Free The Gumshoe Diaries by Nicholas Stanton Page A

comfortable position
in her chair. She yawned deeply and then began her
dissertation.
    “Alright gumshoe, by the numbers then. ONE,
three blue cotton fibers, no great stretch, easily traced to the
manufacturer, who by the way has an exclusive contract with the
city for the fabric; which I identified by lot through the dye in
the material. TWO, blood type recognition, also a no brainer. The
fella may have got a paper cut issuing a citation or maybe cut
himself shaving, I don’t know, but the samples tested as O positive
and had traces of testosterone in the sweat also found on the
fibers. THREE, the gray hair was a lucky find as one of the fibers
had a small follicle on it, likely from his arm. That was another
indicator that we are dealing with a male subject here, well that
and the testosterone. FOUR, the age is an educated guess based on
the follicle. FIVE, traces of nicotine were on the follicle as well
as the threads. And finally SIX, the fella must have gone to the
same charm school as you did because this little piggy likes his
deli with spicy brown mustard. Just like you, right Whitey? There,
is that enough detail for you?”
    I offered up my praise with a long and low
whistle over the telephone line and I could hear her snicker
tiredly on the other end.
    “Very impressive, you’re just too cool for
school Miss Looney, why aren’t we sleeping together anyway?”
    “You’re a class act Roode, unfortunately
you’re also an asshole. Besides, I’d rather do the deed with your
ex, you know that.”
    “That’s right; you two are still thick as
thieves aren’t you. Thanks for rubbing it in.”
    “My pleasure, on both counts,” she replied
softly.
    “On that note I’m hanging up and going to
bed,” I said, half hoping she felt like talking more. I always had
a soft spot for Looney Tunes even if she was a rival of sorts.
    “Okay, I’m doing the same. G’nite Whitey,
hope that helps you earn a buck or two.”
    “Yeah, well, we’ll see, g’nite…”
    ****
    (“when it comes to being lucky she’s cursed, when it
comes to loving me she’s worse…”)…Cat Stevens…1967

Chapter Eleven
    Alexandria Hotel, Los Angeles…Wednesday, Feb
18, 2009…Noon
    Staring out the corner window in my second
floor flat above the bar at this flea bag hotel I recapped the last
couple of days as I watched some of the work-a-day skirts make
their way up 5 th Street on their lunch beak. You know,
the worst part of living in the city is you can rarely escape the
noise. Short of a living in a tomb you just had to learn to live
with it! I wish I could say that was the only hardship a
city-dweller dealt with, but that would be wishful thinking. There
were the rats, the roaches, the stench permeating from any alley
courtesy the great unwashed, and a hundred other pick-em
inconveniences. But you know what; despite of all that, one thing
managed to make it all worthwhile. Don’t bother guessing, I’ll just
tell you, OPPORTUNITY. I know what your thinking, WTF right?
    It’s not rocket science; the city’s alive
24/7, no matter what time of day all year round. Now, granted, LA
isn’t NYC by any stretch of the imagination, but if you want a
cheeseburger, chili fries and a chocolate shake at 3am, not a
problem, check out Pink’s. You want to catch a first run movie or
off-off Broadway play at 7am on Sunday morning, just crack open
your laptop and surf the web, you’ll find one, guaranteed. You say
that you need a kidney transplant from an AB negative donor? Okay,
that might be a stretch. But short of a kidney or heart transplant,
you had an opportunity to do just about anything in this town. So,
why the philosophical waxing you ask? I don’t know, I think I’m
just getting old. Or it could be that I’m close enough to sixty to
smell the tiger balm, or maybe because I’m still paying spousal
support to my trans-sexual ex who just happens to be screwing
around with the only woman I’ve thought twice about who wasn’t