The Honest Phony Murder Mystery

By Charles Schwarz

The Honest Phony Murder Mystery, a humorous, satirical, fast paced politically incorrect murder mystery is guaranteed to have you laughing as the anti hero, the honest phony, tries to find the missing diamond earring while also trying to extract himself from being the chief suspect in murder. In his attempt to gain money, find the earring, and solve the murder, the honest phony encounters a myriad of unique impostors, all trying to gain money through comical chicanery. Fictional characters unsurpassed in comical pretentions are easily recognizable as characterizations of numerous contemporary media driven self important personages.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Charles Schwarz
• Release date: Jan 29, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311045140

Book preview

CHAPTER 1. COMMUNICATION BLOWS

Who am I? Who are we? It’s all just blow.

My name is Ed Debb and this is a true story of murder and fraud, but it’s mostly about blow. I would liked to have called it The Three Earring Caper but I’m afraid the reader would think it’s about some three-eared circus freak, er... an ear-challenged person. Or is it ear advantaged?

Anyway, it's pathetic how some bullshitters, after blowing themselves up begin believing their blow, become blowfish, ever expanding even when not threatened. Let's forget all the blow; I’ll honestly admit I may appear shallow in this book, and my life venial; however, this is a true account, everything is real, there's absolutely no blow here.

In fact, let’s be totally honest. I’m a phony, you’re a phony—hell everyone's a phony. Why? Because we live in the age of information, the communication age: TV, Internet, cell phones, e-mail, texting and who knows what other electronic bizarre toys are available to assist in spreading the crap that helps create our age of misinformation spin, otherwise known as the grand age of blow. We live, work, walk blindly in bullshit, not up to our chins but past our eyeballs, where the test of what is and what is not is all pixie pixels.

In a previous age men were judged by what they actually accomplished; they were what they did; it was all real. In this age of phonies, real is not what people actually did, but what their floating balloons filled with hot air tell you they did: they did this, or they did that, and this and that is wonderful, and they’re wonderful, and you have their word for it and it’s all being proffered as absolutely real.

With electronic information all you have is a person’s word that it’s all true. If I told you something was true, all you’d have is my electronic word, and hell, being a phony I could lie, I would lie, and will lie if by screwing you I can feel superior and make a buck. After all, how many idiots believe those phony reality and survivor shows are real, or all those stupid TV pundits and newscasters really know what has happened, what is happening, and what’s going to happen?

Why are there so many lying phonies? Well, who on TV, in print, on the Internet, on some electronic dating service, or in person is going to honestly tell you they’re ignorant, they’re losers, they’re pathetic and they don’t know the what, the why, the how, the where of anything? They'd rather tell everyone, even themselves, they’ve climbed the mountain, suffered the mountain, stood alone atop the mountain, and now—knowing the mountain and having profound unique visions from the mountain—can with absolute surety tell you all about the mountain, graciously save you the trouble of trying to climb the mountain because they know you’re incapable of getting to the top and joining them.

You're afraid to acknowledge it's all phony hot air blow because it's scary. If you acknowledged that everyone's a phony then you’d be all alone, isolated by your cynical doubts with only your own judgment to determine what is real and what is not, and since it's all blow, you'd only have your own bullshit to keep you from disappearing.

It’s to prove my point that I’ve written this account of murder and deception. (To be honest, I’m writing this to make money. See I’m an honest phony. Yeah, oxymoron.)

CHAPTER 2. MEETING THE RENTERS

An honest phony knows he’s a phony.

After going broke as an unlicensed detective, but so near to actually being a detective that I’d like to think I was a mere longitudinal second away from being one, I found lucrative work (well to be honest, not all that lucrative) as a licensed professional finder of lost objects of value. (Whoops, slipped into the bullshit pond again. Damn it, it's so easy to slide into self-inflating blow. There is no profession in finding things and certainly no licenses.)

Anyway, it all started with a phone call from Mrs. April March, wishing to engage my services in finding her lost valuable earring. She explained that her friend, involved in my one great past achievement, The Elvis Hankie Caper, (possibly you’ve read about my success in the Dummy’s Murder Between Hands. To be honest I'm praying you'll buy the damn book) told her about me, and being reassured with knowing my office was located in the very upscale, prestigious World Intercommunications Building (the WIT Building) she decided to ask for my help. Her confidence was understandable, given that my office was located in the eighty-plus storied reflecting glass icicle building stuck deep in prestigious Fifth Avenue tar, where her husband also had his top-floor office suite. With the WIT’s rents being so outrageously inflated, the building's address floated the phony occupants high in people’s minds that the mere mention of its initials guaranteed their importance, financial soundness, wealth, reputation, and brilliance.

Previously I had a mail drop at a small newsstand in Chinatown, with my office actually located in my live-in girlfriend's one bedroom Queens apartment. I hate to admit it, but being honest, my girlfriend Dakota (named after a state, for Pete's sake) and I shared the bed and the food, but not the rent or the expenses. Being a modern American woman she toted the whole load. Being a phony I excused myself by saying, besides putting out, she’d have to put out for the rent and utilities anyway, with or without me. As a big plus for her, me living with her allowed her the illusion of a normal family life.

Since I’m being an honest phony (still an oxymoron) I’ll explain how I managed to rent an office in the prestigious WIT building, as it plays an important part in the subsequent murders. Immediately after getting paid for the Elvis Hankie Caper, I took Dakota out for dinner and drinks to celebrate. We’d been living together for over a year, so she was turning into a very loving thirty-two year old teen-ager, doing embarrassing things and leaving ridiculous things about, like little love notes in my shirt pockets, inexpensive cutesy gifts next to my dinner plate, continuous attempts at hand touching, hand holding, hand grabbing if I got anywhere near her, and kisses blown across rooms at the most unexpected and inconvenient times. All of that was accompanied by lots of whispered I love you’s. So being temporarily flush with Elvis’ Hankie money, I decided to take her to dinner, sort of my way of reciprocating for all her irritating affectionate expressions of love. (Honestly, that’s blow. Suspecting her of preparing the ground for a marriage putsch, the dinner and drinks were my attempt to forestall her.)

