The name's Monroe, Eugene Monroe.
It always sounds so cool when James Bond says it. The hostess at Denny's wasn't impressed. Maybe it was that I was drunk. Maybe it was because I was soaking wet from the rain. Maybe it was the severed hand handcuffed to my left wrist. I walked out before she called the cops, but my business there was complete - I pulled a "poop and run."
I had to get home before my pimp-friend Ronnie got there with some fancy, out-of-town hookers for me for the weekend. Ronnie had this sweet scam where he'd find college girls, in town on spring-break, who had lost all their money. He'd offer to help them out, and the next thing you know, the Iowa farmer's daughter is a Las Vegas whore. This weekend, Ronnie was letting me break a couple in.
I was creeping down the dark alleys as fast as I could, but I was not moving fast enough to get there in time. I saw a bus pull up to a stop a half a block away and ran towards it, yelling, but the Indian bastard drove off without me. I tried to catch the back bumper and ride it unnoticed, but my heroic dive left me with a nasty scrape on my knee.
I limped on, wondering if either of Ronnie's girls would be a red-head. I banged a red-head in high school once. I had to shoot her and her principal to keep them from calling the cops. What was her name? Molly? Maggie? Marry? Mary doesn't have two r's, what was I thinking?
Just then, a cab drove by me, albeit at high speed. I jumped up and down and waved my arms to try and catch him. He pulled over about a hundred yards from me. I ran as fast as my gimpy leg would allow. Twenty feet from the cab, an old Chinese lady ran out of a building and jumped into my cab. I tried to stop her and she slammed my had in the car door. Good thing I have three of them, I thought. It would have been funnier if not for the pain. Still, it was nothing compared to the pain Wayne Newton was feeling after I cut off his hand. I felt bad, but I had to get out of there. Those hookers weren't gonna a... Mercy! That was her name, Mercy!
That old Chinese lady thought I was robbing her, but I was just tossing her to the sidewalk and stealing her cab, and purse. The cab driver got me there just in time, so I split the old lady's purse with him. Then I made Ronnie and those hookers give me a nice hot bath.
Saturday, December 29, 2012
Monday, December 10, 2012
EUGENE & ANOTHER MYSTERY
I lifted my head. I heard something, I think. Apparently I'd gotten halfway through my bottle of bourbon last night before I passed out at my desk. I heard that thing again. Was someone knocking? Someone was knocking. But why? I stood up, gave my reflection the once over, cleared my throat and opened the door. It was a clean cut young man wearing a suit. He covered up his dismay well; it was obvious he expected the man on my side of the door to be awake and... human. "Do you know what time it is?" I asked him.
“It’s 1PM.” he answered flatly.
I checked my watch. He was right. I guess I missed my lunch date with Double D. She’ll understand. “What can I do for you Mr...”
“To start with, you can invite me into your office.” He didn’t offer his name.
“Where are my manners,” I asked him, “come in.” He came in and sat down in the chair in front of the desk. I sat behind the desk and poured myself a glass of bourbon. “Hair of the dog,” I said. Just the slightest hint of a frown appeared on his brow. I started to wonder how hard it would be to break this guy’s composure. "What can I do for you, stranger?"
"Do you know who Igor Ivanov is, Mr. Monroe?"
"The Russian billionaire? I haven't heard much about him except that he's moving out here to open a casino." That was a lie. He has life-long ties with the Russian Mafia. He's planning on using the casino as a front for money laundering, dog fights and much more. I heard he was a sick man. The part that really scared me was that I was here when the Chinese muscled their way into town, and it wasn't pretty. Now the Russians want in?
"You're a private eye and you haven't looked into a foreign businessman moving into town?" He snided.
"Are you planning on paying me to?” I snided back.
“I represent a group of concerned citizens that would like to have Mr. Ivanov discreetly investigated. We feel it would be better for Las Vegas if Mr. Ivanov stayed in New York. Perhaps there is something in his past that could prevent him from getting a gaming license.”
Two questions entered my mind. One, hasn’t this guy seen Casino? You don’t need a license to operate a casino. And two, who on Earth told this guy I was discreet? I should have been more concerned with who it was he represented and what they had against a good guy like Igor, but I guess, despite what you see in the movies, drinking and detecting don’t always mix. "How were you referred to me, son?"
"A taxi driver," he answered quickly. "And you can call me Barnes. Eric Barnes."
"Well Eric Barnes, this will take time. We'll have to discuss my retainer and per diems."
"I think this should cover a couple weeks of your time," he said as he gingerly placed a medium-thick envelope in front of me.
I never took my eyes off his. I lit a cigarette and said, "I'll see what I can dig up."
He stood up, gave me his card and found his own way to the door. His card said he was a lawyer. "Fucking nerd," I said to myself as I watched him step into his Lincoln. Taxi drivers, I thought to myself. Sure plenty of them knew me from various excursions wherein my old car just could not keep up with my rigorous schedule. But who among them would actually give me a referral? One problem at a time.
I spent the rest of the afternoon looking into Eric Barnes. I checked with the Nevada Barr and they’d never heard of him. I checked all my regular informants and got nothing. I couldn't even find a facebook profile. The guy was a mystery. I fucking hate mysteries. I needed to clear my head so I could come at the problem fresh. I took Barnes’ envelope and headed down to Fremont Street, where a guy with an envelope full of cash can still spend a night enjoying some honest gaming and some honest hookers.
Two days went by before I finally googled Ivanov. I got the address of the company handling the construction of the casino and made my way down to find myself an informant. Now, a trustworthy informant is not always easy to pick out. I try and look for the youngest and hottest of the women hanging around the gang, then usually end up settling for the lowest in the gang's hierarchy.
After about two hours of sitting in my Buick watching these geeks I figured the girls just weren't going to come. I saw an errand boy running out so I followed him. He was a young guy, about nineteen. The trick was to approach him without looking like I was a fag. I followed him into a busy drycleaners and got in line behind him. There were two people ahead of him.
“Come on,” I said, “I don’t have all day! You believe how slow this guy moves?”
“Sure, I guess,” he said. I was in.
“Hey, haven’t I seen you hanging around that new construction site? I park cars across the street, I’m out there all day.”
“You a fag?” he asked. Damn! I thought I was doing so well. “‘Cause if you are, that’s cool.” He smiled.
Sometimes I hate this job. I smiled back, “What are you doin’ for dinner?” He smiled again, gayly and pretty soon we were in a hotel room together. This was either going to be the smartest or gayest thing I'd ever done.
His name was Dennis. If it wasn't for all gayness he seems like he'd be a normal, straight guy. I'm not homophobic or anything, but goddamn it's uncomfortable being alone with these people. I looked across the room. I didn't see it when I first picked him out, but this guy was pretty gay. He was telling me about his parents and sisters. I was feigning a boner. I walked over to him and he put his hand on my chest. I started unbuttoning my shirt and he just took his off. He reached for his belt and I karate chopped him in neck then tasered him to the floor. Ah memories. I took pictures of him crying and threatened to send them to his Russian Mafia buddies if he didn't get me the information I needed.
Twenty-four hours later, Dennis sent me an email with detailed information about Ivanov’s business in Vegas. I forwarded it to Barnes without even reading it and settled in to watch a good movie. I was ten minutes into Fried Green Tomatoes when I saw headlights outside and heard a car door. I looked out the window and saw Barnes’ car parked across the street. A large man in a ski mask had gotten out of the passenger seat and was heading my way. I retrieved the Colt from the coffee table and made sure she was loaded. Sometimes I really fucking hate this job!
It was about this time that I seriously wondered why I’d never set up any booby traps in my office. I’d thought about it before, but never put any time or effort into it and now I was determined to Home Alone this grown man to death. I grabbed the only thing I had, the jerk lotion off my desk, and applied it, liberally, to the nine square feet directly on my side of the door. I walked out the office and shut the door behind me. I went across the hall to an empty office with a dark, shadowy doorway and crouched down.
Ski Mask walked up and pulled a sawed-off shotgun out of his ass cheeks and kicked in my door. He took two steps into my office and slipped, causing him do the splits. I laughed pretty hard, he was obviously in a good amount of pain, but that gave away my position. He swung his arm around, the one with the shotgun in it, and gave me two blasts. I made it into the empty office and had to laugh again, it was being painted. I set up an A-frame ladder in front of the door and used my shoelace to rig a can of paint to it. As soon as Ski Mask appeared in the doorway, I let the can fly like a pendulum into his balls. Ski Mask went down. Then I shot him in the face. I guess there’s not gonna be a sequel in New York.
I headed out to the street and got a couple of rounds off, but Barnes was gone. I went inside and reflected on the fact that at least fifty percent of my clients end up trying to kill me. It was time I got serious and found out who Barnes worked for.
I called all the local rental car companies and gave them the license plate number and finally got a match. I drove down there to find out who rented it. Luckily, the kids who run these places have easily greaseable palms. For $50, I got the name Sunrise Divisions, Inc. I raced back to the office and looked it up. It was a subdivision of an Italian corporation. I couldn't find any info about what they did, but I did get something; on their website they list a mob webmaster who grew up in my neighborhood and just happens to owe me a favor. His real name is Ronald Conway. His webmaster name is Roncon666.
I picked up a bottle of gin and headed to Conway’s house. When I got there, I saw three squad cars and an ambulance parked outside, lights flashing. The paramedics were loading a body bag into the ambulance. I thought about asking the cops what happened, but I still had Ski Mask’s blood splatter on me, and I was pretty sure I knew the answer... Barnes had gotten to Conway. I was dealing with some heavy hitters, and I needed to get on their good side. There was only one thing I could think of... I was gonna have to kill Ivanov.
