The Case of the Missing

Bubble Gum Card

A Jarvis Mann Detective

Short Story

By

R Weir

Copyright © R Weir 2014

The right of R Weir to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved; no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise without the prior written permission of the Publisher. This book may not be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise disposed of by way of trade in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published, without the prior written consent of the Publisher. No responsibility for loss occasioned to any person or corporate body acting or refraining to act as a result of reading material in this book can be accepted by the Publisher, by the Author, or by the employer(s) of the Author. Certain images copyright.

R Weir. The Case of the Missing Bubble Gum Card.

With love to my

wife and daughter

This short story is

where the journey begins

The Case…

I drove westward on Evans Street enjoying the beauty of the day, the driver's door window of my 1969 Mustang Boss 302 cracked slightly open. The afternoon sun filled the western sky and warmed me through the marred windshield. Despite what most people outside of Denver think, winter is not always freezing cold with snow up to your waist. On the contrary, this February day gave us sun with temperatures nearing 60 degrees. A light wind in the crisp air stirred the city’s fresh odor. I missed my turn while admiring the backside of a lovely woman walking down the street. It had been worth the extra drive, for it really was one glorious behind.

Making a left turn onto Broadway once the light had changed, I turned left again a block later down Warren past Lincoln and left into the alleyway. Dodging trash dumpsters, I drove slowly down the already narrow backstreet. Pulling into my parking space on a small deserted paved lot which faced Evans, I shut off the engine.

The building I lived in was an older raised dual level. I've rented the lower half for several years now. The bland gray color, with brown wood slats surrounding the outer middle third of the building’s main body, didn’t add much ambiance to the area. The neighborhood stood reasonably quiet, while at times adventurous. Walking the streets at night was not advised, and never should be done alone, though one might say that about most neighborhoods these days. The area had a good mix of cultures, with all races represented. No cushy suburb for me, but a real city with real city people and problems, the kind of environment I'd always wanted to live in.

My home served as a place of business too. A cheap plastic white placard with deep blue lettering anchored to the brick wall read “MANN PRIVATE INVESTIGATOR.” The mere words made one tremble with fear, though the sign itself was a letdown. One day I hoped to have a large luminous one, with lots of flashing lights. The more colors the better. Unfortunately, the bank account dictates those dreams of seeing my name in neon.

In thirty-five plus years of life, I've been doing P.I. work for the last ten, seven of which in my own practice. The glamour of the job had worn off after the first domestic case. The woman who had hired me took the bad news about her husband's infidelity out on me with the coffee cup she held in her hand. The scalding hot liquid had certainly burned the skin, while the stain from the horrid mud ruined my favorite Men’s Wearhouse gray sport coat, tarnishing my attempted G.Q. image. Her itemized bill not only included the cost of the jacket, but the cup as well.

Getting out of the Mustang, I noticed him; the young lad sat just inside the recessed doorway. To describe him as a boy would have been unfair, though he was not quite a man either. He appeared to be fifteen, possibly sixteen years old. My detective eyes deduced that he stood about 5’7” and around 150 plus pounds with a solid build of an athlete. Dressed in blue jeans, LeBron James T-shirt and sneakers, the young African-American gave a cautious smile. He appeared to be a bit nervous.

"Good afternoon," I said cordially. "Waiting for someone?"

"Do you work here?" he asked.

"Do you need a trim?" I said, referring to my upstairs neighbor, the hair designer business which was closed on Sunday and Monday.

"No," he said pointing at the sign.

"Beautiful, wouldn’t you say?" I remarked. "Draws in the clients from miles around!" I wasn’t trying to be snarky; just my usual banter with people.

"Are you a Private Detective?"

I found it difficult to believe he couldn't tell. My appearance didn't come off as tough enough for the line of work. Most people think we wear leather from head to toe. I wore an old brown leather jacket on my fit torso, which was all the cowhide I could afford besides my tennis shoes. Black jeans and a gray sweatshirt didn't ideally give me that macho tough guy look. With my sarcastic sense of humor he probably thought I did standup comedy, which is a common mistake many folks made.

"When there's Private Detective work to do," I replied.

"You look different than the actors on television."

"Just don't tell my mother. She wanted me to be a doctor. I wore a stethoscope around my neck when she used to come to visit." Not even a smile crossed his face. The humor seemed lost on him.

"I hoped you’d be available to hire as I have something I need your help finding."

I looked him over carefully. He seemed like a polite and sincere person. I was currently in between cases, which is normal if the truth be known. It wouldn't hurt to hear what he had to say. The possibility of making money always got my attention.

"Come on inside. You look cold without a jacket. It's warm out, but not that warm."

