by
Jim Prime and Ben Robicheau
Gurrey and Grime were famous. They had just solved their fifth consecutive case and as a result had been written up in the Crime and Punishment section of Passages, the New York Times of the Tri-Island area. Gurrey and Grime lived together in a bachelor pad in the fashionable “Low Water Mark Towers”, a one and half--storey building offering a spectacular view of Freeport and the looming majesty of Roney’s Point.
Both dicks were single after a number of failed marriages and they were living the life of swinging singles – always on the go, looking to be seen at the most happening places in the two communities. One night they might be seen boogieing on down at Disco David’s Disco and Take Out Pizza in midtown and the next night at Studio 55, an abandoned scallop dragger that you entered through a gaping hole in the starboard side. It was parties here, receptions there, fancy dress balls, fetes, costume parties, afternoon teas and those combination orgies and crokinole competitions that had become the latest fad with the desperate housewives of the Tri-Island area. Their lives had become a whirlwind of fame – with paparazzi hounding them at every stop. Hardly a day went by that their pictures weren’t to be found in the society pages and scandal sheets of the Digby Courier, Passages and the R.E. Robicheau Shoppers Weekly. There were pictures of Gurrey with local celebrity and former go-go dancer Frisky Larue, shots of Grime dancing up a storm with socialite and post office mistress Penny Arcade. And of course there was the unfortunate x-rated photo of Gurrey getting out of his car with his pleated skirt hiked high enough to leave nothing to the imagination.
The debauchery didn’t end there. It was becoming alarmingly common to see a strange white powdery residue under the nose of Gurrey – the result of snorting pixie sticks. And Grime had also flirted with the drug sub-culture of the Islands. He had recently got ahold of some bad weed and as a result suffered dandelion wine poisoning.
The two debauched dicks woke up one Sunday morning in their bachelor pad with it’s disco ball, mood lamps, lava lamps, circular revolving Murphy beds, shag carpets, Chianti bottles with candles in them – in short everything that made the “girlies” weak in the knees. They had it all and they knew it. And yet, they weren’t happy. They were looking for another challenge. Truth be known, they were both vying for the coveted Dick of the Year Award. “You can’t be dick of the year by just wearing the latest bell bottom trousers and platform shoes with a live mackerel in the heel,” said Gurrey sagely.
Grime looked up from the debris left behind after another raucous party with the islands extremely desperate housewives. “Very wise Gurrey,” he agreed. We need to get back to work. Just then the phone rang loudly. Gurrey picked it up on the second ring. The conversation was short. “We’ll be right there,” said the dick before hanging up.
“I think we’ve got smugglers using these islands to bring in their stuff – and you’ll never guess what that stuff is.”
“Do tell Gurrey,” said Grime. “Do tell.”
"Actually, replied Gurrey, "I'm not sure I want to tell you about this case. It looks like it could be a dangerous one, these are hard-core professional smugglers, they might be out of our league." "Pshaw!", scoffed Grime, covering his partner with a fine spray of chewing tobacco juice, "We've dealt with smugglers before, remember the counterfeit belly button ring ring? We easily pierced that operation. And then there were the Mexicans who nearly ruined the local hat business by trying to bring in embargoed sombreros, we soon put a lid on that!"
"True, true", mused Gurrey, nonchalantly wiping the spittle-soaked remnants of Grime's plug of 'chaw' from his face, hair and shoes, "but this is something new, these people are smuggling coke, it looks like they have a whole system set up. We'll have to contend not just with the smugglers, but also their dealers and the end users. You know how those coke-heads are, if they don't get their regular fix, they go crazy. And it looks like it's a big operation, they're not just bringing in coke, but pepsi and Dr. Pepper too."
The phone call had been from Wallman "The Wall" Robichini, owner of the Tri-islands' largest grocery conglomerate. He had just returned from the annual meeting of the South-West Nova Groceteria and Markette Owners Association where it was discovered that every store in the area had suffered a recent and calamitous drop in the sale of soft drinks.