He was flying in tonight at 9:35 from New York. I took a quick shower and ran down the street for a steak. Then I drove to the airport and waited. My biggest fear was that he would be traveling with his family, but I got lucky. He was alone. I had assumed that he would have a car waiting for him, but no. He took a taxi. I followed him three cars back until the hotel.
He had just stepped from the taxi when Barnes drove in fast, coming the wrong way, and made a move on him. I jumped out of my car and screamed, "Ivanov!! Duck!!" He dove to the ground while Barnes sprayed the front door with an Uzi. He killed three people, but not Ivanov. Or me. That's important, too. As Barnes drove by me, mid-getaway, I fired one shot and hit him in the shoulder, causing him to crash into my car and knock himself unconscious.
Ivanov's goons arrived shortly after and cleaned everything up. No police involved. Then he invited me in. This could be the start of a beautiful relationship, or the gayest thing I've ever done.
“It’s 1PM.” he answered flatly.
I checked my watch. He was right. I guess I missed my lunch date with Double D. She’ll understand. “What can I do for you Mr...”
“To start with, you can invite me into your office.” He didn’t offer his name.
“Where are my manners,” I asked him, “come in.” He came in and sat down in the chair in front of the desk. I sat behind the desk and poured myself a glass of bourbon. “Hair of the dog,” I said. Just the slightest hint of a frown appeared on his brow. I started to wonder how hard it would be to break this guy’s composure. "What can I do for you, stranger?"
"Do you know who Igor Ivanov is, Mr. Monroe?"
"The Russian billionaire? I haven't heard much about him except that he's moving out here to open a casino." That was a lie. He has life-long ties with the Russian Mafia. He's planning on using the casino as a front for money laundering, dog fights and much more. I heard he was a sick man. The part that really scared me was that I was here when the Chinese muscled their way into town, and it wasn't pretty. Now the Russians want in?
"You're a private eye and you haven't looked into a foreign businessman moving into town?" He snided.
"Are you planning on paying me to?” I snided back.
“I represent a group of concerned citizens that would like to have Mr. Ivanov discreetly investigated. We feel it would be better for Las Vegas if Mr. Ivanov stayed in New York. Perhaps there is something in his past that could prevent him from getting a gaming license.”
Two questions entered my mind. One, hasn’t this guy seen Casino? You don’t need a license to operate a casino. And two, who on Earth told this guy I was discreet? I should have been more concerned with who it was he represented and what they had against a good guy like Igor, but I guess, despite what you see in the movies, drinking and detecting don’t always mix. "How were you referred to me, son?"
"A taxi driver," he answered quickly. "And you can call me Barnes. Eric Barnes."
"Well Eric Barnes, this will take time. We'll have to discuss my retainer and per diems."
"I think this should cover a couple weeks of your time," he said as he gingerly placed a medium-thick envelope in front of me.
I never took my eyes off his. I lit a cigarette and said, "I'll see what I can dig up."
He stood up, gave me his card and found his own way to the door. His card said he was a lawyer. "Fucking nerd," I said to myself as I watched him step into his Lincoln. Taxi drivers, I thought to myself. Sure plenty of them knew me from various excursions wherein my old car just could not keep up with my rigorous schedule. But who among them would actually give me a referral? One problem at a time.
I spent the rest of the afternoon looking into Eric Barnes. I checked with the Nevada Barr and they’d never heard of him. I checked all my regular informants and got nothing. I couldn't even find a facebook profile. The guy was a mystery. I fucking hate mysteries. I needed to clear my head so I could come at the problem fresh. I took Barnes’ envelope and headed down to Fremont Street, where a guy with an envelope full of cash can still spend a night enjoying some honest gaming and some honest hookers.
Two days went by before I finally googled Ivanov. I got the address of the company handling the construction of the casino and made my way down to find myself an informant. Now, a trustworthy informant is not always easy to pick out. I try and look for the youngest and hottest of the women hanging around the gang, then usually end up settling for the lowest in the gang's hierarchy.
After about two hours of sitting in my Buick watching these geeks I figured the girls just weren't going to come. I saw an errand boy running out so I followed him. He was a young guy, about nineteen. The trick was to approach him without looking like I was a fag. I followed him into a busy drycleaners and got in line behind him. There were two people ahead of him.
“Come on,” I said, “I don’t have all day! You believe how slow this guy moves?”
“Sure, I guess,” he said. I was in.
“Hey, haven’t I seen you hanging around that new construction site? I park cars across the street, I’m out there all day.”
“You a fag?” he asked. Damn! I thought I was doing so well. “‘Cause if you are, that’s cool.” He smiled.
Sometimes I hate this job. I smiled back, “What are you doin’ for dinner?” He smiled again, gayly and pretty soon we were in a hotel room together. This was either going to be the smartest or gayest thing I'd ever done.
His name was Dennis. If it wasn't for all gayness he seems like he'd be a normal, straight guy. I'm not homophobic or anything, but goddamn it's uncomfortable being alone with these people. I looked across the room. I didn't see it when I first picked him out, but this guy was pretty gay. He was telling me about his parents and sisters. I was feigning a boner. I walked over to him and he put his hand on my chest. I started unbuttoning my shirt and he just took his off. He reached for his belt and I karate chopped him in neck then tasered him to the floor. Ah memories. I took pictures of him crying and threatened to send them to his Russian Mafia buddies if he didn't get me the information I needed.
Twenty-four hours later, Dennis sent me an email with detailed information about Ivanov’s business in Vegas. I forwarded it to Barnes without even reading it and settled in to watch a good movie. I was ten minutes into Fried Green Tomatoes when I saw headlights outside and heard a car door. I looked out the window and saw Barnes’ car parked across the street. A large man in a ski mask had gotten out of the passenger seat and was heading my way. I retrieved the Colt from the coffee table and made sure she was loaded. Sometimes I really fucking hate this job!
It was about this time that I seriously wondered why I’d never set up any booby traps in my office. I’d thought about it before, but never put any time or effort into it and now I was determined to Home Alone this grown man to death. I grabbed the only thing I had, the jerk lotion off my desk, and applied it, liberally, to the nine square feet directly on my side of the door. I walked out the office and shut the door behind me. I went across the hall to an empty office with a dark, shadowy doorway and crouched down.
Ski Mask walked up and pulled a sawed-off shotgun out of his ass cheeks and kicked in my door. He took two steps into my office and slipped, causing him do the splits. I laughed pretty hard, he was obviously in a good amount of pain, but that gave away my position. He swung his arm around, the one with the shotgun in it, and gave me two blasts. I made it into the empty office and had to laugh again, it was being painted. I set up an A-frame ladder in front of the door and used my shoelace to rig a can of paint to it. As soon as Ski Mask appeared in the doorway, I let the can fly like a pendulum into his balls. Ski Mask went down. Then I shot him in the face. I guess there’s not gonna be a sequel in New York.
I headed out to the street and got a couple of rounds off, but Barnes was gone. I went inside and reflected on the fact that at least fifty percent of my clients end up trying to kill me. It was time I got serious and found out who Barnes worked for.
I called all the local rental car companies and gave them the license plate number and finally got a match. I drove down there to find out who rented it. Luckily, the kids who run these places have easily greaseable palms. For $50, I got the name Sunrise Divisions, Inc. I raced back to the office and looked it up. It was a subdivision of an Italian corporation. I couldn't find any info about what they did, but I did get something; on their website they list a mob webmaster who grew up in my neighborhood and just happens to owe me a favor. His real name is Ronald Conway. His webmaster name is Roncon666.
I picked up a bottle of gin and headed to Conway’s house. When I got there, I saw three squad cars and an ambulance parked outside, lights flashing. The paramedics were loading a body bag into the ambulance. I thought about asking the cops what happened, but I still had Ski Mask’s blood splatter on me, and I was pretty sure I knew the answer... Barnes had gotten to Conway. I was dealing with some heavy hitters, and I needed to get on their good side. There was only one thing I could think of... I was gonna have to kill Ivanov.
He was flying in tonight at 9:35 from New York. I took a quick shower and ran down the street for a steak. Then I drove to the airport and waited. My biggest fear was that he would be traveling with his family, but I got lucky. He was alone. I had assumed that he would have a car waiting for him, but no. He took a taxi. I followed him three cars back until the hotel.
He had just stepped from the taxi when Barnes drove in fast, coming the wrong way, and made a move on him. I jumped out of my car and screamed, "Ivanov!! Duck!!" He dove to the ground while Barnes sprayed the front door with an Uzi. He killed three people, but not Ivanov. Or me. That's important, too. As Barnes drove by me, mid-getaway, I fired one shot and hit him in the shoulder, causing him to crash into my car and knock himself unconscious.
Ivanov's goons arrived shortly after and cleaned everything up. No police involved. Then he invited me in. This could be the start of a beautiful relationship, or the gayest thing I've ever done.
Monday, November 5, 2012
THE CARSON KIDNAPPING
About six months ago, I got the bright idea to hire a secretary. There were a few aggressive bill collectors that I wasn't on speaking terms with, so I thought it might be nice to have somebody answering my calls for me. I interviewed several qualified candidates, and then did what any guy would do, I hired the bimbo with the nicest ass. A few days later, grabbing that ass earned me a stinging slap in the face. Last month, I found out it also earned me a sexual harassment suit. By definition, harassment has to be continued or repeated behavior, so technically my one-time-ass-squeezing shouldn't count. Something tells me the lady judge won’t see it that way.
I decided to dig up some dirt on my former secretary before the trial began. Her name was Shirley. She grew up in Carson. She drove a Volvo. That's all I knew about her. So I drove out to Carson City. The local high school let me dig around the old yearbooks for a few hours until I found her. Shirley Sinclair. She looked a lot better then than now, I noticed. I asked around but no one had heard of her. I drove down to her parents house to get some embarrassing childhood photos or a good story at least but her parents must've known someone would be coming around asking about their daughter because her father answered the door with a shotgun and yelled, “Shirley don’t live here no more! Get lost or I’ll blow a hole in ya!” I never even said a word.
