The Black Llama Caper

by Robert Muccigrosso

8

  I was in a sour mood and ready to spit nails when I reached the office the next morning. I had returned home yesterday to find a nasty note taped to my door courtesy of the landlord. I didn't mind being told that my rent was long overdue, but I did take offense at being labeled a “deadbeat.”

  Dotty was reading again when I walked in. This time it was Proust.

  “What happened to The Odyssey?” I asked.

  “Oh, I finished that when I got here this morning.”

  “So fast?”

  “Well, I sort of skipped over all the parts that had this man Odysseus in it. I wanted to find out about this other guy Homer, but the author never talked about him. Anyhow, it was all Greek to me.”

  Just keep your eyes on those melons and it will be all right, I counseled myself. I asked Miss Einstein if anyone had called but didn't get a reply. She was too absorbed in Proust.

  With nothing to do, my mind drifted to my constant problem: money. My landlord was getting antsier than ever, and the rent for my office would be coming up shortly. And no Mr. Baker. And no other client. I was getting so desperate that I called Harry the Shyster, a lawyer who had employed me on a job about six, seven months ago.

  “Hello, Harry, this is your old pal Dick DeWitt.”

  “Well, well, look who showed up from under the rocks this morning. What do you want, you stupid, incompetent bastard?”

  I took this to mean that Harry was in a worse mood than I was and that I had better softsoap him if I was going to get anywhere. “Just thought I'd give a friendly call and see how you and the family were doing.”

  “Not that it's any concern of yours, but my mother-in-law has been staying with us for five weeks, my son has been smoking reefers, and my daughter has run off with a grease monkey. Now tell me what you want, you creep, and be quick about it.”

  “Harry, I know that we had a mild difference of opinion over the last job, but I sure could use some work just now.”

  There was a slight pause before Vesuvius erupted. “A 'mild' difference? The state nearly took away my license because of what you did! I should have called my friends whose names end with a vowel to play stickball with your gonads.”

  He was having difficulty breathing, and I feared that he would have a seizure before he could hire me. “Come on now, Harry, the district attorney was none too happy with me either. Let's let bygones be bygones,” I said in my most poetic manner.

  “DeWitt, if you ever call me again, I'll personally see to it that you won't have any fingers to ever call anyone else. I wouldn't hire you if you were the last gumshoe on the planet.”

  The phone went dead. I figured it was useless to call back and explain that by no means was I the last gumshoe on the planet.

  I sat there cracking my knuckles and wondering whether I should take a stroll around the block and buy some peanuts. I could send Dotty for the peanuts, I thought, but she looked so contented mouthing Proust that I didn't have the heart to interrupt her. Besides, the last time I sent her out for peanuts she came back with a bagful of empty shells. I shook her by the shoulders but couldn't get her to admit that she had devoured the peanuts. She said that the empty shells came that way. I half believed her.

  I had about made up my mind to take that stroll when the phone rang. It was Light Fingers Louie.

  “I got some news for you, Mr. DeWitt. Meet me tonight at The Slippery Elbow any time after 9:00 and I'll let you have it. I think you'll be real pleased.”

  “That's great, Louie, but why can't you tell me now? Are you being followed?”

  “Nah, but I got a tickle in my throat and have to go get some cough drops. Until later, Mr. DeWitt.”

  Click. The stupid sonofabitch had hung up before I could press him to give with the details. I'd like to tickle his you-know-what with those cough drops. Well, I thought, at least I'm getting somewhere.

  The rest of the day proved uneventful. Dotty had put down the Proust for the time being and had immersed herself in trying to solve Fermat's last theorem. I wasn't much hungry but went out and bought a bag of peanuts to go with the two hardboiled eggs I had brought from home. Afterwards I lollygagged, dozing and waking on the office couch. I asked Dotty if she would like to join me there, but she said it had room only for one and besides, she hadn't finished solving her Fermat yet. Meanwhile Mr. Baker continued on the lam. He was making me mad.

  I fixed a light supper when I got home. Some canned stew and four strawberry cupcakes, which I washed down with a root beer. I would have preferred something stronger to drink but needed to keep a clear head for my rendezvous with Louie.

