Brogan: Pigs Go Flying Again

Brogan: Pigs Go Flying Again

James Brogan never expected his next case to involve flying pigs, but then again, nothing in this line of work ever stayed simple.

It started with a phone call from Tommy “The Hook” Callahan, the Southie meat wholesaler who still owed him for the Boston butchers mess.

“Brogan, I got a problem. One of my biggest clients — old man Kowalski over at Kowalski & Sons Packing — says the last three deliveries of pork shoulders came in wrong. Not spoiled. Not short. Just… wrong. The pigs were too calm when they were processed. Too docile. He says the meat tastes flat, like the animals didn’t have any fight left in them. He’s threatening to take his business elsewhere unless I figure out what the hell is going on. He offered me some prime steaks if I send someone to poke around. I’m sending you. Bring your weird little friends if you need them.”

Brogan sighed. “You’re paying triple for weird.”

“Done.”

So Brogan found himself standing outside Kowalski & Sons Meat Packing in the industrial district at 2 a.m., the air thick with the smell of blood, cold steel, and something faintly chemical.

Dave rode on his shoulder, tiny fedora tilted low. Marmalade stalked beside them like a grumpy orange shadow, tail flicking with irritation at the stench.

“Simple case,” Brogan muttered. “Just check the meat.”

Inside the plant, the night shift was running. Carcasses hung from rails, knives flashed, and the rhythmic thud of cleavers echoed off concrete walls. Old man Kowalski — a thick-necked Pole with forearms like hams — met them in the loading dock.

“The last batch came from a new supplier upstate,” Kowalski growled. “Supposed to be premium corn-fed. But these pigs… they walked into the stun pen like they were going to church. No fear. No struggle. The meat is tender, sure, but it’s missing something. Soul, maybe. I don’t like it.”

Dave’s whiskers twitched. “Super-corn,” he whispered.

Marmalade’s ears flattened. “The pesky corn strikes again.”

Brogan nodded. “Show me the holding pens.”

They moved deeper into the facility. In the live animal area, the next shipment of pigs stood unusually still in their pens. Their eyes were glassy. Their breathing slow and even. They looked… content. Almost drugged.

Dave slipped off Brogan’s shoulder and disappeared into the shadows. Marmalade melted into the rafters like liquid fire.

Brogan crouched by one of the pens and examined a feed trough. The corn inside had that faint, unnatural glow.

“Same strain,” he muttered.

That’s when the wrong animals showed up.

A side door burst open. Four men in dark coveralls — not plant workers — pushed in, carrying canisters marked “Industrial Gas – Flammable.” One of them had a familiar face: a mid-level enforcer who had worked for the same network that once moved super-corn through the Velvet Club.

They weren’t here to deliver meat.

They were here to destroy evidence.

The leader spotted Brogan and grinned. “Wrong place, wrong time, Ranger.”

He opened the valve on one canister. A sharp chemical smell filled the air — explosive gas, the kind used in industrial refrigeration but far more volatile when mixed with the right catalyst.

The plan was clear: flood the plant with gas, spark it, and blame it on a “tragic accident” that conveniently destroyed the tainted corn and any witnesses.

Dave moved first.

The tiny detective darted across the floor, climbed the nearest man’s leg like it was a tree, and sank his teeth into the soft spot behind the knee. The man screamed and dropped the canister. Gas hissed across the concrete.

Marmalade dropped from the rafters like an orange missile, landing on the second man’s face and clawing for all he was worth. The man staggered backward into a control panel, knocking over another canister.

Brogan drew his Glock and put two rounds into the third man’s shoulder before the fourth could raise his own weapon. The fourth man turned to run — straight into Big Mike Callahan, who had shown up unannounced after hearing about the “simple favor” from Tommy The Hook.

Mike’s fist ended the conversation.

The gas was spreading fast now. One spark and the whole plant would go up.

Dave shouted from atop a railing, “The main valve! Cut it off!”

Brogan sprinted for the emergency shutoff while Marmalade knocked over a fire extinguisher, rolling it toward the growing puddle of gas like a furry bowling ball.

The explosion never came.

Brogan slammed the valve shut just as the first spark from a fallen flashlight threatened to ignite everything. The hissing stopped.

Silence fell, broken only by the whimpering of the would-be saboteurs and the low grunting of the strangely calm pigs in their pens.

