George Martin - Lowball

“How’d you lose it?”

“Not sure,” said Wally. “But I think it was the crocodile.”

Darcy cocked her head. “You are very strange.”

“I’ve heard that. Usually they use the term ‘weirdo.’”

She snickered at that, but saw the look on his face and looked guilty. “Anyway, what’s this about being a detective? We both know you work for the UN.”

“Yeah,” he said, “but I took the day off.”

“Well, at least you’re not driving. Or parking.”

“Nah. A good detective pounds the pavement.”

“And why, I ask entirely out of idle curiosity even though I’m sure to regret it, are you a detective today?”

Wally tapped the side of his nose with a finger. Clang, bang . “I’m working the case of the missing jokers,” he said quietly.

“Do you know what the term ‘vigilantism’ means?”

“No. But it sounds like a real good crossword puzzle word. How do you spell it?”

“Are you for real?”

“What?”

They went down the street, crossed an intersection, and kept going. Darcy didn’t say much. She was pretty focused. At one point, when they encountered a double-parked two-seater with its blinkers flashing, she muttered to herself, “Look at this clown. Why do people think that turning on their hazard lights will make them immune to tickets?”

Darcy opened up a little more when he asked her how she liked being in the police. It meant the world to her; he could tell. Justice meant a lot to her, too. Her eyes went a little wide when she said that word, “justice.”

And she said it a lot. She had this whole long thing about justice and civil society and police as guardians of order. It was pretty interesting, though Wally didn’t catch all of it, and it all came out in a smooth rush like she’d said it a hundred times. Secretly he was a little glad when she trailed off.

A white van eased past them on the narrow street. Darcy lifted her sunglasses to watch it. Her gaze followed as it rolled away.

“What’s wrong?” She didn’t answer, too busy squinting at the van as it dwindled in the distance. “You want me to stop that van? I can, you know.”

For a second there, it looked like she was considering it. “Nah,” she said.

The van turned a corner. She shrugged, put her sunglasses back on, and went back to work. Wally asked, “What was that all about?”

“Probably nothing,” said Darcy. After a tired sigh, she said, “There’s a van I kept citing. I’d written well over a dozen tickets. It was always illegally parked … double-parked, or blocking a hydrant, or in a loading zone…”

“Do they bust up parking meters?”

“No, they’re not like you. You don’t tear up your tickets and toss them on the ground.” Veins pulsed in her neck and forehead. Just talking about it got her upset. “Once I found a pile of shredded tickets in the gutter.”

“I guess you have to mail them, huh?”

Her voice went flat. “Can’t. Fake plates. They’re not in the system. No registration, no address. They even filed the VIN off the dash.”

“That’s strange.”

“Illegal is what it is.”

They crossed another street. Wally poked a finger under the brim of the fedora to scratch his forehead. He tried to think like a detective. It was hard.

“I guess I don’t get it. Why go to all that trouble of having a made-up license plate just to avoid parking tickets? He could learn to park better and then he wouldn’t get them in the first place. Or why even bother with the plates at all?”

Darcy’s nose crinkled up again when she stared at him. “You’re kidding, right?”

“No.”

“It’s not about the parking tickets, Wally. The plates look legit because they don’t want to get pulled over. Probably because they don’t want anybody to see what’s in the van. I wouldn’t be surprised if it belongs to the same people who are kidnapping jokers.”

He stopped. “Really? That’s super!” But then he thought about it a little more. This detective thing was hard. “Uh, I still don’t get it.”

Darcy sighed. “If they stop to grab someone, or drop something off, they have to do it when and where the opportunity arises. So they park illegally.” She explained it patiently, and didn’t make him feel dumb. He liked that.

This was great. He’d been on the case less than a day and already he’d made his first major break in the case. Granted, it was really Darcy who’d made the breakthrough, but Wally didn’t mind. Good detectives always forged a relationship with the police. He’d managed that much.

“Wow. You found the kidnappers!” He frowned. “How come you haven’t arrested them?”

“Last time I ticketed the van was before we recognized the probable connection to the fight club. Before those aces busted it up … and half of Jokertown.” She shook her head, mumbling, “Right through my fingers … Could have stopped them way earlier … some police officer…”

All of a sudden, she looked really sad. Wally said, “You’ll catch ’em.”

“I’m not so sure. I followed it once, after I realized the plates were bogus.”

“Oh yeah?”

“It turned down an alley. Narrow, dead end. But when I came around the corner, it was gone. Where the hell did it go? But people still keep disappearing so they must have gotten a new ride. I keep looking, but.…”

Darcy sounded so dejected that Wally tried to hide his disappointment. “Huh. Well, better luck next time.”

She fell silent after that. Not entirely sure why he kept at it, other than that it seemed Darcy was pretty neat, Wally tagged along while she checked meters and wrote tickets. One guy who received a parking ticket got pretty steamed and called Darcy all sorts of mean things. Wally didn’t like that at all and told him so. Darcy seemed even sadder after that, so he walked with her for another half mile, until she demanded that he buzz off and leave her alone. It was demeaning, she said. “Chauvinism masquerading as chivalry,” is what she called it.

But she also said, “Thank you.”

Mr. Richardson’s place was a bust. Wally rang the bell a whole bunch, and circled the block about ten times, each circuit beginning and ending with Wally sitting on the stoop in case Richardson went out or came home. But Wally never saw him. No mysterious vans, either.

Each day, Wally visited another spot on Jube’s list. Each day, in spite of his disguise, and much to his disappointment, he wasn’t kidnapped. And Ghost grew more sullen with each day Mr. Richardson didn’t return to school.

Wally had decided to pack it in for the afternoon, and was turning his thoughts to the weekend and fun places to visit with Ghost, when he noticed somebody following him. Well, not really following. More like keeping pace with him across the street. The big gray guy across the street paused every time Wally did. He hurried when Wally hurried; he dallied when Wally dallied. Wally pretended to start to cross the street before turning the corner instead. Behind him, the blare of a car horn told him somebody had darted through traffic. Wally stopped to study his reflection in a storefront window but it didn’t work as well as it seemed to in the movies. He bought a hot dog from a jellyfish with a street cart, and took his time scooping relish and mustard on it. The other fellow drew steadily closer. He was covered in chunks of rock like a walking fireplace. Wally had eaten most of the hot dog before he recognized the guy from Squisher’s Basement.

This is it! thought Wally. They’re coming for me .

He tried to hide his excitement. It was difficult pretending to not notice as his kidnapper drew closer and closer. Wally concentrated on looking vulnerable.