Part 2 of 3
Read the full text, as well as the show notes, at http://flashpulp.com
Tonight, Mulligan Smith, PI, encounters an old friend in an unlikely location, while investigating an uncomfortable accusation.
The Skinner Co. Network
FP220 - Mulligan Smith in The Pinch, Part 2 of 3
[music] Welcome to Flashpulp, episode 220. This evening, we present Mulligan Smith in The Pinch, Part 2 of 3. This week's episodes are brought to you by the Dune Steve Podcast. Hi, I'm Big Anclavitch. And I'm Rich Outfield. We're your hosts for the Dune Steve Audio Fiction magazine. On the Dune Steve, we read science fiction, fantasy, and horror stories. If you've never listened to the Dune Steve, you don't know what you're missing. After the story, there's witty banter and discussion from the hosts. The best part about the discussion is that it's at the end, so it's easy just to skip it. Right, so come check out the Dune Steve Audio Fiction magazine. Find us at www.dunesteep.com. That's D-U-N-E-S-T-E-E-F. [music] Flashpulp is an experiment in broadcasting fresh pulp stories in modern age. Three to ten minutes of fiction brought to you Monday, Wednesday, and Friday evenings. Tonight, Mulligan Smith, PI, encounters an old friend in an unlikely location while investigating an uncomfortable accusation. Mulligan Smith in The Pinch, part two of three. Written by J.R.D. Skinner, Art and Narration Biopoponax, an audio produced by Jessica May. [music] Mulligan had hated high school. Worse still, by having never left Capital City, he had found himself once again in the same halls he'd walked as a student. The mustard yellow lockers appeared unchanged since his youth. Smith had come to a halt just outside the building's main office. A long bench faced the monolithic front desk behind which a colony of administrative staff worked in a frenzy to bring a Monday's worth of affairs and order. Even from his distance, the private detective could hear snatches of conversation relating to Miss Lacey and her young victim, Jared Givens. Although the boy had come forth to his parents on Saturday, the police had been unable to locate Miss Lacey until Sunday when she was found while returning to her apartment, supposedly after a road trip to her ailing mother's nursing home. Smith knew this much to be true, as he'd had it confirmed in the papers and by a few friends in the department. But that was the extent of the information that was available. "I heard she was actually visiting some kid she met on the internet," said a sharp-faced woman from behind her glasses. "Hmm, it would make sense," replied a man in a tireless blue dress shirt. "I heard her and Jared have actually been together since the start of the year, so maybe he's bringing it up now out of revenge." Mulligan had spent a sizable portion of his morning asking around regarding any such possibilities, but none of the student body had noticed anything awry with the woman. Though many of the male students claimed to have often kept a close eye on her. The most they would say about Jared was that he was a "good guy." The PI was intimate with the term. Too often it was the label given to any miscreant who'd avoided having his crimes or perversions noticed simply by remembering to wave and smile when they passed others in the hallway or on the sidewalk. Before his on-the-spot interviews, however, he'd taken Miss Lacey's incarceration as an opportunity to rifle through a trash. She'd lived in a small house, formerly her mother's, and he'd discovered the cans neatly arranged under her flimsy carport. The contents were everything he'd expected of a woman living alone, and nothing more. The worst of it was a bottle of wine, which he'd located in a recycling bin, but it was a slim bottle, and stood as the only alcohol beside a mountain of used cans and tissue boxes, which might have been collecting dust for weeks. Smith had also scrounged through the desk in her homeroom class, moments before her bewildered replacement arrived to take attendance, but all he'd uncovered was a mechanical bic pencil, a mummified eraser, and a confiscated note from one "genie sims" to a "matty", which might have been written at any point since the invention of pink-inked pens and contained information useful only to the apparently adored Matthew. Having turned up little, he finally approached the office. At a time, he'd been too familiar with the place, and he knew there to be a honeycomb with teachers' mailboxes just beyond the door which separated students and staff. But, in crossing the threshold, he