Banana Hammock (13 page)

I took out my pencil and reviewed my stake-out sheet.

9:46pm—Climbed tree.

9:55pm—My face hurts.

10:07pm—It really hurts bad.

10:22pm—I think I’ll go see a doctor.

10:45pm—Maybe the drug store has some kind of cream.

I added, “11:07pm—Spotted evidence in backyard. Remember to pick up some aloe vera on the way home.”

Before I had a chance to cross my Ts, the patio door opened.

I didn’t even need the binoculars. A man, mid-forties with short, brown hair, was walking a dog that was obviously a Shar-pei.

Though my track-team days were far behind me (okay, non-existent), I still managed to leap down from the tree without hurting myself.

The man yelped in surprise, but I had my gun out and in his face before he had a chance to move.

“Hi there, Mr. Ricketts. Kneel down.”

“Who are you? What do…”

I cocked the gun.

“Kneel!”

He knelt.

“Good. Now lift up that dog’s back leg.”

“What?”

“Now!”

Glen Ricketts lifted. I checked.

It was Marcus.

“Leash,” I ordered.

He handed me the leash. My third dog in two days, but this time it was the right one.

Now for Part Two of the Big Plan.

“Do you know who I am, Glen?”

He shook his head, terrified.

“Special Agent Phillip Pants, of the American Kennel Club. Do you know why I’m here?”

He shook his head again.

“Don’t lie to me, Glen! Does the AKC allow dognapping?”

“No,” he whimpered.

“Your dog show days are over, Ricketts. Consider your membership revoked. If I so much catch you in the pet food isle at the Piggly Wiggly, I’m going to take you in and have you neutered. Got it?”

He nodded, eager to please. I gave Marcus a pat on the head, and then turned to leave.

“Hold on!”

Glen’s eyes were defeated, pleading.

“What?”

“You mean I can’t own a dog, ever again?”

“Not ever.”

“But…but…dogs are my life. I love dogs.”

“And that’s why you should have never stole someone else’s.”

He sniffled, loud and wet.

“What am I supposed to do now?”

I frowned. Grown men crying like babies weren’t my favorite thing to watch. But this joker had brought it upon himself.

“Buy a cat,” I told him.

Then I walked back to my car, Marcus in tow.

“Marcus!”

I watching, grinning, as Vincent Thorpe paid no mind to his expensive suit and rolled around on my floor with his dog, giggling like a caffeinated school boy.

“Mr. McGlade, how can I ever repay you?”

“Cash is good.”

He disentangled himself from the pooch long enough to pull out his wallet and hand over a fat wad of bills.

“Tell me, how did you know it was Glen Rickets?”

“Simple. You said yourself that he was always one of your closest competitors, up until his dog died earlier this year.”

“But what about Ms. Cummings? I talked to her on the phone. I even dropped the dog off at her house, and she took him from me. Wasn’t she involved somehow?”

“The phone was easy—Ms. Cummings has a voice like a chainsaw. With practice, anyone can imitate a smoker’s croak. But Glen really got clever for the meeting. He picked a time when Ms. Cummings was out of town, and then he spent a good hour or two with Max Factor.”

“Excuse me?”

“Cosmetics. As you recall, Abigail Cummings wore enough make-up to cause back-problems. Who could tell what she looked like under all that gunk? Glen just slopped on enough to look like a circus clown, and then he impersonated her.”

Thorpe shook his head, clucking his tongue.

“So it wasn’t actually Abigail. It was Glen all along. Such a nice guy, too.”

“It’s the nice ones you have to watch.”

“So, now what? Should I call the police?”

“No need. Glen won’t be bothering you, or any dog owner, ever again.”

I gave him the quick version of the backyard scene.

“He deserves it, taking Marcus from me. But now I have you back, don’t I, boy?”

There was more wrestling, and he actually kissed Marcus on the mouth.

“Kind of unsanitary, isn’t it?”

“Are you kidding? A dog’s saliva is full of antiseptic properties.”

“I was speaking for Marcus.”

Thorpe laughed. “Friendship transcends species, Mr. McGlade. Speaking of which, where’s that Collie/Shepherd mix that Abigail gave you?”

