CASE NUMBER EIGHT

THE CASE OF NORMEX ANNEX

CHAPTER ONE

My name is Lance Straightpoint, recently rehabilitated TPE. I’ve known Nick for about five years. Nick is currently recuperating at his home base of Goodsite, South Carolina from the debilitating effects of TOM Syndrome. TOM refers to Time Out of Mind. Symptoms of TOMS include hallucinations, multi-colored views of the universe, and a strong desire to drink chocolate milk; the symptoms are almost identical to that of taking LSD. For some unknown reason, TOMS only affects TPEs. It’s a job hazard that our health plan doesn’t recognize. All we TPEs know to do is to find a dark room somewhere and try to sleep without dreaming. Have you ever tried that? Not an easy thing to do. I just hope Nick is making progress in his recovery.

With Nick on the shelf, it’s fallen to me to tackle his next assignment, which the writers are calling THE CASE OF NORMEX ANNEX. I’m not too sure that’s a good title but I don’t write these stories so I’m not in position to make such decisions. Better left to the eggheads who do; the ones who sit all day punching at keyboards, straining their little brains and struggling to find ways to make murder, mayhem, and violence sound exciting, seductive, and enticing. That’s not the way I operate. I stick to the assignments I’m given. I either succeed or I fail. Simple as that.

At the end of the last story, Nick told you I was staying in LA to handle THE CASE OF THE NICK NEERCASSEL DOPPELGANGER. What Nick didn’t tell you was that he was the doppelganger (in other words, there was no doppelganger). It was the TOMS at work. I found poor Nick in a Hollywood studio back lot asking a custodian what his plans were when he became president. Luckily, I was able to talk Nick into riding to the airport with me where I made sure he got on the TPE Express. The pilot, Earl, said he would take good care of Nick and even had a six-pack of Shumptuous in the jet fridge.

And now I find myself 600 miles southeast of LA headed toward the Mexican border and a place my superiors call Normex Annex. Seems there’s some sort of cult living about fifty miles on the Mexican side of the border. They call themselves the Cult of the Raspberry Tart and their stated goal is to make Normex Annex an independent nation. Sounds more political than religious, but like I said, I don’t question the assignments. The last thing I want to do is go through TPE Rehab again.

CHAPTER TWO

The last American town I experienced before crossing the border went by the name of Encrucijados de Buenositio.  It was hot and dusty and as a result I was hot and thirsty as I strolled into the El Peyote Coyote Cantina and took a seat at the bar. The bartender asked,

“What’ll you have?”

“Shagah No Pesada.” I replied and then added, “Make it as cold as humanly possible.”

As I had walked through the swinging doors of the cantina I had noticed a group of three men sitting at a table in the corner, which in normal times, would not have worried me, but these were anything but normal times, and so I was naturally suspicious of any group of two or more who seemed to be concocting a plan of some kind. Had they been tipped off that I was headed to Normex Annex? If so then I needed to keep an eye on them. I didn’t want to be taken by surprise but in looking at them I forget about the bartender, who instead of getting a beer for me, got a baseball bat instead and promptly began swinging at my head. TPE training asserted itself so that I moved quickly enough to cause the blow to be a glancing one. Still it was more than enough to knock me off the bar stool and as I was struggling to get to my feet, the other three men moved toward me in a menacing fashion. Since I have not read all of Nick’s cases I don’t know what you know or don’t know about the TPE Code of Conduct so I will inform you now of one very germane one: TPEs have a ‘License Not to Hurt Too Severely’. Not my favorite conduct in the Code but one I plan to live by (or die by) because I never, ever want to go through rehab again.

All three men, like the bartender, were carrying baseball bats (I wonder if they were members of a local minor league baseball team?). I managed to grab the bar stool by one of its legs and swung it low and hard knocking two of the men off of their feet. The two men falling to the floor temporarily slowed the third man and that gave me the opportunity to leap up on the bar where I threw myself at the bartender. We went crashing back into the tequila bottles. Landing heavily on his back knocked the wind out of the bartender; I then did a somersault behind the bar gaining a little distance between me and the other three men who were hot in pursuit wildly swinging their baseball bats. I noticed a fire hydrant on the wall which I quickly seized and turned on the men. The escaping foamy liquid threw them into paroxysms of aimless activity. I now saw my chance to escape and I bolted through the cantina doors where I ran headlong into a fifth man and yet another baseball bat. This one didn’t miss.

