Back in May I released a short story I was rather proud of, starring a character I enjoyed writing. Recently I completed a second short story starring this character that is longer and hopefully just as fun. I will be trying something new and releasing it in seven segments starting today. This is the seventh and final segment. This was a labor of love and I am delighted to share it with you. Please enjoy the next Dale Ulysses Monroe adventure.

Pushing The Envelope
From the Case Files of Dale Ulysses Monroe, P.I.
Published with assistance from
John J Skrip and associates

August 12th, 2017

I awoke well before I even considered it to be humanly possible to be awake. The sky was as black and empty as the tar-like excrement a newborn baby produces on its first day of existence. I trekked through the thick hot night in my best suit to the hotel that Finnegan and his team were staking out at. The roads were closed off for the race. I used the skywalk. The glass walls were foggy and smudged, and the majority smelled of homeless people and tobacco. The walls and carpeting were soaked in decades of rancid piss. I arrived at the front desk as the sun was beginning to say hello. A sleepless red-headed gentleman gritted his teeth into a smile when he saw me. He gave me a keycard and sent me up to meet the FBI with a rather unsubtle wink.

I let myself into the room, I found a spacious suite with a large queen-sized bed, a leather couch next to a well-stocked minibar, and a gaggle of agents in windbreakers surrounding a makeshift wall of monitors. A red-haired woman led me through the set-up while she sipped a cappuccino.

“You’re meeting Matack in the building next door. You’ll be on the other side of this wall. We can’t get any cameras in the room or he’ll get suspicious, so we’ve tapped into the race cameras. We have agents disguised as pacers and watching from the rooftops ready to intercept if he makes a move. Any questions, Mr. Monroe?”

“Yeah, are you sure you can’t just let him embezzle in peace so I can go home?” 

I sat down in a chair across from them and stared at a nearby TV. I tried to distract myself with a George Lopez rerun. Finnegan and Kenneth were sitting on the couch, playing cribbage.

“It’s nice to know you were both hard at work while I was busy trekking through our city’s finest skywalks. Who’s winning?”

Finnegan glared at me. “Shut up, Monroe. I need to focus. I’m on edge.” He turned back to Kenneth. “Fifteen two, pair for four, run for seven.”

“I can see that.” I hummed Low Rider to myself.

Kenneth handed me a tote bag that looked like something a new mother would keep diapers in. “They can’t put a wire on you or he’ll get suspicious, they outfitted one of your recording pens with a receiver that feeds back here. I also brought a regular extra-clicky pen for you to fidget with before you leave. And I stopped at the Bagelry on the corner to get you an egg sandwich.”

“Did you get-”

“And I got three plain bagels so you could stress eat.”

“Thank you.” I fished through the bag. “Hey, wait, there’s only two in here!”

“Finnegan ate one.”

I glared at the bagel thieving bastard. “Sitting in a hotel doing fuck-all really gets the appetite going, huh?”

He smiled cruelly at me and counted his crib. Around 5:00, Finnegan and the red-haired woman, whose name was Linda, ran me through what to say, what not to say, how to make a quick exit, and how to get him to talk. I could have made my usual snarky remarks and infuriated half the room, but I kept quiet. I was tired, and my nerves were shot. I’d been in this kind of situation a dozen or so times before, but usually I was in control, I knew what I was getting into, I could lead the room. This was like the time my college friends forced me to get on stage at improv night. There were too many unknowns, and I had no material prepared.

By the time the clock hit 6:30, the streets were filled with bikers, all straddling their shiny new automated abominations. I stared down at a sea of racers stretching their glutes.

“That’s the standing figure four stretch”, said Finnegan, sipping his coffee.

“How’d you know that?” Kenneth asked.

“I used to bike all the time], but one day I forgot how to. They say it’s impossible, but nothing’s impossible if you put your mind to it.”

“Alright, Finnegan. This is your show.” I stood up and shook out the stress. “I’m going to leave out the back stairwell like we discussed, exit through the alley and enter from the front. Any advice, last-minute guidance for me?”

