Breaking Good

by Mike B. Good

  Should be no problem as long as the dogs didn’t let the visitor out of the narc car. Then again, if he got anywhere near the Sheik Room. . .well. I developed a plan: Sneak back inside before he saw me and do a bit of cleaning up. Also, stay there till the narc went away. In a bold move, I scurried towards the Sheik Room door.

  Before I could open it, a horn honked. Then, “Hey, you. . .”

  Turning around with a sheepish grin, I waved. “Oh, hey, man, didn’t notice you over there.”

  The dogs, good boys both, were now on the narc car’s hood, growling at the driver through the gore-splattered windshield. They knew better than to eat raw pork, but the smell of blood drove them into a frenzy. A true professional, the visitor pulled his gun and fired. . .straight through his roof. I watched in amazement as a stream of pig blood showered his head.

  Who knew narcs did prop humor? I shouted out my approval. “Good one!”

  “What are you laughing at?”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  The guy looked like Carrie at the prom. Only confused, instead of vindictive. The shot didn’t bother well-trained Mango or Mako, but it did bother me. I loved those dogs. And felt sorry for the murdered pig on the narcmobile’s roof. I figured I better go over there before something weird happened. I tidied myself up a bit, meaning I brushed as many sticky green bits off my chest, arms, legs, and, well, everywhere else, as possible. So, given the pot’s Velcro-like powers, not all that much. Distracted by the task, I thought: Damn, this pot is sticky. Always a good sign. Also: Man, that smells good. So do I. So cool. Way better than patchouli oil. I should roll up a sample joint. . .

  The horn beeped again. So not cool. I transferred all the tiny bits of buds on my hands to my hair as I put it into a ponytail. I wanted to look, if possible, even more respectable. An old insider hippie trick. I took a deep breath and thought: Man, my hair smells nice. Feeling presentable if unfocused, I walked towards the armed intruder. Should I put my arms up? Playing it safe, I resisted the urge to flip the narc off. Why was he here? Was he lost? Or was it something else? My hesitant walk gave me the time I needed to come up with lots of paranoid possibilities. One thing for sure, I didn’t wanna act suspicious with a demented-looking narc sitting under a freshly-murdered pig staring daggers at me. Not while he held a gun.

  Always polite, I said, “I sure hope you’re lost.”

  “You mind controlling these dogs?” The pups were treating his car like a pork roast on wheels.

  “I sure do.”

  “Or I could shoot them instead.”

  “Mango, Mako, come here, boys. Leave the nice man alone.”

  “That’s better. You want to put them somewhere safe?”

  “I feel safe with them at my side.”

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  “Too bad.”

  “I guess I could start shooting.”

  I put the killers in the Sheik Room. For safety’s sake, as requested. Long as he didn’t poke his head in there, he’d survive the visit.

  “They can’t get out?”

  “You wish.”

  “Well, I’m gonna need to look around.”

  No way I could let him look around. I stalled for time while I came up with a clever strategy. Not easy to do after a morning of sampling.

  “Hold on a second. Mind telling me who you are?”

  “Special Agent Curly Merkin is the name. Fraud is my game.”

  “Fraud, huh? So you’re lying about your goofy name, but telling me about it? You’re new at this whole fraud thing, aren’t you?”

  “Maybe that didn’t come out right. Tell me something,” asked the crack investigator, “what’s that great-smelling stuff in your hair?”

  “You must mean the Herbal Essence shampoo. That’s the new improved ganja scent. It tends to clump. The ladies dig it. You should try some.”

  “I’m a Head and Shoulders guy.”

  “No offense, but it’s not working for you.”

  Getting a closer look, I could see he wasn’t much older than me. Curly had apple cheeks covered with freckles. They hid amidst the hives and the acne.

  “Neither is the Clearasil.”

  He wore his hair dyed red and slicked down in a 50’s style. Unless that was from the pig blood. He looked like Opie disguised as a serial killer. His head twitched incessantly. So did his shoulders. Probably an allergic reaction to his shampoo. Disfigured by hives and trembling like the San Andreas Fault, he didn’t project intimidation. Sanity, either.

