by Marlin Eller
It was still warm enough to be called summer but there was no doubt that the hottest days were gone. Soon the leaves would be turning. Not that I’d be able to see any trees from my office window. I thought about going for a drive, just anywhere out of the city, maybe north to Concord. Look at the trees. Sip some Rolling Rock. Too bad I’d promised myself that I’d stay in the office at least until noon at least one day a week. Now it was 11:00 Friday morning and I’d already killed a half hour. Only one to go.
The kid was standing in front of the building with an address in his hand checking to see if he’d come to the right place. Either that, or he was looking at a phone number because the paper was a scrap torn from the yellow pages. Another high-class referral job. I was not surprised when the bell rang.
“It’s open,” I yelled. I like to put prospective clients at ease right from the start. Show them I’m a friendly guy even though I do pack a Smith and Wesson and am occasionally called upon to pound a little face.
The kid that stepped into the office was tall but slight, wearing blue jeans and a long sleeve white shirt with a button down collar, black wide rim glasses and red high top Converse all-stars. I was a Keds man myself.
“Are you, uh, Mr. Spencer?” he asked reading my name off the paper in his hands.
“Yup,” I replied.
“The private detective?” he finished reading and looked up from the paper at me.
“Yup.” I’m an old master at sparkling dialog. It really helps move the conversations along.
He looked like a gawky student standing there, thick lips slightly open, giving me the once over. He seemed to be pleased with what he saw because he smiled and said, “Yeah, you look beefy enough.”
“Beefy?” I said. “Beefy! ? Me? A petite 6’1” 203 lbs. True, it had been a few days since I’d been over to Cimoli’s gym and I was up from my usual trim 202, but beefy?
“Oh, I’m sorry,” he apologized stepping further into the room. “I’ve been going through the yellow pages looking for a big private detective and going down this list this morning you’re the first one that looks right. I mean big and strong.” His jaw had a way of going slack when he wasn’t talking.
“I see,” I said. “You’re looking for a PI to help you dig a swimming pool. Well, I’m your man. One hundred dollars a day and expenses is my standard rate.”
He left the jaw slack while he thought about it and then he started to smile. “No, no,” he laughed, “Nothing like that. I need a body guard.”
I waited for him to volunteer more but the jaw just hung there. I gave him a little help. “Why?”
“Someone’s trying to kill me.” I could have mouthed the words along with him.
“Why?”
“Well,” he paused, “it’s because I sort of, uh, took something from someone and, uh, hey, can I sit down?”
I motioned to the chair opposite my desk and he moved into it. Maybe he forgot what he was saying on the way to the chair or maybe he was just a little uncomfortable talking about what is was that the he had stolen. The silence didn’t seem to bother him and it didn’t bother me so I leaned back in my chair and put my hands behind my head so he could admire my big strong biceps (beefy!?) and waited.
He swallowed when he realized that I wasn’t going to drag it out of him and that he’d have to talk eventually. He decided to start over again at the top.
“I’m in trouble and I’ll need a bodyguard for a few days. I work for a microcomputer firm in San Jose. We mostly write applications software, you know, spreadsheets, word processors, that sort of stuff.”
I nodded.
“Anyway, me and two other guys wrote this relational database package called OUR-DATA, it’s sort of a pun, see?”
Again I nodded. I could see that I wasn’t going to be out of here by noon. Goodbye trees. Goodbye Rolling Rock.
“Well, OUR-DATA was out and selling quite well for several months when something really strange happened. A friend of mine who had just bought the package filed a bug report. I couldn’t believe it. He said that he couldn’t get it to accept any data file bigger than about 2 pages. We looked into it and sure enough, there it was. The code that was supposed to link the allocated pages together was completely bogus. It was a trivial fix but no one had noticed it before because no one had checked it out on a long file. Isn’t that just totally weird?”
I nodded my confirmation, “Just exactly what I was thinking, ‘Totally weird’.”
He missed the sarcasm and went on, which is good because I suddenly had a glimmer of what he was getting at.
“You see, we were selling nearly a thousand copies of this program a month and no on, not one single customer had ever tried to use it on a long file. Not once in two and a half months until my friend got a copy and started fooling around with it.
“I decided that I’d call a few customers and find out what they were doing with our program and when I tried a few their phones were out of order, or they were disconnected, or they just rang and rang. I couldn’t get through to a single customer in our files.” He shifted in his chair and I leaned forward in mine. This could be an interesting one.
“While I was going through the customer files I noticed that almost all of our customers were repeaters. They bought copies of everything we made. They bought our spreadsheets and our games and everything. I wasn’t sure what was going on, but it was definitely weird accounting and I figured that someone was embezzling or something.”
“It sounds more like laundering money to me,” I said. “Non-existent customers paying good money for products that don’t work. You have funny money coming in. In embezzling it’s usually going out.”
“Yeah,” he sighed, “I wish I’d thought of that then and had gone to the police and let them handle it.”
“You didn’t go to the police?”
