French Roast and Lingerie

Earlier this evening I was having a before dinner cocktail at one of my local hangouts. A couple of women who sat a few barstools away were talking about me. They didn’t think I could hear them, but I did.

Don’t stare, but take a look at the guy at the end of the bar.

The one in the grey pinstripe suit?

Yeah. She looked, then looked away.

He’s good looking, but what about him?

I think he’s a gentleman.

No shit?

"Can’t you tell by looking?

Do you think that’s why he dresses that way?

Probably.

He looks familiar, kind of like some movie star.

I like the way he sips his drink without taking the cigarette from the corner of his mouth

Yeah, I wonder why he doesn’t light it?

Maybe he’s out of matches.

Should I offer him a light?

I don’t know. Do you think he’d buy us a drink?

I got up then, stubbing out my unlit cigarette in an empty ashtray. Picking up my black fedora from the bar, I placed it jauntily on my head, and walked toward the door. It was time to leave.

* * *

Later, at home, I was leaning back in my chair relaxing with the local newspaper, when I noticed this ad in the classified section:

Wanted: Local writers to join new writer’s group.

Experience not necessary. Imagination required.

You could become the next rich and famous

best-selling author. Contact Carrie at (web address).

Write? I’ve been looking for a respectable vocation, but writing? I pictured myself, sitting at my computer, drinking beer and eating pizza. I imagined a best-selling novel taking shape beneath my fingers.

But did I have a rich imagination? I decided to test it. I opened a beer, took a sip, then closed my eyes, visualizing a scene.

* * *

How about a moonlit beach, maybe in Tahiti, or some other exotic island? Yeah.

Humphrey Imagines

It was a beautiful evening to walk the beach. The soft sounds of night birds, and the lonely call of a distant foghorn floated through the air. The only other sounds were the waves, lapping against a nearby dock, and the breeze rustling through the palm trees.

Suddenly, incongruously, I heard the sound of a woman screaming. Peering in the direction of the scream, I saw in the moonlight, two men, struggling toward the end of the pier, dragging a woman behind them.

Moving closer, I could see that she had a concrete block tied to one of her lovely ankles. What was this?

Hey! Hey! I shouted. Leave her alone!"

I had just reached the dock, running full speed in their direction.

We got a witness, shouted one of the men to the other.

Don’t worry, Archie, he won’t be here long! Said the other thug, letting go of the woman, and pointing his sub-machine gun in my direction. Why hadn’t I noticed the gun before?

I zig-zagged and ducked as I ran closer. The thug pulled his trigger, raking the dock with gunfire. I felt a shot crease my shoulder, saw the hole in my new hundred dollar suit, and then I was upon them.

Aiiiiahhhh! I shouted, directing my twist and turn karate kick directly at the gunman.

Take that, I shouted, as I heard his neck snap, and he fell into the water.

Archie shouted, You rat! He pulled a 45 caliber pistol from his shoulder holster.

He was too slow. I gave him a hard left jab to the solar plexus. This bent him over double. I delivered a hard right uppercut to his nose, which lifted him off his feet.

He dropped like a rock to the dock. I rolled him off into the shark-infested waters. I heard the splash.

No hard feelings, Jerk! You just shouldn’t have treated a woman that way!

He couldn’t hear me. Sharks thrashed the water all around the dock.

Now, to take care of the girl. She was lying on the dock, still tied to the concrete block, weeping hysterically.

I kneeled at her side, placed my hands on her shoulders and said, Don’t worry Dear, they can’t harm you now.

Her sobbing subsided as I untied the rope from her ankle. Then, I lifted her to her feet.

Helping to steady her by holding an arm around her, I guided her toward the entrance to the dock.

Suddenly she stopped, and turned toward me. The moonlight made soft shadows on her face. Her dark eyes looking deeply into mine. The light warm sea breeze rustled her lovely hair.

I don’t know how to thank you, and I don’t even know your name, she whispered.

It’s Jameson, I said, Humphrey Jameson. And all the thanks I need is the knowledge that you are now safe.

I want to give you more than that, she said, throwing her arms around me, and pressing her soft lips to mine. Much more. Backing slightly away, she looked into my eyes and said, I didn’t know there were any real heroes left in this world.

