The Spycatcher Caper

by Robert Muccigrosso

  “Private, I want and need results, and pronto. I don't give a flying fuck about whether or not Japs like eel. I want to know if any of them still not in relocation centers are up to no good, and you're going to find this out for me, or you'll be vacationing in the South Pacific and saying 'hello' to a mess of Tojo's cruelest. Understood? Now get out before you make me angry.”

  “Ah, sir, you seem a little angry now.”

  “GET OUT!”

  The colonel collected himself before asking Sergeant Grimm to bring him some water and a couple of aspirins. Grimm responded with alacrity. The colonel popped out a couple of analgesics from the bottle but refused the water. “I think I need something stronger than that.” Reaching into the right-hand bottom drawer of his standardized military desk, he pulled out a half-empty bottle of Jim Beam, threw the headache-killers into his mouth, and tossed them down with the booze.

  “I'm telling you, sergeant, every time I meet that goofball I'm thankful that I'm not carrying my sidearm. He may be the worst disaster this country has faced since the debacle at Pearl. I want to win this goddamn war, get a promotion, retire, and live out my years doing some fishing up in Oregon, where I have a small place that the missus and I just love. And, sergeant, I'm not going to let this chicken shit private eye from New York screw this up. No siree! And you know what we're going to do? We're going to take action. I can't get rid of the numbskull or my chances of promotion are about as good as his are for winning the Medal of Honor. But I can use some collateral help. Grimm, contact our gal G.I. and tell her that I wish to see her ASAP.”

  The sergeant suppressed a smile. He had contacted the attractive young woman before with orders to meet the colonel when he was working late.

  Chapter 8

  “We must be very, very careful. A gentle breeze does not always mean good weather.”

  “Yes, Ichiban. [number one]

  “He is a sly, cunning foe.”

  “Yes, Ichiban.”

  “He wishes to undo all the plans we have for this accursed country.”

  “Yes, Ichiban.”

  “He calls himself Dick DeWitt.”

  “Yes, Ichiban. Do you wish me to kill him?

  “Not yet. No, first we must find out if there are others who are assisting him in looking for those of us who remain loyal to our Land of the Rising Sun. We must not cut off the head of one snake if others continue to slither in the grass. We must cut off the heads of all such serpents. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, Ichiban.”

  “Good. May our Emperor, the descendant of the goddess Amaterasu, guide us on our path.”

  Chapter 9

  Brilliant ideas come to brilliant people, sometimes to lesser minds, and, occasionally, to the least expected minds. Unfortunately, the latter are also all too often choice receptacles for moronic ideas, such as the one that ensnared Pfc. Richard DeWitt.

  Having failed to encounter enemy spies no matter how many times he walked up and down the mostly deserted streets of Little Tokyo—even after he had once asked a startled Japanese elderly lady if she knew of any spies or otherwise disloyal Japanese–he was at his wit's end. If I report back to that mean sonofabitch colonel empty-handed, he may send me to fight in the Pacific. So what can I do? he mused.

  Then it hit him as he sat polishing off a plate of meat loaf smothered with sauerkraut and jalapeῆos in the Brookdale Cafeteria: those sly Nips may have caught on that he was a spycatcher. What he needed now was a disguise. “Why didn't I think of this before?” he shouted, as he banged his hand down, missing the table but not his meatloaf, and eliciting startled stares from nearby diners. He sprang from his seat and ran to the cashier, demanding to look at the phone directory's Yellow Pages. When the man informed him that it was not for public use, DeWitt shot back that he was a spycatcher working for the government, and that if the cashier didn't want to join our forces fighting the Nips, he'd better fork over the pages. Despite the pleas, angry shouts, and name-callings from a growing line of diners queuing to pay for their meals, DeWitt remained immovable, searching for… he wasn't sure. He slammed shut the Yellow Pages and left to strident jeers.

  He returned to the Chow household, where he found mama and daughter Chow accusing one another of cheating at Mah Jongg, and son, Low Fat, listening to “The Green Hornet” on the Silvertone radio that graced the living room.

  “Hello, Dick, why don't you sit down and listen to 'The Green Hornet'? It's almost over.”

