by Gary Lovisi
Hector got out at the Larchmont station and asked a middle-aged woman, who was wearing a fur coat, and walking a small dog, directions to the address. She told him. He thanked her, then walked down the tree-lined street. After a while, he no longer was bothered by the wind cutting at his face.
Half an hour later, he stood in front of the address on his pad. It was the kind of house that he’d only seen on TV. Hector stared at the place for a minute and counted the windows. Then he noticed that there was no car parked in the driveway. Hector looked up and down the street. It was quiet. He quickly made his way past the bushes on the front lawn, and into the back yard. In a few minutes he was inside the house.
The place was like a palace, thought Hector, as he examined the beautiful paintings on the walls and felt the plush carpeting on the floor. But, he told himself, he was not there to admire the furnishings. Upstairs he found a book of photographs and then an address book.
Ten minutes later he left the house and walked rapidly down the street.
The Port Authority bus terminal was crowded. Hector went to a ticket counter, bought a one-way ticket to Miami and paid for it with crumpled dollar bills.
Hector slept on the bus. It was the first time in weeks that he had a warm place to sleep. When he woke up, he looked at a photograph that he’d taken from the house he had broken into. The man in the photo was middle-aged, wore glasses, and was smirking.
* * * *
Many hours later, Hector stepped off the bus. As soon as he did, he felt the bright sun beat down on him, and he saw palm trees. He had never seen one before except on TV and stared at them for five minutes. Then he found a diner and bought a fish sandwich. Afterwards, feeling refreshed from his long peaceful sleep, he walked around the city.
It was not that much different than New York, Hector decided, except that it was much warmer. On a side street Hector saw kids playing in the water of an open fire hydrant, near a butcher shop. He watched them for a minute, then went into the butcher shop.
“May I help you?” asked the man behind the counter. He had a bloodstained apron.
“I’d like to buy a pound of hamburger,” said Hector.
“Of course,” said the man, as he pulled out a piece of meat and put it into a grinding machine.
“Pretty hot out there,” said Hector.
“Yup,” said the butcher, “but when I want to keep cool I just walk into my meat locker.”
“Sounds good,” said Hector, as he paid for the hamburger.
The butcher gave him his change, then Hector walked out of the store.
Hector gave the bag of hamburger to one of the children playing on the sidewalk. He told the child to give it to his mother.
A few hours later, Hector went to the street listed in the address book he’d found in the house in Larchmont. The street was a quiet one, and overlooked a beach. The house he was looking for turned out to be slightly smaller than the one in Larchmont. There was a palm tree in front of it. And a car. Inside the house were lights.
Hector looked down the deserted street and then went behind the house. He pressed his back against the building and slowly inched his way sideways, till he found a window.
Then, he stole a glance inside. He saw a room with the same kind of paintings that were in the other house and lots of flashy chrome furniture. Just then, someone walked into the room. Hector pulled away. Then, once again, careful not to be seen, he slowly peered inside. He instantly recognized the man. He was the one in the picture. Hector waited a few minutes to see if anyone else entered the room. When no one did, he went to the other windows of the one-level house and looked inside. Five minutes later, he was satisfied that the man was alone. Then Hector picked up a rock, found a door that was unlocked and slipped inside.
Albert Smith was watching television when Hector crept up behind him and hit him over the head with the rock. Smith fell to the floor and didn’t move. Hector found Smith’s car keys. Then he wrapped Smith in a blanket, carried him outside and placed him on the back seat of the car. A minute later, Hector drove Albert Smith’s car out of the driveway and down the street.
Twenty minutes later, Hector parked the car on the side street he’d been to that afternoon. He got out of the car, went to the butcher shop, which was now closed, cut the wires on the alarm system, and opened the door. Then he went back to the car and got Albert Smith.
The next day, Hector took a long walk. It was sunny. People sat on plastic chairs in their yards drinking beer. Children played ball in the streets. Teenagers carried big radios and laughed. Lovers walked hand in hand.
Near the beach, Hector found a small park and sat down on a bench. Two old women were talking. One said to the other, “I don’t know what this city is coming to.”
“Neither do I. I remember when it was safe to walk the streets. Imagine, they found the guy in a meat locker in a butcher shop.”
“Frozen to death,” said the other woman, “that’s what the radio said. It’s ninety degrees and he freezes to death.”
“It’s a sick world we live in. What kind of animal would do that to someone, I ask you?”
“I don’t know, I just don’t know.”
There was a pause, then one of the women said, “Did they say what the victim did?” “I think they said he was in real estate or something.”
“It’s a sick world.”
“Very sick.” There was another pause. “Did I tell you what Alice did to her hair?”
“No, what?”
“She dyed it blonde.”
“No!”
“Yes. If you ask me, it looks terrible, but don’t tell her I said so, she thinks it looks great.”
Hector stood up and walked to the bus station. It was time to go home.
