Brogan & The Great Hamster Heist

Brogan & The Great Hamster Heist (A Campy 1980s Boston Noir – When Hamsters Fly and the Mob Gets Tiny)

She walked into the room like Jessica Rabbit — all legs, this was a dame you wanted to watch walk, and it didn’t matter which way she was walking, those legs went on forever. She had red hair that looked like it had been set on fire by a jealous god and a voice like warm bourbon over ice.

“Mr. Brogan?” she said, sliding into the chair like she owned the place. “I’m looking for my cat. His name is Marmalade. He’s been missing three days and I’m worried sick.”

James Brogan, ex-Boston PD detective turned private eye, leaned back in his creaky chair above the Chinese laundry on Tremont Street and lit a Camel. It was 1987, the kind of October where the leaves turned faster than a bookie changed his odds.

“Lady, I find cheating husbands, not cats. But for a retainer and a description, I’ll make an exception. What’s the story?”

She slid a photo across the desk. Marmalade was a fat orange tabby with a face like he’d just been caught with his paw in the cookie jar.

“He’s been hanging around that old pig farm out in Billerica,” she said. “I think he’s been… hunting.”

Brogan raised an eyebrow. “Pigs and cats? That’s a new one.”

That night the phone rang again. This time it was a voice Brogan knew too well.

“Brogan. Rush here.”

Major John Rush — the man who’d walked point through the Iron Triangle in ’69 and pulled Brogan’s squad out of a night ambush when the VC had them pinned down tighter than a cheap suit. The man who’d retired with more ribbons than most generals and now consulted for companies that needed problems solved quietly.

“Major,” Brogan said. “You calling about the cat or the pigs?”

Rush’s voice was calm as ever. “Both. I’ve been watching that farm for a client. Something’s off. They’re moving more than pork. Look for the hamsters. Little bastards are the key. And Brogan — watch your back. The Mob’s involved, and they don’t like loose ends with whiskers.”

The next morning Brogan drove out to Tuttle’s Happy Hog Farm in Billerica. The place smelled like money and manure. Earl Tuttle, the nervous owner, met him at the gate.

“Pigs are acting strange,” Tuttle whispered. “And my hamsters keep disappearing. I breed ‘em for pet stores. Now half my cages are empty.”

Brogan found the first clue in the feed shed: a tiny ziplock bag with white powder residue and a hamster-sized harness. Cocaine. The Mob had figured out that hamsters were small, fast, and could be trained to run through pipes and vents. They were using the little guys as living drug mules — strapping tiny packets to their backs and letting them scurry through warehouse walls.

That’s when Brogan met Dave.

Dave was a scruffy brown hamster with one ear that flopped sideways and an attitude bigger than the entire farm. He was sitting on top of a feed sack like he owned the place, chewing on a piece of straw like it was a cigar.

Brogan crouched down. “You Dave?”

Dave stared at him, then gave a little shrug that somehow looked sarcastic.

Brogan laughed. “Yeah, you’re Dave. You got any friends in the Mob, Dave?”

Dave promptly ran up Brogan’s arm, perched on his shoulder, and chattered indignantly, as if to say, “Those goons kidnapped my cousin Louie last week. I’ve been trying to bust them ever since.”

Brogan grinned. “Welcome to the team, pal.”

Over the next two days Brogan, Rush, and Dave turned the farm upside down. Rush fed Brogan quiet intel over the phone: “Check the old silo. They’re using it as a staging area.” Brogan found more harnesses and tiny drug packets. Dave proved himself invaluable — he could squeeze through gaps no human could and once even tripped a goon by running between his legs, sending the guy face-first into a pile of pig slop.

On the third night they followed the trail to the docks in Charlestown. The Mob was loading a shipment onto a fishing trawler. Hamsters in tiny crates, each one rigged with a packet of cocaine strapped to its back like a furry little FedEx driver.

Brogan and Rush moved in at midnight. Rush was calm precision — one silent takedown after another. Brogan was pure sarcasm and bad attitude, cracking wise the whole time.

