The Shrinking Nuts Case

The Shrinking Nuts Case

By

Gary J. Davies

Published by Gary J. Davies at Smashwords

The Shrinking Nuts Case

Copyright 2014 Gary J. Davies

Smashwords Edition License Notes

Thank you for downloading this e-book. This book is the copyrighted property of the author, and may not be copied or reproduced without the written consent of the author.

With the exception of certain authorized library distributions, this e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each reader. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com (or affiliated authorized e-book distributor) and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This novel is a work of fiction and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to places, events or locales, is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.

Acknowledgements

Many thanks to my wife Susan, who puts up with my time consuming hobbies, to my book loving daughters Kristin and Kimberly, and to my favorite author James P. Blaylock for his enchanting early elven fantasy novels. Also I thank William Shatner for his inspiring writing efforts; presumably if he can write novels, so can anyone else. I thank my artist-brother Robert Davies for help with the cover. Thanks also to Microsoft for their spell-checker; which enables the formation of recognizable words even by engineers. Finally, I express thanks to the private detective TV programs of my youth and to numerous old detective movies of the 1940's and 1950's for inspiring this particular novel.

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CONTENTS

CHAPTER 1 A SMALL PROBLEM

CHAPTER 2 SMALL IS USEFUL BUT BIGGER IS BETTER

CHAPTER 3 CASE CLOSED

CHAPTER 4 THE FLAT TIRE CAPER

CHAPTER 5 CURSES

CHAPTER 6 UNINVITED GUESTS

CHAPTER 7 PRINCE

CHAPTER 8 HENRY

CHAPTER 9 THE FOLKS

CHAPTER 10 RAILROADED

CHAPTER 11 JAIL BREAK

CHAPTER 12 YET MORE COMPLICATIONS

CHAPTER 13 RESEARCH

CHAPTER 14 ARIZONA HIGHWAYS

CHAPTER 15 TENSE HOMECOMING

CHAPTER 16 MICKS

CHAPTER 17 BANK JOB

CHAPTER 18 JAILHOUSE ROCK

CHAPTER 19 ELF INVASION

CHAPTER 20 EXPEDITION WEST

CHAPTER 21 PRISONER (AGAIN)

CHAPTER 22 CASE CLOSED AGAIN, THIS TIME FOR GOOD

About the Author and Pending Novels

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CHAPTER 1

A SMALL PROBLEM

I was blissfully snoozing away somewhere in dream-land when WHAM! Something big and heavy but soft hit me across the back like a ton of marshmallows, waking and knocking the wind out of me.

What did you do with Jake, you little pervert! roared an impossibly loud, deep voice. Wham! Wham!

It was one hell-of-a crazy fantasy/nightmare come true. Between blows I looked up in the dim light and saw an unbelievably colossal dame: voluptuous, light skinned, dark haired, and butt-naked, holding an enormous mattress-sized pillow in her huge hands, with which she was beating the crap out of me. The giant dummy kept demanding that I produce Jake.

I am Jake! I finally blurted out between blows. The beating stopped. Too-bright lights came on.

Boss! Is it really you? Oh my God! boomed the giant, clearly distressed. Oh, my poor, poor, Jake!

I finally looked up past the gigantic stunning bod and recognized the over-sized face of Elaine, my receptionist. Now I recognized the rest of her too. I had seen it all before often enough, but not this huge. When Elaine finds me sleeping at the office she often strips down and wakes me up with a little sex. It triples her value to me as an employee, and I figure it makes up for the low pay I give her. But what the hell had happened to her? She looked at least thirteen feet tall, and sounded like a tuba! And why was she whopping me with a giant pillow?

Painfully moving my numb and sore pillow-whipped self, I slipped off the sofa and got another little shock. Getting to my feet required a way-too-long drop to the floor, and left me standing in an enormous room with twenty-foot ceilings and giant furniture. Very familiar looking giant furniture! This looked like my trusty little old dump of a private-detective office all right, but everything was huge! I also noticed that I was wearing only an extra-extra-extra-large and heavy duty white tee-shirt that dragged on the floor. What gives, Baby? I asked the distressed giant Elaine. Why is everything king-sized?

You've been shrunk, Boss! she said excitedly, as if a crazy statement like that could explain a damn thing, while she put her clothes back on. In the dim light I thought you were some sort of tiny pervert dwarf or something, she added, almost in tears.

