SLIM AT HEART

by Larry and Rosemary Mild

Hey, you can call me Slim, Slim O. Witz, and I'm one of them old-fashion private eyes. Yeah, I'm a dinosaur, a shamusaurus, a leftover from the nineteen thirties and forties, only I can't claim to be so tough. I've got me a rented office over on Second Street upstairs from Leo's greasy spoon and one of them fancy bakeries called La Patisserie. It's sort of like going ten rounds with temptation every time I enter or leave my building.

It's evening and I'm sitting on a counter stool downstairs in Leo's, devouring a plate of dripping ribs and crunchy French fries, when the story on the above-the-counter TV strikes my eyeballs. It seems some big-time, low-life corporate CEO is about to be jailed for bilking his company employees out of their retirement funds. It's in the millions. Now this Wilkie Ponze character has already been tried, convicted, and sentenced. But his darling trophy wife, the former Missy Cushymam, says the poor dear can't possibly go to the pokey because he's too sick—he's got a weak heart. The appeals judge says he's taking that under consideration.

The news bite shows the two of them coming out of the courthouse. Missy's all eingaputzed with designer duds and diamond jewelry. Grinning, too. Wilkie's in a dark three-grand suit and a solid tie. The joker looks like class even if he doesn't behave like class. The camera zooms in . He grimaces a sour puss full of perfect teeth like a hissing cat and pushes his thick-lensed, horn-rimmed glasses up from the end of his nose real snooty-like for the cameraman. I'd believe in a used-car shill before I'd trust a face like that. Also, his bald pate shines like a mirror in the sun, but I guess that part ain't his fault. Then the video switches to the VIP cell they got reserved for this crud upstate, and I can't believe what I'm seeing: two single beds pushed together, an easy chair, a TV set, fancy plumbing, and—get this—an outside window and carpeting.

Somehow, I can't feel sorry for a crook that cheats his own people, so I rip off a hunk of rye bread, swish it around in the remaining gravy puddle, and plop it into my mouth. I do this like I'm striking a blow for justice, even though it ain't me personally getting screwed. The sopping bread tastes so good going down that I turn my attention to the sporting news. The word ain't so good there neither—my Washington Redskins are eight and seven and now out of the NFL playoffs. In disgust, I push my plate of nude bones away and pick up the check, $19.53. Highway robbery! I put down the exact change and ten percent more. I always leave ten percent: it tells them they're good, but there's lots of room for improvement. The waitress gives me her usual stink eye and bids me goodnight.

I don't even make it to the door of that illustrious establishment when I feel the first symptoms. It's like some invisible goon is squashing my chest. I can't breathe. I'm hurting big time. As a shamus, I've been shot at, stabbed, beaten-up, bear-hugged, and mauled—it never felt anything like this. I'm gripping my chest like it's gonna explode. I nearly pass out leaning against the counter for support, so the waitress calls me a cab. I bet she's hoping it ain't their coffee. She helps me into the back seat, and the driver asks, “Where to?”

I tell him, “Hospital emergency room and step on it!” He looks at me strangely.

Repeating my request doesn't seem to help. I finally make out this guy doesn't speak American. I'm thinking he's new in this country and has only had a couple days behind the wheel. I figure the only words he can say are Where to? and Pay up. And the only ones he understands are Go straight, Right, Left, Next block, and Stop here. I use this quick-study vocabulary to get us there. He drops me at the ER entrance, and I pay what shows on the meter, withholding my usual ten percent. After all, I did the navigating.

I stagger out of the cab holding onto my chest and push through the big glass doors. The crowd inside the reception area makes me feel like I've walked into a U-3 rock concert. I worm my way through the hordes up to the reception desk and tell the chick in blue, “I'm having these chest pains.” The next thing I know some male nurse swoops in from behind and hauls me off to one of them curtained cubbies about the size of two phone booths. The bruiser then heists me onto an examining table. Now I'm looking up at blaring lights and a bunch of white-coated, fuzzy mugs staring down at me, fussing and fiddling around with IV tubes, stethoscopes, EKGs, clipboards, and blood pressure cuffs. I feel like a plate of chicken livers with everyone drooling over me.

At least three different voices are screaming questions at me: “Where's the pain? What's your name and address? On a scale of one to ten how bad is it? What's your social security number? Have you had this kind of pain before? Who's your next of kin? What meds are you on?”

