A Woman With Mongrel Ch 01

MONGREL:

The notion 'Get some mongrel in you' means adding something to your persona to provide a harder edge. This supposes a touch of defiance or rebelliousness will make a difference; a significant difference especially to the downtrodden. In this instance the advice to 'get some mongrel' was given to a character who's perceived as being excessively too nice for her own good. This is a detective story purportedly in the traditional genre. -- Author.

*

The pretty card featuring some kind of flower read, "Sorry, chin up; Mrs Robertson."

Harry Q. Truscott wiped his nose with thumb and forefinger aware he didn't know a Mrs Robertson. So she must be the bitch who'd rolled him.

"What pretty pansies," said the male nurse, immediately raising the acidic thought in Harry's still cloudy mind why would a male nurse recognize pansies? Was the guy gay?

He dozed, having been told he'd been in a vehicle accident, was knocked unconscious, had his shoulder broken and a kind surgeon stayed on to attend to a bit of internal bleeding in Harry's belly, thereby making himself unpopular with Mrs Surgeon waiting to be taken to a cocktail party.

Harry was miffed that the value of his life seemed to be on about par with four drinks and a couple of chats over cocktails. Or was that seven drinks and hallway kiss with the hostess?

At 2:00 three elderly women came into his 4-bed cubicle pushing a trolley. They clucked over him, saying it wasn't right that such a fine looking man should be without visitors. They handed him a complimentary stale confectionary bar and a book with the first dozen pages missing.

Everything went quiet when they left, so Harry closed his eyes.

"Hullo, my wounded victim. I'm so terribly sorry."

Huh?

The voice was cultured, beautifully modulated -- young and vibrant, undoubtedly a sex siren, but unfortunately that description fitted no-one he knew. She must be related to one of the other guys, probably a daughter who taught elocution.

A hand gently shook Harry's shoulder.

"Mr Truscott?"

"Yes, um, am I being discharged?"

"No, I'm afraid not -- you have a two more days and then, according to the house surgeon, conditional discharge because you live alone."

Restricted by his shoulder restraint, appropriately called a gunslinger harness for a guy who lives part of his life in gun-totting fiction, Harry turned carefully on to his back. His eyes met those of a fine looking woman in the classical tradition, beaming a soft blue-eyed smile at him through slightly parted pink-coated lips behind which lurked very white teeth.

God, she was attractive. He attempted to check if her breasts were up to scratch but was thwarted; she was wearing a shirt with front ruffles that screened the beauty of her womanly physique -- that is, if she really was packed with something of shapely substance.

Presumably this was the flower-giver, Mrs Robinson er Mrs Robertson. She held out a hand spearheaded by four beautifully manicured long fingers, with the thumb slightly tucked into her palm, but then comprehending that a man with his right arm in a brace was unable to shake hands she learned forward and kissed his cheek.

The kiss landed like a moth making a perfect touch-down under a lamp. Harry's nostrils took in a combo of scented facial cream, lipstick, hair spray and above all, top-shelf perfume that screamed "I'm a classy lady."

"You're a mirage," he said in his most impressive voice.

She just smiled. "I'm Mrs Robertson, whom you met by accident yesterday. I have admitted full liability -- my insurance company will sort everything out and my lawyer will negotiate fair settlement to cover your loss of property, loss of income and payment as a contribution towards pain and suffering."

"But I reversed out in front of you."

"That is true, but apparently not unduly fast according to one of your neighbors, the only independent witness. I was distracted as I had turned to look at my six-month-old daughter gurgling in her car-seat behind me."

"Oh God, a baby. How is she?"

"She's fine. She handled her first vehicle accident very well, thank you Mr Truscott."

"I should be held partly responsible, liable to pay you something."

"For what? Paint scrapes to my bull bars? Insurance will take care of that. Perhaps you could take me out to dinner one evening if that will ease your conscience."

"Yes, right Mrs Robertson."

"Carson will be fine."

"Harry, or if you wish Randolph."

"You have two names -- one informal, one formal?"

"My given names are Randolph Quentin Grierson, but I rebelled against being dubbed Randy, which frightened away females as I reached my teens. So I had it legally changed to Harry Quentin Truscott -- Truscott, my mother's maiden name. I write under my adopted name."

