This is another episode from the files of Max Fly, Private Eye, President and CEO of Max Fly Private & Nefarious Investigations & Pest Control Services located in downtown Burnt Corn, Alabama, where we have been protecting the innocent people of Burnt Corn from murder, narcotics distribution, robbery, extortion, loansharking and other nasty mafia behavior as well as rodents for over ten years
My name is Max Fly, Private Eye and I am a damned good one at that. The night in question was a hot Friday in July, the office was thick and heavy with cigar smoke in spite of the oscillating fan that was blowing in humid air from downtown Burnt Corn Alabama. The flashing red neon lights from Patty Mae’s All Night Bar and Pool Hall, located across the street next to the Burnt Corn All Night Diner and Laundromat, were dancing eerily on the office wall as Wanda Winchester, who heads up our reconciliation division, walked in with two large five cheese pizzas, a case of Pabst Blue Ribbon beer, a box of Cohiba Cigars, and a quart of Fireball Cinnamon Whiskey.
The pizza was from We Serve It Hot Pizza Parlor located next to the Burnt Corn General Store which is next to the Mockingbird Inn out on Alabama Highway 84. Normally their driver, Freda Livery, would bring the pizza to us but she has been experiencing some personal problems lately and we found it to be quicker just to drive out and pick it up ourselves. I was sitting around the card table with Chico “Zippy Doo” Rodriguez, head of our Displaced Persons & Pest Control Divisions, Tommy “Sneakers” Corona, head of our Wire Fraud and Money Laundering Division, and Luigi Licavoli, V. P. Operations. We were playing a game of Canasta, a card game I learned while on an assignment in Uruguay a few years ago, and which I taught to my staff upon my return. I was wearing my brown freshly polished Dan Post cowboy boots, my tight skinny Wrangler stretch jeans, sporting my bucking bronc belt buckle, a blue Snead State Community College sweatshirt, and my new white Stetson hat, which was cocked back on my head. I looked really good.
Zippy was about to deal the cards when the buzzing began. It was coming from the alarm monitoring panel we had installed when we contracted with the Burnt Corn Good Humor Alarm and Security Systems to monitor the alarms installed in the businesses and private residents in Burnt Corn, Alabama.
Wanda dropped the pizzas, cigars, and PBR in the middle of the table, scattering plastic chips in all directions, she kept the Fireball Cinnamon Whiskey clutched to her ample bosom, and walked over to the panel where lights were flashing and the buzzing continued indicating a break-in was in progress somewhere. She flipped a switch and the noise stopped.
“The alarm has been tripped at Phat Ho’s Curly Que Hair/Nail Salon and Massage Parlor. Do you think it’s a false alarm?”
“Most likely,” Luigi Licavoli uttered as he gathered some of Zippy Doo’s plastic chips, stuffing them in his jacket pocket. “Who in their right mind would break into Phat Ho’s place?”
“I saw that Luigi,” Zippy yelled reaching out and grabbing Luigi’s arm. “Give ‘em back.”
“I’m going to give her a call and let her know,” Wanda announced. “Should we bother to call Sheriff Wyatt Hertz to get him to go over there? It’s Friday night and he usually can’t be found until morning unless he is spending the night with Lacie Shorts but she is on that weekend cruise down the Saugahatchee Creek she won in that drawing at Patty Mae’s last month.”
“I will call the sheriff as soon as Luigi coughs up my chips,” Zippy screamed.
“Oh, all right,” Luigi yelled, slapping the plastic chips down on the table in front of Zippy.
“Do we have any clean glasses in here, Max?” Wanda asked looking around the room while she unscrewed the cap on the Fireball bottle.
“In the lower lefthand drawer of my desk,” I replied.
Wanda pulled out the drawer and took out a glass. “Hey, ain’t this the one where the clothes disappear on the girl as you add the liquid?”
“Yeah, don’t use that one it’s my favorite. Use one of the other ones with the PBR logo that Sneaker’s took from Patty Mae’s place.”
One of the many services that we provide the residents of the lovely metropolis of Burnt Corn Alabama is residential as well as business alarm monitoring and we were busy at work fulfilling our duty.
After Zippy confirmed that Sheriff Wyatt Hertz and his deputy, Hiram Firam, were nowhere to be found, we went into action.
