by Joshua Carden
October 31, 2000
Scott Sommerville’s story Olympus is a lot of fun to read as an installment series. I don’t do a whole lot of fictional writing (except when I’m making stuff up), but I thought it would be enjoyable to do a short spoof of a story in a couple of installments. Don’t worry, I won’t quit my day job, and besides, Scott’s story is better anyway! But just for fun, here’s mine. For context, you may know, or you will soon enough, that I like old movies, mysteries, piano music, crossword puzzles, and inside jokes! Enjoy . . . .
The Chinese Pigeon
It was a dark and stormy night. I chuckled to myself: if anyone ever wrote about this night, he’d have to start the story like that. There was no other way to describe it. Most people were smart enough to be in bed at this hour. I’d never been accused of being smart enough. I poured myself a glass of water from my pocket flask and swung my legs back up on the desk. Let’s see now: what’s a seven-letter word for “scholarly” beginning with “e”? I have this thing for crosswords. Hey, it’s cheaper than dating. Not that I would know – my friends tell me it is. Me, I spend most of my time here in my dingy office waiting for business to turn up. It’s not a bad line of work as work goes. Gives me plenty of time to catch up on my piano playing and work on crosswords. Hmm, scholarly. A sharp knock at my office door interrupted my train of thought while it was boarding at the station. I peered through the dimly lit room at the frosted glass of my office door where I could see two things: “Cash J. Endor, Detective” in black lettering and the silhouette of someone on the other side who either needed my services or was as lost as a body could get. “Note to self,” I muttered as I tucked the crossword away, “repaint the letters on the OUTSIDE of the door. Maybe you’ll get more business that way.” I stood, took two quick strides and answered the door.
As it creaked open, I beheld a young man whose overcoat was shedding water faster than a Lhasa Apso sheds hair on black trousers. “What do you want?” I demanded, my mind still on “scholarly.” “Oh please, sir, may we come in?” the young man asked. He sounded pretty desperate so I was about to say “yes” when something clicked. “We?” I asked. He moved to the side. Behind him was a petite young woman, even more soaked than he was, carrying an empty birdcage. I made another mental note, silently this time, to keep a spare set of towels at the office during rainy season. After gawking at the birdcage, my sense of chivalry and hospitality reasserted itself: “Please come in and sit down.” I rescued one chair and my piano stool from their burdens of old newspapers and dictionaries and motioned to the couple. They looked a bit askance at my cluttered office, my piano, and my oversized poster of Bogie on the back wall. I took my customary position behind the desk. “Cash J. Endor at your service. You can call me C.J. Now, what can I do for you?” I asked in my best detective tone. “Sir, my name is John Thomas Wilson, III, and this is my, um, well, uh, this is Hannah Garrett,” the young man began. I caught a vibe and cut right in: “So you’re not married.” “Well, no sir, we’re not,” John replied. “Are you dating?” John shifted uneasily in his seat, “Not exactly, sir; it’s kind of complicated. You see, I have been talking to her dad and . . .” I waved my hand and interjected, “It’s okay, John, I was just given you a hard time. I’m familiar with the concept of courtship. Go ahead and tell me what the problem is.” John looked relieved, but before he could speak, the young woman spoke for the first time: “Mr. C.J.,” she said in low measured tones, “you came highly recommended as an erudite individual who could be trusted. . .” “Just a minute,” I said hastily, “I need to get something to take notes.” I opened my desk drawer and began rummaging. As I retrieved my pen, I managed to unobtrusively scrawl “erudite” into the seven-letter blank in my puzzle. “Okay, I’m ready.” “Mr. C.J., you have to help me. My Chinese Pigeon is missing,” she began to cry softly. I hate to see women cry. John awkwardly patted her arm and offered her a soggy handkerchief. She smiled gratefully at him. Yep, these two had it bad. Lightening flashed outside. Rather ungraciously, I broke into their P.D.A. moment and asked “What’s a Chinese Pigeon?” I don’t like displaying my ignorance, but my knowledge of foreign fowl pretty much ends at Peking Duck. “You’ve heard of the Maltese Falcon haven’t you?” John picked up the conversation while Hannah dried her eyes. “Yes, of course,” I assured him, gesturing to my Bogie poster. “Well, Hannah’s Chinese Pigeon is nothing like that,” he said. “Oh, I see,” I said, but didn’t. “So what IS Hannah’s Chinese Pigeon like?” Hannah had regained her composure by this time: “His name is Hi-Coos, and he’s a very valuable racing pigeon.” “Daytona or Nascar?” I breathed. “I beg your pardon?” Hannah inquired. “Nothing,” I smiled, “I was recalling everything I know about racing. Please continue.” She took a ragged breath, “I think he’s been stolen!”
