The Real Slim Shady

It had been a slow week when she walked into the office, a real slow week. I was kicked back in my chair, Air Jordans up on the desk, wondering if LA was ever gonna get another goddamn football team. Then I saw her limo pull up. Before my lazy-ass secretary even pointed her in my direction, I knew this was the big score, the case of the year. See I'm Slim Shady, private eye.

The woman opened my door and closed it behind her. Man, she was smooth. Turning down the blinds on the door, she looked up all hot and sexy from behind a floppy hat. Tweed and miniskirts never looked so good. Hmm-hmm, tits to die for and legs that wouldn't quit. But that hat was gawd awful.

I struggled to think of where I'd seen her before. She looked like the long lost child of Humphrey Bogart and Jessica Rabbit. Maybe she was on the cover of Vogue last week. It was gonna come to me, I never forget a pretty rack.

"Can I help you, ma'am?" That's my sweetest voice. I always try to make a good first impression, it was my mother's upbringing.

"I don' know, fella. You Slim Shady?" She had this fake London accent thing going, but I saw right through it.

"I'm the real Shady. Mind if I don't stand up?"

She smirked a bit and that's when I recognized her. "I wouldn't expect you to. Are you a dick?"

"Do you need one?"

"I've had several, I just wanted a good one."

She had me at 'dick.' I'd seen her on MTV, but she never usually wore this much. She smelled sweet too. Man, I had to land this case.

"Well, I'm the best. Those others are just imitators, yada fuckin' yada. So, you wanna a drink?"

"Does the Pope hate Sinead O'Conner?" I pointed at the corner where my cheap whiskey sat. She looked at me like I was a fuckin' idiot, but she went over and poured herself one anyway. That gave me a chance to look at that ass. My god, yoga was doin' it for this broad.

She downed her first glass and leaned back against the cabinet fingering her second. "I want you to find something for me."

"Piece of cake. How much is it worth to ya?" I figured if she'd had several other PI's looking for it, this might be the taco bell grande paycheck.

She shrugged and stuck her finger into the drink to stir it. "Aww, are you all about the benjamins, luv?"

"You ain't into material, girl?" I was crackin' myself up. "Nice limo for a shanti broad."

She looked at me like I was Tattoo from Fantasy fuckin' Island dunkin' a ball on fuckin' Shaq. I was feelin' no love. "How much will you run me?"

"Oh, I can be had for $500 a day plus expenses."

"Good, I thought I was going to have to fuck you."

I gulped. Damn. I didn't know that was a payment option. "Of course, I could be rented as well..."

She smiled. "Will you do it?"

"Fuck you?"

"Find something for me."

"Depends on what you've lost." I couldn't believe I was make a play for fuckin' weirdass Rodman's sloppy seconds, and even more unbelievable was that she didn't seem to be giving it up that easy.

"A tape."

"Scotch or duct?"

She stared at me to see if I was serious. Unfortunately, I was. "A video, you moron. I need it back."

I flashed my best innocent look at her. "That sounds easy. Where'd you lose it?"

"My husband threw it out. The goddamn paparazzi got it and sold it to someone. I want it back."

I read somewhere that she'd married some geeky British director. Probably trying to revive her movie career. What little she had. The best thing she ever did on screen was "Reservoir Dogs" and she wasn't even in it. I bet she even sent little Quim Tarantino roses for finally explaining that virgin song.

"What's on it?" I had to shift my Jordans to see her expression. I was being reeled in.

"What do you think?"

Now I got a great imagination, but I didn't have much patience for imagination games at this point. "You fuckin' Clinton in a kiddy pool on the West Lawn. See, I'd sell it and say it was stole outa your safe or something."

She smiled again. "I never fucked Bill, and Hillary wouldn't let me tape her for political reasons. You gonna do it or not?"

"Any idea who bought it?" I was trying to figure out in my head how I'd up my price. I'm always thinkin'.

"Tabloids were all offered a piece, but it was sold to an exclusive buyer. Here in Los Angeles. I didn't get the name from the photographer who sold it before he turns up dead with his balls in his mouth."

Bingo. That raised the ante. "Five hundred thousand I find it. Two fifty even if I don't."

She scrunched her nose. "Nothing if you don't find it. I'll fuck you if you do. Then I'll tell you what you're worth."

With that, I was on the case.

**********************************************

"Open the fuck up, Dre. We got shit to do." I banged on the door for the third time. The ZZ Top-looking whino slumped down the hall gave me the 'shush' finger. These shit-hole cabanas were becoming a fuckin' zoo.

Door opens and there's Dre's man, Snoopy Dog-Dog. I can't even see his eyes for the smoke whizzin' around his head like Pig-Pen.