Two doors to choose from either up or down. Up a few stairs you get the hair designer’s entrance. Down some steps on the lower half of the building took us to where I lived and conducted my business. The big time detective agencies have large fancy buildings, with lobbies, elevators, and secretaries. I had a secretary for about two weeks once, an old girlfriend who helped me out. Unfortunately she found out I slept with another woman and quit on me. For some reason she never used me as a reference. Today my only secretary turned out to be a fifty dollar digital answering machine. It was always on time, polite to the customers, and couldn’t care less if you didn't feel like talking after sex. Though the black box certainly wouldn’t look or smell as lovely and it was probably mighty hard to curl up with at night. Too bad they aren't made with hourglass figures or they’d be enjoyable to stare at.

The little red light wasn’t flashing, which meant no one wanted my services. The LED would last forever, for it rarely blinked. Apparently the snappy greeting scared people off before they spoke. A masterfully designed website would be cool, while my Yellow Pages advertisement should be larger than one line but cost remained an object. I could have politely turned the lad down. With nothing of importance going on today, I'd hear him out and see if he'd surprise me with the case of the century.

"I'm Jarvis Mann," I proclaimed. "Have a seat."

He sat in one of the stiff wood seats reserved for clients. No fancy furniture in my living room, which also served as my office. Just an old desk and two chairs, both made of pine, a pair of white metal four drawer filing cabinets, and a worn brown sofa. Papers covered the top of the desk, neatly piled for easy reference, a LCD Monitor and keyboard to one side attached to a desktop computer sitting underneath on the floor. Behind my desk I sat in a chair I'd slept in on many occasion. The cushy high back chocolate brown leather rocked and swiveled with the best of them. The fancy agencies had this type of quality furniture for all to sit in. But my rates were better.

"I feel strange asking you for help," the lad said, his eyes focused on the polished natural wood floor.

"Why don't you tell me your name first?"

"Dennis Gash."

After hearing the name I had to ask. "Do you play football Dennis?"

"I'm a running back in high school. How did you know?"

"A wild guess." With a name like Gash one had to play football. John Madden would love this guy. Some mud, blood, and sweat would be the clincher.

"I'm a sophomore so I didn't play much this year. Coach says if I grow some I might be a starter in the future. I'm extremely fast, but need to get stronger. With a little work I hope to be like my favorite running back Adrian Peterson."

Now Adrian Peterson was the best running back in the NFL, a back that came along once in a generation like Jim Brown. Dennis was smaller in size so it would be challenging for him to reach that stature. But smaller backs can be great too, like my personal favorite Barry Sanders. Sometimes heart is more important than size.

"So Dennis what can I help you with?" A question the expensive agencies would ask. Where did these brainstorms come from!

"Something valuable of mine was stolen and I'd like you to help me find it."

"Tell me?" More snappy questions. I had a million of them.

"You’re going to laugh, but it's valuable to me. Someone stole a baseball card of mine."

Holding back the laughter I would hear him out. No, not the case of the century.

"I can tell you’re not interested," said Dennis. "I should go." He started to rise but I waved for him to sit.

"I must say that it's not every day someone comes in and asks me to find a bubble gum card."

"Not just any old bubble gum card. This one is worth quite a bit of money, almost twelve hundred and fifty dollars. If my dad found out he'd kill me."

From the sincere look on the lad's face, one would only guess the punishment he'd have in store. Still I wasn't convinced I could provide assistance.

"Dennis, are you sure you didn't lose or misplace it somewhere?"

"I had the card yesterday morning, carrying it to church in my coat pocket to show some friends. We placed it in penny sleeves and a top loader for protection, with a small sticker on the back bearing my name and address. Later we played around outside while our parents talked inside. I'd forgotten all about the card until I returned home. That's when I realized the card was missing."

"So maybe it fell out of your pocket and is sitting in the back-seat of your car. Did you drive to church?"

"No, we always walk since it’s close to home."

"So it fell out somewhere between home and church. Someone would likely find and keep the card. I'd say chances of locating it are slim. Did you check with the church to see if someone turned it in?"

"I did right away and they didn't have it. That's when I remembered passing your house and noticing your sign. I thought maybe…"

Wow the plain banner worked. Time to save some money and get rid of the wimpy yellow pages advertisement.

"Your parents homeowners insurance would probably cover the loss."

"No. I can't tell my parents. Father would be angry and I don't want to disappoint him. He gave me the card when I was about seven. He said he trusted me to take care of it, like his dad trusted him. Continue to hold onto it he said and in time it would be worth a great deal of money."

Twelve hundred and fifty dollars was a significant amount of money to someone his age. Hell that was a lot of dinero to me! Still I doubted the chances of finding the card. I put my P.I. mind to work. In seconds I came up with the most crucial question of the day.

"How much money do you have?"

"I have about seventy-five dollars in a savings account."

"Do you realize what I charge per hour?" Lately that had been zero.

"No."

I told him my rate and I think he gasped. “I could work a couple of days and eat up the value of that card plus your savings account and still not track it down."

