The Making Of A Gigolo 15 Agatha RobertsChapter 13
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Dognapped free porn video
DOGNAPPED.
BY CASSANDRA ANACONDA MORRISON
As it happened, I was sitting in my office one sprightly October
morning, contemplating the sign on my office door, "rotagitsevnI
ST etavirP--nosirroM ardnassaC" I read musingly. When suddenly,
the door flew open with a bang and a strange man rushed in. He was
of medium height, with short black hair, pince-nez, and a silk
cravat decorated with Budweiser frogs. "My name is Henry
Dashiell!" he cried. "And I'm in terrible trouble!"
"How grati..er..unfortunate," I replied, lighting a Virginia Slim
and crossing my nyloned legs as I leaned back with an air of
interested composure. "What seems to be the problem?"
"It's my Great Dane, Hamlet. He's been...DOGNAPPED!" the man
cried, falling into the well-stuffed armchair I had indicated with
a wave of my dainty (yet aristocratic) hand.
"You have a Great Dane named HAMLET?"
"Yes, my wife named him that when he was but a puppy," the man
replied. "Because he was always so melancholy, you know."
"Go on," I grated.
"Well," the man said. "It happened last night. I was visiting an
old friend of mine who owns a Border Collie named Sir Robin of
Locksley and he suggested a friendly wager as to which of our
fabulously furry four-legged friends was FASTEST."
I nodded to indicate my understanding.
"M'yes, well, he happens to own a dog-racing track...er...purely
for his own amusement, you know...and so it was decided that we'd
have a little race. Well, to make a long story short...."
"Too late," I mumbled.
"...Hamlet...er..won. Well, my friend made me out a check on the
spot with...er...every evidence of good will and we bade each
other goodnight. Well, just after I had climbed into the front
seat of my sedan and was showing Hamlet his purse I was suddenly
struck on the head from behind. Well, naturally, I lost
consciousness..."
"Naturally," I murmured.
"And when I...er...awoke both Hamlet and the check were GONE!"
"How mystifying," I commented.
"Very," he said, nodding his head like anything. "Well, Ms.
Morrison, I was in a frightful dither...had no idea what to do.
Then, this very morning I received this message at my hotel!" and
he handed me the message.
I read it carefully:
"Dear Hank (it said)
Leave a Hundred Thousand by the Old Oak Tree
It must be unmarked if you still want me
If you don't leave their money by that old oak tree
They'll get out their ax
Gimme my pax
Divide my Corpse in Three
So, Henry, leave their hundred thousand by that old oak tree!"
And it was signed with a paw print!!!
'Dear me!" I said. "How very delig...er...distressing all this
is!"
He gulped like a grief-stricken bovine. "Can you help me?"
"Very possibly," I said, conscious as I was of my many successes
as a Private TS Investigator. There was the Case of the Cockless
Chameleon, for example..truly a story for which the world is not
yet prepared. Not to mention the Adventure of the Avaricious Aunt.
And what about that Bizarre Business of the Bosomless Beauty
Queen? Well, what about it? It had nothing to do with this!
Listen, Reader, I'll thank you not to get me sidetracked in the
middle of a case!
"I'll need some facts," I said, turning back to the unfortunate
Henry Dashiell. "First, what is the name of this friend?"
"Oh...er...is that really NECESSARY?" he asked, squirming
uncomfortably in his chair.
"Of course," I said, looking at him in surprise.
"Well, you see, it's just that my wife doesn't really approve of
the company I keep. SOME of the company, anyway, we're separated
as it is. And if she got wind of THIS well, you know what THAT
would mean!"
I nodded. "Alimony Alley for you," I said.
"Quite so," he said. "Oh, good God!"
"What is it?"
"I've..er..just realized...tomorrow is Tuesday the Twelfth!"
"Yeah?" I said. "So?"
"Well, you see...my wife and I SHARE custody of Hamlet, you
see...he's...er...been like a son to us. The son we never had. And
I have to return him to her first thing in the morning!"
