Junior G-Man - A Craven Danger Mystery

Craven Danger raised his rolled up newspaper and gave the desk a mighty whack.

“I hate spiders!”

“Well, let me tell ya somethin’,” said Betty, “he ain’t too fond a you, neither. Not after what you just done. It’s too bad ya missed him, though. ‘Cause now ya got one angry, gigantasaurus spider on the loose.”

“What do mean I missed him? I murdered him right there on the desk blotter. Look!”

“That’s an ink splot, Mr. Danger.”

“Ink splot?”

“I’d get that suit off if I was you, Mr. Danger. No tellin’ whose pant leg he’s liable to get himself into. And that spider’s sure ta be on the lookout for the guy standin’ on a chair wearin’ an ill-fittin’ double-breasted pinstriped suit. Somethin’ like what your wearin.”

“What do you mean, ill-fittin’! I’ll have you know this suit was custom tailored by Max Small, one a the finest cheap-suit makers in the whole Bowery!”

“That explains  a lot, Mr. Danger. Yer tailor was cock-eyed.”

“Only when he ain’t sewin’, Betty.”

“Well, someone sure was drunk when they took your measurements.”

“Max said it was rubbiin’ alcohol for his arthritis that I was smellin’.”

“If anything’s got arthritis, it’s Max’s liver, Mr. Danger. I could see how a size 42 could fit into a size 46 suit, leavin’ a little breathin’ room for an expandin’ middle-ager like youself, but a size 46 is only gonna be suckin’ wind walkin’ around town in a size 42 suit. Like you was this mornin’, climbin’ up them stairs like Methuselah with an asthma attack.”

“Middle-ager like myself? I’m only twenty nine!”

“According to an article I been readin’ in the Reader’s Digest, the life expectancy of a man born in 1917 is 48.4 years. So that would put you on the fast track to your golden years, Mr. Danger. Ya reached ya prime at 24.2. Now it’s all a downhill roller coaster ride from here to a hole in the ground. But don’t worry. I’ll see that ya don’t get dropped in too hard.” 

“Golden years? I ain’t even had my fair share of silver linings yet! Were does Reader’s Digest get off puttin’ me in a wheelchair at my age!”

“Don’t sweat it, Mr. Danger. I used to push my grandma around in her wheelchair all the time. What great advertisin’. You could be Craven Danger - The Ancient Detective. They’ll all be thinkin’ ya know things you ain’t even capable of knowin’.”

“Ancient detective? I still got teenage acne and a comic book collection, Betty. Nobody’s puttin’ nobody in a wheelchair until I say so! Or until my Junior G-Men badge expires. I got it with ten Post Toasties cereal boxtops. Ain’t it a beaut? One day I hope to be the real deal.”

“If ya wanna be the real deal, Mr. Junior G Man, I suggest you hitch up your pant legs and start dancin’ the merengue. 'Cause ya got a spider on ya shoe, an’ I don’t think he’s waitin’ for a cab ride home.”

***

“I don’t know why he thought shooting a spider off his foot was good idea, doctor,” said Betty. 

“I got him, didn’t I?” said Mr. Danger. “Geez and ouch, doc! That hurts! Am I gonna lose that little toe or what? It’s my favorite.” 

“Excuse me,” said the orderly. “Somebody down here order a wheelchair?” 

Picture courtesy of wiki commons:https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/Rorschach_inkblot_test#/media/File:Ro...