The King in Jello

The smell in the hallway was a mixture of fried bologna and feet. The threadbare carpet and stained walls told their own story, and it was not a jaunty beach read. The people behind these doors had fallen as low as a person could get and still have a door. As José pulled his gun from its holster, he did so with the knowledge that it was definitely not the first--or even the hundredth--gun to be pulled in this place.

#318 was at the end of the corridor, which gave José plenty of time to regret taking this case as he cautiously moved toward it. Somewhere over the last twenty years, he'd lost his hard, cynical edge, only to see it turn soft and gummy. He was like a nice crisp bran flake that turns soggy because you left it in the milk too long.

So, when some poor sap comes along and tells him that they found the face of Elvis in their Jello Salad, and now it's been stolen, naturally, Beigey was going to take the case. Five years ago, José would've laughed this putz right out of his office, and then tossed a water balloon at him out his window for good measure. Five-years-ago José would've laughed derisively at current him. Current him sighed and continued down the hall. 

As he edged closer to #318, the smell in the air shifted. It went from a greasy umami haze to a sickeningly sweet chemical fog. It was overpowering. José felt like he was being suffocated with Willy Wonka's handkerchief. He slowly reached out and carefully pushed the door, which, shockingly, opened.

José took a deep breath and swung into the doorway. The smell was even worse inside the apartment. Trying to suppress a gag reflex that was demanding to have its way, he groped for a light switch, found it and immediately wished he hadn't. 

The walls of the apartment were covered in bloody handprints and words scrawled in blood. The writing appeared to be Elvis lyrics. They were mostly spelled incorrectly and the punctuation was lacking. "'Blue swayed shoes'?" José was appalled. 

Something else seemed to be off. José got up close to one of the bloody handprints. It didn't look right. And it smelled...like...raspberry? This dipshit, José realized, was writing his crazy-words in jello. 

He headed into the kitchen. This was clearly the guy who had stolen his client's Jello Salad Elvis. And if he'd gone to the trouble of stealing it, he probably wanted it preserved. So a quick look in the fridge was in order. The kitchen was even more appalling than the rest of the place. A leaning tower of pizza boxes took up most of one counter. The sink had a stack of dishes that must've dated back to the Eisenhower administration. 

José, a man who had looked death in the face and called it a whiney little bitch, was actually a bit afraid to look in the fridge. But if that's where the pilfered Gelatin King was, he needed to see it. He threw open the door.

Nothing. It was as empty as the My Great Ideas list that Donald Trump keeps on his bedside table. There was a jar of high-end mustard, but that was it. If the King of Ambrosia wasn't here, where was it?

A phone rang in the living room. Normally, José screened his calls. But when you've broken into the lair of a madman, you might as well risk having to speak to a telemarketer. He picked up the receiver.

"Go for Beigey."

The voice on the other end was high-pitched and giggly. "I figured you were coming over, Mr. Amador. So I took Elvis and we left the building."

"That's not your jello salad, creep."

"Tee-hee! Of course it's not, Mr. Amador. It's not my jello salad. It's my GOD! And my god demands that I KILL! KILL! KILL!"

"I think your god needs to ease up on the meth."

"First, Elvis has told me to kill your client, who is a false prophet and not worthy. And then he's told me to kill yooooooou."

The line went dead. 

José didn't feel that much dread. People much more competent than this asshole had tried to kill him. But he was a little pissed that this case kept dragging on.

Happy Birthday, Beigey!

A Corpse Too Far, Chapter 32: Heel Turn

As José rode in the crowded bus, his mind drifted. He thought back to when he and Jefferson Wilkes had been friends. He was, he was certain, about to engage in a flashback. He resisted. He hated flashbacks. They ruined the flow and were almost always unnecessary. Nope, there it was. He was definitely flashing back. 

It had been a good fifteen years ago. He'd met Wilkes when they were both brought in by the Sanphillipos, a family that owned TV and radio stations all over the country. The Sanphillipos' eldest son had turned up missing during a trip to Pittsburgh. Turned out he'd joined up with a cult that worshipped gravy. José and Wilkes had managed to get the kid out. But that's a whole other story.

