"Where did you get this note? When did you get it?" Lila explained that the note had been found in the overnight drop box, in an envelope addressed to "Friends of the Swami" in a Carolingian script written using an italic pen.
"Has anyone called the Minders?" asked Barton.
"They said they'd send somebody out to take a report sometime next week..." burbled a distraught Veronique, the secretary Scott shared with the other denizens of the office.
The Minders were the enforcement arm of the American Spirituality Society. There had been so much strife, trauma and outright warfare between the various members of the ASS that the coalition members had agreed to fund and support a committee to resolve disputes. The Minders did not evaluate the actual worth of ASS's services, for obvious reasons. Their function was to investigate and minimize internecine squabbling so as to maximize profitability.
"The ransom note said not to call the police!" wailed Veronique.
"What ransom? What police?" queried Scott. "This smacks of an underhanded trick by a competitor."
The Swami had been around a lot longer than most of the
other web gurus. He'd started in the 50's with mail-order ads in the back of Popular Mechanics magazine and outlasted several hundred California-based "human potential" moguls and trendy cosmics. His marketing premise was simple: promise everybody everything all of the time and then blame them for not trying hard enough if they failed to achieve true bliss.
There had been an explosion of "human growth" businesses since the advent of the internet, but Swami Abdul Witherford O'Steinberger retained a loyal customer base from the old days and maintained several up-to-the-minute websites as well. Covering everything from palmistry and graphology to snake-charming and other esoteric Eastern disciplines, the Swami had the potential to piss off any number of competitors in any number of ways.
"Maybe... maybe, we should call the police, secretly," fretted Lila.
"But... but, there could be spies everywhere! He could be doomed!" squealed Veronique. This much was true enough, thought Barton. With six different firms sharing the same office and secretary, and the incestuous interbreeding among the "human potential" disciplines, sometimes it was hard to tell friend from foe.
Hell, a few of these types even believed their own foofaraw and vilified, kidnapped and killed each other for moral reasons alone. The true believers were the scariest of all. The lack of a ransom demand or any other specifics in the note was worrisome that way - maybe it was ideological after all. Since the Swami had espoused just about every belief under the sun at one time or another, trying to deduce his kidnapper's motives from that direction was futile. In the meantime there were the Swami's goldfish to feed and Barton's client to go out drinking with.
Aaak! The client! All this worrying wasn’t going to get the bills paid, thought Barton. Louis B was waiting patiently just inside the door of Barton’s sparsely furnished office.
“Zat’s quite zee hullabaloo, eh no?”
“I’m sorry, it’s not normally like this, but there’s been a kidnapping, and...”
“I zee, yez, yez. Le ‘appy ‘aroor might be late, n’est-ce pas?” Not at all, though Scott Barton, the sooner I get you hammered and get a contract signed the better off we’ll all be.
“Not at all,” said Scott Barton, “pleasure before business, of course.”
“Maybe vee even meet zee girls, no?” Maybe even, though Scott. You might look like a greasy bowling ball with a comb-over, but that $3000 silk suit and three-carat diamond pinkie ring can’t hurt. Barton’s own memories of his last encounter with the fairer sex were bittersweet, to say the least. Well, O.K., bitter.
“Let me put out this little brushfire, Mr. B, and we’ll be on our way to sample the natural beauties of Miami!” Appear confident, thought Scott, always appear confident and competent. People hated a wishy-washy spiritual advisor.
Barton’s initial impulse vis-à-vis the Swami was to call Alphonzo Mouzon, a High Priest of Beanie Babies but a practicing graphologist on the sly. Alphonzo has parlayed his Beanie expertise into a position of vast influence, as the BeanieBabists (as the disciples were known) were among the most devout of the followers of collector religions. Barton had steered several of his more muddle-headed clients Alphonzo’s way, a win-win scenario for sure. Maybe in his capacity as a handwriting analyst, Alphonzo could shed some light on the threatening note.
Barton dialed Mouzon’s office and the answering machine clicked on. Cosmic synthesizer swells greeted his ear, and a God-like James Earl Jones voice sonorously intoned, “Beanie Babies – One True Path to the Light.” Oh crap, thought Scott, hanging up on the machine. Ever since people started hooking their hard drives up to their answering machines, the messages have turned into a real trip. Maybe a trip-and-a-half, and a bad one at that.
“Ya know, Mista Barton,” mumbled Louis B in that Marlon Brando rasp that all the goombahs affected after watching too many Hollywood movies about the Mafia, “maybe me and da boys can help you wit dis kidnapping business. “Maybe we can make some kind of deal, ya know?” Louis B forgot he was trying to be French when he got excited.
“I appreciate that, Sir, but I don’t think there’s a whole lot we can do until we hear from the kidnappers again.”
“Well, if there’s anyting I can do...” mumbled Mr. B with one of those vague Italianite hand gestures. Jeez, all he needs is a friggin’ orange peel, thought Scott.
Barton’s initial impulse vis-à-vis the goombah was to take him to Bimbo’s, Coconut Grove’s premier pick-up joint for fat old ugly rich guys on the make. Bimbo’s was blessed by an abundant display of pulchritudinous female flesh, cheerfully deployed in an 1890’s whorehouse red-velvet-and-gold-flocking kind of atmosphere. But then Barton recalled his own favorite bar, the DMZ. Barton had noticed Mr. B’s bodyguards and chauffeur arrayed in the street when he and Mr. B had come in, and he figured they might enjoy the shooting range out back at the DMZ. Always keep the hired help happy, after all.
The rest of the DMZ had a war theme: the bartenders and waitresses wore camouflage fatigues (in the girls’ case, often modified so as to be quite scanty); the decorations consisted of swords, guns and other implements mounted on the olive-drab walls, model ships, planes and rockets suspended from the ceiling and hand grenade salt-and-pepper shakers. Military marches, various national anthems (surprising how bloodthirsty most of them were) and war movie soundtracks played in the background. The most popular drinks were Kamikazes and B-52’s, and the menu was replete with such delicacies as the Battle of the Bulge Burger and Nagisaki Nachos. Metal detectors at the doors kept serious trouble outside, though the parking-lot deals were legendary. The DMZ even had a wall of Hallucinatrons, virtual reality booths programmed with all the most popular wars. Scott’s favorite was “Caveman”: rocks, clubs, sultry vixens clad in the skimpiest of furs and even a sabre-toothed tiger! “Congo” was pretty hot stuff too, blowgun darts dipped in poisonous frog venom, missionary soup and all that. Too bad they didn’t have a “Goombah” booth for Louis B and all the boys, programmed with Icepick Vinnie and some FBI popups…. Come to think of it, maybe Bimbo’s wasn’t such a bad idea after all.
Suddenly, a shot rang out! No, wait, it was a huge silver menorah, crashing in through the main office window.