Silver Bullett: Super-Smooth Private Investigator

Paul Bowers

The name’s Bullett… Silver Bullett. Maybe you’ve heard of me, maybe you haven’t. Anyways, I’m a freelance detective born and raised on the streets of Chicago. I’ve got killer instincts and handsome good looks to boot.

Everywhere I go, I take two little companions with me. One’s a little girl I call Susie. She’s a nice companion to have around when big stuff’s goin’ down. She’s from the Beretta family, and she packs quite a punch. I’ve never had ta use her before, and she ain’t even loaded, but she looks scary enough for a good bluff.

The other’s a friend I like to call Mr. Frenchie. He may be yellow, but he helps calm my nerves. (Don’t ask, I just gotta thing for mustard.)

When scumbags hear my Aston Martin (that’s right, the James Bond car) coming down the street with its huge bass speakers thumpin’ to an Italian opera, they run away and cover their ears. That’s another thing I appreciate: a good opera. (Hey, don’t knock it ‘til you’ve tried it.)

But enough about me. About the case…

The dame burst into my office, panic in her eyes.

“Ooooh, detective,” she cried, putting the back of her hand on her forehead dramatically. “Ah feel faint! Some brute stole mah purse. Ya’ gotta help me, detective!”

I knew right off the bat I was gonna hate this chick. She had a lotta energy. A little too much energy, if you ask me. But hey, a job’s a job.

“So, what’d this schmutz look like?” I asked.

“Well, he was about yea hah,” she said, standing on her tiptoes and reaching for the ceiling. I’m tellin’ ya’, this broad was a couple fries short of a happy meal, if ya’ know what I mean. I leaned back in my office chair, preparing to negotiate.

“Before we get started, I should let ya’ know I usually charge the big bucks for gigs like this,” I began. “I mean, purse-napping’s serious business! Things could get ugly, and I usually need a couple of G’s as a, um, an insurance policy.”

“Oh, certainly detective,” she answered, whipping out her pocketbook. “Here’s a check for fifteen thousand dollars. You think that’ll do ya’?” I scratched my chin, trying not to laugh. Either this lady was an airhead, or there was somethin’ important about that purse I didn’t know. I suspected the first. I mean, she sounded like that chick in “Gone With the Wind.” How bright could she be?

“It’s a deal,” I replied. “So, what’s the deal with this purse of yours? Is there somethin’ special ‘bout it you ain’t tellin’ me?” She scrunched up her nose. She was obviously confused. Then again, Dr. Seuss could confuse this broad.

“No, it’s just mah purse,” she answered.

“So why are ya’ payin’ me fifteen grand to track it down?” I asked. “I mean, why do you care about it so much about it?”

“Why do ya’ care? Just find it, okay?” She was obviously gettin’ peeved.

“All right, all right, already!” I said defensively. Sheesh, what’s with this broad? I wondered. “So, where’d this punk steal your purse?” I asked.

“In an alley over bah 53^rd street.”

“What was a nice chick like you doin’ on the bad side of town?”

“Nunyabizness,” she muttered like it was one word. Somethin’ was definitely suspicious about this chick. I decided to go for some more friendly conversation.

“Hey, what’s your name, anyways?” I asked.

“Oh, terbly sorry for bein’ so rude. It’s Betsy Dudavonte-Claire the third,” she replied politely.

“Nice ta meet ya’” I said, reaching my hand across my desk. “My name’s-“

She interrupted me. “Oh, ah know who you are. You’re Silver Bullett, the absolute greatest an’ handsomest detective in all of Chicago.” She shook my hand admiringly. I blushed a little. Who knows? Maybe I could get to like this girl. I decided to change the subject again. After all, detectives aren’t supposed to blush.

“So, uh... about the case...” I stuttered. Detectives definitely aren’t supposed to stutter.

“Oh, detective, this here’s the place!” she shouted in my ear, clutching my arm nervously. “Ah feel faint jes’ thinkin’ about it! Mah, but he was an ugly brute!” I rolled my eyes. Sheesh, this broad’s loopy, I thought.

The place she’d brought me seemed pretty sleazy. I couldn’t help but wonder what she’d been doing in an alley on the wrong side of Chicago. Stray cats with matted fur roamed about, begging for food with pitiful, wretched meows. Bums sat silently by their cardboard boxes, their liquor bottles wrapped in paper bags and clutched close to their bony chests. They stared at us absently through glazed eyes.

One hobo who wasn’t staring at me sat slumped forward, his face absent and his body motionless.

“Is he dead?” I asked a man sitting near him.

He shrugged. “Beats me,” he answered. “But if he is, I got dibs on his clothes.” I snapped my fingers in front of the half-dead man’s clouded eyes.

“Hello,” I called. “Anybody home?” No response. This oughta get his attention, I thought. I flipped a quarter at him, and it bounced off his head and rolled on the ground. After about five seconds, he blinked.

