The Black Llama Caper

by Robert Muccigrosso

  I didn't want to overstay my welcome, and so I shoveled a brownie into my mouth and another one into my shirt pocket. Apologizing to my hostess for having kept her from bed, I asked her to fetch my outerwear and I'd be on my way. She made quick time in retrieving my coat but informed me that Cuddles had polished off both my galoshes and hat. I could have sworn that I heard a loud belch from the other room.

  I intended to walk home and breathe more of that bracing air that made early winter nights a delight. Outside, however, the snow was coming down in buckets and beginning to blanket the city. It was cold, bitterly so. There wasn't a bus in sight, and the only cab driver I saw gleefully made an obscene gesture when I tried flagging him down. I trudged along as best I could. I was cold, bitterly so. I fell once and flattened the brownie that I thought was safely sequestered in my shirt pocket. “Egad,” I cursed to myself.

  At length I reached home, ready for a good night's sleep. I took my apartment key from my right shoe, where I always keep it, and prepared to unlock the door. There was no need: The door was open. I stood there transfixed. Within a minute or two I deduced that someone had been here and perhaps still was. I blamed myself for having left my .38 at the office but tiptoed in and yelled, “Come out, come out, whoever you are!” He did. Only from behind me. Then the lights went out.

  12

  It was daybreak when I awoke. The inside of my head throbbed like

  Gene Krupa was playing his drums; the outside sported a lump the

  size of the Himalayas. I managed to get to my feet and headed for the shower. The blast of water felt good. It would have felt better had I remembered to remove my clothes. But at least part of the stain from last night's brownie did come off my shirt. For every loss, there's a gain, for every dark cloud, there's … Ah, never mind.

  I downed a couple of aspirins. That helped to convince Krupa to take five. Meanwhile the Himalayas were diminishing to the scale of the Adirondacks. I toweled myself, put on my moth-eaten but nice-and-toasty robe, and surveyed the apartment to see what the lousy bastard who had busted in had swiped. Nothing! What could the thief have been looking for? It was a puzzle and a conundrum.

  I fashioned a list of possible suspects. That got me nowhere. If it had been my ex, she would have flattened me with something heavier, say, a crowbar, which would have landed me in the infirmary or the city morgue. Mom was still pissed at me because I forgot to include a card with the secondhand can opener I had given her for Mother's Day. But I couldn't imagine that she would want to physically harm her sonny boy. No doubt there had been clients dissatisfied with services rendered. Yet break into my place and belt me on the noggin? True, Freddie Fuchsberger had threatened to fix me but good for having accidentally shot him when I was cleaning my gun. But it was only a flesh wound, and the doctors swore that he would recover and be able to have sex within six months or so. Besides, Freddie had died a year later from choking on a pig's knuckle in an uptown German brauhaus.

  I had reached the end of my tether as far as suspects went when a 15-watt bulb flickered in my aching head. Could it have been the mystery man who kept threatening my client and me with calls and notes? It was a longshot, but I had gone through the short ones. What I really needed were sureshots, and only plenty of legwork, accompanied by luck and pluck, could deliver. I dressed quickly and skipped breakfast, figuring that the files in my office had some morsels hanging around.

  The snow had stopped, but shovelers were busy cursing Mother Nature for her depravity. The language they were using was bluer than the Nile. I slipped and fell into a snowbank. Then I cursed Mother Nature too. Also Cuddles, who had deprived me of my galoshes. Traffic was snarled, and I didn't reach the office until late morning. I didn't find Dotty there, but my nose helped me to find the remains of a sardine sandwich that was nestling between a pair of women's panties and War and Peace in the bottom drawer of the file cabinet. I made a note to ask Dotty about the book.

  But first things first: Lichtenstein and Mona's runaway brother. I called various acquaintances. No dice. Stuart the Stoolie thought Lichtenstein was an Atlantic City gambler who had had his legs broken after welshing on a bet; Morose Manny thought it was a small city in Pennsylvania that had a diner that served great buckwheat pancakes. Clyde Hickenlooper knew for sure that it was a kraut restaurant on West 46th but said to avoid it because the sauerkraut was too sour.

