The Case of the Big Cheese    

Part II      

Fishy Developments      

        The cold gray steel of the blade glinted in the dim, smog-tainted light. The man towered over me, his leering, whiskey-stained mug covered with a three-day stubble that provided a fitting frame for his shark-like grin. His teeth glistened dully from the shadows: stained and warped, mottled and moist like yellow tobacco worms trying to crawl out of his mouth to hide in his scraggly beard.
        He stunk like a wet camel as he showed me the knife.
        He held it loosely in his hands, like a real professional should, as calm and cool as if he were about to gut a casaba melon for Sunday brunch.
        My hands were in my pocket; I would have no chance to fend him off. I'd better think fast, I thought quickly, but what should I think? Before I could think as fast as I thought I should, he spoke to me out of his big, gaping mouth.
        "Real Sheffield steel, Mister," he hawked in my direction, "only twenty dollars for a set of twelve."
        How could I get away from the desperate lug? It was too late to pretend that I hadn't seen him.
        "Okay, pal," I wheezed pathetically, "do you take checks?"
        I arrived at my office at a quarter to four. So guess who's there? It's Louie the Limper, New York's contribution to the toxic waste problem.
        "Leave, Schmoe," he tells me, "I've got your girlfriend on the line." Ha ha. Some joke. "It's your mother, Schmoe," he tells me, so I picked it up.
        "Hey, ma," I told her.
        "Don't you hey me," she starts. I could deduce that she was in one of her basic Marine drill sergeant moods. "So why don't you call that nice Maureen Truffleman? She's a doctor, already, what is it with you, have you got rocks in your head instead of brains?"
        "Ah, Ma," I whined, "I'm just not ready to settle down yet."
        "So, Mr. Big-Time Detective, so you're afraid of a little settling down, already?" She went on this way until her jaw overheated from the exertion, and she had to hang it up.
        "So, what have you sniffed out so far on the Limburger case?" I asked my friend Louie. Louie may look like a moving trash heap, but he knows more when he's asleep than most of us do when we're awake.
        "He was cheap," says Louie, "he stiffed a doorman at the Belmont." I leaned back wearily in my chair and listened to Louie as he gave me a capsule biography of Harry Limburger, the big cheese. That Limburger guy had more companies than I have socks, and his enemies were some of New York's finest. But what was bugging me about this case? Something was fishy about it; something just didn't smell right.
        "Oh, yeah," said Louie, "Hanratty called. He said that a fifty-thousand dollar reward has been offered for the guy who did Limburger in." Suddenly I sat bolt upright in my chair.
        "Don't tell me," I interjected, "the reward was posted by an associate named Barnes."
        "No, it was posted by Limburger's daughter," said Louie.
        "I told you not to tell me!" I hissed. About that time there came a knock on the door.
        "Get the door," said Louie.
        "Come in," I called out.
        So who comes in but a gorgeous dame? She was looking down at the carpet as she walked into the office, and she glanced up at Louie like she didn't want to believe what she was seeing. She looked at me once, and then resumed the study of my carpet, I escorted her to a chair and sat behind my desk, hastily straightening my tie and slicking back my hair.
        "Schmoe's the name, ma'am," I told her, "being nosy's the game." She fidgeted. "How can I be of service?" I oozed, as smooth as an oiled goat. She took a deep breath. Then suddenly she looked straight up into my eyes with her big, bright, lightly batting peepers, and I heard a symphony. It was that college kid in 35B again, playing his stereo too loud.
        "Bumpbumpbumpbumpbump!" banged Louie's cane on the floor. He leaned out the window. "Hey," he hollered, "we've got a client!" The music was shut off.
        "How can we help you, ma'am?" I asked, picking up smoothly where I had left off.
        "You can find my father's murderer," she blurted all over us, staring fiercely into my eyes. I felt like my soul was being riveted to the wall behind me by her gaze. What a dame! This broad was a real thoroughbred among all of the piebald nags in the race of life. So this was the Limburger heiress. I was impressed. I usually act as if I've got some class, but I'll level with you: I lost my head there for a moment. Maybe it was her perfume, or maybe her good manners, or maybe even her dynamite hairdo. But for whatever reason, I firmly put my foot down, right into my mouth.
