Killing Me Softly...With Murder!
The name is Munger. I'm a detective. You're standing on my throat.
The thugs who grabbed me from my car must have majored in pummeling and minored in ass kicking at the University Of Pummeling And Ass Kicking, for there wasn't a bone, muscle, tendon, or bit of cartilage on my body that wasn't pounded or pureed into something resembling a platter of mashed beets.
I felt like a stage floor after a Riverdance concert.
The man who ordered my beating was a skinny well-dressed man who ironically called himself Fats.
Irony. It's something this detective knew too well.
It's like rain on your wedding day, or a free ride that you already paid, or annoying songs you hate yet know all the words to.
"It would be in your best interest to drop this case Mr. Munger," Fats hissed as I picked my teeth up off the floor. "Let me find our mutual friend, or my associates will have no choice but to beat you again for a week straight, chop you into little pieces then beat up the pieces, feed what's left of the pieces to my dogs and then beat up the dogs. I cannot stress enough how much these guys like to administer beatings ."
I didn't want to know what my client's brother did to get Fats so pissed off, and the goons who did such a fine job crushing my man parts dropkicked me to the curb before I could ask him.
I dressed my wounds with alcohol at a bar on 48th street. Despite the jovial mood of the after work crowd, I had no reason to thank God it was Friday.
I sat quietly in the corner wondering how I had gotten into this mess, and whether I should have chucked the private eye business years ago and become an airline pilot like my old man.
Actually he was a flight attendant, but that's something I don't like to talk about.
The name is Munger. I'm a detective. Seriously, don't go there.
"Munger! Telephone!" The bartender bellowed from across the room. I shuffled over to the phone as quickly as I could, which was pretty darn quick for a man whose kneecaps were currently in his coat pocket.
"Is this Munger," a nervous voice asked on the other end of the line.
"Yeah," I replied. "The name is Munger, I'm a..."
"A detective," the man cried, cutting me off like a cab driver in rush hour traffic. "Yeah, I know you're a detective. Everyone knows you're a detective! There's unborn children in the prenatal wing of St. Luke's Hospital who know you're a detective!"
"Look pal," I grumbled. "I've had a pretty bad day. I've been beaten within an inch of my life, my right lung collapsed a half hour ago, and judging by the discomfort in my kiester I've figured out where those creeps put my gun. If I want verbal diarrhea right now, I'll listen to NPR! What do you want?"
"I want you to stop looking for me Munger. I'm the guy you're trying to find."
At last, a break in the case that didn't involve one of my appendages. If I could bag this guy and take him back to his sister, maybe I could finally wash my hands of this whole mess.
Then again, if the case was over, I'd never see her again, the curvy dame with the bedroom eyes and brick house body whose intoxicating presence has made me as giddy as a schoolboy without even caring about how gay that sounds.
Unfortunately, it's not to be. My job is to finish what I started and close the book on the case, no matter how much the case turned me on and made me want to make sweet passionate love to the case.
I hope I didn't say that last thing out loud.
"Look buddy, your sister is worried sick about you. Do us both a favor and come see me. I'm at a bar on 48th Street. If you hurry, you can still get half price on cosmos."
"I'm never coming back," he said. "If you were smart Munger, you'd stay away from my sister. She's more dangerous than Fats and his goons. She's the one who wants to kill me! And if you bring me in, she'll kill you too!"
The name is Munger. I'm a Detective. Worst happy hour ever.
Chapter Ten: Life Is Like A Box Of Murder!