The Black Llama Caper

by Robert Muccigrosso

  Neither Sammy nor Tony was there when I arrived. I took a stool at the bar but not before wiping the seat with Gus's bar rag. The joint was fairly crowded, although most of the regulars didn't usually show up until after 11:00 or so. Gus asked me what I wanted. I said the usual. So he brought me a bowl of peanuts. “You wanna drink too, or is this another of your freeloading nights?” I was hurt. The peanuts were stale. “Gimme a gin rickey,” I told him. “Easy on the rickey, but don't stint on the gin.” Gus just snorted.

  While Gus was fixing my drink and mumbling something about a tab that was nearly as large as the new Empire State Building, I cased the joint. Maybe there was a good-looker looking for another good-looker, namely me. Maybe I'd get lucky tonight. It had been a while. I spotted Gardenia Gertie, who blew me a big kiss and motioned for me to join her at her table. I wasn't that desperate. Gardenia Gertie was also known as Gonorrhea Gertie to those who had gotten to know her real well. I blew a kiss back and yelled, “Not on your life!” As I said, Mom always taught me to be a gentleman.

  I sipped at my gin rickey, which Gus, still mumbling, had slammed down in front of me. Some of it splashed on my shirt. Gus should be more careful, I thought.

  “How ya doing, Mr. DeWitt? Long time no see.”

  I was ready to whip out my blackjack and beat the sonofabitch senseless for making me choke on my drink. Fortunately for him, I had left my companion back at the apartment. But as I spun around to see my assailant, I was pleasantly surprised to see the mug of none other than Light Fingers Louie, the best safecracker in town. He was a good yegg, as far as I was concerned.

  “Louie, you old sonofabitch,” I greeted him cordially. “How ya been? I thought you were doing five in Sing Sing.”

  “The years fly by, Mr. DeWitt, just like Lucky Lindy and his airplane. Actually they let me out after three years 'cause of my good behavior. I made nice with the bulls and told the warden that I could give him sure tips on the horsies once I got sprung.”

  “That's swell, Louie, and you're looking great.” Once again I was telling a big one, since he looked like one of the decrepit nags he invariably advised people to bet on. “What are you doing to put bread on the table? I hope you're going straight this time.”

  “I swear to you, Mr. DeWitt, I swear on the grave of my sainted third uncle Padraic McNoodle that I'm going straight this time. But I'm not putting bread on the table these days. I put it on a plate. See, I learned good manners when I was in the pen. And as for a job, I started working last week at the Bank of Bulgaria over at 37th and Sixth. I'm a security guard.”

  “That's swell, Louie, and I'm real glad for you.” I thought of standing him a drink but recalled the state of my tab. Besides, Gus was still mumbling.

  Then I got a brainstorm. “Tell me, Louie, do you still see any of the old crowd, you know, all those guys who seemed to know everyone and anything that happens in this town?”

  “Sure do, Mr. DeWitt.” He beamed. “And I'd be glad to do you a favor if you need one. Just say the word. You always played fair with me.”

  Louie obviously didn't know that it was I who phoned in the anonymous tip that got him nabbed for safecracking and in stir. I sometimes felt like a heel for doing it, but the reward was too good to pass up, especially if you were paying alimony and short of peanuts.

  “Yeah, Louie, I could use a lead. Client of mine has got the hots for some broad, but she's gone AWOL and the trail's cold. She's about six-five, blonde, and has this thing for basketball. Ring a bell with you?”

  “It doesn't even ring-a-ding with me, Mr. DeWitt, but I can ask around and let you know. You still living in that same dump you had? Got the same phone?”

  I assured Louie that neither the dump nor my phone number had changed since he paid his respects to the slammer. “I could be in like Flynn if I find her, and I won't forget who helped me,” I promised. “Here's my card. And Louie,” I advised, “keep your nose clean this time.”

  “I sure will, Mr. DeWitt. I keep plenty of Kleenex with me. I'll be in touch.”

  We shook hands and Louie went back to a table where what looked like a pride of petty thieves had gathered. Poor Louie, I thought.

