every woman was a quiet domestic when I was a brat, but – well, things are different now. You’d never see a lady like that then. I mean, she wasn’t likely to shame Liz Taylor, but she carried herself like she was worth more than the sweat pants she was wearing.

“She didn’t look like she’d come up in the best of places, but you could tell she’d learned something of fear and courage and when not to take shit.

“Now, you see, the second youngest had started playing to the slumming cameras, ducking behind a rack of baby carriers and peeking at them, and, all the while, the clueless rich kids were keeping an educational wildlife film commentary going, talking like the kid was a rare baboon.

“Nothing clever, either. Stuff about how they could smell his shit downwind, how the baby in the stroller might be his, that sort of thing.

“If it were ‘76, I’da probably broke one of their knees, let the other two go through the trouble of having to drag him off and explain what happened – but, hell, if it were ‘96, I’da probably walked away without saying anything, so what does time count?”

Mike took a moment to clear his throat and wet the pavement.

“Mama caught onto the irony and wasn’t pleased. She considered the situation, weighed her surroundings, and said, ‘you talk to my lil ’uns like that again and you’ll be leavin’ a bunch of harem guards.’

“I don’t even think they know what she meant, they just started in on the laziest sort of name calling, you know, ‘white trash welfare queen.’ Honestly, that part hasn’t changed that much since I was young.

“Anyhow, as I mentioned, I’m as big a feminist as the next guy. I know she could’ve handled it herself, clearly bein’ a modern women and all, but goddamn, sometimes a guy’s just gotta get a bit chivalrous.

“I turn to the pillar beside me and grab the intercom phone. ‘Security,’I say, ‘we have three pedophiles in the kids section.’ The tourists realize I’m starin’ right at ‘em as I’m talking, and they start running for the doors. They’ve got their phones out, panic on their face – hell, they looked guilty enough to hang.

“At that point there’s this cowboy in jeans and leather boots who’s coming down the aisle from electronics. He looks at me, looks at them, and, putting two-and two together, figures he’s going to play TJ Hooker. He knocked over a rack of discount t-shirts doin’ it, but he managed to grab the slowest.

“We ain’t supposed to touch customers, for legal reasons, but we can’t stop them from tackling each other.

“The guy in front turns back, thinking maybe he’ll help his friend, and even that second of hesitation is enough that they were swarmed by managers, maintenance guys, and the loss prevention team.

“Eventually they went home, but not without doing a bit of sad sack crying in front of some uniforms. For my part, I said I must have misunderstood the situation and played dumb, just like every other time I talk to someone toting a badge.

“Before that though, you know what happens? I’m standing next to the mom – Bonnie – and we’re watching the guy in his vintage band shirt rolling around with crime-fightin’ Garth Brooks. I’m busy cooking up all the lies I’ll need to tell so as not to lose my job, and she turns around to ask me what I’m doing Saturday. Says her sister owes her a favour, and she makes a mean chicken pot pie, if I’d like to come over.

“She didn’t say it like she was extending a Sunday dinner invite to her grandpa neither.

“Well, she’s younger than me by twenty-five years, but, hell, I dunno – she IS a modern woman.”

 

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 comments@flashpulp.com – but be aware that it may appear in the FlashCast.

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

FP298 – Mulligan Smith in Lingering, Part 1 of 1

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

Flash PulpTonight we present Mulligan Smith in Lingering, Part 1 of 1

[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp298.mp3]Download MP3
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This week’s episodes are brought to you by the Hollywood Outsider 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 our private investigator, Mulligan Smith, conducts an unpleasant interview with a youthful caretaker.

 

Mulligan Smith in Lingering, Part 1 of 1

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

 

The conversation had fallen into a lull, and Mulligan could find little more to do than stare at the fake-wood pattern of the table top.

Finally, after brushing back a loose strand of dirty blond hair, the girl said, “I remember the first time he didn’t come back when he said he would.”

Smith nodded, not wanting to slow the momentum of her telling.

“I mean, he’d been taking his time more and more. When Mom got sick, we couldn’t afford like a home or anything, so she just stayed at the house. I don’t even know what it was like before then, I was too small. In the beginning Dad was working long days in a factory – he was making, like, plastic riot gear stuff? The thing is, the worse she got, the the more he disappeared.”

“One night, a couple years in, when she really couldn’t get up anymore, she managed to twist herself into lying on top of the tube for her pee-bag, and I wasn’t able to roll her over. She was kind of panicking – she was still mostly speaking then – and it got me upset, and I was trying to shove her over, but I wasn’t strong enough do it.

“He finally showed the next morning. I met him at the door when I heard the key scraping at the lock, but he kept muttering about going to bed. It took a big fight to convince him it needed to be done, but together we managed to get Mom moved.

“For a long while after I would sit in the chair beside Mom for hours, worrying that it was going to happen again, or that some other emergency was going to come up and I wouldn’t be able to deal with it.

“That was when I was little though, like eleven or something.

“By fourteen, I was handling everything. I wasn’t seeing Dad often, and – it was like one of those meth warning posters, you know? I’d see him once every couple of weeks, and he’d be thinner, his eyes would be cloudier.

“He was working on and off, but I never knew where we’d get the money to cover the month’s bills. I would basically wait till he was passed out in his room, then hook a wad of cash from his wallet and stash it for food, which, frankly, he’d eventually eat most of when he decided to stumble in after a binge.

“I did some online stuff, filling out surveys and work from home crap, but it barely made anything, and we only had free dial-up, meaning we were screwed whenever the phone company unplugged us. That’s usually when I’d have to pawn something. At least I knew a place that didn’t look at Mom’s ID and point out that I wasn’t thirty-five, but if Mom hadn’t inherited the house I think we would have been homeless pretty early on.

“Anyhow, like I was saying, I woke one night, when I was fourteen, and there he was with his pants around his ankles. I mean, I shared the same frigging room with her! That wasn’t what pissed me off the most, though. He was talking to himself – I mean, trying to woo her, I guess – but by then the best she could do was grunt yes or no, and she was definitely making her no sound.”

The teen paused, gritting her teeth, and Smith did his best to nod comfortingly. Noting the emotional exchange, the uniformed man at the door raised a brow at the pair, but the private investigator simply shrugged in reply.

Finally, the girl continued.

“Mom’s cane was by the dresser. It was from the early days of her illness, when we’d had a bit of extra money for medical stuff, and even after it was obvious she wasn’t going to be walking again I couldn’t bring myself to get rid of it.

“He was standing there in the dark, rocking gently back and forth like he was on a moving boat, and he was having trouble getting Mom’s leg’s sorted. I kept seeing flashes of white skin in the light that came through the curtain crack, and his muttering just went on and on, talking about how he was going to “fix her once he got her fixed.””

“I lost it. I grabbed the cane by the bottom of the shaft and swung like it was the World Series. Caught him on the ear. The next day, across his temple, you could still see the mark from where the handle went from metal to padding.