"Apparently," Gurrey elaborated further, "someone recently found several cans of pop in Pond Cove, the fact they were unopened was not that unusual, but what was really strange was that there was absolutely no French on the label. At first it was thought it was just some defective cans discarded because of a printing error, but in light of the decline in sales of legitimate soft drinks "The Wall" suspects that someone is bringing in cheap sodas from Stateside, and landing them in Pond Cove."
"Well," responded Grime, "you'd better go get another case of STD's boy, it looks like we're going to be spending a long, cold night staked out at Pond Cove."
Midnight found the two dicks on the crest of a dune overlooking the cove. Grime was laying in the sand among the sparse bushes, surveying the moonlit horizon with a pair of G. I. Joe binoculars. Gurrey, who had been making a quick reconnaissance of the area, strode silently up and laid down in the sand beside his partner.
"See anything", he said.
"No, nothing so far."
Casting a glance in Grime's direction, Gurrey said, "You look worried Grimey, what's the problem, prostate acting up again? If you need to take yet another leak, go in those bushes over there, I'll keep an eye on the beach."
"No, it's nothing like that, besides, I just took a leak, in the sand right there where you're laying."
After quickly moving a couple of feet to the right, Gurrey questioned his friend further, "Something's bothering you, what is it?"
"I'm trying to decide if I should tell you something, it's of a personal nature and I don't want you to think less of me because of it.
"Believe me Grimey, there is no way I could possibly think less of you than I already do."
In an emotion-choked voice Grime replied, "That's real nice of you to say so Gurrey old pal, I should have known I could depend on you." Discreetly wiping a tear from his eye, the one that tended to always look to the side, Grime continued, "When I found out we were going to be doing this stake-out, I asked our leg-man, Owen Otley to keep an ear to the ground for information on who was running hot cold drinks over the border. When you're 5' 4" and 365 pounds, keeping your ear to the ground is not easy, but I must say that Owen came up with the goods. If his information is reliable, and I have no reason to believe it is, sometime tonight we should be coming face-to-face with a notorious smuggler by the name of Percival 'Pearly' Prime."
" O.K.", said Gurrey, "I still don't see what there is to be embarrassed about. So you used Owen to get some information; that's nothing; by tempting him with pie, I've got him to do way worse things than that."
"No, no, that's not the embarrassing thing, the embarrassing thing is that I'm directly related to this outlaw."
"How can that be, your names are completely different, yours is Grime, his is Prime, totally different."
"I've never told this to another living soul, but our family name used to be Prime. Generations ago, back when the land was still new and wild, the Prime family came to this country, seeking to make a fresh start free of the constrictions, creditors and paternity payments of the Old World. Unfortunatly, times were tough and some of the family turned to crime, mostly penny-ante stuff, rolling old ladies for their petticoats, high-jacking people's penny-farthings, it was all minor crime and overlooked by the authorities until one particularly bad apple, Parsimony Prime, was caught rustling fish from the weir at Seawall Hill.
This was still the time of the Wild West-Nova, fish rustling was one of the most henious crimes a man could commit, justice was usually swift and brutal and retribution was found at the end of a rope slung over the nearest weir pole. The local frontier paper, Ye Olde Digby Courier, sent a reporter down to interview some of the residents, one of the people was my ancestor, Pulchritudinous Prime, when the story was printed they had mis-spelled his last name as Grime instead of Prime. Since he was on the law-abiding side of the family, he took the opportunity to disassociate himself from the criminal element and our branch of the family has been known as Grime ever since. Now I'm about to meet and most likely arrest one of my long lost relatives, 'Pearly' Prime, he got that nick-name because of his brilliantly white teeth that he flashes at all the girls, that 'chick-magnet' thing runs in the family I guess. I can't believe how nervous I am, do you think he will like me Gurrey?"
