Martin Greenberg: Crime Spells

“Are you protected against a punch in the nose?” I ask.

He frowns and looks worried. “No.”

“Then let’s talk.”

“About my money?”

“About Godzilla Monsoon getting flattened by a piano.”

“He’ll be all right,” says Milton. “It fell on his head. It’s not as if it hit him in the knee or anything he ever uses.”

“Why did it hit him at all?” I ask. “And just when he was about to wipe out the spread?”

“It wasn’t my fault,” whimpers Milton.

“Come on, Milton,” I say. “The only time in five years you make a bet, and nine million pounds of music falls down on the guy who’s about to make you lose?”

“I didn’t do it.”

“Maybe you didn’t drop it,” I say. “But I pay for hex protection, and you didn’t stop it.”

“It’s too complicated to explain,” says Milton. “Just give me my winnings and we’ll agree never to discuss it again.”

“Come on, Milton,” I say. “You can tell me what’s going on. We’ve known each other for fifteen years now.”

“We’ve been friends for fifteen years?” he says, surprised. “How time flies.”

“I didn’t say we were friends. I said we’ve known each other. Now, what the hell is going on?”

He cups his hand to his ear. “They’re calling you from the bar, Harry.”

“The bar’s empty, except for Joey Chicago, who was guzzling some Old Peculiar from the tap when I walked through.”

He looks at his wrist. “Oh, my goodness, look at the time!” he exclaims. “I’m late for an appointment. I really must run.”

“ Milton, you’re not wearing a watch,” I point out.

“I pawned it,” he says. “But I remember where the hands should be.”

“ Milton,” I say, “I just want you to know that this hurts me more than it hurts you.”

And with that, I haul off and punch him in the nose.

He hits the ground with a thud! , pulls out a handkerchief to try to push the blood back into his nostrils, and climbs slowly to his feet.

“You were wrong, Harry,” he says reproachfully. “It hurts me much more than it hurt you.”

“An honest mistake,” I say. “And now, unless you tell me what’s going on, I am going to make honest mistakes all over your face.”

“All right, all right,” he says. “But let’s leave my office and go to yours. I feel the need of a drink.”

We emerge from the men’s room and walk over to my booth, where Milton orders us each an Old Washensox.

“My treat,” he says. “Joey, put ’em on my tab.”

“I been meaning to talk to you about your tab,” says Joey.

“Holler when it hits fifty,” says Milton.

“I been hollering since it hit twenty, for all the good it’s done me,” answers Joey.

Joey brings us our beers, mutters the usual about firing Milton and hiring Morris the Mage to protect the place, and goes back to the bar.

“All right,” says Milton, “here’s the situation. I find myself a little short for money this year”-which is not a surprise; Milton has been short for money since Teddy Roosevelt charged up San Juan Hill -“and suddenly someone throws a beautiful gift in my lap.”

“What was her name?” asks Joey, who was listening from behind the bar.

“Opportunity,” says Milton.

“Not much of a name,” says Joey, making a face. “I prefer Bubbles, or maybe Fifi.”

“So tell me about this opportunity,” I say, as Joey leans forward to get her measurements.

“Gerhardt the Goblin-you know, that little green critter who’s always screaming ‘Down in front!’ at Tasteful Teddy’s 5-Star Burlesque Emporium-anyway, Gerhardt approaches me one day last week and tells me that he’s got a client who wants to put five hundred down on the Pompadoodles, but doesn’t want to do it himself, and that if I knew anyone who would act as a middleman, he’d get twenty percent of the winnings.”

“And you don’t know who you’re working for?”

“I’m working for me ,” says Milton with dignity. “I don’t know whose money I’m betting, but that’s a whole different matter.”

“Where can I find Gerhardt?” I ask.

“Beside Tasteful Teddy’s?” says Milton. “He loves betting on the lady mud wrestlers over at Club Elegante.” He lowered his voice confidentially. “They’re the only wrestling matches in the whole city that aren’t fixed.”

“You know,” I say, “I’ve been there a couple of times-just for the coffee, mind you; I paid no attention to the wrestlers at all-but I don’t remember any of the matches having a winner.”

“They don’t.”

“Then what’s to bet on?”

“Which one gets naked first. How long before they’re so covered with mud you can’t tell ’ em apart. How many men say they just go there for the coffee. That kind of thing.”

“Is there anything else you can tell me?” I ask.

“Not a thing.”

“Okay, Milton,” I say, getting up. “I’ll see you soon.”

“You’re leaving?”

“Yes,” I say.

“Where’s my money?” he asks.

“Right here,” I say, patting my vest pocket. “And it’s my money.”

“Aw, come on, Harry,” he pleads. “Show a little charity.”

“You insist?” I say.

“I do.”

“Okay,” I say. “Tomorrow I’ll hunt up some charitable organization that repairs pianos.”

Then, before he can say another word, I am out the door.

I stop by Club Elegante looking for Gerhardt the Goblin, grab a ringside table, and when he hasn’t shown up by the seventh match, I decide to leave, especially because the next match features Botox Betty, who once broke her hand slapping my face over a friendly misunderstanding and a couple of intimate pinches, and Lizzie the Lizard, who shed her skin faster than French Fatima shed her clothes over at Tasteful Teddy’s.

By the time I get to my apartment, Benny Fifth Street is already there, watching replays of the piano flattening Godzilla Monsoon just as he crosses the ten-yard line, followed by a hospital interview with Godzilla, who doesn’t sound any more punch-drunk than usual, and finally a statement from the winning coach to all the young Pompadoodle fans out there that they should never neglect their music lessons because today clearly proves that music is important to their daily lives, and without music they might only have won by 46 points and disappointed all the big Pittsburgh plungers who bet on them to beat the spread.

Gently Gently Dawkins shows up just as we turn off the television-he was busy eating his fourth meal of the day, which puts him maybe two hours behind his normal schedule-and I tell them what Milton told me.

“Clearly, it’s got to be some Pittsburgh fan,” says Gently Gently.

“Why?” I reply. “You don’t have to be a Pittsburgh fan to fix a game.”

“You don’t?” he ask, frowning, and I can see he’s still a few thousand calories short of functioning on all cylinders.

“No,” I say. “Maybe this isn’t confined to Milton, or even to Manhattan. I mean, it’s got to cost a lot of loot to get a wizard good enough to pull that stunt with the piano. Maybe we should see if anything like that has happened anywhere else.”

“How should we go about it?” asks Benny.

“Start by calling Vegas. See if anything like today has happened when it looked like an underdog might win, or even just beat the spread.”

“I’ll do it,” says Gently Gently.

“Are you sure?” asks Benny. “I don’t mind making the call.”

“No problem,” says Gently Gently.

“Okay,” I say. “The phone’s in the next room.”

“I know,” he says, getting up. “So are the cookies.”