"I have other cards that are worth some money. Not as much as this one, but still with value. Please help me!"

The magic word broke down my resistance. I wasn't sure there was anything to do to help, but I had nothing planned this afternoon and no good sports games were on TV. Time to negotiate a deal.

"Sometimes I do jobs for insurance companies for a finder’s fee. Usually it pays between ten and twenty percent of the value of the merchandise. So here's what I'll do. I go around with you this afternoon and ask about the card. You can pay me in value with another card from your collection if it turns up, something that adds up to ten to twenty percent of the value. We don’t find it, then you owe me nothing. But you must tell your father you lost it."

"But he'll be mad at me."

"I'll go in and help you explain. That's the deal. Take it or leave it.” Pausing for his reaction, I saw the realization on his face. “I'd say that's pretty fair, wouldn't you?"

Dennis nodded his head. This was his only hope. I didn't figure we'd find the card, but at least he would own up to his father like a man, which is never easy for someone his age. I remembered that horrible feeling of admitting fault to my dad, and the anticipation of the oncoming punishment and the fear I felt.

"So what card did you lose?" More high-tech questions.

"A Topps Ernie Banks rookie card."

"You’re a Chicago Cubs fan I gather."

"Yea. My dad and his dad too. Grandpa got the card in 1954. He bought others as well, but Ernie was his favorite. Even after he'd given away, thrown away, or lost many others in his collection, he cherished Ernie the most. He found out how much the card was worth and protected it so it wouldn't deteriorate. Condition of the card is where its main value is judged and this one is near mint. Its value increases every year I keep the card. Grandpa told me he paid about ten cents for the whole pack. A pretty hefty increase in market price if you ask me."

"I'll say. I wish the stock in my business had appreciated that much through the years. The certificates are only good for placemats right now."

More wit lost on Dennis. Little did he know my jokes would someday be worth more than the Ernie Banks card. Good thing they were currently free of charge.

"Okay let's get started. We'll follow the path you took to church, and talk to some of your friends who joined you that day. Maybe they can shed some light on what may have happened."

"Are you going to carry a gun with you?"

The stigma of television. I suppose TV Private Eye's wore their guns in the shower.

"Do you think we'll need a gun?"

"I'm not sure."

"Maybe if I flash a .38 at your friends they'll talk, tell us what we need to know."

"We don’t need to do that!"

"I agree. I only carry a gun when absolutely necessary. And I don't care to even then. So let's see if we can solve this caper with our wits and if that doesn't work we'll come back for the heavy hardware."

Dennis broke out into a smile. I'd won him over. Next thing you know I'll have him laughing so hard he'll fall down in tears. Usually they didn't fall down in tears until they received my bill.

I led the way outside to my old yellow and black striped car. He may have walked to church, but we were going to drive there this time. My six foot, 180 pound frame was in good shape, but the cool air of late afternoon began rolling in, and Dennis certainly wouldn't be able to stay up with my lightening pace. Besides I liked to do my part and add to the brown cloud that seemed to linger overhead during the winter months.

The inside of my Mustang made the outside seem like a jewel. The black vinyl seats were torn, the black vinyl dash cracked, the floor covered with trash and dirt. The AM/FM mono radio probably had tubes instead of transistors. The mileage on the speedometer had turned over several times, with somewhere around 387,000 miles on an engine which ran loud but fairly smooth. In seven years of driving I'd totaled about 95,000 miles of my own. I planned on making improvements as soon as the money started rolling in. New leather seats and a stereo with thumping bass and speakers came first. This wasn't a BMW, but at least no one wanted to steal the relic in its current condition.

Dennis didn’t appear to be overly impressed with my wheels. The passenger door creaked badly when he opened it. He sat down gingerly and looked down at the floorboard before he placed his feet. He slid the wrappers on the floor aside, the golden arches on them quite prevalent. Of course, only the best in gourmet fast food for this P.I. A good portion of my meal time was spent in the drive-thru.

"I had to let the cleaning lady go the other day," I joked while starting the engine. "The cook as well!"

Backing the Mustang out into the alley, we pulled onto Evans. With Dennis directing, we turned almost immediately onto Sherman, then two blocks later East on Iliff until we came to his burnt umber brick home on Grant Street.

"This is where I live. We walked from here up a block to Our Lady of Lourdes Catholic Church."

The church was a long narrow building made of soft brown brick, with stained glass windows gracing the South side. A very tall brick and stone outdoor temple with a statue of Jesus Christ erected out front. On the far North section of the block stood the church school and a house. In the middle of the property, a playground was built and the leafless bushes and dead ivy looped along the chain linked fence. The playground combined grass, concrete and sand, with a wooden jungle gym and slide, basketball hoops, four square and hopscotch markings on the asphalt, and a rack for locking up bicycles. A quick search of the grass and sand revealed no Ernie Banks card, though we did find a quarter and several wads of spent chewing gum. This did not satisfy my client. Time for the second phase of the job.

