Slim Pickings

By Larry and Rosemary Mild

I'm Slim O. Wittz, a private investigator. Wait! Private eyes are people, too. We're called shamuses, techs, Peeping Toms and snoopers. Despite all the name calling, we serve an important need in the mix of things. It's kind of a tough living, and making our ends meet sometimes calls for creative planning. I hate to admit it, but I live in my office, and my car is in one of those purchase-and-leaseback deals like the airlines. I pay by the hour to rent my own car. Yeah, I know, it ain't ideal.

Vo's at her desk typing away on one of her law school papers. Her parents named her Voluptuous Anne and she's pretty sensitive about it, so no jokes. The dame's quite a looker—decorates the office with her clingy sweaters and gorgeous gams, so I don't have to put up pictures. I had to promote her from secretary to paralegal 'cause I couldn't afford to give her a raise.

This is one of those slow months, so I'm taking my afternoon nap, resting my head on my folded arms. Vo's typing doesn't bother me either—it's just slow enough that I can get ten winks of snooze per keystroke. I'm awake now, but I ain't opened my eyes yet. I feel a breeze on the back of my neck. The window facing the brick wall is open on account of Vo just covered the joint in bug spray. She's been complaining for weeks about the roach invasion. I ain't seen one of the nasty invaders yet, but she wants to call an exterminator. I put her off, hoping the beasts will move on to someone else's office.

I slowly roll one lid up and there, right on the desk in front of me, staring into my one open eye is one of the bolder roaches checking me out like I'm something to conquer. Ugh!

“Vo! Call already, get estimates for fumigation.”

“No problem, boss,” she warbles as she slips out of her chair and glides toward me. She's carrying a sheaf of papers. I shoulda known. She's had the estimates for days. She lays them down in front of me and spins away before I can get a good look at the smirk on her face. Five pest control firms. All of their figures are astrological, way off in the future, even. Each estimate is more than we've netted for the past three months.

It's time I exerted my authority. “There's got to be another way!” I pound the desk with my fist. It hurts like hell. “My ex-brother-in-law, Elmer, maybe?”

“No way, Jose!” Vo retorts. Her voice carries a tremor of fear.

“Well, Elmer does know how to get things cheap. He scrounged up those reversible sport coats for fifteen bucks apiece. And remember the no-rub spot remover? Only a buck-fifty a can.”

“Wasn't that the stuff that melted the buttons on my red dress?”

“It got the spot out, didn't it?”

“Yeah, Slim, but I sure won't be the one dealing with that dirtbag. You'll have to do it.”

I punch in the numbers to his land line, and after four rings, the answering machine takes over. “Pick up, Elmer,” I shout into the phone. “It's Slim, not one of your pit-bull creditors. You're safe.”

“Hi, Slim,” he begins. “I hope you're not still mad at me over the Dockers knockoffs. How was I to know the seam threads weren't knotted?”

“Elmer, that's polluted water over the dam. I need something else—someone to fumigate the office. Do you know anyone in the business?” I can hear pages turning.

“Have I got a deal for you.” It's his Karo syrup M.O. in action.

“Never mind the deal, Elmer. How about giving me his phone number?”

“That's the problem—he doesn't have one.”

Oy! That's just what I need, a fly-by-night, a spritz-and-run.

“I'll have him call you, and you can make your own appointment.” He hangs up before I can say no.

A half-hour later the phone rings, and Vo sings her way through our standard reply. “Slim O. Wittz, Private Investigations. Neat, complete and discreet.” She turns to me. “It's for you, Slim.”

I pick up on my extension and ask, “Who am I talking to?”

The voice rasps, “It's Yasha Rosen from Rosen Ex…terminators.” He squeezes it out like he's no longer in the business.

“Are you an experienced firm with all the necessary equipment?”

“Sure, I got experience. Can't you tell? I'm not a young man anymore.”

I see Vo trying to get my attention and put my hand over the mouthpiece. “What?” I ask.

“See if his firm is bonded.”

“Are you bonded?” I ask.

“Of course, sonny, I buy Israeli bonds every year.”

“How good are you, Mr. Rosen?”

“Vell, my good man, none of the varmints has lived to sue me yet.”

I look up at the crack in the ceiling and try again, “How much do you charge?”

