OLD FRIENDS ARE YOUR BEST FRIENDS. OLD FRIENDS ARE YOUR ONLY FRIENDS.
Paul, an ex-actor and part-time dog walker, owes his best friend Bob Shapiro a favor. In fact, he owes Bob Shapiro his life. So when Bob, a private art dealer, asks Paul to help him track down a priceless statue for a dangerous billionaire, Paul is only too happy to oblige. But when people connected to the sculpture start dying, Paul must figure out who is behind the murders before he becomes the next victim. If only Paul wasnât so inept at detecting, so inept at heisting, so inept at eating. (Just trust the fork to get to your mouth, Paul!) But, at least, Paul is a loyal friend. And Bob is worthy of such loyalty. Right? Right? Right?
Witty, suspenseful, and packed with unforgettable characters, Bob Shapiro, Helluva Guy is not only a hilarious crime story; itâs also an exploration of friendship and faith.
OLD FRIENDS ARE YOUR BEST FRIENDS. OLD FRIENDS ARE YOUR ONLY FRIENDS.
Paul, an ex-actor and part-time dog walker, owes his best friend Bob Shapiro a favor. In fact, he owes Bob Shapiro his life. So when Bob, a private art dealer, asks Paul to help him track down a priceless statue for a dangerous billionaire, Paul is only too happy to oblige. But when people connected to the sculpture start dying, Paul must figure out who is behind the murders before he becomes the next victim. If only Paul wasnât so inept at detecting, so inept at heisting, so inept at eating. (Just trust the fork to get to your mouth, Paul!) But, at least, Paul is a loyal friend. And Bob is worthy of such loyalty. Right? Right? Right?
Witty, suspenseful, and packed with unforgettable characters, Bob Shapiro, Helluva Guy is not only a hilarious crime story; itâs also an exploration of friendship and faith.
I was sitting on a bench in Bryant Park, a canyon beneath Manhattan skyscrapers, waiting, as it so happened, for my old friend Bob Shapiro. I crossed my legs. Then I uncrossed them. Then I recrossed them the other way. A small pressure was exerting itself beneath my groin. Did I have an enlarged prostate? Harmless, right? But uncomfortable. Actually, thatâs the sort of condition I prefer. A small, prodding pain that punishes me for my sins without requiring any actual medical intervention.
I watched women yoga on the grass. I watched couples stroll along the stone balustrades. Where the hell was Bob? I didnât have many people to talk to in the spring of 2024, and I had so much on my mind. Like, whatâs up with these boxer briefs I bought online? How come thereâs no gate for the penis? How come the penis has to go over the elastic waistband to urinate? Isnât it clear that the elastic band potentially impedes the smoothness of the stream? Are all boxer briefs made this way now? And if so, why? Can it really be that much cheaper to not cut a hole?
I wandered over to the outdoor kiosk and ordered a beer. The humidity was wilting my spirits. I find sunny days depressing. They remind me of when my wife was murdered by an erroneously jealous neighbor. Oh shit, if you didnât read the first book . . . Well, letâs face it, if youâre the type of person whoâs only interested in whodunit, youâre probably not my kind of reader. Coincidentally, the woman who murdered my wife, she also found sunny days depressing. Considering our similarities did nothing to improve my mood.
Where? Was? Bob? He was the only person who could bring me out of myself. Who could make me smile at a dumb joke or an off-color anecdote. Reallyâand this is true despite the tale Iâm about to tellâold friends are the best friends. Old friends are the only friends.
I sat in the area cordoned off for drinking alcohol and scanned the park for my missing companion. My gaze lingered on the small merry-go-round languorously carrying underwhelmed children in circles. Bob contacted me every couple of weeks to make plans. He was a busy man, and I was only too aware of how much kindness he was bestowing upon bored and boring me by reaching out like that.
I bought another beer even though that meant I would now spend the rest of the day peeing or needing to pee. (Thereâs my penis again, but only in regard to urination, not sexual stimulationâdepressing in its own right.) I drank the beer quickly and sank into the metal chair, the bright sun beating down on my forehead like my face was a goddamn solar panel. I couldâve powered turbines or contracted a really impressive cancer with all those UVs pouring onto my epidermis. I closed my eyes and let the sunlight make patterns on my eyelids. God, my crotch was swampy, like you might find Kermit the Frog down there sitting on a log, playing a banjo. You know why my crotch was so swampy, donât you? No opening for the penis! The penis needs ventilation! The penis needs to breathe! I canât believe Iâm forty-two years old and still on about my penis. Ah fuck it, leave it in! Leave it all in!