At the upscale restaurant, waiting for our table, in good spirits, while I was busy belting down a couple of stiff Martinis to fuel my happy spiritual flames to an even brighter glow, Dakota started talking to this expensive-looking late-twenties brunette babe named Cherish sitting next to her.

Dakota, telling her about her exacting work as an expensive jewelry representative (the truth, she works at a Wal-Mart jewelry counter) stimulated Cherish to relate her terrible travails of being a bra and panties model for Just Your Size catalog. Hearing that, I noted with approval the thirty-eight Ds she was packing in front of her sexy figure of ample proportions. No skinny little boy fashion model here.

Her fiftyish well-dressed companion was busy downing his drink with one hand, and with the other trying to attract the bartender for refills while head tossing a foot long gray streaked ponytail between the two activities. I didn't get the horse tail hair blow message, but suspecting it came from deep ugly psychic needs made me leery of him.

Anyway, between sips, Dakota introduced Cherish’s friend, Bradford Dunhill Churchill, to me. He was feeling no pain and I was feeling no pain, and in liquor-fueled bon homme he told me he was a past DA, now a lawyer on retainer for millionaires, a lawyer representing poor asbestos sufferers in a billion dollar law suit, (from habit, as he said it he looked sad as if he was down to half a lung himself) was intimate with Democratic heavy hitters and was being pressed by those hitters to join the line-up and run for public office, an office (he smirked), where you could make some serious money helping alleviate poor peoples' suffering. Churchill's 'poor people suffering' add on phrase got a wink from him and 'ahs' and 'sighs' from the girls.

Letting all this pass me by as so much hot blow, yet sensing possible future contacts, I told him I was an expert finder of valuable articles. Of course, I put in a lot of blow myself: former detective on the NYPD, ex-Chief NY State investigator, retired FBI government consultant on terrorist threats. My being pissing distance from forty, I don’t know whether he believed my phony extensive multifaceted career. After all I’d have to be over sixty and a hell of a lot more ambitious to have actually done half of what I was slipping to him.

Unfortunately, between sips I lost blow ground when he asked where my office was located and I had to give him Dakota’s home address in Queens, Long Island. Handing me his card, which gave the WIT building as his Manhattan business address impressed me to the same degree he wasn’t impressed with my Queens address.

After saying he shared his office with several other tenants, he mentioned that one of them, Harold Tatenbaum, a successful Manhattan real estate broker, had recently moved out and he and the other six tenants were looking for a replacement. Mentioning the rent, divided by eight, being so reasonable, and being temporarily flush from Elvis’ Hankie, I said I’d drop in tomorrow to look over the office, thinking maybe I should get more respectable. In truth, being a phony requires a superior façade and I felt such a loser using a mail drop at a Chinatown newsstand smelling of greasy fried rice, and Dakota’s one bedroom apartment in Queens, with her not the neatest or the most energetic woman in cleaning.

Anyway, the next day, going to the WIT building, I found the office located on the third floor of a wraparound gallery of the building’s four-story atrium. Looking over the atrium's railing I could see an acre of trees, fountains, and bizarre twenty-foot high stone and steel sculptures surrounded by stores and restaurants scattered about on the four gallery floors. Directly across the atrium I noted Duffy's Beef and Spirits, an upscale restaurant and bar, located opposite Churchill's office. Damn convenient: a place to take a client, to entertain clients, future rich clients.

Going to the office door, the first thing I noticed was a large bright polished brass plaque hanging from two hooks on the office's walnut front door announcing:

Maurice Roth, MBA, Ph.D., financial and investment advisor, CEO of Roth Financial Investment Group, Advisor to the International Financial Group, the Federal Reserve Board certified, NY State licensed financial planner and trust manager, member of the Swiss Federation Consortium of Fiduciary Advisors, offices in Zurich, London, Hong Kong and NY.

There were some other things, but I got tired of reading. As I entered there was a really great-looking secretary, and a brass desk nameplate announced she was Monique St. Denis. She was so fantastic that as one half my mind was talking to her, the other half was screaming, This is one fabulous babe. I’d love to take her out, get involved with her, get down and dirty with her.

Colored blond hair, even to the roots, maybe twenty years old, she was so far above Dakota that the latter wouldn’t be allowed to paint this babe’s toenails, which I'm sure were painted, hell lacquered. Her blue tailored suit and white turtle neck sweater said business; however, a beautifully made-up face, with just the right shade of blush, false eyelashes highlighting green eyes, her pouting silicone pumped-out lips, so heavily outlined with deep red gloss they resembled an in-heat female baboon’s backside, and the tightness of the white turtle neck outlining her wicked bosom that may or may not be all natural, advertised here is some expensive fun.

Well anyway, Monique, after saying yes to the half of my brain that was asking for Churchill, and in body language definitely saying no to my mind's other half’s hope that we could become one, pressed a button on a console. From the interior office came the lawyer, the defender of the poor against the rich, dragging his foot-long ponytail, along with the other renters.

Ah, Mr. Debb—er Ed, we've just had a meeting and I'm glad to say we unanimously welcome you to our little family. Now before I show you our office facilities, allow me to introduce you to your fellow renters.

In doing the honors, he first introduced the woman, Heidi St. Laurent, a good-looking, well-preserved, thirty-five year old, showing unstinted money well spent on her face, hair, and clothes. She was the CEO of Manhattan Executive Secretary Agency (MESA). Wanting to establish some initial familiarity, I stuck out a hand and got nothing except her business card in return accompanied by her saying if I needed any help I must call MESA. Her quickly leaving the office with cold determination suggested her belief that I'd never be in a position to need MESA.

Churchill apologized that the second woman renter, Dr. Barbara Green couldn't be here to welcome me. Apparently a TV appearance on The View, discussing the dangers of eating meat, took precedence.

TV appearances, The View, meat dangers—Churchill dropping these tidbits with such casual aplomb, as if he was telling me about her hairdresser's appointment, impressed me.