  Something told me that tonight at the Elbow would be different. Events proved me right. The first thing that greeted me when I pushed through the doors promptly at 9:00 was the sight of some guy lying on top of Gardenia Gertie. Gertie was acting fast, fast even for Gertie, I thought, and getting right down to business. I went over and clubbed the guy repeatedly with my blackjack. Big mistake. Gertie explained that the two of them had been doing the turkey trot when they slipped on the wet floor. I bought that, even though the joint never played any music. I told Gus the barman to give the poor putz a drink when he came to and put it on my tab. Gus seemed none too pleased.

  “Hey, Mr. DeWitt, over here,” came a voice sotto voce.

  “Hiya, Louie,” I said. “You got something for me?”

  “Sure do, Mr. DeWitt.” Louie looked nervously about the room to make sure no one was eavesdropping. “I did some calling, mostly to guys I knew in the Big House but also to a couple of politicians who had employed my expertise for various capers, if you know what I mean.”

  “I know what you mean, Louie. Now just get on with it.”

  “Okay, okay. At first—nothing. Then Florsheim Al called. You know him, he's the mug with a brogue who's got this thing for shoes and did time in the jug for separating a judge's wife from her front teeth when she accidentally scuffed his brand-new wingtips. Anyways, he tells me that he might have seen this Mona playing basketball with two little kids over at 65th and West End. She was beating the hell out of them too. Gave each of them a black eye for scoring a basket against her. She seemed like one tough cookie to him.” Louie took a few gulps from his Pabst Blue Ribbon and wiped the foam off his lips. “But there's more. This Al likes his dames tough, and so he decides to follow her and see where she lives. Unfortunately, she went directly to the YWCA three blocks north and got into an elevator. Stymied, he goes to the front desk and asks for her name, but the guy at the desk threatens to throw him out on his keester. Al would have shown him right then and there who was boss, but he was wearing freshly shined shoes.”

  “Louie, I got to hand it to you. You did good,” I told him. “Here, let me treat you to some hooch. I'll tell Gus to send it over. And Louie, don't forget to let me know if you hear anything more.”

  I always said Louie was a good yegg and this proved it. I could almost smell Mona from here, despite the total lack of ventilation in the place. Tomorrow I'd visit the Y for myself. Meanwhile I told Gus to fix Louie a cheap one and put it on the tab. I smiled at Gertie as I was leaving, but she was on her back again with some Johnny on top. They must have slipped again. Outside it wasn't raining.

  9

  I got up earlier than usual the next morning, performed my ablutions, and got cleaned up. A quick cup of coffee and a couple of jelly donuts and I was off to the Y. I was dressed snappily: clean shirt, mostly clean tie, jacket and trousers that more or less matched, and a beret that I had recently had blocked at my local hatter's. The sun hadn't bothered to show up yet, but I put on my sunglasses, since all self-respecting dicks are supposed to wear them while tailing someone.

  The bus got me to the Y in pretty good time, considering the rush-hour traffic. I did miss my stop because I was wearing the Foster Grant specs, but not by much. Once inside I cased the place. It was filled with broads. I made a mental note to hang out here some lonely Saturday night and get the lay of the land, if you catch my drift.r />
  The guy at the information desk was checking me out. His pursed lips and the pink rose in the lapel buttonhole of his jacket clued me in that his interest in the Y's inhabitants was purely professional.

  “Thomething that I can help you with?” he lisped. He gave me the biggest smile I had had since my ex-wife had learned that I had developed a hernia.

  “Yeah, maybe there is. I'm looking for someone very tall and blonde,” I told him.

  “Oh my, aren't we all?” he purred and fluttered his false eyelashes. “Do you have a name?”

  I wasn't going to give my legal name. I was too smart for that. “Richard DeWitt,” I said. That should throw him off the track.

  “No, thir,” he giggled. “I mean do you have a name for the young lady?”

  This guy was sharp. “Yeah, her first name is Mona but I don't know her last one.”

