After Lucky and I left the meeting, I discovered we were checked into La Reserve Eden au lac Zurich.  It was a cozy 2-bedroom suite with a fine view of mountains.  Lucky ordered the chef to prepare lightly grilled calamari with quail eggs for me.  She rejected all offerings on the menu, telling them that nothing would do but a caviar omelette topped with creme fraiche and a side of berries.  Further, she said her butler (news to me) would fetch our meals and expected them as soon as they were completed, not after they had turned cold.   

About 15 minutes later, her butler, who looked more like a guard to me, brought the food.  She ate and fell straight away to sleep.  The day had allowed me to refresh myself napping at Lucky’s feet.  I turned on the telly to watch cartoons.  Oh, how I love Stewie.  I do think Family Guy would be a better show if the producers insisted Brian, the alcoholic dog, be replaced by a cat.  Alcoholic cats are every bit as funny as drunk dogs.

I was on the verge of new sleep when I felt a swat on my head.  To my left sat Chaucer.  He sauntered over to my repast and started cleaning up my plate.  He complained that while he has excellent taste, he no longer gets filled by food.  He soon sailed into to a lecture on what a bonehead I was.

In particular, Chaucey thought Wolverine was getting too much leniency.  As Chaucey saw it, Wolverine should have been worm food by now.  Instead, he was traipsing about Zurich in fancy duds whilst eating fine food and drinking top drawer whiskey. 

For example, had I ever seen him drinking anything but the finest American and Japanese whiskey?  According to Chaucer, Wolverine was now drinking more Pappy Van Winkle in a month than the average billionaire would in 3 lifetimes. 

“You should have assassinated him in Missouri, but you have no initiative.  I can count the number of scoundrels you’ve murdered on less than one hand.”  Chaucey jumped up and slammed a ghost paw down on my head.

When I awoke with a headache the next morning,  I used the front door’s European door knob to let myself out. Down to the lobby I went.

I was in the hotel lobby when a jet black gentleman approached me.  He said his name was Mohammed Wiredu.  After introducing himself, he asked my name. I played dumb.  So, he continued by saying he was a Nigerian PI.  Wiredu said a secretive client had hired him to investigate nasty doings that had led to the death of a visiting pervert in his villa, the murder of several native Nigerian nwoke akwuna, several of them underage, in a nearby brothel. Then, too, there was the murder of a gang of heavily armed cutthroats on the road to Abuja.  This ensemble of felonies made Wiredu’s boss think the evildoers were not ordinary criminals.  As the PI’s boss saw it, all these events fit together into a bigger puzzle.  

Further, a certain notorious Americaine of very loose morals and connections to English aristocrats also had to be a suspect.  According to cops at Interpol, body counts soar in any neighbourhood where this Americaine resides.  He had heard her name was “Constance.”  He stared at me.  I continued to play dumb.  

Having established that I was saying nothing, he mentioned that witnesses at the brothel insisted that the killers there were all Chinese or some sort of Asians. He added that the consensus was that they were rude enough to be Chinese, rather than Japanese.  I kept my poker face.  

He added that he was in Luxembourg because he had friends who told him that Constance, her Englishman paramour, a known chiseler of genius, as well as a pair of conniving Munitions Galore execs were all in Luxembourg.  Mr Wiredu conjectured it was impossible not to wonder why this collection of criminals, not to mention a known Chinese enforcer named Ms Ming and several of her musclemen, had all come to Luxembourg via Zurich or, in Constance’s case, from Geneva.  

I gave Wiredu a closer look.  He wore a blue suit with a yellow shirt.  He had on brown wingtips.  His hair was close-cropped.  In his shirt pocket, I could see a package of Lucky Strike straights.  Despite his tobacco habit, he had white teeth.  He was tall.  As I left the lobby, I heard him speaking French like a Sorbonne prof.  He was a fancy guy for a Nigerian PI.  His English, though it had foreign accents, had an Oxonian flavour.

I returned to my suite.  I had had enough of Wiredu’s company.  Lucky had already put out a breakfast of lox for me.  Since I wanted to show I was worth my keep, I began to regale her with my intelligence of Wiredu.  Lucky was keen to know what he looked like. She asked how he was dressed.  Her questioning had a predatory tone to it, as if she were readying for a hunt.  She did express disappointment that I had not done more to point the paw of blame at Constance for the murders in Nigeria to Wiredu.   I disagree.  I thought it smartest to play dumb.