Kowalski stared at the scene — the tiny mouse detective, the grumpy orange cat, the lone Ranger, and the massive biker — and shook his head.

“I asked for someone to poke around,” he muttered. “Not a goddamn circus.”

Brogan wiped blood from his knuckles and looked at the captured men.

“Tell your bosses the next delivery better be clean. Or the pigs won’t be the only things going flying.”

Later, back at the Rusty Nail, Brogan nursed a beer while Dave scribbled notes and Marmalade groomed corn dust from his fur.

“Simple case,” Brogan said dryly.

Dave grinned around his straw cigar. “They always say that.”

Marmalade flicked an ear. “At least the steaks were good.”

Brogan allowed himself a rare, tired laugh.

Another link in the chain broken.

Another night where the wrong animals caused the right kind of chaos.

And somewhere out there, the super-corn pipeline was feeling the pressure again.

Because when pigs started going flying, it usually meant James Brogan and his strange little crew were close behind.

 

Dave and the Case of the Vanishing Corn

Dave and the Case of the Vanishing Corn

Dave the little detective sat on an overturned bucket behind the red barn, chewing on the end of a plastic straw like it was a cigar. His magnifying glass hung from a string around his neck, and his notebook was already half-filled with doodles of suspicious-looking beetles.

The chickens arrived in a nervous flock, feathers ruffled, beaks clacking.

“Dave! Dave!” clucked Henrietta, the big Rhode Island Red who always acted like she was in charge. “It’s the corn! It’s disappearing again!”

Dave raised one eyebrow. “Again?”

“Every night!” squawked another hen named Dolores. “We’re supposed to get our fair share—scratch, cracked corn, the good stuff from the big bin. But the bin’s half empty by morning, and we’re getting shortchanged!”

A scrawny rooster named Reginald puffed out his chest. “This is an outrage! A conspiracy! We work hard all day laying eggs and making noise at sunrise. We deserve our corn!”

Dave hopped off the bucket and adjusted his tiny fedora. “Alright, ladies and gentle-rooster. Sounds like a classic case of theft. Or maybe sabotage. You got any suspects?”

The chickens all looked at each other, then at the big white farmhouse up the hill.

“Farmer Brown’s been acting strange lately,” Henrietta whispered. “He keeps muttering about ‘efficiency’ and ‘maximizing yield.’ Last week he painted a big sign that says ‘All Animals Are Equal’ but then added ‘But Some Are More Equal Than Others’ in smaller letters underneath.”

Dave’s eyes narrowed. That sounded familiar. “Show me the corn bin.”

They waddled together to the feed shed. The big metal bin that held the cracked corn was indeed much lighter than it should have been. Dave climbed up the side using a stack of hay bales and peered inside with his magnifying glass.

“Footprints,” he muttered. “Tiny ones. Not chicken feet. Not duck. Looks like… raccoon? No. Too neat. And there’s a trail of kernels leading toward the old windmill.”

Reginald flapped his wings. “See? Someone’s stealing our rightful share! This farm is supposed to be a paradise for all animals, but the pigs have been throwing secret meetings in the barn at night. They say it’s for ‘planning the harvest,’ but I heard grunting and laughing.”

Dave scratched a note in his book. “Pigs, huh?”

He followed the trail of corn kernels across the barnyard, past the duck pond, and all the way to the old windmill that hadn’t turned in years. The door was slightly ajar. Inside, he found something unexpected: a small wooden table made from a crate, three empty corn cobs, and a pile of shiny bottle caps arranged like coins.

And sitting in the corner, looking guilty as sin, was a pudgy little field mouse named Milton wearing a tiny pair of spectacles he’d clearly stolen from the farmer’s desk.

Milton squeaked when he saw Dave. “It’s not what it looks like!”

Dave crossed his arms. “It looks like you’ve been running a black-market corn racket, Milton.”

The mouse sighed and slumped. “Okay, fine. I’ve been taking a little extra. But it’s not for me! The pigs… they made me do it. They said if I didn’t deliver two buckets of corn to the barn every night, they’d tell the farmer I was the one who chewed through the tractor wires last spring. They’re hoarding it! They say the corn is for ‘the leadership committee’ and that the rest of us should be happy with whatever’s left. They even rewrote the farm rules on the big wall. Now it says ‘Four legs good, two legs better’ or something. I don’t even have legs like that!”