They'd been friendly after that. The former big city cop and the son of Savannah wealth. Not friends, but friendly. They'd toss each other work every once in awhile, hang out when one of them was in the other's town. They'd met up in Vegas a time or two. Stuff like that. 

Then, one day, Jeff had called because he wanted José's help tracking down a missing accountant. Pretty standard stuff. The kind of case José could do with one hand while making a sandwich with the other. Maybe a BLT with the tomatoes cut real thin, big glob of Japanese mayo on it. Serve it up with some salt-n-vinegar chips. José was hungry, was the point. 

Anyway, José had tracked the guy down to a hotel in Yakima. He waited for Wilkes in a rented Saturn Ion, the radio playing a country station that was José's best option among the sad broadcast choices in the vicinity. 

The passenger door popped open and Wilkes slid inside. 

"Why Beigey, your taste in automobiles runs to the extravagant, doesn't it?" he said.

"My Astin-Martin is in the shop, Wilkes," José replied. 

"Is our friend ensconced within this veritable Taj Mahal?" Wilkes surveyed the hotel like he was looking at a turd with windows.

José gestured with his too-cold-to-drink-now coffee. "Right there. Room 18. He got a pizza delivered half an hour ago and seems to have settled in for an evening of Laguna Beach."

Wilkes looked aghast. "Laguna Beach? The man is in his forties."

José shrugged. "Look, Wilkes, I'm not vouching for his viewing habits, I'm just saying he's in there."

"Fair enough." Wilkes pulled out his phone and began sending a text. José was not, by nature, a nosy person, his occupation notwithstanding, but since Wilkes was right next to him, he couldn't help but notice that the text being written was the address of the hotel and the accountant's room number.

Wilkes put his phone away and clapped his hands together. "Well, now that that's done, what say you and I grab a steak? I have it on good authority that there's a place in town that does a great filet mignon."

Under normal circumstances, José would have been doing seventy toward the steakhouse before Wilkes had finished that sentence. Because steak. Right now, though, something was feeling...off.

"Hey, that sounds great, Wilkes. Real quick, though: it just occurred to me that I don't think I ever got from you exactly who we're working for, here."

"Family. Pretty standard stuff."

"Family? Like, his wife? Parents?"

"Family. The steakhouse is on North 40th. You need directions?"

"No. But, hang on. When you say 'family', you mean this guy's family, right?"

Wilkes finally looked directly in José's eyes. "So, you are well and truly asking?"

José returned the eye contact. "I am well and truly asking."

Wilkes gave a quick nod. "When I say 'family', I am more saying 'La Famiglia.'"

"Goddammit. Wilkes, you son of a--"

The last word caught in José's throat when he saw that Wilkes' gun was out, and not in a "hey, let me show you my cool gun" kind of way.

Wilkes looked unperturbed, like he was engaging in a conversation about the correct way to pronounce "pecan". "Beigey, we're going to be reasonable adults about this. You don't know this man. We know from his viewing habits that he's clearly not a good person."

Through clenched teeth, José managed to say, "Doesn't make this right."

Wilkes shrugged. "Probably not. But the money these people pay puts things in perspective."

"Nope. Sorry, Wilkes. I'm not going to be a part of this. I'm going in there and telling this guy to get the hell outta here. You want to stop me, shoot me."

Wilkes shook his head. "No, no, no, Beigey. There are other options." And he smashed the butt of his gun across José's head. As he lost consciousness, José wished sincerely that they'd just gone for steak.

A Corpse Too Far, Chapter 8: Enema of my Enemy

José gently massaged his wrist and winced. Every time he touched where the handcuffs had been, it was like pouring pickle juice on a paper cut. Which José had done before. He didn't remember the context.

In addition to his wrist, his head was still pounding from whatever had led to his nap in the hotel room. His shirt was also still sticky with the blood of that poor unfortunate in the room with him.

The cops in this locality were not an improvement on the garden variety fascists back home. In fact, on a scale of one to Nazi, he'd give these guys a solid eight. He hadn't had a passport or any cash for them to take, so they'd satisfied themselves with beating the crap out of him and grunt-shouting in whatever the hell language they spoke here. East Moldavian?