“At my apartment.”

“See? You’ve made a new friend, yourself.”

“Nope. I’ve got a six o’clock appointment at the animal shelter. I’m getting him gassed.”

Thorpe shot me surprised look.

“Mr. McGlade! After this whole ordeal, don’t you see what amazing companions canines are? A dog can enrich your life! All you have to do is give him a chance.”

I mulled it over. How bad could it be, having a friend who never borrowed money, stole your girl, or talked behind your back?

“You know what, Mr. Thorpe? I may just give it a shot.”

When I got home a few hours later, I discovered my new best friend had chewed the padding off of my leather couch.

I made it to the shelter an hour before my scheduled appointment.

The end.

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Through the magic of
Write Your Own Damn Story
technology, I went back in time a few sentences.

“Mr. McGlade! After this whole ordeal, don’t you see what amazing companions canines are? A dog can enrich your life! All you have to do is give him a chance.”

I mulled it over. How bad could it be, having a friend who never borrowed money, stole your girl, or talked behind your back?

“You know what, Mr. Thorpe? I may just give it a shot.”

When I got home a few hours later, I discovered my new best friend had chewed the padding off of my leather couch. So I dropped him off at the cosmetics factory, where he was kept in a small cage, starved, and subjected to painful experiments. But he didn’t die for a long time.

The end.

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There were a lot of Amish in the Amish settlement, and if I had to personally beat up every single one of them to find out who Lulu’s husband was sleeping with, I’d do it. Even if it took weeks of non-stop beatings.

Walking though the corn, I stopped at a plain-looking house, which was in plain view. After knocking on the door, some plain chick answered.

“May I help you, Brother?”

“Yes. My name is Brother Karamazov. I’d like to speak to your husband.”

“Amos?”

“Is every man in this village named Amos?”

“All the ones named Amos are.”

“You going to let me in or what? Didn’t God say be nice to strangers in one of those bible things?”

“Please come in, Brother Karamozov. But I must beseech you not to bother our son, Little Amos. His pet rabbit just passed away, and he’s in a terrible state. He had that rabbit for six years.”

I stuck my head in the door. “Is that rabbit stew I smell?”

“No, that’s a chateau Briand. We wouldn’t be so cruel as to eat Little Amos’s pet. Instead, we chopped up the corpse, threw it in the compost heap, and will use it to fertilize our vegetable garden.”

“Neat. You letting me in, or what?”

She opened the door, and I stepped into their plain little house. Little Amos was sitting at the dinner table, tears on his chubby red cheeks. Since nothing tugs at my heartstrings like a child in need, and since I’m a caring, consoling type, I sat next to him.

“Cheer up, little buckaroo. I heard about your bunny. But that’s just part of God’s master plan. See, God kills everything we love. One day He’ll kill your mommy and your daddy. He’ll even kill you.”

Little Amos began to cry even harder.

“Christ, don’t be a baby about it. What are you, seven years old? Time to thicken up that skin, Mr. Girlypants.”

That pep talk didn’t work, either. Neither did offering the kid the good luck charm on my keychain, a rabbit’s foot. I tried slapping the sorrow out of him, but that seemed to have an adverse effect. Finally, with no other options left, I resorted to technology and pulled my Nook 3 from my jacket pocket.

Yes, the Nook 3 is so small, it fits in your pocket. It also has 50% better contrast on the e-ink screen. What will those Barnes & Noble geniuses think of next?

“Look, kid. Do you like to read?”

He sniffled and nodded. “I read my bible every day.”

“Well this little device has a lot of fictional books on it, just like the bible. In fact, a lot of them are for children to help them cope with the loss of a pet. I bet they’ll really help you get over your bunny rabbit’s death.”

“Can I see it?”

“No. This is mine. Use your own Nook.”

“But I don’t have a Nook.”

“Sucks to be you. And you know what else you don’t have? A bunny. Now tell me, is your dad snogging some ho name Lulu?”

“What’s snogging?”

“It’s flarching, without the gas.”

He shook his little, tear-stained head. “No, Brother. My father was attacked by some mean men who want us to leave our homes so they can build strip malls.”