CHAPTER THREE

When I came to, a cat was banging around in some trash cans in the back alley where I found myself face down in the cobblestones that lined the alley way. I felt the side of my head. The baseball bat had made quite an impression. I quickly recalled several facts of my existence that proved to me I was still alive and in one piece. I then felt in all my pockets and found nothing missing. But why had I been assaulted? Just because I was a stranger in town? I had done nothing to provoke anyone.

Or had I? In one of my pockets had been a piece of paper that I didn’t remember being there. It took me a moment but then I realized I was looking at a recipe for a raspberry tart:

Pate Brisee (Short Crust Pastry):

1 1/4 cups (175 grams) all-purpose flour

1/2 teaspoon (2 grams) salt

1 tablespoon (14 grams) granulated white sugar

1/2 cup (1 stick) (113 grams) unsalted butter, chilled, and cut into 1 inch (2.5 cm) pieces

1/8 to 1/4 cup (30 - 60 ml) ice water

Filling:

2 cups fresh raspberries

2 tablespoons (30 grams) granulated white sugar

1 tablespoon (15 grams) unsalted butter, melted

But there were no cooking instructions! What parts needed cooking? How long and at what temperature? Even with an aching head, I suddenly felt quite hungry.

CHAPTER FOUR

One thing was for sure. I wasn’t going back to the El Peyote Coyote to get a bite to eat. Somewhere less violent was what I had in mind, so walking very gingerly and with my eyes darting in all directions, I went back to the relatively peaceful main street of Buenositio. It was still daylight; I’m guessing just after siesta and the street was stirring back to life. I found a small café where I went in and ordered a steak and two aspirins. I utilized one cold Shegah No Pesada to wash down the aspirins and another one to wash down the steak.

While dining, I thought about the attack and the note. Were they tied together, and if so, was someone or some group of someones trying to tell me something? Why a recipe for a raspberry tart? Of course! It had to be a message from the Cult of the Raspberry Tart. But why not just hand it to me? Why were baseball bats necessary? Unless the wielders of the baseball bats were actually not in cahoots with the Tarters. Maybe the Tarters was on their way to contact me when they saw me being attacked. Not wanting to get involved, they waited until my body was dumped in the back alley, then approached me while I was still unconscious and slipped the raspberry tart recipe into my pocket. They figured my being conscious or unconscious had no bearing on their assignment. Their job had simply been to give me the recipe and as far they were concerned they had fulfilled their duty.

So here I was, in an out of the way place called Buenositio, with a big knot on my head and a tart recipe.

I was making progress.

CHAPTER FIVE

But to continue doing so, it was necessary that I cross the border which I did so by wading across the Rio del Amigo. My first stop after crossing the border was a tiny village that went by the rather grandiose name of Ciudad de Polvo Conejitos. As far as I could see or smell, it had nothing to commend it, so as quickly as I could, I rented a donkey, bought a few needed supplies, and set out for the mysterious Normex Annex.

As you may have noticed by now, I was neither sending nor receiving phone calls. It had to do with my recent TPE Rehab stint. Upon leaving Rehab, a TPE was put on a 90 day probation period, during which time he or she was forced to operate sans celestial cell phone, Wullet, and worst of all, unlimited celestial credit. Now I still had my TPE ID slash credit card but it had a daily limit; in my case just enough to rent a donkey when I needed one.

The donkey’s name, like the village where I had rented him, was more impressive than the bearer of the name. His name was Equus Asinus Ringmaster. I decided to call him Big Ears. Maybe he heard things no one else did. But if he did, how would he communicate his findings? A good TPE never closes the door on any one particular source of information, but it was hard to see how Big Ears would turn out to be a useful informant.

