Gascoyne Read online

  All this puts me about five minutes late so I hurry past the crackerbox houses to Saint Thomas of Aquinas Avenue and into the bright-light Aquinas commercial strip, a good part of which is my territory. Pretty quick the EMPEROR’S FEAST DRIVE-IN HAMBURGER LOUNGE pops into sight and I slow down and swing right into the parking lot and pull her into the G slot. Before I get out I open up the glove compartment and pull out the jar of Micro-Mice and see that the population has increased by leaps and bounds so I give them a squirt of depopulation virus and also a few grains to eat and shove the works back into the glove compartment.

  I climb out of the Kaiser and walk across the parking lot and in the side door of the EMPEROR’S FEAST and am surprised to see Tsvkzov’s not there yet. The place’s pretty deserted as it usually is at this hour but of all things seat thirty-eight on the seventy-two-stool EMPEROR’S FEAST HAMBURGER BAR is occupied by one of these teen-age girls that looks like an unfinished construction project.

  “Okay sweetie,” I say, “move it off the stool, it’s my seat.”

  She turns around and looks at me with a pair of sunglasses so dark it’s a wonder she knows which way to look and takes a piece of unchewed hamburger out of her mouth with her fingers and drops it right on my left shoe, the juvenile delinquent.

  “Huh?” she says.

  “I say you’re on my stool.”

  “Look grampa nobody’s sitting in the other fifty stools that I can see,” she says so I guess she can see.

  “That may be sweetie but I own this place and I always sit on stool thirty-eight.”

  “You own this place?” she says sort of wiggling her wrist.

  “That’s what I said.”

  “Oh. Well maybe you can do something about these hamburgers. They taste like dead cat.”

  As a matter of fact we don’t use cats in our hamburger most of the time but I can’t give her the news because she stomps off and out the door which I don’t give a damn about because here you’ve got to pay before you eat. I hoist myself up on the stool and run through the menu which is printed in the formica counter in front of each stool. As far as I can tell from the remains, the little snot was eating a PLEASANTBURGER which is the cheapest and weighs a tenth of a pound raw. After that comes the BOURGEOISBURGER at an eighth of a pound and then the DUKEBURGER at a fourth-pound and next the KINGBURGER at a half-pound and the CZARBURGER at a full pound and then the EMPERORBURGER running at two full pounds. Lastly we have at four full pounds the GODBURGER which of course we don’t put on the menu. All of these burgers have different size buns and different size onions and tomatoes and lettuce pieces, though the PEASANTBURGER consists of only a half-bun and a meat patty and a tenth of an ounce of mustard in a little plastic cup, and it doesn’t come with utensils so the PEASANTBURGER eater always has to ask for utensils and water and most often he asks for a knife to get the mustard out of the little plastic cup as it cannot be otherwise got out without making a big mess. And if he doesn’t use the mustard, it just adds to our profit.

  After a minute one of the guys behind the counter dressed up as a court dandy comes up and takes my order which is a BOURGEOISBURGER with lots of onions, and he runs off and gets one and brings it right back. I get a glass of water with that and now all I’m missing is Tsvkzov and wonder why he’s late. Three teen-age couples come in the door and wobble over to one of the tables and it’s pretty clear what they’re here for, we’ve got that too.

  I run through my BOURGEOISBURGER pretty damn fast because though it looks big it’s the geometric pattern on the plate that does that and it’s really pretty damn small, and not too many people order this one because they can’t pronounce it which shoves them up to the DUKEBURGER and KINGBURGER class which is where we really begin to make money. So anyway I’m still a bit hungry and whistle for the boy and order a dish of EMPEROR’S ICE CREAM, KINGSIZE, and he brings that.

  Just then Tsvkzov whips in the side door and trots across the hamburger pattern carpet and plunks himself down on the stool next to mine.

  “Hi Tsvkzov, I’ve got some hot stuff for you.”

  “How hot?”

  “Damn hot. Sweating hot,” I say.

  “Too hot?”

  “Not if you play it cool.”

  “All right GASCOYNE, what is this hot stuff?”

