The Defective Cat Detective

One

Blister in the Sun

T

he screaming shadow woke me from my nap. I caught it just as it slid across the floor, ended with a screech of rubber on the hazy, steaming tarmac of National Airport. I yawned, walked over to the bathroom, took a long satisfying dump, sprawled out beneath a shaft of bloody sunlight on the linoleum that stank of Mr. Clean. Outside, the evening was riding herself across the DC skyline back into hell where it belonged.

It was a day like any other, another day ending with a "y." That got me to thinking about all the wasted afternoons, like quicksilver lost in a nest of cracks; who the hell knew where they went, let alone cared? I could even hear the oars beating against the tide, rowing me relentlessly back into a past that I couldn't crawl out of the catnip to be bothered with. I've chewed on the self-help paperbacks. Waxing existential about such things is the sign of a USDA Prime fruitcake. Prozac Material of the First Water. I knew the type like I knew my butthole. In my line of work you get to know the hell out of them. "How's the wife and kids?" I'd purr, and then it'd be dinner at their place and maybe a quick one on top of the sofa with the sweet new client, or her little sister. I was starting to worry that I'd become one of them; one of the insensate meat puppets, Menken's booboisie. But that's the price I pay for playing the detective game: getting drinks thrown in my face by thick-heeled broads, running up liquor tabs like cheap roller blinds.

I'd fooled myself into thinking that one day, I'd sock away enough jack to claw out of this upholstered litterbox with my mind or my liver intact, one or the other. Then it was the picket-fence-one-up-two-down-in-the-slugburgs-crap, stuff that would make Norman Rockwell shit himself. I'd settle down with the mail-order Filipino child bride, pump out a litter, look in the mirror every morning and watch myself die. This was the fuzzy little nightmare I held onto like a balled-up gym sock. But I'd always wake up in the same haze, surrounded by the same dead soldiers of cut-rate hooch, my head pasted to the floor with dried vomit. Then, there's the real client banging on the office door. Here's where the shit comes down.

My name's Pussins. I'm a goddamned, fucking cat detective.

I sublet my office to a joker named Burns. We've got a sweetheart deal: he makes the money, I spend it. He's a fool, but I don't play favorites. He dresses like a colorblind cakeboy but he treats me aces. Burns smells a little funny, but I'm on the square with him. We have this bargain: I don't shit on the carpet and he doesn't stomp the shit out of me. He treats me about as well as a dipsomaniac can treat a Maine coon cat with three good legs and a jeweled eye patch. When he's in the mood, he even throws a little business my way, but that's only because he's too drunk to spell his own name. But that's jake with me, because I can't read.

Burns wasn't doing much that day, just playing canasta with himself, listening to Violent Femmes, and wiping the sweat from the back of his neck with a handful of Popeye's Chicken napkins. The air conditioner, not unlike the DC government, was broke, refused to work, and was being "repaired" by an absentee crackhead whose vocabulary consisted of the words "empowerment," "racist," and "creating a living downtown." The office had the usual choice furniture that a private skulk picks up at foreclosure auctions: empty filing cabinets, sheet metal desk, squeaky recliner. The desk was littered with useless crap; Cracker Jack toys; condom wrappers; a little banjo made out of rubber bands, toilet paper tubes, and a shoebox. There were four half-empty mugs of week-old coffee. The spill patterns made concentric circles that formed something like the Olympics symbol on a calendar blotter that was three years out of date back when Nancy Reagan was running the country with her astrologer.

Every once in a while, Burns would peer up at his misspelled name on the pebbled glass of the office door, lift a buttcheek, and fart. If he was lucky, a slim shadow would fall across the glass. A drop-dead gorgeous battery acid blonde, swathed in red silk, would drift in like low tide. She'd have that winsome, far away look that goes right past you, through to that guy behind you with the pocket full of dough and a woody full of goo. Miss Trouble would mince in, trade a few choice barbs with Burns, share a glass of his rotgut, and they'd proceed to make a big goddamn mess on the carpet. He'd spend the next twelve minutes shooing me away from his ballsack as tries his best to keep it hard. That is, if he was lucky.

His luck ran out that day.

I was licking my butt when I saw him waddle through the door. He was a mothballed battleship of a man in his powder blue seersucker suit, straw boater cap, white kid penny loafers. The buttons on his jacket were the size and shape of hand grenades, except they were fire extinguisher red. What little hair he had was the color of sunbaked poop and cropped short like a Marine or a queer. He was shaped like a baby grand piano and he smelled like he'd just waded through a cholera epidemic. Hairy knuckles removed his straw cap, dabbed his sweaty forehead with a monogrammed handkerchief. His fingers looked like ten stubby strands of hemp rope. A rustling, squeaky noise came from beneath his suit when he waddled, as if his clothes contained a small animal that was being vigorously rubbed against a washboard. His name was Fribbage O'Shaunnesey.

He wheezed, "Shame on you, Burns. You ain't called Ma in weeks. She's worried sick about you."

Burns mumbled something at the dogeared playing cards. He didn't look up. The back of the cards displayed pictures of women in various stages of undress. "Just got into town this morning. Been out riding the rails, y'know? I woke up last week in Tahoe, figured I'd stay a spell, scope out some retirement properties out off of Donner Lake. Got to hanging around for a couple of days and got my bearings repacked by a lap dancer friend of mine."

"You should have told me. I could have given you a good deal. You'd be walking funny for a few days, though."

"How's the old lady?"

"Same old same old," the fat man shrugged. "She's just done shooting a box cover up at Raremy's. Big pro-am number, it is. Ma gets a real kick outta working with the younger people. She's hip to their music. And I don't mind her bringing her new friends 'round the old homestead for cocktails after, and a little...you know." He smirked, made a little thrusting motion with his hips like he was wiping his butt on a fence.

"You're talking at the choir, Junior. Your Ma and I were swingers back when Saturday Night Live was funny." Burns dealt two cards, sneered, tossed the rest of the pack in a drawer. He pulled out a sock puppet with big brown buttons for eyes. "Box cover, huh? You wouldn't happen to have a copy? Lefty here's been pretty lonely."

Fribbage winked, reached into his breast pocket, produced a color mechanical of the box cover, handed it to Burns. The 11 x18 galley proof showed a soft focus Annette Haven in a black lace granny outfit, wire-rimmed cheaters, left breast exposed, sprawled out in a hydrotherapy pool. She was surrounded by a dozen oiled, hung studs in Speedos who leered intently at her. The title said, "Retirement Home Hotties" in swollen, fleshy letters.

Burns unzipped his fly, sniffed, "Been meaning to ask you, Fribbage. Doesn't it bug you, your mom still doing this stuff at her age?"

He shrugged. "You get used to it. The shoot's pretty tasteful, really. The set's done up with some really nice Laura Ashley wallpaper and drapes and such. 'Course, the old lady's looking as good as ever." He seemed very proud.

"That goes without saying." Burns started busting knuckle babies with the puppet under his desk. Soft grunting noises came from his throat. His eyes rolled into the back of his head.

"Anyway, that's not why I'm here, Burns. I've come to ask a favor."

I didn't like the sound of that. I went back to licking my butt. "Whatever goes with a buck," Burns quipped. "Except forced sodomy with a toilet plunger. I get three-fifty for that. Who does baby get to fuck?"

Fribbage furrowed his single eyebrow, whispered, "You heard about Jet Leigh?"

