Singer Plucks Victim from Mugger.’” At this point Ratso leaned over and began to read the story aloud.
“Let’s see,” he said. “‘Although law enforcement officers refused to comment, an informed source revealed that a well-known country singer was seen leaving the premises just prior to the time of the raid. The Texas singer, who has often performed at the Lone Star Cafe, is known to have been involved with crime-solving on an amateur level in the past …’” Ratso stood up straight and put his hands on my shoulders.
“What you need is an agent, Kinkster,” he said excitedly. “What you need is a manager.”
“What you need is a muzzle for Christmas,” I said.
Ratso looked hurt. He stood beside the kitchen table like a large, wounded sparrow. I didn’t let it get to me.
Ratso had carefully cultivated that hurt look and he was pretty damn good at it. When I was hurt, I only looked confused, nervous, or angry. So a hurt look wasn’t a bad thing to have. Could keep you from getting hurt sometime.
“You see, my dear Ratso,” I said, “there was only one mugger. Surely you realize there must be thousands of Colombians in New York whose mustaches intersect in the illegal drug trade.”
Ratso thought about it for a moment. So did I. The cat jumped up on the windowsill and watched a few toxic snowflakes crash-land on the East Side, far corner of the pane.
“You don’t really think,” said Ratso, “that they’d put all of this together and come looking for us, do you?”
I got up from the table, poured another shot of espresso into my Imus in the Morning coffee mug, and watched the cat watch the snow.
“As Albert Einstein used to say, Ratso, 1 don’t know.’”
* * *
As the snow drifted down, our conversation drifted to other matters. I was midway into my second cigar and finishing my third espresso when Ratso unburdened himself of the results of his adventures in the past few days as an amateur detective. I listened politely.
To hear Ratso tell it, he’d run a very thoroughgoing investigation into the three parties in question. Unfortunately, I hadn’t thought about them in so long that they seemed like characters in an old Russian folk story. It was beginning to dawn on me that, even for an amateur, I had not been very professional. I had let Marilyn and Stanley Park and Hilton Head, as well as the better part of caution and common sense, be pushed to the back of my mind by Leila’s beautiful legs.
“… and so Stanley Park’s been missing in action for almost a week,” Ratso was saying. “Nobody’s seen him, and get this …”
“Don’t talk while you’re eating .”
“… Head may not be as much of a winkie as we at first thought,” Ratso continued.
“I’ll take that dry towel now.”
“… at least three occasions coming out of Marilyn Park’s building …”
“Yes, you can borrow my toothbrush , but in some cultures it means we’re engaged .”
“… and on a fourth occasion—are you listening, Kinkster?—coming out of his own place with …”
“Leila!”
“That’s right. Hilton Head was coming out of his own place with Leila. How’d you know that?”
“Call it cowboy intuition,” I said. “She was too good to be true.”
It figured.
36
As Archie Goodwin, Nero Wolfe’s famous sidekick, once observed, “No man was ever taken to hell by a woman unless he already had a ticket in his pocket, or at least had been fooling around with timetables.”
I hadn’t been taken to hell yet, but I could sure see it coming. A lot of things were going on and I didn’t like any of them. If I was going to solve this case and live to hear Ratso take credit for it, I’d better be damn careful and lucky. Of course, if I’d really been lucky I’d’ve been in a park somewhere in Oregon throwing a Frisbee to a dog with a bandanna around its neck and I never would’ve gotten Jane Meara’s phone call in the first place. Of course, then I never would’ve met
“Let’s see,” he said. “‘Although law enforcement officers refused to comment, an informed source revealed that a well-known country singer was seen leaving the premises just prior to the time of the raid. The Texas singer, who has often performed at the Lone Star Cafe, is known to have been involved with crime-solving on an amateur level in the past …’” Ratso stood up straight and put his hands on my shoulders.
“What you need is an agent, Kinkster,” he said excitedly. “What you need is a manager.”
“What you need is a muzzle for Christmas,” I said.
Ratso looked hurt. He stood beside the kitchen table like a large, wounded sparrow. I didn’t let it get to me.
Ratso had carefully cultivated that hurt look and he was pretty damn good at it. When I was hurt, I only looked confused, nervous, or angry. So a hurt look wasn’t a bad thing to have. Could keep you from getting hurt sometime.
“You see, my dear Ratso,” I said, “there was only one mugger. Surely you realize there must be thousands of Colombians in New York whose mustaches intersect in the illegal drug trade.”
Ratso thought about it for a moment. So did I. The cat jumped up on the windowsill and watched a few toxic snowflakes crash-land on the East Side, far corner of the pane.
“You don’t really think,” said Ratso, “that they’d put all of this together and come looking for us, do you?”
I got up from the table, poured another shot of espresso into my Imus in the Morning coffee mug, and watched the cat watch the snow.
“As Albert Einstein used to say, Ratso, 1 don’t know.’”
* * *
As the snow drifted down, our conversation drifted to other matters. I was midway into my second cigar and finishing my third espresso when Ratso unburdened himself of the results of his adventures in the past few days as an amateur detective. I listened politely.
To hear Ratso tell it, he’d run a very thoroughgoing investigation into the three parties in question. Unfortunately, I hadn’t thought about them in so long that they seemed like characters in an old Russian folk story. It was beginning to dawn on me that, even for an amateur, I had not been very professional. I had let Marilyn and Stanley Park and Hilton Head, as well as the better part of caution and common sense, be pushed to the back of my mind by Leila’s beautiful legs.
“… and so Stanley Park’s been missing in action for almost a week,” Ratso was saying. “Nobody’s seen him, and get this …”
“Don’t talk while you’re eating .”
“… Head may not be as much of a winkie as we at first thought,” Ratso continued.
“I’ll take that dry towel now.”
“… at least three occasions coming out of Marilyn Park’s building …”
“Yes, you can borrow my toothbrush , but in some cultures it means we’re engaged .”
“… and on a fourth occasion—are you listening, Kinkster?—coming out of his own place with …”
“Leila!”
“That’s right. Hilton Head was coming out of his own place with Leila. How’d you know that?”
“Call it cowboy intuition,” I said. “She was too good to be true.”
It figured.
36
As Archie Goodwin, Nero Wolfe’s famous sidekick, once observed, “No man was ever taken to hell by a woman unless he already had a ticket in his pocket, or at least had been fooling around with timetables.”
I hadn’t been taken to hell yet, but I could sure see it coming. A lot of things were going on and I didn’t like any of them. If I was going to solve this case and live to hear Ratso take credit for it, I’d better be damn careful and lucky. Of course, if I’d really been lucky I’d’ve been in a park somewhere in Oregon throwing a Frisbee to a dog with a bandanna around its neck and I never would’ve gotten Jane Meara’s phone call in the first place. Of course, then I never would’ve met
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