Humor/Adventure
Cover art by
Richard Stroud
PI Dr Jake
Flintlock and his sidekick Dr Bum Park are inveigled by American theater
director Chuck Cinzano into the investigation of a severed hand in a baseball
glove on Primrose Hill, London. The assignment morphs into a murder case as
Chuck is “stabbed to death” in Jake’s home. Having
flown to Sausalito, CA, Jake and Bum begin to suspect they are being used as
actors in a play. Yet, a real crime has been committed and somehow the culprit
has to be found.
Excerpt:
Primrose
Hill, London NW1, on the first summer Saturday the mercury hit twenty-five
degrees was not the place for me. Packed as it was with semi-naked
people, the place looked more like the Costa del Sol in August. Bad decision,
Jake! Better to have stayed at home and watched telly, but by then it was too
late. There is no way Binkey can be dragged out of a park he’s already in.
Hell to play as he wraps his lead around a tree and performs his idea of a
sit-in, bottom rooted to the grass and forepaws planted in defiance while
baring his teeth at passersby in what he thinks of as his
wolf impression. Which I tell him makes him look at best mental, but you can
see how passersby might feel differently when faced with a Dachshund/Doberman
cross pretending to be a wolf; frightened, for example. Not that Binkey has
ever bitten a passerby, you understand; just likes them to think he might. So
it was I was left with little choice but to continue indulging Binkey’s walkie
needs and trudge on through the mass of unedifying man—and womankind.
All
the ones around me were currently turned to the sun spit-roasting themselves at
a future cost to the National Health Service in carcinoma treatment of
squillions, money the NHS couldn’t afford because the bankers had stolen it all
and the government didn’t dare ask for it back. As I had time and again in my
years on the planet, I asked myself what the world was coming to, a thought I
shared with Binkey as we stumbled through the dumbed-down, bunkered-in,
smartphone-silly, flabby flotsam of the second decade of the twenty-first
century.
“Bloody
hell, Binkey,” I commented close to the top of the hill, narrowly
avoiding the head of a whale-like German lying—well, more like floundering—on
his stomach as he tried to capture on his iPad the splendour of the cityscape
laid out beneath him: the London Eye, the Sexy Gherkin, the Shard, all of that.
I knew the whale was German from the way he kept re-angling his iPad to get his
picture exactly right and grunting, “Vorsprung durch Technik.”
“You
wonder what a Martian expeditionary commander would make of this lot, don’t
you?” I asked Binkey. “Probably call home straight away and tell his boss to
cancel invasion plans in case the troops catch something nasty. Advise him to
check out black holes instead.”
“Raaafff,
raaafff!” Binkey said from the other end of his lead, but I could tell from the
way he was tugging towards an—illegal!—barbie a few yards away from the
German’s head my analysis of the planet’s problems wasn’t the cause of his
excitement. What was interesting Binkey more than self-induced Armageddon were
the sausages currently turning the same shade as the people cooking them.
“Binkey,
heel,” I commanded.
Fat
chance. Binkey doesn’t obey any commands except Walkies, Din-Dins and Bikkies,
which strictly speaking aren’t commands at all. More like offers.
“HEEL!”
I nonetheless repeated pointlessly...which was when the really bad thing had to
happen.
Call it catastrophe theory, call it nemesis, call it anything you like,
but I ask you: What ungodly presence was it which had to inspire the
German, at that very moment, to kick out an excited leg at the capture of the
pic he doubtless hoped would soon grace the cover of a Der Spiegel and
thereby cause me to trip and let go of Binkey’s lead such that the freed beast
made a bee-line for the barbie—tended as it turned out by a band of
Russians—piss on it, scarf all the sausages, and then run away to the other
side of the hill to take part in a baseball game organised by American dads for
their cutesy Major-League-wannabe progeny...and steal their ball? I mean,
life’s hard enough, right?
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