Not My Line of Work, by Dean Bryant Johnson
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Tonight, we present a tale of professions and professionalism.
The Skinner Co. Network
FPGE6 - Not My Line of Work, by Dean Bryant Johnson
(upbeat music) Welcome to Flashpulp, guest episode six. This evening we present Not My Line of Work by Dean Bryant Johnson. This episode is brought to you by the charred tree. Stories, scenes, and vignettes from a strange mind. Find all of Mr. Johnson's tales at http/thechardtree.wordpress.com. Flashpulp is an experiment in broadcasting fresh pulp stories in the modern age. Three to 10 minutes of fiction brought to you Monday, Wednesday, and Friday evenings. Tonight we present a tale of professions and professionalism. Not My Line of Work, written by Dean Bryant Johnson, art and narration by Opoponax, an audio produced by Jessica May. ♪ Not where the black coach of sorrow has taken you ♪ ♪ And you'll have no thought of ever returning you ♪ ♪ Would they be angry if I thought of joining you ♪ ♪ You miss them days ♪ Giselle stamped from the room and slammed the door. Ham was fairly certain that this was the first time he'd ever seen a dame stamp her way from any room, so effectively while wearing six inch heels. Sure, some had tried, but it's difficult to take a mad woman seriously when she's waving her arms around like a ceiling fan trying to keep her balance. But Giselle, Giselle had pulled it off. Walked those gams across the floor as graceful as you please, flung open the door without a moment's hesitation and slammed it so the glass rattled violently in its frame. The last letters slipped and nearly fell. He'd have to fix that. It was already a challenge to get paying clients to take him seriously with a name like Ham Packer. He could only imagine the sniggering his colleagues would send into their sleeves if that second M disappeared. The thought made him frown. "For crying out loud," he said under his breath as he stood and began to cross the spursley furnished office to repair the lettering. Ham froze when a loose floorboard creaked. He hadn't heard the elevator grow in its way to the main floor yet, so Giselle was likely still in the hallway. The last thing he needed was for her to come back. While she's a looker, the only thing he really wanted at this point was for her check to clear the bank. So he stopped and waited quietly for the aging machinery to announce the all clear. After 30 seconds of agonizing silence, Ham heard the elevator screech open, crisp footsteps walking into it, and the screech in reverse as the car closed. He felt more than heard the elevator descend to the first floor. He straightened the last letter of his first name and pressed as hard as he dared. There, that's better. Ham Packer, private investigator. The telephone rang as he returned to his desk. He lifted the receiver while reaching for a pencil. Packer. Mr. Packer, good, you're still there. I need to see you as soon as possible. Her voice was calm, but painted with a layer of urgency. A bit of an accent, too little to reliably identify. Gave her voice an exotic sound. Ham looked as watch, 837. Well, I was about to turn the lock and call it a night. How does tomorrow sound? The day started with an ugly hairball left by an ill-tempered cat on the bath mat and had ended with an angry client with legs up to hear nearly destroying the entry to his place of business. Best not to push his luck and start over in the morning. Oh, that's no good. I'm leaving by the early train. Can't you please help me? Can I buy your dinner while I explain my problem? Her voice dripped anxiety with an edge of desperation. Work hadn't exactly been beating a path to his threshold lately and the bank account could always use some more dough. Worst case, took away some groceries. Here's someone's story. Maybe he could do something? Maybe not. It could be worse. Most clients would never even consider buying him a meal. You know a place called Dorset's Tavern Miss. Ortiz, Antonio Ortiz, Mr. Packer. And yes, I know where it is. Would you like me to meet you there? Ham could almost feel the gratitude pouring through the phone line. No, not there. That's not a good place for us to talk business. A few times, Ham had walked by Dorset's, the hairs on his neck had stood on end. Something seemed to warn respectable people away from that place. Opposite side of the street and at the other end of the block is the stockyard grill. Hope steak's fine with you. Hell, when a client offers to buy you a meal, you treat yourself to something a little better than a bag of cheese doodles and a slurpee. Two hours later, Ham Packer pushed away a large plate that held only a bone and the wreckage of a much abused baked potato. He sipped his iced tea and looked over the edge of the glass at Antonio Ortiz. He was glad he had let her buy a mistake because he certainly wasn't gonna take this case. So let me get this straight. Your father died a few days ago and now he's haunting you. But before he died, he told you that some heirloom piece of jewelry could protect you? Nope, saying an aloud didn't make it any less insane. Glad this place was getting ready to close. Fewer people around to hear the crazy talk. Not him alone, Mr. Packer. All of them, every one of my Ortiz ancestors. My father's journal says it will begin with the first new moon after his death. So I have less than a month to find this thing and reclaim my life. Antonio closed her eyes. Her fingers pinched and caress the ridge between her eyes and she shook her head. I know it sounds preposterous. I don't want this to happen to me. I have a life of my own, dammit. I don't need the dead bothering me. She slammed her fist on the table. The flatware and her untouched water jumped with the impact. Look, Miss Ortiz, I'm