Some say he was a bad Phil Hartman impersonation come to life. Zap Brannigan in a fedora and a trench coat. A shallow pastiche representing every cliche of your typical Detective. But see, his identity was more influenced by this guy he’d heard about who just so happened to have existed before all that hackneyed stuff became so popular. So you might could say that if not the progenitor, he was close enough, and they were all, in a way, by extension, kind of copying him.
He’s…
Albert Linker, P.I.
in
“Whatever Happened to “Pokey” Otis?”
…
Linkers office was a dimly lit, disordered affair. Half yellow fluorescent bulbs flooded the room with an ugly, scattered light that painted everything a pale rotten lemon color in a decent imitation of Dallas itself. It was raining outside, so he had placed his hat beneath the drops of water collecting in the far corner of the room, and his coat he’d absentmindedly draped over the back of his chair so that the bottom lay crumpled on the ground with its belt caught in a roller.
He was crouched on the floor, pecking at the bottom of his chair with a scrutinizing look on his face that indicated confidence but in reality held only frustration and confusion, when, deep in thought as to how a castor wheel and trench coat fabric could so perfectly fuse together, he heard a knock on the door.
‘Oh well…’ he thought, standing up. ‘That’s a mystery for another day.’
The door swung open before he had the chance to answer it himself to reveal a pretty brunette with a slim waist and apparently even slimmer patience. He noticed she wore a black coat over a beautiful black, grey, and white dress. But then again, he wasn’t so sure. He was colorblind, see.
She immediately squared him up – briefly, penetratively – with no small amount of disdain. She was judging him, quite obviously, but she at least had the grace to do it silently. He must have passed the test, because in a clear voice with a twenty-first century Mid-Atlantic accent she asked:
“Are you Albert Linker, the Private Investigator?”
He nodded toward the plate glass window of his door. Imprinted above the penciled in outline of his calling card, which when at a very specific angle, looked like a slice of pie, was a name and a title that suggested that’s exactly who he was. “That’s what the sign says doesn’t it?”
She quickly glanced around, and while he may have passed her test, it was clear that his office did not.
“My name is Emily. You were recommended to me by Dawson Hughes, the real estate agent, but I think there may have been some mistake. I’m sorry to have bothered you.”
She turned to leave but before she made it through the door he stopped her.
“Wait! Dawson recommended you? He’s ugly but alright. Why don’t you settle down and have a seat?”
She looked at the dingy couch he’d gestured at. “I’m perfectly settled, thank you.”
“Please, I insist. Sit down, have a drink, and while you’re at it why don’t you tell me why you’re here.”
After using a handkerchief to wipe off the dust, she sat down with some reserve. He handed her a glass filled with what looked like mud and gasoline, but if it bothered her she said nothing. Emily took a long drink,set her glass down on the table (only a couple of inches from the nearest coaster, Linker noticed), then stood up and lit a cigarette.
“How did you come to be in this line of work?” She asked. “One wouldn’t take you for a man who could muster up the… intensity…. a job such as yours would require.”
“I guess one wouldn’t, would they.” Linker replied.
“No offense meant, of course”.
“Of course not. I’m a middle aged, 5 foot 9, 175 pound man child with thinning blonde hair on a tiny head holding the squintiest eyes you’ve ever seen over a red nose above thin lips stretched thinner by an over bite and a weak chin. It’s non taken.”
“Well,” she smiled, now having moved close enough to where the smell of perfume that emanated from her wrists mingled with the traces of yesterday’s lunch still left lingering on her breath. “You’re not quite so bad as your description makes you out to be. I suppose my expectations were unrealistic. It’s not your fault, really.”
Linker turned his back to her abruptly and feigned a coughing fit to clear some distance between themselves… “I get it. It’s kind of like how my expectations of how far the smell of your breath would carry were unrealistic. But let me ask you a question: If you were expecting a puppeteer, would you have considered me a ‘hot’ puppeteer?”
Emily, her hand kind of covering her mouth now, ignored his question and asked again, more pointedly, “Why do you do what you do?”
“Well, it’s like this…” he said. “In Sunday school, when it was my turn to read a section of the Bible, I’d read it super fast. For instance, if I was called upon to read, say, Deuteronomy 6 verses 5-7, I’d say…
‘Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your strength. These commandments that I give you today are to be on your hearts. Impress them on your children. Talk about them when you sit at home and when you walk along the road, when you lie down and when you get up.’
One day the Sunday School Teacher asked me why I always read so fast. And though it wasn’t his business, the answer I gave him then is the same as I give you now… ‘Cus I’ve got something to prove.”
She’d been pacing back and forth while taking quick, nervous puffs off her cigarette, and it was hard for Albert to tell where her ADD ended and her anxiety began.
“I’ve never heard a story that had so much detail in all the wrong parts. I meant, tell me about yourself, Mr. Private Investigator.”
“Right… Well, where to start? I grew up in a trailer park in Little Rock. Worked my way up in school (through various nefarious means) to the 12th grade. Graduated college too, with a masters in business. The only problem was and still is, I’m none too good at business… I have a penchant for giving stuff away. Incidentally, by the way, please…take my trench coat. Go ahead and keep it.”
“No, thank you.”
“But you see what I mean?”
“Yes, I see. And it’s quite understandable how that would handicap your progression in such a career.”
“Yeah, so anyway, my fee is $10,000 a day for the first five days, then will compound in value for each day following that, not to exceed one million dollars. If I don’t solve the case, doesn’t matter. I keep the money. If I don’t follow up even somewhat regularly, doesn’t matter. I keep the money. If I disappear and you never hear from me again except about the money, doesn’t matter. I keep the money.
We got a deal, babe?”
Emily put her cigarette out and headed towards the door again. “No… No! Of course we don’t. You really are an extraordinarily bad businessman, Linker. Who in their right mind would agree to that? You don’t even know why I’m here yet.”
“I was just checking. How about a carton of cigarettes?”
“Well see, that hardly seems like…”
“Of Benson and Hedges.”
“Oh dear!” She said, almost fainting.
Linker reached into a drawer in his desk that you would have sworn wasn’t there moments before. He pulled a bottle out and took a swig, a look of disgust on his face.
Emily couldn’t tell if it was from the whiskey or her reaction.
“Is something wrong?” she asked.
“Yeah,” he said, wiping off the remainder of the cheap whiskey that was still kind of stuck in that weird, gross ring of nastiness around mouths. “Swooning’s a pet peeve.”
“And you see a lot of it, do you?”
“I’ve seen enough. Look, why don’t we get to it. What’s going on in your pretty little life that’s brought you to this ugly side of town?”
She began to speak.
“My brother, Pokey, is missing. And though not extraordinary in and of itself, the timing…”
A lot.
He tried to keep up but eventually his curiosity about the castor wheel and the fabric began to gnaw at him, so he slowly made his way to the floor again while she kept on talking. For a moment he completely forgot about her, till she shouted abruptly:
“Linker! I feel as if you’re not listening to me! Are you hearing anything I say?”
He stood up slowly, reluctantly. “Oh, I’m hearing every word you say. But when it comes to make believe… stories… like the one you’re telling now… I’m not really big on listening. I discontinued my Audible account for that very reason. I’m more of a reader, see. So, if you could, whatever ‘story’ you’re trying to tell, just text it to me babe. We’ll get it figured out.”
submitted by /u/Pidney
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