On to Chapter 11

Another good fighting wine is 'Melbourne Old-and-Yellow', which is particularly heavy, and should be used only for hand-to-hand combat.

Marty gasped. Shirley trumpeted her disbelief. The back beat on the porn channel crescendoed. Hargrove grunted as he finally wrenched the knife from his back. The itch he could never reach immediately returned. He briefly considered re-impaling himself but pocketed the bowie instead. ‘Never know when it might come in handy,’ he thought to himself.[1] Adjusting the lengthy blade in the built-in sheath under his right arm he silently thanked his tailor Stan for his foresight.

Gamely struggling to his feet he confronted his nemesis. “I think we can overlook your misguided meddling this time,” he managed. “If you’ll be on your way, I can apply my deductive powers to this new development and solve the case in time for a repast at a suitably spartan eatery.”

“Come, come Hargrove,” the suavely elegant detective chided. “Is that any way to treat a colleague? After all we’re both driven by the need to unravel mysteries and expose the truth.”

“…too devastated by their misfortunes to recognize you for the self-aggrandizing opportunist you are,” finished the enraged Marxist.

Rockefeller waved a hand dismissively as though brushing aside Hargrove’s piercingly accurate denunciation as mere political bluster. “You’ve come up in the world Hargrove. “The last time I saw you you were exhorting a bunch of dishevelled layabouts …”

“Our cause was just. Calgary will never be the same,” retorted Hargrove. And what of yourself? What shameless hucksterism are you using to dupe the noble workers of their hard-earned roubles? Telemarketing, infomercials?”

“Pah, the market’s saturated,” replied Rockefeller. “Litigation is the new wealth.” He appraised the opulent surroundings as he spoke. His practiced eye took in and evaluated the furnishings. His gaze then paused at Marty, lingered on Shirley, and stopped on the prostrate form writhing under the polished walking stick planted against its trachea.

“I observed Mr. Offant in his studio office. He became quite animated during a phone call. He immediately adjourned to a sound stage where he availed himself of the services of a makeup artist and absconded with the van you saw earlier. I understand the director of a movie involving a digitized dog is quite irate.”

Sync made gurgling sounds as he thrashed about and tried vainly to dislodge Rockefeller’s cane.

“Come on Marty,” said Hargrove. Let’s get Sync into a more comfortable position … for us anyway.” Together Hargrove and Marty wrestled Sync into a chair and quickly bound him using the luxurious, softer-than-down bed linen. Hargrove pointedly wiped his hands clean on his grimy, blood-splattered jacket.

“It seems as though you’ve lost another case Hargrove. Does this remind you of anything? Perhaps the fiasco in Jakarta?” taunted Rockefeller. Hargrove glared darkly at his hated rival. The jubilant shouts of the stockbrokers echoed nightmarishly in his memory.

Shirley bent over to re-examine Sync, presenting her spectacular behind. Rockefeller naively moved directly behind her. Hargrove and Marty stepped smartly out of the blast radius. A not-unexpected sound like a squeaky toy’s death rattle emanated from the pilot’s nether-cleavage. Rockefeller whisked a silk handkerchief from his breast pocket and calmly began polishing his designer spectacles. Marty and Hargrove, sweating and burping, looked on in astonishment.

Shirley looked over her shoulder and snuffed a dangling streamer of mucus back into a nostril. “Pardon me,” she purred.

“Nothing to it my dear. I was stricken with a rare tropical virus while on a case in Nome Alaska. Thoroughly destroyed my sense of smell but left me with a taste for tripe.” Marty’s head snapped up. He carefully removed the animal innards from a pocket and resumed petting them. He looked worriedly at the Capitalist Detective.

“You always had the damndest luck Rockefeller,” snarled Hargrove recalling how most of Rockefeller’s leg had been blown away in that frantic firefight in Riga. As he pitched to the ground the surrounding government soldiers had shot each other as their target abruptly disappeared. ‘Damn his prosthetics’, cursed Hargrove to himself.

