The life of a gumshoe in this God forsaken hell hole isn’t what it used to be. Living the high life of nightly jaunts to the Nopa Cabana for sleazy whiskey and watered down women are over. These days it’s stagger into the Wishing Well Saloon for loose wine and boxed women.
Then it happened. Someone walked into my cracker box office besides that pesky landlord Peski. My new customer had a face that could stop a clock and body that could stop a train. Her legs went all the way up and made an ass out of themselves. She had jealous eyes. They were looking at each other.
She told me her name with all the confidence of a best in show Boston crab on New Years Day. “I’m Liza Lott” she said with the pride of a lion with a fresh high top fade on Flag Day.
She’d heard about me from the ditsy police station receptionist Ditzi.
Thinking to myself I thought “What’s a dame like you need with a private dick?” So I asked her “What’s a dame like you need with a private dick?” She said “That’s private”. She went on to say that her husband, – a wealthy Asian businesses man – had gone missing and she had told no one of his disappearance. I asked her what he goes by and she said “No, no farewells, not word”. “What’s your husbands name?” I said with all the impatience of a six pound trout in line at the bank on pay day. She said “Pah King Lott”. I told her I don’t validate. “It’s okay” she said “The least of my problems right now is self worth”.
“What’s his name?” I said with teeth clenched tighter than a Mediterranean mustard clam on Black Friday. She said “His friends call him King”.
I thought to myself, “What’s this got to do with me?” So I said “What’s this got to do with me?” and with the desperation of a forty year old short stop launching toward a bleeder in extra innings on opening day, she said “Please, I want you to find him”. She said “I’ll pay you whatever you want”.
I said to myself “I bet I can get a grand a day from this over the hill runway refugee”. But I forgot to say it. She said “I’ll Give you ten bucks a day and an open tab at the Shing Well Saloon.” She was a tough negotiator so I agreed. And I told her “It’s Wishing Well”. She said “You too”. She walked out with the sway of a dump truck returning from a Shanghai slalom on Record Store Day. The search was on.
I called ditsy Ditzi at the precinct and she said there were eight parking lots and a mocking lot in town. Rather than correct the tight and lovely young tart, I decided to investigate her leads. It’s what I do.
At my first stop, a man approached me and said “I’m a CPA. Can I help you?”. I said “Sure thing Mac, would you recommend stocks, mutual funds or IRAs?”, “I’m a Car Parking Attendant you dip-stick, and your fly is open”. I knew better than to look down and get the old nose finger flick treatment. This ole cowboy’s been to a boat show ‘er two in his day.
I checked two more lots and asked questions in an investigative manner. It’s what I do, I found it poetic that all three properties were owned by a Mr. Pah King Lott.
I mushed along, this time to the mocking lot. A young kid comes up to me and asked me if I needed him to park my car. I said “Nobody drives old Esther but me.” so he says in a sophomoric tone “Nobody drives old Esther but me.” I said “Very funny I get it”. And he says in a screechy voice “Very funny I get it.” I told him I was losing my patience. He said like a ten year old, “I’m losing my patience.” like ten year old. I was going to pound him but he moved first. He came at me with his little school boy punch. When I came to I was seeing more stars than a Hollywood jezebel on Bastille Day. I headed toward the Wishing Well.
This city has more bars than San Quentin after St Patrick’s Day and the Shing Well was no exception. The “W” and the “I” were stolen from the sign out front a few years ago last week. As I walked in, Pete Barman the absent minded barman greeted me warmly. “Well, If it isn’t Doctor Fin Rock. Long time, no see you old bag a scones! “What brings you in here so early in the morning? A sloe gin fizz?” I reminded Pete of my correct name, occupation, that the saying was bag of bones, that it was seven at night and that I will have my usual, a whiskey neat, the same drink he poured me this morning.
As he proceeded to mix my Bloody Mary. He could see I was deep in thought and jotting in my note pad. “What are you working on there Fred?” I told him I was working on a missing persons case and that I was sure it was nothing he could help me with. “Who’s missing?” He asked. I said “Pah King Lott. “Oh you know I don’t validate Phill.” I told him not to worry and that I knew I was all man and just ask Peski’s wife!
We both had a good chuckle.
“Just between you and me, the missing person’s name is Pah King Lott.” Pete pursed his lips, rested his chin on his knuckles and tapped his cheek with his index finger… “Pah King Lott… Pah King Lott… hmm not fer nuthin Frank, but if it’s the same Pah King Lott I’m thinking of… He was born in Romania approximately forty-nine years ago, his birth name was Pah Kying Myitr. His impoverished father Odo and and his mother Thurma lost everything in a failed Sit n Sleep franchise in Bucharest at the height of the bloodiest civil war in Romanian history. Bankrupt – they sent young Pah to the United States to live with his uncle Tecco until Pah was sent to an orphanage after Tecco was killed in a mysterious wood chipper accident. Pah was then adopted by Earl and Myrtle Lott. He was raised lovingly by the Lotts who spoiled him and his adoptive sister Elizabeth. He went to Henry Carp Elementary school. He wet the bed until he was thirteen. He went to Patrick McGroin high school and attended George Leslie Goebel University until Odo died and bequeathed him hundreds of acres of various properties here in the city, generating millions in passive income. He is currently married to the former Ms. Liza Round and has no children. He lives at 1424 Hill street at the top of the hat, I mean 1424 Hat Street at the top of the hill. His telephone number is (555) 626-5678. His social security number is 909-55-1212, and he’s not missing at all, he’s over there in the booth by the juke box – and your fly is open.
I told Pete I wasn’t falling for that old trick. He said “What old trick?”, I asked him how he knew all this. He said “All what?”, I said “The stuff about Pah King Lott.” He said “Who? How about another Tom Collins Richard?”.
I finally had something to work with, but the question still remained – How does a Romanian orphan make it all the way from China and then get to this loathsome little city and then disappear from the face of the Earth? I don’t know but I’ll find out because I’m Flynn Stone Private Detective. It’s what I do.