AAA Detective Story - Looking for Francine - Part 2

 

After finishing lunch, Ken and Joan ask questions of a few more people. Not a lot to be learned so they will be back later. The icy rain still falls from the sky as Ken pulls his coat tighter around him and adjusts his fedora.

“Wanna stand under my umbrella, Boss?” Joan offers.

There is a ding of a streetcar as it comes down the street and stops near the “Happy Clam”.

“I thought the mayor said that the were going to switch this area to busses.” Ken comments as he makes a note about the streetcar.

“Maybe they’re cheaper to operate down here?” Joan offers.

“Maybe.” He responds as he goes to his car.

“Where to now, Boss?” Joan asks.

Looking at his watch, “It’s too early to meet Mulrooney. Let’s go back to the office. I think I need to call Mister Raymond Martin.”

As they drive Ken asks “Oh by the way, I forgot to ask, why did you offer ‘Congratulations’ when he was on the phone?”

“Oh, I forgot to tell you, it looks like Misses Huddler is in the family way again.” She smiles. “We should send over some flowers or chocolates.”

“Really? That’s interesting. ‘Teddy’ and Karen made a little brother or sister for little Teddy Junior.” He focuses on driving. “Yeah, we can send them a little something.”

When they get back to the office, Ken calls Ramon. Unfortunately he doesn’t know where Francisco was living. He only saw him when he visited his Tia Barbara. Ken copies down the address. It’s one of those tenements in the old part of downtown. “Can you call her and tell her I have a few questions for her?”

“I can. But how good is your Spanish? Her English isn’t that good.” Ramon responds.

Ken sighs “I can muddle through. My Italian is better.”

“Do your best. Maybe one of my other cousins will be there to help. Is there anything else?”

“Oh, yeah, did you guys pay the city to make sure the streetcars were still running down there?”

There is a moment of silence. “Mister Cooper, Huddler Trucking and Shipping is in the transportation business. If we asked the City to continue running the streetcars in area for the benefit of our employees, what’s the harm?”

“None. I thought the City was changing things over to buses. Do you know if Francisco took the streetcar to the “Happy Clam”?”

“I don’t know. As I said, I don’t know where he was living. Now if you have no further questions, I need to get back to work.” Ramon says in a clipped tone.

“That’ll do for now. Thanks.” Ken hangs up his phone and looks at the painting on the wall. It is a lamp with a fish for a lightbulb. He lights a cigarette. “Things aren’t what you expect.” He says as blows a cloud of smoke into the air.

“Joan, how good’s your Spanish?” Ken yells.

“Asi-asi. Yo solo hablo pequito Espanol.” She responds.

“Is that from being with Pete?” He asks with a sly grin.

“Naw Boss, he don’t speak it. Besides I got a better uses for his mouth.”

Ken laughs. “I remember. Grab your coat and hat. We need to pay a visit to Tia Barbara.”

The rain stopped but things are still wet and cloudy as they drive to the old Downtown.

The tenements always remind Ken of the end of the War, when people were trying to pull their shattered lives and broken buildings back together. Neighbors helping neighbors but there’s never enough for everyone. It doesn’t help that the landlords charge just enough in rent to give people a place to stay, but not enough to replace things or make more than the most necessary of repairs. But at least there aren’t any UXBs lying in the trash and piles of broken furniture. He sees the address and parks by an open lot where kids are playing stick-ball.

“Hey Kids.” He yells as he gets out of the car. Joan looks curiously at him.

The children stop their game and come over “Wha’cha wan’ mis’er?” one of the larger ones asks, chewing something as he talks.

Ken pulls out a few bills. “While you’re playing, why don’t you keep an eye on my clunker here. It’s not much but I like it.” He hands a couple of ones to him. “When I’m done, if everything’s still there, I’ll give you a fin to split among yourselves.”

Their eyes get wide at the idea of five dollars split among the eight of them.

“Does I hav’ t’ split dese too?” The large kid asks as he looks at the dollars.

“I’ll leave that up to you. I bet you could get malteds and funny books and still have some scratch. But I’ll leave that to you.” Ken straightens his hat. “I just need my old crate to still be here when I come back.” He says with a smile and wink.

“You got it Mister.” Says one of the others. “Yeah!” says a third.

Joan takes his hand as they cross the street and look at the building numbers. The voices and languages spoken are a mix of folks who came from Europe and the Americas. His rudimentary Italian and Spanish might be needed more than he thought.

Walking past street venders and stalls, they find her building and go up to the apartment. Knocking on the door, Joan says “Senoria Barbara, Puedo hablar contigo. Somos amigos de Ramon.” The door opens and a stocky woman wearing a plain dress and an apron fills the doorway.

“Ramon? No esta aqui.”

“Si, Tia Barbara, Stiamo cercando Francisco.” Ken interjects.

Joan shakes her head and says “Estamos trantando de encontrar a Francisco, Tia Barbara.”

“Si, Si.” Aunt Barbara responds and invites them in, quickly having them sit down and offering coffee. They both politely decline as Joan explains that they were hired by Ramon to find Francisco. Ken asks in Italian, if she knows where Francisco lived, which Joan quickly repeats in Spanish. At that point Ken keeps quiet and takes notes. The more he listens to Barbara and Joan, the more he realizes he understands Spanish but really can’t speak it.

After a few more minutes of discussion and getting the apartment number to Francisco’s place in the next building, along with a key, they all stand. Ken pulls out a couple of bills and presses them into her hand. In English he says “Here is a little something to get a ‘fatted calf’ for when Francisco comes home.” Aunt Barbara looks confused. Joan tells her “Es dinero para una fiesta de bienvenida para Francisco.”

Tears well up in the corners of her eyes. She wipes them with the corner of her apron, then hugs Ken. “Find him please.” She says in heavily accented English.

He places his arms around her. “I’ll do my best Tia Barbara.”

As they walk to the next building, Ken glances down towards his car. The kids stopped playing ball but there are two of them watching it from the edge of the lot. He smiles, “The others must have gone to the corner shop.”

They enter the brownstone building and climb up the stairs until they find the right door. Joan puts the key in and turns the knob. Ken stands ready for anything. Anything except for what they find.

Dresses. The small apartment is full of different dresses, shoes, and wigs. There are multiple wardrobe bags hanging up, next to a few suits. A few well-traveled hat boxes are by the window. It’s cluttered but organized and cared for. Ken looks around to see if he can find when someone was last there.

“There’s no makeup.” Joan says looking at the top of the dresser.

“What’s that?” Ken asks.

Joan opens a few drawers. “I see stockings, bras, panties, boxers, but..” she motions around the small apartment “No makeup.” Don’t these female impersonators do the heavy makeup to hide their looks?”

Ken opens a couple of hat boxes, which contain hats and shoes. He then goes to the clothing rack. There are a few empty hangers. He jots down a few notes.

“You’re right. We’re still missing something.” Ken makes sure that he puts everything back where it was. “Let’s return the key to Aunt Barbara.”

As they get to the street Ken hears a familiar Ding-Ding as the streetcar stops at the corner of the block.

He checks his watch. “I’ve got time.” He mutters. Quickly, he hands Joan the keys to his car and a five dollar bill. “Pay the kids and drive the car back to the office. I’m going to see where this line goes.”

With a shocked expression Joan says “Ok, Boss.”

As he briskly walks to catch the streetcar before it gets going again, he hears voices yell. “Hey Mister, what about your jalopy?”

He yells back “My dame will take it. She’s got your moolah too.”

Riding the streetcar, Ken looks at the people. Folks just trying to get from one place to another. He looks at a blank spot where the “Colored Seated in Rear” sign used to be. He smiles “I bet that was one of the conditions Teddy gave the City fathers, with his donation to keep the streetcars running.”

At the next stop he asks the Conductor “Where does this line run?”

“This is the old Downtown to Waterfront line. We go all the way to the docks.” He responds without looking.

Ken nods. “How many cars on the line?”

“Oh I don’t know, we got enough to hit a stop every half hour or so.”

Ken writes it down. “Last question. When do they stop running?”

“We have them back to the yard by midnight, then start again at seven.” The conductor answers, then says “Take your seat.” As he closes the doors.

The sound of the metal wheels on the tracks and the electric pop as the contactor hits where wires cross. Ken sits on a seat and looks out the window. “This is probably what Francisco did.” He notices that they’re coming near Maple Street. He looks at his watch. If he gets off and walks up Maple, he can make it to the ‘Stick and Hook pub’ around the time that Brian Mulrooney gets off of work. The trolley stops and Ken gets off and starts walking towards Uptown.

It’s a few blocks farther than he thought, but by the time he gets there, he needs a beer to take care of his thirst. Walking through the door, his coat feels too warm, so he pulls it off along with his hat. Multiple pairs of eyes watch him as he scans the room and takes an empty stool at the bar. The barman is a big burly ex-fireman, with a big, waxed mustache and beard. “What’ll ya’ have?” he asks with a Celtic brogue.

Ken puts a couple of quarters on the bar. “Just a beer.” He points to tap marked ‘Gulstead’, the local brewery. “One of those.”

The barman nods, fills a mug, then quickly sweeps up the four bits.

