Taken to the Cleaners
by J. A. Konrath
A Harry McGlade Mystery

"I want you to kill the man that my husband hired to kill the man that I hired to kill my husband."
I was busy looking at her legs, which weren't adequately covered by her skirt. She had great legs—curvy without being heavy, tan and long. But even if I had been paying attention to what she was saying, I still wouldn't have understood what she wanted me to do.
"Mr. McGlade, did you hear what I just said?" 
"Hmm? Yeah, sure I did, baby. The man, the husband. I got it."
"So you'll do it?"
"Do what?"
"Kill the man that my husband—"
I held up my hand. "Whoa. Hold it right there. I'm just a plain old private eye. That's what it says on the door you just walked through—the door with the big magnifying glass silhouette logo thingy on it, which I paid way too much money for. I don't kill people for money. Absolutely, positively no way." I leaned forward a little. "But for the sake of argument, how much money are we talking about here?"
"I don't know where else to turn."
The tears came and she buried her face in her hands, giving me the opportunity to look at her legs again. Marietta Garbonzo had found me through the ad I had placed in the Chicago phone book—the ad with the expensive magnifying glass logo and the tagline Harry McGlade Investigators: We'll Do Whatever it Takes. It was bringing in more customers than my last tagline—No Job Too Small, No Fee Too High. Or the one prior to that—We'll Investigate Your Privates.
Mrs. Garbonzo had never been to a private eye before, and she was playing her role to the hilt. Besides the short skirt and tight blouse, she had gone to town with the hair and make-up—her blonde locks curled and sprayed, her lips painted a deep, glossy red, her purple eye shadow so thick that she managed to get some on her collar.
"My husband beats me, Mr. McGlade. Do you know why?" "Beats me," I said, shrugging.   Her wailing kicked in again.  I wondered where she worked out. Legs like that, she must work out.
"He's insane, Mr. McGlade. Roy has always had a temper. I once saw him attack another man with a tire iron. They were having an argument. Roy went out to the car, grabbed a crowbar from the trunk, then came back and practically killed him."
"Where do you work out?"
"Excuse me?"
"Exercise. Do you belong to a gym, or do you work out at home?"
"Mr. McGlade, I'm trying to tell you about my husband."
"I know, the insane guy who beats you. Probably shouldn't have married a guy you saw using a tire iron for something other than changing tires."
"I married too young. I knew about his temper, but while we were dating he treated me kindly. It was only after we married that the abuse began."
She turned her head away and unbuttoned her blouse. My gaze shifted from her legs to her chest. She had a nice chest, packed tight into a silky black underwire bra with lace around the edges, which displayed things to a good effect.
"See these bruises?"
"Hmm?"
"It's humiliating to reveal them, but I don't know where else to go."
"Does he hit you anywhere else? You can show me. I'm a professional."
The tears returned. "I hired a man to kill him, Mr. McGlade. I hired a man to kill my husband. But somehow Roy found out about it, and he hired a man to kill the man I hired. So I'd like you to kill his man so my man can kill him."
"I removed the bottle of whiskey that I keep in my desk for medicinal purposes, like getting drunk. I unscrewed the cap, wiped the neck of the bottle with my tie, then handed it to her.
"You're not making sense, Mrs. Garbonzo. Have a swig of this."
"I shouldn't. When I drink I lose my inhibitions."
"Keep the bottle."
She took a sip, coughing after it went down. "I already paid the assassin. I paid him a lot of money, and he won't refund it. But I'm afraid he'll die before he kills my husband, so I need someone to kill the man who is after him."
"Shouldn't you tell the guy you hired that he's got a hit on him?"
"I called him. He said not to worry. But I am worried, Mr. McGlade."
"As I said before, I don't kill people for money."
"Not even someone whose business is killing other people for money?"
"But I'd be killing someone who is killing someone who kills people for money. What prevents that killer from hiring someone to kill me because he's killing someone who is killing someone that I . ..."
