by Gary A. Markette
Being a Private Eye in the Seven Counties has few perks. One is exclusivity. Like Tigger, I'm the only one. Another is the opportunity to ask questions like that.
I'm standing under a footbridge in East County talking to --what else? --a troll. Up to now the conversation's been pleasant enough. He's a Sox fan, I'm a Cubs fan, but so far no bloodshed. My client isn't paying for chit-chat, though. Hence, the question.
"Eat them?" he asks. "Eat who?"
I sigh and pull out my equalizer.
"Look," I say, "You know you got the kids; I know you got the kids. How's about tellin' me where they are before I start to remove certain portions of your trollish anatomy with Mr. Nine-Millimeter, here?"
His hands go up, eyes wide.
"Whoa, McQue," he squeaks, "Take it easy. This ain't like you!"
"Wrong, Troll breath," I say, aiming. "It's just like me when there's kids involved. I work harder when kids are involved."
"Kids? What kids?"
"My client's kids," I snarl. "You got till I count three to start telling me where they are. One . . ."
"Wait, wait," he says, more frantic. "Who's your client? At least tell me that."
"My client is the guy whose kids you got. And I'm up to two . . ."
"Is it B. G. Gruff, Incorporated?" he yells.
I stop counting. Lower my piece.
"How'd you know that?" I ask.
"Had to be them," he says, lowering his hands. "They've had a grudge against me for years."
"Just keep your hands where I can see them," I say. "What about the kids?"
"Goats," he says.
"Goats?" I say.
"Goats," he says. "The kids are young goats. You never heard the story?"
We're in his small, cave-like...well, cave...at the west end of the bridge. I got my piece stashed, but in easy reach. I don't mind listening, but I like to have a persuasive argument readily available.
"Real estate business?" I prod.
"This was even before they incorporated. They just bought up a whole bunch of land on both sides of the river. They wanted my bridge so they could charge tolls to anyone that lived around here."
I shrug. "Sounds like a good business idea."
"Yeah, except they didn't want to buy my bridge. They just wanted to own it. Started crossing it without my permission and taunting me with their big, juicy...Anyway, they finally lured me into a wrestling match with their senior partner."
"That made the papers," I say. "You got skewered and tossed into the river. Everyone thought you were dead."
"That's what they wanted everyone to think," he says, slamming his teacup on the table. "They bribed the reporters. With me 'dead,'"-- he makes little quote marks in the air --”it looks really weird when a troll does that -- they could claim the bridge for their own and charge any toll they like."
"I don't get it," I say, fiddling with my tea cup. Its contents are starting to burble. "I don't see tollbooths on the bridge. And how could they convince people that you were dead when you're obviously alive?"
"They charge the tolls as part of the price folks pay for living on their property. Roll it into the rent or the mortgage payment. No one notices. Just like no one notices that I'm not dead. Think about it, McQue. You thought I was dead, didn't you?"
"Until they called me to tell me you got their kids, yeah, I thought you were dead."
"You and everybody else. See, they know I'm shy. All trolls are shy. We don't bother anyone unless they bother us first. They count on that."
"Still doesn't make sense," I say. "You chase away or devour anybody who tries to use your bridge without your permission. Do that a few times and folks are gonna know you're not . . ." But he's shaking his head.
"Remember the wrestling match? Both me and their senior partner wound up in the hospital after that. Only problem: he's got partners; I got none. While I'm recovering from bruises and horn-gashes, his buddies are busy selling properties on both sides of the river. By the time I'm out of rehab, they got hundreds of folks in condos, townhouses, and apartments—all of them using my bridge."
He finishes his tea; pours another cup. I move mine around. It seethes and glurps.
"I don't know about you," he goes on, "but I got better things to do than chase people off a bridge all day every day. Besides, I was in a cast and riding a wheelchair for the first two months after rehab. Picture me rolling my chair up to the bridge, my cast out in front of me, trying to chase off some poor shmoe who's carrying home a bag of groceries. It's ludicrous!"
I had to agree, but I wasn't telling him that. "So all you gotta do," I say, standing up, "is tell me where the kids are and we forget all about this."
"Sorry, McQue. Can't do it."
"Back to this again," I say, pulling and re-aiming my piece. "This isn't a request, troll. It ain't a bargain. Tell me where the kids are or I start amateur surgery. First I shoot off your . . ."