“No, I took the customer file and the accounts books for this year and stopped going to work. I had figured…” H trailed off. He had hit the hard part. Now I could guess what he was having trouble saying. But I didn’t want to say it for him. I just helped him. “You figured what?
He took off the glasses and rubbed his eyes. He looked a little older than the college kid I had first assumed him to be.
“I figured that I could blackmail whoever it was.” There. He had said it. He put his glasses back on but would not look at my face. He didn’t seem to feel like talking much any more. The silence grew and I knew I’d have to fill it this time.
“So let me guess,” I said. “You put the lean on someone who was a little tougher than you thought and who didn’t like being leaned on. And now you need a bodyguard.”
He still would not look at me but he nodded his head. Again the silence.
“So why are you here in Boston?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” he said finally looking up. “I got scared and left. First I was afraid that they’d come steal the files back so I wanted to get them out of my apartment. I didn’t know what else to do with them so I mailed them to my old address here. Then I was afraid they’d come after me so I hopped on a plane yesterday and came back here. I didn’t know where else to go.”
“Now that you’re here what do you plan to do?”
“I’d like to take the evidence to the police, but I’m afraid that they’ll kill me if I do that. So I decided that I want to give it all back to them and try to disappear.”
“You keep saying, ‘them’. Do you know who they are?”
He blinked. “The mob. It’s got to be the mob. That’s what Scott hinted at.”
“Who’s Scott?”
“Oh, Scott. He’s the manager of SoftTools. He was the one who came looking for the files when I took them. I told him what I wanted and he said that if I didn’t give them back immediately and look for a job elsewhere he could not be ‘held responsible’ for what might happen. He hinted that the mob was involved and would come after me. That’s when I left. I’d already mailed the stuff here.”
“Has anything happened? Anyone shot at you?”
He swallowed hard. “Not yet anyway.”
“And you want a bodyguard for a few days until the mail comes and then you plan to hand the files back over to this Scott?”
“That’s right,” he said. “And I want some big beefy guy there when I give the stuff back to Scott so that he’ll see that I have some resources too.”
There was that word again. “OK,” I said, “I’ll tell you what I think. I doubt that you are in any real danger. The threats that Scott made sound like they were threats intended to scare you into doing exactly what you are now planning to do. The mob, if it is indeed the mob, contrary to popular fiction does not relish blowing people away. It is messy and if they can do business another way they prefer that. I can act as a bodyguard but there are no guarantees. I can make it harder and much more expensive to kill you and that should dissuade any attempts but there are no certainties. You will have to do as I say but that should not be a problem for a couple day arrangement. Is that understood?”
“Yes, I understand that. You really think I’m not in much danger?” He seemed eager to hear that again so I put him at ease.
“That is what I really think, but if you hire me as a bodyguard I will stall take all reasonable precautions.” He seemed relieved. “However I do think that you should reconsider taking the evidence to the police rather than giving it back. I can act as a bodyguard in either case but you should realize that you can be killed after you give it back to keep you quiet as easily as you can be killed in revenge for bringing in the police. If you talk to the police they can give you some protection for a long time. Also they are much cheaper than I am, not to mention that by dealing with them you get to strike a blow for Truth, Justice, and the American way.”
“Yeah, well, Truth and Justice are OK and all,” he said taking off his glasses again to clean them on his shirt, “but forgive me if I just want to get out of this mess intact.” I guess he was too young to have seen Superman on TV. Maybe that’s why he first thought of blackmail.
“Just think about it,” I said. “I can help you give the files back or I can help you go to the police. Either way my fee is one hundred dollars a day plus expenses.”
“No problem,” he said getting up, “I usually charge four times that for consulting.”
Smart assed kid. Probably went to MIT. “By the way, do you have a name?”
“Oh yeah, didn’t I say? Steve Wood.” He laughed and extended his hand, “Pleased to meet you.”
I stood up and shook, “Well Mr. Wood, you’ve got yourself a bodyguard.” That’s me. Spenser – beefy bodyguard for hire. Beefy!
We had a few days to wait before we could expect the mail to come in and I decided that the easiest way to keep and eye on things was to get out of Boston. Besides, why pass up a chance to go camping on an expense account. When I suggested the possibility of waiting at Susan’s cabin up by Kimball Lake in Maine, Steve was enthusiastic about the idea so we set off. First we went for lunch at Legal Seafood. I would have preferred something a little less public but Steve had been there before and wanted to go. After the scrod we stopped off briefly at my apartment to pick up some things, clothes, ammunition, and a rod and reel and by one ten we were on 95 heading north.
The timing on this job could not have been better. We would spend a few days lounging around the lake, pick up the mail on Wednesday and fly back to California. I had been planning to meet Susan Silverman in San Francisco in another week. This way someone else would be paying for the plane flight. I didn’t want to think about Susan. I did not like the way things stood now with her out there and me here, but no amount of thinking would change the situation. Thinking just made me more aware that I was unhappy but could do nothing but wait. Wait for what? Wait for her to come back? Wait for her to plow through a few more lovers? Wait for her to realize that she wants me or doesn’t want me? Wait for myself to get pissed off enough to start pushing for what I want? Pushing on something too precious to risk breaking? What the hell did I want anyway? Thinking just doesn’t help. Thinking was the stone dragging me into the pit. I vowed to stop. I just wasn’t going to think of Susan.