He contemplated their captive. Hargrove had extensive first hand knowledge of the most fiendish of torture devices and techniques. His battered body bore the many traces where experts had plied their distasteful trade. Every man had his breaking point Hargrove knew. It was weak balm to his wounded pride. Armed with this knowledge he had always disclosed every scrap of information freely to every questioner he had confronted. More often than not, his eager admissions were suspected as subterfuge. Still it was much easier than mustering false bravado that could only prolong the agony. The trials he had faced left him with the tools to extract information from the most reluctant informant. Time in this instance was critical. What to use to break Sync quickly and utterly? He considered the options: Evisceration with the bowie - too messy. Drowning in the bathtub - too slow. Asphyxiation with an electrical cord - too risky. There must be something …

Sensing the predicament, Rockefeller smirked. “So Shirley is it?” he began. Captain Will turned to face him. “I’m very pleased to meet you. Hargrove usually does not associate with such lovely company. She tittered girlishly. The abdominal contractions had their desired effect. A leaking tire sound was followed by a noisome emission that had Sync trying desperately to stand while still secured to the chair. The attempt failed.

From a safe distance behind the counter of the kitchenette Hargrove addressed the captive. “Start talking Offant,” he demanded. We’re not leaving here until we get some answers. Tell us what we want to know or it’ll go badly for you.” Sync thrashed wildly against his bindings - to no avail.

“I deduce from your dishabille that until you had the misfortune to meet up with Hargrove you were a private pilot. And a damn fine one I expect,” Rockefeller added, gently nudging her in the ribs. The slight jostling dislodged a gaseous cloud from the erstwhile pilot’s innards.

The noxious haze diffracted the light from the windows in a twisted unsettling manner. Hargrove thought he could see a slight rainbow forming in the room. Fading from an unsavoury mocha to a rancid tan it mocked the jewel-like displays he had gazed at adoringly as he stood chest deep in the frigid backwaters of the Volga. Chanting slogans from Das Kapital he had seen the rainbow in the spray from the hammering waves as a promise of glory. Faced with this earthy apparition, Hargrove ducked further under cover.

Sync screamed as the first tendrils of sewery aroma reached him. “Had enough Offant or do we have to order up room service?” shouted Hargrove from cover. He was beginning to feel compassion for the man. Perhaps they had gone too far. There were limits. If time had allowed they could have brought the hammer and tongs to bear. But they didn’t have the luxury for such niceties. He steeled himself and stole a furtive peek at the victim.

The man’s head was thrown back. Veins stood out of his head. He screamed once more as the cloud fully settled over him. “OK you monsters I’ll talk. Just make it stop!”

Rockefeller proffered his arm which Captain Will took. She nonchalantly tossed the late Felix’s jacket on the bed with the practiced ease of one accustomed to discarding clothing in hotel rooms. There was no bounce. The bedsprings groaned. The unlikely couple stepped out onto the balcony. The air cleared somewhat. The earth-toned rainbow dissipated. Hargrove warily moved forward pausing intermittently, ready to retreat to purer climes. At length he reached Sync. The captive lolled in the chair, nearly indifferent to his surroundings.

Hargrove slapped his cheeks sharply, bringing him slightly out of his odour-induced torpor. “Start talking,” he commanded. You’ve got five minutes before I’m on the phone ordering up chili.” Sync blanched and flinched at the thought.

Using his hard-won knowledge of interrogation techniques he proceeded with a line of questioning guaranteed to produce information. “Why did you kill Ida? Why did you try to kill me and my friends? Who else have you killed recently? Would you rather kiss a moose or walk barefoot over broken Spice Girls albums?” It was best to throw in a red herring to keep the subject off balance. Hargrove was certain that Sync hadn’t killed anyone recently. He was simply too incompetent.

