The Black Llama Caper

by Robert Muccigrosso

  It was enough to give a guy religion. The call and also her good-sized knockers. I dialed the number before I even took off my galoshes, which I had put on because the radio predicted the possibility of the season's first snow flurries.

  “Hello?” came a frightened voice.

  “Hello, Mr. Baker, this is Dick DeWitt. Where've you been?”

  “I've been running, Mr. DeWitt, running scared. Someone called me at home on Sunday and said I was going to be sorry that I went to you for help. He was real nasty. Said that you were so dumb you couldn't tell excrement from a certain brand of shoe polish but that he wasn't going to take any chances, and that we'd better call off the hunt for a certain lady or else.”

  I was boiling mad. I didn't mind this goon's threats, but I did mind the insult to my intelligence: I definitely knew the difference between excrement and that shoe polish. I had known it for some time now.

  “Listen, Mr. Baker. Come over to my office and we'll sort things out. I'm going to find Mona for you, don't you worry.”

  “Oh, I hope so, Mr. DeWitt. I can't imagine what life without her would be like.”

  I felt sorry for this poor sap and for all saps who let a screwy dame putty their brains. “Don't you worry,” I said. “Just come over.”

  “I can't. I'm afraid. Someone's been following me. Can you meet me in a public place? That way I'd feel a lot safer.”

  I didn't want to leave the office and meet him. For one thing, how could I be sure that this mug who was threatening us wouldn't put some lead into me as soon as I walked outside. More important, my feet were sore as hell. Years of trailing up and down streets and alleyways were catching up with me. But a dick's a dick, and he's gotta do what a dick does do. And what a dick does do … ah, forget it, I thought.

  “Sure, Mr. Baker, I'll be glad to meet you. Where will it be?”

  “Can you meet me at Le Grand Rien, that fancy French hotel that opened a couple of months ago? I'm calling from a phone booth not far away.”

  “You got it. I'll be there in less than thirty minutes.”

  I took a couple of sips of Dotty's freshly brewed coffee and was sorry. Very sorry. I thought of Socrates and his cup of hemlock. Then I pocketed my .38 and told my book-besotted, mocha-making menace that I'd be back sometime in the afternoon. She nodded her head vaguely. She had returned to reading Proust. Her knockers had calmed down.

  Once outside the building I searched for suspicious-looking characters who might tail me. There was an extremely small man sitting astride a huge Great Dane and prodding it to go down the block, but that didn't worry me. In this city you see everything. Besides, this jockey and his canine mount were moving too slowly to catch anything, including a cold.

  I was in a hurry to see my client, so I hailed a bus rather than walk and got to our rendezvous only fifteen minutes late.

  I had not seen the Le Grand Rien before. The sight of it nearly knocked the white socks off my feet. It was big and then some. A doorman wearing some faggot-looking wig and dressed like he was going to a Halloween party greeted me in what I took to be Frenchie language and held open the door. If he thought that was going to earn him a tip, he was crazier than he looked. The inside of the hotel almost knocked my socks off a second time. There were more of these characters wearing their goofy-looking Halloween costumes than Carter has liver pills. What the hell are they doing here, I wondered, making a movie of the French Revolution? I lost my head for a moment, thinking of myself starring in the movie as King Louie. You know, the guy who came from that family that had all that Bourbon.

  “Call for Mr. DeWitt, call for Mr. DeWitt.”

  A sawed-off bellboy who looked like he was peddling Philip Morris cigarettes was casing the lobby like there was no tomorrow.

  “Over here, shorty,” I called. Mindful that this might be a trap, I patted him down to make sure that he wasn't packing a rod. Can't be too careful, I thought, not with all the sinister things that had been happening.

  “Please, sir, that tickles. If you want to do that again, I suggest that you wait until I'm off work.”

  I told him I couldn't wait that long. I asked why he was trying to wake the dead by screaming out my name for all the world to hear and told him that if he did that one more time I was going to reduce him in size from dwarf to midget. That calmed him down. He told me to go to the registration desk and pick up the house phone. Someone wanted to speak with me. He said that he didn't know who. I tipped him with a thank-you.

