Banana Hammock

by Jack Kilborn

  “I’m not trying to buy you!”

  “I’ll find my own way out.”

  I stormed out of the parlor, through the library, into the dining room, into another parlor, or maybe it was a den, and then I wound up in the kitchen somehow. I tried to back track, wandered into the dining room, and then found myself back in one of the parlors, but I couldn’t tell if it was the first parlor or the second parlor. I didn’t see that painting of the naked heifer, but Happy Roy may have taken it down just to confuse me.

  “Hello?” I called out. “I’m a little lost here.”

  No one answered.

  I went back into the dining room, then the kitchen, and took another door which led down a hallway which led to a bathroom, which was fine because I needed to go to the bathroom anyway.

  When the lizard had been adequately drained, I discovered some very interesting prescription drugs, just lying there, in the medicine cabinet.

  And then it all made sense.

  Forty minutes later I found the front door and headed back to my apartment.

  Time to drop the truth on Little Miss Marietta.

  At first, I thought I had the wrong place. Everything was so…clean. Not only were all of my clothes picked up, but the apartment had been vacuumed—a real feat since I didn’t think I owned a vacuum cleaner.

  “Mrs. Garbonzo? You here?”

  I walked into the bedroom. The bed had been made, and the closet door was open, revealing over a dozen shirts on hangers.

  In the kitchen, the sink was empty of dishes for the first time since I rented the place fifteen years ago. There was even a fresh smell of lilacs and orange zest in the air.

  The door opened and I swung around, hand going to my gun. Mrs. Garbonzo entered, carrying a plastic laundry basket overflowing with my socks. She flinched when she saw me.

  “Mr. McGlade. I didn’t expect you back so soon.”

  “Surprised, Marietta? I thought you might be.”

  “Did you take care of the guy?”

  “Sit down. We need to talk.”

  She set the basket down on my kitchen counter, and seductively perched herself on one of my breakfast bar stools. Her blouse had been untucked from her skirt, the shirt tails tied in a knot around her flat stomach.

  “You lied to me, Marietta.”

  “Lied?” She batted her eyelashes. “How?”

  There was a bottle of window cleaner next to the sink that I’d never seen before. I picked it up.

  “How about opening up that shirt and letting me squirt you with this?”

  “Is that what turns you on? Spraying women with glass cleaner?”

  I grabbed her blouse and pulled, tearing buttons.

  “I was thinking more along the lines of washing off those fake bruises. They’re so fake, the purple has even rubbed off on your collar. See?”

  I shot two quick streams at the marks, then used my sleeve to wipe them off.

  They didn’t wipe off.

  I tried again, to similar effect.

  Marietta sneered at me. “Are you finished?”

  “So what’s that purple stuff on your collar?”

  “Eye shadow.” She pointed at her eyes. “That’s why it matches my eye shadow.”

  “Big deal. So you gave yourself those bruises. Or paid someone to give them to you. I met your husband today, Mrs. Garbonzo. All ninety pounds of him. He couldn’t beat up a quadriplegic.”

  “My husband abuses me, Mr. McGlade.”

  “Yeah, I saw his swollen knuckles. At first, I thought they were swollen from hitting you. But he didn’t hit you, did he Marietta? Roy has rheumatoid arthritis. I saw his medication. His knuckles are swollen because of his disease, and they undoubtedly cause him great pain. So much pain, he’d never be able to hit you.”

  Marietta put her hands on her hips.

  “He beats me with a belt, Mr. McGlade.”

  “A belt?”

  “These bruises are from the buckle. It also causes welts. See?”

  She turned around, lifting her blouse. Angry, red scabs stretched across her back.

  I gave them a spritz of the window cleaner, just to be sure.

  “Ow!”

  “Sorry. Had to check.”

  Marietta faced me. “I’ve paid you, I’ve done your laundry, and I’ve cleaned your apartment. Did you take care of the assassin for me?”

  “Your husband didn’t hire an assassin.”

  “Is that what he told you?”

  “I know it for a fact. The guy you hired is a sixteen-year-old pimply-faced kid. He couldn’t whack anyone. He couldn’t even whack a mole.”

  I smiled at my pun.

  Marietta made a face. “I thought he sounded young on the phone. He really won’t do it?”

  “He lives in his parent’s basement.”

