Ten Little New Yorkers by Kinky Friedman

affairs?”
    â€œNo, it’s about the fourth guy getting murdered here in New York. Remember I told you about those three murder victims in the Village? Well, a fourth guy got croaked yesterday.”
    â€œSo what? There’s plenty more where they came from.”
    â€œWhat’s the matter with you, Kink? Don’t you care anymore?”
    â€œGive me a break, McGovern. I’m down here on vacation. This isn’t exactly man bites dog, you know. Millions of people live in the city. Some of them are bound to get taken off the board.”
    â€œAre you kidding? There’s never been a murder spree like this in the Village. The cops are playing it very close to the vest to avoid setting off a panic. But four victims inside a week and a half? That’s big news. Four victims! It’s almost like the killer knew you were leaving town, Sherlock.”
    â€œDon’t try to put me up on a pedestal, Watson.”
    â€œI’m kidding, Kink. But you’ve got to admit it is a big story.”
    â€œThe big story is your department, Watson. The mind of the killer is my department. Did all the murders take place in the West Village?”
    â€œI thought you’d never ask. No. Two of them took place in the East Village and two of them happened in the West Village.”
    â€œSymmetry, Watson, symmetry. This appeals to me. This sense of balance in an unbalanced mind.”
    â€œGlad to hear it. Well, I’ve got to get started on ‘Twenty-four Hours to Die.’ I’m planning to chronicle the last twenty-four hours in the life of the most recent victim.”
    â€œWonderful, Watson, wonderful! Your industrious nature is a credit to the information age! Pray what is the name of this fourth victim, this unfortunate fellow you are soon to immortalize?”
    â€œLet’s see. I had it here somewhere. Here it is. His name is Robert Scalopini.”

Eleven
    O ne of the hazards to smoking that is seldom talked about is the danger—which fortunately happens only very rarely—of swallowing your cigar. In my whole life it’s manifested itself on only one or two occasions, until now, of course. Still holding the portable blower and listening to McGovern yammering on, I walked rather briskly into the kitchen and poured a Texas-sized shot of Jameson’s into a glass that was bigger than Dallas. I could still hear McGovern’s distant voice buzzing like a malarial mosquito in the background as I threw the contents of the glass in the general direction of my uvula. It went down like a male prostitute at the corner of Truth and Vermouth.
    â€œDid you say Robert Scalopini?” I said at last.
    â€œThat’s right. Robert Scalopini. Know him?”
    â€œI’ve seen him on a chafing dish,” I said, my mind whirring like a wood-chipper.
    â€œSounded like you knew him.”
    â€œNo, McGovern. I didn’t know him.”
    â€œYou don’t have to bite my head off. You don’t have to sound so peevish. It merely seemed as if you were unsure as to whether or not you knew him.”
    â€œLet’s just put it this way, McGovern,” I said, doing everything in my power to conceal my irritation. “A large, loud, rather inebriated Irishman named Mike McGovern brought a group of his new best friends whom he’d just met, apparently, at the Corner Bistro I believe, to my loft to tell me goodbye at the precise moment I was contemplating committing suicide by jumping through a ceiling fan.”
    â€œGo on,” said McGovern, somewhat belligerently.
    â€œSomeone in your intrepid little group of comrades evidently dropped his wallet in my loft. I have this information on good authority from Winnie Katz, who found said wallet when she was bringing in some mail for me earlier today.”
    â€œGo on,” said McGovern truculently.
    â€œThe wallet, according to Winnie, appears to belong to someone you know. Or should I say knew.