Friday, January 27, 2012

CASE NUMBER FIVE

THE CASE OF LESSA CREEN


CHAPTER ONE

The incessant beeping woke me up in the middle of the night. I was staying at a third rate motel in the Brentwood section of Los Angeles. But not to worry; a third rate motel in Brentwood is a first rate one in Peoria. I immediately called the front desk to complain about the beeping but the desk clerk swore on his mother’s grave that no beeping was going on in the immediate area. There were plenty of other noises but they mostly came from inebriated patrons in the motel bar.


I thanked the clerk and hung up. My nerves weren’t what they used to be. I felt a cosmic heaviness that no amount of anti-gravity potion could alleviate. Even two weeks in Hawaii (THE CASE OF IF HEAVEN AIN’T A LOT LIKE NIXON) had done little to calm the central core of my celestial consciousness. Why am I hearing something that no one else is?


Of course! There could be only one answer. The beeping was metaphysical in nature. And just like that, as soon as I realized where the beeping came from, it stopped; and I knew somehow that it would begin again about five minutes after I woke up in the morning; and it would be coming at me from a recognizable direction.


CHAPTER TWO

I had coffee and a danish before checking out. The beeping had begun at 7:05 am as I predicted it would, but the sound was much softer and less intrusive on my ear drums than it was when it first grabbed my attention in the depths of the night. In fact, the beeping had almost become melodic in tone; it was even soothing to my soul; like the Pacific waves that caressed Malibu Beach.


A car rental business was only a few blocks from the motel and as I strolled there I realized my mood had lightened considerably. There had been a break in the case and the beeping might be the first link in what I hoped would be a chain of good fortune.


I rented a blue and white 1958 Chevy. Since I was in California I made sure it was a convertible. I could cruise down Sunset Strip with the top down taking in the sights. I might even stop at 77 Sunset Strip and talk shop with some SPIs (Secular Private Eyes). I was on top of the world. But I should have remembered. When you’re on top, there was only one direction to go in.


CHAPTER THREE

After a morning of shop talk and a leisurely lunch, I headed south following the beeping. I would try to explain the beeping to you, exactly how it sounded, and why I was so easily able to follow it, but I can’t. It was metaphysical. Let’s leave at that.


The miles went by and in a few hours I was parked outside the entrance to Mount Palomar Observatory in northern San Diego County. But the beeping wasn’t coming from inside the observatory. It was a ways off to the side in a heavily wooded section. I got out of the car and started walking, following the beeping. The terrain was rocky and the going was slow but after about ten minutes I came upon a clearing. In the clearing stood a pup tent. A small campfire was burning lazily. Sitting beside the campfire was a skinny man with a shaven head and no shirt and no shoes but wearing beige corduroy jeans. His arms were crossed and his eyes were closed and he was humming.


“OMmmmm.”


Was he asking for an Old Milwaukee? Probably not. And then I noticed it. The beeping had stopped.


CHAPTER FOUR

I approached the man cautiously. I did not want to surprise him unduly. He was obviously deep into a form of meditation with which I was not familiar. TPE meditation is really a form of cogitation. We use It to solve problems. Most meditative techniques are used to temporarily divorce oneself from the flow of the world and enter into what one of my TPE cohorts called a ‘Cosmological No-Spin Zone.’


And then I realized the man had his eyes open and was staring straight at me.


He asked, “Do you bring Old Milwaukee with you?”


For some reason I felt the need to apologize for not having the foresight to bring a six-pack with me.


“No, I didn’t. I’m sorry.”


“I forgive you. Now, please sit down, and let’s introduce ourselves.”


I sat down beside the fire. The smoke rising from it slightly distorted his features. It made it hard to ‘read’ his face in TPE fashion. He appeared inscrutable.


“I’m Nick Neercassel, a 21st century Theological Private Eye stranded in 1959. But I thought you might already know that. Call me Nick by the way.”


“Nice to meet you, Nick. I’m Nitram, Keeper of the Beeper. I never know, or try to know for that matter, beforehand what the beep brings. Information just clutters the mind. Also, without surprise in life there is no ‘life’ to life.”


He sounded like a wise man. I asked him, “How can one be so wise in a godless world?”


“I am a practictioner of the ancient art of Zendoo.”


I thought: does he mean a Zen offshoot of Voodoo?