"You owe me 50 bucks," I told him as I walked past looking for the good doctor.

"I know, I done told you I'd get you the bread when I get it. Gaddamn. C'mon, loosen up un izzle the shizzle dizzle?"

I turned back around and looked in his squinty eyes. "What da fuck did you just say? Is that English?"

He started giggling and wandered off to find some Cheetos. Snoopy hadn't been the same since he was busted for tax evasion. For three years the man had cash rollin' in by the buckets from some online site selling masturbation hand lotion called "Dog Pound." Guess he figured Internet money don't make no taxes.

I found Dre in front of the big screen where I left him last week. His real name was Andre but he shot a guy for callin' him that once. Hit him in the nut too. Dre had been a doctor in Compton until he got kicked out for being too generous with the drugs. What kind of fucked up country is it where a doctor can't even make a brother feel better, he was always sayin'. He even wrote up a medical paper once on Chronic Lazy Syndrome, but some white dude changed the name to fatigue and took all the fuckin' credit. He had connections though and a hella way with the ladies. Like Rosie.

"Hey Dre, you don't hear me knock anymore? Hey Rosie." Rosie was three teeth deep on Dre's cock but managed to wink at me with her eyebrows. Dre had one hand steadying her head so she wouldn't lift up too much and the other on the remote.

"What, you think I'd be disrespectful to Rosie like that? Get up and get the door to let your ass in?" Dre had a way with logic. He was smart, no doubt. "Look at this ho, don't she look like she'd fuck you raw?"

I thought he meant Rosie and I nodded in agreement, but he was pointing at the big screen. I turned to see the old sex talk lady stroking a tie-dyed dildo and talking about lubrication choices. "You mean Grandma Erectile Dysfunction? You're drunk."

"Shit, yeah. She'd probably do things to you make you holler mama. Wrinkled old hands and shit. That's extra motion for the lotion."

"Yeah, well, let Snoopy fuck her then. We got stuff to do." I kicked his leg to indicate how serious I was.

Dre looked up. "What are you all uptight about, Mr. Jerry Fuckin' Falwell? Shit, what happened to your hair?"

Sven had fucked up my hair no doubt. I looked like Jim Carrey from Dumb and Dumber. But a real puke blonde. If he hadn't been a fag I woulda punched him in his mouth. It was a damn sucky haircut for seventy-five dollars, but I did get a scalp massage for free. I shrugged and told him I didn't want to talk about it.

"Damn cuz, you're gonna be in therapy you keep going to Sunset for a do, man. Let me hook you up with a sister I know, give you a blowjob and a trim just ten bucks."

"C'mon, Dre. We've gotta job, a big one. Pronto, man, pronto. Excuse me, Rosie, but can you go a little Speedy Gonzalez on him? I'll be in the car." I almost knocked over ZZ's paper bag on the way down the hall, I was so mad. Maybe it was the haircut after all.

**************************************************

"OK, turn in here." Dre pointed to the Italian place on the corner. "So did she say she was gonna fuck you or did she just give you that Brittany Spears look? Like she's gonna tease you till you blow spam and call it a lay. Go round back."

"She said I had to find the tape and I was in like Anne Boleyn. You gonna talk to the Ape?"

"Yeah, he's gonna know who bought that tape. Plus, he owes me one. I got him laid last month, remember?"

The Ape was from Queens or some shit, real mob job. All the Italians called him Bo-Bo, but Ape fit him better. He weighed at least 450. Legend had it two years ago he killed a hooker in a sixty nine. Just suffocated her. I heard later she's just paralyzed a little, but none of the usual broads will do him now. Still, Dre knows people that can hook a fella up.

We found him two-fistin' calzones by the bust of John Paul. Chitchat not being his forte, he told us to go fuck ourselves. But Dre reminded him of Lulu, his long lost love, and he sang like a bird. Even ordered us a Chianti, which tasted like shit. Before long we were headed for the hills.

"What you think of his story?" I was sure that nobody named Bo-Bo could be taken seriously, it's a matter of principle.

"Makes sense in a Hollywood kinda way. Who else pays that kind of money for a tape like that? The Penns got money and motive. I can't wait to hear what the Enquirer bid though."

We pulled up to a gated guardhouse overlooking mudslide central. Suburban Beverly Hills is like the ultimate Three Little Pig story, but nobody lived there could even spell San Andreas Fault. The guard knew me and a few magic pills offered up by the doctor got us up to the front door. Julio, the pool boy met us coming around the side of the house and said the only one home was Mrs. Penn and she was out by the pool. Dre and I looked at each other and headed for the promised land.