  The tears came. “I gave him a lot of money. Everything I’ve been able to hide from Roy during six years of marriage.”

  I thought about mentioning I got the money back, but decided against it.

  “Look, Marietta, just divorce the guy.”

  “I can’t. He threatened to kill me if I divorced him.”

  “You can run away. Hire a lawyer.”

  She sniffled. “Pre-nup.”

  “Pre-nup?”

  “I signed a pre-nuptial agreement. If I divorce Roy, I don’t get a penny. And after six years of abuse, I deserve more than that.” She licked her lips. “But if he dies, I get it all.”

  “Don’t you think killing the guy is a little extreme?”

  She threw herself at me, teary-eyed and heaving. “Please, Harry. You have to help me. I’ll give you half—half of the entire chicken empire. Help me kill the son of a bitch.”

  “Marietta…”

  “I cleaned your place, you promised you’d help.” She added a little grinding action to her hug. “Please kill him for me.”

  I looked around the kitchen. She did do a pretty good job. I wondered, briefly, if I’d make a decent Chicken King.

  “I’ll tell you what, Marietta. I don’t do that kind of thing. But I know someone who can help. Do you want me to make a phone call?”

  “Yes. Oh, yes.”

  I pried myself out of her grasp and picked up the phone, dialing the number from memory.

  “Hi, partner. It’s me. Look, I’ve got a woman here who wants to kill her husband. I told her I’m not interested, but I thought maybe you’d be able to set something up. Say, tomorrow, around noon? You can meet her at the Hilton. Rent a room under the name Lipshultz. No, schultz, with a U-L. Okay, she’ll be there.”

  I hung up. “Got it all set for you, sugar.”

  She squeezed me tight and kissed my neck. “Thanks, Harry. Thank you so much. Is there anything I can do to repay you?” Her breath was hot in my ear. “Anything at all?”

  “You can start by folding those socks. And maybe some dusting. Yeah, dusting would be good.”

  She smiled wickedly and caressed my cheek. “I was thinking of something a little more intimate.”

  “I was thinking about dinner.”

  “Dinner would be wonderful.”

  “I’m sure it will be. Have the place dusted by the time I get back.”

  Marietta Garbonzo called me the next night, around eight in the evening.

  “You son of a bitch! You set me up! You didn’t call a hitman! You called a cop!”

  “You can’t go around murdering people, sweetheart. It’s wrong on so many levels.”

  “But what about all of the washing? The cleaning? The dusting? And what about after dinner? What we did? How could you betray me after that?”

  “You expect me to throw away all of my principles because we spent five minutes doing the worm? It was fun, but not worth twenty to life.”

  “You bastard. When I get out of here I’ll…”

  I hung up and went back to the Sharper Image catalog I’d been thumbing through. I had my eye on one of those massaging easy chairs. That would set me back two grand.
Earlier that day, I bought a sixty inch plasma TV. The money I took from William “Billy” Johansenn was being put to good use.

  I plopped down in front of the TV, found the wrestling channel, and settled in to watch two hours of pay-per-view sports entertainment. The Iron Commie had Captain Frankenbeef in a suplex when I felt the gun press against the back of my head.

  “Hello, Mr. McGlade.”

  “Happy Roy?”

  “Yes. Stand up, slowly. Then turn around.”

  I followed instructions. Happy Roy held a four barreled COP .357, a nasty weapon that could do a lot of damage at close range.

  “How’d you get in?” I asked.

  “You gave a key to my wife, you moron. I took it from her last night, when she got home.” His face got mean. “After you slept with her.”

  “Technically, we didn’t do any sleeping.”

  The gun trembled in Happy Roy’s hand.

  “She’s in jail now, Mr. McGlade. Because of you.”

  “She wanted to kill you, Happy Roy. You should thank me.”

  “You idiot!” Spittle flew from his lips. “I wanted to kill her myself. With my own two hands. Now I have to get her out of jail before I can do it. Do you have any idea what Johnny Cochrane charges an hour?”

  “Whatever it is, you can afford it.”

  Happy Roy’s voice cracked. “I’m practically broke. Those damn Claymation commercials are costing me a fortune, and no one is buying the tie-in products. I’ve got ten thousand Happy Roy t-shirts, moldering away in a warehouse. Plus the burger chains with their processed chicken strips are forcing me into bankruptcy.”