I barked up a hairball. Burns dropped his weenie. "Ugh. That cockhead's in town again? I wouldn't piss in his face if his head was on fire."

"He's been skulking around our place for damned near a month now, bugging Ma. The boy's come into some money lately, been talking trash about taking the old act on the road. Some sort of revival number, what with all that retro '70s crap raking in the green. He claims that he and Ma'll make a killing on the reunion circuit with Seka and the Texas Longhorn. It'll dovetail real sweet with that Night Ranger tour that's kicking off this month. Anyway, Ma's making like she ain't interested, but Leigh ain't buying. I dunno if she's stringing him for a bigger cut or if she's really on the up and up, saying she's out of the live sex biz and all."

"Hell, she's getting straight union wages for working video, plus a percentage of the gross. Why'd she want to live out of a suitcase, especially with that craphound Leigh in tow?"

The fat man furrowed his brow, raised his chunky hand, rubbed his thumb and forefinger together. "You know the routine, Burns. A girl with a rep can clear five g's a night on the runway easy. And Mom's name's got cachet out the wazoo. The girl's getting fan mail from Sri Lanka, fer chrissake!"

"That'd be Arthur C. Clarke," Burns said, scratching at a patch of dried blood on his desk. "Anyways, I'd hardly call your mommy a girl. I remember back in '78 when she was sucking..."

Fribbage put his hands over his ears, started screaming. "Aaaaaagh! I don't want to hear that! I can't hear you! Jose Canusee! By tha Don's early light...!"

"Alright, shut your word hole already." He threw the musky puppet at Fribbage's face. He ducked and the sock rolled silently across the floor. "So your mom's after some extra milk money, but you want her to stay home and make you your Eggo waffles for breakfast and tuck you in at night, right? Fucking misogynist."

"You know the score between Leigh and me. We're like water and Vaseline. We don't mix. I just want you to make it all clear to him that Ma ain't interested. You don't have to rough him up or anything. Just talk with him. You can do more with your breath than most guys can do with a blackjack and shiv."

"Yer darn tootin', Hamlet. What's Dick's cut?"

"The usual. Does that float with you?"

"Does the pope shit in the woods?"

"I wouldn't know. You tell me. You're the lapsed Catholic."

"Take it from me. He does. And between you-me, he needs to stay the fuck away from the Dairy Queen." Burns zipped up his fly, shook a few loose drops down his pants leg. "Gimme a week. I'll put a tag on Leigh and we'll see what we can see."

"Thanks, Burns," the fat Man barked. "I knew I could count on you. But let's just keep all this under our hats, okey-doke? I don't want Ma to get upset, me going behind her back and all."

"I already been there. I like the view. But hey, you ain't even been here, right? Now get the fuck out. I got some deals to cut and it ain't even lunchtime yet. Ah kin hardly wait to 'et them lil' sammiches!" Burns rubbed his hands together, eyed the photo of Haven. "Mind if I keep this?"

"So long as I don't have to chisel it apart, I wouldn't have it any other way."

Fribbage went out the door with a bang. That was the last time we'd see him this side of a jail cell.

Two

"Gimme my coffee!"

When he finds the time to put down the bottle, Burns gets off on taking me for a scrape around Mount Pleasant. The pachucos on the corner don't know what to make of a three-legged cat with an eyepatch, but the hell with them. I'm purebred Maine coon, not dago-Maine or darkie-Maine. I'm a limping conversation piece. Date bait. Skirts get all moist and stinky at the sight of a crip cat. They figure my owner's the sensitive, New Wage-type what rescues cats from the pound, drives a Volvo, recycles his newspapers, and cuts up six pack holders so they don't choke the baby harp seals. Fucking idiots. When Burns spies the bored yuppie housewife, he snaps his brim and goes to work. Inside half an hour they're back at his place, on the floor, naked, me clawing at his nuts, yadda yadda yadda. It wasn't pretty but it earned me an extra can of chicken livers. Who the hell's going to argue with that?

Outside, the August air was sick with flies like a stinking dead horse. Malcolm X Park was deserted, except for a pair of morbidly obese joggers and a toothless old fart making fag faces at his sheepdog. The joggers looked like they stayed in shape and only needed a good rape to straighten them out proper. The old fart and the dog could have used one, too. The lawn was choked with dogshit. The garbage cans hadn't been dumped since Mayor Barely was nursing a crackpipe in rehab. Burns stepped right into a loaf of canine buttbread that was big enough to smother a nun. He did stuff like that, walk out of his way to step in a pile of crap a blind idiot could have avoided on smell alone. Burns cursed, plopped his fat ass in a bench, picked up a twig, scraped the moist, earthy dog flop out of the cleats of his Keds hightops.

A scrawny sawed-off runt was making like he was reading a City Paper and doing a piss poor job of it. You'd have found better acting in a crush video. I'd noticed him tailing us since we'd split the office but Burns, being stupid, was just starting to pick up on it.

The punk wore a pink extra large "It's a Capital City!" t-shirt, the kind tourists buy on the Mall in sets of three for a sawbuck. White socks with Teva sandals, cutoff stonewashed shorts, Hammerjacks baseball cap completed the peckerwood ensemble. His pockmarked head was capped with a trailer-trash Billy Ray Shitkicker mullet: buzzed on top and sides, shoulder length in back, enough oil to start a greasefire. He was as inconspicuous as a two-headed Libertarian. Cletus would occasionally take a hesitant sip from his Starbucks coffee. He got a disappointed look on his stupid face as if there were supposed to be some flavor at the bottom of the cup and they'd forgotten to give it to him. Burns and I strolled over, sat on either side of him. He tried to do us a favor by hiding his plug ugly face behind the paper.

Burns smiled, sucked his teeth. Cletus looked nervous, muttered, "C-can ah h-help y'all?"

"Yeah," Burns sniffed, snapping a cigarette into his mouth. "Do you know the way to San José?"

"Pardon?"

"It's a Dionne Warwick song. Y'know, the hagged-out tart on the psychic shit network? She used to squeal that crap with Burt Bacharach. Know it?"

"Um...ah don' recon ah do, no sir." Cletus started inching his ass away from Burns.

Burns straightened his tie, brushed the back of his head with his right hand. "That's a real goddamned shame."

Burns fumbled for a lighter, reached into his breast pocket, pulled out his closed fist and smashed it into Cletus's face. The punk collapsed in a sad little pile on the sidewalk, blood pouring from his nose like a garden spigot. Burns stomped his face twice, wiped his sneakers off on Cletus's shirt. Burns did a little dance, opened his fist. Five bucks in loose quarters and a shredded coin roll tumbled out onto Cletus's unconscious body.

"I told you before, Cletus. I see your five-dollar ass around me and I was gonna make some change. Stupid shit. Don't you know who I am? I'm Captain America, man." Burns pointed at me. "And he's Billy!"

Burns punctuated his sentence by sticking his shit covered twig into Cletus's ear and making off with his hazelnut latté.

Three

Mississippi Mudfight

I'd hated Burns' guts from the day he found me at the pound, and not just because he tried to fuck me on the first date.

The bitch who'd been putting up with him had dumped his drunk ass for a thugged-out wigger with eight credit cards and a riced-out Hyundai Speculum. Burns was tired of fucking his fist, wanted to make up to his ex, so he bought the gash a cat. Skirts go for that shit. Cheapskate that he was, he refused to fork over three Franklins at a real pet store, so he tossed in a sawbuck for distemper shots at the pound and bought Yours Truly. Seems that his old lady didn't take to crippled pussies with gammy legs and missing organs and gave us both the boot. Burns was devastated, went to Duke Ziebarts and got shitfaced. He ordered a Nebuchadnezzar of Dom Perignon, a pheasant, and a bottle of Pinch. When the food showed, he dropped trou and tried to fuck it. They threw him out headfirst onto his ass.

