65 Proof Page 10

  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 gl
asses 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.

  “Degas is the painter, Mr. McGlade. My business advisors thought it was a good investment. Do you like it?”

  “Not really. She’s got too much in back, not enough up front, and her face is a double-bagger.”

  “A double-bagger?”

  “I’d make her wear two bags over her head, in case one fell off.”

  The Chicken King laughed. “I always thought she was ugly too. Apparently, this little lady was the ideal beauty hundreds of years ago.”

  “Or maybe Degas just liked ugly, pear-shaped chicks. How did you know I was coming, Mr. Garbonzo?”

  He sat in the chair across from me, sinking in so deep he had trouble seeing over his knees.

  “Please, call me Happy Roy. I’ve been having my wife followed, Mr. McGlade. The man I hired tailed her to your office. Does that surprise you?”

  “Why should I be surprised? I remember that she came to my office.”

  “What I meant was, are you surprised I’m having my wife followed?”

  I considered it. “No. She’s young, beautiful, and you look like a Caucasian version of one of the California Raisins.”

  “I remember those commercials. That’s where I got the idea for the claymation chicken in the Chicken Shack spots. Expensive to produce, those commercials.”

  “Enough of the small talk. I want you to call off your goon.”

  “My goon?”

  “The person your wife hired to whack you, he’s a teenage kid living in the suburbs. He’s not a real threat.”

  “I’m aware of that.”

  “So you don’t need to have that kid killed.”

  “Mr. McGlade, I’m not having anyone killed. I’m Happy Roy. I don’t kill people. I promote world peace through deep fried poultry. I simply told my wife that I hired a killer, even though I didn’t.”

  “You lied to her?”

  Happy Roy let out a big, dramatic sigh. “When I found out she wanted me dead, I was justifiably annoyed. I confronted her, we got into an argument, and I told her that I’d have her assassin killed. I was trying to get her to call it off on her own.”

  I absorbed this information, drinking more whiskey. When the whiskey ran out, I sucked on an ice cube.

  “Tho wmer mmmpt wooor—”

  “Excuse me? I can’t understand you with that ice in your mouth.”

  I spit out the ice. “She said you abuse her. That you’re insane.”

  “The only thing insane about me is my upcoming promotion. Buy a box of chicken, get a second box for half price.”

  I wondered if I should tell him about the bruises she had, but chose to keep silent.

  “What about divorce?”

  “I love Marietta, Mr. McGlade. I know she’s too young for me. I know she’s a devious, back-stabbing maneater. That just makes her more adorable.”

  “She wants you dead.”

  “All spouses have their quirks.”

  I leaned forward, an effort because my butt was sunk so low in the chair.

  “Happy Roy, I have no doubt that Marietta will kill you if she can. When this doesn’t pan out, she’ll try something else. Eventually, she’ll hook up with a real assassin.”

  Happy Roy’s eye became hooded, dark. “She’s my wife, Mr. McGlade. I’ll deal with her my way.”

  “By beating her?”

  “This conversation is over. I’ll have my butler show you to the door.”

  I pried myself out of the chair. “You’re disgustingly rich, powerful, and not a bad looking guy for someone older than God. Let Marietta go and find some other bimbo to play with.”

  “Good bye, Mr. McGlade. Feel free to keep working for my wife.”

  “Are you trying to pay me off, so I drop this case?”

  “No. Not at all.”

  “If you were thinking about paying me off, how much money would we be talking?”

  “I’m not trying to pay you off, Mr. McGlade.”

  I got in the smaller man’s face. “You might be able to afford fat Degas and huge estates, but I’m a person, Happy Roy. And no matter how rich you get, you’ll never be able to buy a human being. Because it’s illegal, Happy Roy. Buying people is illegal.”

  “I’m not trying to buy you!”

  “I’ll find my own way out.”

  I stormed out of the parlor, through the library, into the dining room, into another parlor, or maybe it was a den, and then I wound up in the kitchen somehow. I tried to back track, wandered into the dining room, and then found myself back in one of the parlors, but I couldn’t tell if it was the first parlor or the second parlor. I didn’t see that painting of the naked heifer, but Happy Roy may have taken it down just to confuse me.

  “Hello?” I called out. “I’m a little lost here.”

  No one answered.

  I went back into the dining room, then the kitchen, and took another door which led down a hallway which led to a bathroom, which was fine because I needed to go to the bathroom anyway.

  When the lizard had been adequately drained, I discovered some very interesting prescription drugs, just lying there, in the medicine cabinet.

  And then it all made sense.

  Forty minutes later I found the front door and headed back to my apartment.