"Ohmigod, you write the detective series about Diomedes Mantell and his sidekick Jessie Chicago. I've read all eleven in the series and according to the blurb from the publisher the twelfth novel is due out just before Christmas. This is incredible -- I've sent Jessie's creator to hospital and I've just kissed him."

"You can kiss me again if that will make you feel better."

Another moth-like landing added lipstick to his cheek.

They chatted and she asked where his other visitors were.

"I don't have any family in this city and my literary agent and publisher are located abroad.

"What about Jessie?"

"Who's Jessie?"

"Jessie Chicago."

"She's not..."

"Oh, how stupid of me, of course she lives only in your imagination and on your pages. I know this sounds awful, but I'm in love with her. She's such a role model to modern women, but she is rather excessive about sex."

"Too frequently, or too many times per session?"

"Um, both I should think."

"Don't you get it all that often?"

"Harry, that's rather a direct question for someone you've just met."

"It's called reader feedback."

"Oh, then that's different. Well yes, she's getting rather a lot more than what I'm getting, as you so quaintly put it. My husband was killed in a helicopter crash just before Lydia was born."

Harry's good hand clutched the bed covers; he closed his eyes and muttered, "Damn."

In that instant Carson decided she liked this creator of the Bumbling Detective series. He looked as if he might be a bumbler himself, even without the brace stabilizing his broken shoulder. He looked uncombed, poorly shaven, in need of a haircut and his muddy brown eyes looked, um, doglike as if waiting for a bone. Character lines cut into his forehead and, um, his lips looked permanently curled upwards to support smiles. Now for the test -- would she trust him if left alone with him in a remote cabin? This was a test Carson habitually applied to men since having a couple of scares with older men as a teenager.

Absolutely -- just look at those eyes!

With compassionate gentleness, Carson unclenched Harry's fist and took that hand in her soft, warm one.

"It's all right; you weren't to know."

"I could have made the connection -- Philip Robertson, one of this country's best blue water sailors."

"You knew him?"

"Only by what I read in newspapers. I knew he was a successful businessman in the marine industry as well."

"Yes, thank you Harry; I'm in the process of selling out of his company. Oh gosh, I've just thought of something: how are you going to finish your manuscript with your right arm in this brace?"

"Produce tapes and have an agency to put them on to computer disk, I guess. I don't have voice activated software, nor am I likely to want to try it; I'm kind of an old fashion guy who values old cars, romance and respects family values."

"Hmmm. So you'd perform better sitting beside a person doing the keyboarding, pausing now and then to edit?"

"Undoubtedly."

"That gives me something to think about."

That reply puzzled Harry but then so did women.

Ten minutes later Carson was gone, her lingering fragrance proving she'd not been a post-operative hallucination.

A cheerful and robust woman by the name of Maggie, Harry's neighbor from across the street arrived with a cake, still warm.

Then in popped Mrs McPherson from two doors down and then arrived elderly Mr and Mrs Trumpet from five doors up from Harry's home.

Attempting to rationalize this, Harry concluded these people thought they know him well enough to rate him as worthy of visiting in hospital.

In the tradition of hospital interference, the ward manager arrived and told the visitors they should leave after ten minutes because more visitors were waiting to see Harry.

"You're so popular Harry," said Mrs McPherson, kissing him.

"Yes," said Maggie, looking at him rather intensely. "I don't know how I've managed to overlook you. I shall see you tomorrow. Some of these visitors will be oncers, like moths around a candle. I'll be back every day Harry," she said, leaning over and kissing him, her hand resting quite firmly on his navel, fingers moving.

Harry knew that's exactly the thing Jessie Chicago would do -- Maggie O'Sullivan was a reader of the Bumbling Detective series. How strange. Despite that literary connection until now Maggie and he had previously only exchanged names and thereafter minimal greetings whenever they passed like alley cats.

Steady on, Harry, she might look sluttish but don't brand her until you know for sure -- be a gentleman.

The pre-dinner bell went at 4:00 -- yes, that's not a typo thought Harry, bloody four o'clock in the afternoon. The ring-a-ling, ring-a-ling squeezed visitors away to allow nursing staff to prepared patients for the delivery of bad food. Actually it was better tucker than most of his home cooking.

Harry took off his glasses, ran a thumb and forefinger over his pencil moustache and settled back for a nap, thinking about Maggie's words, "like moths around a candle." That made her sound really creative. He thought that Maggie could be worth developing; she lived alone and it would save him going into parks and bars looking for a likely opportunity when he felt the need for it.

