Pickles Productions presents Mr. Pickles in an exciting story we call “The Messenger for Murder.”  The year is 1938.  The city is New York.  Here’s Mr. Pickles

Hi there.  You know, when it comes to losing jobs, I’ve got about the best batting average there is in town.  Something always happens.  I mean, either I strike out on a secretary’s curves, or else I get put out for dropping a suggestion in the suggestion box, suggesting that the boss drop dead.  I always start out with the best of intentions, but there’s always something wrong with the setup.  You take what happened last week.  I land myself a job that pays $100 an hour.  And at last I think I’m really living.  Then, I find out when it’s time to collect, you’re liable not to be living.

So, I’m at this penthouse apartment, and I’m ringing the doorbell.  I hear a dame’s voice.

One moment please.”  She opens the door.  “What is it?”

Ms. LoveGun?” I ask.

"I’m her secretary, what do you want?”

“Instant messenger service . . .”

”We don’t want any.”

”Look, honey, it’s 8am, this is my first job, now don’t give me a hard time.”

"Now look, sonny, I handle all of Ms. LoveGun’s affairs and we don’t want a messenger.”

“Oooh, how would you like to get a . . .” Before I could finish, LoveGun came to the door.

“What is it?”

“This boy in a man suit says you called for a messenger.”

”Yes, I did . . . the package.”

“You’re not really going to send it, LoveGun?”

“I have to.”

”I still think you’re making a big mistake.”

"I haven’t got any other choice.”

"Well then why not let me deliver it for you?”

"No, I’ve thought it over . . . that neighborhood’s dangerous.”

“Nobody’s gonna kidnap little Liliana, darling.”

So then I gotta ask the question, “Who would pay the ransom?”

“Why do you run along.”

”Please, Liliana, let me handle it.”

”Allright honey, it’s your own funeral.  Although I wouldn’t trust him as far as I could throw him . . ."

“Leave us alone, Liliana, please.”

”Nice kid, where does she live?  The refrigerator?”

“You’ll have to excuse Liliana.  She’s been with me for years.  She’s very devoted.  Have a seat, Mr . . . ?”

“Pickles, Mr. Pickles.”

“You don’t look like a messenger boy.  You’re older.”

”My boss is very inefficient.  He always sends a man to do a boy’s work.”

“Will you have a drink?  I think I need one.”

”Well, I don’t usually start until 9 am.”

”Excuse me.”

“Steady, honey, pull yourself together, you’re shaking.”

”I had a bad night.”

“Mmm, there you are, charge your batteries.”

”Thank you.  Um, now, let me see . . . ”

“Messenger service, remember?”

“Oh, yes, I left the package in my room.  I won’t be but a moment.  Will you wait?”

“Forever.”

Ms. LoveGun is a blonde with a figure like Swedish stemware.  Tall and slender and curved in the right places.  She walks out and I look around.  The place is a plush two story studio apartment, and from the drawing equipment I figure her for one of them high class fashion designers.  I begin to wonder if she’ll make it back before the nervous breakdown sets in.

“Here . . . here’s the package.”

“Where to?”

“14 Barbery Street.”

“Ow, that’s a pretty rough neighborhood.”

“Room 2-B.  Here’s the key.  Go in and leave this package on the table.  You’ll find another package.  Bring it to me.”

”This doesn’t sound like fashion proofs.”

”That’s my business.”

”Pardon me.”

”And one thing, I don’t want you snooping in the packages.”“Well, it’s grand meeting you Ms. LoveGun.”  I get up to leave.

“Where are you going?”

“I insult very easily.”

“Just a minute . . .”

“Well?”

“I’m sorry.  Please, I’m terribly upset.”

“Hung over, they call it.”

”No, I haven’t been well.  Please forgive me.”

“Okay.  Wanna kiss and make up?”

“It’s very important for that this package be delivered and the other package returned to me unopened.  I’ll pay you well.”

“’Well’ meaning what?”

“One hundred dollars.”

“Wow!  What’s in this package?  A new slim silhouette for an atom bomb?”

