Detective Paco in "Das Bloat"

[Author's note: In response to overwhelming demand - well, at least one person seemed to imply that she wanted to see a new installment - I present the latest in the long-running Detective Paco saga. If his appearances have been fewer than anticipated lately, it is because I am working on another, non-blog project that I hope will see the light of day at some not awfully-distant future date]


We stood at the end of a jetty that ran about thirty yards into Center Hill Lake. A cool morning breeze was blowing in off the water, dispersing some of the heat that had already offered the promise of a muggy day. I stared through a pair of binoculars and adjusted the focus.

“There it is,” I said. “It’s big, all right.”

Bo Tomlin, the owner of Bo’s Jet Ski Rentals, and the jetty we were standing on, spat noisily. “See, I told ya. The damned thing’s a hazard to navigation.”

Wronwright, impatient to get in on the action, said, “Here, let me take a gander through those glasses. Hmmmm. Yeah, that is a pretty big boat. You ever see one that big before, Paco?”

“Gaack!”

“What do you mean, ‘Gaack’ ?”

“Gook!”

“What the hell, Paco; you’re not having a stroke, are you? Oh, sorry. Here.”

I yanked the binoculars out of his hand, and unwound the strap from around my neck. “Maybe next time you’ll let me take the things off before you grab them, ok?” I handed the glasses to Tomlin (first taking the precaution of removing my Panama and lifting the strap over my head). “Take a look, Bo. What’s that big object on the bow that looks like a deck house or a port-a-potty?”

Bo squinted through the lenses. “Naw, that ain’t no deck house. That’s Al Gore. He’s taken to wearin’ a white uniform; got his crew wearin’ ‘em, too. And he changed the name of his boat from the Bio-Solar One to the Koenigen Luisa. Puttin’ on a lotta airs, is what he’s doin’.”

“Say!” Wronwright snapped his fingers. “The Koenigen Luisa. Wasn’t that the name of the warship in that movie…what’s the name?”

“The African Queen,” I said. “The Koenigen Luisa was the German ship that patrolled the lake.”

Bo brightened considerably. “Hey, I saw that one! Got sunk by a homemade torpedo, I recollect. That’s a possibility, ain’t it, Detective Paco?”

I pulled a coffin nail from the pack in my shirt pocket and lit it. “Listen, Bo. In the first place, if we torpedo the boat, somebody’s likely to get hurt, maybe even killed. In the second place, where would we get a torpedo, anyway? No, we’ve got to figure something else out.”

Bo spat again. “Well, I gotta do sump’n. He’s ruinin’ my business. Almost everyday, when I start rentin’ out the jet skis, he heads over here and cruises back and forth, and he’s got these loud speakers that play recordings of his speeches. Drives the customers away in droves. The man’s crazy, I tell you! You remember me tellin’ ya about what happened a while back? He had some local boys workin’ as a part-time crew, and they stopped him from rammin’ my jetty. He charged ‘em with mutiny. [Author's Note: See “The McCain Mutiny”]. After that, the town council got him temporarily committed for psychiatric observation, but he was out in no time, and now he’s back up to his old tricks. That’s why I hired you boys; figured you could find a way to shut him down, legal or otherwise - and to tell ya the truth, right now I’d kinda prefer ‘otherwise.’”

* * *

Wronwright and I removed to R.J.’s Diner to consider prospective strategies over an enormous country breakfast. I had a little trouble keeping his attention focused on the job due to the somewhat outsized allurements of Sally, our waitress. She was a full-figured, corn-fed blonde, of about 30 years, whose bosom strained the tensile strength of her white blouse to a degree that probably would have invalidated the textile manufacturer’s warranty in case of the kind of accident that every man in the place was hoping would happen. Adding to the embarrassment of her pulchritudinous riches was a heart-shaped derriere that yawed beneath her short, tight-fitting pink skirt in a going-away walk that compelled male customers filled to the eyeballs with coffee to ask for yet another refill. Ol’ R.J. knew a money-maker when he saw one, and I had spent most of my time talking to the side of Wronwright’s face as he watched the waitress moving to and fro.

