Suckers - J.A. Konrath

seconds. When I finally reached the bottom, I tucked and rolled and athletically sprang to my
butt, one hand somewhere near my holster, the other cupped around my boys to protect them, not
to fondle them, even though that’s what it might have looked like.
I listened, my highly attuned sense of hearing sensing a whimpering sound very near, which
I will die before admitting came from me, even though it did.
I’d landed on my keys. Hard.
When I stood, they remained stuck in me, hanging from my inner left cheek like I’d been
stabbed by some ass-stabbing key maniac. I bit my lower lip, reached back, and tugged them out,
which made the whimpering sound get louder. It hurt so bad I didn’t even find it amusing that I
now had a second hole in my ass, and perhaps could even perform carnival tricks, like pooping
the letter X. That’s a carnival I’d pay extra to see.
I found the key light and flashed the beam around, reorienting my orientation. I was in some
sort of secret lower level beneath the mausoleum. Dirt walls, with wooden beams holding up the
ceiling, coal mine style. To my left, a large wooden crate with the cryptic words TAKE ONE
painted on the side. I refused. Why did I need a large wooden crate?
Noise, from behind. I spun around, reaching for my gun, and a dark shape tumbled off the
slide, ramming into me and causing my keys to go flying, blanketing me in a blanket of darkness.
The ensuing struggle was viscous and deadly, but my years of mastering Drunken Jeet Kune
Do Fu from watching old Chinese karate movies paid off. Just as I was about to deliver the Mad
Crazy Hamster Fist killing blow, my attacker got some sort of weapon between us and smacked
me in the face. The blow staggered me, and I reached up and felt the extensive damage, my
whole head bathed in warm, sticky liquid that smelled a lot like asparagus.
Then a light blinded me. A real flashlight, not the dinky one I had on my keys. I squinted
against the glare, and saw him. Old caretaker guy. A light in one hand. His mop in the other.
I spat, then spat again. My mouth had been open when he hit me.
“I’m a private detective. My name is McGlade. I’m on a case.”
“Does your case involve pissing on my floor?”
I spat again. I could taste the asparagus. And the piss. It tasted like I always guessed piss
would taste like. Pissy.
“Listen, buddy, you’re violating federal marshal law by interfering with my investigation.
Climb back up the slide and go call 911. Tell them there’s a 10-69 in progress, with, uh, malice
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