The Exploding Detective by John Swartzwelder Page A

repairmen, and keeping me awake half the night, every night,
telling me I was nuts. He was the one who was nuts, if you ask me.
    I could have
killed him, I suppose, but he seemed so pathetic it didn’t seem sporting. Plus,
he might be an insurance policy I could cash in later. And, I almost forgot,
killing is wrong.
    But after he had
jauntily tossed himself onto my hat rack for the twentieth time, and I had to
once again stop what I was doing to get him down, I decided I’d had enough of
the guy. I locked him up in the dungeon with the detectives. It wasn’t the way
you were supposed to treat secret agents, I knew I would probably get letters
about it, but at that point I just didn’t care.
    Even locked in a
dungeon he found ways to cause me trouble. He insulted one of my guards so much
the guard quit and went to work for some other maniac. And after I had finally
gotten the detectives calmed down into a nice sullen silence by putting a
television in there, Foster got them all riled up again by changing the
channels too much. After a couple of near riots, which caused $150 worth of
damage to my dungeon door, I finally had them all chained up. And I put double
chains on Foster.
    Well I don’t know
how you can fall out of a dungeon, but I guess if you’re drunk enough you can
do it. Foster did it. Suddenly he was just out, staggering across the island,
and into the water. He struggled his way out of the water and flew in a
hang-glider across the island and into the water on the other side. Then he
went by again, this time on the hood of a runaway Aston Martin. Finally he
began bouncing grimly towards the fortress on a pogo stick. I don’t know where
these secret agents get all their gadgets from at a moment’s notice. If I wanted
to fly around in a hang-glider or bounce on a pogo stick at somebody, I’d have
to go downtown and buy those things, then wait for them to be delivered to my
home. Secret agents just suddenly have them. How do you beat somebody like
that?
    Before my guards
could get to Foster he had bounced into the island’s power station. A few
moments later he re-emerged and started speaking into a microphone he had
apparently secreted away in a false back to his head. I didn’t like this. I
didn’t know who he was talking to, but he seemed a little too sober all of a
sudden.
    My alert guards
rushed up and grabbed him, tearing off the back of his head and dashing it to
the ground. I signaled them to bring him to me.
    “Too bad,
Overkill,” he smirked as he was thrown down in front of me. I was surprised to
note that, for the first time since I had met him, he wasn’t slurring his
words. He had obviously dried out partially in the dungeon. “Your operation is
finished.”
    “I’m still not
Overkill,” I reminded him. “And what do you mean my operation is finished?”
    As if in answer,
the lights suddenly went out all over the island.
    “I’ve killed your
island, Overkill. It’s dead. Your power plant, your cloaking device, and your
laser cannons. They’re all out of commission. And I’ve jammed your invisible
shield so it can’t be closed. There’ll be a government fleet here in a few
minutes, and they’ll be able to walk right in with nothing to stop them. When
they do, I’ll be handing you over to them personally.”
    He pulled a
cigarette lighter out of his pocket and snapped it open. It quickly transformed
into a miniature machine gun. He had it pointed at himself instead of me, but
it was still a dangerous situation. Guns can be turned around. I had to think
fast.
    “Have
a drink?” I asked.
     

CHAPTER TWELVE
     
    Once he had
accepted the first martini, it didn’t take long to get Foster successfully
re-inebriated and safely locked back up in the dungeon. I put a half dozen
chains on him this time, as well as a granite slab and a small guard. Then I
took a moment to consider my situation. It didn’t look good.
    If I had really
been Overkill, I probably wouldn’t have been