You have found Chapter Six of The Wax Buzzard Files. You should feel very good about yourself because not everyone has. No, seriously. Turn to the nearest stranger and ask them if they've found Chapter Six of The Wax Buzzard Files. When they say no (and they will), point and them and laugh and say "I found something that you didn't" in a really bratty voice, and then run like mad because that's a really good way to make mortal enemies. Sorry in advance about that.
When I woke up I found myself in a dark room; I could just tell it was me, I'm always close by. Especially because I was tied to a chair; no way I would have gotten out of earshot. Hey me.
The whole world was spinning. That was consistent with astrophysics. By extension the room was spinning, and probably still is if it hasn't been torn down. But there was something else. No, not there. Hang on. There! Right there was something else. My chair, spinning, inside the room, on the world, with the lead pipe. Man, that really was something else. I was on one of those junior death traps of nausea- what do you call them? Merry-go-rounds. I call them junior death traps of nausea, but yours is shorter so let's go with that.
The lights came on, and went back off. And on. And off. And on. The pawn shop clerk was playing with the switch; that's so annoying. "All right! I'll talk," I said, thus creating a self-fulfilling prophesy. The clerk left the switch in the half on/half off position (that old gimmick never works) and stood at the edge of the merry-go-round. "Detective Guffey," he said as we briefly made eye-contact.
My continued rotation gave me a chance to inspect my surroundings. Air duct, too small. Window, too high. Cellar, too creepy. Porridge, too cold. Cabinet, empty. Painting, crooked. Plants, dead. Mirror, cracked. Safe, locked. Crowbar, missing. T.V., broken. Drapes, ugly. Elephant, I made that last one up, but there was nothing else to talk about. I completed the circle and faced my captor again. "Yes?"
It took another half dozen rounds before the conversation could continue. First the guy got a phone call, next he apologized for it, I told him it was no big deal, then he forgot what he was saying, I had to remind him; by that point I was getting motion sick.
"Why don't you hop this children's merry-go-round so we can talk like adults." I said, very quickly. He did as I suggested, not because I suggested it but because he couldn't understand what I'd suggested and wanted to find out; my suggestion had only worked ironically (all those years of not being a hypnotist were finally paying off).
"Detective Guffey," he repeated, even though once would have been enough. He must have had kids.
"That's my name," I said, "And profession. Although not in that order."
Now that I could get a good look at my captor's face I thought I recognized him but I was wrong. He was third banana in an unmemorable bunch of low-tiered thugs known internationally as 'Hey, it's those guys'; right between Joey "You Look Kind of Familiar" Norris and Melvin "Didn't You Used to Work at Borders" Washington. No way to tell who he was.
"Someone's put out a contract on you."
"I didn't sign any contract."
"It was verbal. You don't need a signature for a verbal contract."
"Tell me about it," I said. Either he thought I was being rhetorical or he didn't, but I never found out what the contract said. It didn't matter; like a narcissist taking a selfie, somebody wanted me out of the picture. I had to think fast. And then act quickly. And I didn't have much down time between the two. "A verbal contract does have to be confirmed by a notary, otherwise it's based on a lie."
"It...it is notarized." He tripped over his words. It was very funny.
"I think you're lying," I said.
"I'm not lying!" he said.
"So you say," I said. "But you could still be lying," I also said. I was arguing him into a corner, all the more impressive considering our platform was round. "You know how this works. No notary, no contract. No contract, no nothing."
"Aha! A double negative! That means it IS something!"
"Yes, but working backwards from something still supports the claim that there's no notary. We can go around in circles all night. But at the end of the following day, it'll be your word against mine."
"Then that's how it has to be!"
"Fine. I'll go with 'Quetzalcoatl'. You?"
That was worth more points than he could handle. He dove off the merry-go-round and ran around the room waving his arms. It got the attention of the neighborhood watch from across town, who called the police. Within mere minutes, 257 to be exact, the pawn shop was surrounded by every officer in the precinct, including the undercover ones who were going to have to come up with some pretty creative explanations when they went back to their assignments. My captor got arrested on a 'failure to not be a criminal' charge while the Police Chief sent her best escape artist to untie me from the chair; he even got a round of applause.
I took a long walk without leaving the merry-go-round, trying to put the pieces together and bumping into the stupid chair every rotation. Something didn't add up. Everywhere I went, someone was trying to throw me off the trail. That, I expected, ever since I was a junior ranger in the Mean Scouts. But something was missing.
The trail.
I'd never accepted Miss Nomer's case. All I'd done since I met her was leave the office, forget my breakfast, do a whole bunch of stuff, and take a joyride on a metal turntable. Not once in that whole plot summary did I actively try to get to the bottom of her issue with the card.
A detective takes a case. Action. The underbelly of society tries to prevent said detective (because I said detective) from solving that case. Reaction. Detective overcomes the obstacle and gets back on the path of Action. Another Reaction. Action-Reaction, back and forth until a resolution is inevitable. What happens if the detective is never on a case but the underbelly doesn't realize it? They react. To nothing. Then the detective reacts. And the underbelly reacts. Then it's a series of Reactions with no goal. No trail. The senselessness of it all suddenly made sense. It was a dramatic moment for me.
I hopped off the merry-go-round and asked the Police Chief if it was okay for me to leave the crime scene. I startled her, because she hadn't realized I was still there. Not good. In this town, startling a police officer can land you an overnight stay in the lecture hall. I decided to play dumb.
"I'm dumb," I played.
She took out her notepad, drew a stick figure of me with a ridiculous expression on my face, and sent me out of the pawn shop with orders to not do it again. I ran to the nearest bus terminal, which was forty-seven miles away, and asked if the ticket seller if she wouldn't mind calling me a taxi. She did mind, but she hailed one for me anyway, completely missing the opportunity for a classic punch line.
The cab pulled in front of the ticket seller and I climbed into the back seat. "Where am I taking you?" asked the driver.
"To see a friend," I told him. His dumbfounded expression kind of irritated me. "Haven't you been paying attention?"
"I'm actually on my way home from a different story," he explained.
"Oh, sorry. Hospital please. Vinnie and I have some unbegun business..."
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