She walked into my office with a pair of legs long as lampposts, her skirt hung up on them like a kid's kite caught in a tree. It didn't cover much but it drew attention away from the strings I knew she'd be tugging on soon. A platinum blonde sporting silky things over silky underthings is Webster's definition of trouble. Turns out, it's my definition, too.
"Mr. Marlboro?" she asked.
"Who wants to know?" I said.
"My name is Celeste Allensburg. I work at the cosmetics counter at Macy's. If you are Philip Marlboro, I need your help."
"Well, now maybe I am, and maybe I'm not. What seems to be your trouble?"
"You've got to find my transvestite husband, Chip, who's wanted by both the Feds and the mob for a robbery he couldn't have committed because he was at home that night teasing my hair, nyah, nyah nyah nyah."
"I suppose you want me to find the real thief, too?"
"You suppose correctly."
"I'll take the case...but I'm not cheap."
"Of course not, Mr. Marlboro, I'm the tramp in this story. What a silly man you are." She adjusted her skirt to a slightly more revealing position and said, "My number is Klondike 5-2664. Call me when you know anything -- about the case, that is. Good day."
She strutted out of my office without closing the door.
If that gal hawked lipstick and mascara, I was the Pope. I genuflected, put on a silly hat, and started chanting in Latin before I caught myself.
Okay, maybe she did work at Macy's. ^back to top
Not having much to work with I headed downtown to squeeze a few freaks and losers. Well, not squeeze them exactly, I'm no weirdo.
Considering myself lucky, I eventually stumbled across Manny the Mime in the train station.
"Hey, Manny, how's the rheumatism?" I gave him a playful slap on the shoulder, then a right hook to the kidney. It's just my way. "What do you know about a Chip Allensburg?"
He gestured big, and I got the picture. Apparently Chip was mixed up with some high rollers although Big Cheeses was the literal translation of Manny's manic mouse routine. Apparently, after some time, Chip wanted out, but that, of course, could only be an uphill and against the wind battle. They threatened to kill him if he didn't rob the Seventy-Second Street Bank.
"Manny, you're the greatest." I slipped him an imaginary fifty. He seemed happy enough. "I don't suppose you know any names, eh?"
Manny shrugged, "Sorry, Mack," he said and lit up an invisible smoke.
I went to slap it out of his mouth, but miscalculated, if you know what I mean. He landed in a noisy heap on the ground amidst the confetti of old train schedules and racing forms. If a mime isn't going to have some integrity, what good is he?
Outside the station I struck up a conversation with a Lucky Strike. It spoke of cool refreshment -- I mostly listened. By the time it was licking its wounds in the gutter I rounded the corner at Sixty-Ninth and hightailed it into Francis' Frocks for Femmes.
The place hadn't changed much. Dark walls and bad lighting, whatever sun made it past the streaky window ricocheted around the room and bounced off day-glo rayon dresses and flea-bitten boas.
Nobody manned the counter. Or womanned it for that matter.
"Frankie! Get your panty-wrapped ass out here. Toot sweet!" I shouted toward the stockroom but I wouldn't have been surprised if Francis backed her sack of ham hocks out of the rack of control-top girdles. The extra larges.
A wig and rouge-festooned head peeked around the back door. It lit up faster than a nitroglycerin birthday cake.
She burst through the corridor of unmentionables like an army of rodeo clowns. Three hundred fifty pounds of gender-confused flesh, blood, and rhinestones stampeded down the aisle on a six-five frame. Before I could reach for my elephant gun, she attacked. Wrapping meaty paws around me, Francis bruised my ribs with the bear hug from hell.
"Philly cheese steak! You old sonofabastard! Why, I haven't seen that handsome mug of yours since you tripped at 102nd Street and got it stuck in my underwire. How have you been, Sweetheart?"
"Let me go, you frilly ape!'"
She slapped me firmly on the shoulder and let go. "You know what flattery will get you, don't you?"
"If you had it your way? Yeah, three to five and a case of the clap."
She squeezed me again and lifted me into her arms like I was a bride being wisked across a threshold. She put me down but my shorts rode up on me something fierce.
"Goddamit, Frankie, every time, every time. And you wonder why I don't visit more often."