We stumbled back to his place. He slipped me a saucer of nondairy whitener with some bourbon in it, put on a Grand Funk album, and danced naked with himself for about an hour. "Closer to Home" came on and he started crying and jagging off. That was their song. They were playing it at the bar when she found Burns in the alley. That's when he tried to stick it in my butt. I howled and slashed off a piece of his face. He peed himself and passed out. The next morning, he was right as rain. He even smeared some lard on a boil on my ass.

After busting Cletus's ass, Burns and I headed back to the office. He was using a dried-up piece of scrapple to scrape peanut butter out of the jar when the doorbell buzzed. A mighty fine office-tart of the Asian persuasion ambled in, followed by a trail of black sable and Chanel. Beneath her dead fur, she was draped in an Vera Wang double-breasted two piece, her tiny feet clad in nine-inches of red patent leather. She carried a black Coach attache case. Her tits looked like they were plotting to stage a coup in Micronesia. Her butt looked like it was maneuvering to back the opposition candidate. What got me rigid was the saucy Siamese piece the gash had on a leash. I could have eaten her with a spoon, if I had opposable thumbs.

The Siamese was playing me like "Heart and Soul" on an out-of-tune upright, mincing around the mistress's calves, purring like a Plymouth Superbird. Miss Slit-eyes had me in her sights. She gave me a few complimentary whiffs then proceeded to spray everything in the room. It was like Death Valley in '81. I didn't mind doing the big ugly with Nippo pussies, so long as they didn't hide razors in their snatches. Lil' Pussens was still spitting blood from a dose he'd got from a Burmese piece back in Rangoon.

Burns put the scrapple in a paper napkin, folded it carefully into a origami pig, placed it inside his jacket, said, "Fuck do you want?"

"You're Dick Burns?"

"Only when I pee."

"Whaaaa...?"

"Sit down. Time is money and I'm a terrible two. What's your business?"

Miss Saigon eased her ass into the busted school desk opposite Burns. "My name is Linda Wong. I represent the firm of Fab, Boss & Bichen, Mr. Burns."

"Please. Call me Big Daddy."

"I'd rather not, if you don't mind."

"Your call. So, you work for those overpaid Hebe mouthpieces, huh? Divorce case? You need some dirt on a client?"

"In a manner of speaking, yes. Our firm is preparing a class action suit on behalf of 225 former female employees of the Central Intelligence Agency."

Burns grabbed his dick. I hated when he did that. "So, these employees, they used to be female and now they aren't?"

"No. They were always female, Mr. Burns, but they were fired for reasons related to their sex."

Burns shook his head. "So now the Company's fucking trannies. It was just a matter of time, I suppose. Great googley-mooglies, things sure have gone down hill since I was fisting Stansfield Turner’s. He liked to eat his own shit, y'know."

I leaned back in my catbox, gave the Siamese a view of my equipment. She held her nose up high, as if her shit didn't stink.

"Be that as it May, Mr. Burns, we are in the process of gathering evidence of management-sanctioned sexual harassment."

"And you want me to dig that shit up? Yeah, alright. But I'm not cheap."

"I don't think your fees will be a concern, Mr. Burns."

"Good. Love to hear it. Because it's going to cost you dinner."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Please don't beg for my hard-on. It's undignified."

She picked up her hat, made like she was going for the door. "Obviously I've come to the wrong place."

"Look, sister. I don't know what you're game is. I don't particularly care. But I know for a fact that the line you're feeding me is fishier than unwashed girljock. The case you're mouthing off about was settled hush-hush a while back for a tidy, undisclosed amount. One that I am aware of because my brother-in-law was named as an accessory. He tried to strongarm a trainee case officer into giving him a steaming teabag. Care to tell me why the fuck you're really here?"

That didn't faze her. She reached into her purse, put on a pair of Raybans, smiled. "Very good, Mr. Burns. I see we are dealing with more than just a delusional paranoid."

"You go, girl."

"My original intention was to offer you a lucrative case that would distract you from the Haven affair. Failing that, I was to offer you this." She threw open her coat and blazer to reveal a pair of hideously augmented jugs. They were held aloft in some kind of rubber-strapped nursing harness. Dribbles of warm milk squirted in anticipation from her swollen, overripe udders. It made a mess on the floor. Burns didn't bat an eyelash. He just sat there picking his nose.

"What was plan three?"

"Dinner."

"Now that's more like it. Whattaya say? You. Me. A little candlelight supper at Ziebarts and... no, waitaminit... I can't go there anymore. How about Ruth's? Now that's a place that'll let you fuck your food. And for two-hundred a plate, I'm gonna fuck something. You people eat meat right? They do good meat."

"Meat might be lovely."

"I'm not dropping the Haven case, though. It'd set a bad precedent. Pretty soon, big-titted broads would be lining up to make a mess on my carpet." Burns stopped himself, stroked his geateed chin. "Yeah. We wouldn’t want that to happen."

The girl frowned, scooped up the Siamese like it was a sack of rock salt, petted it rhythmically. "I'm sorry to hear that, Mr. Burns. And I was so looking forward to giving you a plate job."

She reached up the cat's ass, pulled a pin, heaved the beast at Burns. It exploded in his lap.

Four

Monkey See, Monkey Dupont

Burns and I were starring in the Kennedy Center production of Tis Pity She's a Whore. He was snapping on his pink garters, getting ready for his big showstopper, "I Am the Modern Model of the Modern Major General," except he was doing it in a flaming-red tutu, tricorner hat, and rich Corinthian leather spats. Before he could break into song, the opera house burst into flames. Masts, rigging, first mates, everything was a raging inferno. The smoke was thick enough to serve on rolls with a nice house salad. I was coughing up stuff I'd eaten weeks ago. That's when I woke up.

The office was lousy with acrid brown smoke, exploded cat parts, burning hair. What was left of the Siamese was plastered on Burns' lap, in the middle of a scorch mark the size of an ashcan lid. I darted across the desk, yanked on the overhead fan chain to clear the stench. There was a Post-It note stuck to Burns' chest. It was from the so-called Linda Wong, pretty much telling him to lay off the Leigh case, this was his last warning and if he enjoyed using his legs, dick, etc.

I kicked my water dish at Burns. He fell out of his chair, rubbed his head, brushed the scorch marks on his lap.

"You OK, pardner?" I asked.

"Fuck happened?"

I licked my butt. "Dames. Burns, you let your guard down, look what happens."

"Call yourself a partner. I though you was supposed to be watching my back?"

"I'm a cat. Fuck was I supposed to do? Dial 911? Lookit me, I ain't even got thumbs!"

"Coulda clued me into that Siamese with the Gelignite colostomy bag. Thought you felines could smell that shit a mile away. You're fired."

Burns went to the sink, dropped his scorched pants, mixed himself a Gin Rickey Retardo, poured me half. He was sponging off his dick when the phone rang.

"Dick? Dick? It's Annette."

"Hey, Netta. You caught me at a bad time. Dick Jr.'s got second degree burns and I'm outta gin."

"Are you alright?"

"My asshole hurts and my teeth itch, but that's par for the course. What's the word?"