“Nothing like that.  Will you take the job?”

“Yeah, on one condition.”

“What’s that?”

“Advance me 30 cents for a couple of subway tokens.”

“Here, here’s $10.”

”Honey, I just want two tokens, not a seat on the stock exchange.”

“Take a cab.  Here’s the package.  Be careful.”

”Don’t worry.”

“Do a good job and . . .”

“Yeah?”

“. . . I’ll be very grateful.”

“Well, in that case, lay of the happy juice.  I may even want ask you out to dinner tonight.  I’d rather you were sober.”

“I’m afraid I’m too expensive, Mr.  Pickles.”

“Don’t worry about it, I’m rich, if I live to collect.”

 _______________________________________

I leave the apartment with the distinct feeling that something peculiar’s in the wind, and that it ain’t the fish market.  I leg it out the lobby, past the doorman in full admiral’s uniform, and flag down a cab.

“Where to?”

“14 Barbery street.  And, pal, don’t ever put the flag down before the cab starts next time.”

I can see from the license this cat’s name is Meresin.  The Meresin family is well known for being cabbies.

”I can see this is gonna be a fat tip.”

“Don’t give me a hard time, Meresin.”

“Yes sir.  I can remember when the subway was good enough for you guys.”

”It still is, if you’d like to stop here.”

“Oh, no offense, Excellency!”

“Hey, you know if you piped some of that gas into the tank, you’d be a rich hackey?  Don’t look around, Junior, but the light is green.  Move!”

I feel refreshed after this little exchange of pleasantries and settle back to untie the wrapping on Ms. LoveGun’s package.  Not that I’m the suspicious type, understand, but when somebody offers me a hundred dollars to deliver a package, I like to make sure I’m not playing patsy with a pumpkin full of microfilm.  And just as I get the package undone, Meresin pumps the brake pedal, and I find myself up to the knees in nice, crisp hundred dollar certificates.”

”Hey, Mister, you dropped your money!”

“Why don’t you give out safety belts in these things if you’re gonna stop this way?”

“What are you, a messenger for the United States Mint?”

”Just turn around, pal, and keep going.  I’ll gather up the cabbage.”

”What do you think this is?  An armored truck?  Next time you rob a bank, hire a van.”

“If you really wanna know, this is Halloween money.  I got it playing Trick or Treat.”

”Where?  The First National Bank?”

“You’re clever.”

“Yeah, stop soaping me, bud.  I know real money when I see it, and I seen it!”

Meresin guns the cab while I collect the spilled lettuce.  I figure there must be four or five thousand, and I’ve just wrapped it up again when Meresin goes into one of his famous quick stops.

“What now?”

“Out!  We’re here.”

”I never thought we’d make it.  What’s the rap?”

“Sixty-five cents.”

”Here’s a ten.”

“Thanks.”

”Hey . . .”

“Huh?”

“If you’ll excuse the expression, the change . . . $9.35.”

“Here!”

“Here’s a buck, get yourself a B-29.”

“I already got one.”

  _______________________________________

Barbery Street is a dead end in the worst slum in town.  Number 14 is a condemned building.  I pick my way past a couple of prostrate bums and a garbage can, and about to walk in when somebody taps me.

”Pencil, Mister?  Help and old blind lady . . . pencil?”

“Here, Mom, keep the pencil, I’ve got nobody to write to.”

”Bless you, son.”

”One second thought, I’ll take it mother.”

“Here, ya crumb!”

The hallway is decrepit pink plaster that is crumbling crumb by crumb.  I let myself into the room 2-B which resembles a sanctuary for unemployed mice.  There’s no package, so I deposit my bundle of government greenery and wait.  After a couple of minutes, I hear something coming.  It’s the old blind lady’s stick tapping down the hall.  She comes in and goes to the moolah on the table like a St. Bernard goes to a fallen traveler.

“Pays better than pencils, huh Mom?”

“Keep your trap shut.  The stuff here?”

