Bruce Force, Private Detective

                          Bruce Force, Private Detective




         It was a warm, pasty night, the sweltering kind, the kind that clung to your sweaty body, that stuck to your ribs like a taffy-covered, carmel-frosted cinnamon roll with melted butter and washed down with a nice tall glass of tire sealant. You know the night.
         I'm a private dick. Stop your giggling; that's so immature. It's not a bad word in this story. Any-hoo, I'm sitting alone at my desk-a common sight, as I'm often alone. Haven't cracked a case since the Hoover administration, and I'm wondering where I'm going to get the bread for my next shoe shine. Or for food and stuff.
         So I'm reading the latest installment of Yellow Heathen Cowardly Non-Christian Jap, a real nail-biter. In fact, by Chapter 10, I ran out of nails and began biting bolts and screws. One thing's for sure: These pulps will be around for a long, long, long, long time. Believe me; I know I sure do. I have to, because that's where I invested the few clams I've got.
         Suddenly, the door opened-from the opposite side, that is, and I can't tell you how rarely that happens. No, I mean I really can't: I'm that drunk. But what was even rarer was what stepped inside: a dame. A broad. A bird. Adam's other half. Old-fashioned, grade-A, all-American apple pie, you know what I'm saying.
         And this dame was electrifying. Pretty as a picture (as long as the picture is pretty). She had legs up to her neck. Most guys mean that metaphorically; me, I mean she had no torso. Just a couple of gams with a head on top. It was then I decided to lay off the opium.
         She sauntered into the room, confident as a peacock, straight as an arrow, bold and strong like the ten-cent cologne I was wearing. I got a better look at her now, and I could she had a body for business, the kind you want to dip in chocolate and feast upon it like it was Thanksgiving Day all over again, the kind you want to chew up, swallow whole, and never release from your colon, just let her sit there in your lower intestine until she plugs you up like a TVA project. Maybe you'd have her with a side order of slaw and a salad. Some cheese wouldn't be bad either. Sorry for all the food imagery. I haven't eaten in three days.
         She sat down in the chair across from me. Lucky chair. When she spoke, her voice was sultry and breathy, sort of like she was trying to seduce me while having an asthma attack. "Are you Bruce Force, Private Eye?"
         "That's what the door says, honey."
         "Yeah, I know that's what the door says. I'm asking if you're Bruce Force."
         "Um, yeah."
         "Well, I've got a job for you. I want you to kill a man for me."
         "Whoa, sister!" I took my feet off the desk and sat up. "You got the wrong man if you're looking to have someone rubbed out. I may be sleaze, but I've got my principles. Peddle your murderous wares elsewhere."
         "I'll pay you $50,000."
         "You want I should make it look like an accident?"
         "You can paddle him to death with a spork, for all I care. Or shove him in front of a runaway shopping cart. Or take him to Oktoberfest and polka till he drops. As long as he's dead."
         "What's a spork?" I waved the issue away. "Never mind. Who is the slug, and why do you want him plugged?"
         "I'll tell you as soon as you stop tap dancing."
         "Sorry, my feet fell asleep from keeping them on my desk for so long. Are you going to tell me who the target is?"
         "His name is Lenny Cotonou-you know, like the capital."
         "What capital?"
         "Cotonou, the capital of Benin, of course."
         "I thought the capital was Kumasi."
         "That's in Ghana. And the capital there is Accra."
         "Isn't Benin called Dahomey during this time period?"
         "And Ghana is called the Gold Coast. Can we move on?" She reached into her purse and handed me a photograph of the ugliest mug I ever laid eyes on.
         "What's this?" I asked.
         "That's the mug Lenny drinks his coffee from. Ugly, isn't it? Now here's a picture of his face."
         The face was cherubic, chunky, and chapfallen. Greasy hair, pug nose, and big, flappy ears. It was obvious he was a high-roller, a player, a tough guy, a punk. He didn't look like the kind of man you'd take home to your mother. Believe me; I've tried it. They don't hit it off, and the next thing you know you're cleaning broken dinner plates off the wall.
