MATT CADD, PRIVATE EYE: Juneteenth

Matt Cadd's calendar said it was Emancipation Day.

He gassed up his 1959 Roman Red Corvette and steered slowly out of the city and into the wide open spaces.

The engine yowled when he stomped on the accelerator. The wind howled past his open windows.

Now we're livin', he thought.






50 mph in 2nd gear

MATT CADD, PRIVATE EYE: Tin Star

Hard times. No clients.

Matt Cadd had to investigate claims for Western Sun Insurance. Dull work but good pay.

They made him carry a badge. A cheap, shiny rectangle of thin metal with a solar logo and a number. FIRST MIDDLE LAST in all capitals.

It made his wallet bulge.








Element No. 50

MATT CADD, PRIVATE EYE: The Honey Pot 5

"You can look but you can't touch ain't no fun for me, doll."

"Oh, Matt," Honey, exasperated, whined, "it's just a party."

"Not when your're liquored up in a little black dress. Fuhgettaboutit. Wait for Roger what's-his-name to get home."

"Boring."

"What?"

"Boring."

"Sorry, doll, boring's all I got left."









If Bo's a 10, Honey's a 50.

MATT CADD, PRIVATE EYE: B & E

Mrs. Chan called Matt Cadd when her place was burgled. She sat in the kitchen. Housecoat. Slippers. Sipping a screwdriver.

"I see him again, I shoot him," she said.

"Don't," he said. "Makes a mess."

She smiled, reached in a pocket, handed over two quarters.

"You get me a paper."





50¢ in the slot.

MATT CADD, PRIVATE EYE: School's Out

"Chile? Alone? No."

Matt Cadd took April Day to breakfast. Her work year was over.

"I'm a big girl. And I speak Spanish. Con fluidez. And I didn't ask permission. And I need a holiday."

He sighed. "Call me daily."

She laughed. "How about weekly?"

He drank his coffee.

"OK."






Días cincuenta sobre la carretera (Fifty days on the road).

MATT CADD, PRIVATE EYE: To Know a Veil 5

It was a postcard. The stamp had some guy wearing a fez.

Dear Matt,

Having a wonderful time. You wouldn't like it here. No booze. Chaperoned dates. I'm so sore I can hardly walk, just dance. Don't know when I'll see you, but I doubt you'll miss me.

Love?

Raven







(one hundred and) fifty degrees of separation

MATT CADD, PRIVATE EYE: Aloha

It was Hawaiian night at Maxine's Retro Lounge. Loud shirts. Don Ho. Pineapples on pizza. Authentic Primo beer smuggled in from Honolulu.

Matt Cadd was bored, and headed for the door. I'll take a ride in my roadster, he thought.

He got as far as The Anchor.

"Rye. Neat. Please."





The 50th state.

MATT CADD, PRIVATE EYE: Memorial Day

Matt Cadd ground out his last cigarette on the hot asphalt beneath the park bench. The bands had marched to the beat of the bass drums and the wail of the bagpipes. The crowds had gone home, the speeches forgotten.

The dead remained, their eternity cocooned in the cold earth.








Shoppers get 50% off!

MATT CADD, PRIVATE EYE: The Honey Pot 4

Roger Boring was in Aspen. Honey called Matt Cadd. Drinks. Dinner. Show. More drinks. He took her home.

"Say, doll, how's about . . . ?"

He never finished. She held up her left hand--it sported a big, shiny rock.

"I'm engaged."

"But, doll--"

"No more wrestling matches for this girl," she said.






50 G's on her finger.

MATT CADD, PRIVATE EYE: Pentecost

Matt Cadd was sleeping.

He swam underwater. He surfaced. Johnny's ghost stood on the shore, dressed in white, speaking a foreign tongue. The wind blew.

Later, April Day told him what the dream meant. "His spirit is with you."

Those guys ought to keep better hours, he thought, and yawned.






