Detective Paco in "Sarah Palin Flips Her Lid"

It had been a tough week, so, in a way, I was enjoying the rare pleasure of being able to lie in front of the television set, channel-surfing as the mood struck me, a remote in one hand and a steaming cup of java in the other. Of course, when you’re confined to a hospital bed, there’s not much else to do anyway.

I was in the middle of that scene from White Heat - the one where Jimmy Cagney has killed his rival, Big Ed, and is about to roll the body downstairs, after first thoughtfully shouting, “Catch!” – when I heard a shy knocking on the door of my room; so soft, in fact, that it sounded like a woodpecker with a cork on its beak tapping on a tree a half-mile away. I growled ungraciously. “Come in, Wronwright.”

The door opened slowly, and a nose emerged, followed by a pair of steel-rimmed spectacles and finally by a pair of blue eyes with a haunted expression. Wronwright stepped into the room and whipped out a mixed bouquet of carnations and mums (accidentally closing the door on them, then yanking them through angrily), and walked over to my bed – on tip-toe, as if approaching the open casket of a departed loved one. He started to speak, but overcome by some deep emotion, wound up staring at the floor and shaking his head.

“Wronwright”, I said, “how many times do I have to tell you? It was just an accident. Don’t worry about it. It could have happened to…well, to nobody else but you, probably, but, anyway, no real harm done.”

“I swear, Paco, I didn’t know it was loaded!”

It was partially my own fault. The previous morning I had breezed into the office, having picked up a new assignment: guarding Sarah Palin on her upcoming book-signing tours in Northern Virginia. I saw Wronwright sitting on the corner of Sheila’s desk, working the slide on an old Colt .45 pistol I had absent-mindedly left in her in-box (I had been planning on cleaning the thing). Sheila was sitting well back from her desk, holding a telephone book defensively in front of her lovely map, while Wronwright was gassing on about the pistol’s history.

“Yes, this was possibly John Browning’s greatest design. It was a popular sidearm in the U.S. military through several wars, you know. Here, let me explain the basic science involved.”

Sheila still cowered behind her telephone book, and blurted out desperately, “Wronwright, I’ve actually got some things to type up. Maybe later, ok? Oh, Paco! There you are! You were planning on cleaning this gun, weren’t you? No time like the present, I’d say.”

I crossed my arms, smiled and leaned against the wall. “No, that’s all right. I’d kinda like to hear about the ‘basic science’ myself.”

Wronwright scowled. “I’ll have you know that I’ve been handling these babies since I was a kid. And the ingeniousness of the engineering is really fascinating. Now, Sheila, observe how I remove the magazine, thereby disarming the weapon.”

“Wronwright, that’s not…”

He made a tut-tutting noise and waved a dismissive hand at me. “I know, I know. The safety. See, I depress the switch, here…”

“No, you see, the safety…”

Those were the last words I uttered before I heard a Boom! and felt the edge of a hot iron run along the part in my hair. I guess I had been stunned, because the next thing I knew, I was waking up in the emergency room of the hospital. My head had just been grazed, but the doctor had bundled me off to a private room for overnight observation.

I bid a sad farewell to Cagney and turned the TV set off. “Wronwright, if I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a hundred times: with a semi-automatic pistol, you’ve got to remember the round in the chamber. Besides, as I was about to say before I was shot down in cold blood, the safety doesn’t work properly. Anyhow, like I said, forget about it.”

There was another knock on the door. Sheila walked in carrying a box of chocolates. Her long, golden hair framed a face that was a mask of worry; but seeing me alive and apparently still in possession of the same limited mental faculties I had always possessed, her smile lit up like a sunburst, and she heaved such a deep sigh of relief that her swelling bosom almost caused the belt on her trench-coat to come uncinched. Only then did she deign to acknowledge Wronwright’s presence; she arched her lovely, symmetrical brows. “Oh. Hello… assassin.”

Wronright drooped like one of the broken carnations in his bouquet. I figured it was time to put things in the proper perspective. “Sheila, it was an accident and we’re all going to let it drop. We’ve got more important things to think about. Now, what I was going to tell you both when…er…I was interrupted by this unfortunate incident, is that I’ve landed a contract to do some security work for Sarah Palin while she’s making the rounds of book stores in the area. It’s easy money, and, frankly, I think it’ll be a real treat to meet her.”

Sheila brightened considerably, pushing Wronwright out of the way as if he were one of those big horseshoe wreaths sent by a gangster to the funeral of a rival he’s just had rubbed out, and settling her shapely derriere on the edge of the bed. “I’ll say! I’ve always admired her, and I’d love to get a signed copy of her book.”

