The Misplaced Detective ~3

A Story by JD Major

The Case of the Clipped MacGuffin

Fiction: Short Story, Humor ...1620 words ...

The Case of the Clipped MacGuffin*

I was in Big Gus’s Tavern, at the bar, nursing my bourbon-rocks and chewing the fat with Gus, when a young man tapped me on the shoulder. He was wearing a kilt and carrying a satchel.

“Are you Mr. McQuinn? I’m Angus MacGuffin. Your bonny secretary said I’d find yeh here.”

He was an inch or two over six feet, mid twenties, built solid, and growing a tangled patch of curly red hair. MACGUFFIN BALLERS 58 was printed in white blocks on his black crewneck.

“That he is, Angus,” Gus said. “The McQuinn, himself. I'm Gus, I'll slide you a pint. Bud okay?"

"Aye, a lager'll hit the spot, Gus."

I patted the stool beside me. “What've you misplaced, Angus?"

"The team playbook," he said, mounting the stool, carefully, as anyone wearing a kilt would do. He rested the satchel on his lap. "I’m the captain of the MacGuffins, we're in the Ballers Football League, out of Flushing, Queens. If the Campbells or MacGregor's get their hands on it, we're sunk."

"Heads up, kid," Gus called, and shuffleboarded Angus a Bud.

Angus snatched it up and chugalugged. "Cheers Gus, I'll tell the lads about yeh're place!"

"Ballers League, Angus?" I asked. "Can't say as I've heard of it. "Lotsa soccer-loving Scots in Flushing, huh?"

"No, but they've got a great field. The Ballers is a new league, we play American football. I just picked up a fresh uniform this morning. Impressive, don't yeh think?"

"I dunno, open up your bag, let's have a look."

"I'm wearing it."

" ... You play football in a kilt?

"Aye, the whole league does, it's really catching on."

"Kinda risky, ain't it?"

"Yeah sure, it can get hairy at times, but we're reaching a surprisingly lucrative and untouched demographic."

"Bridge club ladies and the quilting set?"

"Yeah, how'd you know?"

"Lucky guess."

"Will you take the case, McQuinn?"

I nodded. “Two hundred a day and expenses.”

"I’m thinkin' yeh can probably wrap it up in an hour or two, won't be much more than just makin' a payoff to a certain party."

"Sounds easy, why not make it yourself?"

"Bad optics, if I’m made, you know, me bein' the captain and, well, kinda the golden boy of the MacGuffins."

"Okey dokey. An hour or two, fifty bucks. Beats shinin' my backside on Gus's stool."

“Or, if you prefer, yeh can keep whatever’s leftover after the payoff. Yeh’d be doin' the team a favor. Off-the-books leftovers hanging around can get messy." He slid me the satchel. "It’s a cinch our extortionist will wanta hagg us for the playbook, but there’s way more‘n enough in here to satisfy that damn Brit.”

“ … You figuring on paying me in ... haggis?”

“Haggis? ‘Course not. That some kinda Scot slur, McQuinn?!” He pulled back the satchel.

“Chill, kid, let's not let a translation snafu mess the moment."

" ... Well ... ," he said, and rubbed his bulbous chin, " ... okay." He re-slid me the satchel.

I rested a hand on it. "So, it’s a Brit who's shakin' you down, huh? Where and when was the playbook last in your possession?”

“In Brit's nook, last night. She’s a manicurist. She clips at Kitty's in Soho, a Yank.”

" ... Ah, Brit as in Britney." I eyed his nails. They looked a mite beat-up, and I told him so.

“I don’t go to Kitty’s for my nails … if yeh get my drift.

I told him I got it.

“So, are yeh okay with the leftovers, McQuinn? When can you start?”

I unbuckled the satchel and had me a look. A whole lotta green ex-presidents looked up at me, denominations in tens, twenties, fifties, hundreds, adding up to thousands.

“Deal,” I said. “No time like now.”

Kitty’s Klip 'n Massage was sandwiched between a pawn shop and a pool hall. I went inside and asked for Brit.

“You a cop, good-lookin'?” Kitty said. “I gotta ask, you ain’t been here before." Her hair was too big for her headset, and her hips too hefty for her skin-tights.

“No ma’am. Name’s McQuinn.”

"What’s in the satchel, McQuinn?”

“A whole lotta o' green.”

She smirked, like I was pulling her leg. “Why Britney?”

“I heard she’s good.” I showed her my nails.

She tapped her headset. “We got us an emergency, Brit, I’m sendin’ in a Mr. McQuinn.”

Brit was smoothing her dress, a raspberry red, side-slit number, when I knocked and walked in. A bottle-blond, built, sly around the eyes, right outa central casting.

She glanced me an up'n down. "Private snoop, huh?"

"Yeah, how'd ya know, doll?"

"Nobody wears fedoras no more, 'xcept in old snoop flicks."

I took it off and tossed it at a pole hanger.

"Ringer, three points" she said. "So, whatta ya got in that bag, McQuinn?"

"Dead presidents."