I held my hand out for the bottle of whiskey. She handed it to me and I took a swig.
"Please, Mr. McGlade. I'm a desperate woman. I'll do anything."
She walked around the desk and stood before me, shivering in her bra, her breath coming out in short gasps through red, wet lips. Her hands rested on my shoulders, squeezing, and she bent forward.
 "My laundry," I said.
"What?"
"Do my laundry."
"Mr. McGlade, I'm offering you my body."
"And it's a tempting offer, Mrs. Garbonzo. But that will take, what, five minutes? I've got about six loads of laundry back at my place, and each load takes over an hour."
"Isn't there a dry cleaner in your neighborhood?"
"A hassle. I'd have to write my name on every label, and every sock, and every elastic band on each of my whitey tighties. Then I'd have to haul all six bags of it down the street and come back later to pick it up. You want me to help you? I get five hundred a day, plus expenses. And you do my laundry."
"And you'll kill him?"
"No. I don't kill people for money. Or for laundry. But I'll protect your guy from getting whacked."
"Thank you, Mr. McGlade."
She leaned down to kiss me. Not wanting to appear rude, I let her.
"You won't tell the police, will you Mr. McGlade?"
"Look, baby, I'm not your priest and I'm not your lawyer and I'm not your shrink. I'm just a man. A man who'll keep his mouth shut, except for when I'm eating. Or talking. Or sleeping, because sometimes I sleep with my mouth open because I have apnea."
"Thank you, Mr. McGlade."
"I'll take the first week in advance. Visa and MasterCard are fine.  Here are my spare keys."
"Your keys?"
 "For my apartment. It's in Hyde Park. I don't have a hamper, so I leave my dirty clothes all over the floor. Do the bedsheets too. Those haven't been washed since, well, ever. Washer and dryer are in the basement of the building. Washer costs seventy-five cents. Dryer costs fifty cents per half hour. The heavy things like jeans and sweaters take about a buck fifty to dry. Make yourself at home but don't touch anything, sit on anything, eat any of my food, or turn on the TV."
I gave her my address, and she gave me a check and all of her info. The info was surprising.
"You hired a killer from the personal ads in Famous Soldier Magazine!"
"I didn't know where else to go."
"How about to the police? A divorce attorney?"
"My husband is a powerful man, Mr. McGlade.   You don't recognize his name?"
I flipped through my mental Rolodex. "Roy Garbonzo. Is he the Roy Garbonzo that owns Happy Roy's Chicken Shack?"
"Yes."
"He seems so happy on those commercials."
"He's a beast, Mr. McGlade."
"The guy is like a hundred and thirty years old. And on those commercials he's always laughing and singing, and dancing with that claymation chicken. He's the guy that's abusing you?"
"Would you like to see the proof again?"
"If it wouldn't be too much trouble."
She grabbed my face in one hand, squeezing my cheeks together. "Happy Roy is a vicious psycho, Mr. McGlade. He's a brutal misogynist pig who enjoys inflicting pain."
"He's probably rich too."
Mrs. Garbonzo narrowed her eyes. "He's wealthy, yes. What are you implying?"
"Nothing at all. I like his extra spicy recipe. Do you get to take chicken home for free? You probably have a fridge stuffed full of it, am I right?"
She released my face and buttoned up her blouse. "I have to go.  My husband gets paranoid when I go out."
"Maybe because when you go out, you hire people to kill him."
She picked up her purse and headed for the door. "I'll expect you to call me when you've made some progress."
"That includes ironing," I called after her. "And hanging the stuff up. I don't have any hangers, so you'll have to buy some."
After she left I turned off all the office lights and closed the blinds, because what I had to do next I had to do in complete privacy.
I took a nap.
When I awoke a few hours later I went to the bank and cashed Mrs. Garbonzo's check, then headed out to start earning my money.
My first instinct was to dive headfirst into the belly of the beast by confronting Mrs. Garbonzo's hired hit man. My second instinct was to get some nachos and maybe a beer or two.
