(From Sam Beach) An excerpt from his first novel, "Roscoe P. Dawg and the Case of the Missing Chocolate Cake."
It was a hot night in the big apple. The sort of night that makes the sweat runnin' off your balls, cry. I was gettin' ready to close up, go home and drown myself in a fifth of diet Coke, when 'she' walked in.
A purple Unicorn. Not just any purple unicorn. This one had glitter all over her ass. It was obvious she was from Uptown. Talk about a rack. You know how unicorns are built. Especially purple ones with sparkles, but this hottie? She stuck out all the way to Yonkers. My tongue woulda rolled outta my mouth, but . . . I don't have a tongue. That's a story for another day.
I told her I was headed home, to come back in the mornin', but she jammed those hooters in my face, fluttered those big black lashes and said, "Oh please, Mister Roscoe. I just don't know who to turn to, and I'm told that YOU are the biggest private dick in town."
Who am I ta argue with that? I told her to sit down and tell me what happened.
She pulled an old Polaroid from between those twin towers of bouncing fun and pushed it over. "It's my chocolate cake," she said, her big green eyes loadin' up to Niagara all over my desk. I just polished the damn thing.
I gave her a box of Kleenex. Plain. No flowers. No scent. I ain't got that sort of dough. I looked down at the picture and damn near pissed myself. But I knew if I did, my owner would beat me with a rolled up newspaper, so I suffered through it.
"Someone stole my precious chocolate cake," she said.
I could see why. It was a triple layer job, with whipped cream icing and curly chocolate shavings all over the top. I asked her if she knew that it was a felony to distribute food porn. She laughed. I'm gonna score.