January the 2nd, 2011: It was the second day of the first year of my retirement from private investigation. I parked my blue Nash Metropolitan Convertible and walked around the perimeter of the Olive Garden, making sure everything was secure before meeting my cohorts. Force of habit.
I sat down between my two partners from the Force. To my right, sat Moonlight Goose, the eyes of the operation. To my left, Buffalo Betty reclined, the brawn of the operation. Me, the Jellicle Cat, I was the ears of the operation. Operation Soup, Salad, and Breadsticks, that is.
We were never much for small talk, so we surveyed the rabble surrounding the establishment. Moonlight Goose pointed out a shifty broad in a sparkling blue Corvette that looked familiar. None of us could place her, but made a note in the back of our minds to be on the lookout. Something was in the air that night at the Olive Garden. Was it garlic butter? Or just the stench of mediocre Italian food consumed by ordinary church-goers on a Sunday evening?
The Hostess called our number. She said, plain and simple, "This is your table, should you choose to accept it."
We were in no place to argue; the joint was jumpin'. Jumpin' full of Ukranians! Ukranian spies, that is. I saw him in the other room, Fyodor Chauvinistikov, sippin' on his vodka tonic and sucking down a plate of calamari. Surrounded by his entourage of Russian lady-friends, he acted as if this were an ordinary day in the USSR.
He wasn't foolin' Buffalo Betty. "There is no Olive Garden at the USSR!" Her first instinct was to knock him into next Thursday.
But the waitress had other plans. When the Hostess had left, assuring us that Ingrid would be stopping by our table shortly, we were expecting a leggy blonde. Our suspicions that something was up were confirmed when a plump Hispanic dame came to take our drink orders. Knowing we needed to keep our wits about us with all this riff raff swarmin' the joint, we just ordered a round of waters.
As we awaited "Ingrid's" return, a mother at the table adjacent to ours suddenly burst out, "Did you put tape on your watch?!" What did it mean? There was no way of knowing. But no one would say something that ridiculous that loudly.
Moonlight Goose leaned in and whispered, "The duck flies at midnight." It was our code from the good old days back in 2010. Buffalo Betty and I both responded with, "Only on Tuesdays," to confirm that all of our radars were up, and my earpiece was engaged.
The waitress extricated herself from a somber parade of Ukranians exiting the establishment. She was bearing three drinks, but no straws. After taking our orders, she turned toward the kitchen, but then paused.
"The bread is in the oven."
She said it pointedly, her eyes slanted. It meant something.
We had a lot of questions, but no answers. So I decided to take matters into my own hands. I got up and headed into the next room for a chat with Chauvinistikov, but was intercepted by The Gimp. The Gimp was a notorious hitman before that "accident" in the Alps, which left him in desperate need of a career change. I wasn't surprised in the least to find him bussing tables at the Olive Garden. He took me forcefully by the forearm and growled, "How are the breadsticks?" I was no novice. I looked him square in the eye and stated, "In the oven."
He surveyed me for quick moment, then asked, "You gotta reservation?"
"Who's askin'?"
"Chauvinistikov's askin'."
"Well, you tell him that I gotta tell him about the Toscana."
"The Toscana?" he repeated incredulously.
"It's kinda spicy. Tell him not to try."
The Gimp glared and sauntered up to the lousy Son-of-a-Czar and delivered the message. Chauvinistikov's expression remained inscrutable. He sent his lackey back to me to tell me, "He says you can't see him without a reservation."
I returned to my table silently, my head all in a jumble. I related the exchange to Moonlight Goose and Buffalo Betty, but we were no closer to crackin' the case than before the soup was served. Moonlight Goose lamented how rusty we all were after being outta commission for so long. Buffalo Betty replied, "Well at least these guns ain't rusty!"
Immediately following this exclamation, there was an explosion as the doors between the two rooms bust open! The woman with the taped watch squealed, "HE'S GOT A GUN!" amidst screams from small children and cheesy Italian accordion over the loudspeaker.
Chauvinistikov stood in the doorway and said real quiet, "I'm waitin' on a vodka tonic at number nine."
Ingrid, who had failed to bring us a refill on our waters, suddenly reappeared outta nowhere and said, "You're table's not in my section, so you best sit yourself back down." She turned to us surreptitiously and tapped her head with a guest check folder before turning to stare down the womanizing mobster. We took that as the cue to prepare for whatever was comin' next. Buffalo Betty pulled a bazooka out of her knee-high, Moonlight Goose drew her lucky Derringer out of her Coach bag, and I quickly fashioned a shiv out of a drinking straw and Splenda packets.
The waitress and the mobster stood sizin' each other up. Finally, Ingrid broke the tension. "The jig is up, Fyodor. You've been caught red-handed. We tracked down the bootleg copies of Tetris you've been launderin' for years, and your underground stash of Stradivarius violins."
"You betrayed me, Ingrid." the cold-hearted criminal whispered, lowering his gun.
"You brought this on yourself," she said. "Why couldn't you have just stopped at selling tickets to the ballet?"
She pulled some handcuffs out of her pocket and moved to arrest the man. But suddenly, he had a change of heart. Chauvinistikov snapped back into his power stance and said, "Get back to your section or I'll pump your guts full of salad and breadsticks!"
Suddenly, a waiter-in-training turned up to deliver a lemon dessert to the table directly behind Chauvinistikov. He innocently began gabbing to the couple at the table about the delicious lemon drop candy on top of the dish. "Lemon drop?!" Chauvinistikov roared in dismay. He turned on reflex and shot at the waiter. In that flash of a second, Ingrid made her move. She karate-chopped the gun from the mobster's grip and handcuffed him all in one swift motion.
"Happy New Year, you filthy animal," she whispered into his ear. The pair left amidst the cheers of the civilians.
As for the three of us, well, we collected our Andes mints and headed for the door. "I remember when every day was like that," Moonlight Goose mused.
"Fellas, I think it's about time we admit we're gettin' too old for this."
We walked in disquieted silence, when suddenly Buffalo Betty piped up,
"I vote Old Country Buffet next time!"
We shared one last laugh as we parted ways. There was a crossword puzzle that needed solvin' at home.
