(Jeremiad) The War called Peace

He looked around franticly, an image of his daughter, materialized in his head and as quickly faded; he couldn’t fathom that someone could just disappear that sudden, he looked around the corner and though the streets were crowded, he couldn’t miss the hot pink dress she was barely wearing, yet it and she were nowhere to be seen. "Damn!" He barked, and was disgustipated with himself for letting the small frame, dark haired, working girl get away. Detective Gaylord Elmer Joon, panted as he, pulled his sagging pants up, and pushed his taped, broken spectacles to their comfort zone.

The darkness ambushed detective Joon's eyes as soon as he enters the dim lit tavern, the cigarette smoke comes in a wave of mingled poisons, to detective Joon it was a smell of delightful danger. The clanking of glasses, yahooing and heavy belligerent talk with Hank Williams wailing about "seeing the light" greeted his newly focus senses. He scanned the bar like a shark on the prowl; he spotted his partner in a far corner waving him over like a long, clumsy noodle of a madman, he continued searching out the girl, through out and in all the shadowy corners, but alas she was not in the bar. He made a mental note, ‘She wasn’t your daughter, concentrate, Dick Tracy. Dick Tracy.’

Detective Charles Cohen sat in a corner booth that was horse shoe shaped, the cushion was soft vinyl, brandy red and a pillowy relief to Detective Joon’s fat, tired ass. The table was cherry wood oak, stripped of any charm from years of drunkard abuse, and petty vandalism; it held CC’s keys and his Shirley temple, Detective Joon tossed the four folders holding the case files down, and threw in his derby and new pack of Chesterfields, now it was cluttered just the way he liked it. A skimpy clad, lanky, ugly women, dressed in a black sequence tube top, and the color of the day it seems, neon, hot pink mini skirt with large black polka-dots. She also wore a blue jean, half apron wrapped around her waist, it had a very large bulge with a wet spot, she came over and demurely inquired of his drinking preference. Detective Joon took two seconds to size her and her history up, he smiled politely and said, "Be a doll and get me a bucket glass of water, make it frozen, and surrounded by three dips of white mans bourbon. Ya know what, I don’t wanna keep you running back and forth just to keep me in good spirits even though you’re a sight for sore eyes, tell you what honey just bring the bottle and make it Black Velvet. You sure are a pretty thang." Detective Joon has been practicing the art of persuasion determined on his subject’s character and state of mind, he believes everyone falls into a certain mental category; the barmaid for example, she’s a needer, because she is not an attractive women, she lacks the confidence or conceit to be a noticeable individual, hence she dresses to be noticed by the opposite sex, loud and it advertises her need for a mans attention and hopefully his ravishing touch. So if he feeds her simple words of encouragement, gentle kindness showing recognition to her labor of self approval, and her need to be a woman, it pays off.

"Oh!" She looked down with a shy embarrassment, but one could still see her pale visage turn from strawberries and cream to a rosy bouquet. "Gee thanks." She fusses with her hair nervously. " Sure! I’ll be right back with a new bottle.