[Chimp!] [Rants!] [Murder!]
Nobody to Kill
NAKED CAME THE DICK
After Dick Burns had finished kicking his dog, he was ready for some lunch. He rustled
up some week-old Chinese food from the Frigidaire and was halfway finished when the
phone rang.
"Burns?"
"No." It was his boss.
"Goddammit Burns! Get your ass down here! We've got a case for you."
"I gave at the office. And anyway, Burns ain't here. This is his mother."
"Shut up. Be here in half an hour or I'll "
Burns hung up. He went to the bathroom, stared into the cracked, toothpaste-splattered
mirror above the sink. He pulled his snub-nosed thirty-eight, scratched for a bogie
up his left nostril, said, "Baby, you're just a cigarette butt in the beer can
of life. Get over it. You got bills to pay."
Burns took a cold shower, splashed himself with some wood alcohol, threw on a crusty
Holiday Inn towel and he was out the door. He took a piss yellow gypsy cab to the
agency, rode the elevator to the seventh floor, whacked open the boss's door with
a dripping wet palm.
"Grab a seat, Burns. And get that gun out of your nose."
"Sorry."
The boss looked angrier than Jesse Helms at a drag freak clambake. He barked into
two telephones at once. His cracked, yellowed dentures clenched a stinking, smoldering,
brown thing that could have been a cigar. The boss was a bald-headed gnome of a man
with moist, bloodshot eyes like a sow in heat. Swollen flaps of sweaty flesh oozed
from the collars and cuffs of his ill-fitting blue serge three-piece. It looked as
if the suit was vomiting lard. The jar-like shape of the boss's head, combined with
the office's unusual smell, reminded Burns of a jar of pickled eggs gone bad. Burns
sat himself in the polished leather chair across from the boss's carved walnut desk
and waited for the hectic phone conversations to end. The boss hung up both lines
at the same time, waddled over to the wet bar, grunted, "The usual?"
"Got any cleaning fluid?"
"No. Just bourbon."
"Give it to me."
The boss poured a double highball, splashed some Rose's grenadine, tossed in a baby
onion. He handed the drink to Burns who gulped it in one swig.
"Found a body in your bathtub last night, Burns. What do you have to say for
yourself?"
"I got an alibi. I was screwing your wife."
"My wife's dead, Burns."
"She is now."
"Never mind." The boss reached into a drawer, pulled a dog-eared black
and white photo of a naked man with a butcher's knife in his head. He threw it on
the table, said, "Look familiar?"
Burns sniffed his drink. "Looks like a naked man with a butcher's knife in his
head."
"Smart boy. You're the lucky stiff that gets to find out who's behind it. And
I don't mean next week."
Burns scratched his ass, lit a cigarette, said, "Any suspects?"
"Apart from you? No. But we did find this." The boss pulled out a strand
of bloodstained cheesecloth and a business card that read, "Doug Smith, Family
Butcher, (Families Butchered Daily)."
"Smith, eh? Sounds like a Grade A lunatic to me." Burns put the cigarette
out in the palm of his hand, narrowly missing his UPC tattoo. Several scabs festered
there, including a recent stigmata scar, and a note that he wrote to himself with
a rusty fountain pen to pick up the dog's scrofula medicine. "Who's the client?"
"Name's Lana Burner. The grinner's her husband. She's paying us five G's plus
expenses." The boss tossed him a wad of bills that was thicker than his dick.
"Nice timing. My rent's three months passed due."
"You'll like this broad, Burns. Built like the Hoover Dam and twice as moist.
So, try not to screw up this time like you did the Shriner case."
Burns smiled to himself. "I didn't kill anybody who wasn't going to die anyway.
Besides, one of them ran over my little piggy toe with a go cart."
The boss turned to some paperwork. "Get to work. And Burns?"
"Yeah?"
"Put some clothes on."
THE LADY IN RED
Burns went to his office on the eighth floor. A painter was busily rubbing out
"Richard Q. Burns, Wholesale Poulterer" with paint thinner. Burns shoved
him out of his way, knocking the painter into a can of thinner. The painter cursed
and began mopping himself up.
Burns' secretary Marge was at the front desk quietly adjusting her breasts and snapping
gum. She said, "There's a Mrs. Burner in to see you, Dick. She claimed it was
urgent so I..."
