Karate Babes From The Year 3000
featuring Z. Z. DelPresto

by Victor Gischler & Anthony Neil Smith

I was running down Pensacola’s public beach on Memorial Day at two in the afternoon, trampling sand castles, just missing families on beach blankets, and hopping over sunbathing girls in their tiny bikinis. I was in a suit and loafers, sand in my shoes slowing me down. I kicked them off and did a firewalker mind-trick to ignore the broiling sand.
What’s worse, the three women chasing me were on four-wheelers. I had a good head start, but they were closing fast. I had run maybe two football fields, and I needed a better way to escape. Cops couldn’t help—they’d drag me in and waste the rest of my day asking questions like, "So, three women, and you were running from them? I was there, I’d lay on the sand and say, ‘Take me, please!’"
Ahead of me was a jet ski rental booth. I patted my pockets. No cash. Plus, the suit would probably prejudice their opinion of me. I had to think of a better idea. All it took was a glance from booth to the water, where a man in an orange life jacket led a couple of girls on jet skis out past the wave breaks. A glance behind me showed the women on four wheelers scaring all hell out of the beach a hundred yards back, so I ran out into the waves, took a dive under and dolphin kicked my way to the jet skis.
I surfaced right by them as Mr. Life Jacket cranked the machine on the right. Any other time, I would have felt bad for what I was about to do. I still had a gun, a .38 snubbie, and I pulled it out of my pocket.
The girls, young teenagers, looked at me funny for a moment, then they saw the gun and made meowing sounds. The guy in the jacket turned my way, and he squinted.
"Hey, take a pill, you," he said. "No trouble."
I pointed at the nearest girl. "Get off."
She looked at Mr. Life Jacket first. These kids, no respect for guns.
I gave her a push, and there was a louder meow. Life Jacket caught her and eased her down. I was up and on in a flash, cranked up and turned south before I realized the kid’s hand was still in the leash. I ripped at the Velcro until it fell away, then picked up speed. South for a while, then due west. Looking back to shore, I watched as the four-wheelers turned around and went back where they came from.
*
I had to catch a cab from Gulf Shores back to my apartment in Mobile. I was mostly wet, and the cabbie almost wouldn’t take the soaked cash I dropped in a wad on his lap. In the apartment, I showered and changed, checked my answering machine, checked my email, then pulled out my automatic pistols.
One of my bad habits is losing guns. Good thing is, it just so happens there are always more around when I need them. I take them off goons, dead bodies, gutless women who threaten to shoot me but never do. The revolver I used at the beach had come off a big gal who was told to "do what it takes to keep Mr. DelPresto here." So I kicked him in the nuts and knocked some of his teeth out. These two autos, a .45 and a .380, I hadn’t even tried yet. I broke both apart, cleaned them, reassembled them, reloaded the clips. Then I waited at my kitchen table, drinking Pepsi to help stay awake even though I could hear my many bottles of rum calling to me. I hadn’t had a drink in two days. That was not a good thing. I had to stay sober and awake because someone would be coming soon.
Thank God the phone rang. I was dozing.
"Post office," I said.
A pause, then a stutter, then, "Z. Z.?"
Her voice sounded familiar. But it was stronger, not shaky like the first time we had talked the week before. All she had called me then was Mr. DelPresto. How’d we get so chummy all the sudden?
"Miss Timberton, glad you called."
"You said it was the post office."
"Cloak and dagger. Listen, I was just about to give you a ring. Wanted to tell you that I quit."
She choked out a laugh. "Sure."
"No, I mean it. You want to know where I’ve been for the last two days?"
"Not answering my calls, I know that."
I told her where I’d been. Here it is for you, too.
*
While looking for Miss Timberton’s missing little brother Tony at a bar near the Southern Alabama campus, I ran across a waitress who said I should talk to this guy named Ferrigno.
"Like the Hulk?" I said.
"No, he’s Italian."
"And where can I find Mr. Ferrigno?"
She shrugged, balanced her tray of drinks, on which sat the last Rum and Coke I’d had, on one hand while pointing a few tables over at a short guy I would’ve mistaken for a collegiate Greco-Roman wrestler if not told differently. He had a young face, one of those short haircuts with long sideburns that framed a perpetually open mouth. His khakis and designer earth-tone shirt were a size too large, the way all the kids who listen to rap music wear stuff these days. He had an eye on us, probably heard everything we’d said in spite of the ungodly loud stereo playing the local pop station. Silent TVs high in the corners of the room flashed ESPN2, the preppie sports—X-Game shit on one of the screens, women’s soccer on another. This was a frat dive, and Ferrigno’s crowd looked like cookie-cutter Greek-lifers to me. His six friends noticed him staring at me, and they got into the game, too, but were more aggressive, their open mouths and chins nodding at me, flinching their shoulders, flipping me the bird. Reminded me of the gang in Johnny Dangerously.
I tipped the waitress and told her to send a Rum and Coke to their table, because that’s where I was going to be. I should have asked her to hurry.
