Kilted Private Eye! Episode One...

[Old Hippie]

Fer yer readin' enjoyment...a little light fiction from a fertile mind.

Episode the First

As I let myself quietly into my office after a late-evening dinner with some old chums at the Thistle & Whistle Pub, she let me have it with a cast-iron miniature haggis paperweight just over the left ear. Fortunately, the scent of “Tahitian Sunset” perfume had alerted me or she could have put my lights out for good. I was able to duck just a little as a small galaxy exploded in my head. I hit the floor. As she wound up for another shot I grabbed one slim ankle and yanked her feet out from under her. After a brief tussle I was able to spare a hand to pull my handcuffs from my sporran and restore some order in the room.

I won’t pretend that women wearing “Tahitian Sunset” follow me around beating me over the head with paperweights, but I’ve had enough similar experiences to keep my reflexes sharp. Rubbing the growing knob on my left temple, I hoisted her up and plunked her into the chair beside my desk, none too gently. I shuffled through my memory, trying to place her. I was beginning to suspect she’d been the coat-check girl at the Lion Club the previous Saturday. What I couldn’t noodle was the reason why a coat-check girl would want to biff me on the conk. I gave her a once-and-a-half over. Even a little rumpled from my treatment, with tear tracks on her cheeks and smeared makeup, she was worth the extra half. Making small talk in such a situation is difficult, but I am an expert. She stared wide-eyed at me as I adjusted my kilt.

“You’re not him,” she said. So much for small talk. I sighed and started a new entry in my mental file under the heading “Prospective Paying Clients, Divorce Cases, Risk of Assault.” It’s Thursday night, a night like most nights. Dark. Dark times for dark deeds in a dark city, and darkness covers those who unravel them. It’s a gritty city, but a city with a heart. It’s where I work. I’m Angus MacTavish, and I’m a private eye.

From behind my desk I bent an eyebrow in her direction. “OK, sister. Let’s start at the top. Who am I not? Why should I care? And how did you get in past a lock guaranteed against anything short of thermonuclear weapons?” She wasn’t wearing enough clothes to hide a thermonuclear weapon, and I suspected that the building would show some evidence had one been used to get in my door, but I hoped to put her off balance. Off-balance people say things I can use.

“You left the door unlocked,” she said. “Since he was after me I came in looking for help. Since you weren’t here, I looked for a pistol but all I found was that disgusting paperweight. When he came in, I belted him. Only it wasn’t him, it was you.” She rattled her handcuffs on the chair behind her. “Will you kindly take these off? It’s no way to treat a lady.”

[davedove]

So, another author joins the ranks.

I wonder how Angus MacTavish fits into the grand scheme of X Marks fiction?

[Old Hippie]

I wonder how Angus MacTavish fits into the grand scheme of X Marks fiction?

Barely.

But there is a connection.

:ootd:

[Pleater]

The slow rhythms of the narrative were like the dripping of something overturned in the aftermath of a party.

I read it twice, mixing enjoyment with assessment, like the cream in my coffee.

Sitting back I decided to look for more later. It was different, but so familiar.

'OK Angus.' I told the screen 'You got my attention - so what are you going to do with it?'

[Ancienne Alliance]

Hey ! Great stuff !


Best,

Robert

[Old Hippie]

The slow rhythms of the narrative were like the dripping of something overturned in the aftermath of a party.

I read it twice, mixing enjoyment with assessment, like the cream in my coffee.

Sitting back I decided to look for more later. It was different, but so familiar.

'OK Angus.' I told the screen 'You got my attention - so what are you going to do with it?'

Ask and ye shall receive, Ms. Pleater. Come over here and let the Old Hippie tell ya a story...

Episode the Second

“You’re no more a lady than I am,” I muttered as I fished in my sporran for the key. “A man tries to get some work done late at the office and what does he get for his trouble? A bash on the bean.” I was feeling a little behind the curve of the conversation, trying to remember if I had in fact locked the door on my way out. She gave me an imperious look, pulling herself up and throwing her shoulders back. I tried not to look impressed. “I am Lady Eilidh of Innis-on-the-Outis!” she announced.

Damn. Married to Reginald, Lord Innis. Present director and chief demon of the Innis Chutney family, purveyors of a chutney both popular and vile. “Major Grey” was a description of the colour, not the style. Still, I’m not one to disparage an heiress, particularly not one who swings a mean paperweight. I recalled she had been a singles tennis champion at university, famed far and wide for her smashing forehand. She still had it, apparently. I mentally re-filed her under “Clients, All the Market Will Bear, Divorce Cases, Risk of Assault” and began thinking about how much money this case was going to bring me. Time to take control of the conversation again. Women want men to be in charge.

“So Reggie’s stepping out on you with the coat-check girl at the Lion Club, is he?” I asked. “What do you need? Pictures? Hotel receipts? Her family background?” Lady Eilidh’s eyes shot sparks while her voice was icy. “You’re speaking of our daughter Constance,” she snapped. “Any imputation in that quarter will be punished.” Oh, yes, I had her on the run now. She kept running. “If you must know, Connie’s been rather infatuated lately with some raffish chap who showed up last weekend in the most astonishing kilt…Oh, dear.” She stared at me in horror.

