The Abu Wahab Caper Read online

  Spice said gee I wish I could find a way to get to Villa Park.

  She said in the morning.

  I shrugged.

  I said look.

  I said why don’t I just drop you off on my way home?

  5

  …the Racing Form is a publication which you take one look at and head straight for the nearest baseball game…

  Monroe D. Underwood

  I awakened to a faint sizzling sound and the wonderful fragrance of fresh coffee.

  I dressed and left the bedroom.

  The kitchen lights were on.

  Spice Dugan was standing at the sinkboard.

  She was slicing a tomato.

  She wore her split white moccasins and her tight blue jeans and nothing else.

  I said what the hell’s going on?

  Spice said I’m fixing steaks and salad.

  I said for breakfast?

  Spice said have you looked at your watch?

  I said yes and it’s busted.

  I said either that or we’re in the middle of a total eclipse.

  Spice said it’s midnight.

  I said that’s what I mean.

  I said my watch says noon.

  Spice placed a steaming cup of coffee in front of me.

  She said I figured we had to eat sooner or later.

  I said I think you forgot your sweater.

  Spice said what were your first two clues?

  I said this is excellent coffee.

  Spice said there was no point in getting fully dressed.

  She said not when we’ll be going right back to bed.

  I said what a hell of an idea.

  Spice said going right back to bed?

  I said no.

  I said steaks and salad.

  Spice sighed.

  She said in the bedroom you were making sense.

  I said tell me about your dad and Hogan’s Oasis.

  Spice said do you know the place?

  I said certainly.

  I said a block west of Shamrock on Emerald.

  I said I know some of the boys there.

  I said Hogan and Opportunity O’Flynn and Quick Cash Kelly and Bet-A-Bunch Dugan and Catastrophe O'Cassidy and Short Stuff Shaughnessy and Oratory Rory McCrory to mention a few.

  Spice said that dive is literally crawling with horse-players and every damned one has another bum steer for Dad.

  She said Bet-A-Bunch Dugan is my father.

  I said well I’ll be damned.

  I said the sweet little guy who always carries an old brown satchel?

  Spice said that’s him and I wish he’d leave that satchel at home.

  She said it’s too heavy for a man with a heart condition.

  I said I never figured Bet-A-Bunch as having money.

  I said is that what he carries in the satchel?

  Spice said no it’s full of old Racing Forms.

  She said Dad keeps them for reference.

  She said he can tell you what horse finished second in the seventh race at Erin Park three Labor Days ago.

  She said he’s simply going to have to cut down on his gambling or he’ll be penniless in a hurry.

  I shrugged.

  I said river-front properties and twelve-cylinder Driefach-Shreckens aren’t doing much for his bankroll either.

  Spice said I didn’t ask for them.

  She said Dad just went out and bought them for me.

  I said how did you happen to look me up?

  Spice said you came highly recommended.

  I said by whom?

  Spice said a Miss Brandy Alexander at Confidential Investigations in the Loop.

  She gave a long low moan.

  She said good Christ I never heard such a buildup.

  She said I got the impression that you can do the hundred in eight seconds flat.

  She said on water.

  She said tell me will you require a knife and fork or do you prefer to swallow this steak whole?

  I shrugged.

  I said either way.

  I said just so it’s raw.

  6

  …you show me a man what is on good speaking terms with his wife and I’ll show you a man what ain’t opened his mouth since he said I do…

  Monroe D. Underwood

  It was noon when we crossed the Fox River bridge headed east on North Avenue.

  St. Charles and its odor of very old watermelon faded behind us.

  Spice said I don’t know just what you’ll be able to do.

  She said keep an eye on Dad and try to keep him from going broke.

  She said for God’s sake don’t mention this contact.

  She said and I suppose you should keep that Arab threat in mind.

  I shrugged.

  I said I get seventy-five a day.

  I said for a long-range project that could get expensive.

  Spice said expensive my ass.

  She said Dad blows seventy-five dollars a day on tip sheets.

  She dug into her purse and produced an envelope.

  She dropped it into my lap.

  She said that’s for ten days.

  I said thanks.

  I said I’ll catch up with Bet-A-Bunch tomorrow.

  Spice said tomorrow my ass.

  She said what’s wrong with today?

  I said I’ll need today to get back on speaking terms with my wife.

  Spice said speaking terms with your wife my ass.

  She said you’re on a case.

  She said you’ve been getting paid since two-thirty yesterday afternoon.

  I said that’s most generous.

  I said we didn’t go to bed until five-thirty.

  Spice said yes but you began to bewilder me at two-thirty.

  She said you should get something for that.

  She said eighteen hours of your company has me somewhere between conniptions and convulsions.

  She said can you get me to Villa Park in a hurry?

  I said why?

  Spice said because I have a sneaking suspicion I’m falling in love with you.

  She said bewildering men fascinate me.

  I said okay hang onto your brassiere.

  Spice said I don’t wear a brassiere.

  She said my God didn’t you notice?

  I shrugged.