“He hit me back, but he was so high it was like being beaten by one of those big plastic dancing men you see on top of gas stations – you know, the ones that stand in the wind and wiggle around? Anyway, I got him out of the room.

“I didn’t sleep the rest of the night, I just sat on the lip of Mom’s bed turning the cane around in my hands, feeling for all its little cool spots.

“It was a few days later that he stole all Mom’s meds to sell.

“I tried the law, I tried going through the courts, but it was impossible. After the first time I called the cops he was smart enough not to bring his meth home, and he only came back when he needed money, or food, or a good night’s sleep.

“Social Services came around once, but he managed to convince them that I was just going through a hard phase in life, with Mom being in the condition she was, and his being out of work and supposedly spending long days looking for a job. The lady ended up giving me almost like a speech about not crying wolf, and how I should appreciate what I had.

“When she left he told me that, if I ever tried anything like it again, he’d have me removed from the house and he’d take care of Mom himself.

“He randomly started slapping me then. He wasn’t my Dad anymore, the drugs had turned him into some sort of angry lizard person. All knuckles and unpredictability.

“After that I knew I was on my own.

“I mean, maybe there was another solution, but I was – I was so frustrated, so scared, so frigging exhausted. I felt ninety. I knew Mom didn’t have long left, and I just wanted her to have some peace.

“She was locked in there, which was the saddest part. I’d read to her – she was really into, you know, books with castles and magic and justice? I mean, we both were. I still am, I guess, but it’s impossible to find anything decent in here. Anyhow, she’d try and say stuff and it would just make her mad that she couldn’t talk properly, but her eyes – her eyes were always so warm and thankful and wet like she was trying to cry but her body was too broken to let her.”

If Mulligan had not been a man who paid his bills with his observations,he would have missed the practiced motion that casually wiped away the damp on her cheek.

“I looked it up on the internet,” said the girl. “Knowing which kind was best, and how much it would take, was a lot easier to understand than some of the medical articles I had to plow through for Mom. Buying helium wasn’t much of a problem, and we already had an oven bag and the tubing. I was pretty used to dealing with that sort of business by then, so it almost felt like I was just administering another type of meds when I tucked it over his head.

“It was exactly like I’d read – I mean, I wasn’t exactly using it for suicide like it’s supposed to be, but there was no struggle or anything, no coughing. He just stopped snoring eventually. Though, I think he was so stoned I’m not sure he could have gotten up if he happened to noticed I was killing him.

“I watched his warm breath build up on the inside of the bag, then, when it stopped, I removed everything, walked four blocks, and chucked it all in a dumpster. It didn’t feel much different than having to empty Mom’s pee-bag.

”One of the reasons the euthanasia folks like that way of doing it is because it’s so hard to trace.I talked to a couple of the EMS people and a police officer, but I guess drug testing had them convinced he’d just overdosed. I kept expecting to be hauled off, that everything was finally over, but nothing happened.

“Mom passed eight months later. I was holding her at the time.

““I turned myself in for murder later that day. I hadn’t even called 911 about her body yet.

“I had no money and I didn’t trust the social services people, so I don’t know what other option I had.”

Smith looked to his left, his gaze sweeping across the cream-coloured cafeteria that acted as the Capital City Juvenile Detention Center’s visitation area.

“At least I get to go to school in here,” the girl finished.

Mulligan closed the notebook he’d kept on hand, the fresh page still unmarked.

“I think my client is just going to have to accept the loss of his heirloom,” he said. “It’s pretty clear your dad smoked or injected whatever it was worth. I guess I could give that pawn shop you mentioned a try, maybe the owner was allowing trade from a minor because he knew your pops and how hard up you were.

“Now, uh, since your parole officer has cleared me on the list, I may as well use the access, right? Most of those shops have a pretty decent selection of books – I’ll grab you a couple of slabs of swords and sorcery.”

The girl let her tears flow then, and she did not hide them.

 

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

Text and audio commentaries can be sent to comments@flashpulp.com – but be aware that it may appear in the FlashCast.

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

FP288 – Mulligan Smith in Legacy, Part 1 of 1

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

Flash PulpTonight we present Mulligan Smith in Legacy, Part 1 of 1

[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp288.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

 

This week’s episodes are brought to you by The Ice and Fire Convention.

 

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 finds himself asking hard questions in a dingy roadside store.

 

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

 

Mulligan Smith stood before a shelf of Pringles cans. Though his eyes were directed towards the parade of gassing trucks beyond the store’s broad window, his ear was cocked to the shop-keeper’s current discussion.

As he talked with his back turned, Andy Marland pushed at the nub of a tall commercial coffee dispenser and filled a cardboard cup with the Top Stop logo printed on it.

“- yeah, he built it fifty years ago, and I’ve worked here the better part of the time. The first twenty years I was just a change jiggler, but once Pops finally left his post I started having to pump the gas as well – hah, joking of course, we haven’t been full service for over a decade.”

Smith had heard the same gag told through three times in as many days, and he felt repetition had done little for its comedic merit.

The customer at the receiving end of the conversation accepted his steaming caffeine and gave the old man behind the counter a nod, then shrugged his battered denim jacket against the chill and pushed open the glass door.

Though the fuel flowed constantly outside, most payments were handled at the pump, allowing Mulligan a moment alone with the pot-bellied proprietor.

The private investigator watched himself slide from fish-eyed mirror to fish-eyed mirror as he approached the front of the store. No angle was left uncovered, but dotted between the round reflectors were the endlessly winking red lights of security cameras.

Mulligan SmithMulligan happened to be familiar with the models – hi definition units wirelessly connecting back to a central recorder. It appeared the station’s owner had sprung for a package generally reserved for warehouses and large offices; there was nowhere to sneeze in the building without being watched by at least four lenses.

Before the counterman could begin his spiel, Smith stepped in with his own.

“You keep the place alone? It must suck always being chained to the spot.”

Marland raised a brow. “This is my legacy. My father picked this place like a prospector pans for gold. He drove up and down three states to find this spot, and I’ve been working this counter for the thirty years since he died. Those doors have been open every day but one – the day of Joanie’s funeral – and that’s the only time I’ve ever wanted off.”

Smith shrugged. “I hear what you’re saying, but I see you saying it from behind a thirty-year-old counter – a counter that mainly sees the sale of cigarettes and energy drinks to long haul truckers. I mean, wasn’t a trailer involved in your wife’s death? A cowboy making a lane change without looking?”

“It was late. She was minding the till while I had some supper. Who are you to be asking?”

“I’m the snoop Misha Taylor hired.”

A smile came to Marland’s face fully formed, an alarm response as automatic as the thick recessed security shutters slamming down. He said, “who?”

“The wife of a guy who drifted into oncoming traffic, and a single mom with her three kids in the back seat. It was a couple weeks ago, you might have seen it in the newspapers you never manage to sell?”

