The Bratwurst Kidnapping

Chapter 1

Karl Von Steppeon’s young bride, Liesel, disappeared. He wanted her recovered, all right, but at Wal-Mart prices.  

“Listen Mister private investigator, I don’t pay for effort, result only. No Liesel, nein, no pay, understand?” 

Pec LaNute, one of the partners, considered hanging up on Von Steppeon who was already making demands like your typical German martinet, but then the Krausmeyer offered to pay their expenses to Milwaukee. Pec was certain the German thought he could steal a deal from them simply because they were French. 

Pec and Roofy Contu, his partner, had never been to Milwaukee, and figured they had nothing to lose if only to sample some of that German Cuisine at Von Steppeon’s expense. 

When they arrived, they called Von Steppeon, who arranged to meet them the next day in the lounge on top the Pfister Hotel, located downtown, not far from their hotels.

* * * *

Roofy Contu hiked up the steep hill to the Pfister Hotel the following afternoon, but in the process developed a hamstring pull. He forged ahead anyway. When he walked into the lobby, he stopped in his tracks, taken aback by what he saw. 

The hotel’s lobby glittered with golden columns and crystal chandeliers. When they scouted the meeting location the night before, they came through the parking garage, which bypassed the main lobby altogether.  

He knew the place was plush, but had no idea just how plush. Astonished by its opulent architecture, he passed the foyer and walked across a rug so deep it retained one’s footprint in the passing. He felt much more at home at Maxie’s Dog House, where he just had a lunch of Brats and beans. This kind of elegance made him uncomfortable. A glance at his watch told him he had five minutes to spare, so he hunted up the men’s room on his own, not wanting to ask the fancy-pants working behind the desk.  

One too many Brats for lunch and the last seven-blocks of Wisconsin Avenue from the Milwaukee River to the hotel were brutal. Besides the tingling in his hamstring, the hike produced enough perspiration to drench his shirt and caused the excess to run down his back and within his pant legs. He worried the sweat would soak through his trousers and outline features unnecessary for public consumption. That wouldn’t do for their first meeting with the stiff-assed Krausemeyer, Von Steppeon.  

In the men’s room, he entered the large stall for the disabled with its extra space, higher commode and handrails. He pulled down his pants and grabbed a handful of toilet paper. When he bent to dry himself, he noticed the floor was wet and his trousers drooped toward an errant puddle. Bending over to reach his pants before they got soaked, he hit his head on a handrail. Stunned with pain, it took him several seconds to announce his displeasure. “Son-of-a-bitch, why me!” 

Now he had a bruised forehead along with a tingling hamstring.  

He repaired himself as best he could, raced to the bank of elevators and entered the first one to open its door. Confronted with his reflection in the elevator’s full-length mirror, he noticed the bruise hadn’t swollen beyond a slight red welt above his right eye.  

“Piss on it,” he murmured and turned his thoughts to their new client.  

Herr Von Steppeon’s wife, 25 years his junior, went missing 48 hours ago-last seen by the parking attendant at the Schneider’s Tea House, noon, on Monday.  

Herr Von Steppeon knew she’d made it home, because her new cream-colored Mercedes 300SD sat in its parking spot. But, no one had heard a word since: no ransom note, no phone call.  

Nothing.  

Karl Von Steppeon, a foreigner, still harbored wariness about how the police worked in this country, so he didn’t report it. In spite of the expressed love and concern for his young wife, he told Pec he didn’t want his new company to suffer the notoriety, especially in light of some local hard feelings about it replacing one of Milwaukee’s legendary breweries. Instead, he made some quiet inquiries, accessed the ConNute Agency’s website and called them.  

Pec and Roofy agreed if the negotiations didn’t go any better today than they had over the telephone, they would walk. 

The bell chimed the elevator’s arrival at the top floor. Roofy took one last look in the mirror, registering stout, rumpled, and bruised. It’ll have to do.  

As soon as he stepped off the elevator, Pec waved him to where he and Von Steppeon sat in front of the row of huge windows. Except for a small gold valence on top of each one, management had left the windows clear of any more fru-fru so the guests would have an uninterrupted view of the Lake to the east.

* * * *

Pec turned to Herr Von Steppeon and said, “Here’s the Roof, now.” 

“Der Roof, what is?” Karl Von Steppeon asked. 

“Oh, I’m sorry, Mister Von Steppeon. I’m referring to my partner, Roofy Contu.” He pointed toward Roofy. 

The German, no longer able to glance over his shoulder from too much gemuelichkeit, had to turn his entire upper body to look. “Mein Gott, he looks more like das untergeschoss then a Roof. What you call ach… a basement, ja? And, he’s not a very tidy one at that!” 

Pec readily admitted the contrast between him and Roofy was remarkable. Pec stood six-foot-two to Roofy’s five-nine, and was pencil thin and sartorially correct, from head to toe. With raven-black hair, slicked back, his lean face featured a slender nose accentuated by a delicate mustache, meticulously trimmed. He had a brilliant mind, but his temper often flared over things or events beyond his control.  

