The Seaside Detective Agency

by J. C. Williams

  “Three feet,” replied Joey. “I wouldn’t have time, nor the inclination to go for six. What am I, an undertaker?”

  The fragility of her life caused a shiver to run down Abby’s spine. “Okay, granted, we’re not worth the extra three feet. But the problem remains the same. If Mr Esposito sees us alive, he’s going to kill you. We’ll need to go in without you.”

  Joey thought for a moment. “If you two appear by yourselves, he’ll kill you. Your only hope is if I come with you. Mikey will still hopefully be unconscious in the field. If not, I tied him up pretty tightly anyway, so he’s going nowhere fast. Did you tell the police where to find him?”

  Abby winced. “No, I forgot, what with everything going on and all. Madeline?”

  “It wasn’t exactly high on my priority list,” Madeline admitted.

  “Naw, it’s fine. This probably helps,” said Joey. “At this point, Mr Esposito still thinks I’m working for him.”

  “Out of curiosity, how do you go about resigning?” Madeline asked, with some cheek. “I mean, do you have a contract when you sign up to be a henchman? I know I’ve had jobs where I’ve had to give a month’s notice before I could leave. Is it the same for you?”

  “You know, it’s funny you say that,” Joey replied which a chuckle. “I’ve similar conversations with my partner. Well. Ex-partner.”

  “Do you have an annual appraisal?” Madeline continued. “You know. Where you get graded on how productive you’ve been over the previous year? Maybe how many people you’ve buried?”

  It wasn’t so funny anymore, then, and the mood turned sombre. “Mr Esposito,” was all Joey said, “hopefully doesn’t know that I’ve knocked Mikey out.”

  “What if he does?” asked Abby.

  “Then we’re all dead,” replied Joey, matter-of-factly. Joey reached inside his jacket and took out his phone.

  “What are you doing?” Abby asked.

  “I’m phoning Mr Esposito,” he replied, mashing the keypad as he pulled the car to the side of the road. He placed his finger to his lips. “Shhh,” he said. It was deathly quiet, so the ringtone echoed through the car.

  After a half-dozen rings, it was picked upon the other end.

  Joey cleared his throat. “Mr Swan? Mr Swan. Joey Schmidt reporting in to Mr Esposito. Where are you currently located, sir, if I may ask? Are you with Mr Esposito?”

  Joey half-closed his eyes and scrunched up his face. He knew how precarious his current situation was. For all he knew, Mikey had escaped and was currently standing next to Mr Swan, filling him in on the day’s events. In which case the current charade was all in vain.

  Abby moved closer, but the thick flesh of Joey’s ear muffled the speaker, preventing her eavesdropping.

  Joey nodded his head as he listened intently. For someone who didn’t overtly demonstrate signs of weakness, the bead of sweat that ran down his temple was evidence that Joey’s underpants could soon be filled.

  There was a pause and then Joey looked at the passenger seat, and then to the rear-view mirror, where the vision of Abby, chewing her lip, met him. “No, uh, Mr Swan. They’re with me in the car,” he related into his phone.

  He listened once more, his eyes scouring the pretty vista around him as if seeking inspiration. “No, Mr Swan, they’re very much alive, unfortunately, but they are still very much in my possession… Yes… Well… Yes, I’m afraid we had a bit of an issue which prevented the instructions being carried out.”

  Madeline and Abby looked on intently.

  “What went wrong?” Joey asked. His face contorted as the inspiration he sought eluded him. He looked at Abby and then over to Madeline for the glimmer of a suggestion, but, with none on offer, Joey was on his own.

  He improvised. “The police pulled us over, Mr Swan,” he offered, but it was fairly evident to the ladies that his acting skills were much like his digging skills: not entirely up to snuff. They shifted uncomfortably in their seats.

  “Is, uh, Mikey with you, by any chance, Mr Swan?” asked Joey, as the bead of sweat now met up with his colossal neck.

  The women leaned closer, anxious to see where this was leading, and what Joey could manage to pull out of his…

  “Why would he be with you?” asked Joey. “Yes. About that. Here’s the thing,” he said, stalling, trying desperately to pull something out of his…

  “Ass,” he said. “He’s an ass. Almost blew our whole operation. The police arrested Mikey, is what happened. So I hoped that maybe they’d have let him go and he’d be with you by now?”