"Hmmm." I said, lighting another cigarette and sucking on the
smoke like a nuclear powered Hoover. "In that case, we've got no
time to lose!" I said. "Your friend's name, please!"
"Bramwell," he replied. "Noah Bramwell."
"Okay," I said, jotting it down. "And your wife's name and
address?"
"Why do you need THOSE?"
"In case she TOO received a ransom note," I said.
He paled and gave me the required information in a quavering
voice. "Gladys Dashiell," he said. "Soaring Eagle Trailer Park,
Space 18."
"Thank you," I said, making a note of that also. "And the amount
of the check that was stolen along with your dog?"
"The...er...purse...was Two Hundred Thousand," he said. "A modest
sum, I grant you, but it was a friendly wager, you see."
I stared at him in admiration. Anyone who considers two hundred
grand a modest sum is entitled to that. "Okay," I said. "I think
that's all I need for now. I'll take your case, Mr. Dashiell."
"God Bless You!" he cried, falling to his knees before me and
salaaming me madly.
"I get a hundred bucks a day, plus expenses."
He stopped salaaming me and got back into his chair. "I suppose
you'll want a retainer?" he said, taking out his checkbook and a
pen.
"It's customary," I replied.
"I suppose two hundred will be sufficient?" he asked, preparing to
write.
"No," I said. "FIVE hundred will be sufficient. For now."
"That's ridiculous!" he protested. "Much too much."
"Fine," I said, rising from my chair and sashaying over to the
door. "Give my regards to your wife," I said. as I held it open
for him.
"Five hundred," he said, writing hurriedly.
I gave the check the once-over as I took it from his trembling
hand and laid it on my desk. "That's fine," I said. "I'll be in
touch."
As soon as this Dashiell mug had left my office my secretary
buzzed me on my intercom. "Yeah?" I said.
"Don't forget you have an appointment with your shrink, Cassie!"
she said.
"Oh, yeah, right," I said. I hated going to my shrink. Not that I
didn't like him. I DID. But I'm the kind of gal who prefers to
avoid dealing with her emotional state whenever possible. Which is
how I ended up meeting him, actually. I kinda slashed my wrists
because I couldn't see any future for me. Sounds kinda stupid now,
but there it is. "Okay," I said, grabbing my bag and heading out
the door. "I'm off to see The Wizard. See what you can dig up on a
Noah Bramwell while I'm gone, okay?"
"Sure thing, Bosslady!"
"Hola Bigenderita!" yelled this kid, as I hopped out of my heap at
the Psychiatrist's Office. "You want I should watch your car for
you? Only twenty bucks!"
I looked at my decrepit heap and then back at the kid. "Why?" I
said.
"Have it your way, Gringo," said the kid.
I just smiled at him and hurried in. I was late already.
"How's the depression?" Dr. Agre asked as I sat down in his
office, smoothing my skirt demurely.
"Never more depressed," I replied.
"And the situation with your father?"
"The same. He still wants no contact with me."
"And how does that make you feel?"
"How do you think it makes me feel?" I asked angrily. "It makes me
feel horrible. Sad, mad, bad..you name it."
"Mad?"
I nodded. "Mad...I don't understand how he can treat me like this.
All this time I've done my best by him...nursing him when he was
sick, doing his laundry, cooking his meals. Hell, I was even
helping him get the hang of this computer a friend of his gave
him. It was a real piece of crap too! MS-DOS is all it knows and
it wouldn't even work with that until I ran a defrag program on
it. At that point he was able to start writing on it. That was
what we were doing the last time I saw him, as a matter of
fact...I was trying to teach him how to name and save files on it.
We were laughing and having a great time and then...the next
morning...I get a call saying 'You've been a really big help to me
for the last year and a half but, as you know, I don't really
approve of what you are doing with your life...so I don't want any
further contact with you' and he hangs up. Just like THAT!"
My psychiatrist looked at me and nodded. "I know this has to be
tearing you up inside," he said. "When it first happened, in fact,
you began cutting on yourself again. Are you still doing that?"
