A DARK AND STORMY NIGHT...

(News Item: A Ronald McDonald statue turned up missing from the site of a local McDonald's which is undergoing reconstruction.)

The night was as cold and dark as Pat Buchanan's heart. I was sitting at my desk, smoking a cigarette and watching the rain fall. Somewhere nearby, a saxophone played a blues melody.

"Ye gods, " a voice said. "Can't you get that sax player to play something peppier? It's so depressing."

I sat up as the owner of the voice walked in. She was a bleached blonde with legs that were longer than a Clinton campaign speech. She was wrapped in a skin-tight little brown polyester number and the paper hat on her head made her look cuter than a sackful of kittens on helium. Her nametag read "Marie: Trainee." I admit it, I've always been a sucker for a woman in uniform.

"It's part of the ambiance, " I said as I pulled up a chair for her. "I'm just a gumshoe trying to earn an honest living on the mean streets, where life is cheap and the gunplay is fast."

"Are you going to be finished anytime soon?" she interrupted.

"Sorry," I said. "What can I do for you?"

"I'm looking for someone," she began.

`"Aren't we all," I riposted.

"No, I mean someone special."

"We're all looking for someone special."

"Will you SHUT UP?" she said. She pushed a photograph across the desk. "THIS is who I want you to find!"

The guy in the photo had flaming red hair and a big red nose. His skin was a pale white.

"He needs to get out in the sun more," I observed.

"I'm terribly frightened," she said. "I know he's in some kind of danger or he would have called me."

"What makes you so sure?" I asked.

She looked away. "We were . . . engaged to be married."

Okay, I thought. She's not the first young girl to fall for a clown. Some chicks really went for the big shoes.

"So when did he disappear?"

"Last week," she said. "One minute he was there, and the next, he was . . . he was . . . oh, you've just GOT to help me!"

I thought about it for a minute. The whole thing smelled as fishy as Noah's basement. The clown was probably shacked up in Atlantic City with some bimbo. Still, she had the money--and the legs--so she had my attention.

"Did he have any enemies?" I asked.

"He often talked about someone called the Frenchman. He said the Frenchman hated him."

"So," I said, pulling on my trenchcoat , "We go see this Frenchman."

"Oh, thank you!" she said. She threw her arms around me and planted a kiss on me that melted the wax in my ears. As we embraced, she whispered in my ear, "By the way, where IS that saxophone music coming from?"

***

The Frenchman was seated behind a table in the back room of his nightclub, the Purple Wombat. He was eating a plate of Escargot.

"Zo," he said, taking a sip of his Bordeaux, "Why is eet zat you believe I have zomething to do wit' ze clown's disappearance?"

"I deedn't zay..I mean, I didn't say that you did," I replied. "But everybody knows you people hate

McDonald's. The French have been protesting, attacking the clown's restaurants . . . Who has a better motive?"

" P'raps you zhould ask. ze Colonel," he said insinuatingly. "Or zat Famous Star fellow."

"It couldn't have been one of his competitors. The kidnapping only took a matter of minutes. No one in the fast-food industry moves that quickly." At that moment, the blonde pulled out a pistol and pointed it at the Frenchman. "Just tell us where the clown is!" she snapped.

"Zut alors!" I cried out.

She was caught off guard for a moment and forgot what language she was supposed to be speaking. "Placez-vous votre mains dans l'air," she snarled, then caught herself. "Zo," she said in suddenly accented English. "You caught me, no?"

"No. I mean, yeah," I said. "I realized it was you the clown was running from."

She smiled. " `Ow did you know I was ze French one, eh?"

"It was in your kiss, sweetheart," I said softly as the saxophone player stepped from behind the curtain and whomped her senseless with his horn.

"Merci beaucoup, mon ami," the Frenchman said as I slipped the sax player a twenty.

"No problemo, Ronald," I said.

He sheepishly took off the beret. His flaming red hair spilled out from underneath it. "Looks like you got me, shamu," he said.

"It's shamus," I said. "A shamus is a private eye. Shamu is a killer whale."

"Whatever. How'd you figure it out?"

"It was the wine," I said. " No real Frenchman would drink a Bordeaux with escargot. But don't worry. Your secret is safe with me."

"Thanks again, pal," he said. "Just for that, burgers are on the house."

"Ronald," I said, "I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship."

© 1999 by Jerry D. Rhoades, Jr.