  I had finished my drink long before. I looked at Gus. He sneered and gave me the finger. I shrugged and took a sip from a half-empty glass nearby. I was sorry I did that: Gin rickeys don't mate well with Black Russians. I got up to leave. Gertie blew me another kiss and I blew one back, hoping I didn't catch anything that I no ways wanted to catch. But she was a sweet gal at heart. So I threw her a handful of peanuts before calling it a night at The Slippery Elbow.

  6

  Sunday the dick slept late. I had a slight hangover from boozing it up the night before and fatigue from dealing with my client Mr. Baker, Chinaman Charlie, and Fatso at the museum. Chasing a bus hadn't helped either. Besides that—as if that weren't enough—my gut felt funny from all the Spam and peanuts I had consumed. Gotta learn that Spam and peanuts just don't mix.

  When I finally crawled out of bed around 2:30, the day was half shot. By this hour people had returned home from church and fire-and-brimstone sermons. And, I thought, if they were among the lucky ones not out of work during this awful depression, they were well into their regular Sunday meal of chicken, mashed potatoes, peas, and chocolate cake.

  I yawned, stretched, scratched myself and headed for the john to take care of matters. I felt lousy and the mirror made things worse. A shower helped a little. So did brushing my teeth. The hell with rubbing the enamel off them, I told myself. The gut still bothered me, but I managed to get down a couple pieces of stale rye toast and some java. That was plenty for now.

  I spent the rest of the afternoon reading the comics, the only part of the Sunday paper I enjoyed. Come to think of it, it was about the only worthwhile part of any day's paper. How much news about people out of work and committing suicide or one lousy European country threatening another can you take? I know that somehow, some day, these stinking bad times will give way to better ones. Yeah, maybe some day. But some day when? At least I do know that we'll never get stuck in another war just to pull England's chestnuts out of the fire. Give me a steady diet of “Blondie,” “Mutt and Jeff,” and of course “Dick Tracy,” from whom I learned most of my trade, and I'll be as happy as a pig in you-know- what.

  Trouble was that a black cloud had drifted over me and was raining drops of doldrums on my head. I had the Sunday blues and not even listening to “Amos 'n' Andy” was helping. A shot of Jack Daniel's didn't do much for me either. Nor, I figured, would going to see the latest Garbo flick. Then the phone rang. Who'd call me on a Sunday, I wondered. Who'd call me at home any day?

  “I got two words for you, wise guy,” said the caller. “Butt out.”

  I thought real fast. This bozo, who spoke with an accent, can't be a

  friend. Raising my voice an octave, I answered, “To whom do you wish to speak, sir?” I figured the disguise would throw him for a loop.

  “I want to speak to your Aunt Fanny about a certain matter.”

  Maybe the call was legit after all. I did have an Aunt Flora, but she had been sent to the Wisconsin Home for the Criminally Insane fifteen years earlier for dicing her husband, Mack, and then stuffing his ears with sauteed onions. Maybe this guy did know Flora and had got her name wrong. One way or another I was determined to find out.

  “I'm so sorry, but dear Aunt Fanny has gone out for the evening to play mah-jongg with her friends. Would you be so kind as to leave your name and number? It would also be of great assistance if you would elaborate on 'butt out'.” That should do it, I thought.

  “Listen, you damn pansy, you're getting my goat. I want you to stop looking for you-know-who or you'll be looking for what's between your legs.”

  Puzzled as I was, the more I thought about the strange caller and stranger message, the more the pieces didn't seem to fit. I had a case now, strange as it was. Forget it, I told myself. Stop thinking about the threats, or you'll lose sight of
finding Mona. Maybe she'll turn up tomorrow. Sure, sure. Like maybe I don't know on what side of the toast I slap my margarine.

  It had been a short, hard day, and I had nothing to show for it except a few guffaws from the funny papers. I looked out my filthy windows. It seemed to be raining again.

  7

  Monday was another day, another week. But for some reason I didn't have the old Monday workday blues. Maybe it was because I had had the Sunday blues. Maybe it was because I almost never had any work to do on Mondays. And maybe, just maybe, it was because I had a good feeling about finding Mona.

