Time and Again

by Brian D. Meeks

  “Everything alright, honey?” Becky asked as she filled up Henry’s cup of coffee.

  Henry smiled. "Just thinking about a friend."

  “I noticed the smile on your face. First one of the morning I've seen.” She gave him a wink and went to take the order of a young couple who were holding hands in the corner booth.

  Henry looked at the notebook and fell back into his interrupted memory.

  “Hey kid, you payin’ attention?! The devil’s in the details!" Mickey had hollered at him as they parked the car. Henry remembered him always asking if he was listening.

  Henry hung on every word.

  They walked across the street to the park. Mickey handed Henry the notebook and said, “Read me what I’ve written there.”

  Henry couldn't make out a single coherent sentence. It seemed to be all gibberish.

  “The reason you can't read it is I have my own sort of shorthand. It’s like a code. Do you know why I do that?”

  Henry chuckled to himself as he remembered his answer.

  “Because you are nuts?” He had said it sort of sheepishly, with a hint of confusion, and a smidgen of annoyance.

  Mickey had laughed hard and long. But then he said that it was because he had a reputation for keeping secrets. Clients liked to know that their business stayed their business. He went on to explain how he had developed his shorthand over the years, sometimes using code words, other times a substitution cipher, and on occasion drawing a tiny picture which would remind him of something.

  Henry looked back at the notebook and flipped through the last three pages. He could tell the previous case had ended four pages before, as the writing stopped halfway, had two bold lines drawn across it, and a lengthy number below them. Those numbers, actually just the middle five, could be found on a file folder in a locked cabinet in Mickey's office. Mickey always wrote a detailed report, mostly for himself, and filed it after the case was done. Those reports were in plain English.

  Mickey was not eloquent in his writing, but he was thorough. The problem, as Henry saw it, was that Mickey never updated the files until after the case was closed. Henry hadn't seen him in a while, so it was possible he had changed his ways, but Henry suspected that the adage about “old dogs and new tricks” made it unlikely. Still, he would check the office later today, just to be sure.

  The persistent memory returned as Henry was fishing out some bills to pay the receipt Becky had set by his plate.

  Mickey and Henry had bought a newspaper. They were sitting on a bench. It gave them a view of the building where the suspected wayward blonde might be stopping off to meet a roguishly good-looking janitor from Cuba. Mickey had sketched a hand palm, a rectangle 217, and a football in his notebook, followed by “10 J 14 15 4 20 over/under 84 and chain.” After Mickey had asked Henry what it meant and then made him go buy two hot dogs from the vendor, he explained each part.

  “The palm reminds me of a cop directing traffic. So it means “stop”. The rectangle is a building and 217 the number. I usually remember the street, so I don't include it. The point is to take enough notes so I am able to recreate a mental picture. The football is not really a football, but it looks like one, so it might fool people. To me, it looks like an eyeball, so it means 'watch'. Next is the client's name. ‘Jones’ is coded using the alphabet 1 - 26 as a substitution cipher. But I get clever. The first letter is J, and is a 10. That is how I know where I started. Then the next number is a 14, which is actually one number above the letter I really want. If someone tries to just do the substitution, they get the letter ‘N,’ not the letter ‘O’. The next number will be one below the letter I really want. It goes back and forth until I finish the name.

  “The ‘over/under’ serves two purposes. It tells me which substitution cipher I used on the word before and it reminds me of a basketball, or more accurately a ball. The words 'and chain' is just 'and chain'. So…what did I write?”

  Henry answered his quirky teacher with, “Stopped at Building 217 to watch Jones's ball and chain.”

  “That’s right!” Mickey answered. “But you didn't get me any relish.” And he handed the hot dog back to Henry.

  Henry closed the notebook and the memory. He said goodbye to Becky and started his long walk to Mickey's old office.

  Chapter Seven

  Henry walked past the front entrance of the familiar building. He went around to the alley and entered through the nondescript door. This led to a long thin hallway, with a couple of small offices and a large closet for the custodial staff.

