The Case of the Green-Eyed Redhead

2010-07-26T15:45:00.000-07:00

Arthur Armadillo

Private Investigator

The Case of the Green-Eyed Redhead

By Arthur Reker

Chapter One

It was a day like any other day, with one exception. It was lightly raining.

The want ad said my Tower District apartment/office was “charming w/sun porch.”

What possible charm it ever had was seriously marred by age, disrepair and several layers of peanut butter colored paint; and a sun porch on an overcast dripping hot summer day made as much sense as an iron lung w/moon roof.

Still, the apartment is as cheap as generic paper towels and within easy walking distance of the Daily Planet restaurant and bar, where I hang out between jobs.

And, it was carpeted. Carpet that, to be sure, dirt clings to like an insurance salesman to a hot prospect, but carpet nonetheless.

Personally, I never cared much for bare wood floors. If man were meant to walk on solid oak, he would have been given Swifters instead of feet.

As the steaming, heavy-dropped summer rain slapped against the slatted windows of my sun porch and growing puddles of rainwater merrily pooled on the windowsills, I sat gazing out at my sultry, dust-spotted neighborhood.

Life passes very slowly at the intersection of Floradora and Poplar.

Very little ever happens.

My second floor aerie provided a unique Tower District vantage point, allowing clear vision across a hundred roof tops and over time affording intimate glimpses into the lives of as many people.

Old people, I knew, never ventured outside. Most of the neighborhood simply went to work in the mornings and returned after dark. Their TV sets glowed blue and green like icy hearths. The children of the neighborhood, however, played outside all day long, and had imaginatively turned the neighborhood garbage dumpster into a Klingon fortress. My youthful and otherwise unemployed neighbors in the house below my sun porch had duct taped aluminum foil on all the windows of a bedroom. Lots of people had begun arriving at the house at all hours, leaving within minutes with small paper-bagged bundles furtively hidden beneath their shirts. I marvel at the recovery proud Americans like my neighbors can make in the age of Reaganomics.

Bette Midler’s version of “Delta Dawn” from her first – and very best – album blared from my boombox as my eyes wandered down to the Klingon dumpster. Someone had painted “My Aim is True” on it.

Inside the dumpster, something moved.

I surprised myself at first; thinking it was a cat, even though there had been no stray animals in the neighborhood for some years.

The movement in the Klingon dumpster, slight and tentative at first, took on a greater tempo as I realized it was a full-grown person thrashing about in the old newspapers, beer cans and empty food stamp booklets. It was a redheaded woman wearing waist-high waders and an International Harvester gimme cap.

She was bleeding from her forehead. The rain mixed with her blood and sent a light pink trickle down the side of the Klingon dumpster to the asphalt.

Next to catching a late night superstation cablecast of “Mannix,” there had been nothing this exciting in my life for some time.

The redhead in waist-high waders shakily raised herself inside the Klingon dumpster as I put on shoes and sloshed across the littered lawn. Neatly sidestepping the enormous and deadly land mines left by my below-stairs neighbor’s Rottweiler, I made my way to the wounded, delirious woman.

The hot rain beat down harder than a clumsy dentist’s drill.

The black sky loomed larger than Yoko Ono’s sunglasses.

I reached the redhead in waist-high waders as she stood straight and tumbled into my arms.

She was a foot shorter and dozens of pounds lighter than I, but I held her firmly and strained for better footing in the grimy, frothing grass.

My left foot landed on the top of a battered Tonka toy truck, which skidded into the gutter, dropping us both into the filthy, verminous street water next to the Klingon dumpster.

Righting myself and straightening my soggy Bette Midler tee-shirt, I half-carried, half- dragged the redhead in waist-high waders down the sidewalk to my apartment/office door. Stair by dusty stair, I pulled her to the relative safety of my sun porch.

Water beaded on her waders and oozed to the ratty green carpet. Blood congealed on her forehead as I lifted her cap and discovered a bruised cut – inflicted, I surmised from experience, by a blunt instrument like a baseball bat, or a wrench. Or, I thought, by an International Harvester tractor.

“This dame is on the run,” I said to myself as I lifted her Adidas-clad feet to the footstool.

I slapped her cheeks lightly.

She wasn’t coming to.

You didn’t have to be a detective to know she was beautiful, but it helped.

She had cheekbones like chiseled banisters. Her hair was long and as creamy as Kraft macaroni and cheese. She was bursting all over like an overstuffed laundry bag. Wickedness burst from her dazed eyes like crazed salmon. Even comatose, she exuded the power of a dozen full-tilt microwave ovens.

There was too much to consider. The waders. The shoes. The red hair. The banister cheeks. The slight smell of crabmeat on her breath. Something awfully queer was going on.

I carefully dressed her wound with paper towels and Bactine and waited for her to regain consciousness – ironically, an act I find myself performing often in the Tower District.

As the rain pitter-pattered against the slatted windows of my sun porch, I thought back to what had brought me to the Tower District in the first place.

Years before, I was a bright and eager Fresno State criminology major (expelled in my senior year on an alleged lewd conduct charge – how was I to know sheep could talk?) I set up shop as a private detective in the sleepy central Fresno village of the Tower District.

What a time. Repossessing cars. Hunting missing people. Guard duty at the Lube-N-Go. It was the school of hard knocks, for sure. There was the occasional field trip to Firebaugh or Mendota, but the really glamorous jobs people read about were actually few and far between.

And suddenly, this curvaceous green-eyed redhead reclined on my sofa. She snored lightly, and a trace of spittle dripped from her ruby-red mouth.

The window air conditioner cranked jealously though icy slats and hummed a sweet lullaby for my red-hennaed baby doll.

The hairy mole left of her nose twitched a bit.

She was coming around.

“Oh, Mr. Armadillo,” she said breathlessly. “I’m in trouble!” She toyed playfully with the golden beads around her freckled, pretty little neck.

“You came to the right dumpster,” I said. I smiled warmly and burned the filter end of a Marlboro Light. “I’m trying to quit these things.”

“The world will appreciate your self-control, Mr. Armadillo,” she flashed her bright greens at me, scarlet fingertips clutching heaving breasts. “But for now, I have a job for you!”

“I go for a hundred dollars a day,” I said. “Plus One Hour Martinizing expenses.”

“Anything, Mr. Armadillo, whatever it takes,” she began to cry.

I handed her a towel. This redhead really was in trouble.

“Oh, Mr. Armadillo,” she cried.

“Call me ‘Arthur,’” I said. It never hurts to be comforting with a client. It improves outcomes.

She wiped her tear bestained face clean. The hairy mole disappeared. Maybe it had been just an olive pit.

“Mr. Armadillo – Arthur,” she corrected herself in between primal sobs. “I’m in trouble!” She sobbed harder her for special effect, and spittle flew across her face. “Someone is trying to kill me!”

I realized then that she had never before looked so beautiful.

I couldn’t help but smile.

Here, in my apartment/office w/sun porch overlooking the corner of Floradora and Poplar, in the midst of economic recession, the original, not the penultimate one, with millions out of work and millions more going hungry, I, Arthur Armadillo, Private Investigator, had a job.

Chapter Two

I could tell this redhead meant nothing but trouble.

“Mr. Armadillo – Arthur,” she said, breasts-a-heaving, spittle flying across chiseled cheeks, sending not-too-subtle messages with those flashing green eyes, “I could use a glass of Chardonnay.”

I checked my refrigerator and found nothing but a near-empty carton of Hershey’s chocolate milk, two packages of Ding Dongs and a container of baking soda.

“We’ll have to travel,” I said. “I know a place.”

I helped her up and enabled her to exchange her bulky waders for an Ollenberger’s fur coat I had bought from my neighbor’s yard sale. I escorted her on the short walk around the corner to the Daily Planet restaurant and bar, beneath the thrusting spire of the Tower Theatre.

There was nothing quite like the Tower District after a good, hard summer rain came to an end. Bright and shiny, the streets glimmered like a river of cubic zirconias. Even the air, usually befouled by the stench of a thousand baking chicken pies, was fresh and sweet. Birds tweeted, crickets clicked in the ferns, bag ladies rustled.

We walked past the neighborhood newspaper boy, a young fellow wearing droopy jeans and a “Mad Max” jacket. His hair was white and he carried a small carbine and a grenade launcher. I reminded myself not to fool with him at collection time.

At the Daily Planet the green-eyed redhead moved toward a table with a glide as strong and graceful as a rabid badger. Ella Fitzgerald sang “I’ve Got a Crush on You” on the stereo.

“Gimme a glass of Chardonnay,” she instructed the waiter. “An’ don’t be stingy, baby.”

I felt some late nights coming on and ordered a double espresso.

I gazed out the window at Roger Rocka’s dinner theatre across the street as the evening’s audience arrived by chartered bus. A polyester parade included a very large woman all dressed in white. I figured she was big enough for 70-millimeter projection with Dolby. It must have been buffet night.

I was suspicious. I was wary. I was hungry.

The waiter reappeared with our beverages.

“How about an appetizer?” he inquired brightly.

The green-eyed redhead turned disconsolate with sobs.