  I walked up the stairs to my office cheerfully whistling “Brother, Can You Spare a Dime?” En route I read the riot act to a vagrant who was sleeping in the stairwell. The sight of that scruffy guy nearly broke my good mood.

  Dotty was ferreting through the file cabinet when I opened the door at 10:18. She was either cleaning dustballs or looking for the remains of an old sandwich that one of us might have left. As far as I could tell, it had been a long time since the cabinet had housed anything serious. “Morning, babe. Get lucky over the weekend?”

  “As a matter of fact I did, although I'm not sure if that's any of your business,” she huffed. “They were running a special on melons at the grocery store, and you know how hard it is to get good melons this time of year.”

  My Gal Friday could be a bit slow, even downright stupid, if you ask me, but she had her melons, I have to say. I also have to say that they looked real swell lurking there inside her red angora sweater.

  “Good for you, kid.” I took off my coat and hat, sat at my desk, put my feet up, and asked the usual: “Any messages?”

  “Yeah. There was a certain Mr. Baker who called, but he didn't leave his name.”

  I almost jumped out of my chair. “Whaddya mean he didn't leave his name? Didn't you say the call came from a Mr. Baker?”

  Dopey Dotty thought for a minute. “I guess I should have said that he didn't leave his first name,” she giggled.

  I felt like sending her down to play with the vagrant. “Did he leave a message?”

  “Ah … yeah. He said to call him.”

  That would have been fine except, of course, I hadn't got around to finding out where or how I could reach him when he was here on Saturday. I guess Dotty might not be the only dopey one.

  I was stewing in my juices while anxiously waiting for Mr. Baker to call back. Dotty watered the artificial plant, then returned to reading War and Peace. She had finished the complete works of Dickens. Meanwhile the phone remained as silent as I wish my ex-wife had been throughout most of our marriage. We didn't have a clock on the wall, but tick, tock, tick, tock was in my brain.

  I had had enough of sitting there waiting for the damn contraption to ring. Dotty was laughing hysterically, probably over the part where Napoleon invades Russia and all those soldiers get slaughtered. She was getting on my nerves.

  Then it struck me, a bolt right out of the blue, or in today's case, the gray. I didn't know Baker's first name, but why not look up “Baker” in the phone book and see if my man's listed? They don't call me Super Sleuth for nothing. (I have been called a few other names.)

  “Hey, Dotty, put down that crap and go get our telephone directory. Look up 'Baker' and start calling each one to see if you can find our client.”

  Dotty looked pissed, as only Dotty can look pissed. “Do I have to? I had my nails manicured Friday and I don't want to spoil them,” she whined and began picking at what remained of her cuticles.

  “Listen, Dotty, you're not getting paid to just sit around and look like Harlow, you know.”

  “Oh, all right. But just remember that I'm not getting paid at all these days.”

  She had a point. I went back to stewing in my juices, and Dotty got out the directory. She turned the pages and continued to pick at her cuticles. At least ten minutes passed. Then she looked up with a sort of pained expression and asked, “How do you spell 'Baker'?” There are days it doesn't pay to get out of bed, I thought.

  Somehow she managed to process the information. “There are a lot of 'Bakers,' you know. Do I have to call all of them?”

  “No,” I said, “only those with telephone numbers.”

  “But they all have telephone numbers or they wouldn't be listed. Isn't that so?”

  “Yes, Dotty,” I sighed. “Start with the first one and then keep phoning until you get the right one.”

  “But what happens if I don't get the right one, Mr. D?”

  I gave serious thought to firing her on the spot, but a glance at her melons, platinum hair, and come-hither, gap-toothed mouth told me to cool it. But I had to get out of the place.

  “I'm going to Ma's for some hash,” I informed her. “Want me to bring you back something, or are you eating out?”

  “Bring me back something from Ma's. I'm dieting, so it should be something light. Let me think.”

  Letting her think, I feared, was going to delay my lunchtime until supper. “I know. Bring me back a tongue and limburger cheese sandwich on white bread with lots and lots of mayo. Oh, and an extra portion of french fries. But skip the dessert today because it's fattening.” There was something seriously wrong with this dame.

