Lady Justice and the Magic Dragon, page 1
part #29 of Lady Justice Series
LADY JUSTICE
AND THE
MAGIC DRAGON
A WALT WILLIAMS
MYSTERY/COMEDY NOVEL
ROBERT THORNHILL
Lady Justice and the Magic Dragon
Copyright February, 2018 by Robert Thornhill
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any way, by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording or otherwise without prior permission of the author except as provided by USA copyright law.
This novel is a work of fiction. Names, incidents and entities included in the story are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, events and entities is entirely coincidental.
Published in the United States of America
Fiction, Humorous
Fiction, Mystery & Detective, General
LADY JUSTICE
AND THE
MAGIC DRAGON
PROLOGUE
In 1963, Peter, Paul, and Mary released Puff the Magic Dragon, a song depicting the joys and wonders of childhood innocence and the loss of same as the child ages.
Most of us can remember bits and pieces of those wonderful years, when we let our imaginations run wild and anything was possible.
Santa was real and the Tooth Fairy left quarters under our pillows.
The first verse invokes the essence of those early times.
Puff the Magic Dragon lived by the sea
And frolicked in the autumn mist in a land called Honahlee.
Little Jackie Paper loved that rascal Puff
And brought him strings and sealing wax and other fancy stuff.
Little kids pretend --- I know I did.
Mike, the kid down the street, and I used to fight over which of us would get to be Roy Rogers or one of our other heroes. I remember making swords out of scrap lumber and having duels with my cousin.
Great memories --- great times --- but nothing lasts forever.
A dragon lives forever, but not so little boys.
Painted rings and giant wings make way for other toys.
One gray night it happened, Jackie Paper came no more
And Puff that mighty dragon, he ceased his fearless roar.
At some point, the innocence is lost.
We come to realize that the Santa at the department store is just an old fat guy with a fake beard who goes home, guzzles beer and watches TV. One morning, there is no quarter under the pillow.
It’s okay though. We rationalize that we’ve outgrown that kid’s stuff. Besides, we’ve found other things to capture our interest --- sports, cars, girls!
It’s a natural progression. We can’t stay kids forever. The fantasy of childhood eventually morphs into the harsh reality of adulthood.
While not without its trials and tribulations, it’s a transition that most of us make.
Most --- but not all.
Like little Jackie Paper, most of us leave the world of magic dragons behind, but there are a few who cannot or will not leave that place of innocence. They find the real world too frightening, so they retreat into the only place that gives them peace, and cling to their magic dragon, their one true friend.
CHAPTER 1
“Take everything off and put this on,” the nurse said, handing me a gown. “Dr. Friedman will be with you shortly.”
I hate hospital gowns. No matter how hard you try, your rear end always hangs out, and at the ripe old age of seventy-four, my derriere isn’t much to look at.
As I obediently disrobed, I couldn’t help wondering about the sequence of events that had brought me to this moment of humiliation.
During my five years with the Kansas City Police Department, I had been ‘volunteered’ for many undercover assignments. I thought I had left all that behind when I retired three years ago and opened my own firm, Walt Williams Investigations.
This latest fiasco started with a call from the captain of my old precinct. He explained that the Feds were cracking down on Medicare and Medicaid fraud that was costing the government over 1.3 billion dollars a year. They had targeted several doctors in the Kansas City area and needed an old guy on Medicare for an undercover sting.
Not surprisingly, there were no active officers anywhere close to Medicare, and my name came up.
“It’s no big deal,” Captain Short had said. “All you have to do is go to Dr. Friedman for a physical. We’ll take it from there.”
He made it sound simple, so being a good citizen and not wanting my tax dollars wasted on fraud, I agreed.
What he didn’t tell me in that first conversation was that I would have to be seen by a department doctor first to establish a health baseline.
During that initial exam, they drew what seemed like a couple of gallons of blood. Then, to my horror, the doc snapped on a rubber glove and reached for the Vaseline. There’s nothing more humiliating than to have your plumbing probed by a guy with big fingers.
When it was all said and done, I was declared physically fit, the perfect candidate for the sting.
I made an appointment at Friedman’s clinic and started the process all over again. They drew more blood and I was starting to feel like the old Ford I used to own that was always a quart low. Of course, Dr. Friedman had to violate my private parts a second time. It was bad enough with old Doc Johnson once a year. Twice in one week was way out of line. “No big deal,” Captain Short had said. Easy for him to say. It wasn’t his keister being probed. I planned to ask for hazardous duty pay.
That was all three days ago. Now, after all the tests were run, I was awaiting the verdict. The nurse said Friedman would be in ‘shortly.’ Her definition of ‘shortly,’ and mine were quite different. My bare butt was pressed against the cold vinyl for a good forty-five minutes before the doc stuck his head in the door.
“Mr. Williams. Good to see you again.”
He sat, opened a folder, and perused my chart. “Well, there’s good news and not so good news.”
“Really?” I replied, trying my best to appear concerned. “Tell me.”
