A Detective Paco Rerun - Detective Paco Meets Harry Reid

(Editor's note: this was originally intended as a riff on Reid's insistence - at all times, no matter what the evidence - that the war in Iraq was lost. I'm surprised how well the story has held up, although considering Reid's invincible stupidity, I suppose I shouldn't be. Anyhow, it seems a fitting tribute to the winner of the coveted Dickhead of the Year Award)

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Al Gore’s long run as The Snow Queen had finally ended: the trees were in leaf, azaleas were ablaze with magenta and white and lavender, and Sheila had switched from wool suits to cotton dresses – which, when back-lit with the light coming through the plate-glass window in the waiting room, made me feel like I had x-ray vision. I threw a glass of cold water in my face and reminded myself: I love her like a brother would.

The intercom buzzed. “Paco, there’s a guy out here, claims to be Senator Harry Reid.”

“Oh, yeah? What’s he look like.”

“He looks like the male half of that painting, American Gothic, except, instead of holding a pitchfork, he gives the impression of having sat on one.”

“Yeah, that sounds like Reid. Send him in.”

“Incidentally, he’s not alone, although he seems to think so.”

A moment later, Reid walked into the office. There was no mistaking that he was the real McCoy: he was a tall, gangly fellow who looked like a dyspeptic hell-fire parson who’d just been informed that his wife had been arrested for turning tricks down at the Gas ‘N Go truck stop. And for some reason, he had brought his dog with him.

“Detective Paco? I’m Senator Harry Reid.” We shook hands; it was like latching onto a bundle of beef jerky.

“Have a seat, Senator. That’s a nice dog you’ve got there. Bulldog, isn’t it?”

The Senator’s face colored, taking on the aspect of a swollen prune. “The dog is lost!”

“But isn’t that your dog?” The little fellow was standing next to the Senator’s chair, panting, taking in the shabby décor.

“I’m telling you, the dog is LOST! I had a bulldog named ‘Vegas’” – the dog looked up at Reid upon hearing the name, and wagged his stump of tail – “but he’s lost!”

“So, you want me to help you find him, is that it?” I was thinking that this could be either the easiest or the hardest hundred bucks I had ever made.

“No! I’m not spending another nickel on trying to find that dog. The dog is lost.”

“But, senator, if you’ll just direct your attention to the . . .”

Suddenly, Reid put his hands over his ears and started shouting a tuneless “la, la, la!” The dog started howling.

“Ok, ok. I get the message. So, why are you here, Senator?”

“I’m completely dissatisfied with my Secret Service detail and I want to hire private security. I understand you’re a pretty good man with a gun.”

“Fair. But what’s the problem with the Secret Service boys?”

“Every time I go out they’re always shouting ‘Duck!’ and ‘Hit the deck!’, and ‘Look! It’s Dick Cheney!’ So, I fall to the ground and they just stand there laughing. I’ve already broken two pairs of eyeglasses, and ruined several suits.”

I flicked the cap on my Zippo lighter and lit up a coffin nail. “Sorry, Reid. Not interested.”

“Why not?”

“Don’t get me wrong. I support the senators, but not their mission.”

“Look, the Democrats received a mandate in the last election . . .”. But it was too late. I had put my hands over my ears and was singing “la, la, la!” The next thing I knew, Reid and his lost dog had vacated my office.

Sheila came in, squinting ostentatiously. “It sure is dark in here. Let me just raise the blinds.” She was wearing a white cotton dress with a subdued floral design; the thing looked to be the texture of gauze. I sighed the sigh of a man who has reluctantly overcome temptation. “No. Let ‘em be.”