  Joey smiled as his confidence levels peaked.

  “What did he get arrested for?” said Joey, crestfallen, his confidence once again leaving him. He tilted his head back, looking up to the heavens. His underpants suddenly became damp.

  “Urinating. Urinating in the street,” he said.

  Joey looked in the rear-view mirror as Abby mouthed the words he’d just uttered back to him, with a look of utter despair on her face. Joey shrugged his shoulders.

  “Yes, Mr Swan,” he continued. “Mikey got out of the car to relieve himself, but he must have shaken it one too many times because the police arrested him for outraging public decency, I think they called it. As soon as the handcuffs came out I was gone, Mr Swan… Right… Yes… Most unfortunate, yes. So… where are you now? I suppose I should meet up for, uh… further instructions? I mean, considering the, uh… oh. Oh. Okay, then. Great… Yes… Yes, sir. Goodbye.”

  It was the most pathetic cover story ever told, but Mr Swan was either horrifically stupid or preoccupied because judging by the look of relief on Joey’s face, the explanation had been accepted.

  Joey collapsed back into the car seat, its springs creaking in protest. “Holy shit,” he said. “Holy shit, I think he actually bought it!”

  “And why wouldn’t he?” said Madeline. “After all, it was very convincing. An absolutely astonishing performance.”

  “It was?” asked Joey, well chuffed. “You really think so?”

  Madeline appeared to roll one eye independently of the other. “No, Joey. I’ve seen better acting in a 70’s porn film.”

  “Now what?” asked Abby, diverting Joey’s attention away from the slight.

  Joey refilled his lungs for a moment. “Well, your hunch was dead-on. Just as you suggested, they’re meeting your sister at the Camera Obscura. At four p.m.”

  Abby gave him a I-told-you-so type of look, followed directly by a and-you-doubted-me? sort of look.

  “Also,” Joey went on. “It seems that your current status of being alive isn’t as terrible as I’d thought.”

  “I should hope not!” interjected Madeline.

  “You know what I mean,” Joey told her. “Anyway, Mr Swan wasn’t angry about it. He wants me to bring you both to him. They’re meeting your sister,” he said, nodding to Madeline. “And your friend,” he said, looking to Abby through the rear-view (as it would have been difficult to turn his massive neck).

  Abby nodded back at him. “They’re still alive, then,” she said, choking up. “Thank goodness.”

  “In twenty minutes,” Joey stated. So we need to get there first. There’s a lighthouse nearby?” he asked.

  Abby nodded. “Yes, it’s near the Obscura. You can walk down to it, I think.”

  “Okay,” said Joey. “That’s where everyone is now. The men the two believe are FBI agents are going to meet them at the Obscura at four, as arranged, and then bring them back to the lighthouse.”

  “And what happens then?” asked Madeline, rather naïvely.

  “I think,” said Abby. “That anyone who can point a finger at Mr Esposito is going to meet with an unfortunate accident, very soon. With the proximity of the Irish Sea to that lighthouse, the clichéd watery grave would appear to be our final destination.”

  “So what the hell are we going there for?” asked Madeline. “We know they’re going to hurt us. We came here to warn my sister and your friend. So let’s just go do that and get the hell
out!”

  Abby nodded, as what Madeline said made sense. “You’re right. But I don’t know where Emma or Sam are going to be to warn them. The end meeting point is the Obscura, of course, but what I’m trying to say is that the only way to warn them is to walk into potential danger because there’s no other way of knowing where they are, exactly. At least with Joey, he’s got a gun. So we’ve got more hope. We’ve got to look on this as a positive. About an hour ago, Joey and Mikey were going to bury us. So being above ground, as we are now, is actually a positive.”

  Abby added some ‘jazz hands’ along with her final statement but Madeline remained unconvinced. “I’m only going along with this insane, utterly ridiculous notion because there is no other way to save my sister,” she responded.

  “I’m well-armed,” said Joey. “Now come on,” he added, stepping out of the car. “You two look unhurt. If they see you looking like that, Mr Swan will know something is up. You need a couple of bruises.”