“Maybe later,” I said and motioned the waiter away. With a look between rejection and clock-watching, the waiter turned abruptly and left.

“Lagoon” she said.

“What’s that?” I asked.

“It’s French,” she smiled. “The waiter is an oaf. Lagoon.”

“You’re bilingual,” I said.

“I am also ambidextrous,” she replied.

“Don’t ask, don’t tell,” I said and took a deep gulp of boiling espresso.

“Arthur,” the redhead returned my attention from my scalding throat to the matters at had. “I need your help desperately.”

She pulled a Gitanes from her bag. My Bic flared.

“I’ve been involved,” she was crying once more.

I downed my double espresso in a long, quick gulp. She doused the Gitanes in her Chardonnay and rearranged her Ollenberger’s fur.

“I have to be honest with you,” she said, tear-stained green eyes staring straight into my new Bette Midler tee-shirt.

“I expect nothing less,” I said as a man looking remarkably like Cary Grant sat at a nearby table. I eyed him as he was joined by a geek.

“Dig the sophisticated motion picture icon,” I said to myself, “and the geek.”

The green-eyed redhead grew increasingly nervous and lighted two cigarettes at once.

I heard Cary Grant and the geek order chicken livers in Marsala sauce and coffees to go.

“I can’t talk here,” she said. She lighted another two cigarettes and nodded her tousled head at Cary Grant and the geek. “We must go someplace else.”

This woman, I made a mental note, wasn’t wearing her Adidas for fashion alone.

I suggested we take a walk.

I signed the ticket to my Daily Planet tab and we walked out the door to Wishon Avenue, then west on Olive. I had the feeling we were being followed.

In the grimy but reflective rock-resistant windows of Sonia’s Polynesian Fashions (The “Come on I wanna lei ya” sign had been in the window for years) I spied Cary Grant and the geek just a few steps behind us and closing in fast.

The geek had his hands inside his rain slicker pockets.

The green-eyed redhead was chewing gum and walking at the same time. I realized she was truly something special.

We walked faster. Cary Grant and the geek remained close behind us. I was eyeing a terrific 1930’s bamboo chair in the window of an art deco store when gunshots rang out. A horrible, gut-searing, terrifying pain ripped across my left ankle as I slammed to the damp, mucky sidewalk.

My redhead screamed.

I heard Cary Grant and the geek laughing.

I heard Elvis Costello on a passing car radio.

I had torn my new Bette Midler tee-shirt.

Chapter Three

As my left ankle seared and bruised, I realized my green-eyed redhead meant nothing but trouble.

She, Cary Grant and the geek were gone.

She’d left me no way to reach her, no money – not even her American Express card – but I knew I was on a case.

Maybe the case of my career.

Besides, MediCal wouldn’t cover the ankle wound without a lot of paperwork, so I knew I had to find her.

Plus, someone had to pay for the damage to my brand-new Bette Midler tee-shirt.

I’ll fly from adversity with a confirmed first-class ticket, but there was something about my green-eyed redhead that was too puzzling to pass up. I didn’t know what I was up against, exactly, but it was too clean, too obvious, and too easy. I was headed for trouble like a bowler to chili cheese fries.

And my redhead was missing. Green eyes. Ruby red lips. Corinthian cheeks. The waders. The Ollenberger’s fur. The crabmeat on her breath.

Waders! A clue!

The Fresno State College criminology department had taught me a few things, and one of them was something about clues.

I limped east on Olive to Bob’s Bass Master Shop, resisting the temptation to stop along the way at the Chicken Pie Shop for a bowl of little red Jell-O cubes.

“Little red Jell-O cubes will have to wait,” I said to myself. “I’m on a case.”

“What kind of waders?” the little man I assumed was Bob of Bob’s Bass Master Shop asked.

“They could have been rubber,” I replied. “Or they could have been plastic. How am I to know? I’m a private detective, Bob, not a bass man.”

Bob shrugged his shoulders. “I sold a pair of waders just recently. I’ll have to try to remember. Can you check back?”

I staggered out of Bob’s Bass Master Shop feeling defeated.

My ankle pounded.

I was suspicious. I was wary. I was hungry.

As much as the Chicken Pie Shop beckoned me, it would have to wait. There was a redhead to find.

I decided to stake out the Tower District and do my laundry at the same time. Granny’s Wash-N-Dry afforded a good view of the street and there was no use running up One Hour Martinizing expenses on a client that, for all I knew, could be in Cannes or Coarsegold. I stumbled home to my apartment/office and dragged my dirty laundry duffel back.

Pouring a level cup of fresh-mint Gain detergent into a Granny’s washing machine, I was astounded to look up and see Cary Grant and the geek stuff a large canvas bag into a dryer. They didn’t see me as I hid behind a large woman hanging her lingerie on a cart.

I was suspicious. And wary. And lacy.

They put a single quarter in the machine, slipped out the back door of Granny’s, hopped in a tan BMW and sped away.

I made a mental note that, while stuffing a large, overly plumped canvas bag into a Granny’s dryer was not a particularly odd occurrence in the Tower District, trying to dry anything with just one quarter was exceedingly optimistic.

Two quarters, maybe.

But only if you plan to leave your jeans in the sun for a day or two.

“Wait a minute!” I screamed.

I ran to the twisting, tumbling dryer and slammed it open.

“Oh, my God!”

Chapter Four

As I helped my green-eyed redhead crawl out of the Granny’s dryer, I realized that she had never before looked so beautiful.

But then, she’d been through quite a tumble.

Under the bare fluorescent lights, even her Adidas shone with a special brilliance.

“Oh, thank you!” she said, hugging and kissing me in a passionate and meaningful moment. She smiled and tried to rub her ruby-red lipstick from my face.

I noticed that the hairy mole left of her nose had reappeared. Had she had time to eat since I last saw her?

“Oh, Arthur! You’re bleeding!” she cried.

“It’s nothing,” I said, and caressed my swollen ankle. “Just a flesh wound.”

“Good!” she said, and pushed me playfully, her fluff-dried tresses bouncing. “Let’s eat!”

Over quesadillas at Cuca’s Mexican restaurant on Olive she began to open up. A Mexican band cooed Stevie Wonder songs over a polka beat on the jukebox.

“Dos Equis,” she had told the waitress.

Was that some kind of code?

“Arthur,” she said, beaming those bright greens at me, “I’m in so much trouble.”

The waitress arrived with two dark, foaming beers. How did she know?

“Arthur,” the redhead said, “there are secrets in the Tower District that people will kill for, and I’m afraid I’m going to be one of those people.”

“One of the people they kill?” I asked. “Or that kills?”

“They kill me,” she said.

I sipped my beer. It tasted, weirdly, Mexican.

“What secrets? Who’s trying to kill you? What’s going on?” I asked.

“Time,” she said, “will tell.” She winked at let her Ollenberger’s fur drop below her shoulders. A sign, I knew from my Fresno State College criminology classes, of comfort or something.

I reached across the table, my sleeve drooping in the tri-bowled selection of salsas, and grasped her fingers. “Tell me now,” I said.

“I need to,” she said. Tears welled in her eyes and mascara sluiced down her bas relief cheeks. Was she serious, or was it the salsa?

“Here are you quesadillas!” the waitress intoned ever-so-cheerfully.

I asked for two more beers.

“Dos Equis?” she asked.

Again, that code.

I was suspicious. And confused.

“Beers, beers! Bring beers!” I shouted forcefully. The waitress backed off.

Alone again – at last – with my redhead.

She curled her Adidas beneath her in the booth, I knew she meant business.

“Tell me more,” I said. “It’s the only way I can help you.”

“I can’t tell you,” she flashed those bright greens at me again.

My quesadilla drooped.

“Why not?” I asked.

“Because, I’m,” she gasped for breath. “I’m … not … able …”

“Tell me,” I leaned forward, smiling.

“Food …” she sobbed.

“Yeah, what about it?” I asked. “Some pretty good grub, huh? Salsa isn’t too hot for you? You want some more? Want some more chips?”

“It’s … it’s …” in between gasps and sobs, she struggled for breath. “It’s the food!”

My mind raced.

“It’s a food scam?” I asked.

“No!” she shouted hoarsely. “Food!”

“Someone’s stealing food?” I asked. “Is that it?”

“Food! Food!” she panted. “Food poisoning!”

And she was gone.

It was only then that I realized the funny resemblance the waitress had to Cary Grant.

Chapter Five

As she tossed her quesadillas on Olive Avenue, I realized my green-eyed redhead had never before looked so beautiful.

There was a trace of dark, Mexican beer mixed with cheddar cheese, tortillas and crabmeat on her breath as I pressed my lips to hers in a long and passionate embrace.

“I’m feeling better now, Arthur,” she smiled and readjusted her fur.

“You need to settle your stomach,” I said, and suggested we cross the street to the Chicken Pie Shop for some little red Jell-O cubes.

She started to cry.

“Can the tears, Red,” I said. “We’ve got work to do.”

I was tough. I was comforting. I was also hungry.

A chicken pie, some mashed potatoes, creamed niblets and a cola seemed just the thing.

Thoughts of Apple Brown Betty danced around my brain.