I went with my second instinct. The nachos were good— spicy, but not so spicy that all you tasted was peppers. After the third beer I hopped in my car and headed for the assassin's headquarters, which turned out to be located in a well-to-do suburb of Chicago called Barrington. The development I pulled into boasted some amazingly huge houses—complete with big lawns and swimming pools and trimmed bushes that looked like corkscrews and lollipops. I double-checked the address I'd scribbled down, then pulled into a long circular driveway and up to a home that was bigger than the public school I had attended—and I had come from a city where they grew schools big. The hit man biz must be booming.
I half expected some sort of maid or butler to answer the door, but instead I was greeted by a fifty-something woman, her facelift sporting a deep tan. I appraised her.  "If you stay out in the sun, the wrinkles will just come back."
"Then I'll just have more work done." Her voice was steady, cultured.  "Are you here to clean the pool?"
"I'm here to speak to William Johansenn." "Billy?  Sure.  He's in the basement."
She let me in. Perhaps all rich suburban women were fearless and let strange guys into their homes. Or perhaps this one simply didn't care. I didn't get a chance to ask, because she just walked off as I entered.
"Lady? Where's the basement?"
"Down the hall, stairs to the right," she said, without turning around.
I walked down the long, tiled hallway past a powder room and a den to a door that opened onto a descending staircase. Heavy metal music blared up at me.
"Billy!" I called down.
My effort was fruitless—with the noise, I couldn't even hear myself.  The lights were off, and squinting did nothing to penetrate the darkness.
Surprising a paid assassin in his own lair wasn't on my list of one hundred things I longed to do before I died, but I didn't see much of a choice.
The basement was furnished, though furnished didn't seem to be the right word. The floor had carpet, and the walls had paint, and there seemed to be furniture, but I couldn't really tell because everything was covered with food wrappers, pop cans, dirty clothing, and discarded magazines.
William "Billy" Johansenn was asleep on a waterbed, a copy of Creem open on his chest. A galaxy of pimples dotted his forehead and six curly hairs sprouted from his chin.
He couldn't have been a day over sixteen.
I killed the stereo. Billy continued to snore. Among the clutter on the floor were several issues of Famous Soldier, along with various gun and hunting magazines. I poked through his drawers and found a cheap Rambo knife, a CO2 powered BB gun, and a dog-eared copy of the infamous How to be a Hit Man book.
I gave the kid a shake, then another. The third shake got him to open his eyes.
"Who the hell are you?" he said, defiant.
"I'm your wake-up call," I said. Then I slapped the kid, making his eyes cross.
"Hey! You hit me!"
"A woman hired you to kill her husband."
"I don't know what you're—" He got another smack.  "That's for lying."
"You can't hit me," he whined.  "I'll sue you."
I hit him twice more—once because I didn't like being threatened by punk kids, and once because I don't like lawyers. When I pulled my palm back to make it threesies, the kid broke.
"Please!  Stop it!  I admit it!"
I released his t-shirt and let him blubber for a minute. His blue eyes matched those of the woman upstairs. Not many professional killers lived in their mothers' basements, and I wondered how Marietta Garbonzo could have been this naive.
"I'm guessing you never met Mrs. Garbonzo in person."
"I only talked to her on the phone. She sent the money to a P.O. Box. That's how the pros do it."
"So how did she get your home address?"
"She wouldn't give me the money without me giving her my address. She said if I didn't trust her, why should she trust me?"
Here was my proof that each new generation of teenagers is stupider than the last.  I blame MTV.
"How much did she give you?"
He smiled, showing me a mouthful of braces. "Fifty large."
"And how were you going to do it? With your BB gun?"
"I was going to follow him around and then . . . you know . . . shove him."
"Shove him?"
"He's an old guy. I was thinking I'd shove him down some stairs, or into traffic.  I dunno."
"Have you shoved a lot of old people into traffic, Billy boy?"
