The Adventures of Nick Mane, Private Detective: The Midas Touch

By N. A. Dalbec

In this first in a series of parodies of the genre, Nick Mane is hired to find the elusive daughter of a wealthy industrialist. His search takes him to the Bahamas, Europe, and Central America.

• Language: English
• Publisher: N. A. Dalbec
• Release date: Mar 20, 2023
• ISBN: 9780973071474

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The Adventures of Nick Mane, Private Detective

The Midas Touch

Second Edition

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior written permission of the author.

Making copies of any part of this book for any purpose is not permitted.

For information, contact N. A. Dalbec, Author, Suite 707, 555 Jervis Street, Vancouver, BC,

Canada,V6E 4N1

ISBN: 978-0-9730714-7-4, issued by the National Library of Canada

All characters and situations in this book are fictitious.

Please Note:

Some readers may find instances of language to be coarse.

CHAPTER ONE

My name is Mane, Nick Mane. I'm a private detective. Oh I know, I know, you've heard this line a thousand times, but that only stands to reason; there have been thousands of detectives, and there are still a whole bunch of us around.

I've been in the business for a long time, probably longer than I like to admit. I've met all kinds of people: nice people with lots of money and not too many problems, not so nice people with lots of money who created lots of problems, nice people with no money and lots of problems, mostly money problems, not so nice people with no money at all. Isn't life democratic?

You could say I've done all right for myself. I've got a thriving business, a good reputation for getting results, a nice place on the beach, no dogs, no cats, no wife, and a nice sports car. I like sports cars, and I like houses on the beach. Both let me get away from people when I've had enough, if you know what I mean. I've been lucky, considering the business I'm in. There have been a few scrapes and bruises along the way, and I do have a plate in my head. Don't get the wrong idea. It's not one of those metal plates they insert in your head when a piece has been blown off. It's actually a real porcelain plate. Actually, it's not the whole plate. My head isn't that big. It's just part of a porcelain plate. Too bad, because it was quite an expensive plate when it was all in one piece. The doctor hasn't figured out how to get it out of my skull, that's all. The piece that would allow me to put the plate back together is deeply embedded, you see, and the skin has grown over. If you look very carefully, on a sunny day, or in bright office light, you can see the reflection. It doesn't bother me at all, and I've saved the rest of the plate in the event that they can remove the piece that's lodged in my head without causing permanent damage.

You must be wondering how on earth I ended up with a piece of porcelain plate in my head? I was entertaining some guests at a dinner party. My juggling act went awry when I threw one of the plates too high. It hit a 20-foot ceiling, and shattered. As I looked up in disappointment, a jagged piece was pulled back to earth, its path interrupted by my cocked head. So now you know, but I digress.

There were lots of reasons to have a drink on this particular morning. I'd just returned from a trip to Jamaica, mostly to forget about my last assignment, and was still feeling the curse of the night before. My mouth was dry, and my eyes gleamed like little rubies. A nice tall Caesar would probably snap things back together. I threw in a bit of orange juice. After all, it was still morning. The first one went down all right, so I mixed up another one, and walked to the sun deck to look at the ocean. I love looking at the ocean. I also love looking at the creatures on the beach. It was a beautiful morning. The sun was slowly rising above the ocean into a clear blue sky. The waves rolled in rhythmically onto the white sands of the beach, and I could see a couple of cigarette boats bouncing on the horizon. I thought to myself: Wouldn’t it be great to get laid?

My thoughts were suddenly interrupted by the ringing of the telephone. Who the hell is calling me at this time of day? I slowly made my way to the telephone, and picked up the receiver.

Nick, it's Rhonda.

Rhonda, what the hell are you calling me for at this time of day?

I don't know why I put up with this sort of stuff, Nick. You could at least ask me how I am. You know I wouldn't call you unless it was a matter of importance.

Rhonda, Rhonda, Rhonda. What's up?

Aren't you going to ask me how I am?

Sure, sure, how the hell are you?

I can tell it's a matter of great importance to you.

Rhonda, you're my secretary for Chrisake, not my wife. Do you have to put me through this shit every time? I pay you more than I pay myself. So how are you and what the hell do you want?

How was Jamaica? Did you behave? Did you save some for me, or did you pick up some disease while you were over there?

You know I save it all for you Rhonda, now what's up?

A man called yesterday. He said it was urgent, very urgent. He sounded rather distinguished, desperate, and mentioned that if you could help him out, he would be most generous in his gratitude.

Did he mention any specifics?

No, but he did plead with me to get in touch with you in Jamaica. I told him that was impossible.

You did well Rhonda. Have you got his number?

