Trip Report:  Jake, December 7 through 14, 2002 (Winter WWW)

Since I knew that the actual events of Winter WWW would be well documented by others, I sort of let my mind wander, and decided to write a trip inspired report instead.  Since I was reading some cheesy Mike Hammer detective novels while at Hedo, they helped to inspire this report, too.  I hope you enjoy it!

The Naked Gumshoe

A Chicago Jake Mystery

DAY 1:

The phone rang at 3:15 a.m.  It had been sitting there, black and silent as an unholstered revolver, when it sprang to life, alerting me that my cab had arrived.  I dashed downstairs, and the hack whisked me off to OHare through the silent streets.  I tossed the cabbie a double sawbuck, shouldered my grip, and bolted for the gate.

            As the plane took off, I closed my eyes, pushed my fedora down over my face, and thought about the chain of events that had brought me here. The tip had come in from one of my usual snitches, Peg-Leg OSullivan. Peg-Leg was the kind of a guy who thought that Southern Comfort was a major food group, but he usually had the straight skinny.  Jake he said, the word on the street is that there is a giant fortune hidden somewhere in the Caribbean. Huge.  I knew that I had to check it out. Of course, the feds and the mob would be after it, too, but I had a couple of loan sharks eager to play a drum solo on my kneecaps and I could use the dough. But what was it? Cash? Diamonds? Dope? Bullion? Only time and some shoe leather would tell. So I got on the blower with an old buddy in the travel business, Denny the P, who managed to get me on an excursion with a group called WWW. They were staying at a joint called Hinduism, or something like that. It sounded like it would make a good base of operations.

            The plane landed, and I boarded the bus in Montego Bay. It was the kind of a vehicle that would make a mechanic pull his own head off, but it got me to Hedonism II, outside Negril.  At the check-in desk, a beautiful Jamaican woman came walking towards me, her hips swaying a happy hello. She gave me some paperwork to fill out, and told me to come back in an hour for my key.  I went to the main bar, ordered a shot and a beer, and checked the joint out. Rattan furniture, assorted drunks, Casablanca-style fans lazily moving the air around. Bogey would fit right in. But nothing to indicate a treasure just yet.

It didnt take long to find out who called the shots around here. The local capo familia was a dame named Diane, who ran things with an iron fist. She had the sultry kind of a voice that turns your insides to jelly when she speaks to you. Everyone called her the Queen.  I found her holding court at the nude pool, surrounded by bodyguards and hangers-on. She introduced me around and I joined in with the general small talk. The main topic of conversation seemed to be a mixologist by the name of Delroy, who ran the local gin-joint.  I figured a guy in that position must know something, so I parked my cheeks on his barstool, ordered three fingers of Jack Daniels, and tried to chat him up. But all he had to say was Maximum respect, mon; every time!  It was all I could get out of him. Must be some sort of code.

DAY TWO:

            I settled into a beach routine, pulling up a lounge chair under a tree on the nude side and watching the action, looking for clues.  Id left my roscoe at home; no place for a concealed weapon at a nude beach. Not without a lot of pain, anyway.

            The first thing I noticed was a character named Augustus who spent his days raking the sand. He was the kind of a guy who would rather drive a rake than a Maserati.  He was always yelling at people to get the hell off my beach!  He seemed mighty protective of this stretch of sand. Maybe the treasure is buried here somewhere? Maybe he knows more than he lets on?  Ill have to check it out, maybe after dark when things get quiet.

            Nothing was turning up on its own, so I figured Id have to make a few waves and see what washed up on shore. I went to Veronicas, a rough and tumble dive if ever I saw one. It was the kind of a place where they sweep up the eyeballs after closing time. A character out of a Damon Runyon story named Dave was tickling the horse teeth and singing lewd songs. I grabbed the microphone and sang Bad, Bad, Leroy Brown.  I figured if any shady characters out of my past were around, this would let them know that Chicago Jake was in town. Sure enough, an old acquaintance of mine floated to the surface. He was bald, stocky, and covered with muscles and tattoos. He was the kind of a guy that made Tony Soprano look like a hairdresser.  Jake! I heard you were in town.  We swapped some old stories and some lies, and eventually he told me to be sure and make it to the PJ party on Tuesday, where Id be sure to learn something interesting.

DAY THREE:

            Turns out there is a dame here who goes by the handle of Pampered Princess. Now were getting somewhere. Some exiled European royal, no doubt, possibly with a stash of family loot to unload, trying to finance some third-world border dispute. When I found out her consort went by the name of Crown Jewels, I knew Id hit pay dirt; the treasure does exist!  I nosed around a bit and found her at the nude pool, getting a rub-down on a float from one of her attendants. We chatted a bit, and I dropped hints that I might have some cash to purchase whatever it was she was selling, but she wouldnt take the bait. She was one tough nut to crack.