Another of Pec’s quirks, he never wore underwear, no T-shirt and no briefs. He found them too restrictive for his manliness. Roofy always teased him about the lack of underwear by threatening to pull his pants down in public. Also Pec loved birds to a fault. They were his best friends outside of Roofy. He maintained an aviary at home and always traveled with “Mon Cherie,” the African Grey, who could talk your socks off.  

Pec realized, with Roofy’s approach, he’d been out-maneuvered by chance or design.  The Krausemeyer sat with his back to the beautiful view of Lake Michigan and thought, only a German could opt for the functional over the beautiful.  By sitting facing inward, his features remained in the shadow while the glare of sunlight flooded past his darkened outline stage-lit Roofy and Pec on the opposite side of the table. They had to squint or lower their heads to get into his shadow in order to see any nuances in his facial expressions as he talked, a definite advantage when negotiating.  

Pec proceeded with the introductions, but not without sounding a bit testy for being caught off guard. “I’d like you to meet my partner, Mister Roofy Contu. Roofy this is Mister Karl Von Steppeon.” 

“Mister Von Steppeon, I’m pleased to meet you.” Roofy squinted to see Von Steppeon’s face and said, “My sympathy for your troubles. We hope and pray that we can quickly recover your wife.” 

“Mister Roof, no hope,” Von Steppeon shouted. He wagged his finger so hard in Roofy’s face the Krautmeister’s double chin wiggled. “As I said over the telephone, hope will not pay shit, verstanden, understand? No wife, no pay, nein!” 

Enraged, Roofy came out of his seat as if he’d been ordered to man a gun on the Maginot Line, knocking his chair over in the process.  

Pec stepped between them before Roofy could put words to his anger. Pec spoke first and fast. “Mister Von Steppeon, we need to talk. That isn’t how we work. No P.I.’s do! If you can find someone that does, I can assure you they’re not worth their weight in barley hops.  Now, you’re going to have to decide whether your wife’s return is more important than your purse. We’ll be reasonable.” He turned his back to Von Steppeon. Facing Roofy, he signaled him to keep his trap shut with a finger to his lips. Turning back, Pec could see Roofy’s physical response had shaken the German, and before Von Steppeon’s alarm could change to anger, Pec lowered his voice, his delivery, and smiled before he continued. “Now, let’s reach an understanding without the emotions, eh? Let me go over our standard contract.”  

In spite of Pec’s urging, Roofy grumbled. Pec picked out the word Nazi along with some other colorful adjectives. He turned and wheeled Roofy away from the table, towards the bar. He whispered out of the side of his mouth, “Go get a beer. If I can’t settle this, I’ll let you blitzkrieg this guy to your heart’s content. Don’t come back until I give you the high sign. Get acquainted with the blonde at the bar who’s been watching us. Get laid. I don’t care, but don’t come back here until I say so.” 

“All right, but this guy’s not right. No wife, no pay. Where the hell is he coming from?” 

“Get going,” Pec said.

* * * *

Still mumbling Roofy headed towards the bar. When he looked up as he drew closer to the bar, there she sat, blonde; oh, ever so blonde and a figure… Well, a figure to die for, except for broad shoulders. His tone changed, his countenance changed, and the wrinkles in his suit seemed to disappear. In those last couple of steps, within his mind, he went from stout, rumpled, and bruised to buff, pressed, though still bruised. He considered the latter, could come in handy as an icebreaker. 

“Hello, Schatzie, what’s your name?” 

“Samantha, Sam, to my friends, and you can forget that Schatzie shit.” She gave him her best smile. “And who are you?” 

“Well, Sam, I’m Roofy Contu, private eye, raconteur, and the guy you’re going to spend the night with.” He handed her his embossed card with glossy-black ink on white stock. It read:  

ConNute Agency, Private Investigators 

Roofy Contu - Partner 

“Ooh, really, I don’t see anywhere on this card where it says raconteur.” 

“Honey, a private eye is what I do; a raconteur is what I am.” He made an exaggerated move for emphasis by waving his left hand across the bottom of his chin. He loved the banter, and he liked a broad that could hold her own. 

“Just exactly what is a raconteur, Mister Roofy Contu? What kind of name is that anyway?” 

Affecting a kind of Mussolini smugness, Roofy jutted his chin out and replied, “Contu, well, Contu is French-Canadian, born and raised in Montreal.” With a flare of the same arm, he announced, “Viva Les Femmes, Cherie!” 

“Ooh, what’s that, French? Talk dirty to me,” she cooed and threw her head back in laughter. He expected a lilt, but got a hardy guffaw, one he couldn’t resist joining. It attracted the attention of the bartender who had been hanging back, waiting for the introductions to play out. 