He must not have liked the look in my eyes, because he seemed to shrink two sizes. "No! Never! I never killed anybody!"
"So why did you put an ad in the magazine?"
"I dunno.  Something to do."
I considered hitting him again, but I didn't know what purpose it would serve.  I hit him anyway.
"Ow! You got my lip caught in my braces!"
"You pimple-faced little moron. Do you have any idea what kind of trouble you're in right now? Not only did you accept money to commit a felony, but now you've got a price on your head. Did Mrs. Garbonzo tell you about the guy her husband hired to kill you?"
He nodded, his Adam's apple wiggling like a fish. "Are—Are you here to kill me?"
"No."
"But you've got a gun." He pointed to the butt of the Magnum jutting out of my shoulder holster.
"I'm a private detective."
"Is that a real gun?"
"Yes."
"Can I touch it?"
"No."
"Come on.  Lemme touch it."
The kid was a classic case of rod-sparing.
"Look kid, I know that you're a loser that nobody likes, and that you're a virgin and will probably stay one for the next ten years, but do you really want to die?"
"Ten years?"
"Answer the question."
"No.  I don't want to die."
I sighed.  "That's a start. Where's the money?"
"I've got a secret place.  In the wall."
He rolled off the bed, eager, and pried a piece of paneling away from the plaster in a less-cluttered corner of the room. His hand reached in, and came out with a brown paper shopping bag.
"Is it all there?"
Billy shook his head. "I spent three hundred on a wicked MP3 player."
"Hand over the mon-ey. And the MP3 player."
Billy showed a bit of reluctance, so I smacked him again to help motivate him.
It helped.
He also gave me fresh batteries for the player.
"Now what?' he sniffled.
"Now we tell your parents."
"Do we have to?"
"You'd prefer the cops?"
He shook his head. "No. No cops."
"That blonde upstairs with the face like a snare drum—that your mom?"
"Yeah."
"Let's go have a talk with her."
Mrs. Johansenn was perched in front of a sixty-inch television, watching a soap.
"Nice TV.  High definition?"
"Plasma."
"Nice.  Billy has something he wants to tell you."
Billy stared at his shoes. "Mom, I bought an ad in the back of Famous Soldier Magazine and some lady gave me fifty thousand dollars to kill her husband."
Mrs. Johansenn hit the mute button on the remote, shaking her head in obvious disappointment."So, you've become a hired killer," she said. Then she sighed. "Billy, dammit, this is just too much?"
"Sorry," he mumbled.
"Your father is going to have a stroke when he hears this."
"Do we have to tell Dad?"
"Are you kidding?"
"I'm giving the money back."
"Who are you?"   Billy's mom squinted at me. "I'm Harry McGlade.  I'm a private eye.  I was hired to find Billy.  Someone is trying to kill him."
Mrs. Johansenn rolled her eyes. "Oh, this gets better and better.  I need to call Sal."
"Your husband?"
"My lawyer."
"Ma'am, the only way a lawyer's going to be able to save Billy's life is if he happens to end up standing between him and a bullet."
"So what then? The police?"
"Not the cops, Mom! I don't want to go to jail!"
"He won't survive in prison," I said. "The lifers will pass him around like a bong at a college party. They'll trade him for candy bars and cigarettes."
"I don't want to be traded for candy bars, Mom!"
Mrs. Johansenn frowned, forming new wrinkles. "Then what should we do, Mr. McGlade?"
I paused for a moment. Then I grinned. "I get five hundred a day, plus expenses."
I celebrated my windfall with a nice dinner at a nice restaurant.
I was more of a burger and fries guy than a steak and lobster guy, but the steak and lobster went down easy. After leaving a seventeen percent tip I headed to Evanston to visit the Chicken King.
Roy Garbonzo's estate made the Johansenns' place look like a third world mud hut. He had his own private access road, a giant wrought iron perimeter fence, and a uniformed guard posted at the gate. I was wondering just how to play it when the aforementioned uniformed guard knocked on my window.