He apparently read my thought: “No, Nick, Zendoo is just Zendoo. It is a not a combination of two religions. I understand you have a lot of that where you came from. We don’t do that here. We just tell like it is; and I repeat, Zendoo is just Zendoo.”


You couldn’t argue with his reasoning. ‘Zendoo is just Zendoo’ is a statement that appears to be non-sequitur free.


I then noticed that Nitram had returned to his trance like state. Well, I’ll just wait him out. I was getting thirsty, though. The walk from the car to the tent had been a tough one. Too bad I didn’t bring some Old Milwaukee. I could use some water right now.


CHAPTER FIVE

“Wake up, Nick.” I had fallen asleep. The warmth of the fire had had a drowsing effect on me. Nitram’s voice sounded urgent though and it stirred me out of my lethargy.


“You must leave soon. Hubble’s P-PPEs are on the way here.”


Hubble? Who was Hubble and who were the P-PPEs ? Soon was not now so I felt had some time to gather some crucial information. You can take the TPE out of his century but you can’t take his century out of the TPE.


“Who is this Hubble and what is a P-PPE?”


“El Don Hubble, son of the inventor of the Hubble telescope, founder of the Scientifico movement and author of ‘Dietenatics: The Scientific Way to Get Slim, Stay Slim and Kill Slim Pickens.’ The P-PPEs are Pseudo-Psychiatric Private Eyes. They work exclusively for Hubble.”


That was a lot of information in three sentences but I processed them quickly in typical TPE fashion.


“Why kill Slim Pickens? Isn’t he a harmless actor who plays old coots in Westerns?”


“According to Hubble, he’s a Kroc.”


“What’s a Kroc?”


“It’s a nickname for a human agent of Grol.”


It seemed every question led to another question but I was too far into it now to stop asking them.


“Grol?”


“According to Hubble’s other work, ‘The Principa Scientifico’, emissaries from the planet Grol are abducting Americans and brainwashing them into spreading the Gospel of Grol.”


“Which is?”


“I’m not entirely sure. To be so, I would have to take too much time away from my meditation. But I think it has to do with the propagation of an entity called a fast food restaurant.”


“I’m quite familiar with them. In fact I’m rather fond of them but I know they’re not always the healthiest choice. I can’t see killing somebody over them.”


“In his book, Hubble predicts that because of fast food, by the 21st century, America will be the fattest nation in the world. He believes that only by killing every Kroc can a terrible national catastrophe be averted.”


“But why should this concern me?”


“The P-PPEs think you’re a Kroc.”


“But why?”


“Because you’re followed the beep. They think the beep is a Grollian messaging device.”


“If that’s the case, why don’t they kill you?”


“I’m too skinny. Killing skinny people goes too much against the grain of what Hubble preaches, even if they are Krocs.”


CHAPTER SIX

It wasn’t hard to figure out the rest. Because of Hubble’s close ties with the Observatory business, and because he believed Grollians were abducting and brainwashing Americans, he probably then figured out the best way for Grollians to contact their agents would be to do so near an observatory (now this particular reasoning may not have been non-sequitur free). That’s why he planted well-paid professional (as opposed to poorly-paid professionals such as myself) Pseudo-Psychiatric Private Eyes in the vicinity of observatories to intercept the Grollian messages and then to pursue and if at all possible, eliminate those he considered to be perpetuators of the Gospel of Grol.


I was about to give Nitram my regards and get the hell out of there when suddenly the loud, explosive bang of a high-powered rifle went off. I immediately felt a terrific force pounding against my chest. I was violently thrown back about ten feet into some bushes.


(Editor’s Note: In the year 2010, a significant breakthrough occurred in Wullet technology. The lads and lasses at the Pond of Fire Astro-Wullet Experimental Lab invented a Magnetic Bullet Attractor (MBA) microchip. Adding this specially designed microchip to the Wullet meant that any bullet fired at a Wullet-endowed TPE would be irresistibly drawn to the Wullet. No longer could Anti-TPE agents fire with impunity at the non-heart regions of a TPE’s body. Because of this great breakthrough in Wullet technology, it was no longer necessary for TPES to wear the Wullet in the left front pocket so as to protect the heart. Female TPEs were especially gratified with this improvement because they could now carry their Wullets in their purses. Most male TPEs reverted to tradition and started wearing their Wullets in a back pocket of their pants. Nick, who found it hard to change old habits, continued to wear the Wullet in the same location as before. Now back to the action.)