  “What kind of first name is Special Agent? Not Hungarian, is it?”

  “If you must know, my real first name is Marian.”

  “Thought you said it was Special Agent. Now it’s a girl’s name?”

  “It’s not a girl’s name.”

  “Really? Sounds to me like you’re named after your mom.”

  “You and everyone who beat me up at school.”

  “Don’t tell me you’re named after your dad.”

  “No, I’m named after my mom, all right, but she happens to have a man’s name.”

  “With all these different names you’ve got, I suspect fraud. I’m gonna need to see some ID.”

  He pulled out an FBI badge reading Special Agent Marian M. Merkin. “Satisfied?”

  “If by satisfied, you mean apprehensive. Hey, be sure to give J. Edgar and Clyde my regards.”

  “Like they’d ever talk to—wait a minute, you know the Boss?”

  “Springsteen? Nah, he’s from back East. If you want, I can put him on the stereo.”

  He shook his head, then genuflected and said with reverence, “I meant Director J. Edgar Hoover.”

  “Oh, that boss.” I shrugged, embarrassed to admit it. “Yeah, I do.”

  “Really?”

  “We don’t hang out, but he’s an acquaintance of my folks. I don’t have any of his albums, though.”

  While I wondered what brought a twitching baby Fed to my door (and prayed it wasn’t the obvious reason), my visitor pulled out a warrant. He took a long hard look at the picture on it and then at me. He shook his head as if striking out.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Special Agent Mike.”

  “I doubt that very much.”

  “You got me. I’m just messing with you, Curly.”

  “I don’t think that’s it, either.”

  “Ah, you made a joke.”

  “Huh?”

  “They take away your sense of humor at the Academy?”

  “They don’t let funny guys in. You should apply.”

  Great, now I was Curly Merkin’s straightman. You couldn’t get much lower on the comedy ladder.

  “So, what’s your real name?”

  “It used to be Mike.”

  “You sure about that?”

  “All right, some people call me Mark.”

  “So which name is it?”

  “After hearing your groovy name, I’m tempted to stick with Special Agent Mike.”

  “Damnit, what is your name without the title?”

  “Then it’s just a name.”

  He gave me an impatient look, then pulled his gun out again. A one-trick pony.

  “Oh, so you’re the only one who gets a title?”

  “Just humor me.”

  “I’m not sure it’s possible, what with all your training.”

  He pointed the gun at his roof.

  Feeling sorry for the blood-soaked agent, I cooperated with a smooth lie. “It’s Mike.”

  “Your full name.”

  “It’s Mike, uh, Jones.”

  Doubtful, he tried to give me a stern look. But with his head and shoulders jittering around, he couldn’t pull it off.

  “Why are you laughing?”

  “Sorry.”

  “Mike Jones? That’s not even a real name. Try again.”

  “Did I say Jones? I meant Mike Smith.”

 
He shifted his gun. Now it pointed at me.

  “What? There aren’t any real Mike Smiths?”

  “Listen, Mister, I want your name.”

  “With a name like Marian Merkin, I don’t blame you.”

  “Not what I meant. This time make it good or else.”

  “All right, you got me, it’s Good.”

  “What is?”

  “My name.”

  “That does it, let me see some ID.” The crafty fraud specialist at work.

  I handed him my diver’s license.

  “Let’s see here. . .hmmm, Michael B. Good. Son of a bitch,” he said with a sigh. “I didn’t see that one coming. What’s the B stand for?”

  “Be.” I spelled it for him so we could skip the bullshit.

  “Michael Be Good? Seriously?”

  “As I recall, I was a mischievous fetus.”

  “I’m surprised it’s not Johnny Be Good.”

  “That’s my brother.”

  Major Johnny, the lucky one with the bomb shelter business who’d be inheriting my share of the San Andreas Fault if I didn’t cut my hair, straighten up, and fly right.

