Recipe for Death: A Phillip Bartlow Mystery

By Robert Oster

It’s April 1949 in Eda City and former detective, Phillip Bartlow, has big plans for a new career. In this prequel to The Maltese Mystery Meatloaf and Other Tales, Bartlow’s first case as a culinary private investigator gets him entangled in a web of murder, intrigue, political corruption and conspiracy.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu Publishing Services
• Release date: Oct 8, 2015
• ISBN: 9781483433684

Robert Oster

Robert Oster is the author of two earlier satirical novellas, The Maltese Meatloaf Mystery and The California Honeymoon Caper, featuring Private Culinary Detective, Phillip Bartlow. Both stories are combined in one book, The Maltese Meatloaf Mystery and Other Tales Prior to his literary career, Dr. Oster, a psychologist specializing in REBT (Rational Emotive Behavioral Therapy) and hypnotherapy, had presented a countless number of courses, seminars, workshops and training programs in the areas of stress management and burnout prevention, chemical dependency treatment, customer service, program development and team facilitation at colleges and to public and private sector organizations for over thirty years. Robert lives in Central New Jersey with his wife Judy, a college instructor.

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grounded.

CHAPTER 1

Today Was Yesterday’s Tomorrow

I looked around the dark and dirty office that first day. I wondered, Has it really been two months since I left Yankel Creek? I scanned the dank, dusty cramped square reception area; Empty space except for the dozen or so unopened boxes. A room piled with hopes and dreams of a better career than the one I just walked away from several weeks ago. A new beginning is always hard at first, I said to no one in particular, trying to reassure myself with what Dr. Waggabbi, the Yankel Creek P.D. Psychiatrist, told me when I told him, during our last session, that I had decided to pack it all in. "You seem to have learned how to control your compulsion to investigate, expose and bring every dangerous restaurant to justice. But you must realize that gastrophobic stress disorder is an insidious mental illness," he warned me.

I spent some time checking out the other offices on my side of the second floor, to learn something about my new neighbors. Suite #210-211 belonged to a Dr. Harold Wissniac, Painless Dentistry. Yeah, right! Suite #213 was the regional sales office for Zuckup Vacuum Cleaning Company, Inc., and #214 belonged to The Danson Travel Agency.

I finally entered my new office so the janitor could scrape off the Acme Insurance Company decal from the frosted glass section of the front door and replace it with, Phillip Bartlow, Private Culinary Investigations. I stepped across the threshold gingerly, like a tomcat quietly stalking his prey. Yes. There it was! On the floor behind the boxes. Resting comfortably atop The Eda City Phone Directory was my new Western Electric Model 500 Rotary Dial Telephone that the sales clerk at Consolidated Telephone and Telegraph Company said was the latest model. It mocked me with its silence; a taunting reminder that I had laid down fifty smackers for half page ads in the Eda City Bugle and The Mutlee County Tribune. Those ads began appearing in yesterday’s late night editions. But it was only six-thirty five. Who knows if that phone will ring later today? I wondered if it was a rash decision to sign a three year lease for this space. The carpeting was ratty, the windows looked like they hadn’t been cleaned since the building was built some thirty-five years ago. I also had a help wanted ad, with my apartment phone number, running for the past week in those same papers. I only received one inquiry, from a Miss Fanny Brentwood.

The morning was spent cleaning up the joint. I greased the janitor’s palm with a crisp five dollar bill to help me make Suite 212 nearly presentable. I was fortunate that I didn’t have to purchase any furnishings. The insurance agent had left all his new or barely used furniture, stacked up and stored in what would be my private office. By eleven o’clock Eddie, the Janitor, and his assistant Harry had moved all the desks, file cabinets and bookcases in place just in time for me to welcome Miss Brentwood for what would be a very brief interview. I knew immediately that I would hire her on the spot to be my receptionist/secretary, not because she seemed capable, but because she showed up. Not too shabby in the looks department either, if you know what I mean.

