The Peaceful Affair: Chapter 14
Ginger Livingroom was born to a working-class family in a big hospital with translucent windows and wide doors. Her father had worked as a stockbroker in a small firm he’d owned, along with several thousand other workers, to whom he’d constantly owed money. This perpetual debt had been the source of some mild tension, given the other workers’ wont of referring to it as “salaries”. Ginger’s mother had been a social worker who’d sacrificed her life for the good of the people, especially those who’d been invited to her social events. Ginger had had a childhood, whence one day she’d emerged a grown woman, and — on that very same day — by mistake she’d called up Barney B. Bedchamber, a young man of erstwhile vast potential. Everyone who’d come into contact with Barney as a boy had immediately commented on his assured future as a hairdresser. But, upon his engagement and subsequent marriage to Miss Livingroom, the young groom — to everyone’s regret — had opted for a career in medicine and had become a stork.
The newly minted Mrs. Bedchamber was not at all happy with the long hours her husband was putting in at delivering babies. Her dejection was slowly eating her up from the inside (mainly munching on her tailbone), and she knew — with a conviction so strong Ginger used it to crack nuts — she would soon dye. Being of a gender that errs even less than The Big One Himself, Ginger Bedchamber was right, of course.
When Ginger finally went to Heaven and dyed she met Jesus. It seems the unhappy stork’s wife and the billionaire contractor had been patronizing the same hair salon for years, without ever bumping into each other — but eventually, bump they did.
The mysterious moves in lordly ways.
“Would you please watch where you’re going, mister!” cried Ginger in that sweet voice of hers, which reminded you of church bells; so lovely, you actually felt as though you were at the top of the belfry, amongst the beautiful bells, resounding, resounding, resounding, resounding, resounding …
“Enough!” shouted Jesus Cohen, unable to stop the frying bells in his head. “I’m sorry, miss. I truly am.”
“It’s Mrs.,” replied Ginger haughtily. “Mrs. Bedchamber.”
“Oh,” mouthed Jesus gingerly. Several hairdressers and multitudinous clients bore witness to this momentous exchange. They would all retain the incident in their minds for years to come, though none would be able to recall it. Salon life resumed its course, Ginger sat to dye, and Jesus sat to eye.
Dodgson was entering the restaurant just opposite Heaven, followed — a few moments later — by a famous detective.
The set was set for a set.
“Detective Versa, Vice,” the first man introduced himself.
“Detective Vice, Versa,” the second man introduced himself.
“Excuse me?” replied a baffled National Security Advisor to the two men who had just knocked on her door, flashing IDs of some sort. Apparently used to such a reaction, the even pair reintroduced itself without further ado.
“I’m Detective Adam Versa, Vice Squad,” said the first.
“And I’m Detective Eve Vice, Versa Squad,” said the second.
“Your name is Eve?” asked Dorothy Gates questioningly, having yet to come fully awake at this early morning hour.
“Short for Evening,” explained the second detective evenly. “I was born on a clear April evening under a rose bush. My mother wanted to name me ‘Bush’ while my father hesitated between ‘Rose’ and ‘April’. In the end they compromised. I count myself lucky.”
“We’re here on official business,” said Detective Versa somewhat impatiently.
“Oh?” Gates raised an eyebrow.
“We’re investigating a crime of passion,” explained Versa.
“Indeed?” Gates raised another eyebrow.
“Involving the president,” added Detective Vice.
“Really?” Gates regretted having run out of eyebrows.
“Of the United States,” completed Versa.
Gates eyed the two and said simply, “Do come in.”
A short while later, the three were seated comfortably in the Gates’s living room, each holding a mug of steaming coffee in one hand and a Churchill Morning cigar in the other.
“A fine Morning, indeed,” muttered Evening Vice as he sipped his cigar.
“So,” said Dorothy Gates congenially, “what brings you gentlemen to my doorstep at this early hour?”
