It was a moonless night on Brier Island, the kind of night that practically cries out for trouble. The phone at the Digby Neck & Islands Detective Agency & Fishgutting Service rang loudly, jolting the two detectives from their reverie. "Gurrey here," snapped Gurrey Ben, the younger of the two dicks.
"What?...what?...what? Ok, we'll be right over." He slammed the phone down and turned to his partner Jim Grime, the better looking of the two. "We've got a crime scene Grimey. Looks like some purloined periwinkles, snatched sea snails - misappropriated molluscs, if you prefer. Looks like the MO of one of the most dastardly villains ever to set foot on the islands – old Clamface himself." Grime pounded his fist on the desk. “We’ll teach them to loot our Littorina littorea,” he said learnedly.
The two dicks rose as one from their seats beside the oil barrel woodstove that provided the sole source of heat for their office/fish shed. Grabbing their fedoras off the rack of antlers that had been tastefully mounted on the wall by the door, they headed out to the company car.
"What?...what?...what? Ok, we'll be right over." He slammed the phone down and turned to his partner Jim Grime, the better looking of the two. "We've got a crime scene Grimey. Looks like some purloined periwinkles, snatched sea snails - misappropriated molluscs, if you prefer. Looks like the MO of one of the most dastardly villains ever to set foot on the islands – old Clamface himself." Grime pounded his fist on the desk. “We’ll teach them to loot our Littorina littorea,” he said learnedly.
The two dicks rose as one from their seats beside the oil barrel woodstove that provided the sole source of heat for their office/fish shed. Grabbing their fedoras off the rack of antlers that had been tastefully mounted on the wall by the door, they headed out to the company car.
The official vehicle of the DN&IDA&FGS was a well-worn 1964 Buick Skylark sedan which had been converted into a reasonable facsimile of a truck by hacking off the back seat and trunk area and replacing it with a wooden box. The two detectives found that the bastardized Buick made a good surveillance vehicle since it blended in well with the other Island modes of transportation, and if things happened to go a little slack in the detecting/fishgutting business, they could always bring in a bit of extra money hauling gravel.
Gurrey untied the rope that held the door closed and helped his more senior partner into the passenger seat, thoughtfully tucking a blanket around his arthritic knees to protect him from the drafts that would soon be coming up through the rust holes in the floor. As he agilely leaped over the driver’s door and slid his buff form in behind the wheel, Gurrey reached under the dash for the two frayed wires that replaced the long-gone ignition switch and after a few minutes of cranking the starter, pumping the gas and being pestered with unasked-for advice from Grime about not flooding the engine, the big V-8 roared to life in a cloud of blue oil smoke and a cacophony of clattering tappets.
Gurrey untied the rope that held the door closed and helped his more senior partner into the passenger seat, thoughtfully tucking a blanket around his arthritic knees to protect him from the drafts that would soon be coming up through the rust holes in the floor. As he agilely leaped over the driver’s door and slid his buff form in behind the wheel, Gurrey reached under the dash for the two frayed wires that replaced the long-gone ignition switch and after a few minutes of cranking the starter, pumping the gas and being pestered with unasked-for advice from Grime about not flooding the engine, the big V-8 roared to life in a cloud of blue oil smoke and a cacophony of clattering tappets.
"One of these days we're going to actually get paid for one of these cases", thought Gurrey to himself, "and then I'm going to buy a muffler for this thing".
A few seconds later they were noisily idling in the boarding line for the ferry to Freeport. Grime turned to Gurrey and shouting over the clamour emanating from under the engine hood, asked "Does this mean...?
A few seconds later they were noisily idling in the boarding line for the ferry to Freeport. Grime turned to Gurrey and shouting over the clamour emanating from under the engine hood, asked "Does this mean...?
"Yes", replied Gurrey, "we're going overseas for this one. Everyone knows that if you are in possession of pilfered periwinkles, have lifted a load of lobsters or scammed some scallops, the only person around here who is low down enough to take them is Clamface, so we're heading right into his sanctuary of stolen seafood, located in that den of thieves, that wasteland of West Nova, that hellhole known as Central Grove.
"Do you like being a dick, Gurrey?" said Grime. "I mean I had to really work hard at becoming one, but to you it comes so naturally. It's like you've been a dick your entire life. I look at you and you have dick written all over your face. People are always telling me what a dick you are. " Gurrey blushed bright red at the compliment and quickly changed the subject back to Clamface.
