SERIOUSLY...?: A Lou Fleener Thriller

by Duane Lindsay

  “How would the car get there?” Monk makes no excuses; he loves this car.

  “I don’t know. Ship it? Use one of those drive-away companies?”

  Monk gasps as if she suggested selling his wife to a Sultan. Of course, considering his ex-wife, he wouldn’t really object to it. Monk’s ex left him broke and damaged, taking his baby daughter with her. He isn’t even close to recovering.

  “I’d never do that,” he says. “Lou? Back me up here.”

  In the back seat, not even looking up from his comic, Lou says, “I liked the Justice Society better.”

  Six days on the road, that’s what it takes to drive to Chicago from Los Angeles, even on the new super highway. Interstate 80 across Nebraska seems to take a month all by itself and getting dumped into downtown Omaha when the highway just petered out, gets them lost and irritable. Even Lou, finally getting all the juice out of the reading fruit, is bored.

  At a roadside café near Des Moines he asks, “Are you doing another bookstore? When we get there?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve had two. They’ve both been blown up. It feels like tempting fate to start another.”

  Cassidy’s eating breaded shrimp with tartar sauce from a red plastic basket lined with waxed paper. She’s got a chocolate milkshake in a frozen metal cup and a smile on her face as if she’s been delivered from the lair of the devil

  “I could do this every day,” she says happily.

  “You’d weigh about nine-hundred pounds in about a month,” says Lou.

  She giggles, a pretty sight. Cassidy’s looks tend toward hard and seeing her relaxed is a delight. “I could get a job at the circus. The amazing fat broad; that’s me.” She bites into a shrimp like it’s the head of a praying mantis.

  “What about you?” Monk asks Lou. “Gonna start up the PI business again?”

  “All I know how to do.” Lou and Cassidy have discussed this at length in bed, before and after other activities. Cassidy likes sex in the daylight, a thought that at first scandalized Lou until he got over his inhibitions and learned to love it.

  “What are you going to do, Monk? If you don’t run a bookstore?”

  The miles across Iowa have been somewhat more pleasant than Nebraska, maybe because there are fewer of them and they’re closer to home.

  “I’ve been considering that,” says Monk. He’s pouring a lot of sugar from the glass dispenser into a white ceramic cup that says, Welcome to Iowa! in red letters. You can buy them at the counter for half a buck when you pay your bill.

  “I’m thinking about going into stock trading.”

  “What’s that?” Might as well say he’s going to do hydroponic gardening or building one of those new communications satellites like Sputnik.

  “People give you money and you pick out stocks you think are going to go up.”

  Lou’s eyes widen. His idea of investing is the trifecta at Belmont racecourse. “People give you money for this?”

  “A lot of money,” says Monk. “Sometimes all they’ve got. They figure you know more about the stock market than they do because you have an office, someplace ritzy, like Wacker drive or upper Michigan Avenue.”

  “And how do you pick these stocks?” Cassidy’s got that look that says, ‘this cannot possibly be legit.’

  But it is. “You study. Read about what stocks did last year, maybe they’ll do it again. You read technical papers and follow the news and make predictions.”

  “How are ‘predictions’ different from guesses?” Asks Lou.

  “I have a business card and a ritzy address.”

  3 – This Toddlin’ Town

  They get to Chicago on a Tuesday afternoon in a warm Midwestern rain shower. The streets are clear of the usual grime and the air is as hot and muggy as anywhere in New Delhi.

  “Smell that?” says Cassidy, face up to let the rain run off her cheeks. “That’s home.”

  But not yet. At the moment home is still a hotel, nice by city standards, not so much compared to their house in California. They get in, sleep for fourteen hours and go to separate tasks: Cassidy to find a house, Lou an office, and Monk a nice address on Chicago’s money row.

  The house, when Cassidy brings Lou and Monk to it, is on the north side, in Lincoln Park.

  “It’s a three story Brownstone with a garden level apartment and it’s a steal,” Cassidy tells them, “For just $61,000!”

  Average house prices being $72,000, prompts Monk to ask, “What’s wrong with it?” Just about the time the elevated train rumbles by less than a block away. “Ah,” he says. “Got it.”