“Okay, listen up everyone,” I bellowed, “it appears we are on our own. Everyone grab your rigging and Smith and Wesson .357’s. Make sure they are loaded and you only have five in the box. I don’t want any unwarranted shootings. Zippy, you and Luigi will cover the back entrance of the Phat Ho’s shop. Sneakers, you come with me and Wanda, fill the cooler with some PBR and bring some pizza in case we are in a standoff.”
“You got it, boss,” she replied as she threw back what was left of the Fireball in her PBR glass.
“I’ll bring around the Fly Mobile,” Zippy hollered as he ran to the door.
“Zip, we don’t need the Fly Mobile.The Phat Ho’s place is next door,” I responded, shaking my head.
“Okay, boys, and girl, let’s git ‘er done.”
Once I was sure everyone was in place I nodded at Tommy “Sneaker’s, who had a black belt in Karate, to bust down the door.
Sneaker’s lifted his left leg and spun around, sending a mighty kick aimed directly at the lock below the door handle.
“Holy shit,” Sneaker’s yelled, grasping his knee and falling to the ground. “I think I busted it.”
“The door?” I asked.
“No, my knee.”
I looked over and noticed the door was still shut and appeared not to have been damaged at all from Sneaker’s roundhouse kick when Wanda walked up to the door with the cooler filled with PBR and the box of five cheese pizza in her hands.
“You should know that Phat Ho never locks her door, Max,” she said as she turned the handle and the door opened.
“Can you walk, Sneaker’s?” I asked.
“I think so,” he replied.
“All right then, grab your iron and stay close to me. If someone is in here, it will give them someone else to shoot at.”
We noticed a faint light in the back of the shop and as we approached we could see someone sitting in the chair while another person was bent over opening a cabinet drawer.
“Damn,” Sneaker’s whispered, ‘that’s Ronnie Blokkenbak, that former Auburn University football player who just moved here from Monroeville.
Ronnie Blokkenbak was sitting in a chair with curlers in his hair and a big hair drying bonnet over his head, reading the National Enquirer while his girlfriend, Sue Flay, a part-time cook at the Waffle House out on Highway 84 was holding a bottle of Dippity Doo hair gel and rummaging through a drawer next to the chair where Blokkenbak was seated.
I hollered, “Freeze, you mothers and get down on the floor.”
I looked over at Tommy Sneaker’s Corona who was laid out flat on the floor with his hands over his head. “What are you doing, Sneaker’s, I’m talking to them, not you.”
About that time the back door swung open and in came Zippy Doo and Luigi Licavoli with their .357’s pointing at Sue Flay and Ronnie Blokkenbak.
Ronnie’s eyes got as big as they did when he was about to be hit by that big Alabama defensive lineman in the Iron Bowl up in Birmingham back in ’72. The one that ended his football playing days for good.
Then Wanda Winchester came in chewing on a piece of the five cheese pizza when she recognized Sue Flay.
“What in cornbread hell are you doin’ in here, Suzie and who is that thing with them metal things in his hair?”
“Why, Wanda, that’s my new beau, Ronnie. You know, the one I told you about, the football hero from Auburn?”
“He played football?”
“He sure did and now he is going to be a big shot attorney, as soon as he gets accepted in law school somewhere.”
I had enough of all the girl talk and broke into their conversation, “You do realize, Sue Flay, that breaking and entering will most likely keep Ronnie Blokkenbak from becoming a lawyer just like the lickin’ he got from that big ol’ Bama boy back in ’72 ended his football playing days.”
“What breakin’ and enterin’ you talkin’ about, Max? That Phat Ho said I could come in here after hours and use her facilities whenever I needed to. We do what they call bartering. I get her some free cheese eggs and grits and a side of hash browns, which she likes scattered, smothered, covered, and chunked, and in turn, I get free use of her facilities. That way we don’t have to pay taxes.”
We holstered our irons and confirmed with the Phat Ho that Sue Flay was telling the truth and they actually were in a business bartering group.
We made amends for interrupting and scaring Sue Flay and Ronnie Blokkenbak by sharing our PBR and five cheese pizza with them while Ronnie’s hair finished drying.
Later that night, after picking up empty cans of PBR and disposing of leftover pizza, I wrote my report to the Burnt Corn Good Humor Alarm and Security Systems, informing them of our fast response time to what turned out to be a false alarm at the Phat Ho’s Curly Que Hair/Nail Salon and Massage Parlor.
I am one lucky man. I get to do what I like to do best, protect the good people of Burnt Corn, Alabama and I get paid well to do it.