| ARCHIVES | ABOUT | FACEBOOK


“She’s Dead, Jack”

A Jack Capp Adventure

by Jack Capp

I was working on my second pot of coffee when the phone rang.

        “Hello?”

        “Jack, it’s Gibby. Meet me over at 915 Rueckle Lane.”

        “Why?”

        “Just head over and make it snappy. You’ll have to see this to believe it.”

        “OK. I’m on my way.” Right after this pot of coffee.

        

        I made it over to Rueckle in decent time, despite the heavy traffic. I broke even by driving recklessly. I parked on the lawn. I went inside. My tongue dangled.

        “What do you think, Jack?”

        “Gibby, I see it, but I don’t believe it.”

        “Better believe it alright. Her name’s Sherry Barnes. She’s dead.”

        “I can see that.”

        “If you can see that, then why don’t you believe it?”

        “Gibby, sometimes seeing is not believing. Sometimes seeing makes it harder to believe. What’s that thing they always say…?”

        “Truth is stranger than fiction?”

        “No.”

        “A bird in the hand is worth—”

        “No.”

        “Two birds with one—

        “No. No no no…hmmm…Oh, I got it. They say: ‘You gotta have faith.’ Gibby, I have faith that she’s dead, even though I don’t believe what I see.”

        “And I have faith that this goddam mess is gonna take all day to clean up. Grab ahold of a limb, would ya?”

        “Show some respect.”

        “Respect? She’s dead, Jack. Get with it. Now get hoisting.”

        She’s dead, Jack; she’s dead. It wasn’t the first time I’d heard those words. She’s dead, Jack, and there’s nothing you can do to bring her back, you low rent ten cent low life. When was the last time you cracked a case? Cracked a case? Don’t make me laugh. You can’t even crack an egg. There you are, sipping at your pot of coffee, and she’s dead. She’s always dead. You might as well be. Maybe if you stopped listening to me all the time you’d actually get some work done around here on planet Earth, Jack.

        She was dead. It was true. I didn’t even know her name.

        Yes you do. Gibby told you. Her name is Sherry Barnes. Do yourself a favor and get your ears cleaned out when you finally go to get your head checked out.

        “Well, what do you think so far?”

        My publisher, still holding the rough draft of my latest novel, She’s Dead, Jack, looked up at me. “You told me you had something for me.”

        “Yes. I do. That story you are holding.”

        “And that you couldn’t wait to share it with me.”

        “Correct. You’re holding it.”

        “And that you had turned a new leaf. That you had created a work that was ‘best-seller’ material.”

        “Yes. I have. I believe I have.”

        “I BELIEVE YOU’RE FULL OF SHIT, JACK. THIS IS THE SAME OLD SLOP YOU’VE BEEN SLINGING AT ME SINCE 1929!” He threw the book at me. “GET OUT, JACK, GET OUT JACKASS!”

        

        Nice to meet you. I’m the real Jack Capp. The writer, the creator of the notable Jack Capp mysteries. My life might not seem as wild as the fictional Jack, but still, I’d like to show you around. Here we are. My home. What do you think? Be honest. Not as honest as my publisher. Just honest enough. It’s alright if you hold back, if you don’t mind. Much appreciated. My nerves are sky-high these days. Under a lot of pressure I suppose. This past week I suffered my third stroke. My second stroke happened the week before that.

        Are you hungry? I don’t have much to offer. I normally eat out. No. That’s a lie. I don’t have the moolah to eat out. I don’t have the moolah to eat in. If I do indulge and eat out, it’s out of a dumpster.

        Sorry. I don’t really have anywhere to sit. Never got around to furnishing the place. Always busy. No. I’m lying again. Work has been slow. I can’t seem to crank out a good mystery anymore like I used to. OK. So I never really cranked ‘em out, but I tried though. That’s the difference between then and now. I tried.

        What do I do with all this free time on my hands, you ask? Let’s see. Not sleeping much, for one. Having strokes more frequently (just had another as I was typing up that last paragraph).

        But enough about me, the REAL Jack Capp, let’s get back to the storybook Jack Capp, the man, the detective, the ideal that I hide behind—my escape, my solace.

        You stupid raving dumb animal. You coffee-drinking neanderthal. You knucklehead. You monster of a simpleton. You bone-gnawing ass-chewing monkey. You desperate gummy geezer. You gutless nutless screwball. You—

        The phone rang.

        “Hello?”

        “Hello. Is Leo there?”

        “I’m sorry. There is no one here by that name. You must have the wrong number.”

        “Oh. OK. Thanks.”

        —click—

        You worthless bottom feeder. You mutt. You prick. You moron. You monkey. You eternal damned monkey fool. You shit. You scum. You degenerate. You dumbass. You pissant. You big goofy animal. You worthless bag of monkey piss. You sucker. You push-over. You meek-minded motherfucker. You limp shrimp. You—

        —knock. knock—

        It was Gibby at the door. “Any luck on the case, Jack?”

        “Gibbs, I can’t make heads or tails of it. I just can’t believe it. What a stumper.”

        “You want off the case? Want me to throw it to one of the other boys downtown? Pass the buck to someone more qualified?”

        “Sure. That’d be great. Thanks.”

        “Don’t mention it.”

        —phew—Now that I was off the case, I wondered what I would do with the rest of my day. Not sleep, that’s for sure. Hadn’t had a wink in ages. Maybe have a stroke or two. Maybe get fired. Have a pot of coffee or two.

        You never know what’s going to happen.