Not once.
They say that your wildest dreams will come true if you sit in the corner of your room and for one minute think only of what you want and don’t even for a moment think of an elephant. If you think of the elephant, you’ve blown it.
By two thirty we were at Portsmouth. Since Steve had left California in a bit of a hurry he had no clothes, so while I picked up some groceries he got a few shirts and some swimming trunks. We were back on the road by three. Rather than follow 95 on up we got off onto 1 so that we could take advantage of any sea breeze. There wasn’t any that afternoon but the road winds in and out among the trees giving occasional glimpses of white sand, cheat grass, and breakers. We finally headed inland at Portland and arrived at Kimball Lake just before dusk.
We each carried in a bag of groceries and Steve made himself at home on the sofa while I started dinner.
“What are you drinking?” I asked.
“I’ll have a Pibbs,” he said. He had insisted that I buy at least three six packs of Mr. Pibbs on the way in.
“You sure you don’t want a beer or something? I’ve got Moosehead, Rolling Rock, or Grolsch?”
“Naw, I’m a Pibbs man, all the way.” He popped off the top and took a big swig. “Ah, the staff of life!” he sighed as he leaned back on the sofa. I peeled the onions and sliced them into wafer thin strips and started them frying while I washed the mushrooms. I noticed him eying my weight bench and barbells in the corner.
“If you want to get those out and pump off a few reps before dinner, be my guest,” I said.”
“What, risk damaging my carefully engineered wimp programmer physique,” he laughed and took another pull off the can. “No thanks. Pushing 40 is all the exercise I need.” He laughed again.
I had the steaks frying and was cutting up the tomatoes for the salad. “You want your steak rare?”
“You kidding? Burn it. I don’t want no blood. Nothing red showing anywhere.”
“Right,” I said. I didn’t even flinch. A chef takes pride in satisfying the pallet of those he serves. “How about salad? You like oil and vinegar?”
“Yuck. You mean like with lettuce and stuff, right? Don’t you know that that stuff’s been on the ground, actually in the dirt? Hey, if it’s green or organic or something, I don’t eat it.” He drained his Mr. Pibbs and went on. “Real food comes in cans or boxes like Doritos and Twinkies. It’s all man made. Chemically pure. You know what you’re eating because it says so right there on the box all the way down to the Sodium Benzoate. If you want to eat acid rained on peaches and Love Canal watermelons, hey, be my guest. I’ll just stay with real food.”
“Find,” I sipped my Grolsch. “You eat whatever you like.” – De gustibus non disputandum est – I thought, ‘There’s no disputing taste.’ I burned his steak to ashes and kept his onions and mushrooms to myself.
We both enjoyed our meals, he had another Pibbs and I nursed along my beer since I was officially on the job. Afterwards Steve surprised me by offering to help with the dishes. I let him dry. When they were all put away we both picked out some books and settled in the living room for some reading. I was rereading Pride and Prejudice. He had a stack of Gor, the Barbarian from Outer Space books.
The only noise was the flipping of pages and the sound of frogs and crickets around the lake. At length I retired to my room and went to bed. As I lay there feeling calm I imagined that I was with Susan. The sudden trumpeting of the elephants kept me awake long after I heard Steve snoring in his room.
Steve was already up and back to his open mouth reading when I got up. I put on a pair of old green PE shorts and a fairly new yellow t-shirt and fixed myself some whole wheat toast for breakfast. A little Florida Orange washed it down I wanted to go running so I kept it light and skipped the coffee.
I told him. “When I go out I want you to lock the door behind me.” He looked up from his book at me as if he’d forgotten why we were here and was going to ask why he should bother with the lock, then he remembered, nodded agreement and went back to his reading. “I shouldn’t be gone more than a half hour.” I stepped outside and waited until I heard the lock click.
The morning was cool and a little overcast but it didn’t feel like rain. It would all burn off by mid morning. The lake was about 20 yards from the front of the cabin with a path that ran about three quarters of the way around parallel to the road. I started off at a slow 7 to 7 and a half pace. The path was hard packed and pretty free of brush due to the shade of the trees. You could actually go all the way around the lake, but on the far side it was steeper and required bushwhacking in a few places. I supposed if I were a real mountain man I wouldn’t let a few bushes stop me. They don’t stop the moose. A bear wouldn’t back off from a little underbrush. Ethan Allen would have jogged right through them. Eual Gibbons would have eaten them for breakfast. Not me. I jogged up to the road at the narrow spot not quite two miles from the cabin and started back.
At the beginning of a run I see where I’m running and think of clever things like avoiding the bushes up ahead. Toward the end I see nothing and remember nothing. I feel like I’m a breathing machine taking everything I’ve got just to remember what I’m doing: Inhale, step, step, exhale, step step. It is always a surprise when I get to the end. It had taken 29 minutes. Too slow.
