SLIM AND NUN

by Larry and Rosemary Mild

You can find me in the telephone book under private investigators—Wittz, Slim O.—right after Wilton , Hubert B. They don't have a proper section for shamuses or gumshoes, not even a See Private Investigators listing. But that's what I do for a living, and I'm good at it. Voluptuous has the notion that she's more than just my secretary. I let her think so because it's cheaper than giving her a raise. Yeah, Voluptuous. That's her name and she's got the soft curves to prove it. Her turquoise feline eyes, sculptured nose, and full baby lips don't hurt her looks none either. Besides, she's a second-year law student and that's like having a get-out-of-jail-free card on the payroll. It's Vo's bright idea to advertise in the book.

The word's out that I'm a throwback to the gumshoes of the nineteen thirties and forties. You know, the likes of Sam Shade, Flip Marlow, and Mike Slammer—the hard-boiled private eyes with the hidden honest streaks and deep soft spots for the hard-bodied damsels in distress. In reality, I prefer mine over easy—both my eggs and my women. Mostly, I investigate errant spouses: the unfaithful, the gamblers, the embezzlers, the runaways, the otherwise missing and the meshugge kind.

I answer the jangling phone. “Slim O. Wittz Investigations…Yeah, pound and a half… lean… a pound of Swiss… half-dozen rolls… a round rye. Sure, right away.” I hang up.

My telephone number is one digit off from a delicatessen's and I'm constantly annoyed by all the wrong numbers. Callers have a helluva lot of chutzpah. They get pretty nasty when I can't tell 'em the right number. Don't they even hear me say “Investigations”? So now I'm accepting orders and being very polite about it. Sometimes I say I'll throw in an extra side of slaw or a slab of halvah . When they get hungry enough, I figure they'll learn to use the phone book. Meanwhile, I've put on twelve pounds just from listening to all the food orders.

As a Jewish private eye, what would you think my chances are of getting involved with a shiksa, let alone some holy Catholic woman? I'd say slim to none. Yet three weeks ago, after finishing four straight days of stakeouts, I'm resting my head between my folded arms on the desk when I hear this persistent banging on the office door.

“It's open,” I yell, picking up my head. “You don't have to break it down!”

A gentle woman's voice answers, “There are no lights in here.”

“Switch is by the door,” I tell her.

As my eyes get used to the light, she asks, “Slim? Slim O. Wittz?”

“Yeah, that's me. How can I help you?” In my clearer vision she begins to look sort of familiar, but I can't quite place her.

“Lily McElvee from high school. Don't you recognize me?”

“I'll be damned,” I reply. “Silly McElvee. I never expected to find you in my office.”

“I've always hated that nickname. If I remember correctly, you're the one who tagged me with it.”

“Guilty as charged,” I say, jumping up from my desk chair. “Why don't you get rid of those wet things? There's some hooks behind the door.” I'm ready to give her a huge hello hug. But as she flips back the hood of her coat, I get a shock. She's wearing a nun's headdress—black, draping to her shoulders. Her brunette bangs form a fringe below the headband. Then she sheds her rain jacket and I get another shock. No nun's habit. Just a slender figure in a trendy denim skirt and white blouse.

“I'm Sister Maria Leona now.” Behind rimless glasses she levels her blue eyes at me and smiles, friendly-like. “You look a little confused.”

“You got that right, Silly, I mean Sister. Jeez, uh, this nun thing. No white wings? No long robe?”

She chuckles. “Sally Field I'm not. Besides, the Flying Nun was forty years ago. It depends on the Order we're in, but the traditional habit has pretty much gone by the wayside for many of us.”

Maybe, but I ain't going for the hugging thing and offer her a chair in front of my desk. She surprises me with a matter-of-fact squeeze anyway. Really confused now, I return to my swivel chair. “Well, is this a social visit or is there something I can help you with?”

“I'm afraid I'm in need of your professional services, Slim.”

“I always thought you gals went upstairs for this kind of help.”

“This particular problem is more earthy by nature. It has nothing to do with the Church. And, don't worry, this isn't a charity case. We can pay.”

“I charge $550 per day plus expenses. For you, I'll wave the thousand dollar retainer fee.”

“Thank you.”

“You said we . If not the Church, who are we ?”

“My sister Melba and me.”

“A Sister's sister—sounds complicated. So what's it all about?”

“Twenty-six years ago I joined the Holy Order and I didn't see much of Melba for some years afterward. I can't say who was more at fault, but we lost touch anyway, and I felt bad about it. Through some friends I learned that she had become a bookkeeper in Las Vegas and had found herself a satisfying life.”

