Write me a Letter

parking outside, I spied with my little eye something curious. I spied two guys, a little guy and a big guy. Each was carrying a case of champagne. Guess which one was having the most trouble?”
    ”The big guy,” said my beloved. ”I saw him, too.” ‘And the little guy wasn’t a secret weight lifter, either,” I said, ”because all he was wearing was a T-shirt and Mr. Universe he wasn’t.”
    ”So what if what he was carrying was a case of empty champagne bottles, right?” said Mr. Lubinski. ”Which my good wife is out there counting and which will be charged to Nathan at forty bucks a bottle, right?”
    ”It could be,” I said. ”There’s no way we can prove it now one way or the other, but next time tell your good wife to count the bottles on the way in, too.”
    ”You better believe it,” said Mr. Lubinski grimly. ”You better believe it’s the last time we use that caterer, too. So what else did anyone notice although I hate to ask, a pickpocket maybe, a blackmailer?”
    ”One of the musicians,” Annie said. ”The guitarist. I saw him wandering around the living room.”
    ”Me, too,” said Evonne. ”Only it was up on one of the sun roofs.”
    ”Me three,” I said. ”Only it was out back by the garage.” Mr. Lubinski sighed and rolled his eyes skyward. ”Curiouser and curiouser,” Evonne said. ”Eh, gang?”
    ”What’s so curious?” said Mr. Lubinski. ”That little momser was—what’s the expression, casing the joint?”
    ”That’s the expression,” I said, ”Could be. We’ll have to find out for sure. What I don’t like is, he was out by the garage, which is often easier to break into than the house, which it is often connected to. He was also up on the roof, which can be another comparatively easy way in.”
    ”So what’ll you do?” asked Mr. Lubinski.
    ”Maybe I’ll have to case the momser’s joint,” I said.

4

    I went out into the living room and took a quick look at where the band had been set up. They must have unset themselves because they weren’t there anymore. I hastened back into the den and asked Annie to get me Frank on the phone pronto. When she did, I said, ”Frank?”
    ”Yep.”
    ”Any of the band still on the premises?”
    ”Their equipment van hasn’t shown yet,” he said.
    ”If it shows before I do,” I said, ”don’t let it out. Tell whoever’s in it they got a surprise bonus coming or whatever, but don’t get them all het up. Got it?”
    ”Yep. Anythin’ else?”
    ”Nope.” We both hung up. I turned to Evonne, who was exchanging some girlish confidence with Annie in a whisper. Oh, darn, there I go again, being male and chauvinistic; maybe they were discussing philosophy, maybe even that hopeful remark by I forget who—”There is more felicity on the far side of baldness than young men can possibly imagine.” Anyway, I turned to her and said, ”I hate to interrupt but it’s show time, babe. Let us be on our way.”
    ”I’m with you,” she said. ”What are we on our way to do?”
    ”With any luck I’ll think of something clever.” I got out my wallet, dug out two hundreds, and passed them over to Annie. ”For the hot-rodders. Tell them thanks from me. I don’t want whoever’s in that van to catch me paying them off. You might as well come with us, you’re done here. Oh.” I passed her over several more hundreds. ”For you and Frank.”
    She bounced out of her chair, kissed my chin, gave Mr. Lubinski a hearty handshake, then tucked her handbag, which was shaped like a twenty-six-inch TV set and only slightly smaller, under her arm, ready to go. I told Mr. Lubinski I’d let him know what happened as soon as something did. Evonne patted him on the cheek, said, ”’Night, you all, and thanks for the party,” then patted him on the other cheek.
    ”It started as a party,” he said. ”What it turned out to be was more like a Mafia reunion.” He escorted us to the front door and watched us drive off.
    ”What a swell party, what a swell party, what a swell party that was,” Annie sang loudly as we tootled back down the drive toward the front gates. I patted my breast pocket to make sure I had a memo pad and pen; I did. I asked Evonne if she had one. She rummaged in her purse and held up her address book, the kind that has a small pencil attached.
    ”Why?” she wanted to know.
    ”Couldn’t hoit,” I said, ”which is what Mrs. Rabbi said to me when I asked her if chicken soup was really any good for