FFF - Yet Another Don & John, Now with 100% more magic

Yep, I'm using Don and John again.

This week the Terribleminds challenge was to take two words from the given lists &, using them as the title, write a story from that title.  Last time this challenge came up I wrote a pretty fun western (fun to write at least).  As always with the list challenges I randomly generated a few combinations; Dead Boy's Curse, Scarlett Gunslingers, Amaranthine Promise, Junkie's Breakfast.  All of which had great potential but none of them were really speaking to me.

I saw the potential combo of Unlucky Beetle and the idea of Don suffering from bad luck was too entertaining to pass up.  Also I've been wanting to experiment with adding magic to the 'Baugmann & Baugmann' universe, so I used this as an excuse.  If anyone isn't familiar with the past stories/adventures for Don & John You Should Start Here

I'm going to try to not make every Friday story about these two, but since I'm tentatively using them as the basis of my first novel, expect to see more of them in the future.

B & B – The Unlucky Beetle

            “Have you filed a report yet?”  John asked the museum curator.

            “Yes, the officers have already cleared the scene.”  The man shook his head, “I thought to call you because…”

            Don tuned them out, knowing John would get any pertinent info.  Looking around the remains of the exhibit it was hard to tell what had been damaged during the burglary.

            ‘Rather than what Michael’s tromped over.’ Don thought, nudging some broken glass with his shoe.

            The display case had held an entire collection of antique jewelry, apparently notable because no one had been able to nail down exactly where it had come from.  Now all that was left were shards of glass and crumpled ID placards.

Don noticed a gleam of light coming from the far corner of the display.  Reaching out he picked up a small golden beetle, about the size of his thumb.

            ‘Why leave this behind if they took everything else?’ He wondered.  ‘They couldn’t have missed it, the case was picked clean.’

            Holding it up to the light Don tried to get a closer look but hissed when the figurine cut his finger.

            John looked over as the beetle hit the floor.  “You ok?”

            “Damn thing bit me.” Don said, scratching at his hand.

            “It couldn’t have bitten you it’s…”  John trailed off, staring at Don’s hand.

            They both stared as Don’s scratching revealed a black tattoo of the beetle forming on his skin.

Don's curse filled the office as he leapt from his seat.

John looked up from the couch.  "What's wrong?"

"My damn mug broke,” Don said, shaking spilled coffee from his hands, “that's what’s wrong."

John turned back to his books, "It's just a mug Don."

"I don't care about the stupid mug, I care about the hot coffee all over my pants."  Don said.

"I warned you something like this might happen."  John said.

Don scratched at the beetle mark on the back of his hand. "Tell me you've found a way to fix it?"

Shaking his head John said, "Nothing so far."

"You're the one with magic, can't you just wizard this away?"  Don waved an imaginary wand.

John shook his head, "You know it doesn't work that way.  Besides, I'm an empath.  I need time and resources for spells outside my range."

"So spell this damn thing off my hand."  Don held out the beetle mark.

"I don't think I could.”  John sighed.  “We need to get the brooch back to the collection to get rid of the curse."

Don huffed and grabbed a smoke from his pocket.

"Please don't smoke in here." John said reflexively.

"Oh for-“ Don threw his hands up.  “I'm going for a walk!"

He stormed out of the office slamming the door hard enough that the glass cracked.

"God damn it." John heard Don mutter.

As Don stomped down the hall John heard a crash and a thud followed by a terse "God damn it!"

An hour later Don staggered back into the office holding his hand out looking ready to cut it off.

            “Get.  It.  Off.”  He ground out.

            John took in his partner’s appearance; coat torn, tie missing and pants stained with more than just coffee.  Carefully clearing his throat he spoke.

            “I might have an idea.”  He said.  “But you’re not going to like it.”

            “At this point,” Don said, flopping down at his desk. “I don’t care.”

            “Well,” John pointed at an open page, “I think we can track the magic causing your bad luck back to the source.”

