The name's Fred. P.I.
The Never Ending Quest - Episode 19650
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The name's Fred. I'm a P.I. Private Investigator. I used to be a L.A. cop
but they bounced me from the force after I had to kill that utterly nutso
son of a senator. Now I work out of a farily clean office above a dance hall. I have a secretary, Carol. She's blonde, six inches taller then me and can fling around saloon bouncers like cats fling around bugs. I love her like a sister and she enjoys working for me. I manage to pay her a fantastic paycheck, with benefits for her and her kid, Exotica. Including dental. She's a hard worker. One rainy, scummy day, as I was sipping my spring water, she buzzed me. I leaned forward and tapped the button. "What is it, Carol?" "Got us a client. Typical." "Got it. Send her in." She slammed open my door with a scowl. She knew how to make an entrance, I'll give her that. A dame to conjure with. Red hair down to her waist, legs that wouldn't quit, bosoms till Tuesday. Blue suit so tight it should be illegal and was it most states. She introduced herself as Astra, heir to the makeup fortune of the Aqualaria line. Her brother, Velus, a drunken idiot, was missing after a trip to the coast and she wanted me to find him. So it soon came to pass that me, Carol and Astra were taking a trip to the airport in a wide, new-car-smelling taxi. I wanted to take my the car I had won in a poker game last year from Loser Locarno. Later, he had turned up dead in the trunk but I had cleared my name up from it. But Carol needed it to take her kid to school since hers was in the shop. The taxi driver babbled on about the troubles in Europe. I wasn't listening, really, my brain going a mile a minute as I reviewed what Astra had told me. My brain always does that, going a mile a minute. Almost got me in trouble when those rogue Federal agents tried to put a whack on me in Callahan's place for getting too close to their counterfeiting operation. (Never quite figured out how Mike the bartender got the drop on them but I don't look lucky horses in the mouth). We were going to drop Carol off at her place before we hit the airport. We pulled up into an affluent neighberhood, with wide open houses set very close to the street. Even Carol couldn't afford such a pad. I had signed the rights over to her after Maxwell P. Greenham, archeologist had willed it to me after I had saved his family from the insane grad student. (The overly rich sexist bastard had fourteen of them. Three were illegal drinking establishments. After an appropiate period of mourning, following Maxwell's sacrifice that saved me from Japanese gangsters, I had all three busted). The wide, green oaken doors had been knocked clean off their hinges. The interior of the house was destroyed. I gasped in shock but my detective mind noted that the original Picasso in the living room was still there. The taxi driver swore in Spanish as he applied the brakes. Carol didn't even wait for the taxi to stop before she was out and running up the stairs. I was right on her well-formed tail. Her yellow blouse and black pants got soaked from the rain but she didn't notice. I distantly heard Astra and the cabbie following but they weren't important at the moment.
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4/21/2003 5:04:50 AM
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