“It sounds more like the end of the story—and they lived happily ever after.”

“That wasn't the case. A very frightened Melba showed up on our doorstep nineteen years ago asking for asylum. She answered next to no questions, but requested that she be admitted as a novice. Mother Superior accepted her on a trial basis, and until a year ago she served devotedly. Melba quickly found her niche in records and bookkeeping, doing everything that was expected of her. Everything but one. Throughout all that time, she repeatedly refused to take her final vows, saying she was unworthy.”

“So moving on from novice to sister—that's a promotion of sorts?”

Sister Maria Leona stares at me like my question's unworthy of an answer, so I don't press her. Her whole expression turns dark when she continues.

“All last year Melba was spending more and more time away from the convent. In fact, she shocked me by suddenly taking an apartment in town. Shortly afterward, she began acting paranoid, and her health started to fail as well. A few days ago, she finally came clean and confessed everything to me.”

I see that Sister's having trouble holding back tears. Turns out, about twenty years ago, in a fit of insanity, Melba stole a whole chunk of money from the Vegas mob—more than 280 big ones—and stowed it away in one of the local bank vaults. The whole time Sister's anonymous sister was hiding out as a novice in the convent, she kept her vow of poverty and never used a penny of the stash for herself. Being in the convent, it was like she gave herself a new identity, no Social Security number needed. The mob couldn't find her under her religious name. Having a great place to hide, Melba lost her fear of the mob and essentially put the stash out of mind, except to keep up the payments on the bank's safety deposit box.

“Whew!” I whistle. “That's some story. So what happened a year ago? Eighteen years is a long time to break a habit… er… no pun intended.”

Sister Maria Leone lets out a long sigh and explains. “Melba got to thinking—after all this time, that money wasn't doing anyone any good, so she withdrew the whole stash from the vault and placed it with a stockbroker. She intended to do charitable work with all the interest and dividends the principal had accumulated. She had found religion in a serious way and wanted to accomplish some good with the gains.”

I'm getting warmed up to this, concocting my own scenario. “Ah,” I break in. “Kind of like Yom Kippur , Melba's atoning, making amends.” I steam-roller ahead, guessing instead of listening to the whole story. “So what's going on? Melba's having trouble living with the guilt? You want me to help her return the money to the mob, but she doesn't know how or where or to who? Was there a particular individual injured most by the theft? Is he still around? Does the mob have an accounts receivable department? If they do, how do we avoid their over-anxious, muscled persuaders? Do we leave the cash on the doorstep with a note to take good care of it?”

Sister listens intently, but she looks a little flattened out, then shakes her head. “I wish it were that easy. You see, Melba made a huge mistake. She used her own name, address, and Social Security number on the brokerage account where she deposited the money. As luck would have it, some low-level creep in the firm's accounting office recognized her name from the old days and reported the sighting to a person named Vincente DeNaro.”

I like Sister's choice of words. Creep is right. DeNaro is known in loan shark circles as Vinny-the-Viper. Sister tells me he lost no time in paying Melba a threatening visit at her apartment. When she offered to give all the money back, he demanded not only the principal by this coming Friday, but twenty percent interest for each of the twenty years she kept the money. He promised to extract a fingernail for each Friday interest payment she misses. Numerous other painful threats were mentioned in passing.

Sister Maria Leone covers her eyes with her hands and slumps for a moment before straightening up and finishing the sad story. “It's already Wednesday. She only has two days till he comes to collect. I told Melba to return the mob's money to Vincente. After all it's rightfully theirs. But with twenty percent interest for every year? It's impossible. We don't know what to do. I beg you to help us, Slim.”

I hate to admit it, but Sister is calling in an old debt. In high school she wrote an English paper on Hamlet for me. I got an “A,” which boosted my “C” average pretty good. So helping her now is a debt of honor. I don't know exactly what I can do for her, but I sure can't refuse. It's a part of the old neighborhood code.

I agree to go with her to Melba's apartment over on State Street near Elm that afternoon. We grab a taxi. It's about an eight dollar cab fare. But when I reach into my pocket for it, I come up with only six bucks in my Bar Mitzvah money clip and thirty-seven cents in change. Silly, I mean Sister, sees my dilemma, digs into her denim purse, and comes up with enough for both the fare and tip. I grin sheepishly and tell her I'll deduct it from my expenses.