Everything's hazy. I answer what I can—feebly. All this tummel over me and I can't even enjoy it. So what do I do? I zonk out. I don't remember another thing until late the next morning when I wake up to this beeping sound. I'm in a barf-colored room with tan Venetian blinds. Beeps are coming from a six-foot Frankenstein on wheels. When the cobwebs clear, I see it's a monitor screen and I'm not happy with the program. Wavy bright lines are traveling from left to right, and I can't change the channel. I cough, and the lines go wild. I hold my breath, and the bottom line gets smaller and changes shape. Wow, reality TV. What power. I try to move and I suddenly realize I'm wired for sound—at least eight wires are attached to my chest. The bed's so soft and squishy, I got mucho trouble rolling on my side. I'm a prisoner in my bed.

The nurse comes in to check on me, but won't tell me a thing except, “You've had a heart attack, and the doctor will be in later to explain more.” Now there's a mouthful to stew on for the next three hours. She's got a built-in frown and starched boobs, so I can't get any more out of her. I make a face at the ogre, and she stares me down over the top of her granny glasses. What ever happened to TLC?

That afternoon the good ole Doctor Welby type finally sticks his head in the room and reads the riot act to me: “Got to change your life. Get off your butt and exercise more.” I have this cornball image of me jogging in place while I'm on stakeout. “And no more fatty foods and desserts either.” That makes me wonder if chewing on a crisp carrot stick can be done quietly when you're doing a little eavesdropping. The doc, a trim fortyish guy with gray beard and rimless glasses, turns out to be a pretty square apple and tries to explain what happened the night before.

It seems that after I conked out, they took me up to the operating room and tried to install a spring-like “stent” gadget in my right coronary artery. He says he entered the blocked artery on my right thigh next to the family jewels and continued up to my ticker. I peek under the sheets, and sure as taxes, it's all black and blue down there. But he ran into trouble and couldn't get past a tricky twist where the artery zagged and turned into what he called a shepherd's crook. And here I always thought shepherds were good guys. They're in all the Bible stories, ain't they?

“Jeez, so how long have I got, Doc?” I ask with my jaw sitting on my chest.

“Not to worry,” he tells me. “Your heart attack was in the early stage. It's a small artery. Medications will do the job of unblocking it. No surgery needed. Get plenty of rest and exercise.”

Rest and exercise? Sounds like the sawbones is speaking with forked tongue. Rest sounds pretty good to me, so I try to buck the hospital's keep-you-awake program. You know—vital signs every three hours, medication every four hours, and sleeping pills at two ayem. Since sleep is impossible with the beeping monitor, I try to look for hidden melodies in the chorus of beeps coming from it and other rooms on my floor. As you might guess, bed-panning is not my favorite activity either. I gotta say the chow ain't too bad—only they ain't never heard of salt and pepper. Otherwise, the only relief comes when Voluptuous, my secretary, brings me the morning paper, or my ex-wife, Fawn, phones in to gloat, “I told you so years ago.”

The routine lasts two days, and then I'm transferred out of Intensive Care to room 506 on another floor. There I get a personal monitor transmitter clipped onto my hospital gown and orders to march the hall in that most dignified apparel with rear exposure. As soon as Vo—that's what I call Voluptuous—brings me the morning paper, we start meandering the halls together. Down the hall from my room, there's a cop sitting on a chair by the door to 511. Now this gets my curiosity up, so I ask the candy-striper patrolling the halls with her newspaper cart. She's just left the local fish wrapper in room 511.

Oh, that's Mr. Ponze, Wilkie Ponze.” she responds giggling. “Don't you read the papers?” She picks up the front page and points to a picture of Ponze turning himself in to the DA.

The Ponze name sounds familiar, so I rack what's left of my brain and come up with that scum CEO from the TV the other night. Inside room 511 there's someone sitting up in bed reading the spread-open paper, but I can't see what he looks like. My nosiness gets the cop's attention, so I give him a silly grin. But before he can say anything, Vo and me continue on and make a complete hallway loop.

On the second pass, I get a better look at the patient. By now this cop's shooting me the stink eye. This time the patient's newspaper is folded back. The cop gives me the bum's rush by way of clearing his throat. The patient hears him and turns to face us. I notice three things. First, the guy does look pretty much like the husband in the TV close-up, except there's some prominent gold dental work showing that I don‘t remember seeing before. Second, the scum's reading and he ain't wearing any glasses. Strange, guys with thick lenses usually can't wear contacts. Third, his obviously shaven head is showing dark stubble and gray scarring all over. I remember the close-up of the guy on TV as being permanently bald—what they call a polished pate even.