  Time to drop the truth on Little Miss Marietta.

  At first, I thought I had the wrong place. Everything was so…clean. Not only were all of my clothes picked up, but the apartment had been vacuumed—a real feat since I didn’t think I owned a vacuum cleaner.

  “Mrs. Garbonzo? You here?”

  I walked into the bedroom. The bed had been made, and the closet door was open, revealing over a dozen shirts on hangers.

  In the kitchen, the sink was empty of dishes for the first time since I rented the place fifteen years ago. There was even a fresh smell of lilacs and orange zest in the air.

  The door opened and I swung around, hand going to my gun. Mrs. Garbonzo entered, carrying a plastic laundry basket overflowing with my socks. She flinched when she saw me.

  “Mr. McGlade. I didn’t expect you back so soon.”

  “Surprised, Marietta? I thought you might be.”

  “Did you take care of the guy?”

  “Sit down. We need to talk.”

  She set the basket down on my kitchen counter, and seductively perched herself on one of my breakfast bar stools. Her blouse had been untucked from her skirt, the shirt tails tied in a knot around her flat stomach.

  “You lied to me, Marietta.”

  “Lied?” She batted her eyelashes. “How?”

  There was a bottle of window cleaner next to the sink that I’d never seen before. I picked it up.

  “How about opening up that shirt and letting me squirt you with this?”

  “Is that what turns you on? Spraying women with glass cleaner?”

  I grabbed her blouse and pulled, tearing buttons.

  “I was thinking more along the lines of washing off those fake bruises. They’re so fake, the purple has even rubbed off on your collar. See?”

  I shot two quick streams at the marks, then used my sleeve to wipe them off.

  They didn’t wipe off.

  I tried again, to similar effect.

  Marietta sneered at me. “Are you finished?”

  “So what’s that purple stuff on your collar?”

  “Eye shadow.” She pointed at her eyes. “That’s why it matches my eye shadow.”

  “Big deal. So you gave yourself those bruises. Or paid someone to give them to you. I met your husband today, Mrs. Garbonzo. All ninety pounds of him. He couldn’t beat up a quadriplegic.”

  “My husband abuses me, Mr. McGlade.”

  “Yeah, I saw his swollen knuckles. At first, I thought they were swollen from hitting you. But he
didn’t hit you, did he Marietta? Roy has rheumatoid arthritis. I saw his medication. His knuckles are swollen because of his disease, and they undoubtedly cause him great pain. So much pain, he’d never be able to hit you.”

  Marietta put her hands on her hips.

  “He beats me with a belt, Mr. McGlade.”

  “A belt?”

  “These bruises are from the buckle. It also causes welts. See?”

  She turned around, lifting her blouse. Angry, red scabs stretched across her back.

  I gave them a spritz of the window cleaner, just to be sure.

  “Ow!”

  “Sorry. Had to check.”

  Marietta faced me. “I’ve paid you, I’ve done your laundry, and I’ve cleaned your apartment. Did you take care of the assassin for me?”

  “Your husband didn’t hire an assassin.”

  “Is that what he told you?”

  “I know it for a fact. The guy you hired is a sixteen-year-old pimply-faced kid. He couldn’t whack anyone. He couldn’t even whack a mole.”

  I smiled at my pun.

  Marietta made a face. “I thought he sounded young on the phone. He really won’t do it?”

  “He lives in his parent’s basement.”

  The tears came. “I gave him a lot of money. Everything I’ve been able to hide from Roy during six years of marriage.”

  I thought about mentioning I got the money back, but decided against it.

  “Look, Marietta, just divorce the guy.”

  “I can’t. He threatened to kill me if I divorced him.”

  “You can run away. Hire a lawyer.”

  She sniffled. “Pre-nup.”

  “Pre-nup?”

  “I signed a pre-nuptial agreement. If I divorce Roy, I don’t get a penny. And after six years of abuse, I deserve more than that.” She licked her lips. “But if he dies, I get it all.”

  “Don’t you think killing the guy is a little extreme?”

  She threw herself at me, teary-eyed and heaving. “Please, Harry. You have to help me. I’ll give you half—half of the entire chicken empire. Help me kill the son of a bitch.”

  “Marietta…”

  “I cleaned your place, you promised you’d help.” She added a little grinding action to her hug. “Please kill him for me.”

  I looked around the kitchen. She did do a pretty good job. I wondered, briefly, if I’d make a decent Chicken King.

  “I’ll tell you what, Marietta. I don’t do that kind of thing. But I know someone who can help. Do you want me to make a phone call?”