He said that he preferred to call you. I gave him your number, and told him that you could be reached this afternoon. Is that all right?

That's good Rhonda, I'll have time to do a few things around here. What's his name?

He said his name was Stoggs, Mr. Pavlo Stoggs.

Stoggs. Good stuff Rhonda. I'll call you later.

I put down the receiver, and I picked up my drink. It felt better than the telephone in my hand, and best of all, it didn't talk back. The thought of a new case piqued my curiosity. Pavlo Stoggs...who was this fellow? What exactly was his problem? How was his credit rating? What kind of family name was Stoggs, and how did someone live with that? The Caesar was working. My natural curiosity was on-line. It helps to be curious in my profession. Then I started thinking about Rhonda. She was more fun to think about. Although she could sometimes drive me crazy, she was a good woman. She had a great mind, and a great body. I had no trouble appreciating both. I needed her mind because it worked well. Rhonda knew how to handle people, and she knew how to handle the business end of things. I could have taken advantage of her, because she was crazy about me, but I didn't. I paid her extremely well, better than any of my competitors, or should I say, colleagues, would pay their assistants. I did however let her take advantage of me, whenever she wanted to. How could I resist. She was tall and slender, carrying a frame that was nearly six feet in height. She had an immaculate complexion, one that could take the sun well. Her hair was dark, long and wavy, and was silk to the touch. She had blue eyes, clear blue eyes surrounded by naturally long lashes that could caress your face, if she got close enough to you. Her teeth were virgin pearls that no dentist had ever violated. They shone through a pair of pouty lips that were full, and quite frankly, luscious. Her face was full of character, with high cheek bones, and a chin that was neither jutting, nor weak. When she'd smile, dimples would form just at the outer edge of her lips. What a face! And that body. What a body. It was a body by Fisher. It just wouldn't quit. You needed an elevator to get up those long. slender, muscular legs. And you needed a racing driver's license to get around the curves that followed on up beyond those great legs. She had a nice, flat tummy, and breasts that were made to measure. Her arms were smooth, and hung elegantly from her shoulders, and her hands were those of a pianist. Strong long fingers, yet delicate and feminine to a tee. Rhonda Myle was a gorgeous woman. Hell, even her feet looked good.

I met Rhonda through an escort agency. The agency had a rather pretentious name. It was called Lust Chance. Now I know what you're thinking, but it's not at all like that. You see, I was invited to a dinner party some time back, and the hosts insisted that those invited be escorted, so as to make the dinner table arrangement look better, and so as to make no one feel left out. I happened to be between girlfriends at the time, and had no desire to renew any old acquaintances. I liked dinner parties though, mostly because I didn't have to do any cooking, or cleaning up. These things were usually catered affairs, the food was usually pretty good, and nobody had to clean up. I was usually a bit of a novelty at these social gatherings, because most of the guests were in professions other than mine. So rather than go through my black book, I decided to go through the big yellow book, the one they give you with your phone subscription. Leafing through the pages, I discovered that there were more escort agencies than there were doctors and lawyers. As a matter of fact, there were more escort agencies than anything else in the book. I thought to myself that there must be a lot of dinner parties out there that require guests to have an escort. I also thought that putting the Yellow Pages in a time capsule would make quite a social statement some time down the road, say, three hundred years or so.

I searched through the Yellow Pages, and at one point, decided that if I was going to put myself through this ordeal, I might as well make the best of a bad thing, and call a few of the cheesiest looking places that I could find. Thus, Lust Chance Escort Agency, whose motto was: Lust, but not leased. I'm not quite sure what that meant, but I'm sure with the right drugs I could figure it out. What was more important was to find an escort for this damned dinner party. I called Lust Chance. To my very pleasant surprise, the voice at the other end of the line was not a recording, one that would prompt me to press keys on my telephone in order to pursue a conversation. No, it was a real-live voice, and a very nice one at that. The voice asked me what it could do for me. I told the voice that I was in need of an escort. The voice casually asked me if the escort I wished was to be male or female. I cleared my throat, and calmly asked if it would be possible to have a female escort. The voice said yes, and asked me if I'd used Lust Chance's services in the past. I said no. The voice then asked me if I would like to have a catalogue sent to me for a nominal charge, and if I wanted the charge posted against any major credit card that I might have in my possession. I answered that I was in a bit of a rush, and that I didn't have time to peruse a catalogue in order to make my selection. The voice then suggested that I pop by and did I know where the agency was located. I looked at the address in the ad, recognized the location, and asked the voice if the agency was still at the address listed in the Yellow Pages. The voice said yes.

A short while later I found myself in the