by Jim Pascoe
Before I could say no, she raised her already high-pitched voice a couple of octaves: “Ooooo! Help me, Ben Drake! Help meeee! I’m all alooone in the outback!”
That about did it for me. If I didn’t think I was wasting my time before, I certainly did now. Even if this woman’s husband really was missing, she seemed more concerned about herself than anything else.
“You know, Misty, I really got to be going,” I said, making the perfunctory wristwatch glance, even tapping the face of it for effect. “I’m supposed to meet a friend . . .”
Though she kept smiling, she couldn’t hide the disappointment that flashed in her eyes. “Please stay for one more moment longer. There’s something else . . . something that might help you locate Stan.”
She waited for me to bite. When I didn’t, she kept trying to reel me in anyway.
Her voice dropped to a whisper: “A small matter of this other vent figure that went missing with him.” She must have thought that hooked me, because she wasted no time switching back to full volume: “But first—my, my, my, I don’t know where my manners are that I haven’t done this already—may I offer you a drink?”
A drink was probably the only thing that could keep me from leaving, and the offer may have been the best thing I’d heard come out of Misty Summer’s mouth yet. That funny feeling about the lighter came back to me, and I realized I’d better check it out now rather than risk having to come back to this place.
“Okay,” I relented, “I’ll stay for one drink.”
She was already gone to the kitchen. I immediately went to the lighter. It rested on a thin, laminated hardback with a title that made me roll my eyes: Old Jokes for Young Folks. I picked up the Ronson lighter and examined the strange logo painted on its side. It read: Independent Order of Foresters. The flip side had emblazoned on it: Dedicated to Family Security. I set it aside and opened the book.
On the title page a short inscription, scratched out in a childlike scrawl, read:
Dear Stan: Keep ’em laughing!
—Rudy
I’m no expert on comedy, but neither was Rudy; the jokes in this book wouldn’t make a hyena laugh.
“Here we are!”
I quickly closed the book. Her hips knocked back and forth as she entered the room, carrying a tall glass in each hand. “Two fresh, crisp ice waters, garnished with slices of lemon!”
I sighed. It was my turn to fail at concealing my disappointment.
“Is something wrong, Ben Drake, darling?”
“Well, I was hoping for something a little stronger, but I guess this will—”
“You mean alcohol?” Her eyes turned so bright I thought they could be headlights. Their beams burned holes right through me. “Oh my, oh my. I don’t know why I didn’t see it sooner. You must be a drinker. And how long have you known about this problem?”
“Problem? What are you talking about?”
“Do you keep alcohol in your apartment, Mr. Drake?”
“Sure, I have a bottle of—”
She wagged a scolding finger at me. “That’s a sign, you know. Do your fellow detective friends have alcohol in their apartments?”
“Come on. Everyone I know has something to drink in their place.”
“I suppose you drink alone?”
“I’ve got plenty of company, sister,” I growled.
Misty flopped down onto one of the pillows, sat her water glass on the floor, crossed her arms, and pouted.
“All right, all right, I’m sorry.”
“I’ll have you know that Stan’s father was an alcoholic—that’s what killed him so young. Stan’s very touchy about that, and so am I.”
I cringed at the awkwardness of the situation; it was time for me to go. And yet this little confrontation shook the performance right out of Misty Summers, leaving behind a frightened, vulnerable woman. And I’ve always been a sucker for a woman in distress.
“You mentioned something about another puppet . . .” I said.
“Vent figure, yes. It scares the life out of me—I don’t understand it, and I don’t like it. Stan uses it in his sinister performances. It’s the vent figure he took with him.”
“This one got a name?” I braced myself for the alliteration.
“I don’t know . . . I mean, I think he calls it Black Jack. I keep telling you I don’t know anything about this. I just want him back . . . my husband . . .” She had the girl tears turned off, but the way she chewed her lower lip told me all I needed to know. “Oh, Ben Drake, I’m really worried about him, I think something bad has happened. I need you to find him. Please!”
