Here was my proof that each new generation of teenagers was stupider than the last. I blame MTV.
“How much did she give you?”
He smiled, showing me a mouth full of braces. “Fifty large.”
“And how were you going to do it? With your BB gun?”
“I was going to follow him around and then...you know...shove him.”
“Shove him?”
“He's an old guy. I was thinking I'd shove him down some stairs, or into traffic. I dunno.”
“Have you shoved a lot of old people into traffic, Billy boy?”
He must not have liked the look in my eyes, because he shrunk two sizes.
“No! Never! I never killed anybody!”
“So why put an ad in the magazine?”
“I dunno. Something to do.”
I considered hitting him again, but didn't know what purpose it would serve.
I hit him anyway.
“Ow! My lip's caught in my braces!”
“You pimple-faced little moron. Do you have any idea what kind of trouble you're in right now? Not only did you accept money to commit a felony, but now you've got a price on your head. Did Mrs. Garbonzo tell you about the guy her husband hired to kill you?”
He nodded, his Adam's apple wiggling like a fish.
“Are-are you here to kill me?”
“No.”
“But you've got a gun.” He pointed to the butt of my Magnum, jutting out of my shoulder holster.
“I'm a private detective.”
“Is that a real gun?”
“Yes.”
“Can I touch it?”
“No.”
“Come on. Lemme touch it.”
This is what happens when you spare the rod and spoil the child.
“Look kid, I know that you're a loser that nobody likes, and that you're a virgin and will probably stay one for the next ten years, but do you want to die?”
“Ten years?”
“Answer the question.”
“No. I don't want to die.”
I sighed. “That's a start. Where's the money?”
“I've got a secret place. In the wall.”
He rolled off the bed, eager, and pried a piece of paneling away from the plaster in a less-cluttered corner of the room. His hand reached in, and came out with a brown paper shopping bag.
“Is it all there?”
Billy shook his head. “I spent three hundred on a wicked MP3 player.”
“Hand over the money. And the MP3 player.”
Billy showed a bit of reluctance, so I smacked him again to help with his motivation.
It helped. He also gave me fresh batteries for the player.
“Now what?” he sniffled.
“Now we tell your parents.”
“Do we have to?”
“You'd prefer the cops?”
He shook his head. “No. No cops.”
“That blonde upstairs with the face like a snare drum, that your mom?”
“Yeah.”
“Let's go have a talk with her.”
Mrs. Johansenn was perched in front of a sixty inch television, watching a soap.
“Nice TV. High definition?”
“Plasma.”
“Nice. Billy has something he wants to tell you.”
Billy stared at his shoes. “Mom, I bought an ad in the back of Famous Soldier Magazine, and some lady gave me fifty thousand dollars to kill her husband.”
Mrs. Johansenn hit the mute button on the remote, shaking her head in obvious disappointment.
“Billy, dammit, this is too much. You're a hired killer?”
“Sorry,” he mumbled.
“You're father is going to have a stroke when he hears this.”
“Do we have to tell Dad?”
“Are you kidding?”
“I gave the money back.”
“Who are you?” Billy's mom squinted at me.
“I'm Harry McGlade. I'm a private eye. I was hired to find Billy. Someone is trying to kill him.”
Mrs. Johansenn rolled her eyes. “Oh, this gets better and better. I need to call Sal.”
“You husband?”
“My lawyer.”
“Ma'am, a lawyer isn't going to do much to save Billy's life, unless he's standing between him and a bullet.”
“So what then, the police?”
“Not the cops, Mom! I don't want to go to jail!”
“He won't survive in prison,” I said. “The lifers will pass him around like a bong at a college party. They'll trade him for candy bars and cigarettes.”
“I don't want to be traded for candy bars, Mom!”
Mrs. Johansenn frowned, forming new wrinkles. “Then what should we do, Mr. McGlade?”
I paused for a moment, then I grinned.
“I get five-hundred a day, plus expenses.”
#
I celebrated my recent windfall with a nice dinner at a nice restaurant. I was more of a burger and fries guy than a steak and lobster guy, but the steak and lobster went down easy, and after leaving a 17% tip I headed to Evanston to visit the Chicken King.
Roy Garbonzo's estate made the Johansenn's look like a third world mud hut. He had his own private access road, a giant wrought iron perimeter fence, and a uniformed guard posted at the gate. I was wondering how to play it when the aforementioned uniformed guard knocked on my window.
“I need to see Roy Garbonzo,” I told him. “My son choked to death on a Sunny Meal toy.”
“He's expecting you, Mr. McGlade.”
The gate rolled back, and I drove up to the mansion. It looked like five mansions stuck together. I parked between two massive Doric columns and pressed the buzzer next to the giant double doors. Before anyone answered, a startling thought flashed through my head.
How did the guard know my name?
“It's a set up,” I said aloud. I yanked the Magnum out of my shoulder holster and dove into one of the hydrangea bushes flanking the entryway just as the knob turned.
I peeked through the lavender blooms, finger on the trigger, watching the door swing open. A sinister-looking man wearing a tuxedo stepped out of the house and peered down his nose at me.
“Would Mr. McGlade care for a drink?”
“You're a butler,” I said.
“Observant of you, sir.”
“You work for Roy Garbonzo.”
“An excellent deduction, sir. A drink?”
“Uh—whiskey, rocks.”
“Would you care to have it in the parlor, sir, or would you prefer to remain squatting in the Neidersachen?”
“I thought it was a hydrangea.”
“It's a hydrangea Neidersachen, sir.”
“It's pretty,” I said. “But I think I'll take that drink inside.”
“Very good, sir.”
I extricated myself from the Neidersachen, brushed off some clinging leaves, and followed Jeeves through the tiled foyer, through the carpeted library, and into the parlor, which had wood floors and an ornate Persian rug big enough to park a bus on.
“Please have a seat, sir. Mr. Garbonzo will be with your shortly. Were you planning on shooting him?”
“Excuse me?”
“You're holding a gun, sir.”
I glanced down at my hand, still clenched around my Magnum.
“Sorry. Forgot.”
I holstered the .44 and sat in a high-backed leather chair, which was so plush I sank four inches. Waddles returned with my whiskey, and I sipped it and stared at the paintings hanging on the walls. One in particular caught my interest, of a nude woman eating grapes.
“Admiring the Degas?” a familiar voice boomed from behind.
I turned and saw Happy Roy the vicious misogynist psycho, all five foot two inches of him, walking up to me. He wore an expensive silk suit, but like most old men the waist was too high, making him seem more hunched over than he actually was. On his feet were slippers, and his glasses had black plastic frames and looked thick enough to stop a bullet.
“Her name is Degas?” I asked. “Silly name for a chick.”
He held out his hand and I shook it, noticing his knuckles were swollen and bruised.