         "He killed my husband," she went on. "Perhaps you've heard of him: Woodrow Wilson."
         "Woodrow Wilson, the president?!"
         "No, Woodrow Wilson, the refrigerator magnet magnate."
         "Never heard of him."
         "Not important. What's important is that he's dead. What's even more important is that Lenny killed him because of my husband's unpaid gambling debts. What's even more important is that I can't go to the feds, because Lenny has them in his pocket. What's even more important is that I need you to kill him for me. What's even more important is my dentist appointment Thursday at two. No, wait! That thing about killing Lenny? That's more important than the dentist thing."
         "How do you know Lenny killed your husband?"
         "It's quite obvious. I was eating dinner with my husband, alone together in our cold, loveless marriage, when he was poisoned, died, and left me with a staggering inheritance. But I'm not on trial here! Lenny did it, and I want him dead. Oh, Mr. Force, I'd do anything to get my husband's killer! Anything!"
         I grinned like a cat. "Anything?"
         "As long as it doesn't exceed $50,000 and doesn't involve me having sex with you. Or touching you. Or being around you for any extended period of time."
         I scoffed. "Lady, what kind of creep do you take me for? I'm not interested in scoring with a recently stiffed guy's widow! Give me some credit!" I silently closed the desk drawer that contained my prophylactics.
         "Oh, and I also won't be calling you any silly names," she added.
         "All right, already!" I snapped, a little testy now that I knew that I was no closer to my dream of having a beautiful woman call me "Goobie."
         "So you'll do it?"
         "Sure, doll. Don't you worry your long perfect legs about it. Now where do I find Lenny Cotonou?"
         "That's just it: I don't know. He went underground until the heat blows over."
         "'Underground till the heat blows over'?"
         "Oh, right. Like you've never mixed a metaphor."
         "Fine, I'll find him a plug him like a toilet stuffed with paper towels-not those that dissolve, either, the kind that you have to fish out by hand. The kind where you have to dunk your hand in the sludge and-"
         "I get it, thanks."
         "By the way, Mrs. Wilson, I didn't catch your first name."
         "I didn't throw it. But it's Kitty."
         "Like the cat."
         "I can see why you're a detective, Mr. Force. Now if you need me, just whistle. You know how to whistle, don't you?"
         I stuck my fingers in my mouth and let out an ear-splitting whistle that cracked the glass in my window pane. Kitty covered her ears until I let up. "That's one of the reasons I'm twice divorced," I explained.
         She staggered out of my office, a little dizzy, never looking back, never saying a word, and never even approaching a state of nudity.
         

         So there I was, out on the streets, flattening my feet on my first case in years. The night was cold, icy and freezing like a Utah mountaintop. Yeah, I know I said earlier that it was warm and sticky, but that's how the night is sometimes. Weather is like a woman: One moment it's warm, cozy, and you never want to stop holding it. The next moment it's cold, frigid, and you learn it has a penis.
         I decided to stop in at Stoolie's, a real dive bar where I'd meet my chief informant, Mickey Goluckie, a guy who kept his nose to the grindstone, which probably explains how he messed up his face. But he also had his finger in every sticky pie this side of Teapot Dome. Everyone called him "Jack," which bugged the hell out of him. That suited me fine, because even though my name's Bruce, he inexplicably calls me "Johnny."
         He was sitting at his usual seat, wearing his usual suit, having his usual drink at the usual time. "Hey, Jack," I said to Mickie. "How're things?"
         "As usual," he shrugged. "And don't call me Jack, Johnny."
         "Don't call me Johnny, Jack. Listen, I need some poop from you."
         "Okay, Johnny: You're ugly, stupid, and smell like week-old tuna salad, see?"
         "Not that kinda poop, Jack. I mean information. That's what I need, some information. I need everything you can dig up on Lenny Cotonou."
