- Rich Kisielewski
Eighteen years old. No, make that more like eighteen going on forty-three. He had seen, and done, and probably forgotten
more “stuff” than any ten normal kids his age combined. Unfortunately, all of his streetwise wisdom and “I can do dat better
than you can, succa” attitude don’t add up to squat when the man lays the cuffs on you and drags your sorry butt down to
the place with bars on the windows and three free squares a day.
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, Mr. Mantle, is my all-time favorite
ballplayer courtesy of my dad. Plus, my original last name was way too long. 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 business card would say, if I had one. Mel had called and said he needed help. My help. For
Mel, my ex-brother-in-law (EBIL for short) to ask Harry Mickey Shorts for help, any help, hell would have had to have
frozen over and the “Devils” would have been practicing a long time for the upcoming hockey season. But, when I’m asked
for help you best jump back because I’m coming through to do anything in my power to mend what needs mending.
Yup, here we go again…Harry Mickey Shorts style.