Seriously?

by Duane Lindsay

  You can’t be a private eye without digging in the trash. Lou goes out back to the alley and finds two rusted barrels behind the tiny garage. He pulls out some loose garbage, empty milk and liquor bottles and food boxes, nothing interesting. In the second barrel he finds some clothing. There’s a pair of large men’s pants and a worn flannel shirt that Lou pauses over, wondering. Erich isn’t the kind of man who’d wear, or even own, clothes like this. So where did they come from?

  He lays them out on the dirt alley like they’re the outline of a body and looks down at them for several minutes. Why do you have these, Erich? What are you telling me?

  He thinks about the night at the bar. Erich dragged out by Monk, unconscious. Nazis running off to their cars. Maybe, he’s thinking, Erich woke up before the cops got there and all the cars were gone and he’s dressed in his Nazi suit. Maybe he high-tailed it into the forest.

  Lou nods to himself, picks up the clothes and stuffs them back in the barrel, a picture forming in his head. Maybe Erich found these so he wouldn’t be caught wearing a Nazi uniform.

  Time for a trip south, he thinks as he walks back across to the car.

  Bonnie presses the button on the intercom that came with the office and says, “Mr. Monkton? You have a visitor in the lobby.” She smiles up at the elderly gentleman in the tan poplin suit and says, “He’ll be just a moment, sir.”

  Bonnie’s only been here for three days and up until this moment she’s been wondering exactly what she’s doing. This is a new office but it’s a new office with no clients. The clock ticking on the wall keeps up a steady reminder of how long a day is when measured in five-minute intervals.

  But now there’s this guy. Maybe a client?

  Monk comes in and greets the old guy, ushers him into his office and closes the door, leaving her at the big front counter with the clock on the wall ticking away the minutes.

  Cassidy stayed for an hour, showing her the very few tasks she’s expected to do if anybody ever appears, and left, seemingly annoyed with Mr. Monkton for something. She tossed off a terse, “Going back to see Lou,” as she hustled out.

  Lou, Cassidy’s told her, was her husband, a private investigator, and wasn’t that exciting?

  Cassidy Adams—why hasn’t she taken her husband’s name, Bonnie wonders? —is an aggressive woman and Bonnie’s taken with her. She hasn’t met may people with gumption in her life and finds Cassidy interesting.

  She’s new in the Windy City, with a crummy apartment up on the north side near Bryn Mawr just five blocks from the beach, two blocks from the El. There’s a Mom-and Pop store on the corner so she doesn’t need a car. The apartment’s a studio with a refrigerator in the corner the manager called ‘the kitchen’ as in, “Over here is the kitchen. Here’s the sleeping area, the living area and the bathroom.”

  He could point to each one from the door since they were all the same room.

  But the rent’s cheap and the commute’s easy and she thinks she’ll like working with Mr. Monkton, assuming he manages to get any work.

  Sitting at the counter with lots of time to fill, she thinks about him. He’s possibly the best-looking man she’s ever seen outside the movie magazines, reminding her of a younger Cary Grant, and she’s been dying to go to lunch with Cassidy and find out more about him.

  The office door opens and Mr. Monkton escorts the man to the door. They shake hands, smile and the man leaves.

  Mr. Monkton comes to her counter and leans his elbows on it, smiling down at her. “Bonnie,” he says. “We have our first client.”

  “That’s wonderful, Mr. Monkton,” she says, meaning it. She’s happy for him, delighted that it’ll mean she can stay working here, and secretly pleased that she’ll maybe get to know him better.

  “Please, call me Monk,” he says.

  She says, “Monk.” While thinking, I certainly hope not.

  Erich has done a lot of thinking since Saturday, followed by a lot of doing. He’s made plans, called several members of his scattered group, ordering three of his most loyal and rabid ones to come to the house.

  These are the same ones he used to help with the killing of the old woman, the ones who know the real plans for the group; the ones he most trusted. The ones he chose at the bar.

  When he told them why he wanted them here, they complained of course; anyone would.

  “We have to empty this house,” he said. “Clean it out as if we never lived here.”

