The world of politics can be tough...even life-threatening. Sometimes it's a matter of leverage. The trouble is that the strangest things can get caught in the middle...

The Return Of The Groundhog

By Herschel Cozine

I recognized him as soon as he waddled through the door, accompanied by a dark suited man who now stood by the window trying to look as though he was somewhere else. The man in question was Milford Galsworthy, the mayor of our fine town. In all my years as a private eye I had never had so distinguished a client. Well, not really a client, at least not yet. He was only a visitor, a “potential” if you will. But still, he had initiated the visit, so he had to have a reason for coming into this part of town. It wasn't exactly Nob Hill.

I leaned back and waited for him to speak. He mopped his brow with an oversized handkerchief. A surreptitious glance at the thermometer on my desk told me it was only 72 degrees, so I concluded the gentleman's malady was due to stress, or something other than the weather.

After several more sessions with the handkerchief, he turned his watery eyes to me.

“You are Steve Malone?”

“I am, your honor,” I said, thus saving him the ritual of introducing himself. “What can I do for you?”

He looked around the room, searching for—what? The room was hardly big enough for the three of us. Finally, satisfied that we were alone, he sat back in his chair and exhaled.

“Moses has been kidnapped,” he said at last.

“Moses?” I said. “The ten commandments guy?”

“No,” he said. “Our mascot. Our groundhog. Millertown Moses.”

Millertown Moses was our famous resident. Oh, not as famous as Punxsutawney Phil, of course. But he served the same purpose. Every February 2nd people would gather at the local zoo and wait for Moses to emerge and tell them what the weather was going to be like for the next six weeks. He was seldom right. But then Phil's track record was no better. We're proud of Moses even if he doesn't get the press that his cousin in Pennsylvania does.

Now he was missing, and Groundhog Day was less than a week away. This was the beginning of a true disaster for Millertown.

However, this wasn't a case for me. I deal with hard crimes. Murder and the like. And I fit the mold of Sam Spade or Philip Marlowe. Rough with the bad guys, gentle with the ladies, and ready for action with either at the drop of a hat—or whatever item of apparel is dropping. Dealing with the ransom of a groundhog was unthinkable. Why I'd be laughed out of the profession! I started to say as much when the mayor leaned over and put a sheet of paper on my desk.

“I found this under my door this morning,” he said.

I picked it up and started to read:

“We have the muskrat. If you want to see him alive again you will follow the instructions carefully. No police are to be involved. No reporters.”

It went on to give instructions for delivery of the ransom money, and ended with the warning that Moses would be fricasseed if the instructions were not followed to the letter.

I set the note aside and looked at the mayor. “Muskrat?”

He waved a pudgy hand. “These people don't know one animal from another,” he said. “But that's not important. I need you to meet with them. Right away.”

“I'm sorry,” I said. “I. . .”

The mayor cut me off. “Groundhog Day is next Tuesday,” he said. “This is a tradition that goes back almost a hundred years. Millertown and Groundhog Day are like ham and eggs. Peanut butter and jelly. Barnes and Noble.”

“I. . .” I tried again, only to be shouted down.

“Where would Philadelphia be without the Liberty Bell? San Francisco without the cable cars? San Antonio without the Alamo ?”

“OK, OK,” I said, stopping him before he got to Washington without the politicians. (an intriguing thought). I picked up the note and read it again.

“They're asking a million dollars,” I said. “Are you willing to pay that much for a groundhog?” I sat back and glowered. “I'm a taxpayer, and I don't take kindly to such a waste of money.”

“Nor do I,” Galsworthy replied. “That's why I'm coming to you. You have the reputation of getting results where others fail. You're tough. You know your way around. I want you to find out where Moses is and who has him. Most of all I want you to get Moses back. Safely.” He underlined the last word with a frown that turned his forehead into a New England country road.

“Let me get this straight,” I said. “You won't pay the ransom for the woodchuck?”

“Groundhog,” His Honor growled. “And no. Not if I can help it. The city doesn't have that kind of money. Otherwise we wouldn't need you. We would just pay the ransom and let it go at that.”

