by Josh Pachter
I knew how his once-great mind was working. There were three strangers in his office. If he wasn’t careful, the situation might degenerate to the point where he had to do some work. For a moment, I was afraid he’d turn right around and bolt. That’s one of his most childish tricks.
He muttered, “Baldie, what is the meaning of this? Are you attempting to badger me?”
“No, sir,” I said quickly. “This is Mr. Aldiss, Mr. Brunner, and Mr. Clarke. Their first names are all Chuck.”
“Charles,” Aldiss growled.
Fatso glowered at me. “Clients? Do you think me a witling? We haven’t had a client for years.”
“No, sir,” I admitted.
He looked at the three Englishmen and nodded, his head moving two inches—which for him was almost a bow.
“Gentlemen,” I said, “this is Mr. Coyote, uh, that is, Lobo. Uh, I mean Mr. Dingo. No, no, don’t tell me. Mr. Jackal?”
Fatso glared at me again. “Baldie,” he said, “your mind is slipping over the precipice of senility.”
He made his way to the only chair in the world that can seat his seventh of a ton in comfort, reached for the button set into his desk, and gave one short and one long ring, his signal for beer.
The three Chucks were staring at him as though fascinated. I could guess what they were thinking. Two hundred and eighty-five pounds of meat, and not one ounce of muscle.
Franz, or Felix, or whatever the hell his name is, hobbled in with a tray bearing a plastic quart of beer and a glass and put it on his desk, turned around, and left, his aged eyes astonished at the sight of our clients. If I read him correctly, he was already having dreams of splurging on half a dozen frozen pizzas and a pound of syntho-salami.
Fatso fumbled in his desk drawer for the gold bottle opener that had been given to him by a well-pleased client back in the days when we had well-pleased clients. Look who was calling who senile.
“You sold it,” I reminded him, “five years ago.” I got up, went over, and picked up the quart of beer, rested the cap against the edge of the desk and hit the top of the bottle sharply with the heel of my hand. The cap popped off, and the beer foamed over a little before I got it to the glass.
He took a deep swallow and looked down at the brew in disgust. “These days,” he grunted, “you can’t tell Schlitz from Shinola.”
He leaned back in his chair and folded his hands over the half acre of his stomach. “If you gentlemen wish to consult a detective, why didn’t you go to the Pinkertons or Dol Bonner’s agency?”
Clarke said, “You’re the only private investigator in the city still listed as licensed.”
“Pfui,” Fatso said, then wiggled a finger at me. “Baldie, is this flummery?”
“I didn’t know we still had a license,” I told him. “They’re so inefficient down at City Hall, they probably haven’t gotten around to revoking it.” I turned to the clients. “Fact is, Chuck, there’s nothing in the PI dodge these days. We used to specialize in murder cases, but ever since the Mafia Party took office the definition of homicide has gotten so elastic a detective never gets a murder case anymore.”
Fatso closed his eyes but didn’t lean back, so he wasn’t thinking, merely suffering, probably at the prospect of being unable to find an excuse to avoid working. His lips twitched. After a dozen twitches, he reopened his eyes and spoke. “Gentlemen,” he said, “admittedly I am arbitrary and contumelious when confronted by some fatuous ninny who speaks gammon to me. What is the case to which you wish me to devote my wits?”
“Sabotage,” Clarke said.
Fatso closed his rheumy eyes in pain. “My dear sir,” he muttered peevishly, “do I look as though I am so constructed that I am capable of dashing out and confronting saboteurs? Or that my puerile assistant here, doddering on the edge of caducity, could—”
“Hey,” I said.
He ignored my protest and went on, scowling at the three Chucks. “What do you mean, sabotage? Sabotage of what?”
“Industrial sabotage,” Aldiss said. “We are the victims of industrial espionage and sabotage. The sabotage of our project: the Ruptured Rat, a disposable car.”
“Ruptured Rat?” I repeated blankly.