He stared at me through his coffee. “If you fuck up or make a wrong move, a white collar criminal gets away and a woman loses the chances of getting her life back.”

I looked at Kenneth. He gave me a weak thumbs up.

—

Matack’s intimidating silent bodyguard was waiting for me in the lobby. We were in yet another skyscraper with random businesses scattered throughout, and he informed me that Matack was “borrowing” a conference room to watch the race. When we arrived at the conference room, we found a long table, a row of bicycles, and a smug Alexander Matack sitting in a large leather chair. He beckoned me in. The bodyguard excused himself to use the restroom.

“Take a look at this view, huh, Dale?” He smiled slimily at me. “Each and every one of those people is about to have the ride of their lifetime. And if my financiers are correct, 70-80% of them will pay to own their own Wheelz by the time they reach the finish line. It pays to be on the cutting edge.”

I sat down across from him. “I may not be a money man, but isn’t this an incredibly risky endeavor? I imagine setting up a race, paying for the proper permits, road closures, transportation for all these vehicles, would cost quite a bit just for a bunch of people to enjoy a free trial period.”

“Well, it’s not free, entrance to the race costs $75. To purchase a Wheelz on the ground floor is $399.99, and I’ve set up an additional subscription fee. To keep the bike AI operated, you need to spend $100 a year. So all in all, we’ll be making a 60% return on our investments the second the last biker crosses the finish line. The board just called to thank me. Some of them were crying.”

“Must be nice.” I turned away and rolled my eyes. “What’s with the bikes?”

“I’m glad you asked.” He stood up and walked over to them. “These are my favorite bikes, I’ve kept them in tip-top shape, and I thought it would be nice for them to be here, to see what I’ve accomplished.”

“You want the bicycles to be proud of you?”

“No, I- no. This one is a Schwinn 3-speed Breeze Cruiser.” He pointed to a green bike at the end of the line. “This was my dad’s bike when he was a kid.” He moved on to a red and white one with a side bag. “This was the bike my dad got me for my ninth birthday. The Harley Davidson Velo Glide. The seat is custom, made out of real cow leather.”

“I’m sure the cow feels honored.”

He shot me a look. The final two bikes were a large dark blue behemoth with meaty tires and a wiry yellow tricycle. “This is the Remedy mountain bike that I bought my second wife for our honeymoon. I won it back in the divorce. And that little one is the tricycle I designed special for my firstborn son. I can’t wait to see him ride it some day.”

“Do you have a son?”

“Not yet, but I believe in manifesting your destiny. Enough bike talk, the race is about to start.”

It was 6:53. In the streets below, hundreds of spandex-clad specks readied their vehicles. I gulped. Matack’s bodyguard was waiting at the starting line with a starter pistol at the ready. Matack eyed my breast pocket, where my pen sat.

“So. You solved the case of the bike blackmailer?” He smiled at me and withdrew a checkbook. “Tell me what you know, but first let’s celebrate with your final check. Can I borrow that pen, Dale?”

I handed it to him. He looked at it for a moment before allowing it to slip out of his hand. It clattered to the floor, and he ground his heel into it, splattering the carpet with ink.

“Oops. Clumsy me. Looks like you can’t record our conversation. What a bummer.” He walked over to the Davidson and retrieved a pistol from the side bag. 

My nerves relaxed, and I found myself overcome with irritation. I sighed heavily. “Can I ask you a favor before you kill me?”

“What would that be?”

“Can we not do the speech? I mean, it’s pretty clear what’s happened here. I’ve been duped, you played me like a fiddle, I’m sure you’re oh-so pleased with yourself.”

“Where is Abigail?” He indicated towards his bodyguard with his gun hand. “I had Walter stake out the motel you met her at, but the brainless lug had fallen asleep before she checked out. She’s fallen off my radar once again.”

“I’m no dummy, if I tell you you’ll kill me.”

