Swapping Lies(the next book). ***by Frank Hickey*** (This is a true story.). "Mr. Wade," I tell my private eye boss."I need a gun." "Oooh, baby!" he wails. "I'm a ole man. My heart is weak. Don't do me like that, Whiteboy Hickey!" Attempting a business negotiation style, I try again. "I'm working under your private eye license-" I say. "-And I certainly hope that you're happy here," he finishes for me. "As a rookie kid private eye, I'm sporting heavy eyeglasses," I say. "And a clipboard and cheap Woolworth ballpoint pens. No gun, no car, no trenchcoat or gold shield. What can I show to prove that I'm a private eye?" Then Mr. Wade floats an obscene suggestion. "Mr. Wade, I'm walking home the other day," I begin. "Feeling good because I have a first date with a lovely Ukrainian woman. 22, just like me. Working, Making you hundreds of bucks while I make twenty all day-" Mr. Wade pantomimes playing a sad violin. His wide black face shows joy. "As I'm passing First Avenue and East Third Street," I say, "I hear two guys arguing about a car accident. Both cars are blocking traffic. "They shove each other. Then, they fight. One guy kicks high. The other character catches his leg and they're both hopping back and forth, looking silly. I figure, nothing to look at here. I keep walking." "What else you gone do?" Mr. Wade asks. "Play Superman?" "Moving away, I hear BAP! Turn, see the Kicker on the ground. He ain't moving. The other guy, the Grabber, he's real cool, walks west on Third Street. Doesn't look back. "Did you hear a shot?" Mr. Wade asks. "Not a big bang. Just a sharp noise. Maybe a small caliber gun." "You my firearms expert?" Mr. Wade says. "Right on, baby!". "Grabber's walking up Third Street, downtown side," I say. "I don't know if he noticed me. Didn't wanna ask." "Good idea," Mr. Wade says. "So I start figuring. Maybe he noticed me. Maybe not. I start walking west on East Third Street, tailing him. I'm on the uptown side, maybe thirty feet from him. I'm worried that he's a Hell's Angel. Because their national headquarters lies on that block. I know it. But he doesn't. He walks past the headquarters. "If he shoots at me, he probably won't get me with his first shot-" "Wonderful word, 'probably,'" Mr. Wade rumbles. "Handguns don't work like rifles or shotguns," I maintain. "He can't be sure of hitting me in a vital spot. And I can hide behind parked cars and dodge bullets-" "Hickey, Hickey, " Mr. Wade rumbles. He never calls me by my first name of 'Frank.' "What if this Mammy Jammer gunman runs towards you, across the street? And finds you hiding behind one of your wonderful parked cars? He'll put six shots right into your fat pink face." "I didn't think of that," I confess. "So flipping smart, Hickey," he mutters. It is his mantra. "So flipping smart." "So, I stay behind him, walking on the other side of the street. If I hadda gun, ya know what I could do?" "Sure," he throats. "Get yourself killed." "No, Mr. Wade," I say. "I could make a citizen's arrest. For homicide!" "Yeah," he says. "Your own. Be your first and last arrest." "I don't know what to do," I confess. "He walks up to Second Avenue and turns to walk downtown. I follow him. A brown car stops at the corner. See two police uniforms inside. Jump in front of the car and shout 'That guy just shot someone.' "Passenger cop says 'Get inna back.'I obey. They drive down Second Avenue and stop. The passenger cop yanks out his .38 and shouts 'Hold it right there, buddy!' They're thirty feet from the Grabber. I wonder what happens if the Grabber shoots both. Then takes their car with me in the back seat. I thought that their tactics were sloppy." "Glad that you didn't stop and give them a lecture," Mr. Wade says. "Benefit of your vast experience and all." "They frisk the Grabber on a wire fence and take a pistol off him," I say. "I finally notice that the passenger cop wears a captain's gold shield. A separate car brings me to the precinct. "They tell me that the Kicker was D.O.A. at Bellevue," I say. "Take my name, phone and address. I never heard a word about it." "Probably plea-bargained it down," Mr. Wade judges. "From Manslaughter 2 to Criminally Negligent Homicide. That's maybe probation to four years prison time. "Probation?" I ask. "For killing someone?" "What can I tell ya?" he asks. "I'm shook up, Mr. Wade," I say. "I'm lace-curtain prep-school Irish. Never saw anyone killed before. "Had the first date with that woman and made a mess of it. Couldn't stop reacting and talking about the murder. She refused to see me again. Ever." ***Frank Hickey ***. Somehow, Frank became a cop. He writes the Dancing Max Royster crime novels about the world's only ballroom dancing detective at frankhickey.net