Finally, I thought, we’re getting down to business. My mind, erudite or not, grabbed onto the case like a pit bull with his favorite bone. I asked the obligatory “Where and when did you see him last?” “Wednesday, in this cage” she replied, her eyes beginning to fill up again. Hmmm, two days. I bent over my notes as she related the story. Apparently, the national pigeon racing contest awards $5,000 to the pigeon who finds his way home the fastest. Hannah had been racing pigeons since she was very young. Since the local school forbade home schoolers to play sports, she turned to the local pigeon racing club for an “extra-curricular.” She received Hi-Coos from her parents for graduation, and had been training him for the last year and a half. As she talked about training, I got this mental image of a tiny gymnasium with Hi-Coos the Pigeon doing step aerobics to Great Balls of Fire. I shook the image away and turned the logue from mono to dia. “Ok, so what happened Wednesday?” I asked. “Well, John’s family and my family were on a picnic together in the park behind the local high school . . .” she began. I began to hear strains of “As Time Goes By” emanating from somewhere. I can’t help it – everything reminds me of a song. Which is handy playing trivia games, but not so handy while I’m working. I turned the volume of my cerebral cortex down and listened to Hannah. ” . . . I was going to let Hi-Coos make a short practice run from the park to my house. The contest is next week, so I wanted him to be ready. We were making trips back and forth from the vans to the picnic area, and I had set Hi-Coos down next to the van so he could enjoy the sunshine for a while.” Again, a picture of Hi-Coos the Pigeon in a little chaise-lounge with sunglasses rose in my imagination. I resolutely squashed the image down and asked, “Was he in his cage at the time?” Hannah looked startled, “Oh, of course. I never took him out when we were out of doors. As I returned from carrying my chocolate cake, I looked at the cage and Hi-Coos was gone!” Out of the corner of my eye, I saw John twitch at the words “chocolate cake.” This little lady was a smart one and no mistake.
As she finished her story of fowl play, I decided to summarize what I had so far: “Okay, 1. You own a valuable pigeon that could possibly win a $5,000 prize. 2. He disappeared from his cage on Wednesday. 3. You think he was stolen to prevent you from winning the prize. 4. You want me to find him.” They looked impressed. John spoke for the first time in a while. He’d probably had his mind on Hannah’s chocolate cake. “That’s it, Mr. C.J. Can you help us?” Hannah sniffed into the handkerchief. I tried to appear gruff, but I failed miserably. I’m a rank sentimentalist at heart. “Okay, I’ll take the case.”
To be continued…
Part II
We join our hero, Cash J. Endor, after a good night’s sleep, his morning “coffee and crossword” combo, and a few morning tunes. Unable to think of any pigeon songs, C.J. has begun to investigate the case.
