Stay At Home Dead by Jeffrey Allen Page B

feet and tried to take off. I grabbed him by the back of his shirt collar. He swung his hand around, slapping at mine.
    “Let go!” he said, his voice much deeper than I expected. “Let go of my shirt.”
    I swung him around so I was between him and his escape route and let go. He stumbled against the back of the house, then turned around.
    His long, pointed nose was red from where I’d hit him with the door. His features were all too big for his face, and his ears stuck out like wings. He brushed himself off with his tiny hands and stubby fingers.
    “What the hell are you doing in my backyard?” I asked.
    “You’re Deuce Winters, correct?” he asked, again in that voice that was more Barry White than Munchkin.
    “You’ve got ten seconds to tell me who you are,” I said, ignoring his question. “Or I’m calling the cops.”
    He held out his hands, encouraging me to slow down. “Easy, dude. We’re cool.”
    There was nothing cool about finding a midget or a dwarf or a strange guy in my backyard.
    He reached into his back pocket and produced a wallet. I was surprised that it was the same size as mine. He extracted a business card and held it out to me.
    The bold, embossed lettering read VICTOR ANTHONY DOOLITTLE . PRIVATE INVESTIGATOR . NO INVESTIGATION IS TOO SMALL .
    I held back on the urge to ask him how he came up with that slogan. “You’re an investigator?”
    “I am,” he said, nodding and adjusting the fedora. “And you are Deuce Winters, correct?”
    “Yeah.”
    He laughed. “Good. Hate to think I’ve been following the wrong guy all day.”
    “You’ve been following me?”
    “Yeah. You really need to pay attention to the world around you.”
    I knew I would’ve remembered him if I’d seen him. “That’s your car out front?”
    “So you were paying attention a little.”
    “Why are you following me?”
    “I can’t reveal that, sir,” he said, shaking his head sadly. “My employer would not appreciate that.”
    “How would your employer like it if I put you on my BBQ and grilled you?”
    His eyes flashed with anger. “Look, pal, I understand you’re angry at finding me back here. But if you wanna joke about my size, I’ll kick your ass.”
    I’m six-four. He was three-six, maybe. I doubted that he could lay his hand on my butt, much less his foot, without the aid of a step stool.
    “You’re on my property, and now you’re threatening me,” I said, trying not to take the low road. So to speak. “I’m calling the cops.”
    He jumped into a karate stance, his small hands slicing through the air. “Good luck getting through me to your phone. It’ll never happen.” He chopped the air some more and curled his lips into a snarl.
    I lifted my leg, put my foot in his belly, and pushed. He slammed back into the house and fell to the deck.
    “Wow,” I said. “Thanks for not chopping my leg off.”
    I reached for the door, but he grabbed for my leg, tugging with all the strength of a large cat. I shot my leg out, and he tumbled off the deck onto my lawn.
    On one hand, I felt bad. He was small and I was not. I had never been a bully and had no interest in being one. Yet if he were adult size, our confrontation could’ve been a lot uglier. You didn’t just walk into someone’s backyard without permission.
    But now he was lying in the grass on his back, and I felt like I’d just taken his lunch money.
    I stepped off the deck and leaned over him. “Are you all right?”
    He reached up suddenly, grabbed my shirt and, with strength that surprised me this time, yanked me down. I lost my balance and fell forward, somersaulting over him.
    He was on my back immediately, his stubby arms wrapped around my neck, pulling back on me like I was a horse and he was a jockey.
    “What do you think now, tough guy?” he asked, wheezing. “Wanna put me on the barbecue now?”
    I got to my hands and knees and rolled over, pinning him beneath me. His hands relaxed around my neck, and he started