Chapter 44 - The Roller Coaster That Is Capital City

 30 minutes earlier...

"Can you drive a little faster?"  The constant drizzle so prevalent in Capital City had turned into a mid-afternoon downpour, thickening Spinoza's windshield with rain as his car plowed through flooded streets, parting water from the macadam and depositing on the sidewalks.

Spinoza squinted through the windshield as the rain beat angrily on the car's roof and thought he heard thunder (Thunder! - a sound not common in precipitation events west of the Rockies) in the distance.  "If you don't like my driving, you can always take the bus."

"Can you at least drive like there's some urgency attached to our task?"

"Why are you anxious all of a sudden?  Fifteen minutes ago, you seemed unflappable in your confidence."

"Maybe it's the sense of motion, however retarded that may be.  Or the realization that an innocent bystander's been kidnapped by murderers."

"If it's the sense of motion, going faster will only heighten your sense of anxiety, so I'm doing you a favor by slowing down."

"I'm worried about Vera."

"Me too, but getting us killed won't improve her situation any.  Besides, she's resourceful enough as long as neither one of her kidnappers turns into a giant rat."

"Otto can be unpredictable."

"Yes, but, like you pointed out, not very bright.  Without having met him or Emily Brunner, I'd still place my bets on Vera in a battle of wits."

"She can be a bit acerbic, and I'm worried how they'll react if she goes too far."

"Look at the facts.  If she comes to any harm, they lose any bargaining chip they have, and they've exposed themselves as murderers and will have no treasure to show for it.  Stupid or not; impulsive or not; I'm sure that scenario's occurred to them."

"True."  The torrent stopped as suddenly as it started.  Or, rather, it reverted from being a cumbersome downpour to its usual steady trickle that caused the men of the city to fret about their suits puckering and the women to complain about the uselessness of spending any hard-earned money at a hair salon.  

With the change in road conditions, Spinoza's automobile climbed the city's hills at an accelerating rate and then descended cautiously while its operator pumped the brakes.  At the nadir of each urban cliff, both men began to feel nausea overtake them due to the constant stop and start motion.

"Why don't you just coast down the hill like a normal driver?" Tannehill burped in discomfort.

"The shocks on this car aren't exactly in the best shape.  One errant bump at high speed, and you and I will be sliding along the ground, steering wheel in hand, while the rest of the chassis rumbles behind us." 

As the car approached downtown, the terrain flattened a bit, and their nausea eased, the two men began to refine their plan to rescue Vera, force a confession of murder from the would-be international entrepreneurs and find a way to repatriate the stolen items.  Given that they had approximately five minutes before they sped through the central business district and reached Emily Brunner's waterfront apartment, much of that plan involved storming the lobby of the building, menacing any uncooperative doorman, and rushing up the elevator in order to negotiate with Otto and Emily at the point of a gun.

"What it lacks in Shakespearean complexity it makes up for in expediency," Spinoza noted.

"Do you have a firearm?" Tannehill asked, unphased by Spinoza's retort.

"In the glove compartment." Tannehill was more than a little surprised that not only was the answer "Yes," but also "and it's within easy reach of where you're sitting now."  Spinoza sensed this surprise and continued, "It's Capital City.  And I'm a crime reporter.  Who works mostly at night."  He emphasized the end of each sentence to accentuate the obviousness of his statement.  Satisfied with that logic, Tannehill pulled the pistol from its resting place and briefly inspected it before replacing it.

"Why are you concerned if I have a firearm?  We stopped by your office to pick up your own service revolver."

"It's Capital City.  We're chasing murderers.  You can't be too careful," Tannehill mirrored in Spinoza's previous tone.

Fortune - or the still dwindling number of serviceable cars, even on the plush streets of downtown, that could be attributed to the depression's slowly weakening grip - allowed them to park across from the building.  Spinoza reached across Tannehill to open the glove compartment and grab his pistol, performing his own cursory inspection before exiting the vehicle. They dodged a couple of hasty drivers on the waterfront highway who showed their support for the men's mission by saluting them with high-pitched wails from their horns and muffled insults from behind their windows as they sped precariously by.

Once inside the lobby, they encountered the same obstinate doorman who'd hindered Tannehill during his first visit to the building in the week prior.