Without a conversational pause, Churchill brought forth Dr. Graham Lovelace, rotund, balding with long sparse hair threads flowing from one ear to the other over a freckled parched shining desert. For some stupid reason, smiling at me, through me and behind me, he said, I'm a Ph.D., experienced in professional family counseling, with an extensive practice treating families in extreme crisis. Are you married?

No.

Pity. However, he cheerfully continued, I'm also an expert in counseling people suffering from addiction problems. Surely you've seen me on TV intervention shows or being interviewed on various serious talk shows.

I gave him a no-blow honest, No.

Sadly, as if I had missed the Second Coming, he said, Pity. I was on Dr. Phil numerous times. Then, looking intently at me, still smiling, he handed me his card. I specialize in alcoholism, using my own holistic approach. It’s new and very successful.

Suspecting the genesis of his remarks lay in my face, I took umbrage. He left before I could come back at him, yet to be honest, at the time I had nothing to come back with.

Maurice Roth, of the front door brass-plate fame, came forward and as we exchanged smiles and handshakes, implied his words were golden. He suggested if I was interested in the market it would definitely pay me to talk to him. Apparently the market was low and was due to climb to heights. Currently for those in the know there was a small open window of opportunity you could climb through and reap riches for mere pennies. But he cautioned that it soon would be slammed shut on the fingers of those who were too cautious.

While pondering the open window soon to be closed and locked, I noticed a small, thin, almost anemic man sliding imperceptibly towards the door. Rose-tinted small round granny glasses rested on the tip of a nose peeking out from hair: bushy chin hair, bushy cheek hair, and bushy lip hair crowned on top with bushy head hair. Surrounded by so much bushy hair, the alcoholic crimson nose was a red beacon in an imponderable jungle. Seeing me noticing the granny glasses Churchill said, That's Arnold. Arnold, this is Ed Debb, the new renter.

Turning, Arnold moved his head hair up and down as a greeting before disappearing out the door.

Asking for a surname, I said, Arnold?

Just Arnold, Churchill said, then quickly tossing his ponytail said, And here's Wilhelm Von Holstein, a trusted and respected dealer in rare coins, gold and stamps.

After Just Arnold, Holstein looked extremely respectable in dress, a suit with a vest; in hair, gray and cut short; in smile, bright even white teeth; in stature, well-fed, his extended chest and stomach suggested financial substance, not flab. Taking my hand as if I was a brother he’d never known and telling me he was happier than I could imagine at meeting me, he proceeded to conspiratorially whisper he'd like to converse with me in private before leaving.

Roth and Churchill ushered me into an inner office impressively furnished with an expensive Persian area rug, a large walnut desk, two comfy looking burgundy leather chairs, one on either side of a large free-formed marble cocktail table, all circumscribed by walnut paneled walls which, besides effortlessly holding up free-hanging shelves of books and knick-knacks, had oil paintings interspersed with several framed undecipherable Latin scripted diplomas. I have to admit, I fell in love.

There was a third room, the back room, which Churchill opened for me to peer into. Half-furnished, the far half held a desk in front of a realistic mural (oxymoron) of Central Park framed by a false window, while off to the side was a leather chair in front of a wall constructed from the spines of law and financial books. The books surrounded a recessed-lighted reproduction of crazy van Gogh's crazy looking wheat field. The front half of the room contained several large white silver umbrellas on aluminum tripods and large video cameras, and scattered about were numerous black boxes. Against the room's front wall I got a quick glimpse of a small wash tub, a small furnace, and some scientific apparatus.

Sensing my confusion and quickly closing the door before I could move a foot beyond my peering head, Churchill explained, Our video and lab room. He said it so guardedly, thoughts of porn flashed across my consciousness. Standing in the office about the massive mahogany desk, Churchill explained, Once you get used to our routines, procedures, and protocols, we’ll be able to discuss your use of that room.

I nodded to show I understood what I really didn’t.

Opening the drawer Roth pulled out the rest of the brass plaques. One had Wilhelm Von Holstein's name printed on it, and underneath his name was printed in brass letters:

Wilhelm Von Holstein,

BONDED DEALER in gold, rare coins and stamps,

Member of the GCA and ACA,

Fully licensed by United States Reserve Assurance Corp

Another plaque listed Dr. Graham Lovelace’s credentials: Ph.D. and Associates degree, licensed family counselor following numerous letters and references to certifications and licenses. The last line indicated his membership in the NY Family Counseling Institute and that he was President of the US Institute of Family Counselors.

Putting them back into the drawer Maurice Roth explained, "All the renters have a brass plaque, and you’ll get one listing whatever you want. When it's your turn to use the office, Monique will hang your plaque on the front door and she’ll be your secretary.

I asked how the arrangements were made as to who used the office and when.

Roth said, Miss St. Denis keeps a schedule book. Whenever you have a client and want to use the office you call Monique and schedule an appointment. You'll also have your own phone line which she'll answer with your name and business. She’ll then forward your call to you and the caller will never be the wiser. He underlined this last with a knowing wink.

Just then Monique peeked into the office and whispered, Mr. Roth, it's your broker, Robert Burkhardt from City International Brokerage on the phone wanting to talk to Jonathan Root or anyone in MJR Securities.

Suddenly Maurice Roth turned pale, patted his hair, glanced sideways at Churchill and me, and told Monique to tell the waiting Burkhardt he was busy with a client and would get back to him.

Nonchalantly Monique St. Denis nodded and disappeared.

Breaking the ensuing tense silence, apropos of nothing Roth said, My financial business is mostly through the mail, so I'm seldom here, but I still pay my full share. Monique puts my mail in a briefcase and I regularly pick it up.

I mentioned that most of my business is also over the phone and normally I see my clients at their home.

The bottom line was, for a nominal fee I would get a prestigious office address, a secretary to kill for, and an office to die for. We all shook hands and I paid cash, as everyone seemed shy of using paper and pen. The final thing I did was write out the message for my brass plate:

Edward Debb, Esquire, Finder of Articles of Value

Licensed by the States of NY, NJ, CT, CA

Member of the FAV Institute

Fully Bonded by American Surety Insurance Company

In the reception room, after the phony friendly 'we trust each other' handshakes and insincere smiles saying 'we’re all good friends,' I was ready to leave when an irate group of six people charged into the reception room, almost knocking me down and all screaming for Tatenbaum, the real estate agent. The timbre of the voices, the coarse language, the angry distorted faces, and the raised fists all suggested if a tree was in sight, a strong rope was available, and if Tatenbaum was present, Tatenbaum would be hanging high.