Heyyyy, owieeeeee, misssshtur,” he slurred. “Thaaaaaat... hhhuuuu... hhuuuurt.” Man, what’s this guy smokin’? I thought.

Another five seconds, and his hand lurched forward to the coin. “Hhhheeeeyyy! Muuunnnneeee! Geeeee, thhh... thaaaa... thaaaaaanksssss, missssshhturrrrrr!”

“Do you know anything about this lady’s purse gettin’ stolen?” I asked him slowly, making sure he could understand me. Another blank stare into space. I moaned and rolled my eyes as I handed him a dollar bill.

“Now you’re talkin’ my language!” he said in a clear voice as he stuffed the bill in his pocket. “Yeah, I saw the guy who stole her purse. Heck, I even know him… a little.”

“How much exactly is ‘a little?’” I asked impatiently. These no-good bums can be smart… when they wanna.

“’Bout five bucks wortha ‘little,’” he answered.

“Here’s three,” I muttered, handing the money into his open palm. “And you’ll like it, comprende?” He grumbled something under his breath.

“Alright, alright. His name’s Short Stewie. He’s a, um, an Italian-American businessman.”

“You mean a gangster?” I asked.

“Right, but you didn’t hear it from me, okay?”

“So, who’s he workin’ for?” I probed.

“Fat Louie,” he replied. “Ya’ heard of him?”

“Have I heard of him?” I cried. “What kinda no-good gumshoe hasn’t heard of Fat Louie Patoni?!” Fat Louie was the most famous gangster in town. Weighing in at 800 pounds, he had connections everywhere and bodyguards to carry him from place to place (with his own personal crane). Rumor had it he was operating out of the old Spam-canning factory by the pier.

“Thanks for the help,” I said as I flipped a penny in his direction. “An’ here’s a little extra for yourself.”

“Geeeeee, thhhhaaaankssss, missshturrrrrr,” he slurred, returning to his beggar voice.

“Don’t spend it all in one place,” I muttered as the dame and I headed for my car.

“Yo, Z, ya’ gotta help me out heah,” I pleaded.

Z (his real name was Zachary Zimmerman, the poor guy.) had been a buddy of mine since third grade. He always was the brighter one, so he made up gadgets for me to use. Some of his greatest achievements: the toothpaste gun, dental floss grappling hook, telescope pen, and the infamous bubble bomb. (Kind of ironic, if you ask me. You blow bubbles like an innocent little kid, and they blow stuff up.)

“That’s a ridiculous proposition,” he muttered in a nasally voice as he checked the pH level of a beaker full of boiling, green fluid. “You have ruined practically every device I have invented on your little crime-solving escapades. I am afraid I can no longer be of service to you, you wasteful, ill-mannered ingrate! I’m doing business on my own terms now! I’m sure the general public will appreciate my genius far more than you have!”

“You know, you sound more and more like Steve Urkel every day,” I commented. He glared at me through his large, thick-rimmed glasses. “But anywho, I understand where you’re comin’ from. I promise I’ll use your gadgets with, um, utmost care.” Don’t ask, I heard it on the Tech Channel.

“You mean it?” Z asked. “Well, I suppose I could assist you once more. What do you need?”

“I need a disguise,” I answered. “I gots ta get into da’ Mafia headquarters down by the pier wit’out ‘em gettin’ too suspicious.”

“Hmmmm,” he said, stroking his chin thoughtfully. “Let me check the contents of my coat closet.” He opened a pair of large, folding doors, revealing a small room full of disguises. He had everything: gorilla costumes, clown costumes, bright orange prison costumes, and, yes, gangster costumes. “Here you go,” he said, handing me a coat hanger.

“Very nice,” I complimented. I checked out what he’d given me. Pinstripe jacket, wide-brimmed hat, white dress shirt, suspenders with gun holster, black pants, black shoes. Cool beans.

“Thanks, man,” I said. “You’re a life saver, ya’ know that?”

“Gee golly, that’s swell of you,” Z replied bashfully. “Well, while you’re here, I might as well grant you access to some of my new inventions, as they will in most probability be of great service to you.”

“That’s what I’m talkin’ about,” I muttered, rubbing my hands together. Z unveiled a table covered with gizmos.

“Let’s see, what have we here?” he said, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “This is the latest version of my patented dental floss grappling hook.”

“What’s so special about this one?” I asked.

“It’s spearmint flavored,” he answered. “And this here is no ordinary Swiss Army knife! It’s got fifteen different kinds of blades, it slices, it dices, it peels potatoes, it makes banana-mango smoothies, and it’s got a fifteen-inch color TV, an inflatable emergency raft, hand sanitizer, machine gun, bazooka, and a nifty little toothpick!”