"What?", said Gurrey, distractedly, "Sorry, old bean, I haven't been listening for the last twenty minutes, I've been busy watching that boat and those people wading ashore."
Sure enough, down below them, clearly visible in the glow of the full moon, several burly men were struggling ashore with heavy sacks slung over their backs. Grime spotted Pearly immediately, the moon reflecting off his brilliant white teeth. “Handsome bastard,” he muttered under his breath. Handsomeness and humility had always been the twin curses of the Prime/Grime family.
“I’m torn Gurrey,” he said earnestly, looking his friend in his good eye. “I mean blood is thicker than water. How can I be expected to arrest one of my own? With his incredible good looks he would be easy pickings in the slammer, if you know what I mean. And yet I represent the law. It’s my duty to see that justice is done – and justice is blind, even blinder than you Gurrey, if that’s possible…I’m over here Gurrey, that’s a fence post you’re gazing at.”
Following the sound of his friend’s voice, Gurrey finally looked in his direction. “I understand your dilemma, my friend,” he said. “For years we’ve also been trying to live down our own shameful past. You see Grimesey, my friend, you know me as Gurrey Ben, but actually my full name is Gurrey Ben-Gurion Robicheau, part of the Robichini grocery cartel. Wallman “The Wall” Robichini is my second cousin once removed on my Dutch-Italian-Israeli mother’s side. My father was French Canadian. Ricolini is my sister! So I too have a vested interest in the outcome of this case. Wallman has been putting pressure on me to solve it so that he can continue to be the exclusive Coke King of the Tri-Island area. It’s that same old story: French Canadian man meets Dutch-Italian-Israeli girl, marries her, changes the family name to Robichini for no apparent reason, opens a successful grocery store and monopolizes all the Coke in the tri-Island area. If I’ve heard it once, I’ve heard it a thousand times. We once tried to trace our family tree but it turned out to be a wreath So, you are really a Prime, and I’m really a Robicheau. And it took this sordid case of smuggling carbonated contraband to make it all fizz to the surface.”
The smugglers were making their way slowly up the slope and it was becoming apparent that they would pass within a matter of feet of the concealed dicks. They lay motionless, save for the irritating twitches and facial tics that had dogged Gurrey since a youth spent living in the penthouse apartment that housed the Western Light foghorn.
The smugglers were winded from the steep climb and paused to catch their breath near the prone positions of Gurrey and Grimes. Pearly Prime was the first to speak. “Well, the hardest part is done. Now all we have to do is load these into the hidden truck and drive them to the ‘fence.’”
“Why would we drive them to a fence?” inquired an eerily familiar voice, between desperate gasps for air.
“Not a fence fence, you fool,” snapped Pearly. “A fence.”
“Barbed or electric?” retorted the confused smuggler, hands on his knees as he struggled to breath.
“Neither, you fool!” said Pearly. “A fence!! A guy who accepts and distributes stolen goods is a fence!”
“That doesn’t sound right,” wheezed the strangely familiar voice. “I hope you don’t take offense, but a fence is a fence and when you say we’re driving the coke to a fence, it doesn’t make much sense. Perhaps I’m too tense.”
“Too dense more like it,” growled Prime. “Unless it’s just a pretense”, he added suspiciously.
All of a sudden the two dicks realized who owned the second voice. It was their leg man, Owen Otley, all 5’4” and 365 pound of him.
“That dirty traitor,” whispered Grimes, before being shushed by Gurrey.
By this point the smugglers had their second wind, all except Owen who hadn’t recovered his first. “You go on ahead,” said Otley, unable to move. “I’ll wait here until you get back.”
With a last look of disgust, Pearly and the rest of the pack of thieves disappeared into the underbrush.
When they were sure that the gang was indeed gone, Gurrey and Grime sprang upon their duplicitous detective junior grade, who had pulled a turkey leg from his left pants pocket and was attacking it with gusto.
“Why you dirty…” sputtered Gurrey.
“Of all the …” added Grime.
