The Case of the Missing Bubble Gum Card: A Jarvis Mann Detective Short Story

  The Case of the Missing

  Bubble Gum Card

  A Jarvis Mann Detective

  Short Story

  By

  R Weir

  Copyright © R Weir 2014

  The right of R Weir to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved; no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise without the prior written permission of the Publisher. This book may not be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise disposed of by way of trade in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published, without the prior written consent of the Publisher. No responsibility for loss occasioned to any person or corporate body acting or refraining to act as a result of reading material in this book can be accepted by the Publisher, by the Author, or by the employer(s) of the Author. Certain images copyright.

  R Weir. The Case of the Missing Bubble Gum Card.

  With love to my

  wife and daughter

  This short story is

  where the journey begins

  The Case…

  I drove westward on Evans Street enjoying the beauty of the day, the driver's door window of my 1969 Mustang Boss 302 cracked slightly open. The afternoon sun filled the western sky and warmed me through the marred windshield. Despite what most people outside of Denver think, winter is not always freezing cold with snow up to your waist. On the contrary, this February day gave us sun with temperatures nearing 60 degrees. A light wind in the crisp air stirred the city’s fresh odor. I missed my turn while admiring the backside of a lovely woman walking down the street. It had been worth the extra drive, for it really was one glorious behind.

  Making a left turn onto Broadway once the light had changed, I turned left again a block later down Warren past Lincoln and left into the alleyway. Dodging trash dumpsters, I drove slowly down the already narrow backstreet. Pulling into my parking space on a small deserted paved lot which faced Evans, I shut off the engine.

  The building I lived in was an older raised dual level. I've rented the lower half for several years now. The bland gray color, with brown wood slats surrounding the outer middle third of the building’s main body, didn’t add much ambiance to the area. The neighborhood stood reasonably quiet, while at times adventurous. Walking the streets at night was not advised, and never should be done alone, though one might say that about most neighborhoods these days. The area had a good mix of cultures, with all races represented. No cushy suburb for me, but a real city with real city people and problems, the kind of environment I'd always wanted to live in.

  My home served as a place of business too. A cheap plastic white placard with deep blue lettering anchored to the brick wall read “MANN PRIVATE INVESTIGATOR.” The mere words made one tremble with fear, though the sign itself was a letdown. One day I hoped to have a large luminous one, with lots of flashing lights. The more colors the better. Unfortunately, the bank account dictates those dreams of seeing my name in neon.

  In thirty-five plus years of life, I've been doing P.I. work for the last ten, seven of which in my own practice. The glamour of the job had worn off after the first domestic case. The woman who had hired me took the bad news about her husband's infidelity out on me with the coffee cup she held in her hand. The scalding hot liquid had certainly burned the skin, while the stain from the horrid mud ruined my favorite Men’s Wearhouse gray sport coat, tarnishing my attempted G.Q. image. Her itemized bill not only included the cost of the jacket, but the cup as well.

  Getting out of the Mustang, I noticed him; the young lad sat just inside the recessed doorway. To describe him as a boy would have been unfair, though he was not quite a man either. He appeared to be fifteen, possibly sixteen years old. My detective eyes deduced that he stood about 5’7” and around 150 plus pounds with a solid build of an athlete. Dressed in blue jeans, LeBron James T-shirt and sneakers, the young African-American gave a cautious smile. He appeared to be a bit nervous.

  "Good afternoon," I said cordially. "Waiting for someone?"

  "Do you work here?" he asked.

  "Do you need a trim?" I said, referring to my upstairs neighbor, the hair designer business which was closed on Sunday and Monday.

  "No," he said pointing at the sign.

  "Beautiful, wouldn’t you say?" I remarked. "Draws in the clients from miles around!" I wasn’t trying to be snarky; just my usual banter with people.

  "Are you a Private Detective?"

  I found it difficult to believe he couldn't tell. My appearance didn't come off as tough enough for the line of work. Most people think we wear leather from head to toe. I wore an old brown leather jacket on my fit torso, which was all the cowhide I could afford besides my tennis shoes. Black jeans and a gray sweatshirt didn't ideally give me that macho tough guy look. With my sarcastic sense of humor he probably thought I did standup comedy, which is a common mistake many folks made.

  "When there's Private Detective work to do," I replied.

  "You look different than the actors on television."

  "Just don't tell my mother. She wanted me to be a doctor. I wore a stethoscope around my neck when she used to come to visit." Not even a smile crossed his face. The humor seemed lost on him.

  "I hoped you’d be available to hire as I have something I need your help finding."

  I looked him over carefully. He seemed like a polite and sincere person. I was currently in between cases, which is normal if the truth be known. It wouldn't hurt to hear what he had to say. The possibility of making money always got my attention.

  "Come on inside. You look cold without a jacket. It's warm out, but not that warm."