“Schnazzo!” I commented. Z scrunched up his nose. “That’s a good thing,” I explained.

“Ah, yes, well, onto the next device,” he continued. “This is one that I’m particularly proud of.” He picked up a box from a Toys R Us bag.

“Awwww, a RoboPoochiPoo!” I said sarcastically. “But what good’s a Japanese robot dog toy thingy for a grown man like myself?”

“Ah, but therein lies the beauty of this contraption,” he assured me. “Prepare to be dazzled! C’mere, RoboPoochiPoo!” he called. Suddenly, in an explosion of growling and tearing, the plastic dog leapt out of the box, fangs bared, and miniature machine gun blazing. His back opened, and a rocket launcher popped up. I crossed my eyes to see the red dot of a laser sight on my forehead.

“Sit, boy!” Z commanded. Suddenly, the dog sat back on its haunches, wagged its tail, and panted.

“This junk’s absolutely primo,” I told him. “Well, thanks for the help, man. Now I gots ta’ go talk to a mob boss,” I said, flipping up my collar. Z laughed. “What?” I asked.

“I must say, that outfit makes you look positively preposterous!” he giggled.

“Whatever,” I muttered, walking out the door.

“So, was he able to help ya’?” Betsy asked as I got in the car.

“You betcha,” I replied, putting the Toys R Us bag in the backseat. “Check out the new duds.” I showed off my gangster clothes.

“Ooooohh, detective, ah must say you look sooooo handsome in a suit,” she admired.

“Yeah, I know.” Man, I hate to be modest. “Now, let’s go bring down the mob.”

“Do I get a costume?” she begged.

“Um, actually, I think it’d be best if you stay behind for this one,” I explained. “After all, this is some pretty dangerous stuff. Somebody could get hurt, ya’ know?”

There it was, in all its dilapidated splendor: the old Spam canning factory. The place had been shut down about ten years ago. It’s really a shame, ‘cause I was kinda hopin’ to sneak in there and find out once and for all what they make the stuff out of. But that’s a whole ‘nother mystery.

I noticed a light was on in an office on the third story. “All right, I’m just gonna go up to that office where the light’s on and check out the situation. You stay in the car, and, uh, guard the perimeter,” I told Betsy.

“Oh, good heavens,” Betsy exclaimed. “That sounds important!”

“You betcha,” I said. “Ya’ just gots ta make sure nobody, uh, steals the car or nothin’.” Betsy nodded.

“All right, ah’ll do mah best,” she promised solemnly, as if it was the biggest job she’d ever had.

I straightened my tie, checked my shoelaces, and headed toward the old factory. The suit Z had given me had huge pockets on the inside, so I had all the gadgets he’d given me in there. I considered walking in the front door all inconspicuous-like, but I knew how tight these mob families were. They’d know right off the bat I wasn’t one of them. (They probably had guard dogs at the door to sniff people out.)

So I went for the cool approach. I grabbed the box of floss out of my pocket, opened it up, and let her rip. When I opened the lid, a grappling hook shot out to the top of the factory, grabbing on to the roof with its steel claws. I wrapped some of the heavy-duty floss around a molar. Ah, minty fresh!

With the press of a button, the high-powered floss box pulled me up the side of the building. I stopped just above the third-floor window and hung down to get a view of the inside.

An overweight man sat in a luxurious, leather office chair with his feet propped up on a mahogany desk. The chair was one of the largest I had ever seen, but he still seemed uncomfortably cramped, his excessive body fat hanging over the armrests. Fat Louie, I presumed. A nervous man with greasy, slicked-back hair sat in a smaller chair on the other side of the desk, with tough-looking bodyguards flanking him. It seemed like they were discussing business. I pulled a listening device (from Wild Planet) out of my pocket and put it against the window.

“So, you come to me asking for my services,” Fat Louie mumbled, scratching his chin thoughtfully. He had a thick, Italian accent that sounded like he ate gravel all day.

“Well, uh, yeah, if ya’, um, wanna put it that way, then, uh, soitanly. Yeah, I could, uh, use your soivices, I s’pose,” the nervous guy stuttered. Fat Louie put his hands together in front of his mouth, considering the request. The nervous one continued. “Yeah, um, I was kinda hopin’, ya’ know, that you could, uh, use some of your, um, powers of persuasion to, uh, ya’ know, convince some fellas ta’, ya’ know, disregard some of my debts, if ya’ catch my drift.”

“Ya’ want my people ta’ whack someone?” Louie asked bluntly. He had taken his feet off the desk and was now leaning forward, prepared to negotiate.

“Well, if ya’ put it that way, um, well, I s’pose so,” the visitor replied.

“I ask you one question, my friend,” Louie said. “Why should I do you this favor?” The visitor shrugged, and Louie continued before he could answer. “What have you ever done for me? You’ve never come to visit me. We’re s’posed ta’ be family, right? But you show me no respect. And so, I am dismayed to say, my answer is no.” Louie casually cracked his knuckles and leaned back in his chair, causing it to creak and groan. The visitor hung his head low.