“Sixty bucks a room.”

The price is right, and I can't think of anything else to ask, so I give him the address. He tells me he can fit me in this afternoon.

A little after one-thirty, Vo hears a soft knock at the door and yells, “Come on in.”

The door opens wide, revealing a brisk little man—in his early eighties, I'm guessing. Maybe it's the white bushy head of hair, the roadmap of wrinkles and the soulful blues in half-glasses. Yasha Rosen, dressed in clean bibbed overalls, sets a brown paper grocery bag on the desk and begins removing the tools of his trade. There's a candle, a feather, an unmarked can of powder and a spritz bottle of what looks like ant and roach killer.

“What're the candle and feather for?” I inquire.

“The good Lord gave me my start looking for hametz —you know, searching for bread and cake crumbs before Passover in Orthodox homes. So you see, I can't part with tradition, sonny, no matter how hard I try.”

“What's in the bottle and can?”

Yasha rolls his eyes. “Dyn-a-mite! And if you got any more questions, I'll have to charge you for another room. Don't be a schlemiel , sonny—time is money, you know.”

I'm forced to let Yasha do his thing, and surprisingly, the old man gets down on all fours and nimbly covers all the floor moldings with a white powder, then climbs up on a chair and sprays inside all the cabinets. When he finishes, he wipes his hands with a cloth from his back pocket. All his equipment goes back into the grocery bag, and he stands beside my desk, patiently waiting for payment.

“I'm impressed with your effort, Yasha. You can send me a bill.”

“Sorry, sonny, it's a cash-and-carry business. I need payment now. Didn't Elmer tell you?”

“Elmer didn't say, and I can't pay 'til after the first of the month. Don't worry, old man, I'm good for it.”

“I see,” he says, rubbing a knotty hand across his stubbled chin. “Maybe you can work it off, Mr. Wittz.”

“Call me Slim, Yasha. How can I work it off? Do you need my investigative services?”

“As a matter of fact, I do. You see, my granddaughter, Reba, has run away, and I haven't heard from her in over a week. She's only sixteen, and I'm all she has. Her parents, they should rest in peace, were killed during a break-in at their home. She slept through the whole thing and then discovered the bodies the next morning. I'm worried about her—she's been through so much.”

“How long ago was that terrible trauma?” I ask.

“Four years ago next month.”

“Has she adjusted to living with you?

“I thought so. She's been an absolute dumpling most of the time.”

“Have you talked with the police?”

“Yes, but as soon as I told them she was a voluntary runaway and I didn't suspect foul play, they told me they don't have the time or manpower to chase down every runaway in the city.”

“How do you know she went voluntarily?” I ask.

“She left me a note on the kitchen table. It said, ‘Grandpa, I'm taking a little vacation from everything. Don't worry about me.' Can you believe that? She‘s supposed to be in school!”

“Do you know why she ran off?” I ask.

“I disapproved of the older boy she was dating. His name is Al Something.”

“How much older?”

“He's over twenty, not a college boy, and hasn't got a job.”

“You think she moved in with the bum?”

“God forbid! She's been such a good girl. Gets good grades, too.” He sighs. “But there's always the possibility.”

“Have you talked with any of her girlfriends?”

“Yes, all those that I can remember, but how do I know whether they were telling me the truth?” He shakes his head. “I thought if I bought her a cell phone she'd stay home and spend her time texting, like other kids do. Boy, was I wrong. It's difficult with girls that age.”

Any age, I'm thinking. I fire a few dozen more questions at the old man. “Yasha,” I say, “I'll give you a half-day free of charge. Then I gotta charge you two hundred smackers a day plus expenses. It's my regular fee.”

“Okay, sonny, but it's a hundred a day for five days max and we'll have a deal.”

I look over at Vo, and she's put two thumbs in the air, so I nod, and she types up a contract amendment for Yasha to sign.

“We're forgetting something, Yasha, and it's important. A photo of Reba.”

He takes an envelope out of his pocket and hands me her high-school class picture. Beneath curly light brown hair, cut short above her ears, a wan face struggles to strike the class-picture smile. Alert deep blue eyes, very like her grandfather's, peer out from black-framed cat's-eye glasses, quite at odds with her fair complexion.

