The Selfie of Dorian Gray

The moment the shutter on the camera clicks, Dorian feels different. He is momentarily short of breath; it is almost as if, by capturing his image, the iPhone also drew the very air from his lungs.

“Preposterous,” he mutters to himself, and looks down at the picture he has just taken.

This, he realises, must have been how the accursed Narcissus felt, upon first catching sight of his own reflection in the river. Never before have his own eyes seemed so blue, his hair so golden, his lips so full.

It is, without a doubt, the perfect selfie.

~

“Don’t you dare hang up on me,” Sabina howls down the phone, like the proverbial banshee. “We are not finished here, you owe me an explanation!”

“Darling,” Dorian replies, in what he feels is his most reasonable tone, “I’m sorry if you got the wrong idea about me. But I’m just not looking to settle down. When did I ever say otherwise?”

“How cold you are,” she spits. “How cruel. So you think it’s alright to sleep with other girls? With other men? Do my feelings matter at all?”

Dorian ends the call.

“Needy, needy girl,” he whispers to himself, shaking his head. To take his mind off the whole debacle, he decides to check how many more likes his selfie has racked up. Twelve since he last looked. Satisfied, Dorian is about to return his phone to his pocket when he notices something. Something off.

He raises the phone to his face and squints. Impossible!

The picture has changed. His eyes are still blue, but paler; they have lost some of that trademark twinkle. His lips are still red, but they don’t look quite as full.

“How can this be?” He utters, but there is nobody in the room to respond, and of course the photo can’t very well speak for itself. Sabina called him cruel; this is a likeness of a cruel man. But that image was taken weeks ago, before he even met Sabina. Before he slept with her, and then her best friend, and then her brother.

But still, it’s undeniable – the picture has changed for the worst. Dorian shrugs, and puts his phone away. What does it matter? A glance in the mirror reassures him that in the flesh, he has never looked better.

~

Time is kind to Dorian, and unkind to those around him. With each year that passes, the selfie ages. With each heart he breaks, with every tramp he hits in his Mercedes, the eyes on the screen grow ever narrower and more flint-like, the smile gradually curling into a sneer. After a decade, it pains him to look at the photo at all – it has changed too drastically, reflects too much, while his own face remains precisely as it was.

There are two Dorians now, and over the years makes his peace with it, telling nobody his secret when they enquire after which face cream or cosmetic surgeon holds the key to perpetual youth. Not that anyone would believe him if he were to tell them the truth; that his withered soul is trapped in a magic photograph, belied by his own youthful, perfidious exterior.

He has long since removed the image from social media, obviously. He often wonders what would happen if he were to delete the selfie entirely. Would his every sin from those misspent years be returned upon him? Would his skin crack like parchment? Would he, god forbid, lose his hair?

Whatever spell the selfie has cast, it is a gift. To question or waste it would be a crime. And so Dorian vows to live as authentically as he can, pleasure and gratification his only commandments.

Instagrammed, immortal, and irredeemable.

~

Rain Dance

I respond to the idiotic claims that homosexuality causes floods the only way I know how - in the form of a story.

~

“A church wedding would have been nicer,” he overhears a second cousin saying at the reception. Callum suspects this distant relative would also have preferred there be a bride, as opposed to the two young men in suits who made their vows this afternoon. He makes a mental note to strike the cousin’s name from his Christmas card list.

He didn’t even want extended family at the wedding; it was Mitchell who insisted they have everyone there. His new husband (Husband! He can’t get his head around the word) has a much more genial and forgiving nature. In fact, the only flaw of his that Callum is still working on correcting is his tendency to drop grammatical clangers from time to time.

“Shame about the weather,” somebody closer to the top table remarks – Callum thinks it might be Mitchell’s auntie. In this instance he is inclined to agree. Torrential rains have turned the hotel grounds into a swamp, making any outdoor photos completely out of the question.

A nasty little thought squirms to life in the back of his mind. Something ridiculous and half-forgotten. A story from the paper a few days before the wedding. A politician with views that skew towards the radical claimed that the government’s decision to allow same-sex couples to marry was the cause of the recent extreme weather conditions ravaging the country. Mitchell dismissed the councillor as “Old Testa-mental”, and used the article later that day to line the cat’s litter tray. And Callum didn’t give it another thought. Until now.