            Don glared at the mark, “The beetle is still at the museum.”

            “That’s just it,” John’s eyes lit up the way they always did when he explained magical theory.  “The beetle isn’t the source.  The curse is designed to punish anyone who removed that item from the collection.  It was probably left behind because the original thieves didn’t want to take the risk.”

            Don rolled his eyes, “I’m going to assume there’s a point here?”

            “The collection is the source of the magic, Don.” John said.

            “So you want to use the curse that’s on my hand-“

            “To track the rest of the collection.  Exactly.”

            “What’s the catch?”

            “There’s a…” John hesitated. “There’s a strong chance that this will make your bad luck worse.”

            “Exactly how much worse?”  Don asked.

            “Your curse will feed off my tracking spell, and the closer we get to the collection the stronger my spell will become.”  John explained.

            “The worse my luck will get.”  Don finished.

            As Don sat considering their options, a sharp creak came from his chair before one of the legs gave out and dumped him on the floor.

            “Ok.” His voice floated out from under his desk. “Let’s do it.”

Friday Flash Fiction - Don & John...again

I hope no one is getting sick of these two, because I'm certainly not.

This is pretty much a direct continuation of last week's story (found here).  This week I kept it pretty short, the challenge over at Terribleminds went up a bit late so I had to rush this slightly.  I almost added another scene but I wouldn't have had the time to edit it properly.  Anyway, enough rambling.

B & B – Interrogation

            The man rocked back in and forth in his chair, the metal legs clinking softly on the floor with each pass.  He pulled the handcuffs tight, wrists worn red and raw from the pressure.

            “A poetic pattern retains inertia.  A poetic pattern retains inertia.”

            Don stood in the observation room, watching the lunatic through the mirrored glass.

“How long has he been doing that?”

Derek Franklin, the department’s head profiler, shrugged.  “Ever since you and John brought him in.”

Don hid clenched fists in his crossed arms, “Do we even know who he is?”

Derek shook his head, “No I.D. when he came in, and his prints didn’t turn up in any databases.”

“And he hasn’t said anything else?”

“He asked if the tooth fairy would visit.”

Don arched an eyebrow, “Seriously?”

“No.  But you did knock out a tooth when you pistol whipped him.”

“Forgive me for not caring.” Don huffed.

Derek chuckled, “You won’t hear me complain.”

They were cut off when the door to the holding room opened and John stepped inside.  For his part the prisoner didn’t react, continuing to rock and mutter that same phrase.

Don watched as John let the door click shut and crossed the room, he passed within reach of the man and Don tensed, but the prisoner didn’t react.

John sat down across the table and opened the thin folder he’d carried in.

“You’ve been linked to over a dozen murders over the last year.  All young women, all taken from their homes, but no other connection we can see.”

The rocking stilled for a moment.

John laced his fingers together, “We’d like to know why.”

The man resumed rocking his chair, “A poetic pattern retains inertia.”

“Is that why you killed these women?” John asked.  “Fulfilling a pattern?”

“A poetic pattern retains inertia.”

John leaned forward, “What does that mean?”

“A poetic pattern-“

“Why did you choose these women?”

The man slammed his hands on the table, “A poetic pattern retains inertia!”

Don leapt for the observation room’s door but Derek held him back.

John hadn’t even twitched, he looked up at the man.

“Sit back down.  You’re not fooling anyone.”

The man didn’t move, “A poetic-“

“Pattern retains inertia.” John cut him off.  “You’re not insane, stop trying so hard.”

The prisoner sat back down, tugging at the handcuff chains.

“Now,” John said, “Why did you kill these women.”

The man smiled, the same damn grin he had in the storage locker, “There’s a pattern.”  He reached out and took the victim photos, laying them out on the table.

“I played my role,” he said, “my job is done.  But my work is not.”

