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Monthly Archives: August 2009

I want to be the kind of private detective who figures out that the murderer is actually the woman who hired him.

The kind who sleeps through the afternoon, drinks through the night and uses mornings and evenings to just kind of stare at himself in a mirror and shake his head “no.”

The kind who gets all the suspects together in one room and then says he’s going to reveal the killer, but suddenly all the lights go out and he gets murdered.

Okay, that was a bad example.

I’m talking about the kind of private detective who calls his Tommy gun a “Chicago typewriter,” his whiskey “hooch” and his female friends “dollfaces.”

The kind who says, “Hey, Dollface, I spilled hooch on my Chicago typewriter and now it’s all bunky.”

I want to be the kind of private detective who, when something is broken, describes it as “all bunky.”

The kind of private detective who questions suspects by grabbing them by their lapels and shoving them up against walls.

The kind who conveniently forgets the difference between interrogating, roughing up and making love to.

It’s the same kind of private detective who tells the mayor’s wife a joke where the setup is that the mayor has been accused of murder, the punchline is that he’s guilty and the epilogue reveals that the joke wasn’t a joke at all, but a rather a non-fiction book about the murder the mayor committed and how long he’s going to go to jail for. (1,000 years.)

The kind who uses invoices as coasters and bullets as invoices.

The kind who, if a client complains that their Accounts Payable department doesn’t know what do with this bullet, shoots the client through the heart with a coaster.

I want be the kind of private detective who’s been on the job so long, he sees a killer around every corner, fingerprints on every object and blood stains on every wall.

Like, the kind of guy who sees the whole world as just one giant man-handled sack of blood-soaked murderers.

The kind of hard-up private detective whose life is all bunky and the only thing longer than his face is his trench coat and the only thing longer than his trench coat is the bag he puts his trench coat in when he takes it to get dry-cleaned.

The kind of guy who sees more beauty in a bottle of gin than in a gorgeous, naked woman, and who doesn’t even get embarrassed when he gets caught having sex with the bottle.

I want to be the kind of private detective who, if you saw him and you didn’t know he was a private detective, you’d say, “Whoa. What is this guy? Some kind of alcoholic cyborg or homeless cowboy?”

But then if he handed you his business card, you’d kind of smack your forehead and go, “Oh! Okay! That makes a lot more sense!”

You know, that kind.

Although, the kind that takes Best Western sex pictures for use in divorce hearings would also be okay with me.

Either one is good, really.