“I tell you what, Misty. I’ll do my best.” I swallowed my water, handed her the empty glass, and got out of there.
* * *
The door to the bar swung closed behind me with a soft whump. I hopped down the three short steps and found myself inside the dark, smoky, welcome atmosphere of the H.M.S. Pandora.
I loved this bar, and for all the right reasons. The bartenders poured generous drinks. The jukebox featured the best of the best jazz. The bar’s soft, dark wood was fitted with classy brass accents and sported an edge that made for comfortable leaning. The ceilings were high, and management kept the lights low. In short: the Pandora had character.
Admittedly, on weekends the place got to be a bit crowded; local kids eager to chew on anything nostalgic filled the place up. But on weeknights it was just us regulars.
Barton Bourke stood behind the bar. Even though he was the most irritating bartender who worked at the place, Barton could pour drinks like the devil, so I put up with him. Besides, he knew what I liked. Three fingers of bourbon sat on the bar waiting for me. Next to it sat a drink that belonged to my friend Pappy.
Pappy was the nickname of Harper Meriwether, the oldest detective working for the Always Reddy Detective Agency. He was also the best. You could tell that by the way he sat there—confident, humble, sure. And he had style; you could tell that by the way he held a glass of gin to his thin lips.
“Good evening, Ben, my boy,” Pappy said as I placed myself on a stool next to him. “You got a case that’s running you down? It’s not like you to show up for one of our get-togethers so late.”
“You know me, Pappy. I got it in my head that I’d stop and see a client before coming here. Man, what a birdbrain she turned out to be. She tried doing a whole song-and-dance for me, but she just couldn’t carry the tune.”
His dry, raspy laugh imitated a dirty old man’s evil snicker. It wasn’t all that dirty—Pappy didn’t have an evil bone in his body.
“That’s because women find good-looking detectives irresistible. Believe me, I know.”
“Come on,” I said, giving him a nudge.
He laughed even harder. “Seriously, Benjamin, your forehead’s got more lines than a road map. Not even your hat brim can hide it. What kind of case is doing this to you?”
“It’s barely a case at all,” I replied. “Some guy doesn’t come home to his wife the other night. She calls us, all hysterical, claiming he disappeared. Well, I just spent some time with her, and believe me, Pappy, if I was standing in his shoes, I’d have wanted to disappear myself. Besides, she’s not giving me the full story.”
The old man just smiled at me. He knew when to talk and when to listen. I continued.
“Oh, and let me tell you the funny part: the guy’s a ventriloquist.”
“A ventriloquist?” He let loose with a low whistle. “There are not many things creepier than a puppet man, my boy, let me tell you.”
“Maybe so, but this guy sounds like a babe in the woods.”
Just then a slurred voice ripped through the cozy barroom: “Shay, can I getsh a refill here, Barton?”
One of the Pandora’s regular lushes waved a draft glass in the air.
“Go ahead and pour it yourself, Eddie.” Barton gestured toward the taps, then slid his bulk down the bar to where Pappy and I sat. He leaned in close to me and let fly with a whisper: “Troub
le with a case, Drake?” His thick eyebrows jumped up and down over his eyes like a pair of drunken caterpillars. “Or trouble with the dames?”
“Nothing I can’t handle, Bourke,” I snapped.
Bourke loved a good crime story. He read all the old classic pulp authors: from Boucher to Hammett to Stout, and everyone in between. He fancied himself an intellectual problem solver, always attempting to match wits with me and the other ops who came here to unwind after a long day. He usually fared poorly, but that didn’t stop him from thinking of himself as a latter-day Nero Wolfe.
“Come on, try me!”
“Christ, Barton, there’s nothing to tell.”
“Let him take a crack at it, Ben.” Pappy smiled knowingly. “After all, you never know.”
Pappy certainly had more patience for Bourke than I did, a fact I’d never understand.
I shrugged, then laid out what little of the story I had. When I got to the part about the lighter, an idea tickled my brain. Pappy had been a detective for something like fifty years, and he’d seen a lot in that time. Just maybe . . .