Ken sips and looks at the oversized nightstick on the wall crossed with a fireman’s hook. ‘The Stick and Hook Pub’ are written above them in a beautiful fluid script. On the walls are photos of the City’s old police stations and fire houses. As Ken looks around, a number of people are still watching him. He smiles and nods, holding up his mug. Most look away without responding. “Such is the glamorous life of a private dick.” He mutters to himself as he slowly sips and waits for Brian to show up.

He doesn’t have to wait too long before he sees his friend walk in, still in uniform. “What’s goin’ on here?” his voice booms in that authoritative tone.

“Beer, Sergent.” A voice responds.

“Good, Carry on.” He responds with a smile as his coworkers laugh and return to their drinking and talking.

The barman fills a mug and watches where Mulrooney is going. When he sees him sit next to Ken, he sets down the beer.

“Thanks, Bobby. He’s paying tonight.” He says as he takes a sip and nods towards Ken.

Ken pulls out a couple of dollars. “I said the drinks are on me. But I thought we were only having a couple.” Smiling as he hands the tender a dollar and his now empty mug.

Brian smiles. “I’ll go easy on you tonight.” He stands up, takes his beer and walks to an empty table near the rear. “Bobby, I’ll be at my table.”

The bartender nods as Ken grabs his newly refilled drink and follows.

They quietly talk for a while, and Brian has a few shots of Irish whiskey, along with a pitcher of beer.

Brian confirms that the police are not raiding the “Happy Clam” because they’ve been paid not to. But they also don’t really patrol down there either. Those aren’t their kind of people. Brian then starts asking questions. His voice is quiet but heavily accented from the drink. “Kenny, I know yu’re workin’ a case, but d’ ya’ haf ta work for pansies?”

“Brian, they’re as good as anyone. And their money’s good too.” Ken replies glancing at the time. He knows if he wants to make it to the Happy Clam tonight, he’ll either have to call a taxi or walk back down to the streetcar line.

“But they do thin’s tha’ ‘re agin th’ Church. Dressin’ like gals and playin’ wif their bollocks.” He takes a shot and then a deep drink of his beer.

“I can’t explain it in any way that makes sense to you Brian, but they’re good people and they need my help.” Ken looks at his watch. “I need to go, if I’m going to catch the streetcar. I’ll see you later.” He pulls out a couple more dollars and a hand full of change, placing them on the table. “That should cover the rest of it.”

Pulling on his coat and hat he looks to the bartender. “Goodnight.” They nod at each other as he leaves out the door.

The night air is cold and damp as he hustles down the street to catch the streetcar. Between the cold and quick walk, the effects of the couple of beers he drank are gone by the time he boards the electric trolley. “Off to the Happy Clam” he says to himself.

AAA Detective Story - Looking for Francine - Part 1

 

The icy rain pats against the window in the grey, late winter morning. Ken Cooper pours himself another cup of dark roasted coffee. “I hate when it’s cold.” He mutters to himself.

Joan enters the outer office, and he hears her hanging up her umbrella and hat. “You made a pot o’ mud, Boss?” She asks as she enters his office with her cup in one hand and a folded newspaper in the other. She sets it down on his desk and walks to the percolator. She sniffs the air, then glances to the rain splattered window. “You made that I-talian style brew, again?”

Ken picks up the paper and puts his feet up on his desk, slowly sipping from his mug. “Uh-huh” he grunts, focusing on the headlines.

She pours half a cup and waters it down, then adds sugar. She shakes her head muttering to herself. “I shoulda come in early just to make decent pot of joe.”

Ken doesn’t move, reading about a body found down by the docks. He’s not a copper so he shouldn’t care, but there seems like there’s been a lot more killings in that part of town. He sips his cup, then sets it down. Reaching into his pocket he pulls out a cigarette and lights it up.

“I thought you quit again, Boss.” Joan comments.

“I’ll quit when it’s warm again.” He responds, nodding to the window.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. I hear you say that all the time.” She says with a smirk.

The phone rings and Joan goes to the outer office to pick it up. “AAA Detective Agency. Oh, Hi Ramon. How are the Huddlers doing?”

Ken listens a bit, moving the newspaper so he can see the outer office clearly. “Oh, really! Congratulations. We’ll have to send something over….. Ok. Yeah he’s here.”

She puts her hand over the receiver, “Boss, Pick up, it’s Mister Huddler’s man, Ramon. He needs to talk to you.”

Ken sets down the newspaper and picks up the phone. “I got it Joan. Come take the paper, and hang up.” He says in a direct tone. She puts the phone on the cradle and walks in for the newspaper. Ken motions for her to sit and grab a notepad. “Ramon, Ken Cooper. What can I do for Mister Theodore Huddler today?”

Ken expected to hear the professional prep-school accent that Ramon usually speaks in, but this time there’s a pained tone to his voice. “Mister Cooper, I’m calling for myself or rather my family.”

Ken sits up, grabs another notepad and pen, with his cigarette in his mouth. “Ok, what’s going on?”

“My primo, Francisco. He’s missing.” The tone of loss is tangible.

“What can you tell me about him.” Ken asks.

There is a long pause on the line. “He’s been singing down at the ‘Happy Clam’. His stage name is Francine.”

Ken writes “The Happy Clam” and shows Joan, he then points to the newspaper headlines about the body down by the docks. She takes the morning rag and starts reading the headlines.

“Ramon, the ‘Happy Clam’. Doesn’t Mister Huddler own that place?”

“Yes” there is another long pause. “After Oscar died, Mister Huddler gained full control of it. Upon my recommendation, he cleaned it up, changed the name, and we have some mutual friends run it as a place where our kind can have a good time.”

Ken writes down “Used to be the ‘Wet Whistle’”, and “gay nightclub”.

“Okay Ramon, I need a few more details about Francisco or Francine. Was he a female impersonator or just singing with an Anglo name?”

There is silence again, until Ramon answers, “I really don’t know. When with mi familia, he was always normal.”

“But then again so are you, Right?”

Ken hears a sad sigh. “Si. It brings shame on our family to be less of a man than they expect. As Mister Huddler’s personal secretary, I have a position of prestige and importance.”

“Of course.” Ken replies while biting his tongue to not make a comment about what other positions he does for “Teddy” in his bedroom. “When did you last hear from Francisco?”

“Last week, but my Tia is worried. She said that some of Francisco’s friends have recently gone missing.”

Ken writes down a couple more notes and shows them to Joan. Joan is circling a couple of articles in the paper.

Ken asks a few more questions but Ramon doesn’t have anymore answers.

“That’ll do for now, Ramon. By the way, who do I make the bill out on this one?”

There is another long pause. “Mister Cooper, please only talk to me about this. I’ll pay whatever you ask if you can find him. Double if you find him safe.”

Ken nods and crushes out his cigarette. “Understood. Good doing business with you Mister…”

“Martin. Make the bill out to Raymond Martin.” Ramon says back in his prep-school accent.

“Of course Mister Martin.” Ken replies and hangs up.

Joan hands you the newspaper. “Boss, I think there’s something goin’ down by the piers. A couple of articles mentioned bodies found. One pulled up in a fishing net, and another found in an alleyway.”

He picks up the phone and calls his friend Sergent Mulrooney. A voice answers “Third Precinct.”

“Yes, I’d like to speak to Sergent Brian Mulrooney. It’s Ken Cooper.” He says in his most professional tone.

“Let me transfer your call.” The switchboard operator responds.

The line rings and picks up. “Sergent Mulrooney”

“Brian, It’s Ken, Ken Cooper. What can you tell me about the killings down by the waterfront?”

There is a pause. “Mister Cooper, it is a police matter that is still under investigation. We don’t need any PI snoopers gettin’ in the way.” He says in an official tone almost too loudly. Then he drops the tone of his voice. “Kenny, if you meet me after shift, I’ll tell ya’ what I can.” His accented brogue thicker than normal.

“Thanks Brian. I’ll see you later. The drinks are on me.”

Ken hangs up the phone.

“Anything Boss?” Joan asks.

“Why don’t you and I take a trip down to “The Happy Clam”. I’ll see Sergent Mulrooney later tonight. Let’s see what we can find before then.”

Ken grabs his coat and hat, tossing his notepad in his shirt pocket. Joan grabs her coat, hat, and umbrella.

The black sedan makes its way down the rain slicked streets. Once they get down by the docks, they find a place to park and walk towards the brick building with a neon sign reading “The Happy Clam”. The sign glows through the mid-day rain.

Inside Ken shakes off his wet coat while Joan folds her umbrella. The place smells different than last time. A seafood spicy smell fills the air, and various dock workers and longshoremen are eating. A slim man with an apron asks “Are you hear for the ‘Lunch Time Special’. Or would you like a menu?”

“It smells really good, can we get some?” Joan asks.

Ken nods. “Ok. Find us a table and we’ll have two of the lunch specials. Can I speak with the manager?”

The waiter looks nervous. “Why? Is there a problem?”

Ken pulls out one of his business cards. “No. I’m working a case and have a few questions. Tell him, Ramon sent me.”

They sit down and soon a couple of bowls filled with spicy seafood stew arrive. Ken sniffs it and swirls it around with his spoon before taking a bite.