            After dinner, while I was nursing a scotch and soda and leaning up against the main bar, one of the local working girls sidled up to me in a pair of painted-on jeans and fingernails the color of fresh blood. Wheres your wife, Mister? You want some company tonight?  I looked her up and down. She had the kind of a body that would make a bishop kick out a stained-glass window, but I had other things on my mind. No thanks, doll face. Maybe another time.  She took a swig out of my drink, kissed me on the cheek, and wiggled off into the night.

DAY FOUR:

            I talked to Queen Diane, who arranged for me to get into the PJ party tonight undercover. She fixed me up with some local garb so Id blend right in: an over-the-shoulder thong and a propeller hat. Suitably inconspicuous, I moseyed into the disco and eyed the crowd over my rum punch. Lots of bondage wear, lingerie, and thongs. Also lots of skin. Unfortunately, nobody was talking treasure. Another bust. Damn.

DAY FIVE:

            Another clue turned up today: there is a couple at the resort called the Ice Prince and Ice Princess. Diamond smugglers, no doubt; so thats what the treasure is! They must have got wind of a new mine in the area, or else they are here to deal some smuggled rocks. I made contact, but they were playing it cool. All they would admit to was relaxing and eating lobster and doing body shots. The Ice Prince and I swapped a couple of cigars. Ill try to get more out of them later after winning their confidence.

            Also today, I noticed that Queen Diane does a lot of SCUBA diving, often in the company of one of her goons, a burly thug with the ominous handle of Storm.  What are they searching for out there? Is the treasure hidden under the sea? Or are they just burying bodies out of sight of the local gendarmes? Another clue to add to my growing pile.

DAY SIX:

            Queen Diane had arranged a special event for tonight: an off-campus dinner excursion to a Negril joint called the Rockhouse.  Rockhouse, eh?  Maybe it is diamonds, after all.  I noticed that the Ice Prince and Princess were in on the trip, and got Diane to put me on the guest list as well. Twenty-one of us took an old bus into town. The Rockhouse turned out to be one swanky joint; the kind of a place where you blow your nose with your pinkie in the air. We had dinner at a long table; I was seated between a Texas oil baron and a Connecticut IT magnate; both were the kind of guys who spend more on cufflinks than I do on rent. We ate on a terrace overlooking a shear outcropping over the water. Perfect place for a nosy foreigner to disappear with no questions asked.  I made a point of minding my Ps and Qs. But no new info turned up concerning the treasure. Damn!

DAY SEVEN:

            Im still trying to put all the pieces together, but nothing is making sense.  I went back to Delroys, fired up a stogie, ordered a Johnny Walker on the rocks, and tried to get back to basics. The first rule of detective work is always the same: follow the money. But not only have I not seen any treasure, I havent seen a single greenback on the premises! Nobody seems to use money here at all. Its downright un-American! The only currency Ive seen of any sort is called Hedobucks which the inmates use to buy hooch at the beanery during breakfast. And another question was bugging me: who is this Soon Kum character that everyone talks about all the time? Some Chinese capo who pulls the strings behind the scene? He hasnt shown his face, but he sure gets a lot of lip service. I was at a loss.

DAY EIGHT:

My time in the islands was up, and I had to catch my flight back to the Windy City. I had a handful of clues, but a pocketful of nothing. And here I was heading home with my tail between my legs. Old Peg-Leg was going to give me that look: the kind of a look reserved for rubes who bet their lunch money on inside straights. I watched the runway go by as the plane picked up speed, and started to make a fist to punch the window out of frustration. But I realized, as I tried to curl my fingers tight, that my hands were no longer clenched into their usual rock-hard knobs; they were happily waving at people and flashing the thumbs-up sign. My mouth was no longer twisted into its usual grim snarl, but was smiling ear to ear like a damned idiot. My entire body was relaxed, from the scar tissue across my chest to the old, long-healed bullet holes in my belly. I hadnt felt this calm and contented in years. It was then that it hit me. Oh yes, I had found the treasure, all right. It was right under my nose the entire time. It was there in the blue of the sea, and the crunch of the sand, and the warmth of the sun, and the cry of the seagulls. It was there in the smiles of the locals and the sighs of the visitors, and in the bubbling of the hot tub and the twinkle of the stars at night. The treasure was real, and no mob goon was going to steal it, and no federal agent was going to tax it. And I was going to go back and visit it again and again, as often as I possibly could.

Respect to all.Chicago Jake (jcesarone@ripco.com )