Maynard Soloman Solves the War on Drugs (Funny Detective Stories #1)

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  I walk into the pharmacy section and find some of the good stuff. Or as you call it, TUMS. Which is really just SMUT spelled backwards if you can spell. It was a code word from back when I worked in the Obscenities Division. Porno pushers asked if you needed a roll of TUMS.

  Speaking of asking, some punk ass is looking at me like he’s got a question. Or maybe that’s just how he looks. He’s suddenly right next to me. He’s got a ring through his thick mushroom of a nose. I’d like to put him in with some real bulls, see what see thinks of them.

  “Hey, mister,” the kid says.

  “What in the hell do you want?” I say without making eye contact.

  “Can you do me a favor?”

  Oh boy. Here it comes. “Do you a favor? Son, I’ve been doing favors all your life. I paid for your deadbeat parents to shit you into this world. Then I paid for you when they blew their money on smokes, beer and Slim Jims. I probably paid for the school you aren’t going to. How in the hell do I owe you a favor?” I say.

  I speak truth. It’s all I can do. My little contribution to the world.

  But I’m curious. Here we are in the middle of Wal-Mart at 2:49 a.m. He’s got the gumption to come up to me. I may as well see what he wants.

  “Son, what do you want?” I say.

  “I have a cold. I need to get some medicine. But the pharmacy is closed,” he says.

  I point at the shelves around us. “Are you blind? We’re surrounded by medicine. Just use some over-the-counter stuff until the pharmacy opens,” I say.

  The kid looks at his feet. “That stuff doesn’t work. And the pharmacy here won’t give me the stuff behind the counter. They say I need to be 18. But there’s a pharmacy counter that is open all night. It’s across town. Could you drive me there? Just go in quick and get some for me?” he says.

  Ha, I ain’t no chump. If he thinks a man traveling the country solo in an RV is dumb enough to let a minor in with him, then he’s probably leaking cranial fluid down his back.

  Why this kid would want cold medicine in the middle of the night is beyond me. I think back to my vice days. Nope, nothing there. I worked in the Obscenities Division. We didn’t do drugs, figuratively or literally.

  Kids back in my day would ask you for a plug of tobacco. Sure, I’d give ‘em some. It keeps kids calm and focused on school work. Only they had to prove they could handle it first. I use-ta make ‘em swallow the first chew. If they could stand it, they got the rest. If they couldn’t, they didn’t want more anyway.

  “Keep dreaming, kiddo. It’s probably all you can do,” I say and turn my back.

  “Dammit, mister, turn around,” the punk says.

  Now I usually am an even-keeled sailor. But the way he’s lippin’ off, he’s looking like the Moby Dick to my Ahab. And I just love oil lamps.

  I do an about face.

  He says, “You can leave me here and come back if you want. Don’t you want to know who’s been spray painting your RV?”

  Are you watching closely? Because I’m about to solve a mystery in less than three seconds.

  “Let me guess. It was you,” I say.

  He looks shocked. “How did you know?”

  “I spent 30 years in the Obscenities Division as an investigator. You don’t get razor sharp wits for nothing,” I say.

  The kid is lookin’ at his feet with these big eyes. He looks like a mule caught on some train tracks. “Yeah, that was me.”

  “I figured as much. You smell like the Dumpster behind a Sherwin-Williams,” I say. Boy, did he reek. It’s like standing next to a permanent marker.

  “I can fix it if you want. Then you can drive and get the medicine,” he says.

  “Fix it how? Scrub it off? That would take days. You must be spending too much time around the fumes. Fresh air is good for a kid,” I say.

  “No, change it so it doesn’t look bad. Like how they do with tattoos sometimes.”

  I chew on this on for a few seconds. The ‘bago did need a redo. I suppose this punk keeps a reserve can of spray paint anyway. Better that he use it for something good. Few things are worse than spray paint in the hands of the illiterate.

  “Fine. But you re-paint it first. Then you wait in the parking lot here while I get the medicine,” I say. We turn to walk out the aisle. “You should know that an ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure. Maybe you wouldn’t get sick if you weren’t outside spray painting RVs.”

  “Didn’t you say fresh air is good for me?”

  Wise ass. “Shut your trap and fix my RV, OK?”

  I pay for the TUMS and chew a couple on the way to the ‘bago. The kid runs off to some bushes. He meets me with a can of red spray paint.

  “Get to paintin’, boy,” I say.

  I down a few more TUMS and inspect the damaged windows. I had taped sheets of plastic over the missing glass. Gal-damn thieves. If you’re POS enough to break in, don’t try making things right by being a dumbass all over again.

  I return to the kid. The “SUX :-” is now joined by a large * at the end. It looks like scribbles. Maybe a bush.

  The kid sets the can down. “All done,” he says.

  I take a step back. Nope, looks the same from here. “What are you done with? You just added some scribbles at the end.”

  “It changes what you’re sucking at. It’s better than before,” the kid says.

  Huh? This makes no sense. Back in my day, we used graffiti for communication. We didn’t have these fancy phones everywhere, see. I’d write, “Martha, will you go to the dance with me?” on the side of Martha’s barn. Then she’d write…I forget exactly, but I’m sure it was a “Yes, Maynard, I’d love to.”

  Ah, good ol’ days.

  But now, you can’t understand what in the hell this graffiti is about. Shit, you’d think every one of these punks is a doctor.

  “Are you sure this is better?” I say.

  “Sure I’m sure.”

  “If I find out it’s not, I’m going to beat 17 years of good parenting into you. Or however old you are,” I say.

  “Yeah, I’m 17. Can you get me that medicine now?” he says.

  “Fine. What kind is it?”

  “Just ask for pseudoephedrine.”

  Now hold on a minute. I see what’s going on here. Pseudo means fake. He’s trying to play a trick on me. Make me look embarrassed at the pharmacy counter. “Yeah, right, kid. Nice try. What is it really?”

  “Pseudoephedrine is an ingredient. It’s in a lot of medicine. Whatever has it in it, that’s what I need,” he says.

  “Fine. Wait here,” I say.