Banana Hammock (25 page)

Besides a few decent jokes, this story isn’t good. Harry is too much of a jerk, the parody is too unreal and over-the-top, and a lot of the lines sound like they came from the movie Airplane!

But I can say this is the first thing I ever wrote that I was proud of, and it was the start of my love affair with the written word. I’ve included this story here as a bonus, with minimal changes. Feel free to skip it—you won’t be missing much. This is for completists only. Since Banana Hammock is basically a ‘Harry McGlade Greatest Hits’ collection, I thought it would be fun to show people how he got started, way back in 1985, when I was a naïve teenager thinking about someday writing for a living…

The Case of the Husband Who Wasn’t There Because He Was Missing

Chapter 1

It was a misty Saturday night. Misty like a dame who just lost her line of credit at Macy’s. I was sitting at my desk in my simulated-leather swivel chair, crumpling up bills and tossing them into the wastepaper basket on the other side of my office. Then there was a knock at the door. Silhouetted through the frosted glass window was the profile of a woman with really big boobs.

“Can I come in?”

“I don’t know if there’s room.”

“What?”

“Come in, please.”

She opened the door and stepped in.

Wow.

If beauty were stock, she could have cornered the market. Painted on her over-abundant body was a low-cut black sequined dress, and I sat up in my chair and strained my neck to try to get a glimpse of her tatas. Incredibly high-heeled pumps hugged her feet, and a pair of black nylons licked at her calves. She had a nice ass, too.

The black mascara around her emerald eyes was smeared, meaning she either had been crying, or didn’t know how to put on mascara. She forced a smile. I wanted to bring her back to my apartment, take off all of her clothes, and wear them myself.

“Are you Harry McGlade?” she asked.

“That’s what it says on the door, lady.”

“I need your help.”

“Can’t get out of that dress, huh? Hold on, I’ve got some scissors in my desk.”

“No, that’s not it. I’m looking for my husband.”

“Have you checked your cleavage?”

She turned her head to the side and started to cry. I felt like a jerk, but that’s okay, because I am a jerk.

“Hey, lady, I’m sorry. Just because you got huge jumblies doesn’t mean I should make fun of you.”

She sniffled. “It’s just that I’m always being treated like a sex object instead of a person.”

I zipped my fly back up. “Please have a seat.”

She sat down in the chair across from my desk. I opened my top drawer to see if I had any Kleenex, but only found a pair of boxer shorts, stained from my last trip to the peep show. I offered them to her, and she dabbed her eyes lightly. Then she pulled a small photograph out of her handbag and handed it to me.

“This is my husband.”

The picture was of an old, fat, balding man who resembled Pugsly from “The Addams Family.”

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“Don’t be, he’s got money coming out of his asshole.”

I love a dame who’s got a way with words. “So, what’s the problem?”

“I want you to find him.”

“He’s missing then?”

“You’re quick.”

“It’s my job, babe.”

I grinned nonchalantly. She was obviously impressed.

“Can you do it?”

“Huh? I wasn’t paying attention.”

“Can you find my husband?”

“Honey, I can find a plumber on a Sunday.”

Her eyes widened. “Really?”

“I wouldn’t dick you around, babe.”

“Oh,” she said disappointedly.

I stood up, for no real reason besides the dramatic implication of the scene. “I get two hundred dollars a day plus free reign over my client’s estate and personal assets. Any questions?”

“How long is your penis?”

“Let’s just say I scare female elephants. Anything else?”

“No, that’s all I need to know. You’ll take the case then?”

“Yes, now if you’ll excuse me.”

“You’re starting already?”

“No, I just farted.”

She walked out before I realized I knew nothing about her husband.

Chapter 2

I went over to “Fred’s Place” to find my informant, Sneaky Earl. Sneaky was at the bar, drowning his sorrows in a watered down pint of Jack Daniels. He was obviously happy to see me, because when I walked in he got so excited he jumped through the window and started running down the alley. Too bad it was a dead end. Sneaky Earl never did have much luck.

I found him trying to get into a half-open apartment window by standing on a Dumpster.

“How you doin’, Earl?”

“Leave me alone, Harry. I don’t want nothing to do with you.”

“You’re not still upset about the bomb, are you Earl? I tell you, I didn’t know it was armed.”

“Go away, Harry. Just go away.”