I asked Miss Brentwood to have a seat behind the reception desk so that I could ask her some questions about her work history and to test her secretarial skills. Miss Brentwood, a petite raven haired dame in her mid twenties, snapped her chewing gum and replied, Sure Sugar. Whatever. She walked past me towards the reception station dressed in a low cut silk blouse and tight fitting tweed skirt. She smelled of Eau D’ Noir Perfume. Her silky hair waved gently back and forth in a hypnotic dance. Miss Brentwood’s curvaceous chassis seemed to exude all manner of sensuality as she sashayed, in what I perceived to be, as a subtle bump and grind. She cast a whimsical smile at me as she passed by. I had to remember to try to control my strong physical attraction. She might be my employee soon; the person who would be the voice and face of my new organization. That would be trouble. Then again, she might be married. I wanted none of that. I had enough complications back in my old job. I made the mistake of falling head over heels in love with Eunice Capistrano, the Yankel Creek Police Department Dispatcher. Our courtship had been a brief one. We were married only after our fourth date. Little did I know that Eunice married me on the rebound. All that time, she was madly in love with my partner, Detective First Class Joe Pratt, a married man of ten years…with four kids! Their affair ruined the lives of several people. Dr. Waggabbi and I were exploring that link to my troubles just before I threw in the towel.

I had Miss Brentwood fill out a standard employment application. I reviewed it fleetingly and asked her, "You graduated from Yes High School?"

"Naw, Mr. Bartlow. I just wrote yes ‘cause I attended a few different high schools," she replied.

But…but did you graduate from any one of them? I inquired.

Not really, she answered. "I was discovered, you might say, by George Estes, a fashion photographer for several, uh, uh…whatcha might call, girlie magazines, to do some modeling. Ya know, cheesecake stuff. No nudies. After a while we started datin’ and fell in love. Georgie was crazy ‘bout me and didn’t want no other men gapin’ at my legs and…and ogling my figger. He wanted me to do sumpin’ more respectable. So I started goin’ to night school to brush up on my typin’ skills while he supported me. We was married for seven months and then he died quite suddenly. So I went to work as the hat check girl at The Blue Heron Night Club down on West Vargas Street in order to pay the rent. During the day I went to Mrs. Fabner’s Secretarial School to better my financial prospects. Mr. Hargrove, the nightclub owner, had promised me a job in his insurance agency as a secretary if I graduated. He was paying for the courses. But unfortunately, Mr. Hargrove is also no longer with us."

Whoa! Slow down Sister! I exclaimed. First off, I’m sorry to hear about all these tragedies in your still very young life. Please, if you don’t mind, please tell me how George Estes died. Was he an elderly gentleman?

"Ha, ha! Gee Mr. Bartlow. Whadda you take me for, some kinda woman who needs a sugar daddy? Georgie was a year younger than me! Fanny Brentwood explained. He was also employed by Harlan Hargrove. He was the nightclub photographer and did the photography at special events and celebrations for Mr. Hargrove’s friends and family."

Hmm. I see, I said. But…but what did he die of at such a young age? Did he contract some fatal illness? A car accident, maybe?

It was kinda like a car accident, Fanny Brentwod said in a near whisper. Only, he was in the trunk of the car when they fished it out of Kettle Lake.

Oh I see. Or, I think I see, I responded. You also mentioned that your last boss, Mr. Hargrove is…

Dead! Fanny cut in with a deadpan expression, her vacant big brown eyes focusing on nothing. "At least that’s what I think. Coulda been he had financial troubles and turned the joint over to Jake Plumpski. Could be that he took whatever he was paid for the club and went on a long vacation, or…or moved outta town."

Yes. Could be, I agreed. And, I thought, maybe I could hold my breath under water for two hours without passing out. "I’m curious Miss Brentwood, why didn’t you pursue a career in modeling after your husband, er, passed away? With your face and figure, I’m sure you could earn a lot more modeling clothing for Spector and Chatsworth’s Department Store than thirty dollars a week working for me."

"Well, I no longer had my, my, er…whadda you call it? My portfolio went missing along with all the photos and negatives that Georgie kept in our spare bedroom and at his studio on Placid Avenue. Oh, and please call me Fanny."