“I’m sorry, Uncle Louie,” he muttered. “I didn’t mean ya’ no disrespect. You’re a very fair man, and I understand.” With that, he walked toward the door. As the door opened, Louie snapped his fingers. Two bodyguards stuck out their feet at the office’s threshold, tripping the disheartened man and sending him tumbling down a flight of stairs. I counted the noises. Thirty-two times his body struck the metal, clanging loudly as it echoed through the halls. I winced.

“That’s what people get for showin’ me no respect,” Louie shouted down the stairwell. The bodyguards laughed mechanically. That visitor never left the building.

“Yeah, dat’s right, boss,” one of the thugs agreed. “If ya’ don’t give no respectin’ yer gonna git punished good.”

“Uh, Frankie, c’mere,” Louie said. Frankie stumbled to his boss and leaned over the desk. “Now, I know you’re not a real clever fella or nothin’, but I wanna tell ya’ somethin’.” Frankie leaned in closer, his ear up to the boss’s mouth.

“Ya’ mean like all secret-like?” he asked in awe.

“Yeah, sure,” Louie answered, rubbing his forehead with his plump fingers. He leaned into Frankie’s ear and whispered something. Suddenly, Frankie’s head whirled around, and he stared straight at me. I stayed perfectly still, hoping his dull senses wouldn’t recognize me.

“Yeah, I sees him, boss,” the dull-witted bodyguard slurred.

“You do?” Louie asked sarcastically. Frankie nodded. “Get him.” Suddenly, the hulking galoot charged toward me. As he leaped through the window, arms outstretched, I pulled myself up with the floss. He crashed through the glass, but his arms caught nothing. Instead, he hung in mid-air for a second, cartoon-like, with his feet pedaling furiously at the air, until he started falling. I looked away as I heard the splat.

“I’m okay,” Frankie shouted from below. “I just hit my head a little, that’s all. Oh, yeah, I’m sorry ‘bout the hole in the sidewalk.”

“I knew that thick skull of yours would come in handy some day,” I heard Fat Louie yell from inside. “Now, the rest of youse guys, go get him!”

One of the bodyguards peeked out of the window, trying to find me. I quickly kicked his nose, and he looked away as he wiped the blood off. Figuring this was the time to make my escape, I started climbing the wall. I suddenly felt a strong hand around my ankles.

“Why, I oughta…” the bodyguard muttered, tugging with all his might. My grip slipped on the floss, and I flipped upside down as the man held me from the window. “Don’t make any sudden moves, wise guy, or I’ll drop ya’!” he screamed. “D’you have any idea how much it’ll cost to fix my nose? I’ll probably look like Michael Jackson, for cryin’ out loud! Well, how’s it feel to know that your life is in my hands, huh? HUH?! How’s it feel, sucker?” he taunted, dangling me from the window.

“I can’t feel my toes,” I muttered.

“Don’t drop him, or you’re goin’ down next,” Fat Louie called. “I gots ta’ discuss some business wit’ dis guy.” I heard him laugh. It wasn’t the kind of deep chuckle you’d expect from a mob boss; it was more of… a giggle? Strange. Very strange.

“Oh, you best watch out,” the bodyguard warned me. “Da boss can get very angry about unwanted visitors. Oh, you’re gonna get it now!” he said as he reeled me in.

I said nothing as I sat on the windowsill, dusting myself off. Fat Louie was watching a TV on the wall beside me. I couldn’t tell what he was watching, but it sounded suspiciously like Spongebob Squarepants. Very, very strange. Noticing that I was getting suspicious, Louie grabbed a remote control and turned it off.

“How’s ‘bout you guys go get some coffee or somethin’?” he ordered, waving his hands toward the door.

“Oh, I gotcha, boss,” one of the guards said. “Ya’ need a little privacy ta’ take care of some bizness.” Louie rolled his eyes. No, duh, he mouthed.

The guard winked secretively to his boss and stepped out of the room. Louie massaged his temples, trying to get rid of a sudden headache.

“C’mere, kid,” he said, gesturing broadly with his hands. He hoisted himself up out of his chair and kissed me on the cheeks. I stared blankly at him.

“It’s, a, you know, a Sicilian thing,” Louie explained quickly. I nodded uncertainly. “Well, have a seat, my friend,” he grumbled, pointing to a chair in front of the desk. I lowered my self cautiously onto the red leather cushion, expecting the floor to fall out and for me to plummet fifty feet into a tank full of piranhas (hey, it’s happened before). Nothing happened.

Fat Louie fell back into his chair and folded his hands across his large stomach.

“Wanna cigar?” he asked, reaching into a drawer and pulling out a box.

