Jack Kilborn & J. A. Konrath Read online

  Introduction by Joe Konrath

  Introduction by Jeff Strand

  Whelp Wanted – Konrath

  Poor Career Choice – Strand

  Taken to the Cleaners – Konrath

  A Bit of Halloween Mayhem – Strand

  The Necro File – Konrath

  The Lost (For a Good Reason) Adventure of Andrew Mayhem – Strand

  Suckers – Konrath & Strand

  Strand Interviews Konrath

  Ebooks by Joe Konrath and Jeff Strand

  Preview: MY GUN HAS BULLETS by Lee Goldberg

  My name is Joe Konrath, and I write a mystery/thriller series about Chicago cop Jacqueline “Jack” Daniels. Jack, and her supporting cast of characters, have appeared in six novels since 2004.

  One member of that supporting cast is Jack’s ex-partner, a private detective named Harry McGlade.

  Even though he’s guest-starred in all of her books, Jack doesn’t like Harry. He’s an insensitive jerk, a disgusting pig, and a self-centered egomaniac who thinks he’s funny.

  Which is why Harry is my all time favorite character to write for.

  Unfortunately (or fortunately, depending on your taste) I never get into Harry’s head in the Jack Daniels novels. He’s such a goofball that he strains credulity. If I really let Harry be Harry, the books would be disasters.

  Which brings us to these short stories.

  In these, I let Harry do whatever the hell he wants to. It’s liberating for me as a writer, and hopefully fun for the reader, as no other stories I’ve ever done have packed so many jokes onto the page.

  A word of warning. These stories are not politically correct. They’re silly, sometimes offensive, often gory, and mostly just plain wrong. This is Harry Gone Wild, 100% Uncensored.

  “Whelp Wanted” is the first Harry short I published, written for the now defunct Futures Anthology magazine. It’s quintessential Harry McGlade, taking an absurd premise to the nth degree.

  “Taken to the Cleaners” was published in The Strand magazine. It’s a comedic mystery, with a ridiculous mystery at the core that just keeps getting stupider.

  “The Necro File” is an anti-story. I took everything I’ve learned about story structure, plot, and characterization, and purposely ignored it. As such, it’s one of my favorite things I’ve ever written. This originally appeared in the horror anthology Like A Chinese Tattoo, and it certainly qualifies as a horror story. Or maybe “horrible” is a better word. So is “offensive.” In fact, you probably shouldn’t read it at all.

  Suckers is a novella I co-wrote with Jeff Strand, originally published in a high-priced, limited hardcover edition by Delirium Books. There may still be copies available. You should buy one.

  I first heard about Strand years ago, when I was attending horror conventions as a newbie author. Supposedly there was this guy who also combined scary and funny in his books. I picked up one of his Andrew Mayhem novels, loved it, and began pestering him on a regular basis to write a story with me.

  Suckers is a comedic horror tale that finds Harry joining forces with a very reluctant Mayhem. It was a joy to write, because Jeff and I kept trying to make each other crack up. Don’t look for logic here. But don’t drink anything while you’re reading, because it will come out your nose.

  If there’s irony to be had, it’s that after years of being funny, Strand and I recently wrote some very unfunny horror novels.

  Under the name Jack Kilborn, I wrote a book called Afraid. It contains zero humor. Its goal is to scare the hell out of you.

  Strand, using his own name, wrote Pressure, which may be the most terrifying novel I’ve ever read. It’s a brutal, full-throttle assault on your psyche.

  You know how it’s been said that comedians have the biggest inner demons? These two books prove that comedy writers have some pretty big demons of their own.

  As for Harry McGlade…

  Jack Daniels, and Harry, are currently on a brief hiatus, as I’m currently writing another Kilborn book. But there is a brand new Harry short story that appears in Uncage Me, an anthology edited by Jen Jordan. I doubt that will be the last of him. Like Jack says, “Harry keeps returning, like an antibiotic resistant rash.”

  I hope you enjoy the rash as much as I do.

