CASE OF THE GUILTY GROCER - EPISODE 2

THE CASE OF THE GUILTY GROCER


EPISODE TWO

The Setup

Before we leave the store, I decides to do some snoopin’. I sees security cameras. I ask Wexler for the film to keep him busy. While he’s gone, I walks around, see? I do that to think things out. Ain’t nothin’ else in the store been touched. Just the cereal. If somebody’s tryin’ to put him outta business, they’da torched the whole place and been done with it. Why just the cereal? Wexler catches up to me in the seafood section.

“Mister Sloane,” he says. “Here are the security tapes you wanted.”

“Thanks,” I says. I picks up one o’ them store fliers from the rack and opens it. I take the films and wraps ‘em in the paper so I don’t get my prints on ’em. Wexler’s expression ain’t what it oughta be. He ain’t askin’ no questions, like if I think the film’ll be any use. Like he already knows. Wexler ain’t levelin’ with me. That excuse he gave me for not callin’ the cops is baloney. I know a line when I hear one. Somethin’s fishy, and it ain’t the Halibut.

I ain’t never been in a limo much. Counting the trips to and from the crime, this makes two. We goes up to Wexler’s office to seal the deal. I’da taken a handshake, but I wanted my usual week-in-advance. Three-hundred a day plus expenses. Cash on the barrel. I steps into the elevator and press the Lobby button. Half-hour later I walks into my office.

“Hi, Doll. Ain’t it past your quittin’ time?”

“I was waiting for you. And would you please stop calling me ‘Doll.’”

“Okay … okay. When you turn into such a Deb anyway? Look, here’s some dough. Go pay your rent.”

“Thanks. So, what’s this about?”

“The damnedest thing I ever saw, Arlene. Somebody’s breakin’ into Wexler’s stores and tearin’ up the cereal. Slashin’ boxes with a shiv. I can’t figure it.”

“Maybe they’re looking for the free prize.”

“Very funny. Listen, I gotta go and look at this film.”

“Video tapes, Greyson. They’re called video tapes.”

“Yeah, yeah. Listen, I need you back tomorrow early, okay?”

“You mean like, before ten early?”

Arlene heads home and I spends the night lookin’ at these “tapes.” Nothin’ moves. Then all of a sudden like, cereal’s all over the floor. Then I sees this gap in the time display between three-forty-five and four-thirty. That means somebody turned off the camera—but more ‘n that—they turned it back on again. And the film coverin’ the entrance is blank. I ain’t talking erased here. I’m talkin’ brand new … unused. I decides to see Wexler in the morning. I need some answers.

Wasn’t much sense goin’ home, so I sleeps on the couch. The next mornin’, the door creakin’ wakes me up.

“Hey, Arlene.”

“Have you been here all night?”

“Ab-so-lute-ly. Listen, Doll. Take that film to O’Riley. Get her to dust ‘em for prints.”

“Why do you only go to her? You have a lot of buddies at the precinct.”

“So what’s the big deal?”

“It’s pretty obvious she has a thing for you.”

“A what?”

“A thing. You know … an infatuation?—oh, a crush … for God’s sake.”

“It ain’t like that with me an’ her, see? She’s a flatfoot. I’m a dick.”

“You can say that again.”

“Hey! … Whaddaya mean by that?”

“Nothing, Greyson. But did it ever occur to you—”

“I ain’t got time for this, Arlene. Go ahead, scram. I got work to do.”

I’m almost out the door when the phone rings. It’s Beulah, Wexler’s secretary.

“Good morning, Mis-ter Sloane.”

“Hi, Doll. What can I do for you?”

“Plenty, I’m sure. But we can talk about that another time. Mister Wexler wants to speak to you. Just a minute, please.”

Wexler comes on the line and tells me another store was hit. He wants me to meet him there.

After checkin’ out the store, we heads back to Wexler’s office. I figure it’s the best place to get some answers. This new breakin’s got the same MO. Wexler gets me the security film, but I’m thinkin’ it’s the same like before. I decides to shake him down.

