Crossing the room was tough going for the galaxy-sized man. At least five seconds to transit the Briggs Investigative Group threshold. Vinnie Briggs’s finger drummed impatiently. He had thirty minutes, forty-five tops, for this unscheduled meeting. It was likely that half that time would be spent waiting for Gunter Hoffman to reach the guest chair.
Gunter swayed, legs spread to avoid chafing his massive inner thighs. The exaggerated bodybuilder’s walk was usually a ruse to impress gawkers, but in Gunter’s case the spread was genuine. And if he didn’t do pretense for run-of-the-mill anthropoids, then he either had something to say or something to hide.
Three hundred and forty pounds of muscle and bone was incongruous in the modern office. But so too was Vinnie’s tasteful male prints alongside his official New York State private detective license—but not as much if he had mounted the homoerotic graphics that adorned his home office walls.
With bulwark jaw and bunched brow, Gunter delivered a draggy dirge of death while Vinnie scribbled on a notepad. Nothing made sense, at least not what he gleaned from his notes. In the entire twenty minutes not a single word suggested Gunter required investigative services. If the gargantuan man with more muscles than seemed possible to fit onto one body didn’t reveal a serious crime soon, Vinnie was prepared to commit one just to end the interview.
Gunter took a prolonged inhale. His fifty-gallon chest wrapped the room, making a Christo installation an underachievement. “I should have called the cops, but I didn’t.”
Click Follow to receive emails when this author adds content on Bublish