Short Fiction

Fly the Friendly Skies

(Published in “real”
Pure Slush Vol. 3 (October 2012)
Thank you publisher and editor Matt Potter for including my story in the same company as so many wonderful writers. It’s not too late to get “real”!)

Fly the Friendly Skies

The well-known slogan fly the friendly skies runs through my head as I board the monstrous plane that seats 10 across in coach. I’m in the middle of the plane, aisle seat in the center section, surrounded by a large group of public school teachers traveling to attend a conference. We’re settling in for the six-hour flight from New York City to San Francisco.

As the last few passengers straggle in, a young man in T-shirt, jeans and sandals, with a short beard and unruly mop of curly hair passes by. He stops directly behind me, shoves his attaché case into the overhead compartment, and slides into the window seat across the aisle. He smells a little funky, as if he hasn’t showered for a couple of days.

The attendant closes the curtain that separates first class from coach, as the last passenger to board walks up the aisle. The passenger is a young woman with lustrous shoulder-length, black hair and hazel eyes, wearing a short, white sleeveless dress, nylons and red high heels. She’s as glamorous as a runway model, and I don’t think there’s much chance she’s traveling with the school teachers, but I can always hope. She’s laden with glitzy shopping bags from various 5th Avenue stores and maneuvers up the aisle holding the bags in front of her. She apologizes for all the commotion, smiling and nodding her head at passengers as she passes by and heads for the center seat directly next to the man who just sat down. The aisle passenger gallantly volunteers to move to another available seat, so she’ll have more room for all her things. Window Seat Guy looks delighted. He should be.

On the other hand, I’m crammed into my seat next to a mountainous and dour woman who’s reading a Bible. The headphones clamped over her ears make it clear there’ll be no small talk; which is fine with me since I’m seriously delinquent in my Bible studies. She’s already claimed the armrest between us and is even spilling into my space.

I briefly consider offering to switch seats with her to give her more room, but I realize I’d really be trapped and possibly crushed. I quickly change my mind and thumb through a magazine article about marijuana farming in Humboldt County. Window Seat Guy and Glamour Puss are chatting up a storm about all the wonderful things New York City has to offer. He helps by carefully tucking her shopping bags under the seats in front of them. I raise an eyebrow. I see where this is going. Lucky bastard, he gets Glamour Puss and I get lady wrestler who’s giving off the vibe she’ll bludgeon me to death with her Bible if I make one false move.

The plane takes off and climbs to cruising altitude. Passengers talk, read books, listen to music, work on their laptops or adjust the seat back and rest. Window Seat Guy and Glamour Puss lounge across all three seats like they’re lying around in their living room. Ensconced in pillows and blankets, they’re drinking wine and giggling themselves silly. Bible Lady is already fast asleep and snoring like a buzz saw, head lolling on her ample bosom. Every so often she stops. Dead Silence. While this may be preferable to the harsh rasping and gurgling, it’s also disconcerting as I’m thinking she must have sleep apnea. This goes on for at least the next hour and I do my best to shut it out by eavesdropping on Window Seat Guy and Glamour Puss. They’re drinking more wine and carrying on about Broadway shows and shopping and restaurants and God knows what all. I sigh and go back to my magazine article profiling Humboldt County as the vanguard of high-octane marijuana farming in California.

It sounds like Bible Lady’s breathing has stopped altogether. I’m alarmed enough to start mentally reviewing CPR and mouth-to-mouth resuscitation protocols. Just thinking about it makes me sick to my stomach. Still no sounds of breathing. I grit my teeth and lean closer. Just as I get my ear up to her face, she erupts with a violent snort and a loud gasp that sends spittle flying in all directions. I pull back so abruptly I bang my head on the seat in front of me.

Bible Lady settles back into a regular breathing pattern and I settle back into my seat. I notice her Bible has fallen off her lap. I gently pick it up and slide it into the seat pocket in front of her. I’m just starting to enjoy the quiet when I realize it’s too quiet. There’s no sound coming from Window Seat Guy and Glamour Puss. I know they can’t possibly have sleep apnea too, so I turn to look. They’re lip-locked, tongues down each other’s throats. I jerk back around in disbelief, my mouth hanging open.

