Dead Men Talk

There was a knock on the office door. I jumped up and tried to make it look as if I were busy. Was it opportunity knocking? There was no second chance to make a first impression. I scattered some papers on the desk and took the phone off the hook. I let her in, picked up the phone, and tried to sound important.

"Look, Archer, I'll call you back, but don't move in until I give the word," I said and hung up the phone.

It was then I took stock of the woman before me. Wow, what a package. The signal went up: DANGER--LEGS CROSSING. She had the kind of body that if she walked by a priest, he'd want to turn and check her out.

She was about five foot six, built like a centerfold, with long legs, a thin waist, and a set of headlights like an '88 Olds. Her short, jet-black hair was cut straight across above her eyes. Full, red lips, and big, bright, cobalt blue eyes. The lady wore a black silk and lace dress, and an old-fashioned mink stole. She dressed like money. She reeked of money. Big money. Big, old, filthy-rich money.

"I hear you're good," she said.

I wondered if she'd been talking to an old girlfriend or a client.

I waited for her to go on, thinking she already had a high opinion of me, and I didn’t want to spoil it by opening my mouth. She came closer. Real close... and looked up into my eyes. "I heard you can help a girl in trouble," she whispered. She smelled good, like a flower garden on a warm summer day. Her deep blue eyes looked right through me, unafraid.

"Well... " I managed to stammer, "I don't know if I can take another case," I said, giving her the standard line.

She moved closer. It seemed to get warmer. Maybe it was the night air. We embraced. I got a warm feeling down below... and it got a lot warmer when she shoved a roll of $100 bills in my pants pocket. Deep in my pants pocket. As I looked into her eyes, she kissed me passionately.

Suddenly, the outer office doors opened, and I could hear feet shuffling and people entering. Then the inner office door burst open, and there, blocking all light from the doorway, stood the largest, fattest human being I had ever seen.

In a guttural voice that sounded like it oozed from a sewer, the fat man growled, "Get in the car, Baby!"

"No! This can't go on!" My new client cried.

Now, I'm not a big man-- I'm about five-ten and one hundred sixty-five pounds soaking wet, but the man who stood before me had to be closer to seven feet than six. He must have weighed an incredible six hundred and fifty pounds or more. He had black, greasy hair stretched across his scalp and huge cheeks of blubber. He was absolutely grotesque. The buttons of his shirt appeared ready to burst open from the rolls of fat. He had an ass that stuck out like the caboose on a freight train. His huge dark suit barely covered the girth of his belly as he squeezed through the door. I could smell the strong musty scent of his cologne. His fingernails were manicured, slightly rose-colored, and glossy. He had legs with thighs as thick as tree trunks, thinning calves, skinny ankles, and little bird feet covered by loafers with tassels on them.

I don't like people yelling in my office. It's not polite. Before this domestic brawl went any further, since it was my office, and in an effort to keep the situation from escalating, I proposed reason be our guiding light and we all separate and discuss this in the morning.

"You shut up right now, Flatfoot, or you'll be smilin' without teeth!" was the response, with a voice so husky it could pull a dog sled.

As if on cue, a four-foot-small, well-dressed, dark skinned man slid in from behind the larger, holding what appeared to be a .45 caliber semi-automatic, (much too large a heater for a dwarf, but it does make a large hole). He too, had his black hair slicked down, combed across his head, and wore a similar dark suit, just like the much larger version.

I was beginning to feel the value of the roll of $100 bills in my pocket was diminishing rapidly.

My client, whose name I didn't yet know, was fumbling in her purse, possibly for a handkerchief. She instead produced a small caliber handgun of her own, which slipped from her purse along with some keys and clanked across to the center of the floor. The midget stepped forward to retrieve this weapon, but things had gone far enough. With one motion I kicked the gun from his hand, caught the semi-automatic, and pointed it at the small man’s head.

"It looks like I'll be asking the questions now. Maybe we'll order some Chinese food and have a group therapy session."

The Fat Man just sort of grunted, but the midget seemed to tense up. He was going to go for me, even though I was pointing a gun at his head. I could no longer contain myself and let go with a stream of expletives, which I will leave here deleted. I was now the ringmaster for this sideshow.

"Tell the squirt to calm down real fast, Fat Boy, or we'll need two ambulances! Or at least one and a half." I added.

I was calling the shots, and I was considering making them head shots. But I didn't know what was going on. I didn't know any of these people. Was the circus in town?