I held up both my arms. "No," I said. "They're healing now, as you
can see."
He just shook his head at my fresh scars. "And school? You were
taking Office 2000 and...what else was it?"
"Filing and Keyboarding," I said. "I haven't been to class much.
And when I DO go, I can't stay."
"And why is that?" he inquired.
I flung my long red hair back from my face with an impatient
gesture. "It makes me too NERVOUS!" I said. "My instructor,
Sherri, has okayed it for me to do a lot of my work at home...but,
even THERE I can't seem to get STARTED! I can't concentrate! This
thing with my Dad just keeps going round and round in my head. I
haven't even opened the Office 2000 book!!"
He nodded. "And the writing? How are you doing with that?"
"I haven't done any for quite a while," I replied. "Which reminds
me," I said, smiling for the first time since I'd entered his
office. "I happened to check the Fictionmania site and found my
last story 'Postcards' was up there and had gotten a couple of
really nice reviews...kinda cheered me up. But I can't write," I
added, lapsing back into my depressed state. "I can't THINK!
About all I do is sit and stare at the television. Great, huh? And
now September's almost gone. The semester ends in December. And I
haven't accomplished JACK!"
"You're still not taking the Prozac I prescribed for you?"
I shook my head. "It makes me sick to my stomach," I explained.
"And it also screws up my short-term memory so that I do really
lousy on the tests. I could have gotten an A instead of a B+ on my
last two courses if it weren't for that."
"I think I'll try you on Remeron," he said. "Fine," I said. "And
I'll need something to help me sleep too. I can't sleep at all
lately. My Dad has murdered sleep and Sweet Cassie shall sleep no
more!"
"The Remeron will help you with that, also," he said. "As to the
situation with your father and the feelings you are experiencing
because of that...there really is no magic cure. All the Remeron
can do, as an anti-depressant and soporific is to help you
function just a little better than you are doing now."
I nodded. "I know," I said. "Speaking of functioning...I DID get
some work done on my website...CASSANDRA'S PEOPLE," I said,
getting all girlish and excited. "I updated it and added a new
Media Folder The (love)Craft. I added some new links too. Have you
seen it yet?"
"No," he said. "You'd better give me the url again."
"http://," I told him.
"Thank you," he said. "Now, you've always known that your father
had a problem with your transsexuality, haven't you?"
I nodded. "He's not alone in that," I said. "I've had some
problems with it too."
He smiled. "I know," he said. "But you must have known that as you
became more yourself again he would have a negative reaction to
it?"
"Of course!" I said. "But this was totally out of the blue! One
second we're getting along great and the next it's 'Don't let me
see your face again.' I mean, what's up with that? The only thing
I can think of is that his neighbors must've noticed that I'd
colored my hair and said something to him about it."
"That's possible," Dr. Agre agreed.
"So now," I said. "I'm free to get my name changed legally (which
is cool cuz I HATE being called 'Greg'). I'm free to get the
surgery, I can do all those things I've been wanting to do since I
was a kid...so why ain't I happy?"
"Because this is NOT how you wanted it to happen," he said. "Isn't
that right?"
I lowered my head acquiescingly. "You're right," I said unhappily.
"It isn't." Then I raised my head. "But," I said then. "Getting
back to the fictional part of this story...I DO have a case on
hand which should take my mind off all my troubles...so, if you'll
excuse me...."
As I emerged from my doctor's office I noticed two things. One of
which was that it had started raining. The second was the my heap
had, like disappeared. "Next time maybe you'll pay me the money,
huh?" said the kid.
"Yeah, sure," I said. "NEXT time." and hoisting my bag over my
shoulder I began walking down Fleishman Street towards Carson
where I knew I would find a pay phone. It began to rain harder.
"CASSANDRA MORRISON INVESTIGATIONS---NO CASE TOO SMALL---NO FEE
TOO LARGE!" my secretary said brightly.
"It's me, Chrissy," I said soggily. "Listen, I'm at a pay phone
and...."
