The Evils of Evangelicalism

I was in old town playing black jack. Gettin' played is more like it. I was down about $400 before my luck started to turn. I remember that part pretty clearly. The rest is a little hazy, but here’s what I do remember: A young couple came to play at the table with me. Young people don’t usually hang around old town. They like the glitz and boners of the strip. That was the only thing that seemed odd. Other than that they were pretty standard as far as Vegas goes; drunk, loud, good-looking, but not too good-looking. They could have put the pharmaceuticals in my bourbon. Or maybe it was the drink girl or whoever’s in the back pourin' watered-down bourbons. I guess none of that matters when you find yourself chained to a wall in a basement.

I tried to dislocate my thumbs to slip out of the shackles, but it hurt really bad so I gave up on the idea. At least I still had my pants on, I know it sounds weird, but if I get raped in a basement, I want to remember it. I decided to check my surroundings for clues. There was light coming in from a window high up on one wall. There was an old couch in the corner, flower print, worn out in places. A washer and dryer that looked maybe ten to twelve years old. A set of wooden stairs going up to a closed door. Some cardboard boxes with things like, “X-mas decorations,” written in magic marker. And there was a ragged P.I. with a migraine and a sore thumb chained to the wall. It looked like the basement of a typical suburban home.

I looked up above me and saw the bolt holding my chains to the wall looked a bit flimsy. I put all my weight onto the chains and wriggled about until I pulled it out the wall and fell to the floor. My watch told me it was about ten after six a.m., hopefully my captors were heavy sleepers. I stacked a couple boxes and busted the window to make my escape.

The fresh air was nice and cool. I crept to the street and looked back. I didn't recognise the house, address or street. 2115 Maple. I hid my chains as best I could and walked a few blocks over to a Denny's.

I ordered the grand slamwich and tried to pick the lock on my chains with the butter knife while I waited. By the time my food arrived, I’d managed to bend the tip of the knife pretty good, but still no progress on the lock. The waitress gave me a dirty look, and I decided not to tip her. In fact, I decided not to pay for my meal at all, fuck Denny’s!

After Breakfast, I found a payphone and made a few calls. The first call was to my bookie to place a bet on the UNLV Basketball game, I had a good feeling about this one. The second was to Sergeant Griffen to look up the address of the house I woke up in, I didn't give him any of the details about my captivity. The third call was to a guy I know with a circular saw and a surgeon's touch, these chains were really starting to chafe.

After a tense twenty minutes of having a convicted felon sawing at my extremities, I took a taxi to my office to get cleaned up. I had the guy drop me two blocks up and sneaked my way to the corner. There were two guys watching my place. Big, ugly guys. Well, one of them kinda looked like me. He was okay. I figured I’d murder him, then follow the other stooge back to headquarters.

I pulled my 1911 Colt and adjusted my sack. I was just about to spring into action when Sergeant Griffen pulled up between us. He didn’t see me and he didn’t notice them. Oblivious fuck. But it worked out perfectly. They took off on foot as soon as they saw him stop. I walked right past the oblivious sergeant and tailed them two blocks to their car. I got the plate number and watched them head west.

Back at my office, Griffen was waiting with some coffee, a box of donuts and some disturbing news about my captors. The house belonged to a local man named John Smithson, he was the head of the Las Vegas Evangelical Association. There was a big evangelical convention in town, and I may or may not have had sex with the daughter of a prominent Bible belt minister, and she may or may not have been roofied (don’t get the wrong idea, I thought she was just drunk, it was totally innocent).

While I had Griffen at my office, I asked him to use the computer in his car to run the plates of the guys outside my office. They belonged to a guy named Frank Wells who lived on the East side. Frank had a long list of priors, mostly violent. I figured it was time to go and make his acquaintance. I grabbed a cup of coffee and half a dozen donuts, bid Griffen good day and struggled my way into another taxi.

The Wells home was both quaint and ugly. There was a woman’s car parked in the driveway. Someone was home. I checked for dogs (none) then hopped the fence into the backyard. I crept around slowly until I heard a voice. A woman was inside and on the phone. She seemed annoyed. I found the back door and let myself in.