“Well of course, but you most certainly are a dummy, that’s why I hired you. I hand-picked you from a small handful of mediocre investigators. I almost went with Marsha Watterson, but you were too good to be true.”

“You mean the blind woman who teaches linguistics at the local community college? I’m almost insulted that you think she’s a better investigator than I am!”

“Oh you shouldn’t be, Dale. She’s a very nice woman. Not only did she figure out a charming way to supplement her income, she’s a much better investigator than you. Her strike rate is nearly flawless. Her RateMyTeacher.Com score is impeccable, and ABC wants to make a TV show about her-”

“Get to the fucking point, Alex.” I checked my watch. 6:57.

“I needed a dumbass, but a connected dumbass. Someone who could fish my ex-wife out of the hole she disappeared into. And I found a former Dentist for hire that fit the bill. I told you I was being blackmailed because I figured you would be thorough and determine that she was in fact alive and seek her out, so I could off you both. Of course, you didn’t. She found you. And now here we are. So, you third-rate buffoon. Where is my ex-wife and her new husband?”

“You can’t trick me, I noticed you did the speech anyway. And what do you mean, husband?”

He sat back down, exasperated. The gun was still fixed on me. “The man who came to see you, before she called. I have pictures of you talking to him with your bone-headed assistant. The intimidating gentleman. And I traced your call, I heard her voice. I just couldn’t get her location and find out where she was.”

I smiled. “I’ve never claimed to be the best detective, but I’m not the worst one in this room. First of all, you broke my regular clicky pen. No microphone there.” I withdrew a second pen that had been poking out of my right pants pocket. “This is my recording pen. And secondly, that was not her husband. That man is sitting next door with his fellow FBI agents, getting ready to move in and close the case on the dumbass sitting across from me that stole millions of dollars from his clients.”

“The FBI? They couldn’t- How did they- What?” Matack froze. He looked like a man who wanted to shit his pants. Down in the street, his bodyguard put his finger on the trigger to fire the starter pistol. I could see pacers with their hands on their earpieces begin to scramble towards my position. I looked back at Matack. He fired the gun.

I was able to duck just as the bullet sped past me and embedded in the wall. I tackled him. We wrestled around on the floor for a moment, and I was able to grab the gun from him. I stood back up and yelled into my pen.

“FINNEGAN, GET OVER HERE NOW!”

Matack was no longer looking at me. He was fixated on the race he’d stolen so much money for. Walter the bodyguard was looking at his gun, perplexed. The bikers were off, riding like the wind through the streets of Duluth. But something was wrong. A few of the bikes began to wobble. Some of them stopped entirely. A man foolishly attempted to ride backward and avoid a collision but fell back, knocking over another rider behind him. A gold-helmeted cyclist peeled off from the pack and drove directly into the window of a sushi restaurant.

“What the hell is going on?” I asked Matack. “Do none of these people know how to bike?”

He looked more afraid than I did on improv night. “There’s something wrong with the AI. This shouldn’t be happening. I programmed it so they couldn’t control the route. Someone must have hacked into the system.”

It dawned on me that this might have been my fault. My face fell. A night’s worth of drunken conversations crept back into my mind.

“Duuuuuude, that’s nothing. You’re thinking too small. You gotta go big.”

“Marcus. What did you do?”

“Who is Marcus? And where the hell did Matack go?” 

Finnegan was standing behind me with his gun drawn. Matack was gone, and so was the Breeze Cruiser. Through the window, above the escalating pandemonium, I spotted a green blur speed through the skywalk. I dropped the gun and grabbed the Davidson. I gestured at him to grab a bike.

“He went that way. Let’s go.”

We took off after him on his stupid vintage bikes. As the streets of Duluth descended into chaos, we cycled through the smelly skywalks and followed our culprit into the Wells Fargo building.

“Monroe, if he gets away, it’s on you. My agents are on the streets, trying to clean up the mess he’s caused. So it’s just us. I bet he planned this so he could slip out undetected.”