        "I'll crack this case, lady," I cried, "or my name isn't JOE SCHMOE!"
        I should have seen it coming. Her face began to color, and her eyes began to swim. Her cheeks puffed up, and she began to smile. She covered her mouth with her hand. Then she couldn't hold it back any more, and she cut loose with a tremendous peal of laughter.
        "Hooohahahahahaaaaahahahahaha!" she cried, "ahahaha-hahaaagh!" She slapped her knee, and tears rolled down her cheeks. To make it worse, I heard Louie behind me hoarsely joining in with his own distinctive belly-laugh. My face reddened as they both laughed it out of their systems.
        I hate it when they do that.
        After a while, the laughter died down a bit, and the Limburger dame got up and tossed me a check while she dried her eyes with a handkerchief.
        "Please excuse me," she gasped, "here's your retainer." Then she left in a hurry, as if she didn't trust herself not to burst into laughter again. So much for true romance.
        "What a dame!" said Louie as the door swung shut behind her.
        "What a check!" I said, eyeballing the zeroes on the bank draft.
        "Yeah, quite a chick," said Louie.
        "Hey, Louie," I said, "have you managed to get ahold of the police files on Limburger?"
        "They're on their way," he said. I looked over at my buddy. His eyes were hidden behind coke-bottle lenses, and his pale face had an anxious look of respect, mingled with fear of rejection, stamped upon it. Poor Louie has been rejected by more friends than I have ever known. After all these years I can tell that he still worries about me sometimes, afraid that I'll reject him like the rest.
        "Thanks, Louie," I said, leaning over and patting his shoulder, "I appreciate your work, buddy." The poor guy beamed like a spotlight when he heard these few kind words. As long as I live, I'll be a pal to little Louie the Limper. Why should I care about what the status conscious neighbors think? If he can put up with having a pal named Schmoe, I can sure put up with the reproach of a friend who looks like a land-locked garbage scow.
        A messenger came in to our office with a brown package in his hand, which I signed for in a flash. It contained a copy of the police records on the Limburger investigation. Louie and I gleefully broke it open.
        "Good old Hanratty," I commented, "what a pal!"
        What I saw in the files came as no surprise. Limburger was in debt over his ears, and he had a fat insurance policy on his life. It was made out to the trustee of his estate with the express instructions that it be used to pay off any outstanding debts, and with the remainder going to his daughter. It turned out that one of the diners in the restaurant where he bit the dust was also a partner of his in a high-risk condo project that had fizzled in the breach, leaving a lot of frustrated creditors holding a lot of worthless paper. The partner was Fullbright, the garbage man.
        "Now, there's a guy with the motive and opportunity to slip in the poison," said Louie.
        "I'm afraid not, Louie," I informed him, "the cart containing the chowder was only left unattended for 30 seconds, and Fullbright wasn't even in the room at the time." I leaned back in my chair.
        "Amazing!" cried Louie, "Your observations, inerrantly accurate as they are, still continually surpass your ability to think! This witness's statement in my hand confirms your finding." A knock on the door cut the compliments short. It was Januk Oltrawycz. I opened the door and let him in.
        "So, Janov," I asked him, "do you have any clues to throw our way?"
        "That's Januk, not Janov," he said, "and I sure do, Mr, Schmoo."
        "That's Schmoe, not Schmoo," I said, "Joe Schmoe."
        "Schmoo, Schmoe, what's in a name?" he asked me, "Look, I've got here a letter I found on the floor." He handed me a grimy wad of paper. On it was written, "Limburger stinks." It was signed by Willy Wimply. "Mr. Wimply told me to give it to the Blonde Bombshell, but before I got to do it, old man Limburger croaked, and I had to help the owner, Mr. Ligget, with the emergency. She was gone later, when I remembered about the note."
