The Misplaced Detective ~7

A Story by JD Major

The Case of the '38 Bogey Deluxe

Fiction, Short Story ... 2500 words

The Case of the ’38 Bogey Deluxe

Archie Hensbee amassed his fortune in the 1960’s and 70’s, cornering the market on aglets, those plastic tips on shoelaces, and shrewdly kept his millions intact as he divested himself of his holdings during the months prior to Velcro’s patent expiring in the spring of 1978, ushering in its widespread use in consumer items, including shoes. Since then, the now-76-year-old’s passions have included building better burgers and collecting antique cars. All this, I learned when he called the office and Roni quick-Googled him as they spoke, then placed him on hold, to buzz and brief me, before putting him through.

I said, “Good morning, Mr. Hensbee, how can I help you?”

He said, “McQuinn, I hear you’re tops at recovering misplaced things. As such, I’ve decided to put my sweetheart’s fate in your hands. She’s gone, and I’m heartbroken. I left her on the street yesterday morning, like always, and when I returned in the evening she wasn’t there. Seeya at five.”

“Who’s she? Where?” I asked, too late. He’d hung up.

Stepping into the outer office, now Roni’s Office, since I’d promoted her from secretary to partner the day before(1), I asked, “Have you got Hensbee’s number, Roni? I didn’t catch his sweetheart’s name and where to meet him.”

“She is his 1938 Plymouth Deluxe coupe that Humphrey Bogart, as private-eye Philip Marlowe, drove in the 1946 movie, The Big Sleep. Where, is his restaurant, Okey-Dokey’s in Greenwich Village.”

I smiled. “Thanks. Wherever will we find a replacement secretary like you?”

“Alas, there’s only one me, partner, but I’m interviewing candidates today. Which reminds me, I ordered a partner desk, so please empty out yours.”

“ … Why?”

“A partner desk seats two, one on either side.”

“ … I assumed you’d have your own desk out here.”

“You assumed wrong.”

“ … Oooh kay.”

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

I walked into Archie Hensbee’s Okey-Dokey’s 1950’s theme restaurant at five on the nose, realizing I didn’t have the foggiest as to what Archie looked like. Which, as it turned out, was not a problem, as I did know what Roni looked like. Blond, petite, drop-dead pretty. She was sitting at a window table with an elderly gentleman.

Why am I not surprised to see you here? I wanted to ask her as I approached. But, thinking better of it, I instead said to the gentleman, “Hi, you must be Archie Hensbee, I’m McQuinn,” and extended my hand for a shake.

Peeling his peepers off Roni, he stood and shook it. “Call me Archie, McQuinn. Grab a chair, our Okey Platters are on the way.” He was a right jolly-looking elf, five-four tops, rosy cheeks, tousled white hair, wearing cuffed jeans and a red Okey-Dokey sweatshirt.

“Great place,” I said, dropping my fedora on the table and looking about for a vacant chair, seeing none. Okey’s was a bustling family place of smiling parents and laughing kids and scurrying servers. Collages of pop icons--Bogey, Bacall, James Dean, Monroe, Elvis, Roy Rogers, Howdy Doody--covered the walls.

Seeing my predicament, Archie snapped his fingers and finger-formed a chair, and, lickety-split, a young manager appeared. “Sorry, sir,” he said to me, “all we have available is a kiddies chair.” He set it down. It had a regular-size seat with irregularly high legs, and a swing-right tray. I hoisted myself upon it and swung my tray front, just in time for a pretty young server to set my Okey Burger Platter and frosted-mug Coke on it. She tied an Okey-Dokey bib on me.

I looked at my companions. “Do I look as ridiculous as I feel?”

Nodding, they dug into their burgers.

I double-dipped a fry in ketchup. “So, Archie, I understand you’ve misplaced your ’38 Plymouth Deluxe.”

He signaled me he was still chewing, and tipped a nod to Roni.

She patted her lips. “Archie has offered us triple our rates to drop everything and get on his case immediately.”

Swallowing, Archie nodded earnestly. “And a $10,000 bonus if you recover my sweetie before Saturday’s 5-Burroughs Car Show, at which I plan to out-show Elon’s solar-charged, plant-based-metalloid-built toy.”

I put down my burger. “Elon Kazzler?”

“Yes, the self-proclaimed Enviro Gadget King, himself, who, incidentally, recommended I call you.(2) The scallywag rang me yesterday, pestering me to get in on the ground floor of that ocean-cleanup thingamajig he’s developing. Out-showing him, and arriving in my sweetheart for his launch, Sunday, to which Roni has graciously invited me along on their date, will put me in the catbird seat for our negotiations.” He beamed at Roni and patted her lovely hand.