  “Ha,” I say, “I won’t let you within ten miles of the stuff until I get an idea of what it’s worth. I’d say add ten percent to the red-hot stuff classification and see what sort of rise you get from me.”

  “That hot, is it?” he asks.

  “Damn right.”

  “All right supposing we offer red-hot stuff plus ten, what do you say?”

  “Reimbursement procedures?” I ask.

  “Bank draft as usual.”

  “But how can I be sure?”

  “How can we?” he asks.

  “Oh you’ll be sure all right.”

  “Well?”

  “Ever hear of the Micro-Mouse that’s three times smaller and multiplies three times faster than the regular house mouse?”

  “Can’t say I have,” he says.

  “You haven’t?”

  “No,” he says. “What the hell are they good for?”

  “Eating grain.”

  “What grain?”

  “Your grain, Tsvkzov, Mother Russia’s Breadbasket.”

  “Well now wait a minute,” he says. “If these Micro-Mice are three times smaller than regular house mice that means they eat three times less grain, right?”

  “Hmm. Well that’s one way to look at it but I’m sure not the right way.”

  “Okay, what other hot stuff have you got GASCOYNE?”

  “Well now wait a minute these Micro-Mice—”

  “Come on quit pulling my leg,” he says.

  “I’m not kidding Tsvkzov, these Mice—”

  “Ha ha,” he says, “why don’t you send them to the moon? They say there’s a lot of cheese up there.”

  Well I just about give him one in the dental zone for that but don’t because I’m pretty sure he’s not the kind to go for the hard sell.

  “I may have some news on the Z-bomb next week,” I say and it’s all pure bull.

  “That’s more like it. What’s the Z-bomb?”

  “It’s a nuclear-type bomb that destroys only paper, eats the stuff right up in no time, napkins, office paper, money, toilet paper, the works. But I tell you Tsvkzov these Mice are really the last word and that’s the honest truth. I can even show you one now.’

  “Not worth the bother.”

  “Look I tell you they’re great, fantastic.”

  “I just can’t see it, GASCOYNE.”

  “Cats can’t catch them.”

  “Why not?” he asks.

  “Guess.”

  “Because they don’t want to?”

  “No,” I say, “guess again.”

  “Because … well, I don’t know.”

  “Oh come on guess.”

  “GASCOYNE you play too many games with me! Tell me why cats can’t catch them, I insist!”

  “Calm down Tsvkzov, I’ll tell you. Their paws are too big.”

  “Whose paws?”

  “The cats’.”

  “So. Hmm.”

  “You see?”

  “What exactly do you mean, their paws are too big?”

  “Well,” I say, “I suppose I mean actually that their claws are too far apart and that the Micro-Mice slip through them.”

  “Yes I see. And how is this important?”

  “Sometimes I think you’re dense Tsvkzov, can’t you see that if cats can’t catch them that pretty soon you’ll have Micro-Mice up the ass and eating up the Breadbasket of Mother Russia?”

  “Yes that is serious.”

  “Disastrous.”

  “But,” he says, “I don’t understand why you want to sell us some Micro-Mice. I mean we’re not going to turn them loose in our own Breadbasket.”

  “Of course not but with them you will be able t
o create a Micro-Mouse counterforce rodent deterrent, don’t you see?”

  “Well there is that point,” he says. “What do you want for these animals?”

  “Two million for four pair.”

  “A million and a half.”

  “Sold,” I say.

  “How’s business?”

  “Not so good. How’s the wife?”

  “Complains about the cold.”

  “Too bad. Well Tsvkzov how do I get these Mice to you?”

  “Oh hell just give them to me.”

  “Sure,” I say wondering why he’s getting so sloppy all of a sudden and not liking this attitude but what can I do about it? “They’re in the glove compartment of the Kaiser.”

  “Fine.”

  He whips out his billfold and takes out a blank bank draft on a Swiss bank and fills in my name and the date and the amount and hands it over to me.

