Five Shots and a Funeral -- Excerpt
She got up and walked over to my leather booth. It was hard to look away from her, even for a moment, but I wanted to check on the two crooks; they were still busy with the bartender. I looked back and before I could say anything, she sat next to me and asked, "What are you drinking?"
    I spun the empty glass in front of me between my fingers. "Right now, I'm not drinking anything."
     "Then we should get you a refill."
     "Sure."
    "Name your poison."
    "Old Grand-Dad, three fingers."
    She held my stare for a couple seconds, then flashed me some teeth through a sly smile. She waved over the old waitress and ordered: "Six fingers of Old Grand-Dad, three in one glass and three in another."
    Before the waitress could acknowledge the order, a gaggle of drunk young folks sitting in the booth next to mine shouted for her attention.
    "Hold on now, I'll be right with you," the barmaid called over to the rowdy group. The Pandora's weekend patrons, especially the kids with no sense of style or manners, always barked orders to her.
    She turned back to the girl sitting next to me, "I'm sorry, dear, what was that you were saying about a bunch of fingers? Can I get you something to drink?"
    The girl played it simple for her: "Two glasses of Old-Grand-Dad, straight up." The waitress nodded and ambled off.
    When we finally had full drinks in front of us, she raised hers for a toast.
    "I'd offer up a cheer for friends," she said, "but we must not be friends yet if I don't know your name."
    "I'm Ben Drake--"
    "Beth Hrubi. There's a silent h before the r...in case you want to write that down."
    "I won't need to."
    We clinked glasses and took our sips. Playing with her hair, she whispered, "Does this mean we're friends now, Benjamin?"
    "You always this impatient, Elizabeth?"
    "Don't call me that." Her acid attitude did nothing to stop the attraction that initially caught my eye.
    "Call me Beth or Betty or even Liz. Only my mother calls me Elizabeth. You're not my mother, are you?" She sipped her bourbon without taking her eyes off me.
    "Nope. I'm not."
    "Good."
    She reached out and smoothed her hand across the width of my broad shoulders. "Where're all your friends, Benjamin? A strong, good-looking man all alone on a Friday evening doesn't seem right."
    "I'm not that good-looking, sister." I pulled out a tin of smokes from my breast pocket. With the stroke of a wooden match, she and I got down to smoking.
    "Normally, I'm a sit-at-the-bar kind of guy. But you see that oaf behind the counter?" I nodded my head in that direction. "That's my least favorite bartender, Barton Bourke. I can endure his enthusiasm for old pulp crime fiction and his constant inane yammering only with the company of my regular drinking pals. Seeing as these pals of mine are all somewhere else tonight, I figured I'd relax in the secluded comfort of a booth. Not that I'm complaining about present company."
    "And I was just about to get worried." She cocked her head in a way that made her teardrop earrings shake.
    "I don't believe that for one moment."
    We both laughed.
    "So, Benjamin, what do you do for a living?"
    Part of being a detective is knowing when to tell the truth about your job and when to conveniently come up with a new occupation. I thought I'd give this girl a chance with the straight skinny.
    "I'm a detective."
    "Really?" She shot me an impish grin. "Like a crook chaser?"
    "Yeah, I've chased down a few crooks."
    "What a coincidence. I just happen to be a crook."
    My senses tingled like a kid caught looking at a girlie magazine.
    "Very interesting," I said sipping some more sauce. "Would I know your work?"
    She laughed playfully. "I have the feeling that if you did, I'd be behind bars."
    "True. In fact, that's something you can count on." More bourbon went past my lips. Booze seemed to go down better with Beth around. "But indulge me. What's your specialty?"
    "I guess you could say...I cause trouble."
    "Trouble, eh? What sort of trouble?"
    "Usually the sort that someone else has to clean up."
    "Someone like me?" This was a cool game of cat and mouse we were playing. I just couldn't figure out which one of us was the mouse.
    She purred, "I can't think of anyone I'd rather have cleaning up after me."
    Before I could toss out my next verbal volley, I looked up to find two guys standing in front of our booth: Trout Mathers and Blackie Lawton.
    Lawton was the first to cry out. "Yo, Beth. It's time to go. I don't want to be late."
    Mathers held out his hand to silence Blackie. It was his turn to talk.
"Who is this guy?"
    Beth spoke up for me. "This is Benjamin. He's a friend of mine."
    Trout gave me the tough-guy look. I gave it back to him. He said, "Yeah? Well, I don't trust a guy in a suit and tie. And guys in hats are even more cause for concern."
    He fidgeted with his cats-eye cufflinks while he put this to me: "What's your deal?"
    Again, Beth chirped up. "He's a salesman."
    "Salesman?" Trout needed convincing.
    She tried to give it to him. "Yes. He sells vacuum cleaners, you know, door-to-door."
    Now Blackie joined in. "You sell vacuum cleaners?"
    I snapped back: "Yeah. You got a mess that needs cleaned up?"
    The crooks laughed. All three of them.

Five Shots and a Funeral
Tom Fassbender & Jim Pascoe
UglyTown, 1999
ISBN: 0-9663473-1-5
$6.95 US
288 pages
Trade Paper
4 1/4 x 6 3/8

"[An] outstanding anthology ... Fassbender & Pascoe are good as they get in the murder mystery business." —Midwest Book Review

"... name-brand-dropping retro fun." —L.A. Weekly

"... a genre-bending read for the fashion conscious." —New Times L.A.