The Streets of San Francisco and Hawaii Five-O belong to CBS. No copyright infringement is intended. "The Zucchini Files" is mine.
No zucchini were harmed in the writing of this story.
ZUCCHINI TAKEOVER
Steve Keller sauntered into the squad room, dropped his jacket on his chair, grabbed a cup of coffee and a donut and headed for his partner's office to look over today's cases. He stopped short at the sight of the watermelon-sized green object prominently perched on Mike's desk.
"What the hell is that?
"It's a zucchini, Buddy Boy," Stone answered.
"I can see it's a zucchini," Keller retorted. "But what is it doing here?"
"Found it on my desk this morning. This was with it." Mike handed the younger man a note. "And no, I don't know how it got here."
Steve read aloud, barely choking back his laughter: "A zucchini a day keeps the doctor away. Compliments of the United Federation of Zucchini Lovers."
"United Federation of Zucchini Lovers?" This time he couldn't restrain his laughter. "Almost sounds like something out of Star Trek." At his partner's confused look, Keller went on. "You know, the United Federation of Planets?"
Mike's eyes twinkled. "Don't laugh! The chief put us on the case."
Steve groaned. He hated zucchini. "OK, Mike. What, if anything, do we have as background?'
"Whoever this United Federation of whatever is, they've been infiltrating all the restaurants and food stands on the Wharf. Alioto's, Tarantino's, you name it; they've all been finding crates of zucchini in their kitchens. Nobody knows who delivered them. And the crates were supposed to be Dungeness crab, red snapper, mussels . . . . Even the walkaway stands have reported fried zucchini instead of fried shrimp. And zucchini chowder! It's a zucchini invasion!
"And we've got to stop it."
"You got it, Steve. We've got to stop it. So how about a little trip to the Embarcadero to check things out. You check Tarantino's; I'll check the walkaways."
sf-sf-sf
Tarantino's kitchen was in an uproar. Master chef Domenico Tarantino displayed the contents of crate after crate. Alaskan salmon, Maine lobster, cherrystone clams – all the nicely-labeled crates filled with the odious vegetable. And prominently centered on the zucchini-festooned work space a large sign read: Save the lobsters! Eat more zucchini!
The chef was beside himself with anger. "My restaurant, my reputation, all ruined! Tarantino's has been the finest seafood restaurant in all of San Francisco for generations. We are known for our specialties, our delicate creations. People come from all over the world to enjoy our cuisine and now, instead of the frutta del mare they have come to expect, all I have are these abominations! He swept the offending vegetables to the floor. "One cannot create Lobster Thermador out of these, these zucchini!" He nearly spat out the last word.
Steve tried – he really tried – to calm the irate chef. "We'll do our best to find the criminals, but I'll need your help. Who normally delivers your seafood?"
"DiPietro's," Chef Tarantino answered. "But they have always been dependable. Only the best of the catch, locally and from other areas of the country. The Maine lobsters, the Alaskan salmon, the Hawaiian mahi they provide – superb! And now . . ." He shook his head in dismay. "Capture the villains who did this! Lock them away in the deepest dungeon in San Quentin!"
Keller promised that SFPD would soon have the case solved (he hoped) and left to check the other restaurants of the Wharf. We'd better catch these Zucchini Lovers soon. Dealing with irate chefs is not my idea of fun!
sf-sf-sf
"Nothing but zucchini in this morning's deliveries, Lupe?" Mike questioned the vendor at his favorite walkaway.
"Right, Mike. Just zucchini and lots of it. Can't make chowder out of this stuff and it's a lousy substitute for shrimp cocktail. Oh, and this." He handed the detective a note.
"Eat zucchini, the delicious, dependable, delectable delicacy. And it's a renewable resource. A gift from Mother Nature and the United Federation of Zucchini Lovers," the detective read. "This organization is certainly trying to make a point."
"Yeah, but they're killing our business. This is Fisherman's Wharf! Tourists want real San Francisco seafood, not some lousy vegetable!"
"Calm down, Lupe," the detective replied. "Steve and I are on the case. Now, who delivers your supplies?"
"DiPietro's of course. They got a contract with almost everybody on the Wharf. 'Course, I don't go for the fancy stuff like the big restaurants. We little guys depend on the everyday tourist for our business. You know, families, older couples, young folks, the ones just wandering down the Embarcadero on the way to Pier 39 or Ghirardelli Square." The vendor shook his head. "You get 'em, Mike, before they drive us out of business. Nobody wants zucchini!"
sf-sf-sf
"What've you got, Steve? Any connections?"