  “I'm tharry, but the only Mona who hangths her panty girdle here and callth it home—the place not her girdle, mind you—is average height—thay about four-eleven—and bald. Until a few months ago when she moved out we did have thomeone who fitth your general dethcription. Her name was Petunia Pettigrew. I ethspecially remember her becuth she always was carrying a bathketball. She theemed like a thweet girl, but she was forced to leave after dribbling the ball on another girl'th head.”

  No cigar, but I could tell I was getting warm. I took off my coat. “Any forwarding address for this Pettigrew gal?”

  He drew himself up to his full height, which wasn't much. “Thir, I'm not allowed to give out thuch information.”

  No problem, I thought. A promise to send him some fresh pink roses and to stop by and pick him up for dinner some night next week loosened his tongue. He suggested a dimly lit Hungarian restaurant he frequented, where “thimply gorgeous” Gypsy men played violins, came to your table, and whispered “Was there anything thpecial you'd like?” I made a mental note to go there by myself and ask the strolling Gypsy to make my goulash hot with a lot of paprika. Meanwhile this guy at the desk was promising the addresses of all the girls. I said Petunia's would do fine.

  I had Petunia's address now and hoped that she'd turn out to be Mona living under a different name, a nom de plum as the Frenchies say. Trouble was that Petunia/Mona lived outside the city limits. Cab fare would cost me my liver, which, smothered with onions, I was looking forward to cooking tonight. Then I remembered that I knew someone who drove a taxi for a living. This someone owed me.

  I first met William “Dilly” (aka “Willy Dilly”) Farkas a year ago when we were retching in the men's room after having polished off one of Ma's blue plate specials, which for some reason included part of the blue plate itself. We went to a nearby bar afterwards and got to know each other pretty well. Dilly had done all sorts of odd jobs, including taming armadillos, for which he got good pay. He had also paid dearly for once lifting a skirt. Unfortunately for him, someone had been wearing the skirt at the time. Even more unfortunate, she was a he. When Dilly got out of traction three months later, he decided to mend his ways and settle down to a more normal life. But he didn't know what to do. I told him that I had an “in” with some mug who owned a few taxis and that I could get him a job if he could hack it. I got him the job and his promise that if I ever needed help I should call him. I had meant to keep in touch with Dilly, especially since I was curious to hear more about his intimate relations with armadillos. But I hadn't. This morning was a different story: I needed a freebie in the form of a ride to Petunia's.

  I called Dilly and reached his wife, Amaryllis. I had never met her but Dilly had shown me her photo the night we were chasing down a few beers. I seemed to recall that with her long nose and bony body she bore a faint resemblance to an armadillo. Funny how things like that stick in your mind.

  “Hello, Mrs. Farkas, this is Dick DeWitt, a pal of your husband's. Is he around by any chance.”

  There was a pause. “By some chance the lousy, two-timing, four-flusher, rat bastard, no-good-for-nothing, cheat, liar is still in bed. Hang on and I'll get the shithead, lowlife scumbag for you.”

  I got the feeling that something was wrong with Dilly's marriage but decided to keep my trap shut.

  “Hey, Mr. DeWitt, what gives?” a voice still groggy with sleep got on the line.

  I explained to Dilly what favor I needed. He said he'd pick me up in front of the Y in half an hour. He was off work today but had no desire to stay home and listen to that obese, ugly, filthy whore of a foul-mouthed wife of his. I guessed he didn't like her too much either.

  Good as his word, Dilly arrived right on time with his Checker Cab. He was wearing a yellow and black checkered jacket to match the cab. He wasn't wearing any trousers, however. I guessed he had been in a hurry to leave home.

  Dilly took the long way around either to avoid traffic or because he didn't know the direct way. This part of the city looked even dingier than the part I knew best. But it was my city, and I loved it. Warts and all, although I had to admit that the only warts I'd seen recently had been those on the nose of Mrs. Heidegger, the busybody who lived down the hall from me and who liked to corner me and ask if I'd heard any juicy gossip.

  The ride was uneventful save when Dilly tried, unsuccessfully, to run down a mean-looking dog. He said it reminded him of his wife.