“I… don’t think he did.” We sped past an Italian restaurant. I could smell fresh bread and spaghetti sauce, parmesan and pesto. It took everything I had in me to not peel off and order myself a rigatoni. We were gaining on him. Matack flew past a dollar store and entered another skywalk, disrupting some very irritable bankers and making them drop their coffees. “What would you say if I told you someone hacked into Matack’s system and I might have accidentally encouraged them to do so while very, very drunk?”

“I would say you’re in massive trouble and I could put you in prison for obstruction of justice and disturbing the peace, so you better not tell me that.”

“Ah, great. Are there no cops monitoring the race that can help us out?”

“They’re down to a skeleton crew. Most of them got called away. Apparently there’s some sort of commotion going down at the Zoo. Is that your fault too, somehow?”

I sighed. Matack took a sharp left into a Marshalls, and we followed suit.

Finnegan barked at me. “I’m going through Menswear to cut him off! You follow him through the furniture aisle!” He veered right. One of the employees went to yell at him and he flashed his badge.

When I got to the back of the store the Emergency Exit door was ajar. He was awkwardly carrying his bike down the stairwell. I grabbed an ottoman and tossed it at him. It struck the back tire of the Breeze Cruiser and dented it. Finnegan ran up beside me, his bike discarded behind him.

Matack yelled up at us. “Damnit, Dale! That was my dad’s bike!” He bolted down the remaining stairs and out the door.

We chased after him. When we got out onto the street, he was still calculating a way out amidst the debacle his race had become. Cyclists lay on the ground bruised and broken in a devastating pile of machine and man, while dozens of Wheelz rode over their remaining dignity. Some bikers were still attempting to tame the wild beasts, holding on for dear life as their bikes attempted to buck them off. 

Children were crying on the sidelines, sadly ringing the cowbells they had brought to cheer on their parents. One man used a homemade sign as a shield while he waded into the crowd. I heard him asking if anyone had seen his husband, wondering where he’d gone. In the distance, I could see some bikes had broken through the barricade and wandered into traffic. Car breaks weres were screeching to confused halts as the riderless bicycles rode off to Canal Park to wreak havoc. One of the bikes peeled off towards us and launched at Finnegan, glancing him on the shoulder. He fell hard onto the pavement.

Matack took off running down the sidewalk, and I followed suit. I’d caused enough damage today, I was damned if I’d let him ride free. I dodged civilians and malicious machines, weaving through the crowd. I snagged a cowbell from a child and chucked it at Matack’s head. He stumbled and landed on a table laden with styrofoam cups of hot coffee and screamed a guttural scream.

Before I could stop him, a door swung open and I heard a man’s voice shout “SOMEBODY STOP THAT KID, HE LICKED ALL MY ENVELOPES!”

I looked down to see a pair of orange juice-stained tennis shoes. Then I looked up, into the eyes of Larry, the bad movie-loving delinquent. Without thinking, I tackled him to the ground. Finnegan ran up behind me.

“I got him, Finnegan!” I was triumphant.

“What the hell, man?!” Larry spit in my face.

“Got who?! That’s just some kid!”

“This kid has been licking envelopes all over town for weeks now!”

“I don’t care! Where is Matack?”

I pointed over at the scalded whimpering mess that was Alexander Matack, who was attempting to stumble away into the crowd. 

Finnegan knelt down next to me, looked me in the eye, and said “You are a truly insane person. I don’t know if you were working with him and you screwed up this bad on purpose, or if you’re just genuinely this unbelievably incompetent, but I also know I’m too tired to care.” He ran off to handcuff Matack.

I sat there, kneeling on the pavement with the kid that had annoyed me so, surrounded by a monumental mess that was at least 30% my fault. It seemed to me for a moment that the sky was falling. I could not comprehend the amount of trouble I had gotten myself into. But as I stared down at my most hated enemy, I felt nothing but pride. I grinned. I had won.

End of Story #2!

Thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed it! The next story is being written as we speak! But for now, the envelope has been pushed, and this story is at an end!