The woman was blonde and homely. I figured Frank would have to be home at some point, so I hid in the closet to try and get the drop on him. After about forty-five minutes there, I really had to take a dump, fucking coffee, I mean I had to take a dump before I stepped into the closet, but now it was pretty much an emergency. I couldn't hear anything so I cracked the closet door and took a peek. The bathroom was close and open.

As slowly as humanly fucking possible, I crossed the hallway towards the bathroom, gun drawn. I got within arms-reach when I heard the gasp. I stepped into the bedroom,

letting my colt give her the evil eye. She screamed and tried to run for the door so I subdued and gagged her and tied her to a chair. Then I dragged her chair into the shitter and could not hold back any longer.

The woman looked horrified, and I can’t say I blame her, the smells that were coming out of my body were truly horrendous. Maybe it was something I ate last night, I couldn't remember. when I was done, I flushed and left room. I closed the door with her inside. Then I went and sat on the couch and turned on the tv to check the basketball scores. Fucking UNLV!

I watched some more tv, then I went into the kitchen to make myself some lunch. The turkey sandwich made me a bit drowsy, so I lay down on the couch and took a nap. It was dark when I woke up, still no sign of Frank.

I went back to the bathroom, and after taking a piss, I ungagged the woman. “Where’s Frank?” I asked.

“Who?”

“Frank Wells, the guy who lives here!”

“Wells?” She seemed confused. “Frank Wells lives two doors down and across the street.”

I apologized for the mix up, put her gag back in and took my leave.

I crossed the street & hopped some fences to get to the back of the house two down. There was a lone man watching tv in the front room. I crept in through the back. It was him alright. The man outside my office. I quietly checked the rest of the house first to avoid any further bullshit from the fairer sex, then made my trademark move. I sneaked up behind the man and shot him in the knee.

"Who stationed you outside my office?" I demanded, narrowly avoiding saying orifice.

"Shit!" He cried in horrible pain. I saw him reach for something under the pillows and plugged him again.

"I'm not leaving til I get some answers and I have plenty of bullets." That reminded me, I was almost out of bullets.

"Alright! I'll talk. I'll talk. Just please... I have kids."

"Shut up about your kids already. Who sent you to watch my office?"

Frank proceeded to tell a lengthy tale about how the evangelicals were using their pull with local government to secure early release for prisoners that converted to Christianity. But once these convicts were released, they became indentured servants to the church, forced to be the muscle in a complicated scheme to outlaw gambling in Las Vegas, and also get rid of the Jews.

This of course, had nothing to do with me, they were angry with me because I “raped” a minister’s daughter. But now that I was involved, I had to find a way to stop these bastards; Vegas without gambling would be like A-Rod without herpes… inconceivable.

I had to start somewhere, and it all led back to Smithson. I knew then and there that I was going to have to Google that asshole. Maybe even destroy the man. But before all that, I was going to have to deal with the Frank Wells dilemma. I couldn't risk him warning the Evangelicals about me, but Griffen had run the plates for me and that would put me on the top of the suspects list. I didn't really want to drive out to the desert and dig a hole and so on. So I tied him up and gagged him and went over to my favorite all you can eat buffet in old town. He'd be fine for a few days.

After dinner I got myself a hotel room. Mostly because I always get diarrhea from that place and I didn't think I was going to make it back to the office before I shit my pants. I had the front desk send up a laptop and a bottle of Wild Turkey so I could get some work out of the way before I got too drunk.

I pooped, took a couple shots, then started my research. I read damn near every article I could find on Smithson and one thing stood out as an obvious weakness: his hatred for the queers. Not just him, but all the nutjobs who listen to him and sent him money. I figured I'd blackmail him with pictures of him romantically entangled with another man. First I'd have hire a queer. I wasn't going to seduce any man with my physique.

I'll be the first to admit that the gay hooker ads are scary and confusing and a little gross. But after a few more drinks…. I mean, hey, I’ve gone back door on a few ladies, really, what’s the difference? But I wanted the make sure I got the best gay, and I could hardly tell one from another.  so I called my old buddy, Sal Silvio, the Vegas clothes king.

Sal came in a hurry, and I explained the situation to him. “I must admit, Gene,” he said, “when you asked me to meet you at a hotel in the middle of the night, I hoped you had other ideas, but I do love to fuck with the Jesus freaks, so I’m in.”

“Great, ‘cause i’m in over my head with these fa… homos.”