  “The place is nice don’t you think?” Cassidy’s dancing around excited. “It’s got separate master suites on each floor so Monk can have his own and the basement can be an office for Lou.”

  “Kind of far from downtown, isn’t it?” Lou sounds skeptical but really isn’t; the place is pretty good. It’s got a yard out back, maybe twenty feet by fifteen, with real grass and a spindly oak tree. At the alley is a small garage where Monk can stash the Bel-Air.

  “Tish,” dismisses Cassidy. “You can drive down in fifteen minutes tops. Or take the El. Besides, your office is here. Why are you going downtown?”

  “Clients,” says Lou. Unstated is the kind you probably don’t want here. Lou’s business wasn’t the most successful three years ago before the gang war. If they could have afforded it, the rats would have moved out.

  Monk says, “I’ll be commuting.” The train rumbles by again, sounding like it’s in that backyard. “Never mind,” he says. “I’ll take the El.”

  “What do you all think?”

  “It’s ok,” says Monk.

  “I’m in,” agrees Lou.

  “Yippee!” says Cassidy, the girl from Wyoming.

  It’s two weeks of moving in, buying desks, getting the delivered furniture settled, getting used to Chicago again. That part’s like a bicycle; you never really forget. They take the El everywhere, go back to old hangouts.

  The bad part, though, is like falling off that bicycle, maybe from a busted tire, maybe from hitting some soft gravel when you’re flying downhill and suddenly the bike stops but you don’t. Handing out business cards to the police is a lot like that.

  After three days of bad jokes from detectives, beat cops and desk sergeants, all wanting to get in their two cents about Private Eyes in general, and Lou Fleener in particular, they’ve hit maybe sixty percent of the local precincts and saw nearly all the new cards tossed in the trash.

  “Not interested,” says one fat cop at a desk behind a metal grille to discourage the public. This is on the North side, somewhere near Addison, and Lou’s tempted to just drop the whole damn business and go to a Cubs game. Cassidy’s about ready to bite somebody and that somebody’s probably going to be that fat cop when Lou reminds her this is her idea.

  Not the best thing to say to a woman who’s tired and hungry he realizes, as usual, too late.

  Her reply, when they trudge back to the car, is lacking in remorse.

  “Want to be a private eye, Cass; it’s what I know how to do.” She gets in the passenger side of the Bel-Air and crosses her arms across her chest a reminder that this is someplace he’s not going to visit soon.

  “Did you ever think of being something else? A street sweeper, maybe? A garbage collector? They make good money, work regular hours. Don’t have to give out cards to cops who don’t want them…”

  “Sorry,” says Lou, knowing it’s not enough.

  “Maybe a lawyer…” she muses. She’s venting and he knows it’ll all go away if he just lets it but he’s tempted, just for a moment, to fight back. But his ability to argue—this is, after all, her idea—isn’t anywhere near the same league as his fighting skills, so he turns the key and drifts into traffic as she goes on.

  “Hey! Here’s an idea. You could open a string of those news coin-operated laundry-mats. You know, the got a row of dryers on the walls, a bunch of washing machines down the aisle, people go who can’t a
fford their own machines.”

  “Who can’t afford their own machines?” says Lou. It’s been fifteen years of post-war prosperity and the war machine has long settled into consumer products. That new K-Mart store, for instance, out in the suburbs; he saw an ad in the Tribune you could get a matching avocado colored washer/dryer combo for just fifty-nine bucks, and they’d even finance it. He’s about to mention it, thinking what woman doesn’t want a new appliance? But she isn’t done yet.

  “Poor people, Lou. There’s still a lot of poor people can’t afford a Maytag.”

  “Well, a Maytag, sure,” agrees Lou, thinking about the high-priced brand. That same Trib ad showed a picture of one, a white washer with enough dials and settings to do laundry and polish the silverware, but didn’t show the price, that how expensive was a Maytag.

  “Even a Westinghouse,” says Cassidy, thinking about Betty Furnace is her spotless new kitchen on the TV commercials, her dressed up in heels and pearls while her refrigerator sang catchy jingles. “Poor people. You think General Electric is gonna give credit to the coloreds? Or the immigrants or the…”

  “I got it,” says Lou. There’s a big white and green CTA bus belching fumes in front of them and enough traffic that he can’t get around it. Even with the windows up it’s like Satan’s waiting room.

