I place my empty tumbler down on the worn leather, know- ing that within moments it will be refilled when I go and refill it. Nothing greases the cogs of the investigative mind better than slamming another Jim Beam and taking a drag on a big cigarette. Some peo- ple call them cigars.
It all started with a guy called Peter. They call him ‘The Piper’. I don’t know why. Some broad told me once but T wasn’t listening — I had a case to solve. It was all a matter of time see, until someone slipped up. Peter Piper picked a peck of pick-led pepper — that much is true, but where did Peter Piper put the peck of pickled pepper, that he, Peter Piper, picked? To rephrase, if Peter Piper picked the peck of plickled pepper — and trust me, that SOB is as guilty as heck of picking a peck of heckled peckers — then where in this rotten town is the piss of peckler, what that scoundrel, Preter Prepler pricklick- led? Picklered. Picked.
I slam another daiquiri. Deli- cious. A saucy dame knocks at the door. She asks me if I'm the detec- tive looking for The Piper. I tell her that for her I can be anything, but yes, I am actually that detective. As it turns out, she is the one who sells seashells. On the sea shore. I guess she means the beach. She was taken in for selling the seashells without a shpermit. Shplicence. Licence. Her sheashells were found to contain a strikingly similar substance to that which Peter Piper picked.
I shlam another Pina Colada. Tropical. She tells me about the in- volvement of a certain Jack and a certain Jill, who were said to go ‘up the hill’ if you know what I mean. She says that they’re the ones to talk to if you want a ‘pail of water’ and they might know something about the case. Easy for her to say, but something about it didn’t sit right. So I stopped listening.
There can only be one con- clusion: Peter Pepper concealed the peckler of picked piper that he sch- tole, in shthe shells of she who shells sea sellsch who had been seen shrick- ling around the she shore. She shaw. See saw? Shalall short. Case closed.
I slam another Sex on the Beach. Revolting. Satisfied with a job well done, I have a chew on a tiny cigarette, which some people call a Nicorette. A woodchuck enters my office with his arm in a sling and I know my next case has begun.