Tannehill darted past him and the doorman's voice followed him with a resounding "HEY!".  Tannehill slid to a stop in front of the elevator bank and turned to face the doorman and Spinoza, who'd lagged a few steps behind.  "Keep him here," he said, addressing Spinoza.  "I don't want him to call up to Brunner's apartment and tip them off."  Spinoza turned to the doorman, who was now facing him in a mixture of confusion and indignation, and shrugged.

Tannehill hastened into the elevator bank and mashed the up arrow repeatedly.  After an excrutiating 15 seconds, the ding of the elevator alighting in the lobby became audible.  He rushed into the car and promptly forgot what floor Emily Brunner's apartment was located on.  He then sprinted to the mailroom across the way, swearing briefly in resignation as the door closed and the elevator began to climb ever higher.  Scanning the mailroom, he found her - Brunner, 802 - and ran back to the elevator bank, pressing the up arrow with even more impatience than his first attempt.  As he climbed in, he could hear the soft murmur of voices from the lobby and a chuckle as the doors closed around him.

Once, he reached the eighth floor, he stepped in the hallway and stopped, breathless.  He gulped down the stale air of the floor's entrance foyer and wiped the sweat from his brow in an effort to compose himself before confronting Vera's assailants.  A loud ding boomed behind him and he turned, watching Spinoza step breezily into the foyer behind him.

"I thought I told you to watch the doorman!," Tannehill barked.

"He's not going to do anything," Spinoza answered in a measured tone.

"How are you so sure?"

"I informed him that I'm a member of the press, and, if he helps us out on our little errand, I can get a prominent spot in any resulting story."

"And if he decides that's too thin of a promise to keep him from changing his mind before we reach the door?"

Spinoza rubbed his nose.  "I thought of that."

"And?"

"I informed him that I'm a member of the press and, if he doesn't help, I can find enough dirt on him to bury him in any resulting story."

Tannehill smiled and drew in one more deep breath before heading toward Emily Brunner's apartment and exhaling.  He motioned for Spinoza to stay a few steps behind and out of sight as he drew his revolver.  They reached the front door of apartment 802, and Tannehill knocked nonchalantly, but with purpose, leveling the revolver at waist height.

From his vantage point a few steps down the hallway, Spinoza watched the door open and heard a familiar voice from the interior of the unit, "Oh, thank God!  Tannehill.  Did you bring any dry vermouth?"

[Author's Note: Well, unless I get extremely ambitious in the next four days, I'm not likely to finish the novel by the end of November - which was a long shot anyway.  But there's a good chance the first draft will be done in conjunction with the long, strange year that 2020 has been. This chapter is 1285 words.  The grand total is 48039 words.]

Chapter 43 - Thanks, But It Just Isn't the Same Without an Olive

 "I'd like a martini," Vera studied her nails and repeated her request before adding "please" along with a toothy but insincere grin.

"We're out of dry vermouth," Otto countered, no hint of irony in his voice, as though he were taking the order seriously.  

The abduction had not gone the way Emily planned.  She had flashed a small, silver firearm in Vera's direction while instructing Otto to leave a note for Tannehill and escorted her captive out of the diner.  She expected that Vera hadn't made a peep while leaving, because she was too frightened by the shock of the events.  She assumed that Vera's facade would crack, once the three of them were barrelling down the city streets toward downtown - a mix of screams, hysterics, tears, and pleading in a snot covered blur of a face begging for her life.

Instead, Vera rested her hands in her lap and her head against the back window and hummed.  She took advantage of staring down from the summit every time they climbed one of the city's famous hills.  She remained in this state of serene meditation the entire ride.  The. Entire. Ride.  Now, back at Emily's flat, she sat calmly in one of the high-backed, armless dining chairs at the head of the table, her white smile matching the impeccable leather of the chair and somehow accentuating the hideous lime green uniform she wore, asking for a martini.

"A manhattan, then."

"Actually," Otto pursed his lips thoughtfully, "we're out of vermouth, full stop."

"Bourbon, neat, please, with just a couple of drops of water."

Otto rounded the breakfast bar, pulled a bottle of bourbon from the counter, and began opening cabinet drawers searching for a tumbler.  "Glass?"

"Drawer to the right of the sink," Emily responded.