The pool was one of those lap jobs which I never understood. You couldn't even cannonball and who'd wanna get ass-nasty in a lap pool. You'd think that big celebrities could learn a thing or two from Hefner. The leggy blonde in the stripped bikini lay on a very expensive towel, legs askew. I learned that word from Dre, askew.

"Afternoon, ma'am. Nice towel you got there." I bent down next to her so she wouldn't spook on us. Dre walked right up to the foot of the lady's lounger and soaked up the view.

"You're the Gump chick, right? Naked Bob Dylan, or some shit like that. Yeah, I recognize those tits anywhere. Too bad about 'Toys' though, dog. Everybody craps now and then."

"You fellas got a search warrant or something?" She raised her hand toward the sun to shade her Raybans. She had her other arm cocked on her cute little hip like she was Nancy Badass or somebody. Still, she wasn't NOT enjoying the conversation thus far.

"Hell no, we ain't cops. That's Dre and I'm Slim Shady. You know, the detective. Like Magnum PI, only not so Charlton Heston. We just had a question for your husband."

She looked like I was speaking Mexican or something, but Dre interrupted before she warmed up to me. "What he means is that we're not just big fans who'd like to have our dicks signed with a Sharpie. Necessarily. But we got some bidness to do too."

She looked up into the sun at him. "Are you Dr. Dre? Chronic Lazy?"

"That's me."

"That Chronic thing changed my life. I had that shit for two years and my doctor didn't give me nothing but Prozac." She smiled sweetly and relaxed her Badass arm. "Right after 'Toys' matter of fact. What can I do for you?"

I looked at Dre. Hell, if he could get my dick signed I would let him keep going, but he picked a bad time to go star struck. I started to explain about this anonymous client who lost a tape and we tracked it to her husband.

"Is this mystery client his ex-wife, hon?" Man, she was good. She could make Jack fuckin' Nicholson nervous. Before I stammered out a reply, she said, "Trashy bitch doesn't know when to quit, probably mailed him a movie of her diddling herself with the DVD sleeve of Dead Man Walking. Now wants to see if he liked it."

"Well, that's not what we heard..."

"I'll give him the message, Slim Pickens. Now run along and chase some deadbeat dads. You take care now, Dre. And don't be a stranger."

*************************************************

I climbed back into the car and pounded on the wheel. "Shit, shit, shit!!!" Dre slammed the door and pulled his seatbelt over. "I know, I coulda nailed her if she'd given me two more minutes. Damn, those movie babes are slippery."

"Well, what now? Track down his agent, one of his brothers, what'ya think? I met Mike at a strip club once."

"Didn't his brother beat up a midget a while back??? Or was it Gary Coleman?"

"Naw, it was a midget. And that was his other brother. The chubby one. I meant the singing one, Michael. I bet we could catch him playin' in a titty bar someplace."

"It'd be hard to beat up a midget. Too much leverage being that short. And watch out for your balls, little fuckers got regular size teeth, you know."

We did find Michael at a titty bar, but he wasn't playing there. Turns out the whole family's acting now. Fuckin' nepotism. We slid into the booth with him and some talent scout while Trudy Tenuda ground into some sailor's face while "Hot in Herre" blasting out at top volume.

"S'up, Michael. You been watching any films lately?" I sat right between the casting guy and Trudy's bouncing ass. He was soon dodging and weaving to get a look at her talents.

"Fuck, Shady. Where did you get that haircut? You look like Jim Carrey."

"Shut up, asswipe. I hear the family bought a little video outa England recently. Top dollar even. You go in, fifty-fifty?"

Michael stared at my hair for a minute and then looked at Dre. "Did you see his hair? You gonna walk around with him like that?" He smiled and gave me some pansy-ass wink.

Dre mumbled something, apparently too busy watching Trudy drown the poor seaman in tits. "Woo-wee, she's got a couple of million dollar assets there," grunted the casting dweeb. I ordered a round for the table to switch tactics.

"Look, you know about the tape I mean, right? Former sister-in-law turned henna spokesmodel? I just want to know who has it, that's all." I grinned sweetly, but secretly promised to hit him if he winked at me again.

"Yeah, I heard about it. Sean mentioned it once. Said he wondered when it would go missing and turn up on Hard Copy. I think I woulda heard if he'd gotten rid of it finally." He sipped his drink and looked down at it. "Probably a lot more money to be had by selling it to someone else."

"That's what I thought. But maybe he got to missing the old stuff a little. You know, wanted to relive the good ole days, you think?"

Mike looked at me and stubbed his cigarette. "Are you kidding? Have you seen what's waiting for him back home? Shit, I bet his ex would even fuck you. You're talking crazy now."

