“McGlade.”
“I’m calling to talk to you about your relationship with Jesus.”
“It’s platonic. We’re just friends.”
“As part of the Holy Sunbeam Resurrectionist Church, it is my duty to spread His word in the form of Good Thoughts, an enlightening pamphlet about our Lord, Praise God.”
“How did you get this number?” I asked.
“Good Thoughts is not available in stores, but can be yours free if you decide to subscribe to the Weekly Advent, a Christian Newspaper for God fearing Christians like yourself.”
“Is there nudity?”
“The Weekly Advent can be yours for… pardon me?”
“Nudity. Adam and Eve were naked in the Garden of Eden. Got pics?”
“When they knew that they were naked, they sewed fig leaves and made clothing for themselves.”
“Where’s the fun in that?”
I hung up, stretched again, vertebrae crackling like a campfire, and went to the john to shake the bacon. A glimpse of myself in the mirror didn’t do much for the ego. Stubbly face. Greasy brown hair. Vampire eyes. Grubby wrinkled stained suit.
Good thing I was a rich celebrity or I might have to consider cleaning up my act.
I splashed some water on my face, extending the motion into slicking back my hair. Then I gargled some Scope, sprayed some Brut on my suit to kill the aroma of sleeping in it, put on my Bogart fedora—which was literally Bogart’s fedora that I got on eBay—and last night played through my head.
Well, parts of last night.
I had been celebrating because I’d gotten yet another giant royalty check from Hollywood. They were making a TV series based on my life, and I was making so much money I could stuff my mattress with it. And I did. No metaphor there. So I’d bought something really expensive and stupid and had gotten so drunk I couldn’t remember the really expensive and stupid thing I’d bought.
I looked around my condo, seeing if anything looked new and pricey.
Plasma screen TV. Had that before.
Overclocked Dell PC. Had that before.
Empty bottle of Pappy Van Winkle 21 year old bourbon? I remembered it being full. Maybe that dick condo manager was sneaking in and drinking it while I slept.
Olivia De Berardinis painting of Bettie Page. Had that before, but I continued to stare at it for about thirty seconds.
Dwarf miniature horse?
That’s new.
It also explained why my condo smelled like horse shit.
“Hello,” I said, half-wondering if this was some sort of hallucination.
The hallucination whinnied at me.
It was short, didn’t even come up to my crotch, and chunky in that Achondroplasia way (I knew that word because I’d dated a little person once), and it had brown hair and a blond mane with a lock that stood up from the top of his head and drooped over his left eye, like a brooding teen from a 1980s John Hughes dramedy.
And yes, it was a he, as evidenced by his horse-sized package. Nothing small there.
“What’s your name?” I asked.
The horse didn’t answer.
This would require some deduction, and I considered hiring a private eye to get to the bottom of it, but I didn’t know any good ones. So instead I climbed on his back and took a bunch of selfies.
Coincidentally, there were already thirty-six selfies on my phone of me doing the same thing the night before.
I guess the thing to do when you get a dwarf mini horse was to hop on and take selfies.
I grew kind of bored after about forty minutes, and then figured I needed to start my day.
There was a good amount of horseshit in the house, so I called the cleaning service (they’d cleaned up worse than that at my place), and then I noticed my answering machine was blinking.
I dismounted, which I accomplished by standing up, and then pressed the button to play the three messages. Normally the only people who called my home were my maid service, and escorts to confirm arrival times. But my office was currently closed, so I had those calls forwarded here.
“Harry, this is Phineas Troutt. I’ve got some work for you if you’re interested. Call me at the Michigan Motel.”
Phin was sort of like a bodyguard slash enforcer who usually passed shit work my way, like stakeouts and digging up dirt on people. He was an okay guy, and the pay was alright, but lately being around him depressed me. Phin was dying of cancer and in a permanent sour mood. In fact, I thought he’d already died.
Guess he hadn’t.
