by Damien Dsoul
“Is this Michael Paymer?” a man’s voice spoke to me.
“Yes, this is Paymer. Who’re you?”
“You called up my writer buddy an hour ago and he gave me your number. My name’s Thaddeus Black.”
I was trying to recall where I’d heard or seen his name, then my eyes fell on the Damien Dsoul novel. I picked it up and there was the man’s name.
“Is this some type of joke?” I said to whoever was on the line. Your name can’t be Thaddeus Black.”
“Don’t be telling me what my name is and what I name ain’t, kid. I’m as real as a twenty Dollar bill in your wallet. Damien Dsoul’s a writer and a friend of mine who loves writing crazy stories. I dig his work and that’s how we party. You think I’ve got time to waste here, you’ve got another thing coming. Now, he told me you needed some help with your girl being kidnapped or something. You want my help, or you want me to hang up? Your choice.”
“No, no, please, don’t do that.” I sat up on the bed; the sleep spell swept from my eyes. “I’m sorry I sounded that way, sir. It’s just that ... I never knew - ”
“That I was real,” he completed the statement for me. “You don’t have to say more on it, I know. A lot of people wouldn’t know that too, and I guess that’s what’s got the book selling like hot cake. Anyway, Damien told me about your situation. He don’t believe it though, and I didn’t either but he’s a persuasive bastard and I figured if he believes you then I should. Problem is I don’t like doing my business over the phone. Where you are right now?”
“I’m in Buffalo, New York, sir.”
“I’m in NYC. You got time to come down here and let’s talk this man-to-man?”
I thought I didn’t hear him perfectly. “Sir ... you say I should come down to New York City?”
“You know of any other? Look, you sound like a good kid, and I’m not going to charge you for nothing. But I don’t like talking much over the phone. Damien’s fine with that, but not me. You want my help, you want my expertise, then you’d better get your ass down here to the city and let’s talk upfront. And bring whatever you’ve got about your missing girlfriend. You ever been down to New York City before?”
“Err ... yes, yes sir, I have.”
“Then you’d know how to find your way around then. I’m here in Greenwich Village. How soon you think you can get down here?”
I was still at a lose, my head spinning so fast I couldn’t tell if I was actually speaking to a real detective or someone taking me for a joy-ride. I opted right there and then to throw caution to the wind.
“How about next tomorrow? I think can book a ticket tomorrow and leave early the next day and be there in the evening.”
“Sounds like a plan. Get to doing that then. Give me a call once you arrive here. I’ll be waiting. Good night then.”
He didn’t even wait for me to reply him when he hung up. I looked at my phone wondering if I was such a big fool or what. Had I just promised a man I haven’t met that I would be journeying down to New York City tomorrow to meet with him? I actually had made the call; there was no turning back from it. I looked inside my closet and pulled out a handy travel bag that was pretty dusty. No problem, I would use the morning to get it cleaned up. I calculated how long I might be in New York City and reckoned I wouldn’t be there more than three days ... or maybe four. I would figure out how many clothes to stack the bag with later.
Money was the next thing on my mind. I couldn’t meet my parents for any, but I had money saved up in my account from past summer jobs and college savings - something close to ten grand. My Dad was in the living room watching a college basketball game while Mom was putting the plates out on the dinner table. I told them I would be right back, just need to get something I forgot somewhere. Outside I got on my bicycle and rode towards town. I didn’t know I was being followed by a vehicle that had been parked across the street from my home.
I drove to a nearby bank and parked my car and went to use their ATM machine. I got myself five hundred Dollars, not satisfied, I got myself another five hundred just for insurance. On my way back I stopped at a 7-Eleven shop and went in and bought a soda. I stepped out of the shop and there was someone leaning against my car; it was one of the State Department detectives, Clarence. He had a knowing look on his face like he knew I was up to something.
“Whatever do you think you’re doing, Michael? May I call you Michael?”
I replied that he may. “Went in to get myself a soda. Is that a crime?”
“Not a crime to use an ATM machine either, but depends on what you’re about to do afterwards. Look, I’m going to level with you. This case about your missing girlfriend and her folks, there’s little or nothing we can do about it,” he narrated to me the political and jurisdictional blockage that was affecting their investigation. The subjects were America citizens, yes. Unfortunately it hadn’t occurred on American soil, and there was a lot of diplomatic haranguing still ongoing and it’s making this less difficult for the case to ever move forward. His assertion was that it was going to end up a diplomatic nightmare should the news become public.
“There’s little or nothing we can do from this junction,” he said to me after he’d gone into the 7-Eleven and got himself soda. “All we can do is scream at the diplomatic wrangling but there’s just too much bureaucracy and official red tape to do little or nothing. We don’t even have much evidence to go on. The government down there in Nigeria is kind of like stepping into murky waters that’s bound to get us drowned. They too have got their own. For the past couple of years they’ve got this religious sect in the north that call themselves Boko-Haram that’s been harassing the civilian population. So far the country’s boiling with anger and the President has got his plate full to care about attending to our problem. However there’s ever chance that whomever’s doing this is invariably linked to that sect.”
