Category: Mulligan Smith

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 1 – Part 2 – Part 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 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.

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 1 – Part 2 – Part 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 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.

FP245 – Mulligan Smith in Release, Part 1 of 1

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

Flash PulpTonight we present, Mulligan Smith in Release, Part 1 of 1.

[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp245.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

 

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

 

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 in Release, Part 1 of 1

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

 

Mulligan SmithMulligan couldn’t hear the crying, or the shouting, or the COPS narrator babbling endlessly from the forgotten television in the next room.

The kitchen had grown small – smaller than any he’d ever been in, he thought – and his ears were filled with the pounding ocean; the blow of a hurricane; the hammering of some medieval blacksmith.

His ears were filled with the sound of his heart, and the roar of his blood.

“Oh boy, ain’t this embarrassing,” he said, pushing the words out to give his stomach some release from the urge to vomit.

The man he was addressing, Christopher Gaskins, turned towards the private investigator. The former client’s eyes were wide.

“Smith?” he asked in a tight voice. Gaskins wore a brown robe, its open front splitting the two halves of an ancient coffee stain. His only other attire was a simple pair of pinstriped pajama bottoms. His belly hung well over the draw string, and his chest hair was peppered with gray. There was a knife, a Ginsu, as ordered from an infomercial, tucked into the hip of his flimsy pants.

“Yeah,” replied Mulligan, “you – you, uh, forgot to give me the code on the back of your credit card. I need it to process my fees, you know. I’m always forgetting to collect it.”

The more he talked, the further the furious rumble receded, so that he was able to identify a new sound entering the room.

Christopher’s lips were trembling, and his throat took on a hitching rhythm. A sharp-pitched wail rattled over the grout-and-tile counter tops, and echoed between the pans suspended above the cluttered island.

The sight of a weeping middle-aged man was always disheartening to the detective, but the .308 hunting rifle Gaskins was holding would have been enough alone to dissuade him from attempting to comfort the armed man.

As it was, Smith reminded himself not to let his gaze wander towards the stove, and took a step forward.

“Might I guess that you’ve intentions on eventually swallowing that gun?” he asked. “I’ve delivered bad news before, I know how it is – it can feel like the world is ending, but there’s help to be had.”

“Bad news?” replied Christopher. “This ain’t exactly learning you haven’t been promoted, or that dear Uncle Bill has died.”

Mulligan was pleased to see the firearm’s barrel sag, despite the retort. His fingers dipped into his hoodie’s pockets.

“No, it’s infidelity,” he said, as he attempted to adopt a psychiatrist’s smooth tone. ”I’m not saying it’s an easy thing to deal with, but it happens all the time. Your wife knew the guy had cancer – she, uh, went to that hotel with full knowledge that it was a one time thing.”

“If it’s so common, why does it hurt so bad?”

When Gaskins had first hired Mulligan, he’d seemed starstruck by the popular notion of what being a P.I. meant. Now, with no alternative, Smith decided to bluff with his profession’s worldly reputation. “It was obvious from our initial meeting that you’re a bit tightly wound. I mean, you thought it worth hiring me to see if Joan was a meth addict, and it was really only a coincidence that I stumbled onto her dead-guy fling.

“It’s like that old Groucho line: “If I hold you any closer I’ll be in back of you.” Anything held too tight is bound to break. I’ve seen it all before, though, as I mentioned. Had a client try to jump off his apartment building’s roof one time. Poor bugger was thinking so unclearly that he didn’t even notice he’d lept towards the outdoor pool. He survived, but his half-bounce on the water’s edge was enough to leave him without the use of his legs. On the upside, he married his physiotherapist.

“Now, my point is – and I don’t mean to be rude – you need a doctor, not a gun.”

Christopher’s moist cheeks now carried rivers, and his ribs compressed between sobs.

“Listen,” said Smith,”you’re hurt, anyone can see that – and anyone would want to assist you. Chris, you are sick, in a way you can’t deal with. Let me help. I’m going to walk over there and hug you. Shoot me or don’t.”

Mulligan closed the distance and wrapped his arms around Gaskins, who was still holding the rifle across his chest.

The barrel of the weapon, which was propped awkwardly between their shoulders, discharged as Smith touched Christopher’s neck with the stun gun he’d hidden in his hoodie’s wide sleeve.

Gaskins’ body listed, and he dropped to the ground. Lowering himself onto one knee, Mulligan punched 911, nudged the .308 to a safe distance, and then flatly stated the street and house number. As Christopher began to mutter, he again pressed the crackling electrodes to the cuckold’s skin.

The desire to gag had returned, and now there was less reason not to. He knew, however, that he had no choice but to address the pair of weeping children who’d huddled within the island’s cupboards for shelter.

Beckoning them from their hiding spot, he moved to block the view of the stove.

“You said Dad was sick?” asked the boy, who looked seven, and was only wearing billowing Chicago Bulls shorts. “Will he get better?”

“Hopefully,” replied Smith, “but sometimes it takes a big pill, or a large needle, or a high-voltage electric shock, to start getting better.”

“What about Mom?” asked the girl, a five-year-old in Toy Story pajamas.

“Head out to my car, it’s the blue one in the driveway, and I’ll be right there to talk,” suggested Mulligan.

As the blood flowing from Joan’s body continued to flood the linoleum’s ruts and grooves, the neighbourhood began to fill with sirens.

Turning his head, Smith dialed down the oven’s burner, and, finally, the sizzling heart ceased cooking.

 

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.

