Photo by Davide Colella on Unsplash
I turned from the morning’s early brightness into the Offshore’s eternal dusk. Countless tropical totems watched me walk in. On other, better days, I’d search their eyes for portents. Some hints please, I’d implore. Good or bad. Just let me know. This morning I wasn’t sure what I should look for, and I avoided their gaze.
“Rum, three fat fingers, no ice,” I said as I slid onto the stool.
Mitchell, in a dingy white t-shirt and worn jeans -- the Hawaiian shirt and khakis didn’t come out until the cool kids came in later -- countered with coffee. “Even I think it’s a little early for liquor. And from the looks of you, coffee would do you better anyway.”
Quite loudly: “What goddamn good is this tavern if I can’t get rum when I want it and how I want it!”
Having seen it all and more, Mitchell took it in stride. “Okay, a drink then. But,” and he gestured over his shoulder, “Watch your mouth. I’ve got the kid.”
I followed his thumb down to the far end of the bar to see a boy bent over a crossword puzzle.
“Kid, how old are you?” I called out.
“My name’s Bobby, and I’m twelve,” he said without looking up.
Turning back to Mitchell, “Bob’s a bit young for this place, don’t you think.”
“It’s Bobby. Bob was my dad’s name,” the boy noted from his perch.
A smile dusted Mitchell’s face as he set my drink down. “He’s Elaine’s son. When she closes, she needs to sleep in. So I cook Bobby breakfast and let him hang out here before school.” He added, “No one usually minds.”
I nodded and took a good swallow.
Scratching his head, Bobby asked, “1959 Fuller movie Crimson blank?”
“Kimono,” I answered, “You know, it’s one of those . . .” Before I could finish, Bobby broke in, “Yeah, I know. It’s a Japanese article of women’s clothing. My mom wears one sometimes.”
“Silk?” I asked.
“I don’t know . . . probably . . . sure. I’m not in the habit of investigating the composition of my mom’s wardrobe.”
“‘Not in the habit of investigating the composition of her wardrobe,” I echoed, eyeing Mitchell to see if he was taking this in. “Kid’s got a way with words.”
“Yes,” Bobby went on, “My mom says I’m very erudite and have an expansive vocabulary.”
“Well, here’s to that,” and I lifted my drink and finished it.
Mitchell read the signs and brought the bottle over and filled me up. “If you’re going to drink this early, why don’t you tell me the story now, so I don’t have to listen to you slur your way through it later.”
I took off my glasses and rubbed my face. Last night’s accumulated grime stung, and I screwed my eyes shut tight until the tears came and brought relief. I blinked and faced Mitchell.
“I’ve been working something for a while. Looked like a straightforward client-lost-a-thing-wants-it-back case. In this instance, it was a letter. The guy who lost it was one of those young Silicon Beach tech bros. Who knew they still wrote letters. But apparently they do, and the one that this guy lost was important. Or so he said. He didn’t say what was it or what it meant to him. Only that it meant something rather large to him. ‘Why not go to the police?’ I asked in my usual half-hearted gesture toward due diligence. He was clear on that: No cops! The matter was sensitive and he couldn’t risk some police officer blabbing about it over his Boston Creme. He was clear on that too. Now there’s an old story, right? Need discretion, can’t tell the cops, bring in the shamus.”
“What’s a shamus?” Bobby asked from down the bar.
“Old-timey word for a detective.”
“Thanks. I gotta remember that one.”
I turned back to Mitchell. “So yeah, it’s an old story. Know what, though? Those old stories still pay the bills. Then things got a little twisty. The disruptor in chief says he knows who has the letter. It’s his wife. Dead certain of it. ‘Follow her and find where she’s keeping it.’ Those were his exact words. So that’s what I did. At least the first part.”
Bobby piped up. “Observer?” he queried.
“Witness,” I replied.
He bent over his puzzle, counting the letters. “Nope, it’s six letters and it starts with v.”
I thought for a moment. “Try v-o-y-e-u-r.”
“Yep, that fits.”
I enjoyed two fingers worth and went on. “You learn a lot by following someone around. Like the wife seemed a decent person and maybe didn’t deserve such a suspicious spouse. She volunteered at a Skid Row mission. She liked going to gallery openings. Had a marked preference for landscape painting over that abstract modern stuff. She wasn’t lonely. She had a pack of girlfriends. They would go to see rom-coms and the occasional socially conscious documentary.
And then I learned that maybe the husband was on to something. She kept a separate place in the Valley. This piqued my professional curiosity. I searched it while she was downtown one evening feeding the downtrodden. It wasn’t the letter’s hidey-hole. But she was hiding something or, better, someone.