Hell, at that point I didn’t even mind losing the view. There are a (very) few things, like death, over-due taxes, football, or, as I had just found out, talk about your own body shrinking, that can sometimes get a guy’s mind off of sex temporarily. People don’t just shrink, Baby! I corrected her. I sat down in my favorite leather recliner; or rather I climbed up into what looked like it but was gigantic. Besides, wouldn’t I notice it happening? Like wouldn’t I feel it? I was shifting my butt and pushing it back to get the giant chair to recline, but it wouldn’t budge an inch. Shi-i-it! I complained sincerely, in frustration.

Who the heck knows what shrinking feels like? she replied. Has this ever happened to you before? Your voice is higher too, Jake! You sound like a chipmunk. That’s because your vocal cords and everything have shrunk proportionally. More than 50% shrinkage linearly, I estimate, plus a height-cubed-proportional mass loss, which together would help explain a multi-octave change in voice pitch. By the way, with a more than 88% drop in body mass you might as well forget about getting that chair to recline.

She was showing off her brains and university degrees again, and though it usually bugs me when somebody does that, especially when it’s a beautiful dame, at the moment I was too buzzed for it to bother me so much, and I let it pass. This whole crazy thing was making me dizzy. A guy has his limits. Chipmunk? I sounded like a chipmunk? What kind of chipmunk? The kind with the cute little black and white stripes down its back? I had to sit there for a minute and think things out.

As I did, it finally sank in. I HAD shrunk! Nutty as it was, it was the only damn idea that made any sense at all! Jesus-H farking Cheee-rist! I complained, shaking my poor little shrunken head.

Well, at least it hasn’t affected your vocabulary, she remarked. I suppose that to work properly on a macro-scale, all organs must have been shrunken proportionally. They must have thrown in something to compensate for brain loss though, at least for the higher brain functions. They must have somehow increased synaptic and neuron density, because you seem to be just as, ah, intelligent as ever.

They? Who was she talking about that could have done this to me? The federal government? My landlady old Mrs Binneman?

The giant Elaine walked to her receptionist desk and rummaged around in a drawer for something. Now that she had her heels on, she looked fourteen feet tall, and a damn good-looking fourteen feet at that, in her short skirt and tight blouse, even though now she was dressed. She was a perfectly proportioned dame, including c-cup sized boobs, slim waist, and nicely rounded rear. Her legs were incredible, but now they were longer than me. Hey, I’m a leg man, but this was ridiculous. A guy has his limits.

I wasn’t thinking so much about giant dames or shrunken brains though; I was worrying about other organs I was more fond of that might have shrunk too. I copped a quick feel through the tee-shirt and worked out some math. Holy shits! I quietly exclaimed, in shock. Ultimate shrinkage!

As though she had read my mind, Elaine pulled a ruler out of her desk. Let’s see how you measure up, big boy, she said, as she walked towards me with a mischievous smile on her huge but pretty face.

It was extenuating circumstances; I knew that I wouldn’t measure up.

Stand up Boss, she instructed, as she pulled me off the chair. Then to my relief she only measured my height. Thirty inches when on your tippy-toes, she announced. Two-foot-six. Well less than half your original six-foot-two. She lifted me up by my under-arms. Under 15 pounds, I’d guess. I’ve hefted bigger turkeys.

She seemed to be getting a kick out of being able to toss me around. I was glad when she finally put me down; I didn’t like being picked up like a little twerp. I don’t see how little kids can stand it. This is nuts! I said perceptively, as I gathered up the tripping edge of my baggy tee-shirt and headed for the liquor cabinet.

I keep booze in the office mostly to ease the miseries of my customers and loosen their money up a bit. It's part of my business model. Almost any broad whining about her rotten husband is more likely to pay for my investigative services if she has a few belts of rot-gut in her. I also frequently raid my liquor cabinet to ease my own miseries. That's part of my business model too. A guy has to keep himself going somehow. I tried to open a new bottle of cheap brandy that seemed to weigh at least twenty pounds, but the twist cap wouldn’t budge. It must be one of those child-resistant caps that turn out to be adult-proof, I figured.

Let me do that, Boss, the giant Elaine volunteered, and she soon poured out a couple of giant-sized shot glasses of the stuff, a full one for her, and a half-full one for me. She chugged down all of hers before I could even manage a sip of mine.

