Ties Are Made

"No, seriously, what's going on?" my guest asks again.  "How do you two know one another?"

"Stop being annoying!" I yell, louder than I mean to.  The hazy man across from me leans back in his chair. 

"Ma'am, let 'im aks 'is questions."  The billowing smoke shifts slightly toward my unwanted associate, leaning forward almost enough to expose the face behind the cloud. "This liddle gal n' I met one day when I wus called to the scene of a crime.  A toy dog, a liddle pup, had gone berserk an' attacked a boy. He wus only two, ye know.  One 'o the worst tings I had ever seen.  An this gal, the woman ye have beside ye, was standin' right outside o' the police tape, like nuttin was botherin' her inna world."

I blush, surprised that he remembered so well.  "I am your biggest fan, sir."

"I know, gal, I know."  He tossed the toy car casually onto the desk.  "Now, waddaya need from me?"

"Well, sir," my associate began, "I seem to have lost something very important..."

I roll my eyes.  "He lost a flock of robotic pigeons that are of national importance."

"Ah, I heard about 'em, from a friend o' mine."

"But," my associate spluttered, "this is top secret! Most of the people who invented the things don't know they're lost!"

"Mebbe, but the people I know're higher'n that..."  The voice behind the cloud petered off into nothing, waiting for a response.  I cover my face as much as I can, trying to hide my embarrassment for the man who unfortunately hired me.

My employer explained everything to the ball of smoke, and I let my eyes wander the room, bored.  On every wall there seemed to be a book case dedicated to the technological trophies he had won or dismantled. 

When the men were done talking, our host gathered a few odd looking things from around the room, giving them to me in a small bag.  He told me that they were going to be instrumental in returning the secrets and the pigeons to Washington.

For a few minutes he marked on a map that he had grabbed from one drawer or another.  The smoke once again obscured everything, and when he handed it to me it was folded into eighths.  

"Now, don't you open that up 'till ye get outta this office.  And keep the stuff in the bag hidden.  I never wanna see any of it again.  Not, both of you go an' don't come back here. Ever, whether you're successful or not.  Do ye unnerstand?"

"Never?" I as kin disbelief.  "But what if I want to talk to you? If I want to discuss methods of mechanical extermination?"

"Never!" the cloud said harshly.

I rose so abruptly that my chair screeched against the stone in the office.  My associate followed after me, back into the dark city.

They are revealed.

We found ourselves bundled comfortably on what I suspect is the world's oldest couch. Only one light shines on the scene.  An older man sits across from us, silent and judgmental at the same time.  His face is obscured by the smoke of his cigar.  In one cupped hand he holds a piece of metal twisted almost beyond recognition.  I can tell it is the remains of an RC car.  

My guest stares at the hand blatantly, and finally I slap him to get him to stop.

"You could have just asked," he said, rubbing his jaw.

"I don't believe in asking," I shoot back, not taking my eyes off the tiny car.

A half minute more of silence, and then:

"Whaddaya wan' wit me, huh?" A smoky voice comes from the billowing cloud.  "Not jus' anyone cin find dis address."


"I'm not just anyone, sir," I say under an arched eyebrow.


"I remember who y'are, girl," the elderly man says.


"I remember what you can do," I say, raising my chin.


"What is going on here?" my guest asks quizzically.


"Shut up," I hiss through the side of my mouth.

Known Only As They.

The man opens up his over-sized coat and brings out an overtly large umbrella.  It shines bright yellow against the gunmetal grey of our surroundings. He shakes it out while we are still somewhat covered by the awning of the building.  He gestures to me to join him under the umbrella, but I only scowl and walk away.  He jogs to keep up with me.

"Where are we going?" he asks when we are side-by-side.

"I know a man that specializes in rogue mechanics.  You know that car, Christine?"

"Steven King? Yeah."

"That was cake for him."  I speed up as we cross a bridge.  The houses grow closer, suffocatingly near.

"What do you mean, cake?" the man said, puzzled.  "Christine was a fictional car."

"That's what they want you to think," I say lowly, skirting a steel drum fire on a street corner.

"Well now, who's 'they?'"  He nearly collides with me as I stop in front of a gloomy stoop, the facade worn as a ship battered by the salty sea.

"They don't want their secrets being known," I reply.  I reach up to press the buzzer, the name on the plate worn beyond recognition.  I knew that years ago, when the place had been bright and new, the name read only 'They'.

The foundation of a lasting friendship is awkward situations.