“What is it Boss?” Joan asks doing a similar thing with her spoon.

A wide smile crosses his face. “I think its their version of ‘Zuppa di Pesce’. Italian fish stew.”

She takes a bite. “Is it supposed to have all those different things in it?”

Ken smiles broadly, “When I was in Italy, the locals made it from what they caught. Muscles, shrimp, octopus, or whatever, all mixed with a tomato sauce.” He takes another spoonful. “A perfect dish for a cold rainy day.”

A man in a suit walks up to the table. “Mister Cooper, I’m Mister Costa, the manager. Would you please come with me?”

Ken gets up and follows him to the back and up the stairway. Nice light fixtures along he wall and the peeling wallpaper has been replaced with a nautical themed pattern. On the 2nd floor they enter a room. The door has ‘Manager’ painted on it.

Mister Costa sits behind a desk and motions for Ken to take a seat.

“Mister Cooper, What’s this about?” He asks in accented English.

Ken pulls out his notepad and a pen. “First, Mister Costa, I want to compliment you on your club. Not what I expected. And second, the food is delicious.”

“Gracias, my cook is a friend who emigrated after the war, like me.” He says as he leans back and steeples his fingers. “You are a friend of Ramon’s? But you’ve not been here before?”

“No sir. He hired me. His cousin Francisco is missing. To tell you the truth I thought this was a Fruit Stand.” Ken says.

Mister Costa smiles, “Oh it is. At night it is a place for men to come and enjoy themselves. But we are also on the waterfront, and sailors get hungry, so during the day we’re a restaurant.”

Ken writes down a few notes and nods. “At night, do you have performers to entertain your guests?”

“Si, claro. We have a few ‘ladies’ who sing and dance.”

“And by ‘ladies’ you mean female impersonators?”

Mister Costa is quiet for a moment. “Si. But that isn’t how we think of them. They show up as women, so they are women. Everyone is happy.”

Ken nods. “Are there any of these ladies who are missing?”

“Si, we told La Guardia. But they haven’t helped. We pay but they don’t protect.”

Ken nods. The managers of many gay clubs pay the cops to not bust the place for ‘indecency’ or ‘promoting lewd behavior’. He’ll have to talk to Brian and ask what he’s heard. “How many of the ladies are missing? Are there any men missing too?”

Mister Costa starts counting off names. “Francine, Lois, Patty, and Laverne. So four performers haven’t shown up.”

Ken leans forward and in a low voice asks, “Were any of them ‘Joy girls’. I’m not looking to bust anyone but I got to know if they were working, or maybe picking up a sugar daddy.”

“Mister Cooper, we have some ‘working girls’ here too, but these were singers. Come back tonight and you can see Maxine. She performs with Lavern or Patty but has been solo since they went missing.”

Ken writes down a few more notes. “What do you know about the bodies that were found recently?”

“Nada. I haven’t heard anything and the newspapers don’t say much.”

Standing up, Ken extends his hand. “Thank you for your time, Mister Costa. I might have some more questions later, but I want to finish my bowl of zuppa di pesce. I’ll come back tonight.”

“Gracias. Enjoy your soup and I’ll see you tonight.” He then pulls out an envelope of receipts, a ledger, and continues yesterday’s totals.

Ken heads to the stairs. Looking up the stairwell, he notices that what had been storage rooms last time he was here, now look to be private apartments or rooms. He makes a note of it, but will ask about it later. There is fish stew that is getting cold.

AAA Detective Story - Checking out the Surrealist - Part 5

 

The room is quiet aside from the sound of the fluorescent lamps. Lena’s shoulders droop for a moment. “I haven’t used that name in a while. How did you know?”

Ken points to a covered couch. “Can we sit, if we are going to talk?”

She nods and removes her paint smock, hanging it on a hook near the canvas she was working on. She is still wearing the same plain looking dress from earlier. Ken stands by the couch and waits for her to sit before he does.

“So, Mister Cooper, how did you know and who are you working for?” She asks in an almost resigned tone.

“I’m employed, as I said earlier, by a wealthy man who wishes to purchase some of your artwork. But as you know, there are people claiming to be someone they are not and sometimes selling other people’s work. I was hired to make sure that ‘Charles Pauline’ was real and not some sort of conman…..He’s fake but you are real.”

She slowly nods. “Ok. So, what are you going to do with this information? Sell it, extort something from me? Try to use it to control me?”

Ken goes almost wide-eyed with the accusations. “No. You misunderstand. I won’t do anything with it. But if you explain to me, why the deception, I will tell my employer that Charles Pauline is an artist worth investing in.”

She leans back in the couch for a moment, her small frame looking as if it was about to be swallowed by it. She notices the cigarette pack in his pocket. “Puis-je avoir une cigarette?” Her voice sounding soft and almost lost. He pulls out the pack and hands her one, then flips open the Zippo. She slowly inhales and then coughs, before leaning forward and inhaling again. This time she slowly exhales a small cloud. “You know you Americans got me smoking again. After the camps.”

He lights himself one. “So, the last article I could find on you was in May of 1936. What happened to you after that?”

She explains that she went to Spain to fight with the Republicans, then fled to Paris. When the Nazi invaded, she and her lover Angelique were arrested as communists, and forced into the labor camps, where Angelique died.

Ken finishes his cigarette. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know. I suspected it because of your art. But I’m sorry for what you endured.”

She wipes her eyes with the back of her hand. “Damn you for making me remember her. Damn me for thinking I could forget her and replace her with Isabeau.”

Ken lets her sit in silence for a moment, the smell of burning tobacco, and paint, mix with the sound of the lights. Then he breaks the silence “So why have Charles be the figurehead?”

She goes into detail how, after the camps she was helped by the Refugee Agencies, where she met ‘Isabeau’ and ‘Charles’ who were aid workers. She needed to paint but didn’t want the spotlight or fame. Charles and Isabeau agreed to help her.

“What are their real names?” Ken asks quietly.

She slowly shakes her head, “It doesn’t matter, because they are now Charles Pauline and Isabeau Herrera. The painter and his model.”

“And you are just Lena, their assistant.” Ken nods. He then stands up. “Ok. I’ll tell Mister Huddler to buy whichever paintings you will sell him. He’s a good man, and I won’t tell your secrets.”

She stands up, drops the cigarette and puts it out on the concrete floor. “Ok, Mister Cooper. Do you wish to model for me?”

Ken nervously swallows. “I’m not really one to get naked and be ordered about. But I will help however I can, being I interrupted your work.”

“Bien. Which paintings does your employer want copies of?” She asks as she walks over and puts the smock back on.

“He really liked ‘Circumcised Banana’ and thought about buying ‘Vulva on the Half-Shell, with Clitoris’ for his wife.” Ken says as he removes his necktie, and shirt.

“Interessante. Ok, reproducing copies of those is not difficult. I am satisfied with my models, though….” She says as she pauses and looks at Ken’s crotch. “Pull down your trousers. I wish to see your penis.”

Ken does as she asks, but he is still soft as he holds it.

“Remove your shorts and sit on the couch.” She says in a more commanding tone. She picks up her palette and brush and moves to a blank canvas. “Now slowly stroke it. Move the foreskin up and down.”

At that point Isabeau and Charles return, carrying a bottle of wine and a few glasses. “Lena, I thought you might be thirsty. And….Oh.” Isabeau stops for a moment. “Is he tonight’s model?”

Lena sets the palette down, and pours a glass of wine, then gives it to Ken. “Drink a bit, see if it helps you relax.” She then pours a glass for herself, sips it and sets it by the palette. “Isabeau, can you sit on the chair, and masturbate? I think it will help excite Mister Cooper.”

Charles takes a sip of his wine and leans against a crate, just watching and keeping out of Lena’s field of view.

Ken watches as Isabeau sits, opens her robe, spreads her legs, and slowly rubs herself. He watches as the light catches her opening lips, as she moves her fingers up and down. Her palm resting on the trimmed dark pubic patch. Ken licks his lips. He understands why Charles was so happy to be licking her. Her pussy looks so tasty.

He hears Lena say softly. “Bien, look at the color…. Nicely shaped tip.”

Ken glances at Lena. “Non!. Focus on Isabeau. Keep stroking” He focuses on Isabeau as she also now plays with her beautifully hard nipples. “Magnifique.”

He continues to stroke the same tempo that she moves her fingers. She then parts her lips and works two fingers in and out. He hears her breathing as she closes her eyes and fantasizes about some lover. Ken’s cock is so hard now, and he feels the slickness of his precum. Isabeau’s face goes flush and her thighs close around her hand as she moan loudly. Ken shoots his load all over his hand. “Bien, Magnifique.” He hears her say.

Charles walks over and hands Ken a towel. As he wipes himself off, Ken glances at the painting. The sides of the banana skinned penis have semen dripping down it. There are outlines on the foreskin banana for something to be dripping down it too.

Isabeau stands and covers up again, then slowly walks to Lena. “Do you need me to stay, mi amor?” Lena turns and kisses her on the lips. “Non. I have work to do. You and Charles gave me enough for the earlier one, and now you and Mister Cooper have given me what I want.”