"Have you heard about Jet?"

"Apart from him trying to fuck you, no. Give it up."

"I was supposed to meet him for brunch. I found him. I found him dead."

"Brunch, eh? Now what is that actually? Ain't it just fucking breakfast with the goddamned melon slice and a big tab? Shit, where was you supposed to have this 'brunch?'"

"At his mansion outside Georgetown, next door to Bill Bennet's place out in a cul de sac."

Burns scribbled "nail Bennet's ass" on his desk blotter, drew a fat stick figure with a gun to its head.

She said, "You've got to come over. I have to show you something."

"Already seen it, Netta. Unless you got it pierced again, I'm not interested."

"No, it's something Leigh gave me. He told me to show it to you in case... in case..."

"Fuck is it?"

"Not over the phone, Dick. Be over at my place as soon as you can." Then she hung up in his face.

Burns threw on a fresh pair of Depends, seersucker slacks, scooped me up, and we were off to Georgetown. Haven's house was hidden behind a sweet-smelling Magnolia grove that stank of the corruption of men. Burns parked the Plymouth, walked up the bleached pebble driveway, karate kicked the doorbell.

She came to the door swathed in a black silk dressing gown, smoking a pink cigarette in a foot-long amber holder. Haven was a health nut back when chicks wore kneesocks and you could still buy Little Tavern burgers by the bag. She kept her moneymaker in fine form. Haven had bucked the silicone craze for as long as possible, but finally caved due to popular demand. Years later, Burns convinced her to go through reduction surgery "for old time's sake," and had her pert bosoms restored to a respectable C-cup. In the end, it wasn't how much she had, but what she did with them that would give McKinley wood.

Haven shooed us in, pushed us towards the living room, pointed at me. "Who's your partner?"

"Ex-partner. He fucked up. You know any good Viet places that're looking for a slightly used puu-puu platter?"

"Not offhand. What's your poison?"

"The usual. Mix one up for shithead here. No soda. It gives him the wind."

She went to the bar, poured two bourbons with grenadine, placed mine on the floor. She slid a video into the VCR, hit play, sat next to Burns with her legs jacknifed.

"Jet gave me this two days ago. He told me to show it to you, in case anything happened to him."

"So what happened to the jerk? When did the cops...?"

"Shhhh. Just watch."

Burns looked around for some popcorn, peanuts, anything to stick in his stinking word hole. He ended up eating his boogers. Staticky black and white images flickered on the wide-screen projection TV. Jet Leigh was unconscious on what looked like a black operating table. Lights blinked behind through a dense blanket of fog. Throbbing, atonal noises clanged through the darkness. It looked and sounded like the stage right before an P-Funk concert. Out of the darkness, two short fellers with mottled grey skin, size 60 heads and almond eyes, peeled off silver lamé trunks and proceeded to fuck Leigh from both ends. After twenty minutes, they shared a cigarette and the tape ended.

Burns scratched his balls. "I could really use some Cornnuts, Netta."

"But, the video? What about...?"

Burns flipped through last month's Adult Video News on the coffee table, sniffed at his drink. “The fathead fuckers were FEMA." He paused. "Hey, tha’s alliteration!"

"How do you know that?"

"Well, if the first letter in each of the words..."

"Not that! The men in the video!"

"That, huh? Well, lemme let you in on a little secret, hon. About a year before me and the Agency split company, my handler fingered me for a hush-hush project that FEMA had cooking in the skunkworks. Men in Black stuff, see? So, me and two FEMA suits--never got their names; they used to call each other Thing One and Thing Two--we would dress up in these rubber alien outfits and fuck rural hicks as part of something they called Project Brown Dwarf."

"Why doesn't this surprise me?"

Burns broke into song, complete with jazz hands. "Hey, I'm proud to be an American, 'cause at least I know I'm free. Anyway, lord knows why the Company wanted us to go drilling for rootin’ for ‘taters. We were just supposed to show up, rape these guys, get it on tape, then meet back at the Hot Shoppes over in Arlington. A couple of 'em were cute, but I was just getting into girls back then, so I told the boss where to get off, and lit out for LA. That's where I ran into you, John Raremy, Johnny Wadd. The rest is history."

Haven stubbed out her cigarette. "So Jet's death is part of some government plot. That means these FEMA men you worked with could be the same ones who murdered him?"

"Mebbee yes, mebbee no. I don't know enough about how Jet got whacked to tell you. Did he say anything else when he gave you the tape?"

"Well, he looked like hell. Wasn't making much sense either. I chalked it up to nerves and that $500 a day habit of his. He claimed there was an implant buried in his skull through which he communicates with 'the Tellers.' Does that mean anything to you."

Burns and I looked at each other, said, "Alien Sex Bankers."

Haven looked at me funny. "Did that cat just say..."

Burns sniffed. "'Course not. Cat's don't talk. What the fuck's the matter with you? All that assfucking must have packed a gallon of goo into your brainpan."

"Then who are these Alien Sex Bankers?"

"You wouldn't want to know. Suffice to say that they've been around for a while and the coin of their realm is human suffering. Your agony is their endorphin. Besides, I thought we incinerated the last of those fucks back in the Nam. Looks like they're back in town, and plugging porno producers no less. This'll mean trouble."

"I swear, Dick. That cat talked."

"Uh-huh. Next you'll tell me pornography is violence against women. Where's Fribbage?"

"He should be down at his office, but I haven't been able to get a hold of him all day. You don't think he's mixed-up with..."

"You've known me for years, Netta. When have you ever known me to think? It's a known fact that your son and the recently dead got along about as well as..."

"Don't say it. He didn't do it, Dick. He isn't capable of..." She stopped herself and for a moment, actually thought about it. She didn't like the idea. Neither did I, particularly the thought of a client going to the slammer without paying me. I've run through enough charity cases to make Mother Theresa go postal.

Burns gave me the rest of his liquor. "Thanks for the drink, Netta. But Pussens and me have got an appointment with Bill Bennet's ass."

Five

The Big Nap

Leigh's place was nestled in a shady cul de sac on the outskirts of Georgetown just off of Reservoir Road . The Ward 8 council must have passed a noise ordnance in effect because I saw birds everywhere but they weren't singing. The streets were lined with transplanted Dutch Elm trees that formed a natural air conditioner. The temperature never rose above 70 in the shade. That was fine with me because my ass was still scorching from a wicked case of prickly heat. Most of the residents would call the subdivision "exclusive," which was a polite way of saying they didn't let in darkies, Jews, or spics. Chinks, gooks, and ko-reens were alright, so long as they made six figs a year, stayed away from the white women, and didn't cook anything that stunk up the neighborhood.

We parked a half mile from Leigh's place. Burns popped the trunk, slipped into some jogging sweats that he used whenever he shit his britches. Then, he threw on his Gonzaga t-shirt, grabbed his toolkit, and we went for walkies.

Burns used Haven's key to unlock the front door. Somebody had killed the main alarm switch. Everything was just where she said it would be. Leigh's chalet looked like the sort of joint Dolemite or Iceberg Slim would call his own. The pink shag carpet was so thick that it rippled. Leigh's taste in furniture went from Louis IV to Shaker revival to hell. Ming dynasty vases sat between Jeff Koons' six-foot acrylic wife and Keith Haring's spraypainted shit. They looked like they got along with each other but they still made me sick. I yakked up a hairball

I said, "Keep your eyes peeled for the bagmen, Burns. If they aren't still around, they could be back any time."

