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Private Investigator – Chapter 3

Posted in erbooker by erbooker on 11/24/2014

Private Investigator

Frank Francis is a private detective. A private eye. A private dick.

Chapter 3 – Glad To Be Unhappy

The next step in the case of the thrown boxing match was to talk to Albert Garaventa’s opponent, the victorious Jorge Gutierrez. The next step after that would be to come up with a snappier title for my case. Maybe “Fauxy Boxing”. Or “Crap Match”. I’d work on that.

Jorge Gutierrez lived in a fancy condominium in North Hoboken; the rich part of town, where they spit on you just for showin’ your ugly mug. Well, they spit on me, at least. People spit in my face a lot, actually. Even in South Hoboken. Guess that’s why they call it a “spittin’ image”.

I brought along Albert for muscle, just in case things got hairy. Gutierrez answered the door and embraced his former foe.

“Albert, my man. Get in here, dog.”

I assumed the “dog” comment was directed at me and I followed the ring-grapplers inside. Gutierrez’s place was brand-spankin’ new. It had all the amenities. Just spotless. Real spick and span. That wasn’t a slur. It was really clean. It has nothing to do with Gutierrez being Puerto Rican. Or was it Dominican. Let’s move past this.

We sat down in Gutierrez’s spick and span living room and I cut right to the chase. Cutting to the chase was one of my specialties in the private eye business. Sometimes I’d skip the chase altogether and just walk up to random people on the street and blurt out “Why’d you do it?” A lot of times they’d confess to crimes I didn’t even know about. I’d quickly realize I was in way over my head and scurry away.

I asked Gutierrez if there was any possible way Garaventa could have thrown the fight. Did the victory seem suspicious on his end.

“No way, man. It was a clean fight. Albert’s a good boxer, but I’m better.”

Albert was in the kitchen, stuffing his face with Jorge’s fancy olives when he overheard this.

“C’mon, Jorge. Everyone knows I’m the strongest boxer in this state.”

“Bodyguard, Albert. You’re a bodyguard now,” I reminded my bodyguard. “Or hired goon. Do you wanna be a hired goon instead? Ooh, how about henchman. I’ve always wanted a henchman. Like bad guys. Course I’m a good guy. That might confuse things. Bodyguard it is, then.”

Albert slammed down the olive jar, olive juice splashing the marble counter-top. Somebody was gonna have to clean up that excess olive juice. And it wasn’t gonna be me.

“I’ll kick your ass any day, anytime, anywhere.”

“Well how ’bout right now, homes.”

The two giants squared off against each other as I was wiping up the olive juice. I heard a loud crack and looked up to see Albert handing me my coat.

“I told you he couldn’t beat me fair and square. One shot. Now let’s get out of here.”

I glanced at the crumpled prone heavyweight champion, unconscious on his thick shag living room carpet.

“This is turning out to be the toughest of olive my cases,” I grinned like a big dumb lummox. “Do you get it? Because of the olive juice?”

Albert dragged me out of the condo by my arm as I carefully and lengthily explained the pun.


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