Write me a Letter

cheek. The cop car drove up right then and coasted to a halt beside us. ”About time,” Momma said. She explained all to the boys in blue. Off they went, with us following them.
    Sure enough, like Momma said, we got back to D. Gresham’s just in time to head him off at the pass, or the gate, in his case. And no bonus points, kids, for guessing what he had in a brown paper bag under his arm.
    The oldest of the two cops took out a printed card and mumbled through the reading of the suspect’s rights. The suspect responded by bestowing a beatific smile on the cop, and led the way meekly back to his apartment.
    The forces of law and order, all three of them, gave the place a rapid but thorough shakedown. The only thing relevant to our inquiry they unearthed was, in a locked cupboard in the bedroom, a reference library of some twenty books covering all types of antiques and valuables from Russian icons to classic cars. I snuck a quick peek at something called The Antique Encyclopedia, and discovered that faience was a brightly decorated version of majolica, which was a big help. I didn’t have time to see if there was a picture of my multihued darling in the book on classic cars.
    Now I know I’ve mentioned it before, but beware of taking things at face value, kids. Who would believe at first glance that V. Daniel would own a classic anything? And Jasper, with all his rantings about being deskbound. Who would believe that a zonked-out guitarist studied things like Persian carpets in his spare time? Flying carpets, maybe. And the chances of one of the two people in the world who could spot a gau across an uncluttered room, the other being the Dalai Lama, dropping in, we have already discussed.
    It was about a half an hour later, I suppose, when we took our leave. Tin-Thieu slammed the door behind us. As D. Gresham the Third was climbing into the back seat of the patrol car, he said to me over his shoulder, ”Namaste.”
    I figured that meant something snappy, like ”Up your enchilada” in Nepalese, and was about to reply ”And from what teaching of the great Buddha does that come from, o humble seeker after truth?”
    But no, D. Gresham immediately translated it as, ”I salute the God within you.” He even waved at us as the cop car pulled away.
    So like I said, watch those prejudices, especially when there’s someone listening.
    Momma drove us back downtown. She turned in the Olds, I retrieved my Nash. She promised to let me know how things developed. I said great. She’d also get off an official letter for me, stressing my valuable contribution, in case I ever needed it. I said terrific. She patted me on my downy cheek one last time and disappeared into the station by the back way. I checked the time, noted that I was a little early for my rendezvous with Fats, so I took a short drive down to MacArthur Park , where one went to observe dope peddlers, winos, bums, and crackheads in their natural habitat. Thought I also might drop in and say howdy-do to an ambulance chaser of my acquaintance, Mel (”The Swell”), whose one-and-a-half-room office overlooked the park, and who might perchance have something for me in the work department. But no dice, no one was at home, so I continued on downtown, finally found an almost-legal place to park behind the old courthouse, then strolled around the block to Fats’ first-floor place of business, getting panhandled a mere three times on the way.
    Fats still had his old neon sign hanging outside: instant bail-WALK IN-WALK OUT-EASY TERMS. Well, I guess you could call an arm and a leg easy. There was a squawk box beside the downstairs door; I pressed the appropriate button, announced myself, and it squawked at me to come up.
    Up I went. Fats had two rooms; in the outer, the waiting room, an acned, two-bit hood was lounging on the wooden bench attending to his cuticles with a foot-long switchblade. How amusingly passe, I thought. He looked up briefly as I entered and gave me a sneer. I smiled at him graciously and passed into the inner room where Fats was leafing through the latest Playboy.
    ”Got some real inneresting items in it this month,” he said around a gold toothpick.
    ”I hear the stories aren’t bad, either,” I said.
    Fats’ place of business was surprisingly comfortable, almost opulent, especially compared to the bareness of the waiting room. It was thickly carpeted, had a plush sofa with matching occasional chairs, in one of which Fats was sitting in