I decided to ask around town, but every time I mentioned Shirley Sinclair, people clammed up. They looked scared. Now I was really starting to get curious, what sort of person had I gotten involved with here? I decided to check with my most reliable source... Google. After about five minutes, I found a five year old article from the Carson Herald titled 'Baby Thief Acquitted.' There was a picture of her walking out of a court house. This really pissed me off, I mean she's out there going through all this ridiculous trouble to steal a baby or whatever that paper was talking about and here I am trying to give her one for free and I get slapped and sued?! I was seriously considering hiring someone to approach her on the street and slap her in the face.
I stopped off for an early dinner at the Hash Griddle and just happened to bump into a woman who claimed to be Shirley’s ex-best friend. Her name was Gina. She had a pretty smile, but a fat ass. I ordered a couple of beers, and one for Gina too, so that I could start to get a buzz on in case I had to bang her later. Years ago, Gina and Shirley had had a falling out over a man, who went on to marry a third chick who was hotter than either of them. But enough back story, here’s why she bumped into me.
“I heard there was a P.I. in town asking question’s about Shirley,” she said.
“And you've always had a thing for P.I.s haven’t you?” I asked as I finished my third beer.
“Well... yes, actually, but that’s not why I’m here. Shirley and I had our differences, sure, but I know she would never steal a baby.”
“People change. Especially women. A man dumps her, the wrong time of the month, she sees a sad movie.... They just come unhinged. Who knows what they’re capable of?”
“I don’t know who you’re working for Mr. Monroe, but I’ll pay you $10,000 to prove Shirley’s innocence.”
I ordered two more beers. Shirley'd already been acquitted of the crime, how hard could could this be? I went with her back to her place to get the details hammered out, if you know what I mean. She sat me down in the front room and told me she wanted to show me something. She pulled a folder out of a drawer and put it on my lap. Then I got Shirley's side of the story: in high school, Shirley would baby sit for a wealthy couple up the road. The father was a businessman with ties to a local biker gang. He and his wife had two kids; a three year old and an infant. According to Gina, Shirley was asked to do a job for them: they wanted her to have sex with the wife’s autistic cousin Ralph. And not just regular sex either, but kinky shit. Shirley said no and they accused her of stealing their baby. They even planted their baby in her apartment, but they forced the lock open, so the D.A. couldn't prove that Shirley had put the baby there. Shirley was acquitted, but everyone in the town still thought she was guilty. Shirley had to leave town and find work in Vegas, and now, Gina wanted to help her come home.
I left Gina’s early the next morning, before she woke up, with a hangover & a mild sense of regret. Before I left though, I made sure to wash my johnson off in the kitchen sink. I drove to the rich side of town. I figured this business guy is not just going to admit to any of these accusations willingly. I also figured he's the type to not hold up too well under intense scrutiny.
I followed Gina's directions to a very nice house in a quiet neighborhood. I stopped half a block away and watched as a BMW came out of the driveway and sped off towards downtown. I followed him to a tall, brick building. As soon as I saw him walk in, I raced back to his house.
His wife was just leaving to take the kids to school when I pulled up. I broke in through an unlocked window in the laundry room in back. I found my way to the garage first on a hunch, but there was nothing interesting in there. Then I checked the wife’s panty drawer. There was some pretty interesting stuff in there, but nothing relevant to the case. Then I checked the husband’s office. I found a wall safe behind a large family portrait.
Thirty minutes later, I was still banging away on the safe with a crowbar, when I heard the Wife pull into the garage. I hate being interrupted in the middle of an investigation. I pulled a ski-mask on and pulled the zip ties out of my pocket. Once the wife was secured in the master closet, I went back and finished breaking into the safe.
I found $100,000 in cash, a Glock 9mm and some family documents. Something on the baby’s birth certificate caught my eye. The baby was born in Johannesburg. Interesting, what was the family doing in South Africa? I took everything from the safe and left in the wife’s car. I headed five miles east and dumped the car, walked two blocks south to bus stop and bused it back to their house for my car. She must've wriggled free sooner than I thought she would because the place was nearly surrounded by bikers.
I opened my car door and stared down the street for a minute, watching all these bikers huff around all furiously. After considering the money and personal family paperwork I took from this guy, I figured my job was done. I went home and settled out of court with Shirley for $4500. Then I spent forty-five minutes telling her Gina was hotter than her, just to fuck with her a little.
I decided to dig up some dirt on my former secretary before the trial began. Her name was Shirley. She grew up in Carson. She drove a Volvo. That's all I knew about her. So I drove out to Carson City. The local high school let me dig around the old yearbooks for a few hours until I found her. Shirley Sinclair. She looked a lot better then than now, I noticed. I asked around but no one had heard of her. I drove down to her parents house to get some embarrassing childhood photos or a good story at least but her parents must've known someone would be coming around asking about their daughter because her father answered the door with a shotgun and yelled, “Shirley don’t live here no more! Get lost or I’ll blow a hole in ya!” I never even said a word.
I decided to ask around town, but every time I mentioned Shirley Sinclair, people clammed up. They looked scared. Now I was really starting to get curious, what sort of person had I gotten involved with here? I decided to check with my most reliable source... Google. After about five minutes, I found a five year old article from the Carson Herald titled 'Baby Thief Acquitted.' There was a picture of her walking out of a court house. This really pissed me off, I mean she's out there going through all this ridiculous trouble to steal a baby or whatever that paper was talking about and here I am trying to give her one for free and I get slapped and sued?! I was seriously considering hiring someone to approach her on the street and slap her in the face.
I stopped off for an early dinner at the Hash Griddle and just happened to bump into a woman who claimed to be Shirley’s ex-best friend. Her name was Gina. She had a pretty smile, but a fat ass. I ordered a couple of beers, and one for Gina too, so that I could start to get a buzz on in case I had to bang her later. Years ago, Gina and Shirley had had a falling out over a man, who went on to marry a third chick who was hotter than either of them. But enough back story, here’s why she bumped into me.
“I heard there was a P.I. in town asking question’s about Shirley,” she said.
“And you've always had a thing for P.I.s haven’t you?” I asked as I finished my third beer.
“Well... yes, actually, but that’s not why I’m here. Shirley and I had our differences, sure, but I know she would never steal a baby.”
“People change. Especially women. A man dumps her, the wrong time of the month, she sees a sad movie.... They just come unhinged. Who knows what they’re capable of?”
“I don’t know who you’re working for Mr. Monroe, but I’ll pay you $10,000 to prove Shirley’s innocence.”
I ordered two more beers. Shirley'd already been acquitted of the crime, how hard could could this be? I went with her back to her place to get the details hammered out, if you know what I mean. She sat me down in the front room and told me she wanted to show me something. She pulled a folder out of a drawer and put it on my lap. Then I got Shirley's side of the story: in high school, Shirley would baby sit for a wealthy couple up the road. The father was a businessman with ties to a local biker gang. He and his wife had two kids; a three year old and an infant. According to Gina, Shirley was asked to do a job for them: they wanted her to have sex with the wife’s autistic cousin Ralph. And not just regular sex either, but kinky shit. Shirley said no and they accused her of stealing their baby. They even planted their baby in her apartment, but they forced the lock open, so the D.A. couldn't prove that Shirley had put the baby there. Shirley was acquitted, but everyone in the town still thought she was guilty. Shirley had to leave town and find work in Vegas, and now, Gina wanted to help her come home.
I left Gina’s early the next morning, before she woke up, with a hangover & a mild sense of regret. Before I left though, I made sure to wash my johnson off in the kitchen sink. I drove to the rich side of town. I figured this business guy is not just going to admit to any of these accusations willingly. I also figured he's the type to not hold up too well under intense scrutiny.
I followed Gina's directions to a very nice house in a quiet neighborhood. I stopped half a block away and watched as a BMW came out of the driveway and sped off towards downtown. I followed him to a tall, brick building. As soon as I saw him walk in, I raced back to his house.
His wife was just leaving to take the kids to school when I pulled up. I broke in through an unlocked window in the laundry room in back. I found my way to the garage first on a hunch, but there was nothing interesting in there. Then I checked the wife’s panty drawer. There was some pretty interesting stuff in there, but nothing relevant to the case. Then I checked the husband’s office. I found a wall safe behind a large family portrait.
Thirty minutes later, I was still banging away on the safe with a crowbar, when I heard the Wife pull into the garage. I hate being interrupted in the middle of an investigation. I pulled a ski-mask on and pulled the zip ties out of my pocket. Once the wife was secured in the master closet, I went back and finished breaking into the safe.
I found $100,000 in cash, a Glock 9mm and some family documents. Something on the baby’s birth certificate caught my eye. The baby was born in Johannesburg. Interesting, what was the family doing in South Africa? I took everything from the safe and left in the wife’s car. I headed five miles east and dumped the car, walked two blocks south to bus stop and bused it back to their house for my car. She must've wriggled free sooner than I thought she would because the place was nearly surrounded by bikers.
I opened my car door and stared down the street for a minute, watching all these bikers huff around all furiously. After considering the money and personal family paperwork I took from this guy, I figured my job was done. I went home and settled out of court with Shirley for $4500. Then I spent forty-five minutes telling her Gina was hotter than her, just to fuck with her a little.
Monday, September 24, 2012
THE CONTRACT
I showed up at the office at 10am wearing my best tie (only one stain). The lawyers were coming in at 10:30. Divorce cases are the bread and butter for most PI's. If I got this contract, I'd be on easy street. As I walked up I noticed the door to my office had obviously been kicked in & there was someone rustling about in there. I drew my colt & peeked inside. There were two of them, both women. I didn't recognize them, they were too fat to be anybody I would care to know. I opened the door slowly and shot the skinnier of the two in the leg. I figured the fatter one would have a harder time running away.