  Aldo, almost as tall as Erich, but packed with bulky muscles and as mean as a junkyard dog, is first to bitch, his words in harsh German coming in angry guttural growls. Erich listens, knowing the bottom line is, “We’re officers. Why should we do this menial work?”

  “Because the others have scattered and I can’t reach them. Because the fat little man who fought with us knows where this house is and will be coming back here in a very short time. And because,” he says, drawing himself up and glaring at his mutinous soldier, “I order it.”

  For a moment Aldo bristles, his mouth moving like he’s sucking marbles, before nodding once and backing away, obedient but not cowed. Hans, one of the older Germans who made it across the Atlantic into the New World while holding true to the values of the old, says, “Why don’t we just shoot him. When he comes here?”

  “I don’t need to explain myself to you,” warms Erich, but given how close they are to finishing the grand plan, he decides to anyway. “First, he’s met us twice. He’ll be suspicious when he comes here. I doubt that he’ll just step into a trap. And second,” he says, knowing this is the part they’ll like, “I don’t want to shoot him. I want to beat him to death.”

  That gets their attention and approval. Nods of agreement and smiles all around as they think about the man who caused them so much trouble. Each of them made their way home in their own cars but had to sneak into houses and apartments without being seen in their Nazi uniforms. The inconvenience and humiliation made them eager for revenge.

  Hans, one of the three beaten up at the bar, says, “He tricked me last time. He won’t be so lucky the next time we meet.”

  Erich knows they’re going to take this tactic to save their egos but personally he’s not so sure. The fat bastard not only beat Erich alone, he did it again to four of them, somehow survived the rest of the troop and managed to burn down the entire building.

  He says, “I found us a new base to work from. It’s near the bar and far enough away from the city that no one will find us. We can finish the plan there.”

  The house is paid for by a monthly telegraph wire transfer, so no one knows who rents the place. Erich paid cash to rent the bar so that’s a dead end. He’ll have to quit his job, just in case, but he has enough money to last through Spring and the plan will be over by then.

  Despite Mrs. Podalack and the pudgy detective, the plan is on track. Come this April, just three weeks away, America will discover that the Third Reich has risen again.

  Cassidy, in a tight white dress at the Imperial Dragon Chinese restaurant, leans her elbows on the table and says, “Okay gentlemen; let’s recap, shall we?”

  “Sure,” agrees Monk. He’s got a set of chopsticks in his fingers and is expertly skewering the egg drop from his egg drop soup. He’s wearing a tan suit per Cassidy’s request, with a blue and red tie slightly open at the neck. His hat, and Lou’s, are hanging from a rack behind him.

  “Ditto,” says Lou, also in a suit, also by request, although in his case Cassidy made it sound just a bit more like a requirement. But he’s here and enjoying the beer and the company and life in general. Most of the bruises are gone, his ankle feels fit and Cassidy looks gorgeous. He’s maybe got an issue with the chopsticks, though. He watches Monk handling his so effortlessly, as if he could pick up water with them, and his own are spread through his fingers like splints.

  Cassidy says, “Lou, like this,” and he studies her fluent motions thinking his fighting and dancing abilities should be of some help here.

  But no. He�
��s as clumsy with these sticks of wood as Monk is around women. Giving up, he gestures for the waitress and asks for a fork.

  Cassidy’s amused by this and smiles at him wickedly, then makes her chopsticks somehow pick up several grains of rice.

  “Show off,” he says.

  “Poor loser.” They’re leaning in to each other, smiling.

  “People.” says Monk, clearly annoyed.

  Cassidy sits back in her chair and eyes him like he’s a street bum instead of possibly the handsomest man in the Tri-State area. “The hell, Monk? What is your problem lately?”

  Monk’s taken by surprise at the suddenness of the attack, looks at her wide-eyed and stammers. “I... I wasn’t...”

  “Yes, you were. And you’ve been doing it since we all moved in to the brownstone.”

  “He’s jealous,” says Lou. His fork has arrived and he’s involved with his Cashew Chicken, staring at his plate like it’s going to try and leave.

  “Jealous?” says Cassidy.

  “Yep.”

  “I am not!” Monk protests, way too strongly.