Brunner, putting off fussing with his beard for a moment, said, not quite apologetically, “The automobile industry has long since run out of animals and birds after which to name its new models. We began long ago with the Bearcat, the Mustang, the Thunderbird, the Cougar, and so on. Now we really have to reach.”
“Disposable car?” Fatso spat. “This is brazen impudence. Pah. You attempt to diddle us.”
“Certainly not,” Clarke said. “Certainly you remember the beginnings of the trend, the better part of a century ago? Kleenex, the disposable handkerchief. Later came such items as the disposable ballpoint pen, the disposable cigarette lighter, watches so inexpensive that, when one stopped, it was more economical to buy a new one than to have the old one repaired. Very well, the time of the disposable jalopy has arrived, and the Ruptured Rat is the result.”
“You mean,” I said, “you plan on producing a car so cheaply that, the first time it needs even minor repairs, you simply throw it away and get a new one?”
“Not exactly,” Brunner said primly. “That would be wasteful. One would simply turn it in on a new model.”
“How in the hell many people could afford to do that?” I snorted.
Fatso just sat there, his eyes closed.
Clarke took over smoothly. “I can see you chaps need some background,” he said. “In the very early days of the automotive industry, simplicity was the word. The vehicles of the time were two-cylindered, with absolutely no frills. When mass production got under way, many models sold for less than four hundred dollars. Even as recently as the mid-1930s, the cheaper cars were priced at about five hundred and fifty dollars.”
I gave a sigh for days past.
He pressed on. “But then the insidious changes began. Such foofaraw as self-starters were introduced. Four-wheel brakes. Heaters. Windshield wipers. Radios. Air conditioning. Power steering, power windows, power brakes, automatic shifting. Nine-tenths of the cost of an automobile today goes into unnecessary gadgets.” He held up a finger dramatically. “The Ruptured Rat will take us back to the infancy of the car.”
Fatso was drawing dime-sized circles with an age-crooked finger on his chair arm.
I said, “And how far do you think you can lower the price on this stripped-down set of wheels?”
Brunner said, “Five hundred thousand pseudo-dollars, or about five hundred of the dollars that prevailed before inflation began with the devaluation of the currency in 1932.”
“Only five hundred thousand pseudo-dollars?” I sputtered. “At today’s prices, you couldn’t buy the steel for a car for that amount!”
“We use the new plastics—stronger than steel, rustless, and no paint required—with tires and a battery that will last the life of the car.”
“What would you charge for a trade-in? Suppose a wheel fell off and the owner wanted a new Ruptured Rat?”
“Fifty thousand pseudo-dollars, no matter what shape it’s in. If you can get it to a Ruptured Rat dealer, the equivalent of fifty old dollars gets you a fresh Rat.”
“Holy smog!” I said in disbelief. “And how long does that guarantee last?”
“Forever,” Aldiss said. “And the model will never change. No owner will know if his neighbor’s Rat is six months old or ten years. It will be the most desired vehicle in the country. We’ll sweep the market.”
“Just a damned minute,” I protested. “What happens to all the trade-ins you accept? Why would anybody buy a used one, if they can get a new one for only five hundred thousand pseudo-dollars?”
Clarke stepped into the act again. “You won’t exactly get a new Rat when you trade in your old one. You’ll get a fresh one, bu
t, when a trade-in comes in, we’ll completely renovate it to the point where it is undetectable from a new one and put it right back on the market.”
At this point, Fatso decided to get back into the act. He opened his watery eyes and said, “Confound it, what is the sabotage you mentioned?”
“Possibly ‘sabotage’ is not quite the proper word,” Clarke said. “Our intuitive genius, the developer of the Ruptured Rat and inventor of its siphoning device, has disappeared. He hasn’t shown up for work for three days.”
“Siphoning device?” I said.
“For siphoning petrol out of the Rat,” Clarke explained.
“Why would it be necessary to siphon gas out of the car?” I demanded. “Did I miss something?”
“Ah, yes,” Clarke said, “we forgot to mention that. The Rat can run on electric power, steam generated from solar cells built into the roof, and petrol—all three. To make the story short for the sake of you laymen, the Rat produces a surplus of gasoline, which owners will be able to siphon out of their tanks and sell to service stations.”