Ken looks at her. “Is there anything else?”

Lena turns, “Non, we are done. I might title it ‘Banana with Cream’ ”. She says with a wicked smile.

The next day the sky is cloudy as a cold weather front moves through. Ken has the windows open but didn’t cancel the day’s ice. “You never know how the weather can change.” He explains to the delivery guy.

 Joan comes in, in a happy mood. “Well I didn’t have to bail you out last night, and apparently Pete teaching the band his mouth exercises have helped keep some of the band member’s girlfriends and wives very happy. Though the drummer keeps protesting.”

Ken pours his second cup of coffee and smiles. “And because Pete’s happy, you’re happy.”

“You know it, Boss. So how did it go?”

He sits back down. “It went okay. I’ll call Teddy in a bit and tell him to buy whatever he wants.”

She fills her cup too. “So you figured out what was bugging you?”

Ken sighs for a moment. He could tell Joan the truth, but she’s the biggest gossip in the building. He could say nothing, but she’d keep bugging him until she got an answer, so he decides to do what he does fairly well, give her a half-truth and hide the rest. “Charles works with both Isabeau and Lena to make the paintings. It is a collaborative effort. Together they draw inspiration from each other.”

Joan sits down, her skirt riding up showing a mouth-shaped bruise in the inside of her thigh. “So which one was in the camps?” She asks.

“Lena. She was a communist, arrested, and put in a labor camp for the war.”

The light in Joan’s eyes goes out as she pictures the frail brunette as a prisoner in one of the paintings. “Is she gonna be okay?”

Ken smiles, “Yes. She’s going to be fine. That’s why she works with Charles and Isabeau. They help each other.”

“Do you need me to get today’s paper?” she asks after a few minutes.

“Sure. Tell Pop, “Hi” and remind him he can come up for a cup of coffee anytime he wants.”

She grabs her purse, “Ok. Be back in a minute.”

While she’s gone, Ken picks up the phone and calls Theodore’s direct line. They talk for a bit as Ken tells the same story he just told Joan. “Yes the artist is real, but it is just more of a collaborative effort than one man. Buy what you want.”

“Thank you. You will get your monthly retainer and a bonus.” Theodore then hangs up.

Joan comes back up with the paper, and half a pack of camels. “Pop said that his wife found the open pack. You paid for them so they’re yours. I didn’t think you liked Camels Boss.”

He takes them from her and puts them in the desk drawer.

A few days later, as Ken is in the office, reading in the paper about “M. Charles Pauline and associates are leaving the city for their next stop in their tour of North America.” He hears a knock on the door and Joan answers it. He hears a familiar voice say “I have a delivery for Mister Cooper, courtesy of Mister Huddler.”

Ken gets up from his desk, telling Ramon to bring it in there. Ramon carries in a large flat package wrapped in brown paper, secured with twine. Once it is flat, Ken cuts the string. As they unwrap it, there are two paintings and a note.

“Mister Cooper, as we agreed here is the bonus you requested. Monsieur Pauline said there was a second painting that you were to have too. It is an interesting piece, more to my tastes than yours but I was told it is a gift for you. T. Huddler”

He folds the note and looks at the paintings. The first is the lamp with the fish for a light. Ken smiles at it. On the back it says #22 of 50.

He gives it to Joan but she is looking at the other one as she gasps and Ramon comments “Oh My.”

Ken looks at what is obviously his erection, with jism dripping along the sides, facing a banana with chocolate sauce dripping in the same pattern. On the back is written “Banana Crème” #2 of 10.

“Ramon, did Mister Huddler see this one?” Ken asks.

He smiles, “I assume he did. He was in the back with them as they wrapped them up. I stayed in the gallery. It is a very nice piece. Almost nicer than “Circumcised Banana”. This would look amazing next to it.”

While Joan hangs the first painting, Ramon takes a thick envelope from his jacket and places it on the desk. “This is for you too. Mister Huddler said it is your retainer and a little something extra. He told me it was ‘fraud insurance’.”

Ken pockets the envelope without even opening it. “Thank him for me, Ramon. Is there anything else?”

He notices that Ramon slowly licks his lips as he looks at the painting. “No. But it is a very nice piece. I hope you enjoy it.” He then turns and leaves.

Joan returns to Ken’s office. “Gee, Boss, that looks a little like yours.” She says with a wink and a smile. “Any idea where you’re going to hang it?”

He wraps it up in brown paper. “I’ll take it back to my apartment and find somewhere for it.” He reaches into his pocket for the envelope, “Here, count it and take it to the bank.”

She finishes counting it and puts it in her purse. “That’s a nice bonus we got.”

Ken sits back down at his desk, picks up the newspaper, then glances at the wrapped painting. “Yes it is.”

(I hope you enjoyed “Checking out the Surrealist”. If you enjoy this; Leave me a Comment. If you enjoy my writings follow and subscribe. Come back next Friday for a new story. Be Seeing you….)

AAA Detective Story - Checking out the Surrealist - Part 4

 

After Ken and Joan return to the office, he takes her notes and adds a few of her comments to his notebook. “Joan. Did you hear Isabeau speak?”

She thinks about it, “Yeah Boss, what of it?”

“Did you notice an accent? Something that made her sound foreign?” He asks as he writes “Lena — accented English”

“Not really, but I only asked her how much a couple of those painting cost.” She replies.

“So if she is the model who inspired all of his work, they would have had to meet in Paris, Madrid, or London?” He says as he sits back and pulls a fag from pack in his pocket.

“Maybe she’s an American who did modeling in Europe. Maybe she was a WAC, a Nurse, or a volunteer who stayed to become a model?” Ken writes Isabeau’s name then starts writing versions of it, Isabelle, Elisabeth, Eliza, Bessie, and Betty.

“You might have it, Joan. Maybe she came to Europe to help with the wounded or refugees, encountered the painters, who offered to paint her. She liked the work and that’s how we got here.” He takes a drag on his cigarette and blows smoke from his nose.

He picks up the phone and dials Mister Huddler’s private number.

“Mister Huddler’s office. How can I help you?” Ramon says in a friendly, but professional tone.

“Hi Ramon, I need to speak to Theodore. It’s about last night.” Ken says in a tone that matches his.

In a moment Theodore’s voice comes over the receiver. “Mister Cooper, what can I do for you?”

Ken notices that Teddy’s tone is a bit more business-like. “Mister Huddler, last night when we heard Charles speak, did you detect an accent?”

There is a pause for a moment. “Not really. There was that ‘showman’s’ tone of voice, but not the accent of non-English speaker. I assume that when he studied, he improved his English to better attract British and American patrons.”

Ken writes down Teddy’s thoughts. “That’s a possibility sir.”

“Mister Cooper, do you still suspect some kind of fraud?”

“I wouldn’t call it fraud, but there’s something wrong. I’ll get back to you when I figure it out.”

“Please do. And Mister Cooper, if the artwork is genuine, you will have the one you wanted in your office soon.”

“Thank you, Sir. Have a good day.” Ken finishes and hangs up.

Joan walks over to the fan and enjoys some of that ice cooled air blowing on her. Ken looks up and realizes that under her thin dress, she has a thick bra, supporting her. He chuckles to himself for a moment.

“What’s funny Boss?” She asks.

He blows a cloud of smoke into the air. “Just thinking about what your brassiere is covering.”

She puts a protective arm across her chest. “You saw them once and that was enough. These are for Pete now. Oh, I forgot to tell you. I talked with Marcy and the girls last night. They was all surprised to know that cunnilingus is a regular thing. I told them that the Greeks and Romans did it for their women. They didn’t believe me until Miss Julie, apparently overheard and came over. She told us, that not only did they do it in ancient times, but guys who’s been to Europe do it too.” She steps away from the fan. “So when they finished their night, Pete was all smiles because the ladies were giving their guys the what for.”

Ken leans back and finishes his cigarette. “So Pete was a little more gentile on you last night?”

“I wouldn’t say gentle but after he warmed up his mouth again, I told him I wanted to do that fil-a-whats-it on him. Like you said yesterday Boss, an even exchange.”

He sits up and looks at her. “That’s what I’m missing. What’s being exchanged? What’s he get out of it.” He flips through his notes.

“What do you mean Boss? Pete got me to suck his dingus. Fair’s fair.” Joan says defiantly.

Ken shakes his head. “No. I’m talking Charles Pauline. If he isn’t the artist, what’s he getting out of it. If he is the artist, what’s the deal with Lena?”

“That little woman at the gallery? Isn’t she his manager or something? Isabeau seemed to follow her directions.” Joan says as she pours some water into her empty coffee cup.

Ken quickly draws a triangle in his book, he labels each corner; Charles, Isabeau, and the top of the triangle is Lena.

“So, what’s next?” Joan asks as she sits down.

“I’m going back to the Gallery tonight, after they close.”

Joan looks a little worried. “I hope you know what you’re doing. I don’t think we got money to get you out if you get pinched.”

He gets up, grabs his hat and jacket, “I’m going out. Enjoy your night with Pete, and tell Miss Julie I said ‘Hi’.”

She stands up. “You don’t want me to come with you?”