  “Jews?” She finishes. Cassidy’s no more prejudiced than the times but the times aren’t at all inclusive. America’s still white, still Christian, still racist, with no cracks in the wall even imagined. “You could call it Fleener’s Cleaners,” she says. “Go around every night collecting nickels. Maybe somebody’d try to rob you and you could beat them up.”

  Lou finally gets a hole and zips around the bus into fresh air and sunshine. He sees a sign up ahead, blue and white and smiles like a man getting the pardon from the Governor.

  “Cass?” He says, “There’s a White Castle.”

  “Oh, thank God,” she replies.

  Dick Smacks isn’t the most hated cop in Chicago; that position is reserved for crooked cops, biased staff sergeants who give out lousy assignments and all lieutenants. As only a three year veteran, he’s not even known outside the eleventh precinct (Hyde Park from the lake to Midway.)

  Even in the eleventh precinct, he’s not hated so much as avoided like he’s got all the world’s ills.

  Dick Smacks is worse than the plague and the flu and possibly most venereal diseases: he’s a practical joker. At three years and four months on the job he’s alienated every cop on the district, most of the staff and even the janitor and the two Spanish cleaning ladies who come in a couple of nights a week to try and make a dent in the grime.

  Dick’s twenty-four years in age and maybe six in maturity and it’s only the fact that he’s very good at actual police work that he hasn’t been fired or shot long before now.

  He’s done everything in his short time on the force. Holes in the cleaning buckets, delayed explosives in the toilets to make everything that went down come back up again really fast, whoopee cushions, creamer that tastes like vomit, fake dog droppings under desks, potatoes up car tailpipes; all the classics.

  He’s at his desk in the very back of the squad room, with four empty desks as a buffer between him and everyone, when the front desk cop yells, “Yo Dick! You got company.” This always sounds like the they’re yelling “You Dick,” but Dick’s past noticing, if he ever did.

  He sees an odd couple coming his way.

  It’s a real Mutt-and Jeff combo; a short disheveled guy with no coat and a very pretty blond with sagging shoulders and a scowl that says this day is over as soon as we’re done here. The short guy’s expression says he’s way past arguing about it.

  Dick gets up to meet them, his interest growing. He’s got a new exploding cigarette load and some powder he’s been—excuse the expression—itching to try.

  The guy gets there first, holds out a moist hand to shake, jerks back in surprise when his hand is shocked. “What the Hell!”

  Dick holds up a palm buzzer and grins, takes it off and drops it in his desk drawer. The guy’s looking at him like he’s considering violence, which Dick notes as a mark of pride. His status as a prankster is measured by the size of the reaction.

  “Cute,” says the blonde. She looks him up and down like he’s yesterday’s oatmeal and says, “Forget it Lou; let’s just go.”

  “We’re here,” says the guy. “May as well drop one off.”

  Drop one? Thinks Dick. “Drop what?” He puts on his best smile, the one that makes people think—mistakenly—that he can be trusted. Dick Smacks looks a lot like that character on the Leave it to Beaver show—Eddie Haskell, the kid most likely to do ten-to-twenty at the Joliet prison. He’s got short brown hair and sincere eyes, weighs close to nothing and looks good in his pressed blue uniform with the gold shield pinned to the chest and the black belt loaded down with police stuff. Trust me, says his appearance when, no; you really shouldn’t.

  The guy—Lou—takes out a card from behind his cigarettes and hands it over. Dick reads, ‘Lou Fleener, Private Investigator’ and a phone number—Fullerton-5-6327. It’s the old phone system, hasn’t yet been changed to all numbers yet and though there’s no address. He recognizes it as a Lincoln Park exchange.

  “A private eye?” he says, holding the card. Dick’s been in a bit of a funk lately. Too many people here—all of them actually—are aware of his tricks and go to great lengths to be anywhere Dick isn’t. The result is he hasn’t pulled off a really good one in weeks. But now, he’s thinking…

  “Have a seat.” He gestures at the many empty chairs all around him, a wall against his jokes. “Pull up one for the little lady.”