  At last we reached Hooker Avenue, where Petunia supposedly was living. It seemed crowded for this time of day, but the people, almost all of them females, were friendly as hell. When the cab pulled over, several women sporting exceptionally little clothing for this late in the year came over to ask if we'd like to have a good time. You don't get this kind of friendliness from everyone, I thought, but I had to see about Petunia. I told Dilly to wait for me. He seemed perfectly content with that, especially since one of the women said she could help him keep his legs warm.

  The house was big as a mansion but needed a paint job almost as much as I needed a paycheck. A stately oak tree glumly stood guard over a series of unpruned bushes in the spacious front yard, which was overgrown with dead weeds. I nearly tripped over the broken sidewalk as I looked back at one of the women who was loudly insisting to Dilly that life was short but she could bet that he was long.

  I knocked on the door. No one answered. I thought of throwing a loose piece of the sidewalk through the front window but settled for kicking the door repeatedly. A bleached-blonde crone with lipstick applied at a forty-five-degree angle answered and said she was sore and couldn't give any more today. I couldn't figure out why she was mad, but I was touched that this generous soul had given to charitable causes.

  I asked her if Petunia was on the premises. She growled that she had sent her packing two days ago. “My lady friends and their gents couldn't take any more of her and her basketball.” She told me that when she met Petunia and asked her if she knew how to score, Petunia said she was the best. “I didn't know the bitch was talking about basketball,” the crone complained. “I don't run that kind of establishment, you know.” As it turned out, Petunia had left no forwarding address. I was back to the starting gate.

  Dilly looked a little the worse for wear but had a big smile on his face. “Haven't felt this good since I beat the crap out of the missus,” he bragged. You could always count on Dilly to give you a laugh or two.

  We stopped on our way back to the city for lunch at a dingy-looking diner. Before we went in, Dilly took a soiled, Indian-design blanket from the trunk and wrapped it around himself to compensate for his lack of trousers. The spoon at Archimedes' Pantheon was so greasy, so to speak, that it slipped from your fingers and had to be held with two hands. Dilly had the Archimedes special, a cheeseburger but without the cheese. I told the tired-looking crone who served us that I wanted a BLT, but hold the mayo. “Hold it yourself, lard ass,” she replied, “and tell your friend Tonto to do the same.” This broad must be the sister of Betty the waitresses at Ma's, I thought.

  Afterwards Dilly insisted on driving me directly to my office. I had taken him at his word when he
said that he'd be glad to do me a favor anytime. I didn't offer to pay any fare, but I did slip him a George Washington. He merited it. “See you around, Dilly,” I said and waved good-bye. I didn't catch what he said, but it sounded like “luck you.” I guess the whole sentence was “Good luck to you.”

  I was too tired to climb the eight floors to my office. I pressed the elevator button and waited for Joe to bring the conveyance down. Fifteen minutes later they both appeared. Since no one else was in the elevator, I concluded that Joe was off the wagon again. When he hiccupped “hello,” his breath smelled like an army of skunks had bivouacked in his mouth overnight.

  Dotty was reading and chewing on her fingernails when I opened the door. I guess that Proust was telling a good ghost story.

  “Any calls, babe?”

  “Which day are you talking about, Mr. D?”

  I told her to go back to Proust but stay in the office until 5:00 in case someone did call and if someone did, to call me at home.

  “You got it, Mr. D.”

  You got it too, Dotty, I thought, but exactly what sure beats me.

  10

  Slow night. No call from Dotty. No call from anyone. I heated up the leftover canned stew, gobbled down a couple of cupcakes, and called it a meal for want of a better word. Nothing much on the radio, so I headed to the Elbow for a few quick ones and a friendly face or two.

  You would have thought that they were holding a wake, and not an Irish one, at the joint. It was quiet as the city morgue, and only a solitary rummy sat there getting misty-eyed over the pair of deuces life had dealt him. Even Gertie wasn't there. This must be her night for the opera, Gus said. I had a Cuba Libre, thought better of a second one, and went home.

  Next morning when I got to the office Dotty was all hepped up. I figured that Proust had been giving her a thrill, but it turned out that someone had called and left a message.

  “It's him, it's him! It's Mr. Baker! He left his number and said for you to call him as soon as you got in.” She was getting her good-sized knockers in an uproar.