The Case of the Missing Cliché: Conclusion

 Time to put this caper to bed. So to speak. For those of you just joining us the previous chapters are here:

The Case of the Missing Cliché, and The Case of the Missing Cliché Continued

Rick O’Shea here, having collected my money as a paid voyeur and deliberately targeted punching bag, enjoying an expensive Scotch with the shades drawn and the door locked. Contemplating giving up my sinful life and becoming a TV evangelist. I’d wear my collar backwards but certainly not my pants. If I could fit a coat hanger in my mouth, I could even smile like Joel Osteen. A terribly hard life, rich as Croesus, but begging for money at every pause in the sermon.

My revery went on for hours as my Scotch slowly sank in the bottle and the sun sank in the sky. It was pitch black outside when my dreams were shattered by a knock on the door. I froze. At which point the phone rang. Do I hide under my desk and hope the world goes away or take my life in my hands and answer the phone, thus telling the person at the door I was in. I answered the phone. I’ve still got bills to pay: Bill the Bookie, Bill the Landlord, Bill the mechanic, Bill the beat cop. I’m a regular Bill collector.

It was Lori. “I’m coming up to your office.” And she hung up. Normally I would have looked forward to it. Though I hadn’t earned any extra services yet, a guy can always hope. I’m a wild animal in bed. More afraid of them than they are of me. The last time a woman wanted to make love to me though, I had to disappoint her…we made love.

The knock came at the door again. It was a left-handed knock, which told me the right hand was holding a gat. I put my .45 on the table and using my convenient remote unlocked the door without getting up. The man who entered could have been Walter Mitty II. He held the gun like he was afraid it would bite him. I saw at a glance it was a 1911 Colt .45 Army Model Semi-Automatic, serial number 2,806, 666. The safety was still on. He didn’t look like the two headed monster of Lori’s description but I knew it was her Ex. I mentally made an X between and a little above his eyes for future reference. Don’t ask me Y.

“Ok, Bub, I know who you are. I’m not going to hurt you. Sit down, set the gun on the table carefully and explain why you hired those goons to bump me off.”

“Me? I know nothing about them. Did Lori tell you I hired some guys to kill you? She told me she hired you to kill me. I wanted to preempt the move.”

“Not with the safety still on. This thing is going around in circles. You better come clean. One or both of you is stark raving nuts.”

“It’s Lori. She hates me. I am not her Ex, though I would love to be. She gets her kicks by forcing me to watch her perform Flagrante Delicto with any guy she drags home. (Note to self: look that up) I have tried to escape several times but she threatens to kill me. I’m on the run right now. How did you get mixed up in this?”

“She offered me a cool Grand to follow her cheating husband. Instead, I followed a cheating wife and near got beaten to death for the pleasure. She hoped I would kill you in self-defense for sending the mugs after me. There were “extras” promised when you were dead. By the way, she is on her way here right now.”

“You must protect me. She’ll kill me.”

“Maybe, maybe not. The three of us will have a little chat first and sort out the problem.”

Speak of Jezebel and she shall appear. Lori came softly into the room looking all ready to plant some lovin’ on this Private Investigator. Her attitude turned to fury when she saw Walter Mitty.

“OK, Sweetheart, pull up a chair. We are all going to have a little tete a tete. A threesome. Your friend here has been telling me some interesting stories about you.”

“How dare you listen to this…this liar?”

“Honey, I believe him more than I believe you now. You seem to be less than honest yourself. And homicidal to boot.”

“I don’t like your attitude.”

“Neither do I. It’s a bad attitude. I lay awake on long cold winter nights worrying about it. Can I get each of you a drink?”

They nodded affirmative and using Betty Cooker’s Crock Book, I mixed Lori an orange juice and vodka Screwdriver and Walter Mitty a prune juice and vodka Piledriver.

“Now let’s talk. Lori, I have no problem with your kinky habits but why take it out on this poor guy. He just wants out. Let him get out. I’m sure that you can find someone who enjoys watching you in Flagrante Delicto (I had figured out what it meant, bit slow on the uptake, I am not used to long fancy words for ____). Or is sadism part of your personality, too (As the sadist said to the masochist, “NO!”)?”

“It’s revenge. I need a man. Our marriage was fine. He suddenly says he doesn’t love me or want me. Then he was in an accident and is useless as mammary glands on a canary. I’m going to keep torturing him or kill him. Or both. You can’t help him, nor can you stop me.”

The look in her eyes got wilder and wilder as she spoke. She scared me. “Lady, you need serious help. I’m calling the cops and EMT”. Suddenly out of nowhere that snub nose Saturday Night Special appeared. I was slow, she was quick and he was dead. She put a slug in the spot I had mentally marked with X before I got two slugs centre left on her chest.

I hate having dead bodies in my office. Spoils the atmosphere. And ruins my carpets. I called Bill, the beat cop. He came in a few minutes, and I explained the situation. He called the Precinct, and they sent a couple detectives and an ambulance. I gave them my statement, a couple of clients with marital problems I was counselling when it went off the rails. Murder and self-defense.

After they left and the ambulance had collected the stiffs, Bill says to me, “Marriage counselling is not a line of work I would recommend for you, though you certainly solved their problems.”

Now to get the janitor to clean up the mess. I call him “G-spot” because I can never find him. When he showed up in an hour it was without his cleaning supplies and he had to go hunting for them all over the building. He couldn’t organize a drunken brawl at an Irish wake.

By this time I had given up my idea of TV Evangelism. John Oliver talked me out of it. https://youtu.be/7y1xJAVZxXg . I think I’ll go into beekeeping. Of course, with my luck, the bees will be allergic to pollen and break out in hives.

The sun is up and I’m starved. And slightly hung over. I’m going to nip over to the café down the street and grab some food. There is a cute waitress there, who likes me. She isn’t too bright, which counts in my favour. She thinks LBJ is Spanish for fellatio. And besides, at Sam n Ella’s Diner, the breakfast is to die for.