Ten minutes later, down on the street in front of the office, I promise the old man I'll keep in touch. Armed with Reba's picture, her cell phone number and a list of her friends, I go my way and Yasha goes his.

I check my '93 Buick Regal out of hock, and at the first traffic light, peruse my notes. Al Something is not going to hack it for the boyfriend's name and location, so I move down to the first girlfriend on the list, Lillian Markus. “Lil,” as she prefers to be called, won't let me in the house, so I speak to the door. Although I'm quite used to speaking to inanimate objects, I never know when I'm getting through to a door. No, the door doesn't know Reba's whereabouts, nor had it been in touch with her in over a week. The only things I learn at the Markus home is that Al stands for Albert and not Allan or Alfred and definitely no last name. That the guy's cute, but a little on the wimpy side doesn't help me much.

I move on to the next name and address on the list. Monica Leonard, or rather her mother, Beatrice, proves way more hospitable. As soon as I explain why I'm there, Bea ushers me into the parlor, then floats off to the kitchen, hips swaying and torso slinking. She returns, all smiles, carrying a hot tea service and a plate of rugulah, little pastries filled with poppyseed, apple and nuts. My favorite. Bending to pour directly in front of me, she delivers more than just the tea. I loosen my tie. I get the message, but I'm not buying. She sits across from me. All the while I'm grilling her chubby little Monica, buxom Bea is giving me one wink after another and toying with the buttons on her blouse. Two more buttons come undone. I don't know whether to “Wow!” or “Whoa!” Something about it, or her—Comedy Central maybe.

The daughter doesn't seem to notice or care, but she tries to be helpful. She doesn't know Albert's last name, but she thinks he lives over on Third Street near the CVS Pharmacy and Clinton 's Laundry. She heard from Reba a few days after her friend ran away. Monica won't tell me about the exact conversation. “I promised not to,” she pleads, but she does jot down a few joints where she's seen Reba and Al hang out. Bea suddenly turns off the vamp act. “What were you doing around there, young lady?”

I'm not eager to hear the answer. Thanking them both, I stand up to leave when Monica's cell phone rings. She checks the number and vacates the room for privacy, leaving me alone with Mom. I wonder whether it's Reba.

“Do you find me attractive?” Bea asks.

Uh-oh, here we go again. “Yes, ma'am,” I mutter, my mouth full of apples and poppyseed.

“Mr. Leonard used to say he found me h-h-hot.”

I could feel the heat already, so I start edging out of the living room. “I'm sure he did, ma'am.”

She leads me into the hall and brakes to a stop—trapping me between her cleavage and the door.

“He couldn't wait to come home nights.”

“I can see why, ma'am. And, uh, where is Mr. Leonard?”

“We're divorced,” she sniffs. “Not amicably, if you must know.” She presses a business card into my hand. Glancing at it, I see that her phone number is printed even larger than her name.

“Call me Bea, Slim. 'Bye now.”

Both B's shape her lips into kisses. Don't get me wrong, I like dames a whole lot, but this broad's a steamroller. I slip out the door like a snake doing corners.

Snug in the safety of my Buick, I consider the last girlfriend and address on Yasha's list. Sheila Morris answers the doorbell, and as soon as I explain my mission, invites me into the living room. Her parents are both at work, and I wonder why she allowed me into the house. Sheila is all tears, a box of Kleenex in her lap. A skinny girl with spiked yellow hair and black nail polish, she tells me Reba is her best friend, so she wants to cooperate, but I get the feeling Best Friend is holding something back.

“I feel like a traitor telling you this,” she says. The silver ring piercing her lower lip quivers. “But I don't think Albert has her best interests at heart. He's just trying to get into her panties.” A surprisingly grown-up comment, followed by, “Wait a sec.” She jumps up and darts from the room, returning a moment later with a photograph. “This is from a party we were all at a couple weeks ago.”

I recognize the face and hair, but here she's in a tank top with hip-hugger jeans and bare belly. I can pretty well bet her grandfather hasn't seen her in this get-up.

“That's Albert with her,” Sheila says. The man looks about twenty-five, and has his arm slung possessively around Reba's shoulders. His dark hair is slicked back in a ponytail. I'd have sworn he'd be wearing a black leather jacket, but we all have to face our disappointments. He's wearing a blue turtleneck.