“Look, I didn’t kill Ida,” he protested. “I didn’t know about it until now.” His expression hardened. “But I would have if someone hadn’t beaten me to it. She needed a killing. The backstabbing …” Hargrove lifted a hand as if to beckon Shirley. Normally Hargrove didn’t condone torture, especially if it was him being tortured, but in this case he was willing to make exceptions. “She was a mole for Wapkaplet Sr!” blurted Sync. My spy at BFG Studios got word to me that that dried out old husk BFG was passing information to Candace. I knew you were working for her and figured you were tight with Ida.”

“I could turn this over to the authorities right now,” said Hargrove. “You look good for the murder. They’ve got motive. They can establish opportunity. I’m sure they’ll believe you ditched the gun.”

“It’s not me. I’m telling you!” Hargrove pondered. The man was clearly terrified. There were far too many spies in Hollywood. It was worse than those Politburo fund raisers. At least there you knew who had slipped a case of Pepsi into the silent auction and why broccoli had disappeared from the menu. Here you needed a score card to keep track of the players.

“Shirley is quite the artist, Sync,” whispered Hargrove conspiratorially. “Mustard gas has nothing on her after a couple tacos. Grown men crying, trying desperately to tell her anything they want.” Sync shot a terrified glance at the pilot. Rockefeller said something to softly to be heard. Shirley laughed, hawked and lobbed a green missile over the balcony railing from between her luscious, red, pouting lips.

“Men coughing up charred lung, clawing at their eyes, suicidal in an attempt at relief,” Hargrove fabricated. Sync winced. “But I’m not going to let her kill you Sync. It’s the scarring that’s worst. How many of your lavish Hollywood parties do you think you’ll be going to with one eye and most of your nose blasted away. Do you imagine you’ll be lingering over canapés with Hanks and Cruise with your flayed skin hanging in meaty strands …”

“OK! It’s Le Scorpion!” shouted Sync. Rockefeller’s head snapped around as he walked briskly to the captive and stared him hard in the eye.

He placed his walking stick against the throat of the Ultimate Pictures executive and cocked his chin up. “Tell me everything you can about Le Scorpion,” he said quietly. “Divulge everything immediately. Do not try to leave anything out. Start with the time you first met Le Scorpion.”

Sync struggled weakly against his bonds. Rockefeller pressed on the walking stick, cutting off Sync’s attempts to gulp in unfetid air. “I do not have my good friend’s qualms about torture. Tell me what I want to know and you may live another to produce the vapid swill you call blockbusters.”

“I don’t really know anything. I’ve only heard the voice on the phone. I get the inside scoop on what’s going on over at BFG and I transfer the money to an account. That’s all,” protested Sync.

“Tang,” Sync said. “Gunter Tang.” Coming from Sync’s reluctant tongue the name sounded like the final nail going into a coffin – and a dark, heavy German breakfast beverage. Hargrove struggled to contained his excitement. Tang. Infamous financier and sports franchise mogul. Owner of most of the western US sports teams. The opportunity to match wits and shots with Le Scorpion and take down one of the great capitalist icons at the same time was a dream come true.

“You’ll take us to him now,” declared Rockefeller. The statement left no room for discussion.

Together Marty and Hargrove freed Sync from the chair and re-secured his hands behind them. Marty shrugged into the late special effects expert’s jacket and wavered slightly under its crushing weight. With Rockefeller escorting Shirley ahead of them they proceeded down the hallway toward the elevator. Hargrove sank sickeningly into the deep, plush carpet and consoled himself with fond recollections of the Karl Marx Camp for Proletarian Youth. The heroic 5 am hikes - scrambling up shale outcroppings and fighting barehanded through brambles, to be jubilantly welcomed by the base camp commandant and treated to a bowl of cold gruel. Those were the days.