I was stunned by all what he just told me and for a moment didn’t know what to say. “I never knew how serious this was. Surely there’s something the police down there can do?”
He shook his head. “There’s little they’ve gotten so far. Whoever’s responsible for such have got their tentacles fixed into the lifestyle just like the Mexican drug cartel. They’re just as thorough and devious when it comes to not getting caught or leaving traces of their actions - and they’re protected too. We’ve sent officers down to the hotel where your girlfriend and her parents stayed at, and even that wasn’t easy. They quizzed just about everyone working at the hotel, including the manager, and came up with nothing. It was like neither your girl nor her parents were even there at all.”
“What?”
“That’s the truth. According to flight records both here and in Nigeria, your girlfriend and her folks left JFK on the third of June this month and got there the next day on the fourth. They checked into the resort that same day - they made their booking online, so we know of that. When my bosses went through the hotel’s surveillance tapes they couldn’t find none for that entire day, as well as three other days. According to them, there was a rain storm which somehow affected their system. We’re not buying that but there’s little or nothing we can do about it.”
I stood there sipping my soda along with him, letting his words literally sink into my head. The enormity of what I was about to do seemed to stare at me right there and then in the face. But still I was curious to know why he was here telling me all of this. I asked him this same question. He seemed to fidget before he opened up to me.
“Look, I’m levelling with you here. All of what I just said to you was stuff I wanted to let you know when my colleague and I visited you the day before. Of course I couldn’t say nothing ‘cause he’s ranking officer, but I really feel the pain you had when we told you about your girlfriend missing. You and her engaged?”
“No, but we were talking about it once we were done wit
h school. This whole thing seems like some weird type of dream. I wish I could have her here with me right now.”
“I know the feeling. I’ll bet she too would be thinking the same thing also. This is all off the record, all what I just mentioned to you. I figured you’d be wanting to do something about it, though my colleague doesn’t think so and I’m not going to tell him anything either. Whatever it is you think you can do to get your girlfriend back, my advice to you is do it. Damn whatever anybody else might think or say.”
He reached for his wallet and pulled out his card and gave it to me, told me to give him a call if I needed any sort of help or assistance. He finished his soda, squeezed the can and threw it into a trash bin. He told me good night as he got into his car and drove off. I watched his car enter the traffic and disappeared from site while I stood there next to mine sipping my drink and mulling over everything he’d said to me. Was he really being serious about the State Department unable to do anything about this? Of course he wouldn’t have come and revealed all that to me if it weren’t true. I thought about my impending trip to New York City and about the detective I was going to meet. I thought about Catherine and her parents out there in Nigeria missing, about her wishing I was coming to rescue her. All of a sudden my resolve grew stronger.
I finished my soda and got into my car and drove back home.
ON A MISSION
The following day I gave my folks an excuse that I was heading to New York City to check out a new college scholarship program. It was a sudden thing that had come up and I just need to know as much about it as I could. I kept it vague enough so they wouldn’t get to throwing too many questions my way; it was a miracle neither asked why I didn’t bother enquiring about the program online than wanting to venture out into the great unknown that was bustling New York City. I guess the good thing was that they trusted me well enough and knew I wouldn’t be telling them such if it wasn’t really important. The next morning I got to the Greyhound station in time and switched off my phone as the journey started, not wanting my parents to try and call me should they be getting too curious and wanted to get in touch suddenly.
The ride was a long one. I tried not to fall asleep on it but couldn’t help myself. Every hour I’d pull out Catherine’s photo and stare at her eyes and try not to worry too much about whatever she might be going through right there and then. I’d bought two cans of soda and some biscuits and I kept leaving my seat to take a piss all through the journey. We stopped when we were halfway to New York City at a Macdonald’s and I bought some French fries and hamburger but didn’t have much appetite to eat it all; I went with a soda instead.
We got into New York City sometime past four in the evening, which was a good thing too; enough time for me to meet with the detective and maybe find myself a room in any Howard Johnson Inn to spend the night and return back to Buffalo in the morning. I took in the New York City skyline and wished Catherine was there beside me to absorb the majesty of the skyscrapers as well. The bus slide into its port at the Greyhound station and myself and the rest of the folks inside came down and got our luggage, except for me it was just a carry-on bag. I left the station and stepped out into 8th Avenue and switched on my phone and gave the detective a call. He answered on the third ring, asked if I was in the city now. I told him I was. He told me he’ll send me his address. I hung up and seconds later I got a text message from him that had his work address in Greenwich Village. I wandered down the crowded street a bit, pushing my way past the throng of tourists then found myself a taxi and gave the driver the address and then we were off.
I pulled into the neighbourhood of the address the detective gave me and the taxi dropped me off in front of an old red-bricked brownstone apartment building. The street sign was there and the number on the building told me I had the right address. I settled my fare and went inside. I pressed the intercom button and he told me to take the elevator up.
