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Mick Montana had seen a lot of strange things since he became a working detective seven years ago, but this was the strangest of them all. Five members of the Gamboli Family, some of the most ruthless and bloodthirsty gangsters in operation today, were in his modest Manhattan office begging him for help. He had his doubts about working for such unsavory clients, but the money they were offering was very good indeed. "So, you see, Mr. Montana, our backs are against the wall," said Salvatore Gamboli, who was acting as spokesman for the group. "We can't go to the cops and our own boys don't seem to have a clue. Three members of our family have been killed, murdered, in as many months and we haven't a clue who's doing it or why." "You don't think it's another family doing this?" Montana asked. "All the families are in a truce now," Salvatore said. "What with the competition from the Russians and the Colombians and the gang bangers, we can't afford to be fighting among ourselves." "Well, maybe one of those groups you just mentioned is responsible," Mick suggested. "Maybe it's a territory grab." "Naw, we thought about that, but what would be the point?" Salvatore said. "The killings were all done quietly, late at night, at home. If they were organized hits the word would get out who was doing it and what they wanted. Why kill three men and make no demands?" "What about one of those mystery men who are in the news all the time?" Montana asked. "Maybe one of them is looking to play the vigilante, like The Eliminator or Night Man, perhaps?" "Night Man doesn't kill, he makes a big deal out of that fact," Salvatore said. "And The Eliminator uses bullets, not fangs and claws." "Yes, you said each victim was ripped to pieces, as if by a wild beast," Montana said. "Not only that, but each body had some parts missing that we couldn't find any trace of," Salvatore said with a shutter. "It's like they was eaten alive." "Well, sounds like it's either Hannibal Lector or the Murders in the Rue Morgue," Montana said, as he stroked his chin. "Huh, murders in the what?" "Murders in the Rue Morgue," Montana repeated. "A famous detective novel by Edgar Allan Poe. It's about a series of impossible murders that take place in Paris in the 1850's. Nobody could figure out how the killings were being committed until someone realized that a trained orangutan was the killer." "So you think some trained animal might be doing this?" Salvatore said incredulously. "Could be, could be any number of things," Montana said. "Have you found any unusual hair or fur at the crime scenes or any large foot or paw prints?" "You see, you see," Salvatore said to the other members of his party. "I told you this guy was on the ball. No wonder Nicky Greao recommended him. Yeah, we found some brownish yellow fur at every house. Wasn't sure what to make of it until now." Mick Montana was a friend of Nicky Greao from their college days at NYU and had helped Nicky out of a few jams before. Nicky was gay, but Mick knew he had some mob connections, until now he simply had no idea how important those connections were. Not every member of the party was as convinced as Salvatore that Mick Montana was the right person for the job. "I don't know, Salvatore, do you really think this is a good idea?" said Tony Bass, at 35 the youngest member of the group. "I heard some things about this Mick Montana. I heard he was a fruit, a cross-dresser. I mean, look at 'im. He's a damn midget." Mick had been waiting for this. The fact that he was less than five feet tall did seem to be disconcerting to some of his clients. And since he was friends with Nicky it was probably reasonable that they'd think he was also gay. As far as being a cross- dresser, well. "Shut your mouth, you leccaculo," Salvatore said. "We are not here to insult this man" "Oh, that's alright," Mick said. With that, he stood up, hopped on top of his desk, did a double flip into the air and landed on Tony Bass's head. A quick nerve punch and the burly thug was out like a light. "I may be small but I know how to take care of myself," Mick said, as he went for a pitcher of water in the office refrigerator. "I do most of my work undercover and what do you think the best disguise is for a 5' tall man? As a 5' tall woman I draw a whole lot less attention to myself." He took the pitcher and splashed cold water in Tony Bass's face. "Ha, ha, ha, ah, Tony, that's what you get," Salvatore said as his drenched associate regained his senses. "Look, Montana, we'll pay you 20 Gs to find out who's doing these killings. Five now and the rest when you bring us the killer." "What if I can't find the killer?' Mick asked. "I don't want you boys coming after me." "Eh, just do your best, kid," Salvatore said. "Try your best and you can keep the five even if you don't find the scum what's doing this. OK?" "Sounds fair to me," Mick said. "I just want it clear I'm not doing anything illegal for you and I'm not joining your organization. I am an independent contractor." "No problem," Salvatore said, as he snapped his fingers. One of his underlings brought him a briefcase from which he removed $5,000 in cash. He gave the money to Mick Montana and they shook hands. "I'll get right on it," Montana said, and he escorted the thugs, including a wet and chastened Tony Bass, out his door. *** Mickey Montana had to bear the burden of his height, or lack thereof, for all his 28 years. His father was a champion jockey, winner of two Kentucky Derbys and a candidate for the racing hall of fame. His mother was an Olympic gold medal winning gymnast from Eastern Europe. They both stretched the tape at less than 5', so Mick was actually taller than either of them. Not that that was much consolation when it came time for his friends to chose sides for neighborhood basketball or football games and he was never picked. "Jockeys always marry women a foot taller than they are," he sometimes thought. "Why did my dad have to fall in love with someone his own size?" He endured all the expected nicknames in school: Shrimp, Peewee, Tiny. But the worst name was his given name. He had no idea what his parents were thinking when they named him Mickey, MICKEY of all things. His mother told him it was because he was so tiny and cute when he was born she couldn't call him anything else. So through 12 years of public education he had to put up with being called Mickey Mouse. Nor did it help that he had a face that could only be described as...cute. He had jet black hair, big blue eyes, a button nose and full, naturally red lips. He was a cute baby, a cute boy, and, heaven help him, a cute almost 30-year-old man. He was Peter Pan come to life. He couldn't even grow a decent beard. Fortunately for Mickey, or Mick as he preferred to be known, he also inherited his parents' athletic abilities. He was as strong as a man twice his size and he was a first class gymnast.
Approximate Word count = 5100
Approximate Pages = 20.4
(250 words per page double spaced)
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