The New Roman Empire has now been adapted as a graphic novel entitled: MCDONAUGH.

Volume Two:  Nero's Swimming Hole,  from: McDonaugh, the graphic novel.

The following work: The New Roman Empire is the published novel which formed the basis for the  graphic novel, "McDonaugh".

The New Roman Empire

Novel

"Never sleep with your clients only daughter.  It tends to put a definite dent into your resume."

-Dillon McDonaugh

Chapter One-Cull De Heat

I don't like being boosted out of a down and dirty dream two snores shy of the crack of dawn.  Sleep is hard enough to come by for a full time insomniac and the few hours that I am able to grab shouldn't be interrupted by some after hours idiot calling in on my private line.

Benny Bourdroux knew where I'd be and I gathered by his tone that he had more on his mind than me snagging the last half of twenty-one winks.

"McUnah!" he blurted at the tone of the answering machine.  "Git obah heah.  Ah gotta job fer yah.  U no ah cain't cull de heat.  Dey dun't gibba chit abot wot hoppins obah heah.  McUnah!"

Benny has a slight speech impediment.  His legendary lisp dates back to the days when he used to make his living as a body slam artist along the upper mid-west gym circuit.  A disgruntled ham and egger scrounging a living out of Moline, Illinois didn't think that twenty-seven eighty quite covered being careened into a turnbuckle and took out the difference in Benny's mush with the business end of a folding chair.

Benny opened a bistro over on Adkins Avenue with the stipend his lawyer squeezed out of the settlement and since he was into me for the better part of three large, I figured it was worth a while to drop an answer onto his distress call.

I don't owe Benny a lot of money.  Nobody owes Benny a lot of money.  We're all just nickel and dimming ourselves to death, it's just that of few of the lucky ones get to shave points off their vig by volunteering ourselves for a few front line favors.  Benny's a very understanding guy.

I sat up in my "bedroom" which sits about as far back inside of Juan's Tex/Mex Taco Emporium as you can get without sharing a snore slot with the winos that guard the back alley dumpster.  When Juan owned the joint he used to list the back room as El Encantador, a lover's hideaway.  That was his idea of real class and as soon as I duped him out of the deed in a swindle that involved the procurement of a genuine imitation green card, I tore out two of the booths and fashioned the third into a high rise fouton.  The cannibalized booths got remodeled into clothes racks and the third I keep in pristine condition in case I need to call in a raid for spare parts.

Be it ever so humble...

Since Benny's club didn't stress any dress codes I wasn't worried about making Mr. Blackwell's starting lineup, so I slipped into a standard, single B'd blue business suit and wrestled the semi-stylish under a specially adapted flak jacket that doubles as an oversized liner to my frayed as hell trench coat.

When I pile the suit, the jacket and the trench over my size fifty-two long shoulders, I look like I'm ready to audition for the sixth remake of King Kong, but since intimidation is part of my basic bailiwick, I put up with the added weight and try to avoid sliding into swimming pools at all costs.

I knew I couldn't cover cab fare on what I had rattling around in the pants pockets, so I was forced to rely on the fumes in the Rustmobile's ready reserves to coast me somewhere close to Benny's back door.  The rig never has managed much more than single digits in the mileage department, so to make a cross town run on what I had siphoned into the trip tank constituted a major league long shot.

I wasn't too concerned with what Benny had lined up for me.  His jobs never manage much of a sweat and although I've never had to resort to an all out leg-break, I have had to lay a heavy lean or two onto some of the less original deadbeats especially when they start using some of my own semi-patented whines.

I don't make much muscling for Benny.  The percentages that I eke out of his sliders ends up on the nose of a filly dropping dead last at Narrgansett and what I squeeze out of Juan's wouldn't keep me in arcade candy for five fucking seconds, so when I'm not spreading taco sauce, I pass myself off as a private eye.

Being a private investigator in my neighborhood is like being an investment counselor in Tiajuana.  There aren't a whole lot of clients who come knocking and those that do usually want things done that only mercenary can cover, but I do managed to scrounge up a few supplamentals doing some down and dirty divorce work, which allows me to keep my license and a modicum of self-respect.

It beats the hell out of kowtowing for Hizzoner.

When the Rustmobile pulled into its sometimes reserved slot behind Benny's, I found Gary, "the gaunt guy" standing sentry on the back stoop.  Gary and Benny have an arrangement.  Gary keeps a jaundiced eye staked out on Benny's recycling bin and in exchange for his semi-vigilance, he gets to park his cardboard box condo somewhat out of the weather.

Gary came shuffling around his condo and through the steady strobe of a dying neon sign I could see that he was all decked out in his best bib and tucker.  Gary had ground a fresh coat of grime into the sleeves of his splayed greatcoat and one shoe almost matched the other.  Gary gave a thoughtful scratch to the greasy mat that constituted his mangy mane and pushed palsied a palm in my direction.

"Change," Gary slurred, tossing in a cool drool for effect.  "Spare change?"

"Put your specs on Gary," I growled.

Gary made a quick fumble-jumble with the Salvation Army spectacles he dons from time to time, but since he'd sucked most of the near empties dry, the best his beer-fried brain could muster was an almost focus that didn't register as anyone familiar.

One thing did register however, and that was the derelict's slimy mauler as he tried to plant a clumsy boost on my empty wallet.  It took a moment to remind Gary of the consequences associated with that transgression and, for an instant he thought he was Greg Louganis just before he plastered a three-quarter gainer into two inches of sewer puddle.

"Jesus, McDonaugh," Gary groaned.  "I didn't know it was you?"

I gave Gary a five on the dive and a zero for his entry into the pool and went on to explain that the penalty for a failed filch of my wallet was two hours worth of watch duty pulled on the Rustmobile.

So much for charity beginning at home.