Vic Daniel 6 - As she rides by

the beach with Suze,” he said, referring to Wade’s girlfriend. “Got any ideas?”
    “Some,” I said. I told him what they were.
    “Hmm,” he said. He thought for a moment, then struggled to his feet. “Be right back.” He headed up the path toward the house. A few minutes later he returned with two large glasses of fresh lemonade, sweetened with honey, not sugar, and a slim, pocket-sized catalog he tossed in my lap. “Things You Never Knew Existed... and others you can’t POSSIBLY live without!” it said on the cover. It also said, “Johnson Smith Company, Since 1914, 100% Satisfaction Guaranteed, Over 100 New Items!” and “Up to 50% Off Selected Items!”.
    “Any of your stuff in here?” I said, leafing through it.
    “A couple,” he said. “The ‘Bad Vibe Detector’ is mine. So’s the ‘Executive’s Desktop One-Hole Golf.’ Comes in attractive cedarwood box complete with key.”
    “No kidding,” I said. Then I said, “Ah, now you’re talking,” as I got to the section on magic tricks and those things that kids buy to scare their sisters. “Dog mess, King. Fake barf, the old foaming sugar, phony bird mess, X-ray glasses, bloody slashed finger, phony spilled nail polish, giant fake barf, phony cigarette burn... ah, yes, Prof, where are the snow jobs of yesteryear?” I lay back, emotionally spent. Willy plucked the catalog from my nerveless fingers and riffled through it.
    “That,” he said after a minute, “is what we need. Better than Mace, take my word for it. It’s one of Howie’s, he only lives over the hill. I’ll get some concentrate from him, they’ll never get it out. And forget the spray can, I got a better idea.”
    “I’ll bet you have,” I said.
    “The arthropods I like,” he said.
    “I was thinking Benny for that,” I said.
    “Perfect,” he said, with a grin. “Me and Wade’ll do Howie’s stuff, if you want, he digs pornos and me, well, I’ll keep my eyes closed during the dirty bits.”
    “Sure you will,” I said.
    “Got another idea,” Willy said, finishing off the the last of his drink. “What do you set to catch a mouse?”
    “A cat,” I said.
    “How about vice versa?” Cissy called us right then from the back door, telling us her muffins were ready. Surprising to state, spinach muffins aren’t that bad, really, especially when you load them up with lots of butter and red currant jelly. King liked them au naturel, even.
    Sunday evening. I don’t recall what I did that Sunday evening but one thing I didn’t do for sure was call up any flighty blondes of my acquaintance. Nor did any call me up, it is only fair to say, although what’s so fair about it is beyond me. Who did call was Jerry, wanting to know if any progress had been made actually you know, old chap. I confessed to him that I had been temporarily sidetracked from his problem by a personal one of my own, but (a) hoped to have resolved said personal problem instanter, almost, and (b) did have the glimmer of an idea regarding his problem and would be following up on it early in the week.
    “Delighted to hear it, old boy,” he said. After sending me oodles of amour from Tom, he hung up. It wasn’t exactly from Tom that I wanted oodles of amour, I thought, but what the hell, a guy takes what he can get some Sunday nights.

    M onday morning—neither bright nor early, frankly, due to a spot of this and that, otherwise known as the king of all hangovers. You’d think I’d know by now never to mix Cheez-Its with pepperoni Hot-Styx, but there you go. A healthy King was in his corner and I was at the desk leafing through the mail. Ever have one of those days when all your mail starts with lines like, “Civilizations In Other Galaxies Are Waiting To Communicate With You!” and “Don’t read any further if you want to stay poor all your life,” and “100s of lonely Asian women are waiting to hear from you!”? One of those. Oh yes. There was one other entry in the mail-you-want-to-read-least stakes, which I reprint in its luckily short totality:

    Report No. 44
    Sept. 9, 1990
    For: V. D. (ha ha). From: Agent S. S.

    Haiku for a Horse’s Ass

    Ancient bones...
    An empty rattle...
    A lonely, balding, beanpole’s autumn.

    Expenses: $ 4.20
    Fee: 30.00
    Total: 34.20
    (Please pay promptly for once.)

    Spare me, I thought. Bring back those other galaxies, please! But at least I knew what a haiku was—a short, insulting, rotten poem. And “expenses, $4.20”—her bus was only