Chrissy sighed noisily. "Boss," she said, more-in-sorrow-than-in-
anger. "When are you gonna start payin' that kid?"
"Never mind that now," I said. "What did you find out about this
Noah Bramwell character?"
"He's a small-time grifter," she replied. "Used to run the Jumping
Frog Contest out of Calaveras County until the people got
suspicious when one of his frogs 'Carlos the Croaker' jumped a
record three and one-half miles one day and they found he'd been
feeding his frogs mayflies coated with methedrine. Rumor has it
that he's now connected with dog-racing though that has yet to be
proved."
"Good work, dollface," I said. "What's he look like and where can
I find him?"
"He's about six feet tall," she said. "Has long blond hair and
steely blue eyes. Sports a goatee and a skull earring on his left
ear. Wears black. He can usually be found at MacArthur Park around
dusk. He likes to feed cyanide to the pigeons."
"Okay," I said. "Call the cab company and ask for Ernie and tell
him to pick me up here."
"Right. But, listen, you really oughtta start payin'..." I hung up
and waited for Ernie.
"Where to, Ms. Morrison?" he asked, his one functioning windshield
wiper squeaking annoyingly.
"MacArthur Park," I said. "And step on it...it's almost dusk."
"Still not payin that kid, huh?" he asked, as he put his cab in
gear and we took off at the speed of arthritic tortoises.
"Shut up," I advised him.
"So what do you think about this Y2K thing, Ms. Morrison?" he
asked after a couple of miles.
"Couldn't happen to a nicer civilization," I replied gruffly. And
the rest of the drive passed in silence.
"Here we are," Ms. Morrison," he said later.
"Thanks," I said. "Wait here."
"Sure thing," he said. "But wouldn't it be cheaper if you just
started payin' that...."
I slammed the door, effectively cutting off the rest of his
verbosity and headed into the Park as the rain slowly stopped.
MacArthur's Park was steaming in the dark and the rabid squirrels
were rushing by. Some jackass had left a cake out in the rain and
I damn near broke my neck as my stiletto heels skidded on its
squishiness. "So much for the subtle approach," I muttered as I
struggled frantically (and successfully) to regain my balance. But
I went on, as a good little TS Investigator should, with hope in
my heart and a song on my lips...one of Marilyn Manson's touching
love ballads, actually. Then, suddenly, not six feet away, I saw a
glint of gold as the last rays of the setting sun reflected off
the skull that was dangling from Bramwell's left ear. I began
sidling towards him surreptitiously noticing, as I did so, that
the grass was littered with dead and dying pigeons. Gertrude Stein
would've found it inspirational. But, as I moved towards Bramwell
he began to move away. I began to walk faster. So did he. Soon we
were running and just as I was saying to myself "Wow! Deja Vu!" I
slipped on that damn cake and went sprawling. Tore a hole in my
best nylons too. I tellya, TS's...it's tough out there. It's a
jungle!
By the time I scrambled to my feet he was long gone. "Take me to
my office," I told Ernie.
"You look TERRIBLE!" Chrissy said as I squelched in.
"Thank you, " said, brushing a few soggy cake crumbs from my
skirt. "Anything new?"
"Mr. Dashiell just called," she said. "Apparently his wife just
got wind of the fact that their dog is missing and all hell's
broken loose."
I fell into a chair with a stunned look on my face. "The dog!" I
breathed ecstatically. "Of course! Why didn't I think of it
before?"
"What are you TALKING about?" Chrissy demanded.
"'The curious incident of the dog in the night-time," I quoted.
"But the dog did nothing in the night-time," Chrissy said quite
unconsciously.
"'THAT,'" I giggled. "'Was the Curious Incident!'" and I hurried
off to change my clothes. "Call Dashiell," I yelled over my
shoulder. "And tell him to meet me at his wife's trailer in an
hour!"
It was already after dark when my cab pulled up at the Soaring
Eagle Trailer Park and I found my client waiting for me on pins
and needles.
"What are you doing?" I asked, as he rose to meet me. "Practicing
yoga?"
