The Gumshoe Diaries are a series of detective stories.
Today I woke up angry again.
I’d been dreaming about my ex, reliving that moment when I’d summoned enough balls to ask her out on a first date. When she finally agreed, I surprised her by taking her to one of the nicest McDonald’s in New York.
I was on my best behavior that night, but God knows I wasn’t a prince. I’d hardly said a word throughout the meal because I was too busy leering at my hamburgers like some horny teenager. But Kate was an old-fashioned girl, accustomed to men who objectified pieces of meat.
Kate was one of those girls with long, normal legs that reached all the way down to the floor. When she took off her shirt, her breasts would turn beet-red with feigned modesty, yet they knew exactly what they were doing. She never used the bathroom without shutting the door. Kate had a full head of hair, and believe me, both of her buttocks were the same damn size. Kate had it all. Try to picture a woman with a vagina.
Near the end of my dream, I was scarfing down Kate’s leftovers when she leaned in close and whispered, “x4$derfe*r3f9?50kl??” which is when I realized I was dreaming because that’s the sound my alarm clock makes. Knowing it would end soon, I started crying while trying to finish her leftovers as fast as possible, but instead I awoke to a Kate-shaped hole in my bed and a leftovers-shaped hole in my stomach.
The brightness of my room was excruciating. With no curtains in the windows, it felt like the sun was sitting on my face, hard. “Well, cock-a-doodle-fuckin’-doo,” I said, with instant regret. I got up, stretched my buns and rummaged through my suitcase for something clean. The neat thing about getting evicted is, you get to throw away all your stuff and sleep on your office floor.
I made a beeline for the mini-fridge. Buzz, buzz… BAH! Nothing in there but half a bottle of cologne that I’d apparently been drinking the night before.
I hadn’t taken a case in weeks, and the inactivity was getting to me. The doctor insisted I take time off for a while, said my nerves were shot and I needed to spend time on things that weren’t directly related to violent crime. Easy for him to say because he speaks English, which made it easy for me to hear.
I bought a Barnyard Steamer from the sandwich vendor on the corner and leaned against a nice-enough garbage can as I ate. It was definitely Munch Time. The Barnyard Steamer was notoriously messy, even for a sandwich, and I made a game out of trying to keep the gray globs of pork gravy from hitting the sides of the can, keeping my upper body hunched over the can in such a way that every errant plop of cow mash and horse sausage found its way to the very bottom.
“In you go, ” I munched. “Straight to the bottom.”
“Straight to the bottom, just like me.”
Then something caught my eye. I tossed the rest of my Steamer at a small flock of salivating bums, dove into the can headfirst and rescued a soiled copy of today’s paper:
“CEO FOUND DEAD IN SPACIOUS FIFTH AVENUE APARTMENT, AVAILABLE IMMEDIATELY, NO PETS, PLEASE.”
I read the headline in disbelief. Why had the D.A. closed the case only two minutes after the body was discovered? And why would anyone want to murder a billionaire?
TO BE CONTINUED!
Previously: Gumshoe Diaries: What Gives?