José wracked his brain. These assholes didn't seem like the kind to tune in to official channels, so a call to the U.S. embassy wasn't in the offing. He had nothing to offer as a bribe. So that left him with being stuck here until whoever was responsible for this felt like coming along to explain.

As if on cue, a door down the corridor creaked open and several sets of booted footprints came clomping down toward his cell.

Three figures, backlit by fluorescents, hove into view. A clanking of keys. The squeal of a cell door that only likes to be closed. Then the figures stepped inside. Two giant jail-goons...and Jefferson Wilkes.

"Wilkes. You miserable son of a bitch," spat José. "Come to gloat?"

One of the uniformed apes grunted something in East Moldarish or whatever. Then the other one shoved Wilkes forward. Wilkes fell off balance and careened right into José.

The handsomer of the two guards (they were both ugly as hell, but one had fewer warts) spat on the ground where Wilkes had been standing, they slammed the cell door and the uglier one (again, it was a pretty tight contest) picked his nose as they walked back down the hall.

Even with his sore wrists, José managed to shove Wilkes away. "Get off me, you asshole."

Wilkes collapsed on the bunk beside José. "My apologies, Beigey. You understand that I was not in control of my positioning just now."

José jumped up and walked as far away from Wilkes as the cell would allow. "What is this?" he asked. "What are you doing in East Moldavia and why the hell are you in this cell?"

Wilkes pulled out a handkerchief that José would bet fifty bucks was monogrammed. He dabbed at the blood dripping from his nose. "I told you back home, Beigey, that there were other parties interested in the whereabouts of Mrs. Richards."

"Yeah," José countered, "you also said you'd 'positively die for a decent bowl of grits' but you're not dead, so..."

Wilkes stood up and tried to neaten himself up as much as the situation allowed. "I assure you, Beigey, that I am not responsible for your incarceration. Nor, at this point, do I know who is. You and I are very much in the same boat."

"I would much, much rather drown than share a boat with you. If were on the Titanic, I'd have jumped into the Atlantic long before the iceberg."

"I understand the venomous nature of your regard toward me. We have had a...contentious relationship thus far in our careers."

José cackled at that. "I prefer to put it in terms of you're a giant piece of shit."

Wilkes continued, "Be that as it may, Beigey, we find ourselves mired in the same circumstances and it might behoove us to consider setting our differences aside...and working together to escape our predicament." 

At that point, José had to work indescribably hard to keep himself from throttling Wilkes, whose love of multisyllabic words grated on José's nerves like a waiter putting extra parmesan on your rigatoni table-side. As annoying as he was, though, José had to concede the point.

"Fine. But the moment we're out of this country, I'm going to punch you in the balls."

"Fair enough."

To be continued! In podcast form!

Happy Birthday, José!

The Bread Wind

6:00 AM. Still dark. The streets were practically empty. Most decent people never have to see this time of day, thought Beigey. He wouldn't have necessarily put himself in the decent column--he'd been a private eye too long, seen too much--but Beigey tried to avoid 6:00 AM when he could, too.

This morning, it couldn't be helped.

He'd just come off a shift tailing the husband of a client. Classic case. Old wife. Young husband. Tennis instructor. Also, gardener. Also college roommate. Also, weirdly, a circus clown.

Beigey had handed off the tail to his assistant, who'd take the day shift. Now his priority was some nourishment and a long, satisfying visit with his bed. 

He stood outside the door of the Rise and Shine Bakery. It was one of his go-to spots. Good for a morning bun for breakfast or a killer Bahn-Mi for dinner. Mr. and Mrs Tran had all the nutrients a growing detective needed. 

The store wasn't much to look at. A tiny shop that shared a building with a vape store and a pawn shop. But the shop was always filled and there was usually a line. This may have been because of the genius marketing move of placing a fan by the shop's open side door, which assured that the scent of whatever was being baked was blown out onto the street, where passersby would find drool running down their chins before the store registered to their eyes.

Beigey lifted his mask off of his nose for just a moment, breathing in that warm bread smell. Definitely a morning bun, but maybe he'd also grab a baguette for later. Possibly some creampuffs for dessert tonight? He mentally urged the customer in the shop to hurry the hell up. The social-distancing laws meant the tiny shop could hold even fewer people.