Bob Shapiro would have understood. Bob Shapiro would have listened. Bob Shapiro would have shared anecdotes about his own penis. But alas, Bob Shapiro, my last friend, my only friend, had stood me up. And you, reader, are no Bob Shapiro.
* * *
âBut Paul, you did finally text him, right?â
âOf course not. I didnât want to sound desperate.â
In a low-scooped chair on the balcony next to mine, Katie Spindle sighed. Thin body. Stringy blonde hair. Endearingly crooked nose. Maybe in her mid-thirties. Never looking entirely showered somehow. Today, Katie was in jean shorts and a plaid shirt. From my own balcony, I glanced through two sets of bars at her knobby knees. They reminded me of youth.
After a momentâs hesitation, Katie suggested, âI think. If you donât mind me giving my . . . I think. Maybe. You should text him.â
âHey, bro,â I said as I typed on my phone. âSorry we missed each other in the park. No biggie. See you on the flippity flip.â
Katie smiled. Which was all I wanted to achieve anyhow. âThat seemed very un-desperate,â she congratulated me.
âThank you.â I hit Send. âHowâs it going for you over there?â
After some consideration: âPretty good? No dizziness.â
Katie suffered from vertigo. She apparently had small Xâs on white papers taped throughout her apartment. She was supposed to turn in a circle and then stare at an Xâor something like thatâthree times a day as a sort of therapy. Heights often brought on her vertigo, so sitting out here up on the fourth floor, that was a sort of therapy, too. Immersion therapy? Something.
After a few moments of silence, Katie quietly said, âI have an idea.â
âWhatâs that?â
âYou could . . . if you want . . . talk to me.â
âWe chat all the time out here!â
âYes, but just chitchat.â She blushed. âAs interested as I am in the latest version of your Tortured Poets Department playlist, you could, also, you know, share with me whatever you were going to share with Bob. Maybe youâd feel less depressed?â
âBob and I donât usually get that deep. Mostly our conversation is . . . scatological.â
âI like potty humor.â
âPeople say that, but then they hear the filth that comes out of my mouth and they never talk to me again.â
âSo what do you talk about after the potty humor?â
âOkay. Well. We do talk a lot about beauty,â I said.
Katie, risking dizziness, turned her head to look at me.
âBob is an art expert,â I explained. âHeâs often called away overseas to analyze recovered paintings and sculptures. To assess their value and rightful owners on behalf of the government.â
âSo heâs an expert on beauty?â
âOnly when it comes to art. Like me, Bob struggles to find satisfaction in everyday existence.â
Katie nodded. But, for some reason, silence took a seat between us.
âWhat are you and Joachim up to tonight?â I finally asked.
âOh, Joachim is out with some of our coworkers from school, but . . . Iâm staying in.â
âItâs a nice evening. Might be nice to see some people,â I said but didnât believe.
âMaybe Iâm a homebody, Paul.â Katie stood up and, as if on a high wire, took a brave step away from her chair and toward the edge of her balcony. âLook at me. Iâm not clutching on to anything. Iâm pretty proud of that.â She challenged herself to stare down at the parking lot four floors beneath us. âWant to come over and watch a movie?â she asked as she continued to inspect the concrete. âJoachim wonât be back until after midnight.â
âWhat are you going to watch?â
âIâm on a Humphrey Bogart kick. The Maltese Falcon.â
In my best Bogart, I slurred, ââWhen a manâs partner is killed, heâs supposed to do something about it.â I heard theyâre going to remake that movie as a Netflix show. In other words, theyâll make it long and boring.â
âCome over. Keep me company.â Did Katie Spindle sparkle a bit when she looked at me? Maybe a little.
âAnother time.â
And I know what youâre thinking, reader: Here was a lovely, ethereal female right next door to me. Youâre thinking, Wow, Iâd like it if a woman asked me to watch a movie. Maybe youâre an incel and have never had a girl ask you anything; I have no idea about your life. All I can say is that, for me, Katie had a live-in boyfriend and I didnât need that sort of trouble.
A lot had happened in the nearly two years since my wife had died. (For instance, I lost the pinkie finger on my right hand. Bet you didnât know that.) But one thing had stayed consistent throughout: Other people, especially other women, filled me with a deep sense of unease. It wasnât so much that I didnât trust them. It was more that I didnât trust my judgment of them.
