Lucky Cashman, Private Dick

And now it’s time for another episode from the files of “Lucky Cashman, Private Dick!” 

By HoraceClarke66
Chapter One

I was workin’ on an Imp-’n’-Iron in some low Pittsburgh dive, thinkin’ about what a long, strange trip it’s been. First the Bear went missing, and there were rumors he’d been seen making those goo-goo-googly eyes at every outfit in town.

Then it was out to the West Coast, to pick up some Wonder Boy from the East, only to be left holding the bag.

Next a whole shipment of first-class giancarlo showed up, courtesy of my old friend Jetes, down in Miami. Some of the boys in the office said I should be careful. But I was never one to look a gift marlin in the mouth.

Now, I’d just spent a whole day rappelling up and down the buildings of the Iron City, trying to find my old chum, Cole, only to come up empty-handed.

I was down to perusing the river barge arrivals list in the local rag. I’d just spotted what I was lookin’ for—the La Paloma, Capt. Jacoby at the helm—when a blonde goddess walked in and took the barstool next to mine.

When I say goddess, it ain’t palaver. She had a body that wouldn’t quit, and a face that made the Mona Lisa look like Gladys Ormphby. She knocked back an Imp of her own, then the next thing I knew she had an arm around my waste and her tongue in my ear.

“I’m not Santa Claus, but I can get you some Cole,” she purred.

“Talk to me, baby.”

“Just out in the alley,” she cooed. “But it will cost you the Future. A little game of Chance. And Andujar. And the Red Thunder ”

“The Future? I got it right here,” I said, tapping the pocket under my roscoe. “It’s like they say on the tequila ads: tomorrow is overrated.”

I followed the blonde out to the alley. I woulda followed her to Wishaw, if she’d asked me.

“Where’s the goods?” I asked, trying to keep my tongue in my mouth.

“Right there.”

She pointed down at the ground. There was Cole, all right. Lying face down in a pile of gopher balls.

“Why, Cole’s a stiff!” I said.

“And always was,” she whispered in my ear.

She took three giant steps back then, without so much as a mother-may-I.

Up at the far end of the alley, I could see a figure in a trenchcoat and a fedora and a popgun. Neal Huntington, GM of the Pirates. I looked back the way we came in, but there were two more of his gunsels, with gats of their own.

I wiped my hand across my mouth and laughed. The world had begun to revolve like ancient women, gathering fuel in vacant lots.

Stayed tuned, for our next, spine-tingling episode!