The Cashier Always Rings Twice by Jon Wesick
The Cashier Always Rings Twice by Jon Wesick
I was sitting in my basement office at 4th and Drucker with nothing to keep me company but a bottle of rye whiskey and a bad attitude. Business was slow. It was already the tenth of the month and mom was bugging me about the rent. Then, an American black bear walked in. She had a broad skull and narrow muzzle covered with dense underfur and long, coarse guard hairs.
“Is this the Pillbottle Detective Agency?”
“That’s right.” I tilted back my fedora to get a better look at her. “Morris Pillbottle, owner and general manager, at your service.” Being the only employee that pretty much made me both but knowledge is power so I didn’t tell her that.
“Morris, huh? I thought detectives were supposed to have manly names like Dick, Rod, or Johnson.”
“If you wanted to discuss Freud’s theories,” I said. “you’d be seeing Dr. Feigenbaum at Drucker and 4th or taking Intro to Psych at the Antelope Valley Community College. What gives?”
“My name is Ursula Fogbottom. I think somebody followed me here.”
“Tall guy in khaki pants and a pale blue shirt?”
“Yeah.” Ursula sat on her haunches.
“That’s David Attenborough. He won’t bother you.” I poured a shot of whiskey into a clean glass and slide it over to her. “I don’t get many bears in here.”
“At these prices, no wonder.” Ursula wrapped her meaty paws around the glass but couldn’t get the hang of lifting it.
“I’ll ask you again. What gives?”
“I’m hosting a banquet and need someone to pick up some tofu, broccoli, and oyster sauce at the grocery store.” She tapped her short, rounded claws on my desk. “I propose to pay you a tidy sum to do my shopping.”
“Just how tidy are we talking?” I asked.
“Five dollars.”
“That doesn’t even fold my laundry.”
“Ten.”
“Still leaves a lot of dirty dishes in the sink.”
“Twelve.”
“What about the lime stains in the shower?”
“Twenty. You drive a hard bargain, Mr. Pillbottle.” Ursula Fogbottom stood and extended her paw. “Do we have a deal?”
I shook and watched her walk out the door. She had the full figure of someone who’d foraged berries and raw salmon in preparation for a long, winter snooze. Smart mammal but she got one thing wrong. I drove a Hyundai. I buckled my snub-nosed .45 under my trench coat and went shopping.
& & &
I grabbed a basket from inside the sliding doors. The dispenser of sanitizing cloths was empty so I took my chances with the residue left over from employees desperate for a tilapia filet or carton of chicken tenders on their way home from the daily grind of spreadsheets, corporate mission statements, and cold-calling consumers to sell extended warranties for the napkin rings they bought sometime during the Clinton Administration. The produce section was a collection of afterthoughts from America’s meat-based diet, a cornucopia of dietary sermons ignored by children and adults alike. I found the broccoli between the Brussels sprouts and button mushrooms. Only two pieces remained. The florets were yellow as a Bedouin’s urine and the stalks as limp as an eighty-year-old watching Barney the dinosaur while getting a root canal from Cinderella’s step-sisters. Some guys might be into that but I wasn’t especially at $8.99 a pound.
The tofu was the ugly duckling in a flock of tempeh, hummus, vegan hotdogs, and Impossible Beef Wellington. I collected two packs along with a bottle of Lee Kum Kee oyster sauce from the Asian section. When I returned to produce for one last look, the broccoli was gone.
& & &
I never knew how long a job was going to last so I stashed the tofu and oyster sauce in the office fridge before hitting Govinda’s Grocery. I parked next to an all-electric BMW attached to a quick-charge station outside and entered. The air smelled of fresh yoga mats and customers waited by a display case full of French macarons in the colors of an Edvard Munch painting and marzipan shaped like spacecraft from the Soyuz to the Falcon 9 launch vehicle.
“Want to try some Norwegian Parmesan?” a woman behind a folding table asked.
“Sure,” I said.
She placed a slice the size of a postage stamp on a cracker and handed it to me.
“Good.” The Parmesan was fjords, midnight sun, and had all the bite of a battle axe embedded in a wooden shield.
“It’s on special, today. Just twenty dollars a pound.” She handed me a coupon.
A guy could get lost for years in there among the Indonesian chocolate, Venezuelan beaver cheese, fresh scallops, Chilean sea bass, lobsters flown in daily from Maine, duck-breast prosciutto, Malbec from Mendoza, ice creams with flavors like cashew and saffron, grains like teff and quinoa, pesto, and guacamole. The country had a lot of problems but, by God, America knew how to do supermarkets right!
“Excuse me.” A goddess in a leotard inched past me to get to the yoga class in the dairy aisle.
