Part 3 of 3
Read the full text, as well as the show-notes, at http://flashpulp.com
Tonight, Mulligan Smith and his short-tempered friend, Billy Winnipeg, find themselves caught up in a high-velocity chase.
The Skinner Co. Network
180 - Mulligan Smith in Nurture, Part 3 of 3
[music] Welcome to FlashPulp, episode 180. Tonight we present Malagan Smith in Nurture, part three of three. [music] This week's episodes are brought to you by Words from Walter. [music] Walter, do you hear that? [music] Hell, may not be a mind place. But do you want to be here for eternity? Beginning May the 8th, 2011, Words from Walter is a new series featuring the diary excerpts of Walter, the undead hitman from Boiling Point, the first volume of Frank. From the mind of Neil Cohen in conjunction with the real Walter Schuller, discover secrets, lies, death, and regret as we delve into the diary of a troubled hitman residing in hell. For more about the author, please visit neilcovin.com, that is n-e-i-l-c-o-l-q-u-h-o-n.com. Stay alive. [music] FlashPulp is an experiment in broadcasting fresh pulp stories in the modern eight. Three to ten minutes of fiction brought to you Monday, Wednesday, and Friday evenings. Tonight, Mulligan Smith and his short-tempered friend, Billy Winnipeg, find themselves caught up in a high-velocity chase. Mulligan Smith in "Nurture", part three of three. Written by J.R.D. Skinner, Art and Narration Biopoponax, an audio produced by Jessica May. [music] Mulligan Smith and Billy Winnipeg were on the highway, and traveling well over governmentally recommended speeds. Dr. Sell was jettering under the strain, but, given the furious police sirens that were chasing him, the PI had little interest in slowing. He'd never expected the job to be a simple one, no case was when children were involved, but the real trouble had begun when he'd handed Winnipeg his cell phone. The client was a fellow he'd work with on a few other matters, although he was never entirely clear what the leather-jacketed customers' interests were. He seemed to be some sort of life guru, although in truth, Mulligan wasn't quite sure. He was happy to take his cash, however, and, as Smith's father had vouched for the Swami's integrity, he wasn't losing any sleep over where it came from. Unusual, though, was the amount of communication the man had required on this outing. He'd kept up a steady stream of prodding via text, and, as the private investigator was busy handling the wheel, he'd delegated the responsibility of replying to his occasional accomplice, Billy. During their original rushed conversation, the client had demanded Mulligan approach the situation with extreme caution, so he'd opted to bring along his easily enraged Canadian friend. Beyond the warning, he'd also been provided a name, apparently straight from a business card the abductor had left in his possession. Poking around the alleged Snatcher's credit information had initially brought few leads, but, just after lunch, a rental car appeared on the man's visa, and Smith was quick to hit the road after coaxing details out of a counter-jockey over at the budget office. Distance was the enemy then, so he'd made his next call while nosing his baby blue car towards an on-ramp. After the third try, the former client at the far end of the line had answered. "Mulligan?" said the cracking male, boys. "Yep." "Hey, listen, a new favor." "I didn't think you were calling to take me out for dinner." "Well, let's not discuss your eating habits on the phone." "You never know who might be listening." "Screw you. That jankum thing was years ago, and I didn't." "Uh-huh," replied Smith. "Listen, poohuffer. I'm not all judgmental like your boss, so there's no reason to explain to me. I'm just asking you to punch a rental license plate through your bleep-bloop-on-starable pucky and come up with a location for me. Then I need you to do it again every half hour till I find the guy I'm looking for." "Is this really necessary?" "Dorian, you know I don't discuss details, unless it's an emergency." "Mulligan had spun a little casual menace into his voice." "If you think about it, I'm pretty sure you prefer it that way." "And yeah, I assure you. This is an emergency." It was as he was jotting down the initial set of GPS coordinates that Smith had received the first request for information from the man paying him. That's when he decided to promote Winnipeg to public relations. For a time, things had proceeded smoothly, accumulating only one speeding ticket, and catching a break when the hunted had apparently stopped for gas. A half day's worth of bent speed limits brought the pursuers directly behind the silver Buick in question. Pulling alongside, Mulligan had confirmed the man in the driver's seat as his suspect, by his cheap suit and poor haircut. But he'd been surprised to also see a woman sitting in the rear. At first he thought she was terrified, as her eyes seemed unnaturally open. But a few seconds of observing her glazed look had left him wondering if she was aware of anything beyond the blanketed bundle she was absent-mindedly holding to her chest. The suit had broken off the conversation he appeared to be having with his companion, which she seemed in no condition to respond to, and gave the flanking to sell a brief inspection. Ignoring Winnipeg's motions to pull over, the rented car had picked up speed. "Give me the phone," Mulligan had said. "Mmm, it's out of juice," was his friend's cheapest reply. "I just heard a ding like