Two elevators arrive at the same time. As Shirley and Rockefeller moved toward one, the other three men chorused “We’ll take this one,” and charged into the empty car. The instant the doors opened, Hargrove led the way across the marble lobby floor. He glared at the corporately-produced sculpture as he made a bee line toward the front doors. Rockefeller and Shirley arrived as Hargrove was explaining to the doorman that no indeed, he did not require to have a valet hailed. As he was about to launch into the first stanza of We The Heroic Toilers a car pulled up.

“This way,” said Rockefeller as he escorted Shirley toward the open passenger door. Hargrove was aghast. Certainly they required transportation, even private transportation, particularly when you were moving a prisoner, was sometimes necessary. But the gleaming silver Bentley Arnage was humiliating. How could he continue the struggle against decadent excess when cruising smoothly toward a confrontation in this extravagant icon of imperialist affluence? If Le Scorpion ever found out he’d never hear the end of it. Lenin’s calloused elbows! The ignominy!

Suddenly there was an explosion across the parking lot. A lime green van erupted into flame, taking out several neighbouring cars, all of expensive, foreign make. Hargrove was sufficiently buoyed to hustle Marty and Sync into the cavernous back seat. Rockefeller tipped the valet $50, slid behind the wheel and they smoothly accelerated away from the flaming wreckage and screaming hotel guests.

With Sync’s reluctant directions they navigated quickly through the city. Hargrove could see Rockefeller examining him in the rear view mirror. Finally he said “You must be feeling lucky to challenge Le Scorpion twice in one lifetime Hargrove.”

“It’s always irked you that I lived to tell the tale while you’ve never had the chance. Clearly an opponent so elusive and secretive is too much for your meagre deductive abilities. I’ve merely been waiting for the chance to track down and bring the assassin to justice.”

“You haven’t a clue where to begin old man. I happen to know where Le Scorpion has been seen while in Hollywood. I even have a clue as to who his other employers are,” he said casting a look at Sync. Hargrove kept his thoughts to himself. He already had Wapkaplet Jr. rotting in jail for hiring the assassin.

Sync led them to a downtown highrise office building. The sunset tinted the name of the building a lurid red "Tran Omnipresent Kaleidoscopic Enterprises". “OK. This guy’s no-nonsense," instructed Sync. "So keep your hands where he can see them, don’t make any sudden movements, and for God’s sake do not mention any Canadian sports teams.”

Sync paused at the front entrance and looked into the security camera over the door. The lock clicked and the group entered the lobby. The large, echoing space was utterly dark. Shadows seemed to move of their own volition in far corners. Marty made a move to investigate. He proffered his treasured handful of tripe. Hargrove kicked him sharply in the shin curtailing another guttural incantation. Abruptly an elevator door opened casting a path of light through the darkness. They entered the car. Marty, Hargrove and Sync shared worried glances until they came to a stop on the door opened without gastrointestinal incident.

They moved into the cavernous office. Mr. Tang owner of most of the western US sports teams including the LA Lakers, LA Dodgers, Oakland Raiders and San Francisco 49ers greeted them from behind a huge desk. His slatted eyes seemed to take them all in and weigh them in a single glance. On his brown, bald pate he sported an Oktoberfest hat with a jaunty feather in the band. The loose sleeve of his kimono waved as he beckoned. A Mongol in a dark suit towered behind Tang like a menacing wall hanging. His slab-like hands were clasped loosely in front of him. "Please join us. I am Gunter Tang. This is Horace my … facilitator."

"Oh spare me the theatrics Hargrove," said Rockefeller. "I know all about your little tête-à-tête with BFG. You really should be more circumspect. Let me handle this. You are hardly equipped to address a worthy personage such as Mr. Tang. You're likely to start shooting off at the mouth about liberating the masses and such drivel. Untie Sync and keep an eye on him."

Hargrove could feel his hands tightening around Tang's neck, and Rockefeller's neck and ... perhaps it would be better for Rockefeller to begin the discussion with the power-besotted corporatist pig. "I'm giving you five minutes to get some answers," he warned. "Then I'm taking over."

