It was a hot, steamy summer in Appletown.
Nate Porter, civil servant, sat by an open window, reading the daily paper. “Police in the Nightville precinct note a rise in petty thefts. The crimes occur with the victims present, although no one has been able to describe a suspect. So far, most of the victims have been single-mothers, the aged, and the homeless. The police are investigating the matter…” Later, in Nightville… “Leave him alone!” said Mrs. Woods, seventy year old manager of Nate's building as two policeman handcuffed and took away a young black man, Leon. “He ain’t done nothing wrong!” “Stay outta’ this, gramma’,” said one cop as they pushed Leon through the door. Just as they did, Nate arrived, carrying a bag of groceries. They knocked into him, and he dropped some oranges, that rolled down the stoop as the cops took Leon to the waiting squad car. It squealed down the street as a vagrant pissed in the gutter. “Good evening Mrs. Woods,” said Nate, struggling to find his keys to open his mailbox while balancing what was left of his groceries. But Mrs. Woods just shook her head. “What happened to Leon?” asked Nate as he opens a letter from the landlord telling him that the rent’s going up. Mrs. Woods stopped shaking her head and sighed. “They say he’s the one been stealin’ in the neighborhood. Just ’cause he couldn’t tell him where he was last night.” “That’s all they have to go on?” Mrs. Woods smiled, then laughed, a broad, hearty, good-natured laugh, showing her yellowed teeth, shaking her head slowly, as she turned back into her apartment. Across town… An Asian servant bowed gravely as a handsome young white man preened in front of a gilded mirror. “How do I look, Hiroshi?” asked the young man, his perfect teeth flashing in a smile. “Very handsome,” said the servant bowing again. “Lend me five hundred, would you?” flashed the young man. “I want to party.” The Asian reached into his pocket wordlessly and gave the young man five hundred dollars. The young man thanked him with a smile and a pat on the back. Later that evening… Nate sat shirtless, sweltering in the summer heat, watching TV. A well-coiffed actor in a policeman’s uniform kissed an expensively dressed actress, discreetly falling out of camera-range on to a couch of a richly decorated home. Then there was a fade out to a commercial, in which a group of men in ties and jackets, accompanied by their be-jeweled wives, debated which of several wines would go best with their gourmet meal. Nate flicked off the TV and went to the refrigerator. He found a can of beer, jammed at the back of the refrigerator behind a rotting head of broccoli, then turned around quickly when he sensed something. But there was nothing more than the usual dirty four walls, rickety furniture and cockroaches scurrying undercover. Suddenly he realized his television set was gone. “Shit!” he said, running to the open window. He saw no one. “Shit!” he said again, swinging the door open. Mrs. Woods opened her door at the same moment “Somebody just stole my TV!” Nate shouted. Mrs. Woods really looked puzzled then. “Yours too?” she said. “I was an idiot,” Nate said. “I left my window open.” “But mine wasn’t open,” she said. It took a moment for Mrs. Woods’s words to sink in. “You mean…” Then Mrs. Woods got an idea… They went to Nightville Precinct Police Station. “So there’s two thieves,” said the fat-faced sergeant, brushing crumbs off his uniform. “Hell, it’s Nightville, there’s probably thirty thieves,” he chuckled complacently. Mrs. Porter examined him with a cold, evaluative eye. “Leon ain’t no thief, no way. You lock him up, and there’s still gonna’ be mischief happenin’ ’cause you got the wrong man.” Nate cleared his throat, adopting his best civil service tone. “I really think Mrs. Woods has point, Sergeant,” he said. The Sergeant took a big bite on his hoagie, a few drops of grease dripping on to his uniform. “My wife’s going to kill me,” he said, trying to rub it out. “Now look son,” he said, turning back to Nate, then nodding and smiling briefly at Mrs. Woods, “the fact that somebody else got robbed after your friend’s in jail means absolutely zero.” He sat back and smiled. “Now I thank both of you for your interest in this matter. But you really must leave this to the professionals.” They leave the police station. Two little girls jumped rope, while a boy tried to get the fire hydrant open. “I can’t let this happen,” said Mrs. Woods. She walked so quickly, Nate had a hard time keeping up with her. “I don’t see what we can do.” “We can find the real thief,” she said as they reached the bus stop. “But how?” asked Nate uncertainly. “We’ll have to get us a detective.” She signaled the approaching bus. “I’ve got a little money.” “I’ll do what I can to help.” “Good,” she said matter-of-factly as the bus pulled up to the curb. The door opened in a hiss of pressurized air. “You can start looking tomorrow.” She turned to the two girls, who started beating up the little boy. “Be nice, chilun’” she said as they get in the bus. Nate found a detective. Nate and Mrs. Woods walked down a hallway in a building in one of the older parts of Appletown. The walls were faced with wood, the offices encased in milky glass. They arrived at the “Karl and Fred Detective Agency” and knocked on the closed door. There was no answer. “Is this the right place?” asked Mrs. Woods. Nate looked at piece of paper torn from the yellow pages, read the ad out loud. “‘Karl and Fred’s Detective Agency, no case or fee too small.’ This is the place.” They knocked again, and the door opened on its own. They stepped into an outer office, which had a desk and chairs, but no staff. “Are you sure you want to do this?” asked Nate. “We gotta’ trust somebody,” said Mrs. Woods, leading them towards the back office. The telephone rang, and they both jumped. Inside the inner office, they could hear a young man’s voice. “Karl and Fred’s Detective Agency. No case or fee too small.…No, Karl and Fred are dead. This is Quentin Aloysius Ditteredge speaking—can I help you?” Nate and Mrs. Woods headed towards the open door to the inner office. They peeked inside to see a young man dressed in a tuxedo, a little red star in his lapel. He was about Nate's age, very well groomed and handsome, in a rugged kind of way. He looked up and saw them, and smiling, a friendly, but distant smile. “I have to go now, I have some customers,” he said politely, but firmly to the telephone, hanging up. “Please have a seat,” he said, rising, and gesturing to the two chairs opposite his desk. Nate and Mrs. Woods explained why they’d come. “A most interesting case,” said Quentin. “I’ve been reading about it in the papers.” “Then you’ll help us?” asked Nate. “We have to help Leon,” said Mrs. Woods emphatically. Quentin shrugged philosophically. “One man can only do so much.”
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A Marxist detective in a tuxedo investigates mysterious goings-on in Appletown. Archives |