This week’s prompts are at the bottom.
Practice makes perfect.
In flamboyant gold lettering, his business cards read, “C.C. Jones, Investigations”
People seldom asked but when they did he would usually try to dodge the question or lie.
“I just put it there because it sounds good,” he would say, and then he would add, “You can call me Charles.”
Only his momma and his birth certificate knew the truth; oh, and me. I knew the truth too. I knew because you learn things about people when they are certain they’re about to die. They tell you things they wouldn’t tell another living soul.
Charles and I had both been Marines in Khe Sanh in early 1968 and spent a couple of months defending the Garrison there. Now I helped him out with his business, “C.C. Jones, Investigations.” He was a private eye and I was just an old war buddy who had needed a job. On behalf of C.C. Jones Investigations, I staked out a lot of cheap motels, served a lot of papers and took a lot of compromising photos for clients. I had a license to carry a concealed weapon but in the late ’60s and early ’70s, it was easy for Vietnam vets to get a permit.
It was in Khe Sanh that I learned C.C.’s mother had sold the naming rights for her firstborn son. She got $5,000 from a company in Georgia when she named her boy. In those days that was a lot of money, but it was not money well spent by the company. Nobody ever called the man Coca Cola Jones. As far as I know, only C.C., his momma, and I ever knew what the initials stood for. Everyone else called him C.C. or Charles.
C.C advertised himself as an expert in things like locating missing persons, asset protection, and financial investigations, but most of what we did was sneaking around to catch cheating husbands and/or wives. That is until she came through the door.
It was lunchtime and I had gone down the street to pick up a couple of hydraulic sandwiches, our normal noontime fare. When I got back to the office I could hear some dame talking with C.C. in the office behind the reception area. Our receptionist had quit six months earlier, but C.C. and I still kept our desks in the office behind. If we left the door to the reception open we could hear any customers or bill collectors come in and we could deal with them accordingly.
I rapped my knuckles on the open door and stepped inside she turned around. Skinny jeans and a white tee allowed an effective display of her chest, apparently a source of great pride for her. She wore her blonde hair cut about shoulder length. It was thin and wispy. She wore no makeup, and she didn’t need any.
“Ms Reynolds, this is my associate, Leonard. We should get him up to speed on your situation as well.”
“Should I begin again?” she asked and C.C. nodded his head.
“OK, well then – the last time I saw Dean was in Monaco…”
This week’s prompts are:
- racing the moon
- the tapping of a blind man’s cane
- locked in tight
Go ahead and dive in, set your imagination free!
Ready, Set, Go – you have 25 minutes, but if that is not possible, take as long as you need and, have fun!