Steve let me in and I drug out the weight bench and started on the bells.
“You do that every day?” he asked, lying back down on the couch, index finger marking his place in the paperback.
“Seven...” I grunted and lowered the weights back to the floor. “When I can. Not often though. More like every couple or three days.” I regripped and thought Eight.
“Awesome,” he said. He made himself comfortable and flipped his book back open.
I worked up a sweat but that’s about all. I didn’t feel like I was really pushing. Halfway through the lower body work I was ready to give up but I went on even though I didn’t feel like it. Henry Cimoli use to tell me that when I was training and getting fed up because I wasn’t getting anywhere, ‘Sometimes you gotta train like a donkey. You gotta keep working out even on the lousy days. If you only work out when you feel good then you’re only working part time. And a part timer will always lose to a pro.’ I finished up doing squats.
I started some hot water for coffee and then took a shower. Steve was eating cereal by the time I got back to the kitchen, his nose still in a book. “You got any interest in going fishing?”
“Sure,” he said between mouthfuls never looking up. I sipped my cup of coffee and looked out the window onto the lake. An older fellow was already out in a small rowboat baiting the hooks on his poles. He looked like he’d done it before. He wore a light brown canvas vest over a long sleeve madras shirt. His hat probably had flies on it that he’d tied himself in the hatband. He could have been on the cover of an L. L. Bean catalogue if he’d been 30 years younger when he was tough, rugged, just starting to smoke Marlboro. As it was, 30 years of Marlboro later he didn’t look like he’d be selling much of anything. He looked like someone who was done with the fast lane and was happy to be out floating around on a lake, somewhere over the rainbow.
Twenty minutes later we had the bugs and spider webs cleaned out of our rowboat and were rowing up a wake that drew a glare from the old guy. Buncha damn rowdy kids! We found a nice spot where the water was still and the bugs were thick. The clouds had burned off. It would be a nice warm day. We baited our hooks, dropped them over the side, and went for the picnic basket. Steve tossed me a Pale Ale and opened himself a Mr. Pibbs.
“Tell me, Spenser, how did you get into this business.”
“Simple. My daddy taught me to fish when I was a kid. I taught myself how to drink beer.”
He smiled, “No, really, did you always want to be a private eye?”
“No, I always wanted to be a journeyman plumber but the daily risk of life and limb was just too much for my delicate sensibilities.”
“Well, if this,” he waved his can at the lake, “is typical detective work, you made the right choice. It’s not a bad way to make a hundred bucks a day.”
“You don’t think I’m earning my money?” I said.
“No, no, don’t get me wrong. I sure never would have thought to come out and lay around a lake and fish for several days. It solves the problem of the threatening situation by just getting me out of is completely. It was brilliant. Out here I feel safe and I am safe. That’s just what I hired you for.”
I reached for my line when it dipped but there was nothing there. “It’s not always this easy, you know. Usually the people you’re guarding have schedules to keep or public appearances which make it difficult.”
“Yeah, I’m sure. But in my case going fishing was the thing to do. I was busy preparing for a fight so I wanted some heavyweight fighter and it turns out that the thing to do was to disappear.”
“One of the things you learn as a fighter is that real fighting hurts. You don’t want to do it unless you have to. If you can avoid a fight by disappearing then disappear.” As I said that I though about Susan leaving for California and suddenly felt extremely cold and empty in the pit of my stomach. I am not going to think about it today.
Fortunately at that moment Steve got a strike. It looked like it was a real whopping five incher from the way it towed us around the lake. He grabbed the line and pulled it on in, tossed it back and rebaited.
“I’ve been thinking about giving the evidence to the police.”
“And?” I prompted.
“I haven’t decided yet. I’m still thinking about it. Do you really think that they might kill me even if I do give the stuff back?”
“It’s impossible to say. I don’t know who they are so it’s impossible to say how they will react. If you give the evidence back, your are still a threat to the operation because you know what is going on. You did try to blackmail once. What’s to stop you from trying again? That gives them a reason to eliminate you. On the other hand, if you seem sufficiently cowed and scared when you give them back what they want, they may decide you are no threat and leave you alone. The fact that you went out and found a big bully like me for protection indicates a willingness on your part to fight against them. That doesn’t help you look docile and non-threatening. If you give the evidence to the police then you are no longer a threat. You’ve already done your damage. The only danger to you will be if they go for revenge.
“Revenge is usually a personal motive. If you had just taken the evidence to the police when you first discovered it, there would be little point in doing anything to you. You would be viewed as an accident that happened, that was bound to happen sooner or later. By attempting blackmail though, you made it personal. You called attention to yourself. You may have really irritated someone, who will want revenge. From the business standpoint there’s little to be gained by eliminating you once you’ve gone to the police. Have you irritated anyone that much? You tell me.”
He didn’t answer, but looked out over the lake. A couple of swallows seemed to be playing tag as they flew over the lake feasting on the bugs.
