Framing the Bobsled

Arnold Polmer was still seething when he came back from the file room, hoping his interrogation subject wouldn’t figure out about the dressing down he’d just received from a trio of interagency types who all outranked even St. Petersburg, Florida’s most senior ATA official. To his annoyance, he found Jay leaning against the doorframe of the interrogation room and chatting up his normally reserved assistant. Jessamine was laughing and leaning forward, and toying with a stray lock of hair, as if all of those signal flags and more could be strung about Tampa bay to communicate ‘dock here, please.’
“What?” Jay spread his hands helplessly when Polmer pushed him back into the room and closed the door. “I was just asking Jessie to recommend a good restaurant.”
“Jessie – Ms. Wiest – is engaged. Or didn’t you see the ring?”
“Engaged? What does that have to do with…” Polmer suspected Jay was feigning ignorance. “Oh! I see. You thought I was hitting on her. Well, she is adorable, and it seems she and her fiancé are going through some problems, but it was totally innocent. You see, I already met a beautiful young lady right outside, and we’re going out to dinner tonight.”
“Never mind that!” Polmer hissed, then winced when he spotted a fleck of spittle. “You aren’t taking this seriously enough for someone who happens to be the only suspect.”

Jay smiled, and Polmer felt the same lurch he felt every time someone pointed out the similarity between his name and that of the famous golfer.

“Oh, use the term ‘person of interest,’ Mr. Polmer. Not only do I like the sound of it, but it carries the accurate legal implication of your inability to hold me here overnight.”
Polmer turned as pale as a Titleist. “I can hold you.”
“You can hold me long enough to spoil my dinner plans. I’d rather you didn’t, so I’m going to do us both a favor and tell you what I know. It’s understandable that the ATA would come to the conclusion that I’m responsible, so I see no reason to sputter indignantly, or make fun of the pit stains on my captor’s Hawaiian print shirt.”
Polmer frowned at his armpits. Jay got up and began to pace, his eyes distant as if he were winding back an old film reel in search of a particular frame.
“Okay, here’s what you know: Last night, Kingston police investigate a break in at Olympic headquarters. The place was tossed. They get a hold of the curator to confirm that the bobsleds – including the one used in Calgary in 1988 – may have been moved. And the curator says he isn’t certain the sleds haven’t been replaced with replicas, so Jamaica goes on national pride lock down. Don’t ask me how I know this, Polmer, people talk even when you wish they wouldn’t.”
“So this afternoon, right around the time I was contemplating an airport cocktail before my connecting flight, your people spot a coffin sized package making the same transfer I would have made, had you not brought me in for questioning. The label? “Bob S. Led” Cute, huh? What a sense of humor some people have.”
“But here’s the thing. Your people grab me and handcuff me to that bench in the hall – which actually worked out pretty well, since I met that girl while you were making calls and doing paperwork – only to miss the television report that the Jamaicans are now confident that the sleds are the originals. Crisis averted, and all that.”
“But that still leads us to this sled, which you showed me right before those three agency types came in to box your ears. I’m guessing you hoped to get a reaction out of me, and you did. But it was recognition, not guilt. I put it all together, Polmer, and I’ll be happy to tell you. The only problem is that it will seem so fantastic, you’ll be better off making something else up for your report.”
Polmer looked at the clock and suddenly wished that he, too, could speed this up and send this character out of his office. Of course, that meant giving the bastard the opportunity to get to a dinner date that would likely segue into a breakfast date, but for now Polmer wanted nothing more than to go home and clean his divorcee pad before his college age daughter came back to town. Lucy had just spent three months with his ex-wife, so there would be more than a little de-programming he’d have to do. He shook his head to clear it. “Try me, smart guy.”
Jay stopped his pacing and stared out into the bay. “The trouble is that you guys are looking for the wrong Jamaican bobsled.”
“Excuse me? I thought we just decided that the Olympic sleds were fine.”
“They are. The Olympic break in was a red herring. The sled in the other room can only be one thing: the prop from the 1993 film Cool Runnings.”
Polmer didn’t say anything, and Jay looked back of his shoulder. “I told you it would be fantastic. Let me see if I can give you some context.”
He began to pace again. “Imagine you’re John Candy in 1993. The eighties were pretty great for you. Spaceballs. Planes, Trains, and Automobiles. Uncle Freakin’ Buck. Comedy gold.”
“But what happened in the early nineties? Nothing but Trouble happened. Some voiceover work. Even a serious turn with Only the Lonely. Failures, for the most part, and you’re all too aware of your family history of heart disease and early death. You’ve got a wife and two kids, and you knows you need to deliver, big time.”
The ATA official tried to imagine being a comedy actor, desperate for cash. Jay plowed forward.
“So you’ve got this feel good Disney movie in the can, and you’re partying with some of the cast and the crew in Jamaica. You encourage some of your buddies – successful comic actors all – to join you at the Terra Nova, and make sure they get plenty wasted before roping them into an underground poker game. A very high stakes underground poker game.”
“Wait, this can’t be real. Can you offer me the slightest bit of proof that you would have knowledge of a poker game from fifteen years ago?
Jay sighed. “I told you it would be fantastic, but when you put the pieces together it all fits. Anyway, Steve Martin and Rick Moranis and the others lose a lot, but of course they can take the hit. They limp home having learned an important lesson about poker, knocked out in the early rounds by the pros. They’re just glad that their old buddy John Candy was still at the table when they leave. Little do they know that you’re actually something of a card shark, capable of knocking out the rest of the table without breaking much of a sweat. So now you’ve got this big pot, and you’re understandably nervous about walking around with so much wealth on hand. So you get a production assistant to hide it until you can fly back to Canada.”
“Trouble is, the assistant is critically injured a few hours later in a robbery that may or may not have been an attempt to relieve him of the Candy winnings. Like I said before, people talk. The assistant dies before you can find out where he managed to hide the money, or even if he managed to before he was attacked. You feel guilty, and you decide to forget about the money, which you figure was taken by the robbers.”
“But what if it wasn’t?”
“I know where I would hide a lot of money, if I had access to a prop room. Did your people look in the bobsled?”
Polmer lurched out of his chair and held up a finger to forestall Jay’s monologue. He stalked into the next room and peered into the bobsled. Poked at the chassis. Even ran his finger along the runner and cursed when he managed to cut himself. He returned to the interrogation room with his finger wrapped in a paper towel.
“That’s enough.”
“Excuse me?”
“I’ve heard enough. You can go.”
“You think I’m full of shit.”
“There’s nothing in that stupid prop. There’s no long lost John Candy poker winnings. You’re just some goofball wasting everybody’s time.”
“I know it sounds crazy.” Jay replied, not offended in the least. “Try not to be so hard on yourself later when you realize I was right.”
“Just. Go.” Polmer pointed to the door, then sat back down on his interrogator’s chair and tried to think back to the last time he’d had a case go his way.
In the parking lot a pretty redhead started her car and popped the lock to let Jay into the passenger seat. “Do you think I should go up and see my dad?” Lucy Polmer asked. “He seemed really stressed out.”
“I think you should give him some time,” Jay counseled. “He needs plenty to process everything that’s happened.”
“About that,” Lucy said, “You really need to explain it to me, and also what you wanted with this lockbox from the bobsled.” She held up the box in question, and Jay’s eyes lit up.
“It’s a long story, too long for just dinner. I’ll just have to tell you over breakfast, too.”