         "Cotonou? Isn't that the capital of Dahomey?"
         "You're a smart man, Jack. While you're at it, I need you examine a Mrs. Kitty Wilson. Preferably the Kitty Wilson I'm interested in. The one with the gams. Married to Woodrow."
         "The former first lady?"
         "Wrong Mrs. Wilson. This is the widow of the refrigerator-magnet magnate. Can you handle it?"
         "Sure, Johnny. You can count on me, see?"
         "You're the best, Jack."
         "Aw, Johnny!"
         "Aw, Jack."
         "Johnny."
         "Jack."
         "Johnny."
         "Jack...Jack."
         "Hey, it was my turn, see?"
         "Sorry, you were a little slow. Threw my rhythm off. I'll be in touch."
         "Where will you be if I find anything?"
         "Like I said: I'll be in touch."


         So there I was, at the Club Touch. It was a place for every wiseguy, don, goodfella, and church lady in town. Frankly, I didn't mind the Black Hand, but those church ladies could be quite protective of their Bingo racket.
         I approached the maitre'd and flashed an Andrew Jackson in his face. "I don't suppose you'd care to trade this for some information about your guest list?"
         He looked at me snottily, probably from years of practice. "You'll have to do better than that picture of Andrew Jackson. He slaughtered the native Indians and propagated the Spoils System."
         "All right," I said, and I waved a different picture. "How about a portrait of Chester A. Arthur?"
         "The man who spirited the Chinese Exclusion Act of 1882?" He seemed appalled.
         "Sure," I agreed, "but there's also the Pendelton Act of 1883, which brought about much-needed civil-service reform, the kind that might have prevented the assassination of President James Garfield. What do you say?"
         He pretended to think it over, but I could tell he was hooked. Civil-service reform opens a lot of doors in this town. "What do you want to know?" he asked, pocketing the Arthur portrait.
         "I'm looking for Cotonou," I said.
         "It's on the Eastern coast of Africa, on the southernmost tip of Dahomey."
         "I guess I deserved that," I said. "I meant Lenny Cotonou."
         "Oh, Lenny! I haven't seen him around since he last worked for that legit businessman, Benny 'Big Ben' Benjamin."
         "Where can I find Big Ben?"
         "In the clock tower of London's House of Parliament, England."
         "I did it again, didn't I? I meant Benny."
         "I thought you were looking for Lenny."
         "I was. Now I'm looking for Benny."
         "He's in the VIP room, right up the steps."
         I peered into the darkened club. "And where are the steps?"
         "They're in the central plains region of Eurasia."
         "Boy, the geography lessons are coming fast and furious tonight, aren't they? Look, never mind. I'll find him."
         "Don't I get a tip?"
         "Sure. Brush daily and dress warmly in cold weather."
         I made my way past the greasy maitre'd into the rathole where the all the local rats ate their rat poison and drank their rat drinks. I saw many shady characters there, like Davy "Shades" Davis, Ol' Shades McClain, Big Momma Shades, "Shades" McShady, and Shady "Shady" the Shadey Shade-wearing Shade. Don't get me started on all the seedy characters.
         Seated in a corner of the VIP room was the man of the hour-somewhere between 12:14 and 1:14 a.m.-Benny "Big Ben" Benjamin. His round, elephantine figure filled much of the booth, but he still had enough room to have a eye-friendly moll on either side of him. And these dames weren't dressed like five-dollar whores, either. These broads were upscale, classy, ten-dollar whores.
         When Benny saw me coming, he gave me the evil eye, along with half an evil ear. I had to admit that I probably looked like something the cat dragged in, like a dead mouse that was drunk and hadn't shaved in six weeks. "Well, well, if it isn't Bruce Force," Benny greeted me. "Say, gumshoe, haven't you got better things to do than to harass legit businessmen?"
         "Don't give me that 'legit businessman' routine," I told him. "I happen to know that the legit business dried up years ago. There's no market for legits anymore."