“Have you heard from her?” I ask.

“Three days ago she texted me,” Sheila whimpers, “but all she wrote was that she was okay.”

I hear the front door slam shut. A six-foot-plus man who could pass for The Terminator strides into the foyer. His jaw goes slack when he notices that his daughter is blubbering and a strange man has invaded his castle. A purple flush creeps across his face and he begins to bellow.

“What the hell are you doing in my house? What have you done to my daughter?” Before I can answer, he spins around and pulls a baseball bat from the hall closet. Raising the bat in a wide sweep, he takes out the hall chandelier. “Damn!” he shouts, as he ducks the shards of glass showering down on the ceramic tile floor. He hesitates for a moment, then stalks into the living room to do serious damage to me.

“I haven't done anything to your daughter,” I plead. “I'm Slim O. Wittz, a private—”

“I don't care if you're the Secret Service. You can't come into my house and assault my daughter.” He raises the bat once more.

“No, Daddy, no!” Sheila shouts. “He's investigating Reba's disappearance. He's a private investigator working for Reba's grandfather.” She runs between us and into his arms, forcing him to lower the bat. “He's only trying to help her.”

Mr. Gregory Morris stops in his tracks and listens for the first time—maybe for the first time in his life. “They haven't found poor Reba yet?” The bat drops to the floor.

“No, Daddy.”

“Sorry, Mr. Wittz. I had no way of knowing.” Morris offers a hand, and we shake. I'll Ben-Gay my bruised knuckles later. All the while, I'm thinking this S.O.B. is worried that I'll sue the shirt off his back. Which I'd be delighted to do—it'd pay my bills. I tuck the party picture in my pocket, thank the two of them, and tiptoe through the crunching glass on my way out the door. By the time I reach my jalopy, I can feel the rumbling in my stomach; I haven't eaten all day. Besides, I think I've given Yasha a fair half-day of work.

I check the car back in with its keeper and tell Fish-Face Eddie to put it on the tab. He waves a threatening tire iron at me and warns, “First of the month.”

“Yeah, Eddie, you get paid when I do.” I walk the two blocks to my office building, but I don't go directly upstairs. Instead, I cross the street and enter the local elegant establishment with its signature aroma of frying fat and two-day-old coffee. All the booths are empty. Two people are seated at the counter and one of them is my bookie, who I owe thirty smackers. I set my tuchas down in a booth with my back to him and hope he doesn't recognize me.

Sourpuss Sally heads my way. Her smile muscles atrophied years ago. If she weren't the owner's wife, she'd be out of a job, for sure. She jams the menu into my gut. I know it by heart, so I don't bother to open it.

“What're the specials tonight?” I ask.

“Same's every Thursday night, Slim—Hungarian goulash and fish and chips.”

“Goulash got any veggies?”

“Should I get you a dictionary, Smart Boy? That's what goulash is, meat and vegetables.”

“Thanks a lot, Sally, cut the lecture.”

“Let's see, we had peas last night, carrots on Tuesday, string beans on Monday, and there's celery and potatoes left over from last week. Can I get you some, Mr. Picky?”

I have no idea what “some” involve. “Sure,” I say in a forced cheerful note.

“Anything else?”

“Some rye bread, please.”

“No rye, wanna try again?”

“Sourdough?”

“Nope!”

“Pumpernick?”

“Nope!”

“French bagettes?”

“Nope!” Her face remains deadpan, but I can tell she's enjoying this.

“Eyetalian facaccio?”

“Nope!”

“Whole wheat?”

“Nope!”

“Russian health bread?”

“Nope!”

“Got any bread at all?”

“Nope, but we got some stale bran muffins from breakfast.”

“I guess I'm stuck with the muffins. Bring me a couple.”

“You could have some of them salty bread sticks.”

“No. I'll stick with the muffins.”

“There's some Saltine crackers from chili, too.”

“Cut that out already. I'm having goulash and muffins.”

The left side of her mouth curls slightly, suppressing a smirk after annoying me. While I'm waiting, I use the time to check in with Yasha. My report seems to please him. At least it isn't bad news .