  At the end of this hallway, behind another door, was a stairway. The “back stairs” went up to the fifth floor without any stops in between. It was a strange design element, to be sure. Mickey had loved it.

  When the building was constructed, the owner, a paranoid investment banker, had insisted upon the secret stairs being included in the design. His offices occupied the top floor, which was unfortunate in October of ‘29 when he jumped out the window and hit an awning on the first floor, which broke his fall enough to prevent his death. He was in excruciating pain for the month-long hospital stay. Happily, he did recover, got out of the investment business, and lived out his remaining days living off his rental, in the very building which refused to do him in. When he died, his office, with the secret stairway, was rented to Mickey.

  Mickey accepted all sorts of clients. Some of his female clients asked Mickey to find out if their husbands were cheating on them. Usually they were, and Mickey always found out.

  Mickey explained the back stairs to Henry like this: "We do our job. Sometimes our job makes people unhappy. I usually hear them coming, so the back stairs allow me to make a tactical retreat. They usually only have enough steam for one encounter. After that, they get a divorce or patch things up with their ladies. Either way, nobody gets hurt."

  Henry smiled as he climbed the stairs. It was narrow, and each floor had a window which looked out on the alley. The windows were covered in grime, as the custodial staff never bothered with the secret stairs. When Henry got to the top, there was a slight landing and a door. It was locked. Henry took out his picks and let himself into Mickey's office.

  The sound of the door closing behind him and the hollow echo it made struck a painful chord. The familiar was usually a comfort, except after the loss of a friend and mentor. Now it just stung.

  Henry sat down behind the desk. It was cluttered with papers, racing forms, three coffee cups, and the March issue of Sport magazine. It featured Rocky Marciano on the cover, with the heading “Man of the Year.” There was an article about Leo Durocher, too, and a listing of the “U.S. College Coaches Select Basketball's All-Time All-Americans.” The look on Marciano's face seemed fake to Henry, like he was trying to act tough for the camera. Henry thought about how he was putting on a face now, while he looked for the man who ran down his friend.

  Mickey loved boxing, almost as much as he loved baseball and betting the ponies. Though it was the current issue, the magazine had a worn look. No doubt it had been curled up and carried on a stakeout or two, joined him for lunch, and been read front to back several times. That is how Mickey did things. If he liked an article after he read it, he would mull it over for a while, then read it again. Mickey could almost see through the pages, right into the mind of the journalist, sitting ringside, taking notes. He could imagine the sights, sounds and smells of the match, as if he were in the squared circle himself. The writers who tried to bring all the senses into play, those were his favorites. It wasn't enough to know that the arena was smoke-filled - Mickey wanted his eyes to burn and to taste the cigars as he read.

  Henry flipped through the pages and then tossed it back on the desk. He leaned back in Mickey's chair and tried to get into his old teacher's mind. Henry opened the notebook and looked at the last page, hoping to find a starting place, but he didn't do any better than he had at the diner. He looked in the right desk drawer and saw one of Mickey's lock pick sets. The leather case, worn from years of r
iding around in Mickey's pocket, sat there waiting for action.

  Henry was taken back to his second week on the job. Mickey had called him into the office. Henry stood before the desk, cluttered in much the same way as it was now, and Mickey opened the very same right drawer and took out two sets of lock picks, the worn one and a brand new set, which he gave Henry.

  "Sit down, let me explain how these work. You’re going to need to get into places where people would rather you didn't. These are your skeleton keys, as it were. Always keep them with you." He chuckled. Sometimes Mickey would laugh at things he said, just because. Some old inside joke, which he rarely shared.

  After a short while of explaining how they worked, he had Henry practice on the secret door. It took Henry a while to get it right, but he finally got the hang of that lock. For the next week, Henry took the back stairs, up to the office, and opened the locked door with his picks. Mickey then had him try the three locks on the front door. Mickey had three different styles of locks, so it was a greater challenge. Another week and Henry had those down pat, too.

