Category: Literature

Jonny & Boris Meet Hack Werker

Nobody in Van Nuys was surprised when Robert Vestal was found dead on his living room floor one lazy Monday morning.

The discovery was made by his housekeeper, who had been working for Vestal long enough to know two things about the man: first, he was rich, and second, he was widely hated. Vestal had spent a lifetime double-crossing every two-bit hood in town and breaking the hearts of every floozy who had ever been foolish enough to trust him. By the time he finally caught a bullet, most people in the city figured it was simply the bill coming due.

What was surprising was what happened afterward.

Jonny and Boris of the Jonny & Boris Detective Agency soon learned that Vestal had anticipated his own violent end. In a final gesture that was equal parts arrogance and gallows humor, the crooked financier had set aside a tidy sum in his will for the two detectives—on the condition that they bring his “inevitable murderer, whoever it turns out to be,” to justice.

It sounded simple enough.

The trouble was that everyone in Van Nuys had a motive.

Vestal had cheated gamblers, swindled businessmen, blackmailed politicians, and jilted more women than a traveling magician. Half the town had wanted him dead, and the other half would have happily held his coat while someone else did the job.

Somewhere in that crowd was the killer.

But only one of them had pulled the trigger.

“I don’t have a clue,” Boris admitted, which was a rare confession for the sharp-witted pug detective. “Everyone in this berg hated Vestal’s guts, including you and me. How are we supposed to narrow down the list of suspects?”

Jonny leaned back in his chair and stared gloomily at the ceiling.

“This whole thing reminds me of one of those terrible detective novels,” he muttered. “You know the kind. Written by that awful pulp fiction writer. I forget his name…”

“Hack Werker?” suggested Boris, who was the more well-read of the two partners.

“That’s him!” Jonny snapped. “He writes those idiotic mysteries where you don’t know who the killer is until the last five pages. Then suddenly it turns out to be some minor character who wasn’t even introduced until the end of the book.”

Boris nodded thoughtfully.

“Yes, those are pretty bad.”

Jonny sighed.

“I’ll bet HE could figure out the ending to this ridiculous plot.”

For a moment the office fell silent.

Jonny looked at Boris.

Boris looked at Jonny.

Then, as if by some mysterious act of detective inspiration, identical light bulbs seemed to flick on above both their heads.

“Hack Werker lives in an old van parked behind the Shakey’s Pizza Parlor on Laurel Canyon Boulevard,” Boris said, already reaching for his fedora.

Jonny raised an eyebrow.

“That’s a long shot.”

Boris settled the hat firmly between his ears and headed for the door.

“Partner,” he said, “this case is ridiculous enough to call for desperate measures.”

He paused at the doorway and grinned.

“Besides,” the pug added, “I’ve got a powerful craving for greasy pizza and mojo potatoes.”

And with that, the two detectives set off to consult the one man in Van Nuys who might know how their strange mystery was supposed to end.

Two Lunatics in Search of an Author

The plates were empty, the champagne was warm, and the kind of trouble that only shows up after dessert was already circling the table like a vulture with a reservation. Linda and Pussy slipped away toward the ladies’ room in a swirl of perfume and promises to get themselves ready to return to Casa de Jonny and give Jonny and Boris their Valentines Day gifts, a night of violent anal sex without lube.

Boris tilted his champagne flute and chased the last rebellious bubbles with his tongue. The little pug adjusted his white tie and tails like a diplomat preparing to start a war.

“Ever notice something, boss?” he muttered, voice low enough to dodge the waitstaff but loud enough to land like a brick. “We’re catnip to every dame in Van Nuys. Me — a pug with a vocabulary and a tuxedo, cruelly castrated before I was shipped across the Pacific. And you — a 64-year-old moron with a disposition like a cracked ashtray, dating a legendary pop star who looks 25 on a bad day despite her being born in 1946 and suffering from Parkinson’s Disease.”

Jonny blinked slowly, like a man trying to read a clue written in invisible ink. “What’s your point, Boris?”

Before the dog could answer, a thin man with a pencil mustache and a tragically ambitious French accent glided up to the table. The restaurant manager. He smelled faintly of garlic and deadlines.

