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"By gad, sir, you are a character."
(From: 'The Maltese Falcon'.)
-x0x-
"The moon hung in the sky like an empty cereal bowl. Spencer was hungry. Hungry for Fruity Puffs."
"All we have left is a stale pack of Oreos, Shawn. And stop narrating the stakeout. You sound ridiculous."
Shawn lowered his camera and grinned at his friend. "Spencer's partner, Bulldog Burton, had dressed for the occasion. He was wearing his grumpy face..."
"I'm not grumpy. I'm just bored. I hate these 'cheating husband' cases."
"'Bread and butter', Gus. Call them 'bread and butter' cases. Mmm," Shawn said dreamily, closing his eyes. "Forget Fruity Puffs. Now I want toast."
"It's a quarter to three in the morning!"
"But our office is only five minutes away. You could be there and back in a flash. Bread in - whoosh - toast out. C'mon, Gus..." Shawn turned up the heat on his charm offensive. "Pretty please. You know you want to. I'll even let you eat the last of my peanut butter."
"That's my peanut butter. And you finished it yesterday, when we were playing 'Weird Combinations III: Revenge of the Hot Sauce - remember?" Gus folded his arms and clamped his lips together. Clearly, from his point of view, the matter was closed.
For a moment or two, there was silence in the car. But Shawn could never stay quiet for long.
"Spencer's stomach rumbled like a hungry hippo," he said moodily. "Bulldog's heart was rock hard - unlike the Oreos, by the way, which I found and ate twenty minutes ago when you were 'resting your eyes'." He pulled a face and ran his tongue around his mouth. "Not good. You were telling the truth, buddy. They're thtill thtuck to my teeth..."
"Serves you right."
"Ouch! That hurts." Shawn clutched at his heart (he hoped) with all the exaggerated passion of a silent movie star. "I've been stabbed with the pointy end of your callous indifference." Crestfallen, he dropped the Philip Marlowe impression altogether and resorted to his normal voice. "You're really not enjoying this?"
"What part of a quarter to three do you not understand, Shawn? I need my bed. I need my sleep. Our guy's having a sweet, sweet time with his lady friend and you're out here, jonesing for breakfast food. It's like a nightmare. In fact, I almost wish it was. That way, I could wake myself up, turn over and start again."
Shawn leaned across and opened the passenger door. "Then you've made your point quite nicely."
"What?"
"I'm letting you go, buddy. Fly; be free. I'll see you in the morning, at twelve-oh-five, for waffles."
"Five past twelve isn't... Why am I arguing?" Gus leapt out of the car with alacrity. It was the most enthusiasm he had shown all night. "Enjoy the rest of your stakeout."
"Enjoy your betrayal." Shawn winked at him to show that there were no hard feelings. "I only hope it tastes like peanut butter, sauerkraut and salsa."
"I told you that combo wouldn't work, Shawn."
"And I would love to disagree - but my stomach won't let me," Shawn admitted, once his friend was safely out of earshot.
-x0x-
"The streets were quiet. Too quiet. Spencer could hear a cat licking itself two blocks away, as he waited for the Mullet and his Dame to quit their risky business. The business of love in the night-time..."
Somehow, narrating the stakeout wasn't the same without Gus and his pained expression. Still, Shawn persisted, if only to keep himself awake. At five o'clock, a light went on at last in lucky Number Seven and he fumbled for his camera with stiff fingers that protested. When did it get so cold?
Sliding out of the Echo, he closed the door quietly. One of his legs was half-asleep. He stamped it on the ground and staggered across the car park, hoping to find a better vantage point for his incriminating photographs of the couple as they left. "Spencer rolled like a drunken sailor on a three day pass. He was glad that Bulldog Burton couldn't see him."
Footsteps bounced around the shabby courtyard, and they didn't belong to Shawn. A shadowy figure approached, backlit in a creepy fashion by the neon sign. ('U-Sleep. Your Dreams Are Our Business.') His film noir fantasy was coming to life in front of him, and Shawn was suitably unnerved. Diving behind a dumpster, he clapped a hand over his mouth to keep from squealing.
"Spencer?" said a woman's voice. "Is that you?"
"The lady was sharp, like a pineapple," Shawn muttered.
"Shawn Spencer?"
"Here," he said, poking his head out and waving. "Hey, Valerie. What are you doing...?"
"I woke up and Bill was gone. So I had a little drinky-drink to steady my nerves. Then I called your friend Guster." Valerie giggled. "He's not an early morning person, is he? First he got mad. Then he told me to come and find you..." She tottered towards him on spiky, improbable heels. He could smell the alcohol on her breath from yards away; peppermint Schnapps, if he wasn't mistaken.
