“At his Vita Green office, in Sloughhouse. It’s been sold.”
I winced. “Probably under ten feet of water right now.”
She nodded. “Or mud. You’re not likely to turn up anything there.”
“I have to be forthright with you, Loralee. I don’t see how I can help you out.”
“Why don’t you just indulge a middle-aged, wealthy woman, and an old friend?”
I started trying to stand. “As they say, I’ll see what I can do.”
“Don’t forget.” She pointed at the envelope with the check inside.
I shook my head. “I’ll bill you if I find anything out.”
“Marvin.”
I nodded, like a bad little kid. I avoided the controversy by saying, “Oh, well, you’re the boss.”
“Thank you, Marvin.” She stood, in one graceful, sinuous motion, which only accentuated my own clumsiness. Just as gracefully she moved toward me and we hugged, she in her flashy tights and me in my Sunday best. Here we were, each attired in the way that makes us most attractive to the opposite sex: nearly naked woman, fully decked-out man—gender differences that neither side would ever understand.
I went downstairs. Clarissa was waiting with my hat and overcoat and umbrella, and a folder with some papers. “I apologize for making you stand in the rain, Mr. Kent,” she said. “But she never allows her meditations to be interrupted.”
“No big deal, Clarissa. As a matter-of-fact, we have the same boss now, so call me Marv.”
It was raining harder as I went out. I didn’t want to go to work. I wanted to go back in that big house and be kept there, surrounded by all that warmth and wealth and womanliness. But instead of what I wanted, I had what I needed: a job.
Downtown
The first thing I did as an employee of Loralee Carlisle was to deposit her check in the bank. I did that because I forget things, and nothing is more embarrassing than having to go to the boss and say you lost her check. I’ve had to do it twice. The first wrote me a new check but never hired me again. The second told me to go find it and go to hell. Of course I’d already done the work. I had to go to Small Claims Court to get paid. Since then I always put the check in the bank as soon as I get it.
I’m a detective for two reasons. First, because I can’t do anything else, at least to the satisfaction of whoever’s cutting paychecks. Second, because the work gives me a focus, something to follow, and helps me get past the Attention Deficit Disorder. In this job I believe my so-called disorder is really an advantage. I can work at my own speed and tend to the details. For years I thought I was lazy and incompetent when in reality I was only different. I was doomed until I found the work I’m in now.
Another advantage of my condition: I can get Ritalin anytime. I don’t do that often, I don’t like the buzz. But it does come in handy if I need to spend a long time in one place waiting for something to happen. I don’t drink alcohol on the job, and I don’t see how some peepers can. I’d fall asleep five minutes into a stakeout. I do depend on caffeine, if there’s a restroom nearby, or tobacco, if I’m not going to appear too conspicuous. Mostly I do my work on chocolate, and that’s the truth.
My bank is one of the last banks in the downtown area. Mergers and downsizing, along with the general destruction of the downtown economy, have sent the banks out to the suburbs. My bank will probably close or move soon too.
From the bank it’s a short walk, even in the rain, to the City and County offices. I went to my office first. I made a pot of coffee and looked at the papers Clarissa had given me. They were copies of official documents dealing with the death and burial of Aaron Markham Carlisle: straight, statistical facts. The autopsy report stated in scientific lingo that he had died from a heart attack. I looked over the documents twice, and the only amazing aspect about them was that they had been waiting for me when I left my client’s house.
I drank coffee, sat in my chair, looked out the window at the rain, and wondered what I should do next.
I had a widow’s intuition that something about her husband’s death didn’t feel quite right. Nothing unusual about that. They’d been married sixteen years, and had every reason to expect many more years together. Then all at once, it was over. This particular widow had money to burn, to pay some poor sap to run around looking for evidence that didn’t exist. Well, I was the poor sap, and I had taken the job, sober and in broad daylight. That meant do it. Whether there was a reason to do it wasn’t my affair. If I were a carpenter (and she were a lady) and she’d hired me to tear down a wall and put in a new room, it wasn’t up to me to decide if the new room would improve the house. My job was to tear down the wall, put in a new room, and keep quiet...a hired hand.
With one hand I grabbed the phone, with the other my address book. I looked up a friend of mine who worked at the Hall of Records, Bill Farley. I asked him to look up anything he could find on Aaron Markham Carlisle. He said he couldn’t get to it before quitting time, but that he would call me back in the morning.
Next I got the yellow pages and looked up Vita Green. The numbers of two distributors were listed. Should I infiltrate the corporate structure? I wasn’t getting paid enough. It might be better to ask my client about the details. I wrote myself a note to give her a call, and made a mental note to read the note.
I checked my telephone. No messages on the voice mail. I looked out the window at the gray rain coming down on Wino Park. No messages there either. I opened a desk drawer, got out a candy bar, and wolfed it down while watching the rain. Loralee would not approve of that, I thought. Then I wondered just why the hell she didn’t think I was her type. I’m in a line of work where you use every trick available to get people to tell the truth, and sometimes nothing works. Here someone was being honest with me right from the start, and it pissed me off.
I got another candy bar and ate it more slowly. I could feel the bellyache coming. A lifetime of that would get to you. A lifetime of not doing that would get to you. But I couldn’t get to Loralee.
I thought I might take a walk, clear my head, but it was not a good day to walk. I closed the Venetian blinds, switched off the light, piled my damp overcoat on my desk, and leaned over, feeling all of about five years old in my suit and tie, and took a nap.
When I awoke I had aged at least forty-five years. I had a rank sugar taste in my mouth, a kink in my neck, and an attitude. The room was dark. It got dark early this time of year. I glanced at my clock. The luminous dial read a quarter-to-seven. I got another candy bar and some old, lukewarm coffee for dinner.
Without turning on the light I opened the blinds with my fingers just enough to look out at Wino Park and confirm what I already knew: still raining. At least I wasn’t out there.
Many people with my condition were out there. I had found a niche as a gumshoe. They were diving in dumpsters and sleeping in bushes and hoping somebody wouldn’t beat the shit out of them just for fun. Maybe that was their niche.
I went down to my car and drove home, chuckling grimly, “Wow. What a day I’ve had.”
I got back to my office next day early. I still had no clues, but to my credit I had eaten something more substantial than sugar mixed with a little cocoa and a few nuts.
There were no dames or clues waiting; only a coffee pot and too few candy bars. I made a pot of fresh coffee and thought, “At least I’m at work,” while I watched the rain fall on the street and the park.
To prove I was working I called the two local distributors of Vita Green products. Perhaps, since they lived in the same town, they might know something about their late boss. I left my name and number on their answering machines, and got a cup of coffee.
The rain outside told me there was nothing to come of this case. I had taken the lady’s money for nothing. A string of dead ends would lead us