No one in the village had admitted they had ever heard of Normex Annex though I had caught a gleam in a couple of people’s eyes when I mentioned the name. I couldn’t tell if they were being evasive or were just being sincerely dumb.

Big Ears and I made good time as we followed the only trail that led south out of town. It was your basic desert environment: hot, dry and dusty. There was a constant wind with the only variation in it being hard to slightly less hard and back to hard again. I begin to think the Cult of Raspberry Tart would have no trouble in declaring independence for Normex Annex; because simply no one would care or notice if they did.

CHAPTER SIX

We had covered a relatively easy twenty miles the first day and that night as I lay under a canopy of twinkling stars I thought about Spinoza and the mechanics of determinism. Were they quantum in nature or were they more Ford automotive assembly line style, circa 1920? I asked Big Ears if he had any thoughts on the matter, but unlike Balaam’s Ass, he was content, except for a few brays now and then, to remain silent through the night.

The next day we ran into our first genuine Tarter, or erstwhile Tarter, should I say. Apparently, life in the Cult of the Raspberry Tart, had been more piquant than she had bargained for, and being of a naturally somber nature, she had soon discovered that for her, being a Tarter was a non-starter.

And though the song she sang was a sad one, she did turn out to be of assistance in a minor key. She verified that the raspberry tart recipe that had been surreptitiously left in my pocket was the Real McCoy. But she couldn’t look at too long – too many painful memories. She then asked for ‘the colored water that pretends to be beer’ and I grabbed a Shagah No Pesada out of the cooler and offered it to her. She took it gratefully and re-commenced her slow journey back to the border and to a life that was neither pungent nor audacious but a life that had the potential to be entirely her own.

After she had left us, we trekked for about another two hours until we stopped for lunch and a siesta. I ate some beef jerky and then found some shade underneath a large rock where I managed to take a refreshing nap. Any dreams I had were common to us all. In one, I was flying high above the earth, looking down on Machu Picchu, thinking what a lovely day for a picnic. Just leave the guinea pigs at home, for God’s sake.

When I awoke I breathed a sigh of relief; my dreams had demonstrated no symptoms of TOMS

CHAPTER SEVEN

The Tart camp was at the base of a mountain. A whole lot of outside cooking was going on and I spotted some Food Network cameras strategically located. There were several FN celebrities in attendance. It was our lucky day. Big Ears let out a gleeful bray. My mouth began to water.

It was a Tart Cook-Off!

There were a shortage of judges and I volunteered the services of Big Ears and myself. To be accepted we had to first be interviewed by the Tart Leader, Cassy Castenada. I had never met Cassy but I had known her father, Carlos, back in the seventies. I was doing reconnaissance work in the Fifth Peyote Dimension and had run into Carlos while he was doing research for one of his books. I never read that particular book but I’m sure like all Carlos’ books it combined hard facts with a healthy dose of skepticism.

Cassy looked to be her mid-forties with long black hair and a winning smile. She wasted no time in interviewing us:

“Why do you think you and Big Ears are qualified to be judges?

“We both want to have lives that have relevance and piquancy.”

“Have you ever judged a Raspberry Tart Cook-Off?”

“No, but Big Ears got mad one time and rampaged through a Blueberry Tart Cook-Off.”

Cassy smiled: “That’s all I needed to know. Report to the judges table.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

There were no bad tarts. They were all wonderful. You might say they mutually excelled each other. But finally, after several hours of tart tasting, Big Ears and I were finally able to find the gumption to vote on our favorites. We really had no choice but to vote. All the tarts were gone.

After the festivities, I made a point of seeing Cassy again. After all, she was the leader of the Tarts and who better to explain the incipient desire to be a free nation. Was it religious freedom they were seeking? Was it political freedom or was it some transcendental yearning to be in a place where piquancy, audaciousness, and tartness could come into their own?

“We need a place to grow peyote without government interference. It was my father’s dream and when it didn’t come true during his own lifetime he passed the baton to me.”

“But why peyote? Isn’t it just another one of your run of the mill hallucinogenic drugs that promises more that it can deliver?”