  Gumshoes—at least the best of them, like myself–know when they're being set up. I walked nonchalantly to the registration desk, gave the man behind the counter a “none-of-your-lip” look, and picked up the phone. “Listen, you filthy swine, I'm going to get Mona back for her Casper Milquetoast and you're going to watch your toenails grow real long in the slammer. You got that?”

  “Mr. DeWitt, it's me, Uneeda Baker. I'm sitting near the entrance to the Chateau Marquis de Sade Restaurant. I'm right behind a woman who's wearing a large hat and flossing her teeth.”

  “Gotcha, Mr. B.” I hung up and headed his way. Good things were breaking fast. Now I had a first name for my client and the name of a good French restaurant, where, if I ever get paid, I might take some broad to chow down and exchange a few parlay-vouses with.

  My client appeared haggard. He looked like Lucky Lindy must have when he finished flying the Atlantic. The bags under his eyes were sagging so much that I thought he was carrying a change of clothes in them.

  “Mr. Baker,” I said, “you look like you were traveling on the Titanic but forgot to get off when it hit the iceberg.” I thought that might give him a chuckle.

  “Please don't joke, Mr. DeWitt. I feel awful. Some guy is threatening me and, worst of all, I don't have my Mona.”

  He started to cry, real hard like. I handed him my handkerchief, which was mostly clean, and told him to wipe the snot that was dribbling from his nose and to act like a man, or at least a mature woman. I felt like slapping some sense into him and also for dropping so much snot into my handkerchief. I usually change the latter every three months or so, but I had started this one only last week and it hadn't seen much action until now.

  “Come on, Mr. Baker. Get ahold of yourself. I told you I'd find Mona, and I will. So perk up. You gotta have faith.”

  He stopped blubbering, blew some more into my handkerchief, and gave me a weak smile. “I do have faith, Mr. DeWitt. I was raised as a Pentecostal and handled snakes until I lost control of one in church one Sunday. The critter slithered from my neck and finished off my Aunt Mildred, who had been standing next to me, clapping her hands and singing 'Swanee.' I guess the snake would have preferred Al Jolson's version.” He dried his eyes with my handkerchief before handing it to me. I let it drop to the floor. “Now I'm a God-fearing Holy Roller,” he continued, “and I read the Good Book whenever I can.” He paused. “I still like to go to zoos and watch snakes, but I learned my lesson and don't play with them when someone's standing next to me.” He blew his nose hard. I wished he had kept the handkerchief. Then he asked what I had learned so far about his beloved.

  I was tempted to ask, in return, what a dame like Mona, who sounded perfectly normal, was doing with a guy like him, but my empty billfold screamed don't do it. “I've learned this and that, as well as these and those,” I told him, “but I'd rather play it close to my hairy chest until I have a few more chickens set up in a row like clay pigeons.” I figured I'd let him try to parse that sentence while I concocted a big whopper to conceal the fact that I had learned zippo.

  He stood there scratching his head for the longest time. I dodged the flakes of dandruff that were attacking me like the Red Baron flying his Fokker and spitting bullets. I was having enough trouble trying to find Mona and nab the Fokker who had kidnapped her.

  “Let's cut to the quick, Uneeda, if I may be so familiar as to call you by your Christian Pentecostal Holy Roller name rather than adhere to the strict formality of employing your surname,” I sai
d. That at least got him to stop scratching. “I could use more information about her, even if you don't think it's important. Think. Did you ever meet any of her friends or relatives? Did she have any interests other than basketball, art, and Chinese food?”

  “Come to think of it, she does have a girlfriend who she used to talk a lot about. Let me see … Abigail … Abigail Snerd, that's her name.”

  “Was she related to Mortimer Snerd?” I asked, only joshing, of course.

  “No, but she was a distant relation of the golfer Sammy Snead. They misspelled her name at the hospital when she was born. It was supposed to be “A-b-i-g-a-l-e Snerd.”

  As they say, you should quit while you're ahead.

  But I wasn't about to quit. First of all, I wasn't “ahead” in any way, shape, or form. And second, I hadn't received a red cent for any of the legwork I had done. I approached the matter of payment gingerly. “Uneeda, if you expect me to go on looking for Mona, especially before someone takes it into his head to slit her throat, I'll need some bread.”

  I could have bitten my tongue as soon as the word came out. My client proceeded to list every damn kind of bread he could bake, informing me that I was welcome to as many loaves as the case needed. I sighed and explained what I had meant.