"Lighten up, baby. You like it and you know it. Reminds you when you was carried around by your Momma."
"My Momma never had five o'clock shadow," I muttered.
"Then she had herself one dreamboat of an electrolysist, bless her heart." Francis winked. The batting of her monstrous fake eyelashes sent a small breeze across the room.
"Listen, Frankie, I'm workin' a case and one of your boys is at the heart of it. You wanna cut me some slack? Answer some questions like a good girl and I'll clue you into some cabana boys on holiday."
I gave him all the pertinent naughty bits. Transvestite Chip, the Seventy-Second Street Bank, and mafia up the wazoo.
"Mafia up the wazoo?" She got a misty, far-away look about her.
"Earth to Francis. Snap out of it and spill." ^back to top
Francis couldn't steer me to the Chipster. Francis kept referring to him by his drag name, Trixie. "But there is only one place where made men meet made-up men. The Buckingham. On Thirty-Ninth. It's where Trixie performs, if you can call it that, and it had to be where she got mixed up with the mob boys. Although, who came blame the poor girl. They're brutes, but a girl likes a take-charge kinda guy."
"Apparently, so does a boy," I said.
"Only in the plumbing is that girl a boy. Trixie is all woman," Francis said, pride swelling in her voice and ample bosom.
"How's that?"
"Philly, baby, I'm just saying that she makes a fine looking woman. Probably a piss ugly man."
"Thanks, Frankie." I gave him the goods on the cabana boys and made my way to the exit.
"Philly?"
"Yeah?"
"Take a tip from one old Flatbush girl to another; never trust a drag queen in a pinstripe suit, if you know what I mean."
Of course I didn't but I nodded sagely and entertained my wanderlust right out the door. Three cigarettes later I sat down in shadows at a back table of the Buckingham. Didn't know what to look for, but bourbon and a corned beef sandwich were sure to focus my deductive powers.
Esther Williams in a tea-length gown, pearls, and an apron clomped over with no finesse and less femininity.
"I'm Candy and I'll be your waiteress. So what'll it be, Bub?" She made no attempt at a woman's pitch or timbre.
"Don't you mean 'waitress'?" I said.
"I said waiteress and I meant waiteress. You gonna correct my vernacular or you gonna order?"
"Shot o' bourbon, corned beef sandwich, and some information. Hold the attitude."
"We got bourbon. You won't like the beef. And when I wanna serve information it'll be directions as to how to properly kiss my ass."
"There's fifty bucks in it for ya. See, I know you'll bite 'cause you're obviously in those heels strictly for the money. You're about as girly as a merchant marine."
"You a cop?"
"I shook my head, "Private dick."
"Yeah, you seem like a dick." He dropped the pad on the table and brusquely twisted a chair around. Hiking up the gown, he mounted the chair and leaned in. "Let's see the green."
I slid the bill over. It disappeared fluidly into his cleavage. First feminine thing I saw him do.
"I'm looking for Trixie," I said. "Ya might know him as Chip. The way I hear it, he takes this stuffin' stuff to heart, unlike yourself."
Candy puffed up a bit. "I got a wife, three kids, understand? They got appetites. I'm not too proud to get a little frilly to pay the bills, but I ain't playing baby-doll for every Tom's Harry Dick that stumbles into the place. I was lucky to get this gig. I know guys putting on sheep suits down in the garment district. I'm only going home with sore feet."
"Right. Now about Trixie."
"Trixie, right. Yeah, I know her. She'll turn a head, that one. But she only goes for the guys with easy-flowin' cash."
"I thought this was just a job to you," I said.
"I told you, I don't butter my bread on that side, but Trixie'll make you forget. That girl could put Betty Grable to shame. Man or not, I'd let her inside these panties," he shifted on the chair, then reached down to make an adjustment.
"What about your wife?"
"She's got her own panties."
I was quickly losing focus. "You seen Trixie, lately?"
"Naw, prob'ly a week. Ya know, a few of the Brits been askin' after her, too."
"What Brits?"
"Look around, bub. The Buckingham, eh? Eh? The Mafioso Britannica. Sheesh, 'what Brits?'"
"I thought she went for the Sicilians."
"Trixie? Naw.she prefers her dick spotted."
"Yeah? You got names?"