"I can't do it 'cause I don't know," he whines. "I ain't seen a goat or a kid since I tussled with the big one all those years ago. That was plenty for me. Wanna see my scar?"
I hesitate, a small tickle nagging me. I put away my piece.
"O. K. for now," I say. I turn toward the door of the cave. "I'm gonna do some checking." I reach the door. Stop. Turn. "But if I find out you're lying, I'll be back." Schwarzenegger, ah! He wrecks it.
"Good. I won't be seeing you again, then."
I start to reply, watch my tea congeal, and leave in silence.
"Still workin' the troll case?" he grates. Duck always sounds like his voice could use an overhaul and an oil change.
"Yeah, and it's an odd one," I answer.
"So what else is new," he says, flopping into a client chair. "Hey, can I have the gun? My nephew wants it back."
I hand him the piece I used with the troll.
"Why you wanted this thing, I'll never know," he says, squirting my Gecko with it. The lizard hisses in delight and stands on its hind legs. Duck squirts him again. The water knocks him over.
"It served its purpose," I say, glad that trolls are notoriously near-sighted. "Take a look at this, will ya?" I show him a stack of papers.
"What am I lookin' at?" he asks, leaning over my desk.
"It's a prospectus for the B. G. Gruff Corporation," I say. "But I can't make head nor tail of it."
"Not surprising," he grunts. "It doesn't make sense. Look." He points at a stack of figures. "This posits profits for the next three years. See how the figures climb dramatically? Now look here." He moves his finger across the page. "This shows investments over the same period. None--or nowhere near enough to account for the profit forecast. There's a big expense item titled "the first year," then nothin'." He tosses the papers onto my desk. "Looks to me like these guys are risking everything on this 'E' thing. Typical."
"Typical?"
"Yeah, for these guys," He leans back in the chair. "They're not really hoods, but they're close. Moved into the Counties just before the Grimm migration -- long before you got here. Bought some property on both sides of the river. Built some cheap housing. Risked a whole bunch of money they probably didn't have."
He closes his eyes. "They got lucky when the rest of the Grimm's crowd immigrated. Sold, leased, or rented all that property in a few months," he continues. "Don't know how they managed to meet their early payments, though. Sure didn't come to me."
"No," I say. "They strong-armed a troll." And I tell him the story.
"Sounds like them," he nods, yawning. "They strong-armed some small-time operators along the way, too. They're sneaky and they're tough."
"And they're my clients," I say. "Why can't I ever get a client who plays it straight?"
A snore tells me that Duck has discovered how comfortable my client chairs are. Great. Nobody ever answers that question. I toss a blanket over Duck and grab my hat. Time for a client conference.
It's an hour and a half later and I'm seated in the office of the B. G. Gruff flunky who hired me. It's taken this long to get here because I had some photos to take and the guy was "in conference" earlier. No problem, though. I brought along the sports page. Cubs have won three in a row. I ponder buying World Series tickets.
"You might say that," I reply, leaning back to watch the fun.
"Well, we can't have that," he starts. "We'll just have to . . . huh?"
I love it when they do that.
"You asked me," I say, "If I found the kids. I said: You might say that." I pause. "Means: Yeah, I found 'em."
"But you can't...There's no way...That's imposs..."
"When I decided that the whole thing was a frame," I say, waving my hand to stop the babble. "I had two questions to answer: Why and Where? The where's pretty easy, so I'll handle that first." I pull an envelope full of photos from my jacket. "Here's pictures of the kids frolicking in their back yard. I took those about 45 minutes ago."
"How did you get in . . ."
"How did I get into the B. G. Gruff family estate? Wasn't easy, I'll admit. I'll get to that. Anyway, as you can see, the kids are fine. Have been since you hired me, of course. In fact, they were never in any danger at all, were they?" I hold up my hand. "No. Don't bother answering. I already know.
"Now the why. That's not much tougher--just a dirtier trick. B. G. Gruff wants to expand its holdings on both sides of the river. Real estate profitability is up and you guys still got a bunch of undeveloped land. Problem is: no one wants to build or buy there because of limited access."
I stand up and start to pace. I do this whenever I work through a deduction -- helps me think and makes it easier to dodge if the client starts to throw things.