The next morning, the rain had been replaced by blazing sunlight. Not terribly unusual for this part of the country. I decided against the customary trench coat and opted for a T-shirt and sandals to keep cool. Hmm, missing pigeon. Where to start? I had two courses of action: 1. Go to the scene of the alleged crime, and 2. Talk to the list of club members that Hannah had given me. Given the lovely weather, I decided to visit the park where Hi-Coos had first disappeared. I placed the cage that Hannah had left with me into the back seat of Ol’ Betsy (my trusty blazer) and headed out. I passed the neighborhood where Hannah and John told me they lived, Earl’s Auto Dealership, the local coffee shop (Coffee Americana, a favorite hangout of mine), and the Blue Parrot pet shop. As I arrived at the park, I noticed a few vans parked in the parking lot, and a fair number of children playing on the equipment. Heh, heh, you can spot home schoolers on a field trip a mile off – 15-passenger vans and kids at the park in the middle of the day. Either that or “Freshman Ditch Day” had moved down to elementary school. I waved hello; they stopped and waved back. Yep, too polite to be anything but home schoolers. I began walking around the park, more to get my mental juices going than anything else. Hannah had told me that Hi-Coos should have arrived at home within a couple of hours if he had merely escaped from his cage. This added weight to her notion that he had been stolen. I decided to take a page from my friend Scott Sommerville and lay it all out logically. I hoped no one would notice me talking to myself. Although it’s not really bad until you start answering yourself. I hadn’t gotten to that point yet. “Okay, premise one: Hi-Coos is a trained homing pigeon who will quickly find his way home unless he is hindered from doing so. Premise two: Hi-Coos has not arrived home. Conclusion: Hi-Coos has been hindered.” I quickened my pace, and dodged two young kids on roller blades as my mind kept churning. “Based on this conclusion, where do we go? Premise one: Hi-Coos has been hindered from returning home. Premise two: stealing could prevent Hi-Coos from returning. Conclusion: Hi-Coos has been stolen.” Hmm, this is where the logic broke down. Was stealing the only hindrance? I wasn’t so sure. I decided to do a little more thinking before I rounded up the usual suspects.
I finished my third lap around the park (I walk fast), and jumped back into Ol’ Betsy. Time for a brain stimulant from Coffee Americana. I decided to mix business and caffeine and walked next door to the Blue Parrot pet shop to get some info on pigeons. Plus, Hannah had told me that the owner of the shop was president of the pigeon racing club. I could kill two birds with one stone. No sooner had the thought crossed my mind than I decided to eliminate all bird metaphors from my vocabulary until after I solved this case. As I crossed the threshold of the Blue Parrot, I was greeted by a squawk from a mynah bird in a cage by the door. “Hey, you’ll scare the customers,” I joked. He wasn’t amused. I heard a rustling in the back of the shop. “Hello,” I called out, “anybody home?” A mild-looking, middle-aged man came out. “I’m very sorry,” he said, “I was feeding my pigeons.” I causally remarked, “Oh really? I’m interested in pigeons. Could I see them?” “Yes,” he said proudly, “I love showing them off.” Well, this didn’t sound like a man with something to hide. He waved me around the counter and we entered the back room.
I hadn’t seen so many pigeons in one place since the Bird Lady in Mary Poppins. As Mr. Renault (as he introduced himself) began talking to them, I notice that one cage with three pigeons was off by itself. “What are those pigeons in that cage?” I asked. “Ah, Mr. Endor, you have a fine eye. Those are my pride and joy. They’re Chinese racing pigeons. I plan to enter one of them for the $5,000 prize.” My years of playing Go-Fish had given me an excellent poker face. “Mr. Renault, where did you get those pigeons?” I inquired. “Originally, this was a shipment of four pigeons. I bought three of them and a young lady in our club bought the fourth.” He bent over and cooed to the birds. Dr. Doolittle would have been proud. I got a little uneasy; I mean it’s one thing to talk to yourself, but talking to birds? I cut to the chase: “Have you ever heard of anyone stealing a racing pigeon around here?” He straightened up and looked puzzled: “No, I can’t say that I have. The prize for the race is certainly a lot of money, but all our pigeons are banded from birth and it would be too hard to sneak in a stolen pigeon.” Well, either he had played a lot more Go-Fish than I had, or he was being honest. I gave Mr. Renault the benefit of the doubt for the moment and decided to head back to the office. I think better when I am tickling the ivories. As I tossed my empty cup into the garbage can, something began tugging at the back of my brain like a robin after an earthworm. Drat, there I went with the bird metaphors again. As I pulled out of the parking lot, I still couldn’t shake the feeling. I went one block and then it hit me: I knew exactly what would distract a homing pigeon from returning to his cage!