We continued our fishing without a lot of conversation. By the time we rowed back late that afternoon between us we’d caught 7 that were large enough to keep. While we were cleaning them Steve said, “I’ve decided.”
“Good,” I said.
“Don’t you what to know?”
“I assumed you’d tell me when you knew.”
“Truth and justice,” he said.
“OK,” I nodded. The American way.
It had rained all day Tuesday and the ground was still wet Wednesday morning when we locked up the cabin and climbed into my new used Subaru. My old Subaru had run just fine, only rarely needed service, until I totaled it out in the weeds with a little help from Fat Willie Vance. Fat Willie was going to be doing anything to anyone’s cars again so I figured it was safe to buy another one. We crossed over into New Hampshire and ran down 16 instead of going straight back out to the coast. We got off onto the 495 once we were back in Massachusetts and headed straight for Cambridge by way of Arlington.
I knew where the campuses and the book stores were and the too hip coffee and sandwich shops but I let Steve direct me through the several blocks of old two and three story houses that we all student housing now. The one we finally stopped at was a brown two story New England standard with yellow trim. The house could use a paint job but even more the yard needed mowing. What did I know? Maybe they were going to harvest the seed. Fortunately the gate in the waist high chain link fence had been open back in ’75 when they let the yard go so we were able to make it up to the front door.
“I’d forgotten what a dump this place was,” Steve said pushing the doorbell. “Lived here for my last four years in grad school. There’s four rooms on the top floor, which Mrs. Ritter rents out, with one shared bathroom. The yard was always like that.” We both looked out onto the jungle and he thumbed the doorbell again. “Only cooking facilities were a hot plate in each room and a toaster oven so I ate out a lot. But the rent was great. Only cost 45$ a month.” He opened the screen and banged on the door a few times.
The banging seemed to get a better response because soon the door opened revealing a plump lady in her late fifties. The eyebrows were plucked thin and then drawn back on with brown crayola. She also had on a pale green eye shadow that was not to expertly applied. My first guess what that the eyes have to be done with the glasses off but after noticing that the lipstick was nearly a centimeter wide of the mark on the right side, not to mention being three shades too bright, I revised my opinion. She was obviously a pro. Studied make-up from P. T. Barnum. Steve grinned and said in a loud voice, “Hey, Mrs. Ritter, How are you doing? You remember me?”
She looked out at Steve and me and smiled broadly, “Why, John, of course I remember you. You were in Wally’s old room. My my but it’s been a long time now hasn’t it. Oh, do come in, please.” She pushed the screen door open for us and then moved back inside.
“Mrs. Ritter, this is a friend of mine, Spencer.” We stepped into the hallway. There were hooks on the left wall for hanging coats and straight ahead was the stairway leading up. Off the right was a living room.
“Why I’m pleased to meet you Mr. Spencer. Do come in and set a spell.” She turned to go into the living room. “You’ll have to forgive me. The place is a mess.” It was too. Nice old antique furniture buried under a stack of magazines and unopened mail. She pushed a white longhair cat off of the sofa, which was covered with cat hair, and motioned for us to sit. Steve sat and I remained standing. “Now can I get either of you boys something to drink, some ice tea or some lemonade? You always liked my lemonade, didn’t you, John?”
“Mrs. Ritter,” Steve called out, “we came to pick up a package I mailed here this last week. Did you get a package from Steve Wood yesterday or Monday?”
“A package?” she wrinkled her forehead. I couldn’t tell if she was trying to remember whether one had arrived or what exactly a package was. “Let me see, was it a small… Oh yes, there was a package. It was a few days ago, I think. Now where did I put it? It’s for Steven Wood. I remember him,” she said handing back the package. “He was such a sweet boy. How is he these days?"
Steve tucked the mail under his arm. “He’s doing just fine, Mrs. Ritter. He has a job in California working with computers. I’ll tell him you said hello when I see him.” We started to move toward the door.
“Well yes, you tell him I said, ‘Hello’. He was always one of my favorites.”
We were on the porch and Steve turned and said loudly, “It was nice to see you again, Mrs. Ritter. Do you know your doorbell is broken? You should get it fixed.”
“Oh, I’ve been meaning to get that doorbell fixed. It just quit working one day. I should have Mr. Leher come take a look at it.”
“Well so long,” Steve said and I stepped off the porch.
“Goodbye. It was a real pleasure meeting you Mr. Sparcer. I do hope I’ll see you again. And you too, Steve, now be careful of those steps.”
“Goodbye,” Steve called from the car and waved. We got in and drove back out to Commonwealth Ave. and headed toward Boston.
Steve chuckled and said, “Nothing like a little chat with Mrs. Ritter to make you feel young and alert. You know, that doorbell was broken the whole time I lived there.”
He continued to smirk as we merged onto the throughway and became another part of the headless snake of traffic that was always slithering from Cambridge to Boston.