"Well, like you said the card isn’t here. Do you know where the kids you played with live?"

"Yes. Three of them are close by."

"Okay, let’s go talk with them and see if they can tell us something."

The first home sat across the street from the Harvard Recreation Center. Alonzo lived in a simple one story tan brick structure, with layered white wood siding around the middle of the frame badly in need of repainting. The roof was v-shaped, with steep slopes down both sides. A couple of leafless bushes and one tall evergreen graced the poorly kept front yard in need of seeding or sod. Parked in the driveway was an aqua mid-nineties Chevy pickup which appeared to be in good shape except for the bed, rusting through in spots. Reaching the steps I tried to ring the doorbell only to have Dennis inform me it didn't work. A vigorous knocking on the storm door got a response.

"Hay Dennis how you doing?" stated Alonzo with a smile.

"Not too bad. Can you come out for a minute, we need to talk."

"Sure."

Hollering to someone inside, he stepped outside, closing the door rather clumsily. He appeared to be of Spanish heritage, with very rich black curly hair and brown skin tone. His blue jeans were faded; his dull white jersey had dark lettering on the front spelling out 'Lincoln' which I cleverly deduced to be his high school. His canvas Nike sneakers were worn and in need of replacing. His simple dark windbreaker finished up his fashionable ensemble. He acted leery of me, never once glancing my way until introduced. With a polite handshake and short eye contact he turned back to his friend.

"What's up?" He had his hands in his jacket pocket for it was cooling off quickly.

"You remember yesterday at church I showed you the Ernie Banks card?"

"Sure. What about it?"

"When I got home it was missing. I was wondering if you might have seen it."

Alonzo turned and stared off into the distance. "What's this guy got to do with it? Is he a cop or something?"

Apparently C-O-P was traced all over my face. That strong authority figure in me always shined through.

"Sort of," said Dennis.

"Your friend here hired me to help him find his card. I'm a Private Detective." I pulled out my wallet and showed him the license which did little to impress.

Alonzo didn't know what to do as those two words made him nervous.

"Are you saying I took the card?" Anger began to show on his face.

"No man I'm not. I'm wondering if you might have seen or heard something about it. I just want the card back."

"Do you know how much the card is worth?" I stated adding my two cents; the question got his ire up even more.

"What are you implying?" His voice seemed to hang on the last word.

"It’s valuable to your friend here. And money sometimes clouds a person’s judgment."

"So I took it, is that what you’re saying?"

"No. But I haven't heard you say you didn't."

"Well I didn't. Ok. I don't steal from friends. At least those I thought to be my friend." Alonzo turned away again, his feelings hurt.

"Good enough," I said while turning and heading towards my car.

As I got there I saw the two of them talking. The anger had receded and they shook hands with a series of grips too complicated to explain. Even with months of practice I doubted I could duplicate it. The two separated, looking satisfied with the end result.

Now with both of us back in the car I wondered where to next.

"Why did you come down on him?" asked Dennis.

"Well sometimes you confront someone bluntly to get an honest answer. When you work in the world I do, it's easy for people to lie. Most everyone I come in contact with have an adversity to the truth. They live lies, so it's second nature for them. The direct approach sometimes is the best one. I came out and said what had to be said, pushing your friend to give me an answer.”

"So you believed him?"

"Yea, pretty much. I couldn't tell if he was avoiding me because of shyness, he hated authority figures, or I'm white."

"Maybe a little of all three. He's had problems with cops, his parents, and even some white kids at school who are racist. So his first response is to be cautious since you represent what he sees as the establishment."

"Good analogy. How old are you?"

"I'll be sixteen in a month."

"You act older than your age. Tell me something, did you believe him?"

"Yea I did. He was being straight with me."

"Where to next?"

The next stop we came up empty. The mother of his friend told us he went with his father to see a Denver Nuggets game and wouldn't be back until fairly late. Strike two.

With only one swing left we headed east. On Vassar Street we stopped in front of a two story blood-red brick home. The whole neighborhood was made of brick, the building material of choice in those days. In the yard stood Terence with basketball in hand, his frame several inches taller than Dennis, and heavier. He wore newer looking Reebok high-tops, black sweats, and a Colorado Rockies baseball cap. The young African-American appeared to be in excellent shape, and extremely athletic. Dennis explained to me he was a two sport athlete, football and basketball, the main focuses of his life. He dreamed of being an outside linebacker or power forward.

We left the car and Dennis greeted Terence happily. The two appeared to be close friends. I figured I wouldn’t be so pushy this time. The lad was built to blind side me pretty easily. It had been some time since I'd woke up without any recollection of my name, and getting my ass kicked by a teenager might damage my tough guy image.