“The ‘stuff’ is there.  And it’s so green it’s mellow.  How ‘bout the package I was supposed to collect?”

“In my bag.  Here!”

“Fair exchange.  What’s in it?”

“None of your business!”

“Thanks.  Can I help you down the stairs, mother dear?”

”I can find my own way.  Don’t try to follow me.”

“Me?  Follow a lady?  Perish the thought.”

I give her a head start and pick up the package and head for the door.  And I am just in time for the lowering of the nine o’clock boom which descends on the back of my skull as I step into the hallway.

  _______________________________________

Sometime later I regain consciousness.  The first thing I notice is a clammy hand in the back of my pocket.  The second thing I notice is that it ain’t mine.  I keep my eyes closed and then I mouse trap the guy.

“You’re breaking my arm, brother!”

“I oughta break your . . . well, well, if it ain’t Chuckle, the philosophical pick-pocket.  How is the biggest thief in town??”

“Pickles!  My old companion from Grammercy Park.  As Schopenhauer said, ‘It’s a small world.’”

“Is that what he said?  How are things in the pick-pocket union?”

“Haven’t you hear, my boy?  I’ve been elected International Representative.”

“Goody for you.  Congratulations.”

“A hipster like you should know better than to lay in the dust in a creep joint like this.  Why, if I hadn’t come along, you might have been rolled.”

“Somebody laid one on my scull bone.  Hey, you know the old blind woman?”

“Rosie?”

“I think she hit me with a poker stick.”

“She’s new around here.  But I don’t think she goes for mugging.  It was probably the other woman, the blonde.”

“Blonde?”

“The one who came up after Rosie.”

“You don’t say.  How was she dressed?”

“Oh, very grand.  About two grand worth of mink, present market value.”

”Figures.  You notice anything else?”

“She was carrying a package . . .   about this big.”

“Go on.”

”I assumed you had been mugged.  Naturally, I don’t like to interrupt a colleague while she’s working, so I waited.”

“Naturally.”

“A professional courtesy.  I came in to pop a quick snoop as they say, and I found you laying here like a dead lox.”

“Thanks, Chuckle, here’s a fin for your troubles.”

”Pickles . . . I couldn’t accept a gratuity from an old pal.  The beggars guild would have me up on charges.”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to offend.”

”However, if you just turn around and permit me to slip it out of your pocket, I think we’ll avoid any jurisdictional dispute.”

“Have it your way, Chuckle.  Brush the creases out of the cashmere while you’re at it.”

  _______________________________________

I leave the house and walk about three steps when a hand falls on my shoulder like it was judgment day.  I turn around to look into the bloodshot eyes of my good friend Sergeant Bubble Beard of homicide.  Meresin was with him.

“Halt!”

“I’m halted.  Unclasp me, Bubble Beard, you’re bruising the buttons.”

“This the guy?”

“That’s him.  He had a roll like he was Roman!”

“What’s the problem, Bubble Beard?”

 “Meresin here says you were flashing a lot of lettuce.”

 “Criminy!  He smokes old socks!”

”I tell ya, I seen it!”

“What about it?”

”I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

”He knows, allright.”

“Let’s have a quick frisk . . . he’s clean.”

“Then he hid it.  You’d better take him in, Sergeant.”

 “Whoa, hold on, back off.  What’s the charge?  Remember, Sarge, you gotta have a charge, Sarge, to arrest a tax payer.”

“You gotta charge to bring?”

“He was carrying about five grand in real money.  That’s a crime, ain’t it?  He’s a suspicious character.”

”You got a charge, or just suspicions?”

“I ain’t got a charge . . . you got a charge, Meresin?”

“Me?  I ain’t got no charge, I just told you what I saw.  That’s all.”

“If you two gentlemen will excuse me, I’ll be on my way.”

“Just a minute . . .”

”Yes, Sergeant?”

“. . . nothing . . . beat it.”

  _______________________________________

I walk away like I own City Hall, but inside I’m still six different shades of green.  I make it to the subway and jockey my way to LoveGun’s apartment.  My head feels like the inside of Joe DiMaggio’s mitt, after a hot day in the bullpen.  I get to her apartment and ring the bell.