I lean toward Vo and whisper, “Hey, something's rotten in Denver .”

“ Denmark !” she says loudly. “Something's rotten in Denmark . It's Shakespeare.”

“I know, I know , but not so loud. You want him to hear us?”

“Who, Shakespeare? He's been dead for years.”

“No. That guy Ponze in the room there.” I'm motioning my head toward the open door.

When we get back to my room, I send Vo on a few errands. Half-an-hour later a nurse, a real looker this time, sashays in to tell me I'll be able to go home the next day just as soon as the doc checks me out. I make a lame pass at the babe, but she chooses to forego the opportunity. I'm heartbroken, but I figure my hospitalization won't cover it.

Sure enough, on Tuesday afternoon I walk out of the joint and into Vo's car. She drops me off out front at the office and goes shopping for her mother. Ignoring the café and bakery, I step into the corridor between them and trudge up the stairs to the second floor. About halfway up, I'm thinking I shoulda taken the elevator—I'm pooped when I finally get to the office, so I lie down on the Castro Convertible to recover.

I spend the rest of that day and all of the next holed up in the office with Vo bringing my meals and the local fish wrappers. It's more convenient for us here 'cause she lives just down the street, and I'm not supposed to be driving yet. Besides, business is slow, and there's two or three surveillance reports I gotta get out or the rent don't get paid.

On Friday morning between gulps of decaf and spoonfuls of soggy Bran Krisps, I see that this Ponze scum has made the papers again—big time. He dropped dead two nights ago in his hospital room from heart failure. The funeral is slated for this afternoon at three. While I'm reading, I'm thinking the bum got what he deserved. But then I get to the end paragraph where his uptown lawyer says the family's gonna appeal and likely get the conviction overturned. Their appeal is based on the wife and kid shouldn't have to suffer just because the dad was a criminal. Now this gets my chest in an uproar and my ticker racing, and that ain't good for a guy in my delicate condition. I can feel the tension building under my ribs, so I reach into my pocket and shake one of them nitro dynamite pills from the teeny brown bottle and slip it under my tongue. Whew! That's playing it close to the chest.

If this legal shyster gets his way, the Ponze family won't hafta pay bubkes to the employees he cheated out of their retirements. At the sentencing, the judge promised the poor schnooks at least fifteen cents on the dollar from the remaining family assets. Now they'll get zilch—nada—nothing. If there's no conviction, there ain't no crime and no need for either payback or damages.

For a few days I didn't think about the hospital and what I saw in room 511, but now it's all coming back. Naw, it couldn't be. Nobody's that slick—hiring someone to die for you? Sheesh! I don't know where all my sudden energy comes from, but I think I gotta help the workers Ponze cheated. I call Vo and tell her to get her buns over here and meet me downstairs, lickety-split. While I'm waiting, I tear out the phone book page listing travel agents and run off a couple copies of the newspaper photo of Mr. and Mrs. Wilkie Ponze. I'm thinking they're about to go on the lam, and the family car would be out of the question. I'm guessing somewhere overseas—maybe a country without extradition, a place with secret banking accounts.

Vo arrives, and I give her an address. Before you know it she's winging me crosstown in her red and white Mini-Cooper. She asks if I'm comfy, and I tell her I like riding around folded in half. I take one look at the Yellow Pages' enormous list of travel agencies and decide I'm wasting my time. Mr. and Mrs. P. wouldn't go to a reputable agency, and paying without plastic would attract too much scrutiny. I have to assume they already have their phony passports and credit cards, possibly for months now.

There are three sources of phony plastic and passports in town, but Kenny the Kite tops them all. I redirect Vo to the Kite's address, and when we get there, I tell her to wait outside. Kenny's a short, stocky hood with glasses—and a real artist. He did time for forgery in the seventies, but went straight for a bunch of years running a photocopy and stationery shop. When computers and the competition from the large office supply chains put the squeeze on him, he started doing odd jobs again to stay profitable. I guess it would take a steamroller to keep Kenny straight. Yeah, the cops know all about him, but keeping him in business is one way of keeping tabs on the unsavory in this town—not that Kenny tells all, mind you. The more profitable stuff falls through the cracks now and then. The Ponze job was going to be one of them things until I walked into his shop.