I stood and brushed by a table full of non-sorority girls who acted indifferent to the guys around them but wished some would give them a second glance. I did, smiling at a redhead alterna-babe with funky fifties’ glasses on, tall and thin with green streaks running through her deep-red locks. But she pretended to watch women’s soccer, and I could tell it was a dodge. I wondered how I looked to these kids—maybe a lot like their Uncle Kyle who used to get drunk at family barbecues and had to stay overnight, then came into their rooms late at night when they were fourteen and said they should sit on his lap like the old days. Yeah, I reminded them of what they drank to forget. At least, that’s what Rachel had told me before she was killed. Sad, sad.
At the Ferrigno table, I didn’t see an open chair. I grabbed one from the next table and dragged it over, straddled it backwards. No one made room for me. I stuck out into the aisle like a wheelchair in a movie theater. The band geek trying to infiltrate the "cool" table. I hated these bastards on principle alone.
"Do you mind?" Ferrigno said.
"I would like to ask you a few questions."
The guys at the table sputtered with laughter and tried not to watch.
Ferrigno said, "You a cop? I thought we told you to call first if you need my help with anything. My attorney can meet us at the station, and you can keep your job."
A little condescending, right? So I scooted my chair close, bumped the legs of his. My mouth was a half-inch from his ear. I said, "No badge. Nothing official. I ask, you answer, I leave. If not, I wait until you leave here tonight and break a joint for every answer I don’t get."
"What, you and the Wonderchicks over there?" He waved in the direction of the girls’ table, the ones they would flirt with to get answers on a philosophy test, but wouldn’t acknowledge as date-worthy. Ah, those guys didn’t know what they were missing. I always make passes at girls who wear glasses. Still, I smiled at his crack.
"I would hold you with this hand," I said, dropping a paw on his shoulder. "While fending your pals off with this—" and I yanked the Rossi 9mm I’d started the night with from my waistband, laid it on my lap where only Ferrigno could see it.
He took some loud breaths through his nose since his mouth was closed like Ziploc. A few head nods before he said, "As long as it’s not about Natalie, fine. Anything that lying bitch said will come crashing down in court. No tricks are going to work."
What? "Who’s Natalie?" I said.
He looked really surprised. Really. "Ask away."
"You know this guy? Name’s Steve Timberton." I took my hand from his shoulder and pulled out the photo the sister had sent, held it close in the dim amber light.
He looked, looked harder, then at me. "I’m sorry, but no. I was supposed to?"
"Look, do you or not, just say. When did you last see him?"
Ferrigno took the photo between his thumb and finger, and I got the impression he was really trying to help, racking his brains. He said, "Really, I’ve never seen him before. Was he a student? I can’t even remember the face from just walking around."
I’ve studied how liars lie, and I thought I could tell the difference. After Rachel’s murder and the case that followed, I spent some time boning up even more, just so I wouldn’t let emotion sway my professional opinions. And there, in the noisy bar talking with this slab of dog crap with a human form, I thought he was telling the truth. Maybe I shouldn’t have tipped the waitress. She still hadn’t brought my drink.
I took the photo back and thanked him, apologized for the inconvenience. I hid the gun quickly and stood, made my way through the mass of college kids to the restroom.
Either I should have studied the liar techniques even more, or liars were just getting better. While I was in a stall, pissing into the bowl while trying to hold the door shut because the lock was broken, I heard the door creek open and the bad rushed shuffling of feet crowd the restroom.
Men do not go to the bathroom in mass without dire purposes.
Fear did its comic duck-walk up my spine, and my urine stream dwindled to a sad trickle.
The stall door crashed open, and the frat guys were on me quick. I was cornered good, flailed a little without hope or effect. The fists rained down hard and quick. Almost all of them jamming into the stall like some kind of telephone booth fraternity gag.
I went down, face flush against the cold, wet tile. A blow to the head. Another.
Darkness.
*
I woke up in a beach house surrounded by Bond girls.
Really, that was the only way to describe them. Six luscious ladies lounging in string bikinis, all curvy, sipping umbrella drinks, watching me like I might do an interesting trick sometime soon. I looked past the platinum blonde, saw the sand and waves through the sliding glass doors. I sat up slowly, discovered I was draped across a plush couch. The faint ding-dong of knock-out bells still reverberated dully between my ears.
"Hi," I said to the girls. I tried to think of some snappy gumshoe dialogue. A room full of hot chicks seemed to demand a quip. "You’re probably wondering why I’ve called you all here."
The blonde sipped her drink, turned back to the beach view. She’d waited a long time to see the unconscious detective do something interesting, and now I’d disappointed her.
Tough shit.
I stood, brushed myself off. "Thanks for the nap. I’ll be leaving now."
They stood too, and I laughed.
"Ladies, don’t make me play hardball with you." I headed for the door.
I almost didn’t see the tiny, pink foot that flew up and smacked me in the nose. I stumbled back. "Shit, that hurts, you bitch."
The others joined in, little girl fists and feet putting dents into our hero detective. Enough of this shit. Time to get man-tough. I through a haymaker punch right at the pug nose of a sexy little redhead.
She ducked, latched onto my arm.
I was suddenly air-born.