  “Yeah?” says Lou, suspiciously.

  “Yeah,” agrees Dick. “I’ve never met a PI before.” He reaches into his desk, pulls out a small package. “Gum?”

  “No thanks,” says Lou. He does light a cigarette though and Dick has a moment of regret that he couldn’t have snuck in an exploding load. Regrets the gum, too, as he slides it back in his desk. It’s laced with a chemical that tastes normal for a few chews, then turns red-hot. He’s got another brand that tastes like crap—literally crap—that’s especially good on people chewing Wrigley’s Spearmint. Minty fresh and Wham! A real knee-slapper.

  He says, “Coffee?” Because he’s also got these little wafers he’s glued to the bottom of random cups in the breakroom. Pour liquid and it dissolves and give a case of the runs to anybody who drinks it. He hasn’t been able to use it since the Captain posted the rule that all cups have to be washed before use. The Captain had been rushing for the john for a week before that memo.

  Lou says no, Dick thinks, Damn! And the woman fans herself with yesterday’s Sun Times. Dick’s considering a few ideas especially designed for the fairer sex, things that itch in certain places, or cause unpleasant odors at delicate times and the guy—Lou—says, “I’m opening up my shop and want to let the cops know who I am.”

  “Sure,” says Dick, his smile covering his disappointment about the coffee. “How about a donut?” he asks. The donuts are a new gag, untried due to lack of opportunity. Dunk one in your morning Joe for instance, and it makes a foaming chemical reaction that sends froth exploding nearly two feet. It’s especially good if the dunker is driving.

  “Nah; I’m good,” says Lou. He’s got this look on his face like there’s something going on that he doesn’t get but since this is the farthest he’s gotten all week to actually talking to a cop, he’s going to go through with it. “Like I said, I’m a PI…”

  “So you’re new to Chicago?”

  “New? No.” And Lou starts to tell the story about Duke Braddock, which Dick doesn’t seem to have heard of or care about. He seems, in fact, like a guy trying to figure out how to sell you life insurance, with the faraway stare and the fidgeting for Lou to get done.

  Actually Dick’s thinking about what can he do to these folks. They’re such a mismatch—her with the looks, him without—tha
t it seems a shame to waste the opportunity, especially since opportunities have been so few and far between lately. That last incident with the milk truck and the goats…maybe he’d gone a little too far.

  Lately, Dick’s been doing his shopping at Wally Spader’s Fun Shoppe over on Halstead. They got a new guy named Tucker Wapley who he’s hit it off with and they’ve been talking about new ideas, new technology. One thing, for example, Tucker’s been pushing on him is, “this new product, based on those new transistors, is a much smaller noise generator.”

  “Go on,” said Dick, casually inspecting the shoe-box sized electronic device. “What’s it do?”

  “What doesn’t it do? It makes random noises,” says Tucker. “At very random times,” and Dick sees the possibilities in this immediately. Hide it someplace, maybe the Captain’s office, and the thing would make odd noises—chirps and dings and whoops—every once in a while. It’d be sure to drive a guy crazy trying to find it.

  But the best thing Tucker showed him just last week was a wafer thin piece of plastic with a lot of tiny holes in it.

  “What’s it do? Dick asked, turning it over, looking for clues.

  “That, my friend,” said Tucker, “Is the Waldo nine-seven-zero telephone pitch modulator. It makes voices on the telephone sound like they’re on helium.”

  “Yeah” says Dick, not getting the joke. “So?” He puts aside a feeling that maybe Tucker is pulling a gag on him; the unstated but firmly enforced rule being you don’t mess with a customer. Tucker would be fired and never work in the entertainment industry again.

  “So? SO? My dubious compadre, you put this little guy in the mouthpiece of your average Ma Bell telephone and it makes the guy—it works best with a guy; you do it to a woman it’s like only dogs can hear them and what fun is that? The guy’s voice sounds like Donald Duck, if Donald Duck talked English right.”

  “He doesn’t already?” says Dick, confused again. Sure the duck isn’t always clear, but what do you expect from a cartoon duck?