FP236 – Mulligan Smith in The Value of History, Part 1 of 1

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

Flash PulpTonight we present, Mulligan Smith in The Value of History, Part 1 of 1.

[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp236.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

 

This week’s episodes are brought to you by
Jimmy and the Black Wind.

 

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, private investigator, finds himself talking to an old friend while watching the ransacking of a Walmart.

 

Mulligan Smith in The Value of History, Part 1 of 1

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

 

Mulligan SmithMulligan Smith was lost in a sea of cheap jackets and bulky winter coats.

Still wearing his greeter’s smock, Walmart Mike was at his side.

“Things get wrecked all the time,” said Mike. “I knew a guy, Nicky Tyler – drove a cherry 1966 Jaguar convertible. Treated the thing like it was his fucking grandmother. I once saw him stop halfway down a one-way street, and reverse out of the thing, because there was a pothole he didn’t like the look of at the far corner.

“Joke was on him though, the poor broke jerk who was running along behind us managed to put his boot through the tail light before the jag was facing the right way.”

Across the aisle, an elderly woman in a wide-brimmed hat and red dress had caught Mulligan’s attention. Her neck dangled in folds, and her eyes twinkled with a stunned joy.

As he watched, she stuffed a tiny pink and lace nightie into her large purse.

Mike handed the P.I. a broad-sleeved trench, then he continued.

“Anyhow, Nicky had to bail for a bit. It was the ‘60s, and he was in the mind expanding business. He was taking a little mental vacation one evening and got hold of the idea that this guy we used to hang out with, Tobias, had seduced his dog. After the beating he had to leave town for a while, and his gal was pretty pissed about it.

“A couple weeks in, she buys a hundred dollars worth of milk, and dumps it all over the interior of the car. I’ve heard of fish and the like being used for that kind of thing, but milk was the worst. A month later, when he got back, I saw the results – the stink had settled in the crevices, it had soaked the floor mats, it had even gotten wicked up under the seats, messing up the upholstery.”

Smith had re-hung the long coat, and was moving through a cloud of faux-leather bomber jackets. His gaze tracked between the hangers’ selection, and the dozen socks the grandmotherly shoplifter was attempting to pilfer.

“Nicky loves the thing though, so he gets it cleaned and replaces all the leather. He even went so far as to chrome some of the interior.

They’d wandered fully into the women’s department by then, so that the detective could keep a running inventory of the store’s losses, and he could clearly see the thief’s wrinkled face split with a wide grin as she ransacked a shelf of multicoloured thongs.

“Great story,” said Smith, “but are you not noticing grammy viking over there pillaging your stock?”

“Yeah, yeah,” muttered his working friend, who then raised his voice. “Hey there, young Peggy, I’ve got my eye on you.”

The mischievous hunch in the woman’s spine suddenly straightened, and her hands pulled her sack of guilt tight to her chest.

“Yes, sir,” she said, moving quickly towards the changing rooms.

Mike unlocked them for her.

“I didn’t finish,” he said to Smith, once he’d completed his duty. “The idiot had the title in Meredith’s name, in case something happened. It was as close to a will as he had.

“Soon as it was cleaned, though, the guy she’d sold it to came over to pick it up. Good cop, actually, by the name of Millbrook.

“The bull got a nice price too, since they were dating at that point.

“I told Nicky then, and I tell you now, sometimes you got no option but to laugh.”

“Yeah, I get it, and you’re right,” replied Mulligan, “but it was my favourite sweater, you know? I mean, who throws bleach? Seriously? I’m glad that meth-head got time.”

The door swung wide, and its occupant moved to depart. Her purse was considerably deflated, and the flat wooden bench did nothing to conceal the heap of abandoned merchandise.

“Peggy’s been coming in a couple times a month since her stroke,” said Mike. “Every now and then she thinks she’s sixteen again, and this place is the local five-and-dime. Her daughter came in to apologize, after the first occasion, and said she was the sweetest ma you’d ever meet – a housewife, with a loving husband in the grave. I figure some pinching in her youth was probably the most excitement she had, and her brain’s just looking for some adventure before the deep sleep. It’s easy enough to notice her, and she always dumps the goods when she gets a warning.

“Arrives home all right, too, once she’s had her fun. Her girl says it won’t be long now, though.”

The explanation had done little to lift Smith’s spirits, but, as they trailed the senior to the door, he came to a sudden stop.

“Now we’re talking,” he said under his breath.

Mulligan lifted a black hoodie from the sales rack.

 

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.

FP230 – Mulligan Smith in Checking It Twice, Part 1 of 1

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode two hundred and thirty.

Flash PulpTonight we present, Mulligan Smith in Checking It Twice, Part 1 of 1.

[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp230.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

 

This week’s episodes are brought to you by The Flash Mob.

 

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 meets friends, both old and new, while seeking reasons for good cheer at a mall.

 

Mulligan Smith in Checking It Twice, Part 1 of 1

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

 

Mulligan SmithThe five-year-old only had one thing on his mind.

“Mom,” he said, “Mom, Mom, Mom, Mom.”

His mother, a red-eyed woman of thirty, was deep into a search of the diaper bag she’d latched to the side of her shopping cart. Within the steel buggy, her other offspring, a baby girl, was crying.

“Mom!” repeated the boy.

“Tyson, if you can’t be quiet for ten minutes while Mommy gets Anna sorted, we’ll skip McDonald’s and head straight home.”

Frowning, the boy drifted to the railing which overlooked the mall’s main set of escalators and gazed angrily at the Christmas throne below. The seat, nestled amongst a cluster of over-sized tree ornaments, remained empty, and the sign which read “back in an hour” was still in place.

