Located in Weeder’s Clump, Illinois, on the corner of Sutton and Floyd, is an impressive building which houses the John Dillinger National Bank. Shekel Dubloon is the president of this somewhat ostentatious and opulent establishment, and his reputation for fiscal prosperity is known throughout a three-state area. Indeed, Shekel’s advice has been sought by no less than four United States presidents, and he has frequently bragged about friendship with Kenneth Lay, Charles Keating, and Bernie Madoff. As far as banking and finance go in Weeder’s Clump, one name says it all. That name is Shekel Dubloon. 

Shortly after being honored as Man of the Year by the Illinois Bean Grower’ Association at their annual convention in the Windy City, Shekel experienced a personal crisis. He awakened one morning and realized that he was weary of dealing with people about financial matters, foreclosing on mortgages, laundering money for unscrupulous savings and loan executives, and helping as many high risk people as possible secure Fanny Maes. In addition, he learned that a big scandal was coming his way. Thus one morning, as he was taking a tincture of Balm of Alacrity for his irregularity, Shekel concluded that he needed and deserved a rest from the dog-eat-dog world of high finance. Besides, it would be wise for him to lie low in the weeds until the scandal blew over. 

Shekel wanted to find a place where no one knew his name, a place where he could not be found, a place so far removed from civilization that the inhabitants thought a pest control officer was an old geezer with a flyswatter, a snow removal crew was 50 people with lighted matches, and a head shop was a store that sold hats. After much research, he found such a place deep in the mountains of South America. Shekel told no one where this place was located or how to contact him. And he left his cell phone at home. 

To make sure his affairs were in good order while he was gone, Shekel left his best friend in charge, a capable lawyer with an impeccable reputation named Joris Prudence. Over the past several years, Shekel and Joris had developed a genuine friendship, often dining at Mom’s Family Restaurant, playing cards on Wednesday evenings at Doc’s Card Emporium, hoisting a couple at Suds Guzzle’s Billiard Parlor, fishing on Saturday afternoons in the Big Sleazy River, and listening to Reverend Cyril Balderdash’s sermons on Sunday mornings at the Malthusian Church of the True Redeemer. Theirs was one of those rare friendships where two individuals are in such complete agreement on all important matters in life that they almost think the same thoughts, dream the same dreams, and trust each other implicitly. 

Confident that Joris Prudence could take good care of his business, Shekel took the Amtrak from Weeder’s Clump to Salina, Kansas. From there, he caught a plane to Bloomington, Illinois, and then to South America. He traveled by Jeep to the foot of the mountains, by canoe up a treacherous river, then by a mule train to his secret vacation spot. 

Shekel spent a glorious month in South America, and the time flew by almost before he knew it. Shekel had never had so much fun in his life. He wrestled anacondas, tormented piranha, squashed spiders, and captured wombats. He sang at the top of his voice at sunrise, belched profusely at meals, and let his beard grow. And all during the month he had no knowledge of what had transpired back home.

When Shekel returned to Weeder’s Clump, he was met at the Amtrak station by Boone Fowler and not, as he had expected, by Joris Prudence. Boone Fowler was Shekel’s handyman and gardener, but he spent most of his time fishing, hanging out at Mom’s, Doc’s, and Suds.’ He also frequented Mal Cutter’s Barber Shop and Poindexter’s Garage. 

After greeting Boone enthusiastically, Shekel said, “Boone, I am eager to know what has happened since I have been gone. Please tell me all of the news.” 

Boone shook his head and said, “Boss, there is no news.” 

Disappointed at Boone’s reply, Shekel said, “I am hungry for any bit of news, no matter how trivial. Surely you have heard some gossip since you frequent the watering holes in our fair town.

“But Boss, there is no news, no news at all,” Boone said, and then he began to sing “Once He Took Acid and Now He Loves God, but He Still Has That Look in His Eyes.” 

Not willing to give up, Shekel said, “Now think hard, Boone. There must be something you can tell me.” 

Boone scratched his head, flibbered his lips, cleared his throat, rolled his eyes, and looked off into the middle distance as if searching for an answer in the sky. Finally, a light bulb suddenly came on in the deep recesses of Boone’s brain, and he said, “I almost forgot. There is one thing. I am sorry to have to tell you this, but Minky, your favorite cat, died.”

Shekel shook his head in disbelief, and then he said, “Minky was in the best of health when I left. What were the circumstances of Minky’s death?” 

 TO BE CONTINUED—The Unfortunate Death of Minky the Cat

[Professor Logsdon has taught 24 years at Western Illinois University and 27 going on 28 at Eureka College.]