Photo © 2003 Richard F. Binder

Chapter 3

When I arrived at the Starlight Lounge at 8:30 PM, George smiled and handed me a double Metaxa 5 Star, neat, one of my few concessions to luxury. He also announced to the patrons, in too loud a voice “Put down your spoons and step away from those cans of apricots and applesauce. That is stolen merchandise and you’re headed for jail. ” Oh fine, I thought, there goes my low profile entrance.

“Evening, Park, bust any fruit nappers today?” George said as I took my seat at the end of the bar.

“No,” I muttered. “This is Wiseguy Bartender Day down at the station. Free photos, fine food, and plenty of small, airy rooms.”

“Listen, he said softly, “I think I have three possibles for what we talked about earlier. They were sitting at the corner table and I heard one of them say “over 25 boxes.” That was Lenny Stansfield. He’s more buyer than burglar, and the fence to watch. Dumb boob’ll buy anything at the right price, even old fountain pens. The other two are new in town, brothers, last name Williams. They drive a small van with Empire Plumbing painted on the side. Looks legit, but those guys wouldn’t know a pipe wrench from a palomino pony. Be careful with the brothers, Park. They’re small time, but they’re ex-cons and dangerous. If you make ’em for the burglary, let the cops handle it.”

I told George his information fit with what I learned from Mrs. Warick. He slipped me descriptions and addresses on a bar napkin. I handed him a $20 and said, “Usual deal if you’re right about this.” He nodded. I thanked him, finished my drink, and left.

Chapter 4

I drove out to the Monterey Highway address George had given me for the Williams brothers. I was not surprised to find a shabby bungalow-style motel. The Empire Plumbing van was parked in front of the last bungalow on the left, Number 9. The lights were on inside, and I could hear the faint sounds of a television program. It was now after 10:00 PM.

I parked at the motel office, flashed my PI license and the edge of a ten-dollar bill at the night clerk and found out that the Williams brothers had arrived two days ago. They were scheduled to check out in the morning. I had just turned to leave when a ’49 Ford pulled into the motel lot and parked next to the van. A guy matching Lenny Stansfield’s description got out of the Ford and knocked on the door of Number 9. Two big guys came out, accompanied Stansfield to the van, and slid open the side door. The van was jammed full of large, uniformly sized cardboard boxes. The deal was taking place right in front of me.

I pushed the night clerk out of the way, picked up the phone, consulted my notebook, and called Weatherby at home. He sent two patrol cars and a detective team. The patrol cars arrived simultaneously in 10 minutes, and the detectives were there in 12. When six cops holding Colt revolvers confront you in a dark parking lot at night, your choices are limited.

Stansfield and the Williams brothers were arrested without incident and taken downtown in the patrol cars. The detectives stayed behind to search the van and bungalow. Weatherby arrived at 11:00 to take charge. The police inventory record taken at this curious crime scene noted “27 cardboard boxes of old fountain pens.” As I was about to leave, Weatherby told me to call him in the morning, after 11:00. Then he said, “Thanks, Park.”

The case was resolved in less than two weeks. Stansfield and the Williams brothers pled guilty to multiple charges. The plumbing van had been stolen in Bakersfield. Stansfield’s house was bulging with stolen goods, and he was only too happy to reveal his sources. More arrests followed. I was right about the burglary. The Williams boys needed a quick score for rent and gas money and were looking for anything of value. They were cruising the neighborhood, saw Celia come of the house with a suitcase, and came back that night. They opened one box, saw the pen cases in the beam of a flashlight and thought, “that old woman owns a jewelry store.” When they discovered their error they were furious. Then they met Stansfield at the Starlight and were genuinely surprised some fool would pay them $125 for 27 boxes of fountain pens.

I borrowed a friend’s pickup truck, collected 27 large boxes of fountain pens from the evidence room at the police department, and drove out to Celia Warick's house. I carried the boxes into the house and stacked them neatly in a spare bedroom. It took me 40 minutes. You might be interested in the final inventory. There were 1,076 pen cases, and over 800 of those were pen and pencil sets.

When I handed Celia Warick my bill, she wrote a check with a long slender pen decorated with pearl, green, pink, salmon, and gray flakes. I told her the flakes looked like they came from the inside of an abalone shell. “You’re right,” she said, “the flakes are abalone shell. Sheaffer called this color Ebonized Pearl. Of all the pens we carried at the store, Sheaffer’s were my favorites.”

The $500 check she handed me was more than four times the size of my bill. “It’s just money, and you are to keep it. Do you understand me, Parker?”

“Yes Celia.”

She started to cry. “Parker, it was so damn personal, like someone stole my past, my memories. I can never thank you properly. Please excuse me now.”

We embraced briefly and I made an awkward retreat out the front door and closed it softly. I kept my promise to Celia and stopped by the bank to deposit the check and get some cash, including a $50. George Richter would get a nice tip tonight when he handed me my Metaxa.

Epilogue

The following Friday, a large box arrived in the mail. Inside was that gorgeous black Sheaffer with the abalone flakes that I had admired so much, with an effusive thank you note from Celia.

The box also contained 25 lovely leather pen cases, each containing a beautiful pen or pen and pencil set. The brand names might be familiar to you: Sheaffer’s, Parker, Waterman’s, Conklin, and Wahl. No two pens were alike, all were different colors, and none of them had ever been used. I could carry a snazzy new pen every day for a month. More than likely, a few close friends will get a nice surprise at Christmas.

She had found a way to thank me properly. And Celia was right about associations. I think of her every time I use my Ebonized Pearl Sheaffer.