I slid the note across the desk. “I really don't see how I can help you, sir,” I said. “I don't travel in these circles. Even the underworld has its social structure. My contacts would have nothing to do with this kind of misbehavior.” I sighed and leaned back. “They have their pride.”

The mayor waved an impatient hand, attacked his forehead with the handkerchief and jabbed a finger in my direction.

“You'll be well paid. Use your imagination. I'm sure you didn't have contacts when you first started in the business. But you know who they are and where they hang out.” He looked as though he was about to cry. I winced at the thought. I've had my fill of crying politicians. Or am I thinking of TV evangelists?

However, his little act was effective. “OK,” I said. “I'll look into it.”

He stood up and started toward me, his huge frame ready to engulf me in a bear hug. I held up my hand.

“No promises,” I said quickly. “And I'll need your full cooperation.”

”Of course,” he said. “My staff and I are at your disposal.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a checkbook. “Is a thousand dollars sufficient for a retainer?”

“Quite,” I said. “But money is not the issue at the moment.” I picked up the ransom note and held it out to him. “Follow the instructions. Do exactly what the kidnappers say in the note.”

“But we won't pay the ransom.”

“No. Still you have to stall them. Meet with them. Make them think you are cooperating. Tell them it will take awhile to get the money together. And keep the police out of it.”

The mayor nodded dubiously, dropped the check on my desk and turned for the door.

“When will I hear from you?” he asked.

“As soon as I have something to report.”

Another dubious nod and he left, followed by his lapdog. It reminded me of an old movie: a nameless underling played by an actor who made his living by standing around in the background and never having to learn a line of dialogue.

* * *

I had been in the PI business long enough to develop contacts: informants, crooks and characters of every stripe, all with an axe to grind or a score to settle. Keeping them from killing each other off was part of my job. I needed each and every one of them in order to succeed. I never got enough information from a single individual. But a tidbit here and a piece of info there, and I could usually crack the case. It was an art, a balancing act that required patience and a basic understanding of human nature. Not that these sleazy characters were human, but they shared enough DNA with us to make them predictable—if you knew what you were doing.

Squeaky Lewis was a perfect example. A hanger-on who would jump through hoops for a couple of bucks, he knew just enough about the sewer rats to be useful to me. His information was unreliable, but he knew a lot of people. And it was the right people—not information—that I needed from him.

I looked up from my beer as he staggered through the door of the bar looking like something out of “Halloween”. He spotted me at the rear table and made his way across the room. I waved him to a seat, beckoned to the bar girl, and ordered another beer. That was another of my talents: knowing who drank what. In Squeaky's case, beer was his sustenance and he would drink anything that came in a bottle that said “beer” on the label. I suspect that he had often been served horse urine and never knew the difference. A discriminatory palate was not his long suit.

“Thanks for coming,” I said.

Squeaky waved a hand in silent response and took a long swig from the bottle. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, sniffled and smacked his lips. I stifled my desire to give him a napkin and waited for him to give me his full attention. Squeaky could not be rushed.

“What's up? he said finally, his bleary eyes searching mine.

I leaned forward. “I need a name,” I said.

“Who?”

“If I knew that I wouldn't be asking you,” I said.

“Yeah. OK.” He blinked rapidly, digesting my remark. Finally a look of understanding came over his face and he sucked in air through an open mouth. “What's it about?”

“Kidnappers,” I said simply. “Or more precisely animal nappers.”

“Ah.” Squeaky sat up straight. “Is somebody's cat missing?”

“Something like that,” I said. “This is out of my area of specialty. But you know a lot of people in a lot of rackets. Who would kidnap an animal? Let's say a hamster. Or a guinea pig?”

“Guinea pig?” He looked surprised.

“Just an example,” I said. “But not the usual run-of-the-mill housepet.”

“Why are you talkin' to me?” he said. “I don't deal with kidnappers. Or any other kind of nappers.”

“But you know guys who do, right?”