“Don’t be stupid,” he mutters to himself, pouring himself and his new hubby (ugh, no, ‘hubby’ is too saccharine, he decides) another generous glass of champagne. He is rescued from his own dark thoughts by the sound of a spoon tinkling against a glass.

“Good evening, everyone!” Bellows his best woman, Ros. Oh, lord. He’d forgotten about this part. It has kept him awake every night this week. He’s never been any good at it, no matter how encouraging or patient Mitchell is as a teacher.

“What are we calling you guys now – Mitchum? Callell?” Ros shrugs. “Anyway, ladies and gentlemen, please be as upstanding, as our newlyweds take their first dance.”

Callum lets Mitchell lead him by the hand onto the dance floor, and the song they took weeks to agree on begins to play; ‘You’re My Best Friend’. Because, as Mitchell said at the time, their wedding just wasn’t gay enough.

As it turns out, dancing in front of everybody he knows isn’t that bad. He steps on Mitchell’s feet a couple of times, but for the most part his awkward shuffling is met with dewy eyes and heartfelt smiles. The song is almost over when he hears the maniacal laughter. He spies the culprit at the back of the room; a guest he doesn’t recognise in a bright blue suit and derby hat. He is throwing back his head and laughing, clapping his hands, and hopping from foot to foot like an excited child.

“Bet you wish we’d stuck to close friends only,” Callum whispers in Mitchell’s ear, nodding towards the dancing madman, who is attracting the attention of the other guests.

Mitchell frowns.

“I have no idea who that is,” he replies. “I thought it was one of your old uni mates?”

Callum shakes his head. “I’ve never seen him before in my life.”

“Well let’s ask,” Mitchell says. “Looks like he’s coming over.”

And so he is – the curious blue-suited gentleman is now at the edge of the dance floor, observing the newlyweds and chuckling away. Once he notices that they have stopped dancing and are, in fact, staring at him in utter bemusement, he steps forward.

“Mind if I cut in?” He asks Mitchell, not even waiting for a response before grabbing Callum by the hand and spinning him around.

“Who the hell are you?” Callum asks, trying his best to be angry but finding that all he feels is relief – his feet finally seem to know what they’re doing, and he is matching this lunatic step for step in what can only be described as an epileptic jive. The music is louder than before, faster, and the other guests are soon sweeping onto the dance floor to join the revelry.

Thunder can be heard over the music, as it rolls across the sky outside.

“I’m Ba’al,” says the intruder. The apostrophe rings in Callum’s ears. “But you can call me Bill.”

“Ba’al,” Callum echoes. “What kind of name is that?”

“A very old one,” Bill replies, clicking his fingers in time with the beat. “It means all sorts – thunder, rain, lord of the heavens. Take your pick.”

“You’re insane,” Callum says, twisting his hips. Bill just laughs.

Mitchell reappears, refreshed champagne flutes in each hand. “Everything alright here?”

“Fine,” Callum answers, taking one of the glasses. “I’m just dancing with God.”

“A god,” Bill corrects, snatching Mitchell’s champagne and knocking it back. “We’re like the public sector. There’s loads of us.”

“Well you weren’t invited,” Mitchell says, “but you’re more than welcome to stay and enjoy the disco.”

“I might just do that!” Bill squeezes Mitchell’s cheeks as if he were a particularly cute toddler. “And is there a spread?” Mitchell nods, unflappable as always. Callum is less inclined to accept this ludicrous turn of events.

“That crazy bible-thumper was telling the truth about us, wasn't he.”

“It’s true,” Bill says, smile faltering, standing still for a moment. “Your union has made the gods weep.” Callum’s heart begins to sink. “But,” Bill continues, “these are tears of joy falling from the sky. Mankind is finally making the progress we have long known you capable of.”

“Huh,” Mitchell murmurs. “Even gods end sentences on prepositions. How about that.”

The rain god hoots with laughter once again, before moseying off through the ecstatic throng in the direction of the buffet.

~

Some Scenes Have Been Created For Your Entertainment

“This isn’t working,” said Jake. “I think it would be for the best if we don’t see each other any more.”

Annabel said nothing, although she wasn’t exactly surprised. By the time she finally thought of a suitable response, she couldn’t help but feel that the moment had passed.

“Cut,” she said. “Can you do that again, Jake? But this time, really look at me. Don’t be afraid to get a little bit intense, to make the viewer squirm, you know?”

“For god’s sake, Annabel!” He snapped. “Can’t you see that this is the problem? I can’t indulge you any longer. I won’t go on being a player in this little show of yours. None of it is real – the whole thing is just too weird.”