"Just one, Mike," the younger cop answered. "DiPietro's. They deliver to all the restaurants."
"Same here. What do you say we pay them a visit? I've known old Giuseppe DiPietro for years. Can't see him mixed up in something like this. His office is in China Basin. You drive!"
sf-sf-sf
"Mike, Steve! I didn't think they'd send you," a relieved Giuseppe DiPietro said. "I was expecting Haseejian or one of the new guys." He noted the question on the senior detective's face. "One of my delivery trucks was highjacked and its cargo dumped. It was supposed to go to the Wharf. Why would someone want one of my trucks?"
"Maybe to deliver a load of zucchini."
"Zucchini? You mean that business at the Wharf? Someone's using one of my trucks?"
"Looks like it. What can you tell us about the theft?" Mike asked.
"We usually start loading about 3 AM. We use only the freshest seafood, right off the boat. I usually go to the fishing docks around 5, just to see that everything's set for the day's deliveries. One of the trucks had already left. Later, one of my workers found its cargo dumped on the piers a few blocks away. That's when I called SFPD."
"That truck delivered a cargo of zucchini," Mike stated. "We know the name of the group that took the vehicle, the United Federation of Zucchini Lovers. Now, what about your driver?"
"A new guy," DiPietro responded. "Name's Foster, Tony Foster." He fumbled through a filing cabinet. "Here's his employment application and a copy of his driver's license."
Mike handed the paperwork to his partner. "Call this in, Buddy Boy. Thanks, Giuseppe. You may have just solved the case for us."
sf-sf-sf
"Did just what you told me to, Ma'am," an excited Tony Foster addressed the woman seated behind the desk. "It went off like clockwork. By now all those restaurants and walkaways on the Wharf are trying to figure out what to do with all the nice zucchini."
"A zucchini in every pot," the woman quoted one of her favorite slogans. "Today, Fisherman's Wharf. Tomorrow, North Beach. Then, the big hotels, the Fairmont and the Mark Hopkins! Soon, everyone will be singing the praises of the versatile vegetable. Zucchini will become a national treasure!"
"There's just one problem, Ma'am. By now the police know about the deliveries. They'll be investigating."
"Then we'll just have to give them something else to investigate. Get the rest of our people. This is what we're going to do . . ."
sf-sf-sf
Zucchini! I'll be happy if I never see another one! Mike yawned as he headed for his house. A whole day spent hunting down the "zucchini terrorists" as the Restaurant Association dubbed them and nothing much to show for it. Whoever these people were, they covered their tracks well – or were such a bunch of unknowns that they had no tracks to cover! He stopped short at the sight of a large green vegetable protruding from his mailbox: another zucchini and with it, a recipe book! He reached for the offensive object then pulled back his hand. Evidence!
He used a handkerchief to grab the veggie and booklet, called dispatch and asked them to notify his partner, and headed for the crime lab. Maybe I'll get some usable fingerprints out of this one.
An equally tired Steve Keller, carrying his own zucchini as if it were a live bomb, met him at the lab. "Found this thing on my doorstep. You got one, too?"
"So did the mayor, Chief Olsen, and the archbishop," the older detective groaned. "The lab's working on them now. Any prints we get, we'll run through the DMV."
"Call for you, Mike," one of the lab techs interrupted. "It's the Chief."
Mike groaned as he reached for the phone. If I ever so much as hear the word "zucchini" again…
"Mike," an angry Olsen barked, "More zucchini problems. Someone's planted them in the rose garden at Golden Park. One of the gardeners saw them. Get over there. San Francisco's becoming a laughingstock thanks to this zucchini takeover!"
"On our way, Rudy." Mike headed for his car. The techs would run the prints and let him know any results.
sf-sf-sf
"What's the matter, Buddy Boy?" Mike questioned as he noted the thoughtful look on his partner's face.
"I don't know if this helps, but I kind of remember an article in the Chronicle last year about some group in Hawaii replacing pineapples with you-know-what." He hesitated to say the name of the hated squash. "Ya think maybe there's a connection?"
"Might be, but let's check on that later. We've got our own bunch of zucchini nuts to deal with." He turned into Golden Gate Park and headed for the rose garden.
"Detectives, am I glad to see you!" the distraught gardener practically yelled as the officers pulled up. He motioned in the direction of the rose garden. "Just look at these abominations! They grow like weeds!"
They are weeds. Mike left the thought unvoiced. "You saw whoever planted them?"