  “What?” said Madeline. “You’re going to beat us up??”

  Joey chuckled. “No,” he said. “Believe me, if I were to beat you two up, you wouldn’t be walking anywhere. No. You’re going to beat yourselves up. Just hit each other a couple of times, that’s all.”

  “What?” said Madeline, now stood on the pavement. “You want me and Abby to have a fight? I am not going to have a fight with Abby, that is absolutely—”

  Abby had already jumped out of the car, however, and before Madeline had even known what hit her, Abby had thrown a right hook directly at Madeline’s cheek. Her skin reddened immediately, and bruising shone through like a battered peach.

  “What the fuck!” said Madeline. “You actually just punched me!” she shouted, clutching at her cheek.

  Abby bobbed on the spot. “I know. It’s really liberating. Your turn.”

  Madeline looked like she’d seen a ghost. “I am absolutely not going to hit you, Abby. It is not ladylike, and it is not something I care to—”

  Abby didn’t wait for an invite and unleashed a left hook, catching Madeline on the opposing cheekbone. “Come at me, yo,” said Abby, bobbing and weaving.

  Madeline touched her face. “You hit me. Twice,” she said in disbelief.

  “Yep. Bring it,” Abby taunted her.

  In response, Madeline flapped her hands in front of her face like a child swimming the doggy paddle — making contact with nothing but air.

  The threat level for Abby was, at best, DEFCON 5 — least severe — and, realising this could go on perpetually, Abby obligingly leant forward and pressed her face into the flurry of hand movements that were now flailing quicker than a hummingbird’s wings.

  “There!” said Abby, nursing the onset of a graze on her cheek. “Will this do?” she asked of Joey.

  “Yeah, whatever,” said Joey walking away with a grin on his face.

  Abby quickened her step to catch him up. “You didn’t need us to roughen each other up, did you?”

  “No,” said Joey without hesitation. “It was fun to watch, though. I just wanted to see some girl-on-girl action. Now, come on, you two need to be in front of me looking intimidated once we get there. And make it look convincing. Otherwise, the three of us are going to end up in Davy Jones’ locker.”

  They all climbed back into the car. “So… how many 70’s porn films have you actually watched?” he asked a sulking Madeline sat in the passenger seat.

  “Just drive!” both women shouted in unison.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Swanshead Revisited

  M r Swan admired the view from the foot of the lighthouse. There was no requirement for its services today as the sun bounced off the Irish Sea, which was as calm as a surgeon’s hand. A silhouette of the west coast of England was clearly visible on the horizon. It was a staggeringly beautiful location and he was slightly melancholy, knowing it would be the nicest location he’d ever have a chance to commit murder, or at the very least, a serious maiming.

  The temperature suited his stature, being that he was bordering on morbidly obese. The cooler Manx weather was less of a drain on his overworked sweat glands. He flicked his wrist out and glanced at his watch, and then took a moment to admire the marine birds that hovered overhead looking to snag an easy meal from the passing fishing boats.

  He knocked on a substantial wooden door that was weathered — much like Mr Swan’s own face — likely a result of being hammered by the salty sea air over the course of many years. Mr Swan’s face, meanwhile, had presumably been weathered by other means.

  “Tommy. Remo. It’s time,” he said, taking one final look at his watch.

  The door opened shortly thereafter, and two men dressed identically all in black appeared.

  “You two have been watching too many Will Smith films. It’s going to your head.”

  “We’re just getting into character, Mr Swan,” said Tommy, standing on the right. “And, besides, it’s Agent Weiss and Agent Tanner,” he continued, pulling his fake identity card out of his pocket and flashing it for maximum impact.

  “I’m happy you find this so entertaining, Agent Weiss. Don’t mess this up,” said Mr Swan, clearly unimpressed. “The boss wants this done quickly and done well. You need to meet the two of them and bring them back down here with no fuss.”

  “No problem, Mr Swan,” said Remo, taking an admiring glance at his shimmering black shoes, straightening his tie, and then slipping on a pair of dark sunglasses. “How do I look?” he asked.

  “Oh, just wonderful… Agent Tanner,” said Mr Swan. “Now, gentleman. It’s time.”