“Jerk,” said the child.

In his focused state, he failed to register the two older men also at the rail.

“Yeah, no kidding,” replied Mulligan Smith. The PI was sipping at a slurpee and eying the same holiday arrangement.

Not long previous, the youth had been at the head of a line waiting for photos with the chair’s occupant, but the red-suited man had departed suddenly. His gruff exit had left behind several disappointed children, Tyson amongst them.

Walmart Mike, having run into Smith while off duty and shopping, cleared his throat.

“I was a Santa once. I was doin’ it for a bunch of the guys who hung around the West Side Social Club. I didn’t have kids, so I was the one nominated to wear the suit. I didn’t mind all the ho ho ho shit, really, but afterwards Eddie Coonan asks me if I mind walking Mickey Commiskey’s brat home.

“Does it right in front of the little guy, too. Boy thought I was old man Claus, so what could I do, deny him a chance to have Papa Noel escort him home?

“Full of egg-nog as I was, I said yes. Problem is, about halfway there, the damnedest thing happens: Another Kringle rushes me and grabs my obligation.

“I go sprinting down the alley after him, but I only get maybe ten feet when all of a sudden Jimmy Needles is in front of me. He liked to tell people he was known as Needles for the switchblade he carried, but it was really ‘cause he’d do anything for a plunger’s worth of horse.

“Anyhow, he’s got his sticker, and I can smell his breath – a mix of his rotting innards and the chicken balls he must have had for lunch – then he’s on me me like a sewing machine: jab, jab, jab, jab, jab.”

“I can feel myself full of holes, and I figure I’m a goner. Over Jimmy’s shoulder I can see the impostor hauling off Commiskey’s urchin, and I know that, even if the doctors stitch me up, Mickey’ll just unzip me again.

“Then, all in a rush, I finally managed to pull my .38 from under the huge black belt I was wearing.

“I pop one in the junky’s belly, and the other Claus, who’s just about on the far street, turns to see whats happened.

“I’m thinking I’ve only got seconds till I bleed out, so I go for it – you know, for the kid’s sake.

“I summon all the pissed off I got left, and I cover the distance like an angry Father who’s caught his daughter’s prom date pants-less.

“”You will let that little fucker go or I will climb down your chimney as you sleep, and smother every member of your family.” I say. “I will peel them apart and fry them to a crisp, on your own stove, before serving them to you for breakfast.”

“He must have thought I was serious, or that I was a good shot, cause he let the l’il bastard go and ran.

“It helped that Jimmy was lying on the pavement behind me, screaming, I guess.”

A short-skirted elf in green was returning to the display below, chased by a fat man in red. The pair were giggling.

Mike smirked, then continued.

”Frankly, it’s surprisingly tough to tell how dead you really are. The suit’s stuffing is what saved me. Had some serious soreness after, sure, but I received worse on dates I’d still call a success.

“It was Coonan of course – I’d never had a problem with him, but he must have figured he could get my and Commiskey’s crews into a dog fight, leaving his to scavenge the pieces.

“Needles made it to a hospital, Eddie blew town, and I was fine. Seemed like a Christmas fucking miracle. Years later, though, I learned the kid thought I was the real Santa the whole time.

“Messed him up a bit, but he turned out to be a nice guy.”

The trio stood silent a while, each alone with his own thoughts.

Tyson’s eyes widened.

“Wait – is that man not really Santa either?” he asked.

Smith was discreetly aiming a camera as he replied. “Nah, kid, that’s just a normal idiot who’s about to be served with divorce papers.”

The boy beamed.

 

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.

FP226 – Mulligan Smith in The Late Call, Part 1 of 1

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode two hundred and twenty six.

Flash PulpTonight we present, Mulligan Smith in The Late Call, Part 1 of 1.

[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp226.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

 

This week’s episodes are brought to you by the Saturday B Movie Reel 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, PI, deals with a missed connection while investigating a murder.

 

Mulligan Smith in The Late Call, Part 1 of 1

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

 

Mulligan SmithRich Walker, twenty-five, was late for work. His alarm clock had failed to wake him – a fact he blamed on the thing’s electronics, and not at all upon his inability to set it properly. In the end, if his mother hadn’t hollered him into consciousness, he might have missed his entire shift at Pizza Town.

As he wiped at the sleep in his eye, cursed his matriarch, and waited for the Camry to warm up, the idea of being fired seemed inviting.

With Ma Walker’s firmest tones in mind, however, he finally dropped his borrowed sedan into reverse, and edged the vehicle towards the ascending garage door.

His impatient exit was cut short by a car parked across the driveway’s mouth: A baby-blue Tercel.

With a sigh, Rich muted Classic Rock One-Oh-Six. Punching the window-down button, he exposed his uncombed hair to the wind.

“Hey, I gotta get out of here,” he said to the man standing alongside the offending vehicle.

“Sorry about that, just wanted to talk to you regarding a phone,” responded the stranger in the hoodie.

“You people are getting pretty pushy, but I’m not interested in switching my provider. ”

The newcomer chuckled. “Mind if we chat a minute? It took me a lot of time and effort to find you, Rich. It’s important.”

Walker looked at the neon-green clock in the dash, mentally subtracted the seven minutes it was chronically ahead, and groaned.

“Uh, okay, but hurry,” he replied.

“I’m Mulligan Smith – I stick my nose in other people’s business, professionally. I was wondering if you’d ever met a woman named Meredith Ashley?”

Rich scratched at his sparse goatee and shook his head.