I grabbed him by the leg and pulled him down, just as he got his upper body in the window.

“I said I was sorry, Earl. C’mon, give a guy a break. The scars are healed. Now I need your help.”

“Whenever I help you I always get in trouble, Harry.”

“Don’t worry, Earl. This one’s real easy.”

I went for my pocket to get the picture and Sneaky took off down the alley again. I pulled my .44 Magnum from its nest inside my trench coat and fired, hitting Sneaky Earl in the back of the head, painting a garbage can with his face. I’ve got such lousy aim. I only wanted to fire a warning shot.

I reholstered my heater and exited the alley. My horoscope said I shouldn’t have gone out today.

Chapter 3

I dusted myself off and walked over to my ’67 Mustang, which was parked in front of a fire hydrant. I decided my next move was to go home and drink until I passed out. I live in a thirty-first floor apartment two blocks away from my office. It’s in the high rent district. I’m just mentioning that because I like to flaunt it in front of people’s faces.

As I drove, I couldn’t stop thinking about Mrs. Tatas, and how stupid I was not to ask for her name. But I soon realized it didn’t matter, because as I parked my car there she was, standing in front of my building, gyrating her hips. She had a saxophone with her. She was obviously horny.

I got out of my Stang and walked over to her. What I needed was a really great line to impress the hell out of this dame. Something that would make her melt like butter in the microwave.

“Hi,” I said.

“Hi,” she said.

We were off to a good start.

“Were you just in the neighborhood?” I asked.

“No. I purposely stopped by because I wanted to sleep with you.”

I love a girl who doesn’t beat around the bush. Especially one with tatas like Volkswagons. She wrapped her lips around the mouthpiece of the saxophone and coyly blew “Alexander’s Ragtime Band.”

I hoped she could blow other things better. She was terrible. She should have read “Dr. Ruth’s Guide to Good Sax.” I was expecting a water buffalo to come running down the street and jump her. Luckily, I had a grapefruit, so I shoved it in the instrument.

“Listen lady, I usually make it a rule not to get involved with my clients. But in your case, I’ll make an exception.”

I couldn’t name all the dames I’ve fed that line to. But she ate it up just like the rest of them. She was practically taking off her clothes right there when a black Buick came careening around the corner, spraying bullets. I pushed the broad out of the way and drew my gun, emptying the clip as the car flew past. I missed it completely, and killed seven Japanese tourists across the street. Then I heard the wailing of a police siren in the distance and knew I would have to spend the night talking to some stupid cop who has trouble wiping his own ass as opposed to having an intimate and tender night of hide the salami.

I thought about giving the dame the gun, then running away, but I knew each one of the Japanese tourists had a Nikon chocked full of photographic evidence proving yours truly was to blame. At times like this, I wished I had listened to my mother and become a male stripper.

Chapter 4

So there I was, talking to Fitzmoron, Detective ninth class, explaining what had happened for the sixth time while he tried to type it up at three words a minute.

“And then you fired your weapon?”

“Yes. Then I fired my weapon. At the same time I fired it the other six times you asked me. Were you born incompetent or is it something you work at? No, don’t write that down.”

Fitzmoron pulled the paper out of the typewriter and crumpled it up. This guy was stupid enough to be twins. He inserted a new piece and began again.

“Name?”

“The same name as before, dumbo. I thought finishing junior high was mandatory to become a cop.”

In the meantime, Fitzmoron was retrieving the old statement from the garbage to try and figure out my name. Every second the mental giant here wasted was a second I wasn’t joined in coital bliss with Mrs. Tatas. Then the Captain walked in.

“How are we doing?” he asked.

Fitzmoron spoke. “He’s highly uncooperative, Captain.”

“McGlade is always uncooperative. It’s part of his irresistible charm. Right, McGlade?”

“Blow it out your ass.”

He did. It was gross.

Chapter 5

I got out of the station at six in the morning. Captain Krunch finally came to the conclusion it was self-defense. That, coupled with the fact that the good Captain hates Japanese tourists was enough to get me off. I drove back to my apartment and wasn’t surprised to find that Mrs. Tatas was gone. The dizzy broad didn’t even know the danger she was in. Great tatas, though.

I parked and walked up to my room while thinking about my situation. What I needed was a shot of whiskey and a good night’s sleep. I also needed a new blender. I broke the old one mixing concrete. But I couldn’t worry about that now.

