The Green Hornet

By Rick Hartford

My name is Ricardo Blackbird.

Some call me Rico.

Some call me Birdy.

Some call me Dirty and yeah they’d be right.

I’m a gumshoe.

A Shamus.

A Private Dick.

I’m on the prowl in my 1964 Chevy Malibu. It’s the same car that starred in the movie Repo Man, minus the mysterious green glow.

I could use a mysterious glow right now.

I’m on a skip trace and I’m THIS close but the mark gets wasted in a hit like the Valentines Day Massacre at the Bloody Well Steak House down by the seaport. Except itt’s the fourth of July.

The Valentine’s Day angle?

Everybody gets shot in the heart.

Did somebody expect Hershey’s kisses?

I just pulled into the parking lot when I hear the rat-a-tat of machine gun fire that tells me I should be running in the other direction. I hide behind a dumpster next to the restaurant. A rat peeks its head out and dives to the asphalt, kicking up gravel as it exits stage left.

A smart rat knows when to leave the ship.

I hear car doors slam and engines start and then there is a long silence.

I slink into the dining room to the smell of fresh death. The flies are already going to work on the bodies, but one of them is still breathing, pink bubbles forming on his lips as he rasps his dying breaths.

That’s my boy!

And I’m soon to be out of a bozo.

He is slumped against the wall and he still has his piece in his hand but he won’t be lifting it any time soon. He is looking at me like I”m the grim reaper. Maybe I am.

“Water,” he says.

I got nothing but my flask full of booze and I hold it to his lips. Because beggars can’t be choosers he accepts the sip like it’s the wine during communion.

“How did you get wasted, Ace?”

He looks like he is thinking it over.

“The vodka?”

“Not that. I mean who put the tap on you guys?”

He coughs and blood runs out of his mouth and down his white shirt. He looks down at it. I say don’t worry about it, a little hydrogen peroxide works miracles on blood stains.

“They took the Green Hornet,” he says.

“Who is the Green Hornet?” I ask.

“It’s not a who. It’s a what. Worth millions,” he gets out before coughing blood. Judging by the volume this conversation is going to wrap up quicker than I can say “bring in a body bag.”

“Like a green bug?”

He laughs, the blood spattering on my suit.

“A green sapphire, you numb nut.”

“You don’t know me well enough to call me that,” I say.

But I am lecturing a dead man.

They never listen.

I take the guy’s wallet to slow down the police investigation and make for the door, careful not to touch anything.

My first stop is at the Apocalypse Hock Shop on the scruffy edge of the city. Jimmy Pimples, proprietor.

The door swings open to the tune of Take Me Out to the Ball Game. Pimples is bent over a table looking at a piece of jewelry with a magnifying glass.

He looks up.

“Hey Pimp,” I say.

Pimp likes me, even though I put him on the bus to the hoosegow a few years ago. It’s because I don’t do pimple jokes.

Pimp, being in the business that he is, knows a lot about jewels. He puts he magnifying glass down on the table.

“Buying or selling?” Pimple asks, hopefully.

“Seeking wisdom,” I say.

“Its wasted on you, pal,” he says. “You’d look much better in this Madras jacket,” which he is now holding up under my gaze.

“With a pair of jackass slacks?” I ask.

“I don’t have any more in stock,” he says. “The golf tournament was last week.”

I look at the jacket. “It’s great! “I’ll take it!”

“So, what did you want to know?”

“Tell me about the Green Hornet,” I say.

Pimples’ eyes narrow.

“I should ask you why you want to know,” Pimples says. “But instead I’ll tell you what you need to know. The Green Hornet, the rarest of green sapphires in history, is cursed. The stone has mesmerized countless collectors who cannot resist seeking it out even though it has brought all of those who possess it to ruin. The stone has been worn by royalty and scoundrels alike. Smitten by its beauty, men and women have killed for it.”

“I can’t see this story as a real selling point for a trinket named named after a wasp with a poison needle coming out of its arse.

You have to see it in person,” Pimples says.

“How can I find it?” I ask.

“Just put it out there,” Pimples says. “It will come to you.”

I”m thinking that whoever took the Hornet is going to put it on the Dark Web.

When I think of Dark, I think of the Hawaiian.

The Hawaiian is a surfer who ran with Murph the Surf, or Jack Murphy, one of the best surfers on the east coast as well as a jewel thief and a killer. In those days, the Hawaiian was only 16 years-old but looking about 30. He stood 6’3 and was a dead ringer for King Kamehameha, the Hawaiian warrior.

