“Whatever. We’re here from Washington. FBI.” He flashed a badge and waited for a reaction.
Was I supposed to fall at his feet and worship the people he walked on?
From Washington? No kidding. You didn’t have to be a detective to figure that one out. Who else would wear trench coats in bone dry, 80-degree Southern California heat? I waited. Ever notice when you watch crime shows on TV that there are always two cops, one smart and terse, the other dumb and talky? I didn’t know where this was going, so I played it safe.
“Federal Bureau of Investigation, huh?” That seemed innocuous, but all it got was sarcasm.
“No,” the short one said, “Fans of Beautiful Idaho.”
They looked around for chairs. There weren’t any. People take up less of your time and tend to leave sooner if they have to conduct their business standing up. Like guys do in a men’s restroom. I didn’t have one of those either. Ahmad and I made periodic visits to the coffee shop on the ground floor. We bought lots of coffee.
The tall agent’s eyes flicked down to my desk. “Is this office bugged?”
I stifled a laugh. “Of course not. Who would bug a place like this?”
He reached over and picked up the copy of Sports Illustrated, rolled it up, and struck the desk. “Whomp!” Dust rose.
Dozens of tiny black legs protruded from beneath the magazine. “Okay…maybe bugged a little,” I conceded, making a mental note to get some insect spray.
A sneer crossed the face of the big guy. “Let’s cut to the chase, like you film-obsessed, “La La Land” liberals like to say. There’s been a foul crime committed affecting the national security. A turkey is missing. And not just any turkey…the White House turkey. We filed the case as the Capo-Clipped Capon Caper.”
He paused, waiting for appreciation of his lame attempt at humor. “Get it?” he said finally in exasperation. “Foul crime…turkey?”
A cough. “I believe the term ‘capon’ is usually used to refer to chickens, not turkeys,” said Ahmad, who was lurking as usual. “Although the alliteration is nice.”
“Who’s the skinny guy?” the tall fed said, jerking a thumb at Ahmad.
“An intern.”
“Executive assistant,” countered Ahmad.
“Turkey, what turkey?” I tried to steer the conversation back to the barnyard.
“Somebody snatched the President’s Thanksgiving turkey from a poultry farm in Tinsel Town, and it might be a Mafia job. The bureau has been leaning on the mob lately and some capo—that means boss—might have taken offense and clipped—that means stolen—the bird,” the alpha agent said.
That bugged me. I am not ignorant of criminal slang. “I know what ‘capo’ and ‘clipped’ mean,” I said. “I watch detective shows on TV.”
The alpha agent paused, dragging out the explanation as if it would rock my world. It didn’t. “The President won’t be able to spare the Big Bird on national TV. No newspaper photos either.”
“Bye, bye, tradition,” contributed his partner, who I guessed was used to playing second banana.
“So? No turkey for the Prez on Thanksgiving?” I yawned. “Big deal. He can afford steak, filet mignon even.”
The head honcho shook his head. “Nah. The presidential family always has a turkey dinner with all the trimmings later when the press goes away. They just don’t list Meleagris gallopavo on the menu that they release to the media.”
Knowing the Latin for turkey? My estimate of the feds went up. The big guy did look a little like Elliot Ness from The Untouchables. Definitely a college graduate. Probably majored in zoology. Or maybe just a hobbyist who read the fine print in his birdwatching guide.
“Why come to me?” I slipped into my Humphrey Bogart mode—gruff, hoarse, and abrupt, with just a hint of mystery and vulnerability. I looked for a cigarette to stub out in an ashtray for effect. Oops! Forgot I gave up smoking. The smog in L.A. will kill you fast enough. “Why me? Why are you here?” I growled.
“The turkey was raised and stolen here,” said Shorty. “The Prez wanted a local bird because he is trying to be inclusive and show he doesn’t hold a grudge because of all the blue state Californians who didn’t vote for him.”
“Enough of the badinage,” the tall agent said, flaunting his familiarity with The New York Times crossword puzzle. “Clues were left behind at the turkey farm. This”—he held up a copy of the Hollywood Daily Bugle—”and this blue cloth.” He handed me a small piece of material. “Security cameras showed the birdnapper was a woman wearing a mask who may have snagged her pants on a wire in the cage the turkey was kept in.”