         "Not in the States, no," Benny admitted. "However, we still make plenty of legits for the European market."
         I pulled the picture from my jacket. "I'm told this guy used to work for you."
         Benny looked it over. "I never met that guy in my life."
         "Don't play games with me, Benny. I have it on good authority that you know this man."
         "Well, sure, I know who he is. That's Andrew Jackson, our sixth president."
         I looked at the picture. I put it back in my jacket and pulled out the picture of Lenny. "How about this thug?"
         "Ah, yes, Lenny Cotonou. You know, that's a city in Dahomey."
         "That's been established, Benny. I need to know where to find him."
         "Can't help you, dick. I haven't seen him since he quit being my torpedo."
         "He used to be a hired hitman for you?"
         "No, I mean I used to shoot him from a submarine. Best not to ask too many questions about that; it was a strange fetish thing."
         "Already know too much," I said. "When did you see him last?"
         "Last week. He said he was going underground."
         "He's in hiding?"
         "No, he's in archeology. He came to me with an ancient Egyptian comicbook. The Amazing Anubis #1, in mint/near mint condition, too. He didn't want to sell it to me, but I made him an offer that he couldn't refuse."
         "You chopped off a horse's head and put it in his bed while he slept?"
         "What?" He scrunched up his pug nose. "No, I offered him a thousand clams and a copy of the latest Hoagy Carmichael 78. He loves Hoagy Carmichael; he couldn't refuse it."
         "Any reason why he'd be hassling Woodrow Wilson?"
         "The Fourteen Points fellow? Nah, I wouldn't mess with him."
         "No, I mean the refrigerator-magnet magnate."
         "Him neither. A real straight-laced fellow. Now his wife Kitty, on the other hand, she owed a lotta people a lotta money. Spent more than the allowance she got from her old man and was in debt up to those sweet narrow hips of hers."
         "Not nice to tattle, Benny," I gently scolded him. "Any tip you can give me?"
         "Brush daily and dress warmly in cold weather."
         "I meant about Lenny. Where was the last place he was staying?"
         "Try the Upham Arms. And if you do find him, tell him I'm interested in any rare Egyptian girdle he may find."
         "I'll do no such thing," I said.
         "Now if you'll excuse us, we were just about to have a late dinner."
         "Don't mind if I do," I said, sitting down at the edge of the booth next to one of his lady dolls.
         "That's quite all right, Mr. Force, your presence is not required."
         "Are, uh, are you sure? I could tell you about some really good pulps I've been reading. You ever read the pulps? Got stock in them, myself. You ever think about investing?"
         The next thing I know is a dark shadow draping over me, and behind it were two huge torpedoes. We're talking giant leering hoodlums with chiseled jawlines that could cut glass. Their entire bodies were built like Popeye's forearms after a boatload of spinach. Just two grisly grizzly bears of men, one with a sledgehammer fist that dropped on my head like, well, like a sledgehammer with hairy knuckles.
         I'm barely conscious when I find myself lying bloodied and bruised in the trash bin in the alleyway outside the club. It seems like everytime I look for information from a mob boss, I wind up getting the bejesus kicked outta me. You'd think I'd learn to stick with getting my tips from the shoeshine boy. Costs me only a dime, I get the same info, and the kid's left hook is commonplace at best.
         I staggered my way to the Upham Arms. It was an area prone to riots. Don't ask me why; it was just an angry neighborhood. I found Lenny's name on the manifest in the lobby and made my way inside the building, correctly guessing that the lock had been broken long ago by an angy ex-spouse. The building was forlorn, forgotten, and forsaken, like an aging beauty queen that at one time was hot to trot, but now had creaky floors, moldy walls, and sagging breasts.
         I arrived at Lenny's apartment on the second floor and knocked. Hearing nothing, and because I'm the nosy type, I let myself in. I saw a light from the kitchen and followed it like a moth with an erratic flight pattern and a gimp leg. And lo and behold, right there at the kitchen table, was the object of Kitty Wilson's non-affection, Lenny Cotonou.