  “Really?” says Cassidy, interested. Monk’s face is closely resembling the color of the vinyl seats of the booth. There are paper covered lamps glowing softly and the waitresses hustle by in tight silk kimonos. It’s a classy place she’s picked out.

  She turns her full attention on him, an act like attracting the attention of a lighthouse, and she leans in on her elbows to grin. “Tell me more, please.”

  “It’s... I don’t... I’m not...”

  Cassidy turns to Lou. “You guys are so cute when you’re flustered.” Back to Monk. “Jealous of what, hmmm?”

  Monk sets down his chopsticks, folds his napkin in his lap and takes in a deep breath through his nose, holds it, eyes closed, breathes out. “Fine. I’m jealous. You and Lou are so great together and you love him. And me; I got nobody.” He shrugs and looks down embarrassed.

  “That’s what you’ve been all cranky about? You’re feeling left out?” She starts laughing and Monk stares at her like she’s mocking him.

  “That’s mean, Cassidy.” He looks away. “That’s just plain mean. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

  Cassidy takes his sleeve and pulls on it. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have laughed. It’s just...Monk, why do you think I’ve been parading those girls into your office every day?”

  “What?” Monk’s looking suspicious. “What do you mean?”

  “Yeah, Cass; what do you mean?” Lou’s stopped his search for cashews—why do they put so few of them in there when it’s called Cashew chicken? —to pay attention.

  “I mean, I see Monk here mooning around, not dating anybody since... when was the last one Monk?”

  “It was Lorelei, last year.”

  They both look blank, trying to remember.

  “She’s the one with the crystals and the mystic pyramid? Probably has a Ouija board.” To Lou he added, “She decided—on the first date—that we were soul mates from history. We’d been lovers in Egypt and were reincarnated so our love could last through the ages.”

  “Oh, her!” says Lou. “I remember now. I liked her.”

  “Of course, you did. You asked her why people with past lives were always the Pharaohs and Queens and stuff. ‘How come,’ you said, ‘they’re never slaves or whores sold at the market stalls?’”

  “I do not think she liked me,” says Lou, seriously, to Cassidy.

  Who asks Monk, “Why didn’t you go out with her again?”

  “Why? Because she’s a lunatic!” Monk’s moved past embarrassment to outrage. “She wanted us to be married, on the first date, and move back to the middle-east where we could resume our rightful thrones.”

  “She never did answer my question either.” Lou’s gone back to fishing for cashews.

  “Fine, so Lorelei didn’t work out...”

  “She said her cat was actually the spiritual manifestation of the god Anubis.”

  Lou, head down at his plate says, “Anubis, the death god. Head of a jackal.” He forks a cashew with some rice and looks up beaming. They’re both staring at him in disbelief. “What?”

  “How do you know that?” asks Monk.

  “I read,” says Lou.”

  “No, you don’t. Except maybe Mickey Spillane.”

  Lou nods. “Just finished Kiss Me Deadly. Great book.”

  “No, it isn’t,” argues Monk. “Crime and Punishment is a great book. Moby Dick is a great book.” He’d go on, probably reciting the Library of Congress great book list, but Cassidy butts in.

  “How do you know about Anubis?”

  “Saw a movie on TV. The Mummy. Boris Karloff, Zita Johann. Black and white. See, it’s about...”

  “Never mind. I know what it’s about.” Monk says to Cassidy, “What do you mean, ‘parading those girls into my office every day?’”

  “I mean, you idiot, that I’ve been bringing in temps I thought you might like. Sort of an office/dating thing.”

  “Like pimping in the steno pool,” says Lou. “Wouldn’t that be a great book?” Then “Ow!” when she smacks him.

  “It is not like that at all.”

  “Right. Sure. Sorry.”

  What is it like?” asks Monk.

  “It’s... well, you don’t actually need a girl... in the office... I just figured it was a good way for you to meet somebody... since you don’t...”

  “Appeal to women?” asks Lou, then, “Ow!” when she smacks him. “Stop doing that!”

  “Stop saying... anything.” But she’s smiling at him.

  “I mean,” explains Lou, “After they fall for how he looks, they don’t want to be around him.”