Otley looked up at them from his position on a moss-covered rock and smiled broadly.
“Well boys, I hope this gets me that promotion I’ve been after – full partnership in the G&GDTAFGS. Against all odds, I’ve managed to infiltrate the most diabolical smuggling ring in the Tri-Island area. I’m a mole!”
The two seasoned dicks were gob-smacked, rendered speechless by this completely unforeseen development. Otley had never shown any interest in moving up the detective food chain, although in retrospect he had always been extremely interested in the food chain itself. Was he a rat or a mole? His physical appearance showed elements of both. His face was indeed rodent-like as was his brain capacity. Grime imagined him running through a maze in some laboratory in search of a piece of cheese.
“But why didn’t you tell us about your plans to infiltrate the smugglers?” asked Gurrey reasonably.
“Because I knew you wouldn’t let me do it,” shrugged Otley. “I’m known for my physical prowess, my speed my agility, my ability to outrun the villains of the Tri-Island area. That’s why I’m your legman. You forget that my brain power is almost as good as my physical wherewithal.” He paused to dip his turkey leg into his right trouser pocket, which apparently contained gravy. “I have a brain too,” he added.
The two dicks decided to believe him. “What were you able to find out?” said Grime.
"Oh I found out a lot," said Otley, motioning for the dicks to move in closer and lowering his voice. "For instance, did you know that it's not a good idea to keep gravy in your pants pocket? Sure, it feels kind of nice running down your leg, and you can't beat that warm, squishy sensation as it pools in your shoe, but in the end, it ruins the flavour of the gravy."
"Nothing is worse than shoe gravy!", Grime nodded in agreement , "At first it seems to taste O.K., but then you start getting that subtle undertone of sweaty sock combined with a strong hint of Odor-eaters."
"If you two gourmets are finished," Gurrey interjected with his own subtle undertone of sarcasm combined with a strong hint of disgust, "I'd like to hear if Owen has any news that isn't gravy related."
"Well," said Otley, "I did find out that this operation is a lot bigger than we thought. In addition to being Coke smugglers, these guys are also gum runners. They've got a whole arsenal of machine gums, you know, the kind of gum you get out of those coin machines at the mall. But actually, the soda and gum is just a side-line, their main business is in the drug trade!"
Gurrey and Grime looked at each other aghast as Otley continued.
"And it's a vile, evil drug too. I'm ashamed to say that I tried this drug a few years ago and it almost killed me. I must have overdosed, I was as sick as a dog and couldn't eat for almost an hour, I thought I'd die."
"What was it Owen? Heroin, meth, crack cocaine?"
"Worse! Much worse. It was cod liver oil."
"They're bringing in contraband cod liver oil? But the production of cod liver oil is highly regulated! Where are they getting it?"
"They make it themselves."
"But how? It requires expensive and complicated equipment, where would they get that?"
"Remember the old Westport Cod Liver Oil Factory?", Otley queried.
"Sure," replied Grime, "but that was destroyed years ago, washed away in the Groundhog Day storm of '76."
"That's right," interjected Gurrey, "I saw it with my own eye. The first tidal wave swept the building off its posts and the second wave carried it out into the harbour. The last I saw of it, it was floating out through the passage."
"And it kept right on floating," said Otley, "finally drifting ashore in the worst possible place, that pirate's lair, that den of inequity, that no-man's-land for decent folks, that hell-hole we call Central Grove!"
Otley paused to get his emotions back under control and to let his wildly-racing heart drop back to its normal rate of 160 beats per minute.
"Are you saying...?", started Grime.
After waiting several minutes in vain for Grime to complete the sentence, Otley decided to do so, "That's right, Prime and his gang salvaged the equipment and set up a lab where they cook up batches of this vile liquid. Apparently they're pretty good at it too, the stuff they turn out is pure and potent, they've built up quite a clientel, cod-heads they're called, and it seems they can't get enough of it."
