Banana Hammock

by Jack Kilborn

  BANANA HAMMOCK

  A “Write Your Own Damn Story” Harry McGlade Adventure

  by J.A. KONRATH

  Copyright © 2010 Joe Konrath

  Cover copyright © 2010 Carl Graves

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from Joe Konrath.

  Edition: September 2010

  Author’s Warning

  This ebook is filled with raunchy humor, and has something to offend everyone. If you believe there are taboo things that shouldn’t be laughed at or made fun of, stop reading right now and pick up one of my other, less-offensive books. But if you like roasting sacred cows, read on. You’ll probably laugh.

  Author’s Note

  This is not a single, linear ebook, and should not be read in order.

  I repeat: DON’T READ THIS PAGE BY PAGE.

  This ebook is meant to be read out of order, depending on the path you, the reader, choose.

  Harry McGlade is a continuing character in the Jacqueline “Jack” Daniels series. At the end of each section, you decide where Harry goes, and what he does. By following different paths, you can arrive at many different endings. There are literally hundreds of variations.

  You control the character. You control the fun.

  Join Harry and a cast of characters pulled from JA Konrath’s and Jack Kilborn’s stories, and push ebook technology to the boundaries of reading enjoyment, or something like that.

  Banana Hammock Drink Recipe

  2 oz. light rum

  1 oz. 99 Bananas Schnapps

  1 oz. amaretto

  1/2 oz. lime juice

  1/2 oz. sweet and sour mix

  Shake with ice.

  Strain into a chilled cocktail glass.

  Garnish with two maraschino cherries and half a peeled banana.

  And so it begins…

  I was on my Facebook page, racking up some major points in Combville—a game where you used a virtual comb to comb a virtual head of hair, over and over and over again until time and life lost all meaning and you questioned the reason for your birth. Then she walked into my office.

  This woman had it all. Legs. Eyes. Elbows. A big head of blond hair that for some reason I wanted to comb. She wore a plain blue dress, and had a white bonnet on her head, which was unusual for Chicago. Actually, it was unusual for pretty much everywhere.

  “Are you Harry McGlade? The private investigator?”

  I nodded, still tapping the COMB button on my screen. Fifty-six thousand more strokes and I’d get a virtual gold coin. When I earned ten coins, I’d be able to buy a different color comb.

  “My name is Lula. Lula Coleslaw. I need your help.”

  “Have a seat, Ms. Coleslaw,” I said, pointing to the chair opposite my desk. Then I tore myself away from Facebook. Or at least I pretended to, and kept pressing the button.

  She sat down and crossed her legs, in that way women do, with one leg over the other. Her perfume smelled like Crunchberries. She pulled a Kleenex out of her Gucci and dabbed at her Cover Girl eyes, asking me if I could give her a Diet Coke.

  “Just get to the point,” I said, indicating the book on my desk, Fair Use of Trademarked Brand Names.

  “It’s my husband, Mr. McGlade. I believe he’s having an affair.”

  “I see. And you want me to find the floozy and scar her face with acid, make her unappealing to him?”

  “What? No! That’s barbaric.”

  “Should I scar his face with acid so she won’t love him anymore?”

  “I don’t want any acid thrown in anyone’s face. I just want you to follow him and tell me who he’s sleeping with.”

  I nodded, closing my desk drawer, the one filled with all the acid bottles. “I charge five hundred a day, plus expenses. Expenses include tolls and parking meters, brunch, Xbox Live games, and air mattresses.”

  “Why do I have to pay for air mattresses?”

  I shrugged. “Inflation.”

  “That’s a lot of money for me, Mr. McGlade. You see, I’m Amish.”

  That probably explained the bonnet. And the Kiss Me I’m Amish button she wore. Which was odd, because I thought the Amish didn’t wear buttons.

  “Forgive me if this sounds insulting, you loony whackjob, but I wasn’t aware of any Amish settlements in the Chicago metropolitan area.”

  “I’m from Indiana. We have a farming community near Gary. I’m a milkmaid.”

  I glanced at her hands, trying to imagine her strong, firm, insistent grip, and wondering how she managed to keep her fake nails from falling off.

  “A milkmaid? Can you prove it to me? Maybe pretend I have udders?”

  “No, I can’t. But did you know that a cow has four stomachs?”

  “That’s a lot of tripe,” I declared.

  “Yes, it is.”

  “If I were to take this case,” I said, “I’d want to be paid in actual cash money. Not three chickens and a handsomely made maplewood dresser.”

  “But it’s a really nice dresser. Dovetail joints. Corner blocks.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “Mortise and tenon drawer frames?”

  “Of course. And lacquered until it shines like a welfare baby’s neglected wet bottom.”

  I clucked my tongue. But though I was a sucker for old world craftsmanship, you can’t pay the rent with dovetail joints and a cherrywood inlay. Or can you? I never tried before. I did once try to pay my rent in spareribs, but got in trouble for pushing them under my landlord’s door.

  “It’s a tempting offer, sugar lumps. But I’m afraid I only take cold, hard, stiff cash.”

  “How about credit cards?” she asked.

  “The major ones, and some of the minor ones.”