Otto finished the order and returned to the dining area.  He motioned for Vera to slide away from the table and she obliged, re-orienting herself in the chair after backing up.  Otto placed the drink on the table, out of her reach.  He sat on the edge of the dining room table and faced Vera.  Emily, disappointed in the cavalier use of her furniture - much of what she had was rented, while she still waited to settle in, but her dining set was brand new - bit her lip and grimaced. "Now, tell me what the notebook says, and you can have your drink," Otto continued.

"I don't know."

"What do you mean you don't know?" he hissed.

"Have you seen the notebook?  The notes in it are incomprehensible."

"Yes, but" he began to blubber, "but it's your notebook!"

"What gives you that assumption?  That it was in my possession?  That I'm a woman and must be a secretary?"

"Yes," he exhaled, as if the answer to all three of those questions were self-evident.

"Wouldn't it make more sense to give me the notebook for safe-keeping?  Isn't it more likely that you'd go after Tannehill to get the information you needed?"

"No. Well, yes, but, you have the notebook."

"Otto," Emily interjected, worried that Otto may start an argument with himself.  His face, wide-eyed in confusion, turned toward her.  "Even if she doesn't know what's in the notebook, it's highly likely that she has at least some of the information we seek."

This seemed to inspire a swift change of demeanor in Otto, who swiftly walked over to Vera.  Red-faced with eyes blazing flecks of gold he grabbed her by her hair, yanking her head back over the chair.  She winced with pain.  "WHERE ARE OUR ITEMS?"  He waited briefly for a response before throwing her head unceremoniously against her chest.  He began to turn back toward his previous position at the table to further cement his menace and wait for Vera to come to her senses.

Before doing so, Vera grabbed him by the wrist gently and stood up to face him.  Eyes brimming lightly with tears from such a violent jolt to her sinuses, she smiled thin-lipped and meekly at him.  He smiled back.  Then she slugged him in the solar plexus.

He doubled over, emitting a combination cough and noiseless howl before staggering over to the table and pressing all of his weight on another chair, causing one of its legs to snap.

Emily, more enraged by the demolition of her dining room set than by the assault on her partner, moved across the room and slapped Vera.  Vera, undeterred, kicked Emily in the shin.  This caused Emily to tumble backward and trip over Otto.  Otto, Emily, and the newly wounded chair collapsed to the floor in concert.

There was a slight shifting of forms audible through the wall and a quick muffled exchange of concerned voices.  A few seconds later there was a click of an exterior door and then a polite knock on Emily's own.  While Otto, Emily, and the chair were still tangled together, Vera took the opportunity to answer the door.  She opened it wide to a diminutive man with thinning brown hair dressed in an oversized cerulian cardigan.  

"Excuse me, Miss...," he paused in surprise, "oh, you're not Miss Brunner."

"No," Vera paused as though realizing she was not, in fact, Miss Brunner, "I'm a guest of hers."

"Oh, sorry!" the diminutive man exclaimed, "I'm Mr. Sugarbaker from next door," he paused to gather himself.  "My wife and I heard a commotion.  Is everything alright?"

"Yes, certainly.  We were just a little excited at the realization that we're unable to make martinis for our soiree."

From behind, Emily began to stand apart from what appeared to have been the world's most uncoordinated spider.  "That's correct," she smoothed her skirt as Otto groaned below her, "we have no dry vermouth."

"Oh," another brief pause, "oh," Sugarbaker glanced toward his unit and hitchhiked a thumb in its direction, "it's no problem.  I can..." he stammered.

Vera waved him off.  "No need." She walked over to the table and swallowed two fingers of bourbon in a single gulp.  She coughed, pounded her chest, and continued hoarsely, "we were able to improvise."

"Yes, improvise," Emily affirmed.  "Mr. Sugarbaker, please close the door on your way out, if you don't mind."

"Certainly," and he did, as the two women watched the door seal the view of the exterior hallway.

When Vera turned to face her would-be abductors, she noticed that Otto had closed the distance between the two of them and had Emily's small, silver revolver pointed in her direction.  "What are you going to do with that?" She puffed out her cheeks and blew exasperatedly.  

"If you don't sit down and behave, I intend to kill you."

"No," she glanced at the barrel of the gun and back at Otto, "you don't."

"Yes," he stopped to match her previous pause, "I do."

"No," she kept the cadence up, "you don't."