"It's just Candy to you." He rose a bit in his seat.
"Of the Brits, you dainty oaf."
"Oh, right. Le'see. There's Nigel the Nasty, Chauncey the Cheerio, and Ian."
"Just Ian?"
"Yeah, he's new. They put out feelers over the last week, or so. Not only that, but they asked questions."
"You tell them anything?" I asked.
"I don't know anything."
"I'm starting to come to that conclusion on my own. Are the alliteration duo - and Ian -- her regulars?"
"Naw. Those thugs are just muscle. She usually works the big bananas."
"You didn't just say 'she works the big bananas'."
"Oh, grow up." Candy stood up to leave. "You still want that bourbon?"
"Yeah, but put a bottle in a doggy bag. Oh, Candy, before you go, peel me one of those big bananas."
She leaned in close enough for me to see stubble poking through foundation and blush like weeds sprouting in a garden.
"Wesley the West End Weasel and you didn't hear it from me." A flip of her gown's hem and she disappeared behind the bar. ^back to top
Feeling like I'd put in a good day's snooping, I took my hooch and headed back toward my office. By two my hat adorned the coat rack and my feet accessorized my desk. I filled a lowball, lined up a platoon of Lucky Strikes on the desk, each balanced delicately on its butt, and settled in for some serious relaxing with the racing form and a midday siesta.
I couldn't have been out more than ten minutes when I heard the doorknob squeak and I cracked a lid to see it turning as if by some magical force. I reached for the desk drawer, top left.
Three Dapper Dans stinking of kippers burst in. I drew a bead on the first guy-- with a pistol-shaped lighter. I might have worked that angle, but the damned thing shot a tidy column of burning butane out of the barrel. Mental note: real gun in right hand drawer.
Even the guns in this wacko case are flaming.
I quickly waved at the platoon of Lucky's on the desk, "Can I interest you boys in a cigarette?"
The first guy, maybe five eight, sported a high, regal brow and a crooked nose, and wore a London Fog overcoat. The other two wore matching herringbone suits. The suit on the guy on my left came up short at the wrists and ankles.
Shorty sidled up to the desk and reached toward the first cigarette in line. He palmed it neatly and extended his forefinger to topple the next one. The soldiers fell one after another in a sad domino effect. I couldn't help but think forlornly of communism. Shorty said, "Blimey, mate, seems you been sticking your gob where there is nothing wicked 'andsome to smell. If you bloody well insist on being a Johnny No Stars, I ought suggest you fancy a garden or perhaps the Macy's cosmetics counter."
"Macy's-"
"Cor, it's bloody rude the way you yanks must always interrupt. Now, be a good yob and shut your cakehole. Right, then, now back to the odour colons of yer life. Mr. Marlboro, if you're barmy enough to stick your schnoz in other bloke's business, again, Nigel and Ian here can take you for a nice lorry ride to some bloody undesirable scents. Smell the old cack with your Khyber pass in the air. Am I getting in your ol' shell-like?"
"I think so. Let's see.your boys here are willing to drive me over to meet someone named Laurie but something will smell bad like old shellfish. It's cryptic, but completely unintelligible, too," I said.
"Smart chap, aren't ya? You know what happens to smart chaps, don't you?"
"What?"
"They do well on standardized tests."
He shook his head in what appeared to be sincere disappointment. He raised the cigarette to his lips and produced a silver lighter. He lit the Lucky and inhaled deeply. Allowing the smoke to escape through both his nose and mouth he said, "Mates."
Nigel and Ian approached from around either side of the desk. I tried to stand up, quick, but Ian, put meaty paws on my shoulders from behind before I made it halfway up. I crashed back into the chair. He held my arms back as Nigel swooped in front of me. His right hand held a long feather. He grabbed my foot and ripped the shoe off it. With an iron grip, he clamped my ankle to the desk with one hand. With his other hand, he slowly brought the feather toward the sole of my foot. Closer and closer it came.
"No!" I yelled.
He tickled. I flailed. He tickled some more. Mercilessly.
I cleverly passed out.
I awoke in a puddle of.well, I awoke in a puddle, anyway. I managed to rise to a pathetic half-sitting, half-laying sort of position, braced on one arm.