Kenny owes me from way back—an alibi thing where I saved his crooked tail. Today I'm calling in my marker. I wait while he tends to another customer, except that he keeps giving me the stink eye, like I'm making him nervous. When the customer leaves, I show him the newspaper photo, and he knows for sure that I got him dead-to-rights. Kenny always keeps records of his illegal transactions, so when he's really put on the spot, he can claim his so-called honest intentions to report them to the police. It's worked so far.

With a minimum of arm twisting, Kenny shows me the file on the Ponzes, only it's marked Angello and Marie Massimo. I look at the passport photos. Sure enough, it's them—only Wilkie is in a faded Hawaiian shirt with rimless dark glasses and wearing a jet-black toupee. And Missy Ponze's hair is no longer blonde and curly—now it's brown, cut close, and feathered. Artist that he is, Kenny admits that he aged the passport covers and added a few visa stamps for authentication. I have this itch that Angello Massimo might be someone real, so I decide to scratch my itch and see what falls out.

I get lucky—the phone book has an Angello Massimo over on Taragon Street . I thank Kenny and remind him of his civic duty to report the Ponzes at least by the next day, and he catches my meaning right away. “Yeah, tomorrow, boss,” he says as I walk out of the store.

Vo is doing her homework when I get back to the car—papers spread all over the front seat. You see, she goes to law school nights and works in my office three days a week. I shove the papers into a pile to make room for my butt, and give her the Taragon Street address. She slips the pile into her briefcase and pulls away from the curb.

We arrive at the garden apartments on Taragon Street , and I knock on the door, but no one answers. I knock louder several times with the same result. Then the door across the hall opens and a voice behind a cloud of cigar smoke says, “Yeah, whadya want?”

“We're looking for Mr. and Mrs. Massimo.”

“Angello's moved out and dare ain't no missus, so far's I know,” says the smoking voice. “I'm the resident manager.” His cigar pops up and down with each word.

“Is there a forwarding address?”

“Naw, las Satady he jus paid up da tree mons back rent and skeedaddled outta here. Dint even pack a grip.”

“He didn't take anything with him?” asks Vo.

“Nuttin'. Da place was funished, Wasn't nuttin' persnal left eida. Musta tossed it all.”

“Mind if I have a look at his flat?” I ask. The cigar rolls around in his mouth, winding up on one side, and he gives me this What? Do-you-think-I'm-crazy? look—like I'm gonna trash the joint. I slip out one of the two remaining sawbucks in my wallet and hold it out to him. He hesitates and scrunches up his face. Hmm, not enough , I think. As soon as I free up the second ten spot, the gonif grabs them both. Then he unlocks the door.

Angello has left the flat in pretty tidy order. All the drawers, shelves, and closets are empty. We're about to give up on the joint when Vo decides to pick up the telephone handset with her hanky and press the redial button with one of her long painted nails. She holds the handset away from her ear so we both can listen.

After several rings, a female voice answers, “Hello!”

I take the phone from Vo and respond, “Marie, Marie Massimo?”

“Yeah, that's my name. What do you want? I'm a busy woman.”

“My name is Wittz and I'm a private investigator.”

“So?”

“I'm calling from your husband's apartment.”

“Ex! My ex-husband. Angello and I are divorced.”

“I'm afraid your ex might be mixed up in a scam that I'm investigating.”

“Damn! I knew that big certified check he sent us was too good to be true. He's always doing something shady. That's why I divorced the dumb lug. It isn't any way to bring up kids.”

“I wouldn't go spending the check just yet,” I tell her. “The police are going to be very interested in it.”

Marie is less than anxious to cooperate, but when I outline the scam to her—especially the part about Angello dying for someone else, she comes around. “I knew Angello was sick when he phoned Saturday morning. He sounded awful, but he didn't want to talk about it. He wanted to make sure I got the cashier's check.”

Before we hang up she gives me the name of the certifying bank and the address of the so-called Mr. and Mrs. Massimo.

The next stop for me and Vo is police Precinct Four, where my poker buddy Lt. Barbara Harker runs a bunko squad team. I figure we got the goods on this Ponze creep, but we need Barb's help in making the actual arrest. Barb meets Vo and me at the reception desk, and we follow her back to her office, a dingy ten-foot square with pea-soup walls and no windows. She leaves the door open for ventilation and turns off the chugging window AC so we can hear. Barb sure ain't a looker, but she's got a tall wiry body to go along with her shrewd mind and keen eyes. Inside, she's got a heart that's soft and gushy, a real pal.