“Well, at 10:48PM, last Tuesday, she apparently sent three text-messages,” the private investigator jabbed at his large red slurpee with its yellow straw. “I really only mention it because she was dead at the time – in fact, she’d been murdered a week earlier, while inexplicably standing on the Fairview Hotel’s beach, a couple hundred miles from the apartment she shared with her fiance.”

The pizzaman shrugged.

“Sorry, never heard of her,” he said.

Smith took a sip of his beverage, then asked his follow up. “You’ve heard of Fairview?”

“Oh – yeah. Fancy old place full of fancy old people,” replied Rich, his hand still on the steering wheel.

“Pretty isolated though, isn’t it – no service that far out, right?”

“No, I, uh, my mom and I went there for a, uh, vacation. She was meeting her boyfriend from the Internet. I was mostly just walking around, bored. There was nothing to do, and I couldn’t even call anybody. It sucked.”

“I’ve been there, and I have to agree – it seems like a weird place for a woman to go alone. On the other hand, Meredith’s fiance, Robert, says he was in Vegas.” Mulligan retrieved some notes before continuing. “The messages arrived backwards, which was rough. It started with “I’m OK! I tan!” then, “He’s coming. Can hear him. Help mom fluffy.” and finally, “Mom and dad I’m so scared, migrant donut crazy, please send police.”

Rich’s eyes were wide.

“Whoa, that is pretty rough,” he replied.

“I’m playing a hunch,” said Smith. “Bob’s a tech guy, and he knows enough to take her to a place where her phone wouldn’t have service. He didn’t want her calling for help. Thing is, she obviously got away a few times in the dark, but, at some point, she dropped the cell.

“It’s funny how weird electronics are. Sometimes they’ll keel over in a drizzle, and sometimes you can forget them on a beach for a week, and they still work fine. I think that’s what happened, Rich. It wasn’t a fancy device, but one of those old warhorse phones whose battery chugged on forever – or, at least, long enough for you to get it back to civilization. It found service and launched its messages, but, not long after, I bet it died, and you didn’t have a charger.

“I spent a long while walking the grounds, asking if anyone had seen the rogue cell. I kept hoping one of the staff had found it, but no such luck. Eventually my only option was to head home.

“At the edge of Mass Acres – which, as you know, is really the first place with a bathroom along the highway – I stopped for gas and a decent burger.

“I was sitting in Mike Fry-son’s, nibbling at my lunch and taking in the main drag through my booth’s window, when I noticed the Golden Guys Pawn Emporium. Hard to miss it, really, considering the size of the yellow sign – right?

“Anyhow, I figured, what the hell, strolling another hundred feet ain’t going to kill me. Then, Shazam: Not only does Papa Golden remember you, he’s tagged the tape you’re on, and kept the license info he requested when you bought that ridiculous set of throwing stars. Trying to pawn the hotel’s silverware was a pretty low move, you can’t blame him for not wanting to touch the cell either.

“Funny thing is, lots of folks were looking for that phone. If you’d turned it in somewhere – the Fairview’s lost and found, even – I wouldn’t have had to spend the last few days wasting poor Meredith’s parents’ money. Actually, speaking of, they were covering the cost of the line to help their daughter save for her wedding, so technically you’re in possession of their stolen goods.

“I’d hate to ding you on such a petty matter. Maybe I’m just chasing a dead end, but I’ve been pretty lucky so far, and she might have taken some photos that weekend.”

Rich killed the engine and stepped from the car. He was sure he’d tossed the phone into his closet, as he’d done the same thing with every bit of flotsam his Mom yelled at him to clean up.

He smiled at the thought of the woman’s upcoming surprise: She couldn’t be too mad if he was fired, he was, after all, helping to solve a murder.

 

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.

FP224 – Mulligan Smith in The Master of the Wild Kingdom, Part 2 of 2

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode two hundred and twenty four.

Flash PulpTonight we present, Mulligan Smith in The Master of the Wild Kingdom, Part 2 of 2.
(Part 1 – Part 2)
[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp224.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

 

This week’s episodes are brought to you by Nutty Bites.

 

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, private investigator, meets Mr. Charles Barger.

 

Mulligan Smith in The Master of the Wild Kingdom, Part 2 of 2

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

 

Mulligan SmithThe bottomless nature of the elder Smith’s contacts had never ceased to amaze his son. The old man had assured him, at length, of the skill of the bush pilot, who’d introduced herself as Molly. It was not her abilities, however, that troubled the detective – it was his father’s insinuation about finding a nice girl and settling down.

The aviator hardly seemed the type, however. Dual buns had always put Mulligan in mind of Princess Leia or raver-kids, but the woman wore them strikingly, and the only image she conjured was that of a feudal warrior princess prepared for battle.

The rough-weathered flight came after a seven hour drive, and Smith was grinding at his chewing gum as the wings dipped below the shadows of the pines that flanked their wet landing strip.

Once the plane had puttered to an engine-less coast, he exhaled.

“Handy bit of work,” he said.

Molly smiled and ushered him onto his pontoon.

As he finished inflating his dingy, he considered briefly that he might be taking on something worse than usual, but, as Mulligan pushed off, he wore a smirk: After the pilot had tossed his bags into the boat’s bottom, she’d retrieved a fishing rod to pass the wait.

Then, for a while, his only focus was rowing, and the glowing cigarette she’d hand-rolled as he’d prepared for departure.

The satellite maps he’d inspected before leaving had shown him a largely circular island, but the grainy resolution they provided for such a rural location made it impossible to identify the green-gray blobs that made up the isle’s interior.