“Have you ever heard of the Independent Order of Foresters, Pappy? I saw a lighter with that logo on it at the house.”
“Say, I’ve heard of them,” Bourke drawled, rubbing his chin. “Aren’t they some kind of secret society or something?”
“Thanks, Bourke, but I don’t think so,” I chided. “You’re thinking of the Freemasons.”
“No, no, I’m sure it’s the Foresters.”
Bourke squinted his eyes as if to squeeze the thoughts out of his brain. The man’s inanities never failed to exasperate me.
“Come on, Bourke! Secret societies don’t advertise on cigarette lighters!”
“Well, you don’t gotta be like that, Drake. Jeez.” Bourke, clearly dejected, shuffled back down the bar. I felt sort of bad about yelling at him.
Pappy shot me a look that let me feel his disappointment. “Anyway, yeah, I do know a little something about the Foresters,” he said. “I think I may have even worked for them on a few occasions.”
That last bit caught me off guard, and the sip of bourbon I’d just taken lodged itself in my throat. I coughed violently. “What?”
“Sure. They sell life insurance, and I don’t have to tell you that in my many years I’ve dealt with a lot of life insurance scams.”
“An insurance company . . .” I said, rubbing my jaw.
“That get you thinking about something, Ben?”
“Sure does, Pappy. Sure does.”
* * *
It was late, but still about an hour too early to turn in. I’ve found that the best use of this particular hour is to make a quick stop at the office to check my messages. That way, anything left over from the day can simmer in the saucepan in my noggin. Come morning, I’d usually have something cooked up, even if it meant being a little late to the office.
On my way there, I couldn’t resist the temptation to pick up a cup of the famous wonton soup from Cherry Boulevard Chinese. Takeout always tasted better in an unlit office. Or maybe it was just that I never felt like sitting alone in a bright red, green, and gold Chinese joint in the middle of the night.
Besides, ever since I’d left the Summers place, a strange little man in an oversized trench coat had been following me. When he wasn’t behind me on foot, he tailed me in a tiny red car, almost cartoonlike in its size. I didn’t know who he was, but I sure knew he wasn’t a pro. Sitting in a public restaurant by myself just might give this gent enough courage to approach me. I’d rather keep him moving for now.
And so, soup in hand, I trotted up to the second floor of the William Kemmler Building, home of the Always Reddy Detective Agency’s cluttered offices. As much time as I spent here, I’ve never felt at ease making my way through the dark, empty array of cubicles at night. I instinctively checked for my gun, a Smith & Wesson Model 637. The small frame allowed for only five shots, but I was more than willing to give up that one shot to gain the gun’s easy-to-conceal size. If I couldn’t bring down my target with five shots, that sixth wasn’t going to be any good to me anyway.
At my desk I flicked on the banker’s-style lamp; rays of soft light poured onto the floor and then rose up to create a halo around my space. On my desk sat a special file from the agency’s receptionist, Rhoda Chang.
Rhoda was a secret asset to the agency. Nobody knew where she dug up her information—maybe she dated a policeman, or maybe she had an in-law working over at the records department. Then again, maybe she was a better detective than most of the ops gave her credit for. Regardless, she had a way of finding out the things detectives want found out.
The handwritten note from Rhoda on the front of the folder informed me that she had done some routine searches for the name Stan Summers and had found the enclosed news clippings.
I took a moment to remove my soup from its brown paper bag and speculate on what was going to be in those clippings. It could be standard fare: announcements of his act, perhaps a couple of reviews. It could be a wedding announcement; Misty struck me as the type who wouldn’t pass up the opportunity to have her name in the papers.
I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t hoping instead for something out of the crime blotter. I was willing to bet there were a few skeletons squirreled away in the Summers’s closets along with the puppets. Maybe one of those skeletons was going to be kind enough to have made the front page.
