CASE OF THE GUILTY GROCER - EPISODE 1

THE CASE OF THE GUILTY GROCER


EPISODE ONE

The Wakeup Call

In my line of work, waking up before ten is an occupational hazard. My workday runs late, see? And at the end of the day, I ends up just like any other palooka ... in a gin mill drinkin’ whiskey, and chasin’ dames.

I’m a shamus. Sloane’s the name. Greyson Sloane. And today started like most days—before ten. I hears this ringing like. I thought it was a dream, but it’s the blower. I never invested in one o’ them fancy answerin’ gizmos. Not for this flop anyways. I dropped a bundle on one for the office. Sometimes Arlene is late too. But not today. I reaches over and grabs the phone.

“What’s shakin’, Kiddo?”

“Get up Greyson. I just got a call.”

“It’s ain’t one o’ my ex-wives, is it? I told you to say I was outta town.”

“No, not your ex-wives. You’ve got a case.”

“Aw c’mon on, Arlene. It ain’t even nine yet.”

“Listen, dude. You haven’t paid me in three weeks and I got rent.”

“I thought you’da got an inkling by now.”

“C’mon, Greyson. This sounds like real money. Up and at ‘em.”

Arlene was a great gal. A little bossy sometimes, but a good secretary. And she worked cheap. A good thing in my business. When I found her, she was a hoofer down at the corner joint. She had the gams for it and a great chassis to boot. But the joint was a dive. Served rotgut hooch. No place for a nice kid like her.

Arlene was right. I ain’t had a moneymaker for a month or so. And tailin’ gold-diggers and wayward wives ain't payin’ the bills. So I crawls into the shower to sober up. An hour later, I walks into the office.

“Well it’s about time. You look like hell,” she says.

I toss my fedora on the coat rack and loosen my tie. “Everything’s copacetic. How about a cup of joe?” I says.

“Joe? … You mean coffee?”

“Yeah, you know. Java.”

Why do you talk like that?”

“Why do I talk like what?”

“Never mind. I think you read too many pulp mysteries when you were a kid.”

“So what’s so important you gotta get me up so early?”

“You have an appointment in one hour. A Mister Wexler called. Seems he needs someone discrete. Why he called you, I’ll never know.”

“Whaddaya kiddin’? I’m discrete … usually. What’s it about?”

“Dunno. He didn’t say. He just said if you want the job, be at this address by eleven o’clock. Says he’ll pay top dollar.”

Top dollar. That sounds just about right. Arlene hands me a piece of paper. On it is an address. North Charles St, Baltimore.

“I know where this is. Wexler, you say?”

“Yeah. That’s right.”

“Why does that sound familiar? Eh, it’ll come to me. Hey Arlene, lend me a couple o’ simoleans, will ya? I’m low on petrol.”


If I had any doubts about this new client, they took a hike when I steps in his office. I walks up to the receptionist. The bird was a real looker; long blonde hair, big blue eyes and nice bubs.

“Can I help you, sir?”

I push my fedora back on my head. “Yeah, Doll. Name’s Sloane. Greyson Sloane. I got an appointment with Mr.—”

“Just a moment, Mister Sloane. Mister Wexler’s expecting you.”

That don’t happen much. I ain’t used to folks expectin’ me. The dish picks up the blower and a minute later says: “Mister Wexler will see you now. If you’ll please follow me.”

She sashays down the hall with me in tow. She stops at this big oak door, see? Then she turns and gives me the once over. She bats those baby-blues and opens the door.

“This way, Mis-ter Sloane.”

“Thanks, Doll.”

“You’re welcome … Mister Sloane. Why don’t you stop and see me on your way out.”

She turns and heads back to her desk with a little extra sashay in her caboose.

I smiles to myself and walks into this office. At least I think it was an office. It was flashy, like one o’ them swanky houses you see in those high-hat magazines. Across the room, there’s this new fangled Hi-Def big screen and all the gizmos that go with it. Satellite tuner, DVR and these huge speakers you could hide a stiff in. To the left of that was a bar that was ten feet if it was an inch. There was more booze than I’d seen in a long time. I stops to look around, then I hears this voice.

“Mister Sloane. Thank you for coming.”

I turns and sees this suit standin’ behind me. A real Joe Brooks.