Sal stared at me for a couple of seconds and then looked at the gay hooker on the laptop screen. “We need a gay jock, someone who can get Smithson talking about sports, keep his guard down, make him think he’s just one of the guys, and before you know it they’re going down on each other in the men’s room.”

“That really works?” I asked thinking about all the narrow escapes I must have had in sports bars over the years.

“It happens all the time.”

We spent about an hour pouring through the ads until Sal finally found our guy. It cost me $200 to get him to come over to the hotel. He said his name was Jeff. I had to make sure he was fully on board before we laid out our plan for him.

"Let me ask you something, Jeff. Suppose you're walking down the street and you come across two bars. One of them is a sports bar with a bunch of men drinking and watching basketball. The other is a gay bar with a bunch of men drinking and watching ballet or something. Which do you go to and why?"

"It depends on which one has the man who's paying me," He said as he was obviously becoming more and more uncomfortable.

"He wants you to seduce a preacher," Sal announced. I shot him a look of angered disappointment. "What!? He wants to get to the good part."

"I'm in," said Jeff, rather nonchalantly.

"Oh, well good."

We spent the next few hours hatching a plan to get Jeff alone with Smithson and Smithson drunk and horny. According to the gays, it was going to be easier than I could ever hope.

I disguised myself with a fake mustache and a pair of glasses, and we all headed down to the convention center, and started scoping out the nearby bars. We found Smithson in the fourth bar we tried, a little dive called Charlie’s. Jeff went to work his magic, and I went to the john to plant a few hidden cameras. I had a few cameras left over so I planted them in the women’s room, to prove to myself that I wasn’t gay.

I then planted myself at a dark table in the corner to watch the action. Smithson was with a group of churchy assholes, and Jeff had already wormed his way into the group. They were all talking and laughing. It was impressive to watch really, Jeff was an artist. He casually moved about the group, all the while getting closer to Smithson until he was right next to him. He then placed himself between Smithson and the group and slowly moved the two of them to a more secluded area. Smithson was alone with a gay before he ever knew what hit him. Start to finish, it only took Jeff about twenty-five minutes before he and Smithson were heading to the bathroom together.

I got excited as the bathroom door closed behind them, then I realized what I was getting excited about and got uncomfortable.

After a good ten minutes, Jeff stepped out of the bathroom looking pretty shaken. He hurried to and out the front door without ever looking my way. Mission accomplished I assumed. I waited another few minutes for Smithson to make his exit so I could retrieve my cameras, but he never came out.

I motioned to Sal to stay put then I crept into the shitter without drawing any attention. I didn't see anyone in there. I walked down the line of stalls and saw one closed. Underneath the door I could see Smithson lying on the floor. Then I noticed the blood. I grabbed my cameras and wiped my prints as fast as I could and walked out the same way Jeff did.

I walked about four blocks and found Jeff crying in the street. I picked him up and made him walk with me. "What the fuck happened in there?" I demanded.

"I thought I had him. He wanted it, I know it. We were at the urinal together and I touched him. He pulled out a gun and said he hates faggots. He was going to kill me. I had to ... I had to do it."

I was speechless so we just kept walking. I wondered how long it'd be before Sal or anyone else figured out Smithson was dead in the john. I hailed the first taxi I saw and got us back to my office. The poor fag was so traumatized he just curled up on my couch and cried himself to sleep. What a little girl, I thought to myself.

All this gay stuff had made me horny… I mean… for women. I went back to my motel room and called a lady hooker. I banged her twice then threw her out and went to sleep. In the morning, I got a call from Griffen, Smithson had been found shortly after I’d left the bar. Griffen remembered that I’d been asking questions about Smithson’s house earlier, so naturally he wanted to make sure I had nothing to do with his death. Some people are so untrusting. I gave Griffen Jeff’s name and number and told him to leave me out of it, I really was innocent this time. Well, innocetish.

MURDER & MARIJUANA

Apparently, I have a daughter. Some cunt I banged a hundred years ago called me up out of the blue to tell me that our teenage daughter ran away or something. It was a Wednesday. Who runs away on a Wednesday? Anyway, the cunt threatened to come after me for fifteen years of child support if I didn't help her find the little angel. So I booked myself a seat on the next flight to Cincinnati. Well, the next flight that didn't cost too much, which didn't leave until Thursday afternoon.  That gave me time to get drunk and think about things.