"Um... Valerie? This is a really, really bad idea, okay?" Shawn blocked the way to Number Seven.
"You're so wrong," his client sang out sweetly. That was when he caught sight of the tiny pistol in her shaking hand.
Behind him, the door opened.
"Our hero began to wish that he had listened to his partner," Shawn mumbled under his breath, as Bill - the Mullet - and his Dame took stock of the situation.
"Val? You followed me here?"
Shawn waved. "Um... that would be me. See, I'm a psychic, Bill, and I sensed you were in there with your... um," he repeated, and gestured in the general direction of the Dame. She was classy, in a Michelle Pfeiffer kind of way, and smarter than her beau, since she took one look at the gun in Valerie's hand and ducked back into Number Seven. Shawn could only hope that she was calling the police. "Look, guys. I know they say talking is over-rated, but how about we take a chance and prove them wrong?"
Bill (who wore a nasty pair of polyester PJs) crossed his arms and stuck out his chin - no mean feat for a man who barely had one. "I got nothing to say."
"I've got plenty," Val began. "You lying, two-faced toady of a..."
"Why don't I go first?" Shawn's voice was calm, but his heart was thumping. "You both seem like a lovely couple who've lost their way. I'm sure we can work this out..."
"Ha!" said Valerie, waving the gun for emphasis.
"Can't you see she's crazy?" Bill protested.
"Like I said. A lovely couple." Shawn was fighting a losing battle and he knew it. All he could do right now was keep himself between the pistol and Bill's cheating heart until the cavalry arrived. "Let's lay it on the line, okay?" He raised a finger to his temple. "Valerie. I'm sensing you don't want to shoot your husband."
"Guess again," she advised him.
"It's not a guess. The spirits don't lie." He kept his tone as gentle as he could. "You care about Bill. That's so obvious, Valerie." Why, though? Why, oh... "Why else would you be here right now? Why else would you hire me?"
"You hired a psychic to find me? That's just sick."
"Not helping," Shawn hissed, turning on the foolish man. "I'm saving your butt here. The least you could do is try and back me up."
Sometimes, Spencer wondered why he bothered...
"Faye and I have something special," Bill protested.
"That's what you said about me - on our wedding day." Valerie's voice was rising to a pitch where only dogs would be able to hear her.
"And I meant it, sugar. You know, at the time. But people change. That's life, okay? You saw Faye," he added, in an aside to Shawn. "No contest, right?"
To Shawn's own shame, he was actually tempted to step aside at this point. But Lassie would never let him live it down if his own client was jailed for murder. Not to mention the fact that Shawn didn't want the Mullet's death on - or anywhere near - his conscience.
Valerie, in her drunken state, had no such qualms.
"Till death do us part," she shrieked. "That's what the guy at the front said. Till death do us part! And you promised..."
Uh oh...
It almost seemed to happen in slow motion, like a movie sequence. Valerie raised the gun. Shawn leapt towards her, hoping to take her down before she fired. It was madness, he knew, but what else could he do? He saw the flash, and heard the bang, and felt a burning slice across the tip of his ear as he ploughed right into her, using his whole body as a weapon in a classic fighting technique that had served him well on many occasions. Then he went boneless. She struggled beneath him.
"You killed him!" Bill was horrified. "You killed the fortune teller. That's bad luck."
Shawn raised a finger and waggled it. "I'm not dead," he said wearily. "And you're welcome, by the way." His ear was throbbing and wet with blood - but at least that meant it was still attached to his head. Beneath him, Valerie groaned.
"Geroff. You're squashing me."
"Spencer wasn't seeking glory," sighed the poor detective, wrenching the gun from her limp fingers. Rising, he swayed and then steadied himself. "Like any selfless hero, all he wanted was a little appreciation..."
The sound of sirens cut through the night air. As they drew closer, Shawn shivered. He reached out a hand to Valerie and helped her to her feet. She was far more subdued by now. Almost shooting someone at point blank range was not an advisable way to sober up, but it was effective.
Buzz McNab stepped out of the squad car. Shawn passed the tiny gun to the giant cop, pausing to smile at the fact that it looked like a toy in his hand. Then he turned to face his client.
"Well," he said. "I think that concludes our business - don't you, Valerie? I'll get Gus to bill you in the morning. There might be some extras on top of the fee we discussed. Sticking plaster... Therapy. A new pair of jeans. Some peanut butter, Oreos and a box or two of Fruity Puffs. I just had a near-death experience," he explained to Buzz, who nodded sagely. "Now I'm hungry like a wolf."
And he howled his relief to the milk-white moon, who had witnessed the whole affair.