Hey, it’s Rey!
Hey, it’s JJ!
Stop stealing my greeting, Cousin Jilly!
It’s not solely yours, Cousin Reynalda!
Good grief. Hi, it’s Linda and I’m taking over, ladies. Go bicker elsewhere. . . . Go on!
Now that my colleagues are gone, I can get into this post. It’s a quick one, a down and dirty as my squabbling BFF might say.
We’re still solving our latest case (Disco’s Dead and so is Mo-Mo). It’s a puzzler. Just who killed Mo-Mo Martine those many decades ago? It could be any number of people—and some of them may already be doing the hustle with Mo-Mo on the otherworldly colorful disco dance floor. Others are boogying down . . . and bowing out (permanently).
Here’s an extract (JJ tells it best) . . .
As we parked the Jeep a block from the bank, yet another call came in. Given we had some time before meeting Paige Penner, I put the cell on speaker again and leaned back in the driver’s seat. Sach lowered his seat, stretched his legs, and tucked his hands behind his neck.
“You and your comrades have been calling a lot of people, hoping to solve a decades-old case,” Pug McWilliams chortled, sounding strangely like The Cowardly Lion (Bert Lahr in the 1939 version of The Wizard of Oz).
That was quick. Sach, my “comrade”, feeling proactive, had only left a voicemail ten minutes ago. “It’s really a new case, given Mo-Mo Martine was only recently found.”
“You say toe-may-toe, I say tow-maw-tow,” he laughed—in the manner of that cowardly lion.
Sach and I looked at each other with what-the-fuck? expressions (it was kind of, well, creepy).
“What can I tell you? Who did it? Don’t know. Could have been Johnny Baloney. Could have been me.” More laughter.
“Was it you?” I queried.
A snicker. “Wish it had been, in a way. I’d like to take credit for it—get a few hearty pats on the back from those still around who care. But no, it wasn’t me.”
Idly, I watched Saturday traffic pass. “You had a major fight though. It was said you were very angry with Mo-Mo after that.”
“Wouldn’t you be if you lost four teeth and had thousands of dollars of dental work done as a result?” A snort. “Never mind that, at the time, I was a pretty good amateur boxer and I looked pretty f’g silly having been thrashed by my stupid flabby cousin.”
“The guy got in a couple of lucky punches, that’s all,” Sach offered consolingly. “You know though? You should have sued.”
“Yeah, he did get in those punches quick. Caught me totally unawares.” Pug sighed. “Sue that prick? That’d have gone over like a lead balloon—as in two lead-filled balloons attached to my legs.”
“Did he do that often?” I inquired. “No one we’ve spoken to has actually stated that.”
“The guy was no saint,” he answered caustically. “He never got his hands dirty, save when he was cooking, but he had the right people take care of things for him. And they did it very well and very discreetly.”
Sach and I looked at each other again—with wide, pleased smiles.
“Some real dirt,” Sach mouthed. He then ventured to ask, “Who’d he off?”
We’ll—hmm, maybe that should be I’ll—keep you updated as to how things fare.
Aloha from the Triple Threat Investigation Agency—enjoy the weekend!