gonna be straight with you. I could use the money, really, I could. And I might even be able to find this broach or pin or whatever it is for you, although I wouldn't make any promises on that. I couldn't help you on the mumbo jumbo part of it. I have no idea where to begin and I'm not even convinced I believe in such things. He folded his hands on top of the watted napkin in front of his plate. I'm sore, ma'am. I can't take your case. Antonia's gaze fell to her lap. Thank you for your honesty, Mr. Packer. I appreciate that you at least took the time to hear my explanation of the situation. A tear slid down her cheek as she handed her credit card to the waitress. What should I do next? Let me give it some thought. He swirled the ice in the last half inch of tea in the glass. I've heard rumors of a guy here in the city that dabbles in magic and voodoo, that kind of stuff. Ham retrieved a small spiral pad and a pencil from his jacket and made a note. Might also check with some of my other contacts. If nothing else, maybe they can get me a line on Mr. Bednobs and broomsticks. The waitress, her barely legible name tag, proclaimed her to be Vera, returned with Antonia's credit card and the slip for her to sign. Can't get you folks anything else. No, no, thank you. Everything was wonderful. Antonia said it by rote while she figured the tip. You know my mess, I am. Vera whispered, Packer could tell by her body language that she was nervous to say anything, so he smiled to reassure her and motioned for her to continue. I couldn't help but hear you discussing the ghost magic, Villa. You looking for him? Yes, we are, Vera. Do you know where we might find him? Packer had learned to keep the tone conversational. Sources tended to make like a clam if they thought they were being interrogated. He's called call fan. Don't think I ever heard everyone use a given name for him. Not that you need to, with some as memorable as that. You can usually find him at door sits a couple of nights a week. She indicated the direction with a general wave. Strange place that, but it seems to suit Mr. Kaufman. If he's not there, I bet old door-sick appoints you in the right direction. Thank you, Vera. You've been very helpful. Ham extended his hand. Vera shook it and left with a signed credit slip. I hope you tipped her well, Ms. Ortiz, 'cause she just answered your question of what to do next. That's near here, isn't it? Can we go now? Antonio clasped his arm as she spoke. Absolutely. Packer drained the last of his tea before placing the empty glass next to his plate. Let's go. They stepped into door sits and it was what Ham would have expected had he ever taken the time to think to consider it. Usually he would have loved a place like this. Lots of wood with brass fittings, comfortable padded stools at the bar, billiards and some dartboards to one side. But something made him want to leave, to find a more welcoming bar. Well, he said under his breath, the good news is I'm not here to drink. I'm here to find this guy and then I'm done. He excused himself forward and got the barman's attention. Ham leaned over and spoke softly, barely loud enough for the man to hear. I'm looking for coffin. Someone told me I could find him here. He slid a folded bill across the worn wood of the counter. The park keep looked twice between the money and Ham Packer's face before deciding the money was good. He motioned with his head towards the back and Ham's eyes darted in that direction. When his gaze returned to the polished wood, the 20 was gone. He's here a Miss Ortiz. He took Antonia by the arm and guided her deeper into the tavern where they could see the rear seating area. Three booths were occupied. The two on the right were occupied by couples, obviously out for a night on the town. A man in a leather jacket sat alone drinking coffee in the one on the left. That had to be coffin. Is that him? Antonia was excited. Only person it could be. I tell you what, I got you here to the man himself so I think I'm done. Frankly, this place gives me the willies. I don't think they like me being here. Can't put my finger on it, but after a while you learn to go with your gut. You go see if that's him. If it is, great, good luck. If not, I'll help you find some other lead. Deal? He could feel the eyes boring into the nape of his neck. Oh, yes, that's fine, Mr. Packer. Oh, here. She placed several folded bills in his hand as she shook it. For the money you gave the bartender, as well as for bringing me this far. Thank you so much for your help. Antonia approached the leatherclad man. Ham pocketed the money without counting it. He was certain this particular client was playing fair and honest. At least he wasn't out the 20 he'd lost at the bar. Ham watched as Antonia approached and addressed the man. He couldn't hear their words, but he knew she was asking if he was coffin. He nodded and offered her the seat opposite him. Ham hoped she found the answer to her problem. Maybe this coffin guy could help her. Ham sure as hell knew that he couldn't. Flashpulp is presented by flashpulp.com and is released under the Canadian Creative Commons attribution non-commercial 2.5 license. Text and audio commentaries can be sent to skinner@skinner.fm or the voicemail line at 206-338-2792. But be aware that they may appear in a future flash cast. We'd also like to thank the Free Sound Project, found at freesound.org. For a full listing of effects used during the show, as well as credits for the users who provided them, please check this episode's notes at flashpulp.com. And thanks to you for listening. If you enjoyed the show, please tell your friends. (upbeat music) (upbeat music) ♪ Sunday is gloomy ♪ ♪ My hours are stumbled ♪ ♪ Here is the shadows ♪ ♪ I live with our number left ♪ (upbeat music) (upbeat music)