“Hey, Vinnie,” Brogan called out to the lead goon. “Nice operation. You ever think about unionizing the hamsters? They deserve dental.”

Vinnie “The Weasel” Capello spun around, gun drawn. “Brogan! You and that washed-up Major are dead!”

Dave, riding on Brogan’s shoulder like a tiny pirate, suddenly leaped. He landed on Vinnie’s face, chattering furiously and biting the goon’s nose like it owed him money. Vinnie screamed and dropped the gun. Rush stepped in, calm as ever, and put the Weasel down with one precise punch.

Brogan freed the hamsters while the state police sirens wailed in the distance. Dave sat on his shoulder the whole time, looking smug.

“You did good, Dave,” Brogan said, scratching the hamster behind his one good ear. “You’re one tough little bastard.”

Dave puffed out his chest like he’d just won the hamster Super Bowl.

The next morning Brogan sat in his office, feet on the desk, watching Dave run laps in a brand-new hamster wheel Brogan had bought as a reward. The Mob crew was in custody, the drugs were off the street, and Marmalade the cat had been reunited with his owner — turns out he’d been chasing Dave the whole time, thinking the hamster was a very fast, very angry mouse.

Rush called from Quincy.

“Good work, Brogan. Dave’s a hell of a partner.”

Brogan laughed. “Yeah, he is. Little guy’s got more guts than half the cops I used to work with. Says he wants a raise and a corner office.”

Rush’s dry chuckle came through the line. “Tell him he earned it. And Brogan… sometimes the smallest soldiers win the biggest battles.”

Brogan looked at Dave, who was now sitting on top of the wheel like a tiny king, chewing on a sunflower seed with pure swagger.

“You hear that, Dave? The Major says you’re a hero.”

Dave gave a little shrug that somehow looked like a victory dance.

Brogan raised his coffee cup in salute. “To Dave the Hamster — the only rodent in Boston with a rap sheet and a heart of gold.”

Outside, the city lights flickered like they were laughing at the whole damn mess.

Some cases you solve with guns. Some you solve with guts. And every once in a while… you solve them with a hamster named Dave who really, really hates the Mob.

The End.

(And yes — “hamsters flying” was a stretch, but in this case Dave the Hamster basically flew into Vinnie’s face like a furry missile. Classic Brogan.)

 

Brogan’s Hog Wild Case

 Brogan’s Hog Wild Case

(A Campy 1980s Boston Noir – When Pigs Really Do Fly)

Boston, 1987. The kind of fall where the leaves turned colors faster than a bookie changed his odds, and every back road in Middlesex County smelled like money and manure. James Brogan, ex-Boston PD detective turned private eye, was nursing a lukewarm Narragansett in his third-floor office above a North End bakery when the phone rang like a guilty conscience.

“Brogan Investigations. If you’re calling about your dignity, we’re fresh out. Try the lost-and-found on Tremont Street.”

A nervous voice crackled through the receiver. “Mr. Brogan? Name’s Earl Tuttle. I run Tuttle’s Happy Hog Farm out in Billerica. My pigs… they’re disappearing. And the ones that are left… they’re acting real strange. Flying, Mr. Brogan. I swear on my mother’s rhubarb pie, I saw one of ‘em fly last night.”

Brogan almost dropped his beer. “Fly? As in wings and a propeller, or as in ‘I’ve been hitting the sauce too hard’?”

“Neither. Straight up in the air like a damn helicopter. Then it landed in the next field. I think someone’s messing with my hogs. And I think it’s the same someone who’s been leaving funny-looking packages in my feed shed.”

Brogan lit a Camel. “Funny-looking how?”

“White powder. Lots of it. Smells like chemicals and bad decisions.”

Now we were talking. Brogan had quit the force in ’76 after catching two captains on the take from the same crew that moved more nose candy than a Southie dentist. He still hated dirty cops more than he hated Mondays. A pig farm full of disappearing hogs and mystery powder? That had “mob sideline” written all over it.

“I’ll be there tomorrow,” Brogan said. “Try not to let any more pigs take off without a flight plan.”