My redhead daintily blew her nose and we ran through traffic across Olive Avenue. The lights from the Tower Theatre spire were on and reflected romantically in her bright greens.

I made a mental note to inquire why the Chicken Pie Shop was open so late. I hoped too, that they would have little Red Jell-O cubes.

As we entered, I was suspicious.

All the waitresses were wearing green commando fatigues, Army boots and M-16s on their backs.

“They’re werewolves,” my friend Speedo Puente once said about the Chicken Pie Shop waitresses.

Inside the Chicken Pie Shop, near the “Please Wait to Be Seated” sign, I was hit hard on the back of my head with a blunt object. Like a baseball bat. Or an International Harvester tractor.

As I plowed into dreamland, I heard my redhead screaming.

When I came to, it was morning and I was seated in a bright green Chicken Pie booth. A 101 Strings version of Blue Oyster Cult’s “Don’t Fear the Reaper” played throughout the restaurant.

“Coffee, sir?” asked a pleasant-faced, if slightly aged, waitress.

“Where am I?” I shouted. “What time is it?”

“Oh, dear,” the grandmotherly waitress sang. “We’ve had quite the evening! We do need our coffee this morning, don’t we?”

“Buns,” I said.

“Pardon me?” the waitress asked.

“Buns,” I muttered. “Bring me buns and butter.”

The waitress left to retrieve my order, her heavy Army boots clump-clumping across the shiny orange and green tile floor.

I tried to recollect the events of the last several hours. My pounding headache brought it all back.

The redhead.

My redhead.

Where was she?

I wolfed down the buns and splashed coffee in my mouth.

I had to find her.

I was suspicious.

Leaving a larger tip than necessary, I paid the bill and rushed outside into a dry summer day. I realized I never would find her without help.

Zelma would know.

Nothing passed through the Tower District without Zelma knowing.

I sprinted to the Mayfair Market on my weakened ankle and skidded into the express check-out lane where Zelma worked.

“Red hair,” I told her. “Green eyes. Ruby-red lips. Fur. Adidas.”

Zelma smiled as she weighed a zucchini.

“Crabmeat on her breath,” I said.

Zelma cackled as she weighed bananas.

“Have you seen her?” I begged.

“She was in just a few minutes ago,” Zelma said, caressing a package of sausages. “Looking for some fancy French cigarettes. I sent her over to Drug Fair.”

Outside the Mayfair Market I heard the screeching of tires.

I heard Elvis Costello on a car radio.

I looked up to see a tan BMW racing toward me.

I jumped out of the way in time, but further ripped my brand-new Bette Midler tee-shirt.

I heard my redhead screaming.

Cary Grant and the geek, in the front seat of the tan BMW, wore green commando fatigues.

My redhead was in the back seat.

Sprawled on the gummy sidewalk, I raised myself to one elbow.

I was desolate. I was wary. I was hungry.

Chapter Six

I slumped on the sofa of my Floradora Avenue apartment/office w/sun porch in a dead heap. The slight smell of crabmeat lingered.

I turned on the TV and called Me-N-Ed’s Pizza. The works. Medium. Hold the anchovies. Heavy on the crabmeat.

I pondered the events of the previous 24 hours.

The green-eyed redhead in Ollenberger’s fur and Adidas was in my life with two killers after her. What did I do to deserve this? I remembered, I’d never come across a dame like this pulling guard duty at the Lube-N-Go.

A knock at the door.

“Who’s there?” I shouted.

“You ordered a pizza?” the voice replied.

I rushed hungrily to the door.

Instead of a pizza, I ate a knuckle sandwich.

It was Cary Grant and the geek. They pummeled me into an unrecognizable jumble of bones and bruises.

“Stay away from the girl,” the geek growled as he realigned my jaw. “She’s nothing but trouble.”

I made a mental note not to argue with that.

“What has she said to you, boy?” Cary Grant asked in his stuffy tone.

“She’s a client. It’s confidential,” I mumbled through swelling lips. I, of course, knew nothing, but my Fresno State criminology classes had taught me about aggressive stances or something.

The geek pulled out a purple Bingo dauber and drew a large, crude bulls-eye on my forehead.

“You stay away from the girl, my boy,” Cary Grant smiled. “Or I will use you for skeet shooting.”

They dropped me to the floor and beat a hasty exit.

I pulled myself up and filled the sink with the cold, slightly coppery-colored tap water indigenous to the Tower District.

I pushed my swollen, bloody mug into the water and thought.

There was another knock at the door.

I was suspicious as I lifted my dripping head to shout, “Who’s there?”

“You ordered a pizza?” the voice said.

I wouldn’t fall for that one again.

“No one’s home,” I shouted.

“You ordered a pizza,” the sinister voice said, “or not?”

I was, after all, hungry.

Cautiously, I opened the door.

“Ten bucks,” the delivery boy growled.

I eyed him suspiciously.

“Put it over there,” I said and pointed to the sofa. “Will you take food stamps?”

I closed the door, enveloped by the sweet smell of crabmeat, and looked closer at the delivery body.

The mole left of his nose trembled.

I was filled with delight.

My redhead!

Chapter Seven

As my green-eyed redhead removed her Me-N-Ed’s delivery boy baseball cap, I knew I was in trouble.

As she readjusted her white work shirt with “Bart” stenciled near her heaving right breast, causing the “B” and then the “T” to alternately appear and reappear, I realized she had never before looked so beautiful.

“Oh, baby!” I said and rushed to her. We embraced passionately.

“I had to get back to you!” she cried breathlessly, her throbbing, quivering red-hennaed tresses revealing ugly blotchy welts and bruises on both ears.

“They’ve hurt your ears,” I said tenderly.

“Huh?” she answered vacantly.

Footsteps pounded up the stairs and shook my office/apartment.

“They know I’m here!” she shrieked, traces of spittle flying in my face.

She moved gracefully, quickly to the window. The footsteps on the stairs lumbered ominously closer.

Halfway out the window. my redhead flashed those bright greens at me. “I won’t see you again, probably,” she smiled. Before dropping down to the ground, she whispered, “It’s the Chicken Pie Plan.” She looked scared. “Remember, Arthur, the Chicken Pie Plan!”

And she was gone.

A pounding on the door.

I was doomed. I was frightened. I was hungry.

The pounding on the door grew louder, stronger.

The aching in my heart for the redhead grew, too. “Maybe,” I thought to myself, “a slice of pizza could help.”

I answered the door.

I was in trouble.

It was my landlady.

“Heidi,” I smiled to my Hessian landlady. “How are you today?”

“What are you doing, alla these people coming and going?” Heidi, a big woman by any standards, grabbed me by the neck and inflicted bruises deeper than those caused by Cary Grant and the geek.

“I’m gonna warn you, I’m gonna give you the toss,” she growled. “Now, if you don’t give me some peace and quiet, you move!” Heidi dropped me to the floor in a heap. She stormed out and slammed the door behind her.

The telephone rang.

I was suspicious. I was wary.

As I crawled across my living room to the phone on my sun porch, each movement caused rivulets of pain throughout my body. With my last ounce of strength, I answered the phone.

“Hello?” I croaked.

The voice on the other end was deep and sinister, sort of like Lucille Ball in “Mame.”

“Mr. Armadillo?” she growled.

“Yes,” I wheezed.

“Mr. Armadillo?” she repeated, ominously, soullessly.

“Yes!” I said. “Yes!”

“Mr. Armadillo, I am so glad I could reach you,” she confided. “I’m calling because our truck will be in your neighborhood next week to pick up your rummage. Do you have any rummage?”

I slammed down the phone.

I picked myself up, showered, shaved, slipped on a freshly-laundered new Bette Midler tee-shirt, put Bette’s deeply meaningful and ironically titled “Songs for the New Depression” album on the stereo and called my friend Speedo Puente.

“Hey, Dillo! My man,” Speedo laughed. “How are you? Dillo, you know, you’ve called just in time, man. I just got a new shipment of tamales.”

“That’s going to have to wait, Speedo,” I said. “I’m on a case.”

“You’re working?” Speedo asked.

“Yeah,” I said. “A case. I’m working.”

“Well,” Speedo said, “what’s the unemployment department going to say about that?”

I made a mental note to be sure my redhead paid me in cash.

If I ever saw her again.

I quickly filled Speedo in on the events. Green-eyed redhead. Romulan cheeks. Ollenberger’s fur. Adidas. Cary Grant and the geek. Chicken Pie Shop waitresses in commando uniforms.

“They’re werewolves!” Speedo exulted. “You didn’t believe me, man! I told you so!”

And I told him the redhead’s final words.

“El Plan de Pollo, huh?” Speedo said. “Commandos.” Speedo was incredulous. He was also twisted. But I realized this case could use his alternative perspective.

“Yeah,” I said. “I’ll come over to your place, Speedo. I think I’m being watched here. It’s dangerous.”

“By Cary Grant and the geek?” Speedo asked.

“No,” I said, and a chill ran the length of my spine, raising the little hairs on the back of my neck. “My landlady.”

I put down the phone and realized I was on to something here. The Chicken Pie Plan.

Maybe the very fabric of the American way of life was at stake.

Or maybe they were out of little red Jell-O cubes.

