Those aren’t trophy ears hanging off my bandolier

Inspired by O’Brien, virally transmitted by Cochrane, I bring you the latest and strangest blog meme (excuse me, Dean — meem):

I am Dax Montana.

I ground my right heel into the dirtbag’s chest and made him eat my muzzle. I brought my left knee up into his groin, not full force, but hard enough to bruise. Figured he’d want something to remember our time together.

He had an eyeful now. I hoped he enjoyed it.

I used the pistol to probe his molars for cavities. “It’s not easy having a high center of gravity,” I said. “In fact, it’s a real handicap. If one of your officers came into the precinct with a broken arm, you wouldn’t stare at the cast, would you?”

He shook his head like a good little dirtbag. Corwin from Homicide chose that moment to poke his head in.

“Chief, do you have the file on Pluto Banks — oh, hi, Dax. Chief been getting randy again?”

“This is our private sexual harassment seminar.” I took out my pistol and wiped the barrel on the Chief’s face. “Which you just passed with flying colors, right?”

“Mm-hm,” Chief Larabell said while trying to look anywhere but at my decolletage.

“Now, why don’t you two tell me about Banks.”

The Chief got to his feet and brushed himself off. “Corwin, brief Montana, will you? I, ah, need to use the bathroom.”

After he left, I wiped my knee with the Chief’s cap. “Look at this. The leather is ruined. I wish that man would learn to control his bladder.”

***

Corwin’s a good Catholic boy with a petite redhead for a wife, two rugrats at home. With that dimpled chin of his and those pale blue eyes, I could have eaten him for lunch, but I’d never be able to live with myself. I have a conscience, you know. I let her out for air every Good Friday.

Corwin laid out the photos on the Chief’s desk. This Banks fella wouldn’t win any beauty contests. A gunshot wound to the head had left him with a half-paralyzed face and a savage look in his one good eye. Rumor had it that when one of his goons slept with his ex-wife, he’d had all her fingernails removed, one by one. As for the goon, they only found part of him — stuffed in the tailpipe of his favorite black Cadillac.

Banks was my kind of guy.

“He’s been trying to corner the West Side lipo racket for the last six months,” Corwin said. “The last resistance came from Dr. Ames –“

“Yeah, I know him. Does commercials on cable. ‘Ames sucks for fewer bucks.'”

“That’s the guy. Or, was the guy.” He put down a few crime scene photos, dealing them out like a hand of Blackjack. They would have made George Romero blow chow.

“Harsh,” I said. The doc looked like a spent condom.

“Sucked to death by his own rig.” Corwin gathered up the photos. “But our perp, he’s smart. We have three dead plastic surgeons and we haven’t been able to pin a thing on Banks. Not a blessed thing.”

“So let me guess. You want me to open up shop on the West Side, posing as a plastic surgeon?”

“You got it.”

“But my highest degree was a high school diploma. And that was honorary.”

“Dax, we’re talking plastic surgery here. It ain’t rocket science. It ain’t even brain surgery.”

“But it’s crooked?”

“Crooked as a dowsing wand. Cash-up-front business with clientele who keep coming back for more. It’s the ideal racket for a guy like Banks who says he wants to go legit. Hell, if he corners all West Side lipo, he may be able to afford to pull out of drugs and prostitutes.”

“Maybe it’s not such a bad thing.”

“Maybe he shouldn’t oughta been killing docs to get it done. Anyway, will you do it?”

“I don’t know a thing about liposuction.”

Corwin slapped a CD on the table.

“What’s this?” I said.

“Instructional DVD. That oughta teach you everything you need to know.”

***

Tomorrow: To Suck and Suck Not.

D.