"I mean," I say, "Who wants to live somewhere where the only way to get around is over a footbridge? You had to find a way to upgrade and fast. You wanted a bigger bridge. To get one, though, you had to get rid of the troll."
"Troll?" he says, feigning puzzlement. "Oh, I see. You're confused. You're thinking of the little proxy fight our senior partner had a few years ago," he chuckles. "No, Mr. McQue. No troll. Troll no more. Troll all gone . . . hey!"
My throwing arm isn't what it used to be but I can still hit a twerp with a paper wad across an office desk.
"You're not dealin' with some dumb reporter or highway department flunky, here, pal," I say. "Keep shinin' me on and I stroll over to the D. A. where we talk about fraud charges—maybe attempted murder."
"What are you talking..."
"You knew that I'd find the troll and you knew he'd say he didn't have the kids. You figured that'd be the end of it. I'd come back to you, tell you about it, take my fee, and leave. You'd send in a SWAT team, eliminate the troll, claim the bridge, and start expansion—the 'E' item in your business prospectus." I shrug. "Some time later, the kids would show up. Everyone's happy that they're safe and nobody thinks much about one deceased troll."
I stop pacing and lean across his desk. "Not a bad plan and it probably would have worked with most private eyes. It didn't with me because, like I told the troll, I work harder when kids are involved. I didn't know that the kids in question were young goats when I started, but that's the way the cheese binds." I smile. "Goat . . . cheese. Get it?"
"You can leave any time, McQue," he says, narrowing his eyes.
"Oh I'll leave, all right. Just as soon as I get my fee."
"Fee?" he laughs. "You expect us to pay you a fee for finding out that the kids were safe? We thought the troll was gone. You found out differently." he shrugs. "No harm, no foul, no fee."
"You knew all along the troll wasn't gone. You also knew that the kids were safe. The photos prove it. No," I reply, "You wanted me to tell you the troll was still around. Then you could tell the press that he had the kids . . . just before you eliminated him." I shrug. "Doesn't matter. You agreed to pay me to find the kids. I found them. Pay me."
"Yes," he growls, "You found them. How did you do that again?"
"Part of the fee," I say, and I slide an invoice across his desk. "See? Right under 'Expenses;' the spell consultant."
"Spell consultant?"
"Another advantage of living in a fantasy land," I say. "I hired a sorcerer to vanish me, my camera, and my film for about half an hour. After that, getting into the B. G. Gruff Estate was easy."
"We'll have to fix that," he muses. "Very well, McQue, we'll pay your fee. Now, get out."
"Just one more thing," I say (trench coat; mussy hair; Peter Falk; Columbo).
"Yes?"
"No SWAT team for the troll. Anything happens to him, I take the pictures and the story you-know-where."
He looks at me in amazement. "You got a lot of guts, I'll say that," he murmurs. "What do you care what happens to some smelly old troll?"
"Makes lousy tea, too," I nod, "But that doesn't matter. He stays healthy or else."
"We gotta upgrade that bridge, McQue," he growls. "Our corporate future depends on it."
"So, upgrade," I say. "Just keep the troll in charge of it," I hold up my hand. "I don't mean for real. I know he's not corporate material. Give him a paper-pusher post somewhere in your organization. Something like: senior vice-president in charge of span acquisitions. Build him an office under the new bridge. He could sit in it all day and watch the mortgage and rental receipts flow in—separate the bridge fees from the rest."
"Not a bad idea," he says, making a note. "Probably cost less than the SWAT team."
"He could issue passes, collect tolls from visitors and tourists . . . lots of ways he might be useful," I pause. "Or he could just sit under the bridge and brew really bad tea. Either way, he's no more trouble, you get the bridge you need, and no headlines scream about corporate conspiracies." I think about it. "I like it. It sings."
"Well, " he says, "I suppose we can give it a try . . ."
That's when they struck oil--a lot of it.
See? That's why the tea was so bad--oil in the water. The troll had been drinking it for years and was used to it. Anyway, the troll got rich, B. G. Gruff got rich, and they built an 8-lane, suspension bridge further upstream. I didn't get rich, but I got a nice fee from B. G. Gruff and I get to cross the bridge for free whenever I need to do so.
And every afternoon, the troll sends me a pot of tea.
That I dump down the sink.
WARNING; IF YOU DON'T LIKE LAUGHING, STAY AWAY FROM THIS BOOK!