Realizing that Katie had dematerialized into her apartment, I stood up. It would have been nice to look out and see a sunset, but with all the construction in Greenpoint, Brooklyn, my view was restricted to concrete pillars. I sighed. Beauty eluded me. Who could blame it?
I pushed open the balcony door, and Theo, my pint-size cockapoo, hopped down from the bed where heâd been sleeping. He stretched long and narrow on the laminate floor and put his paws on my bare feet to make sure Iâd spend the rest of the night inside with him. I was only too happy to oblige.
The apartment was shivery cold. Though I still lived in the same building, this was a different apartment than the one where I had been tied to a chair and almost murdered. (Iâll fill you in on how I escaped certain death in due time. Relax.) My new unit was a small studio. The previous tenant had moved back to Florida and hadnât wanted his furniture, so I bought it from himâtwo mounted TVs, a floor-to-ceiling alcohol cabinet (filled with spiced rum), and a neon sign that read Margaritaville. I lived in tiki-town, and I hate yacht rock. But disliking my surroundings was yet another small punishment that somehow made me feel better about my continuing existence. In any event, it was a relief to not be surrounded by me.
I plopped down on the giant white sofa which, if Iâm going to be honest, I mostly lived on. But, in my defense, that piece of furniture was a world unto itself, complete with an archipelago of ottomans.
I pulled out my phone and ordered Shake Shack. Love Shake Shack. Sometimes, in those days, Iâd finish a Shake Shack burger and feel depressed that I was full because then all I had to look forward to was getting hungry again and reordering Shake Shack. Needless to say, my weight was not ideal.
The dogâs warm body nestled up to me. I marveled at the kinky intricacies of his russet curls. The apexes of those spirals caught the golden sunlight that streamed between half-constructed buildings, through the balcony door, over the bed, and onto the couch. Theo pawed my arm, requesting a pat-pat. But, embarrassed by the neediness of his request, he refused to meet my eyes. Was beauty in my dog? Yes, it was. But could I really spend the rest of my life petting an animal? Who knows? Maybe I could. Maybe I would.
But then my cell rang. Was Shake Shack here already? No! Bob Shapiro was calling! Even better!
âBob!â I suddenly felt absurdly lighthearted.
âPaul, old buddy, old pal!â
âIt sounds echoey wherever you are.â
âPlease accept my sincerest apologies.â Bob always overenunciated his words like a Shakespearean actor trying to reach the back row of an amphitheater.
âDonât give it a second thought,â I said. âI forget when Iâve agreed to meet people all the time.â
âOh yes, that,â Bob said. âI missed our rendezvous, didnât I? I am sorry about that. I did want to share with you a very profound concern Iâm having about my penis.â
âIâd love to hear it.â
Bob whispered, âI think as I get older, the captain is getting smaller.â
âShit, is that a thing?â
âBut Paul, Iâm afraid I must beg a favor.â
There was a knock at my door. Theo lifted his head, considered barking, decided against it. âSomeoneâs at my door.â
âFor Godâs sake, donât open it!â Bob said.
But of course, I opened it. Shake Shack might be out there. And indeed, a delivery man had left a little brown bag just for me. I admit it: Delivery makes me feel special! Like someone thought of me, even if it was just me thinking of me.
âIt was Shake Shack.â I sat the bag on the counter and pried open the container of fries.
âOh, thank God. Incidentally, have you tried anything from their limited-time Korean-style menu?â
âToo much risk. What if I donât like it and mealtime is ruined?â
âBut what, dear man, if you love the Korean burger?â Bob challenged me. âI mean, what if you really have a transcendent edible moment? A moment so profound that every time you taste similar sauces in the future, neural pathways bring you back here! To this moment! Imagine! But never mind. You have to focus. I have to focus. We both must focus!â
âOh, the milkshake is good. Itâs just the right consistency.â
âI do hate it when theyâre runny. But enough! Paul, I am in a spot of trouble. And only you can help me. But you canât complete this task alone. Donât forget, my lad, you lack a digitus minimus!â
* * *
Despite my best efforts to avoid any sort of evening entanglement with Katie Spindle, I found myself knocking on her door. She opened up so quickly that I found it hard to believe she hadnât been anticipating my arrival all along. But there behind her, rebutting my suspicions, the TV shone in black and white: Sam Spade sitting on his bed, taking no guff from local cops. Proof she was engaging in classic cinema.