Deftly, Monique quickly disappeared into the office bathroom. Roth and Lovelace faded back into the office, leaving Churchill and me to quiet the lynch mob. I kept repeating to one old harpy with gold rings on every claw who fastened on me that I was only a visitor, while Churchill, surrounded by rabid faces, went into 'I feel your pain' mode and to each vulgar expectorate of Tatenbaum, Churchill virtuously and emphatically told them Tatenbaum had been evicted from the office, that he was shocked at Tatenbaum's criminal activities, that he completely supported them in seeking full restitution, and that Tatenbaum was beneath contempt, worse than a child molester. In fact he’d be glad to represent them as their lawyer in a class-action lawsuit against Tatenbaum. He proceeded to pass out his card to anyone with a hand.

From a gray haired geezer showering spittle over me I gathered that Tatenbaum had rented, sold, leased and condos and offices that had already been rented, sold and leased by others and then absconded with the deposits, the escrow, and the earnest money. Waving sheaves of blue-bordered gold-sealed documents and shaking rolling legal paper as clubs over their heads, the furious group wanted their money or Tatenbaum's life, preferably both.

Leaving me, the harpy and geezer attacked the bathroom, deaf to Monique's pleading cries that it was occupied. The others started storming the inner office as Roth and Lovelace, I assume, moved furniture against the locked door. With the two mobs assailing both bathroom and office doors, Churchill and I eased out through the front door. Churchill was apologetic, explaining that the other renters had just discovered Tatenbaum, whose real name was Barney Bloom, was less than upright, less than truthful, less than honest, and may even have been dishonest, and so the disillusioned renters had no choice but to ask him to leave the office.

Expressing my belief that even the most experienced men of the world could be misled, I reassured him with regards to my still wanting to rent office time.

Reassured, Churchill said, I think some of them were interested in my representing them. What do you think?

I gave him what he wanted, and pocketing my blow he left.

CHAPTER 3. SPANISH GOLD

You must be blind to see what you want.

Watching Churchill go to the elevator bank, I decided to take the grand staircase down in order to further enjoy the opulent atrium. I had not taken one step down when a hand gently placed on my shoulder stopped my descent. Von Holstein asked if he could have a few words with me, then proceeded to have more than a few. In a whisper he said, Look, then proceeded to look down the stairs, look past either side of my shoulders and behind me before informing me, We can't talk here. Let's make ourselves comfortable over at Duffy's. They serve an excellent cup of Irish coffee.

My hesitation elicited, My treat, and so I visited Duffy's for the first, but not the last time.

Seated with strong Irish coffee between us, Von Holstein asked, Have you ever heard of me before today? Asking as if a yes answer was a given, he made me feel impolite when I said no. Magnanimously he forgave my ignorance, saying he was well known in gold investment circles, an authority of finding and selling bullion. After pausing for this information to settle, he said, You know gold is the safest investment you can make in these unsettled economic times. Gold is solid.

Showing that I understood, I quipped, Does the sun rise in the East?

Huh? Oh yes, I see your point, and at that point we introduced ourselves to our strong Irish companions. We both licked our lips in salute to the Irish's strength.

Von Holstein whispered, Seeing you're a renter now, sort of one of the family, let me show you this, and with the stealth of a tax bill going through Congress he slid a gold coin towards me. It was severely worn but the Spanish words, face and seal were discernible.

I said nothing.

The two Irishes between us remaining mute forced Von Holstein to lean over and whisper, A gold Spanish piece of eight.

Feeling the guy was trying to sell me the gold coin, I quickly slid it back to him.

Pushing it back at me, rhetorically he asked, You know where I obtained this valuable gold coin?

I threw some of my Irish friend down my throat so he could help me, and he did me some good, but not with Von Holstein's test question.

Waiting for my answer Von Holstein stared at me, looked about at the near empty bar, conferred with his Irish companion, licked his lip, picked up the coin holding it up so I and any passerby could see it announced, 99.99% pure gold, and handed it to me. Do you feel the weight? Gold that pure is very heavy.

It did feel heavy and I told him so, and gave it back.

Would you like to have some of these Spanish pieces of eight?

He allowed time for an answer but I was busy conferring with my Irish friend. Finally Irish and I wearily agreed we would pick up gold if it was laying in the gutter.

Certainly, anyone would like one of these valuable coins. Let me tell you how you could get hundreds, thousands of these coins as well as priceless gold jewelry.

Neither Irish nor I were surprised at his generous offer, and neither of us were interested. Did he think we were that stupid?

I'm organizing an investment syndicate to search for a sunken Spanish galleon carrying gold from Peru to Spain. This gold coin— Again he offered it for me to hold, feel, weigh and appreciate.

Keeping both hands around my Irish guy, I ignored the offer. Sorry, but I’m not interested.

Not interested! he exclaimed leaning back in his captain's chair, like my disinterest had blown him away. Don't you understand, this gold coin, three days ago was under one hundred fathoms of water, ten miles off San Salvador Island in the Bahamas. The salvage ship, the SS Recovery, is anchored where they found this gold coin and the on-board experts feel this coin could not have drifted more than a mile from where the gold laden Santo Pedro galley rests.

I said, Really in a voice that said 'not really.'

But they’re running out of money, and they need just a few more thousand to continue the search.

Really, I said in the same tone.

I'm selling shares in the salvage operation for only a thousand dollars for one thousandth of the profits.

Really, same tone.

You're sure to realize a ten thousand percent profit.

Really, I said. Then in case my tone was a little too subtle, finishing my Irish I told him I wasn't interested in all his thousands.

Dumbfounded, unable to believe his ears he repeated, Spanish gold pieces of eight, thousands of percent profit, it's a sure thing, it's a chance of a lifetime.

To each I answered an emphatic, Not interested.

Look, let's have another cup of coffee.

