Bohemia Village Voice

Old School

He was sat at his desk looking at the laptop screen. ‘Piece of trash,’ he said and turned off the machine. He was ‘old school’; he was Jessie Rock, Private Investigator.
Rock was getting nowhere on the Schaffe case. No-one was talking, not a whisper. Rock felt restless, he needed a break, a lucky break, and he was long overdue. The telephone began ringing; he leaned forward and picked up the instrument.
“Yeah, speaking, yeah, so, no, where? Okay,” and then he replaced the receiver smiling. Maybe Lady Luck was beginning to appear. He relaxed back into his chair when there was a knock upon the door.
“Come in,” he shouted. Ellen Glass entered. He looked up and smiled, then said, “You’re beautiful, baby.”
“Don’t swing it, Rock,” Ellen said through a smile.
“Have you got a drink?”
“What have you got for me, baby?”
“I got plenty, you know that,” said Ellen.
“Okay,” said Rock mixing two Jack’s and ice.
“Thank you,” said Ellen, “the Schaffe case, where are you with that?”
“Nowhere,” Rock admitted.
“I may have something for you Rock, but it’ll cost,” said Ellen draining the last of her drink.
“Okay,” Rock said, grinning.
There came another knock at the door.
“Come in!” yelled Rock and then said to Ellen “I’ll deal with this fool quickly.”
An anxious, middle-aged, balding gentleman stepped into the office, closely followed by a huge white horse.
“WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON HERE!” screamed Rock, “GET THAT THING OUTTA MY OFFICE!”
Ellen began screaming and curled up into the chair. The horse wandered around until it found a plant to chew.
“Mr Rock, I need your help, I didn’t know who to turn to, the police and animal rescue services laughed at me, didn’t believe me, but I heard you got a solid name, excuse the pun.”
“What the hell is going on, you’ll be paying for that plant and any other damage – okay Mr?”
“Of course Mr Rock, no problem. Please let me explain. My name is Francis Page and here’s what happened. Cycling on my way home from work yesterday, this thing suddenly appears out of nowhere and followed me home. It tried to get into the house on several occasions. It spent the night in the back garden racing around and eating the plants and flowers and my neighbours are very upset, the lawns are littered with manure, I don’t know what to do, it won’t go away, please help me, Mr Rock.”
Rock pulled the Desert Eagle from his shoulder holster and levelled it at the horse.
“NO Mr ROCK, not like that, please!”
Rock re-holstered the weapon and grinned, “Okay.”
“Rock,” called Ellen, “can I have . . .”
“Help yourself baby and make me one too.”
“Can you help me Mr Rock, I’ll pay whatever it costs, no matter.”
“Okay,” said Rock, “I’ll take this gig because I feel sorry for you. Now let’s begin by stepping into the corridor, get this thing out of my office. I’ll make some calls and I’ll get it sorted.”
Mr Page walked into the corridor followed by the horse.
Again the telephone sounded. “God damn it” said Rock picking up the phone. “Who the hell is this? Oh, I’m sorry honey, is everything alright? An accident! I’m on the way to the hospital right now. Now Page, you wait here, I’ll be back as soon as I can. Ellen, I’ll catch you later.”
Mr Page nodded his head and Jessie Rock, P.I. was gone, he was ‘old school’ and Lady Luck, it seemed, had turned away again.