He couldn’t afford my outrageous rates, which I’d been forced to implement due to nonstop interest in hiring me, from kids searching for their lost cats to crackpots who wanted me to shoot the aliens that were abducting and probing them every night.
If I saw an alien probing somebody, the only thing I’d shoot was pictures.
There was a beep, and the second message began.
“You’re dead, McGlade.”
It was one of my many secret admirers. This one was using some sort of voice modulator gizmo, so he sounded like a cross between Darth Vader and the villain in those Saw horror movies. “Enjoy your final time alive, you little bitch.”
While I wouldn’t say I got a lot of death threats, I probably got more than the average Joe. Being a private investigator and celebrity, there were a lot of people out there who had a grudge, and even more who were fixated on my fame and envious of my enviable style. This particular fanboy had left me a message a few days ago, but that time he’d called me an asshole.
Maybe I should hire someone to try to figure out who was behind it.
Another beep.
“Mr. McGlade, this is Mazdak Kahdem.”
The voice was male, with an accent. Middle… eastern? Middle Earth? I didn’t recognize the name. Mazdak? Wasn’t he one of the bad guys in Lord of the Rings?
I liked Hobbits. That’s probably why I dated a little person. And bought a little horse.
But who the hell was Mazdak?
“I’m the owner of Bathing Beauties. You have frequented my establishment many times.”
Now I remembered the dude. Bathing Beauties was a gentlemen’s club. No full nudity; the dancers wore bathing suits. But they could bump and grind with the best of them, and gave a reasonably priced lap dance. I liked the place because the dancers were upbeat and smiled a lot. It made me feel less guilty about objectifying them.
“I know you are a private detective, and I’d like to talk to you about a potential job. Please call me back if you are interested.”
Interested? The guy owned a strip club. Of course I was interested. And unlike Phin, he could afford me.
I gave Phin’s motel a call and left a message saying I’d be unable to help, but that we should hang out sometime, unless he was really sick, because that would depress me, in which case he should just have someone get in touch with me when he kicked off so I could come to the funeral. Which was a fib. I didn’t do funerals. But Phin would be dead, so he wouldn’t know.
That’s me, always concerned about people’s feelings.
Then I dialed Kahdem.
A Persian guy, whose voice was an octave lower than Kahdem’s, answered.
“Is Mr. Kahdem there?”
“Who is calling?”
“Who is this?”
“This is Parviz.”
Parviz was a bouncer slash bodyguard who took so many steroids he could deadlift two hundred pounds with his sphincter muscle.
“Hey, Parviz. I never got your last name.”
“It is just Parviz.”
“What, like Prince? Or Madonna? Or NWA? You trying to break into the music biz?”
“Why are you asking? Do you want to hear my hip-hop demo? I spit mad rhymes and cut the fat beats.”
“I’d pay you not to hear it.”
“Who is this?”
“It’s Harrison Harold McGlade, PI. Tell your boss I’m on his dime, and charging by the minute.”
“M
r. Kahdem is attending lunch. He would be pleased if you could join him.”
“Name the place and time.”
“Do you know Le Femme?”
I knew it. Snooty nouveau cuisine restaurant on the Gold Coast that had a one year waiting list. I was banned for life for urinating in their koi pond. Alcohol may have played a role.
“I know it. I’m surprised that dump is still open.”
“It has not been the same since their koi fish all died.”
“Are you saying that’s my fault?”
“Why would I say it’s your fault, Mr. McGlade?”
“I don’t like what you’re insinuating, Parviz.”
“I apologize. Mr. Kahdem has reservations for one pm. Can I tell him to expect you?”“
I could just make that. “Yeah. I’ll shuffle some things around to squeeze him in. How’s the weight training going?”
“I am down to four percent body fat and can squat triple my weight in kufte.”
“What is that? Iranian slang for marijuana?”
“Kufte is like meatloaf.”
“Oh. Do you have any marijuana?”
I liked marijuana.
“I don’t. Mr. Kahdem will expect you at one. Please don’t dishonor him by keeping him waiting.”