"I need to see Roy Garbonzo," I told him. "My son choked to death on a Sunny Meal toy."
"He's expecting you, Mr. McGlade."
The gate rolled back and I drove up to the mansion. It looked like five mansions stuck together. I parked between two massive Doric columns and pressed the buzzer next to the giant double doors. Before anyone answered, a startling thought flashed through my head. How did the guard know my name?"It's a setup," I said aloud. As the knob started to turn, I yanked the Magnum out of my shoulder holster and dove into one of the hydrangea bushes flanking the entryway.
I peeked through the lavender blooms, finger on the trigger, and watched as the door swung open. A sinister-looking man wearing a tuxedo stepped out of the house and peered down his nose at me.  "Would Mr. McGlade care for a drink?"
"You're a butler," I said.
"Observant of you, sir."
"You work for Roy Garbonzo."
"An excellent deduction, sir. A drink?"    .
"Uh—whiskey, rocks."
"Would you care to have it in the parlor, sir, or would you prefer to remain squatting in the Neidersachen?"
"I thought it was a hydrangea."
"It is a hydrangea Neidersachen, sir."
"It's pretty," I said, "but I think I'll take that drink inside."
"Very good, sir."
I extricated myself from the Neidersachen, brushed off some clinging leaves, and followed Jeeves through the tiled foyer and the carpeted library into a parlor which had wood floors and an ornate Persian rug big enough to park a bus on.
"Please have a seat, sir. Mr. Garbonzo will be with you shortly. Were you planning on shooting him?"
"Excuse me?"
"You are holding a gun, sir."
I glanced down at my hand, still clenched around my Magnum.   "Sorry.  Forgot."
I holstered the .44 and sat down in a high-backed leather armchair which was so plush I sank four inches. Waddles returned with my whiskey and I sipped it while staring at the paintings hanging on the walls. One in particular caught my interest—a portrait of a nude woman eating grapes.
"Admiring the Degas?" a familiar voice boomed from behind me.
I turned and saw Happy Roy, the vicious misogynist psycho, all five foot two inches of him, walking up to me. He wore an expensive silk suit, but like most old men the waist was too high, making him seem more hunched over than he actually was. On his feet were slippers and his glasses had black plastic frames and looked thick enough to stop a bullet.
"Her name is Degas?" I asked. "Silly name for a chick."
He held out his hand and I shook it, noticing that his knuckles were swollen and bruised. "Degas is the painter, Mr. McGlade. My business advisors thought it would be a good investment.  Do you like it?"
"Not really. She's got too much in back, not enough up front, and her face is a double-bagger."
"A double-bagger?"
"I'd make her wear two bags over her head in case one fell off."
The Chicken King laughed. "I always thought she was ugly too. Apparently, this little lady was the ideal beauty hundreds of years ago."
"Or maybe Degas just liked ugly pear-shaped chicks." I paused briefly, then said, "How did you know I was coming, Mr. Garbonzo?"
He sat in the chair across from me, sinking in so deep he was hardly able to see over his knees. "Please, call me Happy Roy. I've been having my wife followed, Mr. McGlade. The man I hired tailed her to your office.  Does that surprise you?"
"Why should I be surprised? I remember her coming to my office."
"What I meant was, are you surprised that I'm having my wife followed?"
I considered it. "No. She's young and beautiful and you look like a Caucasian version of one of the California Raisins."
"I remember those commercials. That's where I got the idea for the claymation chicken in the Chicken Shack spots. Expensive to produce, those commercials."
"Enough of the small talk. I want you to call off your goon."
"My goon?"
"The guy you hired to whack the guy your wife hired to whack you. This guy she got, he's just a teenage kid living in the suburbs.  He's not a real threat."
"I'm aware of that."
"So you don't need to have the kid killed."
"Mr. McGlade, I'm not having anyone killed. I'm Happy Roy. I don't kill people. I promote world peace through deep-fried poultry. I simply told my wife that I had hired a killer, even though I hadn't."