"Who sent you?!" I yelled.
"I...I...I..." the fat one stuttered. The skinnier fat one just lay on the ground moaning.
"Look bitch, you've got five seconds to start talking or I start shooting you in the face, one bullet at a time!" That's when she wet herself and passed out. I pointed the gun at the woman I shot, "Start talking!"
"We're from Lyons & Goldman. We had a 10 o'clock appointment with Mr Monroe."
"We had a 10:30 appointment!!! Then why did you kick my door in?'
"It was like that when we got here. We wanted to make sure you were okay."
I patched up her leg as best I could and put a couch pillow under the other one's head. I offered Shot Girl some coffee while we waited for the ambulance, she declined.
"Don't worry, " I said, "I get shot all the time. It's not like getting shot back in the old days. These doctors today, they'll have that bullet out of you lickity-split." There was an awkward silence. I lit a cigarette. "Maybe we should go over my resume," I suggested.
After everyone had gone, I gave my office a thorough sifting-through to see if anything had been stolen. God, why do all these terrible things happen to me? The wall safe was untouched, luckily, & the gun safe was still locked & the cash box was still there & intact. The only other thing they could've been after was... oh no!... I'd had a 5lb bag of cocaine taped under my desk. I'd stolen it from the Colombians and planned to sell it to the Mexicans and hoped the Italians didn't get wind of it. The coke was gone. In its place was a bloody finger. I counted my own fingers... ten. Whose finger would they cut off to get to me? And who were They?
I knew I was going to need help. I called my pimp-friend Ronnie. "Ronnie! Ron my good man! how are you?"
"Ugh... What do you want, Gene?"
"I've had an idea for a really long time, & I think it's time you and I worked on it."
"I don't like the sound of that at all, Gene. I'm hanging up now."
"Don't make me call her," I said, leaving him no choice. "...Okay, I need five highly-trained hooker-spies by tonight."
"The only thing my girls are highly-trained at is sucking dick."
"Better make it six."
Ronnie showed up around 8 with six hookers. Two of them were Asian. We all piled into a taxi and headed down to Little Colombia, were Rico the Rat ran drugs out of his ristorante, that's Spanish for restaurant. We got out of the taxi three blocks away. Ronnie and four hookers waited a block away, while the other two hookers and I walked into the restaurant. Both girls had unloaded shotguns under their dresses. They sat us at a table and we waited for the signal.
Ronnie had the four hookers out in front of the restaurant arguing with each other. security didn't so much as flinch until the trash can came through the window. Then out came the shotguns and shrill hooker voices. As the Colombians reacted, I ducked into the back to have a quiet word with Rico. Rico went for what I thought was a gun so I shot him in the leg.
"Whose finger did you tape to the bottom of my desk!?" I yelled.
"Who are you?" he whimpered. It was then that I remembered that Rico had moved his business to a pet store downtown. I heard the sirens and decided to head out through the alley in the back. Three blocks later I caught a taxi. The two inside hookers caught up on the way. Then Ronnie and the other hookers, all mostly unscathed, met us at the car. I was a bit surprised actually. If they hadn't been there when they were I'd surely have left without them.
I told Ronnie I got what I came for and tipped him $50. He was pretty sore about the whole deal so that's cool. I never did find out whose finger that was or what happened to my cocaine. Life is full of mysteries. The next day I got a call from Lyons & Goldman. I got the contract! They said they liked my go-getter attitude. Sometimes, but not always, it pays to shoot a bitch.
"Who sent you?!" I yelled.
"I...I...I..." the fat one stuttered. The skinnier fat one just lay on the ground moaning.
"Look bitch, you've got five seconds to start talking or I start shooting you in the face, one bullet at a time!" That's when she wet herself and passed out. I pointed the gun at the woman I shot, "Start talking!"
"We're from Lyons & Goldman. We had a 10 o'clock appointment with Mr Monroe."
"We had a 10:30 appointment!!! Then why did you kick my door in?'
"It was like that when we got here. We wanted to make sure you were okay."
I patched up her leg as best I could and put a couch pillow under the other one's head. I offered Shot Girl some coffee while we waited for the ambulance, she declined.
"Don't worry, " I said, "I get shot all the time. It's not like getting shot back in the old days. These doctors today, they'll have that bullet out of you lickity-split." There was an awkward silence. I lit a cigarette. "Maybe we should go over my resume," I suggested.
After everyone had gone, I gave my office a thorough sifting-through to see if anything had been stolen. God, why do all these terrible things happen to me? The wall safe was untouched, luckily, & the gun safe was still locked & the cash box was still there & intact. The only other thing they could've been after was... oh no!... I'd had a 5lb bag of cocaine taped under my desk. I'd stolen it from the Colombians and planned to sell it to the Mexicans and hoped the Italians didn't get wind of it. The coke was gone. In its place was a bloody finger. I counted my own fingers... ten. Whose finger would they cut off to get to me? And who were They?
I knew I was going to need help. I called my pimp-friend Ronnie. "Ronnie! Ron my good man! how are you?"
"Ugh... What do you want, Gene?"
"I've had an idea for a really long time, & I think it's time you and I worked on it."
"I don't like the sound of that at all, Gene. I'm hanging up now."
"Don't make me call her," I said, leaving him no choice. "...Okay, I need five highly-trained hooker-spies by tonight."
"The only thing my girls are highly-trained at is sucking dick."
"Better make it six."
Ronnie showed up around 8 with six hookers. Two of them were Asian. We all piled into a taxi and headed down to Little Colombia, were Rico the Rat ran drugs out of his ristorante, that's Spanish for restaurant. We got out of the taxi three blocks away. Ronnie and four hookers waited a block away, while the other two hookers and I walked into the restaurant. Both girls had unloaded shotguns under their dresses. They sat us at a table and we waited for the signal.
Ronnie had the four hookers out in front of the restaurant arguing with each other. security didn't so much as flinch until the trash can came through the window. Then out came the shotguns and shrill hooker voices. As the Colombians reacted, I ducked into the back to have a quiet word with Rico. Rico went for what I thought was a gun so I shot him in the leg.
"Whose finger did you tape to the bottom of my desk!?" I yelled.
"Who are you?" he whimpered. It was then that I remembered that Rico had moved his business to a pet store downtown. I heard the sirens and decided to head out through the alley in the back. Three blocks later I caught a taxi. The two inside hookers caught up on the way. Then Ronnie and the other hookers, all mostly unscathed, met us at the car. I was a bit surprised actually. If they hadn't been there when they were I'd surely have left without them.
I told Ronnie I got what I came for and tipped him $50. He was pretty sore about the whole deal so that's cool. I never did find out whose finger that was or what happened to my cocaine. Life is full of mysteries. The next day I got a call from Lyons & Goldman. I got the contract! They said they liked my go-getter attitude. Sometimes, but not always, it pays to shoot a bitch.
Saturday, September 22, 2012
Cold, Dead Case
It was nearly 3am and I was digging a hole in the middle of the Nevada desert on some hideous blue planet. I hadn't eaten or slept in almost two days. Not a drop of alcohol for eight hours. I was running on empty after that two-day standoff with Rin Chen, another Chinese mafia goon. He had barricaded himself in the bathroom of the Chinese restaurant his recently deceased uncle owned and he had my wallet in there with him.
So anyway, he was dead and I was in the process of digging his grave when I happened upon another deserted body. It had obviously been there at least ten years based on my sober analysis of the bones. I dug a foot east to find some identification and found the answer to an eighteen-year-old question: Where was Timothy Anderson?
It was my first case. I was just a kid, a teenager with no P.I. license and no business sticking my nose in a missing persons case. Timothy was the son of Vegas developer John Anderson. He disappeared after a night of clubbing with a showgirl. The cops found half a kilo of coke in his car. Sex, drugs and money... it was too much for an aspiring P.I. to pass up.
It was also the first time I met Tommy the Tooth. This was before he had his tour guide business set up. Like me, he was young, crazy and never knew his mom. Tommy and I were both regulars at MacPhearson's pub. It had whisky, slot machines and a basement with a wide variety of classy hookers, plus they didn't bother with ID. Timothy Anderson, whom I'd never met personally, also frequented the pub.
The night before he disappeared, I was at the pub, as usual, but Timothy had been at the Rio with a hot date. Per the police reports, her name was Jemma Browning. She told the cops Timothy had a few too many, got handzy with her and she made him drop her off at home. She said he drove off angrily and she hadn't seen him since. If memory serves me, she was working a show at the Stardust.
A couple of nights after the disappearance I started asking questions around the pub. That’s when I met Tommy. He’d been asking questions too, because he was aspiring to be the guy with all the intel. I didn’t know people aspired to that sort of thing. It takes all kinds. We took it upon ourselves to break into Browning’s dressing room at the Stardust.
We figured the dressing rooms would be mostly empty during the day, so we went around eleven in the morning. We met up at Stardust buffett to discuss our plans. We didn’t have any money to bribe security, so we’d have to be clever.
Getting backstage was easy, but the door to the dressing rooms was guarded by a lone, monstrous bouncer. I turned from one corner and asked him for directions and Tommy turned the other corner and tried sneaking in behind him. Fucking Tommy's foot bumped into the door as he opened it. The hideous bouncer turned to catch him and I shot him in the back with a taser. This was back when I carried a taser. It seems stupid now because women are usually the ones who carry tasers around and shoot me with them. I've never been shot with a taser by another man. I'd rather be shot dead than poop my pants at someone else's will again.