"Thanks Grimey," he said. "Now watch your back. These Central Grovers are vicious and they are almost certainly guarding the hideout. Why do they call him Clamface anyway, is it because he clams up - you know, doesn't talk much - or is it that bivalve growing out of his cheek?" "Use your powers of observation," snapped Grime. “It's because he always 'clams' to be someone he's not."
Gurrey was silent for what seemed like hours and Grime realized that he had taken his anger out on the wrong person. "Sorry Gurrey," he said. "The pressure of this damn case is getting to me. You're a great detective, one of the best in the Tri-Island area. I had no right to snap at you like that. I've always thought that if you and I - from totally different backgrounds and cultures on Long and Briar Islands - can get along and work together...well, damn it, there's hope for the Muslims and Jews, the Protestants and Catholics, the Pro fish farmers and the Antis....." he choked up briefly, before recovering. "Anyway," he said hurriedly, "Let's go make us some Clam chowder, if you know what I mean." "I have no idea," replied Gurrey, scratching his liver-spotted head.
Recently Gurrey had begun to worry about the mental stability of his partner. It seemed that every conversation over the past few months had eventually devolved into a long-winded and semi-coherent rant involving the problems with various religions and the comparative differences between Muslims and Jews and Long and Brier Islanders. Gurrey suspected that due to his advanced age, Grime was no longer able to keep up with the multi-ethnic, fast-moving, hustle-bustle urban lifestyle of downtown Westport; his deteriorating, Ten-Penny soaked brain was starting to yearn for the simple-minded, deathly boring, unsophisticated, almost cartoon-like pleasures of his boyhood home in Freeport.
Still, Gurrey had to admit that when Grime was on a case there was no one better. If growing up on Long Island had done nothing else for him - and Lord knows that it hadn’t - it had at least given him an uncanny ability to tell when someone was being less than truthful. All those years of his otherwise wasted youth spent hanging out in front of Lloyds Hall observing people pretending to be sober and listening to guys deny being the baby's father had helped him develop an unerring ear for a lie.
After taking a brief detour to fly the Buick over the bump in the road known locally as ‘Thrill Hill’; Gurrey headed down Flour Cove Road toward the well-fortified lair of the notorious Clamface. As they clunked and rattled down the dusty, rutted road, Gurrey turned to Grime and said, "O.K. partner, this is it, we're going in there and we're coming out with our pockets packed with periwinkles...or we're not coming out of there at all!"
Gurrey and Grimey tracked Clamface through the dense underbrush to his secret hideout. As they drew nearer they spotted a 40-foot flashing neon arrow that pointed to a shack made of driftwood and the focs'l of the old Tiverton ferry, circa 1975. Perhaps their foe wasn't the evil genius they had thought he was. Evil, sure, but genius, no, probably not. Not wanting to make any noise, Grime patted his partner's leg to get his attention, quickly realizing, to his embarrassment, that he had tapped the prosthetic left leg. Luckily, Gurrey hadn't noticed so Grime signalled to his friend with his hand, making sure that the signal was within sight of Gurrey's one good eye. 'Shhhh," he motioned, then whispered. 'You limp in and I'll be right behind you.'
Moving cautiously to preserve the advantage of surprise, Gurrey was creeping stealthily up to the imposing barricade constructed from old lobster crates and decommissioned fish flakes when suddenly he was startled by a loud clanging sound followed by a dull thud behind him.
"Help me Gurrey, I'm down!" gasped Grime.
"Do you like being a dick, Gurrey?" said Grime. "I mean I had to really work hard at becoming one, but to you it comes so naturally. It's like you've been a dick your entire life. I look at you and you have dick written all over your face. People are always telling me what a dick you are. " Gurrey blushed bright red at the compliment and quickly changed the subject back to Clamface.
"Thanks Grimey," he said. "Now watch your back. These Central Grovers are vicious and they are almost certainly guarding the hideout. Why do they call him Clamface anyway, is it because he clams up - you know, doesn't talk much - or is it that bivalve growing out of his cheek?" "Use your powers of observation," snapped Grime. “It's because he always 'clams' to be someone he's not."
Gurrey was silent for what seemed like hours and Grime realized that he had taken his anger out on the wrong person. "Sorry Gurrey," he said. "The pressure of this damn case is getting to me. You're a great detective, one of the best in the Tri-Island area. I had no right to snap at you like that. I've always thought that if you and I - from totally different backgrounds and cultures on Long and Briar Islands - can get along and work together...well, damn it, there's hope for the Muslims and Jews, the Protestants and Catholics, the Pro fish farmers and the Antis....." he choked up briefly, before recovering. "Anyway," he said hurriedly, "Let's go make us some Clam chowder, if you know what I mean." "I have no idea," replied Gurrey, scratching his liver-spotted head.
