The Black Llama Caper

by Robert Muccigrosso

  The Elbow seemed as morose as me. Several of the gang were on hand. Southpaw Sammy Stickit had tears in his eyes and was telling a couple of new faces how he could have been a contender for the major leagues if a lousy umpire hadn't got him banned from professional baseball. And what was he now, he lamented? A longshoreman. Gardenia Gertie also had tears in her eyes. She had her arms draped around the neck of poor Hyman the Hebe, who was blubbering like a baby. If Gertie got any closer he was going to have a lot more to blubber about. And even Gus the bartender looked more downcast than usual. His mother-in-law, I discovered, was about to pay him and his wife a visit for an indefinite period. The wife, it seems, had informed him that he would have to sleep on the couch.

  But at least Light Fingers Louie was in a jovial mood. “Hi there, Mr. DeWitt. Long time, no see.”

  It hadn't been a long time at all, but I let that pass and asked why he was beaming from lopsided ear to lopsided ear.

  Louie looked around and then whispered that he was in on something big. I told him that if he didn't watch his step the only thing big that he'd find himself in would have bars and be under the supervision of a warden. I reminded him that since he had done time before, the law would bear that in mind if he got in trouble again. “Don't worry, Mr. DeWitt, I'll watch my step. He took a swig of the watery beer he was drinking and asked how I'd been doing. I told him what had happened to Dotty.

  “Geez, that's awful,” he said. “You want me to nose about and see if I can learn anything?”

  Not a bad idea, I thought. Not necessarily a good one either, but at this juncture I needed all the help I could find. I told him yes and treated him to another watery beer. Then I walked over to tell Hyman to keep his chin up. That made him cry harder. Gertie was touched by what she called my act of kindness and planted a big smacker on my mouth. I wanted to cry, too, for fear that a social disease was about to pay me an unsolicited visit. Needless to say, my subsequent night's sleep was none too good. A dream that had the Llama and the pencil-thin mustache stuffing pages of novels down Dotty's throat didn't help. Nor did the phone ringing. I reached under the sheet and grabbed the receiver. “What creep is calling me in the middle of the night and what does the creep want?”

  “Sorry, Mr. DeWitt, but I might have something useful about this Black Llama guy, and you told me to ring you up anytime.”

  I didn't recall saying this to Louie, but if he had any news about the Llama I didn't mind the three a.m. reveille.

  Louie, it seems, had run into a spic by the name of Julio Valdez, who used to run with the Llama but left his gang after some dispute and who currently was doing some things that Louie would rather not mention. Louie told me that Valdez took his breakfast daily between 8:00 and 9:00 at the Cinco Hombres, a greasy spoon run by four brothers. I thanked Louie for the tip and promised him a couple of drinks next time I saw him at the Elbow. I figured I was safe in making the promise since Louie didn't dare show his ugly puss in his regular haunts very often for fear the cops would find him. I also figured that I'd go look for Valdez the following morning. Hell, it was morning already.

  The Cinco Hombres was located in the middle of Spictown, where I wouldn't want to be found at night unless accompanied by General MacArthur and whatever troops he's commanding. The diner, like the rest of the area, was so rundown that you'd need to climb a stepladder to see street level. There was what I guessed to be a menu in the window but I couldn't read it, not because I didn't know Spanish—which was true enough—but because the windows were dirtier than Gardenia Gertie's underwear. Hell, I couldn't even make out who was inside the diner.

  Inside, however, things got better. The smell of good Latino cooking knocked my socks off, although I was still wearing both of them when I looked down. The diner was pretty crowded. I didn't have a clue if Valdez was one of the clientele, and if so, which one he was. There was a hot-looking dish sitting on a stool and tending to the cash register. I figured she knew how to count or counted with the boss. In either case she was probably bright enough to finger Valdez for me. All it would take would be some of my vaulted charm.

  “Buenos dias, cutie. Are you one of the Cinco Hombres?”

  She gave me a look that told me she wasn't, but I persisted. “If Señor Valdez is here,” I told her, “there's something in it for you.”