Dave rubbed his chin. “So the chickens are getting shorted because the pigs are throwing midnight feasts and blaming it on ‘efficiency.’ Classic Animal Farm gone sideways.”

He turned to the chickens who had gathered outside, clucking angrily. “Here’s what we’re gonna do. Tonight, we set a trap. Milton, you’re gonna make your usual delivery—but this time, the corn will be mixed with the farmer’s special hot sauce. The kind that makes your eyes water for a week. When the pigs start chowing down, they’ll make enough noise to wake the whole county. Then Farmer Brown comes running, sees the pigs with stolen corn all over their snouts, and justice gets served.”

Milton’s whiskers twitched. “But what about me?”

“You get amnesty,” Dave said, “if you testify. And you stop stealing. Deal?”

“Deal.”

That night the moon hung fat and yellow over the fields. Dave hid behind a hay bale with his notebook ready. The chickens perched on the fence like tiny sentries. At midnight, four fat pigs waddled out of the big barn, grunting with excitement, and headed straight for the windmill.

Milton, trembling but brave, pushed out two buckets of corn—generously laced with hot sauce.

The pigs dove in face-first.

Within thirty seconds the squealing started. Loud, panicked, eye-watering squeals that echoed across the farm. Lights flicked on in the farmhouse. Farmer Brown stomped out in his boots and overalls, flashlight swinging.

“What in tarnation—?!”

He found the pigs rolling on the ground, snouts burning, surrounded by stolen corn and guilty looks. The big sign on the barn wall had fresh drips of paint: the chickens had added their own amendment in the night: “All Animals Are Equal. No Exceptions. And Stop Hoarding the Corn, You Greedy Porkers.”

Farmer Brown scratched his head, then started laughing. “Well I’ll be. Looks like my pigs got a little too big for their britches.” He rounded up the pigs and locked them in the empty calf pen for the night. “No more secret meetings for you lot. Tomorrow we’re going back to fair shares for everybody.”

The next morning the corn bin was full again. The chickens got their proper scratch and cracked corn. Henrietta laid an extra-large egg in gratitude and presented it to Dave as payment.

Dave tipped his fedora, tucked the egg under his arm like a trophy, and headed back to his bucket office behind the barn.

“Case closed,” he said, chewing on his plastic straw. “Another victory for the little guy… and the little detective.”

From the calf pen came muffled, spicy grumbling.

Dave just smiled and wrote in his notebook:

Never trust pigs with the corn budget.

 

Pigs really can fly

 James Brogan, the man the myth.

This is the story of how pigs fly, and yes folks they can and really do fly, they have their own power source.

All it took was an accident, and a unique set of circumstances and a pig can and will fly, how it lands is of course another matter.

It was one of those cases, the sort of thing you don't want to take on. 

It was one of those months, the sort of month that ment that you had a choice, take on one of those cases, or you need to practice eating like a student again.

Being Dick wasn't hard, but getting in the case load that allows you to eat, and pay for all the other things that you enjoy in life, while being able to bang the ball on good days means that sometimes you have to sacrifice sometimes, and this was one of those times.

Divorce, never pretty, never something you want to be involved in, and certainly not something you want to be the reason for, but this is the live if a private detective, and women, just as much as men, want to know what the other half is doing, or who.

She was tall bottle of coke, all the curves in all the right places, but with all the subtlety of a brick through a window. I have seen wrestlers with greater tact.

She blew into the office like an EF5, looking like a ten from Miss Universe, and spouting like a sailor who didn't get his rum.

It was a sight to behold, and an assault on the hear.

Ok, so sometimes even I can get offended at the use of some language, and I was firmly in the mans camp, if she wanted a divorce, we, I can only assume that he would be thankful, looks can only carry you so far, and with this woman a little duct tape and she'd be that ten.

Eventually she blew herself out, I picked my self up off the floor and sat down in my chair again, and we could start to discuss what it was that she felt I could help with, or maybe not, I hadn't been listening.

So, I said with a small grin. I had the feeling that if I actually smiled she'd put on the on list of people she might want dead.

She ignored me, and simply said. I told you, I need you to get me proof my husband is cheating, I know he is and I want proof.

You could see she was building up again, maybe I'd get luck, a 3, I'd only lose the roof of my house, or the hair on my head.

Right, Right, I got that part, the question is....

deep breath....

Can you give me a starting point or...

deep breath...

Should I start, but simply.....

deeper breath....

Silence....