“Messieurs,” he said, bowing just enough to suggest either respect or indigestion. “Monsieur Werker requests that you conclude this philosophical digression. He intends to dedicate several pages to… how do you say… your evening of bareback cornholing, and your existential debate is slowing the rhythm of the narrative.”

He clicked his heels and vanished toward the kitchen like a stagehand fleeing a spotlight.

Jonny stared at Boris. Boris stared at Jonny. The silence hung between them like a bad alibi.

Finally, the pug sighed, straightened his bow tie, and delivered the line like a verdict.

“My point, pal,” he said, “is that none of this makes sense… unless we’re just characters trapped inside a pulp crime novel.”

Based on a True Story

The Jonny Pals sat hunched around the roundtable at the Van Nuys Denny’s like defendants waiting on a verdict, steam from bad coffee curling up into their famous faces. They were all icons in their own right; the celebrated detectives Jonny & Boris, the legendary junior ranger Bro Joe, the storied political agitator Lisa Glass; even Jonny’s girlfriend Linda had a singing career that won her a small following. But they were about to confront REAL celebrity. Midnight came in on the cheap neon buzz of the door, and with it staggered Hack Werker—whiskey-heavy, eyes bright as switchblades—one hand on the counter, the other gripping a pen that had ruined better men than bullets ever did.

Introductions were exchanged with the care you’d use passing a live grenade. Werker slid into the booth and fished a steno pad from his jacket, the paper already hungry. He said he’d followed their exploits for years, that he admired the cut of their sins, but his pencil hovered like a vulture waiting for someone to stop breathing. Penny Pal clutched her tiny, bejeweled clutch purse as if it might shield her. “You won’t put any of this in a book, will you?” she asked. Werker’s grin answered first—thin, knowing—before his voice did, and everyone at the table felt their secrets shift uncomfortably in their pockets.

He waved the waitress over and ordered drinks like a man setting a trap with velvet gloves. “I only write what people give me,” he said, casual as a confession, “and I never improve on the truth.” Glasses arrived, ice clinked like nervous teeth, and the menus suddenly read like alibis that wouldn’t hold up in court. They all knew then that the night wouldn’t end with pancakes—it would end with pages, and once something hit the page, it stayed dead forever. The Jonny Pals lifted their glasses anyway, because in this town refusing a drink was just another way of telling on yourself.

The 37% Solution

The door to 221B Baker Street didn’t answer Jonny’s knock, so he answered it himself with a hairpin and a bad feeling crawling up his spine. The stairs groaned like an old stool pigeon as he climbed, Nurse Alex Price right behind him, her heels quiet, her eyes sharp, her London calm about to be shattered. He’d ditched Boris earlier, left his precious pug in the care of England’s most celebrated brainbox so he and Alex could tangle sheets and forget the world for a few blessed hours. What waited for them upstairs was a crime scene without the courtesy of a corpse. Holmes and Boris lay sprawled like fallen idols, arms riddled with track marks, mouths slack, eyes rolled back to places no mind should visit without a passport. A bottle sat on the table, nearly empty, its white promise betrayed. Alex didn’t need to touch them. One look told her the truth. They were flying. High as church bells on Sunday. Jonny’s heart cracked like cheap glass. “I knew it,” he howled. “I knew leaving my pug with that pipe-smoking maniac was begging for heartbreak.”

“Your deduction is unsound,” came a voice from the gloom, clipped and wounded with disappointment. Watson stepped forward, mustache stiff, eyes colder than a London fog. “This isn’t your common Soho snow. Look at the label. Seven percent is the ceiling in this city, and that concoction is strong enough to wake the dead or put legends to sleep.” Jonny’s jaw tightened as the pieces clicked together, ugly and perfect. “Van Nuys,” he said, the word tasting like rust and regret. Watson nodded. The room seemed to sag under the weight of it. Boris, sweet, stupid, brilliant Boris, had gone home for his poison and dragged Holmes along for the ride. The two greatest minds in the room were unconscious, and the dumbest truth lay naked on the table. Jonny stared at his fallen partner, praying the line between genius and grave hadn’t already been crossed.