We found Jemma's dressing room and sleuthed around a bit. Jemma had a picture of herself and a wealthy older man who also happened to be on the board of directors of one of John Anderson's leading competitors. For eight months, I focused all my attention on this guy, but it turned out to be a dead end. His name was Albert Silverman. I tailed him all around town whenever I could borrow my mom’s car, I even tried to sneak onto his compound once disguised as a pizza delivery boy.
“Everyone knows Jews don’t eat pizza!” Tommy said when I told him of my failure.
“I thought it was Asians who didn’t eat pizza.”
“Yeah, Asians and Jews.”
Eventually, it was announced that Anderson and Silverman had been secretly working on a joint development deal for over a year. Apparently they’d ended their rivalry and become partners, just like Siskel and Ebert. I had to turn my attention elsewhere. Unfortunately for Timothy, elsewhere never led me down the road to solving this case.
I searched for clues around old Tim’s bones for a while and came up with nothing. All he had in his wallet was a drivers license, a picture of him with some cute blonde and an obscene amount of dirt for some reason. Dumbass. I threw Rin Chen into Timothy’s expanded home-in-the-ground and went back to my office for two beers, two shots, a steak and a nice, long nap.
I woke up at 2pm. I made myself a coffee cocktail and I walked two blocks east and waited for Tommy to roll by on his daily tour. He picked me up and we toured up and down the strip and over by old Vegas. I must confess I learned a lot of things about Vegas from Tommy during that tour. He also seems a little obsessed with Siegfried & Roy. He knew family history, dates, where and how they got the tigers. He knew things about their mansion, their fashion preferences, their relaxation techniques. He knew where they went to school and what they studied and why. He could name every car ever owned by both Siegfried and Roy. He knew where they shopped, which bedroom was theirs, what the sink in the bathroom in the master bedroom looked like. In all the years I’ve known him he’s never let it slip out.
After the tour, I told Tommy what I’d found. “You have to show me!” he said. “I need to see the body for myself.”
“It’s in an unmarked grave in the middle of the Nevada desert. That I dug while I was tired, anemic and sober. We’d never find it again.”
“Shit.” He paused. “You should have brought it home with you.”
“You think I was gonna drive all the way out to the desert with a body in my trunk, dig a hole, and bury the body just so I can drive home with a different body in the trunk?” I shook my head. “ Anyway, I got this,” I showed him the picture of the cute blonde.
“That’s Jennifer Winters. She was an intern at Channel 5 Vegas back then. Got a job doing the weather in Provo, I think. Man I had a crush on her.”
The next morning we loaded up the Buick with beer and jerky and headed to Provo. Jennifer was now working as an executive at the tv station. Tommy had gone on the computer and got all sorts of Intel on her on the way there. We parked in the station lot by her car and waited. When she came out, Tommy distracted her and I snuck up and knocked her unconscious from behind. We took her to a secluded area and made her spill the beans.
Jennifer said she loved him, but I could tell right away she was lying. We kept her alone with us for 30 hours. Finally, the truth came out: Timothy had stolen a considerable amount of cocaine from her tv station boss in Vegas, Paul Delaterre. She said he planned on using it to frame Albert Silverman so that the deal with his dad would fall through. I'm still not sure what the story is there, but she was plenty clear about who killed poor Timothy Anderson. So Tommy and I went home and made plans to blackmail Paul Delaterre. Revenge is awesome, but blackmailing someone is the greatest feeling in the world.
So anyway, he was dead and I was in the process of digging his grave when I happened upon another deserted body. It had obviously been there at least ten years based on my sober analysis of the bones. I dug a foot east to find some identification and found the answer to an eighteen-year-old question: Where was Timothy Anderson?
It was my first case. I was just a kid, a teenager with no P.I. license and no business sticking my nose in a missing persons case. Timothy was the son of Vegas developer John Anderson. He disappeared after a night of clubbing with a showgirl. The cops found half a kilo of coke in his car. Sex, drugs and money... it was too much for an aspiring P.I. to pass up.
It was also the first time I met Tommy the Tooth. This was before he had his tour guide business set up. Like me, he was young, crazy and never knew his mom. Tommy and I were both regulars at MacPhearson's pub. It had whisky, slot machines and a basement with a wide variety of classy hookers, plus they didn't bother with ID. Timothy Anderson, whom I'd never met personally, also frequented the pub.
The night before he disappeared, I was at the pub, as usual, but Timothy had been at the Rio with a hot date. Per the police reports, her name was Jemma Browning. She told the cops Timothy had a few too many, got handzy with her and she made him drop her off at home. She said he drove off angrily and she hadn't seen him since. If memory serves me, she was working a show at the Stardust.
A couple of nights after the disappearance I started asking questions around the pub. That’s when I met Tommy. He’d been asking questions too, because he was aspiring to be the guy with all the intel. I didn’t know people aspired to that sort of thing. It takes all kinds. We took it upon ourselves to break into Browning’s dressing room at the Stardust.
We figured the dressing rooms would be mostly empty during the day, so we went around eleven in the morning. We met up at Stardust buffett to discuss our plans. We didn’t have any money to bribe security, so we’d have to be clever.
Getting backstage was easy, but the door to the dressing rooms was guarded by a lone, monstrous bouncer. I turned from one corner and asked him for directions and Tommy turned the other corner and tried sneaking in behind him. Fucking Tommy's foot bumped into the door as he opened it. The hideous bouncer turned to catch him and I shot him in the back with a taser. This was back when I carried a taser. It seems stupid now because women are usually the ones who carry tasers around and shoot me with them. I've never been shot with a taser by another man. I'd rather be shot dead than poop my pants at someone else's will again.
We found Jemma's dressing room and sleuthed around a bit. Jemma had a picture of herself and a wealthy older man who also happened to be on the board of directors of one of John Anderson's leading competitors. For eight months, I focused all my attention on this guy, but it turned out to be a dead end. His name was Albert Silverman. I tailed him all around town whenever I could borrow my mom’s car, I even tried to sneak onto his compound once disguised as a pizza delivery boy.
“Everyone knows Jews don’t eat pizza!” Tommy said when I told him of my failure.
“I thought it was Asians who didn’t eat pizza.”
“Yeah, Asians and Jews.”
Eventually, it was announced that Anderson and Silverman had been secretly working on a joint development deal for over a year. Apparently they’d ended their rivalry and become partners, just like Siskel and Ebert. I had to turn my attention elsewhere. Unfortunately for Timothy, elsewhere never led me down the road to solving this case.
I searched for clues around old Tim’s bones for a while and came up with nothing. All he had in his wallet was a drivers license, a picture of him with some cute blonde and an obscene amount of dirt for some reason. Dumbass. I threw Rin Chen into Timothy’s expanded home-in-the-ground and went back to my office for two beers, two shots, a steak and a nice, long nap.
I woke up at 2pm. I made myself a coffee cocktail and I walked two blocks east and waited for Tommy to roll by on his daily tour. He picked me up and we toured up and down the strip and over by old Vegas. I must confess I learned a lot of things about Vegas from Tommy during that tour. He also seems a little obsessed with Siegfried & Roy. He knew family history, dates, where and how they got the tigers. He knew things about their mansion, their fashion preferences, their relaxation techniques. He knew where they went to school and what they studied and why. He could name every car ever owned by both Siegfried and Roy. He knew where they shopped, which bedroom was theirs, what the sink in the bathroom in the master bedroom looked like. In all the years I’ve known him he’s never let it slip out.
After the tour, I told Tommy what I’d found. “You have to show me!” he said. “I need to see the body for myself.”
“It’s in an unmarked grave in the middle of the Nevada desert. That I dug while I was tired, anemic and sober. We’d never find it again.”
“Shit.” He paused. “You should have brought it home with you.”
“You think I was gonna drive all the way out to the desert with a body in my trunk, dig a hole, and bury the body just so I can drive home with a different body in the trunk?” I shook my head. “ Anyway, I got this,” I showed him the picture of the cute blonde.
“That’s Jennifer Winters. She was an intern at Channel 5 Vegas back then. Got a job doing the weather in Provo, I think. Man I had a crush on her.”
The next morning we loaded up the Buick with beer and jerky and headed to Provo. Jennifer was now working as an executive at the tv station. Tommy had gone on the computer and got all sorts of Intel on her on the way there. We parked in the station lot by her car and waited. When she came out, Tommy distracted her and I snuck up and knocked her unconscious from behind. We took her to a secluded area and made her spill the beans.
Jennifer said she loved him, but I could tell right away she was lying. We kept her alone with us for 30 hours. Finally, the truth came out: Timothy had stolen a considerable amount of cocaine from her tv station boss in Vegas, Paul Delaterre. She said he planned on using it to frame Albert Silverman so that the deal with his dad would fall through. I'm still not sure what the story is there, but she was plenty clear about who killed poor Timothy Anderson. So Tommy and I went home and made plans to blackmail Paul Delaterre. Revenge is awesome, but blackmailing someone is the greatest feeling in the world.
Saturday, September 1, 2012
The Chinese Conundrum
I woke up in a puddle of piss in an alley in North Vegas. I’m not sure whose piss it was, mine, or the dead Asian busboy lying next to me. I felt bad for Chang, but worse for myself, I had the worst hangover of my life, and I’m pretty sure my pinky toe was broken. Never broke that one before, but I guess there's a first time for everything. I sat up and noticed it was daytime and Chang and I were surrounded by a small group of jerk kids. I thought about shooting one, but I learned a long time ago you don't fuck around in North Vegas. I stood up, brushed the urine off my coat and walked off to find my car. There was really just one person I could go to for help, Denise Deville, or Double D. She was a porn star back in the ‘90s, but she retired to Vegas and opened a nail salon. Denise was someone I trusted, someone I could count on. Plus, she was always good for a screw if you bought her a couple of drinks.
