Today is cold enough to make brass monkeys sing soprano, but for triple time, and an excuse for not watching re-runs of “The Trouble With Tracy”, or the Ten Commandments yet again, giving the nod to this wasn’t the hardest sell for my new butter and egg man. Chad, my daisy lawyer client, called me at 730 this morning from his office. Sober. Christmas Day.
“Got a file for you Shamus, an injury claim.” He started. Apparently this dame was a passenger in a car that was struck by a local sanitation truck in the early fall, and despite only 18 Bordens to fix the vehicle she was in, she was bed-ridden with back injuries as recently as 3 days ago, and could only walk with 2 canes. Predictably the insurance company had its doubts.
Enter yours truly.
I park old Dirty Gerty a discreet 3 driveways away from hers, and on the opposite side of her street, and slither into the back seat, where the tint is darker. I know she’s 58, and grandmother of 7, which leads me to suspect they’re from 2 or more of her own kids. As 4:00 ticks by, the sky’s starting to show its age, and I’m wondering if the quality of my video will be worth anything by the time the fleet of Windstars starts to weigh anchor.
I’m also curious where they’ll unload, because the driveway has room for 2 full-size cars, and maybe a third if it parks sideways on the boulevard, and there’s already a boat and trailer filling one spot, and a Grand Marquis in the other. Being Christmas Day, street parking will be scarcer than a Support Kathleen Wynnebutton in a vets’ hall.
I pull Sonya the handicam out of her case and power up, when suddenly, I get myChristmas gift.
It appears the target has been for a dip at Lourdes. Conspicuously cane-free, I film her lifting open the garage door, removing 2 tires on rims, stacking them neatly on the grass next to the driveway, and then to my absolute disbelief, she lifts the hitch-end of the trailer, and wheels the boat off the driveway, resting her end on the wheels.
She then drove the Grand Marquis into the garage to create the second parking space, just in time for the first minivan to come to moor.
The side door quickly slides open, and a pair of dapper, 10-year old twin boys bolt ahead of mom and dad, into granny’s waiting arms. With one in each arm, granny barks out a few inaudibles to her son and carries her precious cargo inside.
Santa was good to me this year. Less than an hour to wait for Oscar-worthy footage, guaranteed to put a smile on a few Bay Street suits, and probably an extra Borden or two into my weekly envelope from Chad.
But for now, it’s back to Casa Gumshoe, and a fridge with a 5-pack and leftover Christmas eggrolls. I wonder if I can still catch the Ten Commandments?
… the life of a flatfoot.