“Yes, Roni, how so very gracious of you,” I said, fussing with my bib.

She raised a finger to shush me as her text tone sounded (Celine Dion’s My Way). “It’s Elon,” she said. “He says Okey Dokey Archie, bring a date along.”

Archie smiled. “Thanks, Roni. Too bad I’m between girlfriends at the moment, but I’m sure my sister, Etta, will be happy to fill in. She thinks Elon’s yummy.”

“Actually, Archie,” I said, on the spur of a devilish notion, “I happen to know of a lovely lady who thinks you’re yummy.”

“Oh?” Archie said, and straw-sipped his Coke.

Roni eyeballed me her What’re you up to, McQ? look.

“Patricia Dash,” I said. "I had lunch with her daughter today, says she gets her looks from her mother.”

Archie put down his mug. “Pretty, huh?”

“Kathryn’s a knockout,” Roni said. “If you like that type.” She bit her dill pickle in two.

“I like that type,” Archie said. “Thanks, McQuinn. And what say I pick up Patricia, Kathryn and you, Sunday, and we’ll do a double date?” He nudged Roni. “Can you get Elon’s okey dokey on that, Roni?”

Sliding me a slit-eye, she said, “Consider it done, Archie,”

I gave Archie a thumbs-up. “You bring the Okey burgers, Arch, I’ll bring the champagne.”

“Fix your bib, McQ,” Roni said. “You’re dripping ketchup on your lapels.”

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Afterwards, Roni and I dropped into Big Gus’s Tavern for a pow wow.

“Happy to see you brought along your new partner, McQuinn,” Gus said, smiling big for Roni and getting one of her dazzlers back.

“How’d you know, Gus?” I asked.

He plunked down our usuals, a bourbon-rocks for me, a White Pelican for Roni. “Word’s on the street, pal. And, I’m lookin’ forward to meeting Harry.”

“Who’s Harry?” I asked.

He laughed and mock-punched my shoulder, and lumbered back behind his bar.

“Harry’s our new secretary,” Roni said, and sipped her Pelican.

“ … Jeez, Roni! What self-respecting P.I. firm has a guy for a secretary?”

“Harry’s a gal. She came in as moral support with her significant-other Wendy, who I’d invited to apply. I liked Harry better.”

“ … Oooh kay.”

“You got a problem with that, MQ?”

“Me? … Noooh.”

“Good, let’s get to business,” she said. “I think we should--”

“Offer a reward for the Coupe’s whereabouts," I said, cutting her off. "Somebody’s bound to know something about a polished and pinched ’38 Plymouth.”

“I’ve a better idea.”

“Color me surprised.”

“Working the internet while you were lunching, McQ, I stumbled upon an obscure tidbit. Years ago, a niece of the man who had rented the Big Sleep Plymouth to the movie’s production company, told an inquiring small town reporter it had been written off in a crash that killed her uncle.”

“ … Poor old Archie’s sweetheart is a fake? … Did you tell him?”

“No, I couldn’t bring myself to do it. The way he talks about her is so … glowing.”

“Glowing?”

“She’s a part of him. An integral part of his identity.”

“Good call, Roni. Telling him would break his heart.”

“Which it still will, if we recover it in time for the 5-Burroughs Car Show. Some attending car aficionado is bound to bust his Bogey car.”

“Damn, you’re right. “ … How much is the quick-find bonus he offered?”

“You don’t want to know, partner.”

“That much, huh?”

She nodded.

“Damn.” I blew some air out. “Oh, well, it’s bound to take us longer than a few days anyway.”

“Maybe, maybe not,” she said.” Do you believe in coincidences?”

“ … Not in crime investigations. Why?”

“Given that the bogusly authenticated Big Sleeper was stolen right before the upcoming Car Show, in which it has been duly registered in public record, who might you guess would make a prime suspect?”

“ … The scallywag who sold it to Archie?”

“Yes. And who would you like to thank for shooting a phone-photo of the Auto Transfer and Authentication papers Archie brought to our meeting?”

I smiled. “The new partner at McQinn Investigations?”

“At McQuinn and Pepper Investigations, yes.”

“ … Has a nice ring to it. I like it.”

“Thanks. I hoped you would.”

“So, who’s our Prime Suspect,” I asked.

“A married couple, Clyde and Bonnie Sparrow, newlyweds at the time, middle-aged now.”

“Bonnie and Clyde?”

She nodded, “Fitting, huh?”

“I’ll say.”

“And, an easy internet search too. Clyde is a about to be made senior partner at his prestigious Manhattan law firm, and Bonnie is a prominent Long Island socialite rumored to enjoy a gin martini now and then.” Both their names are on the Transfer and Bogey-authentication papers.”