"This is Jarvis Mann," introduced Dennis.

"Good to meet you sir."

I shook the hand and found it strong and firm, the voice deeply baritone. He was damn close to my size but thicker and likely stronger, yet only a year or so older than Dennis. He had big wide brown eyes, some short growth under his chin, and a noticeable scar running along the right side of his nose.

"Gonna shoot some hoops?" asked Dennis of his friend.

"Thinking about it. Got an hour or so of sun left. Care to join me?"

"I can't. Tomorrow I should have time after school."

"I'm sure you’re here for something. Came to see my sister I bet." He gave a sly glance to his friend.

"No, not today." Dennis seemed embarrassed. "I wondered if you've seen my Ernie Banks card. It's gone."

"No man I haven't. When did it go missing?"

"Somewhere between the time I showed it to you guys and when I got home. My father is going to be pissed."

"I can relate. I remember when I lost Dad's camera a couple of years back. I couldn't sit down for a week."

"If you see it will you let me know? It's worth a whole lot of money. Mister Mann is a Private Detective I've hired to help me find it."

"That sounds like an interesting occupation. It must be exciting chasing down the bad guys."

"Sometimes, but lately…" I stated while shrugging.

"Well, got to go before I lose all my daylight. A pleasure meeting you Mister Mann. I'll see you at school tomorrow Dennis and we can shoot some hoops afterwards."

Terence climbed onto his shining black eighteen-speed bicycle and peddled off with basketball in hand.

"Strike three," I said.

"What?" wondered Dennis.

"Just counting out loud. A baseball analogy since we’re searching for a baseball card. I believe we've struck out. Anyone else you can think of who might have had access to it?"

Dennis gave it a few minutes thought. Thinking the worst of people didn't seem easy for him. Zero was all he came up with.

"How about someone in your family, maybe a sibling? A brother?"

"Yea, but I don't think he'd do it. He respects my stuff. Never had a problem with him taking anything of mine."

"Gee, I wish I could say that about my brother. He couldn't keep his hands off anything of mine. I'd always get in fights with him for using my bike and baseball mitt."

"So I guess you didn't like him much."

"On the contrary. Though two years older, he saved my butt on a couple of occasions when someone was picking on me. Even if annoying, he went to the wall for me when necessary."

"I saved my brother a couple of times as well. When it’s family…"

The time had come for me to use my years of experience. When faced with a problem I found it best to talk over your options with your client and something may come to light you hadn’t thought of.

"We need to think like the bad guy Dennis."

"Ok."

"Put yourself in their shoes. If you stole a valuable bubble gum card, or even found one, what would you do?"

"I'd try to sell it," he said without hesitation.

"Sell it where?"

"Someplace that buys collectors cards."

"And is there one in the area?"

"Actually there's one right on Broadway, Bill's Sports Collectibles. I’ve been inside many times."

"Then let's take a trip to see if anyone has brought in an Ernie Banks rookie card to sell recently."

The drive wasn’t far, only a few blocks away and we arrived pretty quickly. Since it was getting late on this Sunday I hoped they were still open.

"If I was the culprit, I'd do one of two things,” I stated on the way over. “I'd either hold onto the card for awhile to see if anyone missed it, or if in desperate need of money, try to cash it in right away. My professional instinct says Bill's Sports Collectibles is the spot where we will learn something."

Dennis agreed with me, though he didn't seem overly impressed with my deduction. Of course few people ever were, so I'd gotten used to it. We found an open parking spot as Bill's seemed to be fairly busy on this Sunday with four cars parked out front. The entire structure was theirs, the combination tan brick and green aluminum trimmed facing looking freshly remodeled. White security bars graced their windows, as well as many sports posters depicting some of the greatest athletes. Their yellow sign showed the business name; the hours on the main door showed they’d be closing soon, so we needed to be quick.

Inside the whole store had wall to wall collectibles; programs, guides, books, autographs, jerseys, pins, pennants, caps, jackets, posters, and collecting accessories. They specialized in Baseball and Football cards, but also Basketball and Hockey as well. Glass cases displayed the various cards of thousands of athletes from all the different eras going back beyond my birth date. From every team you could imagine, and from teams which no longer existed. The prices for a small piece of cardboard were outrageous. And the wheeling and dealing led one to believe that sports cards were traded much like stocks on Wall Street. The common man's hedge against inflation, an investment in the future.

One could see the change on Dennis's face as he walked up and down the various cases fixating in awe. It wasn’t his first time here but that didn't matter. Before him were his heroes staring back at him in two dimensions. It may be as close as he'd ever come to these athletes.

A salesperson greeted us and I asked for the manager who thankfully was working. A few minutes later we were talking. His answers to my well thought up questions might clear up the mystery.

"We are looking for an Ernie Banks rookie card.” I stated.

