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It may have been my weirdest case – or maybe not, because I have had some weird cases. It began when a man about sixty entered my office. “Mr Tuff, I’m Monty Cristo. Have you ever been a second?”
I controlled my temptation to say, “No. Nor a minute or an hour.”
“My neighbour and I argue about everything – politics, music, literature, sports. Recently, during a disagreement, he slapped me and challenged me to a duel.”
“Isn’t duelling illegal?”
“Yes, but this one will not be fatal. It was my choice of weapons, so I selected three balls of mud each at twenty paces.”
“That certainly doesn’t sound …uh, lethal.”
“It wouldn’t be, except that my neighbour, Mr. Dumas, prides himself on his expensive, well tailored clothes. I enjoy my mental picture of him with mud dripping down his stylish suit.”
“Why me as a second?”
“Who better than a private investigator, someone experienced in violence?” I wondered if I should tell him that my experience was chiefly with stolen canes and toothpick collections?
He gave me his antagonist’s address and I went to arrange the details. I hoped devoutly that this duel did not end, as some evidently did, with the seconds also fighting because my pitching experience was limited to one appearance on the mound in a little league baseball game: after eight hits and six runs, with none out, I was removed from the mound permanently.
I rang the doorbell and was surprised when a man answered wearing rumpled shorts and a tee-shirt that read “No Passion for Fashion.”
“Three mud-balls each, in turn, at ten paces,” I said.
The man looked puzzled.
“Aren’t you Mr. Dumas?” I asked.
“No,” he said. “The city renumbered the houses on this street this morning. Dumas is next door.”
I made an embarrassed apology and went next door. The door was answered by a man in a smoking jacket ($400), and slippers ($150). I delivered the details for the duel. He seemed disappointed that they did not include pistols or swords, but he accepted. “I’ll see you Saturday morning,” he said briefly.
Before Saturday, Mr. Cristo and I had a couple of sessions during which he threw mud-balls to me. I had had a very brief career as a baseball catcher which ended after five errors and four pass balls. I considered getting a plaque with my name on it and fastening it to the bench. I thought of working out a set of signals, but I didn’t know if Mr. Cristo – or anyone – could throw a fastball or curve or slider with a ball of mud. Besides, each pitch was the same: an attempt to hit Mr. Dumas.
We arrived at the park at six fifty. (Why are duels usually fought early in the morning? Are the participants eager to be killed or maimed? Or in this case muddied?) Mr. Dumas’ second was his wife whose tee-shirt read, predictably, “I Smile at Style.” We drew a line on the ground and ten paces on each side placed a table on which were three balls of mud. A coin toss gave Mr. Dumas first throw.
The park was surprisingly busy with joggers, walkers, and dog-walkers. Mr. Dumas picked up a ball of mud, wound up, and pitched it at my client. He missed by less than a foot and a large male boxer ran to retrieve the ball. “Oh, my shoulder!” screamed the woman holding the boxer’s leash. We managed to convince her not to sue. Mr. Cristo’s first throw splattered against a large tree.
Dumas’ second throw missed by six inches, as did Cristo’s. Dumas’ last ball grazed Mr. Cristo’s ear, while my client’s final throw hit Dumas in the chest and splattered over his expensive shirt. Several onlookers cheered, while Dumas looked close to tears. The duellists might have continued, but they had no more mud-balls.
Mrs. Dumas and I shook hands reluctantly, Dumas and Cristo even more reluctantly, But I was glad to be driving my client home, rather than to the hospital, – or the Laundromat – and I had three fervent hopes: one, that the two would fight no more duels; second, that if they did, it would not be with mud-balls; and third, that if they did, I would not be involved.