"I don't understand the attraction myself," Otley continued, dipping his well-chewed turkey leg in the shoe gravy, "how can people eat that disgusting stuff?"
Gurrey and Grime looked at their leg man with expressions of, if not quite respect, then at least a lot less derision than before. "That's surprisingly good work Owen," said Grime, "maybe you do have the makings of a mole after all."
"I'm the one who first pointed out that resemblance." Gurrey said proudly.
"Well, I've got even more news for you," Otley mumbled around his mouthful of turkey and gravy, "Prime has fallen into his own trap, he's become hooked on the oil. They say he drinks the stuff by the gallon. Those shiny teeth of his? The result of rubbing cod oil on his gums every night. Did you happen to notice his thick, gleaming hair?"
"I did." acknowledged Grime, unconsciously running his hand over his own hairless dome.
"That duck's ass hairdo that he has would require a half tube of Brylcreem to keep in place for a normal person, but his hair is so naturally greasy from all the oil that no one has ever seen so much as a single strand go astray."
"Cod liver oil does that, does it?", Grime muttered absently, his head gleaming like a melon in the moonlight.
"But now his addiction to the accursed cod is starting to cause problems. He's trying to force all his men to become cod-heads too, some of them have jumped ship and he's having trouble raising a crew, that was how I was able to infiltrate his gang so easily. He's even taken to carrying a big barrel of oil on deck and all the crew have to line up for their 'ration'. To avoid suspicion, I was able to surreptitiously secrete my portion right here." Otley patted his upper chest area drawing the two dicks' attention to a dark, oily stain that spread from Otley's shirt pocket down to his ample beltline.
"Some of the crew refused the oil outright and tried to mutiny, but Prime is so greasy now that they couldn't get a grip on him and he was easily able to slip from their grasp and fight off the attempted insurrection."
"Well," said Grime, "this all makes my decision a lot easier. If I arrest him, I will actually be doing him a favour; this will be his chance to break free of the vicious hold that the oil has on him. I know that when I was in the throes of my terrible caffine addiction, I would have welcomed someone willing to help me with my problem," with this Grime threw an accusatory glance in Gurrey's direction, "instead of just asking me twenty times a day, 'I'm going to Timmy's, want something?"
"It's nice that you want to help him", Otley said, shoving the well-gnawed remnants of the turkey leg into his back pocket, "but how?"
With a gleam in his eye that was either a spark of inspiration or the beginning of an aneurysm, Grime replied, "I might have a plan Owen, I just might have a plan."
One thing was certain. They had to put an end to this smuggling ring and that meant entering the dead zone known locally as Central Grove.
On the ferry trip from Westport to the pearl of the Tri-Islands area that was Freeport, Gurrey and Grime were discussing their newly-arrived business cards.
“It just seems wrong somehow,” said Gurrey.
“But it’s exactly what you wanted,” countered Grime. “I remember our conversation distinctly. You said that you weren’t getting enough credit for your leadership abilities within the detective agency.”
“I remember that, but…’ stuttered Gurrey.
Grime interrupted. “You said that you deserved to head up our organization, isn’t that right?”
“Well, yes, but I…” stammered Gurrey.
“And I, Jim Grime, agreed, did I not?” interjected Grime. “Does this card not state quite unequivocally that you are the head detective, even though in reality we are really equals?” persisted Grime.
"
Still..” said Gurrey.
“No, no, no,” said Grime. “You can’t have it both ways.
“Well, okay,” said Gurrey with a sigh. “But somehow: Gurrey Ben, Dickhead just sounds wrong.”
“Pish posh,” said Grime. “Besides, they made a small mistake on my cards too.” He thrust a new card at his partner and read: Jim Grime - Private Dick, Fishgutter, Chick Maggot.
Just then the ferry docked and the Dick-mobile, as it had come to be known by a grateful populace, fishtailed up the slip, causing two elderly foot passengers to jump into the water to escape. “Old people,” said Gurrey from behind the wheel. “They always bring a smile to my face.”