For a time he could navigate only by compass and the light of his cellphone, which was as extensive a use as he was able to make of the electronic device, as there was no signal to be had.

An hour into his journey, the heavy clouds burst, and Smith began to curse endlessly between his clenched teeth.

His arms were aching, and he was beginning to think he might have gotten off track, when a ring of stadium-lights suddenly engaged, three-hundred yards away.

Digging for a second wind, Mulligan pumped hard, and was breathing raggedly when he finally dragged his rubber raft ashore.

As he’d done dozens of times earlier in the day, he considered why Olivia Barger might be working so hard to allow herself plausible deniability. Was the island a sex-slave harem? Some sort of drug operation?

He knew he was getting closer, but still didn’t have the data to decide.

The massive lights made it easy enough to stroll through the wooded strip which marched along the shore, but he soon encountered a high metal fence, beyond which was little but open grass. Smith guess he might be able to climb the barrier, but, in going over the top, he’d be easily spotted by anyone watching from beyond.

On the far side of the illuminated circle lurked a sprawling house. Though Mulligan could smell drifting smoke from a fire, the tall rows of windows stood dark and empty.

He was shielding his eyes against the overhead glare, and considering his options, when he noticed a large heap at the mid-point between himself and the cottage. At first he thought the mass inert, but soon he realized it was breathing.

He followed the bars to a better vantage point, which allowed him to make out just what the lump was: A rhinoceros, wheezing rhythmically as it drew in air.

The door at the opposite end of the field opened, and five men exited. Four were dressed in black suits, and each held a shotgun. Smith wondered briefly if such a thing would be required, as any one of them looked built to wrestle the rhino to the ground using only his bare hands.

Mulligan recognized the fifth as Mr. Charles Barger, despite the circle of green paint he’d spread over his face, and the red X he’d emblazoned across his chest.

The wing of bodyguards leveled their weapons in the general direction of the animal, but it was obvious to Smith, from the behemoth’s lack of reaction to the new arrivals, that there was likely enough sedative in the brute’s bloodstream to kill a small family.

Although the pictures of Barger had always portrayed a solid-head of silver hanging atop a pearly white smile, Mulligan realized then that he’d never seen the man in anything but full business attire.

Years of monomaniacal desk work had left his arms little more than straw spokes projecting from a sunken ribcage, giving the detective the impression of a large melon perched perilously on a straw.

Under the unyielding fluorescents, Smith could make out the goosebumps which covered Barger’s milky white body, and the shake in the rich-man’s arms as he extracted the machete from the sheath at his side.

As his protection maintained a respectful distance, Charles approached the gasping giant. His first swings against the slumberer brought only a trickle of blood, but he found better purchase at the animal’s throat.

The butchering was a messy one, filled with panting, cussing, and unpredictable gouts of gore being carried away on the back swing.

It was another thirty minutes before the beast finally fell silent.

Sweating, it’s supposed conqueror lay the end of his blade into the chaos of exposed fat and flesh, like Merlin placing the sword in the stone, but the implement immediately sagged to the left, falling free from its resting place.

Barger, who had turned back to his accompaniment, seemed to catch a look of question on the face of one of his bald-pated retinue.

“This was the last of the Western Black Rhinos,” screamed the adrenaline-flushed Charles, “I’ve just ended a species here – do you understand the power in that?”

“No boss,” said the muscle.

“Of course you don’t,” replied Barger. His face took on a lunatic’s grin, and Smith was left wondering if the same high-powered mixologist who’d pacified the sacrifice had also provided some chemical courage to the billionaire’s arm.

The silver-haired bobblehead cackled.

* * *

As he finally approached his ride home, Mulligan found that Molly had replaced her rod with a rifle.

“You took a long time,” she said.

“Nice to see you were worried,” he replied.

Their flight home was silent.

* * *

At noon, the following day, Smith was threading between mall pedestrians on his way to a bank kiosk. As he passed an electronic store’s television display, he noted that the twenty-four-hour news networks were still running an endless loop of Barger’s feeble opening assault on the rhino’s skull, followed by a close up of the businessman’s sneering painted-face.

The only satisfaction Mulligan found in it, however, was that, for once, his paycheck wouldn’t bounce.

 

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.

FP223 – Mulligan Smith in The Master of the Wild Kingdom, Part 1 of 2

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode two hundred and twenty three.

Flash PulpTonight we present, Mulligan Smith in The Master of the Wild Kingdom, Part 1 of 2.
(Part 1 – Part 2)
[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp223.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

 

This week’s episodes are brought to you by Jimmy and the Black Wind.

 

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, private investigator, finds himself nearly in the company of the obscenely wealthy.

 

Mulligan Smith in The Master of the Wild Kingdom, Part 1 of 2

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

 

Mulligan SmithMulligan’s troubles began when the first courier found him at the entrance to his preferred 7-Eleven. The helmeted youth had stopped him short on the curb before the PI had had time to take the opening sip of his slurpee.

“I’ve been looking all over for you. They said you might be here though. Mulligan, right?” asked the eighteen-year-old on the bicycle.

“Yeah,” replied Smith.

“They described you to a T, man. Said you’d have the hoodie on and everything. Got some ID?”

“Who described me?”

“Hell if I know his name. One of the fat cats up the food chain.”

The PI displayed his driver’s license, and was handed an envelope for his trouble.

As the pedaller moved back into traffic, Mulligan ripped open his delivery.

He’d expected some contract paperwork from a client, but, instead, he found non-refundable, round trip plane-tickets to Orlando, a printed confirmation for a pre-paid hotel room, and a pass for a courtside seat to watch the Magic play the Heat.

