PREVIOUSLY ON POP CULTURE MYSTERIES…
AND NOW THE POP CULTURE MYSTERIES CONTINUE
“A third and final question, Mr. Hatcher.”
“Lay it on me, Ms. Donnelly.”
DELILAH: Java Davis, The Road Trip Writer wants to know why there were so many characters named Johnny in old timey films?
I drummed my fingers along the edge of the table, stalling for time as Delilah stared me down, certain I’d been stumped.
“Davis,” I said. “Java Davis. Word on the street is he’s the nineteenth scribe to take a whirl on Mr. Battler’s blog. Must be a big time player to to rake in that kind of action.”
Delilah folded her hands and leaned in.
“Do you give up?”
I rose to my feet and paced about, practically wearing a hole in the library’s carpet.
It came to me.
“They didn’t have self-publishing in those days,” I explained. “Establishment writers were free to be hacks. They dished out the slop and the audiences ate it up like ice cream because unlike today’s discerning entertainment connoisseur, they didn’t know any better.”
The lady lawyer returned the dossier to her briefcase and pointed a gloved finger my way.
“You certainly have a talent, Mr. Hatcher.”
“Deduction is but one of my many talents, Ms. Donnelly,” I said as I raised my right eyebrow in a shifty manner. “Perhaps you’ll let me show you my others sometime.”
The blonde rested a hand on my shoulder. The gesture was more than welcome.
“Perhaps not.”
Once again, she walked out of my life, a brief distraction from an otherwise lonely existence.
I was sad to see her go, but what a pleasure to watch her leave.
For a brief moment, I was lost in my dreams of blonde bliss, only to be distracted by an old bag of wrinkles.
“You’re going to stare a hole in that behind,” Agnes said.
“It’s the little things in life, Ag,” I said, still gawking at Delilah from the study room doorway as she waited for the elevator. “Put a cork in it and let me enjoy it, will you?”
“Is that your girlfriend?”
“Nah,” I said. “The man upstairs would never be so good to me. Just someone I work with.”
Agnes was taken aback.
“Work? You found a job! Congratulations! What are you doing?”
“Already told you. I’m a highly skilled private investigator who tracks down questions to answers about pop culture posed by an anonymous blogger. She’s his lawyer who brings me the cases.”
The old gal squinted and stared at me like I was from outer space.
“You’re serious?”
“Like a heart attack.”
“You weren’t lying?”
“Ma Hatcher didn’t raise a liar, ma’am.”
Agnes took a seat. The news that I actually was a private eye threw her for a loop.
“Between the idea that that woman would be your girlfriend or that that woman works with you for a blog that you solve pop culture mysteries for, I have to admit the latter is more plausible.”
“Thanks Ag,” I said. “Thanks a lot. Class over?”
“Yes,” Agnes replied. “One of my students had chest pains so I called it a day early.”
“Think I will too.”
“Oh Jake,” Agnes said. “I’m sorry. I offended you didn’t I?”
“Nothing sticks to this gumshoe. It all rolls off, like water off a duck’s back.”
“Have you made a move yet?”
I took a seat on the other side of the table. My relationship with Agnes was becoming weird. Technically, I was older than she was, but she didn’t know that, and she was quickly becoming my impromptu mother.
I think Ma Hatcher would have been ok with it.
“I’ve made more moves on her than a world champion chess player, but my bishop isn’t going anywhere near that queen.”
“Never say never. Herb had to ask me a bunch of times before I came around. I’ll never forget it, there was this one time we were at the park, and he got down on one knee and the birds were singing and…”
I stretched, yawned, and checked my pocket watch.
“Great Liberace’s piano, Agnes! Look at the time. I’d best skeedaddle. Take it easy, kid.”
“Oh sure. I listen to you, you don’t listen to me. Just like my son.”
She sniffed the air. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff.
“Have you been smoking in here? This is a PUBLIC building you jackass!”
Copyright (c) Bookshelf Q. Battler. All Rights Reserved.
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Bookshelf Battle 