  Her eyes brightened as she smiled and nodded toward a corner of the diner. “Sí, señor gringo, he's the one sitting by himself next to the mop and pail full of feelthy water.”

  “Thanks, cutie. Here's a little something for your help,” I said, handing her a nickel. “And say 'hello' to the other hombres for me.”

  I strolled over to Valdez, looked him in the eye, and knocked over the mop and pail. I could tell he wasn't pleased as he began wringing out his pants cuff and shaking water from his sandals.

  “Sorry about that, Mr. Valdez, but accidents happen.”

  He looked at me. “And especially with you, I bet. Anyway, who are you and what can I do for you?”

  I sat down uninvited and introduced myself. I told him that Light Fingers Louie said he knew Miguel Malvado, aka the Black Llama, and that maybe he could give me a lead on him.

  “Maybe, maybe not,” he said as he slurped down his Wheaties topped with sliced black beans and jalapeño peppers. “Why you want to know?”

  I told him what a vicious, dangerous scumbag the Llama was and what danger he presented to society. I had to find him, I explained, or who knows what dastardly deed he'd next commit.

  “Look, señor, I know what a bastard the Llama is. I was a bastard, too, before I saw—how you say?–the light.

  I asked what light he saw and at what intersection. He told me that it was none of my norteamericano business.

  “Look, señor, I don't know where the Llama and his amigos are, but I can tell you something about him and maybe that will help you. And maybe that will help me, too,” he said, rubbing the fingertips of his right hand.

  “Look, Mr. Valdez, I don't see how that's going to help your itchy fingers. But if it's a simple rash or even eczema, I can tell you what helped my cousin Anatole. He suffered a bad rash and itched constantly until one of his bowling partners told him about…”

  “Listen to me, Señor Dimwit, if you want my help it will cost you mucho dinero. Comprende?

  I understood, and we negotiated. He drove a hard bargain and asked for a fin. I drove a harder one. I jewed him down to two bucks and a promise to dry his sandals with my handkerchief. The joke was on him since my snot rag was filthier than his footwear.

  “Let me ask you, what do you already know about the Llama, Señor Dimwit?”

  I told him how Mona had told me his name and said that he was a defrocked priest who had taught her calculus.

  Valdez roared with laughter, spewing his Wheaties in my face. I had begun to work on his sandals with my handkerchief and so I had to use my tie to wipe my face. He asked me why I hadn't used one of the napkins that filled a metal holder on the table. That was a good idea, but I hadn't thought of it. I told him to mind his own business and get on with what he knew about the Llama.

  “First of all, this Señorita Mona, either she not know all the facts or she lying to you.” He smiled and wiped his lips with several strands of the oily black hair that hung down the side of his face. “True, his name is Miguel Malvado. Whether he taught her calculus I could not say since I haven't seen him in years. But as for his being a defrocked priest? No way. He was the son of the devil, that one.” He interrupted his story to order another bowl of Wheaties with the usual black beans and jalapeño peppers. “Only this time put some cheese on, carita,” he yelled to the waitress.

  “Now where was I? Oh, sí, I remember. The Llama, as you probably guessed, is from Peru. The Andes. You know them? Trouble always found him and he found it when it didn't find him. He and a few friends used to guide wealthy turistas to see Machu Picchu. Some of these visitors never came back. They fell into the valley or simply disappeared, he told autho
rities. No one could say otherwise. Meanwhile he had become the richest man in the village and married the prettiest señorita. That's when his big trouble started. His young wife told him she was different from the others in the village and that she wasn't going to wear that—what do you call it in English?—that traditional bowler hat that respectable Peruvian women wear. They argued. They hit each other. They argued more. They hit each other more. As you can imagine, the whole village by this time was laughing at Miguel because he could not control his woman. Miguel said nothing. He waited. Then one day his wife disappeared. Miguel reported this to the police and said he would be heartbroken forever if his beautiful, good wife were not found. No one believed this nonsense, of course, but no one could say that he was responsible for her disappearance.