Annabel frowned, hoping his comments hadn’t hurt Bill’s feelings. Bill was her cameraman.

“I understand,” she said, “but if we could just give this one more go –”

“No, Annabel, it’s over.”

“Oh, I know that,” she said. “What I meant was, could we give the breakup another go? One more take, maybe two. I think we’re so close to nailing it.”

Jake’s lip curled up in disgust, but she signalled for Bill to keep rolling. Sure enough, Jake stood up and stormed out of the restaurant. With the right editing, it would make the perfect cliff-hanger before an ad break.

Annabel was the first to admit; reality TV wasn’t for everyone. She’d had some doubts about it herself, when she first got the call from the production company. Because no matter how unseemly your average Guardian reader might find it, the qualms of the prospective starlet are double. Was she anxious, apprehensive even, at giving a film crew unlimited access to her life, of forfeiting mherprivacy for god knows how long? Of course. But she also knew that the show, The Sweet Life, was too big an opportunity to give up.

At the end of their first day of shooting, Bill had taken her aside and told her she was a natural. It took some getting used to at first; having to enunciate more, conducting the same conversations over and over in order to form a seamless narrative in the edit. And then there was the camera. She soon learned to suppress the instinct to smile or ‘act’, and just behave nonchalantly. It was funny, really. She’d always felt special. Like, maybe in another life she might have been Cleopatra, or Marie Antoinette, or Cheryl Cole. Turned out, she was born to be a TV star, which she thought beat being Kate Middleton any day.

When Annabel arrived home after her disastrous lunch with Jake, Mum and Dad were sitting in the living room. She positioned herself far enough away from the window that the late afternoon light wouldn’t ruin the shot, then said brightly:

“Hi kids! What’s new?” She talked to her mum and dad as if they were the young, hip parents of a 90’s sitcom. Apparently the fans loved it.

“Darling,” Mum beckoned for Annabel to sit next to her. Instead, she perched on the arm of the sofa, to better show off her Jimmy Choos. She was hoping to get an endorsement.

“We ran into Jake this afternoon,” Dad said. “He told us what happened.”

Damn. If Jake was blabbing to all and sundry about their recent split, it wasn’t going to come as much of a surprise to viewers when the episode aired.

“I won’t lie,” she said, with a heart-heavy sigh, “I’m really hurting right now.” This could be the episode’s closing act, she decided. The star of the show, letting down her confident, ready-to-take-on-the-world exterior, and showing her true feelings. There had been talk of a National TV Award, so she needed to give it her all.

“Why don’t you tell us your side of it, love,” said Mum, supportive as ever. Annabel had told her more than once that she was a firm fan favourite, but she’d hear nothing of it.

“Good idea,” said Dad. “Who dumped who?” Unfortunately, Dad’s directness had garnered him less in the way of a fan base.

“He…” Annabel paused, and let her voice falter. “He broke up with me. I never thought I was the kind of girl who needed to be with a man, but he made me really happy.” After another long pause, she added, just for good measure: “I'm heartbroken.”

“Oh, love…” Mum reached out and took Annabel’s hand in hers. “Did he say why?”

She hesitated before replying, reluctant to bite the hand that fed her, then resolved to tell the truth. She’d only be seen as braver for it.

“It’s the show,” she said. “It was all just too much for him.”

Mum’s expression changed.  She glanced at Dad, then turned back to face her.

“Annabel,” she said, in that gentle yet firm way of hers, “we’ve talked about this. There is no show.”

Annabel laughed. “What are you talking about?” Is this some kind of meta joke, she wondered, or perhaps something for the DVD extras?

“It’s all in your head, Annie,” Dad said. “The Sweet Life, the cameras, everything.”

Something in the way Mum and Dad looked at each other, that worried glance they shared, made Annabel uncomfortable in a way that being dumped by Jake just hadn’t.

“But Bill,” she said, no longer concerned with breaking the fourth wall.

“Bill’s not real either,” Mum said. “Look around. See for yourself.”

She turned to where Bill always stood when they were filming downstairs; in the doorway, where he could capture the entire room. Except he wasn’t there now.

“No,” she said, “this isn’t right. I’m a natural. People love me.”

Her eyes began to sting, and Mum pulled her into a tight embrace. Why did she feel like this conversation had happened before? Why did this feel like the umpteenth take? Tears quickly followed, and as she cried into her mother’s silk scarf, Annabel thought she heard Bill’s voice in her ear:

Give that girl a BAFTA.

