The Shoes
by Susi J Smith
Genre: Humour
Swearwords: One strong one only.
Description: Julie gets more than she bargained for when she agrees to give Billy Maddox, P.I., a lift.
Swearwords: One strong one only.
Description: Julie gets more than she bargained for when she agrees to give Billy Maddox, P.I., a lift.
“Survey the scene, Cranwell.”
“I’m your lift, not your skivvy.”
Billy waves away my comments.
Sighing, I click on the digital recorder. “It is 9am on Tuesday 17th July. We are outside the home of the suspect; 2 Terrace Avenue. The car is parked ten feet from the suspect’s window. On a bright summer’s morning, like today, my yellow Hyundai acts as an attractive beacon, screaming ‘look at us, we’re watching you’.”
Billy shakes his head.
“The car was parked here at the request of William Maddox P.I., a suggestion objected to by the enigmatic Julia Cranwell who is only here because her brother emotionally blackmailed her-”
“-Cranwell is also in danger of being sacked, if she doesn’t get to the point.” Billy brushes toast crumbs off his once-white shirt.
“You can’t sack me; I don’t work for you.”
Billy takes the recorder. “We are in a cul-de-sac. The only exit by car is straight in front of us. One footpath leads out of the estate, this is also visible from our position. Five vehicles are in sight-“
“-Including our bright yellow high-vis undercover vehicle.” I wait to be berated.
“Did you spot the shoes?”
I frown and look around.
He clicks off the recorder and gestures. A pair of grey trainers sit outside number 19.
“Not my colour.”
Billy slurps his foamy coffee. “Care to guess why they’re on the step and not in the porch?” Bubbles pop on his upper lip.
I thump my head back against the headrest. “Nope.”
“Someone’s coming.” Billy slouches down the seat. “False alarm; it’s just the postie.” He straightens.
I groan. “This is ridiculous. We should have parked further away. We’re going to get caught.”
“Do you know how long I’ve been doing this job?”
“2 years.”
“2 years and I’ve never been caught.”
“Except for the Lusardi case.”
“Except for that one time.”
“And the Devon Case.”
“Well…” Billy rubs his unshaven chin.
“And the Mortimer case. And the Wilson case, the Jacobs case, and the Banks case.”
“Your brother talks too much.” Billy lifts the binoculars to his eyes.
“They’re ten feet away; pretty sure you don’t need those.”
“Shut up Newb.” He stuffs a pastrami and lettuce sandwich into his face with his free hand.
“I’m not your ‘Newb’, unlike you, I have a real job.”
Billy isn’t listening.
I roll my eyes. “She’s not coming out. Not without a wheelchair…a hockey mask and a machete.”
Billy’s binoculars are fixed on number 19.
“Wrong house.”
He tosses them back in the glovebox. “Time for your first lesson, Newb.” Climbing out of the car, he saunters across to number 19 and knocks on the door.
Locking the car with an unnecessarily loud beep, I jog over to join him. “Are you crazy? Someone’ll see you.”
He pushes the door open. “It’s Tuesday; everyone’s at work.”
“Oh please, at best they’re at the Benefit’s Office.”
Billy stares at me.
“I was only…” Heat rises in my chest. “Sorry.” I pick the skin at the side of my nails, drawing blood.
“We weren’t all bankrolled by Daddy, Jules.”
My fingers curl into fists. “No, some of us are royalty.”
“Screw you. You know I had a rough upbringing.” He steps inside. The hallway is white, narrow. To the left, the living room sits in silence.
A disembodied female voice drifts down from upstairs. “If you’re in, make sure it’s all the way.” She giggles.
I head for the door. Billy grabs my arm and points at the stairs. I wave my arms in large, distinctive crosses. He presents his fist.
“Are you kidding? I’m just a taxi service.” My voice is hoarse, louder than intended.
Billy waits, smiling.
Whimpering, I stomp my foot. Three rounds of rock paper scissors later, I’m heading up the stairs, Billy two steps behind.