“I just say no,” I replied firmly. (Eat your heart out, DARE.) Louie shrugged and pulled out the biggest Cuban cigar I’d ever seen.

“I can see you want somethin’ from me,” he said out of the side of his mouth without the cigar in it.

“Yeah, maybe,” I replied. The number one rule for dealing with gangsters: don’t tell them anything.

“You want information,” he countered, puffing a smoke ring around my face. “I can see it in your eyes.” Man, this guy’s good, I thought. “Before we go any further, let me let you in on a little somethin’. I could snap my fingers right now, and my boys would come in and turn you into swiss cheese,” he threatened. “Capisce?” I nodded nervously. Sheesh, this guy’s just one big ball of charisma, I thought. “So waddya want?” he asked.

“First off, did I hear you giggling while I was hanging from the windowsill?” I inquired, trying to break the ice. Fat Louie leaned forward defensively.

“Lemme tell ya’ somethin’ ‘bout gangstas and giggles,” he rasped. “They’re like oil an’ water. They don’t go together. Any gigglin’ you heard musta been the voices in your little messed up head!”

“All right, all right,” I said. “Let’s get down ta’ business. This chick got her purse stolen, and rumor has it one of your people was the one who mugged her.”

“Was there anything important about the said purse?” Louie asked in a businesslike manner.

“Yeah, I think so,” I answered. “She paid me out the nose to find the thing.” Louie considered this for a second.

“I may be able ta’ help ya’” he said smoothly. He raised his hand in the air, and I knew he was about to snap his fingers. Not wanting to have my brains scraped off the walls, I thought fast.

“Wait, Mr. Louie, sir!” I shouted. “I may be able to help you out. You know, you scratch my back, I scratch yours?” Louie put his hand back in his lap.

“I’m listening,” he muttered impatiently.

I reached in my pocket and pulled out the RoboPoochiPoo, which I laid on the desk before me. “I present to you the greatest and newest in weapon technology.” He looked at me confusedly.

“A toy dog?” he asked. He sniffed quietly. The dog sat happily wagging its tail and panting. “I gotsa history with dogs.” I saw his upper lip tremble. “When I was a boy growin’ up back home in Italy, I had fifteen brothers and sisters, and they all hated me.” He wiped a tear from his eye. “They made fun of me ‘cause I was fat. One day, I was walkin’ home from school, and this cute little puppy started yappin’ at me an’ chasin’ me an’ all. I told him all my secrets, an’ he became my first- and only- friend.” He picked up a Kleenex and emptied his nose.

“But when I got home, Ma said I couldn’t keep him,” he continued. “I begged and begged, but ya’ know what she said ta’ me? She said, ‘Boy, a dog isn’t gonna do ya’ no good. We’re your family, an’ we don’t want some mangy mutt takin’ our place.’” He banged his head on the desk in agony. “I was scarred for life. But I gotsta hide it, ya’ know? I mean, I’m da’ boss, da’ big cheese! I can’t go around cryin’ all the time!”

“Don’t hold it in,” I said compassionately. I always wanted to be a psychologist. “You can’t bottle these emotions up.”

“You know, that’s prob’ly why I feel like I need ta’ kill people,” he sobbed. “It’s like I’m gettin’ revenge on Ma by whackin’ people. I’m a disgrace, ya’ hear me?! A disgrace to da’ family. Heck, I even watch cartoons to cover up the pain!” he moaned, gesturing at the TV.

“Here,” I offered, pushing the robot dog across the table. “He’s yours.”

“Your generous gift is appreciated,” Louie said, returning for a moment to his businesslike self. “You may just be compensated with your life.” I smiled gratefully as he picked up the plastic dog and cuddled in his arms. A robotic tongue came out of the dog’s head and licked the mob boss’s face.

“Hee, hee,” Louie giggled. “It tickles!”

“Attack, RoboPoochiPoo!” I shouted. The dog’s eyes glowed a demonic red as it jumped back onto the desk. A Gatling gun popped out of its back, along with a missile launcher, flamethrower, and meat tenderizer (just in case). “Hold on, Pooch,” I commanded. The dog growled viciously, all of its weapons aimed at Louie’s forehead.

“All right,” I said. “I think we’re ready to negotiate. Capische, paysanne?”

“Where’d you learn Italian?” Louie asked nervously. I shrugged.

“I watched ‘The Godfather.’ But that’s not the point. The point is, I wanna know who stole this broad’s purse an’ why it’s so important.” Louie glared at me. “An’ you’re gonna tell me, or I’ll tell the little puppy dog here to dispose of you in unpleasant ways, if ya’ know what I mean.” Louie nodded abruptly.