The Hawaiian specialized even at that tender age in barroom brawls, which he excelled at even though his left arm was bitten off by a Great White shark during a surfing contest. Now, older and wiser, he acts as a guide to the Dark Side.

I find him on the beach at sunset, sitting next to his board, looking out at the ocean. An ever present Camel is parked in the left hand corner of his lips, an ash dropping off into the sand.

I move as quietly as I can but the Hawaiian picks me up with some sort of telepathic sonar.

“Pull up a chair, Birdy,” he says, patting the sand on his right side.

I sit, crosslegged, lighting up a Kool. We both stay silent as the great orange star sizzles into the drink.

After the sun sets the moon creeps in.

The Hawaiian speaks, still looking straight ahead at the horizon.

“Still worshipping Babe Noir?”

I elect to light up another Kool. I contemplate the man in the moon. He has a smirk on his face.

Babe Noir. A kitty girl with long black hair and a voice like blue velvet who I first met three years ago when she was pole dancing at the Drop Dead Cafe.

“I still groove on her,” I say. “

“Some times it feels Platonic. Other times it feels Atomic.”

“I can dig it,” he says.

Babe Noir.

When I held her in my arms I was in Heaven on earth. She was a goddess who could heal my soul with the slightest touch. But was a hard lover with a cruel streak. When we were out together I could see guys sizing her up. She’s be looking back.

And then she would look at me, her green eyes making me believe in her every single lie.

Fog crawls across the sand like a furtive gray beast and the night gets cool in the mist.

“I’ve been looking around,” the Hawaiian says. “You are definitely in front of this. The Green Hornet is up for sale and the bidding begins at two rocks.”

I say, “Can you stick with it until the sale?” I want to highjack the piece after it gets handed off to the new owner.”

“You sure you want to touch that thing?” says the Hawaiian. The Green Hornet is bad juju.”

I consider that and shrug, thinking of the man who sent me on this quest, now deader than a smile on a traveling salesman.

Bad juju, indeed.

I bid the Hawaiian farewell and go home to my Airstream trailer in the Almost Heaven trailer park next to an auto graveyard with a junk yard dog which tonight howls at the full moon. I throw my shoulder holster on the couch and heat up a can of beef stew flavored with bourbon and washed down with more bourbon.

The next day I think ‘about visiting Babe Noir at the Star Palace, a strip joint next to a porn shop and a bar named Dirty Dicks. 

It’s a good neighborhood to be carrying some heat and I got my Cheetah in a shoulder holster under my jacket and a Tomcat in an ankle holster, so I’m feeling phat.

I don’t really want to see Babe Noir under the strobe lights. Whenever I do I feel sad and jealous as a wannabe John stuffs a Benny into her tank top.

I hate that I love her.

I always will.

But I go anyway, grabbing a stool at the bar just as she comes out to do her routine. She is mesmerizing. A raven-haired beauty with perfect Coppertone skin. The lights shine on her glittering sweat as she embraces the pole like a lover. She turns her head and looks through me as if I were a ghost.

At the same time I feel the barrel of a gun in my ribs and turn to see the Hawaiian.

“You know that me and Babe are stepping out, right?” The Hawaiian says.

“I love her and we are going places. Places far away. She won’t need that pole no more,” he says.

“So are you telling me you want me as best man?”

The Hawaiian looks off to Babe Noir in the silver light as she grinds away.

“When you told me about the Green Hornet I knew I was destined to take it,” the Hawaiian says. “So I set up a meet, just as you said, and aced the buyer and his body guard. So now it’s ours and we are leaving with it, while you just sit here drinking your drink. Give me your piece, Birdy. And listen to me when I tell you I don’t want you following me out that door.

I reach under my jacket and pull out my Cheetah and lay it on the bar. He slips it into his jacket pocket and stands, walking up on the stage and taking Babe by the hand, leading her down the steps.

The audience groans and curses as the two head for the door.

Neither of them look back, but I spy a ring on Babe’s right hand. Its green lustre reaches out as they walk through the door, beckoning me.

As soon as it closes I bolt from my stool and run for it.

By the time I make the parking lot they are getting into the Hawaiian’s car. The engine starts.

As I run I call out to her.

“I love you, Babe Noir!”

Neither of them can hear me as I chase the car to the intersection, my lungs searing..

The red light turns into a green light and the Hawaiian’s Caddy accelerates into the night.

I slow to a walk

Llght a cigarette.

They can’t hide from me forever.

I’m a detective.

And Babe Noir is my Green Hornet.