He shakes his head as he heads for the door. “Nope. Besides who’ll get me out if the coppers nab me?” He says with a wink and a smile.

The afternoon sun is hot, as Ken drives around. He sees which hotels are near the gallery and sees if a Mister Charles Pauline is registered as a guest. None of them have him nor Isabeau or Lena. Though he doesn’t have last names for them. It’s possible that they are in a hotel farther away from Bryce Gallery, but he takes a chance that there is another option. “The Gallery was an old factory, so what’s in that back section. Isabeau said it was the Studio space. It might have more back there.” Ken says as he parks the car in a secluded part of the parking lot. With the window’s rolled down, he sits back, puts his hat over his eyes and takes a nap.

He wakes up all covered in sweat. He pulls a handkerchief from his glovebox and wipes himself dry. He checks the time. It’s after 8 and the sun is down. The sky is an inky blue with a line of dark orange on the horizon. The parking lot looks empty, and he notes that the lights are off in the main building.

Ken gets out of the car and slowly walks around to the rear of the building. He doesn’t know what type of alarm they have, but the gallery probably has something on the front door.

At the rear of the main building is a smaller building. The windows are aglow with lights, so there is something going on. Ken continues walking quietly, and looking for a rear door. Eventually he finds one. He slowly and quietly turns the handle….click..it is unlocked. Ken, as quietly as he can, slips in through the door, and makes sure it is closed behind him. The room he’s in is the old feed stock store house for the papermill. There are boxes and crates, stacked three high. A few of the crates are open, and Ken sees that they have wooden slats in them. These were used to ship the paintings. The shipping labels read that they were from London, England, which tracks with his research. Maybe he is barking up the wrong tree. Everything points to a good artist trying to trying to make a name for himself. He stops and freezes, when he hears voices.

He can’t make out what’s being said, just that one voice is female and the softer one seems to be male. He hears what sounds like a slap, and then the female voice yelling “Down on your knees! Mets-toi à genoux et lèche-lui la chatte! Do you understand?!”

Ken slowly moves between the crates to the other end of the building.

There is more light in that area, and he sees easels and canvases set up. He can smell the acrylic and oil paints. “This must be the studio area, that Isabeau mentioned.” Ken thinks.

“Oui! That’s it…. Lick her. Put your face between her legs. Utilise ta langue!” the female voice commands.

Ken slowly peers around a stack of crates and sees a naked man on all fours, Isabeau, naked too with her legs spread, and Lena painting. The exaggerated tongue on the canvas looks like it is being devoured by an open vulva which looks like a cross between a vagina and a mouth.

“That’s why! She’s the artist!” Ken says aloud and everyone stops and looks at him.

Lena puts down her paint brush and palette, grabs a rag to wipe her hands and then yells “Come from behind the Crates! Come here now! Vite Vite!”

Ken steps into the light. “I’m sorry to interrupt you while you are working. But I had questions…”

“And now you have answers!” Lena shouts at him.

A soft voice from behind her asks “Should we stop and take a break?”

Lena sighs, “Oui, Charles, get dressed. We’ll stop for now. Isabeau, you can put something on too, if you want.”

Ken notices that Isabeau’s pink nipples are hard and tasty looking, and definitely the inspiration and model for some of the erotic art pieces. She gets up and grabs a robe. She then walks over to Lena. “Can I use the toilet, while we’re taking a break.”

Lena places a gentile hand on her neck, “Oui, mon amour. Do what you need.” Then kisses her lips.

As both Charles and Isabeau leave the studio area, Lena looks at Ken. There is a fire in the eyes of this small woman. “You have interrupted me and distracted my models. I don’t know if I want to scream at you, or have you get naked so I can paint you.”

Ken leans against one of the crates feeling a little shocked. “It makes sense.” He says, then pulls out his note pad and pen. “You are Charlene Paulis.”

(I hope you enjoyed Part 4 of “Checking out the Surrealist”. My plan is to do this in a few parts over the next couple of days. If you enjoy this; Leave me a Comment. If you enjoy my writings follow and subscribe. Come back for Part 5. Be Seeing you….)

AAA Detective Story - Checking out the Surrealist - Part 3

 

As the sun tries to shine through the hazy, humid morning, Ken opens the windows to his office, then pulls off his shirt, before it gets too wet. His t-shirt will get wet enough. Then he walks over to the basin. The water from the melted ice block is tepid. He dumps it down the drain, then picks up the phone and dials the operator. “This is the Operator, how may I help you?” a high-pitched female voice asks. 

“Yeah, please connect to Mike’s Ice and Oil.”

After a moment she says “Sir, we have a Mike’s Oil, Ice, and Fuel Company, is that who you mean?”

“Yes, please.” He says as he sits down. The phone rings and then another female voice says “Mike’s Oil, Ice, and Fuel, how can I help you?”

The operator says, “We have…”

Ken speaks up, “Thank you Operator, I’ve got it from here. Hi, this is Ken Cooper of AAA Detective agency, and I want to place an order for an Ice block to be delivered to my office for the next few days.”

“What size do you want? 10 pound, 20 pound, or 40 pound?” She asks in a professional tone.

He thinks about the basin and how yesterday’s 10-pound block was the right size. “A 10-pounder will do.”

He can hear her writing down his information, “Will you be paying cash for that in advance or bill at the end of the week?”

He pulls the folded stack of bills from his pocket. “I’ll pay for the week when he brings up today’s order.”

“Very well, sir. Thank you for calling Mike’s Oil, Ice, and Fuel.” And then she hangs up.

Ken hangs up the phone and then turns on the fan. The air in the office is still and thick, even this early in the morning. He then makes some coffee and reviews his notes from last night.

In a few more minutes, Joan comes in, wearing another thin summer dress. When the light is right, Ken can almost see right through it. “Good Morning Joan, isn’t it a little warm for nylons?” He asks as he fills his mug.

“Good morning, Boss. Coffee’s ready? Great. And No, these ain’t too hot to wear. During the war, we couldn’t get them, so I wore leg makeup. When the war ended and stockings were back in the stores, I told myself I was always wearing the real thing when I wanted.” She says as she pours herself a cup. Then she notices the pages of notes that Ken is flipping through. “So how did last night go, Boss?”

Ken circles a few things, “Paris”, “Madrid”, and “London”. He then writes “Fleeing the Nazi’s?”, “Post-war refugee?”

“So is his work any good?” Joan asks and then sips her coffee.

Ken isn’t really listening to her but responds “Yeah, good technique, strange ideas, and maybe some wartime trauma.”

“Wow, must have been some show. What’s this “Circumcised Banana” and “Vulva on the Half-shell, with Clitoris”?” She asks reading his notes.

He leans back for a moment. “Those are part of a collection he did, focusing on sexual body part. What time does the public library open?”

“Same as always, 9 AM. Why?”

He leans forward again, “Because we need…” There is a knock on the outer door.

“Let him it, that’s probably the ice man.” Ken says, as he slowly opens his desk drawer, just in case he is wrong.

Joan opens the door, “Oh Hi. Back again? You can put it the same place as yesterday.”

Ken hears the voice of the ice guy as he sets down the block on the basin. The fan’s breeze is instantly cooler. He then turns towards Ken. “The office said that you were paying cash?”

Ken stands up and pulls the bills from his pocket. The ice man counts them and then pulls a receipt book from his shirt pocket. He quickly writes out a receipt and hands Ken the carbon copy. “Thank you Sir. See you tomorrow.”

Joan closes the door as he leaves, and Ken shuts the windows again. r“Smart call, Boss. Are you getting ice for the whole week?”

Ken sits back down and finishes his coffee. “Yeah, I think the weather’s going to be hot all week.” He then looks down at his notes again. “So the Library opens at 9. In a little bit, we need to go there. Bring a pen and a note pad, we need to do some research.”

Ken explains how they are going to look at various magazines, art books, and newspapers to see what we can find out about M. Charles Pauline.

By Noon, Joan had gone trough stacks of magazines and books. Ken focused on the newspapers, especially the foreign ones. Joan found a few recent articles in an English Art Magazine, with photos of Charles standing next to a lamp with a fish on one side and a black and white scribble on the other. The article talks about a brilliant new French artist who studied in France and Spain, showing his art in London. Ken looked for any mention of him in both Spanish and French language papers. He’s not fluent in either language but he can look for names. He couldn’t find anything. In a couple of pre-war articles from Paris, he found a similar name, Charlene Paulis, but that was a woman. He couldn’t find any photos or descriptions, only that she was a new artist working in the surrealist style. “Joan, do you want to see the actual pieces of art?” Ken asks as he puts away his notebook, and set the binders of news articles on the return desk.

“What do you mean, Boss?” she asks as she gathers up her books too.

“There is a public showing this afternoon. I am going over, and I’d like your thoughts.”

“Ok. Do you want to see my notes?” She asks.

“Not yet. While we’re there, take notes on anything you see or feel.” He says as he heads for the door.

This time the parking lot is only a quarter full, but then Ken realizes “Of course. Most everyone is still at work.”

“What’s that, Boss?” Joan asks.

“I was just realizing what time it is and why there are so few cars in the parking lot.”