A groggy inventory of my state of disarray spoke volumes. I only found myself missing the one shoe, but my tie lay askew and my shirttails were exposed. I stood up and looked around. ^back to top
Everything was wrong. The cheap landscapes on the wall hung upside-down. The coat rack descended from the ceiling like a broken chandelier. Every item in the room had been reversed one way or another. I couldn't decide if the thugs fancied themselves jokers or if it was meant as some sort of trademark. Or a message. Like next time I'd end up upside-down.
On the desk, a number of cigarette butts wrinkled into the wood. Four lowballs guarded the empty bourbon bottle that lay on its side in a thin veneer of sticky amber. Three chairs were pulled up to the front side of the desk. While I slumped unconscious behind the desk, they smoked my smokes and drank my booze and had what I could only suspect was a terrific time of it. I imagined they only left when I failed to offer them further refreshments.
"Well a thousand fucking pardons, you proper fucks!" I shouted and immediately regretted it.
The doorknob did its creepy jiggle-and-turn thing. Not this time, mate. I jerked open the right hand desk drawer and pulled out the real gun. I leveled it on the door. It opened and a silhouette stood stock-still in the dull light of the hallway. The gun went off.
With a familiar column of flame. The bastards switched the guns.
It proved fortunate. Celeste hurried into the room.
"Mr. Marlboro! What happened? You're a mess!"
Everything that had tightened-up at the turn of the doorknob loosened in one fell swoop. Well, almost everything.
"That's how the mob makes its point. First time the message is written in tickles. The next time, well, it's just not polite to discuss in mixed company," I said.
"Oh, sit down and let me clean you up." I sat and fingered one of the glasses on the desk while Celeste flitted into the bathroom. Thorough sons of bitches. Didn't even leave me a swig. Celeste reappeared with hair grease, a comb, and a hip flask. She straddled my lap and handed over the flask. "Here, drink this. Now lean back. This'll only take a minute." She ran her fingers through my hair and in moments had fashioned a respectable bird's nest. She produced a mirror and held it up for my approval.
I let go with a long, low whistle. "Toss a couple robin's eggs in there, why don't ya. That's a helluva coif. Where'd you learn to sculpt like that?"
"Henri's House of Higher Beauty Education. I didn't finish but my grades were top notch," she said. You could hear the pride swelling her bosom.
I watched the pride rise and fall, rise and fall.
I nodded appreciatively and took another swig. "You always carry twelve year old scotch?"
"I hate to burst your bubble but that's only, let's see.." Her gaze went to the ceiling, then down the wall, around the baseboards and back deep into my sockets. "Only eleven years, ten months, two weeks and two day old scotch. I couldn't wait another minute."
Our gazes locked for a long moment. I leaned forward. She leaned forward. We both readjusted our focus and gazed some more.
"Celeste-"
She jumped up and quickly and adjusted her clothes. "Philip, I -"
"I know."
"You know? That you tie clashes terribly with your shirt? What a relief! I didn't know how to tell you, and-"
"Celeste! Not that, although, do you really think so? The jacket has this little bit of fluting here, see, and it's basically the same color as - no, wait! Nevermind that! Why did you come here?"
"Oh! I had a visitor this afternoon. A gentleman by the name of Special Agent McMurphy. I believe you know him. He certainly seems to know you. He's investigating the bank robbery. When he heard that I'd hired you to clear Chip's name he said, and I quote, 'Marlboro? He'll clear your husband's name, all right. Clear it right outta his mind to make room for a scotch and soda. Take my advice, lady: leave the investigating to the pros.' Philip, was he right? Have I made a terrible mistake?"
"You have if you're paying lip service to the likes of that rat."
Celeste said, "How do you two know each other?"
"Meatball McMurphy? We go back. Went through the academy together."
"You were a cop?"
"Yeah, I was, but that's not the academy I'm talking about. We met at Anarova's Academy of Ballet and Belly Dance. He was teacher's pet. In the good way. I mostly licked myself and fetched slippers. But yeah, three years, New York's finest, so the phrase goes."
She laughed. "I cannot imagine you in a tidy blue tutu, or for that matter, a uniform, walking the beat, twirling your little baton-"
"Hey! Watch it."
"Sorry. So what happened?"