  Two doors to choose from either up or down. Up a few stairs you get the hair designer’s entrance. Down some steps on the lower half of the building took us to where I lived and conducted my business. The big time detective agencies have large fancy buildings, with lobbies, elevators, and secretaries. I had a secretary for about two weeks once, an old girlfriend who helped me out. Unfortunately she found out I slept with another woman and quit on me. For some reason she never used me as a reference. Today my only secretary turned out to be a fifty dollar digital answering machine. It was always on time, polite to the customers, and couldn’t care less if you didn't feel like talking after sex. Though the black box certainly wouldn’t look or smell as lovely and it was probably mighty hard to curl up with at night. Too bad they aren't made with hourglass figures or they’d be enjoyable to stare at.

  The little red light wasn’t flashing, which meant no one wanted my services. The LED would last forever, for it rarely blinked. Apparently the snappy greeting scared people off before they spoke. A masterfully designed website would be cool, while my Yellow Pages advertisement should be larger than one line but cost remained an object. I could have politely turned the lad down. With nothing of importance going on today, I'd hear him out and see if he'd surprise me with the case of the century.

  "I'm Jarvis Mann," I proclaimed. "Have a seat."

  He sat in one of the stiff wood seats reserved for clients. No fancy furniture in my living room, which also served as my office. Just an old desk and two chairs, both made of pine, a pair of white metal four drawer filing cabinets, and a worn brown sofa. Papers covered the top of the desk, neatly piled for easy reference, a LCD Monitor and keyboard to one side attached to a desktop computer sitting underneath
on the floor. Behind my desk I sat in a chair I'd slept in on many occasion. The cushy high back chocolate brown leather rocked and swiveled with the best of them. The fancy agencies had this type of quality furniture for all to sit in. But my rates were better.

  "I feel strange asking you for help," the lad said, his eyes focused on the polished natural wood floor.

  "Why don't you tell me your name first?"

  "Dennis Gash."

  After hearing the name I had to ask. "Do you play football Dennis?"

  "I'm a running back in high school. How did you know?"

  "A wild guess." With a name like Gash one had to play football. John Madden would love this guy. Some mud, blood, and sweat would be the clincher.

  "I'm a sophomore so I didn't play much this year. Coach says if I grow some I might be a starter in the future. I'm extremely fast, but need to get stronger. With a little work I hope to be like my favorite running back Adrian Peterson."

  Now Adrian Peterson was the best running back in the NFL, a back that came along once in a generation like Jim Brown. Dennis was smaller in size so it would be challenging for him to reach that stature. But smaller backs can be great too, like my personal favorite Barry Sanders. Sometimes heart is more important than size.

  "So Dennis what can I help you with?" A question the expensive agencies would ask. Where did these brainstorms come from!

  "Something valuable of mine was stolen and I'd like you to help me find it."

  "Tell me?" More snappy questions. I had a million of them.

  "You’re going to laugh, but it's valuable to me. Someone stole a baseball card of mine."

  Holding back the laughter I would hear him out. No, not the case of the century.

  "I can tell you’re not interested," said Dennis. "I should go." He started to rise but I waved for him to sit.

  "I must say that it's not every day someone comes in and asks me to find a bubble gum card."

  "Not just any old bubble gum card. This one is worth quite a bit of money, almost twelve hundred and fifty dollars. If my dad found out he'd kill me."

  From the sincere look on the lad's face, one would only guess the punishment he'd have in store. Still I wasn't convinced I could provide assistance.

  "Dennis, are you sure you didn't lose or misplace it somewhere?"

  "I had the card yesterday morning, carrying it to church in my coat pocket to show some friends. We placed it in penny sleeves and a top loader for protection, with a small sticker on the back bearing my name and address. Later we played around outside while our parents talked inside. I'd forgotten all about the card until I returned home. That's when I realized the card was missing."

  "So maybe it fell out of your pocket and is sitting in the back-seat of your car. Did you drive to church?"

  "No, we always walk since it’s close to home."

  "So it fell out somewhere between home and church. Someone would likely find and keep the card. I'd say chances of locating it are slim. Did you check with the church to see if someone turned it in?"

  "I did right away and they didn't have it. That's when I remembered passing your house and noticing your sign. I thought maybe…"

  Wow the plain banner worked. Time to save some money and get rid of the wimpy yellow pages advertisement.

  "Your parents homeowners insurance would probably cover the loss."

  "No. I can't tell my parents. Father would be angry and I don't want to disappoint him. He gave me the card when I was about seven. He said he trusted me to take care of it, like his dad trusted him. Continue to hold onto it he said and in time it would be worth a great deal of money."

  Twelve hundred and fifty dollars was a significant amount of money to someone his age. Hell that was a lot of dinero to me! Still I doubted the chances of finding the card. I put my P.I. mind to work. In seconds I came up with the most crucial question of the day.

  "How much money do you have?"

  "I have about seventy-five dollars in a savings account."

  "Do you realize what I charge per hour?" Lately that had been zero.

  "No."

  I told him my rate and I think he gasped. “I could work a couple of days and eat up the value of that card plus your savings account and still not track it down."