Just then the ancient CB radio crackled to life:
“This is the Legman. Over” True to his reputation as a man of action, Owen had caught an earlier ferry.
“This is Dick Mobile,” answered Gurrey. “ What’s your 20? Where are you Legman?”
“I’m roundin’ Suicide on two wheels and heading for the Grove,” came the static-muffled reply. “What’s your position Gurrey? Over.”
“I’m the Dick Head. Over.”
Grimes interrupted. “I think he means what’s your geographical position, not your position within the Agency.”
“Oh. Sorry, Legman. We’re just leaving Freeport and cruisin’ toward the Grove. Over.”
“Meet you there,” said Legman. “Over and out.”
Three minutes later the three intrepid detectives were conferring in the parking lot of what used to be the Tiny Tattler Restaurant.
Central Grove was a kind of no man’s land, a desolate strip inhabited by squirrels, rabbits and a few simple village folk. Amidst the despair and desolation, their main joy in life was standing at the side of the road waving at the exotic cars whizzing past en route to the more glamorous towns of Freeport and Tiverton, and to a much lesser extent Westport.
“This place gives me the creeps,” said Gurrey. “Let’s get the job done and get the hell out of here.” He periodically looked over his shoulder in anticipation of a sneak attack by villagers who wanted to learn the ways of the outside world. Central Grovers would often kidnap wayward passers-by, hold them captive and try to extract information about the place that they called “Out There.” “What’s it like Out There?” they would ask. “Is Freeport just a mythical place – like Camelot - or does it actually exist? The legends say that the people there are god-like. Is it true that another island exists to the west of Freeport – a place continually enshrouded in fog where the people embrace strange practices such as sun worship and philately? Is it true that the people there resemble the birds that they have so long worshipped? Is it true that Freeport has a place where people can dance and such - and places where they teach all manner of things? Is there really a conveyance to the east that carries people to another shore, one with no water surrounding it? Is Tiddville really a place or are you guys just shittin us?”
These and an abundance of other questions were thrown at those unfortunate enough to be waylaid by the Central Grovers. They were never harmed, fearing reprisals from Out There, but the experiences were unnerving to say the least.
Otley glanced nervously over his shoulder as he approached the two detectives across the parking lot, or at least he would have glanced over his shoulder if it wasn't for the rolls of fat on his neck preventing him from turning his head that far.
"This place creeps me out", he said, "there is nothing sadder than a restaurant that isn't open. What are we doing here? Back at Pond Cove you said you had a plan, is this it? Why didn't we arrest Prime then?"
"This is all part of my plan.", Grime replied. "Back on the beach, Prime had his crew with him, we were outnumbered. Also, as private dicks we have a responsibility to keep the public safe, Pond Cove is the Daytona Beach of the Tri-Island area, with a constant flow of tourists and sight-seers. We couldn't take the chance of involving innocent citizens in our set-to, our fracas, our foo-fa-ra, our argy-bargy. By letting him get away then, we can now capture him while he is alone in his secret drug lab. Yes, my flawless plan worked flawlessly...except for one small flaw."
With a sense of dread, Gurrey inquired, "And what would that one small flaw be, pray tell?"
"I have absolutely no idea where his secret lab is."
"Hence my previous question," said Otley, "Why are we here?"
"This is the most obvious spot," replied Grime, "we are in the geographic centre of this hell-hole we call Central Grove. It sits in the middle of this island like a thorn between two other thorns, it is sparsly populated with an un-inquisitive people who spend all their time clustered by the highway watching cars whiz by. This is the perfect place to hide a secret drug lab and smuggling headquarters. If only we had some way of figuring out exactly where it is."
At this Otley spoke up,"I was looking at some of your old back issues of Dick Weekly and I read that some P. I.'s have their own canine units, maybe we need something like that."
