A LONG GOODBYE TO THE LITTLE SISTER
A Raymond Chandler Bing mystery
Chapter One: Under the Dame
The cracked and fading text on the door read: "R.C. Bing: Dick for Hire." I've never been happy with the phrasing on that. Thought about "This gun for hire" to capture a Dashiell Hammett meets Bruce Springsteen vibe. Problem being, I'm not licensed to carry a firearm so technically it would be false advertising. Not that it bothers any of my competitors. Really doubt your name is "Allen Wrench" and you're "Licensed and bonded to open up any case."
Still, my amateurish slogan didn't deter this broad. Whether she was looking for a dick or a gun, she walked into my office. Even had the manners to knock first. The dame stood in my doorway like a hurricane waiting to hit land. Could she be any more brooding? I mean, come on.
She slinked over to my desk, slowly moving one hip in front of the other like she was Jessica Rabbit walking a tightrope. Check out the gams on that one. "Gams." Do people really use that word anymore? On the depth chart of leg synonyms, it feels like "gams" should struggle to even make the roster, yet the word gets heavy play in my vocabulary. Same goes for "cad." Maybe someone should come up with a new idiom for that term? Something in between "cad" and "manwhore." Oh well. Moving on.
"I want you to find someone for me," she told me.
"If you're looking for a good man, I'm sitting right here, dollface." Dollface? Seriously? Add that one to the list of antiquated slang that somehow found its way into my vernacular.
"I'm looking for Pat Ewing," she continued.
"The basketball player."
"No. My brother."
"Your brother is Patrick Ewing?"
"Yes."
"And he didn't play college ball at Georgetown."
"Not that I know of. Why do you ask?"
"Well, you are aware that there is a famous New York Knick with the same name?"
"Not really."
"How can you not?"
"Well, I'm not a big sports person."
"It shows, sister."
The dame was playing hardball. She took out a cigarette and brought it to her lips.
"Sorry, but I don't have a) a lighter or b) a tolerance for cigarette smoke."
"It's okay. It's electric."
"And that makes it healthy?"
She attempted to blow smoke in my face. Didn't quite work as the vapor quickly dissipated.
"So my brother went missing last--"
"But you honestly mean to tell me that your brother grew up in New York, with the name 'Patrick Ewing'--"
"He goes by 'Pat,' not Patrick."
"And no one at school ever..."
"Teased him about it?"
"Teased him? How could you tease him? Ewing was a monster on the offensive glass. One of the top 5 players to never win a title."
"Is that really important?"
"Important? The ring is why most players are in the NBA."
"Who really cares?"
"Karl Malone, Stockton, Elgin Baylor..."
"Please, Mr. Bing. If you would listen--"
"Maybe Charles Barkley enters that conversation."
"Mr. Bing. Listen. I haven't heard from my brother in two weeks. Think someone is after him. I'm scared."
"What does he do?"
"Bartender."
"Really? What kind of problems could a bartender..."
"In his spare time he works in research and development for an online startup that specializes in biomechanical systems and covert surveillance."
Wasn't really sure what most of those words meant, so silence was my best option. God, wish I smoked right now. Sparking up a cigarette could really help to sell the confidence.
"He and I would talk on the phone every so often, so the lack of phone conversation isn't troubling. But he would e-mail me every Friday. Every single Friday for two years. Long e-mails, telling me everything that happened the previous week. And for two weeks, nothing."
"No word from your brother, the cocktail-slinging computer programmer who is going to invent Skynet."
"Bingo."
Didn't seem like I had much to go on with this job. Typically I'm given a few more leads. But this case also seemed like an opportunity to seem intelligent. And typically I get very few of those.
"Well, I work for $200 a day plus expenses."
"Expenses?"
"Information, intel, paying off bookies, the occasional FroYo. So, Ms. Ewing..."
"Don't go by that last name."
"Oh. Married?"
"No. Just decided to choose my own last name. Don't feel like the patriarchy should define my surname."
"How enlightened of you, Gertrude Steinem. Do we have a deal?"
She threw a wad of bills on my desk and walked out with the same shimmy that brought her in.
I would normally reach for my go-to investigation technique, but I had a feeling that a Google search for "Patrick Ewing" wouldn't be any help.