The effect of the bullet slamming into my Wullet and sending me crashing into the bushes (which were a local San Diego variety named George) almost caused me to black out. But TPE instinct took over and I managed to execute a roll over a rock that was perpendicular to the bush I landed in. Slowly getting on my knees I very cautiously peeked over the rock in the direction of the campsite. Nitram was still sitting by the fire, seemingly unharmed, and once again in a trance-like transcendental-seeming state. He was doing the OMmmmm thing again (Darn it, I should have brought some Old Milwaukee). Then, out of nowhere, a bullet came skimming across the top of the rock I was kneeling behind, kicking up minute rock particles that went flying into my eyes, momentarily blinding me. In considerable pain and abject confusion, I stood up and stumbled backward and fell headfirst into a fast moving stream. The cold water instantly cleared my brain and I decided my best bet was to submerge and go with the flow. A plethora of bullets started darting into the water all around me. But they either missed me entirely or ended bouncing off of my Wullet. I’m just glad I had bought a shirt with a zipper on the left front pocket.


As luck would have it, the stream passed within a few dozen feet of the parking lot. I jumped out of the water, raced to the car and took off.


CHAPTER SEVEN



I had driven about ten miles (at the speed limit of course. TPEs are respecters of the law even when their lives are in danger.) and it appeared no one was following me. I wondered why. Perhaps the Scientifico movement was still in its infancy and Hubble could only afford to use P-PPEs at observatory locations. Whatever the reason, I was glad.


I needed a new set of clothes. The ones I had on were torn, battered and soaking wet. I decided to look for the nearest Wal*Mart. But wait. It was 1959 and Wal*Marts had not yet expanded beyond Arkansas. That was too bad. My TPE credit card was good for an extra 25% discount at already low-priced Wal*Marts. I would have to find a non-generic men’s clothing store.


(Nick’s Note: In 2009 I had sent a formal proposal to Wal*Mart HQ in Bentonville, Arkansas. I proposed that I would be happy to serve as an ambassador - compensated handsomely, of course - for Wal*Mart throughout the world. Wherever I might be on a case, I would take time to visit the nearest Wal*Mart and WALK through it several times. My TPE training and experience had made me a great walker and I felt it was incumbent upon me to share this talent with an institution that I held in such great esteem and with whom I had spent a boatload of money (both personal and TPE-related). The position I proposed would have a formal title: THE WAL*MART WAL*KER. As of the time (October 7, 2011) I vanished from the 21st century, I had not yet heard back from WMHQ. But I hadn’t given up on getting a positive answer from Wal*Mart. In big organizations, big decisions take time.)


CHAPTER EIGHT

At some point, I had turned west (I had been going north). I saw a sign saying that Escondido was twenty miles away. It sounded like a good place to regroup: shop, eat, and spend the night. With new clothes, a full stomach, and a good night’s rest, I could start thinking about my next move.


At a local men’s clothing store, I bought a pair of blue jeans, along with a green long sleeve shirt, and a pair of black Keds tennis shoes with accompanying socks. Much to my dismay though, the store did not have shirts that had pockets with zippers. The manager said he doubted any stores in town did. He noticed the condition my current set of clothes were in and allowed me to put on the new clothes and shoes in the dressing room. He was also kind enough to discard my old set of clothes.


After paying for everything with my TPE credit card, I started walking down Main Street looking for a place to eat. While walking I remembered I also needed a portable toothbrush. I spotted the Escondido Rexall Drug Store and went in. The first thing I noticed was a lunch counter (which also luckily served dinner). I made a quick decision that this was as good a place as any to eat. I order a grilled cheese sandwich with fries and a large strawberry milk shake, all the while hoping that were no Scientificos with itchy trigger fingers shopping in the drug store.


After I finished my meal, I got up and started looking for a toothbrush. As I was looking, I noticed there was a book section in the drug store. I walked over to it to see if there were any detective novels. Out of the corner of my eye, bright colors began flashing. I turned my head to look straight at a comic book stand. I had never read them when I was a kid. From the age of six I was reading instead the exciting adventures of Philip Marlowe, Sam Spade, Lew Archer, etc. But for some reason now the comic books were drawing me to them. I decided what the heck, why not buy a few. Who knows, when I get back to the 21st century, they might be worth something. So I bought ten for a dollar (along with a toothbrush) and walked out of the store. The clerk had given me a tip on an obscure motel on the outskirts of town.


