The Case of the Maltese Chihuahua
The Case of the Maltese Chihuahua
I was relaxing incoherently with my favorite fermented beverage when I got the call. I’m a private eye by trade, and I usually handle missing puppies or maybe a slick rick messing around on his lady. But this case was a missing pup of an altogether different breed. My name is Harry Gams, and this is how it all went down.
Angel Leibowitz called me from the Collectors of Rhetorical Art Partnership, or C.R.A.P., and was sobbing when she told me of the theft of their prized Maltese Chihuahua, a glass statue in the form of that compact canine, which was worth a fortune, or at least a few Franklins. Now, this type of sob story normally gets the ol’ kibosh from yours truly, but I have a key for Angel’s lock, so I pretended to listen intently with a few mm-mms and a couple of you-don’t-says. It seemed the infamous crime syndicate Guys Relocating Others’ Stuff Society, or G.R.O.S.S., swiped the decorative doggie, and C.R.A.P. wanted it back.
I have a tipster in the P.D. who informed me G.R.O.S.S. was having an unscheduled private meeting at the Cavern Tavern, a strip joint on the East Side, to transfer the chintzy chihuahua from one G.R.O.S.S. member to another for fencing purposes. I was intrigued. So I decided to make an unscheduled stop at the Cavern Tavern myself to intercept the C.R.A.P.’s doggo and get in good with Angel. To attract the attention of the fiendish felons, I went inconceivably incognito, dressed in drag, flatteringly feminine. No easy feat.
Angel came over to my office, and we spent the better part of the afternoon masking my maleness. The idea was for me to go as Kitty LaPoose, a torch singer from the West Side, regionally renowned for her seductive singing. Fortuitously for me, Kitty always wore a white veil onstage; she never wanted her fame to interfere with her private life. So anyway, Angel and I shaved and waxed, primped and prodded, and stuffed and tucked. After we caught our breath, we began preparing my disguise. I crammed myself into a corset and donned a dazzling dress. Angel did my makeup, and I came out looking like Kitty, more or less. My initiation as a wanton woman had commenced.
The burly bouncer at the club asked for the password, me being a newcomer and all. “I don’t know it, big boy,” I cooed. “Why don’t you just trust me and let me in?” The gallant gatekeeper allowed me entrance, mainly because he was an imposter, my undercover informant, Rusty O’Toole, but also because he recognized me from my Adam’s apple. Once inside, I flirted with the felons, looking for a clue as to who held the purloined pooch. This private dick’s assignment was to snatch it, preferably without any of the greased-up goons noticing. I sashayed through the club, meeting everyone in the G.R.O.S.S. gang. Each moronic monkey I saw looked as if he could have been an insider on the Maltese Chihuahua pilferage.
“Is that a puppy in your pants, or are you just happy to see me?” I asked Tony ‘Pepperoni’ Benteroni. I had to show the guys I was a class act, you see.
“Don’t I know you from somewhere, sweetie?” Tony looked me up and down as if he were a hyena and I were a leg of lamb. My plan was starting to take hold, and a few more grisly galoots came over. I was afraid I’d be exposed as the poser I was, but eventually one dumpy doofus recognized me as Kitty LaPoose.
“In the flesh, gentlemen,” I said, trying my best not to sweat under my Rita Hayworth wig. “Anyone want to show a girl a good time?” I don’t want to demean my manhood any more than is necessary, but those thick thieves were truly taking a shine to me. They gathered around me, whooping and hollering for me to sing a song, trying to buy me drinks. The naked dame on stage looked deflated seeing I was getting all the attention—fully clothed, no less.
“So that’s what you look like under that veil,” Paco ‘The Taco’ Malaco said.
“If you boys want to see more of me, we should have a party,” I offered, knowing full well I had only shaved up to my knees. So, we all headed over to the bar for glass after glass of liquid lightning, on the rocks. Fortunately, Rusty was serving the drinks, having dispatched the bartender with a chop to the neck in the kitchen. He slid me iced teas through sleight of hand, while the steaming strombolis got the strong stuff, laced with loopy dust.
Soon, everyone was passed out, except for me, Rusty, and the strippers. I noticed something shiny in Frankie ‘The French Fry’ Frizzoli’s glass. Encased in an ice cube, was the pooch I was pursuing. Angel neglected to tell me it was only an inch tall. The idea was for the bartender to pass the diminutive doggie to Frankie through his drink. Rusty called his cop cohorts, and they arrested the entire groggy group. G.R.O.S.S. was toast.
I thanked Rusty and angled back to Angel’s place to give her the troublesome trinket and she was, shall we say… most appreciative. She dug the duds I was wearing, so I didn’t stop to change back into a more masculine manner before we did some dastardly deeds of our own.
Another case cracked and another bunch of bums busted, all in a night’s work. The Maltese Chihuahua was returned to C.R.A.P., and Angel bought me a spiffy new dress for our next randy rendezvous. Life was lovely at Harry Gams, P. I. and Associates. So, if you ever need your Fifi found or your Rover rescued, you know who to call.
Nice wordy style here. Incoherence is the best sort of relaxation!