Recently Gurrey had begun to worry about the mental stability of his partner. It seemed that every conversation over the past few months had eventually devolved into a long-winded and semi-coherent rant involving the problems with various religions and the comparative differences between Muslims and Jews and Long and Brier Islanders. Gurrey suspected that due to his advanced age, Grime was no longer able to keep up with the multi-ethnic, fast-moving, hustle-bustle urban lifestyle of downtown Westport; his deteriorating, Ten-Penny soaked brain was starting to yearn for the simple-minded, deathly boring, unsophisticated, almost cartoon-like pleasures of his boyhood home in Freeport.
Still, Gurrey had to admit that when Grime was on a case there was no one better. If growing up on Long Island had done nothing else for him - and Lord knows that it hadn’t - it had at least given him an uncanny ability to tell when someone was being less than truthful. All those years of his otherwise wasted youth spent hanging out in front of Lloyds Hall observing people pretending to be sober and listening to guys deny being the baby's father had helped him develop an unerring ear for a lie.
After taking a brief detour to fly the Buick over the bump in the road known locally as ‘Thrill Hill’; Gurrey headed down Flour Cove Road toward the well-fortified lair of the notorious Clamface. As they clunked and rattled down the dusty, rutted road, Gurrey turned to Grime and said, "O.K. partner, this is it, we're going in there and we're coming out with our pockets packed with periwinkles...or we're not coming out of there at all!"
Gurrey and Grimey tracked Clamface through the dense underbrush to his secret hideout. As they drew nearer they spotted a 40-foot flashing neon arrow that pointed to a shack made of driftwood and the focs'l of the old Tiverton ferry, circa 1975. Perhaps their foe wasn't the evil genius they had thought he was. Evil, sure, but genius, no, probably not. Not wanting to make any noise, Grime patted his partner's leg to get his attention, quickly realizing, to his embarrassment, that he had tapped the prosthetic left leg. Luckily, Gurrey hadn't noticed so Grime signalled to his friend with his hand, making sure that the signal was within sight of Gurrey's one good eye. 'Shhhh," he motioned, then whispered. 'You limp in and I'll be right behind you.'
Moving cautiously to preserve the advantage of surprise, Gurrey was creeping stealthily up to the imposing barricade constructed from old lobster crates and decommissioned fish flakes when suddenly he was startled by a loud clanging sound followed by a dull thud behind him.
"Help me Gurrey, I'm down!" gasped Grime.
Gurrey turned to see his aged partner sprawled in the middle of the road, his feet hopelessly tangled in the hose to the oxygen bottles that he always dragged behind him. Grime had been insisting for years that switching his two-pack-a-day habit to ‘menthols’ was clearing up his emphysema, but Gurrey was beginning to have his doubts.
After helping his ancient and feeble partner back to his feet and dusting the road-dirt off the spittle-stained front of his worn and sadly out-of-date paisley-print Nehru jacket, Gurrey resumed his advance upon Clamface's hideout: judging by the laboured gasping and wheezing, Grime was right behind him.
The two dicks slipped warily past the fortress gates fully prepared to be viciously repelled at any moment by Clamface's henchmen, but were surprised to find the enclosure eerily quiet. To the right they spied what they had come for, piles and piles of the pinched periwinkles, as well as heaps of heisted haddock, cases of confiscated clams and tonnes of illicitly taken tuna. As they advanced, Gurrey became gradually aware of a ghastly and eerie sound drifting across the compound, a sound that made his hair stand on end; Grime's hair would have also stood on end had he only had any.
After helping his ancient and feeble partner back to his feet and dusting the road-dirt off the spittle-stained front of his worn and sadly out-of-date paisley-print Nehru jacket, Gurrey resumed his advance upon Clamface's hideout: judging by the laboured gasping and wheezing, Grime was right behind him.
The two dicks slipped warily past the fortress gates fully prepared to be viciously repelled at any moment by Clamface's henchmen, but were surprised to find the enclosure eerily quiet. To the right they spied what they had come for, piles and piles of the pinched periwinkles, as well as heaps of heisted haddock, cases of confiscated clams and tonnes of illicitly taken tuna. As they advanced, Gurrey became gradually aware of a ghastly and eerie sound drifting across the compound, a sound that made his hair stand on end; Grime's hair would have also stood on end had he only had any.