"One day I'm rousting hobos loitering in the theater district. We'd had some complaints they were panhandling the Broadway crowd. So I'm moving 'em along when one of 'em, a drunk by the name of George McMurphy starts getting belligerent."
"McMurphy? You don't mean-"
"Yeah, I do mean. Uncle McMurphy, sorta the black sheep of the family. They didn't give a ratsnot about him until he disintegrated."
"Disintegrated?"
"Yeah, like I says, George gets belligerent as he's had a few snootfuls and takes a swing at me. I tapped him in the kidney with a chorus line kick - wouldn't have dropped an eight year old girl with an inner-ear disorder-but the great oak falls to the concrete and has himself some spontaneous combustion right there at my feet."
"And Special Agent McMurphy."
"Stop calling him that. So McMurphy blames me. Claims I musta muscled the old man with a lot more than a tap if he up and detonated about it. A couple months go by. One night I'm walking my beat when my relief shows up an hour early. It's almost Christmas and he tells me to shop or catch a late show and a Merry Christmas to you. So I head over to O'Malley's for a shot and a beer and who strolls in just as I'm upturning the shot? That's right, Meatball McMurphy. And who's he got with him? Captain Reynolds. My captain. Canned my ass on the spot. Like a common jar of jam."
Celeste said, "But what about the other cop? The one who relieved you?"
"Him? Oh, he conveniently remembered that evening a little differently. Said he started his shift right on schedule. Not early and not late and he never saw hide nor hair of me."
"The louse!"
"Yeah, well he got his. Let's just say he's been pulling desk duty ever since."
"Philip, you didn't-"
"Didn't what? He's got flat feet is all. I ain't got nothing to do with some flatfoot having flat feet."
"So McMurphy's still got it in for you?"
"Looks that way. Didn't know he joined the Feds. Ya know, becoming a G-man is just about the only way that jerk could become any less appealing."
"Oh, Philip, I knew you were A-OK! I mean you were the first name in the book!"
"Yeah, calling the joint the Aardvark Detective Agency was a stroke of genius. Your mind at ease, toots?"
Yeah. Oh - did you find out anything? About Chip, that is?"
"Oh, I'm zeroing in, alright. Several strong leads but I think it's best if I keep 'em to myself for the time being. For your sake."
"But-"
"It's for the best, really, " I squeezed her upper arm reassuringly.
"That's not my arm." She slapped my hand.
I shrugged and drained the flask. Celeste adjusted her assets and left. ^back to top
It took the rest of the evening to turn the place right side up. I left the paintings upside-down. They never looked better. Then it hit me like a heavyweight. I scurried around on hands and knees until I found my quarry. The feather. It was under the desk stuck to a leg with a sticky spot of liquor.
I brought it into the light. Just as I had hoped - not an ordinary pigeon feather. Fairly exotic even. I pulled a hefty volume off the shelf; Herds of Birds: ID By Feathers, ID By Turds.... It was a gift from a client who was a little bird-brained, himself. But serendipity beats the hell out of cliché.
I flipped pages for a good hour until I came across a shape and a pattern that matched. The Speckled Indonesian Woozelpecker, so named because it pecked woozels in Indonesia. And there's one thing I knew for sure: Indonesia was at least four subway transfers away. Maybe more.
I called the New York Public Library.
"Where in New York can I find a Speckled Indonesian Woozelpecker?"
"Sir, if this is some kind of joke like a duck walks into a bar-"
"It's no joke. It's a bird."
"One moment." The line filled with mariachi music. Moments later, it stopped. "Sir, the only Speckled Indonesian Woozelpecker in New York is in the exotic animal show at Coney Island."
"Hot dog!"
I hung up. I grabbed my gun and donned my hat. Two transfers got me to the right side of the tracks. One more got me a complimentary moustache waxing and deposited me on the boardwalk.
I hurried past the human freak show and other carnies until I found the exotic animal display in the shadow of the great roller coaster. A barker yelled, "Myths and monsters inside. Griffins, dragons, and dinosaurs. Two bits gets it all. You WILL be amazed!"
"Hey pal! I'm ready to be amazed." I tossed him two bits and entered the dark building.