I landed on my back, the air whuffing out of me. All six deadly, sex kittens tightened the circle around me.
"Enough!"
The circle broke, and the newcomer stepped forward. It was Ferrigno. He looked down at me, shaking his head and smiling.
"What’s going on here, Ferrigno?" I was pissed and curious and hurt.
"Didn’t know you were messing with super women, did you, dude?" Ferrigno laughed his thick, dumb laugh at me.
"You didn’t answer my question."
"You want answers? Fine." To the girls he said, "Bring him."
They dragged me to the next room. It should have been a bedroom, a den, a kitchen, a garage, anything.
It wasn’t.
It was a mad scientist’s laboratory. That’s what it looked like anyway.
The chicks made me kneel in front of an iron ring about six feet high. Hot blue electricity played across the opening, and more bikini-clad women worked exotic controls that made the room’s machinery dance and giggle with evil portent.
The iron right exploded in light, and a trio of perfect, naked women emerged.
"Behold, the portal," shouted Ferrigno with mad glee. "The gateway to tomorrow."
What?
"These super women are from the year 3000," said Ferrigno. "They’ve come from a future where an otherworldly disease has killed all the men. They’ve come to take studs like me back with them for mating purposes. Did you really think I’d risk letting your snooping tip off the authorities and ruin the chances for eternal future-sex for me and my frat buddies?"
"I don’t give a crap about any of that," I spat. "All I’m trying to do I find Tony Timberton. That’s all."
"Tony." Ferrigno laughed the laugh of the clearly insane. "He’s one of our pledges. We sent him to the future to test the time machine.
Ferrigno laughed. The future chicks loomed with menace. Electric special effects bathed the room in eerie blue light.
And P.I. Z. Z. DelPresto decided it was ass-kicking time.
My fingers found the pill lodged behind my left ear, the S-pill I’d learned to keep handy since my CIA days. Once that baby hit my system, I’d be more than a match for the karate babes. It was a special mix designed to heighten my strength and reflexes – mostly ginseng and Tobasco.
I popped the pill and the power coursed through my veins. I stood, sweeping asie the chicks who held me.
Ferrigno’s mouth fell open. "What the—"
"That’s enough of your back talk." I planted my fist on his nose and the no-sale signs cha-chinged in his eyes. He fell in a frat boy heap, and I stepped over him to face the karate future-babes coming at me quick.
A brunette spun a kick at me, but I ducked underneath and took down the blonde with a leg sweep. I leapt back just in time to block duel punches by the twin red-heads. I backhanded both of them and the fell away in a long stereo squeal.
The path to the doorway was clear. I ran for it, somersaulting over three babes who grabbed for me. I left behind the Frankenstein time-travel spook house, the sweet smell of apple shampoo. Ahead of me only the hot sand, the open beach.
But the karate babes pursued.
I needed to get away, so I could call the national guard, the pentagon . . . the President –
*
Little Miss Timberton lapsed silent on her end of the phone. Huffed once at me in disgust. Or maybe fatigue. "Z. Z., if you don’t want to work on the case, just say so. I’ll hire somebody else."
"I don’t. Hire somebody else."
"Was any of that true?"
"Some. Not very much."
"Thanks for nothing." She hung up hard, and I winced.
And that was it. I’d quit the case, or maybe I’d been fired. Hard to tell, but it worked out the same.
I went back to dull waiting, the quiet heavy and drab in my apartment, my fist still clamped around the pistol in my pocket.
A knock on the door.
I went to answer it but hesitated. It should be okay. It should be just fine. Home turf advantage. I jerked the door open, scared the shit out of the delivery boy. I looked down at my own hand.
I had the pistol out and pointed straight at him. The kid looked like he was going to swallow his own face.
"Z.Z. DelPresto?"
"Yeah."
He dumped the shoebox into my arms and left at a quick walk. I ducked back inside and tore the paper off the box.
I counted the soft, crinkled bills. Five thousand bucks. Warm wonderful money. Who was it said happiness was a shoebox full of twenties? Socrates? Never mind.
I found a note. It said,
Mr. DelPresto,
I’m sorry the girls were a little rough with you, as they’re very protective of me. I trust that this money will buy your silence, but we can discuss more if it isn’t enough. Please, not a word to my sister. She wouldn’t understand. It would hurt her and the rest of my family to know that I live with three female pro-wrestlers. They could never understand the loving relationship between a slave and his mistresses. It’s the lifestyle I’ve chosen. I’m not ashamed, but I don’t want to upset my family.
Tony
Sure, kid. Whatever makes your world go around.

The authors give the following as a bio of their hard-assed detective: 
Z.Z. DelPresto doesn't like anyone to knock on his door. If you do, and you happen to be selling something or pushing gospel tracts, he might douse you with rum and chase you with a lighter. His other case histories and memoirs are available in his apartment, and he invites you to come see them if you are female, between 19 and 36, cute, and preferably drunk. 

A novella featuring Z. Z., To the Devil, My Regards, will be available in Dec. as a serial at Blue Murder Magazine <http://www.bluemurder.com>.