by Terry Delegeane
From the Immortal Chronicles #2 (Winter 1998)
The egg salad sandwich had been in the trash can for over a month, and not being one to employ janitorial services, my office met me with a smell of familiar contempt as I opened the glass panel front door. Stenciled across the window pane was the ever present “Nick Timber – Full Moon Investigations.” I removed the sign that hung on the doorknob “Be Back in a Month” and carried it over to my desk. I opened the drawer and dropped it in, stirring up the cozy dust mites and whatnots. Giving into an urge to sneeze, I braced for the blast.
AACHOOOFFFRWW!
I’d had hay fever since I was a child.
After blowing my nose and wiping the drool off my gums, I sat in my chair and sorted through the mail that had accumulated from March, weeding out the Lillian Vernon catalogs and student loan bills and throwing them away. I checked the answering the machine. I had 15 messages.
Beep…Beep…Beep…Beep…Beep…
Thirteen were from a fax with automatic redial, one was from a bank offering me life insurance, and the other was my monthly reminder from Mrs. Schuyler about the rent.
I wrote the check, dropped it into an envelope and placed it in the “out” box on top of the desk.
Open for business.
It was 9 p.m. and my day was just beginning. I pulled a Jack Daniels out of the bottom right hand drawer and poured myself a double. My throat tightened around the amber grain that forced its way into the back of my mouth. Hair of the dog that bit you. I closed my eyes, panted a little, and licked my chops while I waited to see what type of human trash would find its way to my front door. I was hungry, ravenous in fact, but the putrid smell of rotting mayonnaise held those thoughts at bay.
I’d seen it all. Everything from lost kittens stuck in trees to transvestites whacking their hermaphroditic lovers in a jealous rage. Talk about gender confusion. Somehow they always found themselves on my doorstep looking for a shoulder to cry on, a sucker to set up or someone to tell them how naughty they’d been. I’d long since stopped caring about their motives, but I could smell their decaying souls from the moment they entered the downstairs lobby.
It was 3 a.m. when I heard the anxious clicking of a pair of 8D Oxfords on the linoleum in the hallway outside my office. The shadow of a man in a top hat brushed past the window and then suddenly stopped. Briefly knocking, then sheepishly opening the door, I stood to greet my nervous apparition.
“Mr. Timber.”
“That’s me.”
“I have a p-proposition for you.”
“And that would be…?”
“If you would be so good as to die.”
He pulled a pearl-handed revolver from his vest pocket, and fired with a surprising degree of accuracy in my direction.
I won’t say I didn’t see it coming. You show me a full moon, and I’ll show you my collection of silver bullets with my name on them. Always misspelled.
BLAM! BLAM! BLAM!
I dodged left, then twice right to avoid the blasts. And then with a growl, I lunged at him.
Never underestimate the power of a good growl, especially when your dealing with a milksop that looks like the little mustachioed Monopoly guy with the top hat.
I ripped the gat out of his hand and then pistol-whipped him a couple of times. I threw in an extra one for good measure. I was kind of enjoying it.
“Spill it, Mr. Moneybags.”
He spat out a couple teeth and wiped the spittle off his lip. He started to cry as he sputtered out his sad sack story. I was real choked up.
“You bastard…my sister…you ruined it … destroyed everything.” I slapped him… for effect. I told him I didn’t have all night, seriously.
“You did it and you didn’t even care. She had so much …so much promise and you made her into an animal… an ANIMAL!”
I pretty much figured it out when he walked in the door. It happened enough, not as much these days, as when it first… Another innocent victim, one of mine.
Be sure to join us for the next installment of this Nick Timber mystery, entitled – “BITING THE BULLET!!!”