A Raymond Chandler Bing mystery
Chapter One: Under the Dame
The cracked and fading text on the door read: "R.C. Bing: Dick for Hire." I've never been happy with the phrasing on that. Thought about "This gun for hire" to capture a Dashiell Hammett meets Bruce Springsteen vibe. Problem being, I'm not licensed to carry a firearm so technically it would be false advertising. Not that it bothers any of my competitors. Really doubt your name is "Allen Wrench" and you're "Licensed and bonded to open up any case."
Still, my amateurish slogan didn't deter this broad. Whether she was looking for a dick or a gun, she walked into my office. Even had the manners to knock first. The dame stood in my doorway like a hurricane waiting to hit land. Could she be any more brooding? I mean, come on.
She slinked over to my desk, slowly moving one hip in front of the other like she was Jessica Rabbit walking a tightrope. Check out the gams on that one. "Gams." Do people really use that word anymore? On the depth chart of leg synonyms, it feels like "gams" should struggle to even make the roster, yet the word gets heavy play in my vocabulary. Same goes for "cad." Maybe someone should come up with a new idiom for that term? Something in between "cad" and "manwhore." Oh well. Moving on.
"I want you to find someone for me," she told me.
"If you're looking for a good man, I'm sitting right here, dollface." Dollface? Seriously? Add that one to the list of antiquated slang that somehow found its way into my vernacular.
"I'm looking for Pat Ewing," she continued.
"The basketball player."
"No. My brother."
"Your brother is Patrick Ewing?"
"Yes."
"And he didn't play college ball at Georgetown."
"Not that I know of. Why do you ask?"
"Well, you are aware that there is a famous New York Knick with the same name?"
"Not really."
"How can you not?"
"Well, I'm not a big sports person."
"It shows, sister."
The dame was playing hardball. She took out a cigarette and brought it to her lips.
"Sorry, but I don't have a) a lighter or b) a tolerance for cigarette smoke."
"It's okay. It's electric."
"And that makes it healthy?"
She attempted to blow smoke in my face. Didn't quite work as the vapor quickly dissipated.
"So my brother went missing last--"
"But you honestly mean to tell me that your brother grew up in New York, with the name 'Patrick Ewing'--"
"He goes by 'Pat,' not Patrick."
"And no one at school ever..."
"Teased him about it?"
"Teased him? How could you tease him? Ewing was a monster on the offensive glass. One of the top 5 players to never win a title."
"Is that really important?"
"Important? The ring is why most players are in the NBA."
"Who really cares?"
"Karl Malone, Stockton, Elgin Baylor..."
"Please, Mr. Bing. If you would listen--"
"Maybe Charles Barkley enters that conversation."
"Mr. Bing. Listen. I haven't heard from my brother in two weeks. Think someone is after him. I'm scared."
"What does he do?"
"Bartender."
"Really? What kind of problems could a bartender..."
"In his spare time he works in research and development for an online startup that specializes in biomechanical systems and covert surveillance."
Wasn't really sure what most of those words meant, so silence was my best option. God, wish I smoked right now. Sparking up a cigarette could really help to sell the confidence.
"He and I would talk on the phone every so often, so the lack of phone conversation isn't troubling. But he would e-mail me every Friday. Every single Friday for two years. Long e-mails, telling me everything that happened the previous week. And for two weeks, nothing."
"No word from your brother, the cocktail-slinging computer programmer who is going to invent Skynet."
"Bingo."
Didn't seem like I had much to go on with this job. Typically I'm given a few more leads. But this case also seemed like an opportunity to seem intelligent. And typically I get very few of those.
"Well, I work for $200 a day plus expenses."
"Expenses?"
"Information, intel, paying off bookies, the occasional FroYo. So, Ms. Ewing..."
"Don't go by that last name."
"Oh. Married?"
"No. Just decided to choose my own last name. Don't feel like the patriarchy should define my surname."
"How enlightened of you, Gertrude Steinem. Do we have a deal?"
She threw a wad of bills on my desk and walked out with the same shimmy that brought her in.
I would normally reach for my go-to investigation technique, but I had a feeling that a Google search for "Patrick Ewing" wouldn't be any help.
END OF CHAPTER ONE
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