“Oh, it’s you.”

“It’s me.  It is also I.  You got any of that 100 proof battery acid left?”

“There’s some bourbon on the table.”

“Thanks.”

“Did you get the package?”

“Well, it’s a long story, but I’ll boil it. . . no.”

“Oh.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Well, it doesn’t really matter.”

“Oh?  You were pretty upset this morning.  You see a psychiatrist or something?”         

“I decided to calm down.  If you don’t mind, Mr. Pickles, I’ll pay you the hundred dollars and get it over with.”

“I don’t mind, only, I don’t get it.”

“Don’t get what?”

“Why a dame pays five grand for a package she doesn’t get, then brushes it off like it were dead flies.”

“I see you opened my package . . .”

“Uh, huh . . .”

“That isn’t polite.”

“It isn’t polite to hire a guy to get a package, then hit him over the head and steal the package.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“You know what I mean, baby.  You followed me down there and pulled me in the noggin.”

“You’re insane!”

”You left your mink coat on the table over there.  And one will get you ten it’s covered in pink plaster from 14 Barberry Street.”

“Here’s your money, now get out.”

“Uh uh!”

“I said get out!”

”Let’s have the package.”

“That package is none of your business.”

”I got a lump on my head that says it is.”

“Get back!  I got a gun!”

”I can see that.  And I can also see you don’t know how to use it.”

“I warn you . . .”

“The funny thing about those automatics . . . you can’t pull the trigger with the safety catch on, now let’s have it.”

“Let go!”

”Gimme the gun . . . now sit down!”

“Take your hands off me!”

“I said sit down!  That’s better.  Now . . . ‘fess up.”

“I went to a party last night at Premier’s, and met a couple.  A young man who said he was an artists and a woman, a redhead.  We’d been drinking . . .”

“I gathered as much.”

“. . . he invited us up to his apartment to see him work . . .”

”Oh, brother!  Where was the apartment, on Barberry Street?”

“. . . Yeah, somehow I got in a quarrel with the other woman.  I don’t even remember what it was about.  I said I was leaving, but he said ‘have one more drink, and I’ll call you a cab.’  I took the drink, and then suddenly I felt funny.  After that, it’s all so horrible.”

“Give, baby.”

”I don’t know what happened, really.  I came to sitting on the sofa.  The redhead woman was lying on the floor.  There was blood and, in my hands I had a gun.”

“Whose gun?”

“Mine!”

”Naturally, no nice girl is ever without one.”

“Well there’s been so many muggings and robberies in the neighborhood lately, my secretary thought I’d better carry one in my purse.”

”Back to Barberry Street, what happened next?”

“Well, he told me I had gotten very drunk and we’d quarreled.  He said she slapped me and I’d taken this gun out of my purse and, it went off before I realized what I was doing . . . I’m not a murderer!  I’ve never hurt anyone in my life!”

“All right, take it easy, baby.  Now, look, what’s with the packages?”

“The man, Charles his name was, told me to go home and he could have the whole thing hushed up.  He said the woman was a tramp, and . . . well . . . I was too frightened to argue, and I went home.  About five this morning he called.  He said he’d need money, $5,000.  He said he had the gun with my fingerprints on it, and if I wanted it, I’d better pay up or he’d go to the police.”

”And you fell for it?!?  Aw, Baby, how square can you get?”

“I don’t know why I did it . . . I suppose the police is the only way.”

”Just a minute . . . one more item.  How come you conked me over the head?”

“Well, after you left I began to wonder if I could trust you.  So, I followed you down there.  I overheard your talk with the blind woman, so I knew you’d opened the package.  I waited, and then I hit you and took the package with the gun.”

“Is this the gun?”

“Yes, my gun.  What are you doing?”

“Just wanna look inside . . . uh huh.”

“I think we’d better call the police, I’ll feel much better . . .”

“Relax, baby, nobody’s calling the police.”

”But the murder . . .”