  “I’m getting tired of you yanking my chain, Mr. Good.”

  Even when I told the truth, I had no credibility with squares. Amazing.

  “Hey, you’re the one who wanted to know my name, man.”

  After a huge sigh, Curly said, “I’m really starting to hate this job.”

  Taking his frustration as an excellent sign, I relaxed my threat level a little.

  Chapter 33

  Have You Seen This Man?

  “What are you hippies doing hidden way back here?” wondered the Special Agent.

  “Hidden? There’s nothing hidden. Well, not anymore.”

  “Excuse me?”

  I pointed at the garden. “We’re mostly growing organic lettuce.”

  “Ah. Is that what’s stuck all over you?”

  “It’s a special variety that turned out not to be gold, and not from Guatemala.”

  “Smells terrific.”

  “Doesn’t it?”

  “Is it popular?”

  “You wouldn’t believe it.”

  “I didn’t know there was so much demand for lettuce.”

  “Oh, you mean the lettuce.”

  “What else would I mean?”

  “How should I know?”

  After a dubious look, he asked, “You make a lot of money with lettuce?”

  Curly must’ve been thinking of getting into the hugely profitable lettuce biz.

  “Sure. Sometimes it’s worth up to a quarter a pound.”

  Dreams for a career as wealthy lettuce mogul crushed, Curly made a reasonable suggestion. “I bet you could make a lot more growing marijuana.”

  Nodding at his battered car, I said, “I bet we could, if we even knew what it was and didn’t live on Makimaki Road.”

  He took my hint. “You’re smart sticking with the lettuce. Grow anything valuable, and your neighbors will rob you blind.”

  “Lucky for us, cannibals don’t eat salad.”

  “Good point. Well, Mr. Good, I’m here on official business, not to talk story.” He handed me the warrant. “Have you ever seen this man?”

  The guy in the picture wore a polyester shirt open to the waist—I guess so admirers could be dazzled by the dozen fake gold chains covering a hairless pale chest. Since most had gold-colored razor blades hanging on them, his scab-covered chest was clean-shaven. No epaulets, but his shirt’s lapels reached his shoulders. His razor-thin lips, though silent, seemed to utter lies. His creepy smile revealed the tip of a forked tongue. His eyes, beady yet shifty, seemed to move even in a photograph, never making contact. Not a hair was out of place. I checked the name, just to make sure. The creep in question? None other than Plastic Fucking Donald. How about that? I’d never realized that was his real name.

  I told Curly the truth. “He looks familiar. You know, like someone who hangs out in discos.”

  “Like a real asshole, you mean?”

  “Exactly. Also, like a bad guy from a low-budget soap opera.” Then I lied. “That’s probably where I saw him. What’d he do?”

  “He’s a lowlife con man. We’ve looked under every rock, but we can’t find him anywhere.”

  Underworld morticians like Lolo worked with backhoes. Articles in the Honolulu Advertiser told of bodies buried fifteen feet down. I offered some advice. “You’re gonna have to look a lot deeper than that.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Just a hunch. Tell me more.”

  “He’s got five different aliases. And those are just the ones we know about. You recognize any of these names?”

  I read the list. “Well, yeah. We get mail for these guys all the time.”

  “From who?”

  “Or do you really mean, from whom?”

  I wasn’t being a smart ass, it’s just that I can never remember.

  Curly was no help at all. “Just answer the question, Einstein.”

  “Einstein was more into physics than gram. . .hey, no need to point that thing.”

  “I find it helps uncooperative people get to the point.”

  “Good with subduing pigs, too.”

  He wiped some blood off his face. “Let’s ignore the pig on my roof.”

  “That won’t be easy.”

  “Just answer the question.”

  “I think the hate mail comes from insurance companies and law firms.”

  “Aha! Finally, a clue. Where are those letters?”

  “We just put ‘Return to sender’ on the envelopes.”

  “Really?”

