The Case of the Hungry P.I.

It was a dark and stormy night and I was wandering the streets of downtown Winchester again. I had been on the case of the Pad Thai for months now, and the clues I had so far were getting me nowhere.  I was tired, wet and no closer to solving this case than I was months ago.

The day she walked into my P.I. office was a day like any other. My desk was a mess and the phone was ringing off the hook with calls from bill collectors and town officials trying to make life difficult for me. My assistant, Mildred, let her in the door without asking me first. Mildred was efficient and neat, but the fact that I had bought her a SmartPhone last year had not made her any smarter.

“Are you Marshmallow?” she asked, in a sultry voice that was a smooth as hundred year old Bourbon and probably twice as expensive.

“Marmalowe” I answered sourly. Usually they mispronounce my name confusing it with that fictional Ray Chandler detective but this was a new one.

“My name is Cherry Pancake, Mr. Marmalowe, and I need your help.”

“Really?”

“Yes, I really need your help.”

“No, your name is really Che…?”

“Mr. Marmalowe, are you a private investigator or not? I’m in a bit of a pickle you see, and I can easily get in my diamond and pearl studded Audi Quattro and find help elsewhere.”

The Quattro has legendary all-wheel drive so my interest was piqued, and of course the mention of the diamonds and pearls meant she was filthy rich. I’m not stupid. I calmed her down and convinced her to sit. She glanced down at the time worn chair, held together with duct tape and I guess she decided sitting on it would not kill her. She wove a wordy and mind numbingly boring tale of infidelity and secret meetings, of mysterious phone calls and late nights at work. Finally getting to the point, she told me about a stranger her partner told her that they were going to “get”. Visions of murder and international intrigue ran though my mind when she said her partner’s secret target’s name, Pad Thai.

Needless to say I took the case. Otherwise the story would end here, and that wouldn’t be very entertaining, would it. I searched for months to find this elusive target. I met several people who said that they “had Pad Thai once, and it was wonderful.” Who was this Pad Thai and how did they get around so much?

The incessant march of time went on and found me here, in Winchester. I was a broken man. I thought myself the best P.I. in the business and I couldn’t even find this one person. I sipped my non-fat, triple shot, half Caff, Free Trade, caramel soy macchiato and prepared myself to admit defeat.

“Why the long face my friend?” the sudden intrusion of the voice next to me jolted me back into dreary reality.

I drew a deep breath and held it for a moment as I considered the universe and its injustice. I released a sigh from the darkest pit of my tired soul and muttered, “Pad Thai”.

“Oh, I know…” he said. “So good.”

So he had met this enigmatic figure as well. Was there no dark corner of the world where I could hide? Was I the only rube in an enormous joke being made at my expense? I unfolded my tale of woe to this stranger, about the albatross that hung around my neck all these months. I brought the epic full circle for him and a wry smile came to his face.

“A dish” he said plainly.

“A dame?” I said in resignation. “I figured as much, the way people raved about her.”

“No, you idiot! A dish as in food! Pad Thai is a dish of stir-fried noodles with eggs, fish sauce, tamarind juice and red chili pepper plus a combination of other ingredients.” (Thanks to Wikipedia). Then he got up and walked away, muttering under his breath before he left, “It Rains Fishes”.

What was this? A code? A secret greeting among spies? Was there some coded response I was supposed to make? It Rains Fishes? It Snows Reindeer?

“It’s a restaurant for crying out loud! Do I have to spell it all out for you?” he cried out as he disappeared into the darkness.

It was as if the sky had opened and revealed the secrets of the universe to me, enlightening me and lifting the pall of despair I had been shrouded in for all this time. I reached into the pocket of my rumpled London Fog raincoat and dug for my Smartphone. I flipped through the apps and found the one I was looking for, Urban Spoon. (www.urbanspoon.com) My phone had Location Services turned on so all I had to do was enter a search for It Rains Fishes and it would tell me what was nearby. The result popped up immediately and showed on the map that I was mere steps from my goal.

They were right. The Pad Thai was spectacular. It was a life changing experience for me and I felt like I had to shout it out to the world. I, once again, reached to my Smartphone. Perusing the 534 apps I had installed (I know. I have a problem), I found my soapbox. Tapping on the screen I brought up the Yelp app. (www.yelp.com) I wrote an eloquent review, leaving out the embarrassing details of my adventure.

Of course at this point I felt the need to let all of my friends know where I was and what a good time I was having. I fired up the old FourSquare app (www.foursquare.com) and checked in. Earned points for it being my first time there, but obviously I am far from being the Mayor.

It was then that I realized how rich with adventure this little town was. My location based apps revealed a treasure cache of eateries and shopping, services and sights. The rich bounty of the town square experience was unveiled. I could spend days here just sampling and checking in, logging my locations and taking pictures and notes for the world to see. I had found my true calling and since I wasn’t making any money at being a Private Investigator, I had nothing to lose.

I gave Mildred a call and told her to cancel all of my appointments. She reminded me that I didn’t have any. I told her about Pad Thai. She told me that she knew it was food and that I was an idiot, and then she quit.

I sat on the same bench later that day eating a delicious frozen yogurt and realized that I could have looked up Pad Thai on my phone right from the start and avoided all of this. I should have felt shame or remorse but instead laughed to myself at my foolishness. After all, the femme fatale’s name was Cherry Pancake. I should have seen this all coming.

(Phil Marmalowe gave up investigation and is now a successful Location Services Consultant)