To be continued…
Part III
Cash J. Endor has finally experienced a breakthrough in the baffling disappearance of Hi-Coos the Chinese Racing Pigeon. We join our hero as the caffeine stimulant reaches his brain.
I had it! It hit me as I was driving home. I had yet to see the pigeon, homing or no, that could resist a clean, shiny car. I pulled into Earl’s Auto Dealership. I left Ol’ Betsy out front – she wasn’t in any danger from pigeons considering the pigeon gold mine of new autos around. I found Earl quickly enough. Or he found me, I should say. “Howdy, mister, can I interest you in a new set of wheels?” He greeted me. I hadn’t seen a plaid jacket like that since the last Green Acres marathon. “No thanks, I’m actually more interested in fowls than Fords,” I joked. Earl seemed disappointed. “I don’t quite understand,” he said. “I’m looking for a pigeon,” I began, “have you seen any around?” “Does a one-legged duck swim in circles?” He responded, “There are plenty! I used to keep one of those fake owls up on a pole to keep them away, but last week it fell and I haven’t put it back up yet. I need to, or I’m going to go broke buying auto-cleaner.” I knew this was the place. I arranged with Earl to leave Hi-Coos cage with food in it out for the afternoon. I left a card with Earl and hurried down to my office to call Hannah and John and give them an update.
As I entered the office, the phone was already ringing. “C.J. Endor, detective,” I answered. It was Earl. “Mister, you’re not gonna believe this, but there’s a pigeon in your cage!” I couldn’t believe it. Poor Betsy was getting a workout today. I hurried back to Earl’s. Sure enough, as I carefully approached the cage, there was a pigeon inside. He could have been a twin, er, quadruplet of the ones I saw in the Blue Parrot. Now to get the door closed. I decided to call for back-up. “Earl,” I whispered urgently. Earl looked up from polishing a hood. “Yes?” he asked. “Start cooing,” I ordered. “What?” “Start cooing. I need to distract him, so I can sneak up and shut the door,” I informed him. He looked around, then put his hands to his mouth and commenced cooing. Hi-Coos straightened up and looked around. I knew doves could only focus on one thing at a time, and I was banking on the fact that their pigeon cousins were the same way. Earl was getting attention from every pigeon on the lot by this time. Closer, closer, THERE! I got it shut and Hi-Coos was still inside. Earl looked proud of himself, “Do you think it helped?” “Naw,” I said, “I just wanted to see if you’d do it.” Earl looked embarrassed, so I quickly told him I was joking and that he had been a big help. I gotta start listening to that quiet, nagging voice.
I decided to take Hi-Coos over to Hannah’s house immediately. Bird in the hand and all that. I pulled into the driveway and started carrying the cage up the sidewalk with a big smile on my face. I rang the doorbell and waited. John and Hannah appeared at the door. I chuckled at the look on their faces, “Somebody here order some wings?” After they recovered from shock, they began firing questions at me a mile a minute. I fielded them the best I could and finally they were worn out. “Well, my young friends, I must return to my office and see if anyone else needs my services. Y’all have a nice day,” I began to make my exit. John stopped me, “What about your fee?” Hmm, I’d actually forgotten about that. I sniffed the air. “Is that chocolate cake I smell?”
As I left the house, John followed me to my car. I had a premonition of what was coming, “What is it, John?” “Can you play at our wedding? We’re sort of looking at May the 12th.” I mulled it over. Nope, no other weddings on that date that I knew of. “Why not?” I smiled at him, “I’ll do it!” “Thank you so much!” He turned and bounded back up the sidewalk. Ahh, those two lovebir…um, I mean, ahh, the happy couple.
Back in the office, I sat down at my desk, basking in the glow of a job well done. I opened my drawer and pulled out my paper. “Two puzzles behind,” I muttered. Let’s see, what’s an eleven-letter phrase for tattletale? I ate a mouthful of Hannah’s chocolate cake. That John is a lucky man. Then it came to me. How ironic. I triumphantly wrote “stool pigeon” in the final blank. I tossed the paper on the chair, stretched, and headed toward the piano. Time to pull out the wedding music.
Case Closed
Comments are closed.