Little People, Big Crimes: Alex Cheradon, #3

CHAPTER 1

HELLO, FOURTH WALL. ALLOW ME TO BREAK YOU

I know what you’re thinking. I’m being serious. Don’t laugh. This isn’t a joke or some simple magic trick.

Although, now that I think about it, I suppose there might be some kind of magic involved with it.

But I digress. Fair warning: I do that a lot.

I genuinely do know what you’re thinking.

You’re thinking:

What’s a nice guy like this doing in a bed with a horse’s head?

Boom. Just blew your mind right there. Go on; take a moment to compose yourself. It’s okay. I’ll wait.

….

Back? Good.

Now, of course, you’re thinking, Is he psychic? How did he gain these psychic powers? Can he tell me my future? Why am I reading this book in a restaurant surrounded by happy couples whilst I dine alone?

No, I’m not psychic. This is a technique that’s known as breaking the fourth wall. I decided that since this is my third book, maybe it was time to shake things up a bit.

As to why you’re reading this alone in a restaurant filled with happy couples…Honestly, I have no idea. Like I said, I’m not psychic, so I can’t actually read your mind.

Bringing us back around to the situation at hand, I do, reluctantly have to inform you that you are actually wrong about one detail. This was not a horse’s head. It is actually a miniature pony’s head. A subtle, but important distinction.

Now, if you’ll pardon me, I did just wake up in bed with the head of miniature pony lying next to me. I believe I’m allowed one appropriate freak-out.

"GAH!"

I jumped out of the bed. My feet got tangled in the sheets and I hit the floor with a loud THUD. Yanking myself free, I scrambled back up to my feet and watched the pony head for a moment as I caught my breath.

In the dim light of the bedroom its glassy, vacant eyes followed me as I slowly backed away from the bed.

Trust me, this may look bizarre, but it landed more in the arena of scary than bizarre.

I don’t think I needed to mention this part, but the pony’s head was not there when I lay down originally.

However, now that I thought about it, I was pretty sure I was dreaming about My Little Pony prior to waking up.

I backed up against the bedroom door and fumbled for the handle. The door opened and I backed out, my eyes never leaving the bed and its occupant. Given the way the last few days had gone, it wasn’t an irrational fear to think the pony’s head might jump up and attack me.

As I backed out of the room I realized the light was on in the living room.

I slowly turned around, half expecting the rest of the pony to be waiting for me.

Instead, the most dangerous man in town, Jonathon Bragan was sitting in the living room.

Mr. Cheradon, he greeted me, smiling the same way a shark smiles before it devours a tiny helpless fish.

I know, sharks don’t technically smile. But it’s my book; I should be allowed a certain level of literary license.

I suddenly felt very self-conscious and not just because Bragan was wearing a three-piece suit and I was dressed in a t-shirt and boxers. There was also the fact that he was surrounded by a lot of little men holding very big guns.

Let’s talk, Bragan said.

And then, as if to punctuate the statement, everyone pointing a gun at me clicked off their safeties and chambered a round.

Okay, be honest, I said. How many times did you guys have to practice that?

Now, I know you’re confused. And why shouldn’t you be? You just started this book and there’s some man, a man with dashing good looks, I might add, who’s name you don’t even know, waking up next to a miniature pony’s head and is then, suddenly, on the receiving end of about two dozen guns, getting ready to have a ‘chat’ with the town’s most notorious mobster.

Well, allow me to introduce myself. My name is Alex Cheradon, private investigator and bad luck charm. And all of this started back after the end of the last book. My office had just been blown up and my assistant, Nick, and I were homeless and kind of on the run.

CHAPTER 2

THINGS TO DO WHEN YOUR HOME/OFFICE HAS BEEN BLOWN UP

Are you going to knock?

Of course I’m going to knock, I replied and then proceeded to stare at the front door before me. It was a new door. She’d replaced it since I had last been here.

I could feel Nick watching me, his eyes boring judgmental holes into the back of my head.

Are you going to knock before I grow old and have to start dying my hair? he asked finally.

What do you mean ‘start?’ You didn’t come out of the womb with those frosted tips, I said. Besides, you’re not going to get the chance to worry about gray hairs. You’re going to bald early. You, my trusty sidekick, are most likely looking at a future filled with hair plugs. Or wigs.

I heard a sharp gasp from behind me. Be still your heathen tongue. I will have you know that my father died with a full head of a dark, wavy hair, Nick hissed at me. "And, I am not your ‘trusty sidekick.’ I am your administrative assistant."

Oh, like that sounds any better, I said, rolling my eyes.

You know what happens to sidekicks? They get captured. They get tied up-

So far it’s sounding like your dream date, I interjected.

Nick continued without missing a beat. "They get tortured. And, in some cases, they get killed. It is not a healthy profession, being a sidekick. There’s entire websites devoted to this, I’ll have you know."

You would, I muttered.

I will not be reduced to such a potentially hazardous and life threatening position.

Wait a minute, I said, turning around. Your father’s not dead.

