CASE OF THE GUILTY GROCER - EPISODE 3

THE CASE OF THE GUILTY GROCER


EPISODE 3

The Warning

So I spends the night with Beulah in Wexler’s secret office. I gotta say she was real persuasive. After I gets to know her, I gets to know her. She’s a knockout, but she ain’t hittin’ on all six. A real Dora. Plus, she didn’t know from nothin’ about Wexler. Only been workin’ there a couple o’ weeks, she says. So I figures I gotta check out the paperwork. Somethin’ don’t add up. An’ I’m thinkin’ somebody’s usin’ me for a patsy. First thing I gotta do is call O’Riley and check out them reports, but I gotta stop by my office first.


I park my jalopy behind my office and hike it up the stairs.

“Hi, Doll,” I says to Arlene and toss my fedora on the rack.

“Greyson! You have to listen to this!”

“Listen to what?”

“This message! It was here when I opened up.”

She presses a button on her answerin' gizmo and looks at me all worried. A funny soundin’ voice starts talkin’.

“If you know what’s good for you, Sloane, you’ll drop the case.”

I pull a ciggy from the pack and light it, then flip the Zippo closed. Now it’s getting interestin’. Some mug makin’ threats means somebody’s getting’ nervous. I just wish I knew why.

“What does it mean, Greyson?”

“Don’t mean nothin’, Doll.”

“Greyson, please tell me what he meant. I don’t want you getting hurt.”

You coulda knocked me over with a feather. Arlene was worried. And not justa “oh be careful” worry. It was more than that. I think the kid’s got a crush on me.

“Aw, Arlene, don’t go havin’ a kitten. It’s just some small-time punk tryin’ to throw a scare in me. Everything’s Jake. Besides, with that voice, I’ll know him as soon as he opens his kisser.

“Greyson … he used a voice scrambler! He doesn’t really sound like that.”

“You talkin’ ‘bout one o’ those phone gizmos I see on TV? They’re real?”

“YES, they’re real! Where have you been? Now I’m really worried!”

I gotta admit … this was kinda nifty. I ain’t never had nobody worryin’ ‘bout me before. I decides to play it up.

“Aw Arlene, the guy’s just blowin’ static. Ain’t nothin’ to it. I think tomorrow I’ll shake him down and find out who he’s workin’ for. Get some answers.”

If looks could kill, I’d be a dead man. She was getting’ red in the face and her lips pressed tight. I ain’t never noticed how pretty they were.

“You’ll shake him down? How the hell are you going to do that? You don’t know who he is!”

I smile, see? That just makes her madder. I points to the phone. “You know, Arlene, I bet that Caller ID thing is real, too. Ain’t it?”

I sees her face soften and then a little smile. I gives her a wink.

“I hate you,” she says.

“Yeah, yeah,” I says, grinnin’ like a Cheshire cat. “How ‘bout lookin’ up the address on that fancy ‘puter of yours?”


Arlene gets the address and I finds myself in front of some run-down joint half-a-block from Wexler’s office. I had a mind to drop by and see Beulah, but decided better. This was my only lead, other than the paperwork in Wexler’s desk.

I didn’t bring my heater. I usually brought the .38 snub-nosed if I thought I’d need it. I ain’t feelin’ that today. I opens the door and walks in. The joint’s dark—like a speakeasy or a hop joint. Except the liquor’s legal and I don’t see no opium. I go to the payphone and checks the number. It’s the one I’m lookin’ for. Pinned to the wall next to the phone I sees a business card. Written in a woman’s handwriting is my name in big letters so's I'd notice. The card belongs to some palooka named Otto Smythson; Influential Insurance, Inc. I stuff the card in my vest pocket, then I walks to the bar and pulls up a stool. I order a soda water.

“We ain't open yet,” the gorilla behind the bar says.

“That's Jake. I’ll just have some information then. My name is Sloane. I’m a private—”

“You got some cahonies comin’ in here like you own the place, Sloane. You’d do well to leave … while you still can.”

Something told me I made a mistake. I shoulda brought the heater. He picks up a draft beer glass by the rim and turns it updise down lettin' the beer run out through his fingers. Then he squeezes the glass ‘til it shatters. He opens his hand and shows me. There ain’t no cuts, no blood … no nothin’. I figures I didn’t need the heater after all. Shooting him woulda just made him mad.

“Listen, friend. I just wanna know who called me from here yesterd—”

The next thing I know I’m flyin’ through the door. I takes out a municipal trashcan before I rolls to a stop.

“Okay!” I yells. “I get the message.” I picks myself up and grabs my fedora off the sidewalk. Then I checks to make sure I still have the card.


I gotta go see O’Riley about them reports. I stops home and cleans up first. She was just gettin’ back from lunch when I gets there. Colleen’s real easy on the peepers. Long red hair, green eyes, a couple o’ freckles, nice chassis; ‘bout five-six and dressed in a blue, pinstripe suit. I walks in and gets the icy mitt.

“Well, at least you came in person this time,” she says. “What do you want now?”

Not exactly the reception I was lookin’ for. She said it with that tone like I was a wet blanket or somethin’. It ain’t always been like that ‘tween me and her, see? I guess she’s still carryin’ that torch.

“What’s eatin’ you, Colleen?”

“I never see you anymore. You always send that … that … girl.”

“She just works for me, Colleen.”

“She’s too young for you.”