Burns groaned, lit up another cigarette. He tossed the burning match over his shoulder
into the half-empty can of paint thinner, torching the hapless painter and sending
him screaming down the hallway. Marge dashed after him with a Dixie cup full of spring
water. Burns reached into a jelly bean jar, pulled out a fist-full of Savage Pleasure
condoms. He thrust them deep into his suit pocket and entered his office.
A redhead in stiletto heels, a black silk mini-dress and a veil was sitting on his
desk with her legs jack-knifed. Her skirt was hiked up to her waist and she was busy
tightening her black lace garter belt. She looked about fifteen but could pass for
twenty-two. She looked like she did that for a living. Her body was the kind that
makes adolescent boys do things to themselves. Burns tried in vain to hide the prominent
bulge protruding from his seersucker slacks. The slit on her skirt went halfway to
Des Moines.
"Get off my desk."
"Oh, Mr. Burns," the redhead cried, throwing down her skirt, "you're
finally here. You must help me. My husbandmy husband was ."
"Shut up and get off my desk."
She continued to sit on his desk and began crying into her hands. Burns slammed the
door, trudged over to the liquor cabinet. His trouser bulge knocked over a bottle
of rye. It was going to be one of those days, he thought. Burns cursed, then he remembered
that he didn't like rye. He felt better, poured two scotches, handed one to the sobbing
redhead. He sat down, put his feet up on the table, pulled the bloody business card
from his suit pocket, tossed it at Mrs. Burner.
"Know anybody named Doug Smith?" Burns asked, putting the cigarette out
in his hand.
"Why why yes, I do. He he's a friend of mine."
By the way she'd said "friend," Burns figured Smith was getting his hose
stretched courtesy Mrs. Burner. It was written all over her Revlon Cherry Frost lips.
Burns took his feet off of the desk, leaned close to her. "Alright, ma'am. If
you want me to find the guy who did the deli slice number on your old man, you've
gotta come clean." He leaned back in his chair. "Spill it. You and Smith
were dry humping, weren't you?"
"No!"
"You turned him on to water sports."
"No!"
"You gave him upper GI's."
"No!"
"You made him watch you pee."
"No! Mr. Burns, I've I've been completely faithful to Henry," she begged,
her long red fingernails nervously darting towards her ample cleavage. She eyed Burns's
bulge, which was now beginning to pulse dramatically.
"Looky here, ma'am. I'm just the poor shamus you've hired to find whoever offed
your hubby. I'm going to need something to work with, see? What's your relationship
with this Smith character?"
She wiped her nose. "He he used to deliver meat to my icebox."
Burns arched an eyebrow.
"I mean, he he used to be our household butcher. But since Henry and I starting
having a few marital problems, Doug and I became very close. It was so good having
someone to talk to. Then, yesterday I found my husband I found him in the kitchen
and oh, it was just so horrible!" The girl swigged her drink, wiped a tear from
her cheek.
"So Smith wouldn't have any reason to kill your husband."
"Why, no, none whatsoever."
"Did your husband have any insurance, Mrs. Burner?"
The girl shrugged. "Just a $100,000 triple indemnity policy in case of death
by cutlery. Why do you ask?"
"Just curious. You doing anything tomorrow night?"
She flashed him a coy grin. "Why, Mr. Burns! Are you trying to pick up on a
widow?"
Burns gave her an open-handed slap in the mouth. "I'm asking the questions around
here, Red! Where were you between the hours of eight and eleven last Thursday night?"
"I I was playing Yahtzee."
"With who?"
"Nobody just myself."
"Where?"
"In the basement of my home."
"Mrs. Burner?"
"Yes?"
"Your home doesn't have a basement and it's impossible to play Yahtzee by yourself."
"Oh, what difference does it make. I love you, Dick! You must help me."
She leapt up from the table, threw her arms around him and began emitting low moans.
She emphatically humped Burns's leg with the monotonous rhythm of a James Brown bass
line. Burns tossed his drink in her face, pulled his gun.
"Get me some coffee.
DICK ON ICE
Mrs. Burner wiped her face, sashayed over to the Bunn-o-matic Quadruplex Imperial
coffee machine, put on a pot of water to boil. She turned around, spread her legs
and leaned back, staring Burns in the eye and quietly licking her swollen, beestung
lips.
