By: Jake Hatcher, Official Bookshelf Battle Blog Private Eye
Timeline: Set at some undetermined point in the future. (Or, maybe this never happens at all.)
Chauncey was a wily one alright. A real shifty character. Not a person to be trusted.
Still, he was the biggest stool pigeon in Hollywood, the guy who knew everything, even what you had for breakfast last Tuesday.
He had a reputation for spilling his guts upon the slightest application of pressure.
More importantly, this unsavory character had an answer to a question that my partner Mickey and I needed to know.
Chauncey the Stool Pigeon, Hatcher’s go-to squealer when he hits a dead end in a case.
It was time to play a rousing game of bad cop, worse cop.
I grabbed the hot light and shined it directly at the mug’s face.
“Why don’t you make it easy on yourself and sing like a canary, Chauncey?” I asked. “Cooperate and we’ll go easy on you, see?”
“Go take a long walk off a short pier, copper!” Chauncey said. “I don’t know nothin’!”
It was Mickey’s turn. Old Mick paced back and forth all quiet like, lulling our mark into a false sense of security until finally he pounced.
“You think this is some kind of game?” Mickey said as he slapped Chauncey across the face. “This is serious business and you’re way over your head!!!”
“Hey!” Chauncey said as he rubbed a fresh bruise on his cheek. “You can’t do that! I want my lawyer!”
I grabbed a chair, turned it around backwards, and sat down on the other end of the table.
“You want a lawyer?” I asked.
I looked over at Mickey.
“You hear that Mick? This lowlife wants a lawyer.”
“Of course he wants a lawyer,” Mick said as he blew cigarette smoke into Chauncey’s face. “Only scumbags with something to hide ask to see a lawyer!”
Chauncey lowered his head. A few tear drops poured from his eyes.
Mick and I laughed.
“Oh sure!” Mick said. “Mr. Big Man! Thinks he knows it all but turns into a cry baby when the shit hits the fan!”
“I…” Chauncey said. “I never wanted to get involved in this but… I can’t help it. I hear things. People tell me things, things I wish I’d never heard and then you flat foots always haul my ass in here like I’m some kind of degenerate when I swear on my mother’s grave this time I don’t know anything, see?”
Time for good cop to make an appearance.
I poured Chauncey a glass of water. He grabbed it and slurped away. We’d been sweating the galoot under the hot lights for three hours without offering him any sustenance whatsoever, so he was thirstier than a Gila monster in the middle of the desert.
“There there, fella,” I said. “Look, we get it. Shit happens to innocent bystanders all the time.”
Mickey Finn – Hatcher’s ex-partner from the late 1940’s, who actually isn’t around in 2015 (or is he?) but the idea for this post seemed too funny to pass up. Ignore it as the story progresses.
“See it all the time in our line of work,” Mickey said.
“That’s why you need to help us help you get ahead of this thing,” I said.
“Something bad happened,” Mickey added. “And we know you know who did it so you better flap those gums and tell us what we want to hear.”
“Can I have another one?” Chauncey asked.
I nodded and poured him another glass. He downed it in one gulp.
“Look fellas,” Chauncey said. “When I know somethin’, you’ll know somethin’, ok? I ‘aint done you coppers wrong before, have I? I’m tellin’ ya, the streets are silent on this one, quieter than a nun on Easter, see? I ‘aint holdin’ out on youse guys, you gotta believe me!”
I looked at Mick. He shook his head.
“I was really hoping I wouldn’t need this,” Mickey said as he produced a large phone book from a drawer.
“Aw come on!” Chauncey said. “Hatcher! Come on, you can’t let him do this!”
“You’re on your own, Chaunce,” I said. “I tried to help you.”
WACK! Mickey knocked Chauncey right in the kisser.
“WHO DID IT?!” Mickey shouted.
“I DON’T KNOW!”
WACK!
“WHO?!”
“Your butt ugly mothers!”
An insult to Ma Hatcher? I couldn’t let it stand. I grabbed the phone book and went to town on the weasel’s face.
Then I grabbed him by his stupid necktie, pulled him in closer and asked him directly:
“WHO LET THE DOGS OUT?!”
“I don’t know!” Chauncey said. “Look, all I know is…the party was nice, the party was bumpin’…”
“Hey!” I yelled.
“Yippie-Yi-Yo,” Chauncey said. “I don’t know. That was some dumb thing everyone was saying. Anyway, everybody was having a ball until the fellas start the name callin.”
“And the girls respond to the call?” Mickey asked.
I had to hand it to Mick. That was an important question, but Chauncey ignored it.
“Did you hear anything else?” I asked.
“Yeah,” Chauncey said as he poured himself a third glass of water. “I heard a poor man shout out, ‘WHO LET THE DOGS OUT?”
“Who?” I asked.
“Who?” Mickey repeated.
“Who, who, who?” Chauncey said between sips. “Jesus Christ, you cops are like a broken record, that’s all I remember, may lightning strike me dead if I’m a liar.”
“What do you think, Mick?” I asked.
“He’s full of shit,” my partner replied. “But not this time. He’d of talked like Walter Winchell by now. He’s got nothin.'”
“Looks like it,” I said as Mickey and I headed out into the hallway.
“Hey coppers,” Chauncey said. “I gotta take a leak!”
“Start doing the pee pee dance, Chauncey,” I said. “You’re not going anywhere until we sort this mess out.”
“Who Let the Dogs Out?” by The Baha Men – a 2000 release.
Do you know who let the dogs out? Hatcher wants to know. Drop a dime on the good-for-nothin. Tweet the answer to @bookshelfbattle #popculturemysteries or leave the info in the comments on bookshelfbattle.com.
Oh, and try not to get confused because Mickey hasn’t made it to 2015 yet. (Or has he?)
Jake’s working on the ending to “Who Shot First?” and hopes to have it out soon.
Images courtesy of a shutterstock.com license.
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