The cops knew Fat Louie was fencing diamonds, but they could never figure out how he was moving the merchandise.
One day, this dame walks into the joint. She’s dressed to the nines and has this little pooch with her. She definitely looked out of place in a dive like this.
I noticed little poochie was particularly interested in one of the sandwiches.
I know it sounds crazy, but with the way this dame dressed, I figured maybe this little mutt knew what diamonds smell like…
Welcome to the Indies Unlimited Flash Fiction Challenge. In 250 words or less, write a story incorporating the elements in the picture and the written prompt above. Do not include the prompt in your entry. The 250 word limit will be strictly enforced.
Please keep language and subject matter to a PG-13 level.
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I could smell the story just like her little handbag dog could smell the lunchmeat and the brats.
“Louie!” says the dame. “Where’s my Paisley’s bratwurst? She’s dying for a bratwurst, can’t you see it in her little eyes?”
“Yeah, just a sec, Daniella,” Louie says, his eyes sparkling exactly like those diamonds the cops were looking for. “Lemme get her a hot one out of the back.”
“Well make it quick, wouldya? My driver’s double-parked and I don’t want Cyril bitching about more tickets, the cheap bastard.”
I downed my coffee, threw a couple bits on the counter, grabbed my porkpie and went outside. Sure enough, a big limo idled there earning hate from other cars. I hailed a cab and told the driver to pull up behind Daniella’s chauffer.
Ten blocks later, the limo stops at a nice little park, so I do too – hanging back, casually watching this glitzy dame walk her dog so it can poop out yesterday’s brat. Am I surprised she doesn’t bag Paisley’s crap? No. Am I surprised a shifty-looking guy dashes over and bags it for her, soon as she’s back in her car? Nope. Is he watching to see me tail him back to a juke joint? Also nix.
So … write the story up for my editor? Skulk around the park tomorrow trying to beat Mister Shifty to the poop? Find out what Cyril’s willing to pay to keep his wife’s name out of it? So many ways to go!
That big wiseguy over there thinks I’m just a cute dog. They all do. What they don’t know is – I’m Mr. Pish, Doggie Detective. And the lady dressed to the nines holding my leash? She’s my trusty assistant.
While she’s distracting the clientele, I’m taking a sniff around to see where these diamonds are. I’ve been hired by their rightful owner to recover them.
As my assistant lets the leash out little by little, I check each sandwich with my super sniffer to see if I smell anything unnatural. This particular one doesn’t seem right. I tug on the leash a few times, sending a Morse code message that she needs to somehow swap her order with this one. I’ll provide the diversion.
We make eye contact, and I know she’s ready. I make a beeline in the opposite direction and start barking like crazy. Everyone turns to see what the big deal is. I’m barking so hard my feet are coming up off the ground.
My assistant kneels down beside me, jamming the wrapped sandwich into her purse. “What’s wrong, pookie bear?” she asks. I hate it when she calls me that.
“I think he needs to go for a walk, if you know what I mean,” she says, and we head off to the car. Back at the office, we dissect the sandwich and I check the steak with my pooch palate. It tastes okay. Then we discover the diamonds pressed into the crease of the sub’s roll. Another case: solved.
POOP LOOT (250 words)
I’ve been sitting on DeBeers Diner for a month now. I did my research. I learned Greasy Mel, the owner, did time with Fatty when they were still snatching purses from the blue hairs in the park.
Finally, bingo. This broad walks in looking like she’s goin’ to a dinner at the White House.
Alice, the waitress, takes off her granny glasses and says something like, “Hey Miss, no dogs allowed.”
Greasy Mel leans under the heat lamps and yells from the kitchen something like, “it’s ok Alice, Stella’s a friend of mine,” which makes everyone in the joint look up and wonder if they heard that right. Mel says, “Here, give these old sandwiches to the dog or I’ll just toss ‘em.”
Bingo, I says to myself. The damn pooch is scarfin’ down the goods! What a great scheme, I says to myself. I sip my coffee and bide my time. The broad eats a tuna salad. Finally they leave.
I wait ‘til she gets around the corner and I grab the pooch and knock her to the ground. At home I feed the mutt everything I can find. I can wait. If the ice is in there, I’m gettin’ it.
……………………………………………
Stella makes it to her apartment. Skinned knees, that’s all. She grabs a colander from the kitchen drawer and rubber gloves from under the sink. Stella heads to the bathroom but stops at the linen closet for a can of Febreeze.
Time to get neighborly.
“ Nice dog you got, lady. Sure likes that sandwich.”
“ Pardon, English not good. Repeat please.”
My eyes lifted from the bowwow to her classy face. A foreign dame! If I played my cards right I could have her whispering my name in the dark.
“ Your dog,” I pointed, keeping my eyes on her, “ he’s cute.”
