The Case of the Kiss of Meth

I was an honest man. Too honest. I couldn’t lie on my taxes, to girls at bars or to anyone who asks me if “Steel Magnolias” is truly my favorite film. I even had problems lying on my faux bearskin rug.

Only one thing could make me tell a lie, and that’s when my brother Brett asked me if he could crash on my couch for a week.

“No can do, brother,” I said as mischievous pistons roared to life deep inside my cerebral carburetor. “Now’s not a good time to stay at my place. My throw pillows don’t match my drapes. No, wait, I lost a Japanese pinching beetle between the sofa cushions. No, that’s not it. My couch is at the couch cleaners!”

I didn’t say I was a good liar. Brett bought my story, proving once again who got the brains in the family. Since he still needed a place to stay, I called my pal Jamal who owned a no-frills hotel a few blocks away.

No one answered the phone, which either meant Jamal’s deaf mother was minding the front desk or trouble was brewing. But this was Wednesday, and Jamal’s mother liked to play the ponies on Wednesday. Just like my sock drawer, something didn’t smell right. A few minutes later I joined three cruisers and a half-dozen cops outside his hotel, the Tune Inn.

“Jamal, what happened?”

“They busted some space cadet in room 12 for setting up a meth lab. It’s amazing how horrible those things smell. Now the entire west wing stinks.”

“Come on, the ‘West Wing’ has stunk ever since Rob Lowe left. I guess now is a bad time to see if my brother can stay here?”

“I’ll tell you what. Your brother can stay for free if you can tell me how my insurance will react. Meth labs stink to high heaven because they fill the room with toxic residue. It’s expensive bringing in a hazmat team to decontaminate the room—that was a hard lesson I learned after renting a room to the Grateful Dead in the ’80s. How can I get insurance to pay for this mess?”

Jamal was desperate, I could tell by the look in his eyes. It was the same look as the last girl who said yes when I asked her out on a date.

“Jamal, all you have to do is sing a little AC/DC, cause ‘rock ’n’ roll ain’t noise pollution,’ but toxic meth dust might be.”

Why was Ace giving a hoot about pollution? For help solving this mystery and to check your solution against Ace’s, click here.

Jonathan Hermann (underwoodno5@yahoo.com) is an IA contributing editor.