  Having come up empty on the Lichtenstein business, I concentrated on who could have been the nogoodnik who had clobbered me. I started with the long shots and called Mom and the ex. Mom would be pleased as Punch to hear from me in any case. The ex wouldn't, but I'd uncurl the sneer on her lips when I told her that the alimony check's in the mail, or would be as soon as I found a stamp.

  “Hello, Mom, this is sonny boy.”

  “What do you want?” Mom was always the caring type.

  “I just thought I'd call and say 'hello.' By the way, did you go over to my place last evening?”

  “What! Are you nuts? With all that snow I would go out? And even if I had, why would I go to see you? You know, sonny boy, you're a stupid moron. You're dumber than dog shit. You're…”

  I could tell that Mom had fallen out on the wrong side of the bed. Too much gin. I tried to get on her good side. “Hey, Mom, aren't you even going to ask 'How are they hanging'?”

  “Listen, you poor excuse for a son, I don't care if they've fallen off.”

  She hung up before I got the chance to ask if she was enjoying the can opener.

  I fared better with my ex. She was out when I called.

  Maybe it was the sardine sandwich that I had wolfed down, or maybe it was the drawing of a blazing cannon on the cover of War and Peace, but I was feeling the strong urge that men have felt since their days in the cave. So I went down the hall to the men's room and peed.

  The good-looking dame who worked as secretary for Stanley Goniff, the lawyer, beamed me a big smile when I emerged from the men's room. I now had another strong urge. I might have mentioned that it had been some time since I had performed the horizontal rumba. It was time to practice a few steps again and do the dirty deed. In a word—no, make that three—I felt horny.

  I made a list of all the eligible females I knew who might care to trip the light fantastic with me. It didn't take long. It was poor taste to try making it with Dotty, especially since the one time I had tried she dislocated my shoulder and bit me so hard that I needed a tetanus shot. I don't think that Dotty's a prude, and I certainly have had a few suspicions, having seen her bra and panties lying around the office at various times, particularly after she had asked if she could work late. Abigail Snerd was a real swell dish, but I'd be afraid that Cuddles would make a dish out of me if I tried to persuade his owner to take time out from James Joyce, Thomas Mann, and Edgar Guest to cavort with this here dick. The thought of coupling with Gardenia, aka Gonorrhea Gertie, spoke for itself and made the sardines swimming in my stomach swim for help.

  What about Sadie Plotz? Sadie and I had enjoyed a few good rolls in the hay in our day, and we had also enjoyed having sex. I got the idea the last time we spoke that she wouldn't mind doing a little bit of this and that, whenever and wherever. The fact that it could also be with whomever wasn't bothering me at the moment.

  I called Ma Bell's office where Sadie worked and asked to speak with her.

  “Como se llama?” came a voice.

  “I'd like to speak with Sadie Plotz, please. That's 'Plotz' as in 'hots'.”

  “Como se llama?” the voice repeated.

  “Plotz! Plotz!” I yelled.

  “Sí señor. Como se llama?”

  I was getting nowhere fast with this Tijuana tamale. Frustrated—now in more ways than one—I hung up.

  I was gnashing my teeth—or at least the ones that could be gnashed–when I made the connection. Como se llama? The Black Llama? I could have jumped for joy but settled for no longer gnashing my teeth. Could Ma Bell be harboring the notorious Black Llama? Was the Black Llama a
spic? Was the Black Llama actually the tamale I had just spoken to?

  My mind was awash in a whirlpool of wondering whys. (I tried saying that five times in a row but quit after the third try.) Now I was pretty certain that I was getting somewhere. My next step would be to contact Sadie Plotz and find out the score. But I wasn't about to arouse suspicion by calling her office back. I'd wait for her when she finished work.

  They say things come in threes, and I was hoping for a couple more leads in the Mona case before seeing Sadie. No soap. I went out to a luncheonette around the block. I was famished and had some scrambled eggs, a bowl of chicken soup, and a chicken salad sandwich. I clucked a thank-you to the waitress and, being flush with the advance my client had given me, left a fifteen-cent tip. Betty at Ma's should only know.