Parviz, no last name, hung up. Or maybe Parviz was his last name, and he had no first name. Or maybe Parviz was some foreign language word that meant I can do more push-ups than you.
I really didn’t care. I had a lunch date.
But what was I supposed to do with my little pony?
I racked my brain, trying to remember what horses ate. I opened the fridge, hoping for inspiration.
I had some takeout Chinese, which was odd because I’d hadn’t gone to a Chinese restaurant in forever. I reached for the container, but it didn’t want to leave the shelf. It wouldn’t even move when I yanked.
Probably wasn’t fresh anymore. I let it be.
There was a small, brown lime in the crisper drawer, in a pool of brown water.
When did I buy limes?
Wait… could that be lettuce? I remember buying lettuce for a salad, when I was on a health kick. Last summer.
The head of lettuce was now the size of a walnut.
Probably not horse-healthy.
Other fridge contents included:
a takeout pizza box, empty except for a few stray pepperonis
an egg in a container with an expiration date that was somehow, inexplicably, from before I moved into this condo
an empty bottle of ketchup that was so old the ketchup had turned black
a whole shelf full of mayonnaise packets
a potato that had grown legs
a container of yogurt that had collapsed in on itself
a bag of nice, fresh apples
I gave the horse the pizza box.
I also found a full thing of oatmeal in one of my cupboards. I poured the oatmeal in a punch bowl, added some water, and set that down next to the box.
I also left a note for the maids to clean the refrigerator.
Then I headed out the door—
—running straight into the dick condo manager.
“Mr. McGlade,” he said, offering a big, toothy, fake smile. “So lucky I ran into you.”
“It looks like you were waiting outside my door.”
“Yes. Well. I wasn’t. But I did have something to talk to you about.”
I’d forgotten this little weasel’s name, but he had it in for me ever since I moved in. Always trying to pin some stupid infraction on me.
“What’s your deal, buddy?” I said. “You keep giving me grief.”
“Mr. McGlade, my job is to keep the Grandorff running smoothly. I don’t mean to give any of our members grief.”
“You blamed me for puking on the elevator buttons.”
“We have the security footage showing it was you.”
“And I contend someone dressed up like me and did it to frame me.”
“Mr. McGlade—”
“And there was that time someone came into my condo when I was drunk, stuck me in the bathtub, and let it run until it flooded the whole floor. Rather than install a better lock on my door and beef up the security in this dump, you charged me for the damage.”
“Again, the security camera proved no one entered your place.”
“You never saw Mission Impossible? Do you know how easy it is to tap into a video line and replace it with a recording of an empty hallway?”
It wasn’t easy. It was hard as hell. That’s why it was called Mission Impossible. But I bet this creep didn’t know that.
“Mr. McGlade—”
“Look, I’m late for an important meeting. Maybe you should go check on Mrs. Walden in 5-F and stop stalking me.”
“What’s wrong with Mrs. Walden?”
“She’s a hundred and ninety years old. She could die any second. Go bug her.”
“She’s not a hundred and ninety.”
“She had an affair with Ulysses S. Grant. When he was still a teenager.”
I tried to get around him, and he stepped in front of me. “Mr. McGlade, do you have a horse in your place?”
“What makes you say that?”
“I’m happy to remind you, for the eighth or ninth time, that the Grandorff has the best security in Chicago, in no small part because of our extensive security cameras.”
He pointed up at a camera in the corner of the hallway.
“And you’re saying that you have footage of me with a horse?”
“That’s what I’m saying.”
“Pets are allowed here. Mrs. Walden has that creepy, hairless cat that makes that weird barking noise.”
“That’s a chihuahua.”
“What happened to its hair?”
His smile lost about half its wattage. “She… shaves it.”
“You’ve got a two hundred year old crazy woman in this building, shaving her dog, and you’re bothering me?”
He folded his arms. “Mr. McGlade, dogs and cats are the only quadrupeds allowed at the Grandorff. We cannot allow a horse.”
