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 to what we already knew: that a middle-aged guy had died of natural causes before his time.
I had gotten a check for a day’s pay plus expenses. I knew she wouldn’t take the money back, so I would sit there until quitting time, then I would call the lady, tell her I’d found out nothing, and wish her luck getting on with her life. She was rich and beautiful. She had as good a chance for success as anyone.
I got down a couple of business law books. I’m no lawyer, but I try to keep at least a working knowledge of the law, if for no other reason than to be aware of the risks I run when I work outside of it.
About 9:30 my phone rang. “Marv. Bill Farley here.”
“Say, Bill.”
“What was that name again?”
“Aaron Markham Carlisle.”
“Aaron Markham Carlisle. And the date of his death?”
I looked at the death certificate from the folder. “September 19, 1996.”
“That’s what I thought. I’ll call you back in ten minutes.”
Something in his tone sounded just unsure enough to make me interested. I sat up alertly to wait out the ten minutes. I didn’t have to. He called back in less than five. “Hey, Marv, there’s something you might want to know. Meet me outside my building in fifteen minutes.”
His building is only two blocks from mine, but knowing he’d want to be paid I grabbed my overcoat and umbrella on the fly and ran out to the elevator. I stopped at Rodney’s Cigar Store, on the corner—a small, crowded place, where the busy man about town could get tobacco, booze, magazines, or snacks. I got two maduro Churchill panatelas for him, and a couple of cheaper but still decent cigars for myself. I also picked up three more candy bars. I tend to go overboard when I’m on a case.
Though I made the appointment with time to spare, Bill Farley was already out there, smoking a small cigar. He’s about five-seven, burley, with a florid face and a blondish goatee to make up for the thinning blond hair on top. He always wears shades, even when the sun doesn’t shine. He was in Hawaiian shirtsleeves and carrying his umbrella. Well, the rain was tropical. In my overcoat, I was sweating from the brisk walk.
There were about ten people hunkered by the side of the ugly six-story glass and steel building, smoking. In California it’s illegal to smoke anywhere you can actually keep a match lit, but they were somehow doing it anyway. About four young girls, giggling, first jobs, having a good time; three or four grandmothers with dyed beehive hairdos, institutionalized and seemingly relieved about it; a tall gangly, morose fellow with short black hair and a bushy mustache; a distinguished gentleman with a pipe. There were more—they came and went. Probably more people smoke than will admit it to pollsters. When a stranger jams a microphone in your face and starts asking questions, the tendency is to tell him what you think he wants to hear.
The game I had going with Farley was that we would pretend to recognize each other, shake hands and exchange greetings, then go off for a quick cup of coffee. We’d go around the block, he’d give me the information, and I’d give him a couple cigars. As soon as we’d gone around the corner he pinched my overcoat. “Weather a little cold?”
“Not really. You going to Hollywood?”
He laughed and touched his shades. “This one’s pretty good. Should be worth a whole box of Cubans.”
“I found an old Rum-Soaked Crook I don’t want. You can have it.”
“Thanks. Here’s the scoop. It’s raining.”
“Let me see if I can find a cigarette butt around here. The wetter the better.”
When we got around the next corner, close to the alley, he said, “Look, this friend of yours, Carlisle.”
“Yeah.”
“Either he flew into outer space and someone made a mistake letting him come back here, or he never existed. We don’t have him.”
“What?”
He nodded.
I handed him the cigars. “Nowhere?”
“Nowhere.”
As we passed the alley I noticed one of the smokers I’d seen standing around, the tall one with the dark hair and mustache, coming out of the alley. He looked suspicious, or embarrassed. I took a few steps then turned to look into the window of a bagel shop. Glancing back, I saw no tall guys. Probably nothing.
“What do you think happened?” I asked.
“Nothing. He’s not there.”
“I have proof that he died.”
“Forgery. We have no official records of his existence, so the law says he ain’t, and he never was.”
I said, “That tall fellow who was standing outside your building. Dark hair. Mustache.”
“Len Boscombe. Weirdo.”
“This from a guy who wears shades indoors. When it’s raining.”
“Freaks out the straights. People leave me alone that way. But this guy is really an eightball.”
“He a computer programmer?”
“How’d you guess?”
“I’m a detective. Did you notice him in the alley as we passed?”
“No. But he wouldn’t be out of place. Seriously, he’s the kind of guy who gets picked up by aliens. He’ll shoot up a McDonald’s someday.”
I said, “Okay. Let’s pretend Aaron Markham Carlisle really was born, and then really died. Could the record be erased?”
“I guess so. But why would anybody want to do that? The records are full of names. Dead, born, still around. Millions of names.”
“That’s what intrigues me.”
“Might be worth a couple more Churchills.”
“Maybe.” We’d gotten to the corner, where he would be going back to his building. “Call me if he shows back up.”
“Sure. One day you’re dead, next day you were never born, next day you’re back being dead again.”
We parted company quickly, to get back to work. I, for one, was eager. I suddenly had a case. As far as Aaron Markham Carlisle was concerned, somebody had slipped up.
Coffee Time
I went back to my office, phoned Loralee, talked to Clarissa, said I was on a trail and needed to talk to Loralee as soon as possible. Then I picked up the folder Clarissa had given me, took it a couple blocks to Kinko’s Copy Shop where I made copies of everything. I walked another four or five blocks to the Capitol Post Office. I mailed the copies, return receipt, to myself. Was I being too careful? I wasn’t used to dealing with dead people who suddenly never had existed. I walked two more blocks back to my office. So far I was getting paid for getting some exercise.
The mail had arrived: a catalog of fun police-type toys. My answering machine had two messages, first from a Shara Verche, distributor of Vita Green. Second, from Loralee Carlisle. I called back, told Clarissa to tell Loralee 'tag, you're it.' I called Shara Verche