"How do you take it?" she whispered.
"Usually packed to the rim with ice." Burns lit another cigarette, eyed
his fresh new client. He thought about the poor slob with the cleaver in his head.
Burns could see why some guy would want to kill for her. Some women would probably
do it too.
"I like it boiling hot," she muttered, stroking the chrome Half-and-Half
thermos. "Pumped full of steaming cream, with a long, thick stick of cinnamon
thrust in. I get the impression you're tired of the ordinary grind, Mr. Burns. You're
looking for something exotic, something spicy. Why do you take yours cold?"
"August in D.C. can be hell, sister. I just like to watch the sweat roll down
the sides. Especially in weather like this." Burns looked out the window. On
the ledge, a pigeon burst into flames.
Mrs. Burner closed her eyes and imagined a tall glass of iced latté. She shivered.
Burns put his drink down, walked over, put his arms around her. Burns' bulge poked
her in her gut. Her bedroom eyes met his. She purred, "We are talking about
coffee aren't we Mr. Burns?"
"No, we're talking about Dianetics. What the hell do you think we're talking
about?"
"Kiss me, Dick."
"Shut up." Burns backed off. "Right now, you're my prime suspect,
Mrs. Burner."
"Oh my God! That's absurd. Why would I hire someone to investigate a murder
that I was guilty of?"
"Beats the crap out of me. But right now, you've gotta scram. I've got people
to talk to and deals to cut."
She picked up her purse, opened it, handed Burns her card.
"If you need me, Mr. Burns, just give a holler. You know how to holler, don't
you, Mr. Burns? Just open your mouth and scream."
She turned and walked towards the door. From Burns's angle, she looked like two bald
circus midgets wrestling under a silk blanket.
DEAD YUPPIES DON'T TALK
Burns stopped by Doug Smith's butcher shop. It was locked up tighter than a sorority
girl's sphincter. Peering in through the front window, he saw various carcasses hanging
from the rafters. In the door, a sign written in crayon read: "Am across the
street getting drunk. Back in six hours." Burns weaved through the rush hour
traffic to the bar. The ten-foot-high neon lights said "Baby Boomers."
He lit a cigarette, squinted at the faded Xerox menu in the window. In a cute cursive
script, the menu promised, "Enjoy your yuppie meal in an authentic exploding
infant atmosphere."
Burns shoved his way through the five dollar Bud-swilling crowd, bellied up to the
fern bar. He grabbed the bartender by the collar, screamed, "Where the hell's
Smith?" The shaking bartender's beady eyes darted towards the rear of the crowd.
He pointed with his chin towards a back corner booth. Burns followed his gaze, saw
two ill-matched gentlemen squatting like toads in the darkness, silently playing
dominoes. The fatter of the two was wearing Ray Bans, a battered trenchcoat, and
a red mohair wig. He was about as conspicuous as a headless nun at a Latin mass.
The other Jake wore a bloodstained apron, Coke bottle glasses and was nursing a foaming
drink in a tiki god glass. He wore lard in his hair and his face looked like a plate
of cold grits. Burns let go of the bartender, flicked off the safety of his gun and
walked over to the booth.
Burns leaned over the table, his knuckels resting on a pair of Guinness coasters,
said, "'Scuze me, gents. Which one of you is Doug Smith?"
The pasty-faced joker in the wig abruptly stood up, pushed past Burns and headed
for the door. Before Burns could turn to shoot him in the ass, a furry hand grabbed
his arm.
"You'll have to excuse my friend. He's been having problems with his bowels."
"You Smith?"
The bloody apron guy downed his tiki drink, wiped his lips.
"What if I was?" he spat, shoving three filterless Camels into his gap-toothed
mouth. "You looking to fuck this Smith guy in the ass?"
Burns grabbed the joker by the lapels. The cherry of his cigarette was a dime's width
from the man's eyeball. Burns blew thick cotton balls of smoke into the shivering
butcher's eyes.
"Listen, butcherboy, I ain't getting paid to put up with your lip, see?"
Burns put the cigarette out on his own neck. "I got a couple questions for you."
Burns shoved him down into the worn leather of the booth. Still shaking, Smith lit
his smokes, inhaled deeply. Burns wedged in next to him, motioned for the waitress.
He pulled out his tobacco pouch and began rolling another cigarette.
