Insert Chassis Albuquerque: The Butterfly Effect - Chapter 4: "Just People"

5 July 2017

The Butterfly Effect - Chapter 4: "Just People"

The only other event of significance was, back at the roulette table, Wolffe watched as the butler opened the front door to a new guest. With any luck, she was one of those New Age girls with a free spirit - you know, meaning she really slept around…? Wolffe could tell, her mind was like the inside of a dumpster, dirty and quite unsanitary; there was a smell.
Wolffe thought he’d better investigate this further - for one thing, she also had on a dress you could see clear through and the funny thing about that was she’d no panties on, either. So Wolffe, who usually liked to take his time about things and getting to know people before starting offend them, went over while all the men (and probably a couple of the women) were leering and still thinking about all that and said: "Wolffe Gunstormer, private investigator.”
“How can I help you, Mr Gunstormer? You investigating me…?” the woman said.
“I sure am and what I’d like to know is the whereabouts of your panties…!" and she – regarding him - said: "Wouldn't you like to know, Mr Wolffe…!”
“Yeah, I really would, lady. Let's go back to my place and see if we can find them - you any good at art? Maybe you can draw me a diagram."
It was a classic seduction, classic, but despite her incredibly low cut, completely diaphanous dress she didn't like to be touched.
“I don’t think so, that would be very irresponsible, don’t you think, Detective?” she said, removing his hand from her hip.
“You know what’s irresponsible, lady? That goddamn skirt.”
“So long, Detective,” the woman said, walking away.
“Lady, I didn’t get your name…?” Wolffe called.
“You’re a detective, figure it out,” she said and was gone; another butterfly appeared and took off after the woman.
The apartment was certainly full of other interesting personalities.
Not as attractive as the mysterious women.
Or without any panties.
A desperate egomaniac with no thought for other people wandered up to Wolffe.
“That’s a nice hat. You seen the baby? No? Well, I’m a writer, self-published. You write? I write, just got my new book out - here it is. See the blurb, the fantastic reviews…?” the man said. Clearly, having written a novel and being unable to find a traditional publisher, it had gone to his head in a bad way. He had a rucksack full of his books.
“I feel I should add: None of these critical people are my wife or in any way emotionally related to me. Yours for $10 - it’s a good read,”
“No thanks, pal. Reading is such a very personal thing and particular readers like particular writers. Not all particular readers like the same particular writers,” Wolffe said, attempting brush the guy off.
“And some readers are just communist. Say, you not a communist, are you? My book will help you address that, in a fictional way - $10, what you think?”
He held the book up for Wolffe to see. Wolffe had to take a step back; maybe he just wasn’t drunk enough.
Wolffe said: “Jesus! Who did the cover - a blind child?”
“Covers are expensive. Besides, it’s the story that counts, right?”
Wolffe wasn’t so sure.
Wolffe read the blurb, the writer claimed to be “…quite religious about writing and always wrote facing south, usually toward Spain.”
Or some other place he couldn’t ever quite reach.
“Give you a dollar to fuck off,” Wolffe said.
“A dollar? Listen, a lot of blood, sweat and tears went into this book…!”
“That’s what writing is, blood, sweat and tears,” Wolffe said.
“This book’s going to be a best seller!” the man cried.
“I’ll give you a dollar to get lost,” Wolffe said, flicking his coat to one side so the guy could see the Colt Python in its holster. “Been a while since she killed anyone and she don’t read too well. Got a complex about it,” Wolffe said.
“Yeah…? Make it five dollars - this book I wrote is worth getting killed over.”
These writers were a tough bunch of negotiators. In the end Wolffe parted without resorting to violence and at least $3 to get rid of the guy…