Burns lit a cigarette. "Are you still here? I thought I told you to quit fucking following me."

"Just as soon as you fork over my cut from the Shriner case. I saved your ass on that one, Burns. You owe me. Besides, I'm out of kibble. Until then, you bought yourself a shadow."

"Just try not to spray anything. We ain't even supposed to be here, and if the cops nail us, I don't know you from Adam."

"Ditto. And you can wash your butt while you're at it."

Burns mumbled something at his tie, walked up the wrought iron staircase. I followed. The door to the master bedroom was half opened. Burns pulled his stainless nine, nodded at me. That was my cue to run inside screaming like my legs were on fire. The cat in heat routine worked like a charm in the past. I'd distract any gunsels inside long enough for Burns to shoot them in the face. This joint was empty. Except for one person, and he wasn’t able to appreciate my performance.

Leigh was lying face up in the bed, a copy of The Crying of Lot 49 in his right hand. He had on his white silk jammy-jams, feathery slippers, painted nails. Leigh liked to get comfy in the boudoir. There was a pillow over his face with a small scorched hole in the middle. I climbed onto the bed, yanked it away with my teeth. Leigh was staring at the ceiling with three eyes, the middle one an empty .45 caliber socket. Burns pulled out a pair of calipers, measured the hole. He didn't have to. We both knew the piece that had made it.

I rolled against Leigh's foot, tried to scratch my butt. "Colt Army issue. Psionics silencer, too, judging by that beer can-size impression on the pillow."

"Nix on that," Burns shot back, "Too much scorching around the edges. My money's on a homemade suppressor, probably a half litre Coke jug packed with wire mesh and steel wool. Something outta the Loompanics catalog. Whoever scored this hit was rank amateur. The clown even left the spent brass." Burns bent over, pulled his Parker pen, slid it into the empty cartridge. He took a couple of whiffs, showed it to me.

"Guy's a cheapskate," I purred. "That ain't even real brass, it's that discount aluminum shit. Glazer ammo. The guy probably buys bulk toilet paper and gallon mayo at Price Club."

"Let's hope he was sloppier still."

"Lets." Burns slipped the shell into a mylar crack bag, placed it in his breast pocket, gave the place the once over. There was some expensive crap on the dressing table: Rolexes, silver inlaid snuffboxes, porcelain french ticklers, walnut cock cages. The sort of thing up-and-coming producers acquire to create the air that they're successful and know what the hell they're talking about. The stuff still being there would rule out a robbery, or even somebody clever enough to try and make it look like a robbery. Burns went to the crapper, pulled out a handheld fluorescent, killed the room's light switch. No blood traces, chemical compounds. The joint was swabbed clean and smelled pleasantly of Pine Sol and urine.

Burns pulled a handkerchief, wiped down everything he could remember touching, put a call through to his Main Man Jack Moore at DCPD. Moore came running like he had a load in his shorts. We waited out on the front porch, sipping from Burns' hipflask and smoking too much. Moore showed in an unmarked Chrysler LeBaron. He looked like he always did. Joe Average in a plain suit, plain tie, sensible shoes. Moore always said that the nail that sticks up gets hammered down. He was still walking the streets after some of his larger living brethren had taken the dirt nap, so there must be something to it.

Burns tossed his smoke behind a bush. "Hi, Jack. How's tricks?"

Jack folded his arms, leered like a principal catching you smoking dope behind the dumpsters. "You're Makin' Mah life difficult, Mistah Burns."

"I'm not doing nothing I'm not getting paid for."

"Thass a triple negative, Mistah Burns."

"So's your old lady. I give you a reason for working and this is the thanks I get? The hell with you."

Moore scratched his salt and pepper head. "You're Making a hobby outta diggin' up bodies, ain't ya Mistah Burns? You're turnin' inta a regulah Angela Landsbury. I shouldn't even be seen with ya, fer fear ah mah life."

"You do whatever the hell you want," Burns snapped, pointing a thumb at Leigh's house. "You got a stiff upstairs by the name of Jet Leigh. I came around on behalf of a client and found him smoked. Forty-five caliber lobotomy."

"That a fact? He was 'at high-steppin' smut peddler, wasn't he? Well, thass a damn shame," Moore sighed as if that meant something. He stuffed a pipe full of Borkum Riff, torched it. He nodded at me. "Ah see you're still keeping company with this Mangy lil' feller."

"Somebody's got to earn the money around here. Anyway, mind if I ride with you down to Mort's? Ain't seen a good autopsy since that thing they did on Fox with the alien puppet."

"Ah wouldn't have it any other way." Moore nodded, radioed in for the coroner's van. HQ said the van was still out for repairs and they'd have to use Moore's car. He was out of pine-scented air fresheners, so we ended up taking the stiff in Burns' car. I got to stick my head out the window. That felt good.

Six

Three minutes on high

Two white-suited temps heaved Leigh's carcass onto a gurney, crashed it down the ramp to the coroner's chop shop. Mort Fleischman was working overtime on two sisters that the Culpepper police had reported missing a week ago. A Mount Pleasant jogger found them shoved up a drainage pipe off of Rock Creek Parkway. I leapt on their tables, got a snootful. They were thinned out pretty bad and smelled like hell, but they still looked kinda cute. Their faces were drained white, their lips pursed. They didn't look any worse than your average New York runway model. They'd probably make better conversation on a dinner date.

"Who let the cat in here?" Fleischman sneezed, not looking up. "And what's that smell? Oh, Burns. I should have known. I thought they pulled your license after that shootout at the Shriner hospital."

"So did I. But I gave the circuit court judge a terrific blowjob. Now I get invited to all the parties."

Moore cut in. "Y'all's not gettin' paid fer yo' gay bantah, Mistah Fleischman. Burns heah found the deceased. I called homicide in to secure the crime scene. Ah'll have your report in the mornin'. Good day to you, gentlemen." I let him scratch my butt. "Oh, an' Mistah Burns. You know the drill. Don't leave town or it'll make me look bad."

"No worse than that fucking suit of yours. Who's your tailor? Botany 500? Y'all have a good night, now. Y'hear?" Moore didn't bother to listen him. He was already out the door.

Moore slid the sisters into the wall vault, snapped on a fresh pair of gloves, broke out the skull chisel. "This stiff a friend of yours, Burns?""

"I partied with him. Never fucked him hard enough to kill him, though. Name's Jet Leigh, smalltime smut peddler. Fancied himself a player, but all he's playing now is canasta with Jeebus."

Fleischman switched on his tape recorder, clicked on the overhead lamp, fiddled with the entry wound. "The time is 3:06pm. Subject is a Caucasian Male in his late forties, 210 pounds. Visible cause of death is a small caliber gunshot wound to the head and related Massive trauma. Absence of rigor mortis indicates time of death within the last twelve hours. No apparent cuts, bruises or contusions, showing a lack of struggled on the part of the victim."

"Dames," I said.

"You say something, Burns?"

"Dames," Burns sniffed, giving me the eye. "The gash probably walked in naked, did a little dance, threw the pillow over his head, and shot him in the fucking face."

Fleischman got a stupid look on his face, reached for his skullsaw. He fiddled with the back of Leigh's head, stopped abruptly, said, "Funny."

"Dying’s easy. Comedy’s hard. What gives?"

"Here. It looks like he's had some recent surgery to the occipital and pareital areas. There's a lot of half-healed scarring. Whoever did this got his degree from Frank Purdue. There's also something just below the epidermal layer."

