A Johnny Laframboise Non-mystery
Night doesn't fall in this city; it creeps between the street lamps, slowly curls around automobile headlights and moves in on neon billboards. It lazily walks up the main drag, stopping in at the singles' bars or health spas on the way. It slows to look at the young people meeting each other along the strip. It gets a little tipsy and, listing to one side, loses its way.
This is a swinging town, okay?
I could use the falling of night as a metaphor for my profession. You see, I'm a private detective. The name is Laframboise...Johnny Laframboise. If you don't know that I specialize in bilingual cases by now, you just haven't been paying attention. I could say that when darkness falls in a person's life, they come to me for enlightenment. Personally, I like the extended metaphor device, but it's getting pretty old, don't you think? Let's forget I started the story that way.
It was late at night. I had just finished a glass of milk (oh, come on - you think Marlowe didn't have ulcers?) and was about to put on my Star Wars pajamas and go to bed when somebody knocked on my door. Instinctively (because, at that hour, I'm not usually thinking rationally), I grabbed my gun and headed for the door.
"Yeah," I said. It wasn't poetry, but the meaning was clear.
"Mr. Laframboise," the voice on the other side of the door answered, "please let me in. I...I need your help." I recognized the voice, a cross between Jim Nabors and Tiny Tim, as belonging to Officer Dudley Dooright of the Mounties. But, I wasn't taking any chances.
"If you're Dooright," I asked, "where's your horse?"
"I left it in the street," the voice answered. "You know that your super doesn't allow any pets." As if to corroborate the man's story, a whinnying sound came from the street. Actually, it was more like a man trying to sound like a horse. My mind was made up.
I let Officer Dooright into my apartment and offered him a shot of whisky. "Oh, I
couldn't possibly, Mr. Laframboise," he protested. "I'm only a character character." I fixed myself a hot chocolate and sat down on the sofa next to the Officer. "What can I do for you?" I asked. It was two in the morning, and I get grumpy after midnight."Did you see the Juno Awards last night?" he asked me.
Now, I don't know much about popular music; I stopped listening to the radio the day Buddy Holly died. But, I did happen to watch the Junos that night because...well, Andrea Martin was one of the hosts. She...she's quite a woman, Andrea Martin, if you know what I mean.
So, I had seen the bands perform (mostly lip synced, of course - I don't know about you, but I was bitterly disappointed). I saw Bryan Adams and Tina Turner make love to each other's microphone. I saw Martin and Mila make the Prime Minister jealous on national television. Taking all that into consideration, what else could I answer but: "Yeah. I did."
Officer Dooright, who had been waiting patiently throughout my exposition, started when I finally answered his question. "Do you remember Prime Minister Brian Mulroney accepting an Award on behalf of the Canadian people for the Tears Are Not Enough famine relief project?"
"Did you memorize that question all by yourself?" I marveled. "Or, did you have help?"
"Please," Officer Dooright insisted, "save your wit for a time when you are actually in an adversarial position with the police. I need your help: the special Award is missing!"
I whistled. "Who saw it last?"
Officer Dooright shifted uncomfortably on the sofa. "The Prime Minister," he stated.
"And," I continued, "what did he say happened to it?"
"He says he put it down backstage," Officer Dooright answered.
"And you believed him?" I was at my caustic best.
"Are you accusing the Prime Minister of stealing the Award? Think of what you're saying!" Officer Dooright cautioned me. "Okay," I said, and started thinking. Five minutes later, I asked, "Have I given the subject enough thought for you?"
"Why would the Prime Minister want a Juno Award?"
I shrugged. "Remember the Shamrock Summit?" I asked. "Isn't it obvious that the Prime Minister wants to be a rock star?"
Before Officer Dooright could answer, the phone rang. We both stared at it for a moment. Eventually, I remembered that it was my apartment, and that the responsibility for answering the phone, therefore, rested on my shoulders. I did so. Somebody started spouting gibberish, very fast, as gibberish goes.
"I beg your pardon?" I asked.
"Oh. This isn't Russian Embassy?" the voice responded in a thick Russian accent. "555-5555?"
"No, I'm sorry," I said. "This is 555-8279."
"No moose?"
"No moose."
Soon after, the phone rang again. This time, it was Officer Dooright's superior. The Officer spoke to him for several minutes, after which he seemed relieved. Eventually, he got off the phone. "Well," I asked him, "don't keep us in suspense - what happened?"
"They found the Award backstage," Dooright informed me.
I sniffed. "Well," I said, "that would have been my second guess."
Officer Dooright shook my hand and strode to the door of my apartment. "I'd like to stay and chat," he told me, "but I really have to get back to Nell. I promised to get her Corey Hart's autograph..." Outside, Dooright's horse brayed.
"Wait!" I cried. "What about my fee?" But, it was too late. He was gone. I looked down at my hot chocolate. The marshmallows had gone flat, so I walked over to the cupboard and poured some gin into it.
Damn government, anyway!