”There was no murder.”

“What?”

“Look at the barrel of this gun.  It’s loaded with rust.  Ain’t been a bullet through here since Grant took Richmond.”

“But I heard . . .”

”You heard a blank.  And, honey, I got news for you.  When P.T. Barnum said there was one born every minute, he meant you.”

“I don’t understand.”

“The old badger game in reverse.  The whole thing was staged.  The artist was phony, the corpse was phony, the bullet was a blank, and the blood ketchup.

“You sure?”

“I’d make bets on it.”

“Pickles . . . I don’t know how to thank you.”

“I got a suggestion . . .”

”Yes . . . what?”

“Don’t hurry me now, just give me time to pucker up.”

  _______________________________________

I exit later feeling like a Boy Scout with a year’s backed up of good deeds.  I can still taste LoveGun’s lipstick, and I got a hundred bucks burning a hole in my pocket.  I get back to the messenger service and place a phone call to the police.  I figure if the crooks aren’t in Argentina by this time, my friend, Sergeant Bubble Beard can start trying to recover the five G’s.  Bubble Beard ain’t in, so I finish out the day at my apartment for a change of clothes.  There’s a reception committee from the city of New York, and it ain’t LaGuardia.  It’s Bubble Beard.

“Good evening.”

“Well, well . . . if it ain’t Sergeant Bubble Beard as I live and don’t breathe.”

“Don’t bother to shut the door.”

“You leaving?  I wanted to see you.”

“We’re leaving.  I wanted to see you.”

“Mind if I ask you why?”

“Not at all . . . do you read?”

“Not fluently.”

”Do you look at pictures?”

“Fluently.”

“You seen the newspapers?”

“I’ve seen the funny papers in The Tabloid News.”

“According to the evening papers, a woman named Gloria was found murdered.  Shot through the heart.  Here’s her picture in the papers.”

“So?”

“So . . . she’s was found in a place in Barberry Street, number 14 according to the journals, apartment 2-B.  You familiar with this place?

“I spent half the morning laying on my face.”

“So I recall.” 

“So?”

“So . . . the Lieutenant invites you to the Irish Clubhouse for tippin’ and mixed grilling.”

“Shall we promenade?”

“Be my guest.” 

 _______________________________________

I spend the next few hours being pounded on the eardrum by the inquisition squad.  I tell them everything I know including about the gun that LoveGun has at home.

“So . . . you’re saying she thought she killed this woman, but, uh, the gun wasn’t fired?”

“The barrel was stuffed with rust.”

”You’re saying she has this cannon?”

“She had it when I left her this morning.”

“And she dropped five grand to this old blind woman without even feeling sorry?”

“I told you, Sarge, this is a nice girl.  She didn’t kill Gloria.”

”Nice girl’s don’t go on drunk binges with Greenwich Village con artists.”

“So she made a mistake . . .”

”Maybe you made a mistake, Pickles! . . . Come on . . .”

“Where to now?”

“LoveGun’s apartment.  I want to gaze into her cold blue eyes . . . also her cold blue automatic.”

 _______________________________________ 

We prowl up to Park Avenue and press the button on LoveGun’s apartment.  Liliana answered the door.

“Oh, it’s you!”

“I brought along a friend for you, baby, Sergeant Bubble Beard of the homicide.  This is Liliana, LoveGun’s secretary. 

”Pleased, I’m sure . . . is your employer home?”

“She’s asleep.  She wasn’t feeling well, so she took some sleeping pills.” 

“She been asleep all day?”

”As far as I know.  I went out on business for about an hour today.”

“Wake her up!”

“Not without a pretty good reason!”

”Murder is a pretty good reason.”

“Murder?”

“Get her.”

LoveGun poked her head out.  “Liliana . . . what is it?”

“Ms. LoveGun?”

“Yes?”

“Sleeping pills don’t work so good I see.  They never do much for a guilty conscience.”

“I beg your pardon?”

I interject.  “This is Sergeant Bubble Beard, LoveGun . . . homicide.”