Cassy looked hard at me before answering. “So you’re here to try and stop us.”

“You sent the men with the baseball bats, didn’t you?”

“They weren’t supposed to hurt you; just a friendly warning.”

“But why the gift of the Raspberry Tart recipe? Wasn’t that an invitation of sorts?”

“Well, we’re just so proud of that recipe that we want to share it even when it goes against our best interests. Life cannot be piquant and provocative unless there is the push and pull of yin and yang.”

“Just how do you plan to get away with making Normex Annex an independent country?”

“Since it’s only one square mile in area we’re hoping no one will notice.”

“Are we located in Normex Annex right now?”

“No. We had a Cook-Off here to throw searchers off the trail. And it would have worked too, at least for the ordinary searchers. But you TPEs don’t fall into that category.”

“They don’t call us gradgrinds for nothing.”

CHAPTER NINE

Cassy, of course, had no intention of divulging the true location of Normex Annex. It was up to a man and his donkey to find it the old-fashioned way.

The next morning Cassy and the Tarters broke camp and left the area. I didn’t even bother to see in which direction they were headed. One thing I was sure of; they weren’t headed for Normex Annex. They would probably go a thousand miles out of their way before ever deliberately leading me to it. It made more sense that I keep moving on my own, following my TPE instincts, and looking for leads in the unlikeliest of places. If I found Normex Annex, it would be in spite of, not because of the Tarters.

Big Ears seemed to be feeling a little sluggish. I could emphasize. Too many Raspberry Tarts will do that to you. But it didn’t matter if our perkiness was on the wane, there was a still a job to be done, and so we hit the trail at dawn. Without breakfast I might add.

How do you find a specific square mile in an unvarying landscape?; a landscape that is so monotonous it makes you wish you were watching reruns of Fidel Castro speeches instead. How do you do it? You do it through fear; fear of being sent back to TPE Rehab; and so we trod on, Big Ears and I, ensconced in our own thoughts, all the while wondering if we were going  to a particular somewhere that wasn’t really particularly there.

Mile after mile we trudged with only bathroom breaks, meals, and sleep to break the tedium. Big Ears didn’t even stop for his bathroom breaks but he didn’t mind taking a break when I stopped for mine. Didn’t seem fair but that’s the way it was.

My assignment had been pared down to the bone. A donkey and I were in the desert searching for a speck of land, a speck so obscure even a celestial GPS (God Positioning System) would have trouble finding it.

And then when it seemed things couldn’t get worse; the wind picked up speed.

CHAPTER TEN

Within minutes, we were in the throes of a full force dust storm and there was no place to hide. It was every man or donkey for himself. The last I saw of Big Ears he was hurtling away from me  at a tremendous rate of speed about two feet off the ground. The look on his face was one I would never forget. Someday (if I escape this ordeal) I’ll pay fitting tribute to Equus Asinus Ringmater: a good donkey and a true desert companion.

As for me, I too was swept away by the furious dust storm but in a slightly different direction than Big Ears. I had no choice but to close my eyes as sand particles were rapidly flowing into them. Luckily I always tied my Hiram Bingham III fedora under my neck so I didn’t lose my hat as I went sailing into the desert environs.

The seconds flashed by and I was still being transported by the ferocious wind. Then the seconds turned into minutes and I was…

Going, going…gone.

EPILOG

The children must have a place to play. We will build them a playground on the third planet that revolves around that rather small insignificant star. Every five thousand years or so we will visit and see how they’re doing. I have high hopes for them. Yes, they are quite headstrong and stubborn and not always willing to listen to good advice. But their potential is great and so we should never give up on them unless they first give up on themselves.

The dust storm was over and I lay crumpled up by a cactus. I decided it was finally alright to open my eyes. I did so and immediately closed them again. The sun was so bright it made my eyes hurt.  So this time when I opened them I did so by squinting, just barely allowing the light in; but it was enough to see the crudely made sign that looked like an arrow attached to a five foot pole. The sign read:

San Manse’.

THE END