  DeWitt liked the series, especially since it featured a master crime fighter like himself, but tonight he had something troubling his mind and couldn't concentrate on the Hornet's fictitious problems. Once the program finished and the commercials came on, he turned to Low Fat.

  “Low Fat, I'm in a bind. You know what the Army wants me to do, but I'm getting nowhere. I'm determined to get somewhere, however, and what I need is a good disguise so that the Japs won't guess who I am or what I'm supposed to be doing. I could use suggestions, especially since you're a copper and might know a lot about the subject.”

  Low Fat lit up a Camel and frowned. Then he looked at DeWitt and smiled. “I'll tell you what, Dick. Why don't you go as a pachuco?”

  “A what?”

  “A pachuco. Haven't you guys from back east heard of them?

  Well let me tell you something about them. They're Latinos, as you might guess by the name, more often than not teenagers or young men, and rebels. They don't like Anglos, and the feeling is fully reciprocated. So far there hasn't been any real trouble with them, but the police and the city's authorities are keeping an eye on them just in case. And it's plenty easy to keep an eye on them,” Low Fat chuckled. “They like to wear what we call zoot suits, wide-lapelled long jackets coming to their knees, pegged trousers with a high waist, a big brimmed hat, and a watch dangling from a key chain. They're not hard to miss if you're looking in the right parts of the city.”

  “Where can I find this getup?”

  The policeman laughed until he saw the serious expression on the spycatcher's face.

  “You're not kidding, are you pal?”

  “Uh, uh.”

  “Listen, Dick, I've got some time tomorrow. I'll drive you to a costume shop I know, where you can pick from a wide variety of costumes. But sashaying around like a pachuco is certainly going to draw attention. Are you sure this is a wise move?”

  “Yeah, Low Fat, it is. You see, nobody's going to take me for a spycatcher this way, but I can spy on them all I want without arousing suspicion. I'm cut out for this kind of work. Keep in mind, Low Fat, people couldn't get over what I did as a detective in New York.”

  “Okay. It's your decision. But I truly hope that it won't be your funeral.

  Good as his word, Low Fat drove DeWitt to the costume shop the next day. He couldn't contain his laughter when he saw DeWitt garbed as a pachuco, complete with a cheap watch hanging from a corroded key chain. The pachuco wannabe, however, took a long look in the mirror and concluded that it was not bad. “In fact,” he said to Low Fat, “I kind of like it. Everything suits me, except for the hat. Fortunately, I brought my green fedora to LA with me. I always wore it when I worked as a private eye.”

  DeWitt insisted on immediately wearing his new outfit rather than his regular street clothing when they left the store. He also suggested that they go to a bar—any bar—to check on the reaction he would get.

  Low Fat said no, not for all the rice in China, and told DeWitt to get into the car.

  Chapter 10

  The following morning DeWitt put on his disguise and grabbed his green fedora and a pair of sunglasses. He went downstairs, kicking two of the cats aside. For the first time in any of the mornings since his arrival, Lotus Blossom, Feng Shui and the Chinese women with whom they were playing stopped arguing over their Mah Jongg game and looked at the soldier boy tenant. Only he did not look like any soldier they had ever seen.

  “Hey, mister, you too early for Halloween. Army tell you to dress like that, or may
be you gone clazy.” Lotus Blossom looked at her daughter for confirmation. “What you think, Feng Shui?”

  I think he eat too much eel.”

  DeWitt managed a weak smile and left before his appetite for breakfast left him.

  Sammy Burpp's Chinese-American diner promised a good way for DeWitt to find out if his disguise fooled others, as he was convinced it would.

  “Hello, Dick, we've missed you,” said the proprietor. Stifling a laugh, he asked if he was getting ready for Halloween.

  DeWitt chose not to comment but to take his usual table and pay as little attention as possible to the increased volume of chatter from astonished patrons.

  Ping Pong limped to the table with a menu. “Today not Halloween, Mister. You look like shit.”

  DeWitt scowled. “Do you know who I am?”

  “You think I forget man who order foolish bleakfasts? Maybe that why you look like shit today.”

  DeWitt finished an order of toast and coffee and gave no thought of surrendering a tip to Ping Pong. No likee my clothes, he told himself, go fuckee yourself.

