Chapter 1: Tuesday Morning
Bat’s small, cluttered office, which also acted as his apartment most of the time, was just starting to turn from a pitch-black dungeon of cigarette and whiskey smelling effluvia into a navy-blue den of absolute misery. Bat, still sawing wood on the badly cracked leather sofa turned over only to fall out of the makeshift bed and land on the floor with a dull thud. Bat began to come-to. He cracked his puffy eyelids and began to woozily survey the landscape around him. Still laying on the floor which was littered with Camel butts and plastic nip bottles, Bat managed to lift his head an inch or two and began to make sense of what he saw. He knew he was in his office; he knew he was badly hungover; he knew he had to pee. Basically, he knew that status quo for the day had already been achieved by six in the morning. It’s always nice to start off the day with an accomplishment, Bat thought to himself. He then spied the stuffed pheasant that he picked up in a pawn shop a few years back on his desk. He’d tell potential clients that he had hunted and killed the bird himself. He thought it made him seem more dangerous. Bat decided to bid a good morning to the bird, his only real friend. He worked together the phrase “good morning there, Feathers you stupid old bird” in his head and his mouth fired off, “goog morbling you fuggin dumb seagill hehehe”. Bat pushed himself off of the floor and managed to get back onto the couch. He sat up, deciding sleep was finished for the day considering that he was fairly certain that if he fell back asleep, he would probably Rip Van Winkle-it into the next day… meaning he wouldn’t be able to water his liver again that evening. Couldn’t have that. With a badly shaking hand he reached over to pull the small chain which hung from the shadeless lamp that sat on a small table next to the couch. In an instant the room flooded with light and Bat let out a scream that sounded like a blend of a fox calling in the woods and a car screeching to a stop. Natural or artificial light isn’t the friend of the blindly hungover private eye. Making it to a standing position, Bat dropped trough right there in his own office and began to urinate into a potted plant. The tangled stems and vines had been dead for years and at this point were more piss than plant. The amount of urine was astonishing. It began to flow over the side and large clumps of wet dirt began to rain down onto the floor. “Ah shoot” Bat exclaimed, as he ran over to the window, pee still flying wildly, ready to unload the rest of last night’s bourbon onto the pavement below. It took him a moment to open the window, all the while pee streaming up against the glass and splashing back all over Bat. “Ah c’mon already!” Bat finally got the window open and began to spray his acrid urine out onto an unsuspecting world. Unfortunately for Bat, he had run to the wrong side of his corner office and instead of unloading onto the pavement below, he had unknowingly begun to go all over the resident hobo, Shaggy Jim, who slept on the same pile of papers and cardboard every night.
”Hey, hey, Bat! Bat, what in the name of Sam Hill are you doin’?” Jim began to squawk.
At this point, Bat became concerned that his flow of urine had not only not finished but hadn’t abated at all.
”Mornin’, Jim, take a shower you old filthy beggar. HA!”
Bat was having a ball as he pee’d all over the down-on-his-luck gentleman of the street below.
”Bat! I’m serious now… you shut that hose off!” Jim staggered to his feet, looking up to yell at Bat as the urine splashed all over his face and then down over his body.
”Why don’t you come up here and make me, Jim?! Go put your shoes on and come on up… Oh that’s right, you don’t have any! HA!”
Jim looked down to find the bits of newspaper and string he had put together to make the most pathetic pair of flip flops ever seen.
”That’s it, Merrit! You asked for it, you can have it!”
Jim sat down to strap the awful shoes to his badly marred and filthy feet. All the while a steady stream of pee falling onto his head. The urine made it nearly impossible to tie the “laces” of his shoes as it kept streaming over his head and into his eyes.
”Doggonit, Merrit! You shut that hose off right now! You wanna fight? Then you have to let me get these one to get on up that fire escape to give you whatfer!”
”Lemonade for breakfast, street rat! HA!” Bat replied as he let out a large sigh and an even stronger, steadier stream of pee rained down on the poor man, now completely drenched in urine.
Jim realized that this fight was never going to happen as his shoes had been nearly completely destroyed by the unbelievable volume of urine that had been raining down on him for over a full two minutes by this point. He resigned himself to his fate, laid back down and went back to sleep. The urine shower lasted another few minutes. Bat felt bad about what he had done. After zipping up his wrinkled pants, Bat leaned out the window and called down to the soaked old man lying two stories below.
”Hey, Jim! Wake up now you soggy old so and so.”
Jim rolled over and looked up at Bat as he leaned rather precariously out the window.
”What in the hell do you want now? Need to shit too?!”
Bat thought about it for a minute but hastily shook the notion out of his head.
”Ah heck, Jim. I feel pretty bad about what I did. Why don’t you come on up the fire escape and I’ll hose you down with a bottle of soda I have here.”
Jim didn’t feel like walking up the metal staircase with no shoes on, but he also didn’t feel like lying in urine any longer.
