Free Read: First Part of "Maynard Soloman & The Job-Nabbin' Illegal Immigrants"
My newest short story of crime fiction humor, Maynard Soloman & The Job-Nabbin' Illegal Immigrants, just hit e-book shelves like a lead Winnebago. I'm really happy with how this turned out, and for Trestle Press allowing me to follow my crude satirical instincts as far as they'd take me.
Here's the synopsis of this installment (the third in the series):
Maynard Soloman, a profane yet clueless private investigator, is hired to track down something important stolen from his client: A job. The culprit: Illegal immigrants. Or are they? In this fast-paced piece of crime fiction humor, Maynard Soloman dishes his special brand of crankiness to both sides of the border.
Fans of detective stories, as well as fans of political satire like "The Daily Show" or "The Colbert Report," will find plenty to like in this hilarious misadventure from author Benjamin Sobieck and Trestle Press.
BONUS: This short story also contains Maynard's special recipe for hamburgers. You won't want to miss it!
It's available for 99 cents from Amazon here for the Kindle and from Barnes & Noble here for the Nook.
Now enjoy this free preview!
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I dang near "blew my wig," as the kids say, when I rolled into south Texas in my Winnebago. This is the perfect environment for RVs. Most of the land is flat and matching in color. "Shit brown and piss yellow," as those keen kids would say.
Damn kids.
I ain't no cheap house dick, though. I'm a semi-retired investigator with eyes like a vulture. And they say to me the 'bago has, "hues of the Earth, from whence it came." The Almighty molded the Winnebago from the same holy clay as Elvis. They both might be bloated and broken, yet you can still find 'em on the highway. Give 'em some respect.
I'll add, "hues of the inside of the 'bago" since its car guts are all hangin' out. Leave it to the devilish criminals of the world to corrupt such divine perfection as a Winnebago. That'll happen in my line of work, see.
Oh, it's a line alright. A line of bullshit I'd like to leave wet in the sand. I want to retire. But I can't. My outstanding medical bills won't pay for themselves. They've been stickin' in my neck like a gal-damn vampire walrus. It's always, "Late fee" for this or "You've defaulted" on that. Malarkey of the highest degree. I put my time in on the Obscenities Division and got stiffed on medical bills once they forced me into retirement.
Some retirement, huh?
Now I'm lookin' for a wig-blower to hire me. Put the pin on their problems, see. Maynard Soloman Investigation Services hasn't had a customer in many moons. Nope, not even a griftin' scat singer. Half of what little business I get never comes to more than a trip for biscuits. You can't pump gas on that.
That's right. Your pal, Maynard Soloman, the Ol' Badger himself, is broke. Dead broke.
I need customers. So I park the 'bago at the most crime-ridden place in all of south Texas I could think of: a drive-through Taco Smell.
But before I can solicit customers, I feel a powerful calling for cheap tacos. I don't care if they put watered down slugburger between those shells, the siren's song of a full stomach leads me to the drive-through.
"I'll have six tacos," I say into the speaker. "I'm in a hurry, so no foolin' around back there. Just straight eggs in coffee, OK?"
Kids nowadays need a remindin' every now and then, see.
"Umm, we don't sell eggs in coffee. Just tacos," some voice on the other side of the speaker says.
"Now see here. Can't you understand proper English? Stop bein' a hard pill and make my gal-damn tacos," I say.
I thought kids were hip to my figure of speech. Eggs in coffee. That means smooth. Did people forget? Sometimes I feel like I'm on another planet.
"So you only want tacos then?" the voice says.
Why do I always have problems at drive-throughs? "Yes, you egg. Six. Gal. Damn. Tacos," I say.
"With two eggs?"
"No. You. Are. An. Egg. Egg means you're a crude, disrespectful person. Look it up," I say.
"Talk about the pot calling the kettle black," the voice says.
"Now what in the hell is that supposed to mean? I don't want a pot or a kettle. And don't burn my tacos black, egg," I say.
Twenty minutes and half a sawbuck later, I'm eatin' my tacos, curin' what ails me.
Or not. The doctors say I have a medical condition known as "chronic gut rot." It's gettin' worse every day. Makes me spit blood upstairs and downstairs, if you catch my drift. They say it'll put me in the boneyard if I don't watch my groceries.
It's tough for me to take 'em seriously. I have no money. I only have 180 pounds of piss and vinegar in a meat sack called Maynard Soloman. I'm countin' on that much to keep me out of the casket.
