13th January 2002
The name's Sausage. If you don't like it, tough. I'm a PI with a bad attitude and bad breath. I was sobering up after a 4 week drinking binge in London, and I didn't like it. So I poured my third whiskey before breakfast. In my gloomy office I sat staring at a photo of the latest dame that couldn't handle my drinking. But it's not just that. I'm a workaholic. Sometimes I'd drink 3 bottles of workahol a day. But it was no time for moping. A case had finally arrived on my desk.

I turned on the lamp and had to shield my eyes from the dull light. I'm real mean and moody. A conversation recently heard at my apartment went something like this:

"I liked that message you left on the voice-mail over Christmas"
"What message?"
"You know, you asked for Ryan, Chris, Dan and Sausage. Yes, there was definitely lots about a sausage. And there were some farmyard noises in the background."

This left me real confused. The first worry was that I had no memory of calling my apartment over Christmas. The second worry was that I was unable to remember the code for California, so the chances of me remembering while drunk 3 weeks previously appeared to be pretty slim. The third worry was that if I had told somebody the number, then unidentified scumbags in England might now have it. With all the bad debts and jealous husbands in England, that was the last thing I wanted. Why do you think I'd left the country in the first place. All these thoughts raced round my head. I decided that I had to get to the bottom of the mystery as soon as possible.

I had a gut feeling that other people were involved, and it was time to interrogate a few suspects. But who? The first stage of elimination was easy. I remembered what he'd said about the animal noises. This was an Old Parks job. They might as well have left their calling card. But which Old Parks? At this point I got a break-through. I remembered what he'd said about the animal noises. Andrew Celotto might as well have left his calling card. Everyone else stopped thinking that was funny some time in the 3rd year. But perhaps he had accomplices. It was too early to rule anything out. I decided a couple of well placed e-mails might jog a few memories. Hell, it might even drive out a confession.

I placed a message to Celotto but got no joy. The reply just said, "It's things like this that make Christmas so worthwhile." He was playing it close to his chest and I didn't blame him. I had to try a different approach. It was time to check the word on the streets. I contacted my snitch, known only as the Jackal. No-one knows much about him. There's talk of some terrorist connection in his past, but I don't care about that. For the word on the streets, he's the best there is.

"Sure, I might have heard about that, but I hear about a lot of things."
"Did you hear about that?"
"Er....yes"

The best thing about the Jackal is that he's not too smart. Once I'd got him confused he sang like a canary. He told me the whole story. A few weeks earlier back in limey-land, someone had put their mobile phone on the table. We started discussing how we could waste his money. Someone suggested dialing a porn line. I had a better idea. I could call my flat in America. The Jackal gave me the code for America, and the rest I knew. So there it was. It turned out I really had left the message myself. Remarkably, I was sober enough to remember the number, but too drunk to remember the incident. One mystery was solved and a million more appeared. What the hell else had I done over Christmas that I had no memory of? And whose phone was it anyway? Oh well, I'm 5000 miles away now. What do I care? I poured myself a whiskey and called the number of my favourite massage parlour. I didn't have to look it up.