The Pink Eyed Detective

By Greg Moderick

The Pink Eyed Detective - Wildly funny, politically-incorrect modern take off on the classic detective genre, full of clever satire and titilating adult humor. This book has something to either offend or entertain any reader.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gregory C Moderick
• Release date: Dec 15, 2020
• ISBN: 9781087936239

Book preview

9781087936239.jpg

Contents

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

FIFTEEN

SIXTEEN

SEVENTEEN

EIGHTEEN

NINETEEN

TWENTY

TWENTY-ONE

TWENTY-TWO

TWENTY-THREE

Copyright

This is a work of fiction. The events described here are imaginary. The settings and characters are fictitious and do not represent specific places or living or dead people. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

ONE

The newspaper had fallen off my face, letting a searing ray of sunshine, my natural enemy, temporarily blind me. I hadn’t been sleeping, it only looked like it. I was deep undercover, tailing a wayward wife.

The newspaper headline screamed Mimi Louise Goodfoot Kidnapped; Daughter of mayoral candidate missing for three days. I knew about her old man; Enoch Goodfoot, crooked businessman and aspiring politician, those professions being interchangeable. After following her exploits in the press, the uncrowned queen of rehab at the tender age of fifteen, I figured this had to be one of the best things that could have happened to him. That was about the level of interest I had in the whole thing, being below zero.

I had been staking out a sleazy motel in the San Fernando Valley, trying to catch a cheating wife and her boyfriend. I knew it was sleazy because I used to live there after the county sheriff had mistakenly thrown me out of my previous apartment. Not exactly high tech industrial espionage but a steady source of income which I have very little of. Actually, this was one of my classier cases.

I had met my target under the guise of a door to door salesman, my product being scented personal lubricants. I soon realized that she was one of the most gentle, sophisticated, attractive, intelligent women that I had ever met. On the other hand, her husband gave the rodent family a bad name.

She met this guy in the motel who I can only describe as the missing link that anthropologists had been looking for. Calling him a Neanderthal would be a compliment. He was big, ugly, hairy, smelly and had a Reagan/Bush sticker on his car. I guess love is blind or this was just a case of out of control hormones. I crept up to the window to watch them play Hide the Weenie and get some pictures when I accidently tripped over an ice bucket outside the door and fell flat on my face. Apparently, they heard me because he pulled out of her so quickly, you’d think he was practicing coitus interruptus. The goon was up and out the door before I could get up. He helped me up by grabbing me by the throat and squeezing so hard my eyeballs were bulging out. I didn’t put up much of a fight because I become kind of passive before blacking out. I guess he couldn’t wait for me to pass out so he started to slug me with what I swear was a roll of quarters in his hand making my face look like a three day old unrefrigerated sausage pizza.

Lucky for me, a good Samaritan dropped me off at a friend of mine’s medical clinic where I go for emergency medical treatment; unfortunately he’s a veterinarian and I’m always the only one in his waiting room without some kind of pet.

I hate chit chat mainly because I’m not very good at it and don’t have a lot to say. I do use it as an effective cover when I want to throw suspicion away from me. Boy, I hope he didn’t butcher old Sparky’s circumcision. He’s orthodox rotweiller, you know, I said as I held a bloody towel to my face.

What’s the matter, Elvis? Get hit chasing a car? Mmmm. Running a little temperature, too, he said as he felt my nose. Times like those make me wish I could afford medical insurance.

I headed back to my office to mull over my caseload and write my progress reports for my clients, all of which should take about five minutes seeing that I don’t go into a lot of details besides if they are dead or alive. If you get too detailed, the clients have a tendency to ask more questions like, are you making any progress, which can be a real pain in the ass.

My car knew exactly where to turn; the pink painted two story building on Lankershim Blvd. in North Hollywood right across from my spiritual source of comfort: Jimmy’s New York Style Nude Dancing Gentlemen’s Club. I really can’t tell the difference between West Coast nude dancing and New York style nude dancing, and I’m an expert in this field, except that New York style involves a lot of swearing and derogatory remarks about the size of your meat whistle by the dancers.

Peacock Liquor is housed on the first floor of my building and is probably why it is painted pink. My office is on the second floor. The door to my office reads Levine, Shapiro and Cohen, Professional and Discreet since 1951. I think they were lawyers or bank robbers or something. I left their names on the door because it keeps the creditors from finding me and I find most of my clients under rocks so they don’t come around anyway.

I thought about putting my name, Elvis Buyneaux, Private Investigator on the door at the urging of my secretary, Dorian, who said it would be more professional and the mailman would be able to deliver the mail on a regular basis. Why would I want that? I’m trying to avoid half the bill collectors in Los Angeles already.

