Let me show you a place where pulp fiction and film noir fear to tread:
Toddler hell!
Cocktail hours are deader than Marley. Jacob or Bob, take your pick.
Lazy afternoons in the pool are in the same boat.
Sleuthing isn't faring much better. Occasionally I go beachcombing for clues. The beach is balder than Jean-Luc Picard.
The occasional stakeout comes up emptier than a barfly's billfold on Thursday night.
My cases these days are more like "Which diaper is the stinky one?"
Or "Find the missing heir".
Devin is as blond and high-strung as Inky.
While Macklin is such a chip off the old block as to remove any doubts I might have had. No cuckoos in this nest!
Speaking of cuckoos, Roscoe, at the bar, went off the deep end
So Blaine is putting in a lot more hours there.
Three adults keeping up with two toddlers is like Canute sweeping away the tide. Without a Shop-Vac. Two adults and you take away his whiskbroom.
If you thought you noticed a third kid on the way, bingo! No wedding bells tolling.
With Byron's arrival
The garconniere is as packed as a Tokyo subway at rush hour.
Inky did her best to corral the twins for their birthday.
Macklin went along with the gag.
While Devin flew the coop.
And Blaine neglected to mention that it was his birthday as well.
He did tap me for a loan to buy the bar.
I told him I was hard pressed to afford a bottle.
It's made an old man of me.
With still one toddler left to go.
Don't let anyone tell you that private investigation is all nightlife and gorgeous babes.
The nightlife around here consists of one dive bar, Roscoe's on the beach road.
The scenery there is like the Hope diamond in a gimcrack setting, not half bad.
Inky'd had a rotten break, what with her family kicking off like the blackhats in a bad Western.
She bought herself a swanky place on the beach right after it happened
And found herself rattling around in there like a cue ball chasing the lone eight ball.
So when she asked, I moved in, even though I'm not looking to complicate my life.
It's not like she's looking for bling and promises.
After all, she's a copper and knows the score, even if they did park her in undercover vice. She fulminated like an old 60-cup percolator over that one.
She's like a teppanyaki chef at the chess table. No surprise there; the grandad who taught her was a Grand Master.
She could probably mop the floor with me in a few other ways as well, if it came to that.
We spend a lot of time at Roscoe's
Eavesdropping
And chatting up well-buttered suspects.
We made a great team until the bartender showed up here, down on his luck
And she moved him in with us.
I could have been jealous.
But I don't think he rolls that way.
Still, I was miffed
Until she wormed her way back into my good graces.
I can't say I object to the extra help.
And Blaine's not a bad sort, if you like the puppydog type.
So we're muddling along pleasantly enough.
When a babe starts worshipping at the porcelain altar, you know the plot is about to thicken.
Twin boys, she says.
I have a feeling my life just got very complicated indeed.
