David Thayer

<p> Wellington Leg: I found out that Lesotho is landlocked. I ran downstairs to check on Rudolfo and Trudy when I bumped into a guy who poses as the finance minister for various emerging nations. That’s what he calls them, emerging. I thought they had emerged a long time ago during the Paleolithic Age or something. Turns out I was wrong.

Rudolfo tried to shoot the finance minister behind some beef about parking. In order to save her neighbor Trudy bounced a Cuisinart off Rudolfo’s noggin as he was reloading; I think this how a lot of revolutions end up going sideways, last minute and timely intervention. This dump is not the Winter Palace but you see my point.

To buy the guy off I provide my Al Gore souvenir cup and a Metro pass. He’s a young man, this finance minister. Computer whiz. He’s got the residual from the Cuisinart all over his shirt and look as though he’s torn between being angry and admiring the salmon Al extends toward him. He’s already forgotten about being shot at. I’m not sure what that says about him.

Without my Al Gore cup commuting is weird. Heading down Fourth Avenue I see a billboard that reads, “Lesotho is Landlocked.” Sounds like a crisis. Sounds like there’s gotta be something we can do. Maybe a documentary. What do I know? I’m Arthur Murray, Private Investigator, not John Travolta.

Wellington Leg: From the files of Arthur Murray, Private Eye:

I keep an eye on Rudolfo for two reasons: he’s my landlord with all the genetic mutation that implies, and he’s old, a former Commandante of rebel forces in a South American country too big to mention. His wife Trudy is also getting on in years and, when they fight, which is most of the time, she likes to throw things at her husband. Not that she has a great arm, but Rudolfo is no longer the spry mountain goat of his youth. Objects thrown at in his direction have the luxury of time; he takes a long while to duck.

So I check in most mornings. I live up, they live down in a duplex on Beacon Hill, one of Seattle’s run down close in slums. I live alone except for the amazing spider collection emerging from the basement in kind of a long march toward control of the building. Sure they suffer casualties, but they’re going to win. Everyone acknowledges that.

This morning I woke to a loud crash from below. My girlfriend moved out five years ago and I tip toe around the apartment so as not to wake her. It works, I never wake her up.

After a shower of indeterminate length—when you live alone who keeps track—I dressed for the day. My office is off Pioneer Square above a publishing company that specializes in maps and calendars. I cannot imagine two items rendered more obsolete by the Internet than maps and calendars. Even I know how to use Google Earth. For that matter so does Trudy.

I have an Al Gore souvenir coffee mug. It has a picture of Al holding a salmon. Not holding a salmon, more like he’s presenting the Sockeye as a prize. I take it to mean “I have what you’re looking for.” It’s true if you’re looking for salmon.

I grab my keys and head for the office. I hear doors slamming downstairs and what sounds like a gun shot. I take the stairs two at a time hoping Rudolfo and Trudy are okay.

Wellington Leg: From the notebook of Arthur Murray, PI: “Dear Diary, It was a lousy week in a crummy month in a debatable year: I was shot at, audited, watched the Bionic Woman, the new one, not the old one, and had runin with a Mexican Hairless. After watching the TV show I got to thinking about that dog and his thousand yard bark and then it hit me. He’s bionic.”

I’ll tell you it’s a relief to figure this one out. My reputation is on the line; according to the storyline the dog is cruising along in his automobile when a truck slams into his vehicle. Things look bad. A mad scientist comes along and rushes him to a secret installation where new limbs are attached. No word on health insurance costs but you gotta figure this mutt is in debt for the rest of his life. Unless Hillary is elected, then all bets are off.

Now the Mexican can outrun a soccer mom in her Volvo. So can I but that’s another story. Took the “who is your candidate” quiz and came out Joe Biden. I like Joe but he scares people. With Joe in the White House I think those secret government installations will face budget cuts and that’s going to create a crisis in the fantasy community.

Luckily I’m a PI and not a mad scientist. Is Joe good for the crime fiction world? Let’s hope so. Time for a little irrational exuberance.

Signed, Arthur Murray PI.