"Name's Burns. I got a client with a funny story. A real gut-buster. She claims
you gave her husband a discount lobotomy."
"Lana Burner, eh? That tramp is lying through her eye teeth. I've got an alibi.
I was screwing your boss's wife."
"You and half the butchers in the neighborhood. Spill."
"Mr. Big Dick, huh?" he sneered. "OK. I was playing Yahtzee with her
in the basement when the old man took the dirt nap. Honest injun."
A bored looking waitress in cut-offs and a wet t-shirt minced over to their table.
"What can I do you for, boys."
"Three triple vodkas for my friend here," Burns muttered. "Gimme a
Yoo-Hoo in a dirty glass with a SportShake chaser."
Burns and Smith watched the waitress disappear into the undulating crowd of legal
secretaries, paralegals, and congressional aides. Burns fumbled for a lighter. Smith
offered his. Burns took it, lit his cigarette, took a deep drag said, "Burner
claims she was playing Yahtzee by herself."
"Bull. You can't play Yahtzee by yourself."
Burns toyed with the lighter. "That's what I told her. But she figures different.
She says you didn't like the old man. Something about recovering repressed memories
of your 4-H club being a satanic cult."
Smith mugged, "You're one funny fuck, buddyboy."
"I'm from D.C."
Smith nodded knowingly. The waitress returned and served the drinks. Smith slammed
the three vodkas in rapid succession. While he wasn't looking, Burns pocketed Smith's
lighter.
Smith wiped his mouth with his shirtsleeve. "Trying to get me drunk so you can
milk me for some evidence, eh, Burns?"
"No. It's Be Kind to Lard-headed Meatpackers Week."
"You're a real rib tickler, Burns. I like that." He finished his last drink,
wiped his quivering liver lips on a snot-encrusted hankie. "Tell you what, dick.
I'll give you a hint." Smith leaned over the table, whispered, "Mr. Burner
he liked little boys. No lie, G.I."
There was nothing in that for Burns, so he let it ride. Smith got up, winked at Burns
and walked towards the door. Burns hustled over to the payphone by the crapper, put
a call through to the boss.
The voice on the line barked, "Yeah? Whatisit?"
"Listen, boss. I'm having a rough time with Smith. He talks a lot, but he ain't
saying much. He's making about as much sense as buying retail."
"We've got worse problems. Burner's body's disappeared from the morgue and the
wife's split town with the insurance money."
"That's fine. I get paid anyway." Burns hung up. He went to the bathroom,
removed an eighth of a stick of dynamite, lit the two minute fuse and left. Outside,
an attractive couple in matching Hard Rock Cafe t-shirts started to enter the bar.
Burns stopped them.
"I wouldn't go in there if I was you. The service sucks."
I SEE MY CLIENT NAKED
"Looks like this case was solved for you, Burns," the boss mumbled,
chewing on another stinky brown thing. "The Burner kill was a set-piece. He
faked his death for the insurance money and then split town with the wife. The old
lady was in on the grift. She cashed the check at a bait-and-tackle shop outside
Annapolis and that's the last anyone's heard of her."
Burns sniffed. "Uh-huh. Next you'll tell me there aren't any alien slave camps
on the moon. I don't buy it, boss. Too simple. Too clean cut. This was an inside
job. I'm staking out Burner's crib."
"How you spend your spare time is your own business, Burns. But remember, you're
not on the company clock."
"Meaning?"
"Meaning, you can forget about writing-off your motel nooners as business expenses."
Burns took a cab up to Burner's house and hid in the bushes. Three days later, a
tan Buick with Maryland plates and a "Get us out of the U.N" bumpersticker
pulled into the driveway. Lana Burner and Doug Smith emerged from the car, walked
up the pebble driveway and entered through the garage. They peered around nervously
like a pair of amputee kids who'd gotten their stumps caught in the cookie jar. Burns
got out of the bushes, skulked around to the rear of the house. He squinted through
the kitchen window. Doug and Lana were splitting up bundles of cash between them.
The doorbell buzzed. Doug left to answer it. He returned with the mohair wig man
that Burns saw in the bar. The man shook hands with Lana, pulled a chrome-plated
automatic. The two men pushed her up against the counter. The mohair man handed Smith
the pistol, climbed up on the kitchen table and began stringing a noose from the
rafters. Burns backed up about twenty feet from the kitchen window, pulled his piece,
took a running leap and crashed through onto the kitchen floor.