I had to find Mrs. Tatas before somebody knocked her off. Or up.

I opened my door and walked into my humble abode, inhaling deeply the smell of a messy lifestyle. Which, coincidentally, smelled very much like moldy socks. I tried to turn on a light but all my bulbs were burned out. As I walked through the apartment in the dark, I bumped into my aquarium, and saw the fish were all dead. I must have forgotten to feed them a couple of times. In fact, I don’t ever remember feeding them at all. Thinking about food made me hungry, so I went to the kitchen to eat.

I opened the refrigerator, only to stare at a single rotten cabbage. An old girlfriend had left it there two months ago, and never came back for it. Besides the cabbage, the only other things my fridge contained were ketchup, pickle relish, and half a beer, which had been there since 1983. A ketchup sandwich would have been okay, if I had had some bread. But I didn’t.

My thoughts drifted to the fish, and how fresh they were. But a quick sniff of the tank made me want to yak, so I decided against it.

At this point I was really hungry, probably because I was dwelling on the fact. So I went back to the fridge and looked at the cabbage. It was kind of brown, with purple fuzz on one side. I took it out and peeled off a leaf without fuzz on it. Closing my eyes, I stuffed the leaf into my mouth and chewed. Then I passed out.

Chapter 6

I awoke as there was a knock at the door. My face was completely frost-bitten, and my lower lip was stuck to the metal handle of the drawer marked “Crisper” in the refrigerator.

“Jusss a minute!” I yelled, trying to remove my lip and only succeeding in pulling out the drawer with my face.

“Harry? Are you in there?”

It was Mrs. Tatas. I tried to yank the drawer off but instead stretched my lower lip down to my navel.

“I’m in da bafroom! Ow ve wight out!”

I stumbled over to the utensil drawer and took out a steak knife.

“I can come back later…”

“No, juss waid a shecond!”

I scraped the knife across my lip, causing the drawer to fall and land on my foot, corner first. I screamed.

“Are you okay, Harry?”

“I’m fine! Just fine! I’ll be right there!”

I grabbed a greasy napkin and pressed it to my bleeding lip, then ran to the door.

“Hi,” I said, trying to stop the blood and look nonchalant at the same time.

“What happened?”

“Cut myself shaving.”

“You shave your lips?”

“Would you like to come in?”

She was wearing a pink dress, but with a dame like her, you rarely pay attention to the clothing. You pay attention to what’s in it. And inside this dress was the most irresistible thing I’ve ever seen, next to Inflatable Debbie with the vibrating grip. I held her in the doorway, tightly, like I was trying to crush a beer can between our bodies.

She said she wanted my body. I told her I was still using it, but she could have it on loan. I pressed my lips to hers and she gagged on the greasy napkin stuck to my face. I pulled the napkin off and began to bleed on her dress. She stepped on my injured foot with her spiked heel, and I jerked my leg up and kneed her in the stomach. As she doubled over in pain, she hit her head on the doorway and collapsed in a pile on the floor, digging her nails into my chest on the way down. I bit my lip to control the pain, only to scream as my teeth sank into my open wound.

You could probably say the whole scene was not very romantic.

But the situation wasn’t a total loss. Here I had a gorgeously well-endowed dame unconscious in my room. This was what I used to pray for in college. I dragged her inside and was just about ready to pull out Jack the Fun Machine when a cop appeared in the doorway.

“Harry McGlade?”

“Yeah?”

“Do you know this man?” He handed me a picture of the late Sneaky Earl.

“No,” I said, and slammed the door.

But the cop knocked again. I hated dedicated cops. In fact, I hated all cops. I opened the door.

“Mr. McGlade, I’m afraid you’ll have to come with me.”

“I’d much rather stay here and come with her.”

“That will have to wait, Mr. McGlade. Let’s go.”

I left the apartment realizing I still didn’t know the broad’s name.

Chapter 7

They charged me with seventeen counts of first degree murder, and jay-walking. My lawyer said I could beat the jay-walking charge but I’d be serving two hundred and fifty years to life for the murder rap. So there I sat there, locked in the slammer with a bunch of hardcore criminals, trying to make sure my pooper stayed a virgin. Then good old Detective ninth class Fitzmoron appeared and removed me from my cell. He took me to my lawyer, who was in the prison chapel, praying.