"You’re in luck," replied the Manager. "We happened to come in contact with one recently."

I glanced at Dennis and could tell he knew we'd hit pay dirt.

"What condition is it in?"

"Nearly perfect. Stored in a penny sleeve and a top loader to protect it. The previous owner had taken wonderful care of it."

"May we see it?"

He led us to the rear of the store where he removed the card from the display case so we could view it. The sticker with the name and address had been removed from the back, though the tacky residue remained. On the front, a new price tag listing a figure close to the book value. This certainly was the card.

"Can you tell me where you got this?"

"We purchased the card yesterday."

"Can you give us a name?"

"That is privileged information I can't divulge. Why do you ask?"

I pulled out my ID. The picture was driver’s license quality, so it was lousy. So it took him a minute to match the photo to the face.

"So what’s this about?" wondered the Manager.

"Dennis here had his Topps Ernie Banks card stolen yesterday. It appears someone has sold it to you. He had his name and address labeled on the back which has been removed. If you check you can tell it was once there."

The manager took the card in hand and felt the stickiness. He glared at me and Dennis for a moment, seeming to weigh the situation. He placed the card back into the display case and locked it.

"There is nothing I can do," he stated. "I'm sorry Dennis here has lost something of value. You have no proof he is the owner. His insurance will cover the monetary loss."

"We understand and we accept the fact you are not to blame. You made a straight business deal. But you can tell us who sold it to you."

The manager paused to contemplate. "I don't know."

"Please. This means more to me than the money." Dennis sounded very sincere. Please had worked wonders on me earlier. Would it work now?

"I shouldn't do this. I don't know his name. He insisted on being paid in cash. Luckily I had eight hundred dollars in the store. It is dangerous to keep lots of cash on hand these days." He stopped to reflect. "He was a little older than Dennis here, also bigger. He was black and appeared to be an athlete. He had one of those strange haircuts, short on the sides and longer on top, plus a little growth under his chin. What else? Oh that's right. Now I remember. I noticed a scar on his face, along his nose. I asked him about it but he didn’t answer me."

"Terence!" came out of Dennis's mouth a second before mine. The culprit had been found. Terence was the last person I suspected.

"Thank you for the information," I said. "Much appreciated."

"If he confesses to stealing the card," stated the Manager, "I'll sell it back for what I bought it for. But hurry as it may not last long."

"Sounds fair. We’ll contact you."

Dennis and I walked out of the store. Anger seemed to well up inside him. I couldn't blame him. If a close friend had ever done that to me I'd have been furious too. Now the question was what to do.

"We go confront him," stated Dennis without hesitation. "He said he'd be playing basketball at the church.

It's what I'd have done as well. Though how will the lad react? Terence was much larger, and probably stronger. But one did not steal from friends. I would stand in the background and watch, for it was all I cared to do. It was between them to settle their differences.

In silence I drove until we pulled down the alley behind the church. A couple of basketball hoops lined the outer ring of the pavement in the middle of the lot. There shooting in the fading light stood Terence. As I watched, he expertly made every shot from fifteen feet away and at least for today, he was deadly accurate. The young man had skills.

Dennis didn't hesitate for a second. As soon as the car stopped he was out the door and determined to get some answers. Following I stayed well back. I'd only interfere if the confrontation got ugly. The first words spoken were direct and to the point.

"I know you did it. I just can't figure out why." Dennis stated with a touch of spitefulness, his right index finger pointed.

Terence seemed startled. He did not immediately respond.

"I see you've brought your stupid look with you. Little doubt from someone with half a brain lacking smarts. Did you think you'd get away with it?"

Terence took a shot and missed for the first time since we'd arrived. Dennis snatched the rebound and tossed the ball into the grass yard which definitely got his friend's attention.

"Hey bro!! What the hell is up with you?" Terence had a confounded look.

"Don't give me your bull! You know what is up. You stole from me. A brother no less. How could you do that to me?"

Dennis now sounded like someone from the street. More so than at any time this day. I wondered what had brought it out. Was it the anger or the feeling of betrayal? You did not betray a friend.

His eyes now averted, Terence realized he was caught. Still he tried to play dumb, though actually I figured him to be rather intelligent.

"The trading card! My Ernie Banks rookie card! You swapped it for money. Sold me out for the long green. Did you need it so bad that you stole from me? Give me a reason or I'll take you down!"

There was no fear in Terence, though confrontation was not on his mind. He tried to turn and walk away but Dennis wouldn't let him. He grabbed him by the arm and rose up on his toes so they stood eyeball to eyeball. Terence attempted to pull away and the scuffle began.

This was less a fight than a wrestling match. Both rolled to the ground struggling to land a punch. Dennis landed a couple to the chest and shoulder, while Terence covered up and tried to push his smaller opponent away. After a couple of minutes I deduced little was being accomplished, so I intervened by grabbing Dennis and pulling him away. He wasn't happy with me, but I figured he'd gotten his best shots in. Sooner or later the larger Terence would put him down.