My body tingled. My stomach rumbled.

I left my Floradora Avenue apartment/office and rushed to Speedo’s place on Elizabeth Avenue.

Whistling (“Mr. Rockefeller, a misunderstood tune Bette Midler wrote herself) I confidently walked along Van Ness Avenue through a pleasant neighborhood of tall trees and Queen Anne homes.

My vision crossed the street and I stopped dead in my tracks.

There, in the alleyway behind the Chicken Pie Shop, was a suspicious, large truck. I had to get closer to see. Before crossing over one-way Van Ness, I looked both ways.

Creeping closer, I searched for a better view of the truck.

In the dimming light of a squinting summer sun, I could barely make out the men in commando fatigues that unloaded heavy boxes from the truck and carried them into the back door of the Chicken Pie Shop.

I moved through the crowded parking lot of the Tower Market for a much closer look.

There was writing on each box.

Coming up fast behind me, I heard Elvis Costello on a car radio.

I heard my redhead screaming.

I looked inside the back door of the Chicken Pie Shop.

I couldn’t believe what I saw!

I made a mental note to visit my optometrist.

Chapter Eight

I made Speedo’s Elizabeth Avenue apartment in minutes flat. Boxy, low-slung and gray, the apartment buildings were depressing, but cheap.

The swimming pool, deep and cool, was surrounded by electrified chain link and concertina wire after they caught me sneaking into it a few summers before.

I started swimming at the YMCA instead. It’s kinda creepy, but it’s a pool.

“Speedo,” I said as I was ushered into his second-floor studio. “I don’t know where she is.”

The air conditioner barked out icy breaths.

Speedo handed me a chilled Budweiser light and reclined on a purple plastic chaise lounge.

“Someday,” he said, and tapped the chaise lounge, “this will be an antique. And I will be rich.”

“Speedo,” I said, “you’ve got to listen to me. She’s gone.” I took a deep breath and sucked down the froth oozing from my Bud light. “On my way over here, I saw something. Something you won’t believe in a million years. Something incredible.”

“What is it, man,” Speedo asked.

“Behind the Chicken Pie Shop,” I said. “There’s this big truck. These guys dressed like commandoes carrying heavy crates inside.”

“They’re werewolves,” Speedo said.

“No, not the waitresses,” I said. “Big guys. Big heavy boxes. These guys are unloading these boxes from the truck. Heavy, heavy boxes, Speedo.”

“They use hand trucks?” Speedo asked.

“No,” I said. “On the boxes are initials. Initial letters. Like a logo. On every box.”

“What?” Speedo asked.

“A-E-C,” I said.

“What’s that?” Speedo asked.

“A-E-C,” I said. “Think about it.”

“A-E-C?” Speedo asked.

“Yeah,” I said, and let it sink into Speedo. In his other-worldly condition, these things took time. Finally, he got it.

“Atomic Energy Commission,” Speedo shouted. Then it really hit him. He shuddered in his Hawaiian shirt. “Nukes?” he asked. “Nukes in the Tower District?”

“Boom,” I said. “Advance to Park Place.”

“This is worse than when Starbucks moved in,” Speedo grimaced.

“Face it,” I said. “It’s the end of civilization, however you look at it.”

“Next thing you know,” Speedo said, “there’ll be a Blockbuster.”

I didn’t have the heart to remind him there were two Blockbusters in the Tower.

Speedo’s baby blue princess phone rang.

Speedo answered.

“It’s for you,” he said and handed the phone to me.

“Arthur!” my redhead cried. How did she find me? “I need to see you right away!”

My heart beat hard.

I was suspicious. I was wary. I was hungry.

“Where are you? I asked. “Are you okay?”

“Arthur, I’m safe,” she whimpered. “I can meet you at the Wild Blue.”

“You’re at the Blue?” I asked. She was calling from the cool jazz fusion and dance club east of the Tower Theatre.

“It’s dark and loud,” she said. “The band is good. I feel safe here.”

“How did you find me?” I asked.

Suddenly, a dial tone.

Was this a trap?

I had to see my redhead.

Besides, the band at the Wild Blue was particularly hot.

“I’m going to need help,” I said to Speedo.

“Anything you need, I got,” Speedo said. “Vicodin? Oxy?”

“No,” I said. “I need your help. I need you to watch the Chicken Pie Shop. There’s something big going on over there.”

“Starbucks. Blockbusters. Now nukes in the Tower District,” Speedo shook his head slowly. “Next thing you know, parking meters.”

Nukes, indeed.

At the Wild Blue, I found my green-eyed redhead at a table by the restrooms, sipping a glass of Chablis and sucking nervously on a Gitanes. I thought of burning a Marlboro Light, but instead ordered a double espresso and sat.

The band was doing Elvis Costello’s “Watching the Detectives” to a bouncy Latin beat and I made a mental note to ask if they knew “Do You Wanna Dance?”

My redhead’s hands were shaking. The mole on her left cheek trembled.

“Arthur!” she cried, Chardonnay-soaked spittle splattering her leonine cheeks and dripping from her chin.

I realized then that she had never before looked so beautiful.

In the overly-dim lights of the Wild Blue, her Ollenberger’s fur glistened with a supernatural quality. Her ruby-red lips looked luscious as she spoke.

The unmistakable aroma of crabmeat lingered.

“Arthur,” my red-hennaed baby doll whispered above the din, “we’re both in trouble now!”

As Cary Grant and the geek emerged from the restrooms I found I could not disagree.

I downed my double espresso in one long, burning gulp and rushed my redhead to the dance floor.

We danced a close and slow tango when I felt a long, cold needle jab into my arm.

I turned to see the geek smile and pull the needle back.

I heard my redhead screaming.

As the drug kicked in and my eyes rolled back into my head and I collapsed to the dance floor in an ecstatic stupor, I made a mental note to find out where I could get some more of this stuff because it was so good, good, good …

Chapter Nine

It was cool and dark when I opened the door to my Floradora apartment/office. The lights burst on with uncertain warmth and a hundred people screamed. They were all there; everyone I had ever met and some I had yet to know. Colored lights revolved, banners swayed from the ceiling. Smiles, drinks, cakes and candles.

Over in the corner by the refrigerator she stood stiffly, long dark hair curling over big sunglasses. She sucked alternately from a small bottle of Schnapps in one hand and a Benson and Hedges Ultra Light in the other. She held herself tensed as though she were prepared to turn and scramble away at a moment’s notice.

I held my hands out to her and she brightened visibly. We clutched.

“Jackie O,” I said, “how kind of you to come to my birthday party.”

She smiled wistfully, graciously. “Oh, Arthur,” she replied. “I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.”

Suddenly, I was flying.

I had wings and was flying 50,000 feet over Missouri.

I was piloting Air Force One. Richard Nixon sulked in his compartment. I was the pilot of Air Force One, flying evil President Nixon somewhere over Missouri. I grabbed the controls and pushed. The plan went down, down, down …

I awoke in darkness.

“Arthur!” my redhead said. “You’re awake! Finally! I’ve been waiting all night! Are you all right?”

I realized that my redhead and I were laying on the floor of a darkened room, face to face, wrapped head to toe in Bunjii cords.

I was naked. Where was my brand-new Bette Midler tee-shirt?

Fresno State College criminology had prepared me for a lot of important, stressful events and stuff, but not this. But then, I never took Bunjii cords 101.

“Wriggle,” I told my redhead.

“What?” she answered.

“Wriggle,” I said. “Wriggle and we can be free.”

We began to rock back and forth. Slowly at first, then, in unison, our writhing took on an animal force all its own.

“Don’t stop!” my redhead said.

“Faster,” I said. “Faster!”

My redhead emitted a long, low moan as a Bunjii cord snapped and we broke free.

“Oh, Arthur,” she panted. “That was beautiful.”

I jumped up and felt the walls for a light switch. I found a floor lamp and switched it on. My redhead flashed her bright greens at me.

I was suspicious. I was wary. I was all goose-pimply.

“Oh, Arthur, that was wonderful!” my redhead cried.

“No time for words, Red,” I said. “We’re in some serious trouble.”

I saw that we were in some kind of furniture storeroom. My clothes were nowhere to be found. I ripped the shade off the lamp and slipped it up to my waist. It was confining, but necessary.

I helped my redhead up as she readjusted her Ollenberger’s fur, then opened the door and stepped outside into the bird sounds and sunny warmth of a beautiful blue sky Tower District day.

I had my bearings immediately. We had been held hostage in the back room of the International Furniture Mart on Olive Avenue, three blocks west of the Tower Theatre.

A motorcycle stood outside the door.

“Hop on!” I said excitedly.

“Again?” my redhead said. “Already?”

“The motorcycle, honey,” I smiled. I made a mental note to remember how beautiful she was.

I kick started the motorcycle and heard Elvis Costello on an approaching car radio.

Cary Grant and the geek rounded the corner in their tan BMW as my redhead and I raced off.

This called for evasive action.

I shifted uncomfortably in my lampshade as my redhead’s Ollenberger’s fur fluttered madly in the breeze.

I ran the red light at Palm and Olive and made a mental note to return my DVD of “Beaches” to Blockbuster.