Thanks to the comic books (I’ll explain in a bit) I got a good night's sleep. The next morning, I was enjoying hot cakes and bacon when the beeping started. A few minutes later I was in the Chevy headed back to Mount Palomar.


CHAPTER NINE

Yes, I was headed back to the place I had been shot at and where I had almost been killed. But the TPE business is not for the faint of heart (have I said that before?) and cracking the case always comes before personal safety. I was in the wrong business if I didn’t feel that way.


Since we have about an hour or so before I arrive at Mount Palomar, please allow me to explain why the comic books helped me get a good night’s sleep. As it was, I only read one eight-page story (out of three) in one book. It was the best anodyne that I can recall. The story was so boring and ridiculous that I fell sound asleep as soon as I finished reading it. It was about some man from another planet ‘with powers far beyond those of an ordinary man’ or something like that. Trouble was this ‘superman’ had a couple of weaknesses: 1) a green, glowing rock called kryptonite, and 2) magic. The particular story I read concerned an impish magician from another dimension that like to pop up on earth and give Superman fits. Somehow tricking the imp into saying his name backwards would send him back to where he came from. I said it was ridiculous and after reading it, I decided I was lucky I had spent my childhood reading books about murder, mayhem, corruption, and violence instead of silly comic books. I even threw the comic books into the trash can. Surely such things (in mint condition, I might add) will never ever be worth anything.


Now this Superman did remind me of something: the Legendary IS-TPEs (IS stands for Inter-Stellar). No one knows if they really exist but if they do, they are supposedly recruited from the cream of the crop graduates of the Pond of Fire TPE Institute. Instead of serving on earth, they are equipped with invisible space suits that give them ability to fly and perform feats of great strength and flexibility, and sent to other star systems to solve cases.


CHAPTER TEN

I pulled into the same parking lot as the day before and took the same path to the same campsite. This time, though, I was bringing a six-pack of Old Milwaukee. When I got to the campsite, Nitram was sitting in the same position as I had left him. I stood there for a few minutes (the beeping had stopped, by the way, when I had reached the campsite) and when it was obvious he wasn’t coming out of his trance anytime soon, I opened a can of Old Milwaukee. I used a can opener that was attached to my portable toothbrush (pop tops had not been invented yet). The sound of the can opening immediately brought the Keeper of the Beeper back into temporal awareness.


“Howdy, Nick, thanks for the beer.”


“You’re welcome. Now tell me why the beep has brought me back. I’m a little nervous. Bullets may start flying.”


“I have a message from The Ghost.”


Was this break I had been so desperately hoping for? Was The Ghost ready to return to immortality and in so doing send me back to the 21st Century?”


Nitram had read my thoughts again. “I’m afraid not, Nick. Here’s the message: ‘On or near the coast/will stay The Ghost’.”


I was dumbfounded. “That’s it? That’s all?”


“He’s staying. No doubt about it. But he did say one other thing, and as usual, it was quite mysterious.”


“And just what might that might be?” I hope that didn’t sound as sarcastic as I felt.


“He said you had the means to get back to the future.”


EPILOG

And then, as if things weren’t bad enough, three gun-toting P-PPEs burst into the campsite. They had me surrounded. My only hope was that my Wullet would protect me from the onslaught of bullets. Neither Walking nor Talking seemed viable options at the moment.


They started shooting. I should just have stood still but TPE instinct (that damn instinct!) took over and I dived for the nearest rock but in so doing my Wullet felt out of the zipperless left front pocket of my shirt (damn that zipperless left front pocket!).


This appeared to be the end. No more Shumptuous chocolate milk. No more hot, humid mornings in Goodsite. No more long drives in the Flying Belt. But as I was contemplating the end of this early existence and the beginning of the next heavenly one (which though indisputably a good thing would also mean starting at the end of the Third Heaven Cafeteria line) I remembered what Nitram said The Ghost had said: “…you have the means to get back to the future.”


And as the bullets were hurtling toward my non-Wullet protected body I quietly said out loud:


“l e s s a c r e e n.”


THE END

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