I got to his floor and couldn’t believe it when I saw his name on the glass portion of his door: THADDUES BLACK: Private Eye, it said. Unbelievable, he was real after all; I thought I was in the twilight zone. I knocked on the door and a woman’s voice told me to come inside. I entered the office and there was a white lady there seated behind a desk. She was hot-looking and I don’t know, but something about her, just seeing how she was dressed, got my chest fluttering a little.
“Hi. I’m Sarah Longhand,” she got up and shook my hand. “Hope your ride from Buffalo wasn’t too tiresome. Mr. Black has been expecting you all afternoon.”
She knocked at his door and opened it for him to enter. I was still in mild shock at what was happening ... but nothing knocked the breath out of me when I entered the office and there was the master detective standing behind his desk waiting on me. He was just as dashing as the writer had portrayed him to be .
“Michael Paymer, correct? I’m Thaddeus Black; welcome to New York City.” He came forward and shook my hand. “Pleasure to finally meet the fellow I was speaking with on the phone.”
He was still shaking my hand and I allowed him to shake it some seconds longer while still staring at him not believing my eyes. Just to make sure I was on the right page and wasn’t losing my mind or something, I’d carried along the novel of him and I was in the middle of reading it over again. I took it out my bag and gave it to him, asked if he could autograph it for me. He looked at me with a sort of raised eyebrow and then laughed. He held the book in his hand and looked it over like he hadn’t actually known of its existence.
“About the first time anyone’s asking me to autograph anything,” he took a pen out of his front jacket pocket and scribbled his signature on the title page of the book then handed it back to me. “I hope I didn’t give you that much of a shock when I first told you my name.” he indicated at a chair for me.
“Actually sir, the fact that you even exist is stunning to me,” I said while lowering myself to the chair. “I never really thought you were real.”
“I reckon so. Not your fault thinking such. Damien is an old buddy of mine and it took a lot of convincing on his part to write something out of me. He too said it’ll be almost unbelievable for anyone to think he was really writing about me, and I guess that charm worked out just fine until he got your call and then I got a call from him telling me about your problem. A good thing you’re here in person to tell me the problem up close. Phone conversations tend to wear me out. You had a bite of anything since you got here?”
“No sir, I haven’t.”
He pressed an intercom button and his secretary entered his office and he gave her some money to run down across the street and buy me something edible. She left the office and then it was just the two of us. He undid the buttons of his jacket and leaned back in his chair.
“So Michael, care to share with me everything about what help you want?”
“It’s about my girlfriend, Catherine Morgan,” I gave him her picture. “She and her parents went on a summer trip to Nigeria a couple of days back and now they’re both missing, presumed kidnapped.”
***
I narrated to him everything, starting with the State Department men paying me a visit and then I reached into my bag and extracted all the online newspaper clippings I’d been reading since and laid it out for him, including the photograph of Catherine. I told him about the conversation I’d had with Clarence two nights ago and of the bureaucratic stonewall he and his partner were presumably having with the ongoing case. I paused when a knock came on his door and his secretary entered with a take-away meal and a soda she’s gotten from a Chinese deli shop. I watched as she exchanged some interesting look with the detective and then he slapped her butt as she turned to leave. I concluded my story with how I’d gotten in touch with his writer friend - crazy as that might sound - who had in turn called him and of me coming down here to meet with him. I opened my take-away meal when I was done and listened while he threw
several questions at me and then gave me his piece of mind.
“This is some work you’re getting your head into, Michael.,” he surmised. “It’s a real back-breaker. For a minute when my friend called telling me your beef, I thought he meant it was something happening around where you’re at. But now you’re mentioning Nigeria. That’s way over in Africa and that’s international for me. I doubt if I’m going to be much help to you.”
That wasn’t what I’d hoped to hear him say. “I never figured it that way. Just thought I’d level it out with you, hear whatever advice you can give me on where to turn to.”
“Ain’t no advice I can give you besides saying this is way bigger than you and I, kid. This is politics and international shit that’s beyond what you and I can handle.”
I didn’t say anything; I was feeling a dark cloud over me and I didn’t like it.
“You ever thought of taking this to the Nigerian embassy? Maybe meet with some consultant there who could help. I think they’ve got an office here in New York City, or else down in D.C.”
“I hadn’t thought of that. But like what the State Department guy said to me, I doubt if they’ll be of much help. Besides, the Nigerian embassy person would just shoo me away if I tried.”
He got up and went and stood behind his chair gazing out his window before turning back at me. “I don’t know how I can help you out here, Michael. I’m sorry but I just can’t. I wish I know what to tell you, but this goes beyond my pay pocket.”
“But I figured ... I thought you could help give me some pointers or something. Anything.”
“Only likely point I can give you is what I’ve already just told you. Take all this stuff you’ve shown me and head over to the embassy and make a compliant. Either that or get in touch with the U.S., embassy down in Nigeria and let them be aware of this. Anything short of that and I don’t know what else to say to you.”