Before the noon hour rush it did not take long to get into Boston. Soon we pulled up at my apartment. “Come on inside,” I said, “while I drop these things off and get a change of clothes.” I opened the back and removed the fishing rod and the canvas bag that carried my 10-gauge shotgun. I hadn’t expected to need it at the lake but I’m a creature of habit. I’d rather carry it around and never use it than find myself in one of those awkward situations where two barrels of persuasion are worth a thousand words.
I let us in and told Steve that he could shower and change if he wanted to. He did. While he was at it, I put things away in the closet and got out some fresh clothes for a trip to California. Then I reached for the phone. First I called the airlines and told them I wanted reservations for two on their 2:20 flight to San Francisco.
“Will that be business class?”
She must have been tipped off by the maturity of my well-modulated professional voice, “Yes, please.”
“Just a moment Mr. Spenser while I confirm that…”
I could hear the clicking of the keys on the computer terminal. A pause while names scrolled onto her screen and then more clicking.
“I’m sorry Mr. Spencer, there’s only one seat left on flight 403 in business class. Would it be alright if I move either you or Mr. Wood up to first class?”
“Put us both in first class if you can.” It’s easy to be magnanimous on someone else’s penny.
“Yes, I can do that. I’m sorry for the inconvenience.”
I’m stoic. “Don’t worry. I’ll live it down.”
There was more clicking and then, “OK, that’s confirmed. Two seats in first class on flight 403 to San Francisco leaving at 2:20 P.M. You should be at the airport half an hour before departure time. Your tickets may be picked up at the desk.”
I thanked her, held down the receiver for a moment, and then called the number that Susan had give me. I let it ring several times before I hung up. She must have just gone out for the day. I’d have to call her when I got in.
Steve had finished his shower and I took a quick one. I put on a short sleeve whit cotton shirt and my light blue linen jacket. It would have been nicer to do without the jacket but it attracts too much attention if you carry your hardware out in the open. I had a .38 in a shoulder holster and another one in the bag, which I would be checking at the airport. I would need to leave the one I was wearing in the car before I checked in at the airport. I figured that I could survive the few minutes getting from the car to the plane without the gun. I’d just rely on the intimidation value of my beefy good looks.
As we drove to my office so I could check the mail and the answering machine, we talked about books we’d read. It turned out that I’d overestimated his taste in literature, it wasn’t poor, it was completely non-existent. He’d read absolutely anything, from Melville to the National Enquirer, from Hegel to the Hardy Boys. We are rarely what we first seem to be. “No, seriously,” Steve said as he followed me up the steps, “if you like that Jane Austin romantic slush you should check out this Parker guy.” I stuck the key in the lock and pushed the door open. “Start with ‘Love and Glory’ and then plow through his detective books. They’re totally awesome.” I started to step into the room and suddenly I knew something was seriously wrong. Even before I heard the shot I was pushing Steve to the floor and falling on top of him. I heard two more shots go by overhead as I reached for my own gun, feeling the hot sting in my left arm where the first shot must have hit. I fired into the room not knowing where the guy was just trying to buy time. Steve groaned under me as I struggled to push us both out of the doorway. I got us over to the left out of the doorway and kept my gun and eyes glued to the door. I heard nothing. Either he had immediately bolted out the fire escape or was still in there. Damn! I hadn’t smelled smoke, I hadn’t heard him. Had seen no signs of tampering with the door. I had gotten careless. Damn!
I still heard nothing. “You OK, Steve?” I asked without looking. No answer. I glanced down and sway the mess on his shirtfront that showed that the shot that had grazed my upper arm had hit him. GodDamn it! He was still breathing but I could hear the gurgle of blood in his breath.
“Hey, what’s going on up there?” I heard someone call from downstairs.
“Stay back,” I yelled. “Call the police and get an ambulance, fast. Shot wound in the chest. I’ve go the guy trapped up here.” I heard movement at the bottom of the stairs. But none from the office. If he was still in there after hearing me yell that he’d be looking for the fire escape Right now! I kicked the door open hard and waited for a response. Nothing. He was gone. No one cranked on adrenalin with their finger on the trigger of a gun could have ignored that sudden bang of the door. I got up from my crouch and peered cautiously around the doorjamb. Nothing. Room was empty. The alley window open. That must have been what tipped me off, the slight breeze and the noise of the streets coming through the open window. I’m only one floor up. He was gone.
I went back to Steve. He wasn’t breathing well. I cleared his mouth, put my lips to his and tried to make it easier. His blood was sticky. I heard sirens.
I stood at the window of Martin Quirk’s third floor office window watching the traffic take turns at the intersection. Compacts, station wagons, delivery trucks all took their turns. All had somewhere to go. The green arrow said, ‘Go left,’ and they were gone. The rush was just beginning. Secretaries going home to put on pots of spaghetti, Ad executives off to drink martinis, Yups to get ready for aerobics classes. If I had a dog I’d be going home to do some serious kicking. I didn’t so I stood and watched.
Marty came back with a handful of folders and papers in his left hand and a steaming Styrofoam cup in his right. He flopped the papers onto the desk, himself into the chair, and took a slurp of coffee. He set the cup off to the left hand side and picked up the top paper and started reading.