"And how do you know this to be true?"

"Well, for starters, that pistol barrel isn't bored, so it would be exceedingly difficult to fire a projectile at me.  And, to cap it off, I saw that pistol lying on the end table of the sofa earlier once Emily dropped it there, after our road trip.  It's a cigarette lighter.  So, unless you intend to set me on fire, I don't believe you intend to kill me."

With that explanation, Otto let the gun swing around his finger by the trigger guard and replaced it on the end table in a demonstrable 'what can you do?' manner.

Another knock sounded at the door, sterner than the first.

Emily elbowed Vera out of the way in her haste to open it before Vera decided to play hostess again.  "Mr. Sugarbaker, I told you, we don't need any..." the door swung wide and Tannehill was plainly visible holding a revolver leveled at Emily Brunner.  A real one.

[Author's Note: I've been thinking about this chapter since at least the middle of the book.  What happens to Vera when she's kidnapped?  Does she wilt?  Does she face a couple of psychopaths and barely make it out alive.  Then I remembered that in addition to film noir, another popular genre of the 30s was the screwball comedy, and I was able to pick a scene that matched the current tone of the book.  I didn't want to waste her character development as a damsel in distress, but I needed her to get kidnapped to move the "plot" along.  Today's edition is 1303 words.  The novel's total is 46754 words.]

Chapter 42 - Is It Accusative or Nominative Case?

The trio decided to rest for a day and contemplate the best way to willingly get two suspects to admit to murder.  Tannehill and Spinoza walked into The Happy Hour the following afternoon at the beginning of Vera's shift, eager to swap theories on the best way to catch a criminal.  Seeing that she hadn't arrived yet, they glanced around for a comfortable booth to commandeer, as their usual one was occupied.  They stood frozen briefly in the no man's land between the counter and the booths, heads moving mechanically to assess other possibilities - that booth had a jagged spring that didn't quite protrude from the seat leather; another one had a table that looked sticky with a spray of spilled salt jutting across its landscape; another hadn't been cleared at all.  They considered sitting at the counter, but the round swivel stools seemed to be placed too close too one another, and they felt that they'd be knocking knees over the duration of their discourse.

"Bill, hey Bill!" A raspy voice croaked behind them from the counter, breaking into the rhythm of their seating despair.  They paid no mind, looking for either Vera or a clean booth.  "Bill!" It insisted with more urgency.  They turned to look toward the voice and saw Flo, The Happy Hour's second-best server, staring directly at Spinoza.

A confused minute passed before he could respond.  "Me?" He mouthed at her.  She nodded enthusiastically with a hint of frustration that, of course she was referring to him.  He adjusted his volume.  "I'm sorry you must have me mixed up with someone else.  My name's not Bill."

Now it was Flo's turn to look confused.  "I says to Vera," she started as though already minutes deep into a particular juicy anecdote, "I says 'Who are those two fellas you been hanging out with lately?'  She says to me 'The one who looks like William Powell and the other one?' I says 'Yeah.'  She says, "Funny enough, that one's name is Bill, which is short for William, and the other is Claude Mulvihill."  She paused and pointed a finger at Spinoza, "So, you must be Bill."

The two men grinned at each other in the realization of Flo's likely mischaracterization of her conversation with Vera.  They also decided that correcting her would be a wasted afternoon for all, so Bill, for the time being, he was.

"Is Vera late?  We wanted to chat with her before her shift got too busy."  Aside from their normal booth near the door, which was currently inhabited by two gentlemen arguing vehemently in Russian, one other booth and a stool at the counter had occupants.  The counter occupant coughed briefly as if to signal that his occupancy was equally as important as his boothmates.

"Vera's not here," Flo stated, confirming their observation with a sober obviousness.  "But a little fella stopped by with a note about an hour ago.  He said to give it to Vera's friends when they stopped by."

Tannehill cocked an eyebrow in interest.  "Do you have the note?"

"I do."  Though Flo answered in the affirmative, she made no move to follow up on remediary actions.

"I think, as you've vividly described in your fascinating conversations, that it's safe to assume that we're the friends of Vera that the gentleman was referring to, correct?"

"Right!" Flo still made no indication of movement.

"Would you mind giving us the letter then, as we are the aforementioned friends?" Tannehill's tone was cloyed to avoid betraying the acidness he wanted to direct toward this daft woman.

