Lennie and the Doughnuts

After 45 years in the army as a soldier and military cop I retired a year ago. 6 months passed while I worked in the garden, lounged in coffee shops and sleep-watched TV and I discovered I wasn’t cut out to be a retiree. I needed something to keep me occupied. My pension took care of all my needs so I looked around for something to do. But what?

The army and my entire background had taught me how to be a military man. I was a soldier through and through. I thought like one. I behaved like one. Always dressed properly, always shaven. No skills. Except for what I had learned in the last 10 years before retirement. That’s when I transferred from front-line soldier to army policeman. I was posted to some small African country where I soon became the head of security and the main crime fighter. Perhaps I could be a security consultant?

I found a signwriter and had a small, discrete sign made and displayed on the gatepost. “Thomas P. Kennedy – Security”. Then I sat inside and waited for someone to ring the bell or knock on the door.

It took a week. I recognized her on sight. The smiling young woman from the bakery on Maple Street two blocks from my house. They bake great bread and they make doughnuts to die for. They also have a few tables out on the sidewalk and on sunny days you couldn’t find a better place to sit with a friend or your laptop, coffee on the side and a doughnut in front of you. I visit there often. The pretty baker’s name is Holly.

“Someone broke into the bakery last night,” she began. “They smashed a hole in the glass next to the door and got inside. I know what they were looking for but they didn’t find it!”

“You have something valuable in the bakery?” I asked. “What were they after?”

“It’s an ingredient I add to give my baked goods a special flavor. I know you like it because I see you there often. Someone else likes it too. So they broke in to steal the recipe or the ingredient. What should I do?”

“This special ingredient. How is it kept? In a bottle? In a tin? In a glass?”

“It’s in a tin. I buy it in a small tin and it stays there. It lasts for about a year.”

“How small is the tin?”

“About the size of a matchbox. Very small.”

“So you use only a small pinch of the stuff?”

“It comes with a tiny spoon. I’ll show you when we go there.”

“Let’s go now,” I said and we walked over. Less than 10 minutes later I was looking at the broken glass.

She disappeared for a moment and then came back holding a tiny teaspoon. She showed it to me but not the container. I reckon the spoon would hold about 5 grains of sugar. One spoonful in the dough of a loaf of bread? That’s it? Must be powerful stuff.  

“Who d’you think would steal it?” I asked.

“Someone from another bakery, I guess. It’s very special and no one knows what gives my bakery its great flavor. A few other bakeries would like to know the secret,” she said.

“Can’t they buy it?” I asked. “Where do you get it?”

“I can’t tell you. I inherited it from my grandmother. This used to be her shop. I order it once in 2 or 3 years. And it’s very expensive.”

I looked out of the broken window to the street and saw a car pull up in front of the bakery. Two people looked out at the shop. I dashed to the door and shot out onto the sidewalk. I took 2 steps towards the car and the driver stood on the gas. The wheels spun and the car took off down the street.

“There go your thieves,” I said. They came to have another look. They’ll be back and I’ll be waiting for them.”

I sat down at a table on the sidewalk and asked Holly for 2 cups of coffee and 2 doughnuts. She brought them on a tray with the morning paper. I sat and read. Crime fighting consists of 99 percent patience and 1 percent action. When I had finished the entire paper I turned to the crossword, the crime fighter’s frustrating pastime.

I was busy trying to unscramble the anagram at 14 Across when a car pulled up. I shot across the sidewalk and yanked the front door open. The woman in the passenger seat screamed and the driver shouted, we stopped to pick up doughnuts, you idiot!”

I apologized and mumbled something about the valet service. Back to the irritating anagram. An hour later another car pulled up. I was more cautious this time. A man slid out of the passenger seat with a pistol in his hand. It was pointed at my chest and stopped me in my tracks. I took a closer look at the gun. “You gonna shoot me?” I asked. “The safety is on.”

He looked down to check and I leapt forward and grabbed the gun from him. A Glock, no less. Called “America’s Handgun”. It doesn’t have a safety catch. But the guy either didn’t know that or forgot or wasn’t concentrating. I pointed the gun at him and growled, “You were here earlier! What do you want?”

“I wanna know what she’s putting in her baking! It’s driving my wife crazy. Our business is failing because of it! I have to get it any way I can.”

“Yeah, by shooting someone?”

He lunged at me and I stopped him with my elbow. In his throat. He dropped to the ground.

Holly came out to see what was going on. I told her. “Want to offer him a couple of those small teaspoonfuls when he gets up?”

“I can’t, Tom. He’ll take it to a lab and get an analysis and next thing he’ll have it. And then all the bakeries will have it!”

“And then a full-scale bakery war will break out,” I said. “But they know you have something and they’ll be back. The guy came with a gun and he was ready to use it. What do we do now?”

“A dog? A big fierce dog?”

“That’s an idea. I’ll hang onto his gun. I’ll go down to the kennel and start looking for a dog.”

At the kennel I explained to the manager what type of dog I was looking for: Fearless, great watchdog, sleeps lightly, fierce attack dog. He smiled, nodded and went off to the compound. He was back in a few minutes holding the leash of a fine-looking animal. “Rhodesian Ridgeback. Fits your spec perfectly. His name is Lennie. Say hello…”

And Lennie was even closer to my spec than the manager’s blurb. He was quiet and thoughtful, well-trained and obedient. Inside the bakery I introduced him to Holly and showed him the goodies she baked and added a ‘no-no’ to them. I explained that he would be on the night shift alone and that anything that moved after Holly had locked up was fair game for him.

The first few nights apparently passed quietly and Lennie greeted us enthusiastically in the morning. The fifth morning was different. Lennie was very quiet and led us to a square of bloodstained denim cloth lying on the floor. He was waiting for reward or remand.

He is now a valued member of the bakery staff and helps control the crowds that line up for doughnuts on weekends.