Don can barely see the layout of the photos, and he doesn’t see the connection.  But he can see the look on John’s face.  It’s the same expression his partner gets when he finds the last clues to a case.

As the last photo is laid on the table the door to the observation room bursts open, a panicking rookie cop almost falls into the room.

“Franklin, sir,” he pants, “there’s been another murder.”

From the other side of the soundproof glass the man looks up at John, spreading his hands over the table he grins and points to an empty spot.

“A poetic pattern retains inertia.”

Don & John Strike Again

Seriously these two are becoming more than a recurring theme in my works.  First here, then here, and now I'm using them again!  Seriously, if you haven't read their earlier appearances please do.  It will make things clearer her...and I like the attention.

Anyway, the challenge of the week was pretty simple.  Use the theme "We're all human, even when we're not' in the story in some way.  I had a few ideas, some pretty generic things like a werewolf or other monster fighting the curse, etc etc.  But then the image of Don holding a gun to someone's head and having to stop himself from pulling the trigger came to mind and this story grew from there.

Came pretty close to the word limit this week too, I might have done more with this, but it's been a busy week.  I think this piece stands strongly as is.  There are some pretty obvious things I'm trying to convey here and I'll let you figure them out.  But mostly I wanted to have a story where...Well, you'll see.

B & B - Humanity

Don looked up from his desk when a shadow fell across the office door.

It had been a quiet morning.  He and John had been enjoying the downtime between cases to finish some neglected projects.  Well, Don was taking the opportunity to work.  John had spent the morning lounging on the sofa with a cup of tea, ruffling through the morning paper.

The figure hovered outside the door, raising their hand to knock on the frosted glass window only to hesitate and back away.

Don called out, "The door's open."

John tossed him a glare which he returned with a quick mimicking squint as the door cracked open just enough for a young woman to slip in.

"I'm sorry," she said in a quiet voice, face downcast.  "I was hoping- I mean, I'd like to hire you?"

John rose from the couch and led the woman into the office.  He swept the desk clear, ignoring Don's indignant squawk of, "I was working on that!"

"You can work on your jigsaw puzzles later," to the client he added, "I think we can pencil you in."

John took her coat as he settled her in front of the desk, bustling off to make a fresh pot of tea.  Don leaned back in his seat and took a closer look at the client.

'Lank hair, only enough makeup to push color into pale cheeks and lighten shadowed eyes.  Outfit picked in a rush, buttons half-done, coffee stain on skirt.'

Her hands shook as she took the teacup from John with a muted, "Thank you."

They waited as she settled herself.  Don twitched together a few pieces that had escaped John's callous attack, John leaned against the wall as innocent as if he hadn't ruined a morning's progress.

She finished her tea and set the cup down.  Her voice still quiet but no longer as timid she said.

"My name is Rebecca Walker, and someone is trying to kill me."

John's name showed on the ID, Don had his phone open before the first ring finished.

“What’s wrong?”

“I lost her,” John hissed in pain.  “Someone, white, 5'8", black hair, dark hood.  He jumped us.  She ran off as I was fighting him.”

“You alright?”

“I took a hit when he slammed me against a wall. I was disoriented long enough for him to run after her.”

“Don't move, I’m on my way.”

“You don’t even know where I am.”

“Then shut up and tell me.”

“I’ll be fine Don.  You need to find Rebecca.”

Don’s hand shook as he fought the urge to put a bullet in the bastard’s face.

His jaw ached as he ground out, “Where are they?”

The son-of-a-bitch just grinned, teeth stained red from where Don’s pistol had split his lip.

The room stank of decay, fetid and bloated corpses of young women ‘Victims!’ piled in corners.

And the man kept grinning that red-toothed grin.

The storage locker felt more like an animal’s den.  Don kept his aim steady and tried not to breathe too deeply.

“Where.  Are they?”

The grin widened as the eyes flicked to the far end of the room.  The dim light from a single bare bulb only served to highlight the shadows surrounding a covered work bench.