Thank god, I will keep talking....

Shall I simply start with following him and doing a little digging into his work, is hobbies, family. I generally want a profile, but I can build that up and take my time and give you background as well as current activities and day to day routines etc.

Her face didn't change, I started to slide down in my chair, sometimes its best to be low to the ground.

A small smile, I started to return to normal.

Yes. 

A one-word answer, this was going to be ok. Right, I will start without any preconceptions and build up a background, from family history forward, and then into everything he has and is doing.

In short, a background check first.

I was now in the zone, the initial non introduction was over, I still didn't have her name and I knew my secretary was probably recovering herself at Mike's, or Mick's, or maying she was having a drink some place, Lucky Mike or Mick, is all I could think.

She seemed to have blown out, ever her hair looked nice, so we settled into the routine. I asked she told, and without too much abuse, which makes for things going smoothly.

We was in her mid forties, this I agreed with, not as a matter of course, of course, but because this is where I would have placed her without thinking. A shocker a women who tells the truth about her age. I was warming to the possibilities here.

Married for ten years, not much of an age difference and wealth on both sides, so it wasn't anything that was bought and paid for. This was a real relationship that they had both fallen into and now, she the distressed party, was looking to find out what the hell had changed. (I'm using much nicer language that she did.)

Solid employment for both of then, he was a lawyer litigation, a average firm but on solid footing and making a good living. He enjoyed his work, or so it seemed, do the odd trip for clients, nothing extravagant.

She was an author, or editor, they are interchangeable in my book (James Brogan - Private Dick, pick it up now) Nothing like a free plug when you can get it. Especially when it fits in the country you are in.

So, it was a family, without children, but a happy family. A couple who enjoyed not always the finer things in life, but had no worries, no real family or family problems in the past, just two good people passing time and nothing on.

If he was messing around, then it was really a big problem, because she wanted to know why and with who, the who being the most important part.

I agreed, who wouldn't other wise I would be having a another cheap meal, fighting my cat for scraps.

Fee agreed, I said I would start work ASAP, just to press home that I wanted the work and enjoyed what I do, that's a crock, this working as a dick is either high on the hog or down in the gutter, but I wasn't going to complain too much, being your own boss made it a job that was simple, you earn what you actually work for.

Taking the retainer, I smiled and showed her to the door and locked up.

While sitting at Dave's place having a beer, you didn't really think I was going to follow her home and start right away did you? I had a little chat with Dave, the Owner of Dave's place. You know sometimes it works out like that, you buy a place and it has your name, like it was kismet or something.

Dave, the one armed bar tender who pour you a pint while cracking bottles open at the same time, you don't want to know.

He is a font of knowledge, being that his specialty is, well serving drinks and listening to anything and everything and not really forgetting anything. If you meet him, keep quiet, I swear he'd make a great living blackmailing people.

As things turned out Dave new the law firm my clients husband worked at, Boston isn't as big as some people think. So I got chapter and verse on where this bunch went for drinks, who they used for catering and what the secretaries liked to do on their time off, no I didn't ask, he just told me, Dave is like that.

So they have a regular hangout, and they did the odd catered number for clients and other VIPs who came to them for advice, and I found out something that the wife didn't know, this place had taken on a think tank as a client, or had merged, for lack of a better term, with an important player.

As such, more work was being done and lots of materials being produced, so it could be that he, her husband, was just working a little harder and spending a little more time in meetings. Not sure how I felt about that, but still the retainer was in my pocket, and if I spent a few days I would get a little more, and all things being level, equal or even, I would be back on track.

Of course, the cold beer helped the brain, lets not forget that. Receipt in pocket, I talked business so this was an expense, I decided to go home.

Waking up early, drove over to their neighborhood and started working in earnest, watching the road, he was regular as clockwork and drove past me right on time and bang on the speed limit, after the appropriate amount of time, I pulled out and kept an eye on him, effectively uneventful, as you would guess he drove to work, and parked in the parking lot next to the office block, I thrust my car into a parking spot on the street and stuck a sign in the window. Why should I pay a parking ticket?

I hustled into the parking lot to find his car, threw my newspaper on the ground and slid under the car, while a little bulky, the tracker would help me keep am eye on him if I needed to. While I had access to vehicles, I couldn't always in a different car, and I wanted to make sure that I wasn't spotted.

A radio tracker would allow me to find him from a few miles away, and keep things smooth enough if I took on a second case.