No, don't go there Maynard. Don't even think about death. It ain't gonna do you no good. Keep movin'. Keep drivin'. You only die if you sit still. That rot forming ranks in your guts can't march if you keep going.
I sigh real loud. My body hurts. Knees. Back. Neck. Everything. Hope the Grim Reaper doesn't hear me. When he smells the musty sighs of old men like me, he's on 'em like a bloodhound from hell. First you sigh, then you die.
I focus on the tacos. I get three bites in and there's a knock at the side door of the 'bago. Thank goodness.
Correction. It's not a door. It's a tarp. A pony kicked out the side door in a prior misadventure.
Another correction. It wasn't so much a knock. It was a set of knuckles realizing that the side door is now a tarp. I turn to see a hand poking into my dining room. Damn, I'll have to tape that up.
I figure this could be a potential client. Time to employ some of that famous Maynard Soloman customer service.
"What the hell do you want?" I say.
I watch in horror as that one hand turns into an entire body. A female body. The tarp and $32 worth of duct tape rip to make way. Sweet mother of Lucifer, what the hell is going on?
"Uh, hello?" the gal now standing in my dining room says. "Are you a detective? It says so on the side of your RV."
"It says that for a reason. Yes, I'm a detective. And I'm about to become a murderer with the way you treated my tarp," I say. "I hope you're willing to replace that."
The woman looks at the pieces of tarp. "Sorry. I can't replace it. I don't have any money."
Blast. Another charity case. "That makes two of us. I'm finished with pro bono work. You'll need to find another hired dick."
"Wait. I'm willing to pay you. But I can't right now. Something of mine has been stolen," the gal says.
Interesting. "What was stolen?" I say.
The gal looks all nervous for a sec. "An illegal immigrant stole my job," she says.
Whoa, this got political in a hurry. It ain't like me to think "left" or "right" about something. I have enough trouble going "up" and "down." But you can't talk about illegal immigration without thinkin' politics. So let me be as clear as my empty bank account: Maynard Soloman ain't here to tell you what to think. I can only do right by my clients. How you want to interpret that is up to you.
"An illegal immigrant stole your job and you want me to get it back. Is that right?" I say.
The gal nods. She says, "I packaged doughnuts at a factory. I'd take them off the line and put them into boxes. Then they hired a bunch of illegal immigrants to do it. I got laid off."
"I see. How long ago was this?" I say.
The gal thinks for a bit. "Oh, about three years ago."
Huh? What kind of mudsill waits three years to try to get another job? This ain't addin' up one bit. "So you've been on the dole ever since?" I say.
"Uh-huh. When the unemployment ran out, I decided to have a kid. You can get a lot better benefits if you're a single unemployed mom, rather than just single and unemployed," she says.
Oh, sweet mercy. Shoot me now. She's just described the most fool-proof fertility drug outside of Immaculate Conception: Get rid of all your money. Things like this make the Ol' Badger salty.
"I don't think detective services are covered by food stamps, are they?" I say.
"No. But I can pay you in food. I usually sell or trade take-and-bake pizzas, which are covered. Do you like take-and-bake pizza?" she says.
This is getting worse and worse. I need to darn this situation like a pair of my old socks. "If I get you back your job at the doughnut factory, you'll take it, right? You'll be independent and off the dole?" I say.
"I don't want you to get it back. I want you to try to get it back. I need to show my case worker that I tried to get a job. I'm too busy with my kid to work now," she says. "Besides, we all know illegal immigrants make it hard for people like me to get a job."
"No, I don't know that. It didn't seem like you wanted it anyway. I don't reckon doughnut boxin' is a fulfilling career path, however necessary to America's waistlines," I say. "The only kind of boxing worthy of a career is the bare-knuckle kind."
The gal gives me a look. The kind of look my ex-wife used to give me three months before she left. Not because we divorced. It's just that…
"No jokes, please. Just try to get my job back. But make sure you don't succeed," she says.
I'll have to tell you the story about my wife some other time.
I press onward. "Fine, no jokes. I'll take the job. I'll take payment of seven anchovy and onion pizzas. Extra garlic. By the way, what's your name?"
"Gale Galveston," the gal says.
"OK, Gale. Where's this doughnut factory?"
Read the rest of Maynard Soloman & The Job-Nabbin' Illegal Immigrants for 99 cents from Amazon here for the Kindle and from Barnes & Noble here for the Nook.