The other passengers stick their noses in books, snooze or watch the movie, which ironically enough, is The Wild Wild West. I whip open the magazine again and fix my eyes on the page, but I can’t concentrate enough to read. The cabin is dark except for scattered reading lights and the flickering movie monitors. The other passengers are at least pretending to mind their own business. They read, do crossword puzzles, chat and do everything but pay attention to Window Seat Guy and Glamour Puss, who are now rustling around and muffling giggles as they rearrange themselves in the mountain of pillows and blankets. No way can I ignore this and I sneak a peek back to see what’s going on.

Glamour Puss is sitting on Window Seat Guy’s lap, facing him. They’re wrapped in blankets doing their own interpretation of “the beast with two backs.” Once again, I turn away in disbelief. Am I the only one who knows what’s going on here? I can’t believe Window Seat Guy got so lucky. That could be me back there, except he’s the one with the cojones to reach out and grab a once in a lifetime opportunity and I’m a rule follower. I’m a rule follower sitting next to a snoring giant who might be suffocating while Window Seat Guy gets to act like Caligula.

I eventually drift off until the captain’s voice jolts me out of my slumber. “We’ve begun our descent to San Francisco International Airport and will be landing shortly. It’s been a pleasure having you aboard.” I look back to see the couple sleeping like babies. Window Seat Guy is resting his head upon Glamour Puss’s shoulder with a blissful smile on his face. I shake my head as I turn back to fasten my seatbelt. I gotta hand it to the guy, I think, and actually chuckle out loud.

“Did I miss something funny?” Bible Lady asks.

“Oh good morning,” I say, “I didn’t realize you were awake. You certainly are a sound sleeper.”

“I took a sleeping pill,” she says. “It helps with my fear of flying. I could have slept through a hurricane. Did I miss anything?”

“Nope,” I reply. “Just another long, quiet plane ride.” The plane arrives at the gate.

“I put your Bible in the seat pocket,” I say. “I was afraid it would fall on the floor, and I didn’t want to wake you.”

“Oh that’s sweet,” Bible Lady says. “You didn’t have to be so worried about disturbing me.”

“Well, blessed are the meek,” I reply.

Window Seat Guy and Glamour Puss stand in the aisle beside my seat like they’ve just been introduced at a cocktail party.

Glamour Puss says, “My name’s Adriana. What’s yours?”

“Josh,” he replies. “Here’s my card. Look me up if you’re ever up my way. I’m an organic farmer up in Humboldt County.”

They move a little way up the aisle. “They seem like they’d make an awfully sweet couple,” Bible Lady says. I smile and nod as I stand up and move back in the aisle so she can exit. I see the graphics on Window Seat Guy’s T-shirt: a marijuana leaf surrounded by the words, “Organic farmers do it in the dirt.” I realize I’m still holding my magazine and toss it in the pile of blankets on Window Guy’s empty seat.

June 4, 2013 0

Swimming in the Lagoon

SWIMMING IN THE LAGOON

Sometimes you can’t swim at the beach. Tens of thousands of them have died, their bodies bobbing and floating on the surface of the water. Alewives, little fish in the herring family, all washed up on the sandy beach and rocks along the shore, piled up at the high water line. Great heaping mounds of them form iridescent dunes. Their stinking, desiccated bodies covered with flies, brittle, crackly, and rotting in the sun. The only place to swim is the lagoon where Shivering Sands Creek flows into Lake Michigan. The placid water feels warm as a bath. The smooth, sandy bottom feels soothing underfoot. But there are random patches of quicksand, and if you step into that stuff you’ll plunge straight up to your waist in sticky silt that is crawling with leeches. When that happens, you claw your way out as fast as you can move, scrambling out of the creek, squirming from the thought of it, crying for Mom to help pull the slimy bloodsuckers off your legs. Then you go right back into the water. It seems worth the risk just to be able to go swimming.

(Originally Published in “Orion headless” December 2011 Thank you Sarah Fitzpatrick Comito!)