would expose himself as something more than just a sloppily dressed visitor. Left no option, he squared his shoulders and marched through the entrance. The PI had found a purposeful stride was often enough to mollify those interested in minding their own business, and not so on this occasion. As his fingers walked along the plastic labels indicating the owner of each cubby, Smith was interrupted by a voice of bottomless authority. Excuse me, what do you think you're doing back here? As the man behind him, Mulligan's hand had stopped at Miss Leafy's letter drop, but the holly was empty. His interrogator noted to detect his interest in the location. Are you some kind of pervert looking for souvenirs? The press? Either way, I'm calling the police. You're trespassing. "No, I'm," said Smith. "Save it," was the reply. Turning, Mulligan took in the tall suit's thick shoulders and shaved head. He recognized the speakers, the school's principal, although he now appeared much angrier than the portrait which hung at the front entrance, and the painting had not made clear that the man had obviously once been a boxer. The former fighter's flat-lipped expression clearly announced that he'd heard a lifetime of excuses already and had no intention of burdening himself with more. Although the investigator now knew he was likely to be escorted off the property by some of his uniformed friends from downtown, he could see no way to avoid it. Then, from the far side of the desk, a teenage voice said, " Mulligan, hey, I was wondering where you were." The broad-faced ex-pugilist raised an eyebrow. "You know this man?" he asked. "Yeah, sure, it's sort of like my uncle. Not actually related or anything, just close to the family. I forgot my water home. I texted a mom, but her and dad are at work, so they sent him down with the twenty. The intruding boy rounded on Smith, and the detective became convinced he'd seen the lads somewhere before. Perhaps the son of a client? Hopefully not the son of a former subject. Whatever the case, Mulligan dutifully handed over a hard-earned bill. "I'll walk with you while you go," said the recipient. As he pushed against the chromed bar and swung wide the door, Smith let out a sigh of relief and zipped his hoodie against the chill October air. "I've been sort of following you around all morning," said the teen. "I thought it was you, but I wasn't sure at first. Don't blame me for not recognizing me. I've changed a lot. I'm Lucas. We met downtown. You spilled gin on me?" Smith had encountered the lad four years earlier, while looking for a fellow who would later turn out dead. The last time he'd seen him, Lucas had been ten and bleary-eyed with drink. "You're looking a lot better these days," he said. "Though I recall you were wearing some fancy private school duds last time, not rubbing elbows with the public." Yeah, well, sort of thought about calling you a few times. Always seemed like it would be weird. It wasn't like I got clean right away when you screwed me. But it was a huge step along the road. You caught me kicked out of Ashbury Academy. And that eventually led me to a summer camp full of the idiots with similar floplims. Some days are tougher than others, but we were a big help. I'm glad to hear it, and thanks for the save back there. Old man Turnbull isn't so bad. He's just excitable. Understood. You know Miss Lacey at all? I've heard the rumors, but I never had a class with her. Not like I'm knotted. And his thoughts drifted to his tricell, parked alongside the nearby road. He tightened his collar against the cold. "Sure. Look, you should call me sometime. But I'm sort of in the middle of something. You know how it is." "Yeah," replied Lucas, smirking. As he stepped from the curb, a sudden thought came Smith. "Hey, do you know Jared Gibbons at all?" The boy paused, the door opened before him. "That jackass is always giving me guff." "Huh, most of the kids in this class really seem to like him." "Ah, you've obviously missed talking to the junior geeks and gods." "Can't blame you though. They make themselves pretty invisible." "Oh, senior A-holes only like him." "Because he's the cheapest dealer in school." 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 Flashcast. 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, visit this episode's notes at flashpulp.com. And thanks to you for listening. If you enjoyed the show, please tell your friends. ♪ ♪ Sunday is gloomy, my hours are stumbling ♪ ♪ Give it the shadows I live with are stumbling ♪ (dramatic music)