  I jammed the accelerator to the floor.

  Spice said oh by the way there’s a black Ford sedan following us.

  7

  …unicorns and honest politicians got one big thing in common…

  Monroe D. Underwood

  I was standing near the east wall of Wallace’s washroom.

  I gazed upward at the faded wallpaper which depicted several unicorns in hot pursuit of a great number of overweight naked blonde women.

  I noted with considerable satisfaction that the fat broad on the left still hadn’t made it up the tree.

  I wondered how she was set for Band-Aids.

  I looked at the wall scrawl that said HONEY FOR WHATEVER YOU WANT CALL DOTTIE RISKAY 455-7600.

  It had turned out that Dottie Riskay’s real name was Maurice DeFrance.

  Maurice DeFrance had wanted to meet me as soon as possible.

  I had demurred.

  I heard the door of the men’s washroom open and close behind me.

  I heard a voice say Purdue this is where you get it.

  I dropped everything and ducked.

  I brought a right hand from the bottom of the urinal piping.

  I nailed him good.

  The door of the men’s washroom came off its hinges.

  It teetered around until it descended on the unconscious man sprawled under Wallace’s television set.

  Wallace lumbered from behind the bar.

  He lifted the door.

  Plaster dust rained on the man’s plaid sports coat.

  Wallace said it’s that guy with the jury papers.

  We dragged him into the parking lot and stuffed him into his black Ford sedan
.

  Two old ladies were getting out of a like-new 1954 Plymouth.

  They looked horrified.

  In unison.

  They shook their gray heads.

  In unison.

  They said tsk-tsk.

  In unison.

  One said what can this world be coming to?

  The other said he’s one of those utterly disgusting sexual exhibitionists.

  I looked at Wallace.

  I said well whatever he is he certainly isn’t an utterly disgusting sexual exhibitionist.

  Wallace said Chance you better zip up your fly.

  8

  …freckles is things which if you got ’em they is becoming and if you don’t they is skin blemishes…

  Monroe D. Underwood

  Wallace slid my bottle of Old Washensachs down the bar.

  It stopped directly in front of me.

  Wallace said hey that little freckle-face was real cute yesterday.

  I said she doesn’t look too bad today either.

  Wallace said anything important?

  I shrugged.

  I said her father is losing his ass on the horses and she wants me to play nursemaid.

  Old Dad Underwood said there just ain’t no future in betting.

  He said why just look at what betting done to poor ole Brightside Nelson.

  Wallace said Brightside Nelson never made a bet in his life.

  Old Dad Underwood said the hell he didn’t.

  He said for your information betting got Brightside Nelson’s ass throwed in jail.

  Wallace said they can’t throw your ass in jail for making a bet.

  Old Dad Underwood said Brightside Nelson went to bed with Mary Ann von Foostenberg.

  Wallace said well they can’t throw your ass in jail for that neither.

  He said maybe in the insane asylum but not in jail.

  Old Dad Underwood said you can get your ass throwed in jail for running down Central Park Avenue stark raving naked.

  Wallace said well what the hell does that got to do with betting?

  Old Dad Underwood said Brightside Nelson was betting that ole Fritz von Foostenberg was at work.

  He said it was a bad bet.

  He said ole Fritz von Foostenberg was hiding in the closet with a double-barreled shotgun.

  Wallace looked at the ceiling.

  He said so help me I am going to sell this place and move to Tibet and become a gorilla.

  Old Dad Underwood said you mean monk.

  Wallace said well whatever.

  He said I wish to Christ you would quit splitting hairs.

  The telephone rang.

  Wallace handed it to me.

  The woman’s voice was soft and husky-sweet.

  Instantly I thought of lilac perfume.

  She said Purdue I sent you a client yesterday.

  I said yeah thanks Brandy.

  Brandy Alexander said how’s the case working out?

  I shrugged.

  I said well it doesn’t wear a brassiere.

  Brandy said this could be big.

  I said yeah I figure 36-C at least.

  Brandy said you’ve seen only the tip of the iceberg.

  I said Brandy this ain’t no iceberg.

  Brandy said just tell me about the case Purdue.

  I shrugged.

  I said well I don’t object to somebody giving me seventy-five bucks a day but what’s so important about a guy betting the horses?

  Brandy said that’s Miss Dugan’s problem and it’s of very little consequence in my book.

  She said what concerns me is the fact that the Kingdom of Ishaq is our second largest oil supplier and we could very well be heading into a period of crisis.

  I said I think we just arrived.

  I said gasoline is two bucks a gallon.

  Brandy said if Ishaq shuts us off we’re in serious trouble.

  I said well why the hell should Ishaq shut us off?

  I said you mean two bucks a gallon ain’t enough?

  Brandy said apparently the sword of Abu Wahab is at the hub of the matter.

  She said if Ishaq’s oil is cut off we won’t have enough gasoline to operate a chain saw.

  I said well maybe that’s a blessing.

  Brandy said it could happen almost overnight.