Sally swung by our table, and bestowed on us the big, friendly smile that seems to be a genetic feature of southern girls, and asked in her delightful Tennessee accent, “You fellers doin’ aw-rite? Can I get you anything else?”

Wronwright, who had taken a big bite of buttermilk biscuit, made a noise like somebody trying to ask for help with a piece of duct tape over his mouth. “Momook, beez.”

Sally furrowed her brow, slightly. “I’m sorry, honey, I didn’t catch that. Why don’t ya warsh that biscuit down with some milk, first. I ain’t had a customer choke to death, yit, and I sure wouldn’t want to start with you, baby.”

Wronwright picked up his empty glass and waggled it, indicating that the course of action outlined by Sally was not presently possible.

“Oh!” she said. “I’m sorry, honey, I didn’t notice you was runnin’ dry. I’ll be rite back.” As she walked hurriedly to the kitchen to fetch Wronwright another glass of milk, there was an audible swishing noise as every male neck in the room swiveled in its collar in order to afford a better view of the event. She returned with a glass brimming with cold milk and placed it down in front of Wronwright. “Land sakes!” she muttered. “I’m afraid I’m a little scatter-brained these days. Ya see, I ain’t been gettin’ much sleep lately, ‘cause of my husband, Johnny.” For an idle moment, I imagined being Johnny, and could well understand why she wasn’t getting sufficient rest; turned out, though, that there was another reason altogether.

“Ya see, he’s a crane operator an’ he ain’t had much work lately ‘cause a’ the bad economy, so I’ve been workin’ two shifts, three days a week.”

It wasn’t even a thought, really, just a vague spark in the back of my mind. “That’s too bad. I guess you and your husband don’t get much free time, do you?”

“Naw, not much. We used to like to spend time down at the lake – me and Johnny are crazy about jet skiin’ – but that ol’ Al Gore’s got his big boat down there an’ he’s always loomin’ over near Bo Tomlin’s jet ski rentals and playin’ his boring speeches over his loudspeakers. It ain’t fun no more.”

“Are you a good swimmer?” I ventured.

“I ain’t a great swimmer, but I kin dogpaddle with the best of ‘em, I reckon.” She giggled. “And as you can pro’lly tell, I ain’t never had no trouble floatin’!”

Wronwright started choking on his biscuit. Sally, whose ample bosom enclosed a kind heart, slapped him on the back vigorously.

“You ok, honey? You ought not to gobble your food so fast.”

Wronwright took a long pull on his milk, coughed a couple of times, and then pronounced himself out of danger.

That spark, aforementioned, now grew into a blaze. “I tell you what, Sally. What if I could throw a little business your husband’s way and clear Center Hill Lake of Gore’s boat at the same time? Interested?”

“Oh, yes sir! We could sure use a little extra money, and everybody in town hates that stupid boat.” She asked, in a confidential, but excited, voice, “Would it be illegal?”

“Well, my plan may not be entirely sporting, but I believe we may just be able to stay within the law.”

“Oh,” she said woodenly, apparently somewhat disappointed.

* * *

Before we could execute my scheme, we had first to go aboard Al’s boat and get him hooked. I had done a few jobs for Al, so he knew me, but he had only seen Wronwright one time, briefly; however, I wasn’t taking any chances, so I told my partner that he’d have to employ a disguise. The idea was to present Wronwright in the role of an engineer for a bio-diesel engine manufacturer. Having read through a few manuals and internet articles, he could probably pull off that part of the impersonation easily enough, but changing his appearance was the usual headache.

We were sitting in his hotel room, as he paraded a variety of disguises. The bald wig looked too fake, and the mutton chops were hopelessly out of date; and I absolutely barred the imperial beard, waxed mustache and monocle.

“Wron, you’re supposed to be a native born engine designer, not the head of Napoleon III’s household guard. What else have you got?”