Burns lit a cigarette, flicked the match at me. I batted it away with my tail. Burns quipped, "Bet you dimes to doughnuts it's a microchip."

Fleischman wagged his head. "Still on that conspiracy kick, aren't you, Burns? So who put it there? The black helicopters?"

"Shows you how much you know, Meat Man. It's the white helicopters you need to look out for. Who do you think hired the black ones in the first place? Fucking dupe."

Fleischman Massaged the back of Leigh's skull, trying to loosen whatever was under the skin. He gave up, grabbed a dermal scalpel and tore into it like Rush Limbaugh on a lobster. Fleischman stared at it the way a philatelist eyes a 1902 reverse air postal stamp.

"Looks like I owe you a doughnut, Burns."

Burns jabbed his fist in the air, shouted, "Yyyyy-ES! You-ess-ay! You-ess-ay!"

"Cheer up, wilya Burns. OK, so the damned thing is a computer chip. But it's nothing like I've ever seen. And there's something else. Around the surface of the cerebellum, there's these lesions."

"Cancerous?"

"I can't tell without running further tests, but I doubt it. It's more like blistering. You commonly see these in burn victims. It gets so hot that the brain cooks inside the skull. But there's no evidence of burning on the outside. I can't explain it."

Burns dropped his cigarette, looked at me. I sneered, crushed it out for him. He said, "Fleischman, name something that cooks from the inside, and if you say 'a crock pot' I'll slap you."

We left Fleischman mumbling to himself. "A microwave?"

Seven

Accounts Receivable

Burns and I stopped by the Burma Restaurant in Chinatown because they're one of the few joints that'll let a drunk and a fucked up cat eat at the same table. They also don't offer Burns cash for me. We had the pantay kausway, mango pork, four Tsingtaus, three crabs, and three pots of tea. That got the juices flowing.

Burns put a call through to Fribbage's office, home, pager, and cellphone. Nothing. This didn't look good for him. If Fribbage had popped Leigh and split town, he could be in Kenosha by now. He'd still need someone to tie up the loose ends with his porno shops, massage parlors, and tantric fax magick salons. The only person he trusted enough with goods like those was John Raremy.

Disney had bought out Raremy's production company, Ball Drainers, Ltd., just last month. After he released his big CD ROM debut, Virtual Proctologist, the firm went public. As the sole stock owner, Raremy was a millionaire overnight. He remained on the board of directors after the takeover with a controlling interest in the company. With that kind of cash, he could afford to drop the CIA legwork he was doing--getting porno stars to fuck overseas "assets" for God and country.

Raremy's digs were in an office park behind a strip Mall in Rockville. Inside, a thick-heeled dame in a Donna Karan blouse and black vinyl clogs played solitaire behind a nameplate that read, "Ms. Rosenkranz, Administrative Assistant to J. Raremy."

Burns said, "Black queen on the red jack."

"What?"

"The name's Burns. This is my partner. Raremy in?"

"I believe so. I'll buzz him." She stabbed at the intercom. I went around behind her desk, got a good look up her skirt. No panties. No stink. I liked that. "Mr. Raremy? There's a Man with a cat to see you."

A buzzy voice answered. "Ugh. Send him in. Ugh, ugh. Make sure he checks his gun at the door. You like that, huh?"

The secretary got a stupid look on her face, shrugged. Burns handed over his piece and we went inside. Raremy was behind the desk. He was slightly smaller than a VW Bug and wore enough red leather to reupholster a waterbed. A peroxide blonde's head was bobbing rhythmically between his legs. Raremy quietly played a game of Doom on his computer. He yanked his little friend out of her mouth, said, "That'll be all, Ms. Guildenstern. Make sure that bulk mail goes out this afternoon." She got up, brushed off her knees, petted me on the head and was gone.

"Burnsey! How's the boy? And how's my second favorite pussy?"

"Lay off the cat. He's just got his distemper shots."

Raremy yanked his hand back. "I just got off the phone with Netta. Damned shame about Jet. What was his story?"

"I'd was hoping you could tell me."

Raremy put his hands behind his head. "That's the reason I don't do Company work no more, Burns. You never know what kind of freak you'll end up sleeping with. And I’ve freaked with some pretty freaky freaks. The usual?" He motioned towards an abundant liquor cabinet.

"I'm trying to cut down. Just give me one bourbon."

"What about your partner?"

"He's cut off. He's driving."

"Suit yourself. So, what do you think? Maybe Leigh had something going on the side, in the intel department, I mean?"

"Couldn't say. What do you know about him and Fribbage?"

Raremy stopped mixing the drinks. I didn't like that. "I dunno. I figured they'd settled that squabble of theirs years ago. But, hell, come to think of it, like momma, like son, huh? Both of them'll fuck like teenage burros for hours and never come. They just don't know when to quit."

"But would he go so far as to have Leigh's skull ventilated, I mean?"

He handed Burns his drink. I could smell the grenadine from the floor. Raremy's sweet tooth was renown from here to Bangkok. "I doubt it, Burns. Fribbage is a pushover. I'd figure he'd come to you if he wanted somebody off his mom's tail."

"Uh-huh. So you don't know of anybody who'd want Leigh dead, apart from his ex-wife, that is?"

Raremy shrugged. "Leigh was a punk. Nobody took him seriously enough to give him the time of day, let alone risk a murder rap."

"Word on the street has it that he was working some Agency contract stuff. Off the books, I mean. Know it?"

"I can ask around. I still keep in touch with a few comfort station chiefs. Leigh tried to muscle in on a few deals I had running with the State Department. The Sultan of Brunei has a thing for one of my girls, Lotta Gas. She did this number in Backdoor Babes in Bangkok 17 where she ate a whole can of Beanie Weenie, took a butane torch and..."

"Yeah, I heard. How did you get insurance for that scene?"

"Trade secret, fella. Let's just say all that asbestos they're clearing outta the public schools has gotta go someplace. Anyway, Leigh's girls just couldn't cut the cheese in the poot department, if you know what I mean."

"I wish I didn't. Ask around if you can, there's a good fellow. Anything I can use to keep Netta and her kid out of the slammer."

Raremy’s chubby fingers chased after his receding hairline. I could hear his dandruff hit the desk. "Lessee, have you spoken to Megan?"

"Who?"

"Megan O'Shaunnesey? Netta's daughter? The one you put away three years ago for extortion and accessory to kidnapping?"

"Oh, that Megan. I thought she was still mixing bearded clam dip in the thug jug. With her tongue."

"You need to keep better track of the people you take down, Burns." Raremy handed him a back issue of Adult Video News. On the cover, Megan O'Shaunnesey was being led out of the Lorton Correction Facility in a smart black Hugo Boss three piece. There was an inset photo of her mother and a caption that read, "Mommy's Girl to Star in Porno Bio-pic."

Burns screwed up his face. It almost collapsed under the pressure. "Fuck is this?"

Raremy dug his shorts out of his ass, started fiddling with his computer game. "Greta got released last month on good behavior. TriStar cut her a deal on her memoirs and fronted her half a mil for worldwide rights to the Annette Haven Story. She's been in La La Land doing casting calls."

"And she didn't even call me? I was born to play Johnny Wadd! Who knew him better than me?"

Raremy shook his noggin. "What about me, Burns? I was the one who introduced them. I was there from the beginning. I sat through Wadd's murder trial, holding his fucking hand."