"Nobody move or they get a spare navel! Throw the heat on the floor, Smith."
Smith gingerly placed the gun on the floor, slid it towards Burns. Burns squatted
down, picked up the gun. The mohair man started to inch towards the door. Burns pivoted,
pointed a gun at the mohair man's nuts.
"Not so fast, lardass. Or should I say, Mr. Burner."
The mohair man turned in awe. "How how did you know?"
"Simple." Burns said, stuffing a smoke in his mouth. "Next time you
wear a wig, try taking the cleaver out of the back of your head. I noticed it as
you brushed past me in the bar. Alright kiddies, time to tell Uncle Dick what this
is all about before he shoots your eyes out."
"Oh, Dick," Lana screamed. "I'm so glad you've come. They were going
to "
Burns gave her an open-handed slap in the mouth.
"Put a sock in it, sister. I wouldn't trust you with my old gym shorts. Up against
the wall."
"Nice going, Burns," Smith snickered, "I didn't think you'd get my
hint."
"Yeah, that 'little boys' reference cinched if for me. I figured you and the
lady here had planned to off her husband for the insurance money. Except she didn't
know that you and Mr. Burner had been bisexual fuck bunnies since gas was a buck
a gallon. You had Fatso here fake his death, then had Lana cash the insurance check
and meet up with you here. Then you two were going to wax Lana and make it look like
autoerotic asphyxiation. Then it's off to Fire Island for the both of you. Very clever.
But not clever enough."
"Oh, Dick," Lana cried.
"As for you, my little hatchet wound, you played me for the one-two sucker punch;
cosying up to me, getting me to play the Knight in Shining Seersucker for you. You
knew I'd be here waiting. You were hoping I'd plug loverboy over here, then ride
off into the Technicolor sunset with you and the oodles of kale you scammed off the
insurance company. Except that wouldn't be enough for you, would it? You're the all-or-nothing
type. Barney never taught you how to share, so the day after we get to the Alcupulco
Hilton, I wake up with no head. But you didn't count on one thing, baby. Dick Burns
don't take the fall for nobody, see? Not the IRS or the alien sex bankers or any
woman, regardless of how big their butts are."
Burns put the gun muzzle to the tip of cigarette, fired, inhaled deeply. "Goddamn
queer libertarians; make me want to puke up my toenails. The way you run these sleazy
grifts, scamming insurance policies, all the time pissing and moaning about Federal
deregulation. It just ain't American. How the hell are we supposed to get honest-to-goodness
healthcare reform with you tools pulling stunts like this?"
Lana, her husband and Smith stared at Burns, jaws dropped, their eyes as vacant as
a gutted crackhouse. They looked like they'd just been told that 1972 never happened.
"Well it's gonna end now. Here. With the three of you. Everybody up on the table!"
The three criminals hopped on the table. Burns made them take off their clothes,
loop nooses around each other's necks, and tie eachothers hands behind their backs.
Burns tied the ends of the nooses to the ceiling rafters
"Now we're gonna play a little game. Maybe you've heard of it. I call it, 'Hangman.'"
Burns shot out two of the legs on opposite corners of the kitchen table. It wobbled
dangerously under the three naked criminals. The slightest shift of weight caused
it to come closer to tipping over and taking their lives with them. Burns put the
cigarette out on his ankle, dialed-up the DA and the insurance company. He noticed
that Mr. Burner and Doug Smith couldn't hide their excitement. It looked like they'd
done this sort of thing before. Either way, they wouldn't be doing it again.
"Don't worry, folks. Given some luck, someone might show in a few hours."
Burns picked his hat up from the floor, brushed off the broken glass, headed for
the front door. "As for you, angel, I'm sorry we couldn't be Coffeemates. But
I'll always remember you when I grind my beans."
Burns slammed the door behind him.
On the way to the bus stop, Burns noticed a four year old playing with a puppy. Burns
remembered that he still had Mr. Burner's gun in his pocket. Smiling, Burns gave
the gun to the tot, who promptly ran back into his house to play. Burns gave the
puppy a good swift kick, took the Buzzard Point Express downtown to pick up his dog's
scrofula medicine.
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