~

Personal Effects

It didn’t feel like that serious a bump on the head. Certainly not enough to kill her. But, here she was, standing over her own body, wondering what exactly was supposed to happen next.  It occurred to Eliza, just a few minutes after she slipped on a stray magazine and a brief collision with the coffee table ended her life prematurely, that her living room was kind of a mess.

“Eliza Brink?” A nervous, almost adolescent voice queried from behind her.

“What the…” Eliza span around, intending to chastise this intruder. “You made me jump out of my skin!” She admonished. “Or, out of my ectoplasm.” That thought made her wrinkle her nose. “I don’t know. I’m not entirely sure what figures of speech are appropriate for this particular situation.”

She turned her attention to her new guest. Tall, skinny, with hair that could do with a good trim and a denim jacket that had definitely seen better days.

“Who the hell are you, anyway?” She asked.

“Ah! Right…” The stranger reached into his jean pocket, pulled out a tiny rectangle of paper and proceeded to unfold it until it was the size of a broadsheet.

“I am the Reaper,” he read aloud, forming the words like a child who has only just learned to read. “But fear not, Eliza, for I am here to take you to a better place.”  With that, he refolded the creased document and returned it to his pocket.

“Is that it?” Eliza asked, incredulous. “That paper was huge.”

“The rest is directions,” he told her. “I’m new.”

“How new?”

“Very.”

Eliza rolled her eyes, then sadly realised that it didn’t quite have the same effect when her actual eyes were at floor level, staring at the ceiling.

“Fine,” she said, “but I have some things to do first.”

“Oh, sorry,” he shook his head, “that’s not how it works. There’s no time allotted in your schedule for unfinished business. Seems you must have kept your house in order, so to speak.”

“Except I clearly didn’t,” Eliza snapped, “or I might not have been killed by a rogue Marie-Claire. No. I’m staying to tidy up. Can’t have anyone finding my body in this bombsite.”

“Why not?”

“Why do you bloody well think? Because by the time the story gets around, they’ll be saying I was half eaten by cats and nobody missed me.”

“Jesus, lady…”

“Oh. Oh no. Enough of the lady. I may well not be eighteen anymore, but I don’t think I’ve quite reached lady yet! Not that I ever will now, I suppose.”

It was the Grim Reaper’s turn to roll his eyes. Eliza took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, glad to discover that it had a calming effect even when no air was going taken in or out.

“Listen,” she said. “What’s your name?”

“Pete,” he replied. Eliza perched herself on the arm of the sofa and patted the spot next to her. The grungy youth sat down next to her.

“Well, Pete…” She patted his knee, relieved that hand sanitiser would no longer be an issue, and said: “Is there any way, any way at all, that you could help me out? Please?”

Pete’s eyes flitted from the hand on his knee, to her chest, and then past her to the body on the carpet.

“Are you flirting with me?” He asked. “Because, I mean, I’m flattered and everything, and you are fit, but I just don’t think I’d be comfortable doing anything…” He lowered his voice to a whisper; “…with that in the room.”

Eliza removed her hand from his knee as quickly as humanly possible, and stood. Pete recoiled ever so slightly, as if she were about to slap him, but she simply began picking up detritus from the floor.

“What are you doing?” He asked.

“Masturbating,” she barked. “What does it look like, you cretin? I’m tidying up.” She vanished into the kitchen for a moment, then re-emerged with a bin bag.

Pete could only watch, and quietly despair. What was she going to do next, go upstairs and turn her mattress? Clean the toilet? This was exactly the kind of thing he’d been worried about. What had kept him up half of last night. He’d read her file beforehand, naturally. (Preparation is key in any job, his mum had told him that, before sending him off to Nando’s, CV in hand.) She seemed like quite a handful, for his very first job. His superiors had simply said, should a “situation” arise, to simply use his initiative.

Because initiative is something one is bound to find in a seventeen year old who died by falling off a motorbike while trying to impress a girl.

“Oh, Cindy,” he murmured wistfully, “we could have been so good together.”

He had a vague notion that Eliza had gone upstairs, but was too deep in his own reverie to notice – until she descended in high heels, a fur coat and ridiculously large sunglasses.

“What… is… that?” Pete asked, resisting the urge to tell her how much it reminded him of his nana’s nervous breakdown.