“The good news is that your heart is quite healthy as are your lungs.”
“Thank goodness! What’s the bad news?”
“We can’t be sure until we run a few more tests.”
“More tests? What kind of tests?”
“A colonoscopy for sure. We need to rule out the possibility of polyps. If we get in there and find the little buggers, we’ll snip them right out.”
Just hearing the word ‘colonoscopy’ made my hiney pucker.
“I think, based on your labs, an endoscopy would be in order as well. There may be an ulcer gnawing away at your esophagus.”
“Polyps? Ulcer? Are you sure?”
“No, that’s why the additional tests. Oh, and while you’re out, we may as well do a biopsy on your prostate. It was a bit enlarged and your PSA was elevated.”
“Good Lord! How much will all this cost me? I’m on Social Security you know.”
“Don’t you worry about that. You have Medicare as your primary and Blue Cross as your secondary. It won’t cost you a penny out of pocket.”
“Whew! That’s a relief,” I sighed. “Just for curiosity’s sake, what’s this going to cost Uncle Sam?”
He thought for a moment. “Well, since we’ll be doing all three at once, it will be a lot less than scheduling three separate procedures with three anesthesiologists. We can do it right here in the clinic, so probably around ten thousand, give or take.”
I remembered from my briefing with the Feds, that colonoscopies and endoscopies averaged around three grand, and a biopsy about fifteen hundred. Friedman was gouging the taxpayers for twenty-five hundred more than the average cost for three unnecessary procedures.
“Wow! Sure glad I have Medicare. When can we get this done?”
“I’ll let Nancy get you scheduled. I think we can probably get you in by the end of the week.”
“Thank goodness! I’ll be a nervous wreck until I get the results.”
“Now, now, don’t be concerned. You’re in good hands.”
“Oh, one more question. For those two procedures, don’t you insert a camera in both ends?”
“Yes. Why do you ask?”
“Since you’re doing both ends, please do the top one first.”
He gave me a strange look. “Uhhh --- sure. No problem.”
He told me to get dressed and headed out the door.
I heaved a sigh of relief. I was finished. As soon as Friedman submitted the three procedures to Medicare for prior approval, the Feds would swoop in and the Friedman Clinic would be out of business. It gave me a warm fuzzy feeling when I pictured him behind bars. How ironic that then the tables would be turned. It would be his tushy being probed, and not in a nice way.
I scheduled my procedure with Nancy and headed out the door.
It was early December and the weather had taken a nasty turn. A cold wind was blowing from the north heralding the arrival of our first winter storm.
As I pulled my collar against the wind, I muttered, “It’s cold enough to freeze the balls off a brass monkey.”
I had heard that phrase from Kevin McBride, my partner at Walt Williams Investigations. He’s always coming up with colorful descriptions of the world around us. His wife, Veronica, had heard it too, and chastised him for uttering such a vulgarity in mixed company.
I remember his look of indignation as he explained that the phrase had absolutely nothing to do with the little mammal’s testicles. His explanation was that back in the 1700’s, sailing ships stacked their cannonballs on a brass triangle referred to as a ‘brass monkey.’ If the weather got too cold, the brass would contract and the cannonballs would fall off. Hence the phrase, cold enough to freeze the balls off a brass monkey.
Later, I looked it up and discovered that Kevin’s story was just a load of crap. Nevertheless, he told it with such a straight face that everyone accepted it as truth, and it got him off the hook.
Kevin is good that way.
As I was driving down the street, I noticed a man in his mid to late twenties, sitting on the curb. He was rocking back and forth and appeared to be crying.
I pulled to the curb and approached the man.
“What’s wrong? Are you hurt?”
He shook his head and sobbed. “I’m okay, but he’s not.”
“Who’s not?”
“Santa,” he replied, rocking even harder. He pointed down an alley.
I looked where he was pointing, saw the body of a man in a red suit, and rushed to his side.
The man was alive --- just barely.
I called 911 and returned to the man on the curb who was shaking uncontrollably.
I put my arm around his shoulder. “Everything will be okay. Help is coming.”
“Noooo!” he wailed. “Everything is not okay. If Santa’s hurt, how can he get ready for Christmas?”
At first, I thought he was joking, but the look on his face told me he was deadly serious.
“My name is Walt,” I said, trying to change the subject. “What’s yours?”
“Billy,” he replied. “Billy Baker.”
“Where do you live?”
“At the home.”
“What home?”
He fished in his pocket and handed me a crumpled card. On it was the name, address, and phone number of the Mayview Rehabilitation Center.
Suddenly, it was starting to make sense.
I noticed he had been clutching something that hung around his neck as he was rocking back and forth.
I pointed to his hand. “Whatcha got there?”
“That’s Puff,” he replied, opening his hand.
“Wow!” I replied. “That’s beautiful. So is that Puff the Magic Dragon?”
He nodded. “My mom gave it to me. He’s my friend. There’s even a song about him.”
“I know. I’ve heard it.”