”Alright, I guess. Listen, can you at least lend a fella and old shirt or a jacket or somethin’?”
Bat realized it was the least he could do.
”Sure, Jim… now move it! I don’t have all day to wait for your slow ass.”
Jim rose to his feet and began to climb the fire escape ladders up towards Bat’s window.
Meanwhile, Bat had turned back into his office and instantly forgot about inviting Jim up to the landing outside his window. Booze will do that to a man. So, he closed the window and drew the shutters. He headed over to his desk to get some work done. If he was up this early, he might as well make the morning worthwhile.
Jim made it to the window only to see that it had been shut and the shade had been drawn.
”The tears it, Bat! You have made one powerful enemy today. You hear me, Bat?!” Jim began banging on the window. He had a mind to break the damn thing and climb in to teach that two-bit gumshoe a lesson he’d never forget. Bat heard the banging at the window and got up to inspect what was going on. He nearly fell over on his way across his office due to the number of little bottles all over the floor.
”Hold, your horses, buster!” Bat exclaimed as he made it over to the window. There, he raised the shade and saw the furious face of Shaggy Jim.
”Oh, it’s you. Whaddyou want, boulevard-bozo?!”
Jim realized that Bat had completely forgotten about the last five or so minutes of his own life. Even though he was soaked in a horrid draught, Jim actually began to feel sorry for Bat.
”Just open the damn window, Bat! You pissed all over me! Dontcha remember?!”
Bat began to recollect that he had indeed committed the heinous crime of turning an unfortunate man into a urinal cake. He opened the window.
”Jim, I’d invite you in, but you would probably steal my booz. So, here’s the deal. You can come in, but I get to cuff you to the radiator. Deal?”
Jim thought about it for a second and replied.
”Fine, but I want new clothes to put on. Hell, if you’re going to chain me up you might as well have a new jacket for me at least.”
Bat nodded his head with his eyes nearly shut and turned back into the office. Jim followed him in.
Jim sat on the floor among all the empty little bottles and patiently waited to be chained to the radiator. Bat headed over to his closet and pulled out a lady’s jacket and one of those old-timey nightshirts that men and women wore back in the middle of the 19th century. He flung the clothes at Jim.
”Aw hell, Bat. What are these? I’m going to look like a lunatic clown in this getup!
Bat didn’t lift his head at all.
“Well… it’s either that, or you walk around smelling like pee all day.”
Bat had a point. Jim reluctantly got up and put the clothes on. He took his seat on the floor again and Bat cuffed him to the radiator.
Bat moved the potted plant, now filled with less pee than before due to the seepage holes drilled into the bottom of the pot, next to Jim who was seated between the sink and a large file cabinet.
”Tell ya what, Jim, get this plant into the sink and get some actual water into the dirt. You’ll have to fill it a few times and let it drain out a few times. I’m gonna try to bring the old gal back to life here. Do that and I’ll throw ya a sawbuck. Deal?”
Jim lifted himself to his feet but needed to hunch over due to his wrist being cuffed to the radiator.
”I’d do it, Bat but you have me chained here like a damned animal!”
”Well, I guess he can’t do too much stealing if he is working on this plant” Bat thought. He uncuffed Jim and told him to get to work.
Bat did things like that for Jim every now and then. He’d give him a brainless, menial task and throw him a few dollars after he had performed it. Bat got back behind his desk and sat down in his creaky leather chair.
Jim cast a glance at him and noticed that somehow, he looked older this morning. Bat stood about about five foot eleven and had a rather slim build. Jet black hair had given way to an unstoppable wave of grey which gave his normally classically styled, slicked back, devil-may-care look a perceptible glimpse of what was to come. Everyone ages, but the hard drinking, hard living private eye ages at a much more rapid pace. At thirty eight years of age, Bat already had the wrinkles of a cowboy who’d spent untold years on the range. Pale complexion and a long slender face were studded by two grey-blue eyes that were probably quite handsome at one point in Bat’s younger days. A long, nearly fishing-line thin scar from the bridge of his nose travelled over his left cheek and stopped just past the corner of his eye. From this blemish would come his nickname which was known all over the tri-state area. Yep, to be sure, most people around the area new old Wierdline, for better or for worse.
While Jim busied himself with the nearly impossible task of soaking the urine out of the potted plant’s dirt, he couldn’t help noticing that there was a telegram on a little table on the far side of the room that had not been opened. It wasn’t his place to say anything, nor did he feel inclined to help the guy who just pissed all over him and then gave him some old flame’s clothes to wear as replacements, but he blurted out, “hey, Dick Tracy, there’s a message for you there on the table by the door.” Bat looked up, still seeing the world in double as the hooch hadn’t fully flushed out of his system yet and saw the yellow envelope on the table. Bat barely remembered receiving the message, but he immediately became uneasy with the idea that he had let the booze take over to the point where he missed a message. What if it was something important? What if someone’s life was on the line? What if his negligence had allowed something awful to transpire? Anyone who’s ever had a drink knows full well that that kind of panic can sober you up right quick. Maybe not all the way sober, but it’ll get your feet moving. In a flash, Bat made it over to the table and picked up the envelope. Western Union. This meant business. Jim shut the water off in order to add a more silent suspenseful tone to the room.