“What does any of that have to do with me?”

“That’s what I’m asking. Maybe you had a grudge against the big rig guys, but I think it was more than that. I think you were angry about watching so many people a day hop on that highway and slip away. All you see is taillights, you never see the journey. I don’t think the resentment is over your wife alone, I think it was because you were anchored here.

A twitch formed at the edge of Andy’s grin. “Did you stop here to do meth in the bathroom? I’ve had to run your kind out before.”

“You should have just sold the damn place. You could have been telling stories about how your father’s legacy was an ocean-side condo down in Florida, but, speaking of high powered chemicals, you have a tough time sleeping, Andy? Those pills only come by prescription.”

Marland’s hands seemed to grow flatter with each statement, and Smith worried they would soon break through the transparent plastic that housed the scratch tickets beneath.

“Things change,” said Smith,” and not always for the better. You either flow with that change, or you risk losing yourself to it. Look at those mirrors, the shutters, the cameras. Look where the money’s going – not in presentation, not in building on what your father handed you – it’s all invested in distrust.

“My theory is that you hate this place, and the people who visit it, but it’s all you have because you’re too afraid to change anything. You bury it deep, but it’s there.

“Problem is, change, well, you need to roll with change, or change’ll trample you. These cameras, for instance – your system works fine, but you’ve still got the default password on everything. I’ve spent the last three days sitting in your parking lot with a laptop.

“I figure maybe you didn’t mean to hurt anyone when you started dropping those Ativans in with their joe. When you began, maybe you figured you’d teach those rig wranglers a lesson by forcing them off the road for a nap – but I did the math. Pretty simple, really. Those boys move quick, which saved you for a while – they’d be a state or two away before they finally passed out and coasted into a ditch. Oh, I’m sure plenty of them bunked down first, but I pulled together a bunch of news reports on an online map. It basically gave me a big circle, and from there it was just a matter of making it smaller and smaller.

“It took a while, but you’d be amazed how much a trucker makes in a year, and Misha loved her husband dearly. Time was all it took to make the circle as tight as these walls.”

 

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 comments@flashpulp.com – but be aware that it may appear in the FlashCast.

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

FP283 – Mulligan Smith and The Reformed Man, Part 3 of 3

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode two hundred and eighty-three.

Flash PulpTonight we present Mulligan Smith and The Reformed Man, Part 3 of 3
(Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3)
[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp283.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

 

This week’s episodes are brought to you by The Dark Wife.

 

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 seeks many truths.

 

Mulligan Smith and The Reformed Man, Part 3 of 3

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

 

Mulligan Smith“Yeah, but four dudes?” Billy was saying.

“Meh,” replied Mulligan. “You might not complain if you had the attention of a squadron of ladies for the evening. The ferocity driving a power-player’s libido is often the same thing that makes their bank accounts fatter than any we’ll ever see.

“They’re just people with appetites, but their hunger isn’t necessarily wrong, it’s just different. I’m not into seafood either.”

“What about Donegan then?” asked the mountain.

“Ever eat so much that you regret it when you finally push away from the table?”

“Nope.”

The pair were standing in front of a shabby downtown church, watching the Sunday tide of sign carriers flow through the double doors.

When no further response came from his friend, Billy ravaged the Big Mac he’d demanded for being forced out of bed at such an early hour.

Finally, as Winnipeg licked the last of the secret sauce from his chin, Smith asked, “you ready?”

The Canadian squared his shoulders. “Ghandi said, “I always believed in fighting.”

“Wait,” replied Smith, “I know where I’ve heard all this before – did you seriously make a major life decision based on Gandhi, the movie?”

“Hey, Ben Kingsley is a genius, and it was, you know, accurate. Besides, I, uh, read some stuff online too.”

Mulligan, with slurpee in hand, shook his head. “Well, I’m sorry whatever the case. You know I appreciate the favour.”

After receiving an embarrassed grin, and a shrug, from Billy, the PI laid a sneakered foot on the bottommost step.

* * *

The Church of the Burning Christ’s limited capacity was nearly filled, but Smith knew the message was not restricted to the room inside: Online research had turned up recordings of nearly every sermon delivered between the egg-shell white walls. Furthermore, Mulligan’s occupation of a rear pew during the previous week’s service had given him a feel for the habits of the worship house, and he knew, as the clock neared the hour, that he’d find Matthew Donegan behind a modest brown door behind the altar.

The preacher liked a moment alone preceding his entrance – likely, the detective guessed, to psyche himself to the energy level necessary to maintain an hour’s worth of railing against homosexuality, dead soldiers, and the government – and it was on this brief window, away from the throng, that Smith laid his gamble.

The approach went smoothly enough. The sleuth had half expected to be stopped by some curious altar-tender, but, instead, Mulligan sailed across the gray carpet, and into the relative quiet of a small antechamber.

As he entered, Matthew Donegan stood to his left, preening in a slender plastic-framed mirror which hung on the wall.

Donegan wore a three-piece suit of questionable origin, and his hair had recently been buzzed in such a way that a lone lick of flame projected a short bill over his furrowed brow.

While absentmindedly adjusting the black nub of electronics clipped to his collar, the cleric said, “check your watch, I’ve got three minutes.”

Smith was unsure who he’d assumed the intruder was, but it was clear from the preacher’s frown that the surprise was an unpleasant one.

Clearing his throat, Mulligan made his play. “Listen, I kind of understand Watson, but what happened with Benton? Were you out on the street one night, hurling hate from your soapbox, and you two shared a moment of recognition? You know, that uncomfortable moment when you realize you sort of had sex with a passerby? Did you follow him down that alley because you were just as scared as he was?

“You’re supposed to be a man of The Lord – face what you’ve done. You’re going to pay no matter what you do, but at least you can find peace with yourself.”

Donegan’s jaw suddenly shut – but briefly.

“What idiocy is this?” he asked. “What are you talking about?”

His voice was calm, but Smith read panic in his eyes.

It was the fear upon which the PI had placed his bet.

“Morgan Watson and Donnie Benton? The guys you killed? Sad story for your pal Morgan, falling on hard times after graduation, but I guess he was pretty pleased to look up from the gutter and see you swinging bibles and calling people faggots. Didn’t do much for your bank account though, did it? At least, not by the looks of the records I’ve stumbled on.

You fixed that cash flow problem, though, didn’t you?”

“If you’re going to arrest me,” said Donegan, “then do it, and at least my lawyers will have to be the ones listening to you prattle.”

“Oh,” replied Mulligan, dancing at the edge of truth, “I’m no police officer, I’m here for the money.”

In truth, while Smith HAD stumbled across the blackmail’s paper-trail once he’d known where to look, the records alone would not be sufficient to convince a District Attorney to put a holy man on trial – even a holy man with Donegan’s reputation.

Nonetheless, Mulligan had reasoned that fear had driven Donegan to do something stupid at least twice in the past, and that perhaps it might again.