The coffee was a euphemism; the Irish at Duffy’s were stout fellows, armed and ready to fight. Since he was a fellow renter, it was his treat, Duffy's captain's chairs were comfortable, and not having any pressing business (to be honest, no business), I decided it was only polite to remain. As Von Holstein went to pick up a couple of new stout Irish friends, I looked about the restaurant bar and concluded I really liked Duffy's: just the right wood paneling, hanging sports memorabilia, neon liquor advertisements, just the right number of tables and bar stools, and the kitchen was sending out aromatic meat smells.

Placing the two hot Irish coffees between us, Von Holstein sat down and nervously looked left, right over my shoulders, then back over his shoulders before leaning forward conspiratorially whispering, Jewish gold.

Shit, I thought, he’s an anti-Semite, and I became very scared. After all, being an anti-Semite is worse than being a pedophile or a baby murderer; it's even lower than being a racist. You can find people who will excuse the most depraved actions but anti-Semites stand universally condemned except by Arabs, who are themselves Semites. Anyway, pushing my chair back from his words, I anxiously said, Keep it quiet. Crap, people may hear you.

Ignoring my fear he continued whispering, You know the Nazis took gold rings and all the gold out of Jew's teeth during the war and melted it into gold bars. At the war's end, knowing they were going to lose, what do you think they did with all that gold?

Here he paused for effect, and in the pause we let our Irish companions speak to our spirits and elevate us, or at least mine did.

The Nazis tried to smuggle all that gold out of Germany.

Suspecting the gold and I were going to meet, I said nothing but continued conferring deeply with my trustworthy Irish friend.

They filled a barge with tons of the gold. Imagine hundreds of tons of gold. Von Holstein let me imagine as he sipped.

I suspected the confluence of Jewish and Spanish gold was fast approaching.

A Swiss lake—the barge sank in a Swiss lake under two thousand feet of water.

Swiss lake!

Can't tell you its name. That's absolutely secret. You understand.

Well, I did understand and worked hard on making my hot Irish disappear.

Look, and he leaned half way over the table, because you're a fellow renter and seeing that you're an astute man who, when seeing a golden opportunity acts quickly to grab hold of that opportunity with both hands, I'm going to give you the chance to buy into a syndicate that’s outfitting a gold salvage boat as we speak.

As he was so earnest I simply and politely begged off. He took my politeness as indecision and pressed on. Werner Von Bower, Himmler’s Chief of Staff, was in charge of the barge and told his son Wilhelm its location. He in turn told his son, Kurt, the location of the gold. Right now we've got Kurt Von Bower on board our salvage ship and he’s directing operations as I speak.

Dropping my previous polite smile I emphatically told him I wasn't interested.

Earnestly he said, The salvage ship is leaving port tomorrow to begin recovery operations. Look, you could make a payment, an interest-free payment. Say you could buy ten shares at a hundred each. It would only cost you a hundred a week if you took the installment plan.

As emphatically as possible without telling him he was full of blow and I was insulted that he'd think I'd inhale any of it, again I refused his once in a lifetime opportunity and started to rise.

While deftly pulling maps from his coat's inside pocket, he shouted, Don’t go. Here’s a map of Switzerland. He spread out an AAA travel guide map of the country. Now, he whispered, seeing you’re a renter I’m going to trust you with information that’s worth millions. Looking nervously about, similar to the anxious glances a swimmer surrounded by shark fins gives, he said, I’m going to show you something that could possibly lead to your murder. People would kill for this information. Are you afraid? Hearing this information, know that your life would be in real jeopardy.

Possessing a stout heart, with a couple of Irish backing me up, I honestly told him I feared no man.

Good. When I first saw you I knew you had the right stuff; a man unafraid to take risks, a man who thirsts for adventure.

I can’t tell whether it was thirst for adventure, but again we lifted the depleted Irish. Apparently the fact I was stout hearted, unafraid of great dangers, thirsting for adventure, required no comment from me as Holstein continued his secretive whispering, The Israeli secret police are desperate to find this gold. Pausing, intently searching Duffy’s bar for lurking secret agents before leaning so close I had to move my drink out of drooling range, he continued. Without any qualms, they’d kill for this map, so are you sure you’re willing to risk knowing what I’m going to show you? Before you answer, to be fully honest and up front with you, know that five attempts have been made on my life, twice using a beautiful secret agent who, luring me into bed, tried to kill me. Who knows what they would do to you to get their hands on the map.

Whatever, I said, then asked how Duffy’s sandwiches were as it was getting towards noon.

Fantastic, especially the roast beef, but forget the food. The important question is, are you willing to risk your life to see this map?

Whatever, I said, eyeing the kitchen people slicing up some fantastic looking rare roast beef. Nothing was hidden at Duffy’s. The sandwiches were made and served at the bar.

Pointing a chubby finger at a lake, labeled Lake Como, Von Holstein whispered, There, under a thousand fathoms of crystal clear bone cold water lies tooth gold. See the X that Kurt Von Bower put down where the gold rests? That’s billions in gold fillings.

How much does Duffy charge for a roast beef on Jewish rye?

Look, forget about the rye. If you give me just a hundred, a down payment, I could let you have this map, but only on condition you guard it with your life.

Not interested.

Well, I can see how profiting from tooth gold extracted from Jewish victims, a man like yourself of high principals, great moral sensibilities, you may not be interested, but the Spanish gold is not tainted. I have here a map showing the exact location where the Santo Pedro gold pieces of eight were found.

Gathering up the Swiss map he laid out a map of the Bahamas, again courtesy of Triple A. He was persistent in his sole pursuit of making me rich beyond a politician’s promises, yet despite getting a third Irish, gratis, I and my Irish trio remained obdurate.

As he was saying only a thousand dollar investment would buy a hundred shares of either Spanish or teeth bullion, I finished my coffee, rose and left him, allowing my back to be my final no.

Desperately he yelled at my back, Right now Von Bower is sailing on Lake Como towards tons of Jewish gold teeth.

I was the only one at Duffy's who didn't turn and look quizzically at him.

