Valley of the Trolley Dollies

(part I here)

The elevator doors opened, and Archer stepped, blinking, into the light.

The reception area was a huge atrium, filled with natural daylight that poured through vast windows and streamed across the vast expanse of the granite floor. The almost subliminal sound of a recent hit song being performed on a marimba coming from hidden speakers somewhere, and the scent of lemon, grapefruit, clean linen and filthy lucre being wafted through the air conditioning, all combined to create an atmosphere of wealth, of style, of integrity.

And there stood Archer. If the reception was a hymn to all that was stylish and beautiful, the presence in it of the detective was a discordant clash, halfway through the second chorus.

A clash balanced, almost, by the presence of the receptionist.

She was, Archer figured, the kind of doll who could make a man either very happy, or very, very, unhappy. A tiny thing, all big blue eyes and high blonde hair and pouting, rose pink lips. She looked at him, and the lips pursed for a fraction of a second, before the smile was switched on.

It was a million dollar, billion megawatt, bright shiny smile, and it said Howdy! How’re you today? And it was a shame, Archer thought, that it sat below two of the coldest, most unwelcoming eyes he’d ever looked in to.

“Can I help you?” She asked, the smile still struggling to reach the coolly appraising eyes.

Archer flashed his badge. “The pig in?”

“Mr Porcini is in conference right now. Perhaps if you’d like to take a seat,” she gestured to a corner of the huge atrium, where a collection of furniture that seemed designed for anything but sitting on, passed the time whilst waiting to go out of fashion.

“Sweetheart, I’m a six hundred pound Troll. You got anything load bearing?”

She opened and closed her mouth silently, whilst fluttering her eyelashes, and Archer could almost hear her thought processes: Do I pretend I hadn’t noticed? WhatdoIdo? WhatdoIdo? WhatdoIdo?

“Best thing,” he suggested, trying to help the kid out of her predicament, “Would be to get me out of reception as soon as poss. You know, just in case a client or something comes in. Best thing, probably, would be to get me in to see Mr Porcini toot sweet.”

And he smiled a smile that was meant to be friendly and reassuring, but which, judging by the sudden frightened widening of her eyes, was anything but.

She lifted a telephone, pushed a button, and spoke sotto voce into the receiver. Archer didn’t hear what she was saying. He didn’t need to; he could imagine.

Whatever; five minutes later, he was being ushered into the office of Phineas P. Porcini, architect to the stars.

Archer had read the clippings. He knew the legend; a working class boy, one of three brothers, all of whom had dreams of making it big in the construction industry that their old man had spent his life slaving away in. These kids didn’t want to lug bricks and pour concrete. They wanted to draw the pretty pictures, design the buildings. And of the three, only Phinneas had survived to have any degree of success.

And what success…

“Thanks for seeing me, Mr Porcini.” Archer extended a hand, and the pig briefly introduced a trotter, before turning his attention back to the receptionist, her high heels making her totter out of the office in a manner that made both her behind and her front jiggle like a couple of Billy Goats Gruff under a blanket.

“Thanks, Tink,” Porcini growled, taking the fat dark cigar out of his mouth only for as long as it took to lick his chops appreciatively. “Hey, no prawblem, detective, uh-“

“Archer.”
“Archer. Yeah, no problem. Tell ya the truth, I’m glad of the break. I’m in the middle of the final stages of work on the rebuilding of Cinderella’s castle. You know it?”

Everyone. Everywhere. Knew Cinderella’s castle.

“What is this?” Archer asked, “Number eight?”
“Nine,” the pig said, seating himself behind the desk and motioning to Archer to sit. The Troll eyed the chair, and, deciding it was sturdy enough, lowered himself into it.

“Everytime she gets divorced, she rebuilds. Just as well the new Hubby has the diamond mine concession in the far off mountains, the way she changes her mind…”

“A difficult client?” Archer murmured, seeking to put the other at his ease.

“The worst. Oh no, wait. She’s not the worst. That would be the Witch of West Walden. Crazy old bitch. Wanted a house made out of gingerbread. I ask you; fuckin’ gingerbread. In a goddam forest. Two days after we left, the friggin squirrels had worked their way through the suportin’ walls. Had to go back and shore the place up with Balsa Wood and Crispbread. Still, the client got what the client wanted. Heard she ended up cooked by those two psychos. Handsome and Petal”

“Hansel and Gretel.”

“Whatever. Place is a shrine now. Sickos make the journey out there just to say they saw the Gingerbread House. Still, you didn’t come here to talk shop. What can I do fer you, Detective Archer?”

“The wolf,” Archer said.

“Wolf?” The pig spat the word past his cigar.

“As in Big Bad. He’s dead.”

The small dark eyes widened, and the tip of the cigar flared red, before a trotter extracted it from the snout. Porcini stared at the red end of the stogie for a long moment before blowing a long steady stream of blue smoke towards Archer.

“Good,” he finally said. “You’ve made my day. Let me know who did it; I’d like to shake him by the hand.”

“They’ve arrested a woodsman.”

“He need a good lawyer?”

“Not if he’s innocent.”

The pig squealed humourlessly, stubbing the cigar into a marble ashtray. “So? He innocent?”

“I’m not sure. Can you think of anyone else who might have wanted to off the wolf?”

“Besides me? Probably half the kingdom. You won’t find many people who’ll give a shit for much beyond the fact that the scumbag’s dead. Who cares who did it?”

“The woodsman’ll care. He goes to the hangman for a crime he didn’t commit, his family’ll care. I care.”

“Boo hoo. I’ll send flowers. We done here?”

“Where were you at seven-thirty this morning?”

“At home. Why?”

“What were you doing, and do you have any witnesses?”

A wicked smirk played around the pig’s snout, but his eyes glittered coldly. “As it happens, I was porking someone who’s not my wife. That’s the what. And as for witnesses? Talk to Tinkerbell on the way out. Am I a suspect?”

“He did eat your brothers.”

Porcini grunted angrily, slapped both trotters against the desk, and hauled his bulk upright. “Pete and Paulie never stood a chance with that scumbag. But he huffed, and his lawyer puffed, and he got away with it. He got away with murder, Archer. You know it. I know it. So, maybe justice caught up with him. I sure hope so. I hope he knew that this was payback for something he’d done. But justice didn’t have a curly tail, Archer. Now, get the hell out of my office.”

Archer stood. “You hear anything…”

“Archer, I hear who offed the sonofabitch, I’ll send them a medal. Do yourself a favour: Drop this. The wolf’s dead. Ding fucken dong!”

to be continued…

This entry was posted on Friday, March 30th, 2007 at 9:14 am and is filed under Fiction etc., Once Upon a Murder. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.