TOUGH AS DIAMONDS, by David Waxman
She walked into my office that late September morning like a luxury ocean liner plowing into an iceberg, but she wasn’t sinking. Her dress was by some designer I could have named if I hadn’t been hung over. It was gray and clung to her very nicely. It provided a nice contrast to the ruby pendant hanging around her neck, her auburn hair, and her pale blue eyes. The hair flowed in curls over her shoulders. She looked to be in her twenties and, since she was in my office, probably in some kind of trouble.
“My name’s Samantha,” she said. “Samantha Henry.” The diamond on her left ring finger flashed like a blue flame as she brushed her hair out of her face. “You’re drunk and rumpled.”
I looked at my suit, a navy pinstripe that had seen better days. It’d been on me since yesterday and yesterday hadn’t been one of those better days. I’d slept in my office, in this chair and in this suit, last night.
I put my hand to my collar to straighten my tie. No tie. I saw it on the floor, next to my desk. I reached across the desk for the bottle of Jack Daniel’s. It was empty. I put it back on my desk, took a moment to rub my temples, and then looked at Ms. Henry. It was easy to do, looking at Ms. Henry. I could get used to it in a hurry.
“I’m drunk and rumpled, but you can call me Mike. Mike Mason.”
“I know who you are, Mr. Mason.”
“Okay. You know who I am. What can I do for you, Ms. Henry?”
“I need a private investigator.” Her cell phone rang. She reached into her purse, took it out and glanced at it, turned it off, put it back in the purse.
“For?” I asked. The noise from midtown traffic came through my office window and pounded like a jack hammer in my head. I wanted some aspirin.
“I lost my dog.”
“Have you tried whistling? He might hear you and come home.”
“She, Mr. Mason. Not he. Brandy. An Irish setter.” She pulled a photo out of her purse and held it out to me. “Here’s a picture.” I took it from her. The picture showed Brandy sitting proudly
on a well-kept lawn. The dog wore a diamond-studded collar. I couldn’t be sure from the photo, but I suspected the diamonds were real.
“She’s certainly a fine dog, Ms. Henry.”
“Will you find her for me?”
“She must be quite special if you’re willing to pay me to find her.” I paused and glanced at the photo again, at the collar. Ms. Henry wouldn’t be worried about my fee. I continued anyway. “People usually just put up fliers. You know—‘Lost Dog’ on top, picture of dog in the middle, ‘Reward for Return’ under the picture.” I tried handing the photo back to her. She didn’t take it. I put it down on my desk.
“Please keep it,” she said. “Find her for me. She is special.”
Finding lost dogs wasn’t my idea of the best use of my talents as a private investigator. On the other hand, I still owed this month’s rent and I’d finished my last bottle of Jack Daniel’s. I rubbed my temples again.
“All right,” I said. “I’ll try to find her.”
“Thank you, Mr. Mason.” She took a roll of bills from her purse and handed it to me. “Please take your usual fee.”
I peeled five one-hundreds off the top and gave the rest back to her. “That’s a start,” I said. I put the bills on my desk. “Call it my retainer. I’ll let you know how much you owe me when the job’s done.” She nodded and put the remaining bills back in her purse. I picked up the photo. “Where and when was this taken?”
“My parents’ place, in Greenwich. June.”
“You live with your parents?”
“No. I have a condo, in Brooklyn.”
“Alone?”
“With my fiancé.”
“What does he do?”
“Nothing, really. He lives off my money.”
“Your money?”
“My parents’ money, my trust fund, if you must know. What does this have to do with finding Brandy?”
“Maybe nothing. Maybe more than it seems right now.” I paused, considering what I needed to know to get started. “When did you last see Brandy?”
“Last week, at my parents’ house. Jack and I were visiting.”
“Jack?”
“My fiancé.”
“Okay. You, Jack, and Brandy are visiting your parents.”
“Yes. I was in the backyard, with Brandy, and I heard an argument in the house. Jack and my father, disagreeing about something. I went in to see what the trouble was. It wasn’t anything, really. So I went upstairs to powder my nose. When I went back outside, Brandy wasn’t there. I tried calling her.” She paused. “I even whistled, Mr. Mason. It didn’t help. I went back inside and looked for her, but I couldn’t find her.”
“What were your father and Jack arguing about?”
“Nothing in particular. They always disagree. I don’t even remember what it was that time.”
“Okay. Your dog’s lost in Greenwich. Why would you come to a PI in midtown Manhattan?”
“Don’t you want the work, Mr. Mason?”
“Why me, Ms. Henry? Greenwich gotten rid of all its PIs?”
“No, Mr. Mason, Greenwich has private investigators. It’s just that my family’s rather well known in Greenwich. I don’t need or want the publicity—for my parents or for myself. I know I can count on you to be discreet.”
I didn’t believe her. Private investigators don’t stay in business if they sell their clients’ stories to the tabloids. I’d be discreet, but so would any licensed PI she might hire. I took a moment to think. Despite my misgivings, I let her explanation ride.
“I don’t suppose your parents will be expecting me.”
“No.” She reached into her purse, pulled out a business card, and handed it to me. The card read, ‘Richard Henry, Esq.‘ and, under the name, ‘Attorney at Law.’ Under the title were a phone number and an e-mail address.
