Tag: Private Investigator

175 – Mulligan Smith and The Family Legend, Part 2 of 2

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode one hundred and seventy-five.

Flash Pulp

Tonight we present, Mulligan Smith and The Family Legend, Part 2 of 2.
(Part 1 – Part 2)
[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp175.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

 


This week’s episodes are brought to you by The Shrinking Man Project.

 

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, PI Mulligan Smith learns that not every legend has a happy ending.

 

Flash Pulp 175 – Mulligan Smith and The Family Legend, Part 2 of 2

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

 

Mulligan SmithMulligan had the flu, and was feeling less than enthused about the hours he’d spent pacing the cement sea of mega-stores and fast-food islands.

It was on the shabbiest shore that he finally found the thirteen-year-old he was looking for.

The boy had set himself at the entrance of a gas station, with his wheelchair blocking access to a metal shelf selling blue windshield washer fluid. On his lap was a sturdy, but transparent, plastic sack, filled with chocolate bars and topped by a small donation box.

Few people seemed to be paying much attention to the lad, however, as their eyes were largely on the g-stringed picketers across the street.

While a well-toned man, in a bow-tie and shimmering Speedo, spoke to the crowd regarding pay-rates, the white-teddy-wearing protester closest to the street utilized her time by waving a laminated sign.

“Honk if you love lap dances”, it read.

Noting the youth’s distraction, Smith used the opportunity to skip the inevitable charity pitch.

“Sad truth regarding the business, you can generally tell a female stripper’s age by how large she’s been forced to increase her implants. Not her fault, really, but it’s a shame that the investment is usually all they’ve saved up till that point – there’s no real retirement plan for a peeler.”

“Maybe the strike will help?

“Well, Seth – they claim it’s for their tips, but people in the know say the whole thing’s just a PR move by management.” The teen’s eyes widened at the mention of his name, but Mulligan continued before any response could be made. “I’ve come about your brother. Your mom sent me.”

“What’s wrong with Kurt?”

“Nothing new. I’m mostly here concerning the prostituting-via-Facebook thing.”

The sitting figure said nothing.

“If you have his login info, you need to tell me,” said Mulligan.

Seth remained silent.

“If not his password, then anything – regular Johns? Friends? Victims?”

“Kurt can take care of himself,” the boy replied, shrugging.

“Listen – this isn’t a clever cat-and-mouse bit, he’s been missing for three days, and he’s probably in serious trouble. I’m not judging his industry of choice, but the truth is, while his methodology has allowed him to stay freelance and avoid some face-slapping, many of his clientele remain in-the-closet, can suffer a lot of self-loathing, and may be unstable.”

“Do you know who Kurt is?” said Seth, his cheeks aflame,”He’s the son of Bobby Sweet. Dad once spent seven days straight in a whorehouse, getting free service because he’d convinced them he was a cop. He only got busted because an actual five-o walked in for his monthly appointment. You don’t even wanna hear what Grandad, or even Great-Grandad, got up to.Kurt’s a Sweet he’ll be fine.”

Smith cleared his throat.

“That may be how they tell it down on fourth, but I’ve heard your Pops was busted – that time – by an ornery mute after he had an undercover cop badger game turned against him. Hell, I’ve probably seen your old man more than you have. He used to come round to my grade school pretty regularly when I was a kid, giving a talk as part of his parole conditions – back before he started going in for longer hauls.”

By the end of Mulligan’s delivery, the boy’s eyes were raging slits.

“Why’d she send you?” he asked.

“Your mom isn’t trying to control you, she sent me because she’s had the good sense to get away from the bloody Sweets and their family legend. You do understand what a legend is, right? A tale to explain something otherwise unexplainable – in this case due to a reluctance to speak the truth on the part of the person who understands the reality of the situation.”

Seth’s mouth was a thin white line.

“You want your brother’s death to be just another part of the legend?” asked Smith.

“#### you,” was the immediate reply, but, after a pause, it was followed by, “dollar-sign, then bigm0ney, all one word, with the ‘o’ being a zero. His user name’s his email address.”

“Call her. She worries,” said the PI, even as he was moving towards his Tercel, “- and get the hell out of that chair and stop scamming people’s change, otherwise I know an ornery mute who’s got nothing better to do with his days than follow you around.”