  My name is Jeff Strand, and I write a comedy/thriller/horror series about Andrew Mayhem, a married father of two who always means well but doesn’t necessarily make the finest decisions 100% of the time. He’s been in three novels. People keep saying “When the hell are you going to write the fourth novel, you slacker?” and I keep taunting them with promises of Lost Homicidal Maniac (Answers to “Shirley”) but I have yet to deliver. It’s going to be cool, though. Andrew Mayhem loses another body part.

  The Mayhem novels are legitimate blends of the humorous and the horrific—I try to make them as laugh-out-loud funny as possible while still maintaining a genuine sense of danger. The short stories, on the other hand, are much lighter and fluffier. Oh, sure, there’s still cannibalism and stuff, but they mostly just exist to put a goofy smile on your face.

  “A Bit of Halloween Mayhem” was posted online (at the stroke of midnight!) as a promotion for the second novel, Single White Psychopath Seeks Same. “The Lost (For A Good Reason) Adventure of Andrew Mayhem” was published as a limited edition chapbook that was included with early orders for Casket For Sale (Only Used Once). Those babies are rare. In fact, the chapbook says how many copies are in existence, but that’s a vicious lie—the actual amount is maybe a third of that. I hope you didn’t lose your copy.

  “Poor Career Choice” was written for These Guns For Hire, an anthology edited by that Joe Konrath guy. He promised that it would make me fabulously wealthy and gain me millions of new fans. I kind of figured that he was exaggerating, but nope, I’m typing this on a laptop made from unicorn horns, and those things are pricey. Thanks, Joe!

  I would like to state for the record that I cannot freakin’ believe that Joe is including “The Necro File” in this collection. It’s one of the funniest stories I’ve ever read, but it makes Suckers look classy. And Suckers, as you’ll soon discover, is not classy.

  That said, Suckers was a lot of fun to write. It was mostly an “I’ll write the Andrew Mayhem chapters; you write the Harry McGlade chapters” arrangement, but there was some definite spillover, and there are some parts in this story where I honestly can’t remember who wrote what. (And other parts where I remember exactly who wrote what, such as a scene involving Harry McGlade’s sexual prowess. That’s all Joe. When you get to that part, please whisper “Author J.A. Konrath wrote this, while author Jeff Strand stood back and shook his head sadly” to yourself, okay?)

  Enjoy the mayhem, kiddies!

  A Harry McGlade Mystery by JA Konrath

  I was halfway through a meatball sandwich when a man came into my office and offered me money to steal a dog.

  A lot of money.

  “Are you an animal lover, Mr. McGlade?”

  “Depends on the animal. And call me Harry.”

  He offered his hand. I stuck out mine, and watched him frown when he noticed the marinara stains. He abruptly pulled back, reaching instead into the inner pocket of his blazer. The suit he wore was tailored and looked expensive, and his skin was tanned to a shade only money can buy.

  “This is Marcus.” His hand extended again, holding a photograph. “He’s a Shar-pei.”

  Marcus was one of those unfortunate Chinese wrinkle dogs, the kind that look like a great big raisin with fur. He was light brown, and his face had so many folds of skin that his eyes were completely covered.

  I bet the poor pooch walked into a lot of walls.

  “Cute,” I said, because the man wanted to
hire me.

  “Marcus is a champion show dog. He’s won four AKC competitions. Several judges have commented that he’s the finest example of the breed they’ve ever seen.”

  I wanted to say something about Marcus needing a good starch and press, but instead inquired about the dog’s worth.

  “With the winnings, and stud fees, he’s worth upwards of ten thousand dollars.”

  I whistled. The dog was worth more than I was.

  “So, what’s the deal, Mr…”

  “Thorpe. Vincent Thorpe. I’m willing to double your usual fee if you can get him back.”

  I took another bite of meatball, wiped my mouth on my sleeve, and leaned back in my swivel chair. The chair groaned in disapproval.

  “Tell me a little about Marcus, Mr. Thorpe. Curly fries?”

  “Pardon me?”

  I gestured to the bag on my desk. “Did you want any curly fries? Potatoes make me bloaty.”