I smiled, just a little, and patting her on the shoulder, I replied, There are a few.

* * *

I opened my eyes, and finished my beer.

Thinking over this scene, I figured I must have the imaginative talent I’d need. It seemed like an easy way to become rich and famous, and I’ve always liked moonlit beaches.

Standing, I stubbed my toe on the end table.

Ever since my great aunt Vera passed away and willed me her old house and a modest income, I have been considering taking up another vocation. I didn’t really want to work as an accountant all my life. I try to be an active guy, and I craved just a little more action.

What the heck, if Hemingway could do it, why couldn’t I? He proved that a guy could be a he-man, and still write. That's the way I pictured myself. Tough, but smart. Maybe even warm-hearted.

I imagined a blockbuster best-selling book taking shape on my computer. I responded to the e-mail address, saying I would attend.

CHAPTER ONE

Never Mess with a Guy Named Humphrey

Grinning in anticipation, I parked my Mini-Cooper in the mall lot, near the Farbuck's coffee shop.

As I approached the door, I turned up the collar of my trench coat, and pulled down the brim of my hat. Glancing in all directions, I slipped on my extra large, extra dark aviator sunglasses. It was my intention to look really cool, and maybe impress the other writers.

I tapped an unfiltered Camel cigarette from my pack, drooled a little on the end to make it look authentic, and hung it from my lips, unlit. I quit smoking years ago, but always carry a pack for effect.

I look a lot like the movie star, Humphrey Bogart, and I try to make the most of it. My Mother even named me after him. Humphrey Jameson. I think I was prenatally influenced by Bogart movies. If it's true that listening to Mozart can affect an unborn child, I guess watching a lot of Bogart movies can, too.

People sometimes ask if I'm as tough as Bogart was. I just do my little Bogart grimace, take a drag from my unlit cigarette, rub my chin, and say, Don't test me.

Just as I was about to reach for the door handle, some kid came running out, bashing the glass door into my nose. My sunglasses flew through the air, and then made a crash landing, breaking one of the lenses. Damn! There went half my cool look!

Quickly realizing that half a cool look is better than none, I broke out the slivers of glass that were still attached to its frame, straightened my glasses and hat, and quickly slipped through the door.

Entering the shop and glancing around, I saw an elderly lady who appeared to be drinking a mint julep. When she thought no one was looking, she quickly emptied a packet of suspicious looking white powder into her drink. Could this be the person named Carrie, who was supposed to be organizing this meeting?

Then I saw him. He was seated in the darkest corner of Farbuck's. He was short, but heavy, and he had a hat just like mine, pulled down in front. He also had a big fat unlit cigar protruding from his fat lips. Drool dripped from the end of his cigar. He reminded me of someone, possibly a Chicago gangster. Al Capone? No, I think he's dead.

I ambled sideways toward his table, and leaning close to his unlit cigar, I quietly asked, Carrie?

He instantly stood up, knocking his chair over backward in the process, and grabbed me by the lapels.

The top of his head came just about up to my nose, and his unlit cigar poked me in the neck.

You punk, he said, quickly frisking me and discovering my shirt pocket full of Kleenex.

Then he flipped open his lapel and showed me a big silver badge. It said FBAC.

How'd you know my name? he snarled, twisting my lapels so tight I had trouble breathing.

The ad in the newspaper! I choked, and then with a quick karate chop I had learned on TV, I dislodged his hands from my lapels. I don't let anyone push me around. It's bad for my image.

What ad?

The newspaper ad! It said meet Carrie here today at two P.M.

Don't tell me that crap! I'm Carrie, and I didn't place no ad! Then he looked puzzled for just a moment and added, Well, actually it's my code name. Listen to me, buddy, you better come clean with me or you'll be sorry!

If you grab my lapels again you'll be the sorry one, shorty! Tell me this, Carrie, what does FBAC stand for?

Stand for? asked Carrie, I'll tell you what it stands for! It stands for the American way! It stands for truth and justice! It stands for Mother pie and applehood!

But what do the letters stand for?

Carrie looked really mean, as even more drool ran down his unlit cigar, and dribbled to the floor.

It stands for FEDERAL BUREAU of AMERICAN COFFEE! Then he leaned close to me and whispered, Do you realize this place sells French roast coffee? French! And all that good American money that goes to France could be going to a patriotic country like Columbia!

