Death by Haggis

Chapter 1 - A Tuna Sandwich, A Redhead and a Magnum

Sam Barlow, Private Eye, sat in his cluttered office, working tuna salad on Kimmelwick and cold coffee, and watching the light from his tiny window make French impressionist rhomboids on the desk when she walked in, sporting a body like a Japanese sneak attack, a face that could make him crawl all the way to Sandusky wearing nothing more than a rain hat and a two-dollar phony smile, and a trained parrot that said, "Touch her and I claw your eyes out."

"Are you half the man they say you are?" she purred from the doorway. Barlow stopped in mid bite. He had no time for beautiful, intelligent, sensitive dames who desperately needed his help. Ok, ok, he did have time. He just couldn't quite make his mouth work.

"Yeah, sure. No," he mumbled. He pointed to the straight-backed wooden chair in the corner, half covered with old magazines. "Ya wanna sit down or something?" He wiped a dribble of mayo off his mouth with the back of his hand and then held his hand in the air while he looked in vain for something to wipe it with. He could tell she was looking at him. There was no place to hide.

"I ... didn't mean that you're half a man ..." Barlow managed to look up. Her face was starting to flush. God, she's beautiful, he thought. And she's almost as nervous as I am. "I just meant that they say you're a swell detective and I didn't mean that you're short or ...Ohhh." Dabbing at her eyes with her left hand, she swept some magazines off the chair and collapsed into it. "Could you please look the other way? My stocking is driving me crazy."

He couldn't. He tried to move his head but his eyes were glued to her leg. Finally he put his hand over his eyes. "Sorry. Neck problem. Go ahead."

"Ok. You can look now." Barlow put his hand down. He looked at her. She sat there, quietly, not talking, just looking at him, like ... like ... a dog, he thought. Yeah, like how a dog just looks at you like your its best friend and it's happy just to wait there and look at you until you think of something to play...

"Say, do you happen to have any cookies, Mr. Barlow?"

"Cookies? Sure. Hey, just sit, ok? Stay." He got up and walked over to the filing cabinet. He always kept a few snacks there but he never remembered if they were under S for snack or C for cookies. He found an oatmeal cookie that had been filed under F for no particular reason and brought it over to her.

"Thank you. I'm sorry," she said. "I haven't eaten much for days. Please, Mr. Barlow, I need help. I just found out that," and she looked off as though watching a distant thunderstorm approaching on the horizon, "my world is collapsing," she thought to herself. "But I can't tell him that."

Barlow followed her gaze off into the distance but he didn't see anything. "I can't help ya if you don't talk to me," he said. "I know it's hard. I see dames like you all the time." No, I don't, he said to himself. I've never seen a dame like you. "What say me and you go downstairs to the Filthy Barrel and talk over a beer?"

"What say you and I go downstairs," she intoned.

"Yeah, sure. That's what I said."

"No. You said 'me and you'."

"Ok. This conversation is getting crowded. Oh, and by the way, you do have a name, don't ya?"

"Oh, Mr. Barlow. I'm sorry. It's just that I'm so nervous. You can call me ... Jane."

"Jane, eh? Ok, 'Jane'." Barlow grabbed his coat off the back of the chair, grabbed his magnum from the desk and walked over to Jane. "You can call me Sam." He stuck his hand out and she took it in both of hers and gave it a squeeze. Barlow froze. In his mind time rewound itself and he was suddenly on a playground in front of a swing set, waiting and waiting for a turn that never came until Susie Lonergan took his hand and gently led him over to the nearest swing and asked the kid there if he would let this little boy have a turn ...