  Agent Weiss and Agent Tanner sauntered up the concrete steps that led to a coastal path.

  “Hey! Did you just hit me?” asked Agent Tanner, taking a defensive stance.

  “What? No, of course not,” replied Agent Weiss. “If I was going to hit you, you’d know it was me because you’d be looking up at me, from down on the ground, where you’d be crawling around looking for your teeth.”

  “Or my contact lens. Remember that one time?” asked Agent Tanner.

  Agent Weiss chuckled good-naturedly at his comrade-in-arms. “Yeah, that was funny. Good times,” he said.” He really did love his job.

  “No, but seriously,” said Agent Tanner. “I really did just feel something hit me.”

  “A guilty conscience?” suggested his partner.

  “As if!” Tanner replied. And they both had a good laugh.

  They carried on along the path cautiously; their FBI-issued footwear was not designed for the terrain, and, as such, navigating it presented something of a challenge. Steep steps took them down towards a picturesque beach. They didn’t have time to stop and admire, however, as they faced another daunting set of steps which were narrower than the first.

  Agent Weiss took a position to the rear, and he began to laugh.

  “What’s so funny now?” demanded Tanner.

  The sniggering continued. “You know how you thought I hit you?” said Weiss.

  “Yeah. Well, more of a flick, really,” replied Tanner.

  “Whatever. Anyway, I think I know who assaulted you,” his partner answered, pointing.

  Tanner stopped and arched his neck, struggling to get a view on the back of his back. “What?” he said, getting frustrated. “What are you seeing? There’s nothing there.”

  “Take off your jacket and look at it,” said Weiss.

  Tanner reluctantly agreed, while keeping a cautionary, distrustful eye on his partner. They were always playing pranks on each other, so he had to be prepared for anything.

  “Fuck!” he shouted. “You little feathery freaks!” he shouted at the sky. “That ain’t right!”

  A gull or similar winged assailant had expertly delivered its payload of poop on the back of the jacket, with the slick white crud appearing, in sharp relief, against the jet-black suit fabric.

  Tanner took his gun from its holster and waved it furiously at any bird to fly within shooting distance. “You want a piece of t
his, you abominations of nature? Do ya??”

  “Put your piece away, dumbass!” shouted Weiss. “If we get arrested before we even get to the rendezvous point, we’re screwed!”

  “What about my jacket?” Tanner protested. “It’s ruined!” he pleaded.

  “I dunno. Take it off and carry it under your arm?”

  “What? But I’ve got a gun holstered under each arm. The jacket covers them up, so how am I gonna—?”

  “So wear it, then!” replied Weiss. “What the hell do I care?”

  “Little bastards,” mumbled Tanner as he reluctantly holstered his gun. “And I didn’t iron my shirt, either,” he added.

  “Huh?” Weiss responded.

  Tanner brushed the front of his shirt with his hand. “I didn’t iron it. Well, I did. I mean, the parts you can see, obviously,” he explained. “But not the rest.”

  Weiss struggled to understand what he was hearing. “Wait, what? You only iron the front of your shirt? The part that’s showing? But what if you need to take your jacket off?”

  “Well I didn’t plan on taking my jacket off today!” replied Tanner. “And doing it this way shaves about seven minutes off my getting-ready routine,” he said happily, pleased to be able to impart this practical tip for his partner’s benefit. “It’s a real time-saver!”

  “Great plan that turned out to be,” said Weiss sceptically. “See, in our line of work, you gotta plan for the unexpected.”

  “Point taken,” Tanner replied, grudgingly.

  “So that’s why I always iron my whole shirt,” Weiss went on. “Because you just never know what…” he said, trailing off.

  “Because you just never know what what?” Tanner asked.

  “Dude. What the hell are you doing?” asked Weiss.

  “How do you mean?” Tanner replied innocently.

  “You’re walking so close to me. Move up a little, for god’s sake. If you stop short, I’m gonna plough you in the ass! I mean, we’re friends and everything. But, Christ. We’re not that tight.”

  Tanner turned. “But, see, if I walk real close to you, then nobody will be able to see the mess on my back,” he explicated.