Leaving my office partner loudly blowing, I went to a small Broadway printing outfit, the type having six feet of sidewalk space, running ten feet deep with a dirty doorway, a dirty window, filthy inside, and located on the side of a Manhattan street that never sees sunlight. With the new prestigious address I required various printed matter: business cards, official looking IDs to prove to the gullible I was an investment banker, a captain in Homeland Security, an undersecretary in the diplomatic corps, a chief IRS auditor, as well as a licensed professional finder, among other diverse IDs and business cards.

Today people totally believe words on paper and any self-respecting phony needs to dress himself top to bottom, front to rear with printed respect or he’s suspected of being nothing but a blowhard.

So Richard—like Arnold, no last name, and never judgmental as to what he prints—was the printer I often used. After taking my ID pictures, he typed on ink-stained fingers into a computer, and behold in less than an hour I became many wonderful important powerful personages. Carrying those cards was almost as exhilarating as packing lots of money. Damn I felt good as I crossed from the shadowy side of the street to the sunny side.

CHAPTER 4. IT CONTINUES TO BLOW

In Blow Land, time isn’t money; it says money.

So that's how I rented an office in the prestigious WIT building and was able to receive Mrs. April March’s telephone call at eight in the morning. In Dakota’s bed, seriously debating whether to get up or not, with the 'not' a two to one favorite, Mrs. March thought I was industriously working in my WIT building office thanks to Monique.

I reassured Mrs. March I was indeed a professional finder of lost objects, emphasizing I was a licensed bonded professional, as if there were such accruements as exams, licenses and bonds. In reality I was blowing at her for all I was worth.

Mentioning her husband was Charles Bennett March, she left a pause after her husband’s name, expecting I’d fill it in with an impressed exclamation: ‘the ball player,’ 'the senator,’ ‘the billionaire.’ Since her husband’s name didn’t ring up any numbers in my memory register, I inadequately filled the pause with a long drawn out 'yes,' encouraging her to elaborate.

The financier and builder, she amplified, with an emphasis on the 'the,' suggesting a builder greater than Donald Trump, hell, greater than God. He has his office in your building.

So far, in trying to impress me all she had done was inflate my fees, stimulate my curiosity, and tickle the latent subservient nature hiding just beneath everyone's skin ready to become an ugly itching rash when the smell of big money was in the air.

She said, I’ve lost something of value and I need you to find it.

After replying, What and planning to follow with ‘where, when’ and the most important ‘my fee is,’ I didn’t get past the ‘what.’ She tossed the ‘what’ aside like it was ‘the’ four letter word, and instead made an appointment with me.

In the land of blow a person’s value is determined by the value of his time, from losers making appointments and never showing up to the working poor making appointments, arriving early, and being so grateful you agreed to see them; the middle class, calling for an appointment, readily accepts any time you deign to give them, and punctually keep it; the rich not only dictate the appointment time but designate the place and expect your acquiescence, and you’d better get there on time, even if they never are. Mrs. April March told me she would see me at her condo apartment at ten o’clock that morning, and after she gave me the daunting impressive Fifth Avenue Whitestone building address, her concluding words ‘Penthouse A’ had my head obsequiously bowing low to the phone as thoughts of my fee grew proportionately higher. Ten o’clock was fine with me, and so the blow starts—or was it just continuing? In any case it was going to increase to gale force winds.

CHAPTER 5. INTERVIEW WITH APRIL MARCH

Flunkies are needed to impress flunkies.

Her address and her penthouse conveying money was underlined by having to walk across the Whitestone lobby's marble floor, past plush sofas no one sat on and expensive paintings no one looked at, to give my name to the two uniformed desk clerks sitting behind a bowling alley long granite counter. It all shouted money; serious money was living and breathing in this building. Riding up the elevator with its brass doors and plush carpeted interior, the oil painting on the back wall and a red velvet bench in case the ride up tired you, yelled, ‘let’s hear an amen to that money.’

At the penthouse floor the elevator doors opened to a miniature lobby, octagonal in shape with gold edged chairs standing proud on a thick rug, between four brass-trimmed mahogany double doors leading to penthouses A, B, C or D, all roaring a resounding chorus of ‘hallelujahs’ to that money.

With a flourish, a uniformed south of the border maid (I'm sure she's a citizen, aren't you? and if you dare doubt, shame on you, you racist!) opened the double doors of Penthouse A just two seconds after the chimes sounded the last note of a ten-second rendition of Send in the Clowns. (Yeah, I got the intended message.) Showing me into the living room, the maid seated me at one end of a gigantic plush blue crescent couch.

The twentyish maid exchanged places with a fiftyish no-nonsense woman in a tweed skirt and matching jacket. Her pulled-back jet-black dyed hair with a bizarre blow-dyed white streak stretching from her brow to the nape of her neck said business, not sex. She introduced herself. I’m Mrs. Lonesome, Mrs. March’s personal secretary. Mrs. March will be with you in a moment.

Standing in the middle of the room, she offered refreshments in such an uninviting manner I dared not accept. My refusing ended our exchange. During the next long, silent five minutes, avoiding her cold, glaring eyes, I slid stealthy glances at the manifestations of wealth tossed about the spacious living room while trying hard not to gawk at the spectacular postcard view of Central Park through a thirty-foot long wall of floor-to-ceiling windows.

Finally Mrs. March arrived—or more accurately, made an entrance—in a silk floral dress, tight upstairs, wide and fluffy downstairs. With her hips swishing her skirt in wide ovals, she walked into the room like she was anxious to see me, with both hands stretched out like she was dying to hug me, and with a broad wide welcoming smile expressing unbounded joy at seeing me, succeeding in making me feel very special indeed. Unfortunately, somehow, with all her rushing to me, I still had time to get up and go across the room to her, and just as I was about to take her outstretched hands they swung away from me towards the secretary, as she worriedly asked whether Mrs. Lonesome had offered refreshments. Without waiting for an answer and leaving me standing, feeling a fool in the middle of the room, she sat at one end of the curved couch, gesturing me towards the opposite end while giving warm gracious smiles not only to me but to the secretary, the couch, the cocktail table, and the pleats of her dress.