 

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 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.

169 – Mulligan Smith and The Crumble, Part 3 of 3

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode one hundred and sixty-nine.

Flash Pulp

Tonight we present, Mulligan Smith and The Crumble, Part 3 of 3.
(Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3)
[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp169.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

 


This week’s episodes are brought to you by The Nutty Bites 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 uncovers the truth behind what killed Ortez’s roommate, as well as Smith’s client’s wife, Graciela Brewster.

 

Flash Pulp 169 – Mulligan Smith and The Crumble, Part 3 of 3

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

 

Mulligan SmithMulligan didn’t know what he’d expected when he’d entered the shop’s kitchen, but it certainly wasn’t a weeping mother suckling a babe at her breast.

After inquiring about the establishment’s owner, the PI had been directed to the rear by the bored looking teenager behind the register. He’d found the woman, who’d introduced herself as Jasmine Webb, distracted, so he’d cut straight to the matter at hand.

“It took a bit of doing,” he’d said, “but one of your occasional employees recently informed me that sometimes the cookies include an extra ingredient – something that wasn’t in Grannie’s original recipe?”

Then she’d started crying.

“I’ve been waiting for you,” she said.

Smith nodded. He was pleased with his decision to leave his companion, Billy, moping in the idling Tercel. It was his experience that some confessions were like avalanches, barely clinging to the confessor, and triggered at only the slightest disturbance – but he also knew such disclosures could easily be brought up short by anything off-putting, and if Winnipeg excelled in any area, it was being off-putting.

Grabbing up a dishtowel, Mrs. Webb wiped away her tears, then moved to unlatch with a bit of privacy.

With her back still to Mulligan, she began to talk.

“Yeah, we sell weed cookies. Three different kinds, chocolate, chocolate chip, and bran, for our more health conscious clientele. It was Mase’s idea.”

Having re-buttoned her top, she turned to Smith, and began patting the spine of the dozing infant.

“Mason – my husband – he’s always been high strung.” She whispered the words, to avoid waking the sleeper. “I mean, he fainted the day we got married, and it was just us and the Justice of the Peace. When we bought this place, three years ago, I thought the stress of running it might kill him – but, the neighbourhood was flourishing then, and, at least for a while, business was great.

“Now, listen, my Mom and Dad were hippies, and I guess I am to. I don’t truck with any crazy high-end chemistry, I do like smoking a little on the weekends, but I never imagined it could lead to this.

“Maybe a year ago, we hit a slump – things slowed down. Mason started freaking out, figured we needed to expand our revenue streams. Rather than lose the shop, and what little extra cash we had, we decided to gamble on selling some herbal remedies.

“It worked, more or less. We had to be careful who we took on as clients, but, well, as a bakery, we had a decent idea of who amongst the locals was already suffering from the munchies. We started small, and at first it seemed to be going smoothly, but – well, then I got pregnant.”

Jasmine bit her lip before continuing. Although her face contorted in despair, her gentle tapping kept its rhythm.

“We were excited when the test came back. I’ve always wanted to be a mom. We talked about moving out of the neighbourhood and setting up shop somewhere else, somewhere we could stick to old fashioned cakes, pies, and bread – but there were expenses; a bigger car, a nursery, clothes.

“With the baby coming, Mase began losing a lot of weight. I figured it was because of anxiety. He worried constantly about the bakery going under, or about the paying for stuff, or about someone narcing on us – especially about someone narcing. The bigger my belly got, the more nervous he was. One night, maybe three weeks ago, we were lying in bed, and he looked at me with these glassy eyes and said ‘I’d kill anyone who came between us.’

“It wasn’t like him.”

Without fluttering his eyes, Mason Jr. released a rasping belch.

“It was meth. Apparently quite a lot of it, and for a while. I don’t know how I missed it – the long hours here, I guess, and the weirdness of becoming parents. He only told me because of what happened. He said he’d been here alone, late, working on prep stuff, and, uh, snorting. He got paranoid – sure a customer was going to tell the cops about us, and that he’d never get to see the kid. Crazy stuff, but he was convinced of it. He tossed a bunch of hardcore cleaning supplies into the batter, cooked ‘em, set them in the racks we keep for the special clients, then went home and passed out for sixteen hours.”