Bat looked at Jim and then looked back at the envelope. He swallowed hard, shut his eyes and opened it. For a few moments there was a tense atmosphere in the room. Eventually, the tension was broken when an audible snore escaped Bat’s nose. Jim couldn’t believe it. This drunken buffoon had fallen asleep while standing up. Now was his chance to steal all of Bat’s booze and a decent sent of clothes. He could probably grab an item or two to pawn as well. But as Jim stared at the anomaly of a man sleeping while standing up, he decided to do one better than robbing the guy. He walked over to Bat and began to undo the chicken-wire belt he used to keep his ancient blue jeans up. At that moment, Bat came alive. He flew into a fury and performed a perfect flying kick into Jim’s gut which sent him flying into the wall. Jim crumpled to the floor and began to moan and groan.
”Never sneak up on a private eye, Shaggy. You might end up on your keister.”
Jim responded by coughing up a little blood and letting out an approving chuckle. Bat looked on in horror.
”Say, Jim… you might want to get that looked at” Bat said while gesturing towards the little bit of blood on Jim’s oversized night shirt. Jim got up to his feet and looked at his chest.
”What, this?” Jim exclaimed as he pulled the front of his shirt out to exaggerate the question. “This… well this is probably nothin’ or it could be somethin’. Either way, I ain’t got insurance or money… so I suppose I am goin’ to have to…”
Bat had already left the room in the middle of Jim’s response. Jim shook himself loose and looked into the mirror. Jim sure had seen better days. He was in his late 50’s and had a head fully of curly, rather shaggy gray hair. Thus his nickname. He sported a full beard and moustache which covered almost all of his face. His large, gin-blossom exploded out over the gray and above that, two brown pupils set in yellowed-white rolled aimlessly on either side. He was a short man. Maybe no more than five foot three or four and had the physique of a garden gnome. He was the kind of guy who could pass for a mall Santa from the wrong side of the tracks. He acted the part as well. Always reltively jolly and always looking to bounce someone on his lap. I do not mean that he went after kids. He wasn’t a monster. But a horndog most certainly. However, his game was usually larger ladies of advanced age. No one knew why. No one wanted to ask.
In the bathroom, Bat looked down at the telegram still in his hand and read it with a palpable air of dread.
“Merrit. Bad news. The Roman Funk is heading our way. This is a matter of life and death. Seriously, do not hesitate to get on this right away. If you don’t act fast, we are all dead. Don’t let us down. Get here quick. DO NOT DRINK.
The Goobers”
At that, he put the envelope back into his pocket and headed back into the office.
Jim was busy filling the potted plant with water. He looked at Bat and asked what the matter was.
”Jim, I am going to need you to stay here for a while. If this damn phone rings I am going to need you to answer it. You are going to have to be blunt. Just say, “Hello, Goobers?” and if the person doesn’t respond “Roompah Say” you hang up. Now, and this is really important, Jim… if when you say, “Goobers” they respond with, “Roman Funk on its way”, you start screaming like a little girl then hang up the phone, got it?”
Jim shook his head “no”.
”Good” replied Bat and he went to grab his hat, his coat, his flask and his .45.
“Now, can I leave you here without having to cuff you to the radiator again, Jim?”
”Well, Bat you know…”
Before Jim could answer Bat was in the air, coat tails flying as he attempted and landed another flying kick. This time a roundhouse to Jim’s big pie-plate face. Blood exploded out of the old man’s nose as he hit the floor. Bat reached over and checked his pulse.
”Still alive. Good.”
Bat headed out the office door and closed it behind him. It was only about six thirty in the morning by now but he’d already had a day and a half he thought. He made it about twenty steps when he thought of old Jim back in the office laying in a heap on the floor in ladies clothes, reeking of urine. He slowed his walking, stopped and turned back. He made it back to the office door and opened it slowly. There was Jim on the floor where he’d left him a moment ago. He walked over to him and crouched down.
”Ah hell, Jim. I don’t know why I do what I do sometimes. I just end up flying off the handle and I don’t think. I know you can’t hear me.” Looking up at the potted plant on the sink, Bat said, “I believe I owe you something.” Then, reaching into his back pocket he opened up his wallet and put a fresh set of cuffs on Jim and on the radiator.
”Sleep well, gutterball.”
Bat headed out the door. There was no time to waste.
TUNE IN NEXT WEEK FOR CHAPTER 2: Tuesday? More like Bluesday
The Yankee Privateer 