"No, seriously, how much are we getting paid for this?" I asked Athanasius for the umpteen time that night. "We spent an arm and a leg for these mothball-smelling tuxedos from the Reagan era. Where did you even get those arms and legs?"
Athanasius simply greased his mustache dismissively with a flourish. "Such questions are unbecoming of a young lass such as yourself. Why would you even wear a tuxedo and not a dress in the first of places?"
"Not a lass," I muttered, "and because they make my butt look good. But seriously, our pay-"
"-shall be provided promptly upon the completion of our work," interrupted Anastasius.
"Which would be...?"
"Promptly," he stated.
"No, I mean, how much?" I pressed.
"I suppose that little time after, since that's the definition of promptly," he said. "As a Doctor in Letters, you should be of great understanding of the verbosity I spew."
Which meant that either he didn't know how much we are getting paid, or he knew and was playing coy about it. There was a third option that didn't even cross my mind, only because it was too stupid to entertain. But if I know anything about Athanasius is that, if there was an opportunity for him to do something stupid, he will become the entire circus to entertain.
I should've pushed more, but we had arrived at our destination before I knew it.
I should clarify that when I say push, I meant literal push, as our vehicle was, as Athanasius put it, a "porcine-powered vehicle for the lucky gentleman on the go," which was fancy for "pig wagon," as in, a wagon pushed by Athanasius lucky pig, Monsignor Porco. It worked surprisingly well until he hurt his hoofs with the hot asphalt and had to be cradled like a baby while I had to do the hard work. That's when I realized that I was a lady only when it fitted Athanasius' goals.
It took me a few hours to push us into a suburb just outside New York City, into what I can only describe as a Mansion King, which is like a McMansion, but vastly inferior, oddly grilled and dry, and gives you the runs. The whole suburb was littered with equally tasteless mansions, erect one after the other. I half expected to stumble into a reunion of white people silent betting in some rich fight club scheme.
"Halt, substitute swine!" yelled Athanasius as I pulled us to the driveway when a valet was waiting for us.
The man didn't bat an eye as Athanasius shoved Monsignor Porco onto the valet's arms, slipping two drachmas into his pockets.
"If I see a dent or a scratch on him," he whispered, "I'll turn you into bacon."
"I will make sure to feed him our best trash," said the man before putting Monsignor Porco into the wagon and parking it between a Porsche and a PopeMobile.
"Take note, Miss Cagliostro," whispered Athanasius as an equally drab butler showed us inside, "that my entrance was foreboding and somber as I eyed everyone in the room from the shadows."
Which could've been far from what happened, for as soon as we reached the living room we were greeted by something that neither of us had expected.
"Holy shit, is that a tiger?!" yelled Athanasius, for in the middle of the room, locked in a cage, was an actual tiger.
I don't know if you ever had the experience of seeing a tiger up close, but they are every bit of an asshole that cats are with the strength to back it up. Even their breath sounds like a million tiny tornadoes reverberating on a thunderous night, contained on a being that only wants to rip you apart like said tornadoes. I'm not saying that tornadoes are made of tigers, but I never heard anybody say anything to the contrary.
Of course, said outburst made everyone in the room interrupt their conversations to focus on us. So much for a grand entrance.
Athanasius cleared his throat, adjusting his homemade steel bowtie(only 2.99 on Amazon), which only made everyone linger on him a bit longer, enough for me to gauge the room. I was not too far with my fight club prediction, as we had indeed stumbled upon a gathering of mostly rich white men, all sipping Moët, and talking about rich people stuff, like golf, or stocks, or how Van Halen was ahead of his time. I could recognize a lot of faces in the crowd, like Cardinal McFeely, and Rich Playboy Philanthropist Richard Moneyworth.
"I mean," said the lilliputian detective, "is that a specimen of the Panthera Tigris I have spotted over yonder?"
That seemed enough to make the rich people co tune their rich conversations, like a butter-basted steak, but enough to catch the attention of our employer, punctuated by her abstractly expressionist voice.
"Sir Finch," she said, sucking her teeth as she only gave me once over as one would do on a nudist beach - only once, super indiscreet, and a 100% judging, "wonderful to see you here on time. When you rejected my offer to pick you up, I was afraid you would get lost in the sea of mansions. A silly preoccupation, for I'm dealing with the world's third-best detective!"
