THE MONKEYSHINES CASE, ENTRY 5
The cab driver moaned something indecipherable and I suggested Randy apply another layer of duct tape because what there was of it was slowly being sweat off, and I wanted to keep him pinned to the wall for as long as it took to get some usable information out of him. Nodding at my own incredible foresight to buy up all the excess from that duct-tape factory closing sale a few years back, I watched Randy work his magic—introducing a sort of starfish-pattern into this round of taping that appeared to be more about the art of the thing than anything particularly obstructive—and went over what I knew to that point: the connective tissue holding this case together was most certainly the use of automobiles to foment chaos, but what other than that did the fake first clown and this maniac real clown have in common other than finding themselves forcibly restrained in my general vicinity?
That was the question, and though the cabbie was shall I say reluctant to answer it, I remained confident that our methods of interrogation were unparalleled, motioning to Randy to ready the implements of persuasion, implements, he then confessed, that were nothing more than fraudulent Halloween decorations and, also, made of licorice. I asked the cab driver if he happened to be allergic to licorice, and with a quizzical look responded with a short annoyed and duct-tape-trapped shake of the head, a move known in detective circles the world over as the universal sign for “what kind of two-bit outfit are you running here?” and I found myself in complete agreement with our prisoner: it was a bad look, and I took Randy’s lack of preparation personally.
Changing tactics, I chewed on a licorice scalpel and complimented the cab driver’s shirt, understanding immediately that this, coupled with the fact that Randy’s shirt was of a clearly superior grade, would cause the cabbie no small amount of discomfort, as even a lunatic such as that would have known his shirt to be distinctly subpar, and that if this compliment was to stand he’d be living a lie . . . and while it’s one thing to be duct-taped to a detective agency lunchroom wall, it’s entirely another to do so dishonestly.
As the sweat poured from his bald pate, I had Randy don his rubber gloves and undo a couple of buttons on the cabbie’s shirt, ostensibly to allow a little of the stagnant air to cool his jets, but in reality I wanted to see what he was made of, not completely unconvinced that I wasn’t dealing with high-scale animatronic device, but right there, protruding like a raspberrying tongue under a left nipple adrift in that mass of undeodorized flesh, was a monkey paw birthmark with two extended digits . . . and despite the bulk of it turning out to be a mixture of coagulated crumbs and sweat easily wiped away by Randy’s begloved hand, I knew I had found my man.
Two notions, however, continued to swirl around my head: what kind of monkey only had three fingers, and, more importantly, as this was obviously a game of counting, was the thumb a part of the tally or just another loose end to be tied up like the bow on Randy’s heretofore unbestowed birthday present, only five months in arrears?
I chewed on those thoughts like I would the gifted beef jerky Randy would likely share in the spirit of giving, determination furrowing my eyebrows like the meaty creases abundant in the skin of a top-notch jerky, that delectable treat mirroring my beefy genius in both theory and practice.