Startled by its volume and tone, Roofy couldn’t help but notice the size of her bazooms and how her long blonde locks cascaded over her shoulders and hung down her back when she threw her head back to laugh. Pearly-white teeth, beautiful hair, blue eyes, and a hard body. I could go for a little of that. 

When the laughter dwindled, Roofy ordered. “Give her another of whatever she’s having, and I’ll take a Molson.” 

“No Molson, Bud, but we do carry Labatt’s Blue.”  

The bartender’s smirk irritated Roofy.  

What the hell? Is everybody a wise guy in Milwaukee or are they just anti-Canadian?  

Annoyed, he ordered the Labatt, no glass. Samantha ordered another Mondovi Merlot.  

The bartender winced. “You drank the last glass from the bottle I opened for the lunch hour. If I’m going to open another one this early in the afternoon, I’m going to have to charge you for the whole bottle, whether you drink it or not. Of course, if you don’t finish it, you can take the bottle with you when you leave.” 

“What the hell is that all about?” Roofy asked, slapping his hand down hard on the top of the bar.

The bartender slowly walked over and stood directly in front of Roofy. From the other side of the bar, he focused his eyes just above Roofy’s head, and in his best hauteur voice recited the house rule: “Sir, we never serve wine from a bottle that’s been open for over two hours. Our regular patrons know that. It’s one of the reasons they come back. The lunch crowd is gone, and the dinner hour is a good three to four hours from now. You two are probably new here, hmm?” 

What the hell, this guy is getting on my nerves, Roofy thought. “I never heard of such a thing.” 

Sam demurred. “What’s a matter, big raconteur, can’t afford it?” 

He would have exploded at the dig, but his intentions were prurient, lascivious even. Instead, he retorted, “Honey, affording it isn’t the question. The question is, are you worth it, eh?” 

“What’s the decision, Sherlock?” she asked chuckling. 

He gave her a lusty once over. Then he puffed up like a banty rooster, waggled his finger at the bottle top and said, “Give it some air, bartender.”  

“My, my, my, I’m impressed,” she replied.  

Roofy settled on the stool next to hers, while the bartender poured the drinks. He couldn’t help but stare at the long slender, supple gam exposed by the side vent on her yellow, chiffon-jacketed dress. 

When the bartender moved out of earshot, Sam turned to Roofy and inquired, “What’s with your pals, Herr General and tall, thin, and overdressed?” 

“You mean the Nazi and my partner?” He flipped a thumb their way and then thought, funny, that she picked-up on Von Steppeon’s accent. Either she had been eavesdropping, or they had been talking louder than he thought.  

“Yes,” she said, “but I suspect you better drop the Nazi bit, if you’re going to do business.”  

“Who said we were doing business?” 

“Well… I just assumed.” She squirmed in her seat and a slight tinge brushed her cheeks. “I mean, well isn’t it obvious?” 

“What’s obvious?” 

“You just told me you’re a private eye and from looking at the three of you, I can’t imagine you’re pals having an afternoon drink while discussing the social scene.” 

Curious, but he didn’t want to pursue it and take a chance at offending her. He had thoughts of a more personal nature. He pulled his seat closer and leaned in. “So, Sam, tell me about you. Why’s a beautiful woman like you sitting here all by your lonely?” 

“You know, for a private dick, you’re not very original,” she countered. 

“Oh, Schatzie, I can be, very original, that is. If you never had a private dick work on your… err, case, you need to give it a try. You know what us French are known for, eh?” 

“What, losing wars and self-indulgence?” 

He straightened, furrowed his brow and let his mouth drop wide open. “Jiminy Crickets, Eva! All that beauty and a sharp tongue too.”  

That got another hearty guffaw, so he leaned in even closer, lowered his voice to a sensual tone and whispered, “Whadda say we retire to the Eagle’s Nest tonight and see how high we can get?” 

She didn’t answer, so Roofy regrouped and softened the conversation to a let’s-be-friends angle. Just as he thought he was making headway, Pec called for him to join them at the elevators. 

“Son of a bitch,” Roofy mouthed silently and raised his hands in disgust. 

Pec waved him to join them at the elevators. Gathering his change, he swilled down his Labatt too fast, causing some to drip down his chin. He wiped it with his suit sleeve, grabbed the bottle of Merlot and said, “We’ll finish this tonight, sweetheart. Eagle Nest, eh? Give me your phone number.” 

“I’ve got your card, raconteur. I’ll call you.” 

Roofy knew better, but couldn’t think of a counter. He considered begging, but Pec saved him the embarrassment by hollering, “Roof, get over here! The elevator is coming.” 

Pec had a short fuse when negotiating, especially when it wasn’t going well. Roofy knew he had to give up the quest and get over there before the elevator arrived. He hustled over just in time to follow Pec and Von Steppeon into the golden cage. As the doors closed, he turned and saw the luscious thing slug down her entire glass of Merlot and slip off the barstool.

 He hoped he’d get another chance at her before returning to Toronto.

 The Bratwurst Kidnapping
by David Hayes

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