Het Plagiaat: Kinky Friedman

De uit Texas afkomstige Kinky Friedman is naast muzikant, ook schrijver van detectives. In deze detectives is hij zelf als privé-detective Kinky Fiedman in New York, de hoofdpersoon.

Chapter 32
It was pushing Cinderella time when I put the key in the door of my always more depressing looking Manhattan-apartment at 42nd street. My head felt like a cocktail of bloody maries, defeat speeches of Richard Nixon and firecrackers that are lit at Chinese New Year. The fact of the matter was that I’d spent an evening drinking Glenfiddich whiskeys, interrogating Lisa Sipkowitz and listening to a band that played medleys of Harry Belafonte, Barry White and Peggy Lee. This contradiction told me two things: either someone had put something in my drink or I was finally starting to become insane. I realized the last option was the most likely one. Even though being in the field of private investigation for a few years, I’d tell a fucking lie if I’d claim never to have been poisoned before. Not that the Kinkster’s well trained guts have ever lost a battle against the numerous variations of rat poison folks that desired not to speak with me anymore had bought at their local pharms. `Hey, otherwise I wouldn’t be here talkin’ to ya, right?’, I told the cat after I’d finally overcome the last of the zillion steps that I have to climb before reaching my penthouse. The cat, as usual, didn’t pay attention to me and looked like she was wondering whether there was a flea bugging her tail or that it was just her ever-abundant imagination. In fact, she was rooted to the ground for over a minute pondering the situation. She might have looked just like me after receiving a phone call from Caitlin la Roupe, my just as sweet as devious date of the last few months. My thoughts were just wandering off to my last tête-à-tête with Caitlin when I noticed both my loyal answering machines were giving vibes to get my attention. As usual I began with checking the lavender one that is connected to my red phone. The red one, connected to my lavender phone, can only be reached by family. At this hour I wasn’t very keen to learn about the last problems my dad had with his Chevy or my mum’s invitation for a family get together at their ranch. To my horror, I realised that both these messages could be combined in one. It made me even more anxious to leave the message on the red machine for a later, and undeniably better moment than the present. Feeling suddenly a bit melancholic, I lit one of my Cohiba Coronas esp. 2 Cuban friends and took a big whiff.
Pressing the button of the lavender answering machine I knew by the fucked up sound of the connection that it was the even more fucked up mobile phone of Ratso that had made connection with my lavender solicitor. `Ratso here’, it sounded. `Get your ass off to my apartment since there’s somethin’ I wanna show ya’. `21.13 pm. End of message’, concluded my lavender butler. The cat looked up from her washing routine when the tape in the machine started to rewind. Just as enigmatic as ridiculous as Ratso himself is, so were the messages he daily uses to blab into my answering machine. In any event, my Tudor Prince-Date Submariner told me it was close to 1.00 am so I concluded that whatever it was Ratso insisted on putting to my exquisite attention, would now be way beyond it’s boiling-point. If not, Ratso’s voice would have been harassing my lavender beloved one just as long as it would make sense. Apparently the passing UFO or the cliff-hanger of `As the World Turns’ lasted till 21.14 pm.

After having shot down two more bull horns filled with Glenfiddich’s, I realised the only smart thing to do by now was having a power nap. The cat obviously agreed with the Kinkster by jumping enthusiastically on my mini sleeping couch. After throwing her off three times, I gave up. `A cat’s persistence always gets the better of ya’, I thought, just before my closing eyes were getting the better off me.
As so often, the gorgeous princesses, bounty islands and evil stepmothers in my power nap were brutally erased by the fire alarm sound of my red phone. After grabbing the receiver and nearly strangling the cat with the phonecord, it was again the quality of the connection that spoiled the surprise and told me it was Ratso. `Hey man, tell me why I always have to phone you a zillion times before actually getting to ya?’, Ratso’s hissing voice asked me. I ignored the question and asked him why the fuck he always needs to bug me a zillion times in the first place. `Well, ungrateful basterd, as so often, I’ve done some research for ya that probably will get this case of yours movin’ in some direction’. Wanting to tell him that I could do without his sarcasm just after being interrupted in a much needed power nap, the fact that Ratso had mentioned my pretty rusty case, made me change my mind.
`Tell me what you got, Ratso’.
`So much for gratitude, Kinkster’. `This Lisa Sipkowitz of yours has turned up in a police report I happened to stumble on’.
I wondered how the hell Ratso had been able to get access to confidential police files, but realised it’d best not to ask him. When this guy does have some useful information, it’s best not to interrupt him.
`What did the report say, Ratso?’
`Not much. Something about insurance fraud. And a police officer called Doberman’.
`Appropriate name. I know the guy, he’s at the NYPD. And he’s a creep’.
`Well good luck with this canine. Make sure he doesn’t get his teeth in ya. Hahaha!’

I laid down the receiver and wondered how one is able to develop such a bad sense of humour as Ratso’s. I felt a need to ask the cat but had a hunch she wouldn’t know the answer. Or she would know but then she probably would not share the secret with me. So I hurled down my morning shot of Glenfiddich and decided to give Doberman a call. For a change the desk sergeant put me right through.
`Make it fast, said Doberman. I’m just leaving for a big, important assignment. It’s called lunch’.
`What does the name Lisa Sipkowitz tell you?’
`Not much. She probably has Polish roots. And she might be fucking pretty’
`Common, Doberman. She’s the princess of the ball in one of your reports’
`When I finished a report, it’s out of my system. That’s one of our most important qualifications’
`And that’s why I always feel a strong urge to choke you lot’, I wanted to answer. Instead I replied:
`Tell me who’s responsible for fraud cases’
`That would be either detective Fowler or detective Martino. And both are out for lunch, which is exactly what I’m gonna do now’. With these famous last words, Doberman hung up.

I felt fucked up. Physically and mentally. I decided that leaving my penthouse might be a good move to improve physically and mentally. I grabbed my alligator boots and 214 bucks Stetson Diamond Jim hat, locked the frontdoor and started the descent on the way out. During the descent the Kinkster suddenly realized he was about to get a breakthrough in this case that was up till now as stuck as the Titanic is to the bottom of the sea.

About rogier verkade