May 21, 2013 0

The Tall Man’s Secret

by Michael Gillan Maxwell

I turn the corner and come face to face with Ed, who’s stark naked at the kitchen sink. He chugs a glass ohot tap water from a measuring cup and belches loudly.

“Good morning,” he says, as he pisses in the sink. “I drink 6 cups of hot tap water every morning. It keeps me hydrated and then I have a lovely shit.”

He finishes up and shakes off, then swirls water around the basin with his hand.

“It’s the Tall Man’s Secret,” he says. “You should try it.”

“I’ll pass. That may be the perfect height for you, but I’d have to stand up on my tip-toes and flop my balls up over the edge just to reach it. Please tell me you don’t wash dishes in that sink.”

“Of course I do,” he says. “I rinse it out each time. It’s cleaner than the bathroom. Someone always misses the toilet and pees all over the floor. It’s disgusting.”

“Well that someone must be you, because you’ve lived here alone for the last twelve years.”

“Exactly,” he says. “That’s another reason I pee in the sink. Because I can.”

For the next two hours, Ed goes nonchalantly about his business, buck naked the whole time. He putters around the house, writes e mails, waters plants, vacuums the rug and sweeps the porch. I pretend to ignore his nudity. He pauses briefly during a long, rambling monologue about secret underground bases and reptilian extraterrestrials and I seize the opportunity to abruptly change the subject.

“Hey, I need to get some shots of your place,” I say, pulling out my iPhone. “How ‘bout we start with a nude study of you?”

“Whoops, sorry,” he says. “I should have asked if it bothered you. I go au naturale from 6 every evening until noon the following day.”

“A man’s home is his castle, I always say. Where else can a guy let it all hang out?”

“I’m gonna make a breakfast smoothie,” he says. “You want one?”

Ed pulls vegetables out of the fridge and tosses them in the sink to wash them. I’m starting to get queazy. He dumps a full bottle of Guinness into the blender.

“You start with a beer. It’s full of B vitamins. Throw in raw beets, celery, bok choy, spinach and liquid amino acids. This stuff’s an antioxidant bomb. You’ll be levitating, and your shit will be a lovely shade of red.”

“Good to know. I can hardly wait,” I say.

He crams the chopped vegetables into the mix and pushes a button. The blender churns the concoction into a dark red, dank smelling, foamy sludge.

“I need to relieve myself first,” I say. “Not to worry. I have flawless technique and never miss. It’s the Short Man’s Secret.”

May 14, 2013 3

The Suburban Cowboy Catalogue

My piece “The Suburban Cowboy Catalogue” has been published in the current edition of Defenestration Magazine.

“The Suburban Cowboy Catalogue,” by Michael Gillan Maxwell

Thank you Eileen Lavelle for including my piece in your publication!

April 11, 2013 0

Group Therapy

My piece “Group Therapy” is up on the Lascaux Flash Fiction Contest website. Thank you editors Stephan Parrish and Wendy Russ.
The link is below:
http://www.lascauxflash.com/2013/03/21-group-therapy.html

March 10, 2013 4

My story “Elegy for the Old Republic” is up on Red Fez.

Thank you editor Andy Meisenheimer for including my work with pieces from so many wonderful writers!

http://www.redfez.net/fiction/472

December 20, 2012 0

The Last of the Hard Boiled Dicks ~ Episode VI ~

Is That a Gun in Your Pocket, or Are You Just happy to See Me? — Is That a Gun in Your Pocket, or Are You Just Happy to See Me?

The Last of the Hard Boiled Dicks Episode VI

A Mugsy Phlegmming Caper

A Cheap and Tawdry Detective Noir Mystery

in Serial Form and Three Part Harmony

~ Episode VI ~

Things Ain’t Now, Mama What They Used To Be

Now Let’s See ~ Where Were We???