Went missing? When? How? I asked with some trepidation of the possible answer.

"Seems we was burgler-a-rised the day of the funeral service, Fanny explained. Cops had no idea who done it. Sargent Arpeggio, at the detective squad, just shrugged every time I would stop in or call him for any news about the case. Finally, I just gave up."

Okay, Fanny. You’re hired. I think things here will be a little slow…maybe a lot slow, for the next few weeks while I try to establish my investigations business. I need to spend some time in the field to do research so I can become better acquainted with Eda City. For now, all you have to do is answer the phone and take down any messages for me, I explained. I’m going to unpack the typewriters that are in my office and put one on your desk and my desk. The boxes seem to have never been opened. And, there’re six cartons near the window that have more than enough paper and other office supplies to last three years! I wondered why the last tenant left these things and why they lay in that room unused for three years. I expect you here at 8:45 every morning, Monday through Saturday. You can leave at 5 PM, unless I need you at night. Lunch hour is from Noon to One. Saturdays are half days.You can spend the rest of the week setting the office up while I’m out. I’ll call in every now and then for messages and such. They’re delivering a water cooler sometime before three PM, and…we have a private restroom down that narrow hallway to your right and a little kitchen alcove with a hot plate. Also brand new.

Thank you Mr. Bartlow, Fanny said. "But, I have a coupla questions."

Sure. What would you like to know? I asked.

First off the bat. Do you have maybe a little dough for some curtains for the windows? She asked sheepishly. I could maybe go down to Woolworth on my lunch hour and pick out…

Check out the boxes that are on the floor and upper shelf of the coat closet; Brand new blinds and drapes, I replied. "I’d bet a dollar to a donut that they’re new and of good quality. Like those new Royal Quiet Deluxe Model Typewriters they left for us. Those babies must have cost at least 130 simoleons each! Oh! And, here’s sixty-five cents for lunch. I don’t want any prospective clients catching my secretary eating at a Woolworth’s lunch counter. What else do you want to know?"

Fanny, batting her eyes and engaging mine with a blank stare asked, "What’s culin-a-raree mean?"

Down in the lobby, on my way outside to explore the restaurant scene in my new home town, I ran into Eddie the janitor. I asked him if he ever met the insurance agent, the last tenant of suite 212, or any of his employees over the past 3 years.

Can’t say that I has, Mr. Bartlow, Eddie smiled. I’ve heard say that he paid each year’s rent in advance. Got a $200.00 bonus for three Christmas’s too, mailed directly to my house…to keep hush. But, who cares what I tell anyone, now that they’re no longer here.

So, now maybe you can tell me his name. I said, pushing another five spot into the right strap of his overalls.

Wouldn’t know him if he fell on top of me, Eddie teased. But, his name is Harlan Hargrove.

His name was Harlan Hargrove, I thought as I pushed my way through the revolving door onto Branch Brook Blvd.

CHAPTER 2

Keep Your Eye Upon The Donut

I walked down to the corner newsstand to pick up a newspaper and a box of Sen-Sen. The narrow sign at the top of the newsstand read Pete’s, Newspapers, Magazines, Cigarettes & Candy. I grabbed a copy of The Eda Morning Herald. The headlines screamed, NATO Pact Signed and Israel & Jordan Sign Armistice Agreement. I thought to myself, that even though it’s only April 4th, maybe 1949 would turn out to be a good year for the world. I tossed two-bits to the guy behind the counter and told him to keep the change. I knew that I had to start collecting friends in this new town and spreading around a little cash can make it easier. I asked him, "Say, are you Pete?"

He answered in a slow near drawl with a light whistle emanating through his gapped front teeth, "Yessir. That’s me. I been here on this corner of Branch Brook Boo-lee-vard and Della Street since ’34, come this here June. Moved here from Oklahoma, thanks to what they calls The Dust Bowl. Hadda give up our worthless plot o’ land."