I checked my wrist, saw I wasn’t wearing a watch. “Why don’t we discuss this later? If I miss this meeting, people are going to die. Thousands of them.”
“I’d be happy to discuss this when you return.”
“Fine. Until then, go rescue that poor dog from Mrs. Walden. Or at least knit it a sweater.”
I sidestepped the little troll, made it to the elevator, and pressed the parking level button with my elbow because I didn’t want to touch it because I puked on it once.
My ride was a Chevrolet Corvette. Black. Mag wheels. Leather interior. The horn plays the guitar riff from Iron Man by Black Sabbath. It’s the only thing in my life that I love, except for sex, food, booze, music, movies, television, and shooting my gun at people.
There had been a rash of car thievery in Chicago these past few months, so even though the parking lot was monitored, I took extra precautions. The first is a motion and movement detector that gives off an amplified sound of a woman screaming if the car is touched or bumped. The second is connected to the gas line, instantly killing the engine if the hidden switch under the dashboard isn’t flipped. The third is an iron bar that locks on the steering wheel, preventing it from being turned. Finally, my mag wheels are fitted with custom lug nuts; round with a sunburst shaped center. The wheels can only be removed with the custom tool that came with the set. Since I had them specially made, there is no other tool in the world that can take them off.
I opened the car door and the woman began to scream. She should have stopped instantly the moment I put my key in the car door, but for some reason that wasn’t working lately. The screaming would probably stop when I put the key in the ignition, but before I could do that I had to take the steering wheel bar off.
While I fiddled with the lock, a family walked past, staring at me. I rolled down the window.
“It’s the car alarm,” I exp
lained. “I’m not assaulting anyone.”
They didn’t seem convinced.
“Look, it’ll stop once I turn the car on.”
I managed to get the bar off, then fit the key into the ignition.
For some reason, the screaming didn’t stop.
I banged on the dashboard a few times, yelling, “SHUT UP! SHUT UP OR YOU’LL REALLY GET IT!”
My car shut up.
The family walked quickly away.
I flipped the switch under the dash, and started my baby up. She growled low, like Mrs. Walden’s cat. I laid down two inches of rubber peeling out of my parking space.
Out on the street, some homeless dude tried to step in front of my ride, so I gave him a blast of Iron Man that scared him so bad he fell onto his ass.
I was chuckling over it when one of my six hundred dollar tires blew out.
Why does it always happen to the good guys?
I pulled over and got out to inspect the damage. The tire was a shredded mess. I had a spare in the trunk, but I didn’t have the tool to take the tire off because it would make zero sense to keep that in the car because then thieves could just use it to steal my tires. It was back at the condo.
I took the name of the Lord and several saints in vain, then I set all my alarms and walked the four blocks back to my place, and found my new pet had finished the pizza box and the oatmeal and was eating my carpeting. I was never a big fan of the color, so I didn’t intervene. After spending ten minutes searching for the lug tool when I remembered I actually did leave it in the car, because it made no sense to have to run home if I ever needed to change a tire.
So I went back to street level and heard a woman screaming.
It was my alarm.
I wasn’t in the best of shape, so my sprint involved a lot of stopping and trying to catch my breath and checking my heart because it really felt like it was going to pop. When I made it to my Vette, I saw that homeless guy I’d honked at, rolling one of my tires down the street. I would have chased him, but the bum was really quick. Like Bum Olympics quick. He had impressive cardio as well.
Now I had one flat tire, and one missing tire.
The bastard had also taken my lug tool.
I called Triple A, they towed my car to the shop, and then I took a cab to Le Femme, getting there seventy-six minutes late.
Le Femme was the kind of joint where even the lighting was pretentious. I asked the maître d for the Kahdem table, and he stared at me with a look one would give a double amputee applying for a basketball scholarship. I’m allowed to make amputee jokes because I actually am an amputee. My right hand was missing, and I had a robotic prosthesis in its place.
Dying Breath Page 10