With this statement, he turned toward the window, and seeing the American flag flying over Sacred Heart hospital across the street, clicked his heels and saluted it.

Then he gave my lapels a final twist, poked me in the neck with his cigar and said And don't you forget it!

I had warned him not to grab my lapels again, so I quickly grabbed his cigar and shoved it firmly down his throat, wiping my hand off on his necktie. Maybe this would teach him a lesson, like never to mess with a guy named Humphrey. I figure, if I’m going to be tough, I have to act it.

Gagging and coughing, Carrie stumbled out the door. It was hard to understand what he was saying, but I think it was I'll kill you for that!

Carrie's comments about French Roast coffee got me wondering. I leaned over the Farbucks counter and motioned to the clerk. Psst! I whispered, Can I ask you a question?

As long as it ain't too personal, she replied, chewing gum.

I leaned closer and kept my voice low. Does French roast coffee come from France?

No, the name simply identifies a darker roast of the beans.

Do you get the beans from France?

We get them from Minneapolis, delivered once a week.

This was becoming interesting. Do the profits go to France?

Why all the interest in France? I think most of the profits go to Chicago.

I slapped my hand on the counter and said, Thanks, thinking to myself when Carrie finds out, will he be pleased or disappointed? He probably won’t believe it. Fanatics are like that.

Enough of this conversation.

I quickly looked around in all directions and said loudly Hey! Hey! What about the writers' meeting? Where are all the others who promised they might be here?

At that moment a tall, lean young man entered the room. He looked a great deal like Basil Rathbone, in his 1939 movie portrayal of Sherlock Holmes. Could it be?

He was dressed in a trench coat, wore dark glasses, and had a hat pulled over his forehead. Looking quickly around the room, he spotted me and nonchalantly ambled in my direction.

I was beginning to think there was a bit too much nonchalant ambling in this scene. What could this signify?

The tall young man leaned toward me and said Pssssst

I misunderstood and replied, a bit, I can't find the writers meeting.

Have you seen a short fat guy with a cigar in his mouth?

Yes, I replied, he called me a traitor or something. I think he threatened to kill me, but he was hard to understand with that cigar stuck down his throat.

We think he's a killer, but we still don't have hard evidence.

I gave him my best Bogart grimace, pulled my hat down in front, and spoke calmly through barely parted lips. I make it a point not to scare easily.

Good man. Just stay on your toes. Did he tell you his name?

Yes, but I think he lied. He showed me a badge that said FBAC.

We've been trailing him, said the tall thin man. He paused, smacked his lips, and added, Sometimes we can track him by the trail of drool he leaves. He flipped his lapel open and showed me his badge. It was big and silver and said CIA. Keep this information under your hat.

May I ask your name? I asked.

Just call me Cary, he replied, handing me his card and walking out the door.

A killer? Really? He must be plenty mad right now. I think he’s the only killer I ever heard of who should be required to carry a spittoon.

I glanced over at the old lady with the mint julep laced with white powder. She had an unlit filter-tip cigarette dangling from her lips. It was a dead give-away she was health conscious.

She looked suspiciously Argentinian, though a bit over ripe. As I walked past her, I leaned over her table and said Carrie? Como esta usted, Senora?

Get lost, creep! she replied.

I do not discourage easily, so I leaned closer and whispered Evita vive!

Those are the only Argentinian words I know, and I thought they were appropriate.

She looked up and threw her drink in my face, hissing Fascist pig!

Whatever the white powder was, it certainly had not improved her disposition.

After throwing the drink, she grabbed the edge of the table she had been sitting at, and displaying amazing strength, violently tipped it toward me. This flipped the table onto its side, sending her purse and all its contents flying across the room.

With another quick move, she attempted to knee me in the groin, but missed and kicked a table leg with her shin. I saw her quickly limping toward a 45 caliber automatic pistol, which had fallen from her purse when it hit the floor.

As the only heat I was packing was a wad of Kleenex, I quickly vacated the premises.

What I should have done was to offer her a band-aid for her kicked shin, which must have hurt like the devil. Perhaps she would have appreciated it, and realized that I am not really a fascist pig.