Cary Grant and the geek remained in hot pursuit.

We steamed north on Palm and hooked another dangerous, skidding right on McKinley.

The tan BMW stayed directly behind us. Gunshots cracked in the air.

My speedometer passed 80 as I turned the motorcycle on Wishon and headed back into the Tower District.

Racing even faster now, we passed Me-N-Ed’s in a blinding flash with Cary Grant and the geek just yards behind us. Bullets whizzed menacingly past my lampshade.

“Hold on!” I shouted to my redhead. We jumped the curb and crashed through the glass door of the Daily Planet. Waiters and customers leaped out of our way.

Careening through the kitchen, I drove to the back door of the restaurant. My redhead and I jumped off the bike and ran through the door to the Tower Theatre parking lot and safety.

“Oh, Arthur,” my redhead shouted breathlessly. “That was so exciting!”

As I readjusted my lampshade, I realized we weren’t out of the woods yet.

Chapter Ten

Pulling my lampshade up for a more snug fit, I knew I was in trouble.

My redhead was sniffling like a cornered special assistant to the President.

Only when I heard Wagner’s “Tristan und Isolde” love theme prelude on an approaching car stereo did I feel that we might be safe.

Wagner has that effect on me, but more importantly I guessed that the music heralded the imminent arrival of my old Fresno State College criminology classmate and Wagner freak, Mel Pueblo.

I turned to my breathless redhead and, in an attempt to calm her down, kindly said, “Can it Red. Here comes the cavalry.”

I hadn’t seen Mel Pueblo in years.

A Fresno State honors graduate the same year I was expelled, Mel went on to become a popular rock and roll radio announcer and ultimately left the business to join the CIA. Maintaining a “safe house” in the Tower District, Mel spent the past several years involved in international intrigue of the highest order. I last saw Mel at the Tower House bar where, after a dozen or more boilermakers on my tab, Mel admitted he’d spent some time undercover.

“I planted the blue dress,” Mel slurred.

As a beer and whiskey anaconda snaked across the Tower House floor, I realized Mel had lost control, so I didn’t press the matter.

And now, so many years later, the familiar Studebaker Avanti, blaring Wagner, cruised toward us.

“Armadillo?” Mel laughed, no doubt noting the lampshade. “Bright lights, big city, eh?”

“I’m on a case,” I said.

“Still drinking, huh?” Mel smiled.

“No,” I said, stealing a glance at my still breathless redhead. “A job. And we’re in trouble. We need to get someplace safe.”

As Mel sped down Olive Avenue to his Arthur Avenue house, my redhead nervously lighted a Gitanes and I explained to Mel what I had stumbled across.

“Nukes, huh?” Mel said as we pulled into his driveway. “Well, it’s obvious that we’re going to have to look into this.”

I had no doubt that Pueblo, who’d been involved in many clandestine break-ins over the tears, was serious.

“We’ll go in tonight,” Mel said. “First, we’ll get you out of that lampshade.”

After my redhead swallowed a couple of Tylenols and lay down for a nap, I changed into one of Mel’s Yves Saint Laurent pinstripes and joined him in the kitchen to talk of old times.

“Tannhauser” wafted in from the living room stereo. Before we knew it, and after several shots and beers, it was dark.

I tiptoed down the hall to peek in on my slumbering redhead. Snoring lightly, the mole on her left cheek trembled as a drop of spittle ran from her ruby-red lips across Chippendale cheeks. I realized that she had never before looked so beautiful.

As I closed the door, the slight smell of crab meat followed.

“Are you ready?” Mel asked.

“I was born ready,” I laughed as we shook hands.

On the drive over I called Speedo Puente; he was already at the Chicken Pie Shop.

Mel parked his Studebaker near Roger Rocka’s and we crept to the Chicken Pie Shop through the parking lot. For a Thursday night the Tower District was remarkably quiet. I figured too many people had been reading the police reports lately.

At the Chicken Pie’s back door, Mel removed a small leather pouch from his jacket and emptied out tools to assist in the break-in.

“I got these from Liddy,” Mel smirked.

“Yeah,” I said, thinking fast. “Didn’t he get caught?”

The door opened easily and in the dimness we could see the crates.

Pulling a small flashlight from his jacket, Mel moved further into the Chicken Pie storeroom. I stayed by the door. Mel worked the top off one of the big crates and peered inside.

“Well, I’ll be,” Mel smiled.

“What is it?” I asked.

“Korean capacitors,” Mel replied. “Frigging capacitors from North Korea.”

“What?” I asked. “How’d they get here?”

“We heard rumors about these at Langley,” Mel muttered. “Frigging capacitors.”

I wondered if the capacitors were for frigging.

Then the lights burst on, blinding us.

Gunshots rang out.

I saw Mel fall in a heap to the floor, blood spattered across the logos on the AEC crates.

I saw Cary Grant and the geek pointing their smoking guns at me.

Chapter Eleven

The echo of exploding gunshots in my ears and the sight of my friend Mel Pueblo laying in a pool of his own blood a burned reflection in my eyes, I ran blindly and took cover inside the nearest building.

In shock, I realized I had run into Roger Rocka’s dinner theatre stage door. I figured I could hide out in one of the dressing rooms.

Madly, I raced through the small building, ran up a flight of stairs, found a door with a star on it and popped inside.

A clock radio played Devo’s version of “Satisfaction.”

“You’ve got to help me!” I cried to the woman applying makeup at a dressing table with a light be-ringed mirror. “This is life and death!”

When we heard the clump-clumping of commando boots in the hallway, she believed me.

An ominous knock on the dressing room door.

“Quick,” the woman said, “in the closet.”

I jumped in the closet and slammed the door shut.

In the confined darkness, I heard the woman open the dressing room door.

“Have you seen any unusual individuals around here, Miss?” Cary Grant’s elegant voice asked with menace.

“Oh my dear,” the woman laughed. “No more than usual!”

Then she closed the door.

Rushing to the closet, she pulled me out.

“You are in trouble, young man,” she said. “I will help you.”

Another knock at the door. An eerie, high-pitched voice rang out. “Ten minutes, Bubbles!”

“You’ll never get out of here,” the woman said. “They’re waiting for you. Just what is going on?”

“The very fabric of the American way of life may be at stake,” I said.

“Well then” she smiled. “We must get you out of here.”

“For the sake of the nation,” I said.

“If we don’t get you out of here,” she said, “they win.”

Then she exclaimed with a theatrical flourish, “A disguise! That’s what you need! A disguise! I have just the thing!” She quickly undressed me and flung a series of tight-fitting women’s clothes over my head. Before long, I was completely outfitted in a baggy cocktail dress, sling-heeled pumps, black net stockings, purse and a black wig streaked with gray.

After she applied the false eyelashes, I peered into the mirror and could not help but realize that I bore a striking resemblance to Elizabeth Taylor, circa 1975.

“There you go,” Bubbles smiled. “They won’t recognize you now.”

Teetering on my high heels, I made my way out of the dressing room, past Cary Grant and the geek – who admired my legs – and on my way to safety.

My heart beat double-time.

I was suspicious. I was wary. I was voluptuous.

At the stage door, I was grabbed by a stagehand.

“Bubbles, you bitch!” he shrieked. “You can’t go outside for a smoke! You’re late! The show is late!”

“Show,” I said. “What show?”

“Bubbles, baby,” he whispered. “I know you’re a little high. But you can do this. You’re the lead in ‘Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?’”

And suddenly I was on stage.

The lights went up.

The audience applauded.

Cary Grant and the geek glared from the wings.

I put my hands to my curvaceous hips.

“What a dump!” I said.

Chapter Twelve

After a few standing ovations and curtain calls, I knew I was in trouble.

Besieged for autographs by large fans wearing muumuus and curlers, I saw Cary Grant and the geek were still backstage, guns at the ready.

I the crowd I spied Speedo Puente, who’d slipped into the theatre. Speedo glanced around furtively as I ambled toward him, my now-comfortable high heels twitching this way and that.

“Speedo, am I glad to see you!” I said.

“Your performance was cherry ma’am,” Speedo said. “I really should get out to live theatre more often.”

“Speedo,” I whispered, tearing off a false eyelash. “It’s me. Armadillo.”

“Dude,” Speedo grinned. “When’d you start doing drag, man? Nice knockers.”

I grimaced. “Bad show over at the Chicken Pie,” I said. “They shot Mel Pueblo.”

Speedo lowered his eyes.

“My man Mel,” Speedo said. “What I heard was true.”

“What did you hear?” I asked.

“At the Chicken Pie,” Speedo said. “The commando waitresses were talking. I stopped in the restroom for a recreational break from my otherwise humdrum routine. You know me, it’s not that I need it, just that I want it.”

“What happened, Speedo?” I asked impatiently, straightening my bra straps.

“On the way back from the restroom, all the waitresses were hanging out,” Speedo said. “You know, smoking cigarettes with the cook over the chicken and dumplings soup and they’re kind of whispering to each other. So I grabbed a towel and made like a busboy to get near them.”

“What’d you get, Speedo?” I asked.

“About seven bucks in tips, man,” Speedo smiled. “You know, I’d take the job, but I don’t think I have the shoes for it. My dogs are killing me, man.”

