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.
“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.”