“What, this old thing? Nothing.” Eliza shrugged. “Right! Let’s blow this joint.”

“Um. Not so fast… You can’t wear that.”

“Why not?” She looked down at herself, then back at him. “What’s wrong with it?”

“Nothing at all! It’s very… nice. But you didn’t die in it.”

“I’m sorry?”

“You can’t take it with you because it’s not what you died in.”

“Oh. That’s a rather unkind rule, don’t you think? What happens to all the people who die in those arse-less hospital gowns?”

“Exactly what you’d expect to happen, I’m afraid.”

Eliza grimaced, then acquiesced.  She removed the shades, then the coat, and finally stepped out of the kitten heels.  Then her eyes lit up with inspiration, and she strode over to where her body lay on the rug.

“I might not have died in them,” she muttered to herself, “but I can make people think I did…”  Then, to Pete, she said; “Come on, help me with this. Then I’ll be ready to go, I promise.”

Pete sighed, crouched by the body, and heaved the immobile torso up, enabling Eliza to wrap the fur around her own cold shoulders.

“You’re just lucky rigor mortis hasn’t set in,” Pete told her. “It would make this twice as difficult.”

“Yeah, I’m having a really lucky day,” Eliza responded, pulling both Ugg boots off the body and forcing its feet into the Manolos. Finally, she placed the sunglasses delicately onto her own face, which had turned a rather unflattering shade of blue.  The moment those glassy, unseeing eyes were concealed, she began to feel better.

“You know, the Ancient Greeks used to put coins over the eyes of their dead,” Pete said quietly. “So they could pay the boatman on the River Styx.”

“Well, those cost a pretty penny,” Eliza said, rising to her feet. “I imagine my fare will be paid a few times over.”

“You look a right picture,” Pete said, gesturing to the body with his foot. “In a nice way, I mean.”

“Don’t I?” Eliza beamed. “People will think I was off out to the opera.”

“Is it important to you?” Pete asked. “What people think?”

“I never thought so,” she said, gazing down at herself, “but yes. It is.” She was silent for a moment, then leant in as if to tell him a secret. “I had a look through my cupboards when I was cleaning. Found lots of coffee, and even more wine. Not much food. I hid a few bottles of vino in the back yard – didn’t want anyone thinking I was a lush.”

“Fair’s fair,” Pete agreed. “Are you ready to go now?”

“I think so,” Eliza nodded. She glanced around the now spotless living room, then down at her body one last time. “Come on then. Home, James, and don’t spare the horses.”

Pete smiled, even though this reference flew right over his head. He took Eliza by the hand.

“Let’s get this show on the road,” he said, suddenly nervous. Eliza squeezed his hand, and together they walked through the living room wall.

~

Rude Awakening: An Adonis Jones Mystery (Part One)

Don't you just hate it when you wake up with a nose-full of last night's blow? I prefer a glass of fresh orange juice and an espresso before my first bump of the day, thank you very much. But we don't always get what we want, I suppose. And as I was soon to learn on that glorious September morning, a much bigger mystery than how I slept with all that snow up my snout was about to come lunging my way. Crawling out of my four poster bed, I necked the glass of water on the nightstand and fished a spare aspirin from the tasty crevice of my navel. Willy was still sleeping off last night's ravishing, and I decided to leave him to it; he deserved a lie-in after everything I did to him!

It took me a while to stumble down from the bedroom to the kitchen, partially on account of the rather mansion-esque size of my home and also because of my hung-over zigzagging. It was only when I eventually reached the kitchen doorway that I came to realise two things:

Firstly, that the rather distracting thwick-thwack I'd heard all the way down the stairs originated from the fact that I'd forgotten to throw on my morning thong and kimono. Secondly, that there was what appeared to be a dead body sprawled rather decadently over my marble counter, legs akimbo, rigor mortis evident in every extremity. And I mean every extremity; much like Virginia Woolf's young Orlando at the debut of his adventures, there could be no mistake as to his sex. Sex... that reminded me of something.

“Willy,” I called out in what has been described by many as a handsome baritone, “come and look at this.” Willy Wolfe, my partner in crime solving and most-time lover, appeared presently in the doorway beside me.

“Cripes,” he said, and whistled. “What did we get up to last night?”

“Sodomy, for the most part,” I replied, “but I don't recall any stiffs other than our own.”

“Neither do I,” Willy's right hand instinctively went to my groin for comfort. “Well what do you suppose we do?” He asked after a moment's gentle squeezing.

