Sunday Funny

A Detective Paco Rerun (Detective Paco and Senator "Gigolo")

I ambled about the huge office. Marble floors were partially covered by antique oriental rugs. A Chippendale desk (looked like the real McCoy) stood upon its four elegant legs between two windows. A few pieces of African and Pre-Columbian bric-a-brac cluttered a side table. But the main decorative feature was the photographs. You could hardly see the wall for all the pictures of John Kerry. There was even a silver-framed “glamour shot” on the desk – tuxedo clad, hair looking like a well-prepared badger pelt, the smile of a cunning rabbit, the eyes communicating a secret, but desperate, desire to avoid being “found out”. On the wall near the mahogany door was a “Kerry for President” poster, over a small alcove containing what looked, strangely, like a votive candle; and unless my eyes deceived me, that was a prie-dieu facing the poster. The office was a shrine, and its occupant clearly loved John Kerry above – and perhaps to the exclusion of – all other mortals.

“Hello, Paco.” The door closed behind Senator Kerry. “Sorry I’m late. Er, Teresa had me oversee a delivery of tomatoes at her ketchup factory. We, uh, do little things like that for each other.”

Sure, I thought. You count some vegetable inventory, your wife pays for your Senate seat. An equal partnership.

Kerry lumbered over to his desk – after an embarrassed, half-genuflection in the direction of the poster – and sat down, rubbing his hands expectantly.

“Well, Paco, what have you got? Did you get all the dirt on the Swift Vets?”

I started to fish a gasper out of my pocket, but noticed all the sprinkler nozzles in the ceiling. It would keep; this was going to be a short meeting.

“Sure thing, Senator. Here you go.” I pulled a thin folder out of my briefcase and tossed it on the desk. It was so light, it floated down in a series of pendulum-like arcs, like a feather.

Kerry scowled at the folder. “That’s it? That’s all the dirt you could find?”

“Hey, you get what you pay for. That ten G’s only went so far.”

Kerry opened the folder and began reading out loud.

“ ‘John O’Neil. Received a parking ticket in December of 1998. He was double-parked outside of a homeless shelter, where he was delivering food and blankets.’ Hmm. That’s not that bad. Let’s see what else . . . ‘Rear Admiral Roy Hoffmann. Detained for questioning by police, 1999.’ Ah, now we’re getting somewhere! ‘Hoffmann had disarmed and beaten three thugs who had tried to rob an old lady who was confined to a wheel chair.’” Kerry sighed. “This is nothing.”

“True. But I’ll tell you what, John. Another ten grand, and I’ll get you twice as much.”

Kerry struggled futilely to do the math, failed, and dragged out his check book. “Ok, here’s another ten thousand. But don’t cash it until tomorrow; I might need to get Teresa to transfer some money from her account. We . . .”

“Do little things like that for each other. Yeah, I remember.”