The Subtle Art of Brutality

“Hmmm...”

“Not a missing persons report or anything, just he’s left and not returned. Nothing special to report other than I know you’ve had an eye on him.”

“Yeah. He was an old boyfriend of Delilah Boothe’s. Got shit-canned over their affair. Divorced, too. Admitted that a few months back right before she disappeared he was sleeping with her again. He seemed to think she gave him an STD.”

“You think he took off looking for her?”

“Don’t know. He already railroaded himself once over her. His entire life went tits up. Maybe I shouldn’t have teased him with Delilah.”

“Yeah. But it could just be that his new wife is a huge bitch or he’s tired of the ghosts he’s got in this town. I’ll keep you posted.”

“Thanks. I’m in Three Mile High. Looking up the other boyfriend Boothe got fired. This one should be more fun. He’s a hophead.”

“You and drug addicts. This should end poorly.”

“One can only hope,” I say.

“Be careful up there in that quiet mountain vacation spot. Word is the Freaky Frigid Flasher is back at the ski resort. He struck again last night. I also hear they raised their court fees so don’t get pulled over. And some thief is vandalizing ATMs. Hit a string of them in the past two months.”

“If only the most horrible crime we came up wit

h in Saint Ansgar was ATM robbers,” I say, looking around. “If the Freaky Frigid Flasher runs up to me, opens his coat and shows me his cold, shrunken package, I’ll throw a hot cup of coffee on his nude pieces.”

“And that’s why you’re my favorite guy, Richard,” Clevenger says. “Because I know you’ll do it.”

He knows I’ll do it because I’ve done it before. He and I were canvassing a bayside shopping strip for a crime we caught the week before. It was getting pretty cold so the homeless were starting to do things that would get them arrested.

Any given homeless guy carried a warrant or two with him wherever he went. They were like an insurance policy. Homeless would dodge the cops in all the seasons except winter. Then they’d do some stupid shit right in front of someone, get arrested and the warrant would be revealed on a records check. The bum was essentially cashing in that insurance policy.

It paid off. A warm bed, three meals a day. A sentence that would last them until spring.

Anyways, Clevenger and I were canvassing. It was cold out. I had my large, black coffee. The lid was off to cool it down enough to drink instead of sip. I hate sipping. Sipping is for fags. Some homeless guy pops up, yells “Hey fuzz!” and exposes his entire chest and groin to us. A white belly like a dead fish. Large, ungainly nipples separated by a patch of wiry hair. Ribs protruding like they were the most important detail in the picture.

He just wanted to get arrested. What he got instead was my whole cup of steaming coffee flung at his gut. The dead fish white belly went angry red as it splashed up and down him. He screamed, threw his jacket back in place and ran. Clevenger kept saying “No one saw, no one saw, no one saw, no one saw...” as we continued on canvassing like nothing happened.

So he knows I’ll do it.

I say goodbye and I take a look around. Across the street is a breakfast joint. I make my way over.

The double doors open and the warmth hits me like a wall. Stainless steel and vinyl everywhere. Bright lights. I can smell butter, bacon and coffee as overwhelming as the scent of blood in a slaughterhouse. I walk up to the counter. The help is sandy blonde, early twenties, ripe. Her neck is all slender curves and creamy skin. Her breasts would fit nicely in my hand. She smacks her gum and looks at me. Her disinterest couldn’t be more apparent. No desire in being awake this early.

“Tall black coffee and the phone book,” I say.

“I don’t know if we have one of those.”

“A big cup of coffee? Or the phone book?”

“Phone book.” Annoyed.

“Check.”

“Just call 411.”

“No.”

“Fine.” Huff.

“Oh, and leave room for cream.”