Barb takes notes while I clue her in on what's going on. I can almost hear the gears crunching in her straw-blonde head as I come to the part where I suspect Angello Massimo's corpse might be lying in Wilkie Ponze's casket during this afternoon's funeral. When I'm finished with my tale, Barb makes a few phone calls—among them, one to the appeals judge for court orders. The first is to allow the Ponze funeral to proceed, but to hold the actual burial until the coroner's office has a look-see. The second is for the airlines to release manifest information on a Mr. and Mrs. Massimo. On this one the judge takes a little more convincing, but Barb makes a good case for both orders, so Hizzoner comes through. Barb makes one more call to the coroner's office on the first floor, and they agree to send one of their people along to the funeral parlor.

While we wait for the airlines to respond, I tell Barb about my heart attack, and she gives me a big bear hug and the same lecture I got from my doctor—like it's some kind of broken record. Hey, she's a good friend and means well. The phone rings and she announces that Mr. and Mrs. Massimo are booked on Caribbean Tropics Flight 43 leaving 8:33 tomorrow evening. Since my good watch, a Timex, is visiting Sam's pawn shop, I pick up Vo's wrist and turn her hand so I can see the time—two minutes after twelve noon . Assistant Coroner Dr. Ralph Morse is waiting for us at the bottom of the stairs. The four of us squeeze into Vo's Mini and head for the courthouse to pick up the court orders.

It's close to 2:30 by the time we arrive at the funeral parlor. Just as we park, a black stretch limo pulls up to the canopied front entrance, and Missy Cushymam Ponze, in her finest basic black sackcloth, slides to her feet, shuts the limo door, and glides up the steps to the door. There's a black veil covering her new unblonde hairdo. I tell my companions it's weird that a liveried chauffeur doesn't get out and service his passenger. The limo moves to one end of the lot and occupies three parking spaces. The chauffeur lowers the seat back and pulls his cap down over his face, obviously planning to nap. I casually follow on foot until I get opposite the driver's window. Barb and Dr. Morse go inside to serve the court orders to the funeral director. Vo prefers to wait in her Mini.

“Hey, good buddy, you got a light for my cigarette?” I ask the chauffeur. He springs upright, allowing the cap to slide from his face and revealing his polished bald head. The fake mustache doesn't fool me either. I now have no doubt who this bum is, but I got all I can do to restrain myself from dragging him out of the driver's seat and giving him a knuckle sandwich. He nervously pushes in the dashboard lighter and when it pops out, he holds the glowing tip toward me. I lean over with the cigarette in my mouth and light up. I mumble “Thanks,” and walk away quickly so he doesn't get his suspicions up. I meander over to the Mini and slip in on the passenger side next to Vo while we wait for the funeral to end. I squash the cigarette out quickly, as I gave the nasty habit up ten years ago.

Forty minutes later the few mourners start to trickle out of the parlor. Then Missy, complete with lacy handkerchief dabbing at her eyes, comes down the steps all slow and respectful-like and heads for the limo at the back of the lot—no door-to-door service for her. A few feet behind Missy, I see Barb tagging along with a grin on her face, and she gives me the high sign. I get out of the Mini and approach from the opposite side.

When Missy reaches the limo, Barb grabs her purse and tells her to put both hands on the hood. Ponze reaches for the key in the ignition and tries to start the vehicle. I think he's about to run over his wife, so I yank open the driver's door, haul his butt out onto the tarmac, and put one foot on the creep's chest. Barb is busy cuffing Missy. When she's done, I grab the chauffeur by the collar and drag him to his feet so she can cuff him as well.

“What's going on here?” he cries. “I haven't done anything wrong.”

“Wilkie Ponze, you're a convicted felon,” Barb responds. “Technically, an escaped felon also. And now your wife is afoul of the law for aiding and abetting your escape.”

“How could you know all that? The coffin was closed.”

“True,” she answers, “but when Dr. Morse from the coroner's office opened the coffin, he found the body had a mouthful of gold and silver dental work. And if it weren't for Slim O. Wittz here, you might have gotten away with your scam. Your press photos gave you away.”

“Yeah!” I pipe in. “Your teeth bit off more than they could chew.”