Flo reached slowly in a large patch pocket of her uniform, her face initially a blank mask, morphing into one of confusion with a protruding tongue as she rummaged through a pocket so deep its very inward boundaries appeared to defy the laws of physics that its outward boundaries hinted at.  Eventually, she pulled a 3x3 white envelope from its maw and handed it to Tannehill.  He had to tug gently to remove it from her grip.

"Thank you," he responded in the same cloying tone.  She abruptly turned and left with her previous blank stair re-affixed.  While curiosity may have a deadly influence over the cat, it had little pull with Flo.

"Nothing addressed on the outside," Spinoza remarked.  It seemed like a poorly mannered letter if it was meant to be an invitation.  No indication of an RSVP and no fancy calligraphy harkened them to a social event.

Tannehill opened the envelope with a stubby index finger and slid out the thick card stock inside.  Again, nothing on the front of the card to give its intentions away.  He flipped it open:

We have das Mädchen.

Call the number I gave you for next steps.

-O

"Huh," Tannehill clucked his tongue.  He casually handed the card to Spinoza.

"So what now?"

"Why do you think he used the German version of 'girl'?"

Spinoza's eyes bulged in mild disbelief and suspicion of Tannehill's reaction. "That's an unusual first question to ask when you've just learned that a friend of yours has been kidnapped by a pair of double murderers."

Tannehill continued undeterred, "I wonder if he did so to pepper the message with additional menace.  Do you know if das Mädchen is a nominative or accusative case?"

"What is wrong with you?!"

"I guess it doesn't matter.  We know it means girl, so the grammar's not important." He sucked his teeth briefly.  "To answer your question - much that we've discovered over time, but in this particular case, nothing.  We now have leverage on the them.  Before, we could only suppose that they'd committed a crime.  Now they're actually in the middle of that commission.  More importantly, he's telling me to call the number he gave me before."

"And what does that mean?" Spinoza was at a loss.

"Well, the number he gave me before was the number to Brunner's apartment.  Even if they're not keeping Vera there, someone has to be manning the phone.  That means, unless they're all camped across the street observing us, we can ambush or follow at least one of them to get the drop on Vera's location.  But I suspect she'll be at the apartment."

"Why do you suspect that?"

"Because Otto's not smart enough to come up with a better plan."

[Author's Note: This was one of those chapters that I expected was only going to be a few words - a note gets delivered and the men take action. Then I realized setting a scene for it sounded a bit more delightful and got to 860 words.  Then, on editing, I wanted to see if I could get to the usual thousand word mark, and, voilà, we're at 1056 for this chapter.  The running total is 45451 words.  With at least another four chapters planned, and only a scant 4549 words to cover, it looks like my July 2019 goal will be a reality soon.]

Chapter 41 - How Much Do You Charge to Break Fingers?

 "What do I do now?"  Tannehill nonchalantly pulled the string of cheddar connecting his mouth and cheeseburger from its bovine substrate and chewed thoughtfully on his rhetorical statement.  Spinoza, unaware that the question was rhetorical, shrugged.  They'd been meeting for lunch frequently in the weeks since Tannehill's disciplinary hearing and dismissal.  Though he claimed outwardly it was solely due to Tannehill's lack of an income, Spinoza could admit to himself that it was a slipshod attempt at atonement.

"I suppose I could return to engineering.  We're in a state that's seeing enormous growth potential and the opportunities should be plentiful."

"That seems regressive, since you've been out of practice for some time." Spinoza was still unaware that he was an audience to the conversation rather than a participant.

Tannehill's voice grew more distant in thought, "but I am a bit rusty." Belatedly, he realized he was being summoned from his haze by someone else.  "Sorry," he picked up a thick fry and munched on it purposefully, "what did you say?"

"I said that returning to engineering likely isn't your best alternative."

Tannehill continued to crunch down on his fry, caught halfway between his own thoughts and Spinoza's observation.  "Yeah, you're probably right."  He sighed less out of resignation or regret and more out of simple exasperation for his dearth of ideas.  To wit, he had thought of exactly one idea for a career change since his expulsion from the police force - returning to his engineering degree.

"You could be a private investigator.  It wouldn't require a drastic change in your career path."