“Don't you carry a credit card?” she asks.

“I accepted one of them new credit cards once—free with no strings attached. A month later I get a letter telling me I'm supposed to enroll in their card protection program for some arm-and-a-leg fee. I wait a few weeks, and when I finally call up to enroll, they tell me it's too late. My identity has already been compromised. So now I got to wonder who I am.”

She scowls like she can't figure out if I'm serious or what. We get to Melba's door and Sister knocks. No answer. She calls through the door, and I try my knuckles at pounding. The only result is a neighbor across the hall yelling, “Keep it down out there!”

“You got a key?” I ask her. She shakes her head.

I pull out my universal key set and tickle the lock 'til it opens. I let the door swing back slowly and silently on its hinges. The room is totally dark, so I use the back of my key case to flip the light switch on my right. The suddenly bright living room reveals a starkness to the max. A small rug, a few sticks of furniture, several religious icons. I tell Sister to wait in the hall while I check out the remaining rooms: a tiny kitchen and bedroom with a made-up twin bed in one corner and a table in another.

“There's no sign of Melba,” I call over my shoulder, only to find that Sister has followed me in. In a lower voice I suggest, “Couldn't Melba be out shopping or something?”

“I don't think so,” Sister replies. “Melba promised to wait until I got here. She usually doesn't break her word. Well, not always, anyway.”

Looking around the bedroom once more, I pick up the tiny red glow of an indicator lamp on an electric typewriter. I see there's a sheet of paper left in the machine with two lines of typing on it. At first glance I see: “ J-R-:-{@ B-o-m-v-r-m-y-r F-r-m-s-t-r y-p-p-l <-p n-s-v-l y-p V-r-h-s-a. ” I decide the typing is nothing but gibberish. But then I notice that two of the keys are covered with masking tape and clickity-click, things fall into place.

“You said Melba's health was failing. How was she affected?”

“She has trouble breathing—it's a respiratory disorder.”

“Nothing to do with her eyes?”

“Why, yes,” Sister replied. “Melba has a severe case of macular degeneration. Even with glasses she can barely see the end of her nose. But how did you know that, Slim?”

“The pieces of tape on the keyboard are usually used to orient a blind typist.”

“So, what about it?

I leave the paper in the typewriter, reexamine the text, and make some notes, Then I announce, “I can read this. She's been kidnapped. DeNaro has taken her back to Vegas, and with this piece of evidence, we've got Mr. Vinny-the-Viper dead-to-rights. Maybe it's time to call in the Feds.”

“I wish you wouldn't use that dead-to-rights expression in connection with Melba,” Sister responds. “Perhaps we can convince Vinny it's in his best interests to let Melba go. As you say, we do have something on the man.”

Sister insists that we confront Vinny immediately, so against all my professional scruples, I agree to go to Vegas with her. When I tell her my jalopy is in hock at the parking lot for lack of fee payments, she offers to pay all the arrears, even though they're worth more than the car.

So eight-and-a-half hours later, we pull up to the valet parking kiosk at the Millennium Gross Hotel. It takes a whole lot of Sister's convincing for them to accept my dilapidated wheels in their fancy lot. Without her nun's headdress, we'd be out on the street. Inside the flashy red and gold lounge, Sister asks for Mr. DeNaro, and this thug, acting like a secretary, tells us to wait, his boss is otherwise occupied. Like we're getting an audience with the Pope.

“Be right back,” I tell Sister. She raises her eyebrows 'til they almost touch her bangs. I pretend I don't notice and wander out of the lounge into the casino—a room about the size of Rhode Island . I gravitate to the roulette wheel, which, I kid you not, is hypnotizing. I follow the little ball round and round 'til I get dizzy. It's worse than watching a Ping-Pong match from the fifty yard line. Also, I gotta remember not to lean on the felt playing surface on account of I got this allergy. I break out all over with bee hives, and Vo won't help me apply the calamine lotion where I can't reach. I don't suppose I can ask Sister either—she's got her ethics to watch. This ain't my first visit to Sin City , but I figure if I'm traveling with a nun, what could happen?

They tell me you gotta have a system to make any money at gambling. On a previous visit my ex-brother-in-law, Elmer, introduced me to a foolproof system he learned from one of them croupier guys. Well, my own system was bad enough, but with Elmer's, I lost everything even faster. I should never trust a guy that uses a rake to pull in suckers' money. When I reach into my pocket for a handkerchief, I feel a firm hand on my shoulder. I shoulda known Sister would follow me in. She thinks I'm succumbing to temptation and leads me back to the lounge.