Sourpuss Sally arrives with my supper, dropping both plates in front of me like a B-52 bomb. The shrapnel lands a prominent brown spot on my new sport coat, which also serves as my business attire. Without a word, Sally takes the hem of her apron, dips it in my water glass, and wipes it to a lighter shade of tan. I figure that's the extent of her guilt, so I check out the goulash.

“It's watery,” I complain. I'm also thinking those crackers would come in handy about now.

“What did ya expect, it's after eight-thirty. The chef tells me, Don't dip so deep—it's got to last 'til nine.”

“What would it take to increase the population in my bowl, Sally?”

“Increase my tip to five bucks, and I'll see what I can do. Remember, I ain't no deep sea diver, neither.”

A man can't live by love alone, so I agree. Sally picks up the bowl and returns with a plate of solid meat and veggies. Quite tasty, too.

Next morning, I borrow a fin from Vo, leave the sport coat for her to work on the spot, and head downstairs to the fresh carbon monoxide. Third Street ain't so far, so I hoof it on over there. On the way I see one of them office copy places and enlarge the party photo. The first joint on Monica's list is a pool hall. You might think the last bastion of the unemployed would be empty at 10:30 on a weekday morning. No way. A crowd is deeply engaged in a game of snooker. I wisely wait for the break between games before passing around the picture.

“Anyone here know where I can find Albert?” I point to him in the photo.

A pink Mohawk in ripped t-shirt and jeans answers: “Who's the broad? She's hot.”

“She's only sixteen,” I answer. “You want to go to the slammer for robbing the cradle?” He shakes his head.

A tubby guy with blond hair, black shirt and chinos says, “What do you want Bad Al for?”

“I owe him some cash,” I say. “And I always pay my football bets.”

“Cash, I could use some cash, gringo,” mimics a mustached Hispanic. He smiles, baring many teeth, one of them black.

The fourth member of the group has a crew cut and sits quietly in a chair, observing the goings-on. I have a feeling he's their leader. I shove the picture in his face. He points his thumb toward the street.

Outside, I hesitate long enough to consult my notes and then begin walking uptown. As I pass the alley between the pool hall and laundry, a large hand grabs my sweatshirt by the collar, yanks me off the sidewalk, and shoves me up against the concrete block wall. When my eyeballs come back into focus, I'm staring at the pink Mohawk. He must have used a side door to get here so quickly. He pulls a switch-blade knife from his pocket and starts tossing it from hand to hand while shifting his weight from foot to foot. It's as if he expects me to take up his challenge. I see that he lacks experience at this sort of thing, as his eyes are following the blade from side to side.

I'm not the bravest mark in the city, but I've learned not to show fear in this kind of situation. So I start a conversation. “I've been thinking of getting a Mohawk just like that.” Surprised, he looks up for a second to see if I'm for real, then monitors the knife-tossing again. I press on. “Who's your barber? He did a great job. Is it that the guy over on Oak Street ?” The Mohawk stops shifting his weight and looks up at me again, his face a riot of dimwitted confusion. Then I hear his blood-curdling screech echoing through the alley.

I'm amazed to see the blade of his shiv sticking through the center of his left palm. The knife had turned over in its flight from the right hand. Blood begins to ooze, so I step closer, grab his hand and pull the blade free. I use my handkerchief to stem the flow and push him along to the street, where I hail a passing cab. By the time I stuff him into the back seat, the klutz is almost catatonic. I give the driver the fin I borrowed from Vo and say, “Get him to the emergency room and step on it.” I've always wanted the opportunity to say Step on it. The cab races off toward the hospital.

The next joint on Monica's list is an Internet cafe at Third and Buchanan. I check the change in my pocket—a buck-ninety-two, just enough for a cup of mud. I plop my tuchas on the only available stool (in my business I seem to do a lot of tuchas plopping). Without asking, the counterman pours out a mug of coffee and shoves all the accoutrements at me.

“Know this guy in the photo?” I ask him.

“Can't you see I'm busy?” he answers.

“Just look. Looking takes only a second.”

“Yeah, it's Bad Albert Burstine. He lives upstairs with his old man.”

“How do I get up there?” I drop a buck-fifty in quarters on the counter.

“Outside, first door on the right, third floor.”