“You Wexler?”

“Yes, Mister Sloane. I am Abraham Wexler. Please … have a seat.” He motions to the bar. I didn’t see a desk anywhere.

“Care for a drink, Mister Sloane?”

My head was still poundin’ from last night. A little hair of the dog might help, but I think it better I don’t mix business and pleasure. Except maybe, for the secretary.

“Maybe another time.”

“Let me get straight to the point, then,” he says. “I have a problem. And I don’t want the police involved.”

“Well, then,” I says. “That’s the rub, ain't it?”

“Yes. That’s ‘the rub,’ as you say. Harris Hastings, my ex-partner, hired you a couple of years ago to handle a delicate situation. As I remember, you did an excellent job.”

That’s when the lights came on. I remembered the Hastings case. He got spifficated one night and picked up a quiff for some quick nookie. She took him to some fleabag motel. He passed out and she hightailed it with his wallet. When she realized who he was, she tried to blackmail him; said she’d tell his wife.

She sent some small-time hood for the pick up. The bimbo knocks Hastings around for kicks. He hires me to find her. Took me two days. She disappears a week later. The cops found the hood facedown in the Patapsco. Fished him from the Inner Harbor near the USS Constellation.

“Now I know you,” I says. “You own that food chain. H&W Groceries, right?”

“Yes, that’s right, Mister Sloane. Hasting disappeared last year under … suspicious circumstances, shall we say?”

Wexler takes off his cheaters, cleans ‘em with his hanky and put’s ‘em back on. After dabbin’ his receding hairline, he stuffs the mop back in his pocket. He sweat a lot for a man in an air-conditioned room.

“Now, I own it all. And that brings me to the subject at hand.”

“I’m all ears, Mister Wexler.”

“Someone is out to destroy me.”


Twenty minutes later, we pulls up to one o’ his stores. The parkin’ lot is empty and there ain't no customers. The place is a ghost town. He unlocks the doors and I follows him to a food aisle. We turn the corner. There, on the floor, are Kix and Cheerios, Wheaties and Coco-Puffs; crushed on the green and white linoleum tiles; their boxes torn to shreds. I picks up an empty Rice Krispies box by the top flat real careful like. I sees diagonal slashes, made by a machete maybe. All the boxes have the same gashes; their contents spilled across the floor.

“What gives?” I says.

“That’s what I’ve hired you to find out, Mister Sloane.”

I drops the box and reaches for the Winstons in my vest pocket. Flipping a butt from the pack, I lights it and says: “You find anything else like this? Can goods? Produce? Frozen foods?” I shakes the match ‘til it goes out.

“No. The rest of the store is untouched. The manager found it like this when he opened up this morning. And you know there’s a law against smoking indoors, Mister Sloane.”

I push my fedora back on my head, takes another drag and looks him in the eye. “Anybody got a beef with you, Mister Wexler?”

“A what?”

“A beef. You know ... a problem? A disagreement?”

“Ah, yes. Hastings said you had a colorful way of speaking. Everyone has enemies, Mister Sloane. But no, not to my knowledge.”

“So, why hire a private dick? Why not just call the cops?”

“Let’s just say I’d prefer to handle it quietly.”

I give Wexler the eye. He’s givin’ me the run-around and I know it. But about what? What could give this egg the heebie-jeebies? He’s got more dough then First National. I decides I gotta press him.

“Okay, Mister Wexler. But before I take this case, you gotta’ level with me. Other than costin’ you a couple o’ clams to replace the stock, how’s this hurt you?”

Wexler started shiftin’ back and forth kinda jumpy like. He pulls his hanky and wipes his forehead again. “This happened in three other stores. This is the fourth. You’ve got to find the person responsible or I’ll be ruined. Customers will shop elsewhere out of fear. Suppliers will stop doing business with me before they too, become targets. If I involve the police, it’ll get out to the newspapers. Then everyone will know. I can’t risk it.”

It suddenly dawns on me what he was sayin’. I’ve seen cases like this before, but this was gonna be a tough one. And dangerous. But, I need the money. So in spite of the danger, I take the case. My gut tells me there’s more to this than meets the eye. More than just some crushed Coco Krispies. And whoever this is … he ain’t your average cereal killer.

***