Nick just looked at me, his mouth hanging open for a second.

What?

You said your dad died with a full head of hair, I said. He’s not dead. He lives in Florida. He owns one of those mini golf courses and sends you Christmas cards of him posing with those designer reindeer bushes he gets done on his front yard every year.

Nick turned bright red and pointed at the front door. Will you just knock already?

Okay, okay, I said, turning back to the door. Someone’s a little high strung.

"That’s because someone else pushed me out of a three story window," Nick replied, his voice dripping with angry bitterness.

Would you have rather I let you stay and get blown up? I asked.

Instead of going through the rest of my life without my limited edition Versace bags? Yes, I would have preferred being blown to smithereens.

I’ll remember that the next time we’re in a room with a bomb.

Will you just knock on the stupid door already? I have to pee!

I raised my hand took a deep breath. This wasn’t easy for me. You don’t just knock on this door.

Oh. My. Goodness, Nick said. We have been shot at, chased, time traveled and nearly blown up. Could this really be any worse?

I looked over my shoulder. Are you feeling okay?

No, he snapped, his eyes almost bugging out. "I have to pee! Do you want me to get a kidney stone or something?"

You get kidney stones from not drinking, I said. You get urinary tract infections from not peeing when you have to.

"Knock on the bleeding door!"

Geez. You save a guy’s life and this is the thanks you get. Some people…

I turned back to the door.

I could do this.

I raised my hand again.

Then, quite literally as my knuckles were about to connect with the solid wood door, it sprung open and I found myself staring down the wrong end of a sawed off shotgun.

Oh. Crap, Nick whimpered behind me. I don’t think he needed to pee anymore.

On the other end of the shotgun was a woman named Angela Reno, Angie if you were her friend or dated her or ever got punched in the face for actually calling her Angela.

I was blessed (or cursed, depending on your point of view) to be included in all three categories.

Yes, that’s right. For a brief moment of time, in a particularly dark period of my life, Angie and I were, what the kids call an item.

Actually, are the kids still saying that?

Anyway, it’s not something I’m particularly proud of. I mean, yes, at the time, I was proud. She is quite the hottie after all, at least 8.5 on the 10-point International Hottie Scale as defined by Wikipedia. Then I discovered that beneath her hot exterior lay a blazingly crazy soul and a bizarre obsession (in some circles it may even be called a fetish) with guns and explosives.

I’m not exaggerating here. Angie kept guns under pillows, in her toilet tanks, sewn into seat cushions and in most of the kitchen cabinetry. We never really got to the point in our dating relationship where she would cook for me, which was probably for the best considering I had heard a rumor (verified by three separate sources and actual photographs) that Angie had managed to ruin tuna fish on crackers.

So, like I said, we didn’t date for very long. You know, it’s actually a funny story, how we met. Maybe the next time I’m flashing through my life story I’ll tell you about it.

Your office was blown up and the police are looking for you, she said, giving me her best squinty gunman stare.

Hello to you too, Angie, I said. Her tan was looking fresh. Must be nice to have time to focus on little things, like tanning. Her brunette hair was longer now and pulled back in a ratty ponytail. Oh, look, you have bangs now.

I thought I’d try something new, she said. She looked passed me and arched an eyebrow. Everything okay there, Nicky?

I had an accident, he mumbled.

You can be very intimidating, I said. In fact, had I not just gone to the bathroom at our last stop I would have wet myself, too. Cross my heart.

What are you doing here, and why are you guys wearing dirty tuxes?

It involves time travel, a crazy mayor, Christian blowing up my office and a fancy dress party.

Angie rolled her eyes. Really, you got invited to a nice party?

In a sentence that contains time travel, a crazy mayor and my office getting blown up, you question the part about me getting invited to a party? I asked.

Well… Angie’s voice trailed off. You have to admit, it does sound suspect.

I pointed to our matching raggedy tuxedoes. We’re not wearing these because we’re trying to start a fashion trend.

If it helps, we weren’t invited, Nicky whimpered from behind me. We kinda crashed the party looking for the crazy mayor.

See, Angie said, that makes more sense.

I shook my head. I can’t believe this.

Angie smiled. Of course you can, she lowered the shotgun and stepped out of the way. Get in here. I think I’ve got some clothes lying around that you can change into.

Angie’s idea of clothes that we could change into turned out to be a green t-shirt with a pony on it and neon colored orange shorts for me and a black plain t-shirt and jeans for Nicky. I questioned her intentions, but not out loud. I mean, she did answer the door with a shotgun. I’m not that stupid.

In Angie’s kitchen, at her table with a tablecloth that may have dated back to the dawn of time itself, I slowly and carefully recounted everything. Stories involving time travel were always confusing. I myself have been known, from time to time, to just pass out during an explanation of time travel. In fact, there was one time wherein a good friend of mine, and by good friend I mean an evil bad guy, who had me captured and subjected me to his evil bad guy monologue. In this case his evil monologue was a lengthy explanation of his time travel shenanigans. I not only passed out twice during the monologue, but I also repressed the entire incident for a year.