“Well, uh, of course, I’d be glad to do you the favor,” Louie replied, stumbling over his words. “You see, it’s uh, ya’ know, complicated. Uh, ya’ know what, how’s ‘bout I just give you the purse back right now?” I nodded. “I’m keepin’ it safe downstairs, so if you’ll follow me…” He pressed a button on the arm of his chair. Some steel cables with hooks on the ends dropped down from the ceiling and latched on to the chair. Slowly, they lifted him off the ground and began carrying him out of the room. I followed him slowly, watching for guards to pounce on me at any second.

We went through a maze of halls and dark rooms, down some poorly lit stairs, and into a basement. It was damp, and rats scurried around the floor. If there’s one thing I’ve learned from horror movies, it’s that you should never go in the basement.

I followed Louie through a secret entrance in the wall (how clever), which led to a brightly lit room filled with purses. There were shelves full of every kind of purse imaginable: Red ones, black ones, brown ones, leather ones, plastic ones, ones made out of straw, enough purses to make a grown man feel like a woman. (Pretty creepy, huh?)

Suddenly, the door slammed shut behind me. A hulking bodyguard pounced on me from behind, pinning me to the floor.

“My brother Michael Patoni here could break your shins in two seconds flat,” Louie warned me as he was slowly lowered to the ground. “I would advise that you not to make him mad.” I nodded quickly, realizing that I had been duped. Never go in the basement, I thought, smacking myself on the forehead.

“Now, it would be a sound investment in your future for you to drop dis case,” Louie told me. “I own this city. If ya’ don’t think I gots guys everywhere who’ll whack you in an instant for foitherin’ your little investigation, well, let’s jus’ say you gots another thing comin’.” I gulped, knowing he was right. “Now, take ‘im outside, Mikey,” he continued, gesturing toward the bodyguard. “I think our friend’s learned his lesson.” The man picked me up off the ground like a half-empty sack of potatoes and draped me over his shoulders.

“Oh, yeah, one more thing,” Louie said as the guard started carrying me up the stairs. “Lose the suit. The whole pinstripe thing is so cliché.” I worry about a man who knows that much about fashion.

Michael carried me to a door, then heaved me through the air onto the cold, hard asphalt. I groaned as I lay there, unable to move. I eventually managed to push my weary body from the ground and stumble to my car, where Betsy was waiting for me.

“So how’d it go?” Betsy asked excitedly. “Did you get mah purse?” I stared at her overly perky face solemnly.

“Well, not exactly,” I stammered. “But I did, uh, do some negotiatin’.”

“Oh, that sounds good,” she replied, obviously not knowing what I meant. The chick’s an airhead, what can I say?

I drove back to my office in silence, mulling over the facts in my head as Betsy sat vacantly reading the warning on the back of the sun visor. What could a mob boss want with a bunch of purses? Maybe he was smuggling illegal purses across the border to Canada (you never know). Or maybe he was planting spy devices in the purses so he could return them and listen in on the owners. But why would he want to spy on a bunch of broads?

The clues were fitting together about as well as an electric eel and a trombone, and I was getting nowhere fast. I dropped Betsy off at her apartment and drove around the block. I needed clues and a drink, one of which I knew where to find.

I strolled through the deserted checkout line, checking out the tabloids and diet magazines.

“Rough night?” the cashier asked. I noticed his nametag; his name was Herb. He always worked the night shift here at Zorbinson’s Grocery Store.

“You can say that again,” I grumbled as I put the large, yellow bottle on the conveyor belt. As soon as I paid the money, I shook the bottle, opened it, and began squirting the mustard down my throat.

“You know, you should get help for that kind of thing,” Herb warned me. “If you really tried, I know you could kick the habit.” I ignored him and kept on chugging. I noticed someone else walk in the entrance to the store. The place was deserted, except for the lone cashier and us two late-night customers.

I noticed the new customer was unusually short. He wore shoes with incredibly thick soles to try to hide it, but he kept tripping on them. He wore a large trench coat with strange lumps in it.

Suddenly, I flashed back to the hobo in the alley: “Alright, alright. His name’s Short Stewie. He’s a, um, an Italian-American businessman.” The name fit. He was a midget, and he definitely looked like a gangster.

“Hey, Stewie!” I called out, seeing if he would answer. He ignored me and started walking faster toward the produce section. I ran and caught up with him. “Your name is Stewie, right?” I asked.

“Maybe, maybe not,” he answered shadily as he continued walking and looking away from me. “What’s it to ya’?” I took that as a yes.

“I need ta’ do some, you know, bizness wit’ ya’,” I replied, trying to sound like a gangster.

“Hmph,” he muttered. “I dunno what you’re talkin’ about. What’s bizness? I don’t do no bizness. Who’s askin’?”

“Let’s cut to the chase, my friend,” he whispered in his ear. “I need some information.”

“Ya’ know, my friends also call me Tightlips Joey,” he said quietly. “An’ that’s for a reason, ya’ know?” I nodded thoughtfully.