  “Oh, that's no problem, Mr. DeWitt.” He took some bills out of his wallet and peeled off two C-notes. “Here, take them,” he said. “There's more if you need it.”

  I'm not sure how wide my mouth gaped, but I figure that Jonah's whale could have entered. Cripes! Two big ones! I was about to plant a couple of smackers on Baker's balding head, but this didn't seem the right time or place.

  “These will do just fine for now. I can use them to grease a few palms and pry open a couple of mouths,” I told him. What I didn't tell him was that the palms were mine and that the mouth that needed attention was also mine. I was getting sick of leftover canned stew and cupcakes for dinner.

  I told Baker that I'd be on the case day and night and would be in touch. Meanwhile, he should look after himself and call me with any news. We shook hands and were about to go our separate ways when we heard: “Calling Mr. DeWitt. Calling Mr. DeWitt.” I thought it was a long-lost echo, but then I caught sight of the Johnny-from-Philip Morris look-alike.

  “Here, Rumpelstiltskin, and don't take all day about it,” I hollered across the lobby.

  He didn't seem too pleased but sauntered over and handed me a note. He hung around waiting for something, probably a tip, but I told him to scram. I could read the note without any help from him.

  The note read: “You can't escape me. You're being watched.” It was signed: “The Black Llama.” I wheeled around but couldn't see any black llama in the place. Not even a purple cow. I showed the note to my client. He turned ashen. I could tell it had ruined his day. It wasn't doing much for mine either.

  11

  How could I have missed seeing a black llama? I gave a quick thought to spending some of the spondulicks that Baker had given me on consulting an eye doctor. I gave more serious thought to lunch since it was now 12:45 and my stomach was making as much noise as the alums at a Harvard-Yale football game. I could have splurged and had a tunafish sandwich with a side order of spareribs and sauerkraut right there at the Chateau Marquis de Sade Restaurant but settled for something less pretentious at a chophouse a block away from the hotel.

  I got back to the office around 2:00 and found a note from Dotty.

  Since business was slow, it ran, she was taking the p.m. off to attend a lecture on the relative merits of Einstein's theory of relativity and Heisenberg's uncertainty principle. I hoped that she hadn't forgotten to take along her Proust to read while the speaker paused between sentences.

  I spent the rest of the afternoon doing odds and ends, but mostly odds. I walked down the stairs and told Joe the elevator man that no one had yet fixed the sign on my office door and that I expected better treatment from the owner of this two-bit flophouse. After I walked back up I sat around totaling my IOUs to various creditors. I wouldn't have much change left over from my advance if I were to pay them off all at once. That gave me a good horse laugh. I only serve who stand and wait, to paraphrase the English poet Milton somebody or other. Then I counted the days to the holidays: Christmas, New Year's, Groundhog Day. I made a note to send a few cards and a gift or two for each of those special occasions.

  I was wondering what other pressing business I could take care of before calling it a day, when I suddenly remembered that Baker had given me the name of one of Mona's friends. I thumbed through the telephone book and found Abigail Snerd's number and address.

  A sultry voice answered after a couple of rings. “Hello? Can I help you in any way? Are you in need of assistance? And who are you?”

  This woman knew all the right questions to ask. I told her that I was working for Uneeda Baker, who was looking for his girlfriend Mona, and that he had mentioned her as a friend of Mona's.

  “Mona? Sure I'm a friend of Mona's. A good one, too. I've been wondering where she's been keeping herself lately. I haven't seen her in a while. I know … why don't you come over to my place tonight, say about 8:30 or so, and we can talk about her. I'll put up some coffee and make some fudge brownies.”

  I didn't have to be asked twice. I didn't feel like going home to change and so I put on a spare shirt, the one that doesn't smell too bad and that I keep in the office for special occasions. I waited around for an hour or so and then put on my galoshes and left. It wasn't snowing yet but you could never tell. I had a quick, light meal at Ma's—a cup of Navy bean soup, a tossed salad, a loin of pork, mashed potatoes, a side order of succotash, three rolls with butter, and a dish of Jello. “Skip the whipped cream on the Jello,” I ordered Betty, who had cleaned the counter and was now paring her nails on it. I wanted to leave room for Miss Snerd's fudge brownies. Feeling flush as John D. Rockefeller, I left a dime tip. My favorite waitress asked if it was real but pocketed it anyway. Miserable ingrate.

