Constance Caraway P.I. ~ Episode 12

…He hands over the metal briefcase he has been holding on to tightly. It contains $50,000.…

By the time they passed La Grange Road, Kamen had loosed his bow-tie and shed his coat. Beads of sweat formed on his forehead just thinking of the Libby ordeal.

“I see that you are upset. Let’s stop and get something to eat… There,” Constance points at the sign of CLANCY’S – a bar and diner. There is a Philips 66 Gas pump out front.

“Clancy’s,” Fanny thinks back fondly to a much earlier time. “Do you remember where we first met, Connie?”

“It was Yancy’s… How do you like this for karma?” she smiles widely.

“Clancy’s: Food, Fuel and Fun; now you are talking Carol!” Eddie proclaims with enthusiasm.

Martin gives Constance a crooked look.

She whispers in his right ear, “He knows us as Carolyn and Sara, doesn’t know our real names and he thinks we are visiting a high school chum. We will clue him in only if we have to.”

He gives a “got it, a chum” nod at her. As much as they like Eddie, their level of trust is still set a cool medium.

Once inside, all fed and relaxed, Eddie steals Sara/Fanny away for a game of pool. A married man, all the way to his Polish roots, it has been a long while since he has been this far from home on a real adventure and to be in the company of good looking women… GOLDEN!

With the others in an adjacent recreation room, Martin takes advantage to have Carolyn/Constance off to the side. Up until this very moment, full disclosure financial details had not been finalized. He hands over the metal briefcase he has been holding on to tightly. It contains $50,000.

“Fifty thousand,” he identifies the stacks of Franklins therein, “I want you to know that the university and I are serious about bringing Willard Libby back to us safely and in one piece.”

Her “that will do nicely” nod of approval brings out the richness of her violet eyes, a glint reserved for special occasions.

In his own pragmatic, scientific and vexed state-of-mind, Martin David Kamen goes on to unravel the known threads in the mysterious cloth that has become a Manhattan Mystery, here in the outskirts of greater suburbs of Chicago Illinois.