“And she left a note,” Shorty chimed in. It said, ‘Find Sam in L.A.’ You’re the only private dick named Sam that we could find.” He took back the piece of blue cloth and waved it like a call to arms. “Find the pants that this patch is from and we find the birdnapper.” He made it sound simple. Which I suppose it is, when you’re a simpleton.
I took the newspaper and looked at the front page. It contained a picture of a three-times divorced actress with a spectacular front porch who had rejuvenated her career by playing a nun in a sand-and-sword flick that rated one lemon on the fruit basket meter. “No thanks, I’ve read this and I saw the movie. A waste of time and the popcorn was too expensive.” I handed the newspaper back and looked at the cloth. “It’s blue all right. What does the turkey look like?”
The look of superiority vanished from their faces. The two agents looked at each other. “Did you—” one started to say. “No, that was your job,” the other said, cutting him off.
Meanwhile, Ahmad had been fiddling with his smartphone. He glanced up.
“Most domestic turkeys are bred to have white feathers, and smoky gray is the most common color,” he said, “although some are brown or bronze-feathered.”
“And it should be wearing a red ribbon around its neck,” the alpha agent added. “The new administration is Republican. So find out who the blue patch belongs to. You’re a private eye. And do it fast. The President is getting tired of eating crow. Those reporters from The New York Times are like piranhas.” His face became a frozen, unreadable mask.
How do they do that? I wondered. Mine always aches when I try.
And then they left, trench coats flapping.
“Hey…,” I called out as the agents walked out the door. “How do I get paid?” No answer. That figured.
Ahmad shrugged. “That’s capitalism for you. It breeds bureaucratic indifference and arrogance.”
“What does capitalism have to do with it?” I snapped, still unhappy at having to work on the cuff. “No logic there, compadre. Bring the car around. We’re going for a ride.”
He looked puzzled. “Around what? How can you bring a car around something?”
I closed my eyes. Smartass. “Never mind. Just grab your hat and let’s go.”
“Hat? You mean my Dodgers cap?”
I shook my head. When they’re working for free, they always push the boundaries. You learn to live with it.
While he was getting the car, I scanned clothing ads in the yellow pages until I found what I was looking for. When we got into my pre-used Prius, I fed the address into the GPS and let Ahmad drive. He said he had learned how on a Soviet T-72 tank but wouldn’t say where. However, he had mastered the skills of California driving: ignoring the speed limit, tailgating, running reds, rolling through stops, and pulling to the front of freeway exit lines and bullying his way in. Signaling? Please. Once on a freeway, we took the 101 to the 237, cut over to the 10 and did a dogleg that brought us to the 134, only to discover we were headed for Las Vegas. The GPS didn’t work. But eventually, with me reading an old Esso map, we got to Van Nuys, named after some pioneer, I suppose, whose first name was Van and last name was Nuys. Or not.
As we drove, I fingered the rough piece of blue cloth. I knew what it was and I knew what it meant. It was a message, left for me alone. I sniffed it, and the gas fumes being belched by the 16-wheeler in fron
t of us reminded me of perfume. I was back in Tangiers with Lola in our own private world of color and music and romance where anything seemed possible. Okay…that was usually after a few drinks, but you get the idea.
Ahmad and I left the car in the parking lot of the World of Pants Emporium and went inside, Bright lights dazzled the eye, sometimes both of them. Row upon row of denim pants stretched across a cavernous room. Some of the pants had rips in the knees—distressed, they call it. I looked at the price tags. I would have been distressed at paying those prices, too. A giant TV hung on a wall. The screen showed laughing children sewing dungarees in a room overflowing with toys in an Asian country. You could tell it was Asian because the captions were fashioned from cute little chopsticks.
And suddenly, there she was, just as I remembered, slim but stacked, with long blonde hair that caressed shapely shoulders. She didn’t look surprised at seeing me, but I knew what she was thinking: Of all the jeans joints, in all the towns, in all the world, he walks into mine.
