A Detective Paco Rerun - Detective Paco and the Brewer

It was a day in late spring and the air conditioner was on the fritz and it was hot as a bucket of hell’s rivets. For the first time in memory, I actually wished that Al Gore had been in town, but he was in Australia, somewhere, presumably teaching aborigines how to build igloos. I looked out of the window and saw Bogan chasing a cat; it was so hot, they were both walking. Because of the oppressive heat, I had granted Sheila and myself a casual day at work. Sheila had come in wearing cut-off jeans and a tank top (which didn’t cool me off at all). I wore a double-breasted suit, wing-tips, cotton shirt and a silk tie – but no pocket handkerchief (that’s as casual as the detective’s dress code allows). The humidity was making my panama hat sprout shoots. I was wondering, in that random-association way that sometimes comes over you when you’re half-dazed from the heat, if I could grow some new hats.

A thought struck me. Air conditioner on the fritz . Fritz. Then I remembered. A German beer brewer by the name of Helmut Erdmann was in town and had made an appointment to see me today. I looked at my watch; he was due right about now, as a matter of fact.

Sheila had gone out to nag the landlord about fixing the AC, so when my client arrived he helped himself to the office door and shuffled in. He was a short, stocky guy, with a body built along the lines of a Highland cow, and with a head like a salt-lick sporting a walrus mustache; sort of a pint-sized Bismark.

“Ach! I am zo glad to meet you, Herr Paco! I haff zutch a problem and I am hoping dat you can help me, bitte!

“Have a seat, Mr. Erdmann. What can I do for you? Kegs being pilfered on the docks? Employees siphoning off the suds?”

“Nein, nein, nuttink zo zimple as dat, Herr Paco. You zee, I am de director of Aying Brewery in Bavaria, and ve are facing huge increases in de prize of barley. De farmers are divertink de land to growink corn for de biofuels industry, and zo, de prize of barley, it keeps goink up. Ve haff to keep increasink de prize of our beer. Und, ach du lieber!, de customers are complaining.”

When he talked about beer, Erdmann’s ice-blue eyes gleamed like those of a Teutonic Knight who’d just stumbled onto a group of unescorted Latvian milk maids. I couldn’t see what I could do for him, though.

“Mr. Erdmann, I’m a private detective, not a commodities speculator. What is it you want me to do?”

“Herr Paco. You are good at de investigations, nicht wahr? Perhabz you can show up diss global varmink for de hoax it iss, and de farmers, dey go back to plantink barley.”

“Well, that’s a pretty tall order, Mr. Erdmann. You see . . .” At that moment, Sheila came into the office.

“Excuse me, Paco. I wouldn’t have intruded, but I’ve got a registered letter for you. You need to sign for it.”

She walked briskly toward my desk. She had spent Memorial Day weekend at the beach, and was thoroughly bronzed. Her long, golden hair flounced about her shoulders, and her breasts bounced lightly, and with that provocative ripple effect unique to a firm, but ample, bosom. She dropped the letter on my desk, turned, and got her first eyeful of Erdmann.

He had risen from his chair and was staring at her; he might have been Sigurd ogling Brunhilde. His already florid complexion marched double-time through the spectrum, changing from crimson to magenta in seconds, and although his mouth was moving, the only sounds that emerged were little mewing noises.

Sheila cocked an eyebrow, pursed her lips and quickly folded her arms in front of her prow. “You need a glass of water, mister? Maybe a nitroglycerine pill?”

“Gott in Himmel!, he muttered under his breath. “It’s de St. Pauli girl!”

Suddenly, I got an idea. “Look, Mr. Erdmann. Maybe you’re going about this thing the wrong way. Right now, you can’t do much about your expenses, but what about boosting your revenues, over and above the cost of the barley? Maybe a marketing gimmick is what you need.”

“Bleeze. Vat is diss . . . ‘marketink gimmick’ of vhich you speak?”

“Well, what sort of advertising do you do? What are your symbols, your logos?”

“Oh, I zee. Vell, one of our beers hass a picture of a house on de label. Anodder vun hass a picture of two goats . . .”

“Goats? I think I’m beginning to see your problem. Why don’t you call a modeling agency and find your own version of the St. Pauli girl?”

“Ja, ja. Diss girl. She makes de St. Pauli girl look like a Trüffelschwein.”

“Er, Sheila, that will be all.” Sheila tossed her head and glided out of the room; if anything, her stern action moved Erdmann even closer to a stroke. Erdmann thanked me and hurried out of the office.

The air conditioner suddenly began humming, and I felt a blast of refreshing cold air. I walked into the waiting room and asked Sheila how she had managed to get our landlord, a notorious procrastinator, to get the thing fixed. She gave me a wicked smile. “Simple. I bent over and picked up a pencil he had dropped on the floor. He was grateful.”

“For the pencil or the view” I said, and gave her a wink.