“Perhaps I could earn your trust through some, ya’ know, transactions,” I offered.

“That means money, right?” he asked. I shook my head yes. “Why certainly, I’ve been known to take the occasional, ya’ know, monetary compensation.”

“Why are we using big words?” I inquired. Stewie shrugged. I pulled a Benjamin out of my wallet. “How’s this?” I asked. He shook his head.

“Ya’ think I’d sell out for a wimpy hundred bucks?” he said. “No way.” I pulled out a couple more and offered them inconspicuously behind my back.

“Five hundred,” I whispered secretively. “Take it or leave it.” Stewie quickly grabbed the bills and stuffed them in his pockets. “Now, you better spew information like there’s no tomorrow, or there might not be one for ya’, capisce?” I told him. He nodded quickly. We walked into the cereal aisle, where he started to talk.

“I’ve been workin’ ‘dis gig for years,” he informed me. “I don’t question nothin’, I just do what da’ boss says, and I get a big fat paycheck. I usually did the old hit man job, but lately, I’ve had some pretty kooky assignments. You know, little pickpocket jobs. Da’ boss suddenly makes me start stealin’ purses for ‘im, an’ bada bing, now I’m loaded up wit’ da’ finest purses in all the land.” He opened his trenchcoat to reveal a large selection of purses. “Kinda fishy if ya’ ask me. I mean, the guy’s got more than enough money. What’s he need this small bizness for, huh? But, like I said, I don’t ask questions. A job’s a job, an’ a job means money, ya’ know?”

I thought about what he’d said. He seemed to be telling everything he knew, but you never really know with gangsters.

“All right, thanks for the help,” I told him. “But if what you told me wasn’t the truth, the whole truth, an’ nuthin’ but the truth, I’m gonna hunt you down an’ beat you ‘til your brains ooze out your ears.” He nodded, then hurried away down the aisle, looking cautiously over his shoulders every ten seconds.

What a nutcase, I thought, squirting a shot of French’s into my mouth.

Betsy stared at me expectantly from in front of my desk, waiting for an answer to some unasked question floating around in her head.

“What is it?” I asked impatiently.

“Have ya’ figured it out?” she inquired. “The case, ah mean.”

“Actually, yeah,” I replied nonchalantly. “It kinda came to me in a dream last night.”

“Well, who did it?” she said breathlessly.

“I, uh, I can’t tell ya’,” I answered.

“How come?”

“If I told ya’ what I thought, then I‘d look like an idiot if I was wrong,” I explained. She smacked herself on the forehead.

“I shoulda known that,” she said. “But I guess that’s why you’re the detective. You’re so smart!” I felt another round of inappropriate detective-blushing coming on, so I tried to cover it up with a knowing smile. All I could manage was a sheepish grin.

I searched through the “P” section of the genealogy book, hoping to find the answers to the questions that remained in my mind. Hmmm, Paddleton, Parker, Parson… There it was: Patoni.

The latest addition to the family (or “da’ fam’ly”) was a chick by the name of Maria Puzzoli, now married to Louie Patoni. So, he is married, I thought. I’m way too good at this stuff.

Once again, I peeked through a dirty window of the old Spam-canning factory, only this time I was inside the building and wearing much more fashionable and inconspicuous street threads.

This time, I had tried the front entrance to the warehouse, rather than climbing up the wall with dental floss. All I had to do was tell the bodyguards (in an Italian accent) that I was Louie’s second cousin’s grandmother’s great-great-grandson’s stepbrother’s uncle’s godson, and they took my word for it. These mob families are way too big.

So I stared into the basement where Louie kept the purses, watching and waiting for the opportunity to sneak in. Louie was sitting in his usual office chair, talking timidly to a tall woman standing in front of him. I pulled out my listening device and pressed it up against the grimy window.

“I don’t think I’m gettin’ enough respect heah!” the woman screamed at him. “What kinda no-good mob boss are ya’, anyways?” She put her hands on her hips and chewed some gum loudly.

“I’m sorry, Maria,” Louie groveled, taking her hand and trying to kiss it apologetically. Maria pulled her hand away quickly. “I’m doin’ my best,” Louie explained. “I’m really tryin’ hard ta’ make ya’ happy! I’m just a big failure!” He put his face in his hands, sobbing miserably.

“Ya’ sure are, ya’ fatso!” Maria shouted without the slightest trace of sympathy. She stormed out of the room, and I heard her high heels clicking down a long hallway.

I figured this was as good a time as ever to make my entrance. I pushed a large door open slowly, and I winced as it creaked loudly.

“Who’s there?” Louie called weakly, blowing his nose on his sleeve. I hunched down behind a pile of boxes, hoping he hadn’t seen me. “Who’s there?” he repeated in a stronger voice. I knew I’d been caught. I pulled the hood of my hooded jacket over my head and pulled the drawstrings so that it covered as much of my face as possible.

