Missed It By That Much!

“The cigar. You don’t really think that’s a cigar, do you?” He bent down and picked up the cigar from where it had fallen on the sidewalk. “You see, if you unroll these tobacco leaves, inside you find. . uh. . more tobacco leaves. Well, it could have been a poison gas gun, 99. It never pays to take chances.”

The little man began to stir.

“I think we better get inside,” Max said, urging 99 on. “You can’t depend on these little short guys having a sense of humor.”

Inside, the Chop House was dimly-lighted, foul-smelling and smoke-filled. There were tables and booths, most of them occupied by fiendish-looking men and wicked-looking women. Satanic-looking waiters were snaking in and out among the tables, delivering orders. Just inside the doorway was a sign saying: No Children Allowed After 6 P.M.

“A wise policy,” Max said. “At least, they’re keeping the welfare of the community in mind.”

“What now, Max?” 99 whispered.

“Play it cool,” Max replied. “Act as if we belong here.”

“Right.”

With Max leading the way, they entered and sat down at a table. A waiter appeared.

“Yeah, what’ll it be?” the waiter growled.

“Our usual,” Max replied.

“Yeah? I don’t remember seeing you in here before. What’s your usual?”

“Two peanut butter burgers,” Max replied.

“And I’ll have the same,” 99 said.

The waiter stared at Max. “Now I know I ain’t never seen you before,” he said. “I ain’t never even heard of nobody that ate a thing like a peanut butter burger. Where you from, Mac? The Moon? Anyway, we don’t serve no food. Unless you want to put our free lunch in the category of food. Which hardly nobody but a tourist with a cast-iron stomach does. All what we serve is drinks. You want a drink?”

“If we’ll have to settle for that, yes,” Max replied. “Two milks.”

“Milks!”

“On the rocks,” Max added.

The waiter shrugged and departed.

“That was close, Max,” 99 whispered. “I think he was getting suspicious-until you told him to put ice cubes in the milks.”

“Ice cubes? Is that what ‘on the rocks’ means, 99?”

“Yes, Max.”

“Live and learn.” He squinted his eyes, peering into the cigar and cigarette smoke, looking about the room. “I don’t see any tall, white-haired, distinguished-looking master illusionists,” he said. “We must have given that KAOS agent the slip.”

“I hope so,” 99 said. “A person who could make us see what didn’t exist-the way he made us see that diner-would be hard to handle.”

“You’re right. But I think-”

Max looked up. A small, olive-skinned man, dressed in a flowing white Arab burnoose, was standing at the table, grinning down at them.

“Permit me,” the little man said. “I am Hassan Pfeiffer, at your service.”

Max shook his head. “Whatever you’re selling, we don’t want any,” he said.

“Perhaps if I joined you at your table we could discuss the matter,” Hassan Pfeiffer said, still grinning. “My goods are in great demand. I have jewels, stolen from King Solomon’s mines. I have fresh eggs, stolen directly from under the chickens, still warm. I have teflon-coated fry pans, stolen from Macy’s Department Store, Pahzayk branch. I have-”

“No, nothing, thanks,” Max broke in.

“I have the jewel stolen from the eye of the idol.”

“No, really- Uh, what idol?”

“What difference does it make? An eye from an idol is an eye from an idol. They’re all alike. Oh, maybe one glitters a little more than another, but, at base, they’re all the same, just a hunk of worthless paste.”

“No sale,” Max said.

“I have a genuine chain-driven saxophone-the only one of its kind,” the little man went on.

“Believe me, fella, there’s nothing you could mention that would interest us.”

“I have love potions-five parts coca cola and ninety-five parts radish juice.”

Max flinched. “What does that make?”

“Depends on what you like,” the little man replied. “It’s either great radish juice or a lousy coke.”

Max shook his head again. “Nothing. Just go away.”

“I have information about missing scientists named Dr. Livingstrom.”

Max indicated a chair. “Maybe you’d like to join us.”

The little man sat down at the table with them. “What’ll it be?” he said. “Fresh eggs? Fry pans? The eye from the idol? Chain-driven saxophone? Love potion? Or, I could make you a nice little deal on the whole kit’n’kaboodle.”

“What I had in mind was about a quart of that information on missing scientists named Dr. Livingstrom,” Max said. “What would that come to?”

“In the can or in the bottle?”

Max narrowed his eyes and leaned across the table. “I think there’s something you ought to know, Hassan,” he said. “The young lady and I are not really tourists, as you appear to think. Actually, we’re crack secret agents. I’m Max Smart, Agent 86. And the young lady is Agent 99. And, as crack secret agents, we are trained to get what we want, when we want it, in any way that we can get it. Now, I don’t want to scare you. But what we want at the moment is information about a missing scientist named Dr. Livingstrom. And we will go to any lengths to get it. Is that clear?”

“Sure. You want to bargain,” Hassan smiled.

“Not exactly. What I want is that information. And I’m prepared to get ver-ry mean about it if I don’t get the information immediately-and at the lowest possible price.”

“I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” Hassan said. “I’ll give you the secret agent rate. It’s better than wholesale.” He spread his hands, grinning again. “Sure, I’m losing money. But maybe you’ll send other secret agents to me, and, in the long run, I’ll make it up.”

“How much?”

“Slip me a fiver.”

Max handed him the money. “Now, what do you know about Dr. Livingstrom?”

“I know that he’s the only other man in the world with a chain-driven saxophone-the only one of its kind,” Hassan replied. “It’s just like mine. I sold it to him just before he left for the interior.”

“The interior?” Max said.

“That’s what we call the inside-the-jungle-place here in Africa,” Hassan replied.

“Are you telling me that Dr. Livingstrom has gone into the jungle? How do you know?”

“I gave him directions,” Hassan answered. “I sold him the sax, then he said, ‘Incidentally, which way to the jungle?’ So, I pointed, and he took off.”

Max turned to 99. “We’ll have to form a safari,” he said.

“Right, Max,” 99 replied.

“Wrong, Max,” Hassan said. “You don’t want a safari. You know what a safari is? Strip away all the romantic gloss and all it is is a bunch of natives. You want to be responsible for a bunch of natives? Think of the paperwork. Making deductions for Social Security. Keeping track of all those income tax withholding statements. Insuring the safari against rain damage, hit and run elephants and lion attacks. Is that what you want?” He shook his head. “That’s not what you want, Max. What you want is a plain old everyday guide. One man. A guide who knows the interior like the palm of his hand.”

“He may be right, Max,” 99 said.

“Yes, as a matter of fact, I think he is,” Max said. “After all, we are on a secret mission. And if you tell a safari a thing like that, before long the whole country knows it. I saw that happen