"Give it up. You're also the one who got him into gay porn when nobody else would hire him!"

They were screaming now. Johnny Wadd was a sore point for both of them. They each felt guilty for his death; Burns for not forcing him into rehab, Raremy for selling his asshole to gay porn. I leapt on the table, offered my belly for a scratch. They looked at each other and said nothing for a long time.

Raremy shrugged. "Sorry, Burns. I just hate to see somebody making money off of Johnny's corpse, especially when it should have been me."

"Ditto. You ain't' said nothing. Now, about Megan. Where can I get a hold of her?"

"You should try her agent, a mouthpiece by the name of Hyman Geld. Here's his number." He scribbled down a number from his day planner, handed it to Burns. "Anything else?"

"Yeah. That blonde of yours available for kids parties?"

Seven

Send Lawyers, Guns, and Monkey

Burns left me in the car while he checked in with Geld at his high-priced agent digs off of K Street. He forgot to roll down a window. He came back half an hour later. I chewed him out but good.

"You fucking trying to kill me or something? Where the hell's my bourbon?" I just about choked on my tongue.

Burns uncorked his hip flask, poured me a tumbler. "Relax. This case is in the fucking bag. Geld was easier to read than a Jack Chick tract."

I gulped the brown liquor down hard. "So, he's covering for his client. I could have told you that and saved you the gas money. You're losing it in your old age, Burns."

"Think again. Geld claims Megan's been out of town the past couple of months. She's only been out of the slammer less than thirty days."

"Did you corner him on that?"

Burns shook his head. "Nah. I watched him squirm. 'OK,' says I, 'then you won't mind me making a few calls?' So, I ring up Lorton, National Airport, Visa, Mastercard, AT&T, and a couple of cats I know at NSA. The whole nine yards. I get enough info in eight minutes to prove him a liar eight ways to Sunday. That's when I lay into him about taking the rap as an accessory to murder."

"Then what?"

"He damn near peed himself, that's what happened. He lets out about the Men in Black showing up at his kid's birthday party, how one of them looked like Tommy Lee Jones and the other just kept punching his kid in the gut and rapping, saying that Geld was to cover for the girl at all costs and that they had never been there, yadda-yadda-yadda. That's when Geld breaks down crying. I had to slap the bitch until blood flew out his ears."

"So, you figure the girl's working for the MIB?"

Burns shook his head. "I figure the other way around."

"How do you figure that?"

"Beats the crap out of me. I just thought it up. All I know is that whatever answers we need, we'll find in that chip Fleischman found in Leigh's skull. Unless..."

"Unless what?"

Burns slapped his forehad. "Unless somebody deliberately botched the autopsy and stole Leigh's head and the microchip."

I let out a laugh. "Yeah, right. Come on, boss. Who the hell would go that far to screw with us?"

Burns huffed. "Yeah. I guess you're right. I need to have more faith in our fellow Man."

Eight

The Case of the Missing Head

"What can I say, Burns? When I got in after lunch, the autopsy reports were gone. The body was still there, but..."

"Uh-huh. Way to go, Fleischman. You're out of the will. And you can fucking forget about doing my autopsy. Kudos on setting a new world's record for losing a dead guy's head. You make the guys who did the JFK's chop job look like pikers."

Burns and Fleishman duked it out for half an hour: who could have got into the morgue, who had access, who left the trail of blood down the hallway. The clown manning the security desk was an ex-Navy Seal who went by the name of Charon. He fed us a line about how nobody had come through during his shift. Burns believed him. I wouldn't believe my own Mama. We went through the surveillance tapes from earlier that day. The video showed two MIBs walking in like they were getting take-out at Taco Bell. They were in and out inside of 6 minutes. They had with them a red leather bowling ball bag. Charon couldn't explain it. I chalked that one up to having eaten too many snakes.

Somebody was tailoring Fribbage for a frame, if it was a frame. It made sense that he had thrown his lot in with the MIBs for money, power, a big black ‘70s muscle car, the usual chrome-plated nonsense. The pope would do the same. Fribbage always was the sort that needed that kind of attention. Running Massage parlors and peddling smut to hoi polloi wasn't enough for him. He wanted the whole ball of earwax. The MIBs looked to be working with Megan as well, either riding the apron strings of her TriStar bio pic porn deal, or just for the sake of justifying their annual expenditure override to Congress. I didn't give a damn. I needed kibble. I needed it bad.

We were halfway out of the station headed for Haven's place when we spotted the crowd milling towards the station. Jack Moore herded a flock of so-called journalists up the front stairs. He had Fribbage behind him in tow. The boy was wearing chrome bracelets.

Moore straightened his tie, cleared his throat. "Gentlemen, the department has scheduled a press conference fer later this aftahnoon. Howevah, ah am prepared to announce that we have solved all, I say, all of DC's homicides for this year."

A George Will clone from the local Moonie rag shouted, "Detective Moore! Is the suspect responsible for the increase in crime in the district?"

"Now, Jimmy. Y'know ah cain't comment on that, suffice to say, yes. In fact, since his arrest half an hour ago, ahm pleased to report that the District's crime rate has dropped over eleven percent. Now, donch y'all quote me on that, y'heah?"

A shining bullet head pummeled its way to the front of the crowd. It was Fistrome Williams, the striped-pants darling of the black conservative set. He bellowed like a sow in heat. "Is the suspect part of 'the plan' to bring back oppressive white rule to DC and to exterminate the Black Race, thus continuing the holocaust against..."

"Next question?"

WAMU political analyst Mart Pupkin whined, "Detective Moore! How do you think this arrest will affect the DC Statehood Resolution now pending before Congress?"

I was sick of this clown show, yelled, "How long'd it take to beat that confession out of him, Jack?"

Everybody looked around their ankles, whispered, "Who said that?"

Burns bellowed, "The cat talks sense. How did you wrangle a confession out of him, Jack?"

"Ah'll see you at the inquest, Mistah Burns," Jack stabbed back. "All y'all's questions shall be answered within tha hour. Good day to you, gentlemen." Jack disappeared into the station. We went after him, but the joint was lousy with freelancers and blowdried anchor whores. Burns lit a stink bomb to clear the crowd, hustled inside through the poo gas fog. Jack was signing Fribbage in on the police blotter.

"You run a tight ship here, Jack," Burns murmured, lighting a cigarette. "Not only do your boys lose evidence like like a tourist with the squirts, you break out the rubber hose just for one of my fucking clients."

"Put that thing out, Burns. We got fire ordinances heah." Fribbage wasn't saying anything. He just stared at his gut with a look like he just peed himself. "And we didn't beat nothin' outta nobody."

"That's a double negative."

"You do what y'alls want with it, Burns. Mr. O'Shaunnesey turned hisself in. Now, if y'all's excuse us…"

Burns flipped the lit cigarette at Fribbage's head. He didn't flinch. "Y'know, Fribbage, you really should have cleared this with me. We could have split the reward money. As it is, you had to get greedy and now Bubba G's gonna give you the welcome wagon treatment all over your lily white ass in lockdown. All eleven inches of it. I wonder what mommy'll have to say to that."

That got a rise out of him. He nearly squashed my tail. "You leave my mommy outta this! You hear? YOU HEAR!? She ain't had nothing to do with it!"

Burns and I looked at each other. Then, he and Jack gave each other the same look. Jack muttered, "Well, should you go get her, or should I?"

Burns shrugged. "You've had a rough day. I might as well. Maybe I can get a crack at her before you put her in those prison stripes. They make that ass of hers look fat."