The prospect of meeting Sarah and restoring his reputation as someone who could be counted on not to shoot up his friends in the manner of a fellow idly plinking at tin cans in a field even revived Wronwright’s spirits. “That’s great, Paco! When do we start?”

“Tomorrow, at the Borders bookstore in Alexandria. Then there will be three or four more signings at stores in Fairfax and Loudon counties. But first I’ve got to get out of here. Wronwright, hand me my pants, will you? Sheila, buzz the nurse and tell her I’m ready to check out.” They both followed instructions, but then I felt the gentle touch of feminine fingers undoing one of the knotted laces on the back of my hospital gown. I turned my head and saw Sheila grinning mischievously. “Please, doll-face,” I said, nodding my head in Wronwright’s direction. “Not in front of the children.”

* * * *

We were into our fourth and final book-signing watch at a Barnes & Noble in Loudon County. Everything had gone pretty smoothly, except for a few minor incidents. We had hustled a couple of hecklers out of the bookstore in Alexandria, and at the Barnes & Noble in Fairfax, Wronwright had executed a beautiful block on an egg-thrower (unfortunately, when my partner leaped into action, he had his mouth wide open - yelling “I’ve got it!” – so he was still plagued by the taste of raw egg). Sheila, who was on guard by the front door, had extended one of her gorgeous pins and tripped the fellow as he attempted his get-away, holding a stiletto heel to his throat until the police arrived.

Around 2:00 pm, we sidled over to Sarah; it was the time of day when she usually took a quick break. “Excuse me, Ms. Palin. Do you want me to watch the table for a while?” She looked up with that dazzling smile of hers. “Hi, boys! Yeah, in just a few minutes. Let me autograph a few more books, and then I think I’ll stretch my legs. There’s a little green belt behind the store where I can take a stroll.” Wronwright and I walked the perimeter.

Wron halted abruptly and pointed to a store employee, who was standing over in the “New Titles” section, moving books around on a shelf - almost randomly, it seemed -casting nervous glances in all directions. He was a large, burly man, with curly black hair and a bushy beard, and he was wearing an apron-like garment with the Barnes & Noble logo.

“Paco, didn’t we see that same guy in the two Borders stores, plus the Barnes & Noble we were at yesterday?”

I studied the guy a moment and concluded that my partner was right. “Sure looks like him,” I said. “I don’t suppose he’s just a bookstore job-hopper? That would be kind of an unlikely coincidence. Let’s go talk to him.”

We walked up to him, but when he saw us approaching, he took off for the back of the store at a brisk pace.

I turned to Wronwright. “Let’s go tell Sarah to stay put for the time being. I think that bozo’s headed for the rear exit.”

We ran by the book-signing table and told Sarah we had seen a suspicious character heading out the back door. Running in that direction ourselves, we burst through the back door into an alley that bordered a wooded area. And there he was: yanking off his apron and tossing it in a dumpster; more importantly, he had also whipped a pistol out of his hip pocket, which he pointed directly at us. An ugly smile crossed his face (not that I could actually see it under all that facial hair; I just noticed a shift in his beard, like a mouse poking around under a pile of dirty socks).

In spite of the danger of the situation, I couldn’t help but notice that our foe had drawn a .25 caliber semi-auto, which seemed strangely incongruous, considering his hulking size. I grinned in spite of myself.

“What you got there, bub? A cigarette lighter?”

He scowled. “I am an excellent shot, dog of an unbeliever! Have you not heard of Yusuf the Assassin, the scourge of Allah and the leader of the most feared Al-Qaeda cell active in the black heart of your misbegotten country?”

“Well, no, not actually. Have you got any press clippings I could look at?”

“You make jokes when you should be saying your prayers! I will take care of you two, and then execute the wanton Zionist, Sarah Palin!”

So, that was what this was all about; another blow for the caliphate on U.S. soil. I stalled for time.

“Listen, Joe, you’re wasting your time. Ms. Palin has already left for the day.”

He barked a short laugh. “Liar! I’ve been scouting all her appearances, observing her habits. She will be taking a break, soon, and it will be a very long one!”

While this goon was delivering his speech, I took the opportunity of pulling my own gun from my shoulder holster. It was the Colt .45, which I had picked up in a hurry at the office that morning.

“This, Joe, is what you call your Mexican standoff. My .45 caliber against your popgun. Feeling lucky?”

Wronwright tugged at my sleeve.

“Stop that!” I muttered.

He whispered out of the side of his mouth. “It’s not loaded!”

“What!”

“Your pistol. It’s not loaded.”

“What do you mean it’s not loaded?”