“He left me nothing but a letter when he heard about Ortez’s roommate – but it was enough to throw me into contractions. This is my second day back.”

The new born wheezed contentedly as his mother broke down again. Jasmine fought hard to remain silent beside the napping child.

Stepping onto the sidewalk, Mulligan cleared his head with a deep breath.

He reached for his phone.

 

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 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.

168 – Mulligan Smith and The Crumble, Part 2 of 3

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode one hundred and sixty-eight.

Flash Pulp

Tonight we present, Mulligan Smith and The Crumble, Part 2 of 3.
(Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3)
[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp168.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

 


This week’s episodes are brought to you by The Nutty Bites 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 and his mountainous friend, Billy Winnipeg, pay an expected visit to a local giant.

 

Flash Pulp 168 – Mulligan Smith and The Crumble, Part 2 of 3

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

 

MulliganThree hours after the awkward discussion with his client, Mulligan Smith was standing in the building lobby of his only real lead, a behemoth of a fellow known locally as Ortez.

Before the agreed upon time, the PI had taken the opportunity to speak with some of his appointment’s neighbours, and the story given was consistent. Easily recognizable by his stature, the man suffered from a genetic condition which left him in generally ill health, and towering above those around him. He’d apparently claimed his place in the years preceding gentrification, and, despite rising rent costs, had managed to hold onto his first-floor apartment by subletting the extra space, and by accepting the occasional odd job to supplement his disability cheque.

Although an aging woman in a pink jacket, out walking her Tibetan Spaniel, had occupied Mulligan with a half-hour speech expounding on how Ortez was the last dregs of the old filth who’d lived there – and was also the herald of the area’s re-descent into depravity – the arrival of the police to wheel away his deceased roommate, only a few days earlier, was apparently the first serious legal trouble anyone could recall the colossus having been involved in.

Billy Winnipeg, Smith’s friend, and massive in his own right, seemed, to the private detective, excessively eager to meet the man.

Winnipeg’s thumb gave the call button a third push, and, finally, a tinny welcome drifted from the entrance’s speaker-box.

“Yeah, yeah, come in,” said the distant voice.

With a buzz, the lock popped open.

The hallway carpet and white stucco walls had seen little of the upgrades that had swept the surrounding city blocks, and, as he rapped at the gray apartment door, Mulligan guessed it hadn’t enjoyed a fresh coat of paint since before its renter had moved in.

“Hi,” said Smith, cheerily, as the opening swung wide. He hoped the upbeat tone might help sway the coming conversation in his favour.

Ortez nodded in response, and as his head bobbed, his vision was obstructed by the wall above the entry. Then he wheeled around, disappearing into the darkened interior.

Turning to direct Billy inward, Mulligan realized the Canadian’s face had taken on an odd glow, as if a mountaineer having just discovered a new, unfathomably large, peak in need of conquering.

“We aren’t here for a fight,” Smith told him. Winnipeg’s grin widened.

“Sure,” was his only response.

The windows had been covered with sheets and an international array of ratty flags, but the largest of the makeshift curtains was skewed by a foot, allowing a breeze to enter the living room.

In the corner, a television whispered secrets to itself.

“Thanks for giving me a chance to chat,” said Mulligan, wondering if he should risk sitting on the exposed stuffing of the couch.

“Yeah,” replied the hulk, continuing to stand.

Although Billy’s size often left Smith feeling short, Ortez gave him some idea of the life of a little person. He could already feel his neck stiffening.

“You’ve lived here ten years or so, right?” he asked.

“Yeah.”

“How long were you and your pal sharing the place?”

“Seven months.”

“Anything out of the ordinary the night he died?”

“No.” The examined scratched his ear.

“Did you know a Mrs. Brewer? Graciela?”

“No.”

“Well, you’ve heard about her in the papers or something though, right?”

“I think you should probably go,” Ortez replied.

“I think we should probably stay,” said Billy.

Mulligan tried to wave him off.

Like two snapping dogs, the pair approached each other, bumping chests before Smith could put himself between them – then, suddenly, he was glad he hadn’t.

It was a short fight.

Billy opened with a punch to the stomach which seemed to do little, then received a cuff to the ear in exchange. The northerner staggered under the weight of the meaty hand, but managed to lash out a boot at the giant’s protruding knee. The attached leg wobbled, and Ortez fell to the dark blue carpet.