The day was boring, so that is not to say the one bar fight and a free was normal, but it helped keep me away. Nothing special was going on, but he did leave, and I thought this was strange regardless, a little earlier than I would have expected, but this was my first day, and you don't get lucky on the first day.

Thanking the fellow I had just knocked to the floor, I put on a little trot to get to my car, the tracker would keep me in contact.

It started like I would have expected, but then took a turn, heading out to the what one might call the countryside.

Now, I don't know if you know Boston, or the surrounding area, but, it doesn't take you too long to get out to places a city boy would stand out, so keeping a eye on the old dot, I followed and checked the map when I felt I needed to.

He had stopped, and I didn't know where, then I found where quickly enough.

It was an upscaled farm, a resort style farm if you will, while I could only guess it was some sort of working farm the main buildings had, well a unique polished look to them, and make you think that it really didn't fit in.

I had found the car, but I could only assume that the owner was in the building, no problem there. I had my telephoto lens, and plenty of film, I started my scouting and took a few shots. The surrounding woods had trails and paths, presumably for horses or dog walkers, I saw clear evidence of both, and it looked recent.

Most of the windows had drawn curtains, maybe odd at this time of the day, oh wait, I never told you the time of the day did I. This was all around 230 in the afternoon, hence the lunchtime bar fight, bar flies are a special breed.

I debated with myself, should I push in, maybe a little trespassing, just to see what the security is like, or should I stick to long range snooping, and pad the bill. I chose to push forward.

One of the many animals they seemed to have all around the building was a smallish, pig "farm" or enclosure, some great bacon was on the move wobbling from the outside to the inside and this one particular out building would allow me a great view of a few windows that I couldn't really get a look into with my camera from outside the compound.

So in with the pigs I went, and as I did so I decided to light up, if there was one thing that would take the odor away, it would the lovely taste and smell of a camel. I couldn't get any players the last time I was at the corner shop, so I went with the lung stranglers, strangely enough they also make you spit like a camel.

I hopped the fence and kept low along the fence to get into the little barn/building, with the pigs. They are surprisingly clean animals really, but the smell isn't the most pleasant, thus the camels, I was lucky, another brand I sometimes smoke, and I had a few lighters with me, nothing like the flick of a bic, and it is always polite to be able to lite a smoke for someone.

Groping for a lighter while in a crouch is not the easiest of things, and I dropped the first lighter I managed to work to the surface of the pocket, looking down, I decided that it wasn't worth retrieving, and started the process all over again, this time I was able to maintain control and light up.

ahhhhh

Yes, smoking in a pig-sty, maybe not the cleverest thing that one might do, but the smoke served a purpose, the pigs didn't want to spend too much time next to me and I was defeating the potential smells that would emanate from the beasts. I am not sure what they fed these animals, but the creation of gas was excessive and, well, it was something to inhale.

I managed to get some shots of the inside, it wasn't a farm house, it was something well decorated and looked like a place that meeting of substance might happen in. The interior that one could see was elaborate, and showed a sort of elegance that you wouldn't expect, but then again the build itself was unique, so this is something purpose built.

I slipped away, this was a good start for the background, and I would have a fair report to return to my client in a few days, I don't think anything untoward was happening, but first day is just that, and I wanted to get a week out of this at least, I needed an even footing cash wise.

Plus, I needed to clean my shoes, and this I would also bill to the client, I was on the job after all.

On the way back to the office, I was passed, in the opposite direction, by a few really luxurious cars, even a limo, and on this stretch of road, they could really only be going to one place, this peeked my interest and I made a mental checkmark to make sure too return to this place and gather some information.

At the office I changed and typed up a initial report from notes, dropped everything in a brown envelope and popped it in the bare open files draw, and went to unwind, do I need to tell you where?

An uneventful night, I went out for a little light entertainment and then back home.

The next morning I was set for the same routine, but I wanted to avoid the barfight, I mean its fun, but really, not the sort of thing you want to do twice a day, I found a little sandwich shop that served coffee and settled in with a morning bagel and a coffee, which became 2, then as I was readying myself for 3 and a new newspaper, I things started to happen just up the road.