Mugsy is visited by the free lance ornithologist, Elvert Bisbee, who is looking for Gladys. He informs Mugsy of the suspicious and sinister activities of the two piano tuners. Mugsy heads out the door to find Gladys, and the envelope and to meet his date with destiny. He receives a text message from Imma Pennyraker, telling him to walk towards the river. After descending the stairs, he pauses to check on the action in the street, and witnesses Fontaine’s body being spirited away in a black Mercedes SUV. Stepping out onto the sidewalk, he spots Gladys roosting on a “No Parking” sign across the street. Careful to avoid Miss Crabclaws, Mugsy starts to cross the street in an effort to approach Gladys and retrieve the envelope. He glances back to see the piano tuners come around the corner. They spot him but are temporarily detained by Miss Crabclaws. Musgsy starts to cross the street and is almost hit by a van, just as Gladys takes off and starts flying towards the river. The door of the van slides open and someone yells: “Get in now if you want to live!” Mugsy dives into the van telling the driver to “Follow that parrot and step on it!”

~ And now ~

The van took off and careened down the street, first bouncing off the curb, then nearly swerving into oncoming traffic. I flopped around like a fish out of water, trying to get up off the floor. This was the second time in an hour I found myself in a such a compromised position. I hoped it wasn’t becoming a habit.

Her sultry voice hit me like a velvet hammer. “So, we meet again, Mr. Phlegmming. I did not think it would be so soon, but things are happening more quickly than expected. I presume you have the envelope?” I heaved my bulk onto the seat and and found myself face to face with Imma Pennyraker. She was no longer dressed in a wet raincoat, but she still looked as munchable as a box of Thin Mint Girl Scout cookies. “The envelope is somewhere safe,” I said. “Actually, it’s a long story, but Gladys has it. That’s why we need to follow that parrot.” Ms. Pennyraker said something in Russian to the driver, who gunned the engine, jumped the curb and started driving on the sidewalk to get around traffic and keep up with Gladys.

I looked back and saw a police patrol car stop outside my office building. Miss Crabclaws was all over the cops before they could even get out of the car. She brandished her cane like a rapier, slashing and poking, pointing at the ruins of her piano, then thrusting the cane back towards the cops as she ranted and raved. Maybe this was what Zorro might have looked like at the elder hostel, hopped up on meth and reliving his salad days. The piano tuners were jacking a pizza delivery car. One of them had a gun leveled at the pizza guy who was backing away with his hands in the air. Bisbee came out of the building and started sprinting after us. “Hell Hounds On My Trail” started running through my head. This was no time to be singing the blues.

“She’s heading towards the river” I said. “ We can’t let her out of our sight!” Pedestrians screamed and dove out of the way of the van. We swerved back onto the street just in time for the bridge. Gladys was flying across the river. She had swooped down, keeping close to the water and then veered east towards the main part of the city. I heard brakes screeching and horns honking. I looked back and and saw traffic stalled out in gridlock and the pizza delivery car jammed up in the middle.

We crossed the bridge, keeping our eye on Gladys. She seemed to be heading towards a ramshackle shanty on the river bank. “That’s the old boat house,” I said. “Turn left on that access road just across the bridge, but do it fast. We’ve got to lose that pizza delivery car.” It was starting to get dark and that was going to make everything more difficult. Gladys was looking for a safe place to roost for the night. It would be almost impossible to find her in the dark. I hoped that’s why she was heading for the boat house. It would be a good place for us to hide too, if we could just lose the piano tuners.

We turned onto the frontage road and headed for the boat house. The street on the other side of the bridge was not in view. I couldn’t see the piano tuners which meant they couldn’t see us either. The boat house came into view, but Gladys was nowhere to be seen. It was getting dark fast. We had no time to lose.

We pulled up to the boat house. I got out of the van first. I heard Imma Pennyraker say something to the driver in Russian before she got out. The van pulled away and kept driving down the frontage road. “I told Giorgio to drive the van away and lose it. We can’t take the risk of somebody spotting it here.” she said.

The boat house was in disrepair, but still relatively intact. There were a couple of broken windows, but the roof looked sound and there was a working door. I turned the knob and was relieved to find it unlocked. I pushed the door open and tried to get a look inside. It was already dark as a dungeon in there but still light enough to see shadowy forms. I could just make out the shape of a flat-bottom row boat on a set of saw horses. Before stepping totally inside I looked back in the direction we had come from. It was almost too dark to see, but someone was definitely walking up the road in our direction.