Don edged around the bastard and pinched the sheet, tugging it off the bench.

As the white fabric fell to the floor he held back a fresh swell of rage and bile.

Rebecca lay screaming in fear.  Her torn throat still dripping red.

“I wanted to,” Don’s hands still shook slightly, dropping ash from a lit cigarette he had yet to touch.  "I wanted to."

John set down a pair of teacups, Don couldn’t bring himself to make the usual snark of ‘Tea, again?’  Looking at the cups he saw the chipped rim of the cup Rebecca had used.

He gripped the smooth wood of the kitchen table, looking at anything but the tea.

Don closed his eyes with a sigh, “I wanted to kill him.  I still do.”

John’s warm hand on his wrist made him twitch away but John held firm.

 “But you didn’t.”

John took the cigarette and took a long drag, coughing slightly as he exhaled.

"Give me that," Don said, taking the cigarette from John.  "You smoke like a novice."  He said, finishing the last of it.

John smiled as he sat down and took one of the tea cups and nudging the other towards Don.

Don ignored the tea and lit a fresh smoke, the match steady in his hands.

Friday Fiction...EARLY!!!

So this week the challenge over at Terribleminds was to write a short story in 10 chapters.  The catch?  Keep the normal 1,000 word limit.  I actually didn't have much of a plan, but Don and John came back to mind.  Maybe because I had just written them, maybe because they write themselves so easily and naturally.

So I pretty much just picked up where their last story left off.  I might keep these guys around, make them a regular thing.

Baugmann & Baugmann - The Skinner

1.

            Don took a long drag of his cigarette, “So,” he said, blowing smoke across the table.  “What do we know?”

            “We know that we don’t know much.”  John said, ignoring the smoke.  The bar had an almost permanent haze, giving it a quality that bordered on the mystical.

            “…Helpful, thank you.”  Don snapped off.

            John shrugged, completely nonplussed by his partner’s moods.

2.

            “Look Sarah,” Don’s fingers twitched longingly for his lighter, “We need something here.  Don’t make me make John beg.”

            From across the room John paused in his examination of the body to hold up one of the victims hands, one finger aimed in Don’s direction.

            Sarah handed Don a thin folder, the Chief Coroner sighed, “This is all we have at the moment.  There were some strange trace elements all over the victim, and your office, but we’ll have to wait for the lab.”
            Don grinned, “I knew I liked you more than Michaels.  I could kiss you.”

            “No one likes Michaels, why don’t you go kiss him.” she smirked.

            “John, go kiss Michaels!”

            John held up the victim’s hand again, this time holding Don’s confiscated cigarettes.

            “Now you’re just being childish.” Don said.

3.

            “Hey Boss,” Jessie’s eyes were more bloodshot than normal.  “I’m-uh…I’m thinking I maybe should lay low for a bit?”

            “Why,” John asked.  “What have you heard?”

            “Nothing.”  Jessie hissed.

            “So why are you worried?”  Don asked.

            “Because it’s not ‘Nothing is happening.’ nothing.  It’s ‘No one is still around to talk.’ nothing.”

            “Let’s get you some food.”  Don suggested.

            “I know a nice diner,” John said.  “It’s right outside of town.”

4.

            DeSarno, flanked by two of his goons, waltzed into the office not as if he owned it, but more like he was deciding whether or not to bother.

            “Well boys, I like what you've done.  Very homey.”

            Don snorted, “You should’ve seen it before, John’s the one with the domestic touch.”

            John tsked at him.  “Just because you don’t appreciate the difference between beige and burgundy doesn't mean other people don’t.”

            “It’s tan, John.”  Don said, “It’s all just tan.”

            “And now it’s ‘tan’ with a stain.”  John gestured at the carpet.

            “So we’ll bill the Skinner for the cleaning.”

            “I was referring to our guests.”