Tannehill starting chewing again in contemplation.  "I'm not certain that would work out well.  My name's been plastered all over the paper -" Spinoza colored at this statement even though Tannehill was talking distractedly rather than taking aim, " - and I don't think people would appreciate the notoriety."

Spinoza scoffed and jerked back in mild disbelief.  "This is Capital City.  Voters don't trust politicians who are too clean.  They assume the candidates are either hiding something so insidious it can't come to light or they'll be eaten alive once they're in office.  I don't think that kind of citizenry is going to mind your type of publicity.  Besides, as a PI, you're expected to be a bit scummy."

With Spinoza's rousing encouragement ringing in his ears the following days, Tannehill decided to set up shop.  His application for a private investigator's license encompassed nothing more than an affirmative response to a follow-up question about his previous employment:

"So, says here you used to be a former cop."

"Yup, I was previously a detective.  Do you need to check any references?"

"No, we just need the filing fee of $10."

Tannehill fished a crumpled bill out of his pocket, smoothed it, and laid it on the counter, smiling for effect.  He wondered if, had he put down "former chief of police" or "former president of the United States," the interlocution would have been more rigorous.  He decided it wouldn't have.

His next order of business was to find office space.  He decided to stay near his old precinct, as he felt he knew the neighborhood better and would be able to operate with some degree of comfort in getting his business off the ground.  The realtor he talked to offered him a twenty-foot by twenty-foot office in a shared office corridor that had been damaged by water.  The realtor also swore that the water damage was due to a previously busted water main and not the notoriously fickle ocean located a convenient two blocks away.  Traces of salinity on the water damaged walls were slight and the office air smelled more of mildew than seafood, so Tannehill took the realtor at his word and put down a security deposit.

The artist who appeared to complete the signage on the office's frosted window had lenses that hinted at severe myopia.  His conversation with Tannehill about the contents of the signage was mumbled and mostly conducted in a foreign language.

"Tannehill - two 'n's two 'l's," Tannehill spoke slowly, suspicious of his commissioned artist's comprehension skills.  Upon completion, the sign read "CH Tanehilll, Licensed Private Investigator."  Tannehill considered it a win, since the number of letters within his name remained consistent with his own preferred spelling.

Office space rented and PI license in hand, his final order of business was to drum up clients.  Spinoza's guilt played a big part here as well - his position as the lead crime reporter at The Daily Courier allowed him to offer Tannehill two weeks' worth of ad space in the classified section of the paper.  And, Spinoza wasn't entirely immune to the politics of Capital City either.  He was able to weave a few deft references to the up-and-coming PI businesses in the city - specifically near the city's South Docks neighborhood - for matters that the police were simply too overwhelmed or indifferent to handle. 

It took fewer than 24 hours for calls to begin flooding Tannehill's desk.  Many of the calls involved spouses' or lovers' inquests about potential infidelity.  Others about neighbors' suspected misdeeds.  A few requested help for misplaced or presumably stolen items.  Some hinted heavily about help with protection rackets - both in forming them and busting them up.  Spinoza had been correct about the citizenry's tolerance for notoriety.  Many of Tannehill's prospective clients shamelessly referenced his perceived vigilantism and the need for more people who were "willing to clean up the streets."  What his willingness to clean up the streets had to do with a glut of unfaithful paramours, Tannehill hadn't a clue, but he was fine playing the role in order to score a paycheck. 

After Tannehill's first full week of re-employment, Spinoza visited the office with a house warming offering.

"Thanks, but it wasn't necessary," he grasped the outstretched bottle of muddied brown liquid thrust in his direction.

"It's not really a gift, it's simply me trying to diminish my inventory.  Alcohol is still prohibited after all."

"So, it is," Tannehill muttered, turning the bottle over in his hands.  He stopped and squinted at the label.  "Was this produced prior to Prohibition?"

"Indeed it was."

"I didn't even know they made bourbon in Nebraska," he exclaimed, placing the bottle in his bottom drawer next to his former service revolver.  He reached for his coat, then the light.  "I'm hungry.  The usual?"

[Author's Note: Today's edition is 1058 words.  I'm hoping to strike a nice coup de grâce and finish the first draft during Nation Novel Writing Month, since it was an exercise for NaNoWriMo that kicked off this whole venture, but let's not get ahead of ourselves.  The running total is 44395.]