"Ah don't rightly know if I should trust ya, Burns. Tell ya what, ah'll give ya a ten minute lead before I call for backup. Bring her in wi' out killing anybody, iffen y'all can help it. An' keep that cat outta the way!"

I didn't like that. I made a note to shit on Jack's pillow next time I went 'round his place.

Nine

Uptown Saturday Night

Jack put Fribbage in lockdown on a suicide watch, told us that Fribbage had called him and confessed to the Leigh kill. Fribbage had gone underground to tie up a few loose ends with la cosa nostra concerning his Massage parlors before he took the fall for mommy. Fribbage was a good son, but a lousy client. Not too many sons would take a murder rap for their mommies, though. Except maybe Jack Kevorkian or Ty Cobb.

Proving Fribbage didn't do it was about as taxing as beating a headless tot at Candyland. If Fribbage had planned on snuffing Leigh from the get go, he could have hired Burns at a substantial savings, as well as a beautiful set of Diamante stud earings, a $75 value. Fribbage claimed to have snuffed Leigh in a fit of rage over refusing to stay clear of his mom's ass. That didn't wash because Leigh'd never expressed much interest in his mom's ass; he was a titty man. The setup wasn't right either. Leigh wasn't a nighthawk, but he was an obsessive compulsive. If he didn't get his 10 hours beauty sleep, he'd spend the day wandering around like a stoned corpse with the munchies. Fribbage could hardly have snuck in, put a pillow over Leigh's face, and blown his fucking head off.

Leigh was a security freak as well. Only one other person had the keys and knew the access code to his house. It wouldn't take much for forensics to lift the prints off of the keypad and run them through Haven's rap sheet.

Burns put a call through to Haven at her place. He figured she could get her to turn herself in and avoid a lot of bloodshed, not that he couldn't use the exercise. If anything, Burns might get a farewell boink out of her. Haven's au pair claimed that she had just left to attend the Uptown Theater premier of Vermin Tarantello's latest hip hopera travesty, Hamlet. Vermin, a certified plagiarist and fan of Haven's early '70s work , invited her along as his escort. Burns got Haven's cellphone number out of the au pair and hung up in her face.

Burns rang her up on the way to the theater. It took her a while to answer her cellphone. She had either left the phone at the coat check or was busy giving Vermin a handjob. She finally picked up on the 33rd ring.

"Yes? What is it?"

"Mulder? It's me. Your kid's in the slammer taking the fall for your lying ass."

"Oh, hi Dick. Um, can we talk about this later? I'm sort of busy now."

"You'll be sort of picking lead out of your ass if you don't do what I say, Netta. Tell that hack you'll suck him off later. And while you're at it, tell him that last turd of his was a ripoff of Dingo Ham's Tragic Impact III. And by the way, the fuzz are onto you. They're set to nab you as soon as you split the theater."

"That's silly, Dick. I didn't have anything to do with..."

"Let me give you the script treatment. You went over to tell Leigh that the tour was off. He said that if you didn't do the act, raincoat and all, he was cutting a deal with Megan to take your place. The thought of that daughter of yours doing your act turned your stomach and you snapped."

"And I just so happened to have a .45 with a suppressor with me?"

We shot onto Connecticut at Woodley Park. "Hey, this is DC. Anyway, you panicked, split, headed for Fribbage and cried your little eyes out. He agreed to take the fall, but you needed someone to sanitize the crimescene and wrap it up with a little bow tie so that the cops would think it was precious. You know I'm good with that shit."

"This is all well and good, Dick, but none of it will hold up in court. Why don't you just..."

"They've got the prints, Netta. The ones from the alarm keypad. I forgot to wipe that down."

Burns kept the phone to his ear but didn't say anything into the phone for a long time. Even above the crowd, I could hear Haven's high pitched squeal. I'd heard it from Burns' women so Many times I could mouth the words.

"Oh, Dick. You've got to help me!"

Burns hopped the curb in front of the theater, parked on top one of Starbucks' folding outdoor chairs. He slid on his Ray Bans, slipped a leash around my neck, broke out his collapsible cane. The cripple with the seeing-eye cat routine got us to the front of the line. When the doorman asked him what the fuck he thought he was doing, Burns gestured wildly, pointing at his crotch and me. Then, he started making Hamburgler noises like he was deaf and retarded. The doorman gave up and shooed us in.

Burns booted past a crowd of Vermin's brownosing autograph hounds, but it was too late. Haven's scream came through the phone loud and clear. I heard it echo through the darkened theater. We had just passed the popcorn stand when I spotted her. She was at the far end of the stage. The film was still running on top of her. On the screen, a silver lamé clad Gertrude was reclining on board the antigravity sex bed of her battle cruiser, Nostromo. She had just swallowed the poison her punk-ass kid had slipped in her Crab Nebula nerve tonic. Haven had her .45 in a Weaver stance, pointed right at the head of the cops that had entered from stage left. I figured Jack would jump the gun. Mama always said, "Never trust a cop with a speech impediment."

Burns hollered, "Drop the heat, Netta. Daddy's taking you to Disneyland."

"Back off, Burns! They'll never take me alive!"

I leapt into action, all over the head plainclothesman's face. I took a good chunk out of his right cheek and peed the scar. The copper wailed hard, pistol whipped me before I could make my escape. That gave Burns enough time to bust a cap into Haven's leg. She and I hit the ground at the same time. The last thing I recall hearing was applause. I figured they liked the movie, the stupid shits. A big black litterbox opened at my feet and I tumbled in.

I woke up in a paddy wagon barrelling down Massachusetts Avenue and hitting every pothole at least twice. Burns was there, drilling for nose gold and making faces at the boogers. Haven was mopping her leg wound next to two drunks, and a crossdresser who'd gotten busted for sneaking a carton of Milk Duds into the theater. The cops had nailed Burns on illegal parking, reckless endangerment, and impersonating the disabled for immoral purposes. I figured they'd have a hard time making that last one stick. Haven was looking at five to ten for first degree. I was looking at a bigger hat size, thanks to lump on the back of my skull that was slightly smaller than a Butterscotch Krimpet.

Burns passed his smokes around to the drunks and the crossdresser, said, "Lucky I nailed you in the gam, Netta. Officer Friendly might not have been such a good shot."

"Shut up, Burns. This is all your fault. It didn't have to end up this way. Fribbage was willing to take the fall for me."

"Couldn't let that happen to a client, hon. Makes me look dumber than a bowl of soup. Besides, I know a circuit court judge who's a fan of yours. Get your knees dirty and you'll walk in 18 months with good behavior."

"Thanks," she snapped, sopping the blood up with Burns' booger hankie, "Anything else?"

"Yeah. Who the hell's Linda Wong?"

Haven shrugged. "You got me. This another one of your imaginary friends?"

"Not anymore. If you didn't send her, I figure she either had to be in league with Leigh's MIB pals. 'Course, she could have just has a thing for dropping exploding cats in peoples laps."

Haven curled up next to me, stroked me under the chin. "You're really something, Burns. You shoot me in the leg and still with the questions."

"It's my job. I'm a dick. One more for the road."

She closed her eyes. I could tell she was a million miles away, driving through a shiny, happy Lion Country Safari where nobody'd heard of dicks, exploding cats, or stupid questions. "Sure. What is it?"

Burns rolled his prize nose oyster between thumb and forefinger, stared out the wire barred window. "How is a raven like a writing desk?"