“Quick, get inside,” I said. “Someone‘s coming!” We ducked inside and closed the door behind us. It would have been dark as pitch, but the lights from the town were enough to illuminate the place to see just enough to get around. I heard foot steps crunching on the gravel outside the boat house, then they stopped. I pulled the sock full of quarters out of my pocket and held it over my head like a black jack. I was prepared to give whoever it was a good crack across the noggin.

The door swung open with a creak. A shadowy figure stood in the doorway. “Hello,” he said. “Is anybody in there?” He started to come through the door. I raised the sock full of quarters and got ready open up a can of whoop-ass on the intruder. Before I could move, I heard flapping of wings and felt something rip the sock right out of my hand. There was an ear-splitting screech. “Drop the gun punk!” It was Gladys! I heard Bisbee’s voice. “Gladys? Is that you girl? Come to Papa!”

I peered into the dusk and recognized Bisbee with Gladys perched on his shoulder. “Jesus Christ Bisbee!” I said “You scared the Bejeezus out of me! How the Hell did you find us?”

“Glad to see you too, Phlegmm,” Bisbee said. “I knew about this boat house and figured Gladys might try to roost here for the night. By the way, you’re welcome.”

“For what? I asked. “I have no idea what you’re talking about?”

“ I knew you had a shitload of trouble following you, so I pulled the lever on the back of a garbage truck. It dumped a full payload into the street. Hell of a mess. Stopped traffic dead going both ways. I think the piano tuners are probably still stuck in that quagmire.”

I heard a deep but sensuous voice behind me. It massaged my libido like the scrub brushes in a car wash. “They’re not piano tuners.” Imma Pennyraker stepped out of the shadows and outside into the dim twilight. She was holding the envelope in her hand. “Gladys dropped the envelope onto the floor when she knocked your weapon out of your hand. We are fortunate, indeed,” she said. She stood facing us in silhouette with the river at her back. The reflection of the lights of the city sparkled on the placid water like a million emeralds. She looked like an Amazon river goddess.

Bisbee let out a low whistle between his teeth. “You’ve been holding out on me Phlegmm. Who’s this tall drink of water?”

“I’d introduce you, but I don’t know her real name.” I said. “I’ve been getting the run-a-round ever since she darkened my doorway. Perhaps the lady would like to tell us her real name and explain what this is really all about?”

“I’d be happy to,” she said. She held out the sock full of quarters. “Mr. Phlegmming, perhaps you’d like to put this back in your pocket? Not only does it enhance the cut of your trousers, but you may be needing it later. Now let’s step inside and I’ll explain everything. We haven’t much time.”

February 25, 2012 8

The Last of the Hard Boiled Dicks ~ Episode V ~ Follow That Parrot!

The Last of the Hard Boiled Dicks Episode V

A Mugsy Phlegmming Caper

A Cheap and Tawdry Detective Noir Mystery

in Serial Form and Three Part Harmony

Episode V ~ Follow That Parrot

Our Story So Far

A mysterious woman in a wet raincoat pays a visit to the Mugsy Phlegmming Detective Agency. She entrusts Mugsy with an envelope. The sound of a terrible crash from the street below distracts Mugsy. He goes over to the window to investigate, and by the time he turns back, the woman in the wet raincoat has vanished. Mugsy is visited by Mr. Fontaine, the man in the lime green mohair leisure suit. Fontaine, pulls a gun on Mugsy and attempts to steal the envelope. It looks like he may get away with it, until Gladys swoops down from her perch, knocks the gun from Fontaine’s hand and steals the envelope. Fontaine lunges for the parrot as she flies away and he meets his own untimely demise as he falls from the window to the street below. Gladys roosts on the roof of the building across the street, the envelope still held in her beak. Mugsy is visited by the free lance ornithologist, Elvert Bisbee, who is looking for Gladys. He informs Mugsy of the suspicious and sinister activities of the two piano tuners. Mugsy heads out the door to find Gladys, and the envelope and to meet his date with destiny.