He took another swig of beer and went through the ritual of wiping, sniffling and smacking. Bobbing his head up and down in what appeared to be a sign of assent, he said, “Yeah. A few. There's Beano.”

“Beano who?”

“He don't have a last name. Just Beano.”

“He consorts with kidnappers?” I asked.

Squeaky considered the word. “No. He just hangs out with ‘em.”

I let this pass. “How about contacting him and telling him I'd like to meet with him?”

“I don't talk to Beano,” Squeaky mumbled.

I took a ten dollar bill from my pocket and slid it across the table. Squeaky eyed it hungrily and started to reach for it. I pulled it back.

“First you have to talk to Beano.”

“Yeah. OK.”

He reached for the bill again, but I held it firmly and nodded to the pay phone on the wall by the door. “Beano,” I said.

He looked from the bill to the pay phone to me, his eyes finally settling on the bill. “I dunno his phone number. I only know where he hangs out. I hafta see him personally.”

I considered this carefully and decided to risk the ten bucks. I leaned over and stuffed it in Squeaky's pocket, patted him on the shoulder and stood up. I handed him my business card.

“Have him call me,” I said.

“Why would Beano wanna talk to you?” Squeaky asked.

“Why not?” I realized that this answer was not sufficient. Squeaky had a point. I really had nothing to offer Beano that would be of any interest to him. I decide to take a calculated risk. “Tell him that Moses wants to deal.”

“Moses? Who's. . .”

I cut him off. “Just tell him.”

He looked at me dubiously. I took another bill from my pocket and waved it under his nose. “There's another tenspot for you if he calls me by the end of the day.”

Squeaky was hooked. Without a word he headed for the door.

By five o'clock I still hadn't heard from Beano. I was about to chalk up the ten dollars as a bad business decision when the phone on my desk rang noisily. I jumped at the sound, picked up the receiver and put it to my ear.

“Malone,” I said into the mouthpiece.

“ Jennings Wharf . Eight o'clock,” a deep gruff voice growled. A click followed and I found myself listening to dead air.

* * *

Jennings Wharf was a neglected pier that jutted into the Pacific Ocean in a sparsely populated part of town. A lone street light fifty yards from the entrance to the pier was the only illumination, except for the reflection of a half-moon off the water. Once a thriving fishing spot with bait shops and restaurants, the wharf had slowly deteriorated until today it was only used by a handful of intrepid fishermen. The rotting pilings and planks threatened to collapse with every high tide, and I stepped gingerly along hoping that the wharf would hold together for another day.

I leaned against the creaky railing and watched an oil tanker make its way across the horizon, riding high in the water. Having delivered its cargo it was heading back to wherever it came from. How many tankers like the one I was watching were en route to and from their destination at this moment? Oil. Like money, it makes the world go around—and around and around.

My reverie was interrupted by the creak of a plank behind me. I turned to see a dark figure looming over me. The man's face was hidden in the shadows. Slowly he walked to the railing and leaned against it, his head tilted down.

“Malone?” I recognized the voice as the one on the phone.

“Right,” I said. “And you're Beano?”

The man snorted. “Beano's a punk,” he said. He put a foot on the lower railing. “You wanted to talk? Let's hear it.”

“I need information,” I said.

“About what?”

“Somebody took the groundhog.”

“Why should I know anything about it?”

“You're here,” I said. “And you know what I'm talking about.”

Another snort.

“Who has him?”

“What's in it for me?”

“What do you want?”

The man took his foot from the railing and replaced it with his other foot. Still looking down at the rising tide, he remained silent for what seemed an eternity. I waited, knowing that he would speak only when he was ready. A foghorn sounded in the distance.

“Who you working for?” he said at last.

“On this case? The city. Mayor Galsworthy.”

“So we cut a deal?”

“You know where Moses is?”

“Maybe.” He turned and put his elbows on the rail. I couldn't see his face, but knew he was looking at me. “This chuck is pretty important, ain't he? Otherwise you wouldn't be standing here talking to me.”

“Yeah,” I said. “The mayor wants him back.”

“How bad?”

“Bad.”