"You’ll be seeing a lot of me from now on Pete. I just moved into an office in the Endicott Building over there, I explained to the little grizzled face staring up at me. I’m hungry. Can you recommend a place to get good quick bite?"

Pointing his gnarled finger around the side of the stand, Pete said, Jest look across the street. See that there line forming? That’s the best hot dog you’ll ever sink your teeth into. ‘Course, they’re a little pricey for me, so’s I don’t have ‘em for lunch too often. But, Wally sure know his way around a wiener. And them buns! I dream about those buns! Makes ‘em hisself!

Thanks, Pete! I shouted as I ran across the street darting between taxi cabs and the Number 5 streetcar. Gourmet franks? I thought. All those people in that line must know they’re good. Or else, who’d pay fifteen cents for a hot dog? That’s the price I saw painted on the side of the hot dog vendor’s cart. Underneath it also claimed that they were, 100% all beef; every item is homemade. By the time I got across the street, I found myself behind only five other customers. Lunch hour was probably coming to an end for the employees from this section of town. As I stepped up to the front of the hot dog wagon I realized that the line moved quickly because the operation was manned by, who I guessed, was Wally and a woman about his age. Mrs. Wally? I asked the both of them, now that there were no more customers to hold up, Are these really made by you?

Say. You must be new to Eda City. The aproned gray-haired man said with an avuncular smile.

How can you tell? I asked.

"Don’t wanna brag, but…but, everybody and anybody in Eda City knows Wally’s Wieners! He replied. Been making them fresh everyday with my wife Estelle, here for years. Bake our own rolls. Even prepare our own mustard an’ kraut. Here have a dog. It’s on the house. Bet you never tasted anything like this from wherever you hail from, Sir."

Mmm! Thanks! It’s out of this world, I exclaimed. "Tastes like a tender piece of filet mignon on a croissant. What flavors! What’s your secret? I may eat here every day."

I don’t know what you’re referring to, but I thank you for your kind comments. Pete remarked. "Only, I can’t reveal the secret combination of seven herbs and spices that we use. Family secret. Then Wally added, in a low whisper, And, and this may be the last week our hot dogs and buns will taste as good as they do. We need to change our way of doing business or we won’t be in business for very long."

Estelle jumped in, Sush! Shush up Wally! Are you crazy? Someone may hear us.

Er, Um. My bride here sometimes gets a little dramatic, Wally cut in. "Why don’t you pick out a bottle of pop to wash it all down? We feature Filbert’s Soda. You like root beer? Can’t be beat! Can’t claim we make that, though! Heh, heh, heh!"

No. Thank you very much for the kindness and generosity you’ve already shown me, I said. "Truth is, I don’t care much for pop. Too sweet for my tastes. Could you direct me to where I could sit down to a good hot cup of coffee? I’d like some place to cool my heels and read my paper."

"Sure. The Sunflower Donut Shoppe’s down the street, a coupla blocks uptown; this side of the boulevard, Wally declared. Best damn coffee, donuts and…. Turning to his wife he asked, What is it you enjoy dear at the donut place? Oh, oh, yeah. The walnut cream cheese on raisin bread. ‘Course, I may be pred-just. We’ve been baking their breads for decades. My sons have been operating our commercial baked goods company since they was outta high school."

Wow! I exclaimed. Sounds like you have or had a big operation going on in this town. What happened?

"We used to supply all the best restaurants with bakery products. Had the hot dog business sewn up at Eda Stadium and Central Arena for quite some time, Wally said sadly. We also had food concessions in Union Station and the Mid-City Park Zoo."

Then what? I prodded.

"Then, after twenty years of good…no, great relations with the bakers union, The Amalgamated Bakers, Local 453, to be exact, we was shut down for weeks by a wildcat strike. Decided to get out of that business altogether, Wally replied with Estelle giving him a look that said he was overstepping some dangerous line. Seems that at the very same time, the Street Vendors Committee of the City Council refused to renew our Concessionaire Licenses. We were told that they wanted to bring in more affordable products for the citizens of Eda City," he added.

Oh. I see. Well, bye, and thanks again, I said.