He was proven right when Donegan muttered a barely audible, “Ah, so now I see you for what you are: Another blaggard with Satan’s spunk dribbling from his lips and his hands reaching into a better man’s pocket. What makes you think I won’t give you the same as I gave Watson, you whoreson?”

“You know, Matthew, with your passion, you could have really made something with this place. It’s too bad your own self-loathing has so badly twisted your message. If you’d just accepted yourself, and what happened in that sweaty little apartment, then maybe you could’ve accepted everyone else, and built something righteous.”

It should have been enough, and, as Smith turned to abruptly exit, he nearly felt like whistling.

He was halfway down the center aisle when the trouble began.

Mulligan and Billy’s previous visit had shown them that the building’s sound system was run from a dark audio booth at the rear of the sanctuary, and directly into a CD burner, so that each day’s homily could be purchased, at a small fee, by the attending faithful. It had been Smith’s plan to simply have the man at the console surreptitiously turn on Donegan’s mic, while keeping the main speakers muted, and to then further leverage Winnipeg’s bulk into ensuring a copy of the confession was made.

The success of the process was heavily in doubt when the sound engineer in question came crashing through the booth’s smokey window.

Seconds later, the sight of the behemoth crawling out over the broken glass brought the congregation to their feet in aid of their injured brother, and the pews began to disgorge a riot already in progress.

Smith was slightly relieved when he noticed an unlabeled disc in the bleeding man’s hand, and the fact that he was already on his feet gave the sleuth a sliver of a lead on the mob. As a rush of fist-waving parishioners came against the wall that was Billy Winnipeg, Mulligan scooped the evidence from the stunned audio engineer and stashed it in a deep pocket.

Smith’s fast footwork, and Winnipeg’s thick arms, carried the pair to the threshold, and onto the street. With the eager amongst the crowd now cradling bludgeoned nostrils, the attackers fell back on their most practiced strongpoint: Screaming. “Faggot!” was the most common refrain, with “enabler!” a distant second, and yet, despite the din, Smith couldn’t help but notice the sandy-haired twelve year who had settled on repeating “Satan’s cocksucker!”

A sprint later and the Tercel’s engine was roaring to life. Spotting a blue slip fluttering beneath his windshield wiper, Mulligan couldn’t help but feel the cost of the illegal parking job was certainly worth the hasty departure.

“What happened back there?” asked Smith, as they rounded the third corner, and his speed began to slacken. “I thought you were going to bribe him, or bluff him at worst?”

“I was gonna. I offered the cash and he took it, but, just before he handed me the CD, he hesitated.

“I thought he was scared at first, and I told him “You know the truth, and I believe it was Gandhi who once said, ‘If you are a minority of one, the truth is the truth.’

“Then I realized he was deciding that he probably believed in whatever reasons Donegan had for stabbing a guy, and he just looked at me and said, “Gandhi was a pussy.”

“So I hit him.”

The press following the incident would be enough to have the Church of the Burning Christ’s tax status reevaluated, and the recording would close the case on the murder of Morgan Watson.

In the meantime, however, Mulligan simply said, “Billy, let’s head over to the east side of town. There’s a hipster movie house running a documentary on Mandela I think you’ll like. I’ll buy the popcorn.”

 

(Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 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 comments@flashpulp.com – but be aware that it may appear in the FlashCast.

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

FP282 – Mulligan Smith and The Reformed Man, Part 2 of 3

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode two hundred and eighty-two.

Flash PulpTonight we present Mulligan Smith and The Reformed Man, Part 2 of 3
(Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3)
[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp282.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

 

This week’s episodes are brought to you by The Dark Wife.

 

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 conducts a hurried interrogation in the depths of a well appointed office.

 

Mulligan Smith and The Reformed Man, Part 2 of 3

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

 

Mulligan SmithAs he pushed through the glass and steel store, Smith finished saying, “You want to deal with secretaries and psychopaths the same way – give them your name, try to sneak some personal details into conversation, and generally make yourself a human being in their eyes. It’s often your only chance for survival.”

The receptionist stationed at the front desk was so sharply dressed that Mulligan nearly felt a need to check his own palm for cuts after shaking the man’s hand.

From above the lenses of his ironically-rimmed glasses, the gatekeeper looked over the hoodied PI and his towering companion. His mouth tightened.

Before he could decide between sarcasm and security, however, a brunette woman in a chocolate brown skirt entered the welcome area. A wisp had escaped her bun, and now floated above the left shoulder of her Tiffany Blue blouse. She moved with ease, but her rolled up sleeves, and the fact that the suit jacket which no doubt matched the skirt was obviously long forgotten, left the detective concerned she might attempt to blow off their interview.

Instead, she said: “Down, Todd. These are friends.”

Cassie Withers did not wait for a reply, she simply returned to the short hallway from which she appeared.

Smith was quick to follow.

After a brisk walk along art-filled walls, Ms. Wither’s door clicked shut behind Winnipeg

She wasted no time.

“Cassie,” she said, extending a hand to both men. “I apologize for the setting. Meeting about this at work isn’t exactly my preference, but we’re in a bit of an accounting knife fight with our Malaysian branch at the moment. It’s especially annoying as I’m booked on a flight there in the morning.

“Anyhow, not to be rude, but, what I’m saying is, talk fast and be blunt. You’ve basically got from now till I finish drinking my coffee and eating my crackers, then I’m afraid I’ll have to start swinging spreadsheets around the place.”

Mulligan almost regretted having to step on the intricately woven rug Cassie had laid atop the room’s beige carpet, but it was the only way to the leather-covered chairs which sat across from her desk.

“Well,” said Mulligan, “Mr. Perez has asked me – er, us – to look into any connections between the deaths of Donnie Benton and Morgan Watson.”

Withers nodded and asked, “have you found any?”

“Honestly,” replied Smith, “Not as of yet. Mr. Perez wasn’t terribly forthcoming on background. I know you all used to hang out in college, and that they both lived in the city when they died. The end. If the person who stabbed Watson three years ago is the same as the one who clubbed Benton to death a week ago, they certainly didn’t leave me any notes saying so.”

Brushing aside the rogue lock of hair, Cassie sighed. “Felix didn’t tell you?”

“No.”

“Well, it’s not something I brag about either I suppose. Still, they are fond memories.

“I suppose it started when I met Felix. We were in the same church group together, and we got close at in the closing weeks of high school, when we realized we were both going to the Capital School of Business. We met Donnie and Morgan and Matthew Donegan. Felix was the brains, Donnie was the schmoozer, Morgan was as close as C.S.B.’s ivy league reputation would allow it to come to admitting a bad boy, and Donegan was the mysterious quiet guy.

“Listen – I grew up very catholic. I mean, my parents are wonderful people, the nicest, most generous souls you’ll ever meet. Their faith gave them the strength to survive the death of my older brother, but it also meant I was raised in a straightjacket.