“You know, it tastes better if you drink it from a ceramic mug,” I informed him.
“Doesn’t matter. I don’t drink it any more. Gave it up months ago. Bad for the kidneys.” He took another slurp and continues reading. “Got rid of my mug when I quit drinking coffee.”
The cars were now pouring out of the underground lot and took to the streets like roaches to the kitchen counter, while among the pedestrians the gray pinstripes were beginning to gain on the message t-shirts and the blue jeans.
Marty finished the first page and said, “Have you spotted him yet?”
I looked at him and he said, “You’ve been looking out all afternoon, I just thought I’d pick up a few pointers on how you great detectives pick up clues.”
I turned back to the window. Poor Marty, he always wanted to be a blazing wit.
“Hey, seriously, pouting tastes better over a six-pack. Why don’t you go on home? I’ll call you if anything happens.”
“I’m not pouting. It’s a waste of time.” I said turning from the window. “Gave it up months ago.” The traffic was on its own now. “But that doesn’t mean I’m happy about killing my client.”
Marty swiveled around to look at me. “He isn’t dead yet. They’re still operating on him. Maybe he’ll pull through.”
“You kidding? Five hours on the table? Left hand chest wounds? Tell me another. He’s dead and I killed him.”
“Come off it, Spencer. You did want you could. The guy was a pro. He set a trap and didn’t give you a chance to react. There’s nothing you can do about that.”
“I didn’t have to fall for it, did I? I didn’t have to be so confident that no one was going to try anything. I was parading him around town. Anyone could have taken pot shots at him. He hired me to protect him from the mob. Of course they’d hire a pro to do the job. That’s what he came to me for. I’m supposed to be a pro too. And they walked right through me. I didn’t even slow them down.”
“Oh, you expect me to cry because you didn’t catch the first bullets? That would have bought him and extra second or two.”
“I should have seen it. I should have kept him hidden. I could have done anything else but what I did.”
“But you didn’t. What you did is history. It’s over. You can’t always stop the bullets and you can’t always win. Even if you do everything right, you can’t always win. Not even you, Spenser. You did what you could.”
“It wasn’t enough.”
“But it was all you could do.”
“Yeah.” It still wasn’t enough. I was only hired to do one thing and that was the one thing I didn’t do. ‘You did all you could’ is just a way to say, ‘you failed’.
“You can’t blame yourself when you get taken by surprise.”
I said nothing but looked at my fee. So who do I blame, Marty, the gunman? Steve, for getting himself into the mess. The doctors for being unable to cure a shot wound to the heart? The mob? I was the one that agreed to protect Steve. I’m supposed to know my job and I’m supposed to do it. I’m the one that’s supposed to be responsible for my actions.
And if those actions lead to the death of a client who else should get the blame? Yeah, I did what I could and it wasn’t enough. I failed again.
We were both silent until Marty said, “You know it’s going to be a bitch finding the guy.”
I didn’t need to reply.
“If he’s a pro he won’t leave a trail. Probably flew in and flew out.”
I looked back out the window and though the sky was still light the streets were not completely in the canyon shadow from the tall buildings. The turn light went yellow then red. Another sweep of cars started through the intersection.
“Of course my office will get the case if he dies and we’ll do what we can, but you know, we’re never going to find the guy.”
I looked back to Marty and he avoided my eyes. He didn’t seem really pleased himself to be doing what he could. He looked back up and said, “So my advice to you is to go home, get drunk, wallow in self-pity for a while and then forget about it. You did what you could.”
I leaned off his wall and he swiveled back to his desk. He reached for his coffee, decided it was too cold and got up. I moved for the door.
“Go on home. If anything happens…”
The phone rang.
“… I’ll call.”
“Hello, yeah, yeah…”
“…yeah, he’s here.” I paused at the door.
“Yeah, look are you going to be there for the next hour? OK, I’ll be on over in about half an hour or so. Right.”
“That was the hospital.”
“Yeah?” I already knew the rest.
“They did what they could.”
Marty was right about a couple of things. It was going to be a bitch to find the guy. Also pouting does go better over a few beers. I’d picked up a six-pack of Heineken dark on the way home and the makings for a Greek salad and some Tzahtziki. The Tzahtziki was a no-fail recipe I got straight from the owner of Dionysus. “Chop up some cucumbers and garlic and stir it into some yogurt. Make sure you use enough garlic.” I couldn’t go wrong. I had enough garlic to free all of Transylvania from the tyranny of vampirism. Eating as much garlic as possible seems the only rational response to having the one you love living on the other side of the country. If you can’t get love you can at least get garlic. I also had plenty of feta cheese, black olives, Romaine lettuce, and ripe tomatoes. These are the real fruits of the hot summer weather. That and cold beer.