“Oh. Can we go inside?”

He sets his fedora on the dashboard. “I won’t need that inside. If you get chilled, tell me and you can have my jacket.”

She nods but looks confused. Just as last night, the cool air greets them as they open the door. “Wow, Boss, better than a fan with ice.”

He smiles and nods. He immediately notices that the reception table is gone, along with all of the serving trays. Some of the paintings have been adjusted too. He takes Joan’s hand, and leads her towards the alcove. “Follow me and tell me what you think.”

When he turns the corner, he is surprised. All of the sexually graphic paintings have been replaced. In the place of “Circumcised Banana” is a painting of black birds dropping bombs, the landscape is pitted and burned as rats wearing helmets and gas masks scurry for cover. The colors are blacks, greys, oranges, and reds. It’s titled “A Murder of Crows”.

Another painting shows barbed wire fences, and dogs and pigs guarding sheep that are shorn. The faces are all exaggerated to looking almost human, with the guards looking lustful and hungry, and the prisoners vacant eyed and starving. The title of this one is “Safe at Home”. 

Where there had been twisted sexual organs, now there are images of war, prisons, and labor camps. Another painting that he stops at, shows stylized skeletons, lined up, extending empty bowl, as a grossly fat cook ladles drips that are blood red. It’s called “Food for the Hungry.”

Ken breaks out into a cold sweat. The artist was in one of the camps. He feels sick for a moment. He remembers what some of his buddies who liberated the camps in Belgium, France, and Germany, had told him. Skeletons who had been starved and worked to death. Women and men, abused in ways only twisted minds can dream up.

“Is this what you wanted to show me, Boss?” Joan quietly asks. “These are gross, and ugly, but so’s war.”

He swallows the burning sick in his throat and then writes down the titles of more of these.

Joan is writing too. She points to “A Murder of Crows”. “That one was in the London show.”

He looks up and sees that on her notes from the library, she has none of the sexually explicit items listed, but a mixture of the abstract, surreal, and war themed titles.

“When we get back to the office. I’ll look more closely at your notes.”

The other people in the gallery are slowly moving from painting to painting. Some gasp, or look confused. There are even a few who give a dry laugh, but none of them walk deeper into the alcove. They all seem to glance at the pain and ugliness and turn away.

Ken looks around for Charles but the only face he sees from last night is Isabeau. Though unlike last night’s barely there dress, today, her hair is in a bun, and she is wearing a blue and white polka-dot dress. The dress helps to cover her more luxurious curves, but it’s obvious to anyone who see her that she moves like a model. Today she has a clipboard and pen. Ken walks up to her. “Hi, aren’t you Isabeau? I was here last night. I’m Ken Cooper. My client wanted a second opinion about the paintings before purchasing any of them.” He extends his hand.

She smiles politely and shakes it. “It’s a pleasure to meet you Mister Cooper. I’m sorry but I don’t remember you from last night. But I’m happy to see that you returned.” She uncaps the fountain pen. “Do you know the names of the pictures that your client wants to buy.”

He steps closer and lowers his voice. “They were a couple of paintings that had been in the alcove last night.”

She knowingly nods. “I see. Do you know which ones?”

He nods, “I do, but I wanted to see them in the day, without champagne dulling my senses. Where are they?”

She leans in and whispers, “We moved them into the studio space. We didn’t think they were appropriate for the general public.”

“Who’s we?” Ken quickly asks.

A slightly flustered look comes across her face. “I mean Charles. He decided. It was his decision what to show to wealthy buyers, and what to show to the public.”

Ken nods. “That makes sense. Where is Monsieur Pauline right now? I would like to talk to him.”

Before she can answer, the small almost frail brunette, from last night comes up. “Is there a problem, Isabeau?”

Isabeau almost looks relieved, “Lena, this is Mister Cooper, a buyer. He has some questions about the special paintings from last night.”

Lena eyes narrow for a moment as if she is trying to remember something. “Oh yes. Last night you had a question about the inspiration for some of them. I’m sorry Charles is not here at the moment. If you are not placing an order, then please move along so others can.”

Ken nods, “Of course, Miss Isabeau is free to help anyone who needs her. By the way, Lena, is it? That is an interesting accent, you have. Is it French?”

She turns to go. “I have been many places, and my English pronunciations have suffered for it. Good day.”

Ken nods and then finds Joan standing in front of the lamp with a fish as a bulb. “I don’t get it, Boss. It’s called ‘How many surrealists does it take to change a light bulb?’ But there isn’t a bulb just a fish.”

Ken takes her hand. “I’ll explain it on the way back to the office.”

(I hope you enjoyed Part 3 of “Checking out the Surrealist”. My plan is to do this in a few parts over the next couple of days. If you enjoy this; Leave me a Comment. If you enjoy my writings follow and subscribe. Come back for Part 4. Be Seeing you….)

AAA Detective Story - Checking out the Surrealist - Part 2

 

With the sun low in the sky, the air was still hot and thick. Ken drives over to Bryce Gallery. It’s on the edge of downtown, in a building that used to house Bryce Paper Company. The company still owns it, but they build a new factory and warehouse, closer to the highway, and converted this place to a gallery so Missus Bryce could have a rotation of up and coming artists visit and sell their wares. The parking lot is about half full, so Ken parks his sedan and gets out. He pulls on his suit jacket and straightens his tie before he goes in. He is greeted by a blast of cold air. When they remodeled the building, they added an expensive heating and cooling system. It helps to keep the art from getting damaged by being too hot or too cold. Ken squares his shoulders in his jacket, happy now that he wore it.

He looks around and notices some of the wealthier families moving from painting to painting. Ken looks at a black and white one, near to him. It looks like someone took a paintbrush and made one long continuous scribble, covering the whole page. The small card next to it says “Trance”. Ken slowly shakes his head. He heard something about that, how some artists would either take drugs or put themselves into a trance and then paint whatever they saw. Some would later add different colors and textures but some, like this one would keep it true to what they “saw”.

He continues moving through the main room. There are lots of paintings that are just shapes and colors, giving the impression of something from a nightmare.

“So, what do you think, Mister Cooper?” A familiar voice says from behind him.

“Well Mister Huddler, or should I call you Theodore in this setting?”

“Theodore works fine here.” He responds extending his hand in a greeting while holding a champagne flute in the other.

Ken shakes his hand, “Then you should probably call me Ken. As for my thoughts, I don’t know yet.” He releases his grip and looks for the table with the champagne. “Let me get a drink and look at a few more pieces.”

Theodore nods and sips his glass. “The most interesting pieces are in the side gallery.” He slowly moves along, as Ken grabs a glass and follows.

“Ken, you were in Europe during the war. Did you have a chance visit any of the galleries?”
Ken sips his glass and walks beside Theodore. “In the “great galleries”? Not really, but I got to see a fair amount of art when we confiscated what the Fascists and Nazis had taken as loot. We also had to arrest some of our own guys who were trying to take ‘trophies’ back to the States.” He says in a matter of fact tone.

“I didn’t think that the Nazi’s liked ‘modern art’?” Theodore says with a mild tone of surprise.

“They didn’t. Officially they preferred “realism” and the “old masters”, but that was the Party line. That didn’t stop their officers from acquiring various pieces throughout Europe and holding on to them in private.”

“Fascinating. So what do you think of the surrealists?” He asks as they turn the corner to an alcove where more paintings are displayed.

“They are different. It still takes skill and….” Ken stops mid-sentence. The walls are filled with paintings of various sexual organs. There is a banana with its peel that’s a foreskin, peeled halfway down, facing an erect penis with its foreskin that is a banana peel peeled halfway down, facing each other like looking at each other through a twisted mirror. The small label reads “Circumcised Banana”. 

The painting next to it has a plate with an oyster shell on it, but in place if the oyster is a vulva with a visible clitoris at the top. It is titled “Vulva on the Half-shell, with Clitoris”

From there each piece is more bizarre and twisted. Breasts, Mouths, Penises, Scrotums, Vulvas, Labias, Rectums, and body parts that look sexual even though it is uncertain what they are.

“You were saying Ken?”

Ken sips his drink. “This takes skill, attention to detail, and imagination.”

“So you think he is good?” Theodore asks.

“I want to meet the man first. These are good, but there’s something that’s wrong.” Ken says.

“What do you mean?”

“Was he in the war? And for which side? What was done to him to bring out such a fascination for twisting and changing sex organs?” Ken says as he looks at another painting that is a mouth screaming, while unidentifiable holes are being filled from below. There isn’t a true body connecting the lower half to the mouth, just shades and colors giving the rest of the body vague shapes while the mouth and holes are given almost pornographic detail.

Ken hands Theodore his glass, “Please hold this for a moment.” He then takes his notepad from his pocket and his pen. He quickly writes down the names of the most graphic and disturbing pieces. Then he closes the book and takes back his glass.

“Theodore, what do you think about them?”

He smiles and points to “Circumcised Banana” “I was thinking of purchasing that one and putting it in Ramon’s apartment.”

Ken chuckles at that. “Ok. I’ll give you that. And if you really wanted to give a gift to the Missus, she or Hillary might enjoy ‘Vulva on the Half-Shell, with Clitoris’. But I would advise against getting some of these others. I feel like there is a lot of pain and trauma in some of them.”