Much as I wanted to linger, I had a job to do. I headed left where a chalk sign in front of an overflowing basket of Fuji apples announced the entrance to the produce aisle. I picked up a bulb of anise and inhaled the licorice scent. If there were a heaven for herbivores, this was it. Blissful rabbits could dine on kiwis, blood oranges, golden raspberries, yarrow root, Austrian chard, mangosteens, Nepalese chayote, wild mountain potatoes, and sapotes. I picked up a purple carrot and marveled at its color but despite this bounty, there was not one stalk of broccoli.
& & &
Like a pair of bouncers, traffic cones guarded the parking lot to keep cars out of the afternoon farmers’ market. Two-dozen aluminum frames supported awnings that shaded tables of seafood, jelly, spice mixes, pastries, and produce. A guy held out a paper plate with slices of pluot. Something about his jeweled eyepatch and reverse Mohawk seemed familiar.
“Aren’t you Norman Tonercartridge, the accountant who bilked old ladies out of billions on that phony, fiberglass mine at the north pole?”
“I’m paying my debt to society with thirty minutes of community service,” he said. “You want to taste the pluots or not?”
I took a slice. The fruit was sweet as a verdict obtained by a lawyer only the superrich could afford. I continued my orbit of the parking lot. A tamale truck filled the air with the scent of fresh masa. You could eat one at the table or buy them frozen for later. The stands sold peaches, cherries, squash blossoms, and blue lake green beans but no broccoli. I stopped in front of a pile of sugar-snap peas. Through years of careful observation, my gut told me these would make an adequate substitution for my client’s stir fry.
“Excuse me,” I asked the vendor. “Got any broccoli?”
She turned away as if she didn’t hear.
“Got any broccoli?” I asked at every stand.
Nothing, so I gave the woman a fin for a pound of sugar-snap peas in a white, plastic bag. A skinny guy was leaning against my Hyundai when I rounded the corner by the post office. He had the crooked nose of a guy who took the last of the two-for-one Monterrey Jack one too many times.
“You’re asking too many questions for your own good, pal.” He spat the toothpick out of his mouth.
“What business is it of yours?” I reached for my snub-nosed .45.
Fast as a mongoose on a hotplate, he pulled my trench coat over my shoulders, trapping my hands by my side. Skinny’s punch to the gut doubled me over and I spilled the sugar-snap peas on the pavement.
“Consider this a friendly warning.” Skinny jammed another toothpick between his incisors and walked away.
& & &
“Excuse me, sir. Is this the Pillbottle Detective Agency?” The client handed me a business card that smelled of Pyramid Patchouli. He wore white gloves, a Homberg hat, and was so delicate I doubted he’d win a wrestling match with a gerbil. “My name is Gilbert Giza and I’m wondering if you can find my lost kitten.”
“Kitten, huh? What’s its name?”
“Cat.”
“Not much of a name.”
“What can I say? I’m a Breakfast at Tiffany’s fan.” Giza made a steeple with his fingers. “There will be a, how do you say, tidy bonus for you if you find her.”
“How tidy are we talking about?” I asked.
“Five dollars.”
“Wouldn’t even dust my bookshelf.”
“Ten.”
“I still need to reorder my fiction collection.”
“Fifteen.”
“All right. I’ll draw up a standard contract.” I reached into my drawer.
When I raised my eyes, I was staring into a pistol that would look tiny in a baby’s hands.
“Where’s the broccoli?” Giza demanded.
“Don’t have any.”
“I’ll have to search your office. Step out from behind that desk,” he ordered. “I need to make sure you don’t have any weapons.”
I complied. Even though a ninety-eight-year-old smoker in an iron lung could have knocked him over, none were in my office so I slugged him in the jaw. He went down like a Bloody Mary on a hot afternoon. I woke him with a splash of tabasco sauce to the face and then threatened him with a stalk of celery unless he took me to his boss.
& & &
“Ah, Mr. Pillbottle, do take a seat.” The fat man had the body of a zeppelin in a smoking jacket, jowls of a bloodhound on Novocain, and complexion of a leather couch that had been in the sun for too long. He poured green liquid into a glass. “Would you care for a smoothie.”
“Sure, why not?” I replied.
“Excellent, sir! We’ll get along splendidly. I don’t trust a man who skimps on the USDA recommendation of five fruits and vegetables a day.” He slid me a glass. “Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Greengrocer, Sydney Greengrocer.”
I eyed the skinny guy with the toothpick, who’d punched me in the gut, slouching in the corner.
“Ah, I do apologize for Waldo’s behavior.” The fat man wiped his brow with a handkerchief. “He gets overly enthusiastic before mealtime.”