The next morning Brogan rolled up to Tuttle’s Happy Hog Farm in his battered ’79 Chevy Impala. The place looked like a postcard from hell — mud, squealing pigs, and a smell that could knock a buzzard off a gut wagon. Earl Tuttle was a skinny little guy in overalls who looked like he’d been losing sleep and gaining ulcers.

“They’re in there,” Tuttle whispered, pointing at the big barn. “The pigs. And the… the flying one.”

Brogan stepped inside. The pigs looked normal enough — until one of them suddenly launched straight up, did a lazy loop, and landed in a pile of hay like it had done it a hundred times. Brogan blinked.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” he muttered. “Sometimes pigs really do fly.”

He knelt and examined the feed trough. Mixed in with the slop was a fine white powder. Cocaine. High-grade. Enough to make every pig on the farm feel like it had just won the Kentucky Derby and grown wings.

Brogan followed the trail to an old shed behind the barn. Inside were stacks of neatly wrapped bricks of the same white stuff, plus a small crop-dusting plane painted with a smiling cartoon pig on the tail. The logo read “Hog Heaven Air Freight – We Deliver.”

Brogan laughed once, short and sharp. “Hog Heaven. Cute. These boys are using your farm as a drop point and a testing ground. They lace the feed to see how the product travels through the system. Then they load the real shipment on the little plane and fly it low over the state lines. ‘Flying pigs’ — the perfect cover. Nobody looks twice at a pig farm.”

A voice behind him drawled, “Smart guy.”

Brogan turned. Three men in muddy boots and expensive track suits stepped out of the shadows. The leader was Vinnie “The Weasel” Capello — same low-level mob guy Brogan had tangled with before.

“Brogan,” Vinnie said, grinning like a shark at a beach party. “You just can’t stay out of my business, can you? First the docks, now my flying pig operation. You got a nose for trouble like a bloodhound with a cold.”

Brogan shrugged. “What can I say? I’m like a pig in mud — I just keep rooting around until I find the truffles. Or in this case, the cocaine.”

Vinnie’s goons cracked their knuckles. “Funny guy. Too bad comedy’s about to become your cause of death.”

Brogan smiled the way a man smiles when he’s already three steps ahead. “Tell me, Vinnie — when those pigs take off after eating your special feed, do they file a flight plan? Or do they just wing it?”

One goon lunged. Brogan sidestepped, grabbed a pitchfork, and gave the guy a new center part in his hair. The second goon pulled a gun. Brogan kicked a bucket of slop into his face and followed up with a right cross that would have made his old boxing coach proud.

Vinnie tried to run. Brogan tackled him into a pile of hay.

“Game over, Weasel,” Brogan said, cuffing him with a pair of plastic ties he kept in the Impala for exactly this kind of occasion. “Your flying pig airline is grounded. Permanently.”

The state police showed up an hour later, tipped off by an anonymous call from a payphone in Billerica. They found enough cocaine to keep the evidence locker busy for a month and a crop duster with a very happy cartoon pig painted on the tail.

Earl Tuttle got his farm back, minus the mob sideline. The pigs eventually came down from their high and went back to normal pig business. And Brogan got a nice fat check plus a new scar on his left knuckle.

He sat in his office that night, rain tapping the window like an old friend who’d had one too many. He looked at the old photo of him and Tommy Santoro on the wall — both young, both still believing the badge meant something.

Brogan raised his glass. “Here’s to you, Saint. And to all the pigs that really do fly — even if it’s only after they’ve had a little too much of the good stuff.”

He flicked ash into an empty coffee cup and grinned.

“Another day, another case solved. Sometimes you chase the bad guys. Sometimes the bad guys chase the pigs. And every once in a while… you get to watch both of them take off together.”

The End.

(And yes — “pigs fly” is the classic idiom for something impossible. In this case, the pigs really did fly… because the mob was using the farm to test and smuggle cocaine. “Rooting around” is a pig pun. “Wing it” is another flying pun. Classic Brogan.)

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.