I didn’t think you drank, Baby, I remarked, sucking mine all down quick to politely keep up with the lady. After I hired her I had tried unsuccessfully to booze her up plenty of times, until I found out that for sex I didn’t even have to get her drunk. I hadn’t offered her a drink in months. Why spend good money on booze to get laid if you don’t have to?

You know I don’t drink; not normally anyway, she replied. But this isn’t exactly a normal day, especially for you.

Hell Baby, I’ve been in plenty of tough jams before, I pointed out. I tried to be my usual confident macho self and walked back to my recliner, but climbing up onto a nearly chest-high chair while wearing a baggy over-sized tee-shirt and holding a giant bottle of brandy isn’t easy, and the giant Elaine ended up helping me again, damn it.

What are we going to do? she asked, as she reclined my chair for me as if I were some kind of invalid.

We? I plan on getting drunk, I said, as I struggled with the big bottle. Finally I cleverly positioned most of its weight on a chair-arm so that I could control the thing better as I drank from it.

You’re already drunk, she remarked. That drink I just gave you was the equivalent of four or five shots, given that compact little body of yours.

Swell, Baby! Think of the money I'll save on booze.

She might have noticed a touch of sarcasm in my statement; she’s really perceptive with stuff like that. Not that I can blame you, she replied, but don’t you think we should try to do something? What if you’re still shrinking?

That was a discomforting thought; so discomforting that I put the brandy bottle down beside me and capped it shut after only a couple more big yummy gulps. I was feeling pretty tipsy so I looked around to see if the booze had helped any. In my experience lots of times booze makes bad things better. But nope, it hadn’t helped much this time. Everything was still giant sized, or I was still shrunk, or whatever. I was beginning to feel a lot better about it though, so the booze was helping some on that score. But as usual, Elaine was right. For sure something more solid had to be done about this shrinking business, since not even I could stay drunk forever. OK then, Baby, do you have any suggestions?

Well, you should be measured every so often, to see if you’re still shrinking.

Great idea! That way we’ll know just how lousy things are in terms of inches. No; what I mean is, have you got any ideas on how to get me back to normal?

To start with you could call a doctor, or go to a hospital.

Hell no, woman! Those jokers can’t even deal with head colds! I’d end up as an exhibit at some damn university or circus or something.

You’re probably right. OK, so I guess it’s up to the Jake Simon Detective Agency then.

She was right. It was up to me. It was my case. Worst of all was the business model it implied. I was my own client, so I’d be paying myself, and I knew what a deadbeat I was! Shi-i-it! I remarked astutely. I was already looking forward to looking back at this case.

You think that you might possibly need some extra help from me on this one, Boss?

She had been bugging me lately, complaining that she wanted to help out on cases by doing actual detective work out in the field, but so far I had always come up with really good excuses to prevent that. Mainly she had her job and I had mine, I figured. Mine was man’s work. Hers was whatever I wanted her to do, which didn't include man's work. But maybe I could make an exception, just this one time, since at the moment I certainly had no idea what the hell to do. A guy has his limits. Also, it was probably the brandy, but I was feeling generous. OK Baby, you're hereby temporarily promoted to detective, second class, I told her. She was Catholic, so I crossed myself.

What about pay?

Pay? Crud! Not only would I be paying myself, I’d be paying her too! Same pay and you’ve got to do all your normal office stuff too. Sex included, I figured, though I'd probably need to forget about some of my favorite moves, given my puny size.

Figures. Do I get to wear a Panama hat like yours?

It's a fedora, Baby; Panama hats are made of straw and they're for cheap race-track hustlers. My fedora is made of genuine wool felt with a high quality genuine silk ribbon. I had started wearing a pricy hat and growing a mustache to up-class my image. Only a few old-timers wore fedoras nowadays, plus some of the up-and-coming twenty-something yuppies. I thought of myself as an up-and-coming old-timer, as I had recently nosed past forty. Anyway, my brown fedora was becoming my trademark and I wasn't sure I wanted her to wear one too. It was my trademark; not her trademark.

Of course she'd look sexy in a fedora, but then she looked sexy and terrific in anything, and a decent hat would cost over a hundred bucks. If it was required for her job she might even try to stiff me for its cost. I decided to get her mind off the subject and let her down easy. First you've got to earn the hat, Baby. You got any ideas about my little problem?

I’ve got questions. Like for instance, where did the rest of you go?

What do you mean?

