Written by armfeetandtoe
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Monday, 22 October 2012

The wind blew through the windy city. This was Chicago, the windy city. In his office off one of those run down streets near a rather violent neighbourhood, Frankie D sat at his desk sipping sour mash whiskey and hummed one of those classic old tunes; Y.M.C.A. by the village people.

A letter had arrived from Ohio and its content had him worried, it was written in Mandarin. Was it a threat from the head of the Triad clan, Chew MI? A man he had hunted and put behind bars. No, it had to be another member of the gang, maybe there was a bounty on his head and this was the calling card.

There was a knock at the door, Frankie was startled, he did not have a door since the police had kicked it in last week. Standing in the doorway was a small Chinese man with his hands clasped together head slightly bowed. Frankie drew his gun and pointed it at his would be assassin.

"Come on then Mao, make your move" he spat at the Chinaman.

"Excluse sir" said the Chinaman, "A retter have been derivered to rong adless".

"Don't bandy words with me wise guy, I'm no pasty" Frankie snarled.

"It not your retter, it for me sir, an you mean patsy" replied the man.

Frankie lowered his gun and looked at the paper on his desk, he then checked the name on the envelope, it had been sent to the rong adless. Placing his gun back in its holster, Frankie spoke.

"Gee, I'm really solly, I mean sorry Mr I did not mean to scare you".

"You not scare me, I know Kung Fu" replied the man.

"Here is your letter, say hi to Mrs Wong for me".

"It not Wong, it Wang, you wong" answered Mr Wang.

"I'm not Wong" replied Frankie.

"Yes, me Wang you say Wong, you Wong" insisted Mr Wang.

"Wong wong?" asked a confused Frankie.

"No, just one wong" said the man as he departed.

Frankie D sat down and took a swig from his glass, "how the hell did a swig get in there"? He thought to himself, as he re filled the crystal receptacle. The phone rang, he let it chime a couple of times before answering giving the illusion he was busy.

"Hello, Slipper private detective agency, Frankie D speaking".

The voice on the end of the phone explained the reason for calling and arraigned to meet Frankie the next morning at Alder Planetarium near the water front.

"Down by the waterfront, tomorrow morning" replied Frankie replacing the receiver.

The next morning, Frankie made his way through Dearbom Park and toward the lake.

He was going to be late, the appointment was for 9am he had a puncture just outside the office.

"Why did I buy this second hand piece of crap?" Frankie asked himself as he wrestled with the tyre.

"Because you are a tight wad" answered a passing Zulu Warrior.

The tyre fixed, Frankie peddled franticly to make up for lost time, and thank god it was not windy today or he would have been peddling backwards toward Homan Square. The Lake came into view, a lone figure stood standing in the square with Lake Michigan resting in the background. "Who was this person that needed my help so urgently" wondered Frankie as he slammed into a lamp post.

Frankie limped up to the woman that had been waiting for his arrival and extended his hand.

"Nice trick cowboy" the woman said in a droll sexy voice.

"Sorry I am late Mam, I met with an accident on the way over here" explained Frankie.

"Looks like it won" replied the woman.

The woman was average height, bleach blond hair brown eyes and a look that would stop a raging bull in its tracks. She wore a black and white check two piece suit with a gold brooch pinned to the lapel of the jacket. An alligator purse sat in her left hand. She drew on a Peter Stuyvesant cigarette.

"What can I do for you" asked Frankie.

"I need you to find my husband Mr D" the woman replied.

"Where is he" Frankie asked.

"Are you for real? Why do you think I have contacted you" the woman stated.

"Of course, yes, silly me, where did you last see him".

"On the 0700 flight from O'Hare to England" the woman answered.

"Is he a flight attendant then" enquired Frankie.

"No, passenger 57" the reply came.

"Does he have a b" started Frankie.

"Yes, he has a bald head" interrupted the woman "Here is an envelope with his photo".

Frankie took the envelope and put the photo inside he would look at it later.

"What are your charges Mr D" the woman asked.

"One hundred dollars a day plus expenses" Frankie replied.
"That is reasonable Mr D, do you give discount for widows" the woman enquired.

"But your husband is not dead" replied Frankie.

"Like I said, do you give discount for widows?"

Frankie D accepted a cash deposit from the woman and promised to be on the first plane to London.

Two days later, he was still trying to get a stand-by seat before giving up and paying for an economy class to London Heathrow airport. On the way, he had contacted his old mate Skoob who reluctantly agreed to put him up for the duration of his visit and forge the hotel bills for a cut of the expenses.


The story above is a satire or parody. It is entirely fictitious.

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