  No new clients lighted on my doorstep for the remainder of the afternoon. I was becoming concerned about Dotty and her whereabouts, but she called around 3:30 to say that she had overslept and wouldn't be able to get dressed and come in before closing time. I thought I heard a man's laugh in the background but concluded that we had a poor phone connection.

  I left the office at 4:15 to make sure that I would be waiting for Sadie when she got off work. I took my .38 with me. The Black Llama also might be getting off work.

  13

  Sadie emerged from the elevator at 5:05. She was clutching the arm of a tall, swarthy man like it was a five-hundred-dollar bill.

  “Hi, Sadie,” I called. “Fancy meeting you here.”

  Sadie Plotz looked as though she was about to do so.

  “Ah … oh, hi there, Mr. DeWitt.” She gave me a wink and said that she hadn't seen me since we were celebrating my wife's birthday some years ago. That was a lie, of course. Sadie never met my wife. I suppose she didn't want Mr. Tall and Swarthy to think that I was an old beau.

  “Aren't you going to introduce me to your friend?” I asked. Her scowl told me that she didn't want to, but I had her trapped.

  “Why certainly. Dick DeWitt, I'd like you to meet Pancho Juan O'Brien. Juan, this is Dick DeWitt. He's the husband of one of my oldest and dearest friends.” She was laying it on pretty thick, but I was more interested in her friend's unusual name.

  “Glad to meet you, Mr. O'Brien,” I said, glad-handing him. “By the way, were you born here?”

  Tall and Swarthy pumped my hand vigorously and replied: “Mucho gusto.” I think he was referring to the wind that had begun to swirl.

  “No, I mean, were you born here in this country?”

  He kept shaking my hand, smiling, and bubbling “mucho gusto, mucho gusto.” He had nice white teeth, I noticed.

  Sadie intervened. “Dick, Mr. O'Brien doesn't speak much English yet. He came here from Montenegro only a few months ago.”

  I wasn't convinced that the handsome mug wasn't a spic, but I let it drop. For now. I made a mental note to call Sadie when she was alone at home, which wouldn't be tonight if she could help it. She was dragging Tall, Swarthy, and Presumably Montenegrin down the block before I could say “adios.”

  A fair amount of snow remained on the sidewalks. I stopped at a nearby Army and Navy Surplus store, forked over some simoleons for a used pair of galoshes, and trudged home. Halfway there, I remembered to put them on.

  Before I could open the door to my apartment, nosey old Mrs. Heidegger lurched from her doorway to inquire if I had heard the news. “What news?” I asked. She said, “Any news.” I needed a drink.

  Three fingers of Jack Daniel's and I was ready to call the ex to say that I would mail the check first thing in the morning. This time when I called she was at home. Unfortunately. I thought that she'd be grateful that the monthly alimony was soon to take wings and fly her way. Instead she snarled that it was about time. She further suggested that I do something to myself that struck me as being anatomically impossible and more than a little perverted. I freshened my drink.

  I wasn't very hungry for my evening meal but fixed a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, topped with catsup and a pickle, and skipped the cupcakes. It was 7:30. Too early to sleep. I figured I'd wander off to the Elbow. What the hell. Sitting around trying to solve Mona's disappearance wasn't giving me any jollies.

  Why the joint was packed, I couldn't figure, but the gang was all there. I spotted Shorty Tallwood with a couple of his pals plotting something or other that most likely would cause him to return to the pen. Billy Two Shoes was coming on to a couple of peroxide blonde barflies in the corner. His tie resting in his stein of beer, Rudy Tooty Vanderhander was asleep at another table, snoring. And of course no gathering would have been complete without Gardenia Gertie, who had planted herself on some man's lap and was vigorously resisting his efforts to remove her. They were all there. My kind of people.

  I ambled to the bar and told Gus that I wanted to take care of my tab. He said that he didn't know I had a cat. “I want to take care of my tab, Gus, not my tabby.” I felt sorry for my favorite bartender. A rumor had it that he had lost some hearing during the war. Another one said that he had only told the military draft board that he couldn't hear in his right ear and the board declared him unfit to serve. Gus didn't ask me to repeat myself. He reckoned the bill. I paid it and started a new one by ordering a Cuba Libre.