“Your father?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“How can I reach you?”
She reached into her purse again and pulled out another card: ‘Samantha Henry’ and, underneath, phone number and e-mail.
“Okay. I’ll be in touch,” I said.
“Please find her, Mr. Mason.”
“I’ll do my best.”
She turned and walked out of my office. I watched her shut the door, then looked at the two cards in my hands. I put them on my desk, then rummaged through a desk drawer, found a bottle of aspirin, took two. I picked up the phone and dialed Greenwich.
A woman answered in a crisp business voice: “Mr. Henry’s office. Mary speaking. How may I help you?”
I asked for Mr. Henry.
“May I ask who’s calling?”
“Mr. Mason, Mary. Mike Mason.”
“From?”
“From midtown Manhattan.”
“Oh,” said Mary. “Does Mr. Henry know you?”
“Not yet,” I said.
“He’s in a meeting, Mr. Mason. Can I have him return your call?”
“Certainly.” I gave Mary my phone number, thanked her, and hung up. I put my feet up on my desk, leaned back in my chair, closed my eyes, and fell asleep.
Twenty minutes later my phone rang, waking me. I pulled my hand across my face, rubbed my eyes, and answered on the fourth ring. It was Mary.
“Mr. Mason,” she said, “Mr. Henry wants to know what your call is in reference to.”
“It’s in reference to his daughter and her dog.”
“Oh,” said Mary. She was silent a moment. “Please hold,” she said.
“Sure.” I rubbed my temples. I opened my desk drawer, found the aspirin bottle, took a couple more.
A moment later, a man’s voice, deep, serious, and self-important, said, “Mr. Mason, this is Richard Henry. What can I do for you?”
“Your daughter was in my office this morning. She wants me to find her dog.”
“How does this involve me?”
“She told me she last saw her dog at your place.”
“Mr. Mason, if my daughter wants to waste her money hiring private investigators to find her dog, that’s her business. But I’m afraid I won’t be of much help to you. I don’t know where the damn dog is and, frankly, I don’t care.”
“Would you mind if I come out to your place and look around?”
“Yes, Mr. Mason, I would mind.”
I was silent.
“May I ask you a question?” he said.
“Sure.”
“Where did Sam find you, anyway? I thought she’d been through all the PIs in the tri-state area.”
“My office is in midtown, Mr. Henry. I was in my office. That’s where she found me.”
I thanked him for his time and we said goodbye. I thought a moment, and then dialed Samantha.
“What’s your parents’ address?” I asked.
She told me. “Did my father agree you could go out there?”
“Not exactly.”
“Be careful, Mr. Mason.”
I told her I’d be careful, hung up, left my office, locked the door behind me, and went home. Once home, I shaved and put on a fresh suit. I was determined to be clean and rumple-free as I began my dog hunt.
I made the drive to Connecticut in good time and found the Henrys’ estate. I drove past, parked my car on a nearby side street, and walked back. Since Mr. Henry hadn’t seemed eager for visitors, I avoided the long gravel driveway that led to the three-story brick mansion. Instead, I walked onto the estate through a row of tall pines that paralleled one side of the house. I crossed the lawn, recognizing a wrought-iron bench from the photo Samantha had shown me, and made it to a window. Inside, an Irish setter lay on an area rug in front of a fireplace.
I heard a noise behind me and turned. A fist wearing brass kn
uckles connected with my left temple. I felt a sharp pain, felt myself falling, then blacked out.
When I came to, I was lying on a couch. A tall man with a shaved head stood over me. His face looked like it’d been the target for a heavy weight in training—and the tall man, as sparring partner, had neglected to wear protective gear. Or, maybe he’d been the heavy weight and taken his share of punishment in the ring. He wore a black t-shirt that barely contained his pecs and biceps, black slacks, and black leather shoes. The brass knuckles, my wallet, and my .38 lay on a walnut side table, across the room. A Tiffany lamp also sat on the table, and a leather armchair was on either side. Two more armchairs, one on either end of the area rug, faced the fireplace. The Irish setter had gotten up off the rug and was standing next to the tall man.
“How you feelin’, Mr. Mason?” the man asked.
I put my hand to my left temple and winced.
“Want an ice pack?”
I nodded yes.
He yelled to the house outside the room, “Marsha, bring Mr. Mason an ice pack.” He looked down at me. “What’re you doin’ here, Mr. Mason?”
“Looking for a dog.”
“Any particular dog?”
“An Irish setter named Brandy.”
The Irish setter standing next to the man put her face closer to mine. I reached up and patted her head. She wagged her tail.
“Think you found her, Mr. Mason.”
A woman in a black and white maid’s uniform came into the room and handed the tall man an ice pack. “Thanks, Marsha.” He handed me the ice pack and I put it against my temple. “Why would you be looking for Brandy?” he asked.
“Her owner told me she was lost and asked me to find her.”
“Does she look lost to you, Mr. Mason?”
“You seem to know my name. How about telling me yours?”
“Frank.”