“Speedo, what’s going on?” I screamed, noticing that the crowd was clearing out of the theatre, though one table, filled with extra-large people, was still laughing and drinking. Funny, I hadn’t noticed a buffet.

“Well,” Speedo said, “I didn’t really get it all. Something about how the ‘Big Boy’ drives tonight. Then something about, I don’t know. It made no sense.”

“It’ll make sense to me, Speedo,” I said.

“I don’t know,” Speedo said. “I think they were talking about the Grateful Dead or something. I didn’t catch it clearly, man. They were talking about this ‘Deadhead’ really coming through for them.”

“The Deadhead,” I repeated as my heart fluttered.

“Then they closed up the Chicken Pie, and came over here,” Speedo said. “I followed them.”

“Where’d they go?” I asked, startled.

“They’re over at that table,” Speedo pointed to the table of extra-large patrons.

I looked closer. My heart nearly stopped. Eight waitresses and, I squinted in disbelief, sitting at the table laughing and drinking with the waitresses was Big Bull Barr, the Carpet King.

“Let’s beat it,” I said.

We raced out the front door of Roger Rocka’s dinner theatre, hopped into Speedo’s maroon Monte Carlo and drive to Mel Pueblo’s Arthur Avenue address. Mel was dead and the cops would be sniffing tracks. I needed answers from my green-eyed redhead. Fast.

I found her asleep on Mel’s bed where I left her. A spittle stain inched out across the pillow from her Doric cheeks. I realized that she had never before looked so beautiful.

“Auntie Em!” she shouted as I woke her.

“Red, wake up,” I said, rapping he lightly on both cheeks. “It’s hit the fan.”

Rubbing her eyes and seeing my dress, she said, “You’re beautiful.”

Speedo sniggered and sat at the foot of the bed.

“Come on now,” I said, ripping off my wig, “wake up. We have a few things to talk about.”

“Arthur,” my redhead said, wrapping her Ollenberger’s fur tighter. “What happened?”

“We got into the Chicken Pie Shop. We saw inside the crates,” I said. “They shot Mel.”

My redhead gasped.

“The police are probably already there, Red. You know it’s only a matter of time before they’re here,” I said. “First, I’ve got to have your story. The whole story.”

“The whole story?” my redhead asked.

“The whole enchilada,” I said, sitting on the edge of the night table.

“Promise me you’ll be careful,” she said.

“I am always careful,” I said.

“You’d better be,” she said. “The table you’re sitting on is broken.”

With a crack louder than a Jay leno monologue, the night table split in half, ending me spread-eagled across the room into Speedo, sitting at the end of the bed. Our heads knocked together in a tone that sounded like the first chord of “Tommy” and Speedo crashed to the floor in a writhing, sweating, white-eyed jumble.

I felt for a pulse and was pleased I still had one. Then I checked Speedo’s vital signs and, sure he was merely comatose, I lifted him to his feet.

“He’ll be okay. I’ve seen this before,” I said, remembering his last attack on the Ferris Wheel at the Big Fresno Fair. “The cops are coming. We have to get him out of here.”

“Werewolves!” Speedo shouted. “Ewoks!”

“Is he on something?” my redhead asked.

“Maybe,” I said. “And when this is all over, I hope he has some more.”

We drove Speedo’s maroon Monte Carlo toward my apartment/office on Floradora Avenue.

On Olive, I saw the flashing police lights outside the Chicken Pie Shop and decided to cruise by for a closer look. Accidentally, my hand hit some toggle switches on Speedo’s dashboard, and, as the hydraulics began to bounce the car up and down, the radio blared “Sugar, Sugar” by the Archies.

Police had cordoned the area off.

I quieted the car and parked near the front door of the Mayfair Market and tried to see into the Chicken Pie Shop. Craning my neck and squinting my eyes, I was amazed to see that the crates – tons of boxes – were gone!

Hastily, I roared Speedo’s maroon Monte Carlo out of the Bifair parking lot and headed to Floradora Avenue.

My hands shook. My heart beat hard. My face itched. I realized I was still wearing mascara.

I parked and we dragged Speedo from the car down a seemingly endless driveway to my apartment/office.

Suddenly, we were met by a terrifying force.

Heidi, my landlady.

“Vot you doink?” she boomed. “Alla deese peepul! I rent das apartment, not der peepul’s hall!”

“Hello, Heidi,” I said as we hobbled past. “I promise you I’ll pay the rent tomorrow.”

“You had better,” Heidi growled as me and my redhead, carrying Speedo, reached my door. “Else I gotta give you the toss!”

“Werewolves!” Speedo shouted. “Want ads!”

Struggling Speedo’s dead weight up the stairs, we pulled him, inch by inch, into my office/apartment. Hearing my stereo playing Bette Midler’s disco version of “Strangers in the Night,” I cautiously flipped on the ceiling light.

“Well, well, well,” I heard Cary Grant say. “We’ve been waiting for you.”

I turned to see the geek in the corner, flipping through my Bette Midler CDs.

My redhead fainted.

I dropped Speedo to the floor.

I knew, somehow, I was finished.

“Care for a toddy,” Cary Grant asked.

“Werewolves!” Speedo shouted. “Scooby-doo!”

Chapter Thirteen

“I’ll take a Manhattan,” I replied to Cary Grant’s offer to mix drinks and fell to the sofa to slip into depressed recollection.

I thought that me and my green-eyed redhead could have been right up there with the great couples in history. Antony and Cleopatra. Romeo and Juliet. Steve and Eydie.

From the instant I discovered her in the Clingon dumpster I had been attracted to her like a big fat bug to a pristine windshield.

And it was coming down to this: captives of Cary Grant and the geek while nukes rolled around the Tower District. I figured living much longer under any circumstance was pretty much a finite equation.

I thought of all the beauty of the Tower District that I would miss. The glossy neon interjection of the Tower Theatre spire. The storefront mannequins with missing hands. The used book stores selling “Impeach Earl Warren” t-shirts. Apple Brown Betty and little red Jell-O cubes. Fritatas and chardonnay at the Daily Planet. Speedo’s all-night pharmacy.

And my redhead.

As Cary Grant searched the kitchen cabinets for rye whiskey, I lifted my redhead’s dead weight to the sofa amidst a growing suspicion that something was amiss. Her Ollenberger’s fur seemed as furry as ever. Except for a few extra hairs growing from the mole on her left Ionic cheek, she had never before looked so beautiful.

What was wrong? What was the matter?

I lifted her legs to the sofa. Her breath came in glamorous, sexy snorts. I realized what was different.

She’d managed to exchange her well-worn Adidas for shiny new Capezios.

Cary Grant handed me a superb Manhattan and leveled his cool gray eyes at me. “Young man,” he said, crossing his legs,” you are in the way.”

“I’m just doing my job,” I barked back.

“No, fool,” Cary Grant steamed. “The television set. You are in the way. Move over.”

The geek turned on the TV.

A live news broadcast from outside the Chicken Pie Shop was in progress.

“Not many details now, Nancy,” the reporter on the scene said as we were shown shots of police scurrying in every direction. “You know,” the reporter said, “that a male victim, apparently a government employee, was brutally, fatally murdered, shot to his death, in cold blood here at the Chicken Pie Shop, behind me here as you see tonight. Now. Nancy, the police are on the scene. Here. Behind me. Now. Nancy?”

“Well, John,” the anchorwoman said, “what effect do you think this latest tragedy will have upon the already tarnished and bloodied reputation of the Tower District? John?”

“I think, Nancy,” the reporter leered, “if you’ll pardon the expression, the Tower District can go lump it. Nancy?”

“Anything more to add? John?” the anchorwoman asked.

“Well, Nancy,” the reporter said, “you see the story. This is what is going on here now. Live. Behind me. Cold blooded murder. Mmmm hmmm. Now. Tonight. Nancy?”

“Thank you, John,” the anchorwoman said. “That’s our live broadcast from the murder scene in the Tower District. We’ll return on a lighter note, right after this.”

The Big Bull Barr television commercial came on.

“It’s Big Bull Barr here from our all-day, all-night Carpet-a-Go-Go at Big Bull Barr Carpet World Headquarters!” he shook a phone at the camera. “Come on down and belly up! We got plush. We got flush. We got every carpet known to man at low, low prices! Y’all remember now, I’m a-gonna call one of you lucky people tonight with a real fortune!”

“Turn it off!” Cary Grant commanded the geek.

Speedo grumbled from his crumpled position on the floor. My redhead snorted. My stomach rumbled.

“Just what are you up to?” I asked.

Cary Grant winked. “More on that later. Here. Tonight. Later,” he grinned.

I jerked with a start when the phone began ringing.

“Answer it,” Cary Grant said. “But one wrong word and my business associate here will tie your shoelaces together. Through your nose.”

I thought fast.

I slugged down the remainder of my Manhattan and sparked a Marlboro light.

The geek crossed his legs and handed me the phone.

“Thanks,” I spat, my eyes traveling the length of the geek’s spindly little body, from his acne-ravaged face to his Adidas-clad feet.

Jarred, I took another closer look.

Adidas. The geek was wearing Adidas.