I wasn't 100%, but I was fairly sure that those same cars I saw last night, had just driven by and pulled into the parking lot, so maybe it really is just a change in circumstances at work, and more people more meeting an a law firm that is getting into, or involved in, more work, and something that requires a more peaceful location, or maybe a very rich client? Nothing felt like it was going to lead me to any sordid, while this is good for them, sometimes as a Private Dick, you want a little slap and tickle, but this didn't feel like it.

I decided to take a flyer, and head out for a daytime sortie of the farm, I borrowed a dog from Dave. Dave has everything.

Loaded the big fella into the car and headed off out into the "countryside" to walk my dog, and get some exercise, big fella was an understatement, this animal looked like it might drop dead if you showed it a ball and said fetch, that or he might stand up and plant a paw on you.

As I pulled into the layby, the sun was passing 2pm and shadows and everything offered a measurement, this makes things better, I am happier when light gives you something other than just the ability to see. The dog was walking, and visiting every tree it managed to get close enough to, and I decided to walk around the same direction as before.

Some of the trees would give a fair advantage point to have a look in some of the upper windows. This would be helpful as the lower windows again all seem to have curtains and blinds tilted just enough to allow light in, but even better, enough to make looking in, just not worth it.

This is the only thing that didn't seem to add up, why? You are in a lovely home, and lovely building, in an area that allows for great natural light, maybe not a pleasant smelling location due to the animals, but the light and the view, would be pleasant enough, but those inside, and I was certain that the building was occupied, a couple of cars, and it just gave me that feeling.

I leapt up, and climbed a tree, a couple of trees back, not right on the fence but about 15 ft up, I got the view I wanted and I was assured that I wasn't viewable from the inside, the leaves on the trees and the angle, if I don't move, the odds of drawing any attention is unlikely.

About 15 minutes into my settling into the perch, and the dog curling up below, I caught some movement someone was coming out with swill for the pigs, so the building must have a staff, and from the two buckets the kitchen was working on large meals so multiple people must come here, eat here, and do whatever it is you do in a building like this.

The buckets where dumped and the pigs waddled over and starting to partake of this mid day meal, it was quite a meal too, lots of greens, so one would assume lettuce was something well used, and other items that from this distance it wasn't really possible to identify.

 I settled in, using the telephoto lens to look into the building, and the second and third stories I could see into, and it looked like bedrooms, I couldn't see anything too clearly I needed to be a few trees over, but from what I could see, the upper floors didn't have the feel of offices.

While observing I started to hear some noises, I didn't need to look, it was the pigs giving a few squeals, they must be running out of food, or now they have been fed they have the energy to play, do pigs play? Are they a playful animal? I know dogs and cats do?

I twisted to look and it looked like just one pig was making a fuss, and the others where close enough to jostle him/her and it was sort of a scrum of pigs, with one just sort of voicing its, what do pigs voice? What does a pig wish to express when it is squealing?

It was just about then that the impossible happened.

Yes, pigs really do fly.

Now, I'm unaware of the internal workings of a pig, but like most, I am fully aware that what exits a pig, can be used to create certain fuels, that can then again be used to drive a generator and as such create power. 

Now, as the dog is my witness, there was a small explosion, rather central to the pig huddle, and before you could express your surprise, up in the air, without a care, was a pig. 

A round.

pink.

pig.

With, now this is the part that makes it just so, so, so, unbelievable..

A jet.

A lite jet of, what one can only assume was gas, that was lit.

It was a flaming jet from the rear end of the pig.

Now if a squeal can be elongated, then that is what you heard, as this pig reached around the 3rd floor, and traveled into the forest, to its end.

As I watched, without taking any pictures, for they would have been a wonderful keep sake, I saw something else that caught my eye and I did manage to take a picture of.

Women, a gaggle of women at couple of the windows, and all in various forms of undress or redress, the clothes where going on, or coming of, as was the makeup. 

While pigs may fly, this house gave me its secret, it was cat house.

As I could hear the branches breaking, see the girls turning from the windows, I felt the feeling of impending doom, for while I knew I would have some good bacon, I also knew something else.

This case wasn't going to be a simple case, and this case was going to involve the mob.

Why the mob?

Well, if anyone, and I mean anyone, is going to run a cat house in Boston, then, well its going to be connected to something and someone, and in Boston, this ment the mob, and I was about to get dirty.

Not just with pig blood, lets face it, if you know you have a ham on the hook, but by getting my client the information she wanted, by doing my job and finding out what it was, what it is, that her husband has gotten himself into.

Yes, folks, pigs really can fly.