I pushed my hat back on my head and pulled out my gun. Dimly lit cases broke up the darkness. A two-headed chicken and a three-headed lizard competed with the snake-skinned pig and a boy-faced dog. Then I saw the Speckled Indonesian Woozelpecker. It looked like a Cornish hen with a rash but I didn't care about its health. I found a door between two exhibits. Faint, muffled voices wafted from behind it.
Things were coming to a head faster than a zit on prom night. I pushed open the door. Three fellas sat around what looked like a living room without windows. Two of the men looked up at me. They wore expensive suits but looked rumpled. The third guy just stared into the distance. His work shirt and pants seemed to hang off him shapelessly as though they were someone else's clothes.
One of the suits stirred.
"Ach, ach. Just stay right where you are. Don't make me fill you with bullets." I turned to the shapeless fellow, "You Chip?"
He looked up, nodded. He appeared to have already resigned himself to whatever happened to him. He did make for a rather ugly man.
The door burst open. Bullets riddled the bar. I pivoted and a bullet grazed my arm. I dropped my gun. Instinctively, I raised my hands.
McMurphy.
"You!"
McMurphy said, "Eloquent as ever. Come out from behind there."
I moved.
The two thugs now had their own guns in hand. All were trained on me. Nobody paid much attention to Chip.
McMurphy said "I want everybody to march, and I do mean very John Phillips Sousa, right out that door," he gestured to a back door that I hadn't noticed. "Marlboro, as I will have this gun pressed into the back of your neck, why don't you lead our party outside?" I moved again -- out the door and through a short hall to another door. "It's been awhile. Did you figure you'd steer clear of me the rest of your life?" said McMurphy.
"That was pretty much the plan. Last time I saw you, it took a week to get your stench offa me. My dog wouldn't come near me. And he'll eat his own shit, "I said.
"Heh. Same ol' Marlboro. They oughta stick a warning label on you."
"Looks like I'm in a pickle. You know what that means," I said as opened a door onto daylight.
"Yeah, you'll be repeating on me all night long. But, rules are rules, I suppose. We joined forces to rob the bank. It's really that simple, Marlboro... I arranged to tamper with evidence and testimonies, we made Chip commit the actual larceny, and the Wellingtons here are going to launder the money. They work for the Weasel, but this is a bit of a side project. Except for your meddling, I believe that rounds it out nicely."
"Darling, I believe I round it out nicely. But I did so enjoy your tall tale!" Francis stepped up just as McMurphy passed the door. She pointed a .45 at McMurphy's chest but stared at his tush. Candy followed her with her own hardware. Suddenly the alley filled with transvestites, all in body-hugging black lycras and fluffy black boas. They all packed petite lady's pistols. Must've been two dozen gender-confused beauties and they only had eyes for me. I got a little misty.
McMurphy and the brothers lowered their guns. Francis took them and handed one to me. "Francis, you fabulous, enormous hunk of woman! How'd you do it?" I shouted.
"Philly, ever since you came by the shop, I've had butterflies in my tummy. I gave a shout out to all my girlfriends and we've had a network of Nancys keeping an eye on you ever since."
"I thought the subway smelled a little girly."
"When we heard the gunshots, we knew things were going to get just about as ugly as a cosmetologist's strike. Besides, it's about time we came out of hiding. We're just too fabulously beautiful!"
"You can say that again!"
"All together, girls! WE'RE TOO FABULOUSLY BEAUTIFUL!" ^back to top
Celeste came by the office, late. I knew she'd be showing her face before long.
"Philip, I -"
"No need to thank me, Sweetheart. My payment is thanks enough."
"I saw Chip at the police station. He's not off the hook. They say he's complicit since he didn't have a gun to his head the whole time."
"He might as well have. They'd have tracked him like an English Bloodhound."
"They say he'll probably get a suspended sentence. But it doesn't matter. I'm leaving him."
"Oh?"
"I can't go on with the charade of Chip's double life. He's like a double chocolate chip cookie. It's just a matter of time before he gets dunked."
I stood up and took her in my arms.
"Really? You're gonna go with that? 'Just a matter of time before he gets dunked'?"
She put her hands to my neck and made to throttle me. I picked her up and lay her down on the well-worn couch. I reached into jacket pocket and pulled out the feather. She squealed and all was right with the world.
The End
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