The Shits.

I woke up with the shits. And I gotta tell yah, it wasn't pretty. Probably had to do with the stake out that I was on all day and night the previous day. Probably, who the hell am I kidding. I've been doing this for twelve years. It was because of the stake out.

Turns out the guy isn't cheating on his wife. Or he knew I was following. Turns out he's just dealing drugs on the side in order to pay for their eldest son's college. She was so relieved. I guess, to each his own.

Didn't make my morning start any better, and it didn't change the fact that that was my last client. I didn't have any new business. Other than with a bottle.

“Don't be a quitter” I said to myself as I downed half a mickey of fireball whiskey. Breakfast fit for a king.

Except most kings that I know about lived in a time without fireball whiskey, so when you get right down to it. My life ain't that bad. Better than most kings, shits or not. Didn't most of them have AIDS or something? I don't know...

I bet my phone was ringing, wherever the hell it was. I bet that there was my secretary wondering where his paycheck was. I bet he knew it was in my fridge, with the beer and the bugs. I bet he was leaving a message saying he quit. What's the point in having a secretary when he's the only son of a bitch that calls you anyways?

Jesus, I wish I could tell you that this is the part where the long legged blond comes walking in, and is full of sex and danger. But wherever he is, he ain't walking through my door. Yeah, he. Got a problem? So do I.

Fuck I needed a cigarette. I couldn't find them, they were somewhere. I needed to retrace myself, what kind of god damned private investigator can't find their cigarettes? Pathetic? Yeah, but it's hard to get lower than half a mickey of fireball and the shits.

They were in the bathroom. Which was great because I got to look at my face.

Apparently, I'm a hundred years old. I look like David Byrne if his face melted. So I walk back to the bedroom, living room(starting tomorrow; office). And threw on some Talking Heads.

Same as it ever was, ugh.

My phone had two missed calls, from two different numbers. One was my guy quitting on me, too bad, he was fine. A real piece of meat I woulda loved to chew on.

The second one was the lady who hired me last night. Her boy is missing.

“Frank? You're secretary gave me this number and said 'good luck'. My boy is missing. He's gone, and there's a note demanding twenty five thousand dollars. Please help, they said no police, but you're not police. Right?”

I like it when people finish a message with a question I can't answer, luckily, the answer was simple. I wasn't a cop. Not ever. They can afford scotch, can't they?

I already knew what it was. Drug deals go bad sometimes, sometimes they kidnap a kid, cut a finger off. Easy paycheck for everyone involved. Except for, well, you know. The kid.

I called her back and asked if she had gotten the finger yet? She said no. I told her I would shower and be right over, and to put the thing on ice when it arrived.

I knew the way, I was here for most of the day yesterday, Dad the former stock broker, turned drug dealer because of too many episodes of Breaking Bad. He spent a lot of time at home. Drugs in this town are still a night business. We ain't Baltimore. Not that I would know, just too many episodes of The Wire.

When I got there she had the finger on ice.

And a foot.

This wasn't just a drug deal gone wrong.

“Call the cops.”

“Why?”

“Your husband is dead. Your son is next.”

“How did you know?”

“That's not a twenty year old finger, or foot.”

“How do you know?”

“Don't ask.”

The phone rang. They asked for the lady when I picked up. I told them to deal with me.

“Get us the money by 3pm or the kid gets it.”

“Listen you fucking nit wit. How are we going to get the money when you killed the guy that had the money?”

As I asked the question, I figured it out, I was little slow. Maybe I should quit drinking. They couldn't. Unless, the sweet innocent lady wasn't so sweet and innocent.

“Yeah, you'll get your money. Actually wait. Never mind. Kill the kid.”

I hung up.

I walked back to the lady. She had a gun pointed at me.

“You didn't think he was cheating on you, you knew about the drugs. You just needed to know where he was so you could get your boys to kill him. Now you're trying to make a show of how you aren't involved.”

“Yes. But now I have to kill you and put it on you. I can't believe you showed up with my husbands body parts, threatening my son's life for more money.”

“Good luck with that.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, you know how you called? That means a paying client.”

“So?”

“So, that means I still have a secretary for the next couple days.”

And that's when he hit over the back of the head. Figured we weren't going to get paid for this one. Told me to fuck off and deal with the cops. And he walked out of my life, like the stag that got away.

After the cops left, I sat in the house alone next to the bag with the severed foot in it. It reminded that I need to take life one step at a time.