Fatso brought his whole seventh of a ton erect and eyed the three Chucks with what I can only call that cunning you sometimes find in those failing with age. “Very well,” he said, “I’ll take the case. What is the name of the missing inventor?”
“Azimov,” Clarke told him.
I looked up from my notes. “Azimov what?”
“Azimov Asimov. It’s somewhat confusing, don’t you know, so we call him Charlie for short.”
Fatso’s slack mouth worked momentarily. “And where did he live before his disappearance?”
“In the Bowery Hilton,” Brunner said, with a twirl of his goatee.
Fatso looked at me inquiringly.
“One of the most prestigious flophouses in Manhattan,” I said.
“Very well, my wits are at your disposal, gentlemen,” Fatso cackled. “I will require a retainer. Shall we say one million pseudo-dollars?”
“A million?” Clarke said, taken aback. “Isn’t that somewhat high?”
“No,” I told him, figuring the only reason Fatso hadn’t named a larger sum was that he couldn’t count any higher.
“Very well,” Clarke said. He brought his Universal Credit Card from inside his jerkin, stood and approached the desk, and put it in the credit-transfer slot. He said into the screen, “I wish to transfer one million pseudo-dollars from the account of the Ruptured Motors Company to this one.” He pressed his thumb to the identity square. “I trust you will begin operations immediately, old chap.”
“Manifestly,” Fatso muttered, leaning back in his chair and closing his eyes.
I saw the three Britishers to the door and bolted it behind them.
When I returned to the office, Fatso’s eyes were still closed and his lips were twitching. Sometimes he drowses, muttering in his sleep about the old days, when he was up against such foes as Arnold Zeck, who he usually called Mr. X.
I knew I was going to have to prod him to work, so I said, “Any instructions?”
His eyes opened. I was rather proud of how well the blathering old duffer had conducted himself during the past half hour. He hadn’t seemed to lose the thread of things even once.
“Don’t badger me,” he said petulantly. “Can you get Saul, Orrie, and Fred here immediately?”
“Sure,” I told him. “All three are working odd jobs at Rusterman’s Hash House and Chili Parlor. It’s the only greasy spoon in town where you can eat all you want for three thousand pseudo-dollars.”
“Good heavens,” he murmured. “I remember when it was owned by Marko Vukcic and was the best restaurant in the city.”
“Time dodders on,” I said, reaching for my TV phone and beginning to dial.
He was fast asleep when the doorbell rang again. I pushed myself erect, groaning a little at the arthritic pains, and took off to answer it.
I was surprised to see the two men standing on the stoop. Adjusting my bifocals, I opened the door a crack and said, “What the hell do you want?”
“Open up,” the inspector wheezed. “Police business.”
Shaking my head, I let them in. “You know, I’ve always wondered about you two. I remember you from the early 1930s, when we were on one of our first cases, the Fer-de-Lance one. You were a homicide inspector, and the sergeant here was one of your right-hand men. Thirty years later, when we were working on the case I wrote up as The Final Deduction, you were still an inspector and the sergeant was still a sergeant. And here it is thirty years after that. Don’t you two ever get promoted or retire?”
The inspector’s big red face had gone grayish, but his growl was still the same. “We were retired, both of us. But we came back when the city got to the point where it could no longer afford to pay its civil servants and most of the police force quit.”
“Once a cop, always a flatfoot,” I told him, leading the way back to the office.
Fatso looked up from his beer. “Ah, the impetuous inspector. It has been a long time, sir. To what do I owe the doubtful pleasure of this visit?”
To my surprise, the inspector brought forth a cigar and rolled it between his hands before putting it in his mouth. I hadn’t seen a cigar in years, not since the government had declared Tobacco Prohibition.
“I just happened to be in the neighborhood,” he said creakily. “We picked up Doc Vollmer on a charge of pushing tobacco. He was peddling it to school kids. I confiscated this as evidence.” He took the cigar from his mouth and looked at it fondly. “At any rate, just as we left his place I noticed three suspicious-looking characters coming down the steps from your front door.”