“That’s my bad knee, dick!” said the toppled man.

“Sorry – but, really, you shouldn’t be so bloody ignorant,” Winnipeg replied.

The still-standing combatant wore an embarrassed grin at the sudden discovery of his opponent’s weakness.

“Dammit, man,” muttered Smith, pulling his companion away from the home’s rightful occupant.

Rubbing at his appendage, the collapsed resident appeared winded, but otherwise unhurt.

“I apologize for the idiot,” said Mulligan. “He has a different set of manners than most.”

“Nah, listen, I’m sorry, I was the one being rude. I’ve been getting a lot of attention over what happened, and I already land plenty of guff from people thinking I’m some sort of monster. Still, I’d like to see Allen’s death figured out – and there ain’t anyone who’s picked a fight with me in quite a while. You two obviously ain’t cops.”

He smiled as he said it.

Mulligan nodded. He considered attempting to assist Ortez to the couch, but he knew his efforts would be laughable against the man’s girth.

Instead, he told Billy to do it.

“Get over there and help, punchy.”

One goliath supported the other to the deflated cushions.

“Ha, well, now,” said the seated man “I’ll tell you what you want to hear, just don’t have your boy here rough me up again.”

He chuckled.

“You’re cool, right?” Ortez asked. Before they could respond, he reached into his pocket, retrieving a film canister which appeared the size of a thimble in his palm. Also pulling forth a twist of wooden tubing, he tapped the black container’s contents into the pipe’s bowl.

Within seconds, the room smelled of burnt cannabis.

“Uh, sorry,” repeated Winnipeg. “I mean, about your knee, and, uh, your dead buddy.”

“Not to sound harsh,” said Mulligan, pointedly ignoring his host’s indiscretion, “but do you have anyone lined up for his spot?”

“Nah, I’m doin’ OK for now.” replied the lounger. “Found a job behind the counter down at the coffee shop, or bakery, or whatever, two blocks over. I get to sit the whole shift, and they get to play circus a bit. I try not to do too much though – don’t want the cheques to stop flowing, you know. Still, I’m gettin’ plenty of hours since the couple who run it got pregnant.”

“Funny, now that you mention it,” said Smith, “a guy I know was telling me just earlier that the place wasn’t as reliable as it once was.”

“Ah, the customers are always complainin’. The boss usually, uh, stays busy, but, yeah, he’s a little flaky lately. I keep my mouth shut, don’t criticize, and, like I said, I ain’t had a lack of time on the clock – there’re also some side benefits to being a trusted employee.”

Ortez’s smirk widened as he took in another puff of smoke.

 

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 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.

FP150 – Mulligan Smith and The Secret Shopper, Part 1 of 1

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode one hundred and fifty.

Flash Pulp

Tonight we present, Mulligan Smith and The Secret Shopper, Part 1 of 1.

[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp150.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

 


This week’s episodes are brought to you by the Relic Radio network.

Each release is a little like this show, but longer, and occasionally narrated by Vincent Price!

To find out more click here!

 

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, PI Mulligan Smith relates a canine tale from his youth, to a fellow shopper.

 

Flash Pulp 150 – Mulligan Smith and The Secret Shopper, Part 1 of 1

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

 

Reaching deep into the right-hand pocket of his hoodie, Mulligan’s fingers closed on a fresh piece of chocolate. His left arm leaned heavily on the shopping cart he was nosing along the row of green bins filled with farmer’s harvest, and his eyes were occupied with reading the fine print upon each vegetable’s placard.

His wandering path intersected that of a bald man wearing a busily patterned, green and blue, sweater. The stranger was piling grapes into a hand-basket.

Smith swallowed his candy before speaking.

“People don’t spend enough time in the produce department these days.”

The sweater gave a weak smile and a half nod.

Mulligan took it as a sign to continue the conversation.

“I knew a guy who actually went into the early stages of scurvy due to his McDonald’s habit. I mean, he was a special guy, his diet was pretty specific, but jeez,” the PI picked up an orange as he spoke, “- you’d think scurvy was something that disappeared with the tall ships. Did you know the orange, like tomatoes, are really a berry?”

“Yeah,” the shopper nodded as he spoke. “actually, I knew that. I’m also aware that nintey-percent of oranges grown in the US are turned into juice.”