Sitting at opposite ends of the semi-circled plush blue couch we looked at each other over a cocktail table of smoked glass, the size of a double bed. The glass was resting on the back of four gigantic, obscene, malevolent-looking brass elephants whose upturned trunks suggested they were planning to spit something nasty at me. A large cut-crystal vase holding a couple of dozen red and yellow roses was centered on the glass. Realizing they were real long stemmed roses at the end of October in the middle of Manhattan, I felt even more the feudal serf in the presence of the lord’s gracious lady.

Again I refused refreshments, though a stiff whiskey would have supplied needed spine bracing against the onslaught of all this money. Refusing my refusal, she turned to Mrs. Lonesome and with a smile that had yet to cease, told her to bring us coffee.

I sized up her actual age at either end of thirty, in the eights or nines if Botox, plastic and tucks were utilized, the lower end if I was really seeing her as she was born. Still damn attractive, she lacked only the girlish freshness and perkiness of the late teens. With her silk dress buttoned to the chin and her wide fluffy skirt hiding the bottom denying an accurate evaluation of her figure, her dress did suggest a trim, tight waist and a fulsome jolly bust, hopefully not blow plastic.

Picking up a photo from a side table, she held it out to me just far enough so I had to awkwardly lean and stretch for it from a half-squat position, barely escaping from falling flat on the cocktail table’s top. My husband, she said, as I looked at the studio photo of a guy in his late forties, standing pompously next to a large globe, hand resting on North America, and in front of a wall of photographic studio’s phony books with the expression of one who had read them all. When I saw you just now, I was struck by your resemblance to my husband. It's uncanny.

Being a good ten years younger and better looking in a rugged, masculine manner I was insulted, but in a phony flattered inflection I replied, There certainly is a definite resemblance. Rather than risk another undignified squatting, bending and precariously stretching, I slid the photo across the elephants’ glass backsides to her. Out of consideration for the maid she left it there so the maid would have something to do later.

While the coffee was being served in dainty porcelain cups and saucers, so paper thin, so fragile, I knew their cost was robust, she pumped me about myself in a polite, genteel manner. I was more than happy to sell myself. After telling her of my twenty years of professional experience and emphasizing my FBI, CIA, and Secret Service background, and sliding over the elephant's back my newly minted business card, which absolutely verified in print what I had said, I proceeded to enumerate my numerous successes in finding lost objects of great value such as fabulous diamonds, rare coins, Rembrandts, and Faberge Eggs. I ended with the recovery of the stolen incredibly valuable Elvis Hankie. (You really should buy the book.) Finishing with a flourish, I mentioned the existence of hordes of satisfied patrons whose famous names, out of professional discretion I couldn’t mention but they would be easily recognized by anyone familiar with Vogue, Vanity Fair or People.

Ordinarily at the end of my BS spiel I’d slip my fee of 10% of the object’s value into the conversation, but sitting on the edge of a monstrously expensive couch, with my weight more on my feet than on my seat, the mention of fees seemed too crass. Still in awe, facing and talking to a refined cultured lady beautiful in the Allure cover manner, living in a luxury penthouse seen only in House Beautiful layouts of the rich and famous, slyly stealing peeks over her shoulder at a view of Central Park only seen on the travel channel, and her giving me her undivided attention, I left out the usual financial considerations for the time being. But to be honest, I was undecided how steep to make it and still have her easily embrace it.

Quietly asking the room for the jewelry chest, she had me puzzled looking about for a chest, when Mrs. Lonesome materialized carrying an oversized rosewood cigar box with a cut-crystal beveled lid. Lonesome held it under my nose to indicate I was to look into, but not touch. Peering down at a diamond necklace accompanied by one diamond teardrop earring, all reclining gentle on a blue velvet bed next to an empty indentation where the earring’s sister should be resting, I was impressed.

From all my CIA and FBI experiences I quickly deduced the missing what. The rosewood cigar box disappeared while April looked intently down at her lap.

My hopes to quickly move her to the next step, where the missing sister was last seen, was frustrated with her continually staring at her lap. Curious, I looked down at her lap, watching as she gently fingered those delicate impish pink silk clouds barely touching her thighs searching for a pocket in the dress’s fluffy folds. Finally finding the pocket she extracted a cellophane-encased news article and holding it out to the edge of her knee she again forced me to go through the ungainly contortions of squatting, bending and reaching over the damn spitting elephants to take it. Beneath a picture of April sporting the necklace and earrings, the news article related how she was ecstatic over her anniversary gift from March. The article, revealing the entire ensemble was valued at four and a half million, was written in such a way as to give the reader the impression the reporter had done a month's investigative research to uncover this fact, all done so the reader would be unaware the Marches were crass enough to publicize their wealth in a press release.

Sighing a girlish teenage pout she probably thought subtracted ten years and added a quantum jump in cuteness but didn’t, only delineating she wasn't teenage cute, she told me she had lost her earring at a party. Demurely she confessed it was all her fault in a way that made me want to say 'never' and pat her hand if only I could climb over the four damn brass elephants and reach her. Lest I be so crude as to put money thoughts next to her decidedly angelic persona, after telling me, though the earring set alone is worth over four hundred thousand, it was the sentiment which gave it value to her. Losing her husband’s first anniversary gift devastated her. Devastated or not, she was more than holding it all together.

The words 'four hundred thousand' moved my thoughts from her back to my fee, and though still undecided as to how large I could make it, I definitely was getting very excited. Delaying on the fee, I asked where she had lost it.

It was at Randolph ‘Randy’ Smiley's Sutton Place house party last night.

The address said money and the name sounded vaguely familiar, so I prompted her with, Isn’t he…?

She said, The Wall Street financier who’s working with my husband on a huge charitable enterprise, the building of a fantastic educational and housing complex for the poor in the South Bronx, extending assistance to the disadvantaged by education, housing and recreation. You know they’re doing it free. The men are so giving... giving so much of themselves to the needy. With a saint’s humility, shyly deciding to include herself, she solemnly said, We who are blessed with much must give back something to those less fortunate.