A daughter! I hate kids. And teenagers are worse. And teenage girls.... What would I even say to her? She better not be expecting a pony! It was probably a boy. When I was that age I was always convincing skanks to run away from home to... did I just call my daughter a skank? Shit!

I continued drinking until I couldn't hold my head up anymore, about 9 am, then decided to lay on the bathroom floor & get some sleep. I had just gotten comfortable when I heard a knock on the office door. I tried my damnedest to ignore it, but this fucker was loud and persistent. I peeled myself off the floor & stumbled to the door.

"What!?" I demanded. My appearance must've startled the poor sergeant because he jumped back in horror.

"Gene, I need you to come with me." Sergeant Griffen was one of my contacts at the police department. He and I worked together on cases before. He's pretty handy to have around sometimes, but he's also a little too friendly and does not know how to talk to women. It's like trying to crack a case with one of the Hardy boys.

“Why?” I asked.

“Police matter,” He said officially.

I got in his squad car and we were off. I never really liked Griffen that much, but I had to talk to somebody, so I told him about my phone call from the night before. He seemed happy for me, about having a kid, not that she ran away, but he didn’t say much. He just kept smirking, like he knew something I didn’t.  “She’s here, isn’t she? My daughter’s in Vegas?”

He started laughing. “She got picked up for underage gambling last night. Everyone at the station got a good laugh when she dropped your name. The captain didn’t want me to tell you, wanted to see the look on your face.”

So my daughter had run away to Vegas and was already in trouble for gambling. A chip off the old block, I guess. “Does she look like me? I mean, is it possible that she’s not my daughter?”

“She’s ugly alright,” he joked. It was only the second joke I’d ever heard him say. The first wasn’t funny, either.

We walked through the station to the woman’s lock-up. There she was. She was ugly alright. And I instantly remembered the woman I boned to... father her, I guess. A woman named Jeanette who was uglier than my ass and twice as fragrant. I was taking one for the team by banging her and I was good and drunk when it happened. Looking back on it, I definitely got the better end of that deal because I banged Jeanette so my old buddy Ken could bang her friend Rebecca, and Ken banged a grandmother with a mustache so I could bang a hot 19 year old dolphin trainer. I almost married that dolphin trainer. Not because I was in love with her, but because she thought she might be pregnant and I was drunk.  Damn, I really should start wearing condoms.

Anyway, my daughter was ugly, but there was no doubt she was mine. She had my eyes, and she had my mom’s tits, kind of lopsided, with the left noticeably larger than the right. It’s a family trait.  

“So here you are, the legendary Eugene Monroe,” she said sarcastically.

“So what brings you to Vegas....” I trailed off when it dawned on me I still didn’t know her name.

“My name’s Gertrude,” she said.

“Gertrude? Really? Shit. What brings you to Vegas, Gertrude?”

She glared at me and then looked down at the floor, her expression softening. “I guess I need your help,” she said.

I was pretty skeptical. Why would she think I would help her? She couldn't know that much about me. Either she really was in trouble or she was mad and setting me up. I had to get her out of there. That's when Captain White walked in.

"Gene! Good to see you here. I see you're getting acquainted with our..."

"Give it a rest, Jim. What'll it cost me?"  I didn't have the energy to deal with this idiot.

"What's your rush? Have some coffee while we get the paperwork going."

"Let me guess, $500 a cup?"

So I bought the boys a round of very expensive coffee while the good captain explained that Gertrude had been picked up for underage gambling over at the Luxor, and that that was a serious offense. I gave the captain an extra hundred and the charges were officially dropped.  Five minutes later we were on our way to the airport.

“Are we going to  your office?” Gertrude asked.

“I am, just as soon as I get you on a flight back to Cincinnati.”

Just then, my Buick got broadsided by a black Escalade. We spun through the intersection. Luckily, my car is built like a tank. I hit my head on the steering wheel as we came to a stop. “Son of bitch!” I said as blood ran into my eye.

“Oh, yeah,” Gertrude said, “I may have forgot to mention that someone is trying to kill me.”

I lost sight of the Escalade and floored it. My left eye had a small window of vision,but my right eye useless. Damn kid.

"What the hell did you get yourself into?"

