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When your boss is Harry Slothe, World Famous Private Investigator, there are perks that go with the job. And when he's also a 350 pound, blind, wheelchair-bound loudmouth, those perks only get better. Which is how we ended up sitting ringside for the Swanson-Van Goghe heavyweight championship bout.
When I wasn't describing the action to Mr. Slothe, I was busy getting him hot dogs and popcorn. We were near Swanson's corner, and though the champ had been the clear favorite going into the bout, by the end of the third round, it was obvious that the contender, Van Goghe, was ahead in the judging.
After the third round bell, Swanson stomped back to his corner, pounding his gloves together in frustration. I handed Mr. Slothe a large cola and said, "It doesn't look good for the champ."
"On the contrary, Mr. Baloney," he replied between mouthfuls of food, "my heightened sense of hearing is picking up a very interesting conversation going on in Swanson's corner. His trainer - who I remember as a former world-class archer before nearsightedness rendered him unable to fire an arrow beyond a few yards - is reminding Swanson of the time that Van Goghe stole Swanson's girlfriend."
"Wow. That ought to get Swanson's blood boiling!"
"That's not all, Joseph. Swanson's manager - a former college all-star before a blow to the head caused him to speak only Chinese - is even now reminding Swanson (in a Mandarin dialect, if I'm not mistaken) of the time Van Goghe and Swanson were roommates at the Olympic games and Van Goghe practiced his tuba during the hours Swanson had specifically reserved for meditating!"
"Yikes! I can see Swanson's face getting redder."
"I am not surprised," Mr. Slothe murmured, "for the man emptying Swanson's spit bucket - who once had a promising career as a pitcher for the Cleveland Indians before budget cuts caused him to be traded for a dozen baseballs and some Yankee caps - is reminding Swanson of the time he backed into Van Goghe's car, and Van Goghe claimed on the insurance form that his taillight had been broken in the accident, when he knew perfectly well that it had been broken for months."
"Uh oh. Here comes the fourth round bell. I'd hate to be in Van Goghe's shoes." My words were prophetic, for Swanson stormed from his corner and, with a single blow, knocked Van Goghe down for the count.
Suddenly, there was a great commotion in the ring. Van Goghe wasn't just unconscious; he was dead! I was describing the scene and the flurry of activity to Mr. Slothe, when he suddenly sat erect.
"Your attention," he shouted. "Listen to me." The ring and the audience grew quiet as all eyes turned toward the gigantic detective. "This man's death was no accident. Further, it was caused not by Swanson, but by his trainer! Arrest that man for murder!"
HOW DID MR. SLOTHE KNOW THAT THE TRAINER HAD KILLED VAN GOGHE?
There was an arrow sticking out of Van Goghe's chest. And the trainer had a long bow slung over his shoulder.
Did I mention that before?