“ Not cute. His name Bruno.”
She paid the jockey behind the counter. He passed her a brown paper bag, and winked. She smiled.
Diamonds or sandwiches? My gut twitched.
“ No. I don’t mean his name’s Cute. I mean he looks like a sweetie.”
“ Not sweetie. He Bruno. Pardon, I go.”
She was slipping away.
“ Hey darlin’, slow down.” I took her arm.
Bad move.
Her cute, sweet, innocent, cuddly tail-wagger transmogrified into Bruno, the midget werewolf.
Yaaap.
Flying fluff-ball vice clamped my crotch.
Tearing teeth.
Tugging. Growling.
Shaking his head, and part of me.
Ahhh.
Torture
Tears.
Drop to my knees.
Need to vomit.
“Heel, Bruno.” A meaty hand squeezed my shoulder. I glimpsed a pert foreign wiggle, and a demon terrier tail jiggle disappearing down the street.
“You work for Mad Irish Murphy?” The hand hauled me to my feet. I faced Fat Louie. “Message for your boss.” Finger stabbing. “Next time Bruno will finish the job.” Poke. “Got it?” Poke. Push.
I lurched away.
Forget about diamonds, I’d nearly lost the crown jewels. That Bruno was a beast.
I lowered my plaster dusted, laborer body onto the red metal table and leaned over my chili beef and cheese sub. Another lunch hour watching Fat Louie and his food trailer’s sizzling grill. My every day routine. Louie even called me by the name I gave him, Sam. Once I find his diamonds, I’d walk away my dumpy job and this potholed concession stand.
Then a scarlet silk dress glided to the counter. Passing bling in a busy crowd flashed like Louie. My spine tingled. Dames like her don’t eat greasy beef!
Louie handed her change and a dog bone, which disappeared into her black patent clutch, and then two sandwiches. She floated to a table three feet away. Her wiry, bit-of-coal-nosed pooch eyed one of the meals.
Feed the diamonds to the mutt and retrieve them later? I shuddered with images of diamond-filled capsules.
On impulse, I reached for the meal she settled before the tail-wagger. Six inches from the bun, my hand ignited from a piercing chomp. I jerked my bleeding thumb into a napkin. “Don’t mess with baby’s lunch.” As her eyes lingered over me, a gentle half smile crossed her face.
After three gulps, the terrier licked the paper wrapper clean. Even I smelled diamonds. Then, I remembered the dog bone saved for later.
I slid to her table and by accident became lost in her eyes. During those four magical minutes, her eyes transformed to the same shade of brown as mine. And sparkled.
“Hey, ‘old it there lady.” I flashed my badge. “Detective Sparks. I need to commandeer dem sammiches.” One of the boys in blue snatched the plate away from her and handed it to me.
I figured it wouldn’t be a pretty option but I took it anyway and thrust my finger deep into the murky depths of BBQ. Sure enough, a couple gleaming stones caught the light when I pulled my finger away. “We got ‘em.” I said as the boys jumped to action.
Fat Louie knew he been made and he hightailed it out the backdoor. The boys gave chase and caught him in the alley. I stuck with the dame; no way I could let her and her poochie out of my sight. “Why’d you do it sister?”
She hit me with that pout, entranced by her deep red of her lips there was little I could do. “I don’t know what you mean officer,” she said. “I only wanted a treat for my poor, little, puppy…”
“Your puppy likes his treats cold,” I said. “Ice cold?” I knew the hard line of my interrogation was slipping away. “Who you working for?”
I never saw it coming when she made her move. She aimed the derringer in her free hand right at my chest. The corners of her mouth turned up a little as she backed toward the door. “Maybe next time Mr. Sparks.” She slipped out the door and turned away from the alley.
This was my third time in the last hour I had gone over the description by the tipster.
“Wearing a hat, a little over 6 inches, has facial scar….just then I noticed the damsel who appeared to be in distress. A damsel in every sense of the word; rubies, diamonds and a statement fur scarf at the tail end of what had been a noticeably hot spring seemed a little bit over the top or more like a out of place. Her fascinator like cocktail hat added just the right touch of 1950’s glamour.
I followed her eyes as she tilted her head towards the floor. “Louie stop that, behave or no treats for you today” Her exasperation was palpable.
All attempts to control her barker from sniffing the sandwiches on counter while she placed her order were to no avail. Tugging at its collar did not seem to deter Louie who seemed to double efforts as it stretched its neck even closer to the overloaded hot dogs dripping with sauce.
The black mole on the upper left corner of her lip moving along as she barked orders to the dog.
The quickening in my spirit was unsettling as a burly young man darted past me at lightning speed through the double swinging salon doors through with a big exit sign in Black letters at the other end of the bodega.
Right then it was clear, I had it all wrong from the beginning; surveilling their decoy.