Waiting for the other shoe to drop

By Rick Hartford

To a private eye, life is waiting for the other shoe to drop.

I get an SOS from a woman I really don’t know. A friend of a friend of my wife’s. She makes the call from her lawyer’s office.

She says she is going to be murdered. She needs protection.

I start to say that protection isn’t my racket, but she cuts me off and spits out an address.

“Come quickly,” she whispers into the receiver.

Then the line goes dead.

I should dial 911.

Instead I load my pistol.

It’s a sickness. I know that.

The dragon is about to abduct the beautiful princess.

The young mother is tied to the railroad tracks.

The old lady has lost her wedding ring and life savings to her caretaker.

Yet, there is usually something wrong with the picture.

The dragon turns out to be a convenient victim for the Knight, who is looking to get in the king’s inner circle.

The woman on the railroad tracks is bait for Dudley Do-Right because Snidely Whiplash is sick of his stupid grin.

The old lady is a serial killer who buries her nannies in the back yard.

I pull up in front of the lawyer’s office. In Farmington. Back then people in the know called it Charmington. You get the idea.

The lawyer works out of her house. It’s a nice street. Lots of brick houses with ivy. Lots of 80 foot trees. Lots of old money.

I drive a 1957 Thunderbird convertible. Big V8. Red exterior. Black leather interior. Very comfortable. Nine miles to the gallon.

I knock on the door. The lawyer opens it.

I expect Attorney Frumpy. What I get is a clone of Lauren Bacall, a little older than her Bogie days, but she still has the looks that makes a man go Noir.

Trixie, the woman with the death threat over her head, stands next to her. She looks like Pippi Longstocking after she ran out of Krumalura pills and switched over to Benzedrine.

She has these trippy eyes that look me up and down and then she says:

“Let’s see your Gat, brother.”

“My gat,” I repeat.

“Yeah, baby, your piece.”

I look at Bacall. She rolls her eyes.

So, tell me what happened, Trixie,” I say.

“They said I took their money. I didn’t.”

“Who are they?”

“A bunch of Lying Yankees,” Trixie says.

“They go to Yale,” Bacall says.

“What do you have to do with this?” I say to Bacall.

““I’m on retainer.”

“She launders the money,” Trixie says.

“I nod knowingly. Working with these two will be like doing a swan dive into the La Brea Tar Pits.

Bacall lights a cigarette. Her eyes settle on the side of my face. I can tell because it is burning.

Just then we hear somebody pull up in front of the house.

Four guys jump out of a white cargo van. They have baseball bats and proceed to smash out the windshield of the Bird.

“Those must be the Yankees,” I say.

They start running to the house.

“Come on you two, I yell, pulling Trixie by the hand toward the back door.

Unfortunately, those college kids have that covered. Two guys are walking in the back as we reach the kitchen.

The other two walk in through the front door.

They now have guns.

One of the Yankees pushes me against the kitchen counter and takes my gun and my switchblade. He holds the knife up for inspection.

“I won it at the county fair,” I say.

“Ring toss?”

“High striker.”

He looks impressed. He taps the barrel of his pistol on my forehead. “I can be a high striker, Dick Tracy. But I can also be a nice guy. You just stay put for a moment. The ladies are coming with us while you order a new windshield.”

“Thanks for not hurting the paint job,” I say.

“Your welcome,” he says, and then he doubles me over with a punch to the gut that has me on the floor, searching for my lost breath. It must have crawled under the refrigerator.

Trixie and Bacall look back at me as they are hustled out the front door. After they leave I poke around the place.

Bacall’s desk. Strewn papers on top. Nothing interesting. I pull out the top drawer. Receipts, Juicy Fruit chewing gum, a Popeye the Sailor Pez container. All vital clues, I’m sure.

Another desk. A partner.

I get a name and a phone number.

“Attorney Swanson,” the voice at the other end of the call says.

“I’m a private investigator. Your partner has been kidnapped along with a client of mine. How far away from your office are you?”

A long pause.

‘How do I know you are who you say you are?”

“You don’t. Just come to the office. I’ll be waiting outside. If you don’t like what you see just dial 911 and we can get the cops involved.”

“Stay put,” Swanson says. “I’ll be right there. And don’t call the police.”

I figure that would happen. They are all in on it, whatever it is.

Attorney Swanson pulls up behind my Thunderbird.

“Who did that?” She said, gesturing at the shattered windshield.

“The same boys who took your partner. And my client.

“I think that the Ivy League players who have her will be sending a ransom note pretty soon, if they haven’t already,” I say.

“They already have. Just after you called me.”

“They want three million by 5 p.m. today, Swanson says. “The voice on the phone told me that for every hour of delay after five another digit comes off my partner’s hand. I don’t know what to do.”

“How about giving the money back?” I offer.

“I can’t,” she says. “We have already invested the money into some land. We bought a million aces. On Mars.”

“Mars?” I say, incredulous. “Nobody can own another planet.”

“You have no idea,” Swanson says. “We have the deed to prove it.”

Cracker Jacks comes to mind. But Swanson is thinking way outside the box.

“The day is rapidly coming where people of means will be able to travel to Mars. In our lifetime! There are already private concerns planning on landing on the planet within the next five years. When that happens, it’s going to be like the new frontier. Entire self sustaining cities will be created as the new home of the first of earth’s pioneers to the solar system. We are in at the beginning stages. We will be billionaires! And it beats dealing in dope.”

“When were you going to break it to the boys from Yale?” I ask.

“I want you to do it,” she says. She has a pink Lady Colt in her hand. “Put the hardware on the desk,” she says.

The undergrads have it.”

She hands me the phone. I dial.

“Who’s calling?”

“The guy you sucker punched about an hour ago. I have news. You’re billionaires. In real estate. All you have to do is let the women go.”

There was silence on the line.

“And then: What real estate?”

“The richest property on Mars,” I say.

A laugh comes over the phone.

“You’re the funniest person I ever met,” he says. “The only trouble is, I don’t have a sense of humor. So, get the cash. We will bring the two ladies back and after the exchange we can all be the best of pals. See you in an hour.”

“Wait a minute! There is no cash!” I yell into the phone.

But the line is already dead.

I turn to the aspiring Martian.

“They are headed this way. You got the deed?”

She nods.

“I do. But it’s not here. I’m going to get it and then I’m leaving town. You can sweet talk them out of killing the bunch of you. Good luck.”

The gun still on me, she backs out the door, watching me until her car door is open. And then she disappears.

I go back in and sit at the desk, my feet up.

What is it that entices apparently intelligent people to buy a case of snake oil? Desperation? Boredom? Or are they just two greedy shysters hoodwinked by another crook?

It’s hard to figure. All I really care about is being gone by the time the Ivy League returns, triumphant, only to find out that all they are going to get for their pockets is some red sand.