Fall is here, it has been here, but a transition is taking place. The leaves are becoming yellower, oranger, redder. The air assumes a slightly different quality, fresh, brisk, musky, muskier.
At Precinct 97, the phone rings. Sargent Bills, a man with almost as much hair protruding out from his ears as springs forth from his head, which is to say a lot, a man always one year away from retirement, answers.
"Precinct 97!"
"Jesus, whipped cream has been abducted from one of our souffles!"
"I'm going to transfer you to the Cream Squad. Hold!"
Sargent Homburger, a man with not much hair anywhere, who is likely about half way through his career, answers.
"Cream squad!"
"Jesus, whipped cream has been abducted from one of our souffles!"
The sirens, oh jesus, the sirens. The colors mix with the colors of the leaves.
When Detective Peppers Johnson arrives, a perimeter has been created around the lovely Brooklyn brownstone where the cream went missing. Mitch and Sasha Gordon had been throwing a dinner party for a total of 4 guests when tragedy struck. Now, the Gordons and their guests were all sitting as calmly as could be expected in the living room with glasses of cucumber water. A few patrolmen from the Cream Squad stood by, and a homeless man, who had been apprehended for suspicion of cream theft, remained at the scene in handcuffs.
Detective Peppers Johnson surveyed the space, its occupiers, its tasteful Pottery Barn furniture. There were French doors opening into a private patio garden. Mercator took a step outside, and noticed, although out of view from the living room, there sat a table adorned with plates of souffle and whipped cream, one souffle missing its portion of whipped cream. But who took the cream?
To be continued...