  “So long,” he says and off he goes without even ordering a hamburger, the cheapskate. I get down off my stool and go over and sign a presidential voucher without any guff since I come here pretty often and when I go out I see the teen-agers smoking happily in the corner. It’s good to have a sort of second home like this for them at that age.

  I hit the parking lot about the time Tsvkzov drives off in his red Moskvich, a tin can if ever there was one, and I climb into the Kaiser and have to work up a little sweat getting the thing started because the battery’s gone low for some reason though it seems to charge all right as soon as I get the engine running. Could be she got a little too hot on the last run and started to tighten up as soon as I stopped.

  I back her up and then throw her in drive and bounce onto the avenue right and fiddle with the rearview to check the scenery out back and damn if there isn’t a little red Porsche right smack on my tail and I slow down to catch the license number and about lose my uppers when I see that it’s got the same number as the blue Porsche and the silver one before that. All I can think is that somebody who can have three cars under the same license number has got a hell of a lot of pull somewhere, and it sure isn’t one of O’Mallollolly’s crew because I know just how much pull he has and exactly where he has it and it doesn’t go so far as three sets of identical license plates by a long shot. About this point I get real interested and wonder where in the hell these visiting firemen are coming from, nowhere I know about.

  *

  I give Chester a ring.

  “Chester what’s the—”

  “Aaah-choua!” he interrupts. “Excuse me boss, got a cold.”

  “Well the best thing’s to take an aspirin and just go on like nothing’s the matter with you.”

  “Sure boss,” he says.

  “Now Chester I want you to cable Tsvkzov’s bank as usual and see that he’s got the funds to cover his latest check for a million and a half. Next, what did you ever find out about that Porsche’s license number I gave you?”

  “Not a damn thing more boss. Reggie in State Automobile Registration says there’s no record of it up there except what he sent us and that’s just three items, the make, the year and license number. No motor number or anything.”

  “Wow. Somebody’s messing around up there. I’ll have to take care of that next week. What else’s new?”

  “Nothing good,” he says. “The fifth floor of Police Tower has surrendered and from what little I can find out O’Mallollolly’s running the whole place now.”

  “I was afraid of that. Well we’ll get by.”

  “And the feds caught Flash Fingers.”

  “What?”

  “Seems that instead of putting all the cash he got out of the WESTBINDER vault back into the mail for us he kept some for himself and the feds traced it in about five hours.”

  “But hell all the bank records burned up,” I say.

  “No, the Federal Reserve had a record of all currency sent to the WESTBINDER that day.”

  “Damn, well I guess all we can do is get him a lawyer. Now Chester before I forget it again I want you to check up completely on the Apotheosis Life Insurance Company and I want to know everything about why they issued Policy Number 9354728 to Rufus Roughah in spite of the heavy risk. Seems to me I’ve heard of this company somewhere but I can’t remember where. But wait a minute, before you get into that, give Nuddard a call and tell him to have the whole front page cleared off and ready for when I give him the material which I’ve still got to think about some. Don’t suppose there’s any chance left of getting Roughah’s body out of Cold Storage.”

  “No boss, to tell you the truth with the shuffling around that’s going on at Police Tower I don’t have any idea what numbers to dial anymore.”

  “Well we’ll just have to do without Roughah then.”

  Which isn’t so bad as it sounds since we’ve got Grant the butler’s body and it’s just a matter of a little framework for the benefit of the insurance company and the newspaper reading public, though without Police Tower it’s going to be a bit of a trick to pull off. I’ve got to get O’Mallollolly out soon, that’s all there is to it because if he wants to throw a monkey wrench into my works he might just be able to pull it off and I begin to wonder how I got myself into this sort of fix which I haven’t been in since more time than I can remember, for being so goddamn soft no doubt. But I’m not going to show my hand until I’m dead sure what O’Mallollolly is up to and one thing’s sure and that is that I want to know why he wants to run the whole damn town when he knows he hasn’t got the brains or backing for this size operation. Something’s screwed up somewhere.