They walk back into the main room, and Ken sees a extremely realistic painting of a lamp but in place of the light bulb is a fish that is glowing brightly. The title of it is “How many surrealists does it take to change a light bulb…” Ken smiles at the joke.

“Theodore, if you are buying these for friends and acquaintances, I like that one.” He says pointing to it. Theodore looks at it. “The detail is marvelous, and the colors are very realistic.” He then looks at the title card. “That’s clever too. Maybe if I like what you tell me about the artist, that might be your payment.”

Ken sets his empty glass down on a tray with other empties. He then writes the title of that one in his book too.

“Speaking of the artist, isn’t he supposed to show up and take questions?” Ken asks.

Theodore looks at his watch. “He should be here soon.”

At that, the large double doors at the end of the hall open and out walks a man in a white suit, flanked by a tall blond model wearing a vibrantly colored evening gown. The gown barely conceals her ample assets. Ken notices that the barely visible pink of her nipples is similar to one of the paintings that is all full round breasts with hard pink nipples. “Yes that must be his model.” Ken says in a low tone.

Trailing behind is a thinner woman wearing a very plain skirt and jacket. She closes the doors, following behind with a clip board and pen, then blending into the crowd. Ken make a quick note of her. “Manager, or assistant, maybe?” He writes down, and turns his attention to the artist.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, Mesdames et Messieurs, Señoras y Señores, Thank you for coming out tonight. I am happy to be in your beautiful city as I begin my tour of the United States.”

He moves to the center of the crowd, “Let me introduce, my inspiration and my Muse, Isabeau.” The curvy blond does her best to curtsy to the crowd while still keeping everything barely covered.

After the applause dies down, the artist motions to the crowd. “What questions do you have?”

A young man in a rumpled suit and pork-pie hat holds up his hand. “Messieur Pauline, I’m Zach Thompson, from the City Paper, how long before you and your collection go to the next city on your stop?”

“Mister Thompson, we will be here only a few days. Just long enough for people to see my art and maybe some of your wealthier citizens, to purchase some of it. Next question.”

An older gentlemen raises his voice “Speaking of cost, how much do you charge for some of these?”

“It depends, Sir. Some of them are one of a akind, and others I have painted multiples of, each one numbered and signed, but still original.”

The older man continues, “Well then for example, that one? How much is it?” he asks pointing to a piece that looks like bars of color raining down on broken landscape. Ken can’t read the title of it, but makes a note in his book.

“That, my good man, is one of five that I made. Each one of them goes for $500.”

There is a murmur moving through the crowd.

Ken raises his hand. “Mister Pauline, what inspired the works that you have in the alcove?”

He smiles, “Ah those. Well if you look at my lovely muse, you can see that Isabeau, inspired them.”

Ken cocks an eyebrow, “She was the model, but there is more to it than that.”

“Of course. I stared at her. Looking at every inch of her beautiful body, and was inspired. Can’t you see how every curve and angle fills you with desire and lust?”

Ken nods, and writes a few more notes then moves deeper into the crowd.

He sees the small brunette, who is taking notes. He walks closer to her but she looks up and then moves away.

“Ok. Not tonight, you’re working.” He says to himself, though still curious as to her identity.

After a number of questions, Charles Pauline says, “Ladies and Gentlemen, It is getting late and we will have the general public in tomorrow afternoon, so Lena will take down your information if you are interested in purchasing.”

The small brunette is now by the front door with her clip board still in hand. Ken writes down “Lena” and then puts a question mark next to it.

“So, Ken. What do you think of him?”

Ken puts away his notebook, and leans into Theodore, “The works are real, but I don’t think he’s the painter. Hold off on buying until I can check a few things out.”

Theodore straightens up. “Really? Should I…”

Ken shakes his head. “Let’s keep this quiet. It’s just a hunch. But there is something about ‘Monsieur Charles Pauline’ that’s just not right.”

(I hope you enjoyed Part 2 of “Checking out the Surrealist”. My plan is to do this in a few parts over the next couple of days. If you enjoy this; Leave me a Comment. If you enjoy my writings follow and subscribe. Come back for Part 3. Be Seeing you….)

AAA Detective Story - Checking out the Surrealist - Part 1

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AAA Detective Story - Who's the Father - Part 7

 

Ken gets into his car and looks at his watch. It’s not even 6pm yet. Too early to go straight to the Coconut Club. But if he swings by the Palace Hotel, he might be able to deliver a message then go to the club.

Parking on the street, he walks into the lobby. He looks around and sees Frank Jackson, sitting in a chair, reading the evening paper.

“Is that what you do all day? Read the morning papers and then the evening ones? It must be such a tough job.” Ken says with a laugh.

“Oh, it is. Especially when I have to deal with mugs like you.” Franks says, laughing as he folds the paper and stands up. “Are you here to bother more of our residents?”

“Nothing of the sort. I just thought you might to know one of your ‘residents’ got pinched in a vice net.”

“So Mister Powell was sitting at the table when the cops showed up?”

“Frank, You didn’t hear it from me, but they raided a joint which also had young girls working. Girls being used.” Ken says as he lowers his voice.

“Are they going to hold him?”

“I really don’t know. But I think that if you see him return, you should recommend that he pack up and leave.”

“Why’s that?” Frank asks. “If he’s released shouldn’t I…”

“Given some of your other guests, do you really want someone who the cops are watching, living here?”

Frank thinks for a second and nods. “Okay, let me talk with the Manager.”

Ken extends his hand. “I will leave it up to you. As I said, you didn’t hear it from me. If you really want, you can call some of your friends downtown and get the real scoop.”

Frank shakes it. “I might. Are you going to hang around?”

Ken looks at his watch. “I can’t. I have another meeting.”

“Ok. See you around.”

“If I’m doing my job right, you won’t.” Ken says with a smile.

As he drives to the Coconut Club, Ken mutters to himself, “I can’t believe how quickly everyone believed that ‘Sugar Daddy’ was going to sell ‘Doll’. There was no real proof he did anything other than gamble and have sex with her. It is amazing how everyone jumped to conclusions, just like I wanted.”

As he gets out of the car, looks down at himself. “I probably should have gone home and changed.” His suit looks wrinkled, but the rumpled, hard-boiled detective look fits him.

He checks his coat and hat, smiling and winking at the girl. She smiles back but she probably does that to everyone, Ken thinks.

He finds a table not too close to the bandstand but not too far away. The band is doing its warmup set of a few swing dance standards. A waitress in a sleeveless shirt, short skirt, and nylons asks him what he wants. He was going to say a cup of coffee but then he realized he isn’t working so he says “Gimme a Cuba Libre.” She nods and comes back in a few minutes.

Joan comes from behind the bandstand, straightening her skirt, and sits down. “Boss, do you need me to sit in on this one?”

He takes a sip, enjoying the flavor of island rum, coke, and hint of lime. “No. But you can sit here until he arrives. So did Pete get his mouth warmed up?” He asks with a wink.

She smiles “You know it. He made my knees so wobbly I had to wait a bit before I came out.”

“I might have to ask him for some pointers.” He responds with a wicked grin.

A large man still wearing an overcoat walks up with Theodore Huddler trailing behind him. “Is you Mister Cooper?” the big palooka asks.

Ken notices the bulge in the jacket where a pistol is probably concealed.“Yes, I am, and this is my associate Miss Joan…”

Mister Huddler steps forward and interrupts. “I thought this meeting was to be just between us. Mister Cooper.”

Ken extends his hand, “Mister Huddler, it is. Joan was just keeping the chair warm for you. Please sit.” He then pulls a couple of bills from his pocket and says, “Joan, why don’t you go to the bar and wait as we talk.” She takes the money and slowly walks away. Her hips swaying in an exaggerated manner. The muscle looks at her for a moment and then to Teddy who nods and motions for him to follow her.

He then sits down without shaking Ken’s hand, and looks around for a moment.

“You know your business. The music is loud but not too loud for us to talk, we are off to the side, but not so it looks like we are hiding. Hillary was right, you know your business.”

The waitress walks up, “What can I get you?”

Theadore turns towards her, pulls a $10 bill from his money clip, “I will have a pina colada. And some privacy.”

She takes the money and nods. “I’ll be right back.”

Ken watches as she goes to the bar, and says something to the cigarette girl, who then whispers something to the busboy.

“You seem to know your business too, Mister Huddler. Should we wait for your drink or just start talking?”

Theodore leans forward, “I want to thank you for killing Oscar. I probably shouldn’t say that but Oscar always was trouble.”

Ken sips his drink. “You don’t need to thank me. He had kidnapped Julie, I was paid to rescue her. If he hadn’t pulled a gun, he’d still be alive.”

“I don’t think so, Mister Cooper, Oscar was already losing control. He wanted us to start carrying cargo that our family doesn’t associate with. I reminded him that, even though it could be profitable, there are other families who are already involved.”

Ken nods. “I understand. During the war, I encountered some of that. What did you do during the war, if I might ask.”

