2:49:18.
Time. I used to think I had all the time in the world, that I didn’t have to hurry or rush about like all the other people around me. Then, I turned seven, and I realized that life was too short for such time-wasting, pseudo-intellectual introspection. Besides, I was too concerned with finding the eye that had fallen off my teddy bear.
The name’s Johnny…Johnny Laframboise. I could tell you that I’m a private detective. I could tell you that I could translate it into French for you, if need be. I could explain that I’m a case and tell you what’s happened to this point, but I don’t have the time. You’ll just have to pick it up as we go along (or, wait for the paperback).
I roared up the drive to the Mckenzie mansion. My car was pretty loud, too. I had never been to the mansion, my peer group being much less wealthy, but I had read about it in the life section of The Star, so I knew I had the right place.
I ran into the house, being sure to open the door before me. “Mrs. Mckenzie?” I shouted. “Yoo hoo! Mrs. McKenzie!” The only response was a faint echo and the ticking of a grandfather clock in the front hallway. In hindsight, I should have phoned ahead, but, well, you know how it is…the heat of the excitement and all…
I wandered through the house, not really looking for anything, but marveling at the excessive and vulgar display of wealth that permeated every room. I’m a man with delicate sensibilities, after all, although it was houses like this that made me wish I was just a little less sensitive in that area.
Eventually, I found myself in the kitchen. It was huge, completely white except for rows of toggle switches and lights that could have controlled all the hardware on the Distant Early Warning Line, but probably just helped cook the casserole…or the goose…
The only piece of furniture in the entire room that I could identify was the fridge. Getting a mite peckish, I decided to see if it contained anything I could recognize as food. Call it part of my fee for taking the case.
What I found effectively ended the case.
“Hungry, Mr. Laframboise?” she asked, walking nonchalently into the room. She was beautiful, of course; she was my client, Mrs. McKenzie. I was surprised, therefore, to find her holding a gun on me.
“Not for hot lead,” I quipped, but something in my voice must have suggested that my gut was churning. It’s an unfortunate trait I have that has earned me the nickname “Cuisinart Belly.” People can be cruel, life unfair.
Mrs. McKenzie lowered the gun apologetically. “I’m sorry,” she said, “when I found the door open, I was afraid that there was a burglar in the house…”
She was vulnerable. Her voice quivered. Her hand trembled. I knew that I had fallen for her in a big way. Then, I remembered…the fridge, and my heart hardened. “What’s your game?” I asked. “I found the bottles in the fridge, and, well, I’m confused.”
“Bottles?” Mrs. McKenzie innocently replied.
Inside, I cursed her for making things so difficult for me. Outwardly, I…I guess I cursed her for making things so difficult for me. “You’ve been playing me for a sucker!” I shouted. “And, I don’t like it, Mrs. McKenzie. You hired me with a cock and bull story about Coke changing its formula, and I find out that all the time you’ve had Coke Classic in your own house! What kind of a fool do you take me for?”
Ignoring my question, Mrs. McKenzie went over to the fridge and looked inside. “I don’t know how those bottles could possibly have gotten into my refrigerator,” she stated. “Do you think my husband…?”
She let the question hang in the air like a balloon that was losing oxygen or a Conservative Member of Parliament who had contradicted the Prime Minister, but I was having none of it. “No,” I told her, “you knew about this all along…”
Mrs. McKenzie shrugged. But, an overwhelmingly attractive shrug.
“I’ll tell you what’s going on,” I hotly continued. “Coca Cola is making fools out of us all, especially the media. This game of constantly changing formulae was just a ploy to get publicity, and the whole situation has been blown out of all reasonable proportion. It’s just not important. Am I right?”
Mrs. McKenzie stared hard at the floor. “You’re the detective,” she told me. That was the first honest thing she had told me since I met her.
“What I don’t understand,” I said, “is why you involved me in this thing in the first place. What’s the point, Mrs. McKenzie?”
The woman shrugged at the floor. “You can’t have a detective story without a detective,” she told it.
In it’s own loopy way, it made sense. I thought of the large amount of cash in my breast pocket and momentarily thought of letting her off easy. Then, I considered the time I had wasted on the case, and I tried one last time to talk sense into her: “Look, Mrs. McKenzie, while I was running around doing your dirty work for you, murders were being committed, banks were getting held up, organ grinders were entertaining on the streets without licences. These are serious crimes I could have been investigating. Don’t do this again, okay?”
Mrs. McKenzie didn’t respond, but I think she got the point. I went to the fridge, opened it and took out a pickle jar. I removed one pickle from the jar. The gesture was symbolic, but it still felt good somehow.
Then, I left the house and never looked back.