The following story is true. Only the names have been changed to protect the innocent, and a few little white lies have been added to make it a hell of a lot more interesting.

Victor E. Huskie, Part II: The Revenge. The scene: The office of Philip Marlowe, private eye, who is away this week, but has a house sitter.

The glittery reflections of the dawn broke through my window like a thousand little hot knives cutting through a giant stick of butter, or margarine for those of you watching your weight.

I was sincerely hoping I’d wake up without a hangover, but I win Lotto more often than that happens. A bottle of J.D. sat on my desk. There wasn’t enough left to make a fruit fly tipsy. Next to Jack was my favorite gourmet meal—a peanut butter and mayonnaise sandwich, with the mayonnaise on nice and thick, just like Mama used to make it.

My stomach was rumbling like Frisco during the World Series, so I decided to take a bite. Bad move. Jack was talkin‘ back and he wanted to come out and play.

I was whistling beef all over my new wing tips before I could even make it out of my chair. There was a soft knock at the door.

She sauntered into my office in an outfit that would make a grizzly bear drop to his knees and weep. She had eyes like blue diamonds and teeth shinier than my old man’s head. She drew a drag from a mile-long cigarette and took a glance at the breakfast of champions dripping off of my wing tips. Suddenly, I forgot my entire past and didn’t care about my future. There was only her and now. Then, I accidentally let the present slip my mind, too, and I couldn’t remember who the hell I was. I smashed Jack against my skull, and it all came back to me.

“Are you Marlowe?” She had a sexy voice. (Surprised?)

“No, Shweetheart. Marlowe’s takin’ shpring break in Daytona. He’s just lettin‘ me use the office while he’s away.”

“Quit spitting,” she said. “Do you do requests?” That was fancy talk for askin’ me if I was a private detective or a cop. She was slick, but I could talk the lingo, too.

“Only if they involve waterbeds and whipped cream, Shweetheart,” I sang, but my response was over her head.

“I want you to find a dog, a very special dog. Victor E. Huskie is missing, and we need to find him fast.”

“He is?” The AWOL bow-wow was news to me.

“Sure,” she said. “A few years ago, Vic was all over the place at Huskie sporting events. He kept things interesting while we were losing our shirts. Now, we’re winning and he’s hardly ever around. We need Vic back to keep the spirit high and the crowd in the game. He’s a leader. It’s a job to be proud of, and we want him back.” She collapsed in tears.

Damn it. I never know what to do when dames cry, so I pulled my .38 and made Swiss cheese out of her. The gun was still smoking when the UPs arrived. Now I’m in for a long boat ride up the river on a cruise ship where they don’t serve pina coladas. Only you know about this case, so it’s up to you to find Vic, even if have to slip into the duds yourself. It’ll have to be somebody dedicated and real active, though. Huskie sports needs to see more of the mascot. Demand more Vic.