  “Those new Wendy’s strips are pretty good.”

  “Shut up! Put your hands over your head. No quick moves.”

  “What about your mansion? Can’t you sell that?”

  “It’s a rental.”

  “Really? Do you mind if I ask what you pay a month?”

  “Enough! We’re going for a ride, Mr. McGlade. I’m going to introduce you to one of our extra large deep fryers, up close and personal.”

  “You told me I could keep working with your wife.”

  “I said you could work with her, not set her up!”

  “Six of one, half a dozen of…”

  “I’m the Chicken King, goddammit! I’m an American icon! Nobody crosses me and gets away with it!

  I’d had enough of the Chicken King’s crazy ranting, so I reached for the gun. Happy Roy tried to squeeze the trigger, but I easily yanked it away before he had the chance.

  “Let me give you a little lesson in firearms, Happy Roy. A COP .357 has a twenty pound trigger pull. Much too hard to fire for a guy with arthritis.”

  Happy Roy reached for his belt, fighting with the buckle. “You bastard! I’ll beat the fear of Happy Roy into you, you son of a bitch! No one crosses…”

  I tapped him on the head with his gun, and the Chicken King collapsed. After checking for a pulse, I went for the phone and dialed my Lieutenant friend.

  “Hi, Jack. Me again. Marietta Garbonzo’s husband just broke into my place, tried to kill me. Yeah, Happy Roy himself. No, he doesn’t look so happy right now. Can you send someone by? And can you make it quick? He’s bleeding all over my carpet, and I just had it cleaned. Thanks.”

  I hung up and stared down at the Chicken King, who was mumbling something into the carpet.

  “You say something, Happy Roy?”

  “I should have stayed single.”

  “No kidding,” I said. “Relationships can be murder.”

  The end.

  To go back to the beginning, click here.

  To return to the previous section, click here.

  Harry’s List of Books to Help Children Cope with the Loss of a Pet

  IT’S EUTHANASIA, CHARLIE BROWN! by Charles M. Schultz

  RIBSY AND THE DRUNK DRIVER by Beverly Cleary

  GARFIELD’S MYOCARDIAL INFARCTION by Jim Davis

  THE CAT IN THE HAT DROPS DEAD by Dr. Seuss

  ARE YOU THERE GOD? WHY DID YOU KILL CUDDLES? by Judy Blume

  FUN FACTS ABOUT DECOMPOSITION by Bill Nye the Science Guy

  WHERE’S WALDO’S DOG? by Martin Handford

  THE BLACK STALLION: FATAL MALNOURISHMENT! by Walter Farley

  ONE FISH, TWO FISH, DEAD FISH, YOUR FAULT by Dr. Seuss

  WHERE THE BREATHING ENDS by Shel Silverstein

  THE VELVETEEN RABBIT STEW by Margery Williams

  SEE SPOT DIE (DICK AND JANE DIG A GRAVE) by Unknown

  WHERE THE WILD THINGS ROT by Maurice Sendak

  PARVO THE PUPPY: A MATTER OF TIME by Ken L. Coff

  YOU SAID CUDDLES WAS IN HEAVEN AND I FOUND HER IN THE TRASH by Erma Bombeck

  HAROLD AND THE PURPLE DECOMPOSING GERBIL by Crockett Johnson

  POLLY WANT A EULOGY? by Nina Laden

  THE BERENSTAIN BEAR RUG by Jan and Stan Berenstain

  ALL DOGS TASTE LIKE CHICKEN a Walt Disney Reader

  WHY WON’T HUCKLE CAT WAKE UP? by Richard Scarry

  THE VERY HUNGRY HAMSTER ATE HER BABIES by Eric Carle

  A.S.P.C.D.O.A. by Sandra Boynton

  BABE THE PORK LOIN by Dick King-Smith

  To skip to another ebook that features one of Harry’s pets, click here.

  To return to the beginning for the gazillionth time, click here.

  Someone knocked on the door of my Winnebago. I’d been expecting Jack, so I told her to come in. She was with Phin, and I could tell by looking at them they were knocking boots. In fact, Cherry Bomb by J.A. Konrath, which this scene was taken from, has some pretty explicit sex in it. You should go buy a copy. In fact, but two. Get one for your mom. She likes sex. She had you, didn’t she?