  "I have other cards that are worth some money. Not as much as this one, but still with value. Please help me!"

  The magic word broke down my resistance. I wasn't sure there was anything to do to help, but I had nothing planned this afternoon and no good sports games were on TV. Time to negotiate a deal.

  "Sometimes I do jobs for insurance companies for a finder’s fee. Usually it pays between ten and twenty percent of the value of the merchandise. So here's what I'll do. I go around with you this afternoon and ask about the card. You can pay me in value with another card from your collection if it turns up, something that adds up to ten to twenty percent of the value. We don’t find it, then you owe me nothing. But you must tell your father you lost it."

  "But he'll be mad at me."

  "I'll go in and help you explain. That's the deal. Take it or leave it.” Pausing for his reaction, I saw the realization on his face. “I'd say that's pretty fair, wouldn't you?"

  Dennis nodded his head. This was his only hope. I didn't figure we'd find the card, but at least he would own up to his father like a man, which is never easy for someone his age. I remembered that horrible feeling of admitting fault to my dad, and the anticipation of the oncoming punishment and the fear I felt.

  "So what card did you lose?" More high-tech questions.

  "A Topps Ernie Banks rookie card."

  "You’re a Chicago Cubs fan I gather."

  "Yea. My dad and his dad too. Grandpa got the card in 1954. He bought others as well, but Ernie was his favorite. Even after he'd given away, thrown away, or lost many others in his collection, he cherished Ernie the most. He found out how much the card was worth and protected it so it wouldn't deteriorate. Condition of the card is where its main value is judged and this one is near mint. Its value increases every year I keep the card. Grandpa told me he paid about ten cents for the whole pack. A pretty hefty increase in market price if you ask me."

  "I'll say. I wish the stock in my business had appreciated that much through the years. The certificates are only good for placemats right now."

  More wit lost on Dennis. Little did he know my jokes would someday be worth more than the Ernie Banks card. Good thing they were currently free of charge.

  "Okay let's get started. We'll follow the path you took to church, and talk to some of your friends who joined you that day. Maybe they can shed some light on what may have happened."

  "Are you going to carry a gun with you?"

  The stigma of television. I suppose TV Private Eye's wore their guns in the shower.

  "Do you think we'll need a gun?"

  "I'm not sure."

  "Maybe if I flash a .38 at your friends they'll talk, tell us what we need to know."

  "We don’t need to do that!"

  "I agree. I only carry a gun when absolutely necessary. And I don't care to even then. So let's see if we can solve this caper with our wits and if that doesn't work we'll come back for the heavy hardware."

  Dennis broke out into a smile. I'd won him over. Next thing you know I'll have him laughing so hard he'll fall down in tears. Usually they didn't fall down in tears until they received my bill.

  I led the way outside to my old yellow and black striped car. He may have walked to church, but we were going to drive there this time. My six foot, 180 pound frame was in good shape, but the cool air of late afternoon began rolling in, and Dennis certainly wouldn't be able to stay up with my lightening pace. Besides I liked to do my part and add to the brown cloud that seemed to linger overhead during the winter months.

  The inside of my Mustang made the outside seem like a jewel. The black vinyl seats were torn, the black vinyl dash cracked, the floor covered with trash and dirt. The AM/FM mono radio probably had
tubes instead of transistors. The mileage on the speedometer had turned over several times, with somewhere around 387,000 miles on an engine which ran loud but fairly smooth. In seven years of driving I'd totaled about 95,000 miles of my own. I planned on making improvements as soon as the money started rolling in. New leather seats and a stereo with thumping bass and speakers came first. This wasn't a BMW, but at least no one wanted to steal the relic in its current condition.

  Dennis didn’t appear to be overly impressed with my wheels. The passenger door creaked badly when he opened it. He sat down gingerly and looked down at the floorboard before he placed his feet. He slid the wrappers on the floor aside, the golden arches on them quite prevalent. Of course, only the best in gourmet fast food for this P.I. A good portion of my meal time was spent in the drive-thru.

  "I had to let the cleaning lady go the other day," I joked while starting the engine. "The cook as well!"

  Backing the Mustang out into the alley, we pulled onto Evans. With Dennis directing, we turned almost immediately onto Sherman, then two blocks later East on Iliff until we came to his burnt umber brick home on Grant Street.

  "This is where I live. We walked from here up a block to Our Lady of Lourdes Catholic Church."

  The church was a long narrow building made of soft brown brick, with stained glass windows gracing the South side. A very tall brick and stone outdoor temple with a statue of Jesus Christ erected out front. On the far North section of the block stood the church school and a house. In the middle of the property, a playground was built and the leafless bushes and dead ivy looped along the chain linked fence. The playground combined grass, concrete and sand, with a wooden jungle gym and slide, basketball hoops, four square and hopscotch markings on the asphalt, and a rack for locking up bicycles. A quick search of the grass and sand revealed no Ernie Banks card, though we did find a quarter and several wads of spent chewing gum. This did not satisfy my client. Time for the second phase of the job.