"You lied to her?"
Happy Roy let out a big dramatic sigh. "When I found out she wanted me dead, I was justifiably annoyed. I confronted her, we got into an argument, and I told her that I'd have her assassin killed. I was trying to get her to call it off on her own."
I absorbed this information, drinking more whiskey. When the whiskey ran out, I sucked on an ice cube. "Tho wmer mmmpt woor—"
"Excuse me? I can't understand you with that ice in your mouth."
I spit out the ice. "She said you abuse her. That you're insane."
"The only thing insane about me is my upcoming promotion. Buy a box of chicken, get a second box for half price."
I wondered if I should tell him about the bruises she had, but I chose to keep silent.   "What about divorce?"
"I love Marietta, Mr. McGlade. I know she's too young for me. I know she's a devious, backstabbing man-eater. That just makes her more adorable."
"She wants you dead."
"All spouses have their quirks."
I leaned forward, an effort because I was sunk so low in the chair. "Happy Roy, I have no doubt that Marietta will kill eventually you if she can. When this doesn't pan out, she'll try something else.  Eventually she'll hook up with a real assassin."
Happy Roy's eyes became hooded, dark. "She's my wife, Mr. McGlade.  I'll deal with her in my own way."
"By beating her?"
"This conversation is over. I'll have my butler show you to the door."
I pried myself out of the chair. "You're disgustingly rich, powerful, and not a bad looking guy for someone older than God. Let Marietta go. You'll find some other bimbo to play with."
"Goodbye, Mr. McGlade. Feel free to keep working for my wife."
"Are you trying to pay me off so I'll drop this case?"
"No.  Not at all."
"If you were thinking about paying me off, how much money would we be talking?"
"I'm not trying to pay you off, Mr. McGlade."
I got in the smaller man's face. "You might be able to afford fat Degas broads and huge estates, but I'm a person, Happy Roy. And no matter how rich you get, you'll never be able to buy a human being. Because it's illegal, Happy Roy. Buying people is illegal."
"I'm not trying to buy you!"
"I'll find my own way out."
I stormed out of the parlor, through the library, into the dining room, into another parlor (or maybe it was a den), and into . . . the kitchen. I tried to backtrack. I made it as far as the dining room, then ended up in one of the parlors. But I couldn't tell if it was the first parlor of the second parlor. At first I thought it was the second, because I didn't see that painting of the naked heifer, but then I figured Happy Roy could have taken it down just to confuse me.
"Hello?" I called out.  "I'm a little lost here."
No one answered.
I went back into the dining room, then through the kitchen to a doorway which led down a hallway which led to a bathroom—which was fine because I needed to go to the bathroom anyway.
After finishing my business in the bathroom, I discovered some very interesting prescription drugs just lying around in the medicine cabinet.
And then it all made sense.
Forty minutes later I found the front door and headed back to my apartment.
It was time to drop the truth on Little Miss Marietta.
At first I thought I had the wrong place. Everything was so ... clean. Not only were all of my clothes picked up, but the apartment had been vacuumed—a real feat since I didn't even know I owned a vacuum cleaner.
"Mrs. Garbonzo? You here?"
I walked into the bedroom. The bed had been made and the closet door was open, revealing over a dozen shirts on hangers.
In the kitchen, the sink was empty of dishes for the first time since I'd rented the place fifteen years ago, and there was a fresh smell of orange zest in the air.
The door opened and I swung around, hand going for my gun. Mrs. Garbonzo entered, carrying a plastic laundry basket overflowing with my socks. She flinched when she saw me.  "Mr. McGlade.  I didn't expect you back so soon."
"Surprised, Marietta?  I thought you might be."
"Did you take care of the guy?"
"Sit down. We need to talk."
She set the basket down on my kitchen counter and seductively perched herself on one of my breakfast bar-stools. She was wearing her blouse untucked with the shirttails tied in a knot across her flat stomach.
"You lied to me, Marietta."