"Good idea Owen," replied Grime, "A drug-sniffing dog could find that drug lab in a second, but since we rarely get paid for any of our cases, we can't really afford a highly-trained dog like that."
"Maybe we don't need to spend a lot of money." said Gurrey, as he walked over to the Dickmobile, reached into a cardboard box in the back, and lifted out a small, grey, lump of fur.
"What is that? It sure isn't a drug-sniffing dog."
"No it isn't, maybe we don't have a canine unit, but we could have a feline unit. This is my cat Lucky, she's kind of old and slow now, she's gone deaf and her eyesight isn't so good anymore, but her sniffer works better than ever, open a can of tuna or a tin of sardines anywhere in the neighbourhood, and she's there like a shot. If there's anyone made for the job of sniffing out Prime in his counterfiet cod liver oil lab, it's Lucky."
"I don't know", the morbidly obese Otley said sceptically to his two ancient, feeble and medically challanged partners, "if word gets out that we have a drug-sniffing cat, we could become the laughing-stock of the private dick business."
"Give her a chance." said Gurrey, placing the little cat on the ground. Lucky promptly sat down in the middle of the parking lot and took a liesurely minute or two to scratch her chin with her hind leg and make sure all her fur was licked down into its proper place, then she lifted up her head and sniffed the air. Suddenly she was on her feet, making a bee-line across the lot with the three dicks following behind. As they neared the edge of the parking area, a faint trail into the woods became visible. After nearly an hour on the trail, the last forty minutes of which Gurrey had to listen to constant complaining from Grime about how he strained his hernia pulling Otley out of the last two bog holes, Lucky abruptly stopped and peered into the dense undergrowth, her tail twitching back and forth. The dicks could just make out the faint outline of what had to be Prime's lair hidden in the brush.
Quietly approaching an open door, the trio peered inside to see walls lined with cases of smuggled soft drinks, boxes of machine gums, and sunken into the floor, the huge vat from the old Westport Cod Liver Oil factory. Standing beside the vat was none other than Pearly Prime himself, totally absorbed in sampling his latest batch of the cod-livery brew.
"Drop the oil Prime, we're here to rescue you from that stuff." shouted Grime. Startled, Prime dropped his sampling ladle and dashed to the door in an attempt to slam it closed before the intrepid dicks could enter. Lucky, attracted by the spilled cod liver oil on the floor, darted in through the door and ran under the smuggler's feet knocking him off balance. Flailing about in an attempt to regain equilibrium, Prime upset one of the boxes, blanketing the floor in rolling gumballs. His arms windmilling wildly, his legs bicycling as his feet skated on the errant gum balls, Prime staggered backwards until he reached the vat where, despite one last desperate effort to save himself, the edge struck him behind the knees, causing Pearly Prime to flip neatly backward and disappear below the glassy surface of the oil-filled cauldron.
Gurrey, Grime and Otley rushed over to the vat, but could not locate Prime through the murkey oil. Suddenly, just as they were about to give up hope, a faint gleam pierced the gloom. Pearley's shiney teeth had saved the day again. After several failed attempts due to the difficulty of keeping a grip on the oil-saturated Prime, the trio of dicks succeded in pulling the choking and gasping smuggler out of the vat. As he sat on the floor recovering while Lucky licked cod liver oil out of his pant cuff, Prime declared that after nearly drowning in the stuff, he never again wanted to see another drop of "that rancid fish oil" and he now realized the error of his ways. Prime subsequently abandoned smuggling and the sea, took up organic farming and made a fortune producing chemical-free sunflower oil.
Gurrey, Grime and Otley finally made it to The Dick of The Year Awards where Owen Otley won for his larger-than-life appearance in the role of undercover dick, Lucky won a special award in the canine/feline unit category, and Gurrey and Grime went home empty-handed as usual. As the two old detectives left the Privately Registered Investigators of Canada Society (P.R.I.C.S.) Gurrey turned to Grime and said, "Well partner, we didn't win any awards, but at least we closed another case."