  One morning, a few weeks later, Mickey made the coffee before Henry arrived. This was unusual, as he generally asked Henry do it first thing. They sat and talked. It was relaxed; Mickey didn't quiz him on anything, just two guys shooting the breeze. They finished one pot and Mickey made another. Henry was enjoying his bonding moment with his boss. Mickey had gotten up, said he was going to “meet a man about a horse,” and told Henry to wait there, as he was expecting a call. Henry sat there and drank his coffee while the boss visited the restroom.

  When Mickey got back, he poured himself a tall glass of water, which was also unusual. The sound of the water made Henry realize he needed to excuse himself. "Sure thing, sport," Mickey said with a strange smile. Henry walked down the hall and slammed his face into the men's room door. Mickey had locked it. Henry called Mickey a bastard, ran back to get his picks, and then fumbled with the lock on the bathroom door for what seemed like a thousand years. When he got back to the office, that door was locked, too.

  Henry learned Mickey's lesson about always having his picks handy, and the value of being able to work quickly. The next day Henry had to make the coffee again. Henry substituted salt for sugar in Mickey's cup.

  Now the office was quiet, though still buzzing with the memories of lessons past. Henry hoped he could find some evidence for the current case, something which would start him out on the right track.

  The ringing of the phone was unexpected. He let it ring once, then Henry answered, as he always had, “Michael Thomas Moore Detective Agency”.

  There was a long pause. Henry could hear faint breathing, and she spoke. Henry knew the voice. And she knew his.

  Chapter Eight

  “Henry, is that you?” came the familiar and surprised voice.

  “It is. How are you, Katarina?” Henry said, with a sudden calm born out of surprise, confusion, and a sick feeling in his stomach.

  “I didn’t expect…er, I mean…I called for Mickey. You went out on your own, didn’t you? I left the record at Henry Wood Detective Agency a while back…I assumed that was you.” Her voice returned to normal, as did her composure.

  “I did, and I got the record, thank you. I have enjoyed it. That office had a little mishap a couple of months back. I am in the Flatiron building now. Your note and the gift was quite a surprise. Why didn’t you come back and say “ ‘hello’”?” Henry asked. He had a thousand other questions, but none of them came to him at that moment.

  “I didn’t want to be a bother,” she said. “I was only in town for the day. Have you been well?” She asked it with all the grace and confidence Henry remembered.

  “No. Last night, Mickey was killed…I don’t think it was an accident.”

  There was a long pause, then, “I am so sorry, Henry.”

  “Thanks. So what is it you needed Mickey to do? Are you in trouble?”

  “Oh, it was nothing....”

  It struck Henry as strange, but he didn’t have time to dig deeper: there was a light knocking at the office door.

  “Just a minute, Katarina, there’s someone at the door.” Henry set the phone down and opened the left desk drawer. He pulled out Mickey’s back up revolver and gave it a check. The gun was loaded. He tucked it into his waistband behind his back, and went to answer the door.

  The door was locked, naturally, so Henry started undoing each one – and heard some shuffling outside. Had the person been trying to look through the key hole? When he opened the door, there stood a small older gentleman, with his hat in hand.

  He nodded politely at Henry, but said nothing.

  “Please come in,” Henry said, holding the door.

  Henry believed in being cautious. He had no idea what the little man wanted, but he wasn’t going to take any chances. It could be something quite innocent, just a man looking for a detective, who knew nothing of Mickey’s demise. On the other hand, the man taking off his hat might be mixed up in it somehow. Either way, Henry wanted to size him up.

  He was holding a briefcase and dressed in a brown suit. He looked as if he was the sort of person who always wore a brown suit.

  Henry stuck out his hand. “My name is Henry, I’ll be happy to help you in a minute. I was in the middle of a call when you knocked.”

  “Of course, I shall take a seat and wait. Don’t feel you need to hurry on my account.”

  Henry walked into the office, making sure to avoid turning his back on the man in brown. Henry didn’t want to frighten him, as some might find the sight of the gun…upsetting. Henry closed the door to Mickey’s office. He picked up the phone hoping to find out a bit more about why Katarina had wanted to talk to Mickey.