"Let me go," Dennis yelled. "I want to punch his lights out."

"Cool it!" I said firmly. It was the closest I came to the language of the streets.

"Ok!" Dennis calmed down some. He understood the moment was over. Nothing in the way of violence would happen right now. Still he needed to have an answer.

"Terence I believe your friend here is hurt," I said with my Father Knows Best tone. "He doesn’t understand. All he wants to know is why, and I believe you’re man enough to tell us that much."

Terence brushed off the dirt from his sweats and wiped the perspiration from his face as he got up. It was always hard to admit a failing. Somehow I sensed there was more than just simple greed to this lad's dirty deed.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I had no choice. I didn't plan it, but I had to do something."

"Go on," I said while Dennis stood silently.

"I found the card in the play yard over there. It must have fallen out of your pocket sometime while we were horsing around. I picked it up fully expecting to give it back to you. But then I remembered what you said when you showed it to us, how much money it was worth. I needed the greenbacks."

I thought the worst. Drugs, booze, gambling, or a payoff for gang related problems that plague our city. All of those thoughts flooded my mind, and I felt guilty rushing to judgment before hearing the facts.

"Dad has been out of work for some time now. He worked for twelve years with a company that recently went out of business. It came as a complete surprise to him. One day he was working, the next unemployed. He's been searching real hard, but can't seem to come up with anything. I can tell he’s worried."

It was a sign of the times. The economy was weak right now. Bankruptcy and foreclosures were up, welfare and unemployment lines were long. Good honest hard working people were having a rough go of it.

"His unemployment checks aren’t large enough. He could pay the rent, the utilities, the car payment, or buy food. Sometimes he can cover two or three, just not all four. Mom's job helps, but it's not always full-time. They've juggled the money for several months now, even receiving some help from family, but it's caught up with them. The deadline was nearing."

"What are you trying to say?" asked Dennis, his anger subsiding, his face filled with concern.

"We needed fifteen hundred dollars by the end of the month or we'd be evicted. Dad and Mom had scraped a little more than eight hundred dollars, but they realized it wouldn't be enough. They told us their problems, preparing us for the worst. I will live with Mom's parents, while my two sisters go to Dad's brother, Mom and Dad with Grandpa and Grandma Williams. Mom wasn't happy with splitting the family up. It was tearing her up. And Dad, well we knew he was hurting for not being responsible for caring of us. You could tell he wanted to say he was sorry, but he couldn't. That wasn't his style.”

"So you sold the card and gave your parents the money." It was the logical next question for me to ask.

"I agonized over it for a few hours. It's not easy stealing from a friend right in the front yard of God. I had to do something. I felt helpless. Knowing my parents would be suspicious of where the money came from I went to Bill's and got all the cash I could get, sealed it in an envelope and put it under the door with the word gift written on it. That way they'd figure it was an anonymous donor, someone from the neighborhood who'd heard of our troubles, or charity from the church. They had to take it then, and it was enough to get us by, at least for awhile. I hoped things would look up for us now and give Dad time to find work again. He thinks he’s got a good shot at something part-time. The interview is tomorrow."

"Stealing is not the answer," I said. "There are better ways, and I'm sure you know that because it currently shows on your face. The guilt inside will bring the honesty out in you." It was my best sermon in some time, the one I'd given to myself several times when money had gotten tight.

"Did your parents use the money?" asked Dennis.

"Yes they did. They told us tonight the plans to move had been postponed for now. But they stressed to us the trouble was far from over."

Dennis stared for a long time at his friend. The anger and even the twinge of hatred had gone away. The sorrow for the misfortune of what Terence and his family were going through showed in his eyes. There would be no pity, at least not out loud. He stepped forward and reached out his hand, the two brothers held the grasp for several minutes. Nothing more needed to be said.

After retrieving the basketball we loaded his bike into my trunk, strapping the lid down, and drove Terence home in silence. He got out and Dennis walked him to the front door. They talked for a time, but I couldn't hear them and didn't want to. What they shared was most certainly personal. A moment between friends; among brothers they would remember forever. A swirling orange glow filled the ebbing skies.

Dennis got back into the car and told me the money was no longer important. Terence could have it all to save his family. This was a gesture born out of deep feelings. In hard times we must make sacrifices. And a little piece of cardboard appeared small on the grand scale of things.

"What are you going to tell your father?" I asked as we pulled up in front of his house.

"The truth." Dennis seemed resolved of the proper action. "If he doesn't understand I'll make him understand."

"I'll stand with you." This was my gesture of friendship.

"Thanks, but I'll do it myself. Still you must come in. I owe you payment for the help you provided."

"I'm not so sure I did much."