It was the first time anyone had ever called me that. Perhaps it’s true, there’s a first time for everything, but why me? I was just trying to start a friendly conversation. Maybe I should have learned her language first.

At any rate, it taught me a grave lesson, and from now on, I won't be caught without a box of band-aids on my person. If I carry it in my shirt pocket, from the outside of my coat, it might look like I have a shoulder holster carrying who knows what weapon? A 45 automatic, or maybe even an UZI.

As I rushed out to my car, wiping my face and shirt with my Kleenex, I attempted to analyze the old lady’s extreme response. I finally concluded that she was not Argentinean. Perhaps she was Lithuanian. I often get the two confused, probably due to the similarities in spelling.

Maybe she misunderstood, and thought I was talking dirty to her in a foreign language. I’ve heard there are perverted old guys who make a habit of doing that with old ladies.

I figure, if I can’t say something nice, I won’t say anything at all. Shit, I thought, philosophically.

I straightened my broken glasses and pulled down the brim of my fedora. I spit out a fleck of tobacco from my cigarette. Or, could it be? Maybe she WAS Carrie!

At that moment, I discovered that my car had been stolen.

I have arrived at two definite conclusions.

1: If I ever attend another of those writer's club meetings I will wear a disguise.

2: I'll have to take the bus.

After arriving home by taxi, I received an e-mail from Carrie informing me that writers meetings are cancelled until further notice. I am not sure which Carrie sent the email. The short fat one with the cigar? The crabby Lithuanian, or the CIA agent. I'm not even sure if the crabby lady's name is really Carrie. I'm assuming it is, as everyone else there seemed to be named Carrie. Why all the Carries, gathered together in one spot? They didn't seem to know one another, so it was unlikely to have been some kind of Carrie-convention.

In any case, I made an important decision. I have decided to give up my plans to become a rich and famous author. After this afternoon’s incidents, I have concluded that writing is a much too dangerous job.

Instead, I plan to become a private detective. It seems to me that private eyes get to meet a lot of broads, while rich and famous writers are sitting at their computers typing and contracting carpal tunnel syndrome.

Don’t those writers realize that condition will prevent them from ever becoming a concert pianist, should they decide to? That they might never be able to experience the agile joy of picking wild blueberries on a warm sunny day? Or play the harp? I’m smart enough to realize it pays to think ahead.

There is always the possibility of becoming a rich and famous private detective, maybe like Hercule Poirot. He gets to meet rich and famous old broads like Agatha Christie, and doesn't even have to carry a gun, he's so smart.

I've made a serious study of Hercule Poirot's technique, and I believe I could duplicate it. All he does is gather all the characters together in one big room, and through logical deduction, is able to conclude that one of them is the murderer.

After explaining all the clues he lifts his finger as if to point at the killer. Of course, he doesn't really know who the killer is, but the killer thinks he does. At this point, the killer always makes a break for the door, where he is apprehended by a waiting police officer.

Poirot has never been wrong. This means that even if I was not quite as good as Hercule Poirot, I would still only be wrong once in a while, which is a lot better than most detectives.

I planned to begin searching for an office tomorrow, and then I must find a good sign painter to paint my name on the door. THE HUMPHREY JAMESON DETECTIVE AGENCY

That title has a nice ring to it, doesn't it?

CHAPTER TWO

The Disguise Master

After sleeping on it, I decided to postpone renting an office until I’d actually made some money as a private detective. For the moment, I would use Farbuck’s as an office. There seemed to be plenty of action there.

Looking in the yellow pages of the phone book, I found a listing for Expert disguise training. Perhaps if I had been more knowledgeable about disguises, I might have avoided some of Thursday's problems. I might even have been able to identify Carrie. At any rate, it seemed appropriate for my new profession as a private detective.

The disguise school was located in the basement of a tavern on North Barstow Street.

As I walked down the dark stairway, a rat scuttled across the hallway, entering a hole in the wall. The ceiling seemed cluttered with cobwebs. Figuring this must be all part of the disguise school’s disguise, I knocked on the door at the bottom.

Who is it? The voice came from an intercom mounted above the door. It sounded amazingly like W.C. Fields.

It's me, Humphrey Jameson, private eye, I replied, in my best Bogart voice. I heard a bolt being electronically unlocked from the inside, and figured that was an invitation to enter.

When I