            DeSarno cut in, “If you boys don’t want help with your case perhaps I should leave?”

5.

            “Hey Boss?”  Jessie kept looking out the window.

            “I already gave you all my smokes Jessie.”  Don said.

            “No it’s not that.” Jessie shook his head.  “I mean, thanks for that but…”
            “What is it?”

            “…Be careful.”

            “We’ll be fine Jessie, just get yourself healthy.  For real this time, I’m sick of hearing John bitch about you.”

6.

            The last thing Don saw was the headlights of the truck.

7.

Beep-beep.  Beep-beep.  Beep-beep.

Half-asleep, Don reached for his alarm clock.

The jolt of pain that came with the motion stopped him, jerking him fully awake.

He saw John sitting next to his bed, calmly leafing through the case files.

"...How bad is it?" Don croaked out.

John handed him a glass of water, "Mostly just bruised ribs and a slight concussion, you've had worse."

"Who?"

"The truck was reported stolen, no prints.  I'm going to see what I can get from Michaels."

"Better you than me."

"Shut up," John smiled.  "Get some rest."

"Oh yeah, it'll be a vacation."

"You hate vacations."

8.

'I really hate vacations.'

When Don had fallen asleep he was expecting to wake up still in the hospital.  Maybe with John there letting him know the case was nicely wrapped up.

What he didn't expect was to wake up in an abandoned warehouse, 'Respecting the classics at least.'  Strapped to an operating table, 'Creepy.'  And about to have his face removed, 'Really creepy.'

The Skinner was looming over him, ignoring Don's cutting wit, 'And John says puns are stupid, ha!'

Poised with a scalpel at the ready the Skinner stopped when a rattling clang came from the other end of the building.

Skinner left to investigate, leaving Don alone.

9.

Don leaned against a stack of molding pallets, and followed the voices.

"Who hired you?"  John asked.

"You won't be around long enough to care."

'Oh sure, now he talks.'

Don peeked through some old shelving, he could see John facing someone, gun held in his off hand, right arm hanging limply.  Blood flowing freely from the scalpel stuck in his shoulder.

"I heard talk of a newcomer to the underground, I suppose he hired you to clear us out of his way?"

Don made his way along the shelving, picking up a rusted bar from the floor. 

"I told you it doesn't matter."

"No.  I suppose it wouldn't matter to you.  You just like having an excuse to find more victims."

Ignoring the protests from his aching ribs he got ready to swing.

Rounding the corner he saw Skinner, facing John with another scalpel ready to throw.

Don brought the bar down with as much force as he could.  The dull crack it made against Skinner's skull was more than satisfying as the man collapsed.

John kept his gun trained on Skinner, "Enjoy that?"

Don fought the urge to pass out. "...I'd like to go back to the hospital now."

10.

Coming to Don recognized the hospital ceiling.  John was sitting next to him, reading the paper as if they were simply in the office waiting for a case.

"How's your arm?"

"Fine, just some stitches."  He turned the page.

"I'm fine too, thanks for asking."

"I didn't ask."  John smirked.

"...Well?"

"Skinner is in custody, they're confirming the evidence matches.  Shouldn't be too difficult, he's wanted in several states."

"So we're done?"

"Not quite, Michaels is on his way to 'get your testimony.'"

Don struggled upright, "I'm ready to be discharged."

"No you aren't,” John pushed him gently back down.  “Your field trip aggravated your ribs.  You're here for at least a week."

"God dammit I hate Mondays."

John chuckled.

"What?"

"It actually is Monday."

The (Again) Return of Flash Fiction

And I'm back!

Yeah, long time without posting...or writing.  No excuses.  Regardless of my lack of ability to stick with continually writing, I did finally manage to sit myself down and dive into one of Chuck Wendig's Flash Fictions Challenges.  Found here.