“Not to worry,” I assure her as I retrieve the paltry buck-two-ninety-eight from my pocket and show it to her. She smiles and pushes me down into a gilded chair. The door to DeNaro's office opens. The thug secretary comes out with a blank check for five hundred simoleons and hands it to Sister.

“I didn't come here to beg for money,” she exclaims as she refuses the check. “I came to see your boss and I'm not leaving until I do.”

“Hey, Mr. DeNaro is a very busy man. He don't see no one without an appointment.”

He didn't bargain on a nun being one tough cookie, Sister finger-thumps him on his chest, pushes him out of her way, and marches into the office.

“Hey, you can't go in…”

The door slams in his face before he can finish. The thug tries to follow her, and that's when I step between him and the door. “You don't want to mess with Sister. It'd be like disrupting divine intervention and that's like some kind of sin, Mac.” I slip into the office behind Sister and close the door.

The large man standing behind the teak desk shouts at us. “Who are you two and what's the meaning of barging into my office?”

Sister glares at him. “Mr. Vinny-the-Viper, you can talk to us or to the Feds. I don't care which, but you are going to talk,”

“Talk? Talk about what? I gave you a check. What more do you want?”

“I didn't come here for a check. I want my sister Melba back—my blood relative, Melba McElvee.”

“What the devil you talking about, Sister?”

At this point I step up to the plate and call the man a bald-faced liar. When Vinny starts to reach into the top drawer he's been slowly opening, I reach across the desk and slam it shut on his fingers. He lets out a whelp, retrieves his fingers, and sucks on the bruised knuckles.

“A little respect for Sister Maria Leona! Where's Melba McElvee?”

“I don't have her,” he mutters, still rubbing his knuckles.

“You kidnapped her from her apartment last night, and we can prove it,” I say.

“Prove it?” he says, “How?”

“She left a message on the typewriter incriminating you.”

“Hey, that's nothing but gibberish,” he counters. Then he realizes his mistake. “Hey, your word against mine.”

“Possibly,” I reply. “You may or may not remember the two pieces of tape on the keyboard.”

“I don't, but so what?”

“Those pieces of tape on the keyboard are used to orient a blind typist,” I tell him. “My Aunt Sophie had diabetic retinopathy and lost her sight as a result of ignoring her diabetes. She used the same method on her old Royal typewriter.”

I unfold a sheet of paper and show him my notes on Melba's typing: two lines of gibberish characters and a third line of readable characters below them. While I agree that of each of Melba's characters don't make no sense at all, substituting one keyboard character to the left of the gibberish characters produces the third line of clearly incriminating text:

“ J-R-:-{-@ B-o-m-v-r-m-y-r F-s-M-s-t-p y-p-p-l <-r n-s-v-l y-p B-r-h-s-d ”

“ K-T-”-{-# N-p-,-b-t-,-u-t G-d-<-d-y-[ u-[-[-; .-t m-d-b-; u-[ N-t-j-d-f”

“ H-E-L-P-! V-i--n--c-e-n--t-e D-a-N-a-r-o t-o-o-k m-e b-a-c-k t-o V-e-g-a-s. ”

“Hell, that's in your handwriting, and without Melba, no one's gonna believe you,” Vinny shoots back.

“Supposing I tell you that the original is locked up securely back at the convent for a long time, and unless you return Melba immediately, you're going to be locked up for an even longer time. Her fingerprints are the only ones on the paper.”

Sister realizes I'm pushing the truth a bit, but knows it's all in a good cause. She nods.

“And if I release her?” Vinny asks.

“Only God and Sister know why, but Sister will return the money—that is, without any interest.”

“What about Melba's typed note?”

“We keep that for insurance in case you ever decide to make a move against the McElvee sisters again.”

Vinny presses the intercom button and calls his goon into the office. They exchange a few words, then Vinny turns to Sister and me. “I'll have Melba here in twenty minutes. You both can wait out in the lounge.”

“What about the five hundred dollar check?” Sister asks.

“Keep it,” he says. “I'll deduct it as a charity expense.”

Twenty-five minutes later, we have a happy reunion and head back home. All in all, it turns out to be a profitable two days. I take in eleven hundred bucks, and we break sort of even on expenses. But considering the arrears on my parking and the fact that Sister picked up all the tabs, I'm way ahead of the game. Oh, yeah, Slim and Nun still meet at Starbuckets for coffee every now and then.