Free Pitfall by Cameron Bane

the length of the left wall I saw it was manned—womanned?—by a slack-jawed, pale-skinned, androgynous member of some species.
    I looked closely at this critter. His/her nametag read “Pat.” Figures.
    “Uh. Can I help you?” the whatever-it-was mumbled in a high monotone.
    “Hi Pat. I’d like to speak to the owner, please.”
    “Huh?”
    I said it more slowly. “The owner.”
    “Uh.” Gum-popping. Cud-chewing. “How’d you know my name anyway?”
    Ah, youth. So bright. So alert. I leaned in. “Look down at your shirt, Pat. You tell me.”
    A frown. “… what …?”
    Right then I heard a man’s deep voice behind me. “Is there a problem?”
    Turning around, I nearly laughed out loud. Before me stood a dirty blonde, pony- tailed man, my age or older, of average height and weight. But his face was anything but average. Let me put it this way: I’d heard of body piercing, but this was insane.
    To start, the guy wore a small gold ring in his left nostril, as well as a bigger one in his septum, like Ferdinand the Bull. Both earlobes sported pewter pirate fobs, and a big shiny, gold-colored safety pin skewered his right cheek. From the corners of his crooked mouth two little silver horns hung, and six brass studs crowded his left eyebrow.
    But that wasn’t the best. To complete his ensemble he—or someone with a bent for sadism—had run four small steel rods through the bridge of his nose, capping the ends with little metal balls. They looked for all the world like those gizmos your mom uses to hold the family turkey butt together at Thanksgiving, so the stuffing won’t fall out.
    I suppose the guy saw himself as truly hip and tragically with it. I thought he looked like he’d been attacked by a rivet gun.
    “You’re the owner?” I asked.
    “Reynaldo Parker, the manager. And the director of the shows we put on here. The owner doesn’t get in until three.”
    I offered my right hand. “My name’s Sullivan Wiltz. I’m a private investigator.”
    “Investigator?” The other man frowned as we shook. “What’s this about?”
    I glanced at Pat, who blinked at us slowly once, lips parted. I couldn’t tell if Pat was shocked by my statement, or just a natural mouth-breather.
    I gave Parker a look. “Is there someplace we could talk?”
    He stared at me a second, then jerked his head over his left shoulder, causing his face jewelry to reflect the light from the fluorescent fixtures overhead.  “I guess so. This way.”
    I followed him around the stage to the back, and from there down a short narrow corridor, and into a tiny office fairly overflowing with paperwork. On Parker’s small gunmetal gray desk sat a cooling Styrofoam cup of Mickey D’s coffee. Alongside it on a paper plate rested a grim-looking breakfast sandwich with a huge bite gone. Seeing that, I idly wondered if Parker’s mouth-horns ever jabbed his tongue while he ate. I guessed if they did, he didn’t care. The high price of fashion.
    He went around his desk, plopping his skinny butt down in a chair even worse than the one I had at my place. He didn’t offer me a seat, but to be fair, there wasn’t another one, unless I wanted to pull up a box. Which I didn’t.
    Flipping open his hand, Parker held it out, palm up. “I’d like to see some ID.”
    Did he expect me to lay my PI license on it, like he was a cop that had just pulled me over for running a light? I didn’t think so. He waited. I guess I could have surprised him by slapping my own hand down on his in a low five, but why antagonize him?
    Drawing out my wallet, I dropped it open with a careless flick, just the way I used to do it back when I was a cop myself and badging somebody. Doing that exposed my fake Ohio PI ticket I keep for times like this. Behind that bogus license was another one—this one real—that gives me the right to conceal-carry. Parker didn’t need to know that. Yet.
    Leaning over, he peered at it, and then sat back, satisfied. “Okay, you’re