Two Gentlemen of Corolla It was a dart and stormy night in Malibu

							                                    Two Gentlemen of Corolla


It was a dart and stormy night in Malibu Beach, with a view of Avalon Island across the Tacoma Narrows in
Monterey Bay. Cirrus and stratus clouds caused silhouettes of shadows like eclipses to cross the suburban
starion-lit skies above the contours of the horizon. The super-nova Vega could be seen in the infiniti void,
towards Saturn in the north (between the constellations Taurus and Aries), next to the pulsar in the Polara
galaxy. The sign on the door read "J. Wunn, ltd, a full spectrum detective agency".

Oldster James Wunn, a true American (a metropolitan New Yorker by birth - Park Avenue, at the corner of
Fifth Avenue, next to Belvedere Mental Hospital), was waiting in a grand fury.

Mr Wunn sat with his sidekick and protege, Eddie Bauer Norton, inevitably known as Mr 2. Ed was a galant
escort to Jimmy's lady clients, but would never be le mans that Ed was. Jimmy was a real maverick, an E-
type personality. Ed was more an Ace Ventura, an artful dodger.

They played Monopoly. "Ok, Ed. All ante-up for another hotel on Park Lane", he said. Morris the cat
purred quietly. Time paseod.

"Ed, stop watching Quantum Leap on the Discovery channel. Turn the satellite dish. I wanna see Dynasty".

"Can't", said Ed, "Broken. Gremlins in the works". He demonstrated. "Too dirty. Needs a duster. The only
other choice is cartoons: Roadrunner or the Jensens".

Jimmy scowled. His client, the regal and legendary Gran'dame Lady Victoria Bugatti (she spoke with a
continental, perhaps a Corsican villager, accent), was swiftly transporting herself back from her voyager
around the Mediterranean. She'd sentra courier to issue the fiat to Jimmy to be available. She'd seen the
Costa del Sol, missed Capri, Israel, and Lebaron, and had flown back on the Concorde from Paris at
maxima vitesse. She'd even had to take the metro (Les Econo line) with the dogs and cats, common volks,
wagen their tails, and now needed aspiren as a cura for the resulting headache.

Night gave way to daytona. She arrived like a tempest. "Comet in", snapped Jimmy, hardly cordially, his
eyes blazering. "Door's always propped open. (They seldom got marauders in Jimmy's office). We don't
stanza ceremonies here".

"Jetta door, Ed", Victoria said. Ed kicked the bricklin out of the way.

The weather had improved. The cyclone had subsided to a mere zephyr. With the AC turned on, the
mercury had sunk from the century imark to only 80. A skylark sunbird landed on the window ledge,
jeeping happily in the sunbeams.

"And Ed, sel GM short", she hinted with some mystique.

"D'accord", murmured Ed with some elan, as if he understood.

"Do you know what I'm missing?", Jimmy spluttered. "The Dakota rodeo of champions, where I was to ride
colts, pintos, broncos and mustangs for the famed Indian Cherokee medallion, the Silver Spur".

"Commanche or Navajo, actually", she corrected. "You're not spritely enough for that. Your pacermaker
will stop. Golf is safer. So quiet with the saab stories".

Ed, reading Omni and Cosmo magazine, hummered, "n'yukon, n'yukon".
"Shut up, Ed". Ed, no challenger, fell asleep in the rich cordoban leather regency recliner, and started to
snore quietly. "crx zx, crx zx,...".

"What quest am I being sent on now?" he said, remembering the previas time. She'd sent him to find her
legacy from the old Countach of Anglia, the majestic Crown Topaz surrounded by opels, diamantes, and
sephiaires, stolen by a stealthy thief called the Avenger, while she was on Safari. On that odyssey, the small
cats (lynx and bobcat) had been no trouble but he'd been forced to use his beretta on a cougar and on a
jaguar. And he'd been rammed by an impala, stung by a hornet and a scorpion, and some bird, maybe an
eagle, falcon, or skyhawk, had pierced his neck with its talons, and finally he'd been bitten by both a viper
and a cobra on the summit of Kilimanjaro. The Montero natives had sent a caravan of four runners, a
tracker, and a pathfinder through toronadoes, fording across the Nile delta, and valiantly saved him. He'd
had double vision for what seemed like millenia, until the impulses of electra shock therapy. "I'll probably
be an explorer in Fiero del Fuego this time", he thought. "No encores of that! I don't want to be involvoed
in the futura".

"Ed, whatever this nonsense is, yu go". He nonchalantly squashed a spider eating a beetle (maybe a
cricket).

Victoria calmly announced "Jimmy, pack your bags. I need you".

Ed glared. "You think you can order me around just because you're a celebrity? I rebel!"

"Cutlass coward", she responded. "Where's that famous male tourismo? Hah! Insufficient testarossa-
terene!".

"Now justy minute", he fumed. "Nobody says that to me".

"You WILL do it, Jimmy, or else. Caprice!"