The waitress quietly brings the white frothy drink in a large hurricane glass, then wordlessly turns and leaves. Theodore sips it using the straw.

“I ran my family’s business. We lost so many drivers and trucks to the war effort, but we still had to maintain things moving stateside.”

Ken leans in, “Do you have trouble with the Teamsters? I heard that unions cause people like you big headaches.”

Teddy leans in, almost conspiratorially, “Really? Which people? Wealthy families or homosexuals?” He winks and then leans back sipping his drink.

Ken shakes his head slowly and smile. “You got me with that one, Mister Huddler. But seriously, do you have union troubles?”

Teddy shakes his head, “No. The demands made for drivers’ pay and work hours are all understandable. It is just good business to offer a living wage and hire good people. During the war, we hired who we could get, and when the war ended, we kept the good ones and let the other ones go.”

“Do ‘the good ones’ all look the same?” Ken asks in a roundabout way.

“If you are asking if we kept on or hired black and Spanish drivers, of course. We proudly hired some “Red Ball Express” veterans.” Teddy comments in an almost proud tone. “But we aren’t here to talk about my company’s labor practices, or why you killed Oscar. I want to know why you are following me and asking about my son.” He says as he sets down his glass and leans in.

Ken sets his highball glass down and runs his fingers though his hair. “It was a misunderstanding and a feeling. I looked at the photo of you in the paper a week or so ago and it didn’t sit right. I wasn’t working on a case, and I felt like there was something where there wasn’t. I’m sorry.”

“So why were you watching the penthouse at the Palace?”

“I was on a case. Your neighbor there was ‘wining and dining’ my client’s wife. I was just gathering info. While I was taking photos, I happened to notice you and your personal secretary. I called to mention that if I could see, then others, who might have something against you, could see too.”

Teddy leans back and sips his drink for a moment, thinking.

Before he can say anything, the lights go down and a spot light points to the stage, and Julie Schmidt moves to the center. Looking around at the faces in the club, she notices both Ken and Teddy at a side table. She nods toward them then whispers something to the band leader.

Turning towards the crowd again she says into the microphone, “Good Evening Ladies and Gentlemen. Thank you for coming out tonight to the Coconut club. The band and I are always happy to see everyone. Let me start off the night with something a little different.”

She steps off the stage, the spot following her as the band begins a version of “My Funny Valentine”. She sings without the microphone, but her clear full voice fills the club. “My Fun-ny Val-en-tine, Sweet Com-ic Val-en-tine….”

She walks from table to table, smiling and winking at the people seated there.

As she gets closer to Ken and Teddy she sings “Your looks are laugh-able….Un-photo-gra-ph-able…..Yet you’re my favor-ite work of art.” She reaches down, takes Kens drink, and sniffs it, hands it back, she then winks and blows a kiss to Teddy before turning and continuing to make her way around the club.

Ken watches her as she glides so effortlessly from table to table.

“She is a beauty to behold, Mister Cooper.” Teddy says as he watches her too.

“I didn’t think she was your type?”

“She isn’t, but that doesn’t mean that I can’t find her beautiful to watch and listen to. I may be gay but I’m not dead.”

She continues around and whispers something to the cigarette girl who nods and makes her way towards Ken and Teddy’s table.

When Julie takes the stage again, she says something to the band leader again. He nods in response and says something to the band.

She grabs the microphone and says “Ok, lets speed things up a bit.”

The drummer picks up the tempo and the horns start as she begins singing “Cuban Pete”.

“Mister Cooper and Mister Huddler” the cigarette girl says as she makes it to their table.

“Miss Julie said you might want to continue your talk in her dressing room. It’s much more private. Please follow me.” She walks towards the backstage.

Ken and Teddy grab their drinks and follow. Joan sees them moving. Ken nods for her to sit at their now empty table. She slowly nods and moves from the bar to the table. Ken notices the gunsel following her. Teddy nods and makes a hand motion for him sit and stay. So they both occupy the formerly empty table.

Once again Ken admires how sexy the cigarette girl is. She opens the door with a key. “Miss Julie said to relax. I can have a waitress check on you if you need.”

Teddy enters the room, “Thank you, but that won’t be necessary.”

“I agree. By the way, what time do you get off?”

“I finish at closing time.” She says with a wink and a smile.

“If you want a bite to eat after work, I know great little all night diner.” Ken responds.

“Maybe Mister Cooper. Enjoy your night.” She says closing the door behind her.

Teddy is seated in a soft chair, leaving only the stool or the dressing bench. Ken opts for the stool.

“I wonder why she offered us her room?” Ken asks aloud.

Teddy sips his drink and sets it on the vanity. “She probably knows more about Oscar and my wife than I thought and wanted to give us privacy.”

Ken almost chokes on his drink. “Wait!, What? Is Oscar the father of your son?”

Teddy almost looks disgusted by the thought and says in a very serious tone. “No. I am his father.”

Ken looks perplexed. “Okay, Theodore, then back things up and help it make sense. What was between your wife and Oscar?”

Teddy sighs and sits back in the chair. “You already know that Oscar was trying to take control of the family business.”

Ken silently nods and listens.

“Our father stipulated that I, as the eldest son got the company. Oscar only got what I gave him. When he got involved in drugs and wanted to use our trucks and ships to ferry them around, I told him ‘No’ and I cut him out of the family.” Teddy looks at Ken for a response but seeing none, he continues. “One night he broke into our home and apparently found Karen alone in our bedroom. He was high on drugs and attacked her. He tried to rape her. I was in the study with Ramon when I heard her scream. I rushed into the room, pulled him off of her and had Joseph and Ramon throw him out.”

“Ramon is….”

“My private secretary. He is a wonder at taking care of my needs.” Teddy says in an almost wistful tone.

“Did you file a police report?”

“No. We increased the security around the house and made sure that Karen was never alone.”

“So how do you know that he isn’t the father?” Ken asks, taking a large sip of his drink.

“I stopped him before he entered her, if you must know. After that, Karen had me spend every night with her. She also wanted me to get her pregnant. She didn’t want Oscar to try again and maybe succeed.”

“Why was having a child so important?”

“According to my Will, unless I sell the company, control of it goes to my heirs. Oscar must have thought that if Karen was carrying his child, he could somehow be brought back into the family.” Teddy shakes his head in almost disbelief.

“So, you went to fulfill your husbandly duties to your wife, until you she was with child? What did Ramon and your other boy toys think about this?”

Teddy straightens up, “Mister Cooper, I don’t know what gossip you have heard, but aside from my wife, Ramon is the only one I am with. It is an arrangement that we have agreed to. We stay married to each other and we are each allowed one extra-marital partner.”

Ken finishes his drink and sets the empty glass on the vanity. “Ok, here is the $1,000 question. How do you know that Karen’s lover isn’t the father.”

Teddy breaks out into smile that grows into a full-throated laugh. “Mister Cooper. You are good at your job but not perfect. My lovely wife Karen has a lover, but there is no way that she can get pregnant by her.”

Ken stares for a moment. “Oh my God.” All the pieces fit together. Hillary and Karen. “Uncover things that we don’t want out.” He mutters.

“Mister Cooper, you are a very good detective. I would like to put you on retainer.” Teddy pulls out his money clip and places a $100 bill on the vanity.

Ken looks at the money, “Why? For what?”

Teddy takes his glass and finishes his drink. “You warned me about Ramon needing curtains. An unscrupulous man would have just taken photos and tried to blackmail me. You think like an agent and try to counter things. What is that radio program? ‘Counterspy’ or something like that? I want you hire you as my ‘counterspy’.”

“Mister Huddler, I don’t know anything about corporations or business espionage. That’s not my line of work.” He says looking at the money.

“Oh, I realize that.” Teddy says standing up and looking at his watch. “I need to go home. Tell Julie, thank you for allowing us to use the room. Keep the hundred dollars, call me tomorrow with your answer. Good night.” He says extending his hand, which Ken shakes.

“Good night.”

Ken sits on the stool for a moment, thinking about everything, as he reaches into his breast pocket for a cigarette. Before he can light it, he remembers that Julie doesn’t allow smoking in her dressing room.He gets up, grabs the empty glasses, and heads back into the club with the unlit fag still in his mouth. He sees Joan sitting alone, watching the band. “She must be watching Pete.” Ken mutters before he sits down.

“What did you say, Boss? Are you and Mister Huddler all done?”

He sets down the empty glasses and pulls the $100 bill from his pocket. Grabbing his lighter he lights his cigarette. Looking at the bill he says, “Joan, how would you like us to be on retainer to the Huddlers?”

“Is that what the C-Note is for?” she asks looking at the bill.

“I have to call him tomorrow with my answer.” He exhales a puff of smoke.

“It could be the beginning of a beautiful friendship.” She says doing a bad Bogart impression.

“That it could. That it could.” He says.

(This was the final portion of “Who’s the Father”, a AAA Detective Agency Story. If you enjoyed this story, leave me a comment. For my usual readers, I apologize for the lack of graphic sex. I will do better next week and return to writing Erotica. If you prefer this to my usual erotic writings, tell me. If you have an idea of for another Erotic Tale, tell me that too. And of course, if you enjoy my writings, follow and subscribe.)