        "Well, thanks, Janov," I told him.
        "Sure, Schmoooooo!" he lowed, drawing out the vowel sound like a mooing cow. He darted out of the room before I could catch him.
        "That's a fast little German Herr," I said to Louie.
        "Let's eat," said Louie. Then the phone rang. It was the Limburger dame again. For some reason I had been thinking about her ever since we had met, and it was delightful to once again hear her melodious voice.
        "Mr. Schmoe," she began.
        "Please....call me Joe."
        "Joe," she said, "I'd like to apologize for laughing at you today." I have to admit it, the lady had surprised me. It takes a mighty big broad to admit it when she's in the wrong.
        "Don't worry about it, Ms. Limburger," I replied with real cultural sensitivity, showing off all of my modern day class to the dizzy dame.
        "Call me Hillary."
        "Hillary," I replied, "gee, what a swell name." Then I remembered a clever historical fact. "That was the name of the explorer, right? Wasn't he the Limey who almost bagged one of those Anonymous Snowpersons on Mt. Everest?" I was displaying my brains to her as I spoke. "Well, don't worry, ma'am," I continued, "I guess I'm sort of used to people laughing at me by now." For a moment I was attacked by memories of my youth: the fights, the bloody noses, the sudden pain from unprovoked blows, the gangs of roughnecks repeating the taunts, "What a stupid Schmoe!" or "Would you like Schm-moe?" while the other kids chickened out and refused to help me against the bullies, or maybe even joined in with the laughter like the rest. "You're a classy dame," I told Hillary, "and a real looker to boot. I appreciate your call." She said goodbye, and I slowly hung up the phone.
        I was deep in thought. Maybe too deep. A hand on my shoulder roused me to awareness of my surroundings.
        "C'mon, Joe, let's eat." It was Louie, offering me a stale Reuben sandwich from my compact icebox. He looked at me with concern. It was obvious that he had guessed the gist of my telephone conversation.
        "Dames," I said to Louie, "who can figure them?" Louie gaped at me in astonishment.
        "What, you're asking me?" he enquired. "Do I look like Mr. Expert when it comes to the dames?" I had to admit that he didn't. Louie hasn't had a date since the blackout in '74. We ate our sandwiches while we went through the police files. It was getting close to five o'clock.
        "Let's go to the Wimply Fish Market before it closes," I suggested. "We need to ask Willy about that note."
        We arrived at the market at 5:30. The place was busy, and the fish were all agape, going gaga over what was going on. They lay upon the ice like good soldiers and stared vacantly into space, their sides split open and their scales glowing dully under the harsh fluorescent lights.
        "Something stinks about this set-up," I murmured to my pal Louie. I asked a cashier if Wimply was around, and he sent for the guy. Wimply wiped his grimy brow with a rag as he strode out from behind the counter to greet us. He was a big guy, over six feet tall, and built like a fullback.
        "I was told that you guys want to see me," he growled in a low voice that rumbled like a room over a bowling alley.
        "Sure, Wimpy," I said, "we have some questions for you about Harry Limburger."
        "That's Wimply, not Wimpy," he barked, "you got that straight?" He bristled like a pit bull that spies a strange new puppy. His head wasn't screwed on too tight, I could see that. But two could play at that game!
        "Now, Wimpy," I began, but I didn't get to finish. Like a dependable alarm the hair on the back of my neck stood up and saluted my collar, a sure sign that swift and feckless trouble was foul afoot. As if in slow motion I saw Wimply dig into his packet and come out with an oversized .45. While bedlam broke loose at the counter he cooly levelled it at my chest and pulled the trigger.
        This guy was a real hothead.
        "Look out," cried Louie, and, leaping forward, he shoved me aside as the gun exploded into him with bone-jarring force. The power of the impact blew him off his feet and bowled him into me and we both went down in a heap. Pinned beneath Louie's inert form, I fumbled desperately for my own gun as Wimply calmly stepped up to me and stuck the hot steel of the still-smoking rod my head.