Rockefeller gently disengaged his from Shirley and glided forward. "Mr. Tang. I am Rockefeller the Capitalist Detective. I apologize profusely for this unannounced visit, but there are matters of life and death to discuss. These matters could also dramatically influence short-term business dealings."

"I'm always pleased to discuss business," replied Tang smoothly. "Life and death you say. How dramatic. I do hope no one has been hurt." The smooth face broke into a disarming grin, but the eyes remained cold and hard.

"Unfortunately there has been at least one casualty." A young woman, Ida Appel has been shot to death."

"How awful," responded Tang. Hargrove felt all the warmth of his covert Icelandic missions in the man's voice.

"I told them you knew Ida," blurted Sync. Horace stepped forward and smashed Sync to his knees with one enormous. blow to the neck. An instant later he was back beside the desk as though nothing had happened.

"Kindly do not interrupt," chided Tang. He sighed. "Yes I knew Ida. I heard of her untimely demise earlier this evening. Tragic. She was so young and full of promise. With her mercenary sensibility she could have become a successful producer."

"I'll second that," commented Sync ill-advisedly. Again Horace bludgeoned the hapless studio executive to the floor and added a couple sharp kicks to the ribs for good measure. Sync slowly and painfully picked himself off the floor.

Hargrove decided that Rockefeller had wasted enough time. To truly crack this case, he would accomplish more with his Webley than with mere words.[2]

"Listen Tang, I was on a case to find Ida," he snarled. "I found her alright but she was leaking like a US Navy sub. I've got to find out who did it and why."

“We understand that a shrewd business man like yourself would not consort with murderers and hooligans,” soothed Rockefeller. Hargrove cringed as Horace subtly shifted his weight. “However,” the Capitalist Detective hurried on “we are certain that you and our party could share information to our mutual benefit.”

“Let me be blunt Mr. Rockefeller.” Tang stood up and moved around the desk. His unbelted kimono swirled around his ankles exposing his tastefully embroidered lederhosen. “Many gullible competitors see me as just a sports franchise magnate. The truth is that I am actually in the business of business. I intend to infiltrate every country, every city and every mind.”

“Yes, sports franchises are just the vehicle. The fastest way to reach the most people. Endorsements, advertising, product recognition – no other industry is as invasive.”

“Quite right. One sector may rise or fall overnight. TOKE is really the umbrella organization. I actually own newspapers, clothing manufacturing corporations, and most recently, movie studios. When someone attends a sporting event, reads a paper, wears a hat or watches a movie, chances are they’re having a TOKE.”

“An excellent question. Ach du Leiber! You are astute detectives. Of course, I can use your assistance. I represent certain parties who oppose an international consortium which will wrest control of the movie industry and turn it into giant propaganda machine.

Hargrove recalled the collection of international leaders at the BFG offices. “In other instances this would not be a problem,” continued Tang. However, their propaganda is not my propaganda. And a monopoly I do not control is a monopoly to be broken.”

“The propaganda has already begun,” said Hargrove. “Think about it. Crossroads, Rollerball, American Pie. The political ramifications are incalculable.” Hargrove was deeply troubled by the concessions he had made and was about to make. The flight on a luxury corporate jet, the ride in the Bentley and now perhaps assisting this bourgeois exploiter of the underclass, this running dog lackey slave to the dollar. His hand moved toward his Webley. By Lenin’s wrinkled eyelids, it was time to bring this to a head. Horace had somehow silently crossed the distance and now loomed over Hargrove. The Marxist Detective slowly withdrew his hand and smiled engagingly at the facilitator. The smile was not reciprocated.

"We're also here to discuss a contractor currently in the employ of Mr. Offant. This person prizes their anonymity and goes only by the name 'Le Scorpion'," interjected Rockefeller.

Tang stiffened slightly. "Mein Gott!" he exclaimed. "I have seen the handiwork of this person. We had an agent in place to observe the situation at BFG, but the body was returned in pieces. Each piece was signed ‘Le Scorpion’. He turned to glare at Sync. “How could you consort with such a nefarious individual?”