Taking a whiff of coffee, Detective Versa drew a picture from his side holster with mind-boggling speed, pointed it at Gates, and fired away. “Do you know this man?”
Unfazed, Gates said evenly, “First, would you mind telling me what all this is about?”
“We cannot do that, ma’am,” responded Vice in a grave voice. “This is a matter of National Security.”
“You are aware I’m the National Security Advisor?” emphasized Gates quite emphatically.
“By all means, then,” said Vice, “do advise us: Can you be trusted with knowledge of such an affair?”
“What a quaint question,” replied Gates laughingly. “Of course not!”
Vice refused to give in. “And can we place any trust in your answer?”
Gates raised her head proudly. “Of course you can — I’m a politician: I never lie!”
“We’re getting sidetracked here,” Versa intervened with no more than a half-ounce of patience. He pointed the picture once again at Gates and squeezed the figure. “Ma’am, do you recognize this man?”
Gates scrutinized the image for a long moment, reflected upon the alarming state of global warming in Auburn, Alabama, and shot in a beautiful southern accent, “Hot Dandy, why if it ain’t Cousin Jeb!”
A look of disappointment landed on the detectives’ faces.
“Thank you, ma’am,” said Versa.
“We’ll be on our way now,” added Vice. “Sorry to have bothered you.”
“No bother at all,” smiled Gates. “It’s been ages since I’ve spoken to Cousin Jeb. I think I’ll call him right now. Thanks, fellows.”
Versa and Vice ambled out the doorway wordlessly.
“Detective Versa, Vice,” the first man introduced himself.
“Detective Vice, Versa,” the second man introduced himself.
“Excuse me?” replied a baffled Presidential Press Assistant to the two men who had just knocked on her door, flashing IDs of some sort. Apparently used to such a reaction, the pair replayed the customary introduction.
“How may I help you?” asked Jennifer Love once the scene had played out.
“We’re investigating a crime of fashion,” explained Versa.
“Involving the president,” added Vice.
“I see,” said Love. “Why the necessity for both Vice and Versa?”
“Well,” began Versa, “there are indications of moral turpitude — it seems the perpetrator wore hideous combinations of yellow. That’s why Vice Squad is involved.”
“And there are also indications of no moral turpitude, hence Versa Squad has stepped in,” completed Vice, and pulled a bouquet of red roses from his side holster, which he hocus-pocused forthwith into a framed picture. “Do you know this man?” he asked.
Love examined the image very carefully, but, nonetheless, stained it with bits of gravy. “Why, that’s my Uncle Feefee!”
The look of disappointment that had landed earlier on the detectives’ faces now began building a nest.
“Thank you, ma’am,” said Vice.
“We’ll be on our way now,” added Versa. “Sorry to have bothered you.”
“No bother at all,” smiled Love. “It’s been ages since I’ve spoken to Uncle Feefee. I think I’ll call him right now. Thanks, guys.”
Versa and Vice ambled out the doorway dejectedly.
“Detective Versa, Vice,” the first man introduced himself.
“Detective Vice, Versa,” the second man introduced himself.
“Excuse me?” replied a baffled Presidential Personal Secretary to the two men who had just knocked on her door, flashing IDs of some sort. Apparently used to such a reaction, the pair acted out the habitual Shakespearean introduction.
“What exactly do you want?” asked Eve Apples once the curtains had descended. “We’re investigating a crime of ration,” explained Vice.
“Involving the president,” added Versa, and showed Apples the picture. “Do you know this gentleman?”
Apples looked closely at the image, danced mambo for a while, and then averred, “That’s Grandpa Big Rock! Why, he must be a hundred if he’s a day.”
The look of disappointment completed its nest. The standard “Thank you, ma’am,” and “Sorry to have bothered you” ensued.
“No bother at all,” smiled Apples. “It’s been ages since I’ve spoken to Grandpa Big Rock. I think I’ll call him right now. Thanks, gentlemen.”