She sucked in her breath and locked me up with those commanding hazel eyes. “You found me, Sam,” she breathed. “I knew you would. The terrorists made me kidnap the turkey for them. If I didn’t, they threatened to announce that my jeans are made abroad under sweatshop conditions.”
“Aren’t they?”
“Well, yes,” she admitted, “but I’m hardly going to advertise it.”
I flicked an imaginary cigarette to the floor and stepped on it. “Sorry, beautiful. Sometimes if you do the crime you have to do the time.”
“Whatever,” she said. But her fearful eyes, big and beautiful and rimmed with tears, gave her away. “You’ve got to stop them! That’s why I left the note with your name as a clue.”
“Stop who?”
“The Anti-Vivisectionist Society for the Preservation of Our National Bird.”
Ahmad cleared his throat. “I believe the American national bird is the bald eagle, which actually isn’t bald.”
“Stuff it, Ahmad,” I said. I hate it when foreigners flaunt knowing stuff we learned in fourth grade and forgot in fifth grade. “What do the birdnappers want?”
She looked ready to cry. “They want the President to set an example at Thanksgiving by eating only the side dishes—cornbread stuffing, mashed potatoes, bread rolls, oyster stuffing, green bean casserole, braised winter greens, sweet potato gratin, fresh greens, macaroni and cheese, and kale Caesar salad.”
“Kale? You may be right about them being terrorists,” I said. “That’s all?”
“Oh, and the usual pies are okay, apple, pecan, cherry, pumpkin, banana cream, and coconut cream.”
“Sounds reasonable,” I said. “The Prez might not have any room for turkey after eating all that other stuff.”
I pondered the problem. “I wonder if there’s any chance he will go along with the birdnappers’ demands.”
Lola shook her head. “I don’t think so. It said on the news that he has invited the President of Russia, Mr. Putman, to turkey dinner at the White House. Putman’s bringing the vodka and caviar.”
“Poo-Tin,” I said.
“What?”
“It’s pronounced Poo…Tin, not Put…Man.”
She dismissed my correction, her gorgeous blonde curls swirling. “Whatever.”
Ahmad’s smartphone rang. I noticed that it was the new one, the model that isn’t supposed to explode or burn. He listened briefly and handed it to me. “For you,” he said.
I took it warily, just in case. “Hello?”
“Spade?”
“No, Spad. Who is this? How did you get this number?”
“This is the FBI again. We can always find you. Don’t bother looking over your shoulder. We’re invisible. Have you made any significant progress in the Capo-Clipped Capon Caper? Did you track down the jeans? Did you file your DD725-C form for contractor payment?”
“No…Yes…What? Who am I talking to?”
Silence. “That’s whom. Sorry, Spade. You’re not cleared for information at that level. Keep plugging away. We’ll get back to you.”
“Wait! I discovered the birdnappers aren’t from the mob. They’re from the Anti-Vivisectionist Society for the Preservation of Our National Bird.”
I heard muffled profanity followed by an angry disagreement. Then the voice returned. “We knew that.”
The line went dead. I handed the phone back.
“Who was that?” Lola asked.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “You’re not cleared for information at that level.”
She wrung her hands in despair. “How can we bring the perpetrators of this nefarious threat to our traditionally eaten holiday symbol to justice?”
Ahmad broke in. He had been cruising news outlets on the Internet. “Change the TV channel. The turkey-takers released a video.”
Lola picked up a phone. “Put Channel 7 on the big screen,” she ordered.
A midget wearing cutoff jeans ran up holding a giant megaphone. “PUT…CHANNEL 7…ON…THE BIG…SCREEN,” he shouted.
“Our techie has a hearing disability,” she explained. “He tested high-volume controls for Apple when they were developing iPhone number something or other.”
The big screen showing happy kids changed to four masked men wearing black who held a sign: Spare the Turkies! Eat Vegan!
“At least we know they’re American educated,” said Lola, sounding relieved.
One of the men looked at the camera and began speaking. “It’s (garbled) for the American (garbled) to de (garbled) innocent birds,” he said.
Ahmad shook his head. “I wish he’d take the mask off. Some recent arrivals like myself are second-language challenged, especially when there’s verbal obfuscation.”
I started to ask, “what is obfu…,” and stopped. No way I’d give him the satisfaction.
