Banana Hammock

by Jack Kilborn

“My husband is a rich and powerful man, Mr. McGlade. You don’t recognize his name?”

  I flipped though my mental Rolodex. “Roy Garbonzo? Is he the Roy Garbonzo that owns Happy Roy’s Chicken Shack?”

  “Yes.”

  “He seems so happy on those commercials.”

  “He’s a beast, Mr. McGlade.”

  “The guy is like a hundred and thirty years old. And on those commercials, he’s always laughing and singing and dancing with that Claymation chicken. He’s the guy that’s abusing you?”

  “Would you like to see the proof again?”

  “If it isn’t too much trouble.”

  She grabbed my face in one hand, squeezing my cheeks together.

  “Happy Roy is a vicious psycho, Mr. McGlade. He’s a brutal, misogynist pig who enjoys inflicting pain.”

  “He’s probably rich too.”

  Mrs. Garbonzo narrowed her eyes. “He’s wealthy, yes. What are you implying?”

  “I like his extra spicy recipe. Do you get to take chicken home for free? You probably have a fridge stuffed full of it, am I right?”

  She released my face and buttoned up her blouse.

  “I have to go. My husband gets paranoid when I go out.”

  “Maybe because when you go out, you hire people to kill him.”

  She picked up her purse and headed for the door. “I expect you to call me when you’ve made some progress.”

  “That includes ironing,” I called after her. “And hanging the stuff up. I don’t have any hangers, so you’ll have to buy some.”

  After she left, I turned off all the office lights and closed the blinds, because what I had to do next, I had to do in complete privacy.

  I took a nap.

  When I awoke a few hours later, I went to the bank, cashed Mrs. Garbonzo’s check, and went to start earning my money.

  My first instinct was to dive head-first into the belly of the beast and confront Mrs. Garbonzo’s hired hitman help. My second instinct was to get some nachos, maybe a beer or two.

  I went with my second instinct. The nachos were good, spicy but not so much that all you tasted was peppers. After the third beer I hopped in my ride and headed for the assassin’s headquarters, which turned out to be in a well-to-do suburb of Chicago called Barrington. The development I pulled into boasted some amazingly huge houses, complete with big lawns and swimming pools and trimmed bushes that looked like corkscrews and lollipops. I double-checked the address I’d scribbled down, then pulled into a long circular driveway and up to a home that was bigger than the public school I attended, and I came from the city where they grew schools big.

  The hitman biz must be booming.

  I half expected some sort of maid or butler to answer the door, but instead I was greeted by a fifty-something woman, her facelift sporting a deep tan. I appraised her.

  “If you stay out in the sun, the wrinkles will come back.”

  “Then I’ll just have more work done.” Her voice was steady, cultured. “Are you here to clean the pool?”

  “I’m here to speak to William Johansenn.”

  “Billy? Sure, he’s in the basement.”

  She let me in. Perhaps all rich suburban women were fearless and let strange guys into their homes. Or perhaps this one simply didn’t care. I didn’t get a chance to ask, because she walked off just as I entered.

  “Lady? Where’s the basement?”

  “Down the hall, stairs to the right,” she said without turning around.

  I took a long, tiled hallway past a powder room, a den, and a door that opened to a descending staircase. Heavy metal music blared up at me.

  “Billy!” I called down.

  My effort was fruitless—with the noise, I couldn’t even hear myself. The lights were off, and squinting did nothing to penetrate the darkness.

  Surprising a paid assassin in his own lair wasn’t on the list of 100 things I longed to do before I die, but I didn’t see much of a choice. I beer-belched, then went down the stairs.

  The basement was furnished, though furnished didn’t seem to be the right word. The floor had carpet, and the walls had paint, and there seemed to be furniture, but I couldn’t really tell because everything was covered with food wrappers, pop cans, dirty clothing, and discarded magazines. It looked like a 7-Eleven exploded.

  William “Billy” Johansenn was asleep on a waterbed, a copy of Creem open on his chest. He had a galaxy of pimples dotting his forehead and six curly hairs sprouting from his chin.

  He couldn’t have been a day over sixteen.

  I killed the stereo. Billy continued to snore. Among the clutter on the floor were several issues of Famous Soldier, along with various gun and hunting magazines. I poked through his drawers and found a cheap Rambo knife, a CO2 powered BB gun, and a dog-eared copy of the infamous How to be a Hitman book from Paladin Press.

  I gave the kid a shake, then another. The third shake got him to open his eyes.

  “Who the hell are you?” he said, defiant.

  “I’m your wake-up call.”

  I slapped the kid, making his eyes cross.

  “Hey! You hit me!”

  “A woman hired you to kill her husband.”

  “I don’t know what you’re—”

  He got another smack. “That’s for lying.”

  “You can’t hit me,” he whined. “I’ll sue you.”

  I hit him twice more; once because I didn’t like being threatened by punk kids, and once because I didn’t like lawyers. When I pulled my palm back for threesies, the kid broke.

  “Please! Stop it! I admit it!”

  I released his t-shirt and let him blubber for a minute. His blue eyes matched those of the woman upstairs. Not many professional killers lived in their mother’s basement, and I wondered how Marietta Garbonzo could have been this naïve.