I meandered my way uptown for that great cup of Joe that Wally told me about, all the while thinking that maybe Harlan Hargrove, the alleged insurance agent or Jake Plumpski, the new proprietor of The Blue Heron Nightclub, may have been orchestrating the demise of good eats in this burg.

I walked into the Sunflower Donut Shoppe. It was one of two stores, the other being Marge’s Flowers and Gifts, located on opposite sides of the large brass and glass front entrance doors of a beautiful six story art deco style office building. The aroma of fresh warm baked goods was reminiscent of the smells that used to emanate from my grandmother’s kitchen during the holiday season. I hitched myself up onto a counter stool in the middle of the narrow store. I opened up the newspaper, then glanced up. I found myself facing a stunning array of donuts, crullers, sticky buns and other pastries. I then began reading the hand painted picture and verse that was located above the wall-mounted bakers racks. Depicted in vibrant colors were two court jesters standing opposite one another holding up a banner. The verse on the banner read:

As you wander through life my friend,

Whatever be your goal,

Keep your eye upon the donut

And not upon the hole

I hope your coffee is as good as the inspirational advice those two clowns are proffering up there, I cracked wise to the tall lanky man walking over to serve me.

What’ll you have Sir? he asked, dismissing my lame attempt at humor. "I recommend the cinnamon streusel danish. Just came out of the oven five minutes ago," he added without much enthusiasm.

Very tempting. But, I gotta keep in shape, I replied Just a cup of coffee, please. Black, no sugar.

The waiter returned in a few minutes and slammed down a large mug of steaming coffee hard enough to make the spoon leap from my napkin onto the floor and spray a few drops of the brown hot liquid onto the second and third pages of my paper. He grunted something and then quickly turned and walked away heading straight through the swinging doors at the right of the shelved wall. Almost instantly, an elderly corpulent mustachioed man waddled up to me with a dish rag and a fresh mug of coffee. "I’m so sorry for Steffan’s rude behavior, he said apologetically with a slight accent, as he wiped down the counter. He’s my head baker and he’s not too delighted in having to double up manning the counter. Doesn’t take change very well. Can’t blame him. Having had all of his kitchen staff and the staff in the front of the house given pink slips would make anyone angry. It’s easier for me. I was planning on retiring next year anyway. Been in this business since, as a twenty year old caulker aboard the Greek freighter, Priapus, I jumped ship. That was some forty-five years ago, in Baltimore. And, I have to break my promise to sell Sunflower Donuts to Steffan, now that the city is condemning this building to put up a new skyscraper."

Sorry, I replied. "Wally, down the block, sent me here for what he promised is the best coffee in town. I’m not disappointed in your coffee…but, I’m shocked to learn that…Well, let me put it this way. I just set up shop down the street. Moved into a new office in The Endicott Building. The first two food establishments I patronize are going out of business and it’s not because the food is sub-par. It’s my business to know a thing or two about food."

I agreed to sell the whole building to the city. I’ve owned this property for fifteen years. I’m not the only one affected. Twenty-five other businesses will have to be relocated someplace else as well, The large man remarked. "By the way, my name is Spyros Apostolos. Everyone calls me Api."

My name’s Bartlow, Phillip Bartlow. Say, Api, why is the city destroying such a beautiful gem of a building? I inquired. Should be a landmark. It’s so…

"You’d have to ask Alderman Clyde Bennet why I was singled out. Maybe it’s because I chose to back his opponent, Adam Bartell, The Reform Party candidate, last November. Supplied his staff with free food during the campaign, Api opined. Couldn’t prove it in a court of law in this town though. Can’t buck the system, ya know."

"Whadda you mean, can’t buck the system?" I asked, like an eleven year old boy asking his dad to explain girls.