  The gumshoe arrived back at the Chow house in a sour mood. Breakfast had been a disappointment, more so his failure to have fooled anyone with his disguise. I'm at sixes and sevens, he told himself, though he hadn't the faintest idea of what the saying meant.

  “Hey, soldier boy, you got woman waiting for you in living room. You make date with hooker?” asked Mrs. Chow as soon as her boarder entered. “This is good house I run. You not bring one of those women here, you understand?”

  Mrs. Chow's outburst caught DeWitt off guard. “Listen, Lotus Blossom, I've never gone with hookers,” he lied. “With my good looks and charm, why would I need to?”

  Lotus Blossom stared at his outfit and told him not to keep the woman waiting and by no means take her up to his room.”

  “Hello, Dick. Remember me?”

  “Yeah, I do Rosie. Have you been keeping your nose clean?”

  “Yes, Dick, I have. How about you? How are they hanging—that is, if they're still hanging?”

  What a great kidder this dame is, he thought. I didn't know she had such a subtle sense of humor.

  “So what brings you here, Rosie?”

  “I'm here to invite you to a party that some of my friends are throwing. They're an interesting group, and I think you may enjoy meeting them, especially since you probably haven't made many acquaintances since you've been here. And who knows,” she said, “you might be able to sell them some rice. It's this Saturday. I have a car and can pick you up around 8:30. Are you free?”

  “Well, I've got a few other things lined up that night, but, sure, I think I can arrange it. You want a drink or you got other irons to fry?”

  Rosie told him she had to leave. On her way out she said good-bye to Mrs. Chow, who growled something in Chinese before returning to the kitchen table and her seemingly endless game of Mah Jongg with Fen Shui and their two usual co-players

  Dick, his stomach rumbling, decided to set off to the Brookdale Cafeteria for an early lunch platter of spaghetti with a side order of rice and pickled herring, the thought of which lifted his spirits.

  Chapter 11

  Came the evening of the party DeWitt wanted to impress both Rosie and the guests. Though not in the habit of bathing more than a few times monthly, he immersed himself in the Chow's semi-clean tub for a half hour of soaking and meditation. A quick shave and the selection of attire followed: more or less clean underwear, trousers, shirt, and a tie whose dark hues muted a miscellany of food stains. His white sox complimented his white sneakers. Not bad, he told himself looking into the mirror, not bad at all.

  A car horn honked repeatedly outside the Chow home promptly at 8:30. DeWitt donned his green fedora, snapped its brim forward, and headed out for a night of diversion and—who knew?—possibly a lead or two in his quest for looming Nip spies.

  Stepping into the dark Plymouth, he smelled the strong scent of perfume. “Hi, Rosie, what's that you're wearing, Channel 5?”

  “Hi yourself, Dick. No, Chanel No. 5 is too rich for my pocketbook. Lilly Sachet suits me fine.”

  “It suits me fine, too, if you get my drift, and I'm sure getting the drift of your perfume,” he said, ogling her.

  “Well thank you. I can't tell what aftershave lotion you're wearing. Is it Bay Rum? Old Spice? What?

  “Nah, it's just some cheap stuff I picked up in a Woolworth's. Anyway, not many dames have complained so far.”

  DeWitt asked Rosie how her work was going. “It's okay. I like being a hostess, even if where I work could use classier customers. But an unmarried gal like me will do almost any kind of work as long as it's legal. But tell me how the rice business is going.”

  “How should I… oh, it's a bit slow now, but I'm sure things will pick up. Rumor has it that there's a big Chink… er, Chinese wedding next week and… hey, tell me, do they throw rice like normal people do when the marrieds leave for their honeymoon? I suppose the rice is not cooked, right? I'll have to take that into consideration when I make my sales pitch.”

  “I can't help you there, Dick. I've never been to a Chinese wedding. You'll have to figure this out for yourself.”

  DeWitt was in a talkative mood, but Rosie cautioned that she had to pay attention to her driving. It was a dark night with no visible moon, and finding her way deep into the Hollywood Hills presented a problem on the clearest of nights.