A giant pick-up roared to a stop. Giant "Trump" flag. "Fuck your feelings" sign. 

Mr. Fuck-your-feelings hopped out, the guns in his holster clattering as he hit the pavement. From around the passenger side, a second asshole, this one with different guns and a super-timely "Hillary for Jail" shirt, sporting some impressive mustard stains. Two dicks, no masks.

The driver took a moment to note the line, smirked and walked toward the door. His copilot pulled out a phone and started filming. 

Douchebag #1 pulled open the door and stepped inside; the Ethel Mertz to his Redneck Lucy hung back in the doorway. 

Mr. Tran's voice, angry, above the fan: "Hey! I told you, you need a mask in here."

Beigey couldn't see him, but he could feel the veins bulging on the asshole's neck as he replied, "Fuck your rules! I ain't a fucking coward and I ain't a fucking sheep. I go where I want because this is A-mer-ica!"

Through the window, Beigey saw Mrs. Tran whip aside the curtain that separated the front of the shop from the back. She advanced on the asshole, not threatening him with the rolling pin in her hand, but absolutely letting him know it was there.

"You heard him. You want to buy something, get in the line and wear a mask."

The dick with the phone giggled. His pal placed his hand on the handle of one of his sidearms. "I got a whole bunch of bullets here that say I don't."

Beigey shook his head. All he'd wanted was some baked goods. His right hand found the brass knuckles in his pocket. He quietly stepped toward the videographer. He tapped him on the shoulder.

The guy turned his stupid, stupid face toward Beigey. "What do you want, asshole?" Beigey dropped him with a jab to the head. At the same time, the schmuck in the shop turned to see what was happening and Mrs. Tran swung her rolling pin into the guy's nads. He let out what Beigey had to say was a very satisfying "ooof" as he fell to the ground. Beigey grabbed him by the hair and pulled him out of the shop, where he lay in a heap on the sidewalk next to his friend.

Someone behind Beigey in the line had apparently just come from the grocery store and opened up a carton of eggs, which several people then hurled at the downed dumbasses.

There followed a brief moment of tension as the crowd stared them down. The men picked themselves up and limped back to their truck, tails between their legs, guns staying in holsters. As they pulled away from the curb, there was no celebration from the group who had sent them packing, just a sad, shared resignation that this was where the world was. 

Beigey wiped the blood from his brass knuckles, stepped into the shop and bought his breakfast.

The Bong Goodbye

"Is there a reason," José pondered, "that all pawn shops have the exact same olfactory stew of piss, body odor and smoked trout?"

He had occasion to consider this question because he was currently standing in his third pawn shop in as many hours, all in service of possibly the least urgent, most ridiculous job he'd ever taken.

The previous afternoon, he'd been about to close up the office and head home, maybe have a fun, spontaneous bourbon taste-test. As he was putting on his jacket, a couple of Jedi walked in.

José had no proof they were Jedi; just, earth-tone robes and light-sabers hanging from a belt looks more Lucasfilm than lumberjack. The couple introduced themselves as Vhiran Un-Haku and Grepf Sei'rag of the Kaleesh Resistance. Their checkbook introduced them as Herbert and Connie Schmidlapp of 37th Ave. South.

Their story was one he'd heard a thousand times: boy meets girl, boy loses girl, boy marries girl, girl's brother buys them a glass sculpture of BB8, girl's brother subsequently dies while performing complicated light-whip fight choreography in the bus lane outside of a Chipotle.

The sculpture, they told José, had been a wedding present. They showed him a picture. José looked at the picture. He looked at the two earnest nerds in front of him. He looked at the picture.

"It was limited edition," said Vhiran Un-Haku.

"I see," replied José.

"My brother loved that little droid," said Grepf Sei'rag, holding back tears.

José decided some things at that moment. He decided he'd take the case. He didn't need the work. He was incredibly busy at the moment. He was juggling three divorces, two missing person cases and a small supporting role in a local theater's production of the female version of The Odd Couple. But, overloaded though he was, his heart went out to these super-sincere cosplayers. And so he also decided not to point out the part of the "sculpture" where you were supposed to put your mouth or the other part of the "sculpture" where your weed went.