I had barely finished my brief when a big shot arrived.  She knocked on the door.  When she entered she was dressed in a western rose business suit.  Lucky referred to her as “ma’am” throughout their conversation.  I don’t know if I had ever seen Lucky so differential.  They chattered in Mandarin a mile a minute.  From time to time, I caught references to Lithuania, Archangelst, Lithuania, Ice-10, and even Wiredu.  I tried not to let all this biz talk spoil my breakfast.  

The gods are merciful.  Lucky and her guest decided to survey the Lobby to learn more about PI Wiredu.  As soon as they left, I got on one of Lucky’s laptops to contact Fielding.  You could call her at any hour, as it was a near certainty that you would wake her.  She is always resting up for her next fight.  

Lazy as she is, she does stay connected to a vast network of Kitty informants.  So, when I reached her, I asked her if she had any scuttlebutt on somebody hiring a PI named Mohammed Wiredu to investigate the evil doings in Nigeria.

Fielding chuckled.  “Do watch your back, Crocky.  Those killings in Nigeria have the gang of Paedophile Polar Bears that runs Holland up in arms.  The fattest, most perverted of them is growling for blood. He feels the brutality with which that Chinese gang treated paederast soulmates of these perverted bears was sheer prejudice.  One reason the Polar Bears took over Holland was because Holland was a spawning ground of NAMBLA.  

Uninformed people, deceived by NAMBLA’s full name, take it to be a North American, surely New York of San Francisco, franchise.  But NAMBLA was the Dutch creep Edward Brongsma inspiration. Brongsma got it all going after he did time in Holland for buggering a boy.  He then made out that his love of boy flesh was just one among many defensible sexual object choices, provided it’s voluntary. The f-ing guy is funnier than Peewee Herman. Don’t you read anything? Brongswma, or is it Dongsma?, even got himself elected to the Dutch senate, albeit with covert Polar Bear finances.  And don’t get an account of what I’m telling you from your loony-toon Right chums.  They’ll carry on about the Jews or the Arabs, but that’s Bravo Sierra, of course. Your righty friends need to broaden their list of conspirators. “

“But how did Bears catch on to us?” I asked.

“Constance, you idiot, Constance.  She’s as subtle as a brick to head.  She got hauled in for questioning by the Nigerian flics, and proceeded to rat on Lucky and her gang, though she was just guessing.  Nevertheless, Connie has superb woman’s intuition.  The Nigerian flics then sold the info to the fat Bear.

 “And, by the way, whatever people say about the Paedophile Polar Bears, don’t believe anybody who tries to tell you they have no killer-bots, Ice-10, or don’t control of the swishy Konikligke Landmacht.  The only thing that army has ever been good at is being targets for the German Heer.  They’re ‘soldiers’ in hairnets.  The Dutch officers did, though, ease matters for the bears. When the bears started to stock their arsenals with bots and Ice-10 bought from all those Munitions Galore hide-the-money-and-source firms that Binky set up for Lord Caligula, the Dutch officers were making the orders and taking their cuts.  Anyway, be careful when you’re around Lucky.  Wiredu is a dangerous guy, and not just when you’re breathing the second-hand smoke from his Lucky Strikes.  If he is a PI, then so are the Seals, Delta Force, and their helpmates that tracked and rid us of bin Laden.  But beware!  The bears are preaching there will be blood.”

Before we ended the call, I couldn’t resist asking what Lord Caligula knew about this. 
“Everything,” cried Fielding, “Everything.  The man has smart tentacles everywhere.  Do you imagine he doesn’t put bugs in his bots or pay whoever he can buy for info?”   

My head was swimming.  I got off the line without knowing what to do.  I was nervous about telling Lucky any of what Fielding told me.  Lucky had a cat’s sense of justice:  It is better than 1,000  be wrongly killed than that one guilty operative go free.  In fact, 1,000 may put the number far too low.  I also felt sure that the Paedophile Polar Bears  and PI Wiredu knew that about Lucky and were no more going to be caught off guard than Lord Caligula.  These folks were all forever en garde.  I’d rather be back with Roberta and mike than with Lucky when she starts a war.