Episode V ~ Follow That Parrot

I stuck the starter pistol in the back of my waistband, gangsta style and stuffed the sock full of quarters in my right hip pocket. It created an unseemly bulge, but then again, that might actually help me get lucky. That sock full of quarters might just get me out of a jam somewhere up the road, especially if I needed change for a parking meter or a vibrating bed in a fleabag hotel. I had the giddy feeling that anything could happen. I wondered about the dame and immediately felt a pleasant vibrating sensation near my groin. I was just beginning to enjoy it a little too much when I remembered the burner phone Imma Pennyraker had given me. I’d put it in my other pocket and forgot about it.

I let it vibrate for a couple more seconds before I pulled it out. There was a text message: “ Walk towards the river and someone will contact you. I.P.”

I stepped out into the hallway, quietly pulled the door shut behind me and tried to sneak down the stairs without making the floorboards squeak. It was no use. The floorboards chirped like a nightingale floor in a samurai castle. I stopped and held my breath. I could hear Bisbee rustling about in his office, but miraculously, it seemed that he had not heard my departure. The last thing I needed now was him tagging along as a sidekick. He would insist on showing me his tattoo.

I stopped on the front landing and peeked out the window before stepping out into the street. A black Mercedes SUV with black-out windows pulled up to the curb and stopped with the motor running. Two hulking brutes in black Armani suits got out, picked up Fontaine’s body, and put it into the car. They got back in, pulled away, and drove towards the river. I heard sirens in the distance. I stepped out onto the sidewalk. Music rumbled from the strip club. Sketchy looking characters came and went from the tattoo parlor. Ms. Crabclaws was out there, waving her cane around and ranting at a group of skaters who were standing nearby. I spied Gladys down the street in the other direction, perched on top of a No Parking sign. Thank God she still had the envelope in her beak. I was glad that Gladys was perched down the street in the direction I had to go. At least that made things easier. The sirens were getting closer. Ms. Crabclaws had probably called the cops. I was running out of time.

I started walking down the sidewalk. I needed to cross the street to get to Gladys. I looked back just in time to see the piano tuners come out of the alley, turn the corner and start walking up the street in my direction. Ms. Crabclaws saw them and blocked their path. I heard her launch into a vicious tongue lashing. I glanced back to see her waving her cane around like a light saber. I knew she’d delay the piano tuners for only so long. They had spotted me and were stepping around her as she continued her tirade. I started to cross the street and heard a tremendous screeching of brakes. A Dodge minivan covered with bumper stickers had stopped inches away from flattening me like a pancake. I was momentarily frozen in my tracks but quickly snapped out of it and jumped back onto the curb. Gladys flapped her wings and took off. She was flying in the direction of the river.

The side door of the van slid open and somebody said, “Get in now if you want to live!” I noticed the campaign bumper sticker on the side of the van that said Cheney-Satan in 2008. Now there’s a portentous omen, I thought, as I dove for the door.

Cheney-Satan Bumper Sticker — Cheney-Satan Campaign Sticker

As the van pulled away, I could see the two piano tuners coming down the street. Bisbee gaped in disbelief from the upstairs window. Gladys was flying away. “Follow that parrot!” I said “and step on it!”

February 17, 2012 4

The Last of the Hard Boiled Dicks ~ Episode IV

The Last of the Hard Boiled Dicks Episode IV.

A Mugsy Phlegmming Caper

A Cheap and Tawdry Detective Noir Mystery

in Serial Form and Three Part Harmony

Episode IV. The Piano Tuners and the Free-Lance Ornithologist

Synopsis

A mysterious woman in a wet raincoat pays a visit to the Mugsy Phlegmming detective Agency. She entrusts Mugsy with an envelope. The sound of a terrible crash from the street below distracts Mugsy. He goes over to the window to investigate, and by the time he turns back, the woman in the wet raincoat has vanished. Mugsy is visited by Mr. Fontaine, the man in the lime green mohair leisure suit. Fontaine, pulls a gun on Mugsy and attempts to steal the envelope. It looks like he may get away with it, until Gladys swoops down from her perch, knocks the gun from Fontaine’s hand and steals the envelope. Fontaine lunges for the parrot as she flies away and he meets his own untimely demise as he falls from the window to the street below.