Instead, he set about checking out any of the three dozen places in town where someone might have sold a stolen bong.

In the third such place, where he was currently standing, José watched a greasy-haired trashbasket in a No Fat Chicks t-shirt haggling with an old woman who was trying to hock a necklace. The trashbasket was telling her he could only give her four bucks because the market for sapphires was in the toilet right now. The old lady cried, so the trashbasket bumped it up to four and a quarter.

As the old lady, still sobbing, steered her walker out the front door and down the street toward the OTB, José approached the counter. He flashed the guy the picture of the bong.

"Nah," said the trashbasket eloquently. "I ain't seen nothin' like that. I'd'a remembered that."

"Are you a fan?" José asked, caring as little as it is possible for a human being to care.

"Are you fucking kidding? The new trilogy?"

"Sure," responded José, "I guess."

"What a fucking pile of shit," the trashbasket spat. "They kill off Han. And Luke. And all so a black guy and a chick can be the stars. Bullshit."

Normally, this is the kind of thing that would force José, without any synapses firing in the rational decision part of his brain, to put this guy's face through his glass countertop. But, given how little time he had to be thrown in jail for assault, he let this slide, with nothing more than an almost-imperceptible narrowing of the eyes and a terse, "Right."

"And don't even get me started on that Chinese girl who isn't even fucking skinny," the trashbasket said.

José's jaw was clenched tighter than Mike Pence's asscheeks. His hands could've squeezed coal into diamonds. But he managed to nod his head and walk out the door.

The fact that a garbage can was thrown through the pawn shop window seconds later as a male voice yelled, "Fucking entitled dickhead!" may have been coincidence.

Happy Birthday, Beigey!

No Mime in the Crountains

José walked from his car toward the mansion. As mansions go, it was only okay. There were times in his life when being summoned to a rich guy's house late at night would have been incredibly intimidating, but this wasn't his first time at the Philharmonic's Concert Performance of Aaron Copeland's Rodeo.

The door opened before he had a chance to knock, because butlers enjoy letting private eyes know that they've been watching them. This butler was the platonic ideal of "manservant." If you took every butler ever and pureed them, then simmered them over medium heat for two hours to get a butler reduction to pour over your flapjacks, it would taste like this guy.

"Senator Crountain is waiting in the south wing office," said the ur-butler. "He requests that you leave your firearm here in the entryway."

"Is he planning on pissing me off so severely that I might pistol-whip him?"

Jeeves/Alfred let out a brief sigh that carried a metric ton of weary condescension. "Senator Crountain abhors violence and the knowledge that someone is armed makes it difficult for him to focus on the business at hand."

"And what business does the senator have his hands in tonight?" José enjoyed irritating butlers the way some people enjoy popping zits. Just, irritating butlers was far easier to understand the appeal of.

The butler started down a long hall off of the entryway. The walls were hung with dead animals of all sorts; sad deer, morose moose, former pheasants had been stuffed and mounted everywhere. Definitely someone who hated violence.

After more twists and turns than an episode of Guiding Light, the hallway eventually lead to a cavernous office. At the far side, at a giant oak desk flanked by two stuffed grizzly bears, sat the Senator. He was a large man. He had the look of a man who might have a turkey drumstick in his hand at any time, even outside of a Ren Faire.

As José got closer, he realized the two stuffed grizzly bears were actually two bodyguards so beefy you could cook a bourguignon with them. José wondered if the Senator had hired them so he'd feel svelte.

"Mr. Amador," said the senator, sounding for all the world like a walrus had learned to speak, "I know my home is somewhat remote. Thank you for making the trip."

"Why, a trip is my favorite thing to make, Senator," José replied. "Much easier than a baked Alaska."

"I'm not a man who likes wasting time, so I'll get right to business," spake the Walrus.

"Sounds good," José answered. "I don't like wasting time, either. But I do like a good egg salad."

The senator opened an envelope in front of him, pulled out a picture and slid it across the desk to José. "This is my grandson."

The image was of a slight young man, the sort one wouldn't be surprised to find hung up in a gym locker or with his head being shoved into a toilet or with his underwear jerked up to his shoulders. If this kid had any of the senator's genes in him, they were doing a great job of hiding.