Huffing and puffing, I arrive at the third floor landing and face three unmarked wooden doors. I do an eeny, meeny, miny, moe , knock on the first one, and an old lady in curlers answers. “Burstine?” I ask. She points to her right. I knock and wait.

A baby-faced character with a ponytail and egg-shaped body answers. I'm thinking, this guy can't be Bad Albert; the looks don't fit the moniker, and he can't be twenty yet.

“Is Albert Burstine in?”

“Yeah, I'm Albert. Who are you?”

“I'm Slim O. Wittz, private investigator.” I hand him my business card, and when he's through reading, “I'm investigating the disappearance of one Reba Rosen.”

He hesitates, then holds the door for me to step in. “So what do you want from me?” he asks.

“Her grandfather is terribly worried about her. He thinks she might be staying here with you.”

“I don't know where he got that idea. It's just me and my old man living here.” The elder Burstine is in the next room, sitting at the kitchen table, nodding his agreement.

“Stop!” a soprano voice calls out. Reba Rosen suddenly appears behind Albert. “I can't do this anymore. I'm ready to go home. Now .”

“You all right, miss? He hasn't mistreated you?”

“I'm fine, and he hasn't harmed me—at all. In fact, he's been wonderful to me, Mister—”

“Wittz, Slim O.” Reba hardly looks like her class picture. She's fair-skinned, all right, but her feminine jaw has a strong set to it. She's taller than I imagined, willowy. but with self-assured posture. Her blue eyes meet mine without fear.

I clear my throat. “This is a tough question, but I gotta ask. “Are you two shacking up together?”

“Oh, no, nothing like that.” Her tone is indignant. “Al's a gentleman and sleeps on the couch in the living room. He gave me his room.”

Albert The Egg takes a step toward me, not at all aggressive, just determined. “You mean you've come to take her home?”

“Of course!” I retort.

Albert pumps his fist in the air. “Yes! It's about time!”

“Huh?” I respond. “What's going on here anyway?”

“This darling little lady? The minute she set foot in my house, she turned into a Jewish mother. My mother, may she rest in peace. I haven't had a moment's peace myself since Reba got here. It's ‘Take out the garbage.' ‘Get the Ajax , your toilet's disgusting.' ‘When are you going to clean out your fridge, things are alive in there.' Yakkety yakkety yak. Even my dad's had it.”

I turn to Reba, who is looking a mite sheepish. “Grandpa's a neatnik, so I guess I am too. Having all this freedom isn't exactly what I expected.”

By now I'm swimming upstream. I bring out the party photo and hold it up to her. “Are you leading a double life or are you just schizoid?”

Albert chuckles. “You got a bad case of rebellion, didn't you, kid?”

Reba's face turns the color of cranberries. “Yeah. That outfit, that's not the real me. Grandpa would ground me for life if he saw it.”

Still confused, I shake my head. “But what're you doing here, young lady?”

Not-so-Bad Albert seems to take pleasure in replying for her. “She wanted to get away for awhile. We're just good friends—we like the same books and music and stuff. I haven't touched her.”

“So,” I ask him, “if you're such a perfect gentleman, why do they call you Baaad Albert?”

He grins, his baby cheeks turning rounder still. “In this neighborhood you need a title like that to survive. By the way, am I in trouble for helping Reba out?”

“I don't think so,” I reply. “Maybe the three of us should go back and have a pow-wow with Grandfather Yasha.”

* * *

I get back to the office around four, and Vo is getting ready to leave for the day. She stops combing her platinum pageboy long enough to ask, “So what happened?”

“Yasha was so pleased to see Reba healthy and happy, and to learn that Albert is not only a member of the tribe, but a mensch as well, that he sat down and wrote me a check for two- hundred-fifty simoleans.” I take the check from my pocket to show her. She snatches it from my fingers.

“You mean he wrote us a check, don't you?” Vo turns it over and lays it on the desk. “Sign it, please. I'll even give you a receipt,” she says with a wicked smile.

As soon as I endorse it, she slips the check into her purse.

“Hey, I gotta live, too!” I protest.

She digs four twenties out of her wallet and hands them to me. “By the way, the parking lot guy called.”

I groan. I can count on only three things in my life. Death, taxes and Fish-Face Eddie.