  “Sorry about that; it’s a small man in a brown suit, who is looking for Mickey, too. Why did you say you wanted to talk to him?”

  “I didn’t say, but perhaps you could help me out. Shall we meet for dinner?”

  Henry knew she was avoiding his question. He could worry about Katarina later, so he agreed. He suggested a place they both knew, hung up the receiver, and took a deep breath.

  Henry didn’t feel comfortable taking a meeting, while sitting at his departed friend’s desk, so he grabbed a yellow pad of paper and returned to the waiting room.

  The man stood up and handed Henry a business card with some writing on it. Henry read it.

  “Please call me, or stop by. It is urgent.” It was written in Mickey’s scrawl.

  Henry flipped the card over and recognized the familiar card of his mentor.

  The man spoke clearly and with purpose. “As this is Mickey’s Detective Agency, and you introduced yourself as Henry, and the fact that you were in his office, speaking on his phone, I will infer that he is not in.”

  “That is correct...” Henry started to say, but was interrupted by the man in brown.

  “I do not know why I was summoned, but my time is valuable, and if you know what the meaning of this is, do, please, get on with it.”

  It was obvious by his tone that the man was not aware of what had happened, so Henry decided to see if he could get anything useful out of him.

  “Mickey is not available at the moment. I don’t work for him, but I used to. I am filling in for him and just started to try to get a handle on his cases. I apologize for this horrible inconvenience, but his inability to be here was unavoidable. May I ask what business you are in?”

  “I am a man of considerable means. I have many real estate holdings here in the city, and I’m a collector of art.” He paused, sensing that his tone had been rather abrupt before, and he appreciated how polite Henry had been. “I am sorry, if I was short with you. I’ve had several meetings today and was hoping to quickly take care of this ‘supposedly’ urgent business.”

  Henry didn’t have much to go on, so he just went with his gut.

  “Again, I must apologize. Mickey has several cases at the moment. If I may have your card, I’ll call you later, but only if it ‘s necess
ary. I can assure you, Mickey is not the sort of person to waste the time of an important man, such as yourself.”

  This courtesy seemed to please the man in the brown suit. He handed Henry his card, placed his hat on his head, and smiled before he walked out the door. Henry tucked the card into Mickey’s notebook and, after looking around a bit more, left too.

  Chapter Nine

  Henry locked up the office he once loved. Now, it seemed lonely. If he hung out there much longer, the memories of Mickey would likely wring out the last ounce of energy he could marshal.

  This wouldn’t do at all. He needed to get home, take a shower, and make it to his office. Henry was sure he would be able to clear his head sitting at his own desk.

  The walk home was chilly and wet. He climbed the stairs and remembered he hadn’t locked the door this morning . This worried him a little…but not a lot. Henry’s mind wasn’t firing on all cylinders. The thought that his door was unlocked was so unimportant as to be laughable, yet, as he trudged up the stairs, he worried.

  Pausing before the door, he took a breath and opened it.

  The door swung closed behind him.

  Everything was fine.

  Henry took a shower. He put on one of his nicer suits – not his nicest, as he would need that for the funeral.

  Mickey didn’t have any family. Henry once asked him if he ever thought about marriage. Mickey had answered, “Yes, but I can usually get over it with a good stiff drink.”

  Mickey’s parents had lived their entire lives in Kenmare County, Kerry, Ireland. They had met when his mother’s parents moved to town. She was six and he was nine. They lived next door to each other, and she loved nothing more than to follow him around. He was her first friend, and she eventually became his first and only love. (One night, back in 1948, Mickey had been drinking just enough to be nostalgic. Henry, “Big” Mike, and Francis had just finished a nice dinner with him and enjoyed hearing about the greatest love ever.) They had raised three kids, the two younger ones both died heroes during the winter months of ‘44, at the Battle of the Bulge. Mickey was devastated by their death, but proud as hell at how they fought tooth and nail with the Nazis. That was it for the Moore’s, as far as Henry knew.