You lost over two hundred pounds since yesterday. Ever hear of the conservation of mass principal? Physicists are sort of fond of that one. So what happened to it?

Suddenly I realized where it went. Shit, I explained, very precisely.

You don’t have to cuss all the time, do you Jake? This is serious.

No Baby, I mean, shit is where it went. Last night I felt really lousy, that’s why I never got all the way back to my apartment. I figured it was some kind of stomach virus. I had an unbelievable case of the runs.

While you shrank? she asked, without even looking too disgusted. She had a pretty strong stomach and high tolerance for crude stuff, which is probably a good way to be for anyone hanging around me.

I don’t know Baby. After I got here to the office I drank some brandy, I was mostly asleep, and I felt like hell. But I guess that’s right, I must have been shrinking and pooping myself away. Now that I think about it, I kind of remember that the pot seemed to be getting bigger and bigger. Damn near fell in a couple of times. At the time I was too sick and tired and boozed up to worry about it, I guess. Besides, I’ve had weirder times when I was liquored up. Like right now, for instance.

OK, my next question is, how? This whole shrinking thing is totally impossible from a scientific standpoint. You still think it was a stomach virus?

How the hell should I know? I’m a P-I, not an M-D.

Well, when did you first feel sick?

Last night about eight, I think. I had to cut out of a very important meeting with a very important new client. I have a strict rule to not puke or take dumps in a new client’s home or office. It don't look professional.

Sure, we’re a high class business, she correctly noted.

High class all the way, Baby. Anyway, this office was closer than my apartment, so I drove myself here quick. Very quick; I thought I was going to explode right there in the Ford. When I got here I headed straight for the john by way of the liquor cabinet. After taking care of that business I must have figured I’d sleep it off here on the sofa. End of story.

What new client? Where?

I’m afraid that’s all top secret, Baby; I pledged my client strict confidentiality. It’s a matter of my professional integrity.

Really, short stuff? Is your integrity really more important than your shoe size?

Hell no. John Grisim, seventh floor of the Tower Arms, downtown.

THE John Grisim, multi-billionaire?

OK, this was better! I was saved! It wasn’t just deadbeat me paying for myself and the giant Elaine, a damn billionaire was paying! I couldn’t help but smile. Impressed?

First let me see what he paid you so far.

Crud! I left before he even gave me a retainer! I must have been even sicker than I thought. We did shake hands on it though, so as much as the rich bastard can be trusted, we’re on the job. Trust a billionare? That was damned flimsy, but I decided to go with it.

Well, what did he want from us, detective-wise?

I noticed that she said ‘us’, like we were partners or something, but I let it pass. He was just starting to explain it to me when I felt sick and had to cut out of there. He yapped about some kind of weird problems at his bank. Then he yapped about some sort of game for rich folks that he was supposed to play today. It was all weird as hell. Then he said that he wanted me to help him.

Help him how?

Save him from a weird fate, he said. Death maybe? I don't know; we didn’t get into the details yet. But I got the impression he wasn’t sure himself. He was nervous about the game because of weird stuff happening around his bank. He gave me some papers with a few rules of the rich-dude game on them or something, and then I had to take a big dump and left the place in a really big hurry, and that was that. End of story.

I don’t get it.

Which part?

Any of it. No offense, but why would a billionaire hire you to help with problems at his bank or with his personal security? He must have his own bank and private security people.

Maybe he heard about me someplace. I’ve cracked some pretty big cases, you know.

You’ve only handled petty divorces and lost dogs since I’ve worked here.

Well, I’ve found some damn important lost dogs and broken up some pretty damned important marriages, both here in North Jersey and in the Apple. As far as this game thing goes, Grisim gave me the impression that rich folks get bored sometimes. Life’s too damn easy for them.

Sure. Being filthy rich and living an easy life has got to be really tough on them.

Right. So once in a while they like to do something crazy, like drugs, sky diving, unsafe sex, or goofy games.

But what kind of ‘game’ kills people?

I climbed down from the recliner and shuffled over to a chair where I had apparently tossed most of my clothes from last night. From the pocket of my huge old brown suit-coat that today seemed to be made from heavy-duty canvas I retrieved several papers, folded down to pocket size. Pocket sized yesterday; more like newspaper-sized today. He gave me this stuff, but I didn’t have a chance to talk with him about it or look at it. I handed the papers to Elaine, and she studied them for several minutes. Damn she was cute; even giant sized and wearing clothes she was cute. Smart as hell too, but I could put up with that part, as she was a dynamite sex partner. You guys out there shouldn't sell smart chicks short, that's my advice.