He folded his arms and tapped a foot petulantly. “Paco, if you want me to wear something completely unimaginative, then you pick it out.”

Finally settling on a pencil-thin military mustache and an eye-patch, we headed down to Center Hill Lake and rented a small boat with an outboard motor. We approached the Koenigen Luisa, and as we drew close, I yelled a greeting. “Ahoy, the Luisa! Permission to come aboard!” A few moments later, one of the crew ran for Al, and he presently came to the rail. “Paco! Is that you? Come on up!”

Wronwright and I hove to, and clambered up a ladder that had been lowered over the side. A crewman actually piped us aboard, the raucous, high-pitched notes of his whistle sounding like a goldfinch that had been ambushed by a cat. Al stood on the deck, beaming.

Life had treated him well, I thought to myself – perhaps a little too well. In his white uniform, he looked like Moby Dick, harpooned and gaffed at last. I bet there wasn’t an all-you-can-eat buffet in America that hadn’t blacklisted him.

We shook hands. “This is a pleasant surprise!” he said effusively. “What brings you to the neighborhood?”

“Oh, I was just passing through Tennessee, and I ran into an old friend of mine. Al, permit me to introduce to you Dr. Sputz. He’s a designer of marine engines. Dr. Sputz has long admired your boat, and he prevailed upon me to see if you wouldn’t give him the grand tour.”

Al swelled with pride (no, I wouldn’t have thought any further expansion was possible, either); a button popped off his coat, hitting Wronwright in his uncovered eye. Wronwright yelped, and before anybody noticed, quickly switched the patch to the bruised eyeball. Al threw a meaty arm around Wronwright’s shoulders and began to escort him about the boat. As instructed, Wron cooed his approval at everything, commending Al for the quality of the teak flooring in the captain’s quarters, and going into raptures over the highly-polished brass fittings on the wheel. He asked, in a humble voice, if he might see the engine. Al was only too happy to oblige, and he hauled open the doors to the engine compartment with the zeal of Howard Carter unveiling the treasures of Tutankhamen’s tomb to his sovereign.

Wronwright, up to this time a veritable fountain of gushing compliments, responded with a mere, “Oh. I see.” Al deflated somewhat and asked anxiously, “What is it, Dr. Putz?”

“That’s ‘Sputz’, Mr. Gore. Well, it’s just that this is ok for a first-generation bio-diesel-certified engine, but it is…well…somewhat outdated. But don’t worry. It’s perfectly fine for…you know…most people.”

“But I’m not most people!” Al spluttered, grabbing Wronwright by his lapels. “I’m Al Gore! I’m a Nobel Prize winner and the environmental commodore of this lake, and I’ve got to stay ahead of the curve! Everybody expects that. What do I have to do? Do I need a new engine?”

Wronwright slipped out of Al’s grasp through the simple expedient of climbing out of his windbreaker. “No, no. Nothing as drastic as that. My company can retrofit your engine with the, er, Perforated Aluminum Carbon Obliterator, and it will then be state-of-the-art. Of course, we’d have to take the engine to the factory, and you may not want to be bothered…”

“You must do this for me, Doctor Sputz! I can anchor the Luisa for as long as it takes.”

“Very well, then, Mr. Gore. We can make the arrangements to pull the engine out, load it on a truck and haul it to the factory; no problem.”

* * *

The next day, we were ready to implement the plan. Sally’s husband – a shy, handsome, fellow with shoulders two axe-handles wide, and much given to absent-mindedly bending a crowbar into a “U” shape, and back again – had brought down to as close to the water’s edge as he could maneuver it a crane with a towering boom. The Luisa stood out about fifty feet from the land, the water being too shallow closer to shore to float the craft. Al expressed a little curiosity about this. “Couldn’t we just have the guy over at the boat-service place on the other side of the lake hoist the engine out with his winch?”

“No, Al, I checked. His winch is busted and won’t be repaired for several days. Of course, we could wait, or maybe see if Johnny could locate another crane. But he’s going to need something pretty tall to clear those trees.”