I was in luck. After reading through the slim file, the whole sad situation made a lot more sense to me. I would have to ask Stan some questions before I could be sure of my hypothesis, and that would mean finding the missing ventriloquist.
Glancing at the small wristwatch I kept pinned by its strap to my cubicle wall, I knew finding Stan was tomorrow’s task. Besides, Chinese always made me sleepy. And while it had been too early to go home when I got here, a stomach full of hot soup, along with a head boiling over with information, meant I was in no mood to read reports anymore—at least not unless I was lying down.
I took a quick peek out the front windows; my man was still hanging out in the shadows. I’d had enough company for one night, so I decided to slip out through the back alley. Keeping off the main streets, I’d have no problem losing this chump.
* * *
I’d parked a few blocks over on another street, partly to confuse my tail and partly for the exercise. As I hoofed it to my car, the wind fought my attempts to light one of the small cigars I liked to smoke. Frustrated and almost out of matches, I stepped into a phone booth to get my tobacco burning.
Just before I lit up, I thought I noticed a black shape duck behind a nearby telephone pole. A smoke would have to wait; I tucked my cigar away and slipped out of the booth. My eyes watered from both the wind and the fatigue of the day. I put a parked car between myself and where I thought I had seen something. That’s when I noticed the shadow darting behind a mailbox. And that’s when I pulled my gun.
I inched closer to the mailbox, my eyes scanning the whole area for any signs of movement. I got down close to the ground to see if that point of view would reveal my hiding man. Nothing.
Maybe I was seeing things; it was late, and I was exhausted. But just as I had almost convinced myself that my tired eyes made the whole thing up, I stopped dead in my tracks. I could feel a presence behind me.
I turned around slowly, my gun at my side.
A scream ripped through the night like the kind you hear in old monster movies. Only there weren’t any giant spiders, big monkeys, fire-breathing lizards, robots, squids, blobs, or bogie men.
There was just me, my gun, and the guy doing the screaming.
He stood there clutching a battered paper bag to his chest. The fear running through his body made him look like a kid, though I guessed him to be in his early thirties. The numerous freckles dotting his face added to his youthful look, as did his uncombed light brown hair.
He was a tall, thin, frightened man. He looked taller than he really was because of the thi
ck black-and-white vertical stripes on his pants and jacket. His pants must have been at least an inch too short, making him appear to have sprouted up like a weed. The high cuffs showed off his yellow and black polka-dot socks. In the low light, his loafer-style shoes looked as if they were made of dyed-red hair.
The only other red in his outfit was on the trim of the ruffles of his tuxedo shirt, which I could barely see peeking out from behind the bag he clung to.
His jaw bounced up and down, making his lips shake like he was in an earthquake, as he squeaked, “Oh my goodness, that’s a gun! And I’m sure it’s a real gun—you’re a real detective, why wouldn’t you be carrying a real gun? Only now that gun’s pointed at me, and I can’t help but think—”
“Cool it,” I ordered. “Your name’s Stan Summers, right? Now tell me how come the person I’m supposed to be finding is finding me.”
He lowered the bag, still keeping it close to him, and leaned in to whisper: “You have to help me. I know you’ve been hired to find me, but you’ve got to save me from them.”
“From who? Somebody’s after you?”
“Of course! They’re after me!” Again he brought his voice to a whisper. “I’m almost afraid to say their name out loud . . . You have to come with me, somewhere where it’s safe.”
When somebody was being chased in Testacy City, ten to one said it was a gambling debt. I tried to think of the sharks, numbers runners, and other underworld types who might have their hooks in this guy.
“Let me guess, Stan: It’s either Small-Tooth Kelley, Manny ‘the Rose’ Flores, or Dan ‘the Man’ Neff. Or maybe Hermann the German.”
He looked honestly confused by my list, though not as confused as I must have looked when he said, “No, no, not them, not any of them. Much worse, Mr. Detective, much worse . . .”
His voice trailed off, and he looked around frantically before he whispered his softest whisper yet: “It’s The Brotherhood of Orpheus.”
