The Subtle Art of Brutality

“Howard, how are you?” I ask.

“Very fine, Richard. I see you’ve been gallivanting, pissing off the locals again.” His voice, charred by years untold of smoking filterless cigarettes, grumbles across the line.

Howard Michigan retired from Saint Ansgar PD a few years after I signed on. He was what went for an FTO when I graduated the academy. Then, seventeen years later when I was labeled “unfit for service” by the PD, he was the private investigator who showed me these ropes.

He still has an office but he barely takes a case. It’s just as well; no one comes to him anymore. They’ve been coming to me for years.

“It was a case. Fuck Derne. He can be upset.”

“Derne? That guy who mowed down some women up in Three Mile High?”

“Yes. Why? Who are you talking about?”

“Windslow. Dr. Marcus Windslow.”

I am Dr. Windslow and I need you to find a certain young lady for me.

Your daughter?

Absolutely not. As it were she w

as a...mistress.

Why do you want the mistress?

To rekindle, I suppose.

I sit up straighter and lean into the phone. “You know Windslow?”

“Yes. After he hired me to find his ex-girlfriend he cussed you out up one side and down the other. I swear, Richard—”

“How much?” I ask. Fury emanates like heat snakes on a sunbaked road.

“Oh jeez, he went on and on. He hates you—”

“No. How much to find the girl?”

“Why? Jealous?” Howard makes a laughing sound; it is a burble in a backed-up drain.

“How much?”

“Slapped down a cold two grand. Said one grand was for looking into the broad, the other was for keeping his comments about you a secret.” More laughter. “I told ’em no problem. I even called you a cocksucker just to gain his trust. Hope you don’t mind, buddy.”

“No, I don’t mind.”

My revolver comes out, I look at the cylinder. Six fresh ones all packed up and ready with their dance cards.

“I feel like I should toss you a couple Benjamins just for doin’ whatever it was you done to send the poor bastard my way.”

Almost under my breath: “He waited a few months. I wonder if he tried to hire anyone else first, or if he just gave it some time to cool off.”

“What? Who cares? Why’d you turn him down anyways? He try and write you a check?”

Why do you need a private detective to find a woman whom you think will still want to be with you? If she’s that in to you she shouldn’t be hard to find.

Will you take the case or not?

No. I will not take your case. But I will be keeping an eye on you. If Denise Carmine, white female, age thirty-two, brown and blue, five-foot-eight, one hundred and thirtyish, divorced, no children, drives a white Ford sedan turns up beaten or dead, I’ll remember you.