“It’s me… Mario,” I replied, using the first Italian name that popped into my head. “Perhaps you’ve met my brother, Luigi,” I joked, laughing nervously. He didn’t seem to get it.

“Are ya’ family?” Fat Louie asked cautiously. I rattled off my fake lineage the best I could remember it, and he nodded. I kissed him on the cheeks, remembering it was the proper “Sicilian” thing to do, then sat down in a nearby folding chair.

“What can I do for you, my long-lost relative?” he asked. I cleared my throat and tightened the jacket’s drawstrings again.

“Ya’ know, I was just in town, and I thought I’d stop by and see how you’re doin’,” I answered. Louie rolled his eyes.

“Nice try, kid,” he said. “But I know you’ve got somethin’ in mind. Nobody comes to me unless they’re ‘spectin’ ta’ get somethin’ out of it.” I bit my lip, trying to cool my nerves. “Anywho, what’s with the hood?” he asked, pointing at my head.

“Oh, it’s, uh, the latest fashion in Italy,” I replied slowly. Fat Louie scrunched up his eyebrows.

“I guess I haven’t been back home in a while,” he muttered to himself.

“So, anywho,” I said, changing the subject. “How’s it goin’ wit’ you an’ your wife?”

“Uh, good, real good,” Louie stammered. A tear slipped out of his left eye, and he wiped it away in frustration.

“Really?” I probed. “I couldn’t help but notice as I walked in that she was havin’ a little temper tantrum.” He bit his finger, sniffed quickly, then leaned forward secretively.

“I guess I can tell ya’ ‘bout this, since you’re fam’ly an’ all,” he started. “Things have been kinda rough between me an’ Maria lately. She has ‘dis big thing for purses, an’ she wants me ta’ get her just the right one. So I started doin’ a little, ya’ know, bizness in the purse department. So, I gots ‘dis big ol’ heap of purses,” he said, gesturing around the room. “An’ she don’t like any of ‘em!” He started sobbing again.

“Sounds ta’ me like you’re lettin’ your life be controlled by your wife,” I advised him, starting to sound a little like Dr. Phil and Dr. Seuss. “You should def’nitely settle ‘dis issue wit’ her some day… in jail.” I slowly raised my hand in the air and snapped my fingers loudly.

In the blink of an eye, a SWAT team swarmed down from the rafters and surrounded Fat Louie.

“I hope you can work out your problems, my troubled Sicilian friend,” I said sympathetically.

“Oooooh, Detective Bullett!” Betsy cried. “You’re mah hero!” She clutched her black purse gratefully, standing in front of my desk. “How did ya’ do it?”

“Aw, it was nothin’,” I answered modestly.

“Really?” she asked naively.

“No,” I explained, “it’s a figure of speech.” She nodded, pretending to understand. “Just out of curiosity, why did ya’ pay me so much ta’ find your purse?”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she said. “Did I pay ya’ too much? I could pay ya’ less if ya’ want me to.” I was right all along. The broad’s definitely an airhead.

“No, don’t worry ‘bout it,” I muttered.

“Well, anywho, thanks for ev’rything,” she told me. She leaned forward and pecked me on the cheek.

“You aren’t Sicilian, are ya’?” I groaned. She stared in blank confusion.

“Isn’t that a kind of pizza?” she asked.

“Nevermind,” I replied, shaking my head. Betsy scratched her forehead in confusion, then headed for the door.

“Well, ah’ll see ya’ later, Silver Bullet,” she called back over her shoulder, saying my name slowly and sweetly. Ya’ know, she may be a little ditsy, but she’s all right, I thought, trying to keep myself from blushing again.

Now ya’ have it: the story of how I brought down an organized crime ring and picked up a chick along the way.

It turned out that that Maria character was so mean to her hubby just because she wanted him to get out of “’da bizness,” and the two of them worked it out on Jerry Springer.

Fat Louie’s finally starting to slim down a little (the prison food isn’t quite like Ma’s), and he promises he’ll go legit if he ever gets out of the slammer.

My slightly geeky buddy, Z got hired by the CIA, where he invents spy gadgets all day long- and gets paid for it.

RobiPoochiPoo went on to conquer several small countries, and he lives happily in a titanium fortress disguised as a doghouse, ruling over thousands of unhappy people.

As for me, I’m on my honeymoon in Honolulu with you-know-who. She wanted to go to Hawaii ‘cause she thought snow skiing would be romantic (once an airhead, always an airhead). Ya’ know, “Betsy Bullet” has a nice ring to it. Funny how these things work out.

So for now, life’s all peachy an’ rosy. As they say in Sicily, “Bada bing, bada boom, mama mia, mange, mange, ravioli, an’ have a nice day!” (or somethin’ like that).