Jimmy knew what she meant. Years before, there had been that unfortunate incident with the foxy spitfire
Reatta, a real swinger. He thought he'd made a conquest, after buying her an Esprit sable miniskirt (he
couldn't afford the maxi) and some cheese and water-cressida rolls as a prelude. As was his custom, they'd
drunk a magnum of sapporo spiced with cimarron. Ah, she had spirit, that one. The tempo had increased,
he'd probed her defences with some vigor - and then, just at the altima moment, just as he was teaching her
the sundance to a few stanzas of a minor Mozart sonata, he realised! It was all a mirage. She was a trans
am, and a real barracuda at it. If he'd been a samurai, he'd have given in to the impulse to lancer himself
over the lotus blossoms. He'd nearly gone on the wagoneer after that binge. And Victoria knew it all, and
wouldn't be afraid to tell. She had no integraty, that woman. And it would be quite a scoupe for her
journalistic friends.

Victoria spoke through pursed ellipse. "Your cavalier attitude might just be bravada, Jim, but we need to
tredia very carefully here".

"OK, OK, lady. Tell me what you want."

Ed continued to snore: "nsx mx, nsx mx,...".

"I want you to put a tracer on my husband, the Marquis. He's been kidnapped".

Ed awoke with a start. "O, me gaahd. That's tercelible. Morgan Guilia Smythe II (usually known just as
MG), Duke of Bentley, Defender of the Faith, Laird of Lincoln , and well-known corporate raider -
kidnapped! That’s diablolical."

"Yes", sighed Victoria. "MG had gone on a cruiser to Europe, with that strange-sounding Somerset butler
of his, Alf A. Riley. But I suspect he'd pickup that bratty parisienne starlet in a see-through micra-dress,
Mercedes. Anyway, they'd left London after an axxessful lunch with Royalety (the Monarch), parklaned the
yacht in a marina in Calais, met the Premier of France and other elite diplomats and ambassadors at
Versailles, and were heading off for the Monaco (Monte Carlo) Grand Prix, thence to the Montclair Hotel
in Bavaria and then to Firenza. He was to singer a duetto of Italian love songs (Volare, and so on) with
tenors Placido Domingo, Luciano Maserati, and Veloce Carerras. While Alf ett a rabbit for dinner, old MG
just disappeared. Then, I got this postcard of Matadors. It's not that I want him back. It's just that he
provides all the money a spend".

Jimmy read the card, written in letters cut from the International Herald Tribune. "You'll never see MG
alive unless you do precisely what I say. Get the Imperial coronet. Bring it to Spain, to the Ciera Nevadas,
a little town called El Dorado, during the Festival of Santa Reo. Be at the town square at neon when the
Spaniards are having their fiesta. Ask for Carman Mirada. Come alone."

"Amigo, get my passport, book me into the Fairmont, and have le car brought round. No, wait. Call me a
cabrio instead ".

You can reliant me, said Ed. "Er, what city?". Jimmy thought for a moment. "Berlina, and fast".

Ed sprinted for the door.

"Victoria, dasher along the corrado and ask Texas Ranger Harley Hillman to cam ryght in".

The trooper greeted Jimmy. "Audi, pardner. What's up? I was just going to do my civic duty and get some
sport catching me some speedsters".

"Fine", said Jimmy. "Stand over there and keep your eye on things. Watch like a laser. "

Ed scampered back.

Jimmy spoke. "This case doesn't need Janet Torino and the FBI. Only three people knew I'd found the
 Crown: Victoria, me, and Ed. Victoria wouldn't tell anyone, because she hadn't told the insurance
 company it'd been recovered. So that leaves you, Ed. I need to talk to you, Ed, manta man. I know you. I
 know your past. Born in Newport Beach. A real yuppie. Stylus town and country residences. No
 intellectual midget - acclaimed degrees at Oxford and MIT. Luminary in javelin, bow and arrow, targa
 shooting, and le sabre. A commando with the Aerostar regiment. Membership in sigma kia geo - quite a
 2CV. But you're no good, Ed". He looked at the others. "He's eville. Bad, eville. Been so for years. He
 was bonn eville. HE kidnapped the Duke. He turned to Ed. "Why??"

Ed hung his head. "It was the monza. I wanted to wrangler a marriage to Geraldine Ferrari. I wanted to
retire to a little ranchero near Austin. Home on the range, Rover beside me".

Harley arrested Ed. "Son-o-ma-gun, Jimmy. Mi. Ataboy. Excellent. Impreza-ive. Supra job. A real triumph.
A considerable achievament. You'll get a citation for this one. He'll go to prizm for a long time. Extortion
is a serious charger. But what gave the game away? Your knowledge of astronomy or astralogy?"

"No, spelling", said Jimmy. "The postcard. Only one part of the country spells S-i-e-r-r-a as C-i-e-r-a. New
England. Massachussets. Cambridge! MIT!".

Harley whispered, awestruck. "That fair city".

                                                 The end
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