Yet Another Slap-Dash Mystery

I thought I was rid of him. After the hotel thing, I thought he'd just disappear and leave me alone. After all, I solved the thing for him, didn't I? And, after he dragged me into it, too! I didn't even care that he got all the credit. All I wanted was to return to my writing, that's all. But, boy, was I annoyed when he just wouldn't leave me alone. The man puppy-dogged me everywhere, and no matter what I told him, he just didn't get it.

"There is no detective agency!" I kept saying over and over again, hoping that one if those times it would finally sink into his thick skull. But no, it didn't.

"I want to be part of the agency!" Prettyboy whined each time. "I've never felt so alive! So needed! So, so..."

That was when he usually petered out; I guess the little guy got too tired from the excitement, or something; I don't know. In a way, a very tiny way, I sympathized with the guy. He obviously had way too little to do with his life, and that one small opportunity to make a difference, to actually contribute to society, must have been like a siren song to him. But like I said, I wasn't a detective, I wasn't taking on any partners, particularly ones as dumb as him, and I just wanted to be left alone. I'm a writer, not a policeman. You want a murder solved, call the professionals.

But he still didn't let up. I thought I lost him after I checked out and got a taxi to the airport. I thought I'd made it through the terminal safely, and suddenly, there he was. At my gate, waiting for the same flight. He thought he was clever, acting like it was such a coincidence that we were on the same flight. He even made it sound like he, too, was on his way home. But I saw right through that. After all, I'd deliberately chosen a flight that went nowhere near where he lived. So, I decided to confront him once and for all; I'd get him off my trail or die trying.

"I thought you were going back to your trustfund in Arizona?" I mocked him, probably a little too snidely, but he deserved it. And if logic hadn't affected him before, perhaps ridicule would.

"How'd you know I was from Arizona?" he asked in wide-eyed wonder, obviously impressed by a little bit of knowledge of dialects and forgetting that his carry-on bore a airline tag from his flight out.

"Lucky guess," I wryly told him. Then, I said, "Look, Boyd, I don't want you to -!"

"That's okay," he told me, interrupting, "I don't mind the detour. I was hoping we could talk some more, anyway."

"- to take this any other way than what I mean," I told him firmly, catching up to my thoughts quickly. "I'm not a detective! Get it?"

"Not without an agency, you're not!" he interrupted again, gesturing avidly with his hands. "And that's where I come in! The best thing about a trustfund is that you don't just have to return to it! It follows you everywhere! Now, with my money and your -!"

Suddenly, he got this dumb look on his face, and peering at me weirdly, he asked, "How'd you know about my trustfund?"

You mean, I wanted to say, besides the fact that you dress expensively and your manicure tells me you never worked a day in your life? But I was done being impressive, so I just said, "Another lucky guess."

"Gee," he actually said, "With guesses like that, maybe you should be a detective!

"And, that's what I want, too!" he told me with the excitement of a toddler discovering ice cream in the fridge. "I want to be part of the action, you know? A part of the team! Like Dr. Sherlock and Mr. Holmes!"

It actually took a second before I knew what he meant. "You mean, Holmes and Watson?"

He snapped his fingers and pointed at me in an annoying way, avidly barking, "That's them!"

He gave me the opening I needed to logic him out of this nonsense, so I asked, "And which one of us solves the case?"

"Well," he smugly answered, "You would, of course."

"Uh-huh," I agreed. "And, who would write about the case afterwards?"

That one took him a little longer, but after scrunching his face into a dumb expression for a bit, he scowled and admitted, "Well, I'm no writer, so I guess...you would?"

"Then, why do I need you?" I demanded, making my point quite clear.

"Well..." he started to say as his voice trailed off. He thought for a second, then said, "Well, I could..." But, his voice trailed off again, and his face scrunched up pensively. Finally, his brows knit together as if realization had at last dawned on him, and I actually had hope that this would be the last I ever saw of him. When his face brightened like a two-year-old with an idea, I knew I was sunk.

"Everyone needs money!" he declared. "And, I could be your back-up if things get hairy!"

"Hairy?" I repeated, not enjoying life at the moment.

"And, I'll prove how valuable I am!" he proclaimed. "I'll find you your next client!"

"Please don't," I told him.

"And, I'll bring him right to your door!" he promised, rising to his feet. "You'll see! I'll be a great assistant!"

"Not looking for one," I reminded him.

"Yes, sir!" he said, backing away and dragging his carry-on with him. "You'll see! I'll be a big help to you!"

Then, he turned to go, and I did the stupidest thing ever. I asked him where he was going.

"I'm going to find you some clients!" he told me.

"What about the flight?" I asked in the second most idiotic thing I've ever done. "You'll miss it!"

"So?" he asked, seeming rather astonished that I would point that out.

"What about the ticket?" I reminded him. "You won't get your money back!"

Prettyboy seemed entirely astonished by me, and exclaimed, "So, what? It's only a few hundred dollars!"

I stared agape at him, reminding him, "It's a few hundred dollars!"

He shrugged and said, "Trustfund, remember?"

Then, he took off through the terminal, and I hoped that was the last I ever saw of him. But of course, you already know I was going to see him again.