three seconds ago." "Yeah, but that was the last of it. Don't you have a car charger?" They'd been cresting a hill, and the long straightaway before them had given a perfect vantage point to the speed trap ahead. "No, but it doesn't matter," Mulligan had said. "We'll have some company once he passes that cop, and we can straighten the whole thing out while that top toaderer is getting a ticket handed to him." The lead car had blown right by the black and white, which made no response. "Stop napping and get back on the job," Billy had shouted, as if he might rouse the slumbererer. Time and distance had grown short, and Smith had considered his client's words regarding extra protection. Rummaging through the glove compartment, he'd retrieved a pistol. "Uh," Winnipeg had begun, while Mulligan cranked at his window. "I don't think," then the PI had fired five times toward the clouds. The inert siren had suddenly become quite active. The cat and cat in mouse game continued for two more miles of open blacktop. Then, without explanation, the rental jerked sideways, rolled onto its roof and came to a stop, not five feet from the line of trees that neighbors the road. Leaving a thick black peel behind him, Mulligan made a U-turn, which was quickly imitated by the trailing patrol car. Grinding his already overtaxed vehicle to a halt, Smith leapt from the car and down the gravel siding. Standing beside the nearest, still spinning rear tire were Mulligan's suspect and a haggard woman who was taking turns attempting to wipe away her tears and holding clothes to ratty blue blouse. To Mulligan's practice, I, she had the look of a working girl who'd aged badly while on her corner. "Where's the kid?" asked the PI. "That son of a bitch magician," replied the hustler, wiping a smear of blood from his cheek. "I don't know how he did it, but he pulled me right off the highway. I don't have the beast. He took it, carried it into the woods by its neck." The responding officer approached the scene weapon drawn, but the conversation he was overhearing was too interesting to break up immediately. "You kidnap a baby," said Winnipeg. "You hire a prostitute to tend it. Then you try and tell me David Copperfield was waiting here to make it disappear?" "Have fun in prison, pal. I'm sure your cellmates will find your spleen delicious." "It's not like that. It's, it's not even a real child." The magician took it, and I'm sure if you'll just... Billy's rebuttal to his solar plexus ended the conversation. "Hey now," said the policeman, handcuffing the kidnapper while still keeping his weapon drawn. "This is the same take I've been hearing about all morning." A bunch of you have a lot of explaining to do. Leading his captive to the rear bench of his patrol car, the uniform began to rattle off a status update into his radio. A black Chevy Lumina pulled to a stop just ahead of the parked herself, and a woman Mulligan didn't recognize, wearing a Van Halen t-shirt and a pair of jeans with a mustard stain on the left knee, stepped out of the passenger side door and stumbled down the embankment. She was carrying a pamphlet of some sort, and to Smith it seemed as if she were attempting to avoid eye contact with anyone. When she walked past him, he took a guess as to why. She stank of rum. The intruder beelineed to the weeping hooker, who was wiping a thick string of snot from her nose. "Come on," the tipsy newcomer said. "I'm worried so much about that toddler. I'm sure he doesn't have a better place." Bunny was little interested in mentioning that she was on hand with coffin when, not 60 seconds previous, he'd been holding the little brute's mouth open with a rock and wielding a pair of pliers in his free hand. Internally, she reminded herself not to look over at her ride's trunk. Meanwhile, Smith was chiding himself for not having considered that that might be why the woman had continued crying. He'd assumed she was complicit and upset because of her capture. "Can you tell me what happened?" asked Mulligan. "He paid me 50 bucks," started the mewling woman. "I don't really remember much. There was a baby. I know there was a baby, but it's teeth." She broke down again. "There's a place for people who've, you know, seen what you've seen," said Bunny, reaching out to adjust the whimpering woman's shirt and tossing a sharp squint at the prying private's tech-tove. It's been around forever, started by some old deadbucker who saw a need to keep, I mean, for, uh, special cases, tough, long-term cases. I know it's called the Sisters of Silence, but it's not like a nunnery or anything. I asked him, "It's okay if you still f***ing drink 'em, whatever. Work hard and get clean, and maybe, you know, one day you might even get to meet them." I think that'll pass the, uh, angel, again. Having concluded her proselytizing, and leaving behind her leaflet, the drunk hobbled back across the road and disappeared behind the tinted windows of the dark sedan. After several hours of examination and explanation, and despite the lack of success in the official search for the infant, Smith found he had to smile. Having his phone revealed a missed cryptic message from his client, indicating the child was somehow recovered and safe. And there was also the fact that Mulligan considered every moment of the incident to be billable. 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 Freesound 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. And if we've all number left. [MUSIC PLAYING] (upbeat music)