“So, why’d you send this chump to toss my office?” I pointed at Giza.
Giza’s hand went for his gun. Unfortunately for him it was in my pocket so I slugged him once more and he went down like a watermelon from the top of a twelve-story building.
“Well said, sir! I admire a man who says what he means even though he has less chance of getting laid than by being struck by a meteor while attacked by a saltwater crocodile in Norway. Here’s to honest and forthright conversation.” The fat man raised his glass. “It seems we have a mutual interest in broccoli, the emerald scepter, leaf of longevity, stalk of serenity, the floret of flavor. Care to tell me why?”
“Trust goes both ways.” I sipped my smoothie. “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.”
“Ha! You are a character, sir! I admire a man who deals in witticisms even though he couldn’t win a debate with a salamander who never made it through second grade. The story behind my search is so wonderous, I doubt that you would believe it. But, what about you? Are you working for Olivia Officesupply?”
“Who?”
“Tabitha Printerpaper?”
“Never heard of her.”
“Penelope Staplepuller?”
“Oh, you mean Ursula Fogbottom.”
“Be careful, sir. She’s not who she appears to be.” The fat man drained his glass. “Let me just say that I’m prepared to pay you a tidy sum if you procure some broccoli for me.”
“Just how tidy are we talking about?”
“Twenty-five dollars.”
“That might straighten my shoes,” I said, “but I still need to vacuum the living room.”
“Twenty-seven.”
“Still need to rearrange my spice rack.”
“You drive a hard bargain, sir. Thirty dollars.”
“I’ll keep my eyes open.” This was the second time someone got my choice of transportation wrong. I began to smell a rat or maybe it was just the onions Waldo was grilling in the kitchen. I field-stripped Giza’s pistol and left the pieces next to the baby carrots.
& & &
I found Ursula Fogbottom stripping wooden paneling in the hallway when I got back to my office.
“Morris, I’ve been looking all over for you. My dinner party is tomorrow and I don’t have the ingredients.” She huffed and let out a grunt. “I’m frantic, I tell you. Frantic!”
“I got something for you.” I let her in, sat behind the desk, and poured myself a shot of whiskey. “In the fridge.”
Her face was a mixture of calculation and disbelief as if a parking valet had handed her the keys to someone else’s Porsche and all she had to do was not let on. When she saw only the tofu and oyster sauce, her expression dropped like that of a child who got a dictionary for Christmas instead of a Hot Wheels Super Ultimate Garage Play Set.
“Sorry, Angel. Couldn’t find broccoli anywhere. Maybe you could substitute cabbage, Brussels sprouts, kohlrabi…”
“They just won’t do. Don’t you see? The recipe calls for broccoli and if I don’t cook it right, I’ll be a laughing stock. A laughing stock!” She squatted beside my desk and looked up with pleading eyes. “I try so hard to prove bears can be five-star Michelin chefs but every time I go to the store, patrons run for the exits as if I’m going to guzzle all the honey in the baking supplies aisle. Oh, I’m just a silly omnivore, not someone like you. You have enough wit for both of us. Use your wit for me. Won’t you?”
“’I can resist anything except temptation.’ How’s that?” I asked. “By the way, I met your friend, the fat man.”
“What did he say?” Ursula turned her back and began balancing a beach ball on her nose while spinning it with her paw.
“He said he wants some broccoli, too.”
“Are you going to help him?” Ursula turned her attention to the baseboards and began sharpening her claws.
“If the price is right.”
“Oh, Morris. I can’t match his riches. Be careful. He’s not who he appears to be.”
& & &
The buzzer rang and I answered the door to find a man whose eyes were as tired as a first-time triathlete competing atop Mount Everest on a scorching, August day.
“Lieutenant Filefolder, what are you doing here?”
“Mind if I come in?” Filefolder pushed past me. “All right. Where is she?”
“Who you talking about, flatfoot?”
“You know who I mean. Christine Cubicle. She’s wanted for absconding from the Brookfield circus with a thousand pounds of frozen salmon.”
“I don’t know any Cubicle, Corneroffice, Deskdrawer, or Conferencetable so unless you’ve got a warrant, beat it.”
“Play it the way you want it, Pillbottle. I got my eyes on you. The public calls us bacon, Barney Fife, cops, Fivc-O, flatfoots, the fuzz, the heat, Jake the Snake, the law, the man, narcs, pigs, porkchop, road pirates, rollers, and smokey but who are they going to call when the UPC code is wrong and the cashier charges them $7.98 for raspberries when they’re on sale at two for $3.99? Me, that’s who!” Lieutenant Filefolder walked into the hall. “I’ll be in touch.”