  He shook his head. I snatched a fry, bloating be damned.

  “I’ve, um, raised Marcus since he was a pup. He has one of the best pedigrees in the sport. Since Samson passed away, there has quite literally been no competition.”

  “Samson?”

  “Another Shar-pei. Came from the same littler as Marcus, owned by a man named Glen Ricketts. Magnificent dog. We went neck and neck several times.”

  “Hold on, a second. I’d like to take notes.”

  I pulled out my notepad and a pencil. On the first piece of paper, I wrote, “Dog.”

  “Do you know who has Marcus now?”

  “Another breeder named Abigail Cummings. She borrowed Marcus to service her Shar-pei, Julia. When I went to pick him up, she insisted she didn’t have him, and claimed she didn’t know what I was talking about.”

  I jotted this down. My fingers made a grease spot on the page.

  “Did you try the police?”

  “Yes. They searched her house, but didn’t find Marcus. She’s insisting I made a mistake.”

  “Did Abigail give you money to borrow Marcus? Sign any contracts?”

  “No. I lent him to her as a favor. And she kept him.”

  “How do you know her?”

  “Casually, from the American Kennel Club. Her Shar-pei, Julia, is a truly magnificent bitch. You should see her haunches.”

  I let that one go.

  “Why did you lend out Marcus if you only knew her casually?”

  “She called me a few days ago, promised me the pick of the litter if I lent her Marcus. I never should have done it. I should have just given her a straw.”

  “A straw?”

  “Of Marcus’s semen. I milk him by…”

  I held up my palm and scribbled out the word ‘straw.’ It was more info than I wanted. “Let’s move on.”

  Thorpe pressed his lips together so tightly they lost color. His eyes got sticky.

  “Please, Harry. Marcus is more than just a dog to me. He’s my best friend.”

  I didn’t doubt it. You don’t milk a casual acquaintance.

  “Maybe you could hire an attorney.”

  “That takes too long. If I go through legal channels, it could be months before my case is called. And even then, I’d need some kind of proof that she had him, so I’d have to hire a private investigator anyway.”

  I scraped away a coffee stain on my desk with my thumbnail.

  “I’m sorry for your loss, Mr. Thorpe. But hiring me to bust into someone’s home and steal a dog…I’m guessing that breaks all sorts of laws. I could have my license revoked, I could go to jail—”

  “I’ll triple your fee.”

  “I take cash, checks, or major credit cards.”

  Night Vision Goggles use a microprocessor to magnify ambient light and allow a user to see in almost total blackness.

  They’re also pricey as hell, so I had to make due with a flashlight and some old binoculars.

  It was a little past eleven in the evening, and I was sitting in the bough of a tree, staring into the backyard of Abigail Cummings. I’d been there for almost two hours. The night was typical for July in Chicago; hot, sticky, and humid. The black ski mask I wore was so damp with sweat it threatened to drown me.

  Plus, I was bloaty.

  I let the binocs hang around my neck and flashed the light at my notepad to review my stake-out report.

  9:14pm—Climbed tree.

  9:40pm—Drank two sodas.

  10:15pm—Foot fell asleep.

  Not too exciting so far. I took out my pencil and added, “11:04pm—really regret drinking those sodas.”

  To keep my mind off of my bladder, I spent a few minutes trying to balance the pencil on the tip of my finger. It worked, until I dropped the pencil.

  I checked my watch. 11:09. I attempted to write “dropped my pencil” on my notepad, but you can guess how that turned out.

  I was all set to call it a night, when I saw movement in the backyard.

  It was a woman, sixty-something, her short white hair glowing in the porch light.

  Next to her, on a leash, was Marcus.

  “Is someone in my tree?”

  I fought panic, and through Herculean effort managed to keep my pants dry.

  “No,” I answered.

  She wasn’t fooled.

  “I’m calling the police!”

  “Wait!” My voice must have sounded desperate, because she paused in her race back to the house.

  “I’m from the US Department of Foliage. I was taking samples of your tree. It seems to be infested with the Japanese Saganaki Beetle.”