“They had the best of intentions, and they generally did a fantastic job of instilling me with all the greatest parts of what they believed, but – well, in some areas, the ones I’d been most restricted in, I kind of exploded.”

As the narrator paused to sip at her coffee and chew a Trisket, the PI nodded, and Winnipeg leaned forward in his chair, resting the meat of his arms on his broad legs.

Finally Withers cleared her throat, “I slept with them all freshman year.”

“Huh,” replied Mulligan, as he punched notes into his phone. “Any old jealousies from that? Who was the first, and who was last?”

Following his friends’ line of thinking, Billy steepled his fingers sagely. “Gandhi once said ‘An eye for an eye ends up making the whole world blind.’”

“No,” responded the cracker-eater, “I mean at once.

”We were all drunk at Felix’s tiny apartment. He had this huge, sexy, velvet couch that took up the entire living room. They all seemed like nice guys – they were definitely all handsome. It didn’t hurt that they were some of the first boys I’d ever left alone with. I dared them.”

An involuntary “whoa” escaped Winnipeg’s lips, but, with a defensive look, he added, “Mahatma also said, ‘For myself, I’ve found we’re all such sinners, we should leave punishment to God.’”

Smith simply puckered his lips and tapped at the blank screen of his cell.

For a long moment there was only the sound of a phone ringing from beyond the shut door and the crunching of cooked wheat.

It allowed the full weight of her words to sink in, at which point the sleuth realized he was presented with an unpleasant question.

“Did you say Matthew Donegan? THE Matthew Donegan?”

“Yeah,” came the reply, as Withers emptied her mug. “You know him, or at least of him, I guess?”

“Yeah,” said Mulligan, “we know him. In fact, the reverend was yelling at us just last night. Maybe Winnipeg here should have tried to be a little nicer.”

Despite his flip tone, Smith did not relish his the idea of calling on the flame-haired head of the Church of the Burning Christ.

He thanked the honest woman for her time, then stood.

 

(Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 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 comments@flashpulp.com – but be aware that it may appear in the FlashCast.

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

FP281 – Mulligan Smith and The Reformed Man, Part 1 of 3

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode two hundred and eighty-one.

Flash PulpTonight we present Mulligan Smith and The Reformed Man, Part 1 of 3
(Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3)
[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp281.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

 

This week’s episodes are brought to you by The Dark Wife.

 

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 dines at the edge of a crime scene.

 

Mulligan Smith and The Reformed Man, Part 1 of 3

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

 

Mulligan SmithThe client had been vague in his instructions: “Check out the crime scene and get a feel for the area before your meeting, the following day, with Cassie Withers.”

Smith was no stranger to any of Capital City’s neighbourhoods, but he had done his best to earn his pay. The downtown alley in question was a narrow run between a college bar, whose ownership was in constant rotation, and a shuttered shop with a sun-worn sign that read “Taj Mahal Grocery.”

Mulligan continued to stare at the lane, though the afternoon had worn away to evening, and the growing shadows were unlikely to provide any new information on the death of Donnie Benton. As he eyed the gloom, the P.I. tapped a cooling mozzarella stick against his not-quite-clean plate.

His friend, Billy Winnipeg, had selected the nearest eatery to the location of the murder; a pub-style hangout with a sidewalk patio, which was otherwise devoid of patrons due to summering students. The seating area consisted of five plastic tables trapped in a box of wrought iron barricades, and the view was making it difficult for Smith to enjoy his client-billed dinner.

Billy, who was retelling a particularly embarrassingly vomit-filled incident from his mother’s time as a motel cleaning woman, was having no difficulty disposing of either of his hamburgers. Between the tale and the food, the thick-fingered Canadian had no attention left for his friend’s lack of appetite.

Mulligan’s gaze wandered down the street, to a gray-bearded man in the process of turning in his sleep. Even as his fingerless gloves worked at maintaining the newspapers that made up his bench-bed’s blanket, the slumberer’s snores continued.

The free meal bothered Smith. Why had he been hired? Two of the client’s university friends had been murdered, three years apart, but he had nothing else to add. Had the victims been into anything nefarious? He didn’t know. Were the dead pair close? He couldn’t say, they hadn’t been in touch.

Yet Mulligan’s employer was willing to pay for a professional snoop to walk in the C.C.P.D.’s footsteps.

The detective dipped his fried cheese in the complementary marinara sauce, but the red glaze failed to make it any more appealing.

Somewhere beyond the restless hobo, a chant drifted in on the still August air, and, within moments, the pavement filled with a throng of angry slogans and wildly swinging flashlights.

The Church of the Burning Christ had taken publicized stands against recent military actions overseas, going so far as to protest the funerals of local soldiers, but, to most of the city’s dwellers, they were best known for their signage and roadside homilies.

From the opposite direction came a lone woman, wearing a long leather coat and a studded choker. A pair of white earbuds – matching her facial makeup – thrust some unknown beat into her ears, splashing that which would not fit back into the boulevard.

Despite the approaching gauntlet, the girl did not swerve in her course, and Mulligan, though he did not know her, gave a respectful half-wave as she passed.

She had just enough time to give him a resigned shrug in reply, then the shouting began.

It started with the leader of the group, a red-headed man with full day’s stubble on his cheeks.

“And when Jehu was come to Jezreel, Jezebel heard of it; and she painted her face, and tired her head, and looked out at a window,” he announced to the crowd at his back.

His congregation snickered, raising higher their hand-scrawled declarations.

From his position, Mulligan could easily read two “God Hates Fags” and a “You’re Going To Hell.”

“Harlots stain their faces many colours,” continued the preacher’s impromptu sermon, “but all are equally whorish.”

There came the scrape of plastic on stone, and Winnipeg rose from the ruins of his meal.

“Hey,” he said. The word rose like thunder from the depths of his throat. “My mom spent a few years as a hard hustling whore. It ain’t easy. They don’t call them working girls for nothing.”

Smith knew it to be a lie, but the few seconds of distraction were enough to let the leathered woman slip through their net of beratement.

Over the collar of his crisp white shirt, the evangelist’s neck took on a shade not unlike that of his hair.

He turned to his followers.

“Leviticus tells a tale we must now recall: “Now an Israelite woman’s son, whose father was an Egyptian, went out among the people of Israel. And the Israelite woman’s son and a man of Israel fought in the camp, and the Israelite woman’s son blasphemed the Name, and cursed. Then they brought him to Moses. His mother’s name was Shelomith, the daughter of Dibri, of the tribe of Dan. And they put him in custody, till the will of the Lord should be clear to them. Then the Lord spoke to Moses, saying, “Bring out of the camp the one who cursed, and let all who heard him lay their hands on his head, and let all the congregation stone him.’

“Did you hear this heathen’s accent? Just as the half-breed egyptian came into the camp of the Israelites, so too has this foreigner – a Canadian, and the admitted son of a prostitute – come to speak to us of corruption.”