  “Thanks Lou,” says Monk.

  “Welcome, pal. Just trying to help.”

  “Stop trying.” Cassidy hasn’t touched much of her food and Lou’s already done with his. She sees him eying her plate and curls an arm around like she’s in the prison cafeteria and a stare that says, ‘don’t even think it.’

  Monk says, “Back to the subject—me—you brought in girls?”

  “Sure. Patty, last week? Doreen, Joanie—I thought sure you’d pick her—um... Bonnie...”

  “You picked out Bonnie Lieberman?” Monk’s got that goggle-eyed look again and he’s so good-looking he can pull it off. Like Michelangelo’s David, but with a nice tan suit and a dopey expression.

  “Yes,” says Cassidy, thinking, now what’s the matter?

  “But, I like her,” says Monk, like it’s an objection.

  “Well sure, that’s a problem,” agrees Cassidy. “Monk, why is that a problem?”

  “Because we work together.”

  “Yes, and that means you can see her at the office every day and you can do nice things like buy her favorite coffee and maybe leave flowers and by the time she realizes you’re doing it she’ll have forgotten that you...”

  “Are an awkward, overeducated, pompous, weird guy,” suggests Lou.

  “Will you stop helping?” Cassidy says.

  Lou considers the question seriously. “Hmmm... probably not.”

  “I’ll have to let her go,” says Monk, with infinite sadness. Like Emmett Kelly as the sad clown, Weary Willie.

  “Of course, you do,” agrees Cassidy. “Monk, why do you have to let her go?”

  “Because it wouldn’t be proper,” says Monk. “It would be taking advantage of her. In my position as manager, it’s incumbent upon me to act with the utmost decorum...”

  “Here we go,” says Lou.

  “Monk, shut up.” Cassidy puts a finger to his lips, stretching across the table to do it. Lou carefully watches how her dress gets tight around her. “You don’t have to let her go.”

  “I do. I have a duty to consider the fiduciary obligations of my clients’ money.”

  Lou perking up at the word, and not wanting Monk adding any more of his own, says, “What do you do anyway?”

  “I’ve told you,” says Monk. “Several times. In the car on
the way here, in the office, when we had breakfast last week. You don’t listen.”

  “What?”

  “You don’t... oh, ha-ha. I get it.”

  “Seriously, what do you do with people’s money?”

  “I invest it.”

  Lou shrugs, like these are words without meaning. “Invest how?”

  “Okay, let’s try it like this. Cassie: how much money did we take from the mobs?”

  “One million, seven-hundred, thirty-five thousand. And change,” she says eagerly. Money is a subject close to her heart.

  “Right. And what happened to that money?”

  “We’re spending it?” says Lou.

  “No.”

  “No?”

  Cassidy interrupts here. “We’re not?” She looks around the restaurant like the police are going to come and throw them out for not paying the bill.

  “Nope. We’re spending the interest.” He waits—in vain—for comprehension, then he sighs. “Okay. Cassidy; where did the money we took go?”

  “In the bank?” She knows this is wrong and that Monk, when he gets like this, all professor like, is going to be critical, but he surprises her.

  “No,” he says, but gently, not like he’s correcting a particularly stupid sheep. He’ll save that tone for his best friend, Lou. “The bank pays—at most—two percent interest. Granted, for one point seven million, that’s... Lou?”

  “Thirty-four thousand a year,” Lou says immediately, shocking them both. “What? I went to grade school.”

  “I know, but I never realized you learned anything there.”

  Cassidy says, “Go on, Monk.” But she’s impressed with her husband.

  “Lou’s right. Thirty-four thousand. That’s...”

  “Twenty-eight thirty-three,” says Lou. “And change. Cassidy; you gonna eat those?” He points to her Sweet and Sour chicken and she passes it over.

  “Right,” says Monk. “Twenty-eight hundred and thirty-three dollars a month isn’t bad but with wise management,” he manages here to look both modest and arrogant, a tough combination, “we can do better.”

  “We can?” Cassidy is always interested in money. Always has been. Her childhood in a trailer on the eastern edge of Rawlins, Wyoming guaranteed it.