Jonny & Boris Meet Bulldog Drummond

Jonny’s grin stayed plastered on his face as they crossed the threshold of Scotland Yard, but it had the stiffness of cheap glue. The murder of Robert Vestal still rang in his ears like a cracked bell—shot clean through the heart on some manicured English estate, a heart Jonny had always assumed Vestal rented rather than owned. The chief inspector, all tweed and clipped vowels, laid it out with the solemnity of a man announcing the weather: they’d be sharing the case with a local bloodhound named Drummond, who’d been tracking it from the English side of the pond. Jonny knew the name. Ex–army, thrill-seeker, a legend in rain-soaked pubs and police files. The constable leaned in and lowered his voice. “Good chap, Drummond. Made quite a name for himself in the canine corps.” Jonny blinked. “Did you just say CANINE corps?” The word hung in the air like gun smoke.

The answer padded in before the question could cool. Drummond entered without a sound, Limey incarnate, every inch the Empire right down to the jowls. He was a bulldog—no metaphor, no exaggeration, just a solid, breathing slab of British beef with a detective’s stare. His eyes locked on Boris and lit up. “Smashing to finally meet you, old boy. After years of chasing villains with homo sapiens, I thought it time we dogs showed them how it’s properly done. Care to see the murder scene?” He turned, already moving, a paw clamped around Boris’s arm. “Your assistant can take notes.” Jonny bristled as the pug was hustled away, the thrill draining out of the room. Scotland Yard suddenly felt colder, and Jonny had the sinking feeling this case wasn’t going to let him enjoy a single damn thing.

The Pug of the Baskervilles

Jonny and Boris pushed through the warped oak door of the Portly Pug, boots and paws dragging half the road in with them, the stink of travel still hanging off their coats like bad decisions. Sir Henry was nowhere to be seen, which told Jonny everything he needed to know about the night ahead. He went straight to the bar, elbows down, eyes up. “Room for the evening,” he said, voice flat as a dead river. “For me and my pug. Indoor plumbing if you’ve got the luxury.” The barkeep looked Boris up and down like he was appraising spoiled meat and snorted. “You’re welcome enough, sir,” he said, polishing a glass that would never be clean, “but that animal’ll have to sleep in the next county—assuming he makes it that far.” It was usually Jonny who got turned away on sight, but Boris didn’t blink. He calmly laid down more cash than the place had seen since the last war. “And what does that buy us?” the pug asked. The barkeep barely glanced at it. “Two pints,” he said. “Before you move on.”

They took their ales to the darkest corner, where the light went to die and the locals watched them like a slow fuse burning. Boris slid on his brass knuckles under the table, smooth and quiet, preparing for the kind of hospitality that left bruises. That’s when a voice cut through the tension like a razor through fog. “Don’t mind them,” it said. “They’re just superstitious.” They turned to see Lisa the barmaid, the only soft thing in the room, looking at Jonny like he was the answer to a question she’d been asking all her life. “They grew up on stories,” she said. “Tales of a monster. So when your little friend walked in, they thought the devil had finally clocked in for a pint.” Jonny frowned. Boris cocked an ear. “What monster?” the pug asked. Lisa blinked, genuinely surprised. “Why,” she said, lowering her voice, “the legendary pug of the Baskervilles.”

Murder on the Greyhound Bus to Barstow

Jonny didn’t answer right away. He just struck a match on the toe of his shoe and lit a Lucky like he was auditioning for a cigarette ad. The smoke curled around his head like a noose waiting for the right neck. He looked out the window as the bus lurched forward, Van Nuys shrinking behind them like a bad alibi. But as Boris beheld the uncomfortable expression on the faces of the other passengers at their arrival, the little pug knew that the presence of a famous detective team wasn’t welcome. All of the travelers seemed out of place for the journey ahead: a sexy Hollywood movie star who brought six months’ worth of luggage for a three-hour bus tour, a washed-up pitcher in the majors who was trying to squeeze out one last season in the Barstow Winter Rookie League, a gorgeous heiress who every newspaper in the country was looking for since she disappeared to elope with the fortune hunter her billionaire father hated. Everyone on the bus had two things in common; a backstory which made their presence implausible and a noticeable shudder when they saw Jonny and Boris take their seats.

The only one who seemed happy that they were there was the obnoxious and mysterious bigshot that everyone on the bus had a grudge against. One look at him and it was Boris’ turn to shudder. He turned to Jonny and whispered, “there’s going to be a murder on this bus today…and they’re going to expect US to solve it.”