“Excellent work, Roni. Which Sparrow do you want?”

“Need you ask?”

I laughed. “I’ll be on the commuter to Long Island first thing in the morning.”

“Betcha dinner at Delmonico’s I crack the case before you do, McQ.”

“You’re on, Miss Pepper.”

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Morning came early. I took the Long Island Rail Road to the Sparrow’s colonial home in East Hills.
Mrs. Sparrow opened her door in a housecoat, a drink and a cigarette in either hand. A forty-something, once-upon-a-time, beauty.

“What’re ya sellin’, good-lookin’?” she slurred, opening up wide and motioning me inside.

I stepped in. “I’m a detective, Mrs. Sparrow, private. Would you mind answering me a few questions, regarding--?"

“Answer to all of ‘em’s yes, Blue-eyes, and call me Bonnie.” She curled a follow-me finger and sat me down on her couch. “What’ll you have McQuinn? Gin, whiskey, Me?” She laughed like she’d made a joke.

I smiled. “Do I have to choose just one, Bonnie?”

She snickered. “I like you, handsome. And no, you don’t.”

“How ‘bout I start with whiskey, bourbon if you have it, and see where it takes us?”

“One bourbon comin’ up,” she said on a wink, and got up and poured it.

“I’m here about the ’38 Plymouth Deluxe you and Clyde sold Archibald Hensbee years ago,” I said, as she handed me my drink and parked herself next to me. I could have lit her breath if I’d had a match.”

“ … Oh? How is old Archie? That’s gotta be what, ten, fifteen years ago?”

“Twenty. Bad news is he’s pretty broken-up over it being stolen. Good news is he’s not looking to prefer charges if it, say, shows up in front of his Okey-Dokey’s eatery in Greenwich Village first thing Sunday morning.”

“ … Surely, you’re not suggesting Clyde and I stole it?”

“Accusing would be a better word, Bonnie.”

She took a long pull on her butt, a longer one on her gin. “Good news is, the statute of limitations woulda run out on something like that years ago.”

I nodded. “Bad news is, the Court of Public Opinion has no limitations.”

“ … As we, of course, had nothing to do with the theft, it’s no skin off our noses.”

“Do you enjoy your Long Island lifestyle, Bonnie?”

“I’m beside myself with girlish delight, can’t you tell?”

“How long do you suppose it’ll take Clyde’s law firm partners to demand his resignation after Archie’s bogus Bogey is busted as inauthentic at Saturday’s 5-Burroughs Car Show and your fraud exposed?”

“ … Damn.” She bounced a palm off her furrowed forehead.

“What say you call old Clyde right now, Bonnie, and discuss your options?”

“ … Wait a stink-damn minute, handsome. Even if we return the car, the morning after the Show as you so cleverly suggested, what’s to stop Archie from leaking it anyways?”

“I suspect he’d rather walk naked in the streets than admit he was duped by a couple of newlyweds anxious to kick-start a cushy lifestyle by scam-selling him a valuable antique that one of them, I suppose, inherited.”

She shook her head like a dog shedding water. “Something’s not adding up here!”

“Oh?”

“If Archie knows the ‘38 was bound to be busted during the car show, why is his expectant humiliation, suddenly a deterrent now?”

“Have you ever believed in something so completely, Bonnie, that it becomes true for you, even if another part of you suspects it’s bogus?”

“Yeah, my marriage.”

“There’s your answer.”

“Huh?”

“That part of Archie, the smart, clear-thinking part that has made him wealthy is, I have no doubt, shrewd enough to kick the dream-believer part of him to the curb, if I were to, say, show him an obscure, yet compelling, newspaper article referring to the Plymouth’s write-off wreckage in a fatal crash.”

“He doesn’t know it’s a fake?”

“The true-believer in him doesn’t, and I’d have no reason to burst his bubble if the Plymouth were to suddenly reappear before dawn, Sunday morning.”

“Why should I trust you?”
“What other choice do you have?”

“Damn.” She dug her smart phone out of her housecoat. “Let’s hope Clyde’s party of his first part isn’t as stupid as the party of his second part.” But before she could dial, it rang.

“ … Hi Clydey?” she said. “I was just about to call you, dear.”

“- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - --”

“… What, Clyde?”

“- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -”

“Who?”

“- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -”

“ … Okay, Clyde.” She gave me a frazzled look. “He wants you.” She handed me the phone.

"Good morning, Mr. Sparrow," I said.

“Have you found Archie’s car yet, partner?”

“ … Roni? … Is that you?”

“Yes. Have you?”

“ … Almost.”