Looking to the left, they spied two large pots boiling over an open fire, on the ground around the fire lay Clamface and his crew, moaning and groaning in agony, clutching their stomachs, their faces a sickly shade of green.
Gurrey took in the scene in one all-encompassing glance and with his finely-honed detective’s mind, immediately understood what was taking place.
Gurrey took in the scene in one all-encompassing glance and with his finely-honed detective’s mind, immediately understood what was taking place.
"What’s going on here Gurrey?" whimpered a confused and bewildered Grime, "Do they have the vapours...or consumption? It's not contagious is it? You know I shouldn't be around sick people with my delicate condition!"
Jim Prime's ending -
In actual fact, Grime knew immediately that it was a month without an "R" in it and therefore the purloined periwinkles were poison! He turned to his flatulent friend, who was unsure of what month, or indeed year it was and intoned, "Case closed!" Gurrey looked at him, confused. Grime moved to his other side and shouted "Case closed!" into Gurrey's functional ear. "And not a minute too soon," ejaculated Gurrey. "I have to get home to watch Corrie. Isn't that Tracey a bitch?" Grime smiled tolerantly at his somewhat senile sidekick. The fact was that Grime loved his lifelong friend, warts and all, although the wart at the end of his bulbous nose was a tad off-putting. “Yes. Yes she is, Gurrey. But I wouldn’t kick her out of bed for eating Betty’s hotpot, if you know what I mean.” “I have no idea, replied Gurrey.” Soon the two dicks were motoring past the bright lights of Freeport toward the lone bright light of Westport – the one at the end of the ferry wharf - satisfied that, at least for now, the citizens of the Tri-Islands area could sleep safely. (Editor’s note: Although Peter's Island and Brier Island were technically atolls, the good people of Long Island had agreed to elevate them to the ‘island’ designation and welcome them to the archipelago)
In actual fact, Grime knew immediately that it was a month without an "R" in it and therefore the purloined periwinkles were poison! He turned to his flatulent friend, who was unsure of what month, or indeed year it was and intoned, "Case closed!" Gurrey looked at him, confused. Grime moved to his other side and shouted "Case closed!" into Gurrey's functional ear. "And not a minute too soon," ejaculated Gurrey. "I have to get home to watch Corrie. Isn't that Tracey a bitch?" Grime smiled tolerantly at his somewhat senile sidekick. The fact was that Grime loved his lifelong friend, warts and all, although the wart at the end of his bulbous nose was a tad off-putting. “Yes. Yes she is, Gurrey. But I wouldn’t kick her out of bed for eating Betty’s hotpot, if you know what I mean.” “I have no idea, replied Gurrey.” Soon the two dicks were motoring past the bright lights of Freeport toward the lone bright light of Westport – the one at the end of the ferry wharf - satisfied that, at least for now, the citizens of the Tri-Islands area could sleep safely. (Editor’s note: Although Peter's Island and Brier Island were technically atolls, the good people of Long Island had agreed to elevate them to the ‘island’ designation and welcome them to the archipelago)
Ben Robicheau's ending -
"Not to worry Grimey", said Gurrey, "what they've got isn't catching. See all those lobster and clam shells lying about and all those empty Digby Dairy milk bottles? Clamface tried to set himself up as a big man in the hot seafood business, the foremost fence of fraudulent fillets. But he foolishly forgot a couple of the basic rules of the fresh seafood game; don't drink milk with lobster and never eat shellfish in a month with no ‘R’". It appears that Clamface is now out of business, his reputation in the seafood racket forever ruined just because he didn't pay attention to a couple of old wives tales".
With Clamface and his men too weak to put up much of a resistance, Gurrey and Grime soon had them trussed up with cod-line and sent on their way to the Digby hoosegow.
"Not to worry Grimey", said Gurrey, "what they've got isn't catching. See all those lobster and clam shells lying about and all those empty Digby Dairy milk bottles? Clamface tried to set himself up as a big man in the hot seafood business, the foremost fence of fraudulent fillets. But he foolishly forgot a couple of the basic rules of the fresh seafood game; don't drink milk with lobster and never eat shellfish in a month with no ‘R’". It appears that Clamface is now out of business, his reputation in the seafood racket forever ruined just because he didn't pay attention to a couple of old wives tales".
With Clamface and his men too weak to put up much of a resistance, Gurrey and Grime soon had them trussed up with cod-line and sent on their way to the Digby hoosegow.
Well Grimey, looks like we've closed another case", said Gurrey, "Here, let me carry your oxygen bottles back to the car for you."
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