  I zip under the Turnpike Tollroad underpass but of course I’m not going to take the tollroad because I absolutely refuse to pay another cent to officials I’m subsidizing strongly in other ways, so I keep on Clyde Hopkins Bird Sanctuary Road which angles back toward the center of town. I’m wondering all the time in the back of my mind who to put in O’Mallollolly’s place when I pry him out and the trouble is MacGanymede’s dead and there’s nobody else I really trust in the Tower and somebody from outside would be all right up until they got corrupted, which happens pretty fast. No trouble getting them in, all I do is give the Mayor the name to appoint which will make him happy because it’ll show the electorate his paralytic stroke hasn’t affected his mind yet. Poor bastard all he can do is wiggle his ears and the only thing that keeps him alive is the thought of being reelected maybe for the pleasure of being carried in and out of his office every day. I could always have him appoint himself Police Commissioner but the trouble is I don’t have the time to pull all the strings in this damn town, I’ve got too much going on right now to keep track of.

  Suddenly Roughah’s red Rolls goes flashing by me in the slow lane with Dmitri the chauffeur at the wheel and nobody I can see in the back, and I get the feeling he didn’t see me. Then before I can chew this one over Nancy flashes by in her blue Lancia and I don’t think she saw me either so they must be in a big hurry about something and I’m interested to see what, besides wanting to ask them both a few questions. I snap on the supercharger and run her up to sixty to catch up, quite a bit over the limit but the afternoon traffic rush hasn’t started yet. In a minute we come to the Bird Sanctuary-Mirindaranda wye and all hit the signal green and slip onto Mirindaranda Road heading straight for the Roughah digs so it’s pretty clear where they’re going. I slow down a little and give Chester a ring because I’ve got the scoop for Nuddard all sorted out in my mind now.

  “Chester is that you?”

  “No this is Frank.”

  “Damn where’s Chester?”

  “He wasn’t feeling well and said something about going out for some more pills for his shooting pains.”

  “Holy shit! Tell him to call me the moment he gets back.”

  “Who’s this?”

  “GASCOYNE, you asshole.”

  “Yes sir! Excuse me!”

  Miserable incompetents, what a time for shooting pains. How can you get shooting pains sitting at a desk and telephone all day?

&nb
sp; We hit the Mirindaranda split and Dmitri goes on and slides the Rolls into the garage and while I cruise by slowly, Nancy double-parks in front of it and jumps out screaming and waving her fists and they both go up the outside stairs. I drop the Kaiser into an alley and turn off the phone and then hotfoot it over to the garage and peek inside and see a stairway in there which I remember leads up to Dmitri’s kitchen upstairs, just what I need. I tiptoe up and of all the lucky things the door’s unlocked and so I inch it open real quiet and creep inside. From the noise it sounds like they’re in the bedroom having a tiff and I work my way down the hall and put my ear against the door but can’t make anything out but of course that’s not the way to do it. I take my old Zenith hearing aid out of my shirt pocket and turn it up high and press it against the door and that really picks up the vowels and consonants.

  “… only when you give me my house back,” Nancy’s saying, almost screaming.

  “It’s in little pieces, you idiot, and you’ll never get it back,” he says.

  “Well build me a new one.”

  “We’re broke, flat broke, understand? Can’t you see that if you just tell us what you know we may be able to find it and then we can build you a whole housing tract of houses.”

  “If only I could trust you Dmitri,” she says.

  “You don’t need to trust me. You don’t even need to tell me. Tell some other member of the corporation.”

  “What corporation?”

  “I’m part of a corporation registered in the state and created for the sole purpose of finding Roughah’s treasure trove. We were capitalized at three hundred thousand but we’ve used that all up. We’re flat broke. You’ve got to help us Nancy or we’ll be ruined.”

  “Maybe that’s what I want,” she says.

  “You little bitch!”

  There’s a slap and a crash and a little scream and I think it’s best to make my presence known so I put my hearing aid back and turn it down to normal and whip out my automatic and unscrew the safety and fling open the door and dash through. I find Dmitri about to give Nancy another slap and he has his gun out and is unfortunately facing square at me. He sees me and says, “All right drop your gun GASCOYNE.”