“Aw, lay off, Colleen. Ain’t nothin’ to it I tell ya.”

After she makes me crawl some, she asks what I want. I asks her about the police reports. She looks in her computer.

“Nothing for H&W Groceries.”

“You levelin’ with me Colleen? “

“Look for yourself.” She spins the screen around so I can see. There ain’t nothin’ for H&W Groceries over the last year.

“Rhatz! Okay, thanks Colleen.” I gets up to leave.

“So, Greyson. Are you ever going to call me?”

“Yeah, sure, Colleen. As soon as I close this case.”

“I won’t hold my breath.”

“Gotta go, Colleen. Don’t take any wooden nickels.” I looks back at her before turnin’ down the hallway. Her face said it all.

Jerk …


Since the police reports I saw in Wexler’s desk ain’t on the up and up, I decides to check out the insurance claims Wexler didn’t bother to tell me about. The next morning, I heads to Influential Insurance, Inc. I walks into this crackerjack-box of an office. I don’t see nothin’ on the wood paneled walls ‘cept an accounting diploma. The desk is neater than any man’s should be and there’s a picture of Smythson and his mother front and center. The guy’s an Ethel. A real Wally Cox. I gotta wonder a little, ya know? I tells him I’m workin’ this case, see? I asks him about the insurance claims.

“Oh, yes, Mister Sloane. Mister Wexler’s fully covered for damages due to flood, fire, burglary, vandalism, natural disasters and the like. We have fully compensated him for his recent losses.”

“How much?”

“I’m sorry; I’m not at liberty to say. Why do you want to know?”

“That’s confidential. How many claims did he file?”

“Well, I see no harm in divulging that information. We have paid claims for all fifty stores. Seems he’s had a run of bad luck, lately.”

Fifty? Wexler said four. “Yeah, so Beulah tells me.”

I watch his eyes get this dreamy kind of look, like he’s drifting off to some tropical island and a Pina Colada somewhere. Then he clears his throat and snaps out of it.

“Ah, yes. Well … if there’s nothing else…”

“I think I got everything I need. Thanks.”

As I’m walkin’ back to my hayburner I gets to thinkin’. He got all goofy when I said Beulah’s name. I gotta think there’s somethin’ to that. I puts it in the back of my noggin and stops at a pay phone. I drops in two bits.

“Greyson Sloane, Private Investigator,” Arlene says.

“Hi, Doll. Any calls?”

“There was one from your third ex-wife. She wants to know when you’re going to pay…”

“Not now, Arlene. She’s always flappin’ her gums. I mean I just paid her three months ago. Listen, Doll. Can you use that interweb thing to check on numbered accounts in the Caymans?”

“Inter-net, Grayson. It’s called the inter-net.”

“That’s what I said. Well, can you?”

“Shouldn’t be too much trouble. Do you have the account number?”

I rattled off two account numbers I remembered seeing at Wexler’s place. I got this memory, see?

“I don’t think I can verify amounts,” she says.

“Just see if they’re real. Drop fifty bucks into ‘em if you have to.”

“Well, aren’t you the big spender.”

“Aw lay off, Arlene. I ain’t made o’ money.”

“You’re telling me?”

“Just find out about them accounts. I’ll be back in the off…”

“Oh! Hold on," she says. "There’s another call coming in.”

Arlene puts me on hold, then a few seconds later, she comes back. She ain’t happy.

“That!—was Beulah! Seems you left a cufflink at her place the other night!”

Cufflink? Before I can get a word out, Arlene slams down the phone. Dames. I drops another quarter in the blower and dials a number.

“O’Riley.”

“Hey, Colleen. It’s Sloane. What’s shakin’?”

“Wellll… I don’t hear from you for a month and now here you are—two days in a row. What do you want this time?”

“Oh, nothin’. I was just wonderin’ what you were doin’ for lunch.”


An hour later I meets Colleen at the local greasy spoon. I wanna get her take on things. I spots her right away when I walks in. She sits down across from me in the booth and I decides to ease into it. I hold off till the waitress brings her chocolate malt, then I tells her about the phony police reports, the insurance claims and the numbered accounts.

“Sounds like an insurance scam to me,” she says.

“Yeah,” I says. “But I can’t figure why he’d hire me in the first place. He’s gotta know I’d figure it out.”

“Come on, Greyson,” she says. “You’re not all that good.”

I gives her this look.

“Well, at detective work anyway.” She gives me this grin, see?

“I do okay.”

“Tell you what I think. I think hiring you is a facade.”

“A what?”

“A smoke screen. A diversion to take the heat off him. He’s using you to make it look legit … to keep the cops out of it.”

“Makes sense. He did say no cops.”

“Play his game. When you find out about the accounts, let me know. I can move on him once we have the evidence.”

“You ain’t getting’ nothin’ from those off-shore banks, Colleen.”

“Don’t have to. The account statements will be enough to put him away.”

“I think he has an accomplice. The insurance adjustor, Smythson. He verified the insurance claims.”

“We’ll get him too. Just keep me informed.”

“Thanks, Colleen.”

“You know, Greyson," she says—stirin' her malt, her foot runin' up my leg, "if you really wanted to thank me …”

I don’t say nothin’, but I sees this look in her eyes.

“My place is just around the corner. I could take the rest of the day off.”

Man! The things a fella’s gotta do to make a livin' in this business.