When I look at the news these days, I am driven to try to put a smile on faces for a minute or two. Nosing around in some old files, I discovered a mystery novel that I almost completed a few years ago. I think it’s funny, at least compared to the waters of the Straits of Hormuz, so I decided to spruce up the a little and post it serially here on the Vine Maple Farm.
Read and enjoy. I hope.
The Wrong Guest
A Chanco Lupaster And Reggie Haskell Mystery
By Marvin G. Waschke
1.The Prosecutor Persists
I stepped into the office as the phone rang.
I picked it up. “I must speak to Lloyd Manthes,” a voice said before I could say my usual piece, but I’m no pushover. I got it in anyway.
“Lupaster Investigations LLC, Reggie Haskell speaking. How can we help you?”
“Get me Manthes.”
Lloyd Manthes was United States Attorney for the Northern District of Illinois. Important guy, friend of Lupaster’s, sort of.
“Dr. Manthes is not here. His name is not on the appointment sheet. Do you have the correct number?”
“You’re the Lupaster office. You’re who I want. Get me Manthes.”
“Dr. Manthes is not here.”
“Then have him call me when he arrives. This is Sam Woolley,” and he hung up.
I shrugged. A lot of different things happen in this world. I knew of Sam Woolley. Top dollar patent attorney, office in the Hyde Park Bank building. First class as South Side lawyers go, but no ties the University law school. Unlike Lupaster Investigations, LLC, which gave us a shade more class.
I gritted my teeth and jerked at the page on my desk calendar. The tear went crooked. Only the lower half of the date, December first, showed. Bills due. The wall safe sat lopsided and empty on the floor behind Lupaster’s desk. I should have hired a carpenter to hide it in a wall months ago, but Lupaster Investigations LLC was in financial extremis. The safe was not the only fixture that wasn’t fastened down properly.
A starchy letter arrived from Commonwealth Edison on November first. They said they would disconnect our electricity with no further notice if we didn’t bring a basket of cash to their office on 63rd Street and beg for forgiveness. They could not have been too serious because it was December first and the lights were still on. But a letter like that starts a train of thought.
I opened the safe, peeked at the balance in the company checkbook, and stuck my tongue out. November bills would have to wait. Alongside October’s bills. I sent off a quick email to ComEd explaining that the president and principal of Lupaster Investigations LLC is blind and has trouble making ends meet. This was all true. Not much of an excuse, but I lacked the energy and drive to make up anything better.
Manthes might be the break we needed, but I had felt that way before about surer things than this and nothing ever came of them.
Business went south when Lupaster Investigations LLC bought an apartment building at Fifty-third and Dorchester, near the university on the South Side. We used to lease an office on North Michigan Avenue where the agency thrived, but Lupaster decided he would prefer a combined office and residence close to the other members of his chamber ensemble. He is a cellist. So, Lupaster bought a brick apartment building close to the flat where he and I bunked in Hyde Park. He terminated our Michigan Ave lease and started to convert the three-story six-flat at Fifty-third and Dorchester into an office and residence.
The building was supposed to provide housing for Lupaster, Theresa Baton, Fellman Biggers and me. I’m Reggie Haskell, Lupaster’s chief assistant, body guard, and financial officer. Theresa and Fellman are my assistants, although neither of them notice that they report to me.
Lupaster is blind.
He never lets on exactly how blind, but he can’t see much. He confuses people because, without using his eyes, he generally sees more than anyone else in the room.
The well ran dry when we moved. Lupaster Investigations LLC specializes in cases the Chicago police and the other private agencies won’t touch. When the Michigan Avenue office closed, the cases stopped coming, and the money ran out before the remodeling started. As a Hyde Park student apartment, the building on Fifty-third and Dorchester was substandard. As a business office and residence for cultured bougies, it was a dump. And a jinx.
Fellman and I did our best to set up Lupaster’s office. When Fellman played for the Bears, they called him “the major appliance.” He decided to leave football when the thrill faded and he noticed the massive head trauma around him.
Fellman has a PhD in astrophysics. He had almost completed it while playing. He had no trouble finishing it on his NFL savings, but he became a PI when he discovered that a black astrophysicist the size of a Sub-Zero was an object of curiosity but not desire on the astrophysics circuit. He lives on the third floor, is a strong hand at moving furniture, and more effective than a hand grenade for breaking up a street fight. He contributes to the UChicago astronomy colloquium and teaches Krav Maga to Chicago cops.
The office looked all right, considering the limitations of the principal. We filled the worst cracks, slapped on a coat of white paint, bought a desk for twenty bucks at Catholic Salvage, skipped lunch for a few days to splurge on a used desk chair from Office Surplus, and Lupaster was happy. He says white walls make it easier to see what little he can. What Lupaster can and can’t see is a mystery to me, and science, for all I know.
We let four graduate students stay in one of the top floor apartments. They didn’t know it, but their rent was most of the LLC’s revenue.
I personally scrubbed the hardwood floor in Lupaster’s office on my hands and knees with something a chemistry graduate student from upstairs mixed up. It ate through the knees of my work jeans, my hands were fire engine red for a week, and I’m just about over the cough, but after a coat of wax, the floor is presentable.