“But boss, you told me to …” Sync’s rejoinder was cut short by another brief discussion with Horace.

“I feel Mr. Offant that you can no longer be trusted. You are the son of our competitor’s sworn enemy but you have been duped by a mole. Perhaps a lengthy vacation - a few months should suffice.”

Sync slowly rose to his feet rubbing his neck. “I’ll lose all my contacts,” he protested. In this town a week is too long to be away. You’re killing my career! For all the chance I have to make another movie, I may as well go join the Eskimos!” There was a shocked silence. All eyes slowly focused on Sync. Marty gave the tripe a furtive lick. Shirley exhaled sharply from both ends and wiped her running nose with the back of her hand. Sync had uttered a reference to the venerable CFL team from Edmonton, as of the last geographic survey, still in Canada.

Tran’s face flashed from the burnished bronze of his Asian origins to the strident crimson of a Maoist curio shop. “Aiyah!” shouted Tran. “Töten Sie ihn! Kill him Horace!”

Sync ran for the door, snatching away Rockefeller’s cane on the way. Horace suddenly materialized in front of him. He backed slowly away and then turned to face Hargrove. “It’s you I’m after. You’re working for Candace, so you’re working for Wapkaplet. You’ve torpedoed my career. I may be going down, but I’m taking you with me!” He charged at the Marxist Detective. Hargrove groped feverishly for his trusty Webley. As he brought it to bear, Sync brought the heavy walking stick down across Hargrove’s wrist. Hargrove felt the bones in the joint go and let out a yell that would have humiliated his instructors in Stoicism class.[3] The pain shot past ‘New Jehovah’s Witness Neighbours’, peaked at ‘Dead Man’s Click’ and levelled off at ‘I Never Touch the Stuff Officer’. The heavy revolver spun across the floor.

Sync kept up the attack, swinging the stick for all he was worth. He aimed a vicious slash at Hargrove’s head. The detective dove and felt an unfamiliar lump as he rolled clear. He reached into his jacket and pulled the bowie free. “The only blood that blade will ever see is yours!” taunted Sync. He came at Hargrove with an angle-one strike. The detective took a glancing blow to the shoulder and missed the counter cut. Sync returned with an angle-three slash. Hargrove parried and aimed an angle-seven stab at Sync. The soon-to-be-former studio executive blocked the strike, dropped into a crouch and fired a lethal thrust at Hargrove’s exposed midsection. Hargrove managed to catch the stick with a hanging block. Using Sync’s momentum against him he lunged forward, driving the point of the heavy blade into Sync’s abdomen. He turned the knife and drove the point down into the pelvis, cratering his adversary.

Hargrove stepped back from the slowly writhing form. In a matter of hours he had shot a film icon extra, demolished several luxury cars and now killed a corporate exploiter of the masses with his own weapon. A long day, but a very rewarding day.

“Well done Mr. Hargrove,” applauded Tran. “I can see you’re the man to penetrate the BFG organization, infiltrate the international group, kill Le Scorpion and expose BFG’s true intentions.” Hargrove was no longer conflicted. If this capitalist oppressor was corrupt enough to support a stalwart Marxist like himself in his struggle against corporate tyranny, he would not object. The struggle was all. The ends most definitely did justify the means.

Hargrove cradled his injured arm and gestured with his head at the jacket Marty uncomfortably wore. “We actually already have a man inside,” he said.

Will our heroes rescue Moxie? Will Hargrove confront Candace and uncover her duplicity? Is social collectivism ironically the purest form of democracy?

[1] Foreshadowing – the hallmark of fine literature

[2] Allusion – another hallmark of fine literature

[3] The Hargrove Fracture Sounding Scale was outlawed repeatedly by the Marxist Stoic League but with its seemingly endless applications, it has thrived to this day.