Seven weeks plus one: 50 days

MATT CADD, PRIVATE EYE: To Know a Veil 4

Matt Cadd's legs were asleep--two hours on the carpeted floor of a Moroccan restaurant. Raven was footing the bill.

"I'm moving to Egypt, Matt."

He gagged on his thick, muddy coffee.

"There's a teacher. She's the last of a line. I can't say no."

He couldn't feel his feet.





Those are 50-piastre coins on the belt, y'know.

MATT CADD, PRIVATE EYE: Death and Taxis

April 15th was two weeks past. Honey wouldn't do them: Matt Cadd was flying solo.

Forms in his lap, signed and sealed, the cab headed downtown, and was blindsided by a bus. The driver and car were accordioned. A grisly scene.

The passenger stumbled out, battered, alive, envelope in hand.







C'mon, mac, all ya got's a fifty?

MATT CADD, PRIVATE EYE: Cat Burglar

The office was on the 13th floor, but they called it the Executive Level. Eleven stories and a lobby: Matt Cadd could add. He wasn't superstitious. An easy gig, other than the Breaking & Entering.

It wasn't stealing. It was stealing back.

Sleeping easy was a tool of the trade.






Illicit Activity: $50.00/hr. surcharge

MATT CADD, PRIVATE EYE: Cherchez la Femme

Stolen mail. Bad checks. Credit card fraud. Identity theft. The client's life was a mess.

Matt Cadd worked backwards at County Records. Then he took a drive to the suburbs.

Nice house. Green lawn. New SUV. Quiet neighbors. This gal had it good.

Figured an ex for this, he thought.






Fifty kinds of payback.

MATT CADD, PRIVATE EYE: Bad Blood

Her brother died, she was the last of the line. Matt Cadd found her in a senior apartment scrimping pennies on a widow's pension.

"I don't want the money," she said.

"But you could buy your own house, never pay rent again!"

"You didn't know them--I'd rather be broke."





Fifty years holding a grudge: hope it ages well.

MATT CADD, PRIVATE EYE: Make Mine Hardboiled

Carter Richman hired Matt Cadd to watch the family jewels at his granddaughter's debut. It was an inside job: slip the dick a mickey, cart off the loot, skip town.

Hangovers were no match for this headache, but that didn't hurt nearly as much as the egg on his face.








Remember when Ol' Luke ate fifty of 'em on a bet?

MATT CADD, PRIVATE EYE: Touch Me Not

Matt Cadd went to Church once a year: Christmas, maybe, or Easter. April Day dragged him this time, and together they prayed for Johnny's soul. And he thought of all the bad things he'd done, and of her lost innocence.

The priest went on and on. Tough racket, he thought.








A fifty in the basket won't buy absolution.

MATT CADD, PRIVATE EYE: The Caldron

Mrs. Chan owned the building where Matt Cadd had his office. Yearly, he renewed his lease. The ritual was the same: smoke Luckies, drink gunpowder, play mah jongg.

Then she would consult the I Ching, and divine his future.

"Ting," she said, "great progress and success."

Fat chance, he thought.






Fifty stalks of yarrow.

MATT CADD, PRIVATE EYE: Spring Forward, Fall Back

Matt Cadd spent Sundays catching up on sleep. On the seventh day, one rested. At least for a while. When evening came, duty called.

Shower. Shave. Coffee. Food. Cigarette.

He was at the rendezvous when they'd said--exactly nine p.m. Then he remembered, one hour too late.

Daylight Savings Time.





Fifty years of this crap.

MATT CADD, PRIVATE EYE: Working Girl

Matt Cadd was alone. Honey? Boring. Raven? Dancing. He went looking for Candi. He found her in Starbuck's with mocha and croissant. He wheedled. He smooth-talked. He got her.

She waited.

"Doll. You mean it? You're charging me?"

"It's a work night," she pouted, "you--of anyone--ought to understand."






Fifties don't talk. They scream.