“I can sing it,” he replied, proudly. “Every verse.”
“Aren’t you kinda far from home?” I asked.
“No, I come here every day during the week. I work just down the street --- at the sheltered workshop. I ride the bus --- that’s our boat with billowed sail.”
“I don’t understand.”
“In the song,” he replied. “It says ‘Together they would travel on a boat with billowed sail. Jackie kept a lookout perched on Puff’s gigantic tail.’ There’s no water and no boat, so Puff and I ride the bus.”
“I see,” I replied
We heard sirens in the distance, and a few minutes later a squad car and an ambulance pulled to the curb.
I was surprised to see my old partner, Ox, and his new partner, Amanda, exit the vehicle.
“Walt!” Ox said, obviously as surprised as me. “What are you doing here?”
I pointed to the alley. “Man down.”
As soon as Ox had checked on the fallen Santa and left him in the care of the EMT’s, he and Amanda returned.
“This is the third one this week,” Ox said, shaking his head.
“Third what?”
“The third snatch and grab of a Salvation Army charity pot. The guy back there was a bell ringer.”
Then I noticed the empty stand where the bell ringer’s pot used to hang.
“The first two were old guys. The snatcher just grabbed the pots and ran. This poor chap must have put up a fight. Who’s this?” he asked, pointing at Billy.
“This is Billy Baker,” I replied. “He lives at the Mayview REHABILITATION Center.” I put heavy emphasis on the rehabilitation.
Ox got the message and nodded. “Billy, did you see what happened here?”
Billy nodded. “I’m cold. I want to go home.”
“Can we talk about what you saw?” Ox asked, pressing on.
Billy started rocking again. “I missed the bus and I’m late. If I don’t get home when I’m supposed to, they get worried.”
“I have an idea,” I said, intervening. “I’ll take you home in my car, the nice policeman can follow us, and we’ll talk about it there.”
He thought about that for a moment. “I guess that would be okay.”
When we arrived at Mayview, we were met at the door by a young woman in her mid-thirties. I saw the look of concern on her face when she saw the police cruiser and Billy, accompanied by a stranger.
“Billy, are you okay?” she asked, taking his hand.
“Yes, Ma’am,” he replied. “I missed the bus and this nice man brought me home.”
She looked at me quizzically. “I’m Marsha Coe, one of the counselors here. Can you tell me what happened?”
“I’m Walter Williams,” I replied, handing her my card. “I found Billy just after he’d witnessed a mugging. He was pretty upset, so I stayed with him.”
Just then, Ox and Amanda walked up.
“This is Officer Wilson and Officer Parrish. Since Billy saw the whole thing, they need to speak with him. Billy was cold and wanted to get home, so we hoped we could find a quiet place to talk here.”
“Certainly,” she replied, nodding to Ox and Amanda. “Thank you for being so considerate. I’m sure Billy must have been upset. We can talk in my office.”
When we were seated, Ox began. “Billy can you tell us what you saw?”
Billy nodded. He seemed much calmer, being in familiar surroundings. I noticed he was still clutching his friend, Puff.
“I had just finished work and was heading to the bus stop like I do every day. Santa has been on that corner for about a week. Pastor Bob says he’s collecting money so the poor people who are homeless have something to eat. I want to help, so I’ve put a nickel in Santa’s pot every day.”
I was surprised to hear the familiar name. “You know Pastor Bob?”
“Sure do,” Billy replied. “I love it when he comes to talk to us. He makes me feel good.”
“Well, Pastor Bob is a good friend of mine, and he makes me feel good too.”
“What happened to Santa today?” Ox asked, trying to get his interrogation back on track.
Billy thought for a moment. “A van pulled up, a man got out, and tried to take Santa’s pot. When Santa tried to stop him, the man hit Santa and drug him into the alley. Then he came back, took the poor people’s pot, got back in the van and drove away.”
A tear welled up in his eye. “Now the poor people won’t have anything to eat.”
“Tell me about the bad man,” Ox said.
“He was tall and had one of those funny things on his head.”
“A ski mask,” Ox said, shaking his head. “Same as the other muggings. There have been witnesses, but no one has seen his face.”
“I saw his face,” Billy said, proudly.
We were all in shock.
“How did you see his face if he was wearing a mask?” Ox asked.
“When they were fighting, Santa pulled it off. After he drug Santa into the alley, he put it back on again.”
“Can you describe him?”
“Sure, he looked like Paul.”
“Paul?”
“Yeah, he even had the mustache and the funny thing on his chin.”
“Who is this Paul guy?” Ox asked.
Billy looked at us like we were morons. “Paul! As in Peter, Paul, and Mary. They sang Puff the Magic Dragon,” he said, holding up his necklace.
Marsha had been busy pecking away on her laptop. “Here, Billy. Show us.”
She had Googled Peter, Paul, and Mary.
He pointed to a photo. “There! He looked like that.”
It was a photo of Paul Stookey, complete with mustache and goatee.