I ate the salad slowly and drank my beer watching the evening news for the story of today’s events. Somewhere whoever had done it would be watching too. He would want to know the result. He had left in too much of a hurry to be certain he’d done the job. They told of a man that was killed today in a shooting. A quick glimpse of me, the bodyguard that was also wounded in the shooting. Millions of people in the greater Boston area now know who not to hire for body guarding jobs. Shot by a man today but taken down by a 5 second news clip. There was Inspector Quirk of Homicide saying that they did not have a suspect, not even a description, but that they were looking. Thank you inspector and back to Judy who has the story on the opening of Neil Simon’s latest tonight.
I took another bite of tomato and thought. What was the killer thinking? He’s just seen the news. What’s the impression? What to do. The guy I was supposed to eliminate is dead, but the bodyguard that he’s been talking to for the last several days is still walking around. Furthermore he still has the documents that I was employed to obtain. I got away unobserved. The heat are pretending that they are looking but they can’t even begin to look. So I’m clean and the job is half done. I’ll have to finish it.
I smiled. Somewhere our friend was planning to look me up. I’d let him. I finished the last bite of Tzahtziki and started on my fourth Heineken. I’d give him five days to hit the stupid dick that had walked right into the trap and then had lucked out and gotten away with a scratch. Then, whether he showed up or not, the stupid dick was heading to San Jose for a chat with Mr. Scott of SoftTools. Marty wasn’t going to find the guy, but I was. That and six Heineken darks make for a sound night’s sleep.
The next morning I felt great. The pounding in the head and the tarantula tongue caused by the Tzahtziki remind you how alive you are. Time to go and catch a killer. Oh boy! I got out of bed, put on a pair of blue jeans and a green and blue striped rugby shirt, and packed my gym bag. Today we would start on a nice regular easy to follow schedule. Workout at Henry’s in the morning, into the office, drive out for lunch at 1:30 sharp, a little more time in the office and then my regular job of patrolling the parking lot of a nice secluded little industrial park from quitting time till 9:30. He’d love the parking lot.
Outline:
Spence gets client, Steve
Client gets killed
Spence heads to Silicon Valley to see Scott.
Runs into Susan at Scott’s house.
Scott is son of mobster – trying to be legit. Does little money laundering for dad. Susan knows him as computer geek. Know his dad is a mobster. Knows that Scott is trying to be legit. Spencer heads back to hotel. Comes back next day, wait for Susan to leave picks fight with Scott and beats him to a pulp. Susan comes in on this an yells at Spence to get out. Spencer leaves.
Spencer decides that he needs to get Susan out of this mess. She is involved with a criminal after all. She needs rescuing. He heads over to the house. Knocks on door and Hawk answers. Hawk explains that Susan called in a panic yesterday and asked him to fly out and protect her and her new boyfriend from Spencer who has gone nuts. Spence explains that he just wants to talk to Susan. Hawk tells Spence that Susan, “Don’t wanna talk to you.” Hawk makes it clear the he will kill Spencer if he tries to get to Susan.
Spencer leaves. Thinks about it. Thinks about what a trained killer Hawk is. He knows that Hawk is serious SO if he is going to get to Susan he is going to have to kill Hawk without a moment’s hesitation and starts pumping himself up for that. Goes back the next day. Hawk sees Spence, hesitates and Spence shoots him. Spence also kills Scott and arranges it to look like Scott and Hawk shot one another. He grabs Susan and heads back to the airport to take her with him back to Boston. She comes along, subdued and yet clearly terrified of Spence, going peacefully to humor him.
Through out I want to do a model of the tragedy of Camelot. I am not clear yet in my mind whether to do this overtly or covertly. I.e. I can have Spence himself draw the analogy for Susan or I can just let the readers infer it themselves. The idea is this. Spence is King Arthur, Knights of the Round Table. The law is everything. In Camelot, Arthur choose not to punish Lance and Gwen for their betrayal and thus destroyed his ideal “one law for everyone” Spence reasons that he will forgive Susan for betraying him and running of with Hawk. BUT she knew about the criminal activities that Scott was involved in which indirectly led to the death of his client, Steve, therefore she must pay. He explains this to her. (With or without direct reference to Camelot) He must enforce the law; she must be handed over to the authorities. She agrees. (We see that she sees this as the opportunity to get away from Spence – Spence just sees it as another example of how noble she is, how much she respects the law and one more reason why she is the perfect one for him.) So she confesses to shit she did not do and does her best to get sent to prison. Spence promises he will visit her there, every day if necessary, “Oh, that won’t be necessary.” OK well then every weekend and don’t worry, I’ll be here for you when you’ve done your time. Gives her Love and Glory to read.
Susan realized that this guy will just never never stop and she hangs herself in her cell.
The biggest challenge in this story and the reason that it is worth writing is this: This is your classic first person detective story. It is told from the standpoint of Spence. It is told from the mindset of Spence. Spence is delusional about Susan’s love for him. He assumes his feelings for her are reciprocated. The challenge is to leave the reader in no doubt as to why Susan killed herself – to avoid this stalking, in your face, never gonna give up, bulldog, macho pugilist – all without allowing Spence to ever come to that realization himself.