  Once at Ma's, I caught Betty's eye. She gave me her usual nasty look and sauntered over. She was still sore either about the tip she thought I had swiped or because I had left her only a nickel on Friday.

  “Yeah, whatta you want today, big sport?”

  “I'll have a cuppa split pea soup and a BLT.”

  She smirked. “How do you want your pee split? And what's a BLT? Both Little Testicles?”

  I wanted to split something for her, namely her lip, but settled for warning her that she'd get no tip if she continued to speak that way to me.

  “Honey, if I had to depend on people like you for tips, I might as well be walking the streets.”

  I let it go at that. I wasn't sure what she meant by “walking the streets,” although I could see her walking a dog, preferably a pit bull that would make her cry “uncle” even if she didn't have one.

  I wolfed down my lunch. I wanted to finish the foul-smelling and worse-tasting soup and sandwich as quickly as possible so that I could get back to the office and see what Dopey Dotty had come up with. Betty the Beast brought me the check along with the eats I was picking up for Dotty. I left Betty a bigger tip this time: a dime. I didn't bother to let her know that the dime was lying on the counter next to me when I sat down.

  This time I took the elevator up to my office, fearful that Ma's fine cooking was about to come up on me any minute. I handed Dotty her food. She immediately dumped one of the containers of fries on her tongue and cheese sandwich. Then she took the ketchup and mixed it with the mayo that covered the bread.

  “Dotty, if you can stop for a moment making like Chef Boyardee, could you tell me if you were able to get in touch with Baker.”

  “I got in touch with all the Bakers that were in the white pages, Mr. D, but no luck. Want me to look in the Yellow Pages and call all those bakers too?”

  “No, you did well, babe.” There I went lying again. “Wait a minute,” I whooped.

  “But Mr. D, I'm so hungry!”

  “No, no. I just got an idea that might work. I did some work for a dame a few years back, and she owes me a favor or two. Just so happens that she works for Ma Bell and might be able to see if there's any 'Baker' with an unlisted number.”

  “But Mr. D, don't you need to have the number if you want to phone your client?”

  “Bite your tongue, Dotty,” I advised, hoping that she would take me literally.

  I dialed the operator and asked for Sadie Plotz. Sadie seemed pleased when she came on the phone and learned that it was yours truly.

  “Dick DeWitt! How sweet of you to call! I'm busy this Saturday but I'm free tonight, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, and Sunday. Which is best for you?”

  Despite playing hard to get, Sadie had this thing for me. Sa
die, in fact, had a thing for anyone who fit the general description of male. I first knew her when she hired me to check up on her hubby, who, she was convinced, was breaking their holy vows of marital fidelity. She explained this to me as we were having some hanky-panky on her foyer floor a few minutes after we walked into her apartment. I never did find out more about hubby, probably because Sadie took up most of my time and energy doing the horizontal rumba. She was disappointed that I couldn't learn anything about her spouse but told me that she enjoyed dancing with me more than going to Roseland. We might still be dancing if her husband hadn't caught her doing the one-step, two-step with some Mexican chihuahua who had tickled her tostadas. After the husband turned the wetback into a hairless chihuahua I was taking no chances.

  I apologized to Sadie that I couldn't see her for the time being since J. Edgar Hoover had asked for my help in tracking down a gang of desperados who had escaped from Alcatraz by stealing the warden's hot air balloon. I promised that once my mission was accomplished I would come over to her place and practice the latest dances. Meanwhile I asked her if she could do me a big one and see if there was an unlisted phone for any “Baker.”

  “For my favorite dick I'd do anything,” she trilled. “Hang on.” A few minutes later a chastened Sadie returned to the line and informed me that there was no such unlisted number. “But don't be a stranger,” she added. “Come up and see me some time.”

  I had struck out again. It was now 3:30. I told Dotty, who had finished War and Peace and was halfway through The Odyssey, to take the rest of the day off and go home and see to her melons. She said they weren't ripe yet. I said that was a matter of opinion and told her to scram. I hung around until 5:30 in case Baker should call again. Nothing. Or almost nothing. I figured out what I had done wrong playing cat's cradle last week.