The Big Enchilada

Maria out for a paper.
    When she brought it in, I immediately turned to 17. It was the traffic accidents page. The lead story was about a big rig that overturned carrying a load of watermelons. The watermelons fell on a sports car, crushing it and killing the two occupants. An interesting photo accompanied the story. At first I didn’t see anything, but in one corner, sandwiched between stories about several multiple fatality crashes, there was a small article.

    Private Detective
    Hit-and-Run Victim

In the early hours of the morning, the body of Francis Eugene Argyll was found in an alley between Cedar St. and Wilson Ave., the year’s 57th hit-and-run victim.
Police say that Argyll was a licenced private investigator who was something of a local character. His age and current address are not known.
A spokesman for the police said they are questioning residents who might have witnessed the crime, but they are not optimistic about the outcome.
Argyll was the 57th hit-and-run fatality since January 1, making the total to date ten ahead of the record set last year.

    I sat for a minute and then got up and poured a drink. I raised the glass in a silent toast and tossed it back. That was it for Stubby. No use mourning him further.
    Apparently Stubby had been right about some things and wrong about others. He must have been right about finding out something. And he was right about being followed. He was wrong about being able to get away.
    He was obviously murdered—in just about the best way to avoid causing suspicion. There was no point in my going to the cops. I had nothing hard to give them, and even if I had, I probably wouldn’t. Partly on principle, mostly because I was afraid of everything getting back to Ratchitt. No, I’d have to take it on my own.
    It wasn’t a question of avenging Stubby’s death. I’d known him for years, and we got along okay, but I didn’t owe him anything. We were both in it for ourselves, and if something happened, tough shit. That’s not being hard, that’s just the way the game is played, and Stubby would have been the first to agree. However, I was getting tired of people threatening me and warning me off. I wanted to find out what was going on. If, in doing so, I could settle the score for Stubby, so much the better. If not? Rest in peace, Stubby.
    The situation was definitely heating up. The only way to deal with pressure is to meet it with more pressure. I still didn’t know what it was all about, but people were starting to get nervous—Ratchitt’s visit and Stubby’s death made that clear. And when people are nervous, it’s easy to make them more so. The more noise you make, the higher they jump.
    I thought for a minute and got a nice idea. I looked up a number, dialed one of the newspapers, and soon got an °ld acquaintance, Harold Ace. He didn’t have much of a calling for journalism, but with a name like Ace, he figured he had no choice. He answered the phone in the way that always amused him, putting the pause in the wrong Place.
    “Harold, Ace reporter.”
    “Hunter here. Would you be interested in a story about an exclusive private club in Hollywood that sells kinky sex? Some of the members are big-name stars. There are also a few politicos and the heads of some big companies. Not to mention big-scale police bribes to keep the wheels moving. Your paper interested?”
    “Are we ever!” It sounded like he was bouncing in his seat. “I kind of thought you might be.”
    “Well, you know nothing sells papers as well as the combination of sex and celebrities, and the kinkier the better. But we really look for those stories where we can adopt a tone of moral outrage.”
    “I know. You’re a family newspaper.”
    “That’s right,” he laughed. “Some comment on the American family, isn’t it.... But tell me more about this place.” I told him about the Black Knight. He kept interrupting to shout “Wow!” or “Too much!” or other cogent journalistic remarks. When I finished there was a silence on the other end of the line.
    “That’s dynamite,” he finally said. “But can you provide some evidence to back up this story?”
    “I didn’t think your paper bothered about things like that.”
    “Sam! This is not some sleazy tabloid.”
    “I hadn’t noticed much difference.”
    “Well there is. We’re responsible journalists, for one thing.”
    “You mean you sell fewer papers.”
    “That’s right,” he said sadly. “But I do need solid