I might as well put on the door that I’m the only albino private detective in the city, too. If you think that’s funny, I already told you where my office is so stop in so I can kick your ass.

It was tough growing up as an albino. Everybody made fun of me, even my own family. Mom and dad were with the circus; mom was a human cannonball and dad was in animal maintenance, which meant he shoveled shit for a living. He wasn’t much for climbing the corporate ladder and was very content with his station in life.

Someone has to do it, was about as deep a thinker as he got.

If you saw me on the street you wouldn’t take me for an albino, not that I’m ashamed of what I am. In my business, it’s better to attract as little attention as possible. That’s where the famous Swiss scientist, Dr. Von Schlong came in. He has a clinic where he does a lot of experimental procedures, all on the cutting edge of science. He made me look a little more mainstream.

I took a lot of abuse in school because of my looks which helped me form my attitude toward life and people; life is a meaningless struggle and I hate everybody I meet, well, just about everybody I meet. Take for example Dorian, my secretary, executive assistant and baby-sitter.

Dorian originally came to me as a client. She wanted to check out some guy who was pressuring her into marrying him, moving way to fast as far as she was concerned. She has this self confidence problem stemming from the fact she had some type of childhood disease that left her with a crippled leg. Her parents had left her a couple of bucks and the guy was after them. It was real tough to tell her that the only guy who wanted to marry her was a maggot after her money. She took it pretty much in stride and just sat there for awhile. That’s when I had the best idea in my life, which is pretty rare for me. Usually, my ideas border on the incoherent. My secretary had just run off with a South American revolutionary and I was pretty much running the show by myself which why I had everything ass backwards. Organization is not one of my better traits. Hell, I can barely get my liquor order straight.

So I asked Dorian if she would like to be my secretary, seeing that she was in between positions at the time. Actually, I said executive assistant because it sounded better although babysitter would probably be closer to the truth. Even though I really didn’t noticed her limp, out here to most people she looked like she had two heads. I have no use for the beautiful people. I have all the time in the world for handicapped or deformed people because I can relate to them being an albino myself. Just as long as they don’t irritate me.

Thank God she said yes, which turned out to the best thing that has happened to me since I discovered self abuse.

She does have one bad habit that bothers me; she is the all time champ at joining self help groups, like stranded Martians with chronic bloody noses, which is pretty mainstream in Los Angeles. She is also one of those terminally cheerful people who sees good in everyone, including me. I kind of figure that Dorian represents the good side of life and I represent the dark side so we balance each other out. She keeps telling me to cheer up; she just doesn’t understand that I enjoy being miserable.

Across the hall is the Sappho Detective Agency run by my good friend, Sally Sphincter, lesbian sleuth. She is one the best private investigators that I have ever worked with, even saved my butt a few times. Sally specializes in cases involving women getting screwed over by a power hungry husband which is pretty common out here. Sometimes, she helps me out on cases and I help her out on her cases. We also socialize together, that being going to Jimmy’s across the street for happy hour. We have alot of things in common; we both like to look at naked women and drink which gives us a sense of comeraderie.

Sally’s out of the closet, sex wise, but she’s cool about it. Lesbianism isn’t a crusade for her, it’s just who she is. That’s why I like hanging around with her; what you see is what you get. Whenever I see her, two words come to my mind; smoldering brunette. Too bad our relationship can’t be anymore than buddies because she is definitely broken glass material.

There was a note on my desk which I was able to find which surprised me because my desk resembles a loaded dumpster. I’ve found bills on my desk from ten years ago that I never paid. Too late now, not that I would have paid them anyway.

The note was written in gibberish so I knew it was from my operative, Tyrone Stokes. His mother was a black, heroine addicted prostitute. His father was a United States senator. We call him Teddy. He not only speaks with a stutter, he also writes with a stutter which is okay with me. I always try and give the underdog in life a break plus the fact that they work a lot cheaper than most folks because nobody will hire them.

Teddy has about half a dozen names as far as I can tell, probably even more if I asked the police. Brother Mustafa el Aziz when he’s doing his Muslim thing or sometimes Rastafarian Razi X. Livingstone, complete with dreadlocks. He’s been a big help to me on certain cases and probably would be a bigger help if I could figure out what the hell he was saying. I did take to see Dr. Von Schlong once. His recommended treatment was to sever one of Teddy’s vocal chords which he balked at and I don’t blame him.

One thing he definitely is a lady killer which for the life of me, I can’t figure out. Maybe it’s because he’s so likeable and personable. What I really consider to be a turnoff is his religion; some kind of group that doesn’t believe in using paper products, including toilet paper. Combine a nasty bout with intestinal flu and no toilet paper usage, you get a smell that rivals a road kill skunk. Maybe the women think it’s some kind of musk cologne. All I know is that he has a lot more close encounters than I do.