“Homicide?”

“You’ve heard of it, I see.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I’ll be brief . . . you’re under arrest.”

“For what?”

“You recognize this picture in the paper?”

I try to play lawyer.  “LoveGun, don’t say a word!”

“It’s no, use Pickles.  It’s nice of you to pretend I didn’t kill her.  It’s her picture, that’s the woman I shot!”

“LoveGun!  For Pete’s sake . . .”

”Have you got the gun?” asked Bubble Beard.

“Yes, I left it in my desk drawer . . . here . . .”

”That gun hasn’t been fired for years, I tell ya’.

“Let’s have a look!”  Bubble Beard looks at the pistol.  “Uh huh . . . okay, Ms. LoveGun, let’s get your coat.”

“Filled with rust, huh?”

“Pickles, the barrel of this gun is as clean as the inside of a hospital cafeteria, and judging by the smell, it’s been fired recently.”

“What . . . Holy Smokes . . . LoveGun, did you use this gun?”

“I’ve kept it in the desk drawer.”

“You been asleep all afternoon?”

“Yes, I took some sleeping pills.”

”Okay, Ms. LoveGun . . .”

“Hold on, Bubble, don’t they have some kind of a test to prove someone fired a gun?”

“A paraffin test.”

“If LoveGun fired a blank, could you tell?”

“It’s the same as if she fired a real bullet.”

“So, anybody who fired a gun, it would show up?”

“That’s right.”

“Pickles, it’s no use . . .”

”Lemme handle it, baby.”

“You can get ten years in the cast iron academy for shielding a murderer, Pickles.”

“Lemme talk a minute, will ya?”

“Talk!”

“How long has this Gloria been dead?”

“The medical examiner said about four hours.”

“Four hours?!?  Well, no, I killed her last night . . .”

“Hold on, honey.  LoveGun, tell me, could anybody have taken your gun?”

”Who would have done anything like that, and why?”

“I don’t know, but I got a good idea.”

“Go ahead, Pickles . . .”

”Well, let me paint the picture . . . somebody stages a fake murder to make LoveGun think she did this crime.  Somebody gets five grand in return for the murder weapon and disposing of the body.  Then I fumble my way into the frame and spot it for a fake, and let’s say I call the police.  Then, somebody takes this gun, and kills Gloria for real.”

“Okay, who done it?”

“Liliana!”

“What?!?  Sergeant, the boy is delirious!”

“She’s the only one who could have taken that gun, gone out, shot the dame, and replaced the gun.”

“Pickles!  That’s a little preposterous.  Liliana has been with me for years!”

“If it’s so preposterous, then how ‘bout little Liliana here taking a paraffin test to see if she’s fired a gun recently.” 

Liliana finally buts in . . . “Don’t get ridiculous.”

“While we’re at it, honey, how’s the pencil selling business?”

“Pencil selling business?  Now I know he’s mad!”

“You do a pretty convincing old woman except for one thing.  You were selling artist’s pencils with a special soft lead.  The kind your boss uses for her fashion sketches.  Here’s the one she sold me, Sarge.”

“Uh, Ms. Liliana, do you object to taking a paraffin test?”

“Not in the slightest . . . let me get my coat.”  She bolts for the window.

“Look out!  She’s got the window open!  Grab ‘er!”

Sergeant Bubble Beard lunges for the window and grabs Liliana.

“That enough for you, Sergeant?”

“Yeah, that’s enough.  Let’s go, Miss.”

LoveGun is wide eyed with amazement.  “You want me?”

“Just stay where we can reach you.   You, too, Pickles.”

Bubble Beard escorts Liliana outside.  It’s just me and LoveGun.

“Well . . . you got any more messages to be delivered, LoveGun?”

“Only one.”

“What’s that?”

“This . . .”  She kisses me like I’ve never been kissed before.  “I like your messenger service Pickles.”

“LoveGun . . .”

“Yes, Pickles?”

“Next time don’t send for a boy . . . this is a man’s work.”

And, it ended happily ever after.  At least for a little while.