The Grasshopper Trap by Patrick F. McManus

Author:Patrick F. McManus
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Henry Holt and Co.
Published: 2012-01-11T16:00:00+00:00

The Case of the Missed Deer

The sun spread out against the western sky like a drop of blood on a blotter. The frozen ground under my feet felt like frozen ground, which was strange, since frozen ground usually feels like peanut brittle. I felt like a cigarette. If you don’t know what a cigarette feels like, you probably don’t read private-eye novels. Fictional private eyes often feel like cigarettes. Many of them even think like cigarettes. That is because private-eye novels are often written by persons who write like cigarettes. It goes with the territory. I should know. I write private-eye novels.

That’s why I was surprised when this outdoor editor called me up.

“McManus?”

“Yeah, that’s me,” I said, cradling the phone with my shoulder while I ground out a cigarette in the palm of my hand.

“What’s wrong?” the editor asked. “Why the screech?”

“Nothing,” I said.

“Why I’m calling,” the editor continued, “is I want to hire you to write a hunting article.”

“I get fifty dollars a day plus expenses,” I said.

The editor laughed. “I heard you did humor, but I had no idea you were that funny! See if you can work some great jokes like that into the article.” He hung up, chuckling.

Business had been slow lately. By “lately” I mean the last fifteen years. I decided to take the job.

The best part of writing a hunting article is the hunting. The writing comes later. That’s when this business gets rough. I can’t count the times I’ve stared into the cold muzzle of a blank sheet of paper. I won’t even tell about the dangling participles that keep slipping up on you. And the commas! God, how I hate commas! Then there are the semicolons, the commas with the dots over them. I’ve never yet seen a semicolon that could be trusted. If you don’t have guts enough to rub out a semicolon when you see one, you don’t belong in this business.

As soon as the outdoor editor had hung up, I put on my hunting togs, slipped a gun into my shoulder holster, and headed for the door. My secretary, a tough blonde broad—or a tough broad blonde, to be more accurate—yelled at me.

“Hey, Nick, your gat is showing!”

I made a swift check of my person and immediately detected the cause of her alarm, at the same time allaying my own worst fear.

“That’s a problem with these shoulder holsters,” I said. “They’re just too short for a rifle.”

“What are you going after this time—deer?” Stella asked.

“I’m glad you asked that, sweetheart,” I said. “I’m going after deer.”

“Get lost!” she riposted.

That’s how I came to be standing behind a tree on a mountainside, running a surveillance on a clearing directly ahead of me. The sun was no longer like a drop of blood on a blotter. It was more like a smear of orange marmalade on burnt toast. The frozen ground still felt like frozen ground, but I now felt like peanut brittle. It was cold.

Doc Watson accompanied me on the hunt.

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