"Wait," I said, "you made me push the pig wagon all the way here just because?"
"Nonsense, my dear Miss Cagliostro-"
"Not a miss."
"-for it was of the utmost necessity. You see, I placed an envelope in the glove compartment that states that, if a murderer opens it, he is entitled to keep whatever is inside. If he opens it, we will know he is the murderer, if not, we will have one less suspect!"
Mrs. Fatone couldn't help but clap like a walrus. "I see now how your method is both meticulous and flawless!"
Athanasius simply twirled his mustache and gave the woman a deep bow, which made his fez fall off his head, revealing the words "I Went To Disneyland And All I Got Was This Douchebag" written with a red sharpie. "Such is the power of my αϊντέεε: throw everything at the wall, and whatever sticks must be the answer!"
"Such wisdom!" said the woman.
"Hey, sorry to interrupt," I said, not being sorry, "but what's with the tiger?"
"Oh, him?" said the blubbering idiot, I will let you figure out which, "he is Doctor Cuddles, my tiger. As you can see," she said, twirling in place to show her authentic knockoff tiger print dress, "I'm kind of obsessed with tigers. I saw, like, the first episode of this Netflix documentary that told me I could buy one for like, two grand, and I knew I had to buy me one of those!"
"You might wanna keep watching that documentary," I stated. "You're kinda missing the point."
"I don't have time to watch documentaries, Miss Scrotum."
"It's Miss Cagliostro," said Athanasius.
"Not a miss," I said.
"Same difference," said Mrs. Fatone. "Anyways, I would like you to meet my husband, but he's not around at the moment. Must be in the bathroom or something. Please, feel free to look around for any suspicious individual. My husband's life must be saved at all cost until the main event of the night, when we retreat to that room over there," she said, pointing at a room closed by a red velvet rope. "We will have enough armed security in there, I assure you. For now, his life is in your hands."
She turned around to leave - which trust me, took a longer time than it sounded, since she seemed to move with tank controls - but I stopped her before she got too far.
"If I may ask, what kind of party are you throwing here to have a party with ample armed security, a tiger, the richest men of New York, and a death threat?"
The woman looked at me like one would look at spoiled milk - measuring if the risk of poisoning is worth taking, mostly because one has already poured the cereal inside the bowl and one doesn't want it to go to waste. "It's a Tupperware party," she finally said, taking a menacing step towards me. "A super, duper, influencer Tupperware party. With, like, the best Tupperware you can buy."
"Ah, of course!" said Athanasius, jamming himself between us two, which he easily did with his permanent greasiness. "Such Tupperwares are not for us mortals. Please, proceed. We shall make observitations to ascertain the jeopardizing of the figure of your spouse, yes?"
That seemed to make the woman happy, as she made a slow K-turn out of there.
I took Athanasius aside, just behind the tiger cage, which I was sure he was licking his chops because he could smell the garlic-marinated private dick. "This is a bunch of bull," I whispered, making sure nobody was around to hear us.
"I agree," said Athanasius. "This is, as you say, a bunch of bull."
To be honest, I had a moment of wonderful understanding with Athanasius, which, until that moment, I thought was as dumb as a rock, even though it was a clear insult to rocks, which had many uses. But just like a perfectly good rock thrown in the middle of the ocean, my hopes for a meaningful connecting with my boss sank to the bottom, never to be seen again.
"I mean, why wasn't I, the world's third-best detective and a highly influential New Yorker, not invited to the super, duper, influencer Tupperware party? I feel hoodwinked, bamboozled, even!"
He was an insult to rocks.
"I shall look around to see if I can convince one of these fine gentlemen to buy a Tupperware in my regard. You go around and look at anyone suspicious."
"We are the suspicious one," I remarked. "But okay. You go towards the drinks, I'll take the amuse-bouche cart."
"Wait!" he said, handing me out a few ziploc bags. "Take some to go. This will be tomorrow's brunch!"
That, I had to say, was my priority. Why did I have to investigate when that wasn't in my work description? I was at a party with the upper echelon of New York! There were lobster rolls for Pete's sake! I did make sure to look around for anyone suspicious, and still the most suspicious person around was Athanasius.
He, however, wasn't the most obnoxious, because I bumped into somebody far worse than him by the canapes.