         Thing is, Lenny had already reached his expiration date. His number was up, his card had been punched, his coat had been checked. It was the Big Sleep, the dirt nap, the long goodbye. It was checkout time at the Lenny Cotonou Being Alive Hotel. He was deceased, departed, defunct. And besides that, he was dead.
         He lay face-down in his three-bean salad, a hole punched through the back of his head, possibly made with a point-blank gunshot to the cranium, or by a really small, round brick. But I'm going with the gunshot theory.
         Just then I heard the faint sound of wheezing. I turned to see a fat, greasy individual in a plain white undershirt standing in the doorway. "Hey! What's youse doing in Lenny's apartment?"
         "I might ask you the same thing," I told him, "if I were as good as you at interrogations."
         "Hey! What happened to Lenny?"
         "Damn it, stop getting ahead of me," I said. "Lenny's been smoked like a ham, a fag, a salmon. And you, buddy, are now the prime suspect!"
         "Me? You're the one who broke in here! And how'd you know my name's Buddy?"
         I grabbed him by the shirt, and after feeling gobs of sweat ooze through my fingers, I released him again. "I'm a private dick, Buddy, and I've had a rough night! So spill the beans!"
         Buddy reached over to the table and knocked the rest of Lenny's three-bean salad onto the floor. "What'd you make me do that for, eh? Now there's all a mess."
         "I need a stool pigeon, Buddy, and you're elected. So squawk, you hear? Squawk!"
         "Squuuuaaaaaaaawwwwk!"
         "An African toucan, excellent! You follow directions real good! But now I want you to talk! Who exactly are you, and what are you doing here?"
         "I don't have to tell you nothin'!"
         Slap! I slapped him hard across the face. "Wrong answer!"
         "Okay, okay! I'm Buddy Malone, the landlord! I saw the door open and came in to check on Lenny, that's all!"
         "Notice anyone suspicious enter Lenny's apartment?"
         "Besides you?"
         "Yeah."
         "I ain't saying!"
         Slap! "Wrong answer!"
         "Okay, okay! There was an individual of indeterminate gender in a hat and trenchcoat, who came in here about a half hour ago. Then I saw the same individual out my window, climbing down the fire escape."
         "Which way did the hat-and-trenchcoat person go?"
         "I ain't sayin'!"
         Slap! "Wrong answer!"
         "Okay, okay! He went left!"
         I thought a moment. "My left or your left?"
         "I ain't sayin'!"
         I raised my hand.
         "My left! My left!"
         "What's the longest river in India?"
         "I ain't sayin'!"
         Slap! "Wrong answer!"
         "Okay! It's the Ganges!"
         Slap! "Wrong answer!"
         "All right, it's the Brahmaputra! But India only has part of that river! Most of it is in China and East Pakistan-which will later be known as Bangladesh!"
         "Why didn't you tell me how long the river is while you were at it?" I asked.
         "I thought you'd be disinterested."
         Slap! "Wrong answer! I'd be un-interested! Man, I hate it when people get that wrong!"
         "Look, you! I've taken all I'm gonna take! I'm getting on the phone to the bulls!"
         "You do that," I said. "And while you're at it, you can tell them that they're the worst team to come out of Chi-town. And then after you talk to the bulls, you can call the police! Ask for Sergeant O'Leary; he'll be walking the beat...No, wait! At night, he becomes a bartender. He works at Mr. Cacciatore's down on Sullivan Street."
         "I know the place," said Buddy. "It's across from the medical center. He drives a Chevy."
         Slap! "Wrong! He's traded in his Chevy for a Cadillac-ack-ack-ack-ack! You oughta know by now!"
         "Man, you need anger management," Buddy whined, rubbing his reddened cheek.