“Talk to him. Give him a name. Carlo.”

“How about the ransom?” I said.

“That's none of my affair.”

“So you don't have Moses?”

“I know who does.”

“And you'd give him up for a deal?”

The figure snorted. “The guy who has him ain't no friend of mine. I hate his guts. Yeah I'd give him up. But I won't do it for nothing.”

“I'll talk to the mayor. Will he know who I mean? Does he know who ‘Carlo' is?”

“He'll know.”

“Will he know what you—er—Carlo wants?”

“Oh, yeah.”

“OK. I'll see what I can do. Meet me here tomorrow. Same time.”

“No,” the man said. “I'll call you.”

Before I could say anything, he turned and walked away. I watched as his retreating form melted into the darkness. Moments later I saw his shadow pass under the street light. Then he was gone.

* * *

Mayor Galsworthy's face reddened and I feared for a moment that he would suffer a heart attack when I mentioned Carlo's name.

“Not him!” he sputtered. “You talked to Carlo?”

“I'm not sure who he was. I don't know what Carlo looks like. And I didn't see the guy's face anyway. But he was speaking for Carlo if it wasn't the man himself.”

“Tell me you're kidding,” he said in a quavering voice.

“Sorry,” I said.

The mayor had been standing by the window in his plush office overlooking the town square. Now he sat down, his stubby legs unable to support him. Taking his ubiquitous handkerchief from his pocket he started on his forehead again, his eyes glazed.

“Oh, Lord,” he said. “I can't do this. Martindale would have my hide nailed to the wall.”

Harold Martindale was the owner of the largest buildings in Millertown, as well as the mall and the convention center. He was the unofficial mayor, pulling the strings while the real mayor danced. Without Martindale, one didn't stand a chance of being elected in this town. It was obvious that the mayor had no power to deal with Carlo without the approval of Martindale. It was just as obvious that Martindale was not a big fan of Carlo's. I almost felt sorry for Galsworthy. But, if he wanted to see Moses again, he would have to do something —and fast.

“Maybe I can be of help,” I said. “I'll be willing to talk with Martindale and impress on him the importance of making a deal.”

The mayor's laugh sounded more like a death rattle. “Carlo Fulton is a contractor. He builds things. Just like Martindale. Right now they're in a bidding war for the theatre complex and swimming pool.”

I nodded sympathetically. Contracts that large were always given to Martindale. Even though the city went through the motions of considering competitive bids, the outcome was never in doubt. And with the mayor in Martindale's pocket, this contract was a slam dunk. Corrupt? Of course. But it was the old story. Crooked contractors who owned city hall, squashed competition and got rich—or richer—through intimidation and, if need be, strong-arming. I could see Galsworthy's problem.

“I'll pay the ransom. That's the only way out of this,” the mayor said.

“I don't think so,” I said.

“What do you mean?”

I walked over to the window and looked out. “I think Carlo has Moses.”

“But the ransom note...”

“A cover,” I said. “He's using that so no one will suspect him He doesn't want money. He wants the contract. He makes it look like somebody else took Moses and he does his civic duty by ratting on the guy. Of course, he wants something in return. And unless you agree I'm afraid you can kiss your gopher goodbye.”

The mayor winced at this pronouncement.

“What makes you think Carlo has Moses?”

“He's too willing to rat on a fellow crook. You've heard the expression, ‘honor among thieves'. He'd never give up another crook, no matter how much he may hate him.”

“But...” Galsworthy started.

“Oh, they'll kill each other. Steal from each other. But when the law gets involved they stand together like brothers.” I smiled ruefully. “Ransom? Forget it. Either agree to his terms or....” I ran my finger across my throat in a slashing motion. “Moses is history.”

I thought the mayor was going to break down and cry right before my eyes. I wasn't ready to deal with that.

“Maybe there's another way out,” I said quickly.

The mayor's face transformed from a graveyard of furrows to a hopeful if hollow eyed interest.

“What?” he said. “How?”

“We find out where Moses is being kept.”

His face quickly melted into the graveyard again. “How do you do that? There are too many hiding places in town. It's impossible.”

