A Harry Mickey Shorts Mystery
- Rich Kisielewski
Eighteen years old. Only eighteen years old. You're just beginning to really get a feel for the world around you, how it
works, what it can give and how much it can take. It grabs you, sucks you in, and you're off to the races. Life's got
you by the short hairs with no way out. But, and it's a huge but, you're hanging on for dear life and loving the ride for
all it's worth. Then someone turns on the fan and life gets the upper hand.
"Harry, it's me. I need your help."
"Tom, I already left."
Maybe I should jump back a few steps and let you in on what's going on here. My name is Harry because I'm told an
aunt promised to lay some bread on me if my mom named me Harold. I don't believe it one little bit because I didn't
see a single dime, and to my knowledge, neither did my moms.
Oh yeah, it's Harry, or should I say Harold Mickey Shorts, which wasn't my given name when I was ushered into this
wonderful world of ours. My original name didn't cut it in my eyes, and the Mick, Mister Mantle, is my all-time
favorite ballplayer. Plus, my original last name was way too long. I believe wearing tee shirts and shorts is how God
intended us to dress, so that's how I came up with my new and improved name, 'Shorts' - which just happens to be a
great conversation topic for the ladies.
By trade, I guess you would call me a private investigator. But I'm not your ordinary run-of-the-mill, every day private
dick. Kizmet Incorporated is what my card would say if I had one. I owe what I am today to Tom, the guy that called
me. He taught me the business for no reason whatsoever, never asked for squat in return. Squared my shoulders,
showed me where my balls were, and taught me how to use them. When I had learned enough to be dangerous, he
kicked me in the ass and sent me packing. That's why I'm headed to Central Pennsylvania to do whatever it takes to
help Tom, my friend.
And so the story begins...