As lover’s went, he was kind of a cliché. Rich. Richer than the young, lawfully wedded husband. Favored tailored suits. Not flashy, simply very expensive. Older too. Not too old, though. Still plenty vigorous. Full head of silver hair. Marry youth, screw experience. Like I said, you see that a lot.
Cliché or not, they seemed happy. It’s not my job to judge how someone, who otherwise appears more or less decent, chooses to scratch out some joy in this world of ours, right?
Mitchell didn’t answer. He glanced at my glass to make sure it was full enough.
Last night she picked him up from Union Station. Later than usual. When they got to the pied-à-terre . . .”
“That’s French for a small second apartment,” I called out to Bobby. He gave me a thumbs up in return.
“They stayed in the car. That was also strange. Desire usually drove them up the path and into the apartment right quick. Not tonight, though. They just sat there. Talking. For a long time.
It wasn’t the pop of the gun that made me jump. It was the muzzle flash. On the dark street and in that small space, it flared like desert lightning.
I couldn’t believe he shot her. Really, he didn’t seem the type. Guys like that don’t get their hands dirty. That’s what money is for. And why do it? What a waste of a beautiful girl! Sprinting to the car, I was trying to decide what to do. Would I stop and tend to her? Or hunt him down when he rabbited?
No need for hunting. No need for first aid. He didn’t run. He couldn’t. He was the dead one. As I ran up, the driver’s window glided down. She was sitting there calmly and, brushing a wisp of hair off her face, went first, “Are you the detective that’s been following me?”
Once you’re blown, you’re blown, and there’s no use lying.
“Yes.”
“It’s okay. With that husband of mine, I expect it by now. What’s your name?”
“It’s Hatch, Ma’am.”
“Well, Mr. Hatch. Here’s what I know. First, you really need to work on your surveillance techniques. Second, I’m sick and tired of men disappointing me. Words matter, right?”
I didn’t answer and, anyway, she went on pretty quickly.
“They do. Words like love. That has meaning. It means something. It should.”
I wanted to see if she was crying when she said that, and I looked. She wasn’t. Her eyes were dry and her voice was firm. But it also sounded far away. Like she was already down the road and going toward what was coming next.
Before she left for good, she had a request. “Will you do something for me, Mr. Hatch?”
At that moment, I was very aware of her impatience with disappointing men and that there was a gun somewhere in that car.
“Sure.”
“Tell my husband I don’t have his precious letter.” Then she drove off.
I drank and Mitchell filled my glass. I spun it around slowly. “All night I’ve been walking around asking myself questions. What do I tell the husband? I mean besides the fact that apparently he was wrong about his wife. What should I tell the cops? After a few hours that question switched to why hadn’t I called them already? Was I trying to give her a head start? Because I thought she was pretty and pretty girls deserve to get away with things? Or was it because I know men and didn’t think the two in her life deserved her and got what was coming to them? And then the sun came up, and I was sick and tired of asking questions and wanted to feel a sting in the back of my throat, and I started walking over here.”
I hadn’t noticed, but the kid had moved down the bar and was now sitting just a few stools away.
He glanced at the newspaper, “Remission of sin?”
I scanned the faces of the bar’s squat gods. “Try absolution,” I replied.
He wrote in the word. “Okay, that’s it,” he said to Mitchell. “I’m done and still have time to get to school. You owe me five.”
Protesting, Mitchell slapped the bar with his rag, “You had help!”
“Never said I couldn’t.”
Mitchell pulled out a bill and slid it to Bobby. “I didn’t realize I’d need a contract to place a bet with you.”
“Always better to spell out the terms and conditions beforehand. Isn’t that right, Mr. Hatch?” he asked, pocketing the money.
“You seem wise beyond your years, kid.”
Bobby glanced briefly at Mitchell, “Yeah, my mom’s boyfriend says I’m a real wisenheimer.”
“Well, don’t lose what innocence you still have. You’ll never find your way back to that.”
With a casual wave of the hand, he walked away, “I’ll take that under advisement, pops.” And then he was gone. The now-brighter morning blazed through the open door, blinding us. Gods and all.
Based in Portland, OR, John Brady is the author of Golden Palms, a noir about LA politics. It’s funny too. His fiction and non-fiction writing has appeared in various outlets, including pioneertown, Exposition Review, Big Windows Review, the Los Angeles Review, the Chronicle of Higher Education, Mother Jones, Punk Planet, the Los Angeles Daily News, the San Francisco Chronicle and on National Public Radio. See more at johnbradywriter.com