         "Just do it," I told him. "And tell O'Leary to have his men meet me at the estate of Mrs. Kitty Wilson at precisely midnight. Tell him I know who killed Lenny, and I'll hand him the killer on a plate. Not a paper plate, either; a nice silver platter from Tiffany's!"
         Buddy began dialing. "Operator, get me 56-Dougherty."
         Slap!
         "Ow! What the hell was that for?"
         "I really have to tell you?" I asked. "Wrong number!"
         
         
         The moon shone down like a spotlight, so brightly that it made me want to fall to my knees and confess my crimes. Unfortunately, that would have made me late. I had to be at Kitty's before midnight. In fact, I arrived at ten to twelve, so in retrospect, I would have had time to take up that hermaphrodite's proposal back on 7th. But that's water over the bridge that I burned when I made a wrong turn at the crossroads on the highway of life.
         The Wilson mansion was so expansive, expensive, expressive, and explosive, it made me expectorate. A decadent outcropping of bourgeoisie excess, with towering marble walls, a circular gated driveway, and several acres of well-cut grass, none of which was diminished by the wooden figurines that made it look like an old woman was mooning you while she bent over her garden.
         I rang the doorbell and soon faced the Wilson's butler, his black hair slicked back, wearing a tux, lightly splattered with blood. "May I help you?" he asked.
         "Oh, I'm sorry," I said. "I was looking for the Kitty Wilson residence."
         "Yes, sir," he said. "This is Miss Kitty's home."
         I frowned. "And she couldn't come to the door?"
         "Well, sir, I am the butler. And traditionally, the door is always answered by the butler." He leaned forward a bit. "Do you understand me, sir? The butler always does it."
         "Yeah, I get it, already. The butler always does it. Anyway, the label's Bruce Force. I came to see Kitty."
         "Miss Kitty is expecting you," he said stiffly, turning to let me in.
         "You seem to know a lot about me, Jeeves," I said, stepping inside.
         He closed the door behind me. "The name's Bubba, sir."
         "Bubba? You're a butler, and your name is Bubba?"
         "Yes, sir."
         "I thought all butlers had to be named Jeeves or Jarvis. Maybe Alfred."
         "No, sir. I'm Bubba."
         "But Bubba's just a nickname, right?"
         "No, sir, my real name's Bubba. Bubba Joe Butler III."
         "That's just stupid. Who the hell has a butler named Bubba Joe?"
         "I'm non-union, sir."
         "Care to answer some questions?"
         "I'd rather not, sir."
         "How'd you get that blood on your shirt?"
         "We were having a late chicken dinner-"
         "And the chicken put up a fight?"          
         "The gentleman's wit is as dry as Kentucky under Prohibition. No, sir, I sliced open my thumb." He held up his left hand, which I noticed was wrapped in a bloody rag. Not for nothing am I a private eye. I miss nothing.
         "And is that your hat and trenchcoat over there?" I said, gesturing to those very objects hanging on a nearby coatrack.
         "No, sir, those belong to Miss Kitty."
         "She often wears a hat and trenchcoat, does she?"
         "As a matter of fact, sir, she does, especially whenever she travels to the red light district in order to place bets and to flash the elderly."
         "I see. Were you working the night of Mr. Woodrow Wilson's death?"
         "No, sir, I prepared supper and left early that night. If someone wanted to murder Mr. Wilson and make it look like an accident, I don't see how droopy ditty gum fiddle bum flapper."
         "I beg your pardon?"
         "Excuse me, sir, I'm getting a little loopy from the blood loss. Do you mind finding your way to the living room, so that I may throw up and pass out?"
         "Sure," I said, walking in the direction he pointed out to me before hearing something heavy slam into the floor.
         They were all there waiting for me: Benny "Big Ben" Benjamin, the so-called legit businessman; Buddy Malone, the recently departed Lenny Cotonou's landlord; and my stoolie, Mickie Goluckie. And there was the lady herself, Kitty Wilson, the main course, the real deal, the main event, the dame with legs like golden candy canes that you wanted to lick until they melted away and she fell face-first onto the carpet. She stood there against the marble fireplace, nervously fondling her drink. Lucky drink.