Versa and Vice ambled out the doorway humming grace, whence they had fallen.
“What do you want?” shot Xena Hammerhead once the duo had finished relating the story of their lives. The detectives wasted not a second: Versa threw the picture at Vice; Vice dribbled expertly across the field and passed the picture to Versa; Versa slam-dunked it beautifully right in front of Hammerhead’s nose. “Do you know this man?” the pair shouted somewhat jadedly.
“Is this some kind of joke?” The woman stared at the two with a look that could easily cause second-degree burns. “OF COURSE I KNOW MY FATHER,” she shouted.
The nestlings left the nest in a rush of wing ruffle.
Versa and Vice crawled out the doorway feeling lower than a pregnant giraffe.
Tired and mired, the two detectives sat in a tiny alcove at the back of Lilliput’s Tavern sipping white milk.
“What a bunch of liars,” complained Versa.
“Big liars,” agreed his colleague. “We’ve wasted the entire day.” He slapped the picture on the table, slightly cracking the golden frame with the yellow ornamentations.
After a few moments of gloomy contemplation, Vice raised his glass and proposed, “A toast.”
“French or cheese?” asked the waitress who happened by their table just then.
“Say cheese!” A camera-bearing woman wearing a red sombrero and pink sunglasses suddenly appeared beside the waitress. Before the two milk-sippers could say “French”, a bolt of flash pierced the air, and they regained their vision just in time to see a pair of sombreros — one red, one green — disappear in the doorway.
Versa and Vice shot up, raced outside, and practically fell upon a large woman wearing a red sombrero. Vice grabbed her posthaste, while Versa shouted, “Who the hell are you?!”
“Qué? Qué?” the woman cried loudly in pain. Within seconds the threesome was surrounded by a sea of colorful sombreros, beneath which lay heads sporting angry eyes. A wide-mustached man approached the detectives, and spoke gently in a foreign accent. “Buenos días, señores. My name is Xyron Mo, director of the Mexican hat-dancing troupe. Might I be of some assistance? You see, Dulcinea here does not speak a word of English.”
“Bah,” remarked Versa disgustedly, releasing the woman and backtracking into the tavern.
“Bah, indeed,” commented Vice and joined his colleague.
The two failed to notice Xyron Mo, who vanished slowly behind them, beginning with the big toe, and ending with the grin, which remained some time after the man had gone.
Back at their table the mood was far from Merry (dreadfully far, in fact — at that very instant Merry happened to be in Tibet, searching for her daily lama). Silently, the two detectives nursed their drinks.
A few minutes later, Vice sat bolt upright. “Oink!” he said.
Versa raised his head languidly. “Excuse me?”
“The picture!” cried Vice. The framed image they’d been lugging about was still lying on the table.
“What about it?” asked Versa.
“Take a good look at it. I mean really good,” urged Vice. With a sigh, Versa proceeded to do as asked, inspecting the picture for a few moments. “Oink!” he finally said. “It’s my Uncle Kermit! I haven’t seen him since the good ol’ days. How could we mess things up so badly, parading his picture all day long?”
“It’s not your Uncle Kermit,” explained Vice tiredly. “Nor is it my Uncle Feldenschmeckler, like I suddenly thought a few minutes ago.”
Bewilderedly, Versa asked, “Then who is this man?”
“I have no idea,” answered Vice, “but what I do know is that our quest today was a profound waste of time.”
“Why?”
“This guy is photogeneric.”
Noro Myx stood at the entrance, right below the big yellow M, and cast a searching glance around. Presently, he strode to a table not far from the food counter, next to which was seated an elderly man in his late teens.
Extending his hand, Myx said, “Hello Charles.”
Dodgson half-rose, took the proffered hand, and replied, “Hello, Mr. Myx.”
“Oh, come on Charles,” protested Myx cheerfully as the two gained their seats, “don’t be so formal.”
“Okay,” Dodgson said lightly. “Hi, Dad.”