It was one of my favorites prompts, taking items from a list (or two in this case) and using them as story elements.  I've had the idea in my head for awhile of a detective who finds a dead body in his office, so it was easy to adapt that into two characters.  Actually made it easier since they could play off each other.

It's still a bit rough in terms of some grammar issues, but I'm really happy with the general flow and pacing.  And the characters of course.  And with a word limit of 1500 instead of the normal 1000 I got to play with it a bit more.  There are some particular things I was focusing on for each of the characters, but especially for Don and John so I'd love feedback on how they came across.  Enjoy.

B & B - The Skinner

“Ok,” he sighed. “Tell me that’s not what I think it is?”

            Don Baugmann looked around the office confirming that everything was just as he’d left it last night.

            “If you think it’s a dead body then you’re right.  And I think it’s staining the carpet.”

            Everything, that is, except the bloody corpse in the middle of the room.

            “Thank you John, what I meant is why is it here?”

            “Most likely to send us a message.  Who have we pissed off recently?” John asked, stepping around the body into the office kitchenette.

            Don closed the office door, the stenciling ‘Baugmann & Baugmann: Private Detectives’ mirrored on the glass, and crossed the room to his desk.

            “Who haven’t we pissed off is the better question.” Dropping into his seat he put his head in his hands and muttered, “God dammit I hate Mondays.”

            He looked up when John handed him a cup of coffee.

            “It’s Thursday.”  John said.

            Don took a long drink before answering, appreciating the burn of the hot caffinee.

“Thursdays are for wrapping up any big projects of the week so that they don’t monopolize your Fridays and, god forbid, spill into the weekend.”  He pointed at the corpse, “We came to work, early no less, and found that little gift waiting for us.  That makes this a Monday!”

“I’ll phone the station and get Michaels and his crew over here to remove it.”  John smiled, “Why don’t you look at our recent leads and see if this doesn’t tie back to anyone.”

Don finished his coffee and began a more thorough examination of the office.  Michaels would be irritated, and irritating, enough just coming this far out from the station, might as well appease the man by doing some of his work for him,

Not that there was much work to do.  Their office was small, partly by choice but mostly by necessity.  Their clients typically paid more in good will than in good credit.  Searching showed no signs of a break-in, the locks on the windows and door hadn’t been tampered with.  The only disturbance to the normal quiet atmosphere of the room was the body itself.

“So we’re dealing with a dead body in a locked room.”  Don muttered as he crouched to examine it.

Face down with a congealed pool of red staining their tan, ‘Beige, it’s beige Don.’ ‘Yes John, thank you!’ carpeting.

Don took photos of the body; male, five foot ten, looks about one-sixty to one-seventy, nondescript clothes, to pass on to Michaels then rolled it face up to take pictures for ID.

‘Huh, that’s a new one.’  “John?”  Don called out.

“Yes?” John looked up from the phone.

“Does it count as face up if the body doesn’t have a face?”

Leaving John behind to handle Michaels, Don went looking for one of their more reliable contacts.  Jessie, frequent snitch and chronic abuser, was exactly where Don expected to find him.  Face down in an alleyway buried under trash.

Don nudged Jessie to wake him up, absolutely not kicking him.

Jessie's answering groan of pain was probably just caused by whatever he was crashing from.

"H-Hey boss."  Jessie sat up, bloodshot eyes blinking away the light.  "What's up?"

"Didn't John set you up with a room in a clinic?"

"Yeah, yeah he set it up."  Jessie trailed off.

"But you weren't interested."

"Did you actually have a question?  Because if you could just step to the left and block the light that'd be great."

Don sighed, pulling Jessie to onto unsteady feet.  "John and I need you to ask around about something."  He explained the situation at the office.  "Let us know if there's been any disappearance, any bodies found killed the same way, or if-"

"Boss, I know how to do my job.  But," Jessie glanced around quickly, "But if you could front me some cash..."

Don pulled a pack of cigs out of his coat.  "How about I get you a cup of coffee, and we go from there."  He said, lighting one and handing the rest of the pack to Jessie.