"No," he said, with a grimace, as he pulled a few remaining
needles from his back. "I had a little accident with a sewing kit
I was bringing my wife as a peace offering."
"Oh," I said. "Well, come on, we have to see your wife right now!"
"What's happened?" he puffed, as he rushed along by my side. But I
was distracted for a moment by the most delicious sensation as a
cool breeze wafted up the skirt of my powder blue shirt dress and
caressed my thighs. I got goose pimples all over. "Hmmmm?" I said
dreamily.
"I said 'What's happened?'" he repeated. "Do you know what
happened to Hamlet?"
"Sure," I said. "Call him."
"What?"
"Call your dog."
"What the...oh, never mind. Here, Hamlet! Here boy!"
We were rewarded by a loud woof from the nearest trailer.
Suddenly, the door flew open from a sudden impact it had never
been designed to withstand, and a huge Great Dane came bounding
towards us.
"My God!" cried Dashiell, as the dog almost knocked him down in
its eagerness to be reunited with its master. "How did he come to
be here?"
"Shall you tell him, Mrs. Dashiell?" I inquired. "Or would you
prefer that I did it?"
The slattern-faced little woman who had followed the dog out just
glared at me. So I took up the explanation. "What first attracted
my attention," I said, lying brazenly. "Were the actions of the
dog on the night in question. According to your story, Mr.
Dashiell, Hamlet, here had permitted a total stranger to climb
into the back seat of your car and to assault you soon after with
giving even a token protest. Now, no dog in the world would do
that. If you trespass on what a dog consider's his master's
private property, or make a threatening gesture towards his
master, that dog will very probably fly at your throat. The least
he will do is growl. But Hamlet did NOTHING. What, then, was the
explanation of his incomprehensible behavior? Only ONE explanation
would cover the facts: the assailant was someone whom the dog knew
well. Someone he loved as much as his master. Who else but his
Mistress?"
Dashiell stared at his wife with disbelief. "But, why? Why would
Gladys do such a thing?"
"My theory is that she got tired of staying in this crummy trailer
while you were living the high life in that swanky hotel of
yours," I said. "So she figured out a way to add to her bank
account. The ransom note was, of course, a ruse, she had no
intention of harming Hamlet...she just wanted to throw us off the
track. By the way, do you still have that check, Mrs. Hamlet? It
might be wise to return it thus sparing Mr. Dashiell the unhappy
experiance of actually having to press charges."
She reached into the bosom of her threadbare dress and handed it
to me. "Damned Flatfoo1" she said. "Bramwell and I were certain
you'd take the bait and go afer him instead of me! He was much the
more obvious suspect, what with his criminal background and all."
"Quite so," I replied, lighting a Virginia Slim. "But the guilty
person is always the LEAST likely to be suspected!"
"Oh, damn!" she said. "I forgot that!"
"Gladys," said Dashiell with a catch in his throat. "Ms. Morrison,
too..I see now what a selfish pig I have been. Come back to me
Gladys and I promise you you'll never want for anything again!"
"Oh, Henry!" she cried, falling into his arms in an absolute orgy
of mawkish sentimentality. "I love you so MUCH!!!"
I patted Hamlet's head while they carried on for a couple of
eternities. "Good boy," I told him. "If it hadn't been for your
intelligent inertia I'd never have solved this case!" He wagged
his tail in gratification.
"Ms. Morrison," cried Dashiell suddenly. "How can I ever reward
you? This ring perhaps?" he cried, tugging at the huge emerald
which adorned the first finger of his right hand.
"No thanks," I said. "I don't have much use for a man's ring these
days."
"Then a photograph of my wife? She is the greatest treasure I
possess!"
"I don't think so," I said. "I prefer to deal in cash."
"Then this check for two hundred thousand? I shall endorse it over
to you at once!"
"I guess it will HAVE to do," I said.
And that, dear Reader, is how I not only restored Dashiell's
Hamlet. but acquired the Dane's Purse, as well!!!
The End
Lauryn
- 01.08.2022
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