  “I’m guessing you never met Mrs. Garbonzo in person.”

  “I only talked to her on the phone. She sent the money to a P.O. Box. That’s how the pros do it.”

  “So how did she get your home address?”

  “She wouldn’t give me the money without my address. She said if I didn’t trust her, why should she trust me?”

  Here was my proof that each new generation of teenagers was stupider than the last. I blame MTV.

  “How much did she give you?”

  He smiled, showing me a mouth full of braces. “Fifty large.”

  “And how were you going to do it? With your BB gun?”

  “I was going to follow him around and then…you know…shove him.”

  “Shove him?”

  “He’s an old guy. I was thinking I’d shove him down some stairs, or into traffic. I dunno.”

  “Have you shoved a lot of old people into traffic, Billy boy?”

  He must not have liked the look in my eyes, because he shrunk two sizes.

  “No! Never! I never killed anybody!”

  “So why put an ad in the magazine?”

  “I dunno. Something to do.”

  I considered hitting him again, but didn’t know what purpose it would serve.

  I hit him anyway.

  “Ow! My lip’s caught in my braces!”

  “You pimple-faced little moron. Do you have any idea what kind of trouble you’re in right now? Not only did you accept money to commit a felony, but now you’ve got a price on your head. Did Mrs. Garbonzo tell you about the guy her husband hired to kill you?”

  He nodded, his Adam’s apple wiggling like a fish.

  “Are-are you here to kill me?”

  “No.”

  “But you’ve got a gun.” He pointed to the butt of my Magnum, jutting out of my shoulder holster.

  “I’m a private detective.”

  “Is that a real gun?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can I touch it?”

  “No.”

  “Come on. Lemme touch it.”

  This is what happens when you spare the rod and spoil the child.

  “Look
kid, I know that you’re a loser that nobody likes, and that you’re a virgin and will probably stay one for the next ten years, but do you want to die?”

  “Ten years?”

  “Answer the question.”

  “No. I don’t want to die.”

  I sighed. “That’s a start. Where’s the money?”

  “I’ve got a secret place. In the wall.”

  He rolled off the bed, eager, and pried a piece of paneling away from the plaster in a less-cluttered corner of the room. His hand reached in, and came out with a brown paper shopping bag.

  “Is it all there?”

  Billy shook his head. “I spent three hundred on a wicked MP3 player.”

  “Hand over the money. And the MP3 player.”

  Billy showed a bit of reluctance, so I smacked him again to help with his motivation.

  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.”

  “I remember those commercials. That’s where I got the idea for the Claymation chicken in the Chicken Shack spots. Expensive to produce, those commercials.”

  “Enough of the small talk. I want you to call off your goon.”

  “My goon?”

  “The person your wife hired to whack you, he’s a teenage kid living in the suburbs. He’s not a real threat.”

  “I’m aware of that.”

  “
So you don’t need to have that kid killed.”

  “Mr. McGlade, I’m not having anyone killed. I’m Happy Roy. I don’t kill people. I promote world peace through deep fried poultry. I simply told my wife that I hired a killer, even though I didn’t.”

  “You lied to her?”

  Happy Roy let out a big, dramatic sigh. “When I found out she wanted me dead, I was justifiably annoyed. I confronted her, we got into an argument, and I told her that I’d have her assassin killed. I was trying to get her to call it off on her own.”

  I absorbed this information, drinking more whiskey. When the whiskey ran out, I sucked on an ice cube.

  “Tho wmer mmmpt wooor—”

  “Excuse me? I can’t understand you with that ice in your mouth.”

  I spit out the ice. “She said you abuse her. That you’re insane.”

  “The only thing insane about me is my upcoming promotion. Buy a box of chicken, get a second box for half price.”

  I wondered if I should tell him about the bruises she had, but chose to keep silent.

  “What about divorce?”

  “I love Marietta, Mr. McGlade. I know she’s too young for me. I know she’s a devious, back-stabbing maneater. That just makes her more adorable.”

  “She wants you dead.”

  “All spouses have their quirks.”

  I leaned forward, an effort because my butt was sunk so low in the chair.

  “Happy Roy, I have no doubt that Marietta will kill you if she can. When this doesn’t pan out, she’ll try something else. Eventually, she’ll hook up with a real assassin.”

  Happy Roy’s eye became hooded, dark. “She’s my wife, Mr. McGlade. I’ll deal with her my way.”

  “By beating her?”

  “This conversation is over. I’ll have my butler show you to the door.”

  I pried myself out of the chair. “You’re disgustingly rich, powerful, and not a bad looking guy for someone older than God. Let Marietta go and find some other bimbo to play with.”

  “Good bye, Mr. McGlade. Feel free to keep working for my wife.”

  “Are you trying to pay me off, so I drop this case?”

  “No. Not at all.”

  “If you were thinking about paying me off, how much money would we be talking?”

  “I’m not trying to pay you off, Mr. McGlade.”

  I got in the smaller man’s face. “You might be able to afford fat Degas and huge estates, but I’m a person, Happy Roy. And no matter how rich you get, you’ll never be able to buy a human being. Because it’s illegal, Happy Roy. Buying people is illegal.”