José figured he knew where this was going. "Is he missing?"

"No, Mr. Amador. I know exactly where he is. He's taking classes at a school for mimes."

José was unsure of the importance of this knowledge. "Congratulations?" he managed.

"Bah!" spat the senator. He actually used the word, "bah." His guard-bears recognized that their trainer was upset and made the smallest of moves toward the person who had done the upsetting. The senator gave a casual wave with his hand and the guards resumed their quiet hulking. The senator elaborated on his bah, saying, "Mr. Amador, Crountains do not make a career of pretending to be trapped in a box. The men in my family do men's work. Important work. Work that builds empires. Work that amasses fortunes. Work that is worthy of the Crountain name."

"So, no belly-dancers, then?" José enjoyed pissing off butlers and old rich white guys.

The look on the senator's face told José he'd hit his mark. "When I was referred to you, Mr. Amador, by an associate of mine, he mentioned your irreverent streak. He also said that, in spite of that, you could be trusted to be effective and discreet."

José put his irreverent streak on hold and said, "What is it you are hiring me to do, Senator?"

The senator leaned forward, with a look on his face so serious, it would make Nixon look like Ruth Buzzi. "I want you to convince my grandson to give up this ridiculous career and go to law school. If that proves impossible, I want you to kill him."

Happy Birthday, Beigey!

The Man Who Diked Logs

The rain pounding on the roof of Beigey's car sounded like a bad jazz drummer on his twelfth bump of coke; it was loud, arrhythmic and annoying. Of course, the mood he was in, Beigey would probably be annoyed if the spirit of Abraham Lincoln came by with a warm apple pie and a pint of twelve-year-old scotch.

Beigey was sitting in his car in a growing puddle, water still running off of him though he'd been out of the rain for a good five minutes. There was a full half-inch of water in his shoes and his pant legs were clinging to him like a Republican senator clings to his "values voters".

To top it off, the low profile he was meant to be keeping as he snooped on his client's wife meant that running the engine--and thus the heater--was a non-starter. So Beigey sat there shivering, cursing his non-water-resistant shoes and deeply regretting the choices that had lead to his career taking pictures of 42-year-old soon-to-be-divorcees giving sloppy blow jobs in trailer parks.

Speaking of said giver of blow jobs, as Beigey wiped the condensation from the inside of his windshield, he noticed her emerging from the double-wide across the road, a newspaper shielding her hair from the downpour. She ran to her car, opened the door, turned around and blew a kiss at the cro magnon man filling the trailer's doorway. Then she hopped in her car and pulled out. Beigey turned his key, counted to ten, hit the wipers and followed.

With the amount of rain hitting his windshield, Beigey might have had a malevolent toddler standing on the roof of his car, aiming a water cannon straight down. "It's a fucking cruel irony," Beigey thought, "that you only ever really think about the fact that you need to get new wipers when it's raining." The passenger-side wiper had split and was whipping one thin piece of rubber around like the world's worst rhythmic gymnast doing her shittiest floor show.

The rain was coming down thicker than 70s porn bush. Beigey couldn't see twenty feet in front of him. His target's tail-lights had been just ahead of him a moment ago; now, she could be anywhere.

The wheel jerked in Beigey's hand as he hit a large puddle. He kept the car going more or less straight, but decided to slow it down. Just as his foot hit the brake, the front wheel sank into another puddle, this one roughly the size of Lake Champlain. The car lurched like Beigey's stomach after consuming a liver and rocky-road sundae. In the time it took for him to ponder whether you're meant to steer into a skid or out of it, the car had left the road and slid down a hill, stopping only when it found a tree it liked and wrapped itself around it like cheese that you wrap around a raw hot dog and then you eat it because sometimes people get desperate, okay?

It took him a moment, but Beigey regained his senses and began taking stock of his situation. He couldn't move his leg; it appeared to be pinned. Water was now pouring into the car through the shattered windows. It was now getting deep enough to cover his ankle. He was going to drown in this piece of shit Datsun.

Unless. Unless he could tear enough branches off the wrecked tree to dam the water up. He gritted his teeth. "Good thing I've got crazy-good Lincoln Log experience," he thought.

Happy Birthday, Beigey!