A vase of lilacs greet us at the top, giving some colour to the clinical surroundings. The bathroom lies ahead. To the left are three doors, one sits ajar. I peer through the crack.
“Are you coming?” The female voice giggles.
Billy smirks, waving me on. He has his ‘trust-me’ face on, I want to punch it.
I push the door open. A blonde woman in a pink nightdress reclines on the bed, legs bent, chest thrust forward. She tenses, her smile vanishes.
I turn to run. A businessman in a stripy tie stands at the top of the stairs. He’s holding the trainers. “Who the fuck are you?”
“Bolt!” Billy pushes the man aside and stumbles down the stairs, I race after him.
Quick as we can we’re back in the car and driving out the street, Billy’s panting and laughing.
“It’s not funny. Her husband’s going to phone the police.”
“Not likely.” Billy’s breathing slows.
“We were breaking and entering.”
“We were trespassing. And that wasn’t her husband.”
I turn onto the main road. “Her boyfriend then.”
“And the trainers?”
“He brought them upstairs, so what?”
“For nookie? Didn’t look like that kind of role play to me.”
“What then?”
Billy looks smug. “You’ve got lots to learn Newb.”
I pull over and turn off the engine. “Tell me or get out.”
“That wasn’t her boyfriend.” A self-satisfied smile fills his stupid face.
Growling, I punch his leg.
“Christ! Okay, okay. The shoes are a signal: shoes out, come on in; shoes in, client in.” Billy rubs his leg. “And you thought nobody in the street worked.”
I groan, restart the engine, and pull back onto the road. “Great job Maddox, only you don’t get paid to bust brothels.”
Billy lifts the camera from the footwell. “No, but if you slow down I’ll get the shot that’ll keep me in brogues.”
“Ah yes, brogues; the footwear of everyone with a ‘rough upbringing’.” I brake gently. The suspect from number 2 saunters down the road, no wheelchair in sight. “I really hate you sometimes, Billy.”
Taking the picture, Billy turns with a wink. “To the pub, Cranwell. The night’s on you.”
“I’m your lift, not your skivvy.”
Billy waves away my comments.
Sighing, I click on the digital recorder. “It is 9am on Tuesday 17th July. We are outside the home of the suspect; 2 Terrace Avenue. The car is parked ten feet from the suspect’s window. On a bright summer’s morning, like today, my yellow Hyundai acts as an attractive beacon, screaming ‘look at us, we’re watching you’.”
Billy shakes his head.
“The car was parked here at the request of William Maddox P.I., a suggestion objected to by the enigmatic Julia Cranwell who is only here because her brother emotionally blackmailed her-”
“-Cranwell is also in danger of being sacked, if she doesn’t get to the point.” Billy brushes toast crumbs off his once-white shirt.
“You can’t sack me; I don’t work for you.”
Billy takes the recorder. “We are in a cul-de-sac. The only exit by car is straight in front of us. One footpath leads out of the estate, this is also visible from our position. Five vehicles are in sight-“
“-Including our bright yellow high-vis undercover vehicle.” I wait to be berated.
“Did you spot the shoes?”
I frown and look around.
He clicks off the recorder and gestures. A pair of grey trainers sit outside number 19.
“Not my colour.”
Billy slurps his foamy coffee. “Care to guess why they’re on the step and not in the porch?” Bubbles pop on his upper lip.
I thump my head back against the headrest. “Nope.”
“Someone’s coming.” Billy slouches down the seat. “False alarm; it’s just the postie.” He straightens.
I groan. “This is ridiculous. We should have parked further away. We’re going to get caught.”
“Do you know how long I’ve been doing this job?”
“2 years.”
“2 years and I’ve never been caught.”
“Except for the Lusardi case.”
“Except for that one time.”
“And the Devon Case.”
“Well…” Billy rubs his unshaven chin.
“And the Mortimer case. And the Wilson case, the Jacobs case, and the Banks case.”