Smith arched his brow, impressed.

“I’m a bit of a trivia geek, frankly,” said the man.

“Mulligan,” said Mulligan, thrusting out a hand.

“Todd,” replied the basket-carrier, completing the shake with a damp grasp and weak fingers.

Lifting the brown paper bag from his pocket, the PI offered the trivia-buff a cube of chocolate. He accepted.

Mulligan Smith“That actually reminds me of a story,” said Smith. As he spoke, he motioned for the man to continue collecting goods. “I had a dog named Juice when I was a boy. Well, Apple Juice. A Springer Spaniel. I loved him, but he was an outside dog – remember that? Outside dogs? Doesn’t seem like we live in a world where you can buy a tiny house and strap a beast to a spike in the ground, anymore – but that’s how it was done when I was a kid.”

Mulligan, reaching under the bag, and into the depths of his hoodie, pulled out another portion of candy. He paused in his telling to chew at it, then retrieved the pouch, offering more to his companion. Todd pinched a hearty palm-full, with no encouragement.

Licking the excess sugar from his teeth, Smith continued.

“One summer, when I was probably eight or so, this kid up the street, Kris, would come down every lunch time, find a stick, and start whacking at me with it. I caught on pretty quick, so I began to eat my bologna and ketchup sandwiches inside. When he realized that I wasn’t interested in playing pinata, he aimed his frustrations at Juice. The problem was really that the dog had worn a rut around his post, at the end of his rope, so it was easy for the little brute to stand just out of range, wait for the pooch to go for him, then whack him in the snout with a thick bit of oak.”

Todd barked a laugh that clashed with the store’s adult-contemporary soundtrack.

Mulligan shrugged off the intrusion and went on.

“I figured it would stop after the first time, but he kept coming back. Finally I told my Dad, with tears in my eyes, that Kris was going to kill that poor mutt. He pursed his lips and patted my shoulder.

“The next day, while Pops was at work, the process repeated. There, at the end of the driveway, appeared the monster, with a length of lumber carefully selected from the growth in the abandoned lot beside our bungalow. I didn’t know what to do, so I cowered behind the white curtains, staring at the thirteen year old coming down the lane.

“I knew if I tried to stop him, he’d beat me, then the dog too.

“Juice didn’t immediately launch to the end of his chain, though, which was unusual – he simply sat there, waiting. Even as Kris was toeing the edge of the circle, the old mongrel didn’t move.”

Seeing his audience’s hand empty, Smith again offered the rumpled sack of sweets. The man set two Styrofoam-trays worth of beef in his basket, then helped himself to a half-dozen more of the squares.

“Finally, the kid reached into his pocket and started throwing rocks at AJ, hoping to get a rise out of him. It did, and Kris had his club ready, as usual. What neither of us knew, though, was that Dad had moved the post two feet forward in the night. Juice knocked the wee bugger right over – he did nothing but bark and snarl, but it was the last time we had that visitor.”

“Anyhow, great story and all, but I’ve got to get to the checkout,” replied Todd.

“Well,” said Smith. “I must confess, I didn’t bring the topic up accidentally. This is the fifth occasion, in four weeks, that I’ve seen you here buying beef and grapes, although, to be honest, the first few were via a sympathetic store manager’s security tapes. It’s an odd combo of groceries, but less so if you happen to be friendly with the local vet – which I am. She’s the one who called me, just to mention that three local dogs – or, at least three dogs that were alive or loved enough to be taken in – had been in to see her, all with the same stomach contents. None of the animals survived, but it’s right up the alley of a trivia lover such as yourself to know that grapes will cause kidney failures in our canine friends.”

As he spoke, Smith tossed the brown paper bag into a trash behind aisle seven’s vacant cash register, then retrieved another chocolate from the separate stash he’d maintained underneath.

His face growing red, Todd panicked.

“#### you, pal!” he shouted, launching his basket of meat and fruit at the Investigator’s head.

The animal-poisoner turned, pushed a mother of four into the tabloid rack, then bolted from the store. Mulligan didn’t bother to give chase; there was no client, and the evidence was too meager to make it worth reporting the crime.

Still, Smith hoped that being identified in public, and the sheer number of laxatives which he’d just been fed, would be warning enough.

 

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 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.