  The house was large, very large, with a circular gravel driveway highlighted by what DeWitt called a Port Cochise, although he confessed not knowing why anyone would call it after a bloodthirsty Apache. Rosie parked her car in the driveway and put her arm in DeWitt's as they passed under the porte-cochere to the front door. They rang the bell, which was answered by some sort of Asian servant—a Chink, a Filipino, maybe just a down-and-out actor from Central Casting who need an extra buck or two.

  “Good evening,” the servant said as he bowed. “May I take your hat, sir?”

  “I'll keep it on, if you don't mind.” DeWitt warily replied to the request for his green fedora from this total stranger.

  “Ah, there you are!” The voice belonged to their host, who looked even more like an actor from Central Casting than the servant. He was tall, wore a tuxedo, and held a lit cigarette in a long, golden holder. The monocle he sported in his right eye augmented his elegant appearance, except when it slipped, which it did with some regularity. A medal attached to the lapel of the tuxedo provided the finishing touch.

  Liebchen! You have not been here for such a long time, dearest Fräulein. You shouldn't disappoint an old man like me.” He bowed and kissed Rosie's hand.

  “My dear count, let me introduce you to my friend, Dick DeWitt. He's a rice salesman.”

  The count's monocle again slipped. “You are welcome to my party, Herr DeWitt. I am Count Ulrich Ditter von Puffendorff.

  “From your name, count, I'm guessing that you're a Krau… German, and that the thing you got pinned on your penguin suit did not come from a Crackerjack box. Am I right?”

  Rosie blushed and the count turned a deep shade of red but was able to regain his composure. “You are correct, Herr DeWitt. I left my homeland after that Herr Hitler took control. What you see on my tuxedo is an Iron Cross Third Class, a medal I won for my courage during the Great War. Now if you'll excuse me, I must see to my other guests. But please enjoy drinks and refreshment, and mingle with others.” The count bowed and kissed Rosie's hand and gave DeWitt a look that no one could mistake for friendliness.

  A couple of young female servants, both Asian, were making the rounds of the large living room, serving drinks and canapés to the two dozen or so guests dressed in tuxedos and suits, evening gowns and expensive-looking dresses. DeWitt grabbed two glasses as one of the trays passed.

  “Hey, Rosie, don't you want a drink?” Dick asked as he took a guzzle first from one glass and then the other. “I can get one of these chicks to bring you one.”

  “Not yet. You see th
at man with the toupee across the room? He's an old friend that I have to say hello to. Why don't you use your charm and meet some of the count's guests? A few of them are quite interesting and who knows if any need rice?”

  Before he could decide whom to charm, Dick felt a hand on his arm. “Did your girlfriend take a powder, mister, or is she just off to powdering her nose?”

  DeWitt turned and found himself face-to-face with a pug-nosed, freckled-faced redhead who could have passed for Miss Kansas or Miss Nebraska or Miss Middle America. Unlike the Kraut's other female guests—Rosie excepted—she was not, he concluded, dressed to the tens.

  “I don't think we've met, Mr…”

  “DeWitt, Dick DeWitt. And what's your nomenclature?” Dick was proud that he had taken a course from Vinny the Vocabulary Man way back when.

  The young woman, probably in her middle twenties, frowned. “I'm not sure I have a nomenclature, but my name is Cassie Cassidy.”

  Feeling empowered by the two drinks he had mostly polished off and by his self-acknowledged charisma, Dick joshed, “Any relation to Hopalong?” His witticism caused him to laugh so hard that he spilled the remainder of his cocktails on the front of a dress that encased an alluring bosom.

  “Oops, sorry about that. I guess I got carried away,” he apologized as he dabbed at various spots with his moderately soiled handkerchief.

  “Stop that, Mr. DeWitt. You're causing a scene and embarrassing me. Besides,” she smiled, “we hardly know one another yet.”

  “There's no time like the present, is there, Cassie my lassie?”

  “Well you certainly know how to turn a young girl's head with your words. Tell me, Dick, are you a poet?

  Laughing loudly, he nearly spilled the two fresh drinks he had grabbed from one of the passing servers. “Hell no. I sell rice. Just ask that half-Chink who brought me here.” Dick looked around the room furtively and leaned closer to Cassie. “I don't just sell rice. I do something else that's a whole lot more important, but I can't tell you because it's a secret.”