  “Jesus, Harry, it stinks in here,” Jack said.

  “I’m working on that.”

  I dangled a handful of those cardboard pine-scented car-fresheners shaped like Christmas trees. Unfortunately, they didn’t do much to mask the zoo smell, which was courtesy of my new pet.

  There was a scream to our left, and Jack dropped to one knee and reached for the gun in her purse. I quickly grabbed her wrist.

  “Jack, don’t shoot Slappy!”

  Another screech, coming from the wire cage. Inside the cage was my monkey. It was light brown, perhaps eight or nine pounds, with large brown eyes and the cutest little monkey face.

  Jack put her gun away.

  “This is the extra help you recruited?” she asked.

  I nodded, grinning. “He’s a pig-tailed macaque.” I took care to pronounce it correctly, as mack-a-cue.

  “I think it’s pronounced ma-keek,” Phin said.

  “That’s not what Al told me.”

  “Al?”

  “Al at Al’s Exotic Pets, in Deer Park. He sold him to me this morning.”

  “He’s adorable,” Jack said. “Why’d you name him Slappy?”

  On cue, the monkey slapped himself on the side of the head. He did this over and over, increasing in speed and force. The sound wasn’t unlike applause.

  I frowned. “There wasn’t much of a selection down at Al’s. It was either him or another primate I would have named Gassy. He also had some sort of gibbon, missing an arm and both legs.”

  “Stumpy?” Phin said.

  “More like Sitty. I’ve seen turtles that moved faster. I wonder if he was dead.”

  “I think you chose perfectly,” Jack said.

  Slappy screeched again, baring sharp yellow teeth.

  “You sure he’s tame?”

  “Most of the time. But don’t put your fingers near the cage.”

  Jack knelt down on the carpet to get a closer look. “Hello, Slappy. I’m Jack.”

  Something wet hit me in the cheek. Something wet and brown and horribly stinky.

  “Your monkey threw poop at me.”

  “He does that. There are baby wipes next to his cage.”

  Jack reached for one, and Slappy managed to pitch another slider, which hit Jack in the nose.

  “I think he’
s aiming for my mouth,” Jack said, mopping her face with baby wipes.

  “Are you wearing make-up? He was rescued from a research lab. They tested cosmetics on him. Don’t let him see your lipstick—he gets a little agitated.”

  “I’m not wearing—” I dodged left, a monkey turd zinging by my face. He was definitely aiming for my mouth.

  “I like him,” Phin said. “He’s spunky.”

  Slappy aimed and Phin ducked, dung splattering on the wall.

  “Remind me again why you bought this thing,” Jack said.

  “I wanted to train him to get me beer and watch sports. But all he does is throw feces, hit himself in the face, and scream. He’s kind of a downer.”

  Slappy screamed in agreement. Then pressed his pelvis against the side of the cage and urinated on the floor. The smell was pee times a hundred, and made me cover my nose.

  “He does that too,” I said. “A lot. Al said he knows how to use the toilet.”

  The stream arced through the air, landing on my sofa. I picked up a coffee mug that said Don’t Worry Be Happy and tried to catch the stream. Jack stepped away.

  “I think maybe Al lied to you.”

  Slappy screeched, then began banging his little monkey head into the side of his cage.

  “You should buy him a helmet,” Phin said.

  “He came with one. I took it off, because I thought it was cruel. Now I’m afraid to get close enough to put it back on.”

  Jack crouched down again, warily. “I think you just need to learn some manners, and then you’ll be fine,” she said, her voice soft. “You’re probably just scared. I would be too, living with Harry. But I bet with a few days of training, you’ll be a perfect gentlemen.

  Slappy stopped banging his head and made an adorable cooing sound. Then he grabbed his little monkey ding-dong and began to beat off with frightening intensity, keeping his eyes on Jack the whole time.

  “What does he eat?” Phin asked.

  “It’s called monkey chow. It’s not that bad. Sort of tastes like meat-flavored charcoal briquettes.”

  “You tried it?”

  “Yeah. Want some?”

  “I’m gonna pass on that one.”

  “Slappy hates them. See?”

  I bent over and handed Slappy a tan square object the size of a mini candy bar. Slappy took it, screeched, and bounced the food off of my forehead.