  “Which minor ones?”

  “You know. Angler’s Club. The Bank of Murray. Velveesa.”

  She whipped out an Angler’s Club card, a big picture of a walleye on it. Something about this was kind of fishy.

  “Hold on a second, babydoll,” I said, holding up my palm. “I haven’t actually taken the case yet. Let me think about this while I comb.”

  Should Harry take the case? If so, click here.

  If he should keep playing Combville, click here

  We walked out of my office, onto the city street. It was buzzing with electricity, and ComEd was there with a group of technicians and paramedics, trying to protect people from getting shocks and third-degree burns. As we rounded the corner, Lulu gasped at the sight of her horse and buggy being towed away. I soon saw why it had happened—she’d tried to pay the parking meter with two fresh eggs and a jar of marmalade.

  “Amos is going to thrash me for this,” Lulu pouted.

  “Amos is your husband?”

  She nodded. “I have welts on my bare bottom where he’s beaten me with a switch.”

  “I may need to look at those later,” I said. “For evidence, or something.”

  Lulu began to sob, her mascara running. “He’s a horrible man, Mr. McGlade. A plain, God-fearing, horrible man. He beats me for the smallest of offenses. Burning down our home. Letting our son drown. Flarching…”

  “Flarching?”

  “That’s farting during sex.”

  I stared at her. “I don’t think that’s a real word.”

  “Give it a month. Someone will upload it to UrbanDictionary.com.”

  Hmm. Perhaps the Amish were more progressive than I thought.

  “So what should we do, Mr. McGlade? Go to the a
uto pound and pay to get my horse? Or just forget it and get on with this dumb story?”

  To get the horse, click here.

  To get on with the story, click here.

  To check the urban dictionary for flarch, click here.

  To return to the previous section, click here.

  “Will you help me, Mr. McGlade?”

  “Hmm?”

  Combville had once again captured my attention. Damn these repetitive, boring, addictive Facebook games. Why did I even bother with Facebook? And why did I only have five Facebook friends? And why were they all jerks?

  I kept combing.

  “Will you help me?” she asked, apparently still in my office.

  “What? Oh. No. No I won’t. I’ve got too much to do right now. But check back in a few days.”

  Sadness fell across her face and she stood up, turning to leave.

  “Wait,” I said. “Are you on Facebook?”

  “No. We shun modern technology, Mr. McGlade. My Nook doesn’t even have 3G.”

  “You mean it’s only WiFi?”

  She nodded, sadly. I felt for her, but I had to be firm on this. “Sorry, tastycakes. I’m really busy.”

  “Please, Mr. McGlade. I really need your help.”

  “Let me think about it again.”

  Should Harry take the case? If so, click here.

  If he should keep playing Combville, click here.

  “Will you help me, Mr. McGlade?”

  “Hmm? Who are you?”

  I’d gotten into a rhythm, tapping the Combville button in time with my heartbeat. It was almost as much fun as combing hair in real life, without all the hard work. Like having to actually lift a real comb.

  I’ve always loved hair. Years ago, in a school play, I took the role of Macbeth’s toupee. But it was a bad part.

  (Please press the rimshot button on your Nook.)

  “I’m Lulu Coleslaw. I—”

  “You said that already. I thought you were leaving.”

  She turned to leave, giving me a sexy peek at her bloomers as her fifty pound dress twirled.

  “Wait,” I said.

  “Yes?”

  “Are you on Facebook?”

  “You asked me that already.”

  “What did you say?”

  “I said—”

  “Nevermind. This is getting repetitive.”

  “Please. Will you help me?”

  “I haven’t decided yet. Let me think it over.”

  Should Harry take the case? If so, click here.

  If he should keep playing Combville, click here.

  “Mr. McGlade?”

  “Hmm? Do I know you?”

  “How many times are we going to keep doing this?”

  “Doing what?” I asked.

  Comb, comb, comb, comb, comb…

  “Will you take my case or not?”

  “Yes, I’ve got to make a decision, don’t I? You seem to be getting annoyed, doing the same thing again and again. Personally, I think it’s pretty funny.”

  “So will you?”

  “Will I what?”

  “Will you help me, Mr. McGlade?”

  “Who are you again?”

  “Lulu. Lulu Coleslaw.”

  “I think I knew a stripper named Coleslaw. Are you her?”

  “Of course not. I’m Amish.”

  “Yep, I’ve known a lot of strippers with bad names.”

  “Are you going to help me?”

  “I don’t know. I’ll have to think this through.”

  Should Harry take the case? If so, click here.

  If you want to read a list of bad stripper names, click here.

  If you believe that you have the power to change fate, click here.

  “Hell no, I don’t want to get your damn horse,” I said. “I’m an important man, with important stuff to do, probably.”

  I had my iPhone out and was accessing the Combville app.

  “But Amos will starve! There’s nothing to eat in an auto pound.”

  “Your horse is named Amos?”

  She nodded.

  “Isn’t your husband named Amos as well?”

  “Yes.”

  “You don’t think that’s odd?” I asked.

  “Not at all. But my brother Amos finds it strange.”

  “I promise we’ll get the horse later,” I lied. “Right now we need to go to the costume shop.”