  “Hey, DeWitt,” Gus said, “I got so excited when you picked up your tab that I forgot to give you this note that Light Fingers Louie left for you. He said he tried to get you on the phone earlier but that your line was busy.”

  I read the note. Louie had come up with another lead. I hoped that it was better than the first one, but I was skeptical. “Mr. DeWitt,” it ran, “go to the Sisters of Pleurisy Convent School on West 17th St. and ask to speak with Sister Semper Fidelis. I hear she might know something about Mona. By the way, the other sisters call her 'Sister Semper Fi,' but I'd be careful. I hear she's a handful.”

  Sure, Louie, and I'm best friends with the pope. But it was a lead that I decided to follow the next day. For now I'd enjoy my Cuba Libre, have a second one, and tell Gertie that I liked the tattered slip she was wearing.

  I went home and read a little before calling it a night. First I skimmed a few pages about a pansy orchid grower named Nero Wolfe. Couldn't stand it. Who'd ever take a gumshoe like that seriously? The same went for another gumshoe with the silly name of Sam Spade. Why did their authors ever create losers like them, I wondered. What crap!

  I fell asleep almost as soon as my head touched the pillow but tossed and turned the whole night. I can recall at least one bad dream I had where I ripped the mask off the Black Llama and found that it was Sister Semper Fidelis, who started running away. I gave chase but tripped over Gardenia Gertie, who was playing dominoes with Light Fingers Louie on the sidewalk. I reached in my back pocket for my gat but pulled out a sardine sandwich instead. I started yelling as loud as I could. A loud pounding on the wall accompanied by cursing from the neighbor next door woke me. I seem to recall telling him “and you too!” I reached under the covers for my alarm clock. It was only 4:15. I tried to fall asleep again but couldn't. I must have counted a thousand sheep. No sheep next time, I promised myself.

  Frazzled but determinated to pursue Louie's latest lead, I headed downtown. The Sisters of Pleurisy Convent School had seen better days, though, of course, hadn't we all? Wedged between a pawnbroker's shop and a store with a sign that advised “We sell and lease cockatoos,” the school had outer walls encrusted with grime and several windows that lacked panes. Clearly the school had taken a vow of poverty. As for vows of chastity and obedience I couldn't say.

  I banged the door knocker and noticed a graffito that warned: “Abandon all hope, ye who enter here.” I recalled hearing that expression before. I think my ex had written it on a piece of paper and then taped it to our bedroom door. Say that for her, the ex always did have a sense of humor.

  The door opened slowly and a stoop-shouldered elderly man eyed me and asked what I wanted. He was the gardener, it turned out. There wasn't any garden, but the sisters, he e
xplained, always prayed for one and were keeping him on hand just in case. I told him that I wanted to see Sister Semper Fidelis. He scratched his head and looked puzzled. “You want to become a nun?” I assured him that I would rather take all my meals at Ma's and go home each night with Betty. I guess he was convinced. “Follow me, young man, Sister Semper Fidelis is in the pool room.”

  The “pool room” turned out to be a small office with a desk and a few chairs. The room had got its name, I guessed, from the pools of water that had dripped from the cracked ceiling and formed on the bare floor. Obviously the good sisters had omitted St. Philoctetes, the patron saint of plasterers, from their prayers.

  Sister Semper Fidelis was sitting behind the desk doing a crossword puzzle and munching on a stalk of celery. She was elderly—in her late 80s, I'd say—but otherwise seemed fit. She looked up when I entered and adjusted her wimple, which had fallen down when she looked up. She eyed me suspiciously through the pair of binoculars that hung around her neck.

  “Well, what is?” she barked. “I haven't finished doing the words across let alone the ones down. Do you think I have all day to waste, you damn fool?”

  I attributed this mild display of temper to the difficulty she was having with her wimple. I introduced myself and said that I had reason to believe that she might know something about a six-five blonde who carried around a basketball.

  She frowned. “Who wants to know?”