Richard Kershtinkle

The name's Richard Kershtinkle, I'm a private dick. My friends call me Dick, the dick. That's private dick. Being a private dick I get to see a lot of weird shit. There was one the other day at the side of the the burger stand, looked like a pigeon in a Stetson.

I was propping up the bar in Harry's. Why he couldn't have used a workbench or even a chair I don't know. I guess he just wanted that personal touch. Besides, it had been raining most of the day and he'd offered me free drinks while he fixed it in place, so I was glad to help. Harry wasn't accomplished when it came to DIY and was too cheap to get people in to do the refit. I was on my fifth J2O and had pushed the boat out and gone for the Orange & Pomegranate. It was a mistake.

Harry and I were old buddies. We'd knocked about in the same neighbourhood as kids, getting into fights, chasing the girls, getting the ever loving crap kicked out of us when we caught up with them. It was a tough neighbourhood. The compensation Harry got for the time Katie Guffnapper kicked him so hard in the juice box he was left permanently cross eyed had been invested wisely and he'd opened the bar a few years back on the returns. It was lucky he'd seen the ad for The Injury and Accident Lawyers 4 U Claim Group Direct. They offered a no win no fee guarantee to get compensation, or for a small fee knee cap the other party and take their dinner money. In my youthful exuberance I'd urged Harry to go for the knee capping. Katie had once pulled tongues at me, and that kind of pain never goes away.

Harry laboriously fixed the final screws into place so I could let go. Fair play to the old boy, it looked good and level. We tested it out by skimming shot glasses across it like you see in old Westerns. Harry slid down my Orange & Pomegranate. Seriously, don't. It's nasty. I held my breath and swallowed hard.

I bid farewell to Harry and turned to leave. That's when I saw her. Her auburn hair was pushed back behind her ears. Her ears where on the side of her head. Her hair brushed her shoulders as it flowed behind her back. The light caught the waves as they ran like rapids out of sight. I gazed at her as she removed her coat and shook off the precipitation she had collected outside. She stood before me in a cut off tee shirt, blue jeans and a pair of blue Adidas Samba's. Classy.

She walked up to the bar and gestured Harry. Harry looked at her. She gestured again, damn his eyes. She looked at me. I looked at her. We looked at each other. She looked back to Harry. I looked at Harry. Harry looked at us both, I think.

She said she was looking for someone to help her out. I told her I was always available to help a pretty dame, and truth be told I'd help the munters too. I'm not as young as I was and long since sold my principals down the river when I started accepting KFC Bargain Buckets as payment. I said I'd be glad to help her out, took her arm and headed for the door. She stopped me and said that's not what she meant. I told her to be more specific then, I was a busy man and time is chicken. She asked me who I was. I told her I'm Richard Kershtinkle and I'm a private dick. My friends call me Dick, the dick. That's private dick, and that being a private dick I see a lot of weird shit, like the other day there was one in the supermarket car park that with the tyre tread looked like a Semilarvatus Butterfly Fish.

She said she had no time for games. I put the Scrabble away. She said she needed a man. I was a man. She queried the past tense. I assured her the chest luggage was all man, as was the salami looking for flaws in my zip. She told me I was disgusting and ought to be ashamed of myself. I explained that ever since I found myself putting Britain's Got Talent on series link I've been beyond shame. I could see the pity in her eyes, mixing with contempt. She put her hand on my arm and whispered sympathy. I told her to take her sympathy and flush it with the other rotten goldfish. She looked shocked, like a beaver chewing a scaffold pole. I took a step back. She stepped forward. I took another step back. She took another step forward. I jumped to the left. She stepped to her right. I put my hands on my hips. She closed her legs, bringing her knees in tight. I told her that if her name was Janet I would be very likely to soil myself. She said it wasn't, that her name was Florence and that the Kit-Kat in her pocket was just coincidence. Florence. A beautiful name to match the beauty of the city. In her case the city of Sheffield. She opened her mouth, and from this range I could scent the mild garlic from the Kiev she had eaten within the hour. I know my chicken. She told me she'd recently moved into a flat above one of the shops down the street. I asked why I should care. She told me I shouldn't and that she was just trying to make small talk as our conversing seamed to have reached an impasse. I told her that small talk was like foreplay, unnecessary. I asked her if she was going to get to her point as I wasn't going to see her wasting any more of my time, not when there could be a Zinger Wrap worthy case just around the corner. She called me a dead beat and said she wished she hadn't bothered coming in. Thrusting her arms back into her coat and turning towards the door and said she didn't know who I thought I was. So as she stormed back out on to the cold wet streets I reminded her. I'm Richard Kershtinkle, and I'm a dick.