A cacophony of slurs rolled from the crowd, but, having accomplished his task, Billy simply sat back down.

Mulligan raised an eyebrow and asked, “you going to let them talk to you like that that?”

The weight of Winnipeg’s arms strained the workmanship of the table as his glass of beer disappeared within his fingers’ grasp. He lifted the mug as if it were the first drink after a day’s heavy labour: With a smile, and entirely oblivious to the troubles beyond its rim.

“Talking shit is all we’ve got,” he said. “Mom says its a universal right – one of the few. Talking shit and dying are really the only two things you can never stop people from doing. You can make laws about it, but then people just think they’re badasses because they’re talking shit in private.

”You gotta treat these sorts of folks like those little dogs, the yapping buggers. Kicking them just makes ‘em worse. You live with one for a while, and leave ‘em alone, it gets to a point where you don’t even notice the constant barking anymore.”

Realizing they’d get no further reaction out of the chatting pair, the crusaders marched on.

Smith grinned. “I’ve never known you to back away from the opportunity to lob a fist.”

“I’m a reformed man,” responded Billy. “No more punch ups.”

“Why the change of heart?”

“Well, as Gandhi once said, “I object to violence because when it appears to do good, the good is only temporary; the evil it does is permanent.””

As the members of the Church of the Burning Christ turned the block’s corner, Mulligan’s smile turned to a smirk. Over Winnipeg’s shoulder, however, he could see the formerly sleeping man creeping in his direction, an ear cocked to the wind, so that he might guess the distance of the warbling assembly.

It was clear he had no interest in remaining long enough for the hostile flock to return.

“Besides,” said Winnipeg, after draining his ale, “Ma says she’ll be pissed if I lay anyone else out.”

Donnie Benton’s final moments came to Mulligan then – the pain that must have blossomed from the crown of his skull as the two-by-four landed, the impact of his cheek on the cool cement, the utter indifference the world outside the alley had shown his last breath.

It didn’t seem like much of a neighbourhood for pacifism.

Lifting his hand to summon the bill, Smith nudged his abandoned dinner towards the passing homeless man, who, in turn, gratefully filled his pockets.

 

(Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 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 comments@flashpulp.com – but be aware that it may appear in the FlashCast.

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

FP276 – Mulligan Smith and The Jailhouse Lover, Part 1 of 1

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

Flash PulpTonight we present Mulligan Smith and The Jailhouse Lover, Part 1 of 1

[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp276.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

 

This week’s episodes are brought to you by Dead Kitchen Radio.

 

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 finds himself listening to a tale of prison romance.

 

Mulligan Smith and The Jailhouse Lover

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

 

“Power windows? Fuck power windows,” Walmart Mike was saying.

The Mercedes-Benz alongside the Tercel pulled away from the stoplight.

Mulligan had offered the old man a ride home after discovering him waiting out the downtown bus in a plexiglas shelter, but he hadn’t expected much in the way of a conversation.

Mulligan SmithThe greeter asked, “you know those flicks where some a-hole with a moustache finds himself facing off against twenty guys and he just stands behind his jalopy and blasts them all? Yeah, I knew this idiot, Dustin Cameron, who actually tried it. He was on parole, but he couldn’t resist living big. Drove around in a boat of a Cadillac. First car I ever rode in with power windows.

“Only because he bought me lunch, you understand – I was done with the life by then.”

Mike paused, drumming his fingers on the passenger-side door’s armrest.

“Few weeks later he rolls on a couple hard-cases who were bothering his employers. Stops his road yacht in the middle of the street, stands up from the driver seat, and levels a Colt .45 – blam, blam, blam.

“I’m guessing that he was coked out of his mind, but they didn’t mention it in the papers.

“Anyhow, one of the pair drops, but the other’s quick, and he gets his own peashooter in play.

“The two of ‘em keep doing the squint and squeeze for a few more seconds, until they’re both clicking at each other, then, full of adrenaline, the idiot gets back in the caddy and starts to drive away.

“Apparently his windshield had several holes in it, and his goddamn engine must’ve looked like a sieve. A block on he realized that his brakes were pooched, and that he couldn’t stop at the light. A FedEx truck moving through the cross traffic hit ‘im in the trunk, though. Spun the car around and made it stall – but the impact was also enough to spark a fire.

“Some pedestrians who hadn’t seen what he’d been running from came pounding the pavement toward him, looking to pull him clear before it was too late, but he jerked out of his shock suddenly, and his first instinct was to bring his big pistol up.

“Well, of course everyone stepped the fuck back.

“He panicked, threw the piece in the rear seat, and started yelling for help. At that point, though, no ones really excited about giving it a second go.

“People could see him slamming at the power windows, but they were as dead as the rest of the car. He tried kicking at the glass, but his sneakers kept bouncing. By the time he thought to look for the Colt, the Cadillac was so full of smoke he probably couldn’t see where he’d dropped it – he cooked before he found it.”

Mulligan whistled. There was a note of emotion in his passenger’s telling that seemed heavier than the story – one more tale of violence in the hundred he’d heard previously – so, rather than trample a carefully prepared runway, the private investigator otherwise maintained his silence.

After a moment, Mike cleared his throat.

“It’s funny, in prison people hustle hard for just a bit of sugar,” he said. “That’s where I met Dustin. There was this guy, real prison house Cyrano, you know, used to write letters for him. Well, really, the guy did it for a lot of folks. Some illiterate liquor store holdup man would wander off to him in the yard and say “Hey, it’s me and my lady’s third anniversary, can I get a poem?” The writer’d ask a few questions – you know, get a feel for what their relationship was like – and then he’d wander off and scrawl a little something.

“In exchange, Cyrano would score a couple of packages of Twinkies from the canteen. Kept him fat through the cold months.

“Hell, he was no Shakespeare, but a lot of those guys barely knew how to read.

“Dustin and him got in pretty good. Came to the point where Cameron would just bring his words from home over to Cyrano’s bunk to have ‘em read, then the ghostwriter would spit something out and collect his sweets.

“Thing is, after a few months, the scribbler falls for the girl. Can’t blame him, really – he had no one writing him, and she was always hella enthusiastic about his messages.

“I was always under the impression that maybe it was as close to a romance as Dustin ever gave her, even if it was a sham.

“There’s a limit to what you can say, you know – what they’ll let pass through the mail – but things got as hot as they could under the warden’s watchful letter opener.

“Maybe that’s why Cameron stopped wanting to write as often, and waited before swinging by Cyrano’s bunk. The correspondence, and Twinkies, slowed to a trickle.

“Now, Dustin was to be in for twenty. Didn’t happen that way – he did just over six before he was released to go down in his blaze of glory – but, as far as we knew, he was in for a full shift.

“Cyrano, however, was short, and he couldn’t shut the woman from his mind, even if he’d only seen her in a grainy picture taped to Dustin’s wall.