My redhead’s Adidas.

How did he get them?

It hit me.

“The Deadhead is coming through.”

The deadhead … the redhead … she … was … in on this.

She was one of them.

Chapter Fourteen

Hands a-shaking, I answered the phone.

“Hello?” I whimpered.

“Is this Mr. Armadillo?” the voice intoned.

“Yes, it is,” I answered.

“Well, Mr. Armadillo, if this isn’t your lucky day!” the voice of Big Bull Barr chuckled. “I’ve got a fortune for you! It’s in the west, young man.”

“Huh?” I said. “I’m not looking for carpet.”

“An’ I’m not sellin’ it, buddy! Look west, young man,” Big Bull Barr said and hung up.

I handed the phone back to the geek and glared at his Adidas.

“Dear boy, do inform us,” Cary Grant said. “What transpired?”

“Look west, young man,” I said and sunk slowly into the sofa, realizing how I had been deceived all along.

We could have been something. We could have been bigger than Liz and Dick. Bigger than Sonny and Cher. Bigger than Rocky and Bullwinkle. Well, maybe not bigger than Rocky and Bullwinkle, but bigger than Sonny and Cher, definitely.

“What was that?” Cary Grant asked.

“Look west,” I said. “That’s all he said.”

Cary Grant jumped up and opened the drapes covering my sun porch’s westerly window. Prominently lighted against the night sky was the Security Pacific Bank sign on Wishon.

Nice bank, I thought to myself, but they make you thumb print your unemployment checks.

“Look west …” Cary Grant murmured.

“Oh darling!” It was the redhead, emerging from her faint and wrapping her arms around me. “Arthur, whatever are we going to do?”

I pushed her away.

“Get away from me,” I said. “You’re with them.”

The redhead turned to Cary Grant. “What did you tell him?”

“Tie them both up,” Cary Grant ordered the geek and pointed at me and Speedo.

“Honey,” he said to the redhead, “I’ve found my destiny. Look to the west.”

“Huh?” the redhead said.

“There,” Cary Grant pointed to the Security Pacific Bank. “It’s there. My destiny. My future. There.”

“The big man moved everything to the bank?” the redhead asked.

“Not I suppose with the bank’s permission,” Cary Grant grinned. “The goods, the money. It’s all there. Can you think of anyplace safer, my dear?”

The geek pulled me from my stupor, held me up to Speedo and began to wrap us with Bunjii cords.

“We will be back,” Cary Grant sneered. “First, we have some business to attend to, don’t we, my crimson minx?”

The redhead giggled. Giggled.

And they were gone.

I lay there, wrapped head to toe in layer upon layer of Bunjii cords, ready to cash in my chips, envision my epitaph, glad that I’d never paid off my college loan when, suddenly, a voice began to speak to me.

“Arthur, wake up!” the voice said. “You can’t give up now.” A woman’s voice. Familiar, like an old friend. I couldn’t place it.

“Arthur, this is nothing,” the voice said. “You’ve faced adversity before. You can’t give up. You can’t.”

That voice. Rising from my subconscious.

“You can do it,” the voice said. “You’re a good man, a true man, a real man!”

I knew that voice.

“I Shall Be Released,” from Bette Midler’s second – and second-best – album began to play, though the stereo wasn’t on.

“Arthur,” the voice sang. “Did Waterloo stop Napoleon? Did Watergate stop Nixon? What about Jinxed?”

Bette! It was Bette Midler! Talking to me!

“C’mon kiddo, get to work!” she said.

I struggled with the Bunjii cords, aching to break free. With every ounce of strength I had left, I fought.

“Worse has happened to you,” Bette said. “Like your current haircut. You’ll survive to triumph!”

My right hand broke free.

“You can do it!” she said. “You can! I can! We all can! I know you can!”

I struggled and squirmed within the cords, my teeth clenched, my forehead itched. My stomach growled.

“Arthur, you can do it …” Bette’s voice trailed off like a fading record. “You can! I can! We all can! I know you can!”

“I … shall … be … released!” I exulted.

I was free.

I jumped to my feet and shouted in anger and joy.

Speedo remained in dreamland.

“I know I can! I know I can!” I shouted and slipped on a fresh new Bette Midler tee-shirt. “I can! I can!”

The fate of the entire world was at stake and only I could save it! I knew I could!

My stomach growled.

I could! I could do it!

I’d save the world!

Right after a tiny snack.

Chapter Fifteen

It was past four in the morning and I knew I was in trouble.

Speedo snored ambitiously on the floor while I toasted two slices of sourdough in the broiler and thought about what could have been, what might have been and what obviously never really was.

This green-eyed redhead had come into my life, disconsolate with tears, raving that someone was trying to kill her.

I’d risked my life for her because I’d fallen and fallen hard. I remembered that mad, high-speed motorcycle chase. Running around the Tower District in a lampshade. The close and slow tango at the Wild Blue. Dressing up like Elizabeth Taylor.

What a sap.

The bursting aroma of browning sourdough bright my attention back to immediate problems. I stuffed the toast, dry and crackly, into my mouth and downed a generic beer, thinking of the redhead, Cary Grant and the geek. The nukes. Money. The Security Bank Building. Something about a bull.

A spooky, threatening knock at my door.

“Heidi!” I said, trembling, after I opened the door and spotted my strong Hessian landlady.

“Peepul comink and goink,” Heidi snarled. “All deese peepul!”

“I’m pretty popular this week, Heidi,” I smiled, wiping sourdough crumbles from the corners of my mouth.

“Vat’s goink on here Arthur?” Heidi asked, scanning the room, her eyes falling uneasily to Speedo, who twitched and snored peacefully on the floor. “I run der goot place here, Armadillo. No riff-raff. No vild parties. He looks terrible.”

“Diet Coke,” I said. “Some kind of Splenda overdose.”

“Arthur,” Heidi growled, “you …”

“Heidi,” I said, calmly.

“Don’t choo ‘Heidi’ me, Armadillo!” she said. “I can tell when man ist in trouble. Und du bist in trouble. It’s dat girl mitt red hair, right?”

“Yes,” I said mournfully. “You have it exactly right.”

“Arthur, tell me vat ist up,” Heidi said. “I haff vays off helping.”

Looking at Heidi, five feet by five feet of absolutely terrifying Eugenic structure, I had to figure she could help.

“It must be dat handsome man vat looks like Cary Grant,” Heidi said, eyebrows arching. “He has something to do wit dis, am I right?”

I spilled the beans.

“He vants to blow up das world?” Heidi said. “Dis I cannot believe.”

“I’m afraid you have to, Heidi,” I said. “He’s going to do it, or give the nukes to someone who will. They’re over at the Security Bank building right now.”

A terrific gleam shone from Heidi’s eyes and she shook visibly. “Und to think,” she said, “I have him to mine own home for peppermint schnapps!”

“You, Heidi?” I laughed.

“Ve haff to get him,” Heidi snarled.

“To save the world,” I said proudly.

“Ja, to save the world,” Heidi said. “That, and he has mine keys.”

Chapter Sixteen

The Tower District was quiet, desolate, empty of traffic as Heidi and I crept south on Wishon to the bank. Stray, wandering dogs stopped and watch us pass. Yesterday’s newspapers fluttered in carefree abandon in the warm, wet evening breeze.

Heidi had outfitted herself head to toe in a black jogging outfit and ballet slippers. She smeared black greasepaint below her eyes. Small diamond earrings – a gift, she said, from the geek – sparkled in the streetlights. I was dressed normally, wearing my Bette Midler tee-shirt, jeans, argyle socks, Keds high tops, trench coat and gray fedora. My Walkman played side two of Bette’s “Live At Last” album.

We moved along with stealth, staying behind buses and trees, until we reached a decent vantage point.

The lights inside the Security Pacific Bank building flamed brightly. Cary Grant, the geek, the redhead and another huge man were quickly shuffling the heavy crates around. A large truck was parked at the curb. On the side of the truck was the familiar legend, “Belly Up!”

“There doesn’t seem to be anyone else,” I said. “Vee can take them,” Heidi said.

“How?” I asked, incredulous at Heidi’s energy and determination.

“I know ways,” Heidi whispered, standing to her full five feet and puffing out her large, broad bosom. “I vas in der youth league.”

“You were?” I said, surprised. I made a mental note to pay my rent on time.

“Ja,” she smirked. “Ve vas all us victims.”

The front door of the bank opened and the geek emerged struggling, weighted down with one of the crates. Cary Grant and the redhead stayed inside, leaning against a teller window, trading slugs on a bottle of peppermint schnapps.

“So dat’s vat happened to mine bottle!” Heidi snapped.

We sat down to wait as the geek stumbled and sweated, loading the truck.

Within an hour the geek was loading the last crate and Cary Grant and the redhead, laughing and woozy, finished off the bottle of schnapps.

“Arthur,” Heidi grinned, “it ist time vee go in.”

“Heidi,” I said, “I dig you.”

“Dig?” Heidi said. “Vat ist dig?”

“It means I like you,” I said, grinning.

“Zen I dig you too,” she said tenderly. “Now, vee go in there und kill them!”