"Watch out!" She screamed. "To the right!"

I swerved right to avoid some car or woman or something. "Don't tell me what to do!" I retorted.

This went on for a good few minutes until I was sure enough we'd lost them. Then I pulled over and wiped my face. I was going to need about five stitches & three bourbons. I lit a cigarette and held my forehead closed.

"God damn it, you little shit sack! Who was that & why are they trying to kill you?!"

"Shit sack?" She had no idea what I meant. "Look, some guys back home asked me to drive a car to California. They offered me $2500."

"Where's the car now?" Seemed like a simple enough question.

She started in on a tearful explanation about how her boyfriend, Kip, had talked her into letting him go for a joyride in the car, but crashed it into a tree. When the cops got there they found the car was full of marijuana, about forty pounds. Now, some half-assed Cincinnati gangsters were after her to pay for the weed.

“Marijuana?” I asked. “Jesus, it’s legal in twenty states. Who kills people over marijuana?” But I guess those Cincinnati boys take their pot seriously. I looked over at Gertrude and saw that she was still crying. “Jesus, would you stop that!”

“What are we gonna do?”

The first thing to do was call my gangster friends here in Vegas and see how serious these guys from Cincinnati really were. We made our way over to an office on the north side of town to see Igor Ivanov. He’d been in town setting up his casino for the past few months and he owed me a favor. After an hour-long wait while he was in a meeting, we were let in to speak with him. He was happy to see me.

“What is the matter, Mr Monroe? Did I not give you enough money the last two times I saw you?” Ivanov quipped. “And who is this, your ugly daughter?”

“Yes and yes. I just had a problem and I was hoping you would have some perspective on the situation.”

“Ah, perspective… what a wonderfully expensive sounding word. I love your language, Mr Monroe.”

That’s when Gertrude stepped in and changed my opinion of her. She sat down in a chair in front of Ivanov’s desk and didn’t say a word. She let us talk and never interrupted. I’ve never seen a woman be so quiet. I filled Ivanov in on the situation. It turned out he had heard of the Cincinnati syndicate that Gerty had gotten involved with. They were small time, but dangerous, like an angry chihuahua.

“I think,” Ivanov said, “that the best way for you to proceed would be to use the Wallowitz procedure on them.”

I smiled and nodded. Wallowitz was exactly what the situation called for.

“Dad?” Gertrude said when we were outside again.

“Don’t call me that!” I snapped.

“Fine, Gene! I just wanted to know what the Wallowitz procedure is.”

“Well,” I began, “it goes like this, you give all your plans away to some goon you just met and let her sell you out to some gay Cincinnati gangsters for probably a few thousand at most."

"Why would I sell you out?"

"You've got nothing to lose, that makes you dangerous. Also you're a teenager and well on your way to becoming a woman. That's three strikes."

"So you're going to leave me to deal with these guys on my own?" She asked with a tear in her eye.

"Yes. But first I have to make sure I'm in the clear." I could see the horror build up in her face. I was lying. The Wallowitz Procedure was a bait and switch maneuver. She was my bait.

She got out of my car slowly; in complete disbelief. I gave her a hundred bucks and drove around the block. I followed her on foot from there. I didn’t have to wait long, a few blocks later, the black Escalade pulled up alongside her, it had one of those cop things on the front for ramming, so it wasn’t too damaged. I figured the guys would grab Gerty and take her to their hideout. She was ugly, so they’d probably only rape her a little bit.

A large black man in a black suit with a black turtleneck and white penny loafers stepped out of the passenger side door. Gertrude greeted him with a smile and the two of them proceeded to make out, right there on the street.

“That little bitch,” I muttered to myself. She was playing me. My years of experience told me that the best course of action would be to pull my piece and blow them both away right there, let Jesus sort ‘em out. I resisted the urge. After all, she was family. I guess I could at least find out what her game was before I murdered her in the street.

Gerty got into the SUV and I got into a cab. I gave the driver a ten and told him to follow them. He looked at me like I was crazy. Greedy bastard! I gave him a fifty and set off after the Escalade.

I followed them to The Rio. They left the valet and made their way through the casino to the elevators. I ran back through the casino to the valet parking lot. I found the Escalade unlocked and jumped in. The cigarette smell was harsh, even for me. It was a rental and these bastards are smoking in it. The signs all pointed to a scam.