Smith stood for a time, savouring his beverage.

Finally, with a shrug, he pulled his car keys from his pocket.

After double-checking the travel bag he kept in the Tercel’s trunk, he made for the airport.

* * *

Smith had never been much of a basketball fan, but the intensity of the game had drawn him in. Better yet, after returning to his hotel room, he’d discovered a convention’s worth of plastics engineers occupying the bar, and he’d spent the remainder of the evening learning the oddities of the industry.

The next morning, as he boarded his return flight with a slight hangover, he found his ticket had bumped to first class. His interest was piqued, but he felt little concern about the situation – few of his enemies had this kind of cash to waste.

Twenty minutes into the flight, a trimly suited man with curly brown hair gave him a friendly wave. His mouth smiled, but the eyes behind his sharp-lined glasses did not.

Before Mulligan could consider approaching him, the man indicated the safety card the PI had studiously ignored at takeoff.

Leaning forward, Smith found his seat-back pocket bulging.

Within was a small tape recorder, heavily covered in duct tape. At first pressing play seemed to provide no result, but, by holding it directly to his ear, Mulligan found he could hear a voice beneath the grinding wheels of the player.

He punched the decrepit technology’s rewind button, and tried again.

“Hello,” said the tape, “I am Mr. Jeff. Do not approach me, or I will void the cheque I have paper-clipped to your emergency guide. I am working on behalf of Mrs. Olivia Barger, although all of your payments will be signed as a consultation fee from Good Homes Plastics – which is to say, I have been directed to inform you of your employment.

“Mrs. Barger would also like to apologize for the theater required in this hiring, but it is necessary. It would be much to my employer’s benefit to have hidden her true identity, but she feels it is imperative that you understand the danger related to this undertaking. She knows all too well what kind of pains her soon-to-be-former husband might inflict.

“You will be examining Mr. Charles Barger for any sort of impropriety which he might find embarrassing during his turbulent divorce trial.

“We hope that you appreciate that explaining away dead investigators is the worst sort of media attention.

“You will not record this tape. When we land, you will leave the player on your seat and debark. Failure to follow instructions will result in immediate contract termination.

“Once certain conditions, which I can not discuss, have been confirmed, you will be provided further guidance.

“It is a pleasure doing business with you.”

The Bargers were constant news fodder, and Mulligan knew that Olivia would easily be the richest client he’d ever taken on. He’d read much about the supposedly underhanded dealings of the plastics giant, including the Internet rumours regarding the hooker he’d supposedly had turned into a statue of herself, but he’d never had business with the family.

Still, the cheque was for ten grand. He decided to take it as vacation pay.

* * *

Three days later, as Smith exited his father’s apartment building, the second courier arrived..

After the dance of identification was complete, Mulligan ripped open the newest envelope.

Though it was unsigned, he could not help but read it in Mr. Jeff’s even tone.

“Hello Mr. Smith,

“It was great to see you at the Plastics Showcase. Attached, please find your speaking fee.I’ve also included information regarding the island you were asking after, and took the liberty of setting up a viewing tomorrow, at midnight. Please approach quietly, the inhabitants do not enjoy the company of strangers.”

At the bottom of the paper was a set of GPS coordinates, but there were no travel arrangements attached, simply a cashier’s cheque for fifty grand.

Smith turned and went back upstairs.

 

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.

FP221 – Mulligan Smith in The Pinch, Part 3 of 3

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode two hundred and twenty one.

Flash PulpTonight we present, Mulligan Smith in The Pinch, Part 3 of 3.
(Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3)
[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp221.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

 

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

 

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, ends an uncomfortable case with an awkward conversation.

 

Mulligan Smith in The Pinch, Part 3 of 3

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

 

Mulligan SmithSmith had returned to his client’s house, on the west-side of Capital City, to find a black sedan parked on the paved lawn. Although Mulligan expected the carefully generic vehicle, he hadn’t anticipated a sudden thunderstorm, and slowed traffic had cost him the opportunity to intercept the stranger before they’d entered the home.

Killing the Tercel’s engine, he hopped a puddle and vaulted the short row of steps which lead onto the porch. He didn’t bother knocking.

“My apologies,” said Mulligan, as he slung back his damp hood.

The Givens had gathered on the leather couch in their living room, and McCrumb, the driver of the Ford and the police detective who’d first taken Jarrod’s account, was sitting alongside in a lazy boy. Stuart and Susan appeared to be drinking scotch over ice as their stiff-limbed son sat silently between them.

Smith didn’t know the cop personally, but he took it as a reassuring sign that the man was at the cusp of his chair, and leaning hard across the tidily arranged coffee table, instead of resting comfortably with a glass in his hand.

“All right,” said Mulligan, “you folks look pretty settled, so let’s just cut to the chase – I’d like to play a little something for you, if I may. You’ve probably already seen it, but I figure it’s best if we all refresh ourselves. Mrs. Givens, you said you had it on your PVR?”

Without responding, the woman dipped her hand into a wooden box filled with black plastic slabs and selected the proper remote from the half-dozen competitors.

The emblem of Capital City’s leading local news organization flashed across the screen. Susan was forced into a second excavation to adjust the volume to an audible level.

A female reporter was delivering the piece’s overview as a slightly out-of-focus camera watched a group of teenagers loiter outside of Acadia High School.

“The student body is shocked, and many parents are outraged, as word of the allegations has spread.” The image became that of Ms. Lacy, its graininess betraying the fact that it was likely snatched from a social network profile. “Arrested last night upon arriving at her home from a trip to unknown locations, Rebbecca Lacy, thirty-five, stands accused of having molested a local teen. Although the woman refuses to meet with the press, the boy’s lawyer provided the following statement.”