  It wasn't snowing when I left Ma's. In fact, it was a beautiful clear, crisp night. I took off my galoshes and walked to my appointment with Abigail Snerd.

  “Won't you come in?” she said as she opened the door.

  Trained to observe the slightest detail, I noticed that she was wearing red see-through lounging pajamas. “I hope I haven't disturbed your sleep,” I apologized, handing her my hat, coat, and galoshes.

  “Not at all, Mr. DeWitt, but watch your step. Don't trip over Cuddles.”

  “Cuddles” was some sort of oversized jungle cat who didn't seem a bit pleased to make my acquaintance.

  “Down, baby,” Miss Snerd told the beast. “Let go of the nice man's tie.”

  The creature immediately stopped chewing my tie and grabbed the galoshes from his owner's hand. Got to say that for Cuddles: he's obedient.

  Mona's friend lived in a really posh place. She led me down a few steps into a living room decorated with furniture that would make your eyes bigger than Eddie Cantor's. The drapes were open, giving a full view of the river below and the moon above. I concluded that Mona's friend was not spending her time frequenting soup kitchens or standing in bread lines.

  I sat on her living room sofa and immediately sank in about a foot. The velvet cushions were that soft. “Why don't you come over here, Mr. DeWitt, and sit next to me on this tiger-skin love seat?” she asked as she patted it caressingly. “I think you'll find it ever so comfortable, and we can get much better acquainted.”

  I thanked her but said that I'd prefer to remain where I was. I hadn't sat on velvet cushions for years, I explained, and besides, I was allergic to tigers. I uttered the latter explanation in a whisper, for fear that Cuddles would take offense as well as my life.

  She seemed disappointed. “Don't you want some, Mr. Private Investigator?”

  “Of course I do.” Her deep blue eyes lit up. “I've been thinking of those fudge brownies ever since we spoke on the telephone,” I confessed.

  Maybe the brownies
hadn't turned out well or maybe she was plain tired. After all, she was in her pajamas. In any event, she took her sweet time in getting up and going to the kitchen. While she was gone I cased the room. Lots of books, paintings, and bones for Cuddles. I could have sworn that one of the bones was a dead ringer for a man's forearm.

  It didn't take long for Miss Snerd to return with a fancy silver serving cart laden with brownies, coffee, and cream and sugar, as well as china plates and cups. This lady sure has class, I said to myself.

  I told her what swell brownies she made. She told me to help myself. I told her that four were as many as I could pack in. We made some idle talk. I said that I admired all the books she had and asked if she liked Proust. She told me that he was a bit too French for her taste, and that she preferred James Joyce, Thomas Mann, and the poems of Edgar Guest. I could see that Miss Snerd was no dummy. Then she asked me to tell her about myself. For some reason, I felt that I could speak frankly and divulge some pretty personal stuff. I took a deep breath and informed her that I was five-eleven, weighed 180 pounds, except when I had had too many sweets and too many peanuts. I had brown hair and brown eyes, like quite a few other people, but what really set me off from the crowd was a birthmark that resembled a mango and surrounded my right armpit. I told her that I'd show it to her when we got to know each other better.

  “I think we'd better get down to business, Mr. DeWitt.” She yawned. “I'm usually in bed by this time.”

  Never keep a lady waiting, they say, so I got down to brass tacks, or whatever they're making tacks of these days. I told Miss Snerd pretty much all I knew about the missing girl, which wasn't worth more than a hill of beans, though come to think of it, with the price of beans these days … Then I asked her for anything she knew that could help me locate her missing friend.

  Turns out that she wasn't much help. Mona, she said, has a certain boyfriend, a baker Baker, who was very nice to her. I knew that already, and I knew about her passion for basketball. Ditto the chink food. I hadn't known, however, that she had an older brother who had worked a gig as a flagpole sitter until he ran off with a pharmacist from Kokomo, Indiana. The two were now living in Lichtenstein, which, I supposed, was somewhere out of state. She also informed me that she thought Mona had mentioned a man whose initials were “B.L.” It was a longshot, since the only “B.L.” that came to mind was “black llama.” But I made a note to check on it as soon as I followed up on the lead about the brother and the pharmacist.