“Right!” I said forcefully. “What brings you to our agency this evening, then?” I was starting to think about moving her file to “Mothers, Offended, Risk of Assault.” Lady Eilidh’s eyes brimmed over with tears. “It’s that horrid little man. He wants to steal the recipe for Innis Chutney!” I tossed a box of tissues across the desk. “Somebody should,” I said. “Do you actually eat that stuff yourself?” As she drew herself up indignantly there was a knock on the door.

A rather uncivilized knock, too, dead centre on the frosted glass pane with the gold leaf script reading “MacTavish Investigations.” A large black hole with a pistol around it appeared where my window used to be. Lady Eilidh gave one piercing shriek and collapsed to the floor. One good thing about wearing a kilt is that I’m never caught with my pants down. I seized the cast-iron haggis and threw it. From the hallway sounded a meaty smack, a choked-off cry, and the sound of a thug and his hardware collapsing into a pile.

[Arlen]

I'm liking this a lot. Can't wait for more tales.

[Old Hippie]

I opened what was left of my door and dragged in the mortal residence of a cheap hood by the name of Bruno “Eyebrows” Gamalozzi. Lady Eilidh wasn’t using the guest chair, so I left her crumpled on the floor and handcuffed Eyebrows to it, then gave him a serious searching. I piled the collection of knives, garrottes, shivs, saps, bludgeons, brass knucks, lead pipes, lengths of chain, fake IDs and rumpled candy bar wrappers in the corner, then took a look at the piece he’d been waving. A deadly looking little number it was, too. I have a real distaste for firearms, particularly when they’re pointed at me. I sighted along the barrel, lined up on the bridge of Bruno’s nose, and squeezed the trigger.

With a muffled pop, a small flame came into existence and wavered above the muzzle. I’d heard about Bruno’s trademark lighter. The flame whiffed out when I released the trigger. When I pulled it again, the flame licked out much longer than before. I chuckled as I recalled how Eyebrows got his name, those appendages having been singed off in just this sort of butane malfunction. He was beginning to come around. Having recently been belted a glancing blow in the noggin with a half kilogramme of cast-iron myself, I could respect the sturdiness of his constitution, coming back that fast from a direct shot.

Eyebrows shook his head experimentally. Apparently nothing rattled. He glowered at me from his chair. “Whot da heck didja doodat for, ya fink?” he growled. “I was just comin’ by ta say hey ta an old friend.” I smiled in what I have always believed is an engaging manner. “Bruno me bye, ye’ve jist bin efter havin’ a bit of break-and-enter. Yeer poor mither must be that spinnin’ in her grave to see her lovely bye gan agley. Hae ye taken up with the evil companions agin?”

Eyebrows winced, which had the surprising effect of making him even uglier than usual. “All right, all right,” he muttered truculently. “I’ll knock off the movie hood accent if you’ll drop the fake Scots. And leave my mother out of this.” Evidently he was willing to negotiate, probably because I had cuffed him to the chair and piled all his toys in the corner. He’s not smart but he has an animal cunning. Lady Eilidh was still out cold and snoring like a soldier, so I decided to let the poor woman catch up on her sleep while I caught up on old times with Bruno.

[MacKay71]

Next please!

[Old Hippie]

Episode the Fourth (expect about one a week from now...):

“It’s getting kind of crowded in here,” I observed. “I know it’s not a social call, so what is it that brings you out from under your particular rock?” Eyebrows scowled at me while his mind followed the outlines of the words. “I ain’t tawkin’,” he essayed. I smiled again. “Nice try. The somewhat disarrayed woman on whom you are resting your clodhoppers believes you are trying to steal something she values.” Bruno thought about that for a full minute. “Naw,” he said.

“It’s a recipe for her family’s most famous condiment,” I prompted. Was that a dim flicker of recognition in his eyes? “In fact,” I continued, “if you don’t start telling me some very interesting, and, by the way, true stories, I will ring up McSweeney’s All-Night Deli, order a jar of Innis Major Grey Chutney and feed it to you. A large jar.” Bruno was starting to sweat. “Angus, this is all just a misunderstanding,” he stammered. “You don’t know, man. I can’t eat that stuff. I-I-I gave it up for Lent!” He looked vaguely pleased with his ingenuity.

I chuckled. “Bruno, Bruno, Bruno. Lent is over. And you’re the only Italian Rastafarian I know. Let’s just celebrate by falling off the chutney wagon again, shall we?” I reached for the phone. Eyebrows gave a despairing wail. “You’re gonna kill me!” he howled. “Look, Angus, wait! I can explain.” I hung up the phone and looked at him expectantly. He looked a little reluctant. “Yes, Bruno?” I prompted. His eyes shifted from side to side. I reached for the phone again. “Look, it’s Sammy the Finger, not me!” he shouted. “I ain’t got nothin’ to do with this!” He shrugged. “Well, not that much, anyway.”

“Now we’re getting somewhere,” I said. “What’s Sammy’s game? What does the littlest don in the borough want with a recipe for chutney? He can send a mope like you out to lift a jar for him if he wants one.” Bruno sat tight. I sighed and reached for the phone. He swallowed. I picked up the phone and started punching numbers. “Hey, Sween,” I said. Bruno was trembling and shaking, his eyes wide. “I find myself in dire need of some chutney. You still carry Innis Major Grey?” Tears ran down Bruno’s grubby cheeks. “You do? In the family-size jar? How much?” Bruno began to sob brokenly. “OK, send one up with your boy. If he’s here in five minutes I’ll tip double. Oh, and toss in a sturdy spoon, willya?” I hung up the phone and gazed at the shuddering wreck in the chair across from me.