"Uh huh." She motioned me to sit down, and sat opposite me. "Let's see them clapperclaws."

I hung the satchel on my chairback and palmed my clappers on Brit's worktable. It stood a finger-dipping bowl, big and little clippers, a set of files, a Kleenex pull-box with spring flowers on it, and a counter bell.

She took my left hand in her right and dipped my claws in the bowl.

"Nice nook you got here," I said, for something to say, and took in the tiny room ... oiled nudes on black velvet, a sturdy massage table set at low-height, made up in a sheets-and-pillow set with cupids on it.

“Manicure’s fifty," she said, tissue-patting my nails, “everything else is extra.”

I ventilated the satchel and laid down a President Grant.

“Mind if I ask you a few questions, Brit, while you’re working?”

“Shoot. Answers are extra.” She started into clipping.

“Have you got the MacGuffin Ballers playbook?”

“No. That’ll be ten.” She rang the bell.

I put down a Hamilton. "Where is it?"

"The Bronx, in good hands, twenty." She tapped the bell.

"Can you be more specific?"

"Yes, twenty, makin' it forty now. #Ding! Ding!#

I dumped two Jacksons. "Who’s got it?”

"Who will cost you a grand."

"How do I know you ain't scammin' me, Brit?"

"You don't." Ten." #Ding#

I dropped a Hamilton. "Any wiggle room on the grand?"

"Yes."Ten." #Ding# "

"I dropped another H. "How much?"

"Let's call it two grand."

" ... What?!"

She went for the bell. I intercepted her with a wristlock.

"Let's meet in the middle, Brit," I said, getting in her face. "A grand and a half, take it or leave it."

"I'll take it," she said, and planted a wet one on me. I liked it.

I counted out fifteen Franklins and snugged them on the pile.

"Boss Gallo's got the playbook."

We got up and shared a nuzzle.

"Goodbye, Doll, thanks for clippin' me." I shouldered the satchel and fetched my fedora.

"Don't be a stranger, McQuinn," she said, smoothing the side-slit number. "And, by the way, Ben Franklin wasn't a president."

"I know, but dead presidents has such a swell ring to it, don't ya think?"

"Nobody says swell anymore, handsome."

I took the subway to Little Italy and hoofed it to Gallo Brothers Olives. I'd never brushed up against Boss Gallo, just his kid brother, Ricco (1), but everyone knows GBO is Gallo headquarters. I bagged some olives outside--purple Kalamatas and green and reddish Taggiascas--thinking they might engender some omertà with the brotherhood, and went inside.

"Is the Boss around?" I asked a plump, balding man at the register. He was wearing a flag of Italia apron.

"You're lookin' at him, McQuinn."

"You been expecting me, huh?"

"Yeah, what took you so long?"

"A dead puma on the subway tracks."

"A puma? ... You pullin' my leg?"

"Yeah, can we get down to business?" I put my purchases on the counter.

"That'll be two-large," he said.

" ... For olives? You pullin' my leg?"

"'Course I am. Two can play, McQinn. It's for the MacGuffin playbook."

"I'm near-tapped, Boss. Any wiggle room?"

"Yeah, let's call it three."

"Damn! You ain't by any chance related to--"

"Britney's my daughter."

I emptied the satchel and counted the leftovers. $2520. "Take it or leave it, Boss."

"Nobody talks to Boss Gallo like that." He quarter-turned, humming Volare, and took to rearranging a counter-display of bottled Verdi Bella Di Cerignolas olives.

"Sorry we couldn't do business, Boss," I said, and reached to take the cash back.

He whack-slapped a tartan-cover notebook on it before I got to it.

" ... Is that the MacGuffin?" I asked.

"Nah, it's a ledger of bought-judges. Mamma mia! 'Course it's the MacGuff."

" ... Thanks?"

"I just done you a favor, gumshoe, and 'some day, and that day may never come, I will call upon you to do a service for me.'(2)"

I wasn’t sure I wanted it now, but I’d never reneged on a job, so I took it. "Grazie," I said, and buckled it into the satchel, along with my Kalamatas and Taggiascas, and headed for the door.

"Ain't you forgettin' somethin', McQuinn?"

I looked back. "Don’t think so, Boss. Ciao."

"Ain't ya gonna pay me for your purchases?"

Damn, he had me, I'd forgotten to pay. I dug into my pockets and dropped every nickel and note I had on the counter. "Will three-fifty cover it?"

"No, but a Jackson will."

"Twenty bucks for a couple small bags of olives?"

"Kalamatas and Taggiascas don't come cheap."

"I had no idea." I unbuckled the satchel and reached in to return them.

"Gotcha, paisano! Leave 'em in the bag, my treat. Ciao."

"Ya got me alright." I rebuckled. "Grazie, Signor Gallo. Seeya."

"Count on it, McQuinn. We ain’t done yet."

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*In fiction, a MacGuffin is an object or device that is necessary to the plot and the motivation of the characters. The term was originated by Angus MacPhail for film, and adopted by Alfred Hitchcock.

(1) The Misplaced Detective ~1

(2) Mario Puzzo's The Godfather

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