Snapshots: Cardigan and the Cuban Miss Crisis

damn.

my investigation was going nowhere fast, like a chess club president at a cheerleader convention.  i had been hired by a cuban refugee in miami to find his 21-year old daughter, yelina garcia.  she left her father a note saying sayonara, papa.  or maybe it was adios.  at any rate, she left for san francisco two months ago and hadn't been heard from since.  he wanted to know that she was safe, and wanted her to come home.

i asked if he had contacted the police; he dodged the question.  since there was no need to dodge the answer, i told him my fee and instructed him to send it to my paypal account.

three days into the investigation and i had zilch.  bupkis.  nulo.  ms. garcia had not entered the bay area by bus, train, or plane, and her father said she didn't have a car.  long-distance inquiries back to miami had not uncovered a friend who was also missing.  so, either she never arrived, or arrived under another name, or arrived with an as yet unknown acquaintance.  or walked.  or swam.   to make matters worse, she had emptied her bank account before leaving miami.

the information age made finding missing persons easier than ever, but people who used cash and left no paper trail were the bane of my profession.

bastards.  don't they know i have bills to pay?

i was running out of time on this case.  if i didn't uncover something soon, señor garcia was going to stop subsidizing my lavish lifestyle.  there wasn't a large cuban population in the city, but there was a cuban club in the mission district called Club Ernesto that served a mean mojito.  the first rule in private detection was go with your gut, especially if it leads you to alcohol.

Club Ernesto was an homage to hemingway's time in cuba.  straw hats, cigars, and classic american cars were celebrated in photos on the wall while sluggish ceiling fans circled overhead.  it was hot and steamy inside.  it sure as hell didn't feel like northern california in here.  rivulets of sweat were racing down my back, but i didn't care about the winner.  i went to the bar and ordered a mojito. 

a few minutes later, i took my second mojito and sat down at a table on the far side of the club, where i could see everything.  there was a small dance floor, crowded with couples, triples, and even singles swaying sensuously to a smoky song called guateque campesino. 

"enjoying the view?" 

i turned to my right.  her neckline was as low as her voice, and just as enticing.

"i am now," i told her.  "it would be much improved if you had a drink in your hand, though."

she signaled for a waitress as she took the chair across from me.

"mojito.  and he'll need another one, too."

the waitress nodded and left us in silent study of one another's attributes.  

"so, handsome.  do you dance?"

i shook my head.  "my body isn't very supple, i'm afraid."

"i'm sure it's good for something else, then," she said as the waitress delivered their drinks.  "what brings you here if not the dancing?"

"i'm looking for a girl."

she clinked her glass against mine.  "congratulations.  you found one."

i certainly had, and a fine specimen at that.  however, i was on the clock and had to spoil the moment.  "a specific girl, actually.  yelina garcia, recently of miami.  do you know her?"

she took a leisurely sip from her drink.  too leisurely.  "what do you want with yelina?"

jackpot.  she knew her.  hell, maybe she even was her.  was my luck that good?

"nobody has heard from her since she left miami and her father is worried.  is she safe?"

she spun the gold and silver bangles around her lovely brown wrist, refusing now to meet my eyes.  that made me sad.  i could have happily stared into those coca-cola eyes all night.

"you a cop?"

"nope.  private investigator."  i tapped my finger on the table.  "is yelina in trouble?"

"not in san francisco, she isn't.  you can tell her father that she is safe, but she's not coming home."

my job was done.  i had earned my money and could walk away now, find some air conditioning, and think about how to spend it.  i kept going, though.

"is there trouble in miami?  i found her pretty easily, without even a photo to go on.  her father, at the very least, knows that she's in san francisco.  others probably do, too."

"the only person yelina has trouble with is her father, and he knows she can cause him more trouble than he can cause her.  tell him she'll stay out of his life if he stays out of hers."

i nodded.  "okay, then.  business is over, let's get back to pleasure."

she stood.  "no, i don't think so." 

i watched her walk away.  as a consolation prize, it wasn't bad.  the lady knew how to walk.  still, it was only a consolation prize.

damn.

Squash Casserole

i had some terrific squash casserole at the Ajax Diner in oxford, mississippi the other day, and i decided to try to recreate it.  what i liked about it is that it's simple and savory.  i've had squash casseroles before that were kind of sweet, or full of cheddar cheese that overwhelmed the delicate squash, or baked with eggs and rather quiche-like in texture.  i sliced up some onion & yellow crookneck squash and braised them in butter, salt, and pepper over low heat for about 15 minutes.  i stirred in some panko breadcrumbs, some thyme, and a little ground coriander and then poured it into a casserole to bake.  after about 15 minutes, i poured some more panko bread crumbs into a bowl with melted butter, added some salt, a dash of onion & garlic powders, and a little bit of finely grated parmesan and sprinkled it over the top of the squash and placed it back under the broiler for a few minutes until golden brown.  the result?  fabulous. exactly what i was after.  (apologize for the photo.  it came out looking more like peach cobbler!)