In the background of the picture, a turkey pecked away at something on the floor. It seemed unconcerned. Me? Not so much.
Then one of the men sneezed and his mask started to slip. The picture went to black.
What would Sam Spade have done, I wondered? How would he have handled the situation? And how could you find a single turkey in a metropolis of 18.68 million people, some of whom were undoubtedly the dumb human version of turkeys themselves? The answer was obvious: By detective work, of course.
“We’re running out of time, people,” I rasped. “We’ve got to find the birdnappers, rescue the turkey, get the President his photo op, and spare TV viewers more atrocious misspelling.”
“How will we find them?” asked Lola.
“We’ll follow the money.”
Her lovely lips formed an oh. “Money? What money? Is there ransom involved, too?”
I looked up for divine guidance—or sufferance. “That’s an expression, sweetheart, an expression. We’ll follow the corn. Don’t ask what corn.”
Lola still looked perplexed.
Ahmad spoke up. “The term is from All the President’s Men, a 1976 film with Robert Redford and Dustin Hoffman. It won four Academy Awards.”
She brightened. “Oh. I’ll download the movie. Is it a comedy?”
I set Ahmad and Lola to work calling feed stores in the Greater L.A. area to find out if any recent orders had come in for solitary sacks of corn. Poultry farms buy grain in bulk. One buyer might not have. Bingo! One had purchased a single sack.
The three of us squeezed into the Prius and headed for the feed store. The clerk wasn’t cooperative. I gave him the stare. “We’re from the government and we’re not here to help you. Think I.R.S.” He got us the name of the corn buyer and an address from a sales record.
Traffic was light as we drove to the warehouse district, which is stuffed between Little Tokyo, Skid Row, and the Los Angeles River. During dry season, the river trickles along a concrete path that you see in movies sometimes. In monsoon season, it gushes. This was a gusher. Mallards squawked as they were swept downstream by the flood.
The building was a run-down two-story with
a faded brick façade. Paint peeled along the edges of an old-style door with an oval glass insert. I was impressed. I jotted down the address. This might be a good investment. Once gentrification reached the area and Starbucks arrived with those outdoor tables and cute little umbrellas, property values could skyrocket.
“What’s that?” Lola said.
Music. It was music. Coming from the garage.
I leaned on the bell. An unshaven young man in a faded Guns N’ Roses t-shirt opened the door.
“Yeah?”
“Love the classic rock wear,” I said, gesturing to the grinning death-head figure with the top hat. I pulled out my wallet and flashed the City of Los Angeles receipt in the glassine window, pulling it back before he could read it. I always carry an outdated copy of my cat’s license with me.
“Building inspector,” I said. “We got reports of a gas leak.”
“Huh?”
I brushed past him. Lola and Ahmad trailed behind. We followed the blaring music along the hallway and down the steps into the garage. The pungent odor of marijuana filled the air like an ominous cloud. I breathed it in. Not bad. Middle-grade Mexican weed. So what if second-hand smoke can kill you? I say let’s make some exceptions.
Three young men in jeans and black t-shirts, sprawled on chairs. In one corner was a tripod-mounted camera and a floodlight. In another corner, neck rising and falling as it pecked at kernels of corn on the floor, was a turkey with a red ribbon about its scrawny neck. The turkey. Our turkey. Case solved.
*
The feds weren’t happy when I called the Los Angeles Times before I called them. I needed the publicity. They didn’t. The birdnappers turned out to be cinematography students from USC who were involved in a class project, and got carried away after toking a little too much and punishing a few six packs of cerveza, I deduced that from the Dos Equis and Carta Blanca bottles on the floor. The bird, dubbed “Lucky LuLu” by a reporter, had lost a few feathers, but was otherwise okay.
As they say in film land, that was a wrap. The bird wound up with a presidential pardon. Ahmad, that ungrateful opportunist, left after talking his way into a job as a gofer on a Walking Dead TV rip-off, The Perambulating Deceased. More upside, I guess, than being a detective’s intern. The last I heard, Lola was sweating out a delivery of next year’s fashions in denim from China. Or was it Indonesia?
The Killer Wore Cranberry: A Fifth Course of Chaos Page 3