& & &
“Welcome back, sir. So good of you to meet me on such short notice. I distrust a man whose social calendar is full of gainful employment and assignations with gorgeous women. Care for a smoothie?” The fat man poured me a glass without waiting for my response. “Of course, you remember my associates Gilbert Giza and Waldo.”
“Good to meet you again,” Giza said.
Waldo stuck his toothpick in a piece of cauliflower, brought it to his lips, and glared.
“Well sir, I’ve decided to let you in on the secret behind my cruciferous quest. It’s an amazing tale, so amazing that I’m afraid you’ll call me a liar. Does the term Iron Chef mean anything to you?”
“It’s a cooking show. Isn’t it?”
“Indeed, it is, sir. Five years ago, a wealthy industrialist created Kitchen Stadium where master chefs from all over the world compete against his four Iron Chefs: Morimoto, Sakai, Chen, and Kobe. Each week Chairman Kaga reveals his secret ingredient. Then the challenger and one Iron Chef have an hour to create a meal using that ingredient for a panel of judges to score. Can you guess this week’s secret ingredient?”
“Broccoli.”
“Well done, sir! I admire a man whose powers of deduction rival that of a comatose jellyfish.” The fat man looked at his pocket watch. “Oh dear! It’s time for Giza and me to put our clothes in the drier. Waldo, please entertain our guest with a game of Monopoly until we return.”
Waldo set up the board. I chose the little race car and he took the top hat. My strategy was to buy low. After five turns, I had houses on Baltic and Mediterranean while all he had was miscellaneous properties scattered all over the board. He rolled a six and landed on my purple real estate.
“That’ll be four-hundred dollars!” I took his money and rolled.
After more turns I consolidated my holdings on Marvin Gardens, Atlantic, and Ventnor. My pile of cash grew while his shrank. As I pondered buying a hotel, I realized the fat man and Giza were taking a long time with the clothes. I looked at my watch. I’d been had. I raised my hand to scratch under my fedora and knocked my smoothie over.
“Sorry.” I moved the box of my money away from the spreading puddle of green. “Get a towel, Would you?”
When Waldo was in the kitchen, I grabbed the Trader Walt’s Frequent Flier coupons and dashed for the door.
& & &
The solution to the puzzle was on page three.
“Broccoli, 10% off in our Oxnard store.”
I got on the freeway and floored my Hyundai sending power to the four massive cylinders in its 1.3-liter engine in a desperate race from Boston to California. The fat man had a head start but I still had a chance. With his girth, crossing the Rockies would slow any vehicle he drove to the speed of a snail in a K hole. After a marathon of gas-station bathrooms and declined Pizza-Hut coupons, I got to the Trader Walt’s but not quickly enough. By the time I cleansed the shopping cart’s handle and examined the chocolate-covered pretzels by the entrance, a dispute began in the produce aisle.
“You fool!” Giza slapped the fat man in the face with a limp zucchini. “You said there would be broccoli and we drove three-thousand miles for this!” He pointed to a display of disappointment on ice.
They call it broccoflower but to me it was nothing but cauliflower with a bad complexion. My failure as a private investigator crashed down on me like a ten-story apartment complex where every story was tragedy. One thing was for sure. A special bear wasn’t going to be making stir fry anytime soon. As I considered a career change, the fat man flung a carton of blueberries at Giza. Giza threw a blood orange with an arm like a major league pitcher’s and beaned the fat man on the forehead. Not to be outdone, the fat man lobbed a pumpkin underhanded like a bowling ball and scored a strike by knocking Giza off his feet. Then the last person I expected to see on this side of the continent arrived with a squad of uniformed officers.
“All right! All right! Break it up!” Lieutenant Filefolder turned to the fat man. “Sydney Greengrocer, I’m arresting you on a 245.”
“What’s the charge?” the fat man asked.
“Crossing state lines to instigate a food fight. Take them away, boys.” Lieutenant Filefolder turned to me. “Well, Pillbottle, thanks to you we put a food hoarder and his henchman behind bars before they could make it to the pies.”
“So, this caper was a setup all along?”
“That’s right. I couldn’t fill you in lest you give my plans away.”
“Wheels within wheels.” I wiped a stray raspberry off my chin. “And Ms. Fogbottom?”
“One of my undercovers on loan from the National Park Service.”
“Is there a reward for their capture?”
“Sure. Ten percent off at Denny’s.” Lieutenant Filefolder handed me a coupon. He looked at the broccoflower. “What is that vegetable, anyway?”
“The stuff that dreams are made of.”
* * * * THE END * * * *
Copyright Jon Wesick 2024
