Wednesday 27 November 2013

Diary of a Private Detective. Part Two.


There was something about the way Fat Barry was acting that rubbed me up the wrong way. How he kept smiling and laughing. How he was always looking over at the bush outside the restaurant where I was hiding. 

Yeah, that's right, I was sleuthing. I'm at my happiest when I sleuth. I get it from my Grandpa. He was a master sleuth. By trade, he was a milkman, but he used to sleuth in his spare time. He only stopped when my Grandma discovered him sleuthing through a skylight in the ladies' dressing room at the gym. I still miss the old crank. He was a proud guy right 'til the end. Fact is, he was so proud that he got on the wrong bus one day, but wouldn't admit his mistake and stayed on it for the rest of his life. In a way, I admired his moxy, but in another way, I kinda wish he hadn't blown all my inheritance on fares.

Anyway, back to the bush. This restaurant was a fancy place. I had no idea Fat Barry had the scratch to take a broad to a Sizzlin' pub. From what I can make out, they didn't even order from the 241 menu. I made a mental note to forget about paying him back that ten bucks I owe him. Guy's so flush he don't need it.

I watched through the window and tried to figure out what Candy and Fat Barry were saying. I had to use all the skills I gained at the Nobby Decker Academy of Lip Reading. Here's a choice snippet:

CANDY: I wash filthy turnips.

FAT BARRY: Jason Orange is my homeboy.

I scratched my chin, which was a bad idea 'cause I'd just accidentally dipped my finger in a dog dook. Relax, It ain't the first time life has dealt me a crappy hand. 

I wondered what the hell they were talking about. It just sounded like a load of nonsense to me.

CANDY: Catflaps are so in right now.

FAT BARRY: My doctor recommended kicking sparrows to cure my sinusitis.

Then it came to me. It hit me like a rotten egg messing up my window on Halloween. They were spies! Russian spies! How else could you explain it?

Attractive woman being seen with Fat Barry.

They speak in code.

Fat Barry is really secretive. Like, this once, he wouldn't even tell me his account number, sort code and mother's maiden name. Even though we are 'best friends.'

That settled it. No further investigation needed. Fat Barry is working for Mother Russia. He's probably trying to find out official secrets to send back to Stalin or whoever the hell in charge there these days. No way. I'm telling him nothing. Nah, I won't tell him nothing. I've got a better idea.

You know what, my hand still stinks. That hand sanitizer I bought from the deaf kid at the grocery store sucks. 

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