  I said I can’t stand those noisy little bastards.

  Brandy said it’s imperative that we remain on good terms with Ishaq.

  I said they set my teeth on edge.

  Brandy said our economy depends on it.

  I said like fingernails on a blackboard.

  Brandy said Purdue will you please forget about chain saws?

  She said we want Ishaq to like us.

  I said well Jesus Christ at two bucks a gallon they must think the sun rises and sets on our asses.

  Brandy said an Ishaqi terrorist group known as the Desert Sands is deeply involved.

  She said the government of Ishaq sold the sword of Abu Wahab to E. E. Dugan four years ago and the Desert Sands organization has used that transaction as its catalyst for internal strife.

  She said complete overthrow of the King of Ishaq is by no means impossible.

  She said if the king goes our oil goes with him.

  I shrugged.

  I said okay let’s give the sword back.

  Brandy laughed a brittle little laugh.

  She said Purdue it just isn’t that simple.

  She said Bet-A-Bunch Dugan has the sword of Abu Wahab and we don’t know where it is.

  I said maybe he lost it on the horses.

  Brandy said that sword is private property and we have no legal claim to it.

  She said we may have to steal the damn thing.

  She said as long as the sword of Abu Wahab is missing this band of zealots has something going.

  I shrugged.

  I said okay what am I supposed to do?

  I said how’s about a chorus of “The Riff Song”?

  Brandy said while you’re ostensibly keeping an eye on Bet-A-Bunch Dugan’s gambling I want you to ferret out that sword.

  She said if the sword is the answer perhaps we can smuggle it back into Ishaq.

  She said if we’re successful the Desert Sands might junk their cause célèbre and stop trying to start their coup d’état.

  I said yeah well those foreign cars have always been a big pain in the ass.

  I said Spice Dugan is having a ton of trouble with her twelve-cylinder Driefach-Shrecken.

  Brandy said if the Desert Sands get hold of the sword they’ll destroy it and an emergency may be inevitable.

  I said of course I got to admit that your Porsche seems to run okay.

  Brandy said Purdue be sensible.

  I said I am.

  I said I steer clear of foreign cars.

  I said I drive an Oldsmobile.

  I said at two bucks a gallon.

  I said Brandy do you have the slightest idea what a four hundred and fifty-five cubes engine can do to a gallon of gasoline?

  I said it would make your blood run cold.

  Brandy said call me the very moment you learn something.

  I said but my Olds always gets me there.

  I said very dependable.

  Brandy said I’ll lay even money that DADA has a piece of this action.

  She said you remember DADA don’t you Purdue?

  She said the Soviet outfit that’s dead-set on destroying America?

  I said that big engine just eats up the miles.

  I said also the gasoline.

  I said at two bucks a gallon.

  Brandy said oh Jesus Christ.

  She hung up on me.

  Old Dad Underwood was talking to Wallace.

  He was saying you see there is a difference between gorillas and monks.

  He said gorillas is bigger.

  The phone rang again.

  Wallace answered it and blushed.

  He gave me the phone.

 
Betsy said where the hell have you been?

  She said I’ve called every jail in Cook County.

  I said I’ve been in consultation.

  Betsy said Chance I want to know what’s going on.

  I said well the hottest item hereabouts is Wallace is going to Tibet and become a gorilla.

  Betsy said you mean monk.

  I said look Betsy all I know is what Wallace told me.

  Betsy said oh Jesus Christ.

  She hung up on me.

  I shrugged.

  Two for two.

  9

  …the married man what stays out all night is probly looking for his wife…

  Monroe D. Underwood

  Alte Kameraden throbbed from the big living room console.

  I was reading a copy of Eagles magazine.

  “Return of the Black Fokkers.”

  By Arch Blockhouse.

  Betsy sat beside me on the couch.

  She said Chance is there something wrong with me?

  I shrugged.

  I said I don’t know.

  I said don’t you feel well?

  Betsy said I don’t walk around completely unnoticed you know.

  She said hell I’m thirty-six twenty-two thirty-four.

  She slipped out of her blue robe and moved closer to me.

  She said here’s proof.

  I shrugged.

  I put my copy of Eagles magazine to one side.

  I said Betsy you interrupted me right when Biff Brimstone was surrounded by black Fokkers.

  Betsy said well the damned fool should have stayed off the south side.

  She said I want to talk about me.

  I said kiddo you’re beyond doubt the most beautiful blonde on the face of Planet Earth.

  Betsy said why do you always specify blonde?

  She said why don’t you just say woman?

  I said sweetheart you’re absolutely one helluva woman.

  Betsy said well thanks for telling me something I already knew.

  She said Chance I worry when you stay away at night.

  There were tears in her big pale-blue eyes.

  She said there are thoughts I just can’t help thinking.

  I said Betsy you have nothing to worry about.

  I felt like a sheep-killing dog.

  I said I’m yours until death do us part.

  Betsy said well if you don’t stop staying out all night that may be much sooner than you think.

  I said why don’t we just go to bed?