         "There had better be a reason we're all out here, gumshoe," said Benny. "I don't think it's proper to be harrassing legit businessmen."
         "Yeah, yeah, we covered that, Benny," I said. "Just keep your hat on."
         "Hey, why am I here?" said Malone. "Didn't you get enough of slapping me around?"
         "I doubt it, but we'll soon find out," I told him.
         "Couldn't this wait till morning, Johnny?" Mickie whined, as he sat cross-legged on the couch. "A man needs his beauty sleep, see?"
         "Shut up, already, Jack!" I finally snapped. "Jesus! What a bunch of damn whiners! I mean, Jesus!" The lack of sleep, money, alcohol, and sex was catching up to me. "I'm here to reveal the identity of the murderer of Lenny Cotonou!"
         They stood motionless for several minutes.
         "Well?" asked Benny.
         "Well, what?" I asked.
         "Who's the murderer, already?!"
         "You don't want to take a moment to gasp, make denials, propse alibis?"
         "Get on with it, Johnny, see?" said Mickie.
         "Right," I said, a little disappointed that I couldn't exploit any more drama from the situation. "But first, I have a revelation for you, Miss Wilson: Porto Novo."
         Kitty gave me a bland, blank look before blinking. "Actually, Mr. Force, that's less of a revelation and more of a non sequitur."
         "When we first met, you said you wanted me to find and kill Lenny Cotonou, like the captial of Dahomey. But the capital of Dahomey isn't Cotonou, doll-face. It's Porto Novo. Oh, sure, Cotonou is still the largest city in Dahomey-with an estimated population of 487,000-but the capital is Porto Novo. That got me suspicious, so I did some checking. And you know what I found?"
         "Okay, I did it!" said Kitty, covering her face with her hands. "I did it! I killed my husband so I could inherit his fortune and pay off my gambling debts! Then I killed Lenny and hired you to throw the suspicion off me! But I'm sorry, now, Mr. Force! Can't you find it in your heart to forgive me?!" She moaned into her hands.
         "Relax, doll," I said, patting her shoulder. "You didn't kill anyone."
         She peeked her eyes over her hands. "I didn't?"
         "Nah, you're as innocent as a new-born babe, albeit one that would look unusually sexy getting spanked. But all your only crime is bad geography."
         "Oh," she said, putting her hands at her shapely sides. "But if I didn't kill my husband, who did?"
         "I'll tell you, Kitty, but it's going to shock you. For you see, the killer is in this very room!"
         The others gave me that familiar blank look.
         "I think we guessed that, see?" said Mickey.
         "Get on with it, gumshoe!" said Benny.
         Buddy opened his mouth to speak before thinking better of it.
         "Fine," I said. "The murderer of Lenny Cotonou, the one who pulled the trigger, the one who cancelled all of Lenny's future birthdays, the one who made his driver's licence renewal moot, the killer who iced him like a cake,...
         "...is...
         "...none other...
         "...than..."
         Just then, the lights went out, plunging the room into inky blackness! Kitty let out a piercing scream! Three gunshots rang out! Blam, blam, blam!
         And then the lights came on.
         And everyone stood exactly as they had been, including Kitty, who looked at me calmly as if nothing had happened.
         "What the hell was that?" I asked.
         "Oh, we have a faulty generator," she explained. "The power just goes off every now and then."
         "So why did you scream?"
         She shrugged. "I'm a-scared of the dark."
         I then looked over at Benny, who held a smoking pistol in his hand. "And you!" I said. "What's the deal firing that gat?"
         "I was cleaning it and it went off," he explained.
         "Three times?!"
         "I'm very thorough."
         "All right, enough of this," I said. "Mickie is the killer!"