The old man cocked his head to the right and stared at me with perplexity. Don’t they have political machines, party bosses, ward healers, bag men and prosecutors and judges who are bought and sold like chips in a penny ante poker game in whatever town you come from? he asked. "A couple of months ago I was approached by a Mr. Garrett Durkson, a real estate agent for Galaxy Developers, Api explained further. He told me that his firm was awarded a city contract, I suspect in the middle of the night, to erect The New Municipal Performing Arts Center. Which, by the way, is to be named for our six term mayor, Orville Casterbridge. The City Fathers are also planning on extending the Eda City Transit’s subway line here and constructing a terminal below the edifice. They plan to rip up the little park behind my building to lease space to anyone who wants to open expensive shops and cafes. I was shown the plans which includes a fifty-eight story commercial building rising above the center. He was very, er…persuasive."

Persuasive? How so? I asked naively.

Api cleared his throat and continued to conduct his lesson in Eda City politics. "Durkson straight ahead told me that he’s done me a big favor by already locating a buyer for all of my kitchen equipment. He delivered his message in a nice way, you see. The Devil always peddles grief with a big smile. He informed me that Galaxy Developers is willing to pay me fifty percent of the current value of my property. He added that this is a generous offer because Alderman Bennett could go to the State Legislature and secure an order of eminent domain. Have the city tear the place down without my consent and pay me peanuts for my troubles."

Hmm. I don’t quite understand your calm acceptance of this situation. I would be outraged. I would… I began.

Oh. I’m outraged all right, Api cut in. "But, I’m also a realist and this is reality. I played the Don Quixote routine for years, attending public forums, meetings, protests and such…and, campaigning for Reform Party candidates. Jousting at the giant political machine, here and in the state capital for three decades, has only left me with the largest private collection of broken lances. Don’t forget, I was born in the country that invented democracy. What we have here is the illusion of democracy. Son, you must be aware that the Golden Rule, as it is applied in this town, is turning green. The Golden Rule now means, he who has the gold makes the rules."

Mmm. I’m beginning to get the big picture, I remarked. But, I’ve always stayed away from politics. No interest in anything except serving up justice one way or another.

"Then, how can you say that you don’t understand my attitude? Api replied, looking at me as if I just landed here from Mars. If you’re interested in justice and fair play, then how can you not involve yourself in politics? Look here, young man. Everything in life is either politics or show business or both. I’ll give you an example from your line of work. What is it you said you do? You mentioned something about food."

Yeah. I quit the police force a short while ago. Was a detective in Yankel Creek, I explained. "This past year, due to a food poisoning incident from which I nearly died, I decided to use my detective and investigative skills to prevent the same thing from happening to anyone else. That’s why I opened up a culinary investigations agency in this town. Eda City has always had a reputation for the best dining this side of the…"

What? Api exclaimed. You worked for a governmental agency and didn’t think you were involved with politics? How did people get promoted, pass tests, get assigned plum jobs, get elected Chief of Police? I could go on.

Oh. I understand that. I’m just not interested in getting my hands dirty in that area of life, I said. "You mentioned show business as part of politics. What’s that about?"

"Not just politics. Ninety percent of business and personal relationships are built on show business principles. Especially by magic!"

Magic? I gasped.

"Well, magical thinking, to be precise, Api stated pedantically. Facing the plate glass window and pointing down the street, Api continued. Just look around you. See that poster on the Carlton Avenue Bridge way down there? The ad for Hollywood Cigarettes…with a picture of a glamorous movie star smoking a coffin nail? They’re playing on the public’s ingrained penchant for magical thinking. Those hucksters are betting that someone looking at that poster will think that they could appear just as glamorous if they were seen smoking a Hollywood brand cigarette! Politicians use the same tactics in their political speeches, campaign slogans and ads. As do clergymen in their weekly sermons. The settings for religion, politics and business always involves theater of some sort. From grand cathedrals to modest Quaker meeting houses or revival meeting tents; from corporate board rooms to department store windows, new car showrooms and, from soap box speeches to smoked filled political party convention halls…these are all theater! The stars of these performances are men-of-the-cloth, CEOs, salesmen, political candidates and office holders. The supporting roles are played by party hacks, yes-men, cronies, sycophants and bag-men. The theater arts even play a role in a personal relationships. When you meet someone new, whether you’re aware of it or not, just as an actor would assume a role, you become another person, to impress them and make them like you. Like you for what they may think you are…not the real you. And, don’t get me started on conmen, charlatans and grifters! So, my new friend, if you want to succeed at anything in this world, give your public a pleasant picture they can stare at while you pick their pockets."