“Not impossible,” I said. “Groundhogs need food. Water. Air. And they need a place to burrow.” I waited for Galsworthy to blow his nose, then went on. “I'm betting that Moses is hiding right under our noses, if you'll forgive the rhyme.” I paused to let the mayor digest the information.

“I'm willing to bet that Carlo has the little critter. He has a construction yard down by the ocean. It's an ideal place to hide Moses. There are tool sheds, blockhouses, and, best of all, dirt.”

I watched as Galsworthy slowly transformed from a lump of hopelessness to a lump of budding optimism. His eyes widened. He put his handkerchief in his pocket and went to the window.

“You may be right,” he said.

“What do groundhogs eat?” I asked.

“I don't know,” the mayor answered. “I think they are vegetarians. They must eat grass. Roots. Weeds.”

“Exactly,” I said. “And there are enough weeds down there to feed an army of groundhogs. Why, Moses must be in hog heaven. And Carlo doesn't have to spend a cent to keep the thing alive and well. He just has to keep him hidden.”

“Look into it,” Mayor Galsworthy said. He glanced at his watch. “Fast!”

* * *

The Fulton Construction Company warehouse and storage yard was protected by a chain link fence standing ten feet high and strung with a few strands of barbed wire. The main entrance, likewise fenced and wired, was barred and locked. A walkthrough gate to the side of the entrance was the only other access to the yard. It was locked from the inside. I guessed that a night watchman must be on duty, probably snoozing in one of the buildings that stood near the rear of the property.

It was almost midnight. A light drizzle was falling, and the clouds hid the moon. The only light was a floodlight over the main entrance, dimmed by dirt and grime, throwing a sickly yellow light on the road below. Next to the gate was a metal sentry box, used to record the time whenever a key was inserted—proof that the watchman had made his rounds at the prescribed time.

I had come prepared with bolt cutters, screwdrivers and an array of tools that would be needed to remove the gate and gain access to the grounds. The gate was child's play. I had removed the hinges in less than five minutes and opened the gate without having to cut the lock. Once inside I shut the gate, leaving the pins out of the hinges so that I could exit rapidly if the occasion demanded. Finding a dark spot by the sentry box, I waited.

I didn't have to wait long. A few minutes later a rectangle of yellow appeared in one of the buildings as a door was opened. I followed the progress of a weak beam of light as the watchman made his way across the yard, stopping at a blockhouse to insert his key in a sentry box. Slowfooted, shuffling, the man approached the gate. I flattened myself against the fence.

I waited until he had inserted the key and was heading for the next post before I acted. Putting my arm around his neck, I held him in a tight grip. He groaned with surprise and dropped the flashlight. He kicked feebly, but his foot found nothing but air.

“I'm not going to hurt you,” I said, relaxing my grip so that he could breathe. I didn't want a dead watchman on my hands. He struggled a little more, then relaxed.

“Who are you? What do you want?” he said in a voice tinged with fear.

“The groundhog,” I said. “Where is he?”

“I...I...” he stammered.

“The groundhog.”

“I...I don't know what you're talking about.”

I tightened my grip on his neck.

“The groundhog!” I repeated.

“Please,” the guard grunted. “I have my orders.”

“Right now I'm your boss. Do as I say or....” I emphasized my words with a squeeze to his neck that sent him into a fit of coughing. I held him in my grip a few seconds longer, then relaxed and let him breathe.

“Where is it?”

The guard lifted his free hand and pointed at a shed in the far corner of the yard.

“OK,” I said. “Let's go.” I took my arm from around his neck and grabbed his right arm, holding it tightly.

“I'll be in big trouble if anything happens to that animal,” he said.

I pushed him forward.

“Please don't do this to me. Take anything you want. But leave the groundhog alone.”

“Move!” I said.

We reached the shed, securely padlocked and chained. I held out my hand.

“The key.”

“I don't have it.”

“Look, pal. I'm in no mood for games. Give me the key or I break your arm.” I underlined my remark by a sharp twist of his arm that made him grunt.