"Lied?" She batted her eyelashes.  "What do you mean"
There was a bottle of window cleaner that I'd never seen before sitting next to the sink. I picked it up. "How about opening up that shirt and letting me squirt you with this?"
"Is that what turns you on? Spraying women with glass  cleaner?"
I grabbed her blouse and pulled, tearing buttons. "I was thinking more along the lines of washing off those fake bruises. They're so fake, the purple has even rubbed off on your collar.  See?"
I shot two quick streams at the bruise marks, then rubbed at them with my sleeve. They didn't come off.
I tried again and got the same result.
Marietta sneered at me.  "Are you finished?"
"So that purple stuff on your collar really is just..."
"Eye shadow," she said, finishing for me and pointing at her eyes.   "Purple eye shadow."
"Big deal. So maybe you gave yourself those bruises. Or paid someone else to give them to you. I met your husband today, Mrs. Garbonzo. All ninety pounds of him. He couldn't beat up a quadriplegic."
"My husband abuses me, Mr. McGlade."
"Yeah, I saw his swollen knuckles. At first I thought they were swollen from hitting you. But he didn't hit you, did he Marietta? Roy has rheumatoid arthritis. I saw his medication. His knuckles are swollen because of his disease, and they undoubtedly cause him great pain—so much pain that he'd never be able to hit you."
Marietta put her hands on her hips. "He beats me with a belt, Mr. McGlade."
"A belt?"
"These bruises are from the buckle. It also causes welts. See?" She turned around, lifting her blouse. Angry red scabs stretched across her back.
I gave them a spritz of the window cleaner, just to make sure.
"Ow!"
"Sorry.  Had to check."
Marietta faced me. "I've paid you, I've done your laundry, and I've cleaned your apartment. Did you take care of the assassin for me?"
"Your husband didn't hire an assassin."
"Is that what he told you?"
"I know it for a fact. And the guy you hired is a sixteen-year-old pimply-faced kid. He couldn't whack anyone. He couldn't even whack a mole."
I smiled at my pun.
Marietta made a face. "I thought he sounded young on the phone.  He really won't do it?"
"He lives in his parents' basement."
Then the tears came. "I gave him a lot of money—everything I've been able to hide from Roy during our six years of marriage."
I thought about mentioning that I had gotten the money back, but decided against it. "Look Marietta, just divorce the guy."
"I can't.  He threatened to kill me if I divorce him."
"You can run away.  Hire a lawyer."
She sniffled.   "Pre-nup."
"Pre-nup?"
"I signed a pre-nuptial agreement. If I divorce Roy, I don't get a penny, even though I've had to put up with six years of abuse." Then she licked her lips. "But if he dies, I get it all."
"Don't you think having the guy killed is a little extreme?"
She threw herself at me, teary-eyed and heaving. "Please, Harry. You have to help me. I'll give you half—half of the entire chicken empire.  Help me get rid of the bastard."
"Marietta . . . ."
"I cleaned your place and you promised you'd help. Please kill him for me."
I looked around the kitchen. She had done a pretty good job. I wondered, briefly, if I'd make a decent Chicken King. "I'll tell you what, Marietta. I don't do that kind of thing. But I know someone who can help you.  Do you want me to call him?"
"Yes.  Oh, yes."
I pried myself out of her grasp and picked up the phone, dialing the number from memory. "Hi, partner. It's me. Look, I've got a woman here who wants to kill her husband. I told her I'm not interested, but I thought maybe you'd be able to set something up. Say tomorrow, around noon? You can meet her at the Hilton. Rent a room under the name Lipshultz. No.  Schultz, with an ul.  Okay, she'll be there."
I hung up.   "Got it all set for you, sugar."
She squeezed me tight and kissed my neck. "Thanks, Harry. Thank you so much. Is there anything I can do to repay you?"  Her breath was hot in my ear.   "Anything at all?"
"You can start by folding those socks. And maybe doing some dusting. Yeah, dusting would be good."