Mechanical pigeons were high on my list of untrustworthy mechanics, right up there with toasters.  I have yet to come across a toaster that worked properly and I have developed a grudge.  Even the rumors about the pidgeons had solidified my distrust.

"You want to know how much it will take to find mechanical pidgeons?"  I stare at the mashed potatoes in the sink.

"Indeed I do."

"How much you got in your wallet?"  He pulls out a wallet that looks like it has seen better times. I grab it from him before he can open it.

"Maybe that's why you lost mechanical pidgeons," I scoff.  "You can't even keep a wallet."  I pull out a wad of cash before he can remove the cheap pleather from my hands.  "It will take this much," I say, stuffing the bills into my pocket.

"Seriously?  That's it?" he says, perplexed.  "You know this is of national importance, right?  A million dollar job at least?"

"It would give me no greater pleasure than to help out our government."  I sigh and turn back to the man.  He is looking at me.

"Your flier said you were the cheapest detective in the midwest but I didn't  believe it."  He turned and led himself to the door, and I wished it would be the last time I saw his face.  But these things never go my way.

He turns back to me.  "Are you coming?" he asks.  "We have some birds to locate."

We walk down twelve flights of stairs in awkward silence, the elevator having broken down weeks ago.  The man says with me the whole time, like a bad habit.  By the time we get to the lobby we are as close as best friends without the convenience of conversation.  We were more like cellmates.

When we walked out of the building it was raining.

"Fabulous," I say under my breath.

NOW THERE ARE ROBOTIC PIGEONS?!

The man puts the graphs down and walks back to me.

"So. The carrier pigeons."  He shovels more mashed potatoes into his mouth.  "How much will it cost to retrieve them?  They're carrying some very sensitive information."

"How sensitive?" I ask, watching my mashed potatoes slowly disppearing, like the polar ice caps in twenty years.

"Top secret government stuff," he says vaguely.  "It was being delivered by carrier pigeon because we figured no one would guess that we would carry secrets of national importance using birds."

"Shocking," I say with a snort, "someone outsmarted a pigeon."  I wrestle the bowl of potatoes away from the man and dump it into the sink.  If I can't have any, no one can.  "Did ya ever think they just flew away?" I ask him.

"No, that thought never crossed my mind."  It had crossed mine already.  Like a friend I never should have hurt.  "You see, they are mechanical pigeons."

I stop and look at him.  Shadows cover most of his face.  "Robot pigeons?" I whisper.  I had heard rumors about robotic pigeons before but I had never taken them seriously.

"Yes ma'am, robot pigeons," the man responded.

Dangerous Pie Graph Makers

The man takes the potatoes and wanders around my office like a cat on the prowl.  I pour us both a bit of alcohol and pass one glass to him.

The last time I had dealings with birds the affair ended with a lot of feathers flying and a broken heart.  The woman I dealt with that time was a friend and even she didn't talk to me after that.  The seagull had been carrying love letters between her and her boyfriend but the bird and the man both decided to try their own hand at new love. No one ever saw the seagull again.

The man rifled through some of my papers, pie and bar graphs mostly.

"It's a handy thing," he opined after a large swallow of gin, "knowing how to make a good graph."  He pulled one out for reference, a nice one colored using different shades of purple.

"Handy like a knife in the back," I replied, putting down my glass.  "Some of my acquaintances are graph makers.  Most of them are dead now."

***********************

Nothing good happened today, so instead I give you dangerous graph makers.

The night is dark and the lights are out. I lock the door to the office and make my way through the dark hallway.

This is it.  The inaugural post.  I am currently standing by my kitchen counter accompanied by a large bowl of mashed potatoes and a dirty spoon.  The door opens and a man walks in, trenchcoat wet from the pouring rain.  In a well-timed flash of lightning I see his face.  It is unfamiliar.  He walks up to me and takes the spoon, digging into the potatoes.

"How much does it cost to find a group of lost carrier pigeons?" he asks through a mouthful of food.

I reach down and grab a half-empty bottle of gin from near my feet.  It was going to be a long night.

*****

But I digress.  If only my entire life was narrated like a cheap noir film.  Like Guy Noir on the Prarie Home Companion.  That would be nice.  It's not, but I can pretend like it is on here.

My mother, for some crazy reason, wants my entire family to write a blog.  Not her, of course; the rest of us should do it.  So I'm writing mine as if my life really were a noir film.  It will probably involve my college life as well, since that takes up most of my time, or reminiscences about my brother and I doing some ridiculous thing or other.

This should be exciting.