TWO

I had just put the finishing touches on my report on an investigation into patient abuse at an old folks home. It seems some sick, demented bastard has been torturing the elderly at the Golden Acres Retirement Home in the cruelest of ways. This is one of the most gut wrenching cases I had ever worked on. The physical and mental hell this sadist put these people through was unbelievable.

Mr. Stanley Brudish, age 95, got up one morning as best he can, got dressed in his well worn clothes and headed for the dining area. Mr. Brudish needs the use of an aluminum cane to help him get around due to his infirmities. At 95, he should be happy he can get around at all seeing that most of the people his age are taking a dirt nap.

As he started out, he knew something was immediately wrong. Someone had unfastened the bolts in his cane that held it at the proper length and had shortened it by approximately a foot causing him to start forward at an accelerated rate of speed which led him to do a complete somersault leading to what they call a big Brodie. I’ve seen auto accidents that weren’t as gruesome. Mr. Brudish layed on the floor unconscious until one of the floor nurses stopped in to collect his specimen bottle. Cause of death: broken neck.

On August 17th of this year, Mrs. Helga Armbruster had plans on joining her friends for a game of canasta in the recreation area. Mrs. Armbruster, due to her advancing arthritis, needs the use of a wheelchair. After taking an afternoon nap in her room, she began to prepare to meet her friends. Mrs. Armbruster put on a mauve colored house dress, loaded herself into her wheelchair because she doesn’t need assistance all the time, and headed for the door. She never made it. While Mrs. Armbruster was taking her nap, this fiend had snuck into her room, removed the right wheel of her wheelchair and installed a wheel with a smaller diameter, causing her to go in a circle for hours. Mrs. Armbruster did not call out for help because, according to her physician, she suffered from temporary memory lapses, and perhaps she thought she was on an amusement park ride. The cause of death was listed as heart failure due to exhaustion but I knew better. It was cold blooded murder.

How could I stop this fiend? Luckily, I had Teddy working for me undercover as an orderly in the home. The owners wanted to keep this as quiet as possible, not wishing the police to become involved which would invite adverse publicity and hold the home open to litigation due to negligence. They had gotten my name from the law firm of Skidmark, Cornhole and Ream who had expedited a few wills for them to settle the estates of some of their former patients. I myself had gone undercover as a doctor so the two of us could maximize our surveillance and apprehend this maggot as soon as possible.

I relished the role as a doctor. Actually, I relished it too much. All of a sudden, I was every doctor I had seen on television. I only wish that I was undercover in a hospital that specialized in injuries to topless dancers instead of an old folks home. I could spend all day checking for hernias, like I died and went to heaven. I understood the rush that Dr. Von Schlong must experience when he tries to cure a patient, making decisions concerning life and death, agonizing over what size implants a woman should receive.

Before I knew it, I was prescribing medication for the patients.

Nurse Chapel, give Mrs. Windmere lOOmg. of lithium, three times a day.

Are you sure about that, doctor?

The nurse was questioning my medical knowledge. She might discover that I really wasn’t a doctor and blow my cover making the stakeout worthless.

Uh, better make that five times a day, nurse. And better give her a couple of hits of crank to keep her from dozing off. I prayed my street talk hadn’t given me away.

Teddy was fairing better. He had discovered a pair of L.A. County jail overalls in the trash containers out back of the home. This could be a very important clue. Then again, maybe not. You never know until the fat lady sings or so they say. As far as I was concerned, she wasn’t even humming yet. My big question was did they belong to the slime that was terrorizing the patients or did they belong to the Home’s lawyer? Or were they Teddy’s? He had been a guest of the city a few times. Could be trying to milk me for some overtime, throw me off the trail. You’ve got to be suspicious of everyone in this business.

Good thing my shift was over so I could go to my favorite nudie bar and have a few drinks and think this over. Some people like to go to libraries or parks to think things over but I prefer ear splitting music and naked women to help me concentrate on a case.

The next day, I cornered the Home’s administrator, Dr. Milo Fungus in his office. He knew who I really was. He was an obese, shifty eyed middle aged man with a penchant for plaid polyester pants. His breath stunk from cheap mouthwash. I suspected that he had been less than candid with me because my undercover work was not his idea. He had his snoot stuck in a newspaper, shaking his head in disapproval.

This Mimi Louise Goodfoot kidnapping is such a tragedy. Don’t you agree?

Personally, I couldn’t give a shit. He changed the subject.

"So Mr. Buyneaux, what have you discovered since you’ve been