Wellington Leg: I had a client come in the other day, a victim of the foreign minister con, the one where all the money is offshore and it’s all yours for the asking. For the sake of his privacy we’ll call him Leo. No, wait, that’s his real name. Well, the cat’s out of the bag now.

Leo’s had a few beefs with the law so he had a hard time finding someone to lend him a hand. He’s a large guy with a bald spot that begins at the crown of his head and ends at his shoulders; he favors Aloha shirts but I’m not sure he’s into the spirit of Aloha. A set of brass knuckles fell out of his pocket when he was reaching for his wallet to throw a wad of bills in my direction. A lot of fives and ones in that wad, the first hint of a character trait.

Anyway before I track down the foreign minister of a mineral rich West African nation, I have a few questions for Leo. He cuts the q&a short with a wave of his hand. I understand that he’s embarrassed. I think AARP is all over the offshore account scam. Leo knows better. He got greedy.

Leo is looking glum when Connie yells from the front office that the foreign minister of Lesotho is on line two. I grab the receiver and warn Leo to keep quiet, saying, “Mr. Foreign Minister?”

“Hey Leo,” I say. “It’s for you.”

“Yeah?” Leo is cautious. He listens, then says, “Wait a minute, my account was empty?”

Leo hangs up.

“What did he say?” I ask.

“He cautioned me against sending warm garnishings abroad. I guess I didn’t lose any money after all.”

I tossed Leo his bankroll. “This is your lucky day.”

“Somebody told me you got something against dogs,” Leo said.

“One dog.”

“You’re saying it’s personal.”

“Between me and the dog.”

“If you want the dog spoken to, I’m your guy.”

I sat back, put my feet on the desk. “I’m Arthur Murray, Leo. If I want to speak to a dog, I’ll do it myself.”

Wellington Leg: I was thumbing through the paper this morning, yeah, the paper is a newspaper with all the Walmart ads hitting the floor when I opened it. That doesn’t happen online. You kids will be sorry you missed that experience. Anyway, here’s an extract from the lead story in the Druidical & Literary Scandal Sheet: “Local hopeful the Forty Third Earl was eliminated in the Mr. Universe Contest when judges found his essay “I Want to be Mr. Universe” lacking focus and narrative drive. Repeated references to his battlefield exploits distracted the judges who were looking for a domestic theme: Mr. Universe at home. Mr. Universe whips up an omelette: Mr. Universe cries.”

This is a big disappointment for Wellington Leg. The only other candidate for the prize is DCI Borchardt! That’ll be the day. I thought about trying out but missed the deadline after that dame and her dog tried to blow my head off. Again, I can’t blame the dog. Anyway I did three push ups yesterday and felt great. What a burn.

I don’t how you feel about this but this how I feel about this. A PI should read the paper with his feet up on the desk. Call it a trope, call it a visual, but that’s tradition. I can’t really picture myself reading a computer with my feet on the desk. Maybe younger people can do it. Mr. Universe probably does. Miss America probably does too.

Anyway I’m Arthur Murray, Private Investigator. My feet are on the desk, my fingers smudged with newsprint. That’s just how it is.

Wellington Leg: I always read the paper from the middle to the end starting with the book reviews and the September Yankee callups. The sports writer in the Toronto paper wrote up last night’s Yankee-Blue Jay epic like he was reporting the Hindenberg disaster with Melky Cabrera in the role of villain-hero-savior-a fine piece of writing that got my day off to a good start.

Well, you may be wondering about the woman with the gun. It turned out that her lunch box had been recalled. I was feeling smug about that until I realized this recall is serious, wide ranging, and includes my Sam Spade model “lunchpail” with the chrome hinges, velvet lining and the automated voice that says “your lunch box is empty” whenever I leave the lid open.

To make matters worse all of Wellington Leg is being referred to me by an erroneous report in the Styles section of the newspaper. The new management at the paper is putting everything in the Styles section so the unwary may read news they never intended to read. I would’ve been better off in the Book Review section. No one reads that.

It looks like Britney Spears has been appointed Ambassador to the United Nations: it’s right here in the Styles section.