A rustling in the nearby bushes caught our attention. Heidi and I turned our flashlights to illuminate the movement.

“Come out of der,” Heidi hissed. “Else I toss you out!”

The bushes quivered and the redhead emerged.

“Songs of der Motherland,” Heidi growled. “It’s dee sleazeball mit red hair!”

I ran to the redhead and restrained her.

“Oh Arthur,” she cried.

“Can it, Red,” I said.

“Arthur, you don’t understand,” she cried. “They threatened to kill me! They kidnapped me! I’m not with them. Please believe me, Arthur! They forced me! I had to lie! To cheat! To steal! They have nukes and money and guns! Oh, Arthur! Save me! I love you! I love you! I … love … you!”

Episode Seventeen

As the green-eyed redhead cowered in the dimming luminescence of my flashlight, I knew I was in trouble.

“We should call the cops. Now,” I thought to myself. I’d probably get my picture on the front page. Maybe in the Metro section. It would be good for business.

But something inside me stirred. I needed to hear the redhead out.

I was curious. I was suspicious. I was hungry.

“Arthur! Did you hear me?” The redhead was frantic, spittle flying across her balconied cheeks. “I never wanted to hurt you!” “Bullets, baby,” I sneered, waving to the Security Pacific Bank building. “They’ve got real bullets, and they know how to use them.”

“I know, Arthur, I know!” the redhead cried. “They forced me, Arthur!”

The idea that anyone could force this bodacious bundle of Ollenberger’s fur and Capezios to actually do anything against her will intrigued me. I couldn’t help but chuckle.

Heidi tapped my shoulder.

“We cannot afford to wait,” Heidi said and pointed at the bank. “Soon, like Russian winter, vee will be overwhelmed.”

I looked into the bank. Cary Grant was looking around. I could see Big Bull Barr holding a suitcase. The geek was shaky, but on his feet.

“Arthur,” the redhead said. “Let me help you.”

“Help me?” I yelled. “Help me? Help me to a face full of bullets, huh, babe?”

“Oh, Arthur!” she cried, green eyes flashing, her Ollenberger’s fur rustling, the mole on her left cheek trembling.

“What is going on here?” I said. “Who are those guys? What are they doing here? What is Big Bull Barr’s truck doing loaded with nukes on the corner of Wishon and Fern Avenue in front of the Security Pacific Bank?”

“Arthur,” the redhead signed, “it’s a big story.”

“I’m all ears,” I said.

“Und vee are running out of time,” Heidi said.

“Oh, Arthur,” she sighed again and adjusted her Ollenberger’s fur. “What you have before you are international terrorists.”

“In the Tower District?” I asked.

“Where else?” the redhead said. “It’s quiet here.” She pointed to the geek and said, “He’s a lapsed FBI agent with connections.” She pointed at Big Bull Barr. “He’s the moneybags, and, as for him,” she pointed at Cary Grant, “he’s a former United States Senator from New Jersey.”

“Yes, but …”

“Arthur, hold your horses, I’m getting there,” she said, and held up a well-manicured hand. “They’ve been getting materials from the Koreans and storing everything in Big Bull’s warehouse. A few days ago, there was word about a raid, you know Homeland Security leaks like a sieve, so they moved everything here to the Tower District. Until they could, uh, dispose of it. Sell it. There are people, Arthur, all around the world, who have paid a fortune for that truck. They’ve got the money. Now they’re going to deliver.”

“Und dat’s why,” Heidi said, “they are moving tonight.”

“Signed, sealed, delivered,” the redhead said.

“Who?”

“Who knows?” the redhead said. “Libya? Idaho? Someplace in-between.”

“How do you fit into this?” I asked.

“Oh, Arthur,” the redhead sighed. “I met them last week. We started talking, one thing led to another, and I learned about their plot. That’s when they took me hostage. Arthur, they were going to kill me. I fronted the operation.”

“Okay,” I said, my mind racing, my stomach growling. I scratched my forehead. “How do I figure in?”

“They heard about someone from the CIA sniffing around, something about the raid, I don’t know,” she said. “He was your friend.”

“Mel Pueblo,” I said.

“They had to get rid of him,” she said.

I led them to Mel Pueblo. And they shot him.

“I’m sorry, Arthur,” the redhead cried. “You’ve been wonderful to me, Arthur. I knew you were too smart for them. How I hoped you would save me!”

“I don’t know, Red,” I said.

“I can district them,” the redhead said.

“I don’t doubt that,” I said.

“I’ll stand by the truck,” the redhead said. “I’ll sing. I’ll dance. I’ll do something. I’ll get their attention.”

“And we can get in and stop them,” I said. “It’s worth a try.”

The redhead sauntered down Wishon to the front door of the bank and began to sing “Que Sera, Sera.” I could see the geek swaying in time.

“Ve go in now?” Heidi said to me.

“To save the world,” I said.

“Ja,” Heidi smiled. “Und don’t forget mine keys.”

Chapter Eighteen

Brazenly, our yells echoing off buildings up and down Wishon, Heidi and I tore into the Security Pacific Bank building. Before I knew it, Heidi knocked the geek out cold and forced Cary Grant to the floor. I bruised my fingers pummeling Big Bull Barr to the cold, hard tiles. The redhead stepped into the bank, terrified.

Heidi sat on Cary Grant’s chest and glowered in his face.

“Promises! Promises!” she screamed. “Alla those things you say!” Cary Grant shuddered beneath her enormous weight. “Now giff me back mine keys!”

The geek, face down by the New Accounts desk, began to stir.

“Joost vat kinda woman you tink I am?” Heidi shouted at Cary Grant, who wheezed and coughed beneath her. “Vun shot schnapps und you tink you can haff it all?”

“Heidi,” I said, moving quickly to the geek, “we have to do something about these fellows.” I slipped my hand inside the geek’s jacket and removed a gun, some Roger Rocka’s dinner theatre matchbooks and a student pass to the Tower Theatre.

Seeing my actions, Heidi eagerly reached into the pockets of her black jogging outfit. “I haff joost the ting!” she beamed and tossed a small tube at me. “Joost the ting!”

I examined the tube. “Krazy Glue?” I had to admit it was a good idea. “Heidi,” I said, “you’re prepared.”

“Arthur, let me help you,” the redhead smiled tenderly as we knelt over the geek and permanently bonded his hands to the tile floor of the Security Pacific Bank building. Together, we moved to Big Bull Barr and glued him to the tiles.

“Vat time is it?” Heidi asked.

I checked my watch. “It’s just past five.”

Heidi gasped. “I haff to go!” She jumped, giving Cary Grant a final slap to the steely cold tiles. I rushed over and, as Heidi held Cary Grant’s face, I glued his nose to the floor.

“What’s the rush, Heidi?” I asked.

“Dee cable movies,” Heidi smiled. “Der Horst Bucholtz Film Festival. He’s a honk. A honk. I never miss Horst Bucholtz. He’s an animal!”

Heidi disappeared into the sliver moon darkness of a Tower District night. Cary Grant moaned and passed out. The redhead and I were alone. At last.

A lot can happen over a few days. The sun rises and drops. The moon appears and disappears. The newspapers pile up. My neighbor’s Rottweiler makes the lawn impenetrable. I realized I had never before been so out of breath. These were the most exciting days I’d ever lived.

“Oh, Arthur,” the redhead sighed, “you saved me after all.”

“I guess I should call the cops,” I said.

“You know, darling, I dreamed that if you could only take care of these degenerate ruffians,” the redhead said, “that we could forge a new life together. You and me. We could be one. Together. Forever and ever.”

“Honey, how could we do it?” I asked.

“Our love will see us through,” she said.

“Love don’t pay the rent, Red,” I said. “It’s due. And you know Heidi.”

I sighed a weary, long breath and hugged the redhead.

My eyes wandered across the burnished mahogany and marble tile interior of the Security pacific Bank building and out the windows to the street. The Tower Theatre neon flickered brightly. It looked heavenly. It seemed, right there, right then, romantic and lovely beyond belief.

A shimmering sliver of moon clung to the star bespotted sky like a polished apostrophe. The scent of baking chicken pies curled past my nose. I resisted the urge to sneeze. Outside, at the post office box across Wishon, a bag lady was talking to the mail box and slamming it with a Bifair shopping bag.

“Give it back!” she shouted. “Give it back!”

I thought of all the Tower District had done for me. It had given me shelter, a renewed sense of place, some cash in pocket, and friends. Now, it had brought me the love, desire and adoration of a beautiful green-eyed redhead.

My eyes traveled down Wishon to Big Bull Barr’s “Belly Up!” truck loaded with nukes and cash, parked in front of the bank. One billion dollars. How easy and comfortable it would be to live upon a stack of one billion dollars. Incredible to think what one could do with all that money. Incredible to think what people had already done to possess that money.

“Our love will see us through,” the redhead said, hugging me passionately. As he jingle-jangled the keys to the truck in front of my eyes, I realized she had never before looked so beautiful.

So how could I kiss her ruby-red lips and firmly and methodically Krazy glue her hands to the floor?

To coin a phrase, it was easy.

Bigdillo

The Case of the Green-Eyed Redhead

Arthur Armadillo

Private Investigator