A mustachioed man, seated at a desk backed by bookshelves, came onscreen.

“Three days ago, on Friday, my client was lead into the backseat of the car owned by Ms. Lacy, where she proceeded to perform oral sex on a minor – er, him.”

The view moved to a blond reporter, microphone in hand, positioned before the high school, but Smith punched the TV’s power button.

“Funny thing, to get a lawyer for a criminal case. Have you got a call from above yet? I can’t imagine the government fellow handling your case is terribly excited about your statement,” he said.

“Well, it was also unusual to hire a private investigator,” said Susan. “We’re thorough people.”

“Uh huh. It’s too bad you and Stu weren’t so thorough in your parenting. Sorry – it’s sweet of Officer McCrumb to have given you the benefit of the doubt this long, but he mentioned an odd detail to me earlier, and, since I’m probably going to have to fight for my payday, I’m a bit touchy.”

In truth, the pair had not conferred, but Mulligan had no interest in making an enemy. He was glad to discover the bull had a solid poker face.

Smith moved close to the low table, so that he dominated Jarrod’s view. The PI paid no attention to the droplets which rolled from his hoodie and spattered a variety of nature scenes across a fan of National Geographic magazines.

“So, which is it then?” he asked.

The youth slumped, as the lawman began to rifle through his notebook in search of a half-remembered detail.

“I’m going to be honest,” said Mulligan, “I’m hard pressed to think of a person I dislike more than you, and you’ve only been working at it for fifteen years. There are a lot of kids that don’t get an opportunity to be believed – a lot of kids who never get a chance to say anything.”

McCrumb’s eyes widened, then shuttered into slits, which pleased Smith, who was rapidly running short of material to stall with.

“Was it the parking lot, or was it the track?” asked the flushed officer.

“I – I got confused. It was the parking lot,” said Jarrod.

“It was the parking lot,” Smith interrupted, “only once I let slip to your dance-date that your story didn’t make sense. If she was returning after convincing her dad to let her back out with the car, what was she doing at the rear of the building, by the track? You know what, save whatever idiotic excuse you’re about to make. When I discovered you were selling coke to your classmates, my life became considerably easier – also, your chums became considerably more conversational.

“Talk wasn’t what I needed, though.

“Given the air of paranoia you’ve created, I couldn’t go and friend a bunch of them online, so I did the next best thing: I blackmailed them for access to their cellphone pictures; nearly seven thousand photos of overly made-up teenage girls making duck-lipped faces.” Mulligan reached into the interior of his sweater and retrieved a trio of printouts. “Over the left shoulder of the pouter in red, you’ll notice a familiar wild-eyed partier. Then, here, same merrymaker, left of this peace sign. Saved the best for last though.”

The final image showed Jarrod’s crazed smile up close, and his bleeding nose was plainly visible.

“My guess,” said Smith, “Is that she caught you coming back from the bathroom with a blizzard on your face, and she took you outside to talk. You panicked, and told her you’d cry junk-toucher if she said anything. The next day she took off to ponder her moral dilemma with her crippled mother. Maybe you couldn’t find her and it freaked you out, maybe you’re a pansy, but, whatever the case, you pushed the red button and ended that poor woman’s career.

“It was never going to work though, McCrumb was always going to notice the problems once her story was known.”

The boy said nothing.

“Blackmail won’t stand in court,” said Stuart, pushing back the pictures.

“A drug test will do just fine though,” replied Mulligan.

McCrumb nodded. “Even if you argue that you were snorting at some other time, its going to be a tough case to make on behalf of a coke-head with bad memory.”

“You – you’re bluffing,” said Jarrod, “even if I had done it – which I didn’t – everyone knows cocaine is out of your system in like the first twenty-four hours.”

The policeman’s carefully maintained neutrality dropped into a frown. “Actually, a hair test is good for quite a lot longer. It’s more expensive, but I think I can convince the boys to spring for it.”

Susan pointed an accusing finger at Mulligan. “You bastard! Why would you do this?”

“I’ve done you a favour, though I know you’ll deny it. Frankly, I thought you should hear everything before the press at your doorstep: At least then you might feel like you got some use from my fees. Which I plan on collecting in full – and I’m very thorough.”

 

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.

FP220 – Mulligan Smith in The Pinch, Part 2 of 3

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode two hundred and twenty.

Flash PulpTonight we present, Mulligan Smith in The Pinch, Part 2 of 3.
(Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3)
[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp220.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

 

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

 

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, takes on an unpleasant case on behalf of a concerned mother.

 

Mulligan Smith in The Pinch, Part 2 of 3

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

 

Mulligan SmithMulligan had hated high school. Worse still, by having never left Capital City, he had found himself once again in the same halls he’d walked as a student.

The mustard yellow lockers appeared unchanged since his youth.

Smith had come to a halt just outside the building’s main office – a long bench faced the monolithic front desk, behind which a colony of administrative staff worked in a frenzy to bring a Monday’s worth of affairs in order. Even from his distance, the private detective could hear snatches of conversation relating to Ms. Lacy, and her young victim, Jarrod Givens.

Although the boy had come forth to his parents on Saturday, the police had been unable to locate Ms. Lacy until Sunday, when she was found while returning to her apartment, supposedly after a road trip to her ailing mother’s nursing home. Smith knew this much to be true, as he’d had it confirmed in the papers, and by a few friends at the department – but that was extent of the information that was available.