           

Confident that Jessie would find at least enough rumors for a solid lead Don headed back to the office.  He could hear the argument from the stairwell.

‘Surprised I couldn’t hear Michaels from the street.’ he thought.

            “This room is a crime scene!  I demand you unlock those files.”  Michaels blustered, red-faced and utterly failing to make an impression on John, who was in front of the filing cabinet in the office corner.  Leaning casually against it as if that was the most comfortable spot in the room.

            Not that there was space to stand anywhere else.  Michaels had brought an entire forensics team with him, who were currently very busy doing anything except watch their Lieutenant lose his composure in front of a couple of P.I.s

“Those are private files regarding our clients, detective.”  John said.  “If anything is missing we’ll inform you.”

“You’ll understand if I don’t take any comfort from the Bagmen Brothers,” deliberately mispronouncing the name. “But you two are persons of interest in my investigation.  How can I trust anything you say?”

            “We’re not brothers.”  Don grumbled as he flicked the butt of his smoke into the potted plant by the door.  Ignoring John’s glare, ‘It’s just a plant John, relax.’ Then the rest of Michaels’ comment sank in.

            “Investigation?”  John eyed the stain where the body had lain, “So there’s been more murders like this one?”

            Michaels drew himself up to all his quivering glory.  “That is Police.  Business.” He hissed the words.

            “And our files for our clients are our business.”  Don crossed the room in a step and filled Michaels’ personal space the way the fat man filled the office.  Staring down at him Don said, “Your team is ready to leave now, aren’t they.”

            It wasn’t a question.

Ten minutes later found the office much calmer and with significantly more elbow room.

“Well?”  Don asked as John got out the cleaning supplies and started on the carpet.

“His main concern was our case files,” John said.  “He barely acknowledged the body.”

“Why do we have to call him?”

“Because he’s the lead detective of the homicide office…Somehow.” 

“Asshole probably placed the body himself.”  Don muttered.

“You know he’s not a crooked cop, we’ve exposed plenty of those.”

“Yeah, he’s just a bad one.”

“Regardless, what’s our plan?”

“Jessie is sniffing rumors for us but I figure we can hit up some of our other sources, see what they cough up.”

“Figuratively I’m sure.”

“To start with.”

John left the cleaning solution to sink into the stain as they locked up. ‘Not that it seems to matter.’

As they were heading down the stairs Don felt his phone vibrate.

The text from Jessie was direct for once.  “Bad news.  6 other kills.  No faces.  Hired nutcase.  Can I get paid now?”

“We need to talk to DeSarno.”  Don said.

“Well hello boys, thank you for coming.”  DeSarno gestured with his cigar, “Please, have a seat.”

Don let himself get shoved into a seat at DeSarno’s booth.  “Well after your goon squad was so gentle patting us down how could we say no.”

“I like that we didn’t need a reservation.”  John smirked.

“It’s almost like we’re VIPs.”

“If I didn’t know better I’d say DeSarno likes us.”

“And if I didn’t know better,” DeSarno cut in with a glare, “I’d say that B & B was a comedy duo.  But I can’t say I’m amused by the P.I.s who’ve damaged my business as much as you have.”

“Hard to avoid that,” John said.  “Seeing as how you bought half the police department.”

“The stupid half.” Don added.

“Be that as it may,” DeSarno ground his teeth. “What brings you here today.”

“We’re curious about a string of rather disturbing murders.”  Don said.

“And the fact that the victims are all being connected to us.”  Said John.

“A bunch of corpses with their faces removed?”

“One being left in our office to boot.”

“So we were just wondering if you might know anything.”

“Since this seems like the work of a professional.”

DeSarno went pale, “Their faces have been removed?”

Don nodded.

“You boys might want to hide,” DeSarno took a long, shaky drag from his cigart.  “It sounds like the Skinner is in town.”