“Two months before he’s to be pushed out the gate, Cameron started a major ruckus in the yard and got himself shoved in the hole for a little thinking time.

“He was still there when lover-boy went through the door.

“My understanding is that, while Cyrano wasn’t proud of it, he looked in on Mrs. Cameron not long after. Guess he’d written her address enough times to have it memorized.

“It was a small apartment on the west side of the city – he caught her exiting her door, dolled to the hilt and glowing like a classy pinup. She was pulling a gent along behind her, and the both of them were grinning as if they were kids sneaking out from under the bleachers.

“Dustin had a temper, so I suppose she can’t be blamed for not being in a hurry to piss him off by delivering the news that they were done. She did theoretically have a couple decades.”

“Right, well, Cyrano just apologized and said he’d meant stop on the floor above – said he must have hit the wrong button in the elevator, can you believe that, ha, ha, ha. Then he ran like a kicked dog.

“Haven’t seen him in quite a while, actually.”

Years of practice had guided the pacing of Mike’s telling, and, as he finished, Mulligan was nosing his ancient Tercel into the parking lot of the ex-con’s residence.

“What do I owe ya?” asked the elder man, still wearing his blue work-smock.

Smith smiled. “Nothing, as always – though, honestly, I now have a terrible hankering for a Twinkie.”

Mike scowled, but found he couldn’t hold it, and was forced to shift to a red-cheeked grin.

“C’mon inside,” he said, “I happen to have a few in the fridge.”

 

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

Freesound.org credits:

  • Car Door Slam by sdfalk

    • Text and audio commentaries can be sent to comments@flashpulp.com – but be aware that it may appear in the FlashCast.

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

    FP267 – Mulligan Smith in Use, Part 1 of 1

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

    Flash PulpTonight we present Mulligan Smith in Use, Part 1 of 1

    [audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp267.mp3]Download MP3
    (RSS / iTunes)

     

    This week’s episodes are brought to you by Haywire.

     

    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 finds himself chatting with a golf club carrying killer.

     

    Mulligan Smith in Use, Part 1 of 1

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

     

    Despite the July heat, Mulligan Smith was still wearing his black hoodie as he sat beneath a broad-limbed elm and sipped at his coke slurpee.

    Mulligan SmithThe grass was thick, and the sun was bright. It was rare for the private investigator, who spent so much of his time wandering Capital City’s concrete, to encounter such an plush expanse of green, and Mulligan was fighting the urge to take off his shoes.

    If he hadn’t had an appointment, he knew he likely would have.

    Finally, his thoughts were invaded by the sudden landing of what looked to be a white egg, some fifteen feet from his freedom-yearning toes.

    A few moments later, a woman appeared to claim the ball.

    “Sure beats a public park, though,” Smith replied to the surprised newcomer’s peaked eyebrow.

    She was forty-four, with hair kept blonde by salon dyes, and a stomach kept flat by her time walking the course. Beneath her white visor – which matched her ivory shorts – she wore thin-rimmed sunglasses.

    “It’s the privacy that makes it nice,” the detective continued, “but what’s the point of spending the effort in maintaining this pristine beauty if so few get a chance to use it?”

    The dark lenses made it tough to judge her reactions, but Mulligan suspected she had an experienced poker face even under the best of conditions.

    “What are you doing here?” she asked.

    “Waiting for you, Carol,” replied Smith.

    “Waiting for me in the rough at the fourth hole’s dog leg?” As she spoke, she retrieved a club from her bag. Her motions were calm, but, then, she had a weapon in her grip.

    “Yes,” said Mulligan. “On Sunday it takes you about twenty minutes to get from the office to here, and another ten to hit the tee. You’re a little slow today, but I guess it’s because you don’t have to race your boss, Hartley, now that you’ve killed him – it was an accident though, right?

    “Anyhow, you also have a terrible tendency to overpower your first stroke on this hole, so I figured this would be a nice place to meet for a quiet chat.

    ”Name’s Mulligan Smith, by the way.”

    “How do you know all this?” asked the golfer.

    She held off on her swing, but it was the only sign that he’d phased her.

    Smith resolved to try harder.

    “I’m a P.I.,” replied Mulligan, “I spent most of last June following you from green to green.”

    “Why?”

    “Your husband thought you were having an affair.”

    The woman snorted, then, with a near-perfect roll of her shoulders, sent the ball high in the air.

    It landed squarely on the fairway.

    “Nicely done,” said Smith. “Of course, I discovered you were doing exactly what you’d said you were: Giving Hartley a mild bit of competition on the links while schmoozing, in hopes of winning a promotion back at the shop. The practice wasn’t getting you anywhere, though, was it? Well, that is, not till his funeral that September.”

    Carol’s motions were deliberate as she returned the five iron back to its wheeled bag. “Guess not, otherwise I’d be on the green. It’s been an interesting chat, but it’s time for me to go.”

    From beyond her retreating shoulder she added, “if you follow me, I’ll call security. Expect a restraining order shortly.”

    “I’ve got video,” replied Mulligan.

    She stopped and turned.

    “Video?”

    “Yeah, a few mean slices, and a few poorly timed hits of the long ball – all aimed generally at your boss’ noggin’.”

    From over the rim of her glasses, Carol squinted.

    “Oh, I get it now: Blackmail. Well, tough luck, pal, it was an accident. It wasn’t me that killed Hartley, it was his popping cyst, which I didn’t know about it.”

    “That’s not what Craig says. He seems to recall you mentioning it repeatedly over the years. He remembers it especially because you don’t often have the chance for conversation.

    “Tough to prove a case like that, maybe, but, between the recordings and your hubby’s word, I think we can probably prod a sympathetic member of the local constabulary into action.

    ”I hear Mrs. Hartley is getting married again – it might give her some comfort.”

    “Craig? – but why?”

    “To hear him tell it, he’s been pretty patient with your years of ass-kissing, but – even after cutting your green time down to just Sundays – once he learned of the extended work hours your promotion was going to mean, he realized your promise of having more time for him would never happen.

    “I’ve been to your place, you know. It reminds me of this golf course, in some ways. Shame to build such a beautiful thing without getting any use out of it.

    “My client is ready to move on. He wants a divorce. He also wants the house and the Prius. Most of all, though, he doesn’t want any arguments or lengthy legal proceedings. He knows how competitive you can get.”

    Behind the tint of her glasses, Carol considered the proposition.

    At the hole’s tee, a trio of frat boys had gathered. Their shaded eyes and exchanged shrugs had not yet worked them up to shouting something at the interfering loiterers, but Smith could tell, even at that distance, that it wouldn’t be long.

    On Mulligan’s left, the sound of sprinklers drifted up from the depths of a small ravine.

    “You know,” said Carol, “I hate golf. The problem is that I got a reputation as a solid player, and, though it didn’t help me with Hartley, it sure opened a few clients’ doors.