“Cool,” I said, imagining a mall full of strippers.

“So he’s not snogging or flarching anyone, because they stomped on his junk and it swelled up to the size of a pumpkin.”

“Must be tough for him to find slacks that fit.”

“Can we help you with anything else, Brother Karamozov?” Little Amos’s mother asked.

“No. I’ll just be taking a plate of chateau Briand, and I’ll be on my way.”

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“I need your help, McGlade.”

I stared at the timecaster, Talon Avalon, standing in my doorway. Talon was a cop who could see into the past, thereby being able to solve any crimes. Except now he was on the run, having been framed. Or some convoluted shit like that. Read the book if you want the whole backstory.

“I figured you did,” I said. “Can you pay?”

“Eventually. I’m having a little chip problem at the moment.” Talon held up his arm, showing me the hole. In this current year of 2054, all money was extracted from bank accounts through implanted biochips. But apparently, someone had extracted Talon’s chip by cutting open his arm. One helluva withdrawl.

“An IOU from a lifer ain’t worth much,” I said.

“I won’t be a lifer. They’ll kill me in prison. I’ll make sure you’re a beneficiary on my insurance.”

I brightened at that. “Okay. C’mon in. Have a seat in my office. I’ll get some P&P.”

“Nothing too heavy. I have to keep my wits.”

I snorted. “What wits?”

I was two steps away when Talon screamed after me. “McGlade! You have a pet?”

“Yeah. His name is Penis. Don’t step on him.”

“I stepped on something else.”

“Smells awful, doesn’t it? They don’t tell you that at the genipet store.”

Penis was a genetically modified African elephant. Brown and hairy and about the size of a raccoon. I grabbed the pills and pot and heard Penis trumpet as I walked back to the office.

“Hello, Peanuts,” Talon said, giving the elephant a scratch on the head.

“Not
Peantus,
” I corrected, scooping up the elephant and holding him at eye-level. “
Penis.
Check out the size of his junk.”

My elephant did, indeed, have impressive junk.

“It’s like a second trunk,” I marveled. “You want to touch it?”

I shoved the elephant in Talon’s face, its lengthy dong flopping around and threatening to take out one of his eyes.

“No thanks.”

“He’s a bonsai elephant.” I set the pachyderm down. “That’s as big as he gets.”

“He’s… very elephantish.”

“Yeah. I gotta get him a mate. Problem is, they’re so freakin’ expensive. I tried a few non-elephant surrogates. A cat and a poodle. He killed them both.”

“His tusks?”

“Naw. Slipping them the high, hard one.”

“Nice.”

“They both sounded like they died happy. The poodle especially. Vet said it was a heart attack.”

“And the cat?”

“Internal bleeding. Here, take these.” I handed him six pills.

“What are they?”

“Morphine, hash, and valium.”

“There’s enough here to kill me, McGlade.”

“The other three are speed, so you don’t lapse into a coma. Take them and go shower. There’s a robe hanging in the bathroom.”

“Is the robe clean?”

“No. But after the pills, you won’t care.”

While Talon was in the shower, I took a few pills myself. Just to relax a bit, before operating on him. I wasn’t a doctor, but I knew my way around a scalpel. Basically, there was a sharp end, and a dull end. The sharp end was the one you cut with.

I placed my scalpel, and several other sharp tools, on the table.

“I’m in the office!” I yelled when I heard the water shut off.

“What’s all that for, McGlade?” Talon asked when he trudged in. He looked pale.

“This is why you came to me, isn’t it, Talon? They switched off your headphone, and you want it working again. Right?”

“Yeah.”

“How do you think that’ll happen? Hope and a head massage?”

“Have you done this before?”

“Four times. Two of them successful. I’m charging you five thousand credits for this, by the way. That includes patching up your arm and hand.”

“I also have some broken ribs.”

“We’ll call it an even fifty-five hundred. Though tipping isn’t discouraged.”

“I dunno about this, McGlade.”

“Don’t worry. Penis is here to help.”

Penis was standing on the table, holding a scalpel in his trunk. Talon giggled. The drugs were primo. And legal. All drugs were legal. What a wonderful future, wasn’t it?