  “Carita! Some more jalapeños for my Wheaties por favor.” Valdez dabbed at his lips with his hair.

  “Now, señor, here is the best part. Miguel was one greedy bastard, and he cheated his friends of their share of the money they made from robbing tourists. One of them—a very brave man since everyone knew that Miguel had a violent temper—asked for his share. Miguel told him—well, you can imagine what he told him. The man said okay, Miguel, and walked away. The next day the man went to the police and said that Miguel had murdered his wife and chopped her to pieces, which he then fed to a nasty black llama that, because of its color, was not accepted by other llamas. Now no one believed that story either, but Miguel had become so unpopular with the townspeople as well as the police that the latter decided to arrest him. Miguel heard about this, fled the village, and hid deep in the Andes, but not before vowing eternal vengeance. And that, señor gringo, is that. Now you know a lot more about the Black Llama.”

  He was right. Now I did know much more about the Llama: where he was from, how he got his name, and most important, just how cruel and vicious he was. I knew that I had to stop him before he struck again. I thanked Valdez and took a jalapeño from his bowl. “By the way,” I asked as I was leaving, “did you know the man who ratted on him to the police?”

  Valdez broke into a big grin before he began to laugh uncontrollably. “Yes, I know him very well. You could even say that I know him as well as I know myself.”

  I didn't get the joke, but Latins have a different sense of humor, I suppose. Anyway, I had more important things to do. Like put out the fire that was burning in my mouth.

  24

  Sunday was a lost day. I fretted and then I drank. Then I fretted some more, and then I drank some more. I felt like a hamster running back and forth on a wheel. Valdez had given me some interesting info on the Llama but no leads for catching up with him.

  A cup of strong java and some leftover hash on Monday morning helped a bit, as did a pair of fresh socks and underwear, which I had forgotten to change for several days. I tuned in the radio and learned that the nips were giving the chinks a lot of trouble in Asia and the krauts were doing likewise to the hebes in Germany. What a world! Meanwhile I had my own troubles. I put on my trenchcoat and green fedora and headed for the office, where I expected to hear from Señor John Dough.

  I figured I needed to save my energy, and so I waited for the elevator instead of walking up the eight flights. Joe was off today, probably the result of too much booze, and his cousin Billy was standing in for him, as he did when Joe had had too much sauce the night before. Billy, I had learned from Joe, was a teetotaler but had a slight problem with drugs and occasionally hallucinated. I think this was one of those days: he wore different-colored shoes, one white and one brown, and kept asking if I thought President Coolidge was doing a good job. After undershooting and overshooting my floor a few times, he managed to land the elevator. I told him to have a good day. He told me to give his regards to Mr. Coolidge.

  Tense with worry like a chicken about to meet a man with a hatchet, I paced my office. The phone rang at 10:17.

  “Hello?”

  “Buenos dias, Señor DeWitt. You are well, yes?”

  It was the mustache. I wanted to pluck his upper lip adornment hair by hair and then fry his frijoles, but I kept my calm.

  “Where's Dotty, you good-for-nothing, sleazy spic?”

  “That is not a very nice way to speak, Señor DeWitt, and I advise you to watch your tongue if you know what's good for the muchacha.”

  It was hard to watch my tongue, especially without a mirror, but I knew I had to.

  “Okay, okay. What's the deal?”

  “The deal, señor, is that you will be so nice as to give us five thousand dollars and we'll give you back the girl.” He paused. “And in one piece.”

  He might as well have asked me to hand over Fort Knox. Five thousand dollars! Who's he kidding? Where does he think I can come up with that sort of moola? Yet I knew he was serious and that Dotty's life was at stake.

  “Listen, Mr. Dough, I don't have that kind of money. Where do you expect me to find it? We're in a depression, or haven't you heard?”

  “That is your problem, amigo,” he said. “But I think you'd better solve it if you want to see your pretty little secretary again.” There was a pause. “Since we're not unreasonable people we'll give you forty-eight hours.” Another pause. “But only forty-eight hours. Adiós.” Click.

