…AND WHEN SHADOWS TALK
Nobody likes Carver Manx, except maybe me and my editor because when she is on our sheets she sells copy, and that’s what the advertisers like. Lots of copy and lots of subscribers.
I guess she has a few thankful clients out there who don’t say anything bad about her though they are reluctant to say much of anything, just in case I hear about it and want an interview. As for the Cops, well that’s another story all together though there’s Sheriff Les Maynfield who gives Manx a little leeway. They even act like friends sometimes.
I hadn’t heard from Calgary’s hot shot Private Eye for a while and the tabloids hadn’t given the guy any sheet for nearly a month so I decided to hitch my way over to his seventh floor office on the corner of 5th Ave and 2nd street west. It was only a three block hike from my diggs in the Opal Office so I walked figuring maybe a little exercise might wear off a belt notch, By the time I got half way Calgary was wrapped up in a thunder storm that came out of no where except maybe straight outa hell which lives east of the city and is full of dust and heat.
I tried to run for it but by the time I got to Manx’s building I was wetter than a drowned rat and looked worse with a drooping sun bleached golf hat and squishy runners.
I rode the elevator up to the seventh floor, glad I was alone because I smelled like wet dust with a little exhaust fumes thrown in for good measure. To top it all off when I went into the big guys office he wasn’t there, just his beautiful blue-eyed, red haired secretary everyone one called Sweets and she was, as sweet as a girl gets, unless you made her mad then you better know how to duck or run fast, real fast.
She was talking on the phone and typing on her computer but still managed to acknowledge my arrival and nodded for me to have a seat on the waiting bench. I replied with a nod but headed straight for the bathroom hoping to find a towel to dry off a little with. My runners squeaked on the linoleum floor. I felt a little dumb but what could I do.
When I came out Sweets was off the phone and quit typing. “That was Carver on the phone. He’s at his apartment. Looks like things there got a little testy. I told him you were here and said he wants you to meet him back at your office.”
“Peachy.” I said and headed for the door. It had stopped raining but now the city was under a blazing sun and the air went so thick and humid you could almost scrape it off your face.
I was dry by the time I got back to my office. Carver Manx was sitting in my chair at my desk looking over the scratched out notes on my ink blotter. But he had two mega coffees and a box of honey buns and a big smile and, “Have a seat buddy. I’m gonna fill you in on some copy for your column.” He invited.
I sneered at him and gave him my, “Get out of my chair”, thumb. He grinned back at me but gave up my throne and parked himself on the corner of my desk.
I dropped into the chair, grabbed a honey bun in one hand and with the other turned on my ancient mini tape recorder.
“Ok Manx. Start flappin your lips. I need a good knock’em down story. It’s been way to quiet around here lately.
“You might be in for more than you bargained for Pal. This city is about to get a big shake up. There’s a new bad guy in town and he’s got no morals at all.” Manx spewed his ominous warning.
Continued next week
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