"Hey, weren't you that MoMA exhibitionist girl?" said a man that was best described as if the feeling of being punched in the boobs was made into a person.
"Hey, aren't you that obnoxious lawyer that cost me my art career?" I said in my most dead voice possible.
"Yep, that sounds like me," he said with a smirk, producing a card from his pocket. "Peter Katz, will-"
"-liberately lie for you," I said, taking the card and tossing it behind me, which hit a Wall Street investor on the eyes, which he took to cut a line of a mysterious white powder that I hope was just some caster sugar or something. "I remember."
"At your pleasure," he said, tipping his champagne.
"I doubt it. What are you doing here?"
Mr. Katz leaned on the table, tossing shrimp after shrimp in the air and catching it with his mouth. His full, oddly glistening mouth. "Well, I'm representing half these cats, and trying to score the other half. That mil you got me was a nice start to boost my career, but daddy still needs to make a living."
"Please, don't call yourself daddy," I said. "I don't swing that way."
"Hey, every swing has to go somewhere and return, so if you swing away from me, you're bound to return," said the man, with his smug, punchable existence. "What are you doing here? Finally got around putting whatever liberal arts degree you got to good use by deciding what kind of pinot noir would look the best in my hand like a waitress?"
I grabbed a handful of deviled eggs with caviar and tossed it into the ziploc bag. "Do I look like a waitress?"
"I plea the 5th on that one," said the lawyer, slurping an oyster, which gave his lips a luscious shine. Focus, Beatrix! "So, what's crackalacking?"
"I'll have you know I am an assistant to a very prestigious detective," I said, stuffing my mouth with some quail eggs.
"What, you mean Athanasius?" said the man, preceded by a solid minute of him laughing at my face. The first 15 seconds were fine, but the rest was overkill. You never know how much a minute lasts until somebody uses one to mock you. "Oh, let me buy you a drink. You need it."
He snapped his fingers, and a waiter came rushing with two champagne glasses. "Keep 'em coming," he said, handing me one.
"You know these are free, right?" I said, taking a sip of the delicious bubbleage.
"It's the thought that counts," said Mr. Katz. "Now, what's Inspector Magoo doing here? Surely, he wasn't invited."
"I wouldn't be so proud to be invited to a weird Tupperware party if I were you. We are here for a case."
Mr. Katz's look was inquisitive, almost pensive. One would say intrigued, while others would say constipated. I, for one, was glad something was able to wipe the smirk off his face. "What Tupperware party?"
"I was told by Mrs. Fatone that this was actually a super, duper, influencer Tupperware party."
He laughed for an extra minute, which I think he only did to pad the run time of whatever movie he thought he was in. "What do you think Mrs. Fatone is?"
"An influencer?"
"And what kind of influencer do you think makes a super, duper, Tupperware party and invites a Cardinal, captains of industries, and tech moguls?"
"That's what I said!"
He grabbed a bunch of grapes and began to pop them one by one into his mouth. His thick, yet fair fingers glistened with the caress of his mouth. "See, this ain't no stinking Tupperware party, this is a-"
You might have realized that he didn't finish his sentence, as a bloody scream, distinctly like an early Pollock painting, reverberated through the room.
Everyone's attention was suddenly focused on the tiger enclosure, now opened, without the tiger inside. Instead, the tiger was happily munching at a man a few feet away, starting, interestingly enough, with his feet, feeding into the perpetual foot fetish that Americans are so known for.
"Down, Doctor Cuddles, down!" yelled Mrs. Fatone, drenched in tears, but Doctor Cuddles couldn't care less, munching at whatever poor man was being eaten by a million tiny hurricanes, each followed by a crunch.
The butler removed the velvet rope from the sealed room and yelled, very firmly but fair, for everyone to get the hell inside. Since being tiger poop was not part of my immediate future, I got the hell inside, with the rest of the rich people being panicked and rich.
Thankfully, the tiger was busy eating the man, so he largely ignored us.
When everyone was finally inside the mystery room, and finding Athanasius - mainly because of his smell - I managed to take a good look at my surroundings.
In particular, an altar in the middle of the room. With a noose on top of it. A hanging noose. To hang people.
"Write this down," said Athanasius, fiddling with his mustache, "I don't think this is a super, duper, influencer Tupperware party."