Lenny Parker, PI / roadie / metalhead is back in a new serial, blending a bit of comedy with a hardboiled detective story, one feet into metal culture.
ONE
Lenny Parker shook the old man’s
hand carefully. His hand looked brittle. The old man sat down at Lenny’s usual table
at Mister Janpong’s Thai restaurant. Lenny had been using it as his office for
a few years now.
“Can I get you something to
drink, Mister Janson?” Lenny asked the old man.
“Some iced tea would be good,”
Janson said. He was in his early eighties, dressed impeccably in a beige jacket
and matching tie.
Lenny ordered the tea and a bottle
of Singha beer for himself.
“What can I do for you?” he asked
Janson.
“I want to hire you to look for
my Ozzy. He’s been missing for weeks now,” Janson said.
“All right. How old is your son?”
“Ozzy is my dog, not my son.”
Lenny had to admit he didn’t see
that one coming. “Eh… All right…”
Mister Janpong put the iced tea
and beer on their table. Lenny and Janson nodded in thanks. Mister Janpong made
a little bow and left.
“Ozzy is pretty much the only
thing I have left. I want him found.”
“I can understand that, I guess. If
I wasn’t on tour so often as a roadie I probably would want a dog as well. They’re
pretty loyal creatures. But I must tell you I have no experience tracking down
missing pets. Missing person, yes. Pets, no.”
“I haven’t got the stamina to go
look for him myself. And I have no family left to help me. My daughter died in
a car crash five years ago. She was all the family I had left. Now, Ozzy is the
only thing I have. I’m afraid I can’t pay you much, but I once heard you took
on a case for two bottles of Jack Daniel’s and a concert ticket.”
“Yeah. But it was a Slayer
ticket.”
“I’ve got a collection of Black
Sabbath albums. The original ones. I think they are worth quite some money. And
I know you’re really into metal…”
“What gave me away, the battle
jacket, the Megadeth T-shirt or the long hair?” Lenny said, smiling.
“Your reputation,” Janson said.
“Good to know I’m building one. Not
sure if the fact I work dirt-cheap is one I want to spread around too fast. Did
you name your dog after Black Sabbath’s singer?”
Janson nodded. “I used to enjoy
some heavy metal back in the day. Can’t stand that new crap, though. You know
with the grunging and all.”
“Grunting.”
“That’s what I said, yeah. So,
can I hire you?”
The next tour would be a month
from now and right now Lenny had no other cases. So he figured why not. And he
was a big Black Sabbath fan. He shook Janson’s hand. “You just hired yourself a
private eye, Mister Janson. Now tell me some more about Ozzy. How did he get
lost?”
“That’s the bloody strange thing.
He was in the backyard one moment while I was on the crapper. At my age that
can take a while. When I came back from it he was gone, the gate unlocked.”
“Did you forget to lock it?”
“I’m old, not damned senile.”
“Any idea how it got unlocked then?”
“Hell if I know. It doesn’t
unlock itself. And Ozzy can’t do it either.
Almost has me thinking someone dognapped him.”
That sounded a bit unlikely to
Lenny. “What kind of dog is Ozzy?”
“A Rottweiler. Here, that’s him,”
Janson said and took a picture from his jacket. It showed a huge Rottweiler
lying in the grass.
“Nice animal,” Lenny said.
“You got that right.”
“Didn’t your neighbors see
anything?”
“One of my neighbors is a pot-smoking
kid who never opens his curtains, the other is a nurse who works nights. I’m
afraid they haven’t seen anything.”
“Too bad. Well, I guess I can ask
around, see if anybody saw Ozzy. Any distinguishing characteristics?
“What? Like a tattoo? He’s a big
dog. That’s it.”
Sarcasm. Not Lenny’s favorite
character flaw. “It would be good if I had
a way to make sure it’s Ozzy.”
“You call his name, and he will
react,” Janson said.
Lenny shrugged. “Guess that might
work. Okay, Mister Janson… I will see what I can do. Don’t get your hopes up, though.”
“After the life I’ve led I never
do.”
TO BE CONTINUED
