Hilario sighed. “Larry, will you quit already with the accent,” he said, “Trust me, honesty is your best friend now.”
Larry slumped down in the seat. Crossed his arms over his chest.
“Trying to help,” he said.
“How are you doing all this?” the cop said.
This ain’t no way to treat a finely crafted firearm, the gun said, you oughta bow your head in shame, pussy man.
The cop kicked the gun. It spun away. Thunked against the back doors.
Gonna file a grievance, the gun said.
The cop turned rage filled eyes back to him. The man’s whole body trembled. His hands clenched into meaty fists. Fists that, to Hilario’s experienced eye, looked perfectly capable of beating a person to death and coming out with little more than scuffed knuckles.
In a hoarse voice, the cop whispered: “Make it stop.”
Maybe it was time to lighten the mood a little.
Hilario honked his clown nose and pulled a bouquet of paper flowers from his sleeve.
The cop batted them from his hand.
Okay, then. Not impressed with clowning and magic tricks then. A lot of people weren’t. Hilario had put a lot of time and effort into learning some of those tricks. And that honking. That was a premium honking nose. They didn’t just give those things away.
“Sir,” Hilario said, “I am sorry to tell you that all of this is real. You’re able to see Larry and hear your weapon speak because of transference.”
“Transference?”
“Yes sir,” Hilario said, “I have…abilities that allow me see and communicate with other planes of existence. To see spirits. In other times it would have been called magic. These days the easiest explanation seems to be psychic powers.”
“Bullshit,” the cop said.
Hilario nodded. Sure, why not? Cow flop seemed as good an explanation as any.
“When you touched the gun to my skin, its innate awareness was lifted to a plane of the unseen world. Since you were holding it, you also gained some ability to see and hear what normal humans do not see.”
The cop ran a hand over his trembling face.
“Drugs,” he said, “It’s got to be drugs. Some kind of gas.” He pointed to the floppy daisy that sprouted from the left breast of Hilario’s clown suit. “Probably from that thing.”
The daisy was designed to squirt liquid, not gas. But it was empty and the moment seemed less than ideal to point this out to the cop. Who had a bit of a rage crazed glaze to his eyes. The look of a man on the edge of a violent breakdown.
“I assure you, sir,” Hilario said, “I am perfectly serious.”
The cop stared at him blankly for a moment. Then his eyes flicked over Hilario. Going from the puffy, orange and white striped suit. To the white gloves, the painted face. The fluffy purple wig. The giant, floppy shoes.
Okay. Point taken. He wasn’t the best spokesperson for serious.
“Marco, my friend,” Larry the ghost said, “Please believe my friend Hilario. He’s a gonna find-a who-a killed me. And avenge my death-a.”
“Wait, what?” Hilario said, “I’m not going to avenge–”
“Who killed you, Larry?” the cop–who’s name was apparently Marco–said. Marco the cop reached inside his coat. Hilario tensed.
Marco’s hand came back out with a little notebook bound in worn brown leather. Not another gun. Phew.
Marco flipped the notebook open. Clicked a ball point pen and put it to paper.
Larry put his ghostly hands together. Raised his eyes to the sky. Or where he probably thought heaven was. Hilario didn’t bother correcting him.
“Though I cannot-a believe it-a,” Larry said, “I’m sure-a it-a must-a been-a my dear, sweet Rachel.”
Hilario groaned. “For pity’s sakes, Larry. Stop with the accent.”
“Rachel? Are you serious? Why would you think Rachel killed you?” Marco said. Marco looked down at his notebook. “I can’t believe I just said that.”
“Who else could it have been?” Larry said, “Everyone loved my pies. Who else would want to kill me?”
“Maybe some real Italians heard your accent and were offended?” Hilario said.
Larry gave him a hurt look.
“I need facts,” Marco said, “Did Rachel make any threats against you or your restaurant?”
Larry looked down at his ghostly feet. “Not exactly.”
“What does that mean?”
Larry shrugged. “Things might have been said by both of us. In anger.”
“Were you paying her alimony?” Marco asked.
Larry fiddled with his double breasted chef’s coat. “Well…we might have had a misunderstanding about that.”
Marco the cop scribbled something on his notepad. “What sort of misunderstanding?”
A sigh from Larry. “Her understanding was that I was supposed to pay it,” he said, “And my understanding was that it would be a cold day in hell before I paid her a single cent of my hard earned money.”
Marco scribbled a little more in his notebook. “Sounds like a motive to me. Not that you didn’t deserve it, you cheating bastard.”
You’re so smart, boss. How do you do it? the ball point pen said.
Marco cried out and flung the pen through the open window. He turned a hot glare on Hilario.
“Stop that!” he shouted.
Hilario shrugged his naturally padded shoulders.
“I can’t make it stop,” he said, “You might try wearing aluminum foil on your head. It blocks the worst of it.”
Marco opened his mouth. Seemed to think better of it. Closed his mouth so hard his teeth made a click that echoed in the van.
He took another pen from inside his pocket. Gave it a steely look that dared the pen to say something. When it stayed quiet, he clicked the end and put the point to the paper.
“Okay Larry,” he said, “Tell me what happened tonight..”
Larry turned his head away. Looked out the window. The
