dropshadow

Detective Grim and the Art of Persuasion

Rain creased over my eyes even though I was inside, sitting, staring at a bare bulb in a lamp. I didn't hear her come in. I thought of a maze of hallways and her walking through them. When I noticed her, I turned around and said, "it's you."
"Yes, it is. Who else could it be?"
"Did you bring the fish sticks?"
"Yes. They're getting hard to find nowadays."
"I know," I said. "That's why I want them. I like hard-to-find things."
"Is that a fact?"
"Yes. It's also a fact that I have a wooden leg."
"A wooden leg? Made of real wood?"
"For sure."
"Not plastic wood?"
"Real wood."
"They make some good plastic wood these days."
"Yes. I know." I stood up. I picked up a pitchfork. I intended to use it, but not right away. I was going to keep it hidden from her.

How could she just stand there like after what she had done to my sister? Stealing her boyfriend in high school, burning her collection of Scott Walker LPs, murdering her husband and then feeding him to her, running her over repeatedly (killing her) with a Datsun, and that was only the surface.

This woman was bad business. Then again, I wasn't really one to talk. When I wasn't strung out or high, I could often be found planting evidence on folks, taking bribes, eating vast quantities of potato salad, shooting innocent people, rarely bothering to make sure that my socks match. All in all, I was quite possibly the worst detective on the force. I was not well liked by the other police officers.
One day, one fellow (Detective Andrews) said: "Hey, if you're going to get high, which you shouldn't be doing, you can at least go outside. Some of us have cases to close." As a matter of fact, I was knee deep in the high when she rolled in with the fish sticks.
"Are they frozen?" I asked. It seemed like a perfectly reasonable question to me. It did not come across that way to her, evidently, as she pulled out a gun and a garden hoe.
"Oh." That's what came out. I figured now would be a good time to put the pitchfork to good use. I killed her without too much trouble. I checked her body for money and made off with a tidy sum. I went outside. The sun hurt my eyes. I fumbled through my jacket until I found a pair of sunglasses. I also found some pills.

Here's what I remember happening:

I walked up to this fat kid. I looked right into his eyes and he glared back with indignant stupidity. I asked, "you think life is just a dive?"
"Yeah," he said. "I do."
"It's worse in prison."
"Oh yeah?"
I caught some interest.
"Oh yeah. A lot worse. You'll make about a nickel an hour toiling in the prison workhouse. Want to find out?"
"OK."

I took him away in chains. Case closed, or so I thought. However, sadly, it turned out that the girl I thought I killed with a pitchfork, wasn't dead after all. She did not particularly appreciate being attacked with a pitchfork, either.
"We've got a problem," I said. "He just confessed to your murder and you're not dead yet."
"That's true," she said. She turned to the fat kid, "you confessed to my murder?"
"Yes."
"You want to find out what prison is like, huh?"
"Yeah," he said as he rolled his eyes.
"The pay is terrible."
"Well, something here isn't working," I said.
"Maybe it's you." She turned to me. "Me and my brother here are in control. Oh, that's right. This aimless heavy looking guy here is my brother. It's been set up all along."
"Brother," I said.
"Did you really think that I would want to go to prison? I need my meals prepared in a special way."
"I'll fix you good." I reached for my gun, but it wasn't there. Suddenly, I had a horrible memory from only moments ago.

We, the overweight young man and myself, were walking back from the street, approaching the building where I expected I would find a dead body. On the way up to the door, I was approached by Homeless Pete and he asked, "can I borrow your gun to kill a drunk who ripped me off?"
"It's not me, is it?" I wanted to make sure.
"No, it's not you."
"I supposed it's okay."
"Thanks."
"It's no one I know, is it?"
"No. Why?"
"I don't want anyone to think that I did it. I'm a detective, remember? This way, even when they know it's my gun, which I'll need back (clean), they still won't think that it's me because I have no connection to the dead guy. This fellow here just confessed to killing a lady inside that building there."
"Really? Going to work in prison, huh?"
Homeless Pete left. If you don't give to Homeless Pete, that's okay, but you still pay later. Sooner or later, everyone pays Homeless Pete.

That was it, I lost my gun and my chances of survival were shrinking.
"How about you let me win?" I asked.
"Nice try," said the fat kid. "We were going to ask you the same question."
"Ask away."
"May we please win this time?"
"Alright." I said. It was my best chance without a gun. "We have to do it right, though, or no one will believe it. Is that what you want? They know I'm a great detective. If they thought, for an instant, that the situation was rigged, that I threw the game, let you win, you will never have truly defeated me. They'll know it only happened because I let you do it. We have to do it right, see."
"OK."
"Hand me a nine-volt battery and a road map to Montana."
"I'll have to go back to my car to get that."
"You have a car?" I asked.
"Yes. It was parked around the corner from where we met. I was waiting to buy some drugs."
"What kind of drugs?"
"Illegal weight loss drugs from Tennessee."
"Oh. Alright, go back to the car, but leave your gun, so that your sister can shoot me when the time is right."
As he was passing the gun to his sister, I asked, "do you have any gum?"
"Yes," he answered. He started to reach for it and the multi-tasking made him fumble the gun. The gun fell to the ground. I picked it up and without too much trouble, left the brother and sister on ice (just like my fresh breath).