Katie agreed to help even before Iâd finished explaining the task. As she followed me down the stairwell, our footsteps echoing in unison, I reflected that for a self-professed homebody, she was awfully eager to leave her apartment. Was my signature blend of overgrown beard, concert T-shirt, and unwashed cargo pants really that irresistible? (How often do you wash your pants? Or, more pertinently, how often do you wash any clothing that doesnât touch your pits, crotch, or feet? Asking for a friend. Not Bob Shapiro. Bobâs attire is immaculate. Asking for . . . another friend.) As for Katie, she sported a public school T-shirt and knit sweatpants fitted at the bottom.
âThose joggers are nice,â I said, showing off my British.
âThey were expensive,â she said, her cheeks tinging pink. âTheyâre really soft. You can touch them.â
But now that weâd left the stairwell for the third floor, the hallway swallowed me whole. This was the floor I used to live on. The floor Iâd lived on with Laura. The floor where Iâd found her body. The floor where I, too, had nearly died.
âSo, your friend Bob secretly hid something in your old apartment?â Katie asked, maybe in an effort to rouse me from my stupor.
âRight. Yeah. Thatâs what he said.â
âAnd heâs confident that this object hasnât been thrown out by the current tenant?â
âBob said he hid it somewhere . . . unique.â I didnât want to tell her where heâd hidden it because I didnât want to scare her off. And, as Bob had reminded me, Iâd need help with the heavy lifting.
Bob occasionally asked me to store things for him. While his primary occupation was assessing the value and lineage of sundry works of art for the government, he had a side hustle procuring sculptures and paintings for private collectors. But Bob couldnât hold these pieces in his own apartment because he lived in a leaky, poorly secured SoHo walk-up. Me, I had dry living quarters and a doorman, and I was only too happy to keep awkwardly shaped packages until Bobâs clients claimed them.
Of course, he had never before left something in my apartment without my knowledge, to my knowledge. When Bob and I had been on the phone a few minutes prior, Iâd asked him, âWhy didnât you just tell me you were leaving it with me?â
âYou were grieving at the time, dear boy.â
âBut why hide it . . . there?â
âIn case anyone came looking.â
âAnd you need me to retrieve it right now?â
âRight now.â
Knocking on the door to my old apartment, I looked down at the welcome mat: Healthy Body, Healthy Mind. What was I to infer from this? Unhealthy body, unhealthy mind? Felt a bit judgy. Did my pudginess really imply a mental defect? Well, I mean correlation doesnât equal causation, but all the same, it was food for thought (or whatever) . . . The door opened, revealing a tenant Iâd privately nicknamed California Smile. He was all pleasant skin and nonthreatening body parts. His pink nipples played peekaboo with me through the straps of his tank top.
âI used to live here . . .â I started.
Behind California Smile, a small woman appeared. She was also covered in pleasant skin and nonthreatening body parts, but her tank top was more firmly secured.
â. . . and I left something behind.â Their abundance of visible skin had me a bit out of breath.
âThis is Paul,â Katie said. âHe was almost murdered in this apartment.â
âMy wife actually was murdered here,â I added.
âOh right, sorry. So, so sorry.â Katie looked at me, eyes wide. âSomehow, âalmost murderedâ is anecdotal, but actually murdered is definitely not.â
âNo, no, itâs fine,â I assured her. âI wasnât chastising you. I just thought if we were playing for sympathy that was our stronger card.â
We turned back to the department store mannequins in front of us.
âWeâre freaking them out,â Katie said.
And with that, I gingerly stepped between their bodies, not wanting to touch either of them, as their potential moistness disturbed me. I headed straight to the guest bath, taking only the briefest glance into the spare room, which was now filled with free weights. The apartment walls had been freshly painted and the faux-wooden floors recently polished.
âWhyâs he going into our bathroom?â California Smile asked.
âI guess thatâs where he left the thing heâs looking for? Iâm Katie. Iâm a schoolteacher.â
âUm, Charlie. And this is Gia.â
I kneeled, took out my pocketknife, and started peeling away the caulk at the base of the toilet. Katie, God bless her, swayed her willowy figure into the bathroom doorframe as Charlie dropped his smile and asked, âWhat is he doing?â
âThatâs our toilet,â Gia said.
âWell,â Katie considered with palms out wide, âI guess one way of looking at it is that it is your toilet, but another way of looking at it is that itâs not your toilet. He rented it, you rent it, someone else will rent it.â She brought her hands together in prayer. âRenting, when you think about it, is so much truer to life than owning. Less illusion of permanence. Donât you think?â
Charlie and Gia actually seemed to be thinking about this while I continued digging up the base of whoeverâs toilet. I wondered if that sort of Eastern philosophy bullshit worked on Katieâs fifth-grade students.