Aw! Now you’re sounding cynical, Api, I protested. "Do you no longer believe that the world also contains straight shooters? Authentic men and women? Is everyone out for themselves?"

Not in this town, the old man replied. "Be aware that cynicism is reality, if you want to survive. Say. I’ve been yapping too long. Sorry to keep you. Let me warm up your cup of Joe and let you read your newspaper in peace."

I thought to myself that Spyros Apostolos has become bitter about losing his property and business. I hoped I would never become like that. I thought of my new life like a new pair of shoes. I just have to be patient during the breaking-in-period. I scanned the newspaper for any relevant news that would pertain to my business. Nothing. I turned to the restaurant review section. I read the column, "Dining Out, written by an August Larkin. He gave a four chef hat rating to Crabby’s Seafood Barge at 396 Devoe Street. Since they’re closed on Mondays, I made a mental note to try it tomorrow night.

I got off the stool and walked out the door of the donut shop. I found a telephone booth on the next corner heading further uptown. I dropped a nickel into the slot and dialed my office. The grating nasal and yet surprisingly seductive, voice of Fanny Brentwood announced, "Bartlow Coo-lin-a-rary Investigations!"

It’s me Doll-face, I said. We have to work on your pronunciation sometime this week. Any calls? Messages?

"Yes, Mr. Bartlow. First, I should tell you that the guy from Western Electric installed the Teletalk Intercom System. We tested it and it worked good, Fanny replied. But he was kinda upset that I didn’t have any money to tip him with. I tol’ him that we didn’t expect him until Thursday and that I don’t have any petty cash."

Too bad for him. I said.

"Yeah. Even if I had a hundred dollars…I wouldn’t had given him a plug nickel neither. He was kinda fresh. He was makin’ remarks about my…oh, you know…and kept leaning over my desk to grab a peek down my blouse. I hope you don’t mind, Mr. Bartlow. But…I had to slap him."

Good for you, Fanny! I would have handled it the same way. But, maybe with my fists, I added, trying to sound more hard boiled than I considered myself to be. Maybe Spyros was right about human behavior, I thought.

I told Fanny to hold the fort down and that I would be going to the library to do some reading. I planned to return to the office about four-thirty, shortly before she leaves for the day.

CHAPTER 3

Is That Your Card?

I crossed the street corner to wait for the #5 Streetcar. I tossed my newspaper into the wire trash basket and wondered if Eda City was as corrupt as Mr. Apostolos claimed. Suddenly, my thoughts traveled back to the day of my tenth birthday. That morning I received the one present I bothered my grandfather about for weeks. It was a gift that would later help bring me out of my shell and win friends at school. I saw myself tearing open the colorful wrapping and discovering a large cardboard box in the shape of a small black suitcase. On the front of the box were gold lettered words above a picture of a stage magician pulling a rabbit out of a hat. Those words eagerly proclaimed:

Astound and Amaze Your Friends!

Learn The Secrets of Professor Huxley’s Magic Tricks!

I could see myself rushing home from school each day to practice palming coins, making coins and cards disappear and reappear, making two short pieces of rope instantly turn into one, and other tricks. I practiced these tricks diligently in accordance with the detailed instructions in the enclosed handbook titled, The Professor’s Magic Recipes. The one word that echoed in my mind; the word which is the essence of every act of prestidigitation, was misdirection. Misdirection is the technique a magician uses to draw the audience’s attention away from whatever he is doing to manipulate the object of the illusion.

The day was sunny and unusually warm for a midwest April day. I decided not to ride to the library. I took off my trench coat, folded it over my arm and proceeded to walk the twenty-two blocks to The City Central Library. I never made it there.