“Tell me, Mister Wexler, ... who’s got access to the films?”

“Only me. Why do you ask?”

“Because one’s blank. The one pointin’ at the entrance. And there’s a new label on it. Not smudged up like the others. Can you explain that?”

“I’m sorry, I can’t.”

“Can’t? Or won’t.”

“Mister Sloane, I don’t think I like your ton—”

“Are you tellin’ me you spent a bundle on a security system only you control, but you can’t tell me why there’s a forty-five minute hole in the film that shows who this thug is?”

“No. I can’t. Now if you’re quite finis—”

“You got alarm systems, right?”

“Yes.”

“Who monitors the stores?”


On the way out, Beulah stops me at the door.

“I overheard your conversation with Mister Wexler. You don’t suspect him, do you? … Mis-ter Sloane?”

I don’t get a chance to answer. She grabs my mitt, see? She puts a piece of paper in it, folded real pretty like. It smells like her. She closes my fingers so I don’t drop it. Then she gets an eyelash away from me and locks on those baby-blues.

“You know, Mis-ter Sloane. I’m not busy tonight.”

I gets back to the office and I’m thinkin’ about takin’ a little time for myself tonight. Arlene’s waitin’. I tell her Ace Security is e-mailin’ her the entry logs. I don’t know from nothin’ ‘bout computers. I leaves that to Arlene. She knows her onions. I tell her to keep an eye out.

“So, what O’Riley say?”

“She said she hasn’t heard from you in a while.” Arlene’s got this kinda grudge in her voice.

“Not that. About the prints.”

“There’s only one set.”

“And I’d bet six-two-and-even they’re Wexler’s.”

A couple o’ hours later, Arlene says she’s got the alarm logs. I looks ‘em over. There are three codes recorded: the day manager’s, the night manager’s, and Wexler’s. Except Wexler’s entries are in the middle of the night. Is it possible he don’t know about the entry logs? Or is he settin’ me up? I decides to get the inside scoop on Wexler. I picks up the blower.

“Beulah? Hi, Doll. It’s Sloane. What time should I pick you up? Eight? Yeah. That’ll be swell.”


Later, I’m lookin’ over the second set o’ tapes and the phones rings. It’s Beulah.

“Greyson, I’m still at work. I had to finish some last minute things. Can you pick me up here?”


When I gets there, it’s about eight-ten. The whole buildin’s empty. I knocks on the door. Beulah opens it lookin’ like a million bucks. She leans in and gives me a peck on the cheek.

“Come in, Greyson. I’m just finishing up. Can I make you a drink?”

“’Yeah, sure. You alone?”

“Yes. Mister Wexler’s left for the evening. He and his wife are attending a charity dinner tonight. So, what do you like?”

“Scotch’ll do.”

She gives me a smile and says: “Follow me.”

We walks into Wexler’s office. I heads for the bar.

“Oh, no Greyson,” she says. She’s got this little giggle in her voice, like she knows somethin’ I don’t. “That’s for suppliers. The good stuff is in here.”

We walks through a door labeled “Private.” Then we steps into a small office. It’s got a couch, a big oak desk with a computer, and a full sized filing cabinet. She moves to a small bar and motions me over.

“What’ll it be?”

“The malt looks good.”

“On the rocks?”

“Neat.”

She pours me a drink, see? Then she cuddles real close like. “Make yourself comfortable, Greyson. I have to powder my nose.”

I start lookin’ around a little. Figure I’d take the opportunity. I walks to the desk to see what I can see. The drawers are locked … except the top left. In it I finds insurance claims, police reports and deposit slips for millions to a numbered account in the Caymans; all signed by Wexler.

Police reports? He said no police. What’s he tryin’ to pull? I hear Beulah comin’ back. I closes the drawer and hurries my keister to the sofa. She walks in wear nothin’ but big hoopy earrings and a smile. She pours herself a drink while I picks my jaw off the floor. Then she opens a door near the bar. Inside is the biggest bed I ever saw.

“So,” she says, “what would you like to do tonight?”