“After I…er…after the gun went off the other day, I took the bullets out of the magazine. I’m sorry, Paco, but I wanted to be extra-careful.”

“What about the one in the chamber?”

“Don’t worry! I remembered that one, too.” He paused a few seconds. “Oh, wait...Yeah, on second thought you’d better worry.”

Yusuf was getting restless. “What are you two talking about? Bah! It doesn’t matter. I am more than happy to lay down my life for Allah!”

He extended his arms and squinted slightly; it was obvious that he was going to shoot.

Wronwright shouted “Watch out, Paco!” and turned to push me to the ground, protecting me with his own body. There was a loud Pop!, and Wronwright yowled. I shoved him out of the way, and hurled the Colt directly at Yusuf’s head. He was completely surprised by the action, but he ducked the flying gun neatly and pointed his pistol directly at my face.

Suddenly, the back door to the store opened behind the gunman - quietly, but quickly. Sarah Palin took in the situation with a glance, grabbed the lid off of a garbage can, and sent it whirling through the air like a Frisbee, catching the terrorist in the neck. He went down like a jumbo-sized sack of falafel.

I ran over and cuffed his hands behind his back. “Thanks, Ms. Palin. Nice toss!”

“That’s nothing. My rifle jammed on me one time when I was out hunting and I brought down a caribou with one of my snowshoes. But why didn’t you shoot?”

“Er...same problem. Weapon jammed.”

“Golly!” Sarah blurted. “He got Wronwright!” She ran to my partner’s side, sat down and cradled him in her arms. By the time I walked back, Wronwright was giving a soulful farewell speech. “I regret…that I only have one life…to give…for the future president of my country.”

“Ah, that’s sweet, Wronwright!” Sarah crooned. “But you’re not going to die.”

Wronwright appeared surprised – and, if I hadn’t known him as well as I did, I would almost have said disappointed. “I’m not?”

“No, dear, I’m pretty sure.”

* * * *

I knocked lightly on the hospital door. A familiar voice said gruffly, “Come in, Paco.”

I entered the room and saw that Wronwright already had company: Sarah Palin and Sheila.

“Well, Wronwright”, I smiled, “looks like you’re in the same position I was in earlier this week.”

My partner grimaced. “Yeah, but at least you were able to lie on your back.”

“Does it hurt much?”

Sheila piped up. “And how! You should have heard him howling when they changed the bandage. He hasn’t got much padding back there, you know.”

Wronwright spoke over his shoulder. “Sheila, if I’d been born with your endowments in the caboose department, I probably wouldn’t even have known that I’d been shot until I went for my annual physical and the doctor asked me, ‘Where’d that scar come from?’”

Sheila raised the box of chocolates over her shoulder with the obvious aim of smacking Wronwright on his gluteus maximus, but I shook my head and she relented (reluctantly).

Sarah gave Wronwright a friendly rub on his back. “We’ve got quite a hero here, Paco! He really took one for the team.”

“Yes,” I said, “but you’re the one who brought down that thug, Ms. Palin.”

“Well, I gotta say, that did create a spike in the sales of my book, and it helped me with my approval ratings in the polls, too. And even Andrew Sullivan has now admitted that I probably am the mother of my own son.”

“Oh, sure”, I agreed. “I figure he saw of vision of himself laid out in an alley with his head under a garbage-can lid. Works wonders on the thought process.”

I opened my coat and pulled out a Styrofoam food container. “Here, buddy. I think you’ll find that this is better than the standard hospital fare.”

I popped the top on the container to reveal a steaming pile of Cincinnati chili. Wronwright’s eyes lit up. “Yum! Gimme!”

Sarah looked at her watch. “Uh-oh. I gotta be goin’, guys. But thanks for everything. Get well quick, Wronwright!” She gave him a little buss on his forehead; his ears began glowing like heating elements on a stove. “And here’s a specially autographed copy of my book for the Paco firm. See ya!”

Sarah handed me the book on her way out. I read the inscription out loud: “To Paco, Wronwright and Sheila – my personal Justice League! Love, Sarah”.

Sheila said, "Hey, let me see that!" She took the book and wandered over to the window. Thumbing through the pages, she was soon absorbed in Going Rogue.

Wronwright’s eyes widened behind his spectacles. “Justice League…Say, Paco, that gives me an idea…”

I held up a hand to stop him in his tracks. “Wron, we are not dressing up in superhero outfits.”

“Think about it," he said. "Sheila…in a Wonder Woman costume!”

I looked at her, standing by the window, her tall, slender form balanced with a perfect, complementary convexity, fore and aft, her hand lightly playing with a few strands of her golden hair.

“Ok, ok.” I said in a low voice. “But I get to be Batman!”