I walked about six blocks north on Branch Brook Boulevard past where the cross streets drop their names to swap them for numbers. I was between Eighth and Ninth Streets when three sharp lightning bolts cracked through the blue sky. Twelve-seconds later, the booming sound of thunderclaps, like dozens of backfiring jalopies, scattered the mid-day crowd. I found myself among dozens of men and women scrambling for shelter as the sky changed from charcoal gray to ink black. It was as if some cosmic giant had pulled the plug on the bright yellow sun and poured a steady stream of water upon the mortals below. I found refuge in an immense gothic style marble and bronze office building lobby. From the directory mounted alongside the bay of shiny brass elevator doors, I learned that I was standing (and dripping) in The Herald Publication and Broadcasting Building. Until then, as the new kid on the block, I hadn’t been aware that the newspaper I had randomly selected a couple of hours earlier was among a number of media enterprises owned by The Conrad-Gafney Corporation. Their holdings included K-ECW Radio and TV, Fine Dining, Urban Life-Styles, Midwest Sports Photo Journal, New Politics magazines and, of course, The Eda City Herald. This gave me an idea. Maybe I didn’t need to use the library for research. Why not speak with the food editor and food critic directly and find out what the dining scene is like in this town.

Three of the eight elevators had uniformed elevator operators ushering into their assigned cars, men and women who were either heading back to work or making business calls to the various Conrad-Gafney subsidiaries. There was also a ‘Captain’ who was assisting visitors in locating the appropriate elevator they should take to get them to their intended destinations. I walked over to him and asked on which floor I could find the Entertainment Section Editor for The Eda City Herald. He told me to take elevator #3 to the twentieth floor.

Exiting the elevator, I found myself facing an impressive marble reception station. Several young and, I must say, attractive young women were busy answering phones, typing and filing papers. The gilt engraved sign above the station announced that I was in august territory, The Eda City Herald Newspaper, A. Percival Collins, Managing Editor.

I walked up to the front of the reception counter. I cleared my throat three or four times to get the attention of an alluring young red haired dish seated on the other side. She was busy straightening out her stockings on what looked like seductively shaped gams. Red looked up with a blank startled expression. I couldn’t help but notice that, like pouring ketchup on top of a perfectly boiled lobster, the lovely contour of her face was marred by too much powder and rouge. I would like to speak with Mr. August Larkin, the restaurant columnist. I announced to the red haired tomato, who had already begun filing her nails.

Uh, Mr. Larkin rarely, if evah, ...He don’t work outta the office here. Red said.

"Well, Honey Buns, maybe you can let me see his editor Mister Col… I began to suggest. Just then, I felt a tap on my left shoulder. I spun around to find myself face-to-face with a young man in shirtsleeves. He was wearing horn-rimmed glasses and appeared to pretend to have accidentally bumped into me. He stuffed a small piece of note paper into the breast pocket of my suit jacket. In a volume lower than the sound of the clueless receptionist’s emory board’s scraping noises, he whispered, Tell her goodbye and walk slowly to the elevator. I’ll see you in fifteen minutes."

I dared not open the note while standing among the other passengers during the elevator ride down to the lobby. Looking outside, I could see that the storm had passed and the day was, once again, bright and sunny. A good omen? I thought. And then I thought again. I reminded myself that the very idea of omens was magical thinking. I walked through the revolving door anxious to see what this intrigue was all about. The note merely said, "Walk around the next corner. Go two blocks. Wait for me at Bernie and Eddie’s Tap Room. Sit at a back table."

Bernie and Eddie’s was dark, dusky and smelled of stale beer and cigarettes. The oxygen in the room seemed to be losing a battle with greasy and rancid cooking oil fumes that hung suspended like an oilcloth curtain. I ambled in, eyes itching and nose tickling. I slowly inched my way towards the bar on the right side of the room. I held onto the back of one of the sticky barstools to allow my eyes to adjust to the dim atmosphere and to locate a suitable table away from hearing range of any other patrons. I could see that there were only two people in this uninviting gin mill at the far end of the bar counter. A large slovenly looking barkeep was trying to coax a bedraggled intoxicated elderly broad off of her barstool and out