Looking through the vehicle, I found a bag of weed and a cheesy, metal pipe. There was a map of Nevada. There were no fucking clues. I knew I’d have to wait.

I paid the valet to call me when they leave and with the direction they go. I went back to my car, then for a quick bite to eat, then back to the office for a nap. It was seven pm by then.

At 9:30 I got the call, they were headed my way. I finished off the bottle and turned on the TV. She must’ve walked the last couple blocks because I never saw the Escalade. She knocked very quietly. I answered and tried to look shocked to see her. “Damn it. What now?”

I listened, stone-faced, as she explained that she had nowhere else to go, and that she was afraid the gangsters would find her. I waited for the other shoe to drop. “I was thinking,” she began (Here we go, I thought) “Maybe we could get some money and just pay them off.”

“I got good news kid. While you were gone I got a line on our friends in the Escalade. One of my contacts saw it at the Rio.”

She looked worried. “What are we gonna do?”

“Come on,” I said taking her by the arm, “We’ll handle this shit right now.”

At the Rio, I bribed a bellhop to get Pennyloafer’s room number. We headed up to the eighth floor, room 817. I knocked gently. When he opened the door, I kicked him in the balls and shoved him into the room. I pulled out the colt and blew his brains all over the floor.

Gerty’s jaw dropped and she started making incomplete words like, “Uh… Ah… eh….” She went on like that as I went through his pockets and took his money and jewelry.

“It’s okay,” I said, “You’re safe now.” She just stood there staring at her dead boyfriend. I didn’t know how much she loved him, but I hoped it was a lot. Nothing makes you stronger than watching your father murder someone you love, a lesson I learned early in life.

Back at my office, I tossed Gertrude the keys to the Buick, it was a piece of shit anyway. “Don’t say I never gave you anything. Now get the fuck out of here, and don’t come back.”

She was crying as she drove away. You know what, I think I like being a father.

.

The Enemy of my Enemy

I’d been laying low for a few months in Los Angeles. I hate that place. There had been some unpleasantness between Wayne Newton and myself and that monster has people all over Vegas. I crept back into town at dawn on a Friday. I parked two blocks over from my office and cautiously approached. Nothing looked out of sorts. No one was watching me. I entered the building. I expected my office door to have been kicked down, but no. Still locked. I opened the door and walked in quickly. Everything was in its proper place, my safe was still locked and hidden, even the candy stash in my top drawer was untouched. Not a second after I sat down at my desk and poured myself a drink someone knocked on my door.

I ducked behind the desk and pulled my piece before saying, “It’s open.”

The lights were still off in the office. As the door opened, I was greeted with the silhouette of a beautiful woman. Don’t get too excited, I cautioned myself, it could be a tranny. “Mr. Monroe?” said a distinctly feminine voice.

I pointed the desk lamp at her and turned it on, leaving myself in the shadows. Whoever she was, she was high class, Silk blouse, pearl necklace and a two hundred dollar pair of fuck-me-high-heels. I reached down and checked my boner... half mast. “Who sent you?” I asked.

"A man who wishes to remain anonymous. I can tell you that you and he share a powerful enemy and he believes you've proven that you can be a valuable asset to him," She handed me a large envelope. "Here's what you've missed since you left."

I opened the envelope without saying a word. In it, there was the profile of an MIT professor, some schematics and blueprints etc. and a large dossier on Mr Wayne Newton. Apparently, the fact that I had his hand hadn't slowed him down a bit. He hired a robotics expert to build him another. God damn it, I hate rich people.

“I don’t see a plane ticket to Massachusetts in here,” I said. “If your boss thinks I’m flying on my own dime-

“You won’t have to,” she said, “Doctor Ryder is flying into Las Vegas this afternoon.”

“That gives us time to get better acquainted,” I said as I unzipped my fly. A look of extreme distaste appeared on her face. She sighed and started to unbutton her blouse. I figured there was a fifty-fifty chance her boss had told her to keep me happy... no matter what. Lucky me.

That afternoon I headed to McCarran Airport disguised as Wayne Newton’s chauffeur. I had a meal and a drink in my belly and a fresh pair of panties in my pocket. I felt optimistic, maybe this would be the first case in... ever to go smoothly.