    “Fine. Tell Craig – tell him I’m sorry, and that he can have all of it.”

    Clearing his throat, Smith replied, “he’ll courier the paperwork to your office on Monday.”

    She nodded, then, leaving her ball where it lay, she walked from the course and towards the parking lot.

    Once she was gone, the detective stood and wiped the clinging clippings of greenery from his jeans.

    In reality, although he had truly witnessed the near misses, Mulligan had no video. After a week and a half of observation he’d been entirely confident of her marital integrity, and so, as he wasn’t particularly a fan of amateur sports, he’d dumped the video to free up space for future paying endeavours.

    Even if he’d kept it, however, he knew it was an aggrieved husband’s word against his wife’s, and unlikely to gain much traction in court.

    It seemed like poor justice, but he hoped that Hartley’s widow might find some happiness, now that the way had been cleared for her impending marriage to Craig. Perhaps it was nothing more than their mutual sense of abandonment that had held them together since their meeting at a company function, but at least she’d get to spend some of Carol’s money.

    With a shrug, Mulligan headed for his Tercel.

     

    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 comments@flashpulp.com – but be aware that it may appear in the FlashCast.

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

    FP255 – Mulligan Smith in Making the Call, Part 1 of 1

    Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode two hundred and fifty-five.

    Flash PulpTonight we present, Mulligan Smith in Making the Call, Part 1 of 1

    [audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp255.mp3]Download MP3
    (RSS / iTunes)

     

    This week’s episodes are brought to you by Phoenix Fraser the Crime Fighting Dog.

     

    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, our intrepid private investigator receives a lucrative offer.

     

    Mulligan Smith in Making the Call, Part 1 of 1

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

     

    Mulligan SmithThe silver-haired man plucked at his jumpsuit’s sleeve as he told his story.

    “Olivia’s always been out to get me. She knows I get depressed on my birthday, so, every year, there’s a knock on my door; not at my secretary’s, not a buzz at the gate, not a visitor in the lobby – it’s a knock on my door. The courier is well dressed, he is excited to have the job. and he has no idea what he’s gotten himself into. He just stands there in his rented suit, grinning like an idiot, and holding the brightly wrapped box towards me.

    “Well, usually. Sometimes it’s something the size of a wallet case, but one year it came in a crate that stood nearly as tall as I do.

    “The packaging doesn’t matter much, as it’s always the same bloody thing inside anyhow. They may all look different, but a gun is a gun is a gun, so far as offing yourself is concerned.”

    “Maybe she means it for protection?” suggested Smith, as he shifted on his stool.

    “The weapons always come preloaded with a single bullet.”

    “Well,” replied the private investigator, “your ex-wife might just be superstitious: My mom wouldn’t give a wallet as a present without slipping a quarter in the change pocket.”

    “She signs every card with a Hemingway quote.”

    “Ok, it’s twisted,” said Mulligan, “but you have to admit, it’s sort of classy.”

    “You need to help me get her. You need to help me make it stop,” replied the storyteller in the orange outfit.

    The detective took a moment, staring at the blank white roof, before responding.

    “Look, Mr. Barger, we’re both aware that if I hadn’t stumbled across your illegal entertainments you wouldn’t be here. I’m not eager to work for a man with a grudge.”

    From behind the glass barrier, Charles Barger, former CEO and billionaire, straightened his prison uniform.

    “I’m a businessman. I don’t hold you responsible for my downfall anymore than I would hold Mercedes responsible if I crashed my car. As I mentioned, she was always out to get me: I had a weakness, and Olivia exploited it – you were just the tool.

    “Perhaps there was a time when I was angrier, but I’ve done my homework since. You’re good at what you do, and I like people who are good at what they do. I don’t mind being beat by the best – and now I require the best.

    “Do this job for me, and I’ll pay you thrice the wage she provided. Let’s get that bitch.”

    Smith’s lips sputtered quietly in consideration.

    “You told me a story, so let me tell you one,” he said. “It’s my father’s, actually. It’s about something he refers to as the Alien Rule.

    “In the late ‘70s he wanted to get away from the city – for personal reasons – so he spent a bit working with a sheriff’s office in a little backwater. A village with maybe a few hundred people living in it. One day he hears from a guy named Surly Davis. Surly wasn’t what his mom called him, of course, but everyone in a place that small has a nickname.

    “Anyhow, he rings up Deputy Pops one morning, and he’s shouting about UFOs. As it happened, Davis was known to yell about a lot of things, and I guess extraterrestrials was one of them. You’ve met the type, I’m sure: Fellow with a third grade education who knows everything because he’s misread it from grocery store tabloid headlines, and always has a “get outta my sight, you goddamn delinquents” ready for any nearby children.

    “Whatever the case, Dad makes the drive, and, sure enough, there’s a crop circle the size of a battleship stretching across Surly’s field. Well, it wasn’t like the fancy loops you see on tv – just a winding series of lines leveled through the wheat, with a few widening patches where everything had been pushed down.

    “Pops is a patient guy, but apparently he was losing it a bit with Davis. See, the elder Smith figured it was maybe a rampaging animal, or even a couple of kids, so he’s walking the pattern, trying to imagine what it might mean – but Davis is following him the whole time, complaining.

    “Over the course of the day, and with a flask helping to lubricate his train of thought, the farmer somehow merged his UFO theory with his delinquent preoccupation. He was sure the local miscreants had summoned them to mess with him. Said they probably learned how from ‘that Close Encounters of the Third Kind movie’.

    ”Unable to take conspiracy-talk anymore, Dad waves him off and drives back to town. He dials a pilot friend of his – an hour’s drive away – and asks for a ride in his plane. Sweetens the deal with fifty bucks from the policeman’s ball fund.

    “He goes aloft, comes back, and doesn’t report much.

    “A few of the locals, pals of his, ended up approaching him before he could break the department’s budget any further. Guess they’d gotten sick of having their kids shouted at, so half the town’s residents had had a bit of wine the previous night, then headed out with some planks. Took ‘em till dawn, but one of them was an engineer, and he put in the effort to create a plan that left them with a drawing of a man proudly displaying his middle finger.”

    Mulligan zipped his hoodie.

    “Right,” he said, “I appreciate the flattery, I really do, and I’m sure I could overcharge you for plenty of billable hours, but there remains the detail that I sort of loath you.

    “You can blame your wife for your woes all you like – frankly, I don’t much intend on working for her again either – but you should keep Dad’s rule in mind: ‘Sure, it may be an alien, but, when you’re an asshole everything tends to look like an anal probe.’

    “Chin up, though. Since I put you in jail it’s pretty unlikely Olivia will be delivering a fresh gun this year.”

    Barger was still mustering a reply as Mulligan replaced the black-corded receiver and made for the door.

     

    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.

    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 1 – Part 2 – Part 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 1 – Part 2 – Part 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.