"Oh God Harry, I think you are ready to go home."

Harry opened his eyes and saw it was the attractive Nurse Yung speaking.

"Just look at this beauty, Felicity," she was saying to the spotty faced trainee Nurse Smith, who's turned deathly white and looked about to faint. It was only then Harry became aware that Nurse Yung had his erection in her hand.

"Let's put this baby away," said Nurse Yung. Harry's eyes widened -- she looked ready to kiss it! But then she was diverted by Nurse Smith slumping to the floor.

"It's true Harry -- virgins still exist in this world," grinned Nurse Yung, going to the aid of her fallen colleague.

Harry quickly tucked himself back into his pajamas and hid as much as he could of himself under the bed covers.

"I'm sorry, Mr Truscott," apologized the trainee nurse after two raps on the cheeks from Nurse Yung revived her. "I hadn't realized they could get so big."

"You call that big, you should see..."

"That's enough, Harry," Nurse Yung frowned. "We don't want to have Felicity applying for a transfer to the women's ward."

"She'll find big ones down there."

"That's enough, Harry. Jessie Chicago wouldn't allow you to talk like that in front of a young girl."

Harry was chuffed. Sexy Nurse Yung knew Jessie Chicago. Another of his fans had come out of the woodwork -- er, emerged from the sterile environment of a hospital ward.

"I'm working through to 11:00," whispered Nurse Yung. "I'll call in later this evening and relieve you of some of that tension."

Harry was about to say he was relaxed, not suffering from tension or post-accident trauma, but then looked into her eyes and saw she'd unmasked herself; it wasn't quite naked lust but definitely wasn't the look one got from a clergyman's wife either.

God, whoever would have thought of nurses as being sexy? In Harry's novels they always were implicated with the villains. He wondered if Nurse Yung would use her mouth or hand -- he decided she would appear like a shadow with her right hand encased in a thin membrane glove up to her elbow and wearing a heavy thick waterproof apron.

* * *

After putting baby Lydia down for the night, Carson Robertson thought of Harry and smiled. The poor lonely chap, not much to look at, but obviously he cared for his body. She'd go and see him once more, thereby discharging her duty of expressing remorse. It he hadn't been in a crappy 1970's Japanese auto it would not have been crushed like a can by her SUV to allow her to disable Harry.

Disable him? Carson jolted upright, as if hearing the clarion call. Women on the English-speaking world who'd stumbled upon the works of this quaint writer who injected old-fashion qualities into his hero and heroine would expect her, being their representative on the spot, to do her duty and ensure Harry continued to meet his publisher's schedule.

"Jessie Chicago fans -- I hear your pleas, I shall rise to the occasion," Carson giggled, and then sipped her mineral water knowing that in her heart Jessie would be ever so grateful.

Next day a big carton of unsold copies of Harry's least popular book,

The Bumbling Detective Goes Undercover in Drag

arrived from the publishers' Sydney office, with a note from Customs that they had inspected the enclosed cake for contraband, and apologized for forwarding it to Harry as two bags of crumbs. The package, dispatched as First Class airfreight must have cost the publishers a fortune, thought Harry, most impressed. He hadn't known they cared.

Harry gave copies of the book to the other three patients in his cubicle, but the guy with tubes up his nose and eyes rolled into his head didn't even bother to acknowledge Harry's generosity, the Chinese man said "Me read no English -- take crap away". Fortunately, all was not lost; the third guy accepted the hand-out graciously and began reading the book immediately.

Later, anyone coming into the cubicle was invited to take an autographed copy, scrawled by Harry's left hand to look roughly like his signature.

Maggie breezed in a 1:45 with an anxious Nurse Smith protesting in her wake that visiting hours were from 2:00.

"It's all right, sweetie," said Maggie, eying Nurse Smith's plump body. "I'm a VIP -- off you go."

Maggie had with her a bag of grapes, and fed them to Harry, one by one, gazing into his eyes while she chatted. Faced with chewing unpeeled grapes, Harry was aware he was required to do nothing, which is how some women prefer to have sex. With her roughly-worn fingers against his lips as she pushed in a grape and hooked out the floating skin of its predecessor, Maggie made no physical contact with him but sex seemed to ooze from her. At times Harry's spectacles became misted.

Maggie talked about her life and loves, giving Harry an immense amount of original material for his mental archives. It was the first time he'd knowingly met the madam of a brothel, albeit a retired one.