  “Why are you wearing that mask?”

  “Uh…so they don’t recognize me. Hold on, I need to ask you a few sapling questions.”

  I eased down, careful to avoid straining myself. When I reached ground, the dog trotted over and amiably sniffed at my pants.

  “I’m afraid I don’t know much about agriculture.”

  From the tree, Ms. Cummings was nothing to look at. Up close, she made me wish I was still in the tree.

  The woman was almost as wrinkly as the dog. But unlike her canine companion, she had tried to fill in those wrinkles with make-up. From the amount, she must have used a paint roller. The eye shadow alone was thick enough to stop a bullet. Add to that a voice like raking gravel, and she was quite the catch.

  I tried to think of something to ask her, to keep the beetle ploy going. But this was getting too complicated, so I just took out my gun.

  “The dog.”

  Her mouth dropped open.

  “The what?”

  “That thing on your leash that’s wagging its tail. Hand it over.”

  “Why do you want my dog?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “Of course it does. I don’t want you to shoot me, but I also don’t want to hand over my dog to a homicidal maniac.”

  “I’m not a homicidal maniac.”

  “You’re wearing a ski mask in ninety degree weather, hopping from one foot to the other like some kind of monkey.”

  “I had too much soda. Give me the damn leash.”

  She handed me the damn leash. So far so good.

  “Okay. You just stand right here, and count to a thousand before you go back inside, or else I’ll shoot you.”

  “Aren’t you leaving?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Not to second-guess you, Mr. Dognapper, but how can you shoot me, if you’ve already gone?”

  Know-it-all.

  “I think you need a bit more blush on your cheeks. There are some folks in Wisconsin who can’t see it from there.”

  Her lips down turned. With all the lipstick, they looked like two cartoon hot dogs.

  “This is Max Factor.”

  “I won’t tell Max if you don’t. Now start counting.”

  I was out of there before she got to six.

  After I got back to my office, I took care of some personal business, washed my hands, and called the client. He agreed to come right over.

  “Mr. McGla
de, I can’t tell you how…oh, yuck.”

  “Watch where you’re stepping. Marcus decided to mark his territory.”

  Thorpe made an unhappy face, then he took off his shoe and left it by the door.

  “Mr. McGlade, thank you for…yuck.”

  “He’s marked a couple spots. I told you to watch out.”

  He removed the other shoe.

  “Did you bring the money?”

  “I did, and I—wait a second!”

  “You might as well just throw away the sock, because those stains…”

  “That’s not Marcus!”

  I looked at the dog, who was sniffing around my desk, searching for another place to make a deposit.

  “Of course it’s your dog. Look at that face. He’s a poster boy for Retin-A.”

  “That’s not a he. It’s a she.”

  “Really?” I peeked under the dog’s tail and frowned. “I’ll be damned.”

  “You took the wrong dog, Mr. McGlade. This is Abigail’s bitch, Julia.”

  “It’s an honest mistake, Mr. Thorpe. Anyone could have made it.”

  “No, not anyone, Mr. McGlade. Most semi-literate adults know the difference between boys and girls. Would you like me to draw you a picture?”

  “Ease up, Thorpe. When I meet a new dog, I don’t lift up a hind leg and stick my face down there to check out the plumbing.”

  “This is just…oh, yuck.”

  “The garbage can is over there.”

  Thorpe removed his sock, and I wracked my brain to figure out how this could be salvaged.

  “Any chance you want to keep this dog instead? You said she was a magnificent broad.”

  “Bitch, Mr. McGlade. It’s what we call female dogs.”

  “I was trying to put a polite spin on it.”

  “I want Marcus. That was the deal.”

  “Okay, okay, let me think.”

  I thought.

  Julia had her nose in the garbage can, sniffing Thorpe’s sock. If I could only switch dogs somehow.

  That was it.

  “I’ll switch dogs somehow,” I said.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Like a hostage trade. I’ll call up Ms. Cummings, and trade Julia for Marcus.”

  “Do you think it’ll work?”

  “Only one way to find out.”