Episode IV. The Piano Tuners and the Free-Lance Ornithologist

I leaned out the window and looked down at Fontaine’s body. It looked like a broken doll from the disco era as it lay crumpled on the ruins of the piano on the sidewalk below. I actually kind of felt sorry for the guy. Guess I wasn’t quite the hard boiled dick I thought I was.

However, my brief reverie was disturbed by the sound of footsteps in the hall outside my door. The hair on the back of my neck stood on end. I was developing a preternatural cat-like sixth sense for danger. A shadow darkened the frosted window of the door, followed by the sound of knuckles sharply rapping on the glass.

“Hold on, I’ll be right there,” I said, as I looked around for Fontaine’s gun. It was laying around somewhere. Whoever was out there, turned the knob and started to open the door. I saw Fontaine’s gun laying in full view on the floor. I had to do some pretty fancy footwork, but managed to kick the pistol under the desk just as the door swung open. I was busier than a one legged man in an ass kicking contest.

I turned to face my latest visitor, expecting the worst. I was relieved to see Elvert Bisbee, the freelance ornithologist from across the hall. “Hey Phlegm,” he said “I gotta talk to you. There’s some strange stuff going on around here.”

“Come in and close the door Elvert … and please don’t call me Phlegm. You know I hate that nickname. It’s just not dignified,” I replied. “What’s up?” I tried to act casual.

“You know that old biddy, Miss Crabclaws, who teaches piano upstairs?” he said. “Well, I just ran into her as I was coming into the building a little while ago and she told me a couple of guys claiming to be piano tuners shoved her piano right out the window. Boy, was she ever pissed off. She was waving her cane around like Igor Stravinsky conducting the Rite of Spring. I thought for sure old lady Crabclaws was gonna club me over the head with it … and there’s more.”

“Like what? I asked, feigning complete innocence. I glanced out the window and saw Gladys roosted on top of the All Nite Laundromat and Pizzeria across the street. She still had the envelope in her beak.

“Well for one thing,” he continued, “someone switched our signs around in the hallway, which is weird enough. But then, I open my door to find two goons tossing the place. When I ask them what the Hell they think they’re doing, they claim to be piano tuners, apologize for the mixup, and leave, just like that. Piano tuners, my ass! More like some kind of hired heat if you ask me. Piano tuners don’t go around dressed like the Blues Brothers and acting like characters out of Men in Black. You’re the private dick around here. What’s it look like to you?”

“Sounds like they were on a mission, that’s for sure,” I said. “Maybe looking for something, but I can’t imagine what,” I lied. I heard the sound of police sirens in the distance. There was no time to waste.

“By the way, have you seen Gladys?” he asked. “I can’t find her anywhere.”

“Nope,” I lied. “I haven’t seen hide nor hair of her – or feather nor beak, as the case may be.” I hoped he wouldn’t notice the bird shit on the floor under the hat rack where she had roosted. I glanced out the window. Gladys was nowhere to be seen on the roof of the All Nite Laundromat and Pizzeria.

“Elvert, this is all pretty damn fascinating and mysterious,” I said, “but I’m late for an appointment. I have a mani-pedi and a facial scheduled down the block at that tattoo joint, and you know how those people can be. The last thing I need is for them to be pissed at me while they’re working around my face with a tweezers.”

“I didn’t take you for that kind of boy Phlegm,” Elvert said sarcastically. “You should let them ink you. They did a portrait of Gladys that covers my whole back. I’ll show you sometime.”

“I can hardly wait,” I said, distractedly. “Don’t let that door hit you in the ass on the way out.”

He left, closing the door behind him. I thought about grabbing Fontaine’s gun, but figured it would only get me in trouble. I snagged the starter pistol and sock full of nickels from the desk drawer instead. I listened for the sound of Bisbee’s office door closing. When I was sure the coast was clear, I put on the fedora, pulled it down low on my forehead, took a slug of Jack and headed out the door.