"Just in passing, three men and a woman. These two can give you a good description." He motioned to a couple of hippies lurking in the shadows.
Mike raised an eyebrow. "Just tell me what you saw," he asked gently. No need to probe into whatever the two young men – hardly older than Jeannie – were doing. The smell of pot was obvious. He'd let it go with a warning this time.
"We were just hanging around, man," one of the guys began, "And we saw this van pull up. These three guys and a dame got out. The dame – she wasn't no chick – acted like she was in charge, giving orders to plant these weird bushes and stick these crazy signs in the ground. Stuff about these zucchini things being good for you."
"Yeah," his buddy chimed in. "You shoulda seen those guys – big and mean looking, like they been lifting weights. They must of been around six feet, one with black hair and a mustache. The other two were blonds, long hair like they wanna be like us, just a couple of peace-loving guys. Talked like a couple of sailors, though."
"One of the blonde guys had a tattoo on his arm, something like a skinny watermelon, and the letters UFZL. Crazy, man!"
"Is there anything else you can tell us?"
"Oh, yeah. We got the license plate numbers." He rattled them off. "Hope you get those guys, wrecking all these flowers. Our ladies really like them."
Steve took the hippies' names and addresses – probably a crash pad; doubt they'll be there tomorrow – while Mike called in the tags. "Aldebaran and Mokelumne," he laughed as he reported to his partner. "New life, new names they told me."
"Back to the office," Mike commanded as he checked his watch. "Hawaiian time is what, three hours behind us? Bet we can find someone at Five-O who's got more info on these zucchini terrorists. That is, if that news story you remember is true!"
sf-sf-sf
Danny Williams yawned as he picked up the phone. A long stake-out and an even longer follow-up had him looking forward to an early (for Five-O) night. His expression brightened as he recognized the voice on the other end of the line.
"Mike! Good to hear from you. Sorry that Steve's not here. He's testifying in a case on the Big Island. So what can Five-O do for you?"
"What've you got on the United Federation of Zucchini Lovers?"
Dan groaned. "You've got 'em now? We arrested them, but the judge let them off with a fine and a suspended sentence provided they went back to the Mainland. He treated it like a harmless prank." The young officer ran a hand through his hair. That "harmless prank" cost him a bump on the head and a few other assorted bruises. "What are they up to now?"
"Taking over Fisherman's Wharf. They even sent a zucchini to the mayor and the chief of police and an apple pie made from the veggies to the archbishop Two witnesses saw them planting the things in Golden Gate Park. Got the license number. We're running it now."
"They're a small gang, three men and a woman who gives the orders. They can sure cause a lot of trouble. I'll telex their mug shots and rap sheets. Good luck. Hope they'll stay behind bars this time."
Danny shook his head as he put the phone down. Steve would never believe this!
sf-sf-sf
"Danny got that info to us fast," Keller commented as he dropped the rap sheets on his partner's desk. Alicia Konig, aka Miss Zucchini of 1958, Larry Drake, and Joe and Harry Walters. Drake occasionally uses the alias of Tony Foster. Small time crooks. No current warrants, except for the zucchini stuff."
"Got an address from the DMV, too. You up for a little midnight raid down at the docks? Backup's already on the way. Silent approach."
The cars halted two blocks from a dilapidated warehouse in a seedy section of the old China basin and the police officers moved in quietly. A burly cop kicked in a side door; Steve and Mike charged in after him.
"Hands up! You're under arrest."
Miss Zucchini, her voice laced with indignation, stared at the cops as if they were some species of distasteful insect. "On what charges, Officers? We are merely holding a meeting to discuss upcoming assignments. You have no right . . ."
"Check those crates," Mike ordered as he thrust a search warrant in her face.
The police moved fast, but the three gorillas moved faster, upending a crate of the infamous squash and sending the vegetables flying. Steve ducked as a particularly large specimen sailed past him. He caught the next one, tossing in back at his assailants and clipping one of them in the head. One down, three to go!
"Get them! Get them!" Alicia Konig's strident voice hit a painful decibel level as Mike slapped his handcuffs around her wrists. Two down, two to go! The remaining Zucchini Lovers simply gave up and allowed themselves to be led to the squad cars. They'd been through this before and figured they'd be out on bail in a few hours. Little did they know.
The two detectives looked around the zucchini-littered warehouse. "We got 'em, Mike. Grand theft auto, assault on police officers, property damage for a start.. I've just got one question. What are we gonna do with all these zucchini?'
The senior cop couldn't resist. "I hear they make great muffins!"