I lit a Pall Mall with one hand and lazily steered the big Buick down the darkened streets with the other, because I‘m the type of guy who disregards fuel economy, Surgeon General’s warnings, and traffic safety. In the back seat was a black case. Inside the case was a dead man’s trombone.
“I enjoyed your set of post-bop improvisations,” I said, as I lit a Pall Mall.
“Cool, man. A lot of cats don’t get what I’m trying to do with harmonic structures. I‘m not sure what you want from me, though.”
“There’s something I would like you to take a look at.”
I flipped open the case and spun it around. The jazzbo’s eyes widened.
“Damn! Is that a dead man’s trombone?”
I opened the door, and found her lying on the couch, the dead man’s trombone on top of her, nestled in the cleavage of her ample bosom. I lit a Pall Mall. For once, the unflappable detective was thoroughly flapped.
I lit a Pall Mall, then gave him a cold stare. “You’re going to tell me where Rickey Mivers is,” I said.
“If I don’t?”
I stared colder.
“See this?” I pressed the dead man’s trombone up against his neck.
“What’s that, a slidey horn?”
“It’s a dead man’s trombone, idiot. Tell me where Rickey Mivers is, or you’ll be playing tunes on it, Bulgarian style. Get it?”
What others are saying about Dead Man’s Trombone:
“The ending will haunt you, the way that goat haunts me.” - Prof. Glen Morangie
“Transcends the hardboiled genre.“ - Joanne Pearson, Whitby Literary Review
“I couldn’t put it down, what with all the slam bang action, twists and turns, detecting and whatnot.“ - Gurbanguly Berdimuhamedov