Snapshots: Burkie In Your Pocket

there are a number of characters that haven't had any snapshots, yet.  one of them is yours truly.  i'm gonna tell you a story about my criminal past.

wait, burkie had a criminal past?!  i know, you're shocked.  or disappointed.  or possibly impressed.

it all started during my second year of college, either fall of 1981 or spring of 1982.  i know it was then because i remember my roommate and me in our apartment on riverside drive in austin, honing the craft of our new career.

let me tell you a little about my roommate, roy (his middle name was dale and i suspected that he was named after roy rogers & dale evans, though he always denied it).  roy was one those guys who always wanted to be an accountant.  actually, he always wanted a nice salary but decided early on that majoring in accounting was the best way to pursue that goal.  i'll tell you this, roy needed the money.  he had the worst car ever.  it was a 2-door chevy vega hatchback.  the vega, if you're not familiar with that model, was a crappy car at best.

and roy's vega?  it was never at best.  i can't tell you how many times we'd have to push it down the street to build up enough speed so that one of us could jump into the driver's seat, put it in gear, and pop the clutch in order to get the engine started (does anybody do this anymore?).  there were also times when that didn't work and we needed to get his car home, but he couldn't afford to have it towed.  at those times, we'd call another friend of ours to come help us do a 3-man tow job.  i guess i shouldn't say tow, since we actually pushed the car home.  here's how it worked: roy would be in the driver's seat of his vega, and i would drive up behind him in my plymouth gold duster (unlike the vega, the gold duster was a fantastic car) and stop about a foot short.  then our other friend had the unenviable job of sitting on the hood of my car and placing his feet on roy's car.  i would then start driving and, using the third guy's feet (because bumper-to-bumper action could damage both cars), roy's car would be pushed along in front of me and roy would steer us home.  once there, he'd spend a couple of days banging on it and, eventually, through sheer doggedness and a little baling wire and duct tape (he regularly used these items in his automotive repair activities, i kid you not), he'd get that ridiculous car running again for a little while.  (later that year,  roy would finally give up and have the vega committed to a scrap heap.  god love him, he went and purchased an even more pathetic vehicle, the plymouth arrow pickup truck).

that was roy's situation.  what you need to understand about my situation at that time is that i was changing my major every semester without any clue as to what i wanted to do when i grew up.  never did.  not sure i do now, come to that.

so, one night, we watched a movie on TV called Harry In Your Pocket.  you've probably never heard of this movie; it wasn't that popular.  roy and i, however, were greatly inspired.  you see, Harry In Your Pocket was a movie about pickpockets.  it taught you how to do it, and how to work as a team when picking pockets.  it was so cool, and it starred james coburn, who was like the living embodiment of cool.  we realized that by becoming professional pickpockets, roy would have plenty of money; i would have a career; and we'd both be cool (which, i confess, neither of us were regularly accused of being.  maybe one day i'll tell you the story of our failed attempt to try marijuana).

we started that night.  we each put on a jacket, placed our wallets in the inside pocket, and started practicing.  we'd walk toward each other, accidentally bump, and one of us would try to steal the other's wallet.  then, we'd place the wallet in the back pocket of our jeans (not the pocket holding the Skoal, of course) and practice lifting it from there without the other realizing it.  most fun of all, we'd each carry a newspaper.  the one who picked the wallet would place it inside the fold of his newspaper and then, walking by the other, nonchalantly slide the wallet from his newspaper to the other's newspaper.  that way, you see, the one who had just picked the pocket is no longer holding the evidence in case the victim realizes he's just been robbed and sends a cop after the guy who bumped into him.  cool, no?

well, when james coburn does it, it's really cool.  when it's two college guys spending their friday and saturday nights doing this because they don't know how to get high and they don't have girlfriends, it's just...sad.  fortunately, we were terrible at it.  the newspaper trick, we could manage that, but a dead man would know we were trying to pick his pocket.  roy would never be able to steal enough even to buy another retread tire (and he bought a lot of them), and my career as a pickpocket would have been even shorter than my career as a door-to-door bible salesman.  instead, roy started painting people's houses after class and on the weekends, and i got a part-time job at the frame shop in the mall.

i haven't seen roy in decades.  i hope he's well.  and not in jail.