“I heard she was actually visiting some kid she met on the Internet,” said a sharp-faced woman, from behind her glasses.

“It would make sense,” replied an man in a tie-less blue dress shirt, “I heard her and Jarrod have actually been together since the start of the year, so maybe he’s bringing it up now out of revenge.”

Mulligan had spent a sizable portion of his morning asking around regarding any such possibilities, but none of the student body had noticed anything awry with the woman – though many of the male students claimed to have often kept a close eye on her.

The most they would say about Jarrod was that he was a “good guy.”

The PI was intimate with the term: Too often it was the label given to any miscreant who’d avoided having his crimes or perversions noticed simply by remembering to wave and smile when they passed others in the hallway, or on the sidewalk.

Before his on-the-spot interviews, however, he’d taken Ms. Lacy’s incarceration as an opportunity to rifle through her trash. She lived in a small house, formerly her mother’s, and he’d discovered the cans neatly arranged under her flimsy carport. The contents were everything he’d expect of a woman living alone, and nothing more. The worst of it was a bottle of wine which he located in a recycling bin, but it was a slim bottle, and stood as the only alcohol beside a mountain of used cans and tissue boxes which might have been collecting dust for weeks.

Smith had also scrounged through the desk in her homeroom class, moments before her bewildered replacement arrived to take attendance, but all he’d uncovered was a mechanical Bic pencil, a mummified eraser, and a confiscated note from one Jeannie Simms, to a Matty, which might have been written at any point since the invention of pink-inked pens, and contained information useful only to the apparently adored Matthew.

Having turned up little, he’d finally approached the office. At a time he’d been too familiar with the place, and he knew there to be a honeycomb of teachers’ mailboxes just beyond the door which separated students and staff, but, in crossing the threshold, he would expose himself as something more than just a sloppily dressed visitor.

Left no option, he squared his shoulders, and marched through the entrance. The PI had found a purposeful stride was often enough to mollify those interested in minding their own business – not so on this occasion.

As his fingers walked along the plastic labels indicating the owner of each cubby, Smith was interrupted by a voice of bottomless authority.

“Excuse, what do you think you’re doing back here,” asked the man behind him. Mulligan’s hand had stopped at Ms. Lacy’s letter drop, but the hollow was empty. His interrogator noted the detective’s interest in the location. “Are you some kind of pervert looking for souvenirs? The press? Either way, I’m calling the police – you’re trespassing.”

“No, I’m -” said Smith.

“Save it,” was the reply.

Turning, Mulligan took in the tall suit’s thick shoulders, and shaved head. He recognized the speaker as the school’s principal, although he now appeared much angrier than the portrait which hung at the front entrance, and the painting had not made clear that the man had obviously once been a boxer.

The former fighter’s flat-lipped expression clearly announced that he’d heard a lifetime of excuses already, and had no intention of burdening himself with more.

Although the investigator now knew he was likely to be escorted off the property by some of his uniformed friends from downtown, he could see no way to avoid it.

Then, from the far side of the desk, a teenage voice said, “Mulligan! Hey – I was wondering where you were.”

The broad-faced ex-pugilist raised an eyebrow.

“You know this man?” he asked.

“Yeah, sure, he’s sort of like my uncle. Not actually related or anything, just close with the family. I forgot my wallet at home. I texted Mom, but her and Dad are at work, so they sent him down with a twenty.”

The intruding boy rounded on Smith, and the detective became convinced he’d seen the lad somewhere before – perhaps the son of a client? Hopefully not the son of a former subject.

Whatever the case, Mulligan dutifully handed over a hard-earned bill.

“I’ll walk with you while you go,” said the recipient.

As he pushed against the chromed bar and swung wide the door, Smith let out a sigh of relief, and zipped his hoodie against the chill October air.

“I’ve been sort of following you around all morning,” said the teen. ”I thought it was you, but I wasn’t sure at first. Don’t blame you for not recognizing me – I’ve changed a lot.

“I’m Lucas – we met downtown. You spilled gin on me.”

Smith had encountered the lad four years earlier, while looking for a fellow who would later turn out dead. The last time he’d seen him, Lucas had been ten, and bleary eyed with drink. “You’re looking a lot better these days,” he said, “though I recall you were wearing some fancy private school duds last time, not rubbing elbows with the public.”

“Yeah, well, I’ve sort of thought about calling you a few times. Always seemed like it would be weird – it wasn’t like I got clean right away when you screwed me, but it was a huge step along the road. You got me kicked out of Ashbury Academy, and that eventually lead me to a summer camp full of idiots with similar problems. Some days are tougher than others, but you were a big help.

“I’m glad to hear it – and thanks for the save back there.”

“Old man Turnbull isn’t so bad, he’s just excitable.”

“Understood. You know Ms. Lacy at all?”

“I’ve heard the rumours, but I never had a class with her.”

Mulligan nodded, and his thoughts drifted to his Tercel, parked alongside the nearby road. He tightened his collar against the cold. “Sure. Look, you SHOULD call me sometime, but I’m sort of in the middle of something, you know how it is.”

“Yeah,” replied Lucas.

As he stepped from the curb, a sudden thought came to Smith.

“Hey, do you know Jarrod Givens at all?”

The boy paused the door open before him. “Bah, that jackass is always giving me guff.”

“Huh. Most of the kids in his class really seem to like him.”

“You’ve obviously missed talking to the junior geeks and goths – can’t blame you though, they make themselves pretty invisible. Those senior a-holes only like him because he’s the cheapest dealer in the school.”

 

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.