First, I had to deal with the real chauffeur. Some super glue on the all the toilet seats did the trick. Then, I waited by the terminal for the professor. After a few minutes, he finally came out. He was dressed like a nerd and I wanted to laugh at him real bad, but business had to come first. I tried questioning him while driving, but he was not a talkative fellow. So I let up and drove to the address given to me by... fuck what was her name again? I was just banging her... Sandra probably. Anyway, I drove him to a giant warehouse for questioning.

I was told to use whatever means necessary to get info out of him. I chose the hooker method. I had three hookers waiting there for us. I took two into the bathroom and left him in the office with the other, my most trusted hooker, the brunette. I instructed her to do him right and get him to talk about the mechanics of the new hand design. Apparently, he was too shy or weinerless to do her, so they just sat around talking about his hand design. Unfortunately, everything he said went right over her head and she could not repeat any of it back to me. So I was forced to move on to Plan B -

I walked into the office, pulled out my switchblade and stabbed him in the gut. “You wanna go to the hospital? Tell me how to stop the hand!” I snarled.

“Stop It? I don’t understand... I’ve been trying to tell the young lady, I’m years away from perfecting it. The robotics work fine, but there’s no way for the human brain to communicate with the hand. Please, take me to the hospital.”

“Why would Newton pay a pile of money for a defective hand,” I queried

“It’s not defective,” he said defensively, “It’s just not done yet. As for Mr. Newton, he seems to believe that money will make the process go faster.”

I thought it over. It made sense, Wayne always was the type to think he could buy anything. I sent the hookers home and helped the good doctor into the trunk of the limo. Just then, the power in the warehouse went out and I heard a helicopter flying low just above the roof. A spotlight shone in the windows. I needed to think fast.

I started up the limo, then I used a piece of 2x4 to hold down the gas pedal & kicked it into gear. It busted through the warehouse door and through the giant parking lot and right into the wall of the office building across the street. That kept their attention long enough for me to sneak out the back door make my escape.

I caught a cab & posted up at a shitty motel for the night. At 5:55 am, that Sandra chick came by to debrief me, both figuratively and literally. I gave up everything I learned. She handed me another dossier. This one was on a team of brain surgeons from India. "Indians... Why did it have to be Indians?" I asked. I tried to hide my extraordinary fear of Indians, but Sandra caught the look on my face.

"Fortunately for us, Mr Monroe, the Indians are staying in India for now," she seemed delighted in my weakness. "However we need to stop Mr Newton from making his way to them with the AG59781.”

"The what?" I grimaced.

"The bionic hand."

"Oh, yes. Of course. How do you intend do that?"

"His private jet is currently being prepped for departure. It appears he isn't taking any more chances. We have a man inside the airport who is going to slow that departure. Your job is going to be securing that hand,"

I thought about making a hand job joke, but I figured she wouldn’t laugh. By the time I got to the airport, Newton’s jet was already taxiing out onto the runway. I drove the Buick out onto the runway and floored it. “Come on girl!” I caught up to the jet and pulled along side. I could see Wayne’s smiling face watching me from the window. He wouldn’t be smiling once he saw my surprise.

I rolled down my window and grabbed a grenade from the box on the passenger seat. I lobbed it out the window and it exploded near the tail. Another by the landing gear. I kept hurling grenades. Finally, I got a little bit ahead of the plane and was able to hit the wing with a grenade. But the thing was still moving. And Wayne was still smiling! “Son of a bitch!”

I grabbed my last grenade and aimed it right at Wayne’s fat, smug head. I threw it with all I had. It bounced off the window and down to the ground. It blew under the front wheels and snapped them off entirely. The nose hit the ground so hard it broke the front 10 feet of the plane off completely from the rest.

I waited for it to stop skidding then I made my way in through the rather large opening I made. Wayne and the crew were all knocked unconscious. I found the hand in a black case and got back to my car before the ambulance pulled up. I knew my job was done so I sped off. Just then a bee flew into my car and stung me on the arm. Fucking Wayne Newton.

I called my contact to give her the news. She said her employer will be pleased. Also her employer had authorized a 24 hour security detail for me for the next two months. When I got back to my office, Sandra was there to meet me with a briefcase with $200 grand in it. I invited her in for coffee. She declined. It was still a good day.

Helping Hand

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.

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.

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.