"Yeah, I suppose." I thought about who else wanted that tape more than fifty-million dollars. "What's on it, exactly?" I wished I hadn't asked as soon as I asked. He looked at me and frowned.

"You fuck. Go to hell. Or better yet, go ask Sean yourself, you pussy."

I decided that's what we had to do. Right after Dre fucked Trudy in the janitor's closet. He came out smelling like fuckin' tuna Comet. I told him to go wash his dick in the sink or else he'd get the clap but he laughed and stuck himself with a Rocephin shot. Fuckin' doctors.

*******************************************

We found the king Penn on the backlot in his trailer. Dre slipped a few more mickeys and got us access to the "Fasttimes 2: Class Reunion" set and there his ass was, camped out in a swanky mobile home, dressed like fuckin' Spicoli.

The trailer looked like shit and smelled like weed. Dre broke into a smile as soon as he stepped on. "Man, now this some movie star shit right here. How you doin', Sean?"

I hung back, after all, this maniac had a rep for punching short white men who followed him around. But he gave Dre a hug and gave me the wa'sup. Crazy fucker talked just like Jeff Spicoli too. Said he was "in character."

"Hey, I know you, man. You're that Slim Shady dude. I read about you, you found Christina Aguilera's pussy in that tree, right? Bogus she didn't appreciate you tellin' everybody. "

"Yeah, well, I find a lot of things for lotsa people. We got..."

"Righteous, so you're like a pussy catcher, right? What's her cat look like?" Fuckin' nutcase wouldn't leave it alone. One lousy missing cat and I'm a pussy now.

"Her pussy's hairless. Look, we heard you got a tape belongs to my client." I stuck my chest out so he wouldn't even think about it, but he was still fuckin' Spicoli.

"What kinda tape, man, scotch?"

"Funny, Don Ho. No, it's the embarrassing kind. You got any ex-wives with sugarcone tits?"

His face went all sour, no poker face at all. Some great actor. "What about her?!?!" spitting all over me. Funny man had no sense of humor now.

"Like I said, she's out one tape and everybody fingers you. I'm just trackin' it down s'all."

He started shaking like an epileptic and Dre threw up his hands to calm him down. "No, it's cool dude. We just want to get a ANOTHER copy of the tape. See, it was her only one and she's missing it ever so."

Going Tasmanian Devil, Spicoli ripped off his Hawaiian shirt and jumped up on the couch. "THERE IS NO TAPE!!! It's gone, over, destroyed! I watched her fuckin' light it. Bitch is gonna pay!" He was jumping up and down on the couch like a leather trampoline. Dre and I looked at each other.

"Maybe this isn't a good time, yo..."

"I was thinkin' the same thing." But before we could slip out, Spicoli launched himself between us and the door. Fuckin' flew over us. Landed right on his tiny ass feet and dug em in.

"You tell her that if there's a tape, she's dead. Got it? Dead. Not fucked. Not negotiable. Dead." He was definitely postal now.

"Hey, I'm just..."

"No, no. You're not listening to me, no one fuckin' listens to me!" He closed his eyes and squeezed fists in front of his sneering face. Man, what a psycho. "She talked to Robin, they agreed. I got her Evita, I pulled the strings. And I saw her destroy the fuckin' tape. She can't blackmail us again. Robin already knows. They agreed, man!!!"

My mind was racing a mile a minute. How was I going to save my ass and get outa this fuckin' trailer? Dre stepped forward, "So you don't have the tape?"

I don't remember much about what happened next. I remember Dre's head hitting my eye, or maybe it was Spicoli's foot. And somebody was squealing like a fuckin' girl. Dre says it was me. Whatever, we got the fuck out out of that trailer, but man, did we look beat the shit up.

**********************************************

"Gimme that Frosty. Oh shit, that hurts." Dre was trying to put the shake on his face and drink from it all at once. "Did you see him go apeshit? Man, that's not cool. I had a nice shirt on too."

"Fuck, G. You're lucky you didn't get us killed. I thought you were tight with the man?" I was just holding my Frosty against my eye, driving slow so no cops would notice I couldn't see shit.

"You know he's not lying, don'tcha?"

"Yeah, I reckon. Too damn spastic to be fakin' that scene. I don't know where that leaves us now. You think the information's wrong?"

"Gotta be. I think you should call Ms. Lucky Star and tell her she's got her wires crossed."

I got through to some Waldorf geek who said he'd relay the message. A few seconds later, my cell rang. "You found it, doll?" The voice on the other end just purred smooth as Crown Royal.

"Well, not exactly, doll. See everyone here thinks your old boyfriend got it, 'cept I know for a fuckin' fact he don't. Anybody else wants to see you fuckin' him in VHS?"