Daniel Hatadi climbed the last flight of stairs and paused at the office door. He'd heard that this guy was supposed to be shit hot as a PI, but the unprepossessing building, the dingy stairway, the battered door that looked as though it had been kicked by a herd of angry buffalo, and the all pervading aroma of cheap whisky, cheap cigars and even cheaper women made him wonder if his source had been mistaken.



He turned the handle and entered the office. A bleary-eyed tomcat sat behind the desk, his back paws resting on the scratched varnish, one front paw holding a glass of cherry brandy, and the other a mean looking snub-nose.



"What's wrong with your nose?" Daniel asked, more to break the silence than out of genuine concern.



The tom took his paw away from his nose and pulled a revolver from the drawer in front of him. He squinted at Daniel through the haze of foul-smelling smoke originating from the fat cigar in the ashtray.



"Close your head, ya big palooka, and grab a little air or I'll fill ya so full of holes you could double as a tea bag. Now, open your yap and spit it out or take the heel and toe."



Daniel looked puzzled. "You know, you really need to be a TAD clearer to succeed in business. If I understand you correctly you've just told me to shut up and start talking or you'll shoot me and I should leave. What is it you want me to do exactly?"



The tomcat narrowed his eyes and there was a click as he released the safety on the gun.



"Errrr.....anyway, are you the Private Detective?"



The cat used the barrel of the gun to tip the fedora further back on his head. "What does it say on the door, boob?"



Daniel obediently turned to the door and read the chipped black paint on the opaque glass:
"'Sam Spayed
Gumpaw for hire
No Crime solved'



Not exactly a ringing endorsement is it Mr Spayed?"



"OK, so the 'Un' wore off. But tell me, is there anyone else in this office wearing a fedora and a trenchcoat and looking as thought they're at home in this dump? No? Then I guess I'm the Private Detective. And what are you? Is there some village missing its idiot somewhere?"



"Actually, I'm a writer."



Sam Spayed stared at him. "Yeah, you and several hundred other mugs. Anyways, whaddaya want, wise guy?"



"I need your help. I run this site called Crimespace. Good place, good people. But some jerk has stolen the Help pages. I need your help to track them down. I keep getting asked ridiculous questions about BSP and I'm slowly losing my sanity.



"Yeah? You might wanna hire someone who gives a shit. And if you think I'm some patsy who'll do this job on the cheap just because you're some hotshot writer, then you can take a powder right now. It'll cost ya a century. Plus expenses."



"But where's your spirit of human kindness?"



"Whaddaya think the expenses are for? This here cherry brandy don't come cheap ya know."



"Well, I thought that in view of the circumstances and everything, you might find my pages on the cheap. For a small donation to your favourite charity perhaps. Say...$5?"



"A fin? Shee-it, that won't keep the little ladies at Miss Tabby's Kitten Joint in catnip for a day."



"Oh, how lovely," said Daniel, seeing a spot of humanity, or, rather, cat-ity in Spayed after all, "Is Miss Tabby's a twilight home for bewildered cats?"



Sam looked at him askance, "No. It's a purr-house, a fur-dello. Where us toms go when we want a night on the tiles. Jeez, you're thick. Anyway, I don't get out of bed for less than $100, so pay up or I'll give ya the bum's rush. I have my associates to pay, you know. For $100 you not only get me but the combined sleuthing talents of my crew."



Sam picked up the phone and dialled a number. "Marple, get the goons over to my office right away," he made a face and took the receiver away from his ear as a sound like a demonic budgie shrilled through the room vibrating the cigar smoke so that it danced a manic tango.



"Jeez...alright already...it's just a turn of phrase...OK, just bring the mugs..." the budgie noise increased to warp factor three. "OK, OK, just calm your jets...get the punks over here pronto...look, let's not argue about semantics right now, just you and the rest of the noodles get over here right away."



Sam slammed the receiver down and rubbed his ear. "Jeez, that Marple's a fiery dish when she's all riled up. She's a red hot tomato wth the vocabulary of a drunken sailor. What a dame." He shook his head admiringly. "Anyhow, I think I know who these page stealing grifters are. There's a new team of hatchetmen in town and they're not pretty." Sam paled under his fur and took a big swig of cherry brandy, his paw shaking. "They're led by a gunsel they call 'The Chihuahua'. He's one mean son of a bitch."



"Why do they call him The Chihuahua?" asked Daniel. "Is it because he's small, fiery, snappy, and hot blooded?"



Sam looked puzzled. "No. It's because he's a chihuahua of course. Good grief. Are you SURE you're a writer? Anyway, his hired muscles are a doberman and a pit bull and they're behind every damn racket in town it seems. They've been cocking a snook at the cops and cocking a leg at every lamp-post since they hit town."



Suddenly, Sam's eyes widened as he looked over Daniel's shoulder. Daniel spun round. "Oh, I say Sam," he said. "Look it's a chihuahua, a doberman and a pitbull. Are they...?"



"If I were you Mr Hatadi" said the chihuahua, sounding remarkably like Peter Lorre, "I'd shut my yap and sit down before my associates here plug you so full of holes they could sell you in Switzerland as a new variety of cheese."



"Actually, Sam's already done the 'so full of holes' line..." began Daniel.



"I said 'shut up' Mr Hatadi. I'll make the jokes round here if you don't mind. And, quite frankly, I don't like your puss."



"Ahem..." said Sam, affronted.



"Oh, begging your pardon Spayed. I was talking about Mr Hatadi's face. Now, let's all sit down and discuss the return of this Help page like men...errrrr...dogs....errrr...whatever species we happen to be, shall we."

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Comment by Yvonne Klein on April 15, 2007 at 12:50pm
Clara is very gratified that someone has written a story she can relate to. Most of the cats in stories she's come across have been real pussies, but that Sam, he's a bit of rough - right up her alley.
Comment by Daniel Hatadi on April 15, 2007 at 11:40am
I think Sam is in cahoots with my cat. He's been pissing all over the place lately. Must be hanging out with some bad, bad toms.

Loved the story, Donna. You may now stay on Crimespace. :)
Comment by Donna Moore on April 15, 2007 at 6:03am
Thanks Patricia - I just hope Daniel doesn't chuck me off Crimespace for taking his name in vain!

Lynne - what is it they say in the front of books..."Any resemblance to any person etc..."
Comment by LC Fraser on April 15, 2007 at 3:31am
You never fail to amaze me Donna. Is there anything you cannot turn into a story? Now I am wondering if I should go through all the member pages to identify the various characters?
Comment by Patricia Harrington on April 15, 2007 at 2:51am
I gotta telll you, Donna, this was howling-out-loud and tittering good stuff. Boy, if those blinking help pages don't show up by the time, word gets out from Sam Spayed and Miss Marple's underlings, well all I can say is, "Pity poor Daniel Hadati!" His body parts will be scattered over several counties.

Excellent and you should submit it, too!

Yours in mystery,

Pat Harrington

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