From “The Lost Adventures of Detective Martin Mariello”


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Presenting the adventures of the fictional detective who stepped into reality where he was needed the most. I think I jotted this down in 2001 with the intention of expanding it. Back when I thought I had time to get any prose fiction done. Or comics. Or comedy. Good lord, nothing is ever achieved.

No trace of Dr. Sanchez was ever seen again. In his office were found only a few jars of an unidentified substance and a single sheet of paper, reading:

Klonsky

reverberatum

3 p.m.

The paper was traced to a carbon stock line out of Trenton, produced to the specifications of the now-defunct New York Divine Society, whose motto, “Ex corde, ex mentis” made them the laughingstock of 19th century Manhattan. The Society bore this in stride, or seemed to, until it unleashed its terrible Scarlet Revenge on the city for 64 days, stopped only by the quick wits and sharp marksmanship of Sgt. Emilio Estevez, no relation to his famous contemporary, Blaupunkt Estevez. The latter, however, was a premogenitor of our own celebrated actor, Emilio Estevez.  Despite reports that the actor’s great-aunt by marriage was a grand-daughter of the policeman’s, no relationship has yet been established.

Sgt. Estevez’s handiness with a pig gaff is the sole reason we may still gaze with fondness or some equivalent emotion upon the statue of a mounted Teddy Roosevelt that frequently changes locations in Central Park. The Scarlet Revenge was a terrible week, one still commemorated with the reverent closure of several Wall Street offices each year; the results of course, being much bloodier and costly than Cmpt. DeLaurelac of City Hall would have modern society believe.

All of this was well known and ill-held by Investigating Detective Martin Mariello of the New York City Police Dept (details, see ch. 76)…

Pinchy needed to concentrate, so Riggle kept quiet by reading a book. He had just started the 26th volume of his favorite detective series (actually a string of disjointed pulps written by Frederic Monroe, who, despite his nomenclature, looked nothing like the hero of a ladies’ romance novel, but was dumpy in the middle regions, unhappy with his shrinking haircut [both the shrinking and the haircut] and possessed of bad breath): The True Life Adventures of Detective Martin Mariello, and the sub-title, Containing Details of a Number of New York Incidents Quite Unknown to the General Public Due to the Sensitivities of Ladies and the Irish in Reading the News-Papers.

 

LATER: the man wore a trenchcoat that had met its share of back alley puddles at the brass-knuckled hands of men named Mugs and GrimIron. The stranger’s cleft chin tugged at his lower lip, giving him a perpetual “Say! What’s this now!” grin that had graduated from catching frogs to catching criminals. His fedora sat back on his head, surely pushed there by his thumb during a moment in which he said or thought “Shucks!” good-naturedly.  Y shrieked with delight and ran out of the group to clutch the stranger’s hand.

By God, it was Detective Martin Mariello!