Pink Elephant Undercover

 



    







Pink Elephant Undercover 





***by Frank Hickey***





    "I'm working my city detective job," Mazzi says, grinning naughty boy-style. "Way undercover. But I'm also working for an old-style Sicilian father. 1950's model. He's all worried about who his daughter Franchesca-Maria is seeing. Is the new boyfriend legit or is he a player? Or mobbed up. Maybe married with kids.

  "This is a cash job," he drills on, eyes sparking over a gold bling neck-chain. "Nothing on paper. No PI license or nothing. Daddy doesn't even know my real name. If the city finds out, they'll fire me yesterday."

  A good undercover survives by spinning stories. He can make you believe that you're a pregnant pink elephant.

   "So, I hang in the clubs they fre-quent," he chirps on. "Watching them, picking up a little gossip here, a word there. Ya know, right?

   "Summertime, the two lovebirds decide to nest out in Southampton," he says, chewing gum. "Fanciest beach in New York. Fricking millionaires live there. Golf courses, beach estates. I tail them out there in my best car, what I call 'the Machine.' I do all the body and engine work myself on the Machine. She runs fast and smooth. Won't bore ya with the make and model. Just trust me, the Machine is beautiful."

   "Trust you?" I ask.

 "Yeah," he smirks. "But it's summer and I can't  find a hotel room there. Everything is booked. Nothing. But I gotta watch these two or I lose the job. Can't drive back and forth to the city. The kids score a nice hotel room onna beach, kill the lights and do whatever. And I get an idea.

    "I drive the Machine onto the beach until I find a humongo big sand dune. I back the car up to the dune, grab a shovel outta the trunk and start covering her up with sand. Takes forever. But I get the Machine all covered up. The vents and everything, air-tight. No damage to my baby.       "Then I scoot down, the front seat," he says. "Leave the window open to breathe. Got beer and pizza, go ta sleep. Tired out, all that driving and digging. Sleep real sweet.

  "Morning comes, I wake up. Somebody's walking on the sand covering the hood. So, I come outta my seat.

   "There's a Southampton cop standing on my hood," he says. "Cop knows something's buried in the sand. I squeeze out. He sees me, goes ballistic, pulls his piece. But I already got my gold shield out, showing him I'm on the Job. He looks at my shield real careful, holsters his piece and shakes his head.

    "'I don't wanna know,'" he says. "'Leave me outta it. I don't see nothing. I was never here.'"

***

Frank Hickey was a cop. He writes the Dancing Max Royster crime novels about the world's only ballroom dancing detective.












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