“Honest, mister. I don't have it. Mister Fulton has the only key to that lock.”

I could tell from the desperation in his voice that he was telling the truth. I shined the flashlight on the door and studied the hinges. They were recessed, making it impossible to remove them from the outside. The door itself was made of steel. The only way to open the door was to cut the padlock.

Still holding on to the guard's arm, I steered him to the post next to the shed. Placing his hands behind his back, I quickly tied them with the rope from my backpack. I gagged him so he couldn't call out, just in case there was a second guard on the premises. Satisfied that he was securely tied, I took the bolt cutters from the backpack and approached the lock. It was an expensive brand made of forged steel that wasn't easily cut. I made several passes, managing only a few superficial dings in the metal. This wasn't going to be easy. I stood back to inspect my progress, such as it was, when I was hit from behind. The guard had managed to free himself and hit me with his entire body, sending me crashing into the door. I saw stars as my head made contact with the hard cold steel. Turning swiftly, I landed a punch on the man's jaw, sending him reeling to the ground like a sack of wet cement. He lay motionless. I was afraid I had killed him. Then he turned over on his back, groaned and went limp. Once again, I tied him to the post, making certain this time that the knots were tight and secure.

It took several passes and a lot of grunts and curses to cut the lock, but it finally gave way and fell to the ground. I opened the door and peered inside. The beam of the flashlight captured a pair of glowing eyes looking out from a shallow mound of dirt in the corner of the small room. Moses! A sight for sore eyes.

I took the burlap sack from the pack and started for Moses. My plan to bag and tie him was quickly thwarted, as the animal was in no mood to cooperate. Despite their somewhat meek appearance, they can fight like tigers. Moses fought with tooth and nails, scratching my arm and biting my finger. Throwing a few choice words his way, I finally managed to get the bag over his head, roll him into the bag and tie it off. I would have rather gone another round with the guard. Speaking of whom, he was starting to come around, moaning and struggling against the rope around his wrists. I went over to him, lifted him upright and pushed him into the shed. I closed the door, braced a 4 x 4 against it and wedged it tight. It would be difficult, if not impossible, for him to get out of the shed. Not that it mattered. All I needed was five minutes to get safely away from the yard.

Moses weighed a ton. I half dragged the bag through the gate and into my car a block down the road. Opening the trunk, I hoisted the bag inside and closed the lid. I drove by the yard, looking to see if the guard had managed to escape. The 4 x 4 was still in place. I felt a surge of sympathy for the man inside. I could only guess what would happen to him when Carlo discovered that his bargaining chip was gone. I suppose I should have felt a little guilty. But I had been in this business too long to have anything resembling humanitarian feelings. It's a dog eat dog world. Or should I say groundhog?

* * *

To say Mayor Galsworthy was happy to see Moses is like saying the Grand Canyon is a big ditch. I escaped serious injury from hugs and backslaps and made my escape when he was looking the other way. My reward was to be monetary and I am reasonably certain that his ecstasy will be tempered when he gets the bill, which will include first aid for scratches and groundhog bites. But for the moment he had regained the will to live. Groundhog Day had been spared! Moses was back!

I had never attended the Groundhog Day festival before. But it seemed appropriate to go to this one. By the time I arrived, a crowd had already gathered at the zoo, complete with the high school band, a bevy of photographers and the local TV crew. The mayor, looking like a penguin on steroids, stood beaming at the crowd in his rented tuxedo. Showing his good side to the camera, or at least the better of his bad sides, he was extolling the virtues of Moses, Millertown and apple pie as he waited for the beast to make his appearance. It brought a lump to my throat. More than likely indigestion.

Moses had not yet appeared. Still worn out from his ordeal, and back in his home only two days, he was in no hurry to perform. No self respecting groundhog would show his face to that spectacle anyway. And if he did he wouldn't stay around long enough to see his shadow. We were doomed to have six more weeks of winter. But for today—well—let sleeping groundhogs lie. While the band struggled through “Happy Days Are Here Again” I got in my car and drove away.