  “For what?” Lulu asked.

  “For one of those plain black suits and an Abe Lincoln beard.” I winked. “I’m going undercover as an Amish guy.”

  To go to the costume shop, click here.

  To skip to the end of the story, click here.

  To return to the previous section, click here.

  Clandestine Weston’s Costume Shoppe was located two blocks from my office. It took forty minutes to find a cab. We arrived around four o’clock, which was perfect. Any later and we would have gotten caught in the after-work costume rush. I hated crowds. Especially crowds of people.

  Weston, the owner, was dressed as a pirate, complete with an eye patch and a plastic hook for a hand. He wore a Show Me Your Booty button.

  “Hello again, Jessica. Returning the costume so soon?” he asked Lulu.

  “Don’t mind her, Weston,” I told him. “I need you to make me look like Harrison Ford’s most famous character.”

  “The retard from Regarding Henry?”

  “No. His other famous character.”

  “Ah. The Amish cop from Witness.”

  “Nailed it in two, Weston.”

  Weston walked past a Star Wars display and over to the Mennonite aisle. Lulu grabbed my shoulders and began to shake me, urgently.

  “We need to get out of here,” she said. “Right away.”

  “Stop it,” I told her. “I thought you were Amish, not a Shaker.”

  I grinned at my clever pun, but Lulu didn’t see the humor.

  “I am Amish,” she said. “Why would I lie about that? Do you think I’m lying? What good would it do me to lie?”

  “Ease off the throttle, Goldilocks. You’re too high strung. Let me rent this costume, and I’ll blend into your quaint, idyllic community without anyone noticing, and find out who Amos is snogging.”

  A moment later, Weston had returned with full Amish regalia for me.

  “Pay for it, tootsiepop,” I told Lulu. Then I went into the dressing room, to get dressed. But halfway into putting on my pants, the magic of Combville ensnared me, and half an hour later someone was knocking on the door.

  “Mr. McGlade?”

  “Call me Sexybeast,” I said. “That was my childhood nickname.”

  Actually, my childhood nickname was Bitch Tits. But that made me cry.

  “Are you okay in there?”

  I finished dressing and opened the door. “I’m fine, baby. I’ve been dressing myself since high school.”

  She let out a deep sigh. “I was worried. I thought you figured out I was faking this Amish thing, and had taken off.”

  “I figured out no such thing. We ready to rock?”

  Lulu nodded. Weston came up to us, grinning. “You look terrific, Harry. Here’s one final touch.

  He pinned a button to my coat. It said Amish is as Good as a Mile. Now my disguise was perfect. No one would ever know I was an imposter, living among the God-fearing.

  But did I truly know enough about this mysterious and elusive race of prehistoric proto-humans known as the Amish? Was I ready to delve into their strange cult where they worshipped some imaginary savior named Jesus? Perhaps I needed to do some research before diving in.

  Should Harry research the Amish? If so, click here.

  Should Harry just delve right into the case? If so, click here.

  I Googled “Amish” on my iPhone and wound up surfing several Amish porn sites, where I learned that their culture dates back to 1693, they’re pacifists, and that threeways—mostly girl-girl-guy—were common.

  After two minutes of exhau
stive research, I gave up. Don’t get me wrong. I like pornography as much as the next guy, if the next guy watches porn sixteen hours a day. But I was on a case, and nothing was going to deter me from finding out if Amos Coleslaw was cheating on his wife. So after a brief, forty-minute Combville session, Lulu and I hopped in my car and headed to Indiana.

  To continue with the case, click here.

  To instead read Pride and Prejudice with Sexy Vampires, click here.

  The ride to Indiana was uneventful, except for those strange lights in the sky that we saw but really don’t remember too well, and somehow we lost six hours and my butt hurts and I’ve got weird dreamlike memories about being strapped to a table and probed by skinny gray guys with huge black eyes. But other than that, nothing noteworthy happened.

  When we arrived in the Amish settlement of Plaintown, I parked next to a Cadillac, put on my straw hat, and went with Lulu to find her husband. The day was sunny, and everywhere I looked there were crops and people tending crops. It seemed like a really croppy way to live.

  “So, which one is Amos?” I asked Lulu.

  “That’s Amos over there.” She pointed to a plain looking guy with a beard. I nodded, rolling up my sleeves. I’d been working this case for long enough. It was time to get some answers. Amos would tell me what I wanted to know, even if I had to beat on that pacifist all night and into tomorrow.

  “You’re sure these guys are pacifists, right?” I asked Lulu.

  She shrugged, checking the messages on her cell phone. “I guess. Hit one a few times and see.”

  I stormed over. Seeing all of this peaceful cooperation and brotherly love was pushing my anger to an all-time high. I walked through the wheat, or the corn, or whatever it was, fists clenched and jaw set.

  “Hey! You! With the beard!”

  Eight men looked at me.

  “I meant the one named Amos!”

  “We’re all named Amos,” one of the Amoses said.

  “No,” I clarified, “the one wearing black!”

  Since they all wore black, they looked at each other, confused.

  “The one with the beard wearing black and the straw hat!”