“Pfui. You are a witling, Inspector,” Fatso said. He brought his glass of beer to his lips, emptied it, then took out his handkerchief and wiped foam from his mouth. “The three gentlemen in question are my clients.”
The inspector glared back at him. “That’s what I was afraid of. What did they want? Has it got anything to do with homicide? When you get involved in a homicide, all hell breaks loose, and there’s usually enough dead people piled up you’d think the plague hit town.”
Fatso had evidently had enough. He closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair.
The inspector had been through this before. When Fatso wants to withdraw, he’s the nearest thing this side of a turtle.
I showed my dentures in a ravishing smile. “Immovable object,” I said.
“You grinning ape,” he got out, pushing himself to his feet. “Come on, Sergeant.”
When I returned after seeing them out, Fatso was tapping his chair arm with one finger so I’d know he was boiling with rage. “Confound it, Baldie,” he muttered, “I should sue the city for defamation of character.”
“The city hasn’t had a pseudo-dime in its coffers for twenty years,” I reminded him.
“Pfui.”
The telephone rang, and I answered it. Lily Rowan appeared on the screen, and I winced. If she gets one more facelift, her chin will be on top of her head.
“Escamillo!” she cackled. “I’ve had the most wonderful idea. Let’s go to the—”
The doorbell rang, and I made my excuses and went to answer it. Saul, Orrie, and Fred were on the stoop.
Saul, of course, was in his motorized hover-wheelchair. Why they still call them wheelchairs when they’re supported by a cushion of air, I don’t know. But even confined to his chair, Saul is still the best tail man in the city. I hadn’t seen him for years, save at our weekly poker games. He’s small and wiry, with a big nose and flat ears. He always looks as though he needs a shave and his pants were last pressed a week ago.
Orrie is another thing entirely. In the old days, he was tall, handsome, smart, and valued himself as quite the ladies’ man. Now he looked the worse for wear, having just recently gotten out of the banger, where he was serving time for molesting little girls i
n Central Park. They sprung him when the new Permissiveness Laws were passed.
Fred, once overly married, big and broad and looking very solid and honest, was now almost the exact opposite. He had buried his over-domineering wife under somewhat hazy circumstances, the worm having evidently finally turned. He had also shriveled and was no longer honest looking. In fact, he had several times beaten shoplifting raps by the skin of his teeth.
Saul pulled his wheelchair up next to the red chair it had once been his privilege to occupy, Fatso considering him to be the best independent operative in Manhattan. Orrie and Fred wheezed themselves into yellow chairs, and I took my place at my desk.
Fatso made a steeple of his fingertips over the great expanse of his belly. “Gentlemen, we have a case. You three will proceed to tail three Englishmen named Aldiss, Brunner, and Clarke. I shall expect daily reports. That will be all.”
When they were gone, I stared at him for a long empty minute. “But those are the clients,” I finally said. “Why do you want them tailed?”
He closed his eyes. His lips moved in and out, and then he muttered petulantly, “Do you think me a callow stripling in this profession? A fatuous troglodyte? Manifestly, because there is no one else to tail thus far. They’re the only ones we know connected with the case.”
“What are my instructions?”
He reached out for one of the paperbacks dealing with our past cases—this time A Right to Die. “You shall proceed to the offices of the Ruptured Motor Company,” he said, obviously making it up as he went along, “and interview everyone who had any connection with this Charlie Asimov. Have them in my office tonight at nine o’clock.”
The Welfare State Building turned out to be no great shakes as compared to the skyscrapers of my youth. Plastics don’t quite have the dignity of the old steel and reinforced concrete materials of old, and they scruff up when some terrorist tosses a bomb or lets loose with a high-caliber assault rifle.
Despite the power shortage, some of the elevators were working. I looked up the Ruptured Motor Company on the lobby directory and found them to be in Suite 1304. I would have expected that an outfit with the ambitious project of creating the Ruptured Rat would have had at least several entire floors at their disposal, but apparently not.