Rock Slyde

My name is Rock Slyde.

I blame my mother.

With a name like that, I was destined for one

of two career paths, detective work or porn.

After starring in two art films,

I decided the glamorous life of a porn star

wasn't for me.

Besides, I was hung like a hamster.

Dammit, Judy.

Sorry, rock.

Were you talking to yourself again?

No, I was thinking to myself.

Well, I'm sorry.

I just want to grab some old files

and do some follow-up.

Dim the lights.

That's Judy bee.

Years ago, I had placed an ad for a secretary.

I needed someone smart, someone driven.

Someone Chinese.

I probably should have done a little more research

on one applicant, Judy bee,

but her last name sounded oriental enough for me.

Plus she was the only one that applied.

It's hard to read the names on these files

with the lights off, rock.

Judy, I was thinking again.

What do you want me to do, rock?

We haven't had a new client in weeks.

I was gonna call some of the old ones

and see if they needed help.

Again.

Don't worry, something's right around the corner.

I can see it.

That's good, rock.

I like that attitude.

No, somebody's coming, go, move, look professional,

get in your office.

Lights.

Mr. Rock Slyde?

Yeah, Rock Slyde, detective for hire.

She had all the qualities I looked for in a woman

so many years ago.

Beautiful...

I need help.

And drunk.

Well, the a.A. Meeting's across the street.

They say you're the best private dick in town.

Alcoholics anonymous said that about me?

No kiddin'.

Mind if I smoke?

Mind if I tell ya that you smell like

my grandfather after bingo night at the elks club?

Are you insinuating that I'm drunk, Mr. slyde?

I'm a private investigator, ma'am,

I'm good at my job, I know you're drunk.

Well, that's good.

Because I'm probably too inebriated to drive

and find a real detective.

I guess you'll have to do.

Please don't put that in your referrals.

I can see by your awards and your accolades

that you must think you are in fact

quite the detective, Mr. slyde.

Runner up.

Colt division, 1970.

Runner up?

We won it the next year.

First place.

Colt division, 1971.

- See? - Congratulations, Mr. slyde.

Told you so.

You seem quite decorated, Mr. slyde.

Unfortunately, you haven't seen it all,

my father of the year mug is in the dishwasher.

What year would that be, Mr. slyde?

Was a long time ago.

Your awards mean nothing to me, Mr. slyde, in fact,

they have absolutely nothing to do with your profession.

She was on to something.

I believe it's in my best interests to sober up

and look for a private detective

who's better capable of handling my case.

You were drinking whiskey.

Something cheap.

Canadian thirst whiskey.

You drive something flashy.

Jaguar, xj6.

Xkr.

You like Italian food, the round noodles,

not the spaghetti ones.

You have a pet, no, a kitten, longhaired.

Do go on.

You're wearing white diamonds perfume

by Elizabeth Taylor, spray bottle,

1.75 ounces.

Four out of five ain't bad.

No, no, it's good.

Mr. slyde?

Yes, Judy.

I'm making lunch.

What kind of peanut butter do you want

on your sandwich?

Smooth.

So, do we have a deal?

You don't even know my name.

I could use my investigative instincts to figure that out.

Or I could just tell you.

Yeah, that would be much easier,

far less time consuming.

It's Sara Lee.

Pleasure.

Here's what I need from you.

- Somebody's following me. - I see.

Quite simply, I need to know who they are

and what they want.

I need round the clock surveillance.

Twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week.

Can you help me, Mr. slyde?

Call me rock.

Rock.

All right, well, with expenses and,

and per diem?

Yes.

And per diem.

$400 a day.

I will give you $200 a day,

and I'll bake you a chocolate cake.

You can keep the chocolate cake, ma'am,

I'm on the South beach diet.

How about some sugar-free brownies?

Sure, whatever.

You drive a hard bargain, miss Lee.

I'm gonna take your case.

Then we have a deal.

You start tomorrow.

I... Look forward to working with you.

Closely.

Yeah, just...

Sorry.

Can I, can I invite you for a drink?

No thank you, I don't drink.

Listerine.

Good for the gums.

Maybe some other time.

Judy.

Yes, Mr. slyde?

Yeah, I want crunchy on that sandwich.

Yeah, rock, I figured.

The bartologists.

Members of the house of bartology,

the Starbucks of religions.

Growing rapidly, engorging on its own ambition,

the church had swollen in size through intimidation

and bullying.

Bartology had scared off every tenant

and taken over every office space in my building,

that is, every office space but one:

Rock Slyde's.

Somebody has to make a stand.

Can I help you Bart, o mighty leader?

It's blessed guru.

It's Bart.

I know what that is, I'm not signing it.

You will sign the papers.

You will sign the papers.

You will sign...

your mind control tactics don't work on me, sir.

Still not, still not, still not.

A little bit, right there.

What did I do?

Nothing.

Mr. slyde.

You are the only tenant in this building

who has not signed over their lease

to the house of bartology.

Why is that?

I don't do religion and I don't do politics.

What is it you do do, Mr. slyde?

He said do do.

Crossword puzzles.

Then perhaps you know a four-letter word

for something that frightens you.

I didn't say I was good at 'em,

I said that I did 'em.

Fear.

The answer is fear.

That doesn't really make sense.

Ghost.

Five letters.

Exit.

Exit?

Figure this out.

The house of bartology is more powerful

than you know, and far more superior

at crossword puzzles.

We will have your office space

one way or another, whether you like it or not.

Rock Slyde moves for no one,

now get out of my office, Bart.