Maggie vanished as a policewoman arrived to confirm Mrs Robertson's account of the accident and to advise that Harry's car had been what she called 'totaled' and would have to be deregistered.

"That's Maggie Owens, is it not?"

Aha, this hard-nosed policewoman didn't realize she was dealing with today's master of the detective-romance genre.

"Maggie who?" Harry asked, looking bewildered.

"The woman who was all over you when I arrived."

"A woman?"

"With breasts that big she couldn't be male?"

"Oh, a male you say. No, I haven't seen any males today apart from the house surgeon and our ward's senior nurse Evan Simpson."

"Look, don't piss around with me, you second-rate Diomedes like alike. Before she retired Maggie was a really big name, at least to us. Stay away from her, do you hear? Maggie could easily eat you for breakfast."

"Thank you, Chief Inspector. I shall consider your advice, but Maggie grows tulips, you know."

"I find that highly unlikely, but there you go. Bye."

Harry offered her a book but Sergeant Fish looked at the title and threw it back into the box. "That's the worst of the series. It lacked humor in what otherwise should have been a hilarious sequel of events. For the life of me I couldn't understand why Jessie wouldn't have sex with Diomedes unless he took off his bra and garter belt."

Yes, thought, Harry. He's received more than 1000 letters and emails from fans with identical complaints. He'd not explained the reasons for Jessie's decisions because that could only lead to professionally damaging public debate. Firstly, he didn't want to become too clever about the clothing because that could place him offside with the cross-dressing community. Then even he couldn't understand why Jessie wouldn't have sex with private detective Diomedes Mantell when usually those two were doing their best to rewrite sex manuals. Publishers and readers just don't seem to understand that sexual relationships can become so complicated, and if a woman is involved, logic can fly out the window.

Harry had tried to inject this quirky side to Jessie but obviously as author he'd failed to authenticate that quirkiness. Too bad, at least it gave Diomedes Mantell the chance to sneak off and get sex from that nurse who wore rubber gloves plus a rubber suit with holes cut out in strategic places by her husband who was Surgeon-in-Chief at Fair-Go Hospital.

Maggie had delivered mail from Harry's mailbox. There was a letter from his literary agent, Mary Lin. Harry opened it, thinking it might be good news about royalties stacked up large enough for him to buy a replacement car.

Sorry to learn of your accident. Chin up. Here's my latest invoice and Gateway Press want your new novel a week ahead of the agreed schedule. You'll manage that of course, as you know the consequences of not meeting deadlines.

"Heartless old bitch, just like all women," muttered Harry.

Just as Harry had quietly snarled, 'Heartless old bitch', someone who had entered the cubicle said, "Oh Harry, surely not."

Huh?

Harry looked up and saw this incredible beauty floating towards him -- floating as best she could on high heels -- carrying an infant with huge blue eyes. He was delighted as the mother was wearing a tight dark blue dress cut to reveal a plunging gap between two heavy mounds, milk-producing no doubt. Harry was ready to pant, his eyes muddied, but there was no time for frivolity -- Mrs Robertson was bringing her young 'un to see him.

Babies scared Harry, as did some mothers. But there was something special about this occasion, although he didn't know what it was. Then his brain worked -- of course, Carson hadn't been able to arrange a baby sitter.

Wearing a goofy smile, Harry put up his good arm. The little fellow or whatever you call them put out her two tiny arms and Carson -- beautiful, gorgeous sweet smelling Carson -- dotted down the baby in an ill-fitting pink dress on to Harry's chest. The horrified Harry slapped his arm around baby Robertson afraid she would roll to the floor.

"She wanted to come to me," Harry said in awe.

"Yes, she liked your smile. Her senses for two-way communication are very limited at present, but she recognizes friendly smiles. Don't crush her Harry."

"My arm raised itself on its own accord -- I had no idea you'd hand across your precious little bundle."

"Her name is Lydia, Harry. Look at her gazing at your moustache. It's the first one she's seen. I wonder if she senses that her mommy also likes your moustache -- one rarely sees thin moustaches these days, they look elegant. Do you have great romances because of your moustache Harry?"

Harry was saved the four o'clock bell, demanding that visitor's clear out.

"Say goodbye to Uncle Harry darling," said Carson, holding Lydia against her shoulder which allowed Lydia and Harry to exchange wide-eyed fixed stares.