Private Number - Act I, Scene A

"Private Number" - Act I, Scene A

Private Ron Number sits in his cramped, messy office down at the police department, stale smoke hanging in the room like a cloud. The department was too damn cheap too fix his damn ceiling fan, Number figured, as he shook his head in annoyance. The phone rang and Private Number answered it in his typical gruff, could-probably-use-a-lozenge voice... 

"Ron Number."

"Oh, sorry. Good bye." (*Click*)

The dial tone resumed. The caller on the other end had hung up.

"Goddammit!" The detective slammed down the phone. "Sixth time this morning!" Private Number lit up another cigarette. It was the third cigarette of the fourth pack of smokes he'd had that day, and it wasn't even lunchtime yet. He'd been up for 94 straight hours trying to track down the Dirt Bag and he was fucking tired. He didn't have time for this shit.

"And why the hell do they always apologize before they hang up?" Number grumbled and took another swill of really bad coffee. "What the hell are they sorry about?" The still, smoke-filled air above his head seemed to be getting thicker, and indeed... it was.

He decided to start making some calls. "Let's bake this cake." Private Number smiled as he muttered this self-proclaimed "catch phrase" for the 1,293rd time in his life. He was the only one who still smiled when he said it.

"Hello?" A woman answered the phone.

"Hello, Miss Fitz?"

"Who is this?"

"Private Number, ma'am."

"If you ever crank-call my house again, I'll sue you." (*Click*)

Things weren't going well. The Dirt Bag was still out there wreaking havoc on the city and Private Number had no leads. No witnesses, no evidence, nothing! Number punched the buttons with his digits, his 79th call of the day, and a woman who sounds like she's really good-looking picked up.

"Who is this?" She inquired.

"Private Number, ma'am."

"That's what it says on my caller ID. What's your name?"

"Private Number."

"I realize you don't want me to have your phone number, but what is your name?"

"Private Number, ma'am."

(*Click*)

"Hello? ... Ma'am? ... " (Sigh.)

His investigation was getting nowhere. Things had never been bleaker outside the walls of his dank, depressing little office. And inside those walls, the cloud of smoke was so thick you could hang a jacket on it. Plus, Number had lost three months rent on the Pacers last night. Why the fuck had he listened to that stupid kid outside the grocery store?

He pounded his fist on the desk in frustration, the violence sending his 1971 Best Damn Cop In The Tri-State Area trophy flying. He needed answers, and he needed them right now! He slammed some aspirin, poured himself a fresh cup of bad-and-I-mean-bad black coffee, and sat back down. Determined, Number picked up the phone and dialed once again. A tall-sounding man answered...

"Hello?" Yes, he was definitely tall.

"Private Number, sir, calling for some information."

"Listen pal, I don't accept phone calls from any private numbers, private callers, private... whatever. Got it?"

"Private Caller and I were partners for eight years. Jim Caller. Damn good cop. Has he been in contact with you?"

(*Click.*)

"Hello? ... Sir? ... "

Goddammittohell!! He really needed help now. He flipped on the tube and saw that an unopened bag of premium quality topsoil (pretty damn good dirt, really) has been discovered at the corner of Burlap Street and Burlap Avenue. The Dirt Bag had struck again. Despite the horrible news, a slight grin had formed on Number's real-goddamn-tired face. He had always found it odd that there were two Burlaps in this fucked-up city. He almost laughed out loud. 

The phone rang again, bringing him back. Maybe this was it, the big break! He picked up the phone...

"Ron Number."

"Whoops, I'm sorry. Bye." (*Click*)

"AAAARRRRGGGGHHHH!!!!"

[END SCENE]

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[Detective artwork image: A big thanks to Jeff Bucchino, "The Wizard of Draws" at wizardofdraws.com.]