"You helped me to confront my problem. Not to mention drive me all over the place to find the card, making me realize material goods aren't the end all. You've earned your choice of one card."

I couldn't argue as the strength bled from the lad's broadening shoulders. I followed him into the house.

I stood in the foyer and waited. Dennis returned with his collection notebook. He had several hundred neatly displayed in two layer sleeves. We sat on the comfortable ebony sofa in the living room as I searched through each page carefully. Most teams were represented, with cards from Aaron to Todd Zeile, a catcher who played for my favorite team growing up the St. Louis Cardinals in the 80’s. Players from the Chicago Cubs past and present were strongly prevalent. Though he had been traded to the Yankees the previous year, Alfonso Soriano was his current favorite player, his card mixed in with other great Cubs. All the cards were in excellent shape. Many had value, others probably not much at all. Three cards stood out.

The first was a Mickey Mantle card, a Topps from the year 1964. It was the last time the Yankees had made the World Series for many years, and his last superb season before injuries brought an early end to his career in 1968. With a good set of knees he would have hit over 700 homeruns.

Then the greatest right handed pitcher baseball would ever know. Sandy Koufax was the best left hander, but Bob Gibson was the most intimidating pitcher to ever play. This Topps 1970 card showed all his career stats, including the most dominating season a pitcher ever had in 1968. His 1.12 earned run average that year will probably never be matched and forced baseball to change the rules by lowering the pitcher’s mound to add more offense to the diamond.

Finally there was the Topps MVP card from 1961 featuring my father’s favorite player of all time, and probably the greatest to ever play the game. Willie Mays had the grace and style tremendous athletes had. He could run, field, hit for power and average. His over the head catch in the 1954 World Series is legendary. Truly he was a marvel to watch. Though I’d only seen him play via archive footage, what he did was incredible and my father’s stories of watching him play were etched in my mind. This was the card I wanted.

"Do you know the value of this one?" I asked

"Not a whole lot. I believe twenty-five or thirty dollars at the most." Dennis seemed somewhat surprised. "I have a Henry Aaron card in there worth close to a hundred dollars. This would be more in line with our deal."

"Well Hammerin Hank the homerun king was one of the greats. But Willie Mays was something special to me. Dad told me stories of seeing him play in San Francisco when he was a kid. He did it all. Those were the tales which bonded us and what I remember best." I shook my head in happiness. "This card here is the one I want. Deal?"

Dennis wasn't about to argue. "All yours Mister Mann."

"I think we've been through enough for you to call me Jarvis."

We shook hands in a more conventional way. I hadn't learned those complicated series of clasps yet. I hoped someday he would teach me.

"Hello," sounded a deep voice from outside the room. In walked a tall, strong looking man, a cautious smile working over his face. I stood to shake his hand and introduce myself. I left out my title for I didn't want to alarm him. The mere mention of Private Detective can make even the strongest men quiver. Dennis would explain to him later.

"Well, I'm sorry but I must to be leaving," I said. "I hope I can stop over sometime and take a closer view of your collection. It's quite impressive."

"I'd like that." said Dennis rising from his chair.

"Don't bother. I'll find my way out. A pleasure to meet you Mister Gash." I shook his hand again and headed towards the exit. When I opened it I heard Dennis say something to his father. "We need to talk, Pop."

I closed the door knowing what was coming. I figured he'd have no trouble making his dad understand and would take pride in how his son handled the situation. It was the kind of thing a generous man would do. He'd certainly grown some today, as had I.

Driving home I knew right where I'd put the Willie Mays card, placing it in lower left hand corner of the autumn mountain picture which hung behind my desk. When things looked down, and times had gotten tough, and the whole world seemed cruel and unkind, I'd stare at the card and remember a young man who'd learned to give and forgive, while facing responsibility all in the same day. With such heart the future held hope if others like him emerged from this grim, greedy, selfish world. Maybe the ‘me generation’ would turn into the ‘we generation’.

The thought of it all brought a smile to this cynical brow of mine. I stared into the rear view mirror, for I'd forgotten what happiness looked like on my face. I enjoyed what I saw, and wished to see it more often. One could only hope.

Thank you so much for reading my short story. I hope you enjoyed it and would love if you would leave a review on Amazon to help an Indie Author.

Please check out the rest of the Jarvis Mann Detective series:

Tracking A Shadow where Jarvis Mann is hired to track down the stalker of his sultry female client and is pulled into a web of lies and deceit. Available on Amazon.

http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00MQHVKJA

Twice As Fatal where he works two cases that draw him into a seedy underworld, complicating his professional and personal life. Now available on Amazon.

http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00XTNTHWW

Blood Brothers, where Jarvis is summoned back to his hometown of Des Moines, Iowa, to help his brother out of a life-threatening situation.

http://www.amazon.com/dp/B019S6AQXW

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Peace to all, and love those closest to you…

R Weir