  I walked over to the window and looked at the scene below. Christmas decorations brightened stores and beckoned passersby to come in and buy gifts. A small Salvation Army band stood across the street, no doubt playing appropriate tunes and reminding people to give to those less fortunate than themselves. I wondered if Dotty would be alive to celebrate or if she would be among the unfortunate. Poor Dotty. Well, at least I hadn't yet bought her Christmas gift.

  The phone rang. I half expected it to be John Dough, hoped that it would be either Polish Phil or Light Fingers Louie with some good news, but was surprised to find that it was Uneeda Baker, whose visit to my office had touched the match to this whole mess.

  “Mr. DeWitt, you won't believe it, but I have good news and then wonderful news.”

  I was sort of glad that the sun was shining for someone these days, especially for this poor sap, whose girlfriend had put him through the wringer.

  “Good for you, Mr. Baker,” I said. “What's the news?”

  “You remember that I had an Uncle Ebeneezer who had left me something? Well, the whole thing got settled and I'm going to get more money than I know what to do with. I'm thinking of opening another bakery and calling it 'Ebeneezer's Eclairs' in honor of my uncle.”

  “That's wonderful news, Mr. Baker, and I'm really glad to hear it,” I lied. “And what's the good news?” I forced myself to ask.

  “No, Mr. DeWitt, that's the good news. The wonderful news is that Mona will be out of jail in a few days and then we can resume our beautiful relationship.”

  If there's a God, I thought, he must reward the hopelessly stupid. Here's this jerk who nearly got himself royally screwed by some tall broad who'd rather play basketball than house, and now he wants her back. And why would she want to go back to this sawed-off moron? Couldn't be Uncle Ebeneezer Baker's spondulicks, could it? Nah. And how in holy hell was Mona getting sprung from the cooler after all the hot water she was in?

  “I'm really glad that Mona will go free and that you can have her back, Mr. Baker.” I didn't just lie this time, I may have told the whopper to end all whoppers. “But tell me, how did she manage to convince the authorities to let her go?”

  I could tell that Baker was wondering whether he should open his yap to me. He started to say something, stopped, started, stopped. Finally he made me promise not to tell a soul how it happened. I promised, and then he explained. First of all, he never believed that Mona was trying to deceive him. It was all the work of that nasty foreigner, who worked his Svengali-like charm on her. He—meaning Baker—didn't want to go on without his elevated damsel, and so he thought hard and long about what he could do. He couldn't come up with anything, but then a couple of detectives visited him at his bakery and told him that they could
and wanted to help for a small donation to the Policemen's Widows' Fund. “They actually asked for a pretty big donation,” Uneeda confessed, “but I was desperate and I now had come into possession of Uncle Ebeneezer's legacy. I agreed and they said they would speak to their lieutenant, who in turn would speak to a certain assistant district attorney who was currently experiencing a minor cash flow problem. And it has all worked out. Mona will go free and some poor widows will benefit.”

  “Mr. Baker,” I asked, “did these two detectives give you their names by any chance?”

  “Well, not exactly. One of them, a Mediterranean-looking guy who was very fat and kept eating the pastry that was sitting out on the counter, did once call the other man 'Rip' or 'Ripper' or something like that. But they said they couldn't give me their names because J. Edgar Hoover wouldn't allow it.”

  O'Meara and Bruttafaccia. Why wasn't I surprised? I wished Mr. Baker all the best and then hung up on the jerk.

  I sat around the office mulling over the injustices of the world and picking at a scab. Strangely enough, that gave me a thought: I had never asked Mona where the Llama and his gang were hanging out. Wherever it was, I'm pretty sure that they'd cleared out once their extortion scheme went bust and the cops picked Mona up. But maybe, just maybe, they'd left a clue as to where they were now and where Dotty was, too. I grabbed my coat and hat, splurged for a cab, and headed for the 17th Precinct where Mona was being held. On the way I told myself that I'd have to pick at scabs more often.