âKatie, will you shut off the water valve, please?â I asked.
She kneeled on the other side of the toilet, turning off the water but letting in the people. People who were now talking about calling management as I flushed and drained the remaining liquid.
âAlright, now help me pull the toilet up,â I said.
As we lifted from the bottom of the bowl, the remaining caulk relented with a satisfying rip.
âYouâre strong,â I said, shifting the weight to my left hand to compensate for my phantom finger.
âMayflower blood,â she said. âKing Charles the second is my ancestor.â
âYou spit in that vial and sent your DNA to Ancestry?â I asked, both of us still holding the toilet.
âI did.â
âI tried, but it was too much spit. They wanted too much spit in the vial. I didnât like spitting that much.â
California Smile was now threatening to call the police, but Iâd long become immune to threats of any kind. Katie, to my surprise, didnât seem rattled either. She just politely thanked them for keeping their bathroom so fastidiously clean.
âSet the toilet on its side,â I instructed. But I guess we used a little too much force because the porcelain tank cracked. âShit.â Some yellow liquid oozed from the jagged opening.
As you can imagine, Mr. and Mrs. Smile were now sweating through their expensive lotions and shouting through their pillowy lips. But I was busy reaching inside the uprooted bottom of the toilet, peeling off layers of gaffer tape that were lightly sprayed with years of excrement.
âYou should have worn gloves,â Katie said.
âSkin is natureâs glove.â Finally, I pulled a heavy, black, vinyl bag right out of the bottom lip of the toilet where it had lain forgotten in front of, but not blocking, the toiletâs drain. I showed off my volleyball-size bundle like a proud papa, but no one looked all that impressed.
âWhat happens now?â Katie asked.
âNow,â I said with a grin, âI get to see my good buddy, Bob Shapiro.â
REVIEW: Bob Shapiro, Helluva Guy: A Paul Whatshisname Mystery, Book 2, by Josh Harper
As the title suggests, this is Josh Harperâs second Paul Whathisname mystery, and having read the first book, this book is just as entertaining as the first. Trust me, it's worth it!
When we last saw our hero, he was in dire straits, and things looked extremely bleak. Heâd been betrayed on a number of fronts, and it looked like curtains for our hero. But Paul survives and lives to muddle his way through another mysteryâwith just as many red herrings and false starts as the first book.
Helluva Guy focuses on Paul's much-praised best friend Bob Shapiroâthe one man in the world Paul looks up to. He would do anything for Bob, and it turns out that BFF Bob is going to test Paulâs loyalty and resolve.
Apparently Bobâillustrious procurer and seller of fine artâis in a bit of a jam. Scratch thatâheâs in it up to his neck, and he needs Paulâs help. Bob has ticked off a very rich and very powerful man. As an amends, Bob has promised him a very expensive, and apparently unattainable object dâartâthe Petite Tete statueâpreviously stolen, location currently unknown. If Bob doesnât deliver the statue, bad things are going to happen to Bob. Really, really bad things.
And mayhem ensues. Not only are Bob and Paul, and Paulâs next-door neighbour Katie, looking for the statue, there are a couple of hit men on the Petite Teteâs trail as well. These are not nice men abdcthey mean business. But, intel has it that there's a famous actor who actually has the statue. He lives on the west coast, so Paul, Bob, and Katie travel west, concocting a scheme to retrieve the statue from said wealthy starâa very convoluted schemeâbut desperate times call for desperate measures.
This is a great book. One of the things that I really enjoy about Bob Shapiro, Helluva A Guy is that Paul is still Paul. He regularly goes off on tangents, and thinks nothing of breaking the fourth wall. But his heart is pure as he tries to do the right thing, which, more times than not, does not go as expectedâbut the tries.
If you like hare-brained capers, and characters that arenât so perfect, youâll like this book. These are not upstanding citizensâthese are less-than-perfect human beings, each with their own agenda. This pursuit of the Petite Tete brings out everyoneâs true character, like it or not.
If you havenât read the first Paul Whatshisname mystery, Additional Attendee, I recommend you doâitâs really great. But you will still enjoy Bob Shapiro, Helluva Guy if this is your first Paul Whatshisname book. And, Iâm hoping thereâs a third book in the worksâfalse IDs, unknown rescuers, questions left unanswered. Fingers crossed! I can hardly wait!