I knew the dame was trouble when she knocked on my door. “Hey there, Joe”, she said, “I got a problem you could maybe help with.”
“Out of all the private dicks on the Rock, why would you go to me?” I say, and she says “well, you live right next door.” And I don’t want to take this job, because I have better things to do with my Saturdays than solve some dame’s trivial problem, but her logic is fairly sound and plus I could use the money. So I go “What sort of problem are we talking here? You want pictures? Murder solved? No one pissed on the bathroom floor again, did they?”.
“Well”, she says, “someone did, but that isn’t the point. I have some product I want moved and I figure you could help me do it.” “What kinda product?” I say, because I don’t want to get in trouble with the ‘Bick for sticking my nose where it don’t belong, and she goes “It’s just plants. I want them moved downstairs. Cold snap, you know”. Ok, plants, nothing major, but there are a lot of them.
I try to discourage her one more time. “You know my rates, right?” “Yeah yeah”, she goes. “You get 10 bucks afterwards.” But I see the plants, and there are a lot. I begin to wonder what hellhole zone of dames and plants my Saturday’s turned into. Ten clams does not make up for that, no sirree. “Not to worry”, says she, “I’ve got another helper, name of Kay.” Now I can’t turn it down. Time to move the plants.
So Kay and I, we grab some plants, carry them downstairs, go upstairs, grab some more, repeat the process. I do the job and collect the money. “Thanks, Val”, I say. And this is the mostly true story of how I got paid ten bucks to move Valerie’s plants.
Joe D. Chandler