Most of it is just stuffy legal wording describing what the game winners get, and so forth, she said, after looking them over. Each of the several super-rich participants contributes big bucks to play, with most of the money going towards what will be won. The winner can get up to a billion dollars, if there is only one winner. Pretty nifty. But there isn't much information here. The names of the game participants aren’t even given.

Too incriminating, I reasoned. Who the billionaire players are is probably only known by the super-rich participants and a few trusted game people.

As to rules for this so-called game, there isn’t much here, she added. All that Grisim has to do is show up at the First National Bank this afternoon before four PM and prove his identity by a simple process described by these papers, and he gets the money, or at least his share of it. The pot of money is to be split evenly between those that show up. That doesn’t seem like much of a game, does it?

Maybe rich dudes don’t have enough time for poker or monopoly, so they came up with this lame gig. Hey, it probably beats bingo. A billion bucks? The whole thing was disgusting. Think of it: Grisim owned the Third National Bank. What he won at the First National Bank would probably be transferred electronically to his bank, without anyone even seeing any actual nifty green paper, or figuring on spending any. What a waste! Money is wasted on rich people. Crashers allowed? I asked, hopefully. Even a measly few million would do wonders for my own bank account. I’d know what to do with that kind of dough, if I ever got my hands on it! I had some inside dope on some upcoming horse races, for instance.

Low-lives like us need not apply, I’m sure. Oh! Here’s a couple of very interesting things. First, any player that causes the death of anyone or otherwise impedes another player during the course of the game forfeits his or her share.

Gee whiz, that would be a crying shame. But then why was Grisim so worried about getting killed or whatever? No way is any rich dude going to risk losing big money by breaking those rules! They worship the green stuff, though they don’t know what the hell to do with it except use it to get more of it. What’s the other interesting thing, Baby?

This one is really weird, she laughed. Evidently, it’s supposed to be a clue, but it simply says that ‘one plus one multiplies,’ whatever that means.

That doesn’t seem too helpful. We need more to go on than that.

OK, then I guess that now we head for the Towers Building and Grisim. Right, Boss?

You’ve got to be kidding. It’s only a mile or so, but I can’t go out in public like this! What about my tough-guy rep?

What tough-guy rep? This Grisim case has got to somehow tie in with your shrinking, Boss; it’s our only lead. You can disguise yourself as a kid. Or would you rather wait here until you’re small enough for me to carry you around in my purse?

I let the ‘what rep’ crack pass. My rep was mostly a guy-guy thing, and what the hells would Elaine know about that? OK, let's go then, Baby, I said, heading for the front door.

Wait a minute Boss, you’ll need to get dressed first, she said.

She had a point. I was still wearing only the king-sized tee-shirt, which I could only walk in by holding up high enough so that I didn’t trip over it. But my brown suit sure wouldn't fit me now, and crap: my nice brown fedora probably wouldn't fit me either! My P-I overcoat would usefully cover me, but would be like walking around wearing a tent. Besides, it was July. Not even a P-I wore an overcoat in July.

I'll run out quick and get you some new threads, she volunteered. Meanwhile you better shave off that mustache. A little kid can't have a mustache, Jake.

She headed for the little clothing shop downstairs. Meanwhile, cursing as I did it, I shaved off the mustache. My safety razor was huge and dangerous; I had to be extra careful to avoid cutting myself. And damn it; it would take me more than a month to grow a good mustache back! When the giant Elaine got back I was trying on my fedora, and just like I thought, the thing was much too big; the damn thing covered my whole head! When I got it off me I saw that a grinning Elaine was pulling my new clothes out of several bags. Shopping makes women happy; you guys out there should remember that.

These are baby clothes! I complained. I can’t wear these! The Superman briefs were OK; everything else sucked big-time. I like to at least wear a suit to fit my P-I image, but all she bought me besides the briefs was a tea shirt, over-alls, socks and shoes.

That’s the best stuff they had in a size three super-short and skinny.

What’s all this shit on it? I pointed out the teddy bears and bunny rabbits on the otherwise baby-blue shirt and overalls. Definitely not my usual private detective style. Who the hells designed these rags?

"This is as plain as they come in that particular store. At least these are mostly blue; the only other thing in your size was a pink outfit with