Fiction:

“Please fetch me another one, good doctor.”

There I was, college educated, board certified pathologist and a former professor at the Keck School of Medicine commanded to get tea at Melville’s for a man who only stepped on a college campus to solve the murder of a Palestinian undergraduate last year.

“You are perfectly capable of ordering your own tea.”

I met Holmes poking around the morgue at County USC Medical Center when he was still a teenager. The first few times, I shewed him out, but one time I caught him peering up a cadaver’s nostrils. I inquired. His drug overdose conclusion approximated the toxicology report when it arrived an hour later. It turned out, Holmes came to the hospital’s morgue to see for himself how all manner’s of death looked, smelled and I dare say, felt.

“I’m busy right now.” He fixated on his laptop computer taking up far too much space on our small table. “While you are merely writing notes for something.”

“Very well.”

In his formative years, he gathered all sorts of information not only from self initiated studies, but also from direct experience. I still remember a trip to a gun range in Arizona. He and I fired dozens of small arms from P32 to a TAC 50. At this range, I acquired my Smith and Wesson 38 ACP revolver. Have no worries, I trained extensively on its use and obtained a concealed carry permit once I joined Holmes on his investigations.

“Tall Earl Grey tea latte with two percent milk, please.”

“Is that all?”

“No, a packet of brown sugar as well.”

Holmes detests sugar-in-the-raw. He prefers the brown sugar which only comes with their oatmeal. After a few minutes insistence, the barista relented.

During negotiations, I noticed a handicapped man with a rollator entered the lobby and looked around. My friend watched his every move. No tables were available, but the man looked intently at every person. Holmes observed him, as he studied table occupants. Since personal computers sat on the several table tops, those tables seemed unlikely to free up. He also noticed several people viewing media on their phones. Earlier, Holmes convinced those people to use their earphones so he could concentrate.

Previously, I thought Holmes had extreme persuasive powers. He always seemed able to direct other’s actions to suit him. Later, I learned the trick. Holmes used his observations to uncover his opponent’s secrets which he threatened to reveal unless the person did exactly what Holmes desired. Come to think about it, that’s how Holmes recruited me into his adventures.

Seeing that that no tables were likely empty any time soon, the man wheeled his rollator out and set his course down the street. I waited at the counter for Holmes’s tea.

“Here you go, Holmes.” I took my seat.

“Thank you good doctor. Now, will you be so kind as to fetch that disabled man looking for a table?”

“The man left minutes ago. How should I do that?”

“With your legs, and a modicom of reasoning.”

“I’m sure you are better suited for that.”

“Yes, but there is something I need to do first. Go along Dr. Garcia.”

This Melville’s was near an intersection of two major boulevards. Our disabled gentleman could have relocated to one of quite a few establishments. Many launderers often wait for their machines to finish their cycles by grabbing a table and a coffee, so I stopped their first. A few quick inquiries provided sufficient evidence to disprove that theory.

An excellent, but little known, specialty tea shop resided a buildings down Valley Boulevard. It also provides free wifi. Cyber campers, those who set up their portable computers and occupy tables, rarely patronize Kim Chi’s Boba Tea because they do not provide electrical outlets. As expected, the tea house was nearly empty which includes the man Holmes sent me after.

I crossed Valley and poked my head into several shops. No sign of the man. I overshot Riverside Drive and checked in at the bank. Their ATMs are inside to cut down on muggings. He was not there. I must have checked twenty or so establishments before deciding to confess my failure to Holmes.

As I headed back to, what must now be a frigid decaf latte, I noticed Holmes leaning against a pole near the bus stop.

“What are you doing here, Holmes?”

“Obviously, I’m waiting for you, Juan.”

“Why would you wait for me at a bus stop when my Impala is parked at Melville’s?”

“Really, Dr, Garcia? You can be so dense. While you fetched my tea, a disabled man came in, but he couldn’t find a table.”

“Yes, I saw that, too.”

“Then you noticed that he scanned each table evaluating the likelihood it would become available in a short amount of time.”

“That was quite apparent.”

“Good for you. You also noticed the computer bag strap dangling his under-seat storage compartment.”

“Sorry, I must have missed that one.”

“Oh, that explains why you got here so late. Had you made that observation you would have deduced that he’d be on his way to the next available Melville’s. Since many locations have been converted to less amiable configurations, it is likely he’d take a Route 36 bus traveling along Riverside to Mountain which meant he’d head to this very bus stop.” Holmes beamed his I’m-smarter-than-you smile. “What I can’t figure out is what took you so long to get here. I secured a table from the lonely man watching risque videos on his phone and arranged for the young couple to watch over both our table and his while I chased him down before his bus arrived.”

“Clever actions, my friend. What I don’t understand is why he came to this location when the other location, from my recollection, offer many more tables to choose from?”

“Simple, Dr. Garcia. This must be his favored location.”

“I wouldn’t think so.”

“And why’s that?”

“Because here he comes right now.”

“Thanks a lot.” The disabled man parked his rollator against the poll which held a sign marking the Route 36 bus stop. “You made me miss my bus.”

“Was the table I told you about not to your liking?”

“Oh, it was a great table. So great that the stuck up bitch and her smug boyfriend pushed it next to theirs so they could have more space.”

“Then you could have our table.” I made a generous offer.

“What table is that?”

“The one in the corner with the window overlooking Riverside Drive.” Holmes answered.

“Some perv watching girly vids is sitting there.”

“Then I will inform the manager that he is in violation of their Acceptable Use Policy. The manager will have him removed and you can have the table.”

“Great plan, Sherlock. He’s the manager’s older brother.” He took out his cell phone and accessed the Transit App.

“Odelay.” Holmes corrected the man.

“Orale? What’s up? I’ll tell you what’s up. I was sitting peacefully waiting for a bus that was to come in just one minute. Then you came with this cockamamie story about an available table, and now, I have to wait another fifteen minutes for the next bus.”

“No. I meant my name is ‘Odelay.’ With a ‘D’.”

“Who in hell would name anyone ‘Odelay?”

“It’s a long story.”

“Save it. You’ve wasted enough of my time today.” He put Airpods in his ears and played music through his cell phone.

Holmes and I returned to the Melville’s. The manager sat with his brother at our former table. Holmes surmised that the girly vid watcher threw out our beverages since they were nowhere in sight. The young couple found two friends and the four of them discussed moral obligations in modern society. When Holmes joined the conversation, they insisted they did nothing wrong. Holmes persuasive powers failed again. I should conduct a study on attractiveness and self-centered behavior. They quoted several modern and obscure philosophical sources, including former President Donald Trump, to support their position.

“Forget it Holmes. There’s nothing else you can do here.”

“Very well, Juan. It’s time we meet Sargent Weaver in Monrovia, anyways.”

Author’s note:

Heriberto, a friend and colleague, used the nickname “Eddie” because his name, when pronounced properly, uses a hard “r” which is pronounced more like a “d.” “Orale,” a slang term which roughly translates to “What’s up,” also uses a hard “r.” The English transliteration is “Odelay.” Which is also the title of a Beck album.

I never wrote my East LA detective novel featuring Odelay Holmes (which sounds like “orale homes”). In the back story, a Scottish immigrant marries a Hispanic East LA resident. While living in East LA, he often heard “orale,” so he used it as his son’s first name. Before his first son’s birth, he moved his family to Mid-Wilshire, so the impact of his ignorance was not immediately evident.