  “Nah, just kidding. We throw them in the compost pile.” I pointed at a small mountain of rotting organic waste. “They’re under there with the eviction notices. Feel free to crawl around and take a look.”

  “Shucks, I was really hoping to get a hot lead here, Mr. Good.”

  “I don’t have any hot leads, but I can heat you up a delicious pineapple and raisin muffin with butter and honey. They’re magically delicious.”

  Twenty minutes later, licking the crumbs of his second muffin off his tiny hands, Special Agent Merkin said, “These muffins are fantastic.”

  “You think they’re fantastic now, just wait till they kick in.”

  “Kick in?”

  “I mean. . .hey, want another?”

  “I don’t want to be a pig.”

  “Funny. Is that an FBI joke?”

  “Huh?”

  “I guess not.”

  “I just can’t figure out how this scumbag has eluded us. Any ideas?”

  “I bet his appearance has changed a lot.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “Another strong hunch. What’s he wanted for?”

  “Lots of things. There’s cheating senior citizens out of Social Security checks, emptying their bank accounts, and stealing their medications. A bit of white slavery.”

  “White slavery? What’s that?”

  “You know, selling underage runaways into prostitution rings.”

  “Ah. That explains the rape van.”

  “What rape van?”

  “Um. . .the one he probably used. You have considered that, right?”

  “Of course,” said Curly. After pausing to jot a note in his little book, he added, “He is also wanted for mail fraud, counterfeit identification, and who knows what else.”

  “For one thing, trying to steal our. . .oops.”

  He gave me a look. “Your what?”

  “Just something we don’t grow anymore and never did.”

  “Hmm. . .you mind if I walk around and stretch my legs a bit? I’ve never seen an organic farm before.”

  “Damn right, I do.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Did I say that out loud?”

  “Yes.”

  “Hey, I’ve got a bette
r idea. You ever seen a hog farm up close? You like giant mutants, don’t ya? After all, who doesn’t? Much more interesting than. . .”

  “Actually, I have seen a hog farm. As if you didn’t already know.”

  “You told me to ignore the murdered pig on your roof. Besides, you can see all I want you to see from right here.”

  He tried to get out anyway. It wasn’t easy with the congealed blood gluing him to the seat. Peeling himself off like a man-sized scab, he stepped out. I checked out his feet to see how this would go. Brown wingtips. Perfect! I breathed sigh of relief. You couldn’t wear a more moronic shoe than brown wingtips in the Islands. Unless it was black wingtips.

  Knowing my foe was no genius, and that he’d die if he poked his head in the trimming room, I stood in place and played lazy tour guide.

  “Look, over there, and there, we have the lettuce. Over there we have our fine herbs, some of them anyway. And over there,” I waved, “some other veggies are growing. It’s extremely boring, and, well, that’s about it.”

  “What’s out back?”

  “You don’t wanna go back there.”

  “Oh, really?” said the wily agent, side-stepping around me and putting a wingtip into a fresh pile of Mako poop.

  “Aw, crap. . .”

  “I told you.”

  Always helpful, I hosed his shoe off. Also, reminded myself to give Mako a treat.

  “Hey, be careful.”

  “Oops, heh heh—looks like you peed your pants, Curly.”

  Not seeing the humor in the situation, Curly sighed. Pants soaked, covered in pig blood, and smelling like dog poo, the crack agent was down but not out.

  He grabbed a French door. “What’s in here?”

  “Sorry, man, but you’re not gonna find Plastic Donald around here.”

  “I wish I could believe you, Mr. Good.”

  “So do I,” I said with feeling.

  Finding the room empty, he asked, “If you’re telling the truth, why is this con artist using your address?”

  “Because he’s conning everybody. That’s what he does.”

  “Son of a gun,” he said, snapping his fingers. “You could be on to something.”

  “Maybe you’re not cut out for this kind of work.”

  “We’ll see about that,” he said, yanking open Rita and Happy’s door. “Maybe he’s in here.”

  Plastic Donald’s rotting corpse wasn’t in there, either. Thank God. Imagine the smell.