“No, no, no. That’s fine. Let’s get started.”

Johnny came aboard and hooked the cable to the engine, and then worked with Al’s crew to unbolt the engine from the housing. Once that was accomplished, Johnny went back to the crane, climbed into the cab, and began lifting the Luisa’s engine into the air.

Up, up it went, almost disappearing from human view in the vast height to which Johnny lifted it. Suddenly, a woman’s terrified voice sounded in the distance.

“Help! Help! I’m drowning!”

“Listen!” I shouted. “Did you hear that? It sounded like it came from the port-side!”

We all ran to the port rail, and saw, perhaps twenty or thirty yards out, a woman splashing helplessly in the water.

“Uh-oh. It looks like she’s going down for the third time, Al.”

Al, looking on in horror, said, “Maybe one of the crew can swim out and save her.”

As he spoke she dipped below the surface.

“Too late”, I groaned. “We need to get help to her in a matter of seconds, something she can latch on to. Now,” I said, looking ostentatiously up the length of the crane’s boom, “what could we possibly use…?”

Al, following my gaze, shouted, “I’ve got it! How about if Johnny lowers that boom down to the water?”

“I don’t know, Al. He’d have to lower the engine, first.”

The woman’s voice, choking, could be heard weakly. “Help!”

Al ran to the starboard side and hollered at Johnny, “Drop the engine!”

Johnny, to all appearances unable to hear Al over the sound of his engine, cupped a hand behind his ear. Al ran to his loudspeakers. “Lower the boom over the water! There’s a woman drowning out there! Let go the engine!”

Johnny shrugged, released the cable, and the engine came hurtling down out of the sky like a meteor, crashing through the deck and dropping straight through the hull of the Luisa. The boat began to sink, to the sound of the craft’s emergency sirens.

*Whoop*…*Whoop*…*WHOOP!*…

*Whoop*…*Whoop*…*WHOOP!*

Meanwhile, Johnny lowered the boom over the water as far as it could safely be done. The woman caught hold of the cable, shinnied up to the boom, and in a matter of seconds even the members of the crew had left off abandoning ship long enough to gaze at the dripping, bikini-clad form of Sally the waitress, flying through the air like a full-sized, slightly NSFW Tinkerbell.

* * *

R.J. had kindly let us congregate at his diner after hours for something of a celebration. For once, Sally actually sat at a table instead of waiting on one, affectionately holding hands with Johnny. Bo Tomlin’s tanned, leathery face was wreathed in a big smile, and Wronwright and I nursed glasses of sweetened iced tea (the strongest thing on tap at R.J.’s).

Bo made out a check to me for my services, and another to Johnny for the use of his crane. “This affair was a little pricey,” he admitted, “but it’s worth every penny to me. So, you’re sure you got Al squared away, Paco?”

I took a pull on the tea and munched some of the little ice cubes. “Yeah, he finally calmed down. He was talking about holding Johnny liable, but I pointed out to him that it was he who had given the express order to drop the engine. Besides, Al, by acting so selflessly, saved that young lady’s life” – a trill of laughter came from Sally – “and that’s good for some publicity, which he craves more than gold. And Bo, there, got the town council to quickly declare the wreck of the Luisa the ‘Al Gore Memorial Reef’, which further flattered his vanity and, not insignificantly, gave the town council some much-needed amusement. Everything went just as planned.”

Wronwright, who was still wearing his eye-patch, begged to differ. “Oh, everything went as planned, did it? What about this bruise in the corner of my eye?”

Sally slipped out of her chair and walked over to Wronwright. Glancing a question at her husband, Johnny smiled his permission, and Sally gently lifted the eye-patch and gave Wronwright a little kiss on the brow overhanging the injured eye. “There! All better now?” Wronwright’s breath suddenly began to come in short gasps. “I….I feel like I might need some CPR, too…” Noticing, however, that Johnny had idly resumed bending and unbending his crowbar, Wronwright thought better of insisting, and settled for another glass of invigorating iced tea.