April left a pause into which I could silently affirm her sainthood while verbally giving ascent to the depth and truth of her moral insight. I gave her a brief yeah without much oomph behind it.

Sensing I wasn't going to confer any sanctity on her, she continued, explaining that the small party was only for intimate friends of Mr. Smiley, mentioning there were only thirty or so people were there. (Hell, I couldn’t count on a tenth of that at my funeral, and they'd be there more out of curiosity to see how I looked laid out.) With a deep sigh she confessed she almost didn’t go because her husband, due to a sudden business crisis, couldn’t attend the party and she felt uncomfortable going alone. However, with the joint vital charitable construction enterprise her husband had with Smiley, Charles insisted one of them had to attend.

Suddenly she cautioned she didn’t want her husband to discover how careless she was with his generous thoughtful badge of his love, fearing it would appear that she, in not cherishing and appreciating his diamond gift, had carelessly lost what she should have jealously guarded.

I took all that with a grain of salt while thinking Bullshit, but asked if she could be more specific as to the time and place where she last remembered having it, and where and when she had first missed it. I sagely pointed out that between those two times and places lies the earring.

The last time I definitely knew I had it was when I went into Randy’s bedroom to take a phone call from my husband. He was calling to see if I was enjoying the party and to express his sadness at not being with me. He is so loving. Well, in the bedroom, with all the party noise I took off my earring to put the phone closer to my ear and with the earring in hand, when leaning back on the bed which was covered with people’s coats was when I must have dropped it." Blushing, she hesitantly confessed the nature of the conversation was romantic and playfully intimate, and it lasted over a half-hour.

Gently I asked again when she had first noticed it missing.

She said, Getting ready for bed the first thing I do is put my jewelry away. I’m very religious in my bedroom routine and… here she shifted her hand to her left ear, there was no earring. I then realized, talking to my husband for so long, I was in a hurry to get back to the party, and it must have been then when I lost it. Well, at home, realizing it was missing, I immediately called Randy Smiley, and despite the lateness of the hour he was kind enough to search his bedroom as well as call his guests, requesting they search their coats in the hope it fell into a coat pocket while I was on the bed talking to my husband. Unfortunately the earring is still missing.

I told her it could have been caught in the folds of a coat only to be shaken loose as the people were putting on the coats in the foyer, or while leaving the townhouse and therefore it could be anywhere in Mr. Smiley's house, or even outside on the sidewalk or in the gutter. When I said, Of course if I don’t find it in Mr. Smiley's house I may have to talk to each guest, search their cars, closets and—

No! she said emphatically, then explaining she couldn’t have these important business associates of her husband’s and Randy’s bothered any more than they had been. It was sufficient they had searched their coats. Sending a stranger to search their homes, cars and clothing just isn't permissible. Her hard employer tone faded into a pout. Please understand you are to limit yourself to Mr. Randy Smiley’s apartment. If you can’t find it there, you are to stop the search.

When I asked if Mr. Smiley would give his permission for me to conduct a thorough search of his house, she told me he was very understanding. In a phone conversation early this morning she had discussed hiring me and Mr. Smiley promised to do anything to assist her in recovering the earring. She said, Of course you must promise to be discreet and meticulously neat in searching his house.

Certainly.

You are confidential? This conversation as well as your search will be held in the strictest confidence? My husband should never hear of the earring's loss.

You have my word. As a professional finder I am bonded to be both discreet and confidential.

Watching her reach for her coffee cup with her right hand I thought, She’s right handed, lost an earring from her left ear. Right-handed people picking up the phone with their right hand hold it next to their right ear, seldom if ever take the phone with their left hand and hold it to their left ear if both hands are free. Yeah, she lost the earring talking to her husband in this guy Smiley’s bedroom. Yeah, sure, and Dakota loves and wants to marry me because I’m her soul mate, not because I'm the only hope of a desperate thirty-two year old woman. Obviously April was doing the nasty with Smiley.

She ended the conversation with an incongruous giggle, saying once again it was important for obvious reasons that her husband doesn't find out she had been so careless with his anniversary gift.

Thinking, And with your wedding vows, I thought less of her.

After allowing me to reiterate my solemn promise of total discretion in the affair, she told me to immediately go to Mr. Smiley's apartment as he'd be there to help facilitate my search. Then from somewhere within the dress’s silk folds she extracted a piece of paper and once again extended her hand towards me all the way to the edge of her knee.

As I was eagerly leaning awkwardly forward, bending and stretching over the table, with the table hitting me in the kneecaps, one hand on the table for balance, the other stretching to its limits, grabbing for the paper, expecting it was a down payment check, she told me it was Smiley's address.

Sitting back massaging my knees I finally brought up the most important issue, my fee. My usual fee is ten percent of the missing item’s value. Spotting a disapproving frown, I continued, But if you’ll recommend me to your friends, a flat fee of ten thousand will cover my services.

She didn’t blink, never mind think about, argue over or repeat the figure. My only concern is the return of the earring, she said. In expressing her anxiety over the earring she didn’t actually say, Yes, to my fee and, rising, she extended both hands towards me as a sign of dismissal. Standing up, with the damn elephant table between us, unfortunately I couldn’t reach her and stepping around the table was too late; her hands were busy waving at her secretary, Mrs. Lonesome, to see me out.

CHAPTER 6. UNFAIRLY ATTACKED

Silence always drops the dot.

Waiting for the condo’s elevator I was kicking myself: no written contract, no down payment, in fact she didn’t even say okay to the ten thousand.

When the elevator arrived, the parting doors revealed a frowning, burly, well-dressed gentleman. Without a word and calmly pressing the Door Open button, he stared at my puzzled face for a long second before his fist came at me landing a sudden solid chin blow, stamping hurt on it. It was so expertly executed, so totally unexpected, I didn’t feel the second and subsequent blows, and I didn’t feel the cowardly kicks as I lay on the carpeted vestibule floor.

Returning consciousness found me in a fetal position with the sound of elevator bells ringing and the elevator door being closed. The next ten minutes were spent laying, crawling, sitting, and climbing the wall 'til I finally achieving a standing position with my hands pressing the wall hard for support. I made numerous unpleasant