So I took care to lay everything out as clearly as I could. I didn’t want Angie to fall unconscious and then come to in a violent rage, or something worse, knowing my luck lately.

Twenty minutes later I was finished and waited for Angie’s reaction.

The mayor’s a homicidal madman in charge of a group called Kontrol. You jumped ahead two days and defeated him. Now you’ve come back to your original point in time and discovered that Devon Christian, your crazy ex-partner who’s hell-bent on killing you, has blown up your office, she said succinctly and in a single breath. I wanted to check my watch; I don’t think it even took her a minute. "Is that about right?

She drank from her hot tea.

Well, yes, I reluctantly agreed. But there are a lot of salient details you’re leaving out.

No she isn’t, Nick said. That’s exactly what happened.

I shot Nick a glaring look. It was a look that I hoped carried a thousand harsh words. I let the glare linger for a moment longer than I normally would have because I didn’t want to have to revisit this situation by spelling out my intense dislike of him in this moment. I had spent way too much time with the guy lately. I mean, he’s supposed to be my administrative assistant, not my partner. Besides, all he does is whine. Who wants to be around that all day?

Does anyone else here feel a little awkward with the way Alex is staring at me? Nick asked.

I turned back to Angie. It wasn’t just our office, Angie, I said. It was also our de facto home. We have no place to go.

There was silence as Angie finished her tea.

There was some more silence as Angie stared at me over her empty cup.

So? she finally asked.

I threw my hands up. Do I need to draw you a map? Connect the dots? Send you a singing telegram? We have no place to go, Angie. My sidekick-

Administrative assistant, he interjected.

-and I have now joined the ranks of the city’s homeless, I took a deep breath. I can’t be a homeless person, Angie. I don’t drink enough, my handwriting’s too neat and I can’t start those barrel fires without a lighter.

"Plus, I cannot be caught wearing a garbage bag. It would be the death of me," Nicky added.

If you need a place to stay, Alex, why don’t you just ask and stop insulting me, Angie suggested.

Ah, the direct approach.

Angie, can we please crash at your place for a couple days so that we don’t corrupt the timeline by being places we’re not supposed to be?

Of course, she said, getting to her feet. All you had to do was ask. And in return for my hospitality, you can help me with a case.

Um, ex-squeeze me?

CHAPTER 3

GETTING MALLED

I don’t do referrals. Seriously. I’m not joking. I’m not being metaphorical. There’s no hidden meaning in my words.

I do not take referrals.

Word of mouth is not a good business generator for me. You see, most of my business comes from clients who I don’t want to really be dealing with in the first place and I’ve only taken their cases because I’ve got bills to pay and a stomach to keep full. When these particular kinds of clients go and tell their friends who have similar problems about me I end up with more clients that I do not want.

Simply put: evil clone zombies beget evil clone zombies. That is a scientific fact.

Plus, I read it in the Bible or something.

I’m not saying that I’ve actually had to deal with an evil clone zombie. Thank God for small favors, am I right? But the principle is sound.

What part of ‘I need to lay low for the next few days’ did you not understand? I asked Angie.

You never said that, she replied.

I did too.

No. What you said was, and I quote, ‘Angie, can we please crash at your place for a couple days so that we don’t corrupt the timeline by being in places we’re not supposed to be?’ she repeated.

Which would imply that I wanted to lay low for a few days, I said. It’s clearly stated there in the subtext or something.

Then maybe you should have spelled it out, Angie said.

We were in the food court at the Windmill Mall. I know what you’re thinking and this time you’re right. It is the dumbest sounding mall name in all of existence and no, there is not a single windmill near the mall, which makes the name triply dumb. Don’t ask me to explain the math.

The lunch crowd was in full swing and I was feeling suspiciously conspicuous, especially in my pony t-shirt and orange shorts. I swore I saw at least a half a dozen teenage girls wearing the exact same outfit. Where did she get these clothes?

Seriously, Angie, we can’t be messing around with the time stream, I said. I don’t want run into myself and cause some kind of temporal paradox where I cease to exist or I become my own father. Although, that later one would explain a lot, especially my hair.

Angie stopped scanning the crowd and gave a beguiled stare. I have no idea what you’re talking about.

Well, as you know, my dad left me at a young age, I explained. "And my mom kept very few photos of him around after he skipped out on us. Now, my mom has kind of a frizzy, natural perm thing going on with her hair. Whereas I have more a lean, sleek look. My hair is full, yet not puffy. Don’t know where I get it from. Most of the pictures of my dad that I’ve seen his head is completely shaven. So, either he was totally into the shave-your-head-to-cover-premature-baldness before Bruce Willis made it popular or, the man in those photos is not my dad and through some weird time travel paradox I become my own father."

Angie waited a second before pointing out the obvious.

That would mean you had sex with your own mother.

Ew, I felt actual vomit rise up in my throat. Where do I come up with these things?

I have no idea, Angie said, returning her attention to the lunch crowd.