She smiled wickedly and caressed my cheek. "I was thinking of something a little more intimate."
"I was thinking about dinner."
"Dinner would be wonderful."
"I'm sure it will be. Have the place dusted by the time I get back."
Marietta Garbonzo called me around eight in the evening the next day. "You bastard! You set me up! You didn't call a hit man! You called a cop!"
"You can't go around murdering people, sweetheart. It's wrong on so many levels."
"But what about all of the washing? The cleaning? The dusting? And what about after dinner? What we did? How could you betray me after that?"
"You expect me to throw away all of my principles because of what we did after dinner? It was fun, but it wasn't worth twenty to life."
"You bastard. When I get out of here I'll . . . ."
I hung up and went back to the Sharper Image catalog I'd been thumbing through. I'd just gone out and bought a sixty-inch plasma TV. Now I had my eye on one of those massaging easy chairs, the kind which would set me back another two grand. I was putting the money I'd taken from William "Billy" Johansenn to good use.
I plopped down in front of the TV, found the wrestling channel, then settled in to watch two hours of pay-per-view sports entertainment. The Iron Commie had just gotten Captain Frankenbeef into a suplex when the gun was pressed against the back of my head.
"Hello Mr. McGlade."
"Happy Roy?"
"Yes.  Stand up, slowly. Then turn around."
I followed instructions. Happy Roy held a four-barreled COP .357—a nasty weapon that could do a lot of damage at close range.
"How'd you get in?" I asked.
"You gave a key to my wife, you moron. I took it from her last night when she got home." His face got mean. "After you slept with her."
"Technically, we didn't do any sleeping."
The gun trembled in Happy Roy's hand. "She's in jail now, Mr. McGlade.  Because of you."
"She wanted to have you killed, Happy Roy. You should thank me."
"You idiot!" Spittle flew from his lips. "I wanted to kill her myself. With my own two hands. Now I have to get her out of jail before I can do it. Do you have any idea what the best celebrity lawyers charge per hour?"
"Whatever it is, I'm sure you can afford it."
Happy Roy's voice cracked. "I'm practically bankrupt. The burger chains with their processed chicken strips have been eating into my market share. I've got tens of thousands of Happy Roy t-shirts and tie-in products moldering away in a warehouse. And those damn claymation commercials are costing me a fortune."
"Those new Prendy's strips are pretty good."
"Shut up! Put your hands over your head. No quick moves."
"What about your mansion? 'Can't you sell that?"
"It's a rental."
"Really? Do you mind if I ask what you pay per month?"
"Enough! We're going for a ride, Mr. McGlade. I'm going to introduce you to one of our extra large deep-fryers, up close and personal."
"You told me I could keep working with your wife."
"I said you could work with her, not set her up!"
"Six of one, half a dozen of. . . ."
"I'm the Chicken King, goddammit! I'm an American icon!  Nobody crosses me and gets away with it!
I'd had enough of the Chicken King's crazy ranting, so I reached for the gun. Happy Roy tried to squeeze the trigger, but I easily yanked it away before he had the chance.
"Let me give you a little lesson in firearms, Happy Roy.  A COP .357 has a twenty pound trigger pull. Much too hard to fire for a guy with arthritis."
Happy Roy reached for his belt, fighting with the buckle. "You bastard! I'll beat the fear of Happy Roy into you, you son of a . . .."
I tapped him on the head with his gun and the Chicken King collapsed. After checking for a pulse, I went for the phone and dialed my lieutenant friend.
"Hi, Jack. Me again. Marietta Garbonzo's husband just broke into my place. Tried to kill me. Yeah, Happy Roy himself. No, he doesn't look so happy right now. Can you send someone by? And can you make it quick? He's bleeding all over my carpet and I just had it cleaned. Thanks."
I hung up and stared down at the Chicken King, who was mumbling something into the carpet. "You say something, Happy Roy?"
"I should have stayed single."
"No kidding," I said. "Relationships can be murder." ♦