“Get the coffee on,” I suggested, “and then I imagine we'd best call the police.”
Willy nodded his agreement and filled the coffee pot with three scoops of breakfast blend. After a hot, stimulating cup, and some more furtive fumbling on the part of Willy, I felt up to making the call. While we waited for the law to arrive, my housekeeper Tatiana let herself in the back door and jumped straight into a bout of hysterics at the sight of the poor bugger straddling the toaster. I knew though, that her distress came not from being in the same room as a dead body (she was from the deadliest of Russian gangster stock, after all), but from the prospect of cleaning up after one.

I calmed her down with a sound slap and a hot cup of coffee, and shortly after she was her usual self, swearing in her mother tongue and smoking like a chimney. I don't doubt the shot of vodka I slipped in her coffee helped somewhat.

No sooner had we finished our beverages than the doorbell rang; Beethoven's V for Victory. Not today, old boy, I said to myself as Tatiana rushed to let the police officers in. And who should she lead back into the crime scene? None other than Roderick Sexton, my old rival from the days when I was in the force, not to mention my former bum-chum.

“Long time no see, Don,” he grunted, casting a critical cop eye over the corpse on the counter, and an even darker glare over Willy's flawless, uncovered torso. “Obviously you've kept yourself busy.”

“I'll say,” I shot back, wrapping a muscular arm around Willy's broad shoulders. “But the dead guy's nothing to do with me. He was there when I woke up.”

“A likely story,” Roderick scribbled something in his knob-jockey notebook, then glanced at Tatiana. “I take it she's legal?”

“Of age and she has a passport, if that's what you mean,” I said, tired of this already.

“I can make you come and break your legs at same time.” Tatiana smiled sweetly. God bless her, she probably thought she was helping. Roderick evidently didn't know what to make of this exquisite creature, so he turned his attention to the corpse.

“Do you know who this is?” He exclaimed after seconds of inspection. Willy, Tatiana and myself all shook our heads in unison.

“It's Carl Van Der Wood,” Roderick said, as if it meant something. “Of the London Van Der Woods!”

“That means nothing to me,” I told Roderick, to which Willy whispered “Vienna” and the two of us giggled. I'm sure Tats would have joined us in a good old chortle at the copper's expense but the pun in all probability went over her head, bouncing off the Iron Curtain.

“You don't seem to understand how serious this is,” Roderick fixed me with his stony eyes and my cock twitched at the memories. “The Van Der Woods are an incredibly wealthy, powerful family. If this is murder, and I'm going to go out on a limb and say it bloody well is, then somebody stands to gain a lot of money from his death.”

“Cripes,” Willy uttered again.

“Cripes indeed,” Roderick echoed, then turned to me. “It appears that whoever killed young Carl here had a view to framing you, Don. Someone with a heck of a grudge. And I wouldn't even like to start compiling a list of your enemies. Just your disgruntled ex-lovers take up half the Yellow Pages.” I smiled and nodded; a slight exaggeration, perhaps, but largely true.

“Am I to be grateful,” I asked, “to not be a suspect, then?” 

“You're not ruled out quite yet, but I doubt even you would be arrogant enough to kill the male Paris Hilton and expect to get away with it, let alone stupid enough to leave the body on your kitchen counter.”

Possibly the closest I'll ever get to a compliment from Roderick Sexton; it was almost enough to make me blush. Even back during the time when I was in him nightly, we'd never been on what you might call cordial terms.

“Do we know how he died?” Willy asked, a pertinent question that brought my mind back from its erotic reverie to the situation at hand.

“No blood or guts to speak of,” Roderick murmured, leaning in closer to examine the naked Van Der Wood. “Bruises on the throat, though, so strangulation at a guess.” He let out a low whistle at the sight of Carl's now defunct wedding tackle, and I silently agreed with him; such a pity, such a waste. 

“Wait a minute,” Rod said after another moment, “what's this?” He slipped one hand into one of those rubber gloves (that took me back!) and extracted something from just underneath Carl Van Der Wood's bottom. A business card.

“The Cooch Club,” he read aloud. “Never heard of it, have you?”

“I danced there for while,” Tatiana said. “It is bad, bad place.”

“I bet it is,” I turned to Willy. “Time to get dressed, Willy; we have work to do.”

This was definitely a case for Adonis Jones & Co.

~

To Be Continued...