Silent but Violent – cont’d


She flinched like she’d been slapped across the face with an iron glove.
“What was that?” She said, her eyes tearing up like a kid in a cobra cage.
“My neighbour must have opened a can of eggs.”
She nodded, her look boring through my face like some kind of Neptunian Drill Worm, and said, “So?”
“So what?”
“Will you do it?”
“Kill your husband?” I asked, “Last time I checked that was tip of the top of the list of things that are illegal.”
She pulled a cigar from her purse. A Cohiba the size of a donkey’s dink. She fired it up like she was stoking the forge in a steel mill, filling my office with more smoke than a Mississippi cook fire.
“I don’t [puff] want [puff] you [puff] to kill him,” she said, “I just want him distracted [puff] [puff] [puff].”
“Lady, I don’t jake your snake here, so if you could just clear the air and stick to the details.”
“My husband is a very rich and powerful man with many enemies. He’s also very dangerous. He’s as ruthless as he is tanned.”
“Just how tanned is he?” I wondered aloud.
“He’s like Texas chaps on a Wyoming queer.”
I nodded. That’s pretty damned tanned. Which meant that this gig was pretty damn dangerous. I guess she could stink my whiff–
“I’ll pay you five thousand dollars,” she said, sucking down the last of her Cuban smoke machine.
Five. Thousand. Dollars.
That’s a lot of cans of eggs.

Silent but Violent


The sun oozed through the blinds like hot fudge. It did a dirty waltz with the dust that was hanging in the air because all the available real estate was taken by assorted other greases and grimes. The cleaning “lady” had gone out to buy a mop one day some many years ago and never came back. Good help is hard to find. Especially if you pay what I do. Woe is me. I took a thick sip of hair of the dog and leaned back in my broken chair. A pile of mail on my desk full of nothing but past due lay on my desk, taunting me. I refused to bite. Besides the hangover banging away like a hopped up jazz cat on the drums in my head was monopolizing my attention. In a way I was kinda glad of it, because I knew only too well that out there in the stink of the city, crime was having a gay old time, and it damnit if it didn’t have a real nasty habit of turning over the rock I lived under and poking me with a stick. Of course the ad I ran in the Gleaner didn’t help. Sue me, I had bills to pay and bottles to buy.
There was a knock on the door. I knew hot knuckles when I heard them. I put the gin in a drawer and a mint in my mouth and tried to straighten a tie I wasn’t wearing.
“Come in,” I said.
She did. All five feet four inches of bad news. She was wearing so much eau de trouble my eyes watered. She sat her perfectly contoured haute couture’d form down in the cracked leather chair in front of my desk. She stared at me with blue eyes that would make ice feel like burnt toast.
“So,” I said.
“You’re a detective,” she said.
“When I feel like making a living.”
“And when you don’t?”
“I shave tigers for the circus,” I said.
“You’re funny,” she said and lit a cigarette. The drag she took would of killed a G.I. on Omaha Beach, “But I don’t need a shave.”
She didn’t. “You don’t,” I said, “So detective me it is.”
She dropped her cigarette on the floor. Didn’t stub it out. Closed her Arctic eyes and took a deep breath.
“It’s my husband.”
“Someone wants to kill him.”
I nodded. This wasn’t the first time I’d been approached by a tall drink of water married to some shlub with a case of the fatals.
“And you believe they’re going to succeed?”
“No,” she said, “I’m afraid they’re going to fail.”
I tried to gulp. But farted instead.

To be continued…

Eye of the Terlet


Gather ’round, dudes, and perk up them ears, buckarettes, this here is a poem that slithers in the night lake a snake on bad grease.
No, seriously, it is smooth like the skin of a baby’s bottom, and it glistens like a blue moon on buckskin sandals.
There’s so much truth in this here ballad that Nun’s be pimpin’!
Breathe in, Breathe out, and a here we go:
Peppermint chaps covering my loins, crotch open, it is all hanging out.
And my buttcheeks? Well, pardner, them’s being massaged by the gilded wind.
Is that you, God? Old buddy, old pal? Up there next to the sun, cheeks crimson like Satan’s thighs as you’re blushing away in the blue, blue sky?
You bet it is.
I can see you, chum.
Don’t be embarrassed.
You gave me this dong.