“Your brother talks too much.” Billy lifts the binoculars to his eyes.
“They’re ten feet away; pretty sure you don’t need those.”
“Shut up Newb.” He stuffs a pastrami and lettuce sandwich into his face with his free hand.
“I’m not your ‘Newb’, unlike you, I have a real job.”
Billy isn’t listening.
I roll my eyes. “She’s not coming out. Not without a wheelchair…a hockey mask and a machete.”
Billy’s binoculars are fixed on number 19.
“Wrong house.”
He tosses them back in the glovebox. “Time for your first lesson, Newb.” Climbing out of the car, he saunters across to number 19 and knocks on the door.
Locking the car with an unnecessarily loud beep, I jog over to join him. “Are you crazy? Someone’ll see you.”
He pushes the door open. “It’s Tuesday; everyone’s at work.”
“Oh please, at best they’re at the Benefit’s Office.”
Billy stares at me.
“I was only…” Heat rises in my chest. “Sorry.” I pick the skin at the side of my nails, drawing blood.
“We weren’t all bankrolled by Daddy, Jules.”
My fingers curl into fists. “No, some of us are royalty.”
“Screw you. You know I had a rough upbringing.” He steps inside. The hallway is white, narrow. To the left, the living room sits in silence.
A disembodied female voice drifts down from upstairs. “If you’re in, make sure it’s all the way.” She giggles.
I head for the door. Billy grabs my arm and points at the stairs. I wave my arms in large, distinctive crosses. He presents his fist.
“Are you kidding? I’m just a taxi service.” My voice is hoarse, louder than intended.
Billy waits, smiling.
Whimpering, I stomp my foot. Three rounds of rock paper scissors later, I’m heading up the stairs, Billy two steps behind.
A vase of lilacs greet us at the top, giving some colour to the clinical surroundings. The bathroom lies ahead. To the left are three doors, one sits ajar. I peer through the crack.
“Are you coming?” The female voice giggles.
Billy smirks, waving me on. He has his ‘trust-me’ face on, I want to punch it.
I push the door open. A blonde woman in a pink nightdress reclines on the bed, legs bent, chest thrust forward. She tenses, her smile vanishes.
I turn to run. A businessman in a stripy tie stands at the top of the stairs. He’s holding the trainers. “Who the fuck are you?”
“Bolt!” Billy pushes the man aside and stumbles down the stairs, I race after him.
Quick as we can we’re back in the car and driving out the street, Billy’s panting and laughing.
“It’s not funny. Her husband’s going to phone the police.”
“Not likely.” Billy’s breathing slows.
“We were breaking and entering.”
“We were trespassing. And that wasn’t her husband.”
I turn onto the main road. “Her boyfriend then.”
“And the trainers?”
“He brought them upstairs, so what?”
“For nookie? Didn’t look like that kind of role play to me.”
“What then?”
Billy looks smug. “You’ve got lots to learn Newb.”
I pull over and turn off the engine. “Tell me or get out.”
“That wasn’t her boyfriend.” A self-satisfied smile fills his stupid face.
Growling, I punch his leg.
“Christ! Okay, okay. The shoes are a signal: shoes out, come on in; shoes in, client in.” Billy rubs his leg. “And you thought nobody in the street worked.”
I groan, restart the engine, and pull back onto the road. “Great job Maddox, only you don’t get paid to bust brothels.”
Billy lifts the camera from the footwell. “No, but if you slow down I’ll get the shot that’ll keep me in brogues.”
“Ah yes, brogues; the footwear of everyone with a ‘rough upbringing’.” I brake gently. The suspect from number 2 saunters down the road, no wheelchair in sight. “I really hate you sometimes, Billy.”
Taking the picture, Billy turns with a wink. “To the pub, Cranwell. The night’s on you.”
About the Author
Livingston-born Susi J Smith enjoys writing short stories and flash fiction. For more information, please check out her website: https://mairi187.wixsite.com/susi-j-smith