         Mickie rose off the couch. "You're insane, Johnny! Cracked, crazy, cranberry sauced! You're looney as a tune, mad as a hatter, nutty as a candy bar! And besides that, you're wrong!"
         "Am I, Jack?" I asked Mickie. "You had no motive, no opportunity, and you knew Lenny the least of anyone here! In my detective experience, that makes you the most likely suspect!"
         "All right, see?" said Mickie. "You got me. The informant business was slow, so I offed Lenny, hoping to get paid to help you find the killer! But you won't take me alive!"
         "Then I'll have to kill you."
         "Okay, maybe you'll take me alive. But I won't be pleasant about it, see?"
         "That's fine. I brought help." I stuck my fingers in my mouth and did my trademarked whistle, causing everyone in the room to cover their ears as mirrors cracked and glass ashtrays exploded. And soon the room was filled with some of my best buddies from the local precinct: Officers O'Leary, O'Cleary, O'Reilly, O'Hannity, O'Flannery, O'Shaugnessy, O'Connery, O'Henry, O'Suzanna, and Rodriguez.
         "He's all yours, O'Leary!" I told the chief. "Slap the bracelets on him!"
         O'Leary slapped the bracelets on Mickie. "Oooh!" said Mickie and whistled. "They're all sparkly!"
         "Twenty-four carrat," I told him.
         "Faith and begorrah, laddie!" said Sgt. O'Leary. "You captured the villain again, as shore as I am an annoying Irish stereotype!"
         "You're not that annoying, O'Leary," I assured him.
         "In that case, I think I'll go eat potatoes and make fun of the Protestants."
         "But don't go overboard."
         One of O'Leary's men approached me. "Sorry you're going to be losing your chief informant, Mr. Force!"
         "O'Suzanna," I said, "don't you cry for me!"
          Another officer put his arm around the lovely Miss Kitty's shoulders. "Don't you worry 'bout a thing, lassie," he said. "We got it all under control now!"
         "Oh, really?" she said coldly, shrugging off his embrace.
         "No, ma'am," he said, pointing to his badge. "O'Reilly."
         "If we're done with the obligatory Irish jokes," I suggested, "maybe you could book him?"
         Sgt. O'Leary turned to Officer O'Henry. "You heard the man, O'Henry! Book him!"
         O'Henry approached Mickie with a notebook. "When would you like your reservation?"
         "Oh, book me for next Saturday, see?" said Mickie.
         "Saturday's already booked," O'Henry said apologetically. "How about Tuesday?"
         They were still settling on a date as they led Mickie away in his very expensive and classy bracelets. I turned back to the others. "Well, I guess you're all free to go."
         Buddy Malone and "Big Ben" Benjamin looked at each other and then back at me. "Wait a minute, gumshoe," said Benny. "If you knew all along that Mickie was the guilty one, what did you need us for?"
         "Well, uh, I guess I didn't," I admitted sheepishly. "I just like an audience."
         Buddy and Benny stormed out, muttering unflattering things about me, things that sounded a lot like "egomaniacal jackass," although I'm sure I heard them wrong.
         I turned back to Kitty, who just stood there looking at me. "Well?" I asked.
         "Well, what?"
         "The job's done, Miss Kitty. I'm sure there's some kind of reward?"
         "Mr. Force, I hired you to kill Lenny, and Mickie did it for me. I don't owe you anything."
         "Well, I just thought you'd be grateful for catching the guy who-"
         "Nope."
         I folded my arms and tapped my foot in thought for a moment. "All righty, then," I said and took my leave.
         I stepped out into the warm yet chilly night, a pasty kind of night that was pastier than...paste. Damn, my metaphors were getting weak, being no richer or any less horny for my endeavors. Still, I had a reason to keep my stubbly chin up. Sure, I was still broke, still a little punch-drunk, still starved for the sweet smell of a woman without hair on her back. But at least I still had my pulps. And let me tell you, they don't taste too bad with a bit of salt.


[Taken from the book, "I'm an Idiot, You're an Idiot]