Two blocks over I found my Buick. The front end was a good deal more smashed up than usual, but she's a tough old broad and she got me to Denise's salon. This is literally the third time in two weeks I've stumbled into this poor woman's place of business smelling like a barnyard animal. It's a good thing she's crazy about me.
“Gene, you sonofabitch! I told you the last time, I never wanted to see you again!” she yelled at me. I honestly had no idea why she was mad. I’d been high on oxycontin and bourbon the last time I saw her, and it was all a little fuzzy. I paused a moment to try and recall what we’d done together. Something about a family heirloom and a pedicurist named Milly... Damn my boyish charm.
She took some convincing, but eventually, Denise came around and agreed to help me out. I needed a place to stay while I worked things out. Chang had been giving me tips on the local Chinese Mafia before he’d been killed, and they’d already be looking for me at my office. I knew lying low would only keep me alive for so long. The Chinese are a vengeful and stinky bunch of unwiped assholes and they sure can... kill a guy. I think I might have a concussion. Anyway, Double D and I were going to have to get out of town for at least a weekend if we didn't want to die in this salon.
I started packing our stuff and loading it into the Buick. Then I had to convince the lady to run away with me. I told her I was taking her out for a night on the town (I didn’t say which town). She caught on around the time we crossed the Arizona border, and she was none too happy. I knew it wasn’t the time to ask for road head, so we stopped off at a diner for a bite to eat. I figured I owed her that much.
"Gene every goddamn day with you its something crazy!"
"That's not true. What about that Halloween party last year? We had fun, didn't we?"
"That was eight months ago! Plus you still owe me three grand from that night and another two grand from various other nights of crazy bullshit you put me through in between!"
I was going to say something suave, probably and sweep her off her feet, but just then group of Chinese teenagers walked in and looked at us a little queer. I couldn’t tell if they were squinting at us, or just Chinese. As they walked towards our booth, I reached into my coat and felt the reassuring feel of gun metal. There were three of them, I’d need to be quick. But then the one in the King Kong T-shirt pointed, but not at me, at Double D.
“Were you in Cock Your Rocks Off 14?” he asked. Denise smiled and nodded and started reminiscing about her porn days. I zoned out, like I always do when women talk for too long. I found myself staring at the King Kong shirt, and suddenly realized something crucial about the case. The Chinese mafia had been smuggling prostitutes into Vegas dressed as horses, two to a costume, one might assume. This, of course pissed off the local penis repository who hired yours truly to see what weaknesses could be dug up on these bastards.
It was already known that they were bringing in new whores every Wednesday, and it is also well-known that the horses are trucked over to that side of town for the races every Wednesday. I just need a smoking gun and some rash cream and I’ve got this case licked.
It was Monday so we had two nights to lay low, but first thing Wednesday morning we were on the road back to Vegas. We didn’t talk much on the way home. Nothing sours a relationship more than a couple of nights in Kingman Arizona.
I dropped Double D off at her salon and headed to the track. I got there early so that I could examine the racing forms. I’d stolen forty bucks from Denise’s purse, and I figured after I solved the case I might stick around and pick a winner. I was debating between Lucky Flower and Who Shot the Sheriff, when a truck and trailer pulled up driven by Lu Pang Heng, an enforcer for the local triad boss, Kong Rui Bao. I laughed to myself at Lu's haircut and made my way to the stables.
Sure enough, there were hookers in there and used horse costumes on the floor. Lu came around the corner, surprising us both, and I got the drop on him, knocking him unconscious with a karate chop from my rod. I took his cell phone so Chang could translate whatever gobbledygook was hidden inside, then I remembered Chang's untimely death at the hands of Lu himself. There was poetic justice in peeing on him.
With nowhere to turn to decipher this Chinese thing, I decided to put the forty bucks on Lucky Flower to win. But first, I chased the hookers out of there with a riding crop. By the time Lucky Flower was done crushing my dreams, the gaggle of hookers-run-a-muck had drawn the attention of the police. The cops found Lu and arrested him, and I caught one of the stray hookers and headed home.
Two blocks over I found my Buick. The front end was a good deal more smashed up than usual, but she's a tough old broad and she got me to Denise's salon. This is literally the third time in two weeks I've stumbled into this poor woman's place of business smelling like a barnyard animal. It's a good thing she's crazy about me.
“Gene, you sonofabitch! I told you the last time, I never wanted to see you again!” she yelled at me. I honestly had no idea why she was mad. I’d been high on oxycontin and bourbon the last time I saw her, and it was all a little fuzzy. I paused a moment to try and recall what we’d done together. Something about a family heirloom and a pedicurist named Milly... Damn my boyish charm.
She took some convincing, but eventually, Denise came around and agreed to help me out. I needed a place to stay while I worked things out. Chang had been giving me tips on the local Chinese Mafia before he’d been killed, and they’d already be looking for me at my office. I knew lying low would only keep me alive for so long. The Chinese are a vengeful and stinky bunch of unwiped assholes and they sure can... kill a guy. I think I might have a concussion. Anyway, Double D and I were going to have to get out of town for at least a weekend if we didn't want to die in this salon.
I started packing our stuff and loading it into the Buick. Then I had to convince the lady to run away with me. I told her I was taking her out for a night on the town (I didn’t say which town). She caught on around the time we crossed the Arizona border, and she was none too happy. I knew it wasn’t the time to ask for road head, so we stopped off at a diner for a bite to eat. I figured I owed her that much.
"Gene every goddamn day with you its something crazy!"
"That's not true. What about that Halloween party last year? We had fun, didn't we?"
"That was eight months ago! Plus you still owe me three grand from that night and another two grand from various other nights of crazy bullshit you put me through in between!"
I was going to say something suave, probably and sweep her off her feet, but just then group of Chinese teenagers walked in and looked at us a little queer. I couldn’t tell if they were squinting at us, or just Chinese. As they walked towards our booth, I reached into my coat and felt the reassuring feel of gun metal. There were three of them, I’d need to be quick. But then the one in the King Kong T-shirt pointed, but not at me, at Double D.
“Were you in Cock Your Rocks Off 14?” he asked. Denise smiled and nodded and started reminiscing about her porn days. I zoned out, like I always do when women talk for too long. I found myself staring at the King Kong shirt, and suddenly realized something crucial about the case. The Chinese mafia had been smuggling prostitutes into Vegas dressed as horses, two to a costume, one might assume. This, of course pissed off the local penis repository who hired yours truly to see what weaknesses could be dug up on these bastards.
It was already known that they were bringing in new whores every Wednesday, and it is also well-known that the horses are trucked over to that side of town for the races every Wednesday. I just need a smoking gun and some rash cream and I’ve got this case licked.
It was Monday so we had two nights to lay low, but first thing Wednesday morning we were on the road back to Vegas. We didn’t talk much on the way home. Nothing sours a relationship more than a couple of nights in Kingman Arizona.
I dropped Double D off at her salon and headed to the track. I got there early so that I could examine the racing forms. I’d stolen forty bucks from Denise’s purse, and I figured after I solved the case I might stick around and pick a winner. I was debating between Lucky Flower and Who Shot the Sheriff, when a truck and trailer pulled up driven by Lu Pang Heng, an enforcer for the local triad boss, Kong Rui Bao. I laughed to myself at Lu's haircut and made my way to the stables.
Sure enough, there were hookers in there and used horse costumes on the floor. Lu came around the corner, surprising us both, and I got the drop on him, knocking him unconscious with a karate chop from my rod. I took his cell phone so Chang could translate whatever gobbledygook was hidden inside, then I remembered Chang's untimely death at the hands of Lu himself. There was poetic justice in peeing on him.
With nowhere to turn to decipher this Chinese thing, I decided to put the forty bucks on Lucky Flower to win. But first, I chased the hookers out of there with a riding crop. By the time Lucky Flower was done crushing my dreams, the gaggle of hookers-run-a-muck had drawn the attention of the police. The cops found Lu and arrested him, and I caught one of the stray hookers and headed home.
Saturday, July 21, 2012
PRESSURING THE PROP COMIC
I woke up tied to a chair in a dark room. I was pretty sure my nose was busted, again, it was never good for much else. No broken arms, legs or ribs though, so what kind of trouble was I in? I figured if I kept quiet I stood a chance of getting free and escaping, but then I sneezed. A door opened and light flooded in, temporarily blinding me. The husky silhouette of a man stood in the doorway. "Jim Belushi?" I asked. The chuckle that answered was strangely high-pitched. And then I remembered the case I was working on involved a high-profile, powerful celebrity, the likes of which I'd never dealt with before.
"Carrot Top wants you brought to his office." I remember tangling with this body guard before, that's probably what got me here, I couldn't be sure. But I was sure of one thing, whiskey and burritos is a bad mix if you plan on being tied up all night, and nowhere near a bathroom. Squeaky grabbed me, chair and all, and dragged me out into the hall. Posters from Carrot Top's Vegas shows lined the walls, as well as movie posters with Top's face superimposed over the leading men.
Top's office was equally absurd. It was like a child's bedroom; ridiculous, colorful props littered the floor. Fast food wrappers, dirty underwear, semen stains all over the walls. "You mad man! Why!? Why would you wear that see-through shirt and those tight pants?" I asked.
"You think you're funny?" he asked. "This is funny." He pulled out a gun with a mirror on it. "So you can see yourself get shot!" he laughed. And then he shot me.
It all started a week ago, when these two beautiful showgirls walked into my office. One of them had a bad case of herpes, but that's another story. According to them, Carrot Top broke into their dressing room in the wee hours of the morning and stole all their thongs. He then went on to hit every thong in town. "Is he wearing them or making soup?" I asked. I knew what I'd be doing with those panties.
This was bad news, Vegas without thongs is like a hooker with no vagina. I went down to the wholesale clothing district to talk to Sal Silvio, the Vegas clothes king. Sal was as queer as a mega-church preacher, but he's a good guy. "I need the story on all the thongs, Sal."
"And I need a good stiff Zima to wrap my lips around. Care for a drink, Genie?"
"Scotch and ice, preferably non-stiff, just in case it means something different than what I think it means."
"It does!" he shouted at maximum gay. He told me the story of Carrot Top's newest project: a sports car covered in thongs for picking up sluts in.
"I fucking hate Carrot Top!" I said.
"Me too," Sal said. "He's got a gorgeous body, but he's total butter face."
I figured I'd go by the Carrot Top compound and see what's what. That's when I met Squeaky. Now here I am tied up and shot. I'd been hoping this was some kind of Vegas prank show fucking with me, but no such luck.
After a good ten minutes of struggling I finally wriggled my hands free and discovered they'd not found the .22 I had taped to my back. I stood up and plugged Squeaky and pistol-whipped Carrot Top two good times. He's too high profile to kill, at least for now. Then I took a cab to the hospital. I hope a get a sucker.
"Carrot Top wants you brought to his office." I remember tangling with this body guard before, that's probably what got me here, I couldn't be sure. But I was sure of one thing, whiskey and burritos is a bad mix if you plan on being tied up all night, and nowhere near a bathroom. Squeaky grabbed me, chair and all, and dragged me out into the hall. Posters from Carrot Top's Vegas shows lined the walls, as well as movie posters with Top's face superimposed over the leading men.
Top's office was equally absurd. It was like a child's bedroom; ridiculous, colorful props littered the floor. Fast food wrappers, dirty underwear, semen stains all over the walls. "You mad man! Why!? Why would you wear that see-through shirt and those tight pants?" I asked.
"You think you're funny?" he asked. "This is funny." He pulled out a gun with a mirror on it. "So you can see yourself get shot!" he laughed. And then he shot me.
It all started a week ago, when these two beautiful showgirls walked into my office. One of them had a bad case of herpes, but that's another story. According to them, Carrot Top broke into their dressing room in the wee hours of the morning and stole all their thongs. He then went on to hit every thong in town. "Is he wearing them or making soup?" I asked. I knew what I'd be doing with those panties.
This was bad news, Vegas without thongs is like a hooker with no vagina. I went down to the wholesale clothing district to talk to Sal Silvio, the Vegas clothes king. Sal was as queer as a mega-church preacher, but he's a good guy. "I need the story on all the thongs, Sal."
"And I need a good stiff Zima to wrap my lips around. Care for a drink, Genie?"
"Scotch and ice, preferably non-stiff, just in case it means something different than what I think it means."
"It does!" he shouted at maximum gay. He told me the story of Carrot Top's newest project: a sports car covered in thongs for picking up sluts in.
"I fucking hate Carrot Top!" I said.
"Me too," Sal said. "He's got a gorgeous body, but he's total butter face."
I figured I'd go by the Carrot Top compound and see what's what. That's when I met Squeaky. Now here I am tied up and shot. I'd been hoping this was some kind of Vegas prank show fucking with me, but no such luck.
After a good ten minutes of struggling I finally wriggled my hands free and discovered they'd not found the .22 I had taped to my back. I stood up and plugged Squeaky and pistol-whipped Carrot Top two good times. He's too high profile to kill, at least for now. Then I took a cab to the hospital. I hope a get a sucker.
Saturday, June 30, 2012
THE THIEVING WHORE
I rolled over and noticed that the hooker was gone. "Shit!" I got up and checked the wallet on the night stand... empty! I had to laugh, I was planning on ripping her off before I passed out. Still, I had to find her. The ancient coin she stole was going to buy my retirement home in Jamaica. There's no way she could know how valuable it is, could she?
I got dressed and walked over to the corner store for a pack of Camels and few dozen scratchers, all losers, except for one free ticket, also a loser. I decided to call my pimp-friend Ronnie, he knew every bitch in town, and all the hookers, too.
"Hello?" Ronnie answered.
"Ronnie! Ronnie Ron Ron!"
"Oh hell, Gene. Every time you call me I end up in jail or one of my girls goes missing."
"Hey, you every heard of Crystal Diamonddrawers?"
"She's old news, Gene. What are you in love or something?"
"Don't be an idiot. She robbed me this morning. I need to know where I can find her."
"She must be one of Harold's bitches, so go deal with him!"
I hung up the phone. Harold... why did it have to be Harold?
I took a cab over to Ceaser's Palace and went up to the Presidential Suite. The guard outside Harold's suite patted me down, but he didn't find the Derringer I'd tucked between my ass cheeks. He let me in. Harold lay on the couch, all 400 lbs of him. I tried not to look at the boil on his neck, but it was almost the size of his head. He was excited to see me. He was always excited to see me. "Gene! My closest friend! Sit down and share a cake with me!"
"No thanks on the cake. I work hard on this figure."
"Ha! You crack me up! Get this cake out of here, Fatty!" He threw the cake at his guard who then left to clean himself off. Leaving me alone with Harold.
"I'm looking for Crystal Diamonddrawers," I told him.
"Diamonddrawers... Diamonddrawers... you don't mean Crystal Copperpanties? When did she start calling herself Diamonddrawers?"
"Brown hair, blue eyes, double d's?"
"Yes, I fired her two months ago." Harold gave me her address and I left, wondering why I'd shoved a Derringer up my ass.
Her address was in a part of town I'd never seen, and the streets leading to it just kept getting uglier and uglier. When I finally found it, it was no bigger than a shack. I busted in and caught her packing her shit. "Shit!" she yelled out in surprise. She went for a gun but I froze her in place with my sweaty, stinky Derringer. I took her over my knee and started spanking her. "Bad whore! Bad whore!" I yelled.
"Good lord, do you have an erection?" She asked. I smiled. Then I knocked her out, found my coin and took a crap in her hair. On my way home, I stopped by Ronnie's for a new hooker.
I got dressed and walked over to the corner store for a pack of Camels and few dozen scratchers, all losers, except for one free ticket, also a loser. I decided to call my pimp-friend Ronnie, he knew every bitch in town, and all the hookers, too.
"Hello?" Ronnie answered.
"Ronnie! Ronnie Ron Ron!"
"Oh hell, Gene. Every time you call me I end up in jail or one of my girls goes missing."
"Hey, you every heard of Crystal Diamonddrawers?"
"She's old news, Gene. What are you in love or something?"
"Don't be an idiot. She robbed me this morning. I need to know where I can find her."
"She must be one of Harold's bitches, so go deal with him!"
I hung up the phone. Harold... why did it have to be Harold?
I took a cab over to Ceaser's Palace and went up to the Presidential Suite. The guard outside Harold's suite patted me down, but he didn't find the Derringer I'd tucked between my ass cheeks. He let me in. Harold lay on the couch, all 400 lbs of him. I tried not to look at the boil on his neck, but it was almost the size of his head. He was excited to see me. He was always excited to see me. "Gene! My closest friend! Sit down and share a cake with me!"
"No thanks on the cake. I work hard on this figure."
"Ha! You crack me up! Get this cake out of here, Fatty!" He threw the cake at his guard who then left to clean himself off. Leaving me alone with Harold.
"I'm looking for Crystal Diamonddrawers," I told him.
"Diamonddrawers... Diamonddrawers... you don't mean Crystal Copperpanties? When did she start calling herself Diamonddrawers?"
"Brown hair, blue eyes, double d's?"
"Yes, I fired her two months ago." Harold gave me her address and I left, wondering why I'd shoved a Derringer up my ass.
Her address was in a part of town I'd never seen, and the streets leading to it just kept getting uglier and uglier. When I finally found it, it was no bigger than a shack. I busted in and caught her packing her shit. "Shit!" she yelled out in surprise. She went for a gun but I froze her in place with my sweaty, stinky Derringer. I took her over my knee and started spanking her. "Bad whore! Bad whore!" I yelled.
"Good lord, do you have an erection?" She asked. I smiled. Then I knocked her out, found my coin and took a crap in her hair. On my way home, I stopped by Ronnie's for a new hooker.
Saturday, June 23, 2012
A Drunk in the Rain
I was sitting at a bus stop waiting for it to stop raining so I could walk home without getting wet. My car got towed last week. Who knew you were supposed to pay registration fees every year? It made work hard, ever try to tail someone on a bus?
Anyway, a door behind me opened and a well dressed, incredibly drunk man came out and sat with me. He gave me a cigarette in exchange for helping him light up. He was damn near in tears about something, but he wouldn't say what. When he got up to leave, I figured I'd better tail him.
I tailed him for two blocks. He went into the Plaza. They have a restaurant there called 'Hash House A Go Go' that has a tractor for a logo. To my knowledge, it's the only place where tractors and hash (the food, not the drug) are teamed up with the words 'A Go Go.' It was owned by an ex football player named Jimmy Cowen. I did some snooping. It turned out the drunk guy was Jimmy's brother, who turned out to owe a bunch of money to a shark, a loan shark.
I owed Jimmy big time. He took a dive once, just short of the in zone, and cost his team the game. I made a big bet on the game, but instead of giving Jimmy his cut, I drove out to the Bunny Ranch and blew it all on hookers and hooker snacks.
As I watched from a corner booth, Jimmy kicked his moocher brother out of the restaurant, with only a few thousand in cash, to work out his debts on his own. I tailed him again, this time to Charlie's mobile casino. I figured this was my chance to make things right. I stopped him right before he walked into the casino and told him that Jimmy sent me. I took his four grand in cash and told him all his debts were wiped clean. He made some asshole joke, then we went our separate ways. I never heard from him or his brother again.
Anyway, a door behind me opened and a well dressed, incredibly drunk man came out and sat with me. He gave me a cigarette in exchange for helping him light up. He was damn near in tears about something, but he wouldn't say what. When he got up to leave, I figured I'd better tail him.
I tailed him for two blocks. He went into the Plaza. They have a restaurant there called 'Hash House A Go Go' that has a tractor for a logo. To my knowledge, it's the only place where tractors and hash (the food, not the drug) are teamed up with the words 'A Go Go.' It was owned by an ex football player named Jimmy Cowen. I did some snooping. It turned out the drunk guy was Jimmy's brother, who turned out to owe a bunch of money to a shark, a loan shark.
I owed Jimmy big time. He took a dive once, just short of the in zone, and cost his team the game. I made a big bet on the game, but instead of giving Jimmy his cut, I drove out to the Bunny Ranch and blew it all on hookers and hooker snacks.
As I watched from a corner booth, Jimmy kicked his moocher brother out of the restaurant, with only a few thousand in cash, to work out his debts on his own. I tailed him again, this time to Charlie's mobile casino. I figured this was my chance to make things right. I stopped him right before he walked into the casino and told him that Jimmy sent me. I took his four grand in cash and told him all his debts were wiped clean. He made some asshole joke, then we went our separate ways. I never heard from him or his brother again.
Friday, June 22, 2012
Martha and the Midget
Six PM on a Friday, Christmas Eve, eve. The only tourists in Vegas this time of year are the real degenerate low lives with no family. I hadn't had a case in weeks. I was just about to close up for the night, when in walked a midget in a plaid suit and a derby hat. The pure hilarity of him almost got the better of me, but I contained my laughter for the moment. I figured I could at least hear what he had to say first.
He said nothing. He shut the door and took off his hat. He waddled across my office like some kind of bipedal pig. He climbed up an empty chair like a child mounting a horse. He caught his breath and finally pulled out a Derringer and shot me in the stomach. "Merry Christmas, Monroe!" he said as he hopped off the chair. "Ow, my knees!" he said as he hit the ground. He limped out of my office.
I pulled out my cell phone and dialed 911. "Your call is important to us," a computer told me. As I lost consciousness, I couldn't help but wonder, 'Who was that midget?' And, 'Why did he shoot me?'
I didn't die or anything. I woke up in the hospital and started over mental list of who I owe money to and who owes me. But there was nothing out of the ordinary. Except maybe that catheter. "Nurse, where's my drink?" I said to the first person I saw. She handed me a cup of watered-down something. As soon as she was gone, I made my escape.
I had plenty of experience removing catheters from that time I went undercover at the V.A. I walked out into the hallway and who should I see, the midget, taking a handful of bills from my ex-wife, Martha. The midget saw me and ran. "I'll deal with you later!" I told Martha as I chased after the midget, my ass hanging out of my hospital gown.
The midget was slow, and I would have caught him if I hadn't ripped my stitches and started bleeding all over the place. I got out of the hospital two days later. I never found the midget. The moral of the story? Don't ever get married. Or, Pay your alimony.
He said nothing. He shut the door and took off his hat. He waddled across my office like some kind of bipedal pig. He climbed up an empty chair like a child mounting a horse. He caught his breath and finally pulled out a Derringer and shot me in the stomach. "Merry Christmas, Monroe!" he said as he hopped off the chair. "Ow, my knees!" he said as he hit the ground. He limped out of my office.
I pulled out my cell phone and dialed 911. "Your call is important to us," a computer told me. As I lost consciousness, I couldn't help but wonder, 'Who was that midget?' And, 'Why did he shoot me?'
I didn't die or anything. I woke up in the hospital and started over mental list of who I owe money to and who owes me. But there was nothing out of the ordinary. Except maybe that catheter. "Nurse, where's my drink?" I said to the first person I saw. She handed me a cup of watered-down something. As soon as she was gone, I made my escape.
I had plenty of experience removing catheters from that time I went undercover at the V.A. I walked out into the hallway and who should I see, the midget, taking a handful of bills from my ex-wife, Martha. The midget saw me and ran. "I'll deal with you later!" I told Martha as I chased after the midget, my ass hanging out of my hospital gown.
The midget was slow, and I would have caught him if I hadn't ripped my stitches and started bleeding all over the place. I got out of the hospital two days later. I never found the midget. The moral of the story? Don't ever get married. Or, Pay your alimony.
Thursday, June 21, 2012
The Bookie and Mrs. Banning
The heat was getting to me, so I opened a window. I knew it wouldn't be long before the fresh air proved she didn't much like me either. Damn the weather and damn this sweat. I don't normally sweat like the underside of a fat chick's titty, but today the mercury went up to 120. I think it was hotter than that in my office, but that's as high as the thermometer goes. I sat there, watching my sandwich get moldy when suddenly, the phone rang. "Hello," I said a little too excitedly.
"Mr. Monroe?" The voice was unfamiliar, a man, old I think. What could he want?
"Who's asking?"
"My name is Banning, Charles Banning. I hear you work discretely. I'd like to set up a meeting."
"When?"
"Tomorrow. Six AM. 818 Flamingo Blvd."
"You got it, Chief."
He hung up without saying goodbye, I find that rude, but it he's willing to pay, I'm there.
The next day I pulled up at 818 Flamingo Blvd. in my '86 Buick Skylark. The place was a run down house that looked perfect for the enterprising crystal meth cook. I slipped my 1911 Colt into my coat pocket and headed to the door. I knocked and counted to three. No answer. I pulled out the gun and hopped the fence into the back yard. The I heard the lock on the front door starting to jiggle. I scrambled back over the fence and landed in some bushes. Banning gave my a once over, then invited me in.
His story was like this: his wife had been kidnapped, but he couldn't go to the police because he was pretty sure she'd been taken by a bookie he owed money to. "How can you be so sure?" I asked questioningly. He showed me the ransom note. It said, "Charles, send the money you owe, or your wife dies. Sincerely, Gregory the Bookie."
"What do you need a detective for? The case is solved!"
"I'm into this guy for $300,000. I'll pay you $30,000 to get my wife back and erase my debt."
"Any ideas how I might do that?"
"He has a weakness. His son is addicted to pain pills. Exploit this however you want. Just don't get my wife killed in the process."
I told him I'd need $3,000 up front. He paid in cash.
I spent the rest of the day at the Rio playing blackjack. By the end of the day I owed the house $1,200. "Shit!" I said as I went to sleep that night, "I better find this asshole's wife."
I woke up at six PM. I splashed some water on my face. I think the thought occurred to me in my sleep, and it was just starting to sink in. A Bookie in Vegas? Either Banning was setting me up, or he was betting on horse cock-fights or something. I'd better ask around about this Gregory guy. I called Tommy the Tooth, he knows everything there is to know about Vegas, he even has a day job as a tour guide. Tommy the Tooth confirmed that Gregory the Bookie dealt in horse cock-fights. "Shit," I said, "I hate horse cock-fights."
I showed up at Greg's around midnight. Peeking in through the window, I saw Gregory and Mrs. Banning. The latter was tied to a chair. On the table was about $500,000 in cash. I thought for a moment, then I kicked the door open and shot the bookie in the chest. Then I pulled out my throwaway piece and shot Mrs. Banning. I made it look like they'd shot each other, took the cash and went home. "Mr. Banning can go fuck himself," I said. "That's what he gets for gambling."
"Mr. Monroe?" The voice was unfamiliar, a man, old I think. What could he want?
"Who's asking?"
"My name is Banning, Charles Banning. I hear you work discretely. I'd like to set up a meeting."
"When?"
"Tomorrow. Six AM. 818 Flamingo Blvd."
"You got it, Chief."
He hung up without saying goodbye, I find that rude, but it he's willing to pay, I'm there.
The next day I pulled up at 818 Flamingo Blvd. in my '86 Buick Skylark. The place was a run down house that looked perfect for the enterprising crystal meth cook. I slipped my 1911 Colt into my coat pocket and headed to the door. I knocked and counted to three. No answer. I pulled out the gun and hopped the fence into the back yard. The I heard the lock on the front door starting to jiggle. I scrambled back over the fence and landed in some bushes. Banning gave my a once over, then invited me in.
His story was like this: his wife had been kidnapped, but he couldn't go to the police because he was pretty sure she'd been taken by a bookie he owed money to. "How can you be so sure?" I asked questioningly. He showed me the ransom note. It said, "Charles, send the money you owe, or your wife dies. Sincerely, Gregory the Bookie."
"What do you need a detective for? The case is solved!"
"I'm into this guy for $300,000. I'll pay you $30,000 to get my wife back and erase my debt."
"Any ideas how I might do that?"
"He has a weakness. His son is addicted to pain pills. Exploit this however you want. Just don't get my wife killed in the process."
I told him I'd need $3,000 up front. He paid in cash.
I spent the rest of the day at the Rio playing blackjack. By the end of the day I owed the house $1,200. "Shit!" I said as I went to sleep that night, "I better find this asshole's wife."
I woke up at six PM. I splashed some water on my face. I think the thought occurred to me in my sleep, and it was just starting to sink in. A Bookie in Vegas? Either Banning was setting me up, or he was betting on horse cock-fights or something. I'd better ask around about this Gregory guy. I called Tommy the Tooth, he knows everything there is to know about Vegas, he even has a day job as a tour guide. Tommy the Tooth confirmed that Gregory the Bookie dealt in horse cock-fights. "Shit," I said, "I hate horse cock-fights."
I showed up at Greg's around midnight. Peeking in through the window, I saw Gregory and Mrs. Banning. The